by Anne Stevens
“Then you must forgo your thirty one pounds, and struggle to find a return cargo, for ’tis her business, and her money.”
“God’s teeth… they’ll be sailing ships next!” the man curses, but nods his head in acceptance. “What does your woman usually deal in?”
“Whatever there is that might turn an honest coin, sir,” Will says. “She has a way about her for making a profit.”
“Aye, my sister can turn silver into gold, right enough,” Mush says, “and without resorting to witchcraft.”
“God forbid,” the ship’s master says, laughing. “Though ’tis clear she has you under her spell well enough, Captain Draper. Now, lend a hand, and help my lads lash a canvas over the hold, lest your newly bought cargo gets a soaking!”
“Amen to that,” Will tells the seaman. “For my Miriam will turn every grain into a profit, and lament every grain lost to the elements. Pull hard, lads, or my wife will curse us all.”
“Do not smile,” Richard says, seeing the sailors smile, “for I would rather face a hundred Spaniards, than Mistress Draper in a rage!”
“So much salt,” Mush mutters. “I wonder what use even my clever sister will put it to?”
“The gentry will pay well for it,” the cog’s master says, “but only by the half pound. The merchants usually buy my cargo, and break it into smaller lots.”
“Which pushes up the price,” Tom Wyatt says to them. “For they hide it away in their warehouses, and pretend to there being a shortage, every year.”
“Miriam will not be so tricky,” Will says. “It will go for a fair price, and even common folk will be able to buy a penny bag from one of her stalls.”
“Cheap salt for all,” Mush declares, with mock sincerity. “Except for that old fool Thomas More.”
“But my friend,” Wyatt replies, “what will he sprinkle on his eggs each morning?”
“God will provide,” Richard says, crossing himself. “For all is perfect in Utopia.”
“Does he still vex Master Cromwell then?” Wyatt has been away, and is out of touch.
“Nothing he cannot handle,” Richard replies. “Though he is loath to do the man any lasting damage. Friendship is a sacred thing with my uncle, and he loves the man for his wit, and past deeds.”
“Then the king lets him live?” the poet says. “Henry is mellowing. What says Lady Anne?”
“Too much. She would, like Salome of old, have More’s head.” Richard frowns. “It causes much strain between the two of them. Boleyns’ are not renowned for their forgiving natures.”
“Then Master Thomas is between two stools,” Wyatt concludes. “I pray he does not let his love of a friend overcome his caution, for Anne can hate with the ardent fervour that a lover loves.”
“Well, I suppose you are the man who would know,” Mush mutters, and receives a dirty look from the poet. He is resolved to forget the lady, and wishes only for everyone else, including the king, to leave him be.
5 Marital Disharmony
“How is My Lady, Master Bowles?” The Duke of Norfolk is barely out of his saddle, and is shaking his steward’s shoulder, as if to wring the truth from him.
“Sorely vexed, My Lord,” he replies.
“Vexed, you say?”
“Sorely.”
“Sorely vexed?” Norfolk clenches his fists in the big, leather riding gloves. “By Holy Christ’s Immortal Crucifixion, I’ll give the bloody woman ‘sorely vexed’, and no mistake!” He stomps into the great hall, and bellows out her name. There is silence in return, and Tom Howard, Third Duke of Norfolk, taking it for a show of dumb insolence, is further enraged. “Where is the bitch?”
“Lady Elizabeth is in her chambers, sir,” Bowles says, cowering. “She will not come forth, or even eat. She says she will starve herself, unless…”
“Unless?” Norfolk’s rage is monumental. “She dares to make demands of her husband? I am her husband, am I not, Master Bowles?”
“Yes, My Lord.”
“And did she not swear to obey me, in the eyes of God?”
“Yes, Your Lordship.”
“Then why does she disobey me?” Norfolk simply cannot understand how, as the most pre-eminent noble in England, he is not immediately given what he wants. “Have I made an onerous demand of her?”
“Not at all, sire,” Bowles replies. He does not add anything, as he is unsure quite how the Duchess of Norfolk has displeased his master. She leaves him be, to gamble, drink, and whore entirely as he wishes, and asks nothing in return, but a quiet, comfortable life.
“God’s bollocks, must I do everything myself?” Norfolk storms up the long staircase, and hammers on the third door along from the landing area. Then he thinks to try it, and it swings open at his touch. He is relieved that his wife, Elizabeth has not thought to lock him out, which would necessitate her swift, and brutal punishment. Inside, he can see her, sitting by candle light, and reading her bible. Norfolk is irritated by her actions, because her Latin is superior to his, and he struggles to read the good book with any fluency.
“I see you, madam!” he cries.
“You want me, My Lord?” she asks.
“No, I see you, but I do not want you, madam,” Norfolk snaps. He enters, and slams the door behind himself. “When the fruit withers, a man must look for fresher delights. What have you done with Mistress Holland? I gave strict orders that she was to be accommodated on the estate.”
“And so she was, dear husband,” Elizabeth Howard retorts. “I offered her either a stall in the stables, or some room in one of the pig sties. She declines either, and chooses to stay in her father’s cottage.”
“Bess Holland is to be given her own rooms, here,” Norfolk says, coldly. “She will have adjoining rooms to mine, and she will be given a place of honour at my table.”
“Is she to be honoured in our bed also?”
“Be damned to you, bitch,” Norfolk says. “I have done with you. Bess will warm my bed, and be my loving wife, in all but name. You will pack up your belongings, and be ready to move out, within the hour.”
“Move?” Elizabeth Howard is surprised. She understands that her husband is taking a new mistress, but losing her place is almost too much to bear. “You want me to leave because of … a cheap, pox ridden whore?”
“I care not where you go, but go you must,” Norfolk replies, disdainfully. He is a man of action, and seldom ever plans, or considers any after effects of what he does.
“Then I may take one of the other castles?” Elizabeth asks.
“No, that will not do. You may have a house … a small house, close by.” Norfolk cannot understand what the fuss is about. His wife has borne him children, and is now in her late thirties. Bess is nineteen years old, and a willing replacement. In fact, he has been swiving her these past two years, but in some secrecy. “I will settle a couple of hundred on you.”
“We have been here before,” Elizabeth says. “You cast me out two years ago, but my friends at court made you relent. They will do so again, My Lord, and you will be made to look the fool once more.”
“Not so, you evil vixen,” Norfolk tells her. “Back then, Thomas Cromwell took pity on you, and asked me to relent. I was soft hearted, and did not wish to offend the Blacksmith’s boy. Now, your friend has changed his tune. He wants me to stop you spreading wicked gossip about my niece, and accept that Anne Boleyn must take priority.”
“Never!” the Duchess cries. “The Boleyn family are a crew of filthy, debauched peasants, and not fit to sit at the same table as nobility. You should tell Henry to swive the bitch at once, and have done with her.”
“I am given leave to stop your mouth … in any way I see fit, madam,” Norfolk says. It is a lie. Thomas Cromwell merely suggests that he speak to her, and urge restraint, but he is in a foul mood, and wishes to break his wife’s stiff necked opposition to him taking a new mistress. The girl is nubile, and most willing, which the old duke finds much to his liking. “Defy me, and I will horsewhip you,
naked, through the village.”
“Then I will have that in common with your slatternly new whore,” Elizabeth rejoins. “For many men have seen her bare body around these parts!”
“Enough!” Norfolk does not have the wit to verbally joust with the duchess, who is a learned woman, and possesses a sharp tongue. “I command it. You will leave, and keep your mouth shut.”
“That I will, Tom Howard,” she replies. “For I have no wish to share you with a poxed up trollop.”
“The girl is clean,” the duke snaps, and immediately regrets it. “She is a sweet, and…”
“Has the king seen her?”
“What do you imply, madam?”
“Nothing, sir, but that Henry does like to sample all the wares. Ask your sister, and your nieces. God knows, but I have had cause to avoid him around court.”
“You seek to anger me, wife.”
“I seek to open your eyes,” the duchess tells him. “Henry looks to throw off Katherine, as you seek to throw me aside. Then the king will throw off the Boleyn whore. History does have a habit of coming around again, and again, sir. Take care you are not thrown aside with Anne.”
“I must be rid of you, madam,” Norfolk says, his voice becoming softer. “Lady Bess demands it of me … as a sign of good faith.”
“Good faith? God’s teeth, Tom, but she is the daughter of one of our stewards. The girl is a drab. She was fiddling with the stable lads when she was twelve, and can ride a pintle as well as any half crown jade.”
“Have a care,” Norfolk mutters. “For I shall strangle you, with my own hands, My Lady. Take your pension, and be gone. It is best for us all this way.”
“Indeed?” Elizabeth, Duchess of Norfolk smiles. “I shall have my revenge, sir. Make no mistake. If every hand is now against me, then I shall be against every hand. Turn me out, and I will be left with no other choice, but to strike back at you.”
“You tire me, woman,” Norfolk says. “I’ll send up a couple of your ladies in waiting, who will help you pack up your belongings, My Lady. Mind now, the jewels are mine, and stay under my care.”
“To adorn your whore’s throat?” Norfolk turns, and stalks out of the room. He considers that he is done with his wife, and that all will now go well. In his arrogance, he does not realise that his wife, the daughter of the great Buckingham, and a descendant of kings, will keep her word.
Come hell or high water, she will exact her revenge, and endeavour to ruin the conceited duke, once and for all time.
March slides into April, and Easter comes, and goes without the young men of Austin Friars being able find the mysterious German monk. Nor are they able to unravel the plot, half discovered by Stephen Vaughan. The merchant is back in London, and is re-establishing his links with the local wool traders, who used to use him as a go-between with the Flanders weavers. He spends his evenings telling dinner guests of how he helped to stand off fifty fearsome Inquisitors, and of how he laid many of them low, with his trusty sword arm.
Miriam Draper, after wondering, briefly, what to do with almost two tons of fine Istrian sea salt, is now trading it all over England, and Wales, in small packages, within the price range of common households. She is also making a reasonable return by supplying it to her cheese maker partner in Cheshire. The bulk of each new shipment goes directly to the tanneries of the southern counties, where it is used in hide curing.
In return, the sceptical sea farer, who can hardly bring himself to deal with a mere woman, grows fat on the profits made from return cargoes. Miriam fills his cog with every kind of article, from horse shoes, to iron nails, or bales of wool and tanned hides, which find a ready market in France, Flanders, and even further a field.
Thomas Cromwell helps where he can, ensuring that the right licences and legal contracts are always in place. In return, Miriam allows him to infiltrate his agents into her spreading net of business contacts, where they carry out a steady, but unobtrusive, gathering of interesting information.
Richard Cromwell and Rafe Sadler return to the mundane world of the law courts, and Mush Draper settles into the life of a comfortably off town gentleman. He hunts during the day, entertains of an evening, and fulfils his husbandly duties each night, with a steady vigour.
Will Draper seems to be the only one of their group with nothing to really occupy his time. Each morning, he dresses, buckles on his sword, and pays attendance at Austin Friars, where he is told that Master Cromwell has no need of his services that day. With his wife usually away on some business or another, the ex soldier has little to do during daylight hours, save hunt a little, or sit about in taverns, trading tales with other unemployed soldiers of fortune.
It is during one such lazy afternoon that he visits the Old Cock, in East Cheap. They serve a decent ale, and sell wines supplied by his wife. The inn keeper‘s wife keeps a cauldron of stew constantly on the boil, and her pies come to the table hot, and smothered in rich gravies. He comes in search of a tasty meal, when he hears a familiar voice, declaiming from the ill lit back room.
“Though only a diplomat’s daughter, she
Is wont to dance ‘neath the linden tree,
And gambol away,
With gallants all day,
And no king’s pintle ‘ere see.”
Draper almost joins in with the roar of approval from the various drunks and bawd masters, but understands, only too well who is being referred to in Tom Wyatt’s crude doggerel. He pushes his way into the room, and finds the poet balanced on a low stool, with a pot of ale balanced on his head.
“Good day, Master Wyatt,” he says, tugging his friend down from his precarious perch. “I see you have chosen your company wisely once more.”
“Ah, Master Cromwell’s personal assassin!” Tom Wyatt says, through a drunken stupor. The other customers recognise the black livery often worn by the Privy Councillor‘s men, and know of Will Draper’s fierce reputation. They turn away their faces, and pretend never to have heard a word of the treasonable ditty.
“Your deafness suits you well, good fellows,” Will says, and drops a few silver coins on the counter. “Landlord, drinks are on Thomas Cromwell, until that runs out!” There is a grateful cheer, and they crowd to the bar, eager to sup at the great man’s expense.
“I’ll have another pot,” Wyatt mumbles. “For if ever a man did lose his heart, to lady fair, but far apart… agghh!”
Will Draper’s heavy leather gloved hand crashes against the poet’s cheek, and he staggers sideways. The drinkers ignore the little byplay, and continue to swill their free ale. The poet raises his fists, but Will slaps them down contemptuously, and takes Thomas Wyatt by his ale-stained ruff. He shakes him like a rag.
“How many times must I pull your neck from under the axe, Thomas?” Will demands, angrily. “I might just save the king the trouble, and slit your throat now.”
“Forgive me, old friend. I only get this way when I drink, and I only drink when I … get this way. No, stay your hand please, I suddenly, am sobered up enough to keep my aching love to myself, if only so as not to irritate you. If only Henry would send me abroad on an embassy, or find me work in far off France, Ireland, or Scotland. Well, perhaps not Scotland. That would be too much of a trial. I am bored, Will.”
“As am I,” Will replies. “Why, I have half a mind to board a boat for the continent, and see what comes my way. I would rather fight for the Spanish than sit around England growing fat.”
“You have a wife,” Wyatt says, softly. “Were she married to any man, other than you, I would be singing ballads under her window.”
“I doubt you would find her in,” Will says. “She is abroad, about her business from sun up to sun down. Then she invites people to dinner. I doubt she would miss my going for a moment.”
“Then let us seek adventure,” the poet says, staggering to his feet. “Let us ride to Paris, and enlist where we may, dear friend. For the French are a quarrelsome lot, and are always fighting somebody, somewhere!”
“Are you Master Thomas Wyatt?” The big Sergeant at Arms asks from the door. He is flanked by another six men, all as fearsome looking.
“Not I, good fellow,” Thomas Wyatt replies quickly. For one never knows when a creditor might turn nasty. “Though I hear he was here anon. There was talk of him sailing to Cathay.” The big soldier sighs, and turns to Will Draper, who he recognises from his visits to Whitehall Palace.
“Captain Draper, you are also wanted,” he says. “I have orders to take you into custody, and transport you both to the Tower of London. We already have Moshe Draper, and Richard Cromwell, and have a barge waiting for your immediate conveyance.”
“Are we under arrest?” Will asks.
“I must suppose so,” the sergeant replies. “My captain is not one to discuss the niceties with me.”
“Might I have time to send a message to my wife?” Will touches his purse with his fingertips, and the big soldier understands that there is a shilling or two to be earned.
“I dare not, sir,” the man says. “Though she will know soon enough. Men are detailed to guard several houses about the city, and yours is one of them. Those inside are to be held, in protective custody.”
“Then let me send word to my master, at Austin Friars,” Will says, unclasping his purse. “Here, five shillings for your trouble.”
“Sir, I have men there already,” the sergeant admits. “They are ordered to close the place off, and deny all access … or egress.”
“Then this is a sorry mess,” Will says. “Take the money, for your honesty, and have a drink on we poor souls. The Tower is a daunting prospect, but Master Wyatt is not a Cromwell man.”
“Enough of that,” the poet snaps. “I’ll not weasel out of this, and will come along with you, my friend. I hear the food is somewhat improved, these days, and that the dungeons often have a window, though it takes a very tall man to appreciate the view. Let us join our friends, and await our fate.”
“Spoken like a poet,” Will replies. The sergeant and his men are heavily armed, and will be difficult to overcome without bloodshed. Besides, he reasons, the law, thanks to Cromwell, is more open of late, and he might get a fair hearing. “Come then, to the Tower … and let things fall as they must.”
