by Anne Stevens
It is a short walk to the river, but with guards hemming them both in tightly, there is no chance of flight. Will sees the waiting barge, and its occupants, and wonders what it is that has caused so catastrophic an upset. As he climbs aboard, he catches Richard Cromwell’s eye, who merely shrugs back at him.
“We are all Jews now, Will,” Mush mutters, as his brother in law sits beside him. “Eight men, and the sergeant. We can take them, once out on the river. Then we can…”
“What, Mush … row to France?” Tom Wyatt says, as he sits opposite. “I cannot believe we are all so stupid that we did not see this coming. Some enemy has played us false, and we are too blind to see whom it is.”
“Thomas More,” Richard says, as the big barge is poled away from the landing. “God curse the Catholic bastard. Uncle is ever too soft with him.”
“Sir Thomas is out of favour at court,” Will replies. “I doubt he has enough power to effect all of our arrests. This smacks of careful planning, by a master hand.”
“The king then?” Richard persists. Tom Wyatt laughs. The king is too besotted with Lady Anne Boleyn to think about court intrigue. His only plan is to get her wed, and into his bed, for which he needs Thomas Cromwell.
“Not Henry,” the poet says. “He would strike hard at one or two, perhaps, but why upset the whole of Austin Friars?”
“True,” Will Draper agrees. “For who might then run England for him?”
“Norfolk,” Richard says, harshly. “It must be old Norfolk‘s doing. He is the only one close enough to Henry who might risk taking us on. What think you, Will?”
“Never mind what Will thinks,” Tom Wyatt replies. “I have it on good authority that Tom Howard has finally made a move against his wife. He has thrown her over for young Bess Holland, once and for all. He is now living openly at Kenninghall with the trollop, as if they were married. Poor Elizabeth is farmed out to some small house, and given two hundred a year to stay away, as if she were never a duchess at all. No, My Lord Norfolk is too busy with his new love to meddle with us.”
“Then who is against us?” Will Draper asks. He has just started to enjoy his new found wealth, and position, and resents the possibility of losing either so soon. “Can we have been brought down by Gardiner, or even that coward Suffolk?”
“Now Gardiner is Bishop of Winchester, he is too careful of offending anyone, and Brandon, though Earl of Suffolk is mortgaged up to the hilt with our master.” Richard knows enough to understand that Suffolk’s debts will not vanish, just because Cromwell falls. He will simply devolve to another, more demanding lender.
“Pray, calm yourselves, gentlemen,” the big sergeant calls across to them. “I find it best in such matters that you resign yourself to whatever lies ahead. Why, the Duke of Buckingham was as calm as can be when I rowed him down river, some years back. He jested with us, and even passed the journey playing at dice with one of my men. He lost four shillings, as I recall.”
“That is most reassuring,” Tom Wyatt returns, “considering that he was then beheaded, and his body torn into four pieces. Are you saying we are taken up as traitors, fellow?”
“Well, when all is said and done, sir,” the man replies, spitting into the river, “you must all have done something. It stands to reason that all men are guilty of some crime or other. These days, there are a hundred more ways to offend His Majesty. I dare say, as gentlemen, they will give you a fair trial before taking your heads. It is then you will know your crime, I dare say.”
“Then you already judge us?” Mush asks.
“As guilty … yes, sir, or how else do I come to have the pleasure of your fine company?”
“Tell me, sergeant,” Tom Wyatt asks, by way of passing the trip, “how many have you escorted to the Tower, and how many back?”
“Nigh on a hundred, sir,” the sergeant replies. “Though I can give a more exact figure as to them as comes back from there. For that number is a low one, and easy to count … needing but two fingers. I recall taking up a gentleman who had the misfortune of being named for his father. How we laughed about it, when we realised the mistake, and how relieved the poor fellow was to know ‘twas his father whose life was forfeit instead.”
“And the other?” Mush asks.
“Oh, a real, murdering rascal,” the sergeant explains to his charges. “We arrested him up river, and brought him to the Tower, only to find him to be stone cold dead as we arrived at Traitor‘s Gate. It seems the fear of his fate stopped his heart. We rowed him out to the deeper part of the river, and consigned him to Father Thames. Now see, here we are. Sit still, whilst we tie up securely, gentlemen, for I do not want anyone drowning on me, at this juncture!”
The barge is made fast, for and aft, and the guards are joined by another half dozen. Richard, Will, Mush and Tom Wyatt step ashore on the quayside, close by the daunting gate built by Edward the First, and used to gain entrance to the inner walls. A small door swings open in the wall, and the sergeant ushers them inside, one by one. As each man passes within, he counts them off, in a stentorian voice.
The gloom is intense, until someone appears, carrying a firebrand. Another is lit, and the small room is suddenly ablaze with smoke and light. Will can make out two figures hovering like harbingers of doom, and wonders who is sent to lay charges against them, and what those crimes might be.
“Ah, there you are, at last,” Thomas Cromwell says from behind the second torch. “I was worried that my men might find you too late!”
6 The Tower of London
Will Draper is far too relieved to vent his anger on Thomas Cromwell, and is, instead, disproportionately pleased to see him, without fetters, or any other sign of constraint.
“I must apologise for this secretive way of assembling you all,” Cromwell explains, “but I am unsure who I can trust, other than you four, and am in need of faithful allies. The business in Calais has come back to haunt me, my friends. Come, I have a comfortable room prepared. It is warm, and there will be food laid out for us.”
He leads the way, followed by the second torch bearer, who turns out to be a subdued Rafe Sadler. They pass through cold stone corridors, and Will is reminded of the time he was last within the Tower. On that occasion he was in charge, and given the task of silencing loose tongues that threatened to undermine Cromwell’s plans. The place seems as menacing now, as it did back then, and they all feel their spirits being crushed under the weight of the thick, inescapable walls.
At length, they come an iron bound door, which Rafe pushes back on well oiled hinges. He leads them into a well lit chamber, with a table, chairs, and food and ale set out for them. The six men each pour a mug of strong ale, and take food from the plank, laid across two barrels. Thomas Cromwell takes the chair at the head of this makeshift oak table, and beckons for them to draw close, and also be seated.
“To business, gentlemen. One of my agents came to me this morning, with strange news.” Cromwell rubs one finger against his chin, as if it will help him concentrate on the matter under discussion. “It seems that since that escapade, which concerned the emperor’s phantom army, Charles’ spies have been busy. They have been preparing the way for a rather special visitor to our shores. Do you recall talk of an ‘English priest’, Will?”
“We all do. It mystified us then, and still has us wondering now.” Will cannot think why this warrants so peculiar a meeting, away from Austin Friars, and why it has to happen in such a speedy manner. “Why would an English priest be involved with any enemy of the realm, other than the Pope.”
“Do you recall a man named George Constantine?” Cromwell asks, and Will begins to understand.
“The preacher who betrayed Stephen Vaughan to the Lord Chancellor’s office,” he says, nodding. “He fled to France, just ahead of our vengeance.”
“Yes. You were in Italy at the time, else we might have taken him, and gained some justice for those he condemned to death. I thank God I was able to save Stephen Vaughan, but the others perished in t
he flames.”
“Then it was he who aided the Spaniard, Gomes?”
“And still does,” Cromwell says. “Yesterday, he was smuggled aboard a Flemish cog in Calais, by the agents of Anton Fugger. My own man found out, but just too late. He could do nothing but take the next available ship , and hope to gain England, before the preacher did. Alas, the winds proved unfavourable, and Constantine landed at Deal, six hours ahead of my man.”
“I take it he has vanished?” Tom Wyatt asks.
“He has. As soon as the cog berthed, he was taken away, on horseback. My man was able to find out that he was met by a dozen, heavily armed men. He sent a fast messenger to me at Austin Friars, warning us to be on the lookout for Constantine. I had to act speedily, so set some men to round up those I can most readily trust. The sergeant knows only that you were to be found, and brought here.”
“Why here?” Richard Cromwell asks. “Austin Friars would be a better choice, Uncle.”
“Known to all,” Cromwell explains. “Think it through, as I did, gentlemen. Constantine is the agent of Gomes, who works for the wealthy Fugger clan. The head of the family, Anton Fugger, is the emperor’s banker. In fact, he funds most of the monarchs in Europe, even Henry to some extent. There is a direct link to Emperor Charles. The plot to destroy England is still afoot, and Constantine is the tinder that will light the fuse. I can only think of two ways to bring this country low. Either kill Henry, or destroy his best councillors.”
“You think he intends to murder you, or the king?” Will asks.
“Why not? He has a dozen armed men with him. They cannot get to the king, whom I have sent out of London, and hemmed in with reliable men, but they can descend on Austin Friars, and strike me down.”
“Then you have locked yourself in the safest place in England,” says Tom Wyatt. “You have set men to guard your house, and that of others?”
“Yes. Miriam will be safe, in case they seek to remove my strong right arm, Will.” Cromwell stands, and places his knuckles on the table. “I have increased the guard at Whitehall, and Westminster Palace, and put men secretly around the Lord Chancellor’s house in Chelsea. Should political murder be their aim, they will be rebuffed. Then, we will hunt them all down, and kill them. How they could hope to succeed is beyond imagining. Will, I rely on you to root out Constantine and his men.”
“Of course, master,” Will Draper replies. He is back on firm ground again. His believes, modestly, that his only true skill is fighting, and he is very good at it. “I will throw a net over London, and draw it in, until we have our catch. Whom might I use?”
“For the searching, you can use all of my agents. I have about a hundred and fifty men, and women, in my pay, and they can search all the likely places. When the miscreants are found, I am not sure whom you might trust, outside Austin Friars. Mush, Richard, Master Wyatt, Rafe and yourself must suffice, for now. Barnaby Fowler is needed to defend our homes. He has a couple of dozen roughs, ready to break heads, where ever they are needed most. As for the rest of my young men … they are willing enough, and loyal to a man … but few can fight. Regrettably, I have turned them all into lawyers.”
“”What about Richard Rich?” Tom Wyatt asks. “He can wave a sword around, and he has a good few friends about the court. Might we not raise a troop of gentlemen to protect their king?”
“These young bucks are all allied, in one form or another, to Norfolk, Suffolk, or Northumberland,” Cromwell says. “They cannot be trusted. Remember the talk of a ‘great personage’ in England, ready to bring the country down? It might be any one of them.”
“What of Sir Thomas More?”
“No, not More,” Cromwell says. “His time is almost done, and his power is all but drained away. Whilst you track down this very real danger, I will be taking some final steps to nullify the Lord Chancellor.”
“A pity,” Tom Wyatt says. “Utopia was never as pleasant as Austin Friars, Master Thomas, but More was ever kind to me, as a boy. It is only lately that he did misuse me, and I cannot blame him for that. It was political, not personal. Can you ever hate a man who is so true to his own beliefs?”
“I never hated him,” Cromwell replies, wistfully. “Even now, I long for him to take my hand in friendship, and step onto the same path I have chosen.”
“Perhaps, now the break with Rome is almost here…” Wyatt says, but he is not convinced. After all, he thinks, can a mortal man, even if a king, sweep aside fifteen hundred years of Christianity?
“England may break with Rome, and Henry might break with Clement, but More will never break with More.” Cromwell’s remark sounds enigmatic, but he means what he says. More is More, and exists only for his own ideals. What does it matter to him, if the world changes? More will not.
“Will you stay in the Tower, until this plot is unravelled, Master Cromwell?” Mush asks.
“Why not?” Cromwell says. “It is as safe as anywhere in London. I will keep a few good fellows close to hand, and try to continue with the business of state. Now, eat up, and prepare yourselves for the task ahead. Though I do not believe that one preacher and a dozen men can ruin England, they might have enough about them to cause a little mayhem.”
“Shall I bring Constantine to you here?”
“If he can be taken alive,” Cromwell tells Will. “There is a great power behind all this, apart from the emperor. Some English lord seeks to bring ruin on us all, and so benefit by it. A live priest might betray his trust, once again.”
“Then you shall have him, alive,” Will promises. If the scoundrel is in London, he will be cornered, and hemmed in by useful men, who will cut down his bodyguard. Then it is a simple matter to drag the treacherous preacher to the Tower, and stretch his bones, until he confesses all, and unveils the name of the ‘great lord’ behind the plot.
Rafe Sadler has been busy, and he has already put out the word to look out for Constantine, and his well armed gang. Thirteen men on horseback, with muskets and swords, intent on some mischief, cannot be that hard to find. There will be some low inn, or cheap bawdy house, catering to their needs, and one of Cromwell’s agents will pick up the scent.
He informs Will Draper what he has done, and they make arrangements as to which part of the city they will police. Will is for splitting London into five smaller areas, and for each man to look to his portion.
“Let each man command where he is given, and ensure that any search is carried out thoroughly,” Will says. “Every house, inn, stable or tavern is to be searched by our agents. Every whore on our payroll is to question any stranger they lay with, and every landlord is to search his own property, even unto the very cellars beneath their businesses. Let both palaces in the city be searched, from privies to gardens, and up into the roof, if need be. Does any man here disagree with that?”
“It makes good sense,” Tom Wyatt says. “Shall we each have a few boys with us, to use like Pheidippides of old?”
“A good idea, Tom. We will select the best runners amongst the urchins who pay court to us. If any one of us find our prey, we will send word to the rest.”
“Fi…” Richard starts, but Mush raises a finger to his lips.
“Hush, Master Genius,” he says. “I will explain, as we return to the city.”
Thomas Cromwell’s outward show of calm, belays many real worries that nag at him. How can one cowardly preacher bring down a nation? Why would Charles, ruler of over half of the world, believe Constantine could do such a thing? Why would Anton Fugger, the world’s richest banker, and financier of the emperor’s New World conquests, become involved?
The Fuggers are an enormously rich family, and are replacing the wealthy Medicis of Italy, as financiers to the great and good. Cromwell knows that the Bishop of Rome is in debt to them, to the tune of almost a half million ducats, and that Charles V is overrunning the Americas with troops and ships, paid for with Fugger money.
The financier, Anton Fugger, is the richest man alive, and has a deep reverence for t
he Roman church. He lends to Rome, with little expectation of making any return, and he detests the new protestant movement, which is springing up all about him in the various German principalities. This does not, however, explain to Cromwell why he is involved in a plot to destroy England.
Destruction means conquest, and for that, the Privy Councillor reasons, you need soldiers. Not thousands, but tens of thousands, in great ships. You need generals, canon, and vast amounts of weaponry. Like Will Draper, Cromwell cannot see where such a destructive force is hidden.
Then there was the matter of the traitor within. Which great Lord of England would think himself strong enough to bend the country to his will? No matter how he looks at it, there is only one solution that makes any sense. The ‘great personage’ concerned must have entered into a secret plot with others.
The combinations were endless, of course. Individually, no Duke, or Earl, was quite strong enough, and they all deeply mistrust, and hate one another. The only logical combination would be for Harry Percy, the discontented Duke of Northumberland, to ally himself with his cousin by marriage, the devious King of Scotland.
Seumas Stiùbhairt, the fifth King James Stuart of Scotland, is just turned twenty, and has long wished to prove his military acumen. Perhaps, Cromwell muses, the young lion is tired of border raids, and inconclusive treaties with the French. The northern king is Henry’s nephew, by virtue of being the son of Margaret Tudor, Henry’s much beloved sister.
Should the English king fall, without a legitimate male heir, then James will have a strong claim to the vacant throne. The possibility must be very tempting for an ambitious young man, and with his highlanders supporting Harry Percy’s twenty thousand Northumbrians, there is a strong chance of success. Together, they might just manage to take much of the north, and tip Henry from his golden throne.
