by Anne Stevens
A half hour later, Stephen Vaughan is bandaged, and being loaded onto a makeshift litter. Two men will take him to Ipswich, where a doctor might be found to tend his injury. He is delirious from a head wound, and unable to tell his saviours what has befallen him.
“We will play the Good Samaritan, and see him safely to a doctor, sir,” Jake Stoodley, one of Cromwell’s rougher young men says. “But ‘tis a pity he spoke only a few words.”
“He spoke?” Will asks. “What did he say.”
“Nothing that made sense, sir,” Jake replies. “As I picked him up in my arms, he says ‘it is the angel’, and passes out.”
“The Angel!” Wills senses reel. Miriam is, even now, travelling to the Angel Inn, in Cambridge. “By God, Richard … are we going the wrong way? Is Miriam in some kind of trouble?”
“Calm yourself, Master Will,” Gregory Cromwell says. “It is nought but a coincidence. Mistress Miriam is safe. She has four good men with her, and your Sergeant Buffery sounds like a sound fellow, who will not allow your lady to come to harm.”
“Yes, you are right, Gregory,” Will says. “Why would Stephen seek to warn us though? Which angel does he mean?”
“Perhaps he meant the Angel of Death?” Gregory says with a sudden clutch of horror. He is young, and still fears the darker corners of Roman Catholicism. “Might he have seen him, hovering over him, as he lay, close to death?”
“Well, he has flown off now,” Will tells the boy. “Let us hope he has other souls to gather, before we have to meet with him.”
“Bugger angels. Our answer lies ahead,” Richard says. “Let us get on to Framlingham Castle, and catch Norfolk’s bitch at her treason, before it is too late.”
The Angel Inn is on the southern approaches of Cambridge, and is popular with travellers. The new owner is proud of the place, and the alterations he, and his new wife, have made to it. He is standing at one of the new windows, with its polished horn panes, looking up the road, when Miriam’s party trundles into sight.
Rob Buffery’s usual friendly smile turns into a frown as they come into the yard. He steps behind the wooden bar, and retrieves his old army sabre. Then he stands it just inside the door, handy, should he need it. Mistress Miriam Draper is here, but has brought a disturbing puzzle with her. The carts come to a halt, and the old soldier fixes the smile back on his face, before stepping out to greet them.
“Mistress Draper, I presume?” Rob Buffery is a big, well muscled man, who still keeps a sense of military discipline, to go with his natural amiability. “Welcome to the Angel Inn. My wife has food ready, and there is a comfortable room for you. Though I was not expecting you to bring so many men along - six is it?”
“It is, Master Buffery. I have been in an adventure, and apart from my two carters, I have acquired four further bodyguards. They will be happy to bed down in your stable, if it be warm, and there is enough food and ale for them.”
“I shall see to it, at once,” Buffery says, ushering her inside the well lit inn. “What do you think of my Angel then, mistress?”
“Divine,” Miriam Draper replies, smiling at her own small jest. “How many can you feed and board at once?”
“Enough,” the old soldier replies. “Most of my trade is done with travellers from Oxford, or London. Once they get a taste for your foreign wines, they will want more.”
“Have your men unload my carts, and we will settle accounts,” Miriam tells him. “My husband vouches for your honesty, and I am minded to make you a good price, providing you are ready to listen to my offer.”
“I am always open to offers,” Rob Buffery replies. “What have you in mind, Mistress Draper?”
“Cheese, smoke cured hams, salted beef, wines, Italian sausages, and nutmeg,” she says. “I can supply all your needs. Make me your single supplier, and your inn will prosper.”
“I have never heard a woman … lady … talk so,” Rob Buffery replies, scratching his thick beard. “You must have dealings with half the world. Can you truly do all of this?”
“I have swift cogs bringing me wines, and foodstuffs from afar, and I can import from as far away as Venice, or even the Ottoman states,” Miriam concludes.
“Then we have a bargain made,” the retired soldier tells her, holding out a big hand. He refrains from spitting into his palm, in deference to her fair sex. “Though I am quite puzzled by your choice of carter.”
“What do you mean?” Miriam asks. “Both men are good workers, and keep themselves in orderly fashion. They are just common fellows I find work for.”
“The one with the eye patch, perhaps, mistress,” says Rob Buffery, “but not the younger man. He is no more a carter, than I am Queen of the May!”
“You know him?”
“No, not know him,” Buffery confides, “but I have seen him before now.”
“You frighten me, sir,” Miriam Draper says. She and her husband live in a world of intrigue, and secrecy, and things are seldom what they seem. “Pray, tell me what you know.”
“Your husband gave me a promissory note for my share of a horse deal, and bade me present it to Master Thomas Cromwell, at Austin Friars, in London. I found the place easily enough, as the man is well known, it seems. I went in, and asked to see Cromwell.”
“I trust he honoured the note?” Miriam says.
“He did, mistress, and even offered me a position, working for him. I declined the offer, as my heart was set on running an inn, and he paid me six pounds in gold coins, and five shillings in silver, without further ado. Waiting in the hall, to see him, were three other men … young men … who all looked as though they might be able to handle themselves. It seems Master Cromwell was hiring likely fellows, to swell his entourage.”
“And one of these men was the carter, Alfred?”
“Yes, Mistress Miriam. He was better dressed, and clean shaven back then, but I knew him at once. He walks like a military sort, and I wager his hands are too soft for his current profession.”
“Curse the man,” Miriam mutters. “The fellow is set to watch me.”
“I can see he vanishes, if you wish,” Rob Buffery tells her. “A swiftly cut throat, and a deep hole in a field will not be a problem.”
“No, he is not here to do me any sort of harm,” the girl explains. “but rather to keep a caring eye on me. Master Cromwell is far too diligent when it comes to my safety.”
“Then he is set to spy on you, and watch that you come to no harm?” Rob Buffery is not completely convinced. “Why should that be … and is he the only one?”
“Yes, here. I suspect there are a few more in my employ, who also take a wage from Master Cromwell.”
“Funny that.” The big ex soldier worries at his fulsome beard, and frowns deeply. “He did not seem the sort.”
“The sort?” Miriam asks.
“Yes. The sort of old bugger to covet a younger woman in such a manner.” Rob Buffery reaches the wrong conclusion, and believes Thomas Cromwell to be the worst kind of panderer. “Does Captain Will know of this?”
“You misunderstand the situation, I think,” Miriam replies, hastily. “Master Tom holds my husband in the highest regard, and treats me like a favourite child. His two daughters died young, you see, and I am by way of being a comfort to him.”
“Then you are a very lucky girl,” the old soldier says, smiling. “He has you watched for the noblest of reasons, and helps you where he can. Thank God, and accept it, mistress.”
“Miriam,” she says. “I am just Miriam.”
“A Hebrew name, is it not?” There is no malice in Rob’s voice. The name simply reminds him of sermons, half remembered from his childhood. “Was she not an old time prophetess?”
“Yes, she was. The bible says she foresaw the closing of the Red Sea over Pharaoh and his multitude and sang about it to Moses and Aaron.
‘Sing to the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously;
Horse and rider he has thrown into the sea.’” she sings the words in a lilt
ing chant, and Rob Buffery is spellbound by her gentle voice.
“You sing well, and the choice of name was a good one,” he tells her.
“My father liked the sound of it,” she says, telling the usual tale concocted to keep her safe from persecution. “I am originally from Coventry.”
“Things are much laxer in Calais,” Buffery says. “There, people are judged on their worth, not their religion. I am sure Coventry is a very nice town. You must call me Rob, Miriam from Coventry.”
The girl smiles at the small jest, but cannot help wonder how deeply Cromwell has infiltrated his people into her everyday business. Are they all there to keep her safe, or do they use her business to act as spies, and agents for their real master? One day, she will sit down with her benefactor, and demand the truth.
The Spaniard has never been to Bruges before, and he is surprised by its beauty. The city is a prosperous one, and is well furnished with grand houses. Gomes is directed to one of the grandest, by a wide canal, and arrives at the appointed hour.
“Ah, Gomes, there you are!” Anton Fugger says, as he is shown into the main hall. “We feared you might have been taken, in Calais.” The Spaniard bows to his master, and nods at the other four men, who, he assumes are fellow bankers to Fugger.
“The town is a melting pot of every nation in Europe, sir,” he says. “If you are careful, one may move about freely. My agents in Calais ensured I was safe.”
“Excellent. Now, what news?”
“The men we sent to Queen Katherine were taken, as we thought they would be. Cromwell’s men ran them to earth.”
“Before they freed the lady?”
“Yes.”
“Damn,” Fugger says. “It might have been better had they removed her, before being stopped.”
“The emperor will be pleased,” Gomes says, coldly. “He has no desire to have his aunt’s head displayed above traitor’s gate. She might yet be allowed to retire, or enter a nunnery.”
“Yes, yes.” Fugger is a practical man, and knows that Charles would be better off being free of his moral obligation to his aunt. “I‘m sure the emperor will rejoice at the news.”
“The lady is still much loved in Aragon, sir,” Gomes replies, stiffly. “I myself am Aragonese.”
“I see, and what of Constantine?” The banker has several irons in the fire. “Is our tame preacher still at large?”
“My agents tell me that he is still free, and was last seen seeking shelter at a friend’s house in Suffolk. He should be with the Duchess about now,” Gomes replies.
“And what of our Keeper of the Angels? Fugger asks. “My friends are keen to know of his progress.”
“Assuming that Thomas Cromwell’s men are still looking for Constantine in the wrong county, he will contact Lady Howard soon. In the next few days, she will have the Keeper of the Angels visit her. He is a relative, and this will not cause any suspicion. With the exchange done, Constantine will slip back across the channel, and be brought to us, here.”
“Hear that, my friends?” Anton Fugger can scarcely contain his excitement. “Within a few days, we will hold the fate of a nation in our hands. You must prepare for the next stage.”
“Some of us have already begun,” one of the men, a heavy set German says, glaring at a thin faced Frenchman sitting across from him. “I hear that wood from the Ardennes forest can only be bought for Ducats, or French gold coins.”
“What else would you have me do?” the Frenchman snaps back. “Must I stand by, and lose thousands?”
“We all swore,” Fugger tells them. “Did I not promise to make good any losses?”
“You did, Anton,” the same German agrees. “And I have kept to my part. I have two shiploads of trade goods on the way to Dover, and must accept English coin.” The Frenchman looks about for support from the other members of the banking cartel, but finds only stony looks.
“You speak as if our plan has already come to fruition,” he says, defensively. “Let me see these precious Angels, and I will fall in with all that you say, Fugger!”
“Until then?”
“I am the richest man in France, and I wish to remain so,” he says. “Your guarantees are nothing to me. I believe in actions. Pay me now, against any future loss, or I must withdraw my support.”
“You have me over a barrel, my friend,” Anton Fugger says, coldly. “I cannot have you pulling out now. You would break faith with us, and our plot will fail. Stay, if only for another week.”
“Will you pay me?” the Frenchman asks. “I cannot live on promises.”
“Then go,” Anton Fugger says. “For even if I pay, you will still choose your own, selfish path. Escort my friend off the premises, Señor Gomes.”
Gomes bows to his master, and takes the Frenchman by the elbow, roughly. He is affronted by this rude treatment, and tries to pull loose, but the Spaniard is far too strong for him.
“Come, sir,” Allesandro Gomes says. “Your continued presence is an offence to these gentlemen, who seek to bring down our natural enemy.”
The Frenchman is taken into the courtyard, and made to stand under guard, until his carriage is ready. His hopes of forcing the immensely rich Anton Fugger into buying his co-operation are scattered to the winds, but he can still use his knowledge to profit in other ways.
The coach clatters into view, and Gomes opens the door for the French banker. He gestures for him to climb in.
“There, sir. Go, but remember this …” As the Frenchman turns to hear Gomes’ final words, the Spaniard slips a thin dagger up, under his ribs. The man shudders, and stares in horror at his murderer. Gomes leans against the mortally wounded Frenchman, and pushes him into the coach. He closes the door, and steps back.
“Drive out into the forest, and make it look like robbers have done this,” he instructs the coachman. “On your return, there will be a purse of silver waiting for you.” the man nods to the Spanish assassin, touches his hat, and whips the horses into a swift trot.
Gomes watches the coach vanish from sight. He stoops, and wipes the bloody blade on a tuft of grass, then returns to his master who is waiting in the great hall.
“Is it done?” Anton Fugger asks.
“It is.” The Spaniard touches the hilt of his dagger to indicate the method of the Frenchman’s despatch.
“Excellent.” The banker smiles, and addresses those who remain. “Now, gentlemen, are we all in this together … to the very end?”
“We are, Anton” Grunewald, the German, says, raising his wine glass in the air. “Let us drink to the downfall of the heretic, Henry, and the complete destruction of England!”
Anton Fugger, the richest man in Christendom, is content at the way things are going. The Frenchman, Jacques Verrier, was always a weak link, and likely to betray them all for money. He is better dead, than allowed to upset things at this late stage. All that remains is for Constantine to return, safely, and England is doomed, but the financier is loath to leave anything to chance.
“Gomes, what if Constantine fails us?” he asks. “What if he is taken, or loses his nerve?”
“Rest easy, sir,” Gomes tells the worried banker. “I have a band of men close to the duchesses castle. They have instructions to protect the house, and see that Constantine returns to us, as planned.”
“Good. There must be no loose threads in this tapestry, Gomes,” Fugger says. “Once we have the Angels, our treacherous preacher must vanish.”
“The ship’s captain has orders to drop him overboard, once he is in deep water,” Gomes replies.
“Most apt. The coward fears the flames, but will perish in water,” Fugger says, and they all laugh politely at his small jest.
“There is also the matter of the duchess, sir,” Gomes says. “She thinks she is helping Katherine, whilst embarrassing her husband. Once she understands what we are about, she might cause an upset.”
“Kill her.” The banker pronounces the death sentence, as if speaking of a change in interest rates
. “Have your men kill them all, duchess, servants … the lot.”
“I have already given the order,” Gomes says, relieved that he has not overstepped his authority. “My men will see to it, and burn down her house. It will look like the work of marauding French pirates. They often raid along that part of the English coast.”
“Well done, Gomes. I will see you are well rewarded.”
“Thank you, sir, but I must confess that I would do all in my power to hurt the heretical English, even without your gold.”
“Ah!” Anton Fugger laughs, coldly, and drops a heavy purse onto the table. “Revenge does not put bread and meat on the plate, my friend. Take the gold I offer. You have earned it.”
“Thank you, Señor Fugger,” the Spaniard replies, hefting the leather pouch. “Ducats, I hope … and not English coin?”
The others burst into laughter then. They are all in on the secret, and have been quietly buying up Spanish silver for some months. Even so, the price has begun to rise, and they must go carefully, lest they alert the English, and expose what they are up to.
12 Framlingham
Elizabeth Howard is still, at the age of thirty five, an attractive lady, and she cannot understand why her callous husband has thrown her over for a younger woman, of much lower birth. It is his lack of good taste which appals her most.
“He is mad,” Matthew Dallard replies. He has the duchess straddled over a padded bench, and is taking her from behind. She is gasping, and urging him to even greater endeavours. He slaps her exposed behind, and speaks to her like a common whore. “There is more on an old bird, than a spring chicken. I will ride you, madam, ‘til the cock does crow!”
“Such a crowing cock,” Elizabeth moans, and turns to face him. She runs her fingers across the hair on his chest “Come, look at me. Let me see your eyes as you swive with me, sir.”
The steward, safe in the knowledge that she must surrender to his basest wishes, smiles, and takes hold of the mass of hair that cascades down over her bare shoulders. He pulls her by it, and makes her slip to the floor, and on to her knees.
