by Anne Stevens
The Stolen Prince
A Tudor Conspiracy
By Anne Stevens
Tudor Crimes: Book 3
© TightCircle Publications.
The Players
Thomas Cromwell Privy Councillor
Richard Cromwell His Nephew
Henry Viii King of England
Anne Boleyn The king’s mistress
Sir Thomas More Lord Chancellor
Norfolk Tom Howard, the pre-eminent Duke
Duke of Suffolk Chas. Brandon, Henry’s friend
1st Baron Montagu Harry Pole, confident of the king
Harry Fitzroy Duke of Somerset {Henry’s illegitimate son}
Hans Holbein A portraitist
Thomas Wyatt Poet & Roving Ambassador to the Court
Rafe Sadler Cromwell’s private secretary
Earl of Surrey Norfolk’s son and heir
Richard Rich A lawyer
Mary Boleyn Anne’s sister
George Boleyn Anne’s brother
Eustace Chapuys Holy Roman Ambassador
Fictitia Populus
Will Draper Cromwell’s secret agent
Miriam Draper His wife, a Jewess
Moshe (Mush) Miriam’s brother
Barnaby Fowler Cromwell’s man
Walter Miriam’s guard
Owain Gruffedd A Traitorous Welshman
Dicken Shaw His Lieutenant
John Adamson One of Cromwell’s young men
Sir Jeremy Herbert Suffolk’s man
Gwen ap Hwyll A pretty Welsh girl
Sundry soldiers, town’s people, lords, gentlemen and common folk.
Poetry by Tom Wyatt & Anne Stevens.
TightCircle Publications 2015.
Foreword
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In June 1531, Thomas Cromwell is fast becoming the king’s most favoured councillor, and he is beginning to insinuate himself into a place of real power.
He is moving towards a clash with the Lord Chancellor, Sir Thomas More, over the great problem of the time; King Henry’s separation from his queen, and he is also struggling to overcome the constant difficulty of his own low birth. Born, the son of a blacksmith, and sometime innkeeper, he is finding it hard to face down men born into the nobility, whose very station in life make them dangerous to both him, and the crown.
Whatever his shortcomings, Cromwell is intent on running England, like he runs his own household. Each person must have the protection of the law, and freedom of religious belief must be clearly established, as one of the cornerstones of his new society.
For fourteen years, Cromwell worked in the household of Cardinal Wolsey, and was privy to very many state secrets, that were dangerous to know. In 1519, he escorted his master to Blackmore in Essex, where he witnessed the birth of a baby, to a lady of the court, called Elizabeth Blount.
The child was a boy, and the only living son of his father, Henry VIII, King of England. Wolsey noted the date of the birth, and ordered Cromwell to notify his majesty that ‘the child, a Bastardum Princepem, is born, safe and well’. Henry who knew his Latin had helped produce a future problem for his kingdom. His adulterous lust had created, not a mere child, but a Bastardum Princepem. The bastard born child would be brought up with his half sister, Mary, and honoured, as if he were a true prince.
Pointedly christened Henry, to announce his bloodline, the boy was taken by Wolsey, and placed under the watchful eye of trusted people. During his slow decline from power, Cardinal Wolsey commended the child to Cromwell and, in so doing, passed to him a poisoned chalice that might well rip England apart, and destroy his own political career.
In a time of intrigue, when all of Europe wonders who might succeed Henry, the last thing England needs, or wants, is an illegitimate prince.
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Prologue: London Bridge
“Walter, make shift, before we lose the morning!” Miriam Draper urges the young man, one of Thomas Cromwell’s servants, to row faster. Once the tide shifts, she knows that it will make the short journey, from her landing, to the bridge, a great deal harder to accomplish. Walter smiles at the gentle chiding, and pulls all the harder on the boat’s stout oars.
“Happen a sail rigged would help us on our way, Mistress Miriam,” he jokes. The breeze is at his back though, and a sail would have them at Tilbury, and out to sea, rather than approaching the jetty at London’s great bridge. Walter is a slow, earnest young man, devoted to the master of Austin Friars, Thomas Cromwell, and sworn to look after Will Draper’s young wife.
The small boat, no more than a skiff is laden with fresh baked bread, a churn of milk, great slabs of butter, wrapped in waxed paper, and various items of cooked food, from pies to tarts, and roasted chickens. Since moving to the new house, on the river, Miriam makes a weekly pilgrimage to the bridge market, to sell her surplus wares to the townsfolk.
Her husband is in the employ of Tom Cromwell, the coming man at court, and he is well paid for his trouble, but Miriam comes from a more cynical background. Her blood, though it is a closely guarded secret, is Jewish, and, as a result of this, she is wary of too much good fortune. Her ancient people have been chased from every country in the world, and who knows when their present good luck might change?
Walter ties the boat up, fast, and starts to unload an eclectic selection of goods onto the wooden wharf. Miriam will spread her wares out on one of the trestle tables that can be hired for a penny a day, and sell the produce she has gathered together, over the previous week. After but a few weeks, she has built up a regular set of customers, especially for her gently scented custard tarts, and cleverly spiced game pies.
She recognises that the gentry like something new, and tries to vary her range of items from week to week. Despite this, there are firm favourites, which she must include in her inventory every Friday morning.
“Good day, Mistress Draper.” The smartly dressed young man doffs his cap, and bows formally. He is one of the Earl of Surrey’s errand boys, and is here to collect a dozen custard tarts, to satisfy his young master’s sweet craving. “Lord Hal sends his fondest regards, Mistress, and asks again if you will join his kitchens.” The dissolute son of the Duke of Norfolk has an eye for good food, and pretty girls, and wishes to sample Miriam, as well as her wares. “He offers twice what anyone else will pay.”
“And who will look after my husband?” she calls back, handing over the Earl’s ready made parcel. “Tell young Surrey that I need a strapping man, not a child.” The man grins, but will not dare pass on the witticism to his volatile master. Two silver shillings change hands, which Miriam hands to Walter. He slips them into his purse, and returns his hand to the knife hilt at his waist.
He is under orders to keep Miriam Draper safe, and will do so, come what may. His well known livery clearly marks him out as a Cromwell man, which is usually enough to deter most would be felons. To cross the Privy Councillor is a sure way to end up in prison, or with a broken arm, or even on the end of a good hemp rope.
Though not strictly part of Thomas Cromwell’s vast household at Austin Friars, the young Jewess is married to Captain Will Draper, a valued agent, and so under Master Cromwell’s personal protection. Quite apart from that, the Privy Councillor likes the young girl, and often thinks back to his own, long dead daughters, on her account. The sweating sickness is no respecter of either wealth, or position.
It was after their deaths that Cromwell starts to question his faith, but rather than discard Rome, he exchanges it, for a belief that seems to be more forgiving. He reads the English bible he has hidden in his house, from cover to cover, and finds no mention
of purgatory. It is a relief to him, knowing that his perfect little daughters, and his loyal wife, are not in some dismal in-between world, waiting for a place in heaven.
London Bridge, the only dry crossing point of the Thames, within the city boundary, is long, and broad. It is a running joke with Londoners, when asked how long the bridge is, to answer that, for all its size, it is still only just long enough to touch each side of the river. It is the width, though, that truly amazes the rural visitor. Wide enough to take two fully laden ox carts, side by side, it has grown outwards, alarmingly.
The bridge is lined, on each side, with houses, warehouses, brothels, doctors, and lawyers offices, and places of dubious public entertainment, many of which are three stories tall, and cantilevered out, over the rushing water, making the bridge unnaturally wide to look at. Now and then, the odd tall structure, weakened by time, dry rot, rising damp, or passing traffic and footfall, tumbles into the river, and is washed away to the sea. There is an often told story of a shifty man of the law, whose house collapsed in such a way. The joke is that the lawyer was so cleverly spoken, that he convinced the building to float down river, and that he, and his house, are now in Calais.
In reality, the moment a gap appears, entrepreneurs rush to buy the hole. In a trice, carpenters, and builders, rush to fill it with another, even more useful building. Twice a week, the entire concourse is lined with market stalls, selling everything a busy Londoner might need, from pots and pans, to sewing needles, wooden buttons, sheepskins, caps, woollen clothing, ironmongery, fresh vegetables, twice baked bread, fine silk cloth, flax, hoes, axes, chamber pots, pewter dishes, leather boots, fishing lines and nets, pet songbirds, imported French wine, ale, and horse shoes.
Most popular amongst all of this multitude of stalls, are those that sell fresh consumables, such as fish, live eels, meat, lampreys, horse flesh, baked goods, both savoury and sweet, and a wide selection of poultry. Wild ducks are on display, alongside wood pigeons, chickens, capons, geese, partridges, and pheasants.
There are two stalls run by gang masters, where small orphaned children wait, in the hope of being hired for a few days work, as maids, servants or labourers. For a handful of coppers, one can buy the services of any child, for anything. It is not unknown for the nicer looking ones to be sold into brothels, where they do manual labour, until they are old enough to interest a customer.
At the end of the day, Miriam will distribute any remaining food stuffs amongst them, together with a scattering of farthings, to help keep them alive for another day. Even in so modern, and well run a country as England, starvation is still a problem. The gang masters do not like Miriam’s actions, as it cuts them out of the transaction, and they miss a fee. On her first day, one of the men, a big, broken nosed thug from Putney, tries to put her right.
It turns out that it is he who must be put right, and he finds Miriam’s knife pressed against his throat. She moves like a cat, and has the man at her mercy, before even Walter can act. She explains, in simple language, that she is quite capable of slitting his throat, from ear to ear, and recommends that he keep his distance. There is no more trouble from that day forward.
Miriam attends the market but once a week, early on Friday morning, and never returns, until her boat is virtually empty. In this way, she earns upwards of twenty shillings a week, which is enough to keep her big, lavishly decorated and furnished new house, on the river ,running for the next seven days. This means that Will Draper’s earnings can be saved, against the day when the heavens open on their poor heads. On that day, Miriam will recover the bags of gold from under her floorboards, and ride off, with Will, into another life.
Surrey’s man lingers a while, in the hope that she might chat with him a while longer. Miriam is very easy on the eye, and men are drawn to her like bees about a hive. With Walter standing guard, few ever overstep the bounds of good behaviour. Once, a couple of weeks before, a gentleman of the court, mistaking her for a street girl, had ended up in the river, with the crowd jeering at him.
Miriam is not a weak girl. She carries a knife in the folds of her dress, and has a wit ready enough to get her out of most calamities. Today, she is being watched by a couple of men. They have pointed, black beards, and are dressed in the grey and purple livery of the Lord Chancellor’s Office. They watch Miriam, and make note of her manner, before approaching her.
“You, girl,” the older man demands, planting himself squarely before her. “Are you Miriam ben Mordecai, the notorious Jewess?”
“No, sir,” Miriam replies. “I am Mistress Miriam Draper, the notorious pie maker.”
“I mean before,” the man snaps.
“Before what, sir?” Miriam Draper replies, adopting a blank look. “For before marriage, I was a maid, and before being a maid, I was a girl, and before that, I do believe I was a babe. What were you, sir, before becoming so rude?”
“Saucy piece!” the man says, and swaggers towards her, menacingly. “Would you rather answer me at the Tower?”
“Would you rather be dancing on my knife blade?” Walter is close beside the man, and pricks his ribs with the point of his weapon. “Mistress Draper is under Master Thomas Cromwell’s protection, and about her honest, and lawful business. Get off about yours, knave.”
“You dare insult an officer of the king?” the second man says. “We can have a dozen soldiers here, with one shout.”
“Make it, and it will be your last,” Walter replies, smiling. “I will cut both of your throats, before the first guard arrives.”
“This is an outrage,” the first man rejoins. “Our orders are clear. Our master demands we arrest this girl. Do not fret, sir, for we wish only to question your little Jewess.”
“Mistress Draper is English, and has the legal papers, signed by a senior Privy Councillor to prove it,” Walter replies. He is, like everyone at Austin Friars, carefully coached in the matter, and will reel out the approved story. Both she, and her brother Mush, are Coventry born and bred. Their olive complexion can be put down to the bad air of the midlands town.
“Then she will not mind coming with us.” The second man says, and grabs at Miriam’s shoulder. A crowd is gathering, always happy to indulge their desire for scandal. Miriam barely moves, and the tip of her knife has scored the man’s hand. He yelps, and backs off. The crowd laugh. “Slut!” he cries, rather inadvisably, and makes a second grab at her.
“Get off me!” Miriam screams, then has a sudden thought as to what to do. “Damn you, you rascally tax collectors!”
The mood of the surrounding stall holders, and the crowd, changes at once. The king’s tax collectors are hated, if anything, even more than the perfidious French. That they should be spying on honest stall holders, looking to tax honestly made money is an outrage. There is a surge of angry stall holders, which sweeps the two men away, and their cries are drowned out by the mob. The situation, which might have resulted in much bloodshed, is resolved peacefully, as the two men are casually tossed from the side of the bridge.
The tide is just turning, and they land, with wet squelches, in a foot of stinking mud, and fetid sewage. A huge cheer goes up, and the Londoners, having had their bit of fun, disperse, about their own business once more. Walter shakes his head. He is a little worried that Miriam has drawn official blood, and wonders if he should get her back home, before the force of law is brought against them.
“They will be too ashamed to lay a report against me. They will have to admit at being bested by a girl,” Miriam says. “They will slink away instead, and drown their sorrows in ale.”
“Or they will return, with twenty armed men, and throw us both in the Tower, where we will be racked, until we sing for our supper,” Walter replies. He is a pessimist, but will go along with whatever the quicker witted girl thinks best for them.
“They will come for me, wherever I am,” she tells her protector. “I am but a pawn in the game, Walter. Just an unimportant, Jewish pawn.” It is true. Sir Thomas More, the Lord Chance
llor, and Thomas Cromwell, are at loggerheads over the matter of the king‘s annulment, and each seeks a way to upset the other. Only the week before, Thomas Cromwell has had one of More’s secretaries taken up, and charged with forgery of a will.
The charge is not false. Rafe Sadler prosecutes the case at Grey’s Inn, with vigour. The man has forged his uncle’s will, and stolen everything from his widow, and children. Cromwell’s man, as is often the case, wins the jury over, and a widow’s property is restored. The man is found guilty of forgery, and is hanged at Tyburn for his sins.
A good days work, Master Cromwell might say, but Sir Thomas More will have his revenge. If he cannot ruin Miriam Draper, and make her turn on Cromwell, the Lord Chancellor will find some other way to achieve his ends. These are dangerous times, and will be, until either one, or the other, is victorious. The king is of no help, either. He supports each man in turn, wondering which will benefit him the most.
In the outer court, at Whitehall Palace, the young wags talk of Hal Turnabout, the king with two faces, and lay bets on who will win the king’s favour, in the end. The conservative money is on More, but the sharper wits believe Thomas Cromwell can win the day. They believe that he can offer the king something that the Lord Chancellor cannot; a break from Rome, and a quick divorce.
Miriam Draper is not fazed. She continues selling her wares, until there are only a few scraps left. She hands the few remaining bits of food out to the hungriest looking children, and gives each of the others a small coin, until all her copper is exhausted.
“There,” she says, dusting her hands on her apron. “A good day’s work, Master Walter. The wind is in our favour too, so unfurl the sail, and let us get off home.”
“I must report to Master Cromwell,” Walter says, casting his eyes down at his feet.
