The Stolen Prince: A Tudor Conspiracy (Tudor Crimes Book 3)

by Anne Stevens

  “At least we stopped the mouths of John Adamson, and his foolish friends,” Mush says.

  “For now,” Cromwell mutters. “How has business been, whilst we were away, Richard?”

  “Fair, Uncle Thomas, fair.” Richard, in truth, has had little to do, other than tidy up any small emergencies that have arisen. Rafe is in constant contact with affairs, thanks to a chain of fast riders, and quick witted agents, and keeps a masterly eye on Cromwell’s various activities. “Things have been quiet.”

  “I see, and you, Mush,” the lawyer asks. “Are you still a single man? Mistress Boleyn is not pressing you for marriage?”

  Mush pauses, a slice of cheese half way to his mouth. He does not know how Cromwell does it. It is only the night before that Lady Mary has mentioned the possibility, but not, thank God, with him.

  “Lady Mary wants to make a good marriage,” he replies. “She wonders if you might speak with the king?”

  “What a wonderful idea,” Cromwell says, and smiles. “She wishes me to ask Henry, her old lover, to arrange a marriage for her, and uses her latest lover as an intermediary.”

  “She is lonely.”

  Richard barks out a laugh, and receives a sharp look from Cromwell, who sighs, and shakes his head.

  “Mush, you are in her bed in order that I might benefit from her views, not accede to her wishes.” He chews on some bread. “At some point, Henry might want her services again. If so, it is easier to remove you from her bed, than try to soothe a jealous husband. Tell her to behave for a little while longer, and I will settle her down with a nice living, and a docile young husband.”

  “Yes, master.” Mush knows not to press Lady Mary’s case, and lapses into silence.

  “Tell us about Yorkshire,” Will Draper says. “Is it truly as awful a place as Ireland, Master Thomas?”

  “Everything is bigger,” Cromwell replies. “The storms, the castles, the women, and the sheep. Men live on mutton, the year around, and speak a dialect unlike any I have ever known.”

  “What of Harry Fitzroy?” Mush asks. “Might he ever make a good king?”

  “He is a bastard, my boy,” Cromwell says. “How can you think he is in line?”

  “Forgive me, sir,” Mush replies, mischievously, “but I am of a certain race, and we do things differently. Our true bloodline passes down through the female line. I am my mother’s son, rather than my father’s… if you see what I mean.”

  “Such a custom may have its merits,” Richard says, “for how many of us really know our own fathers?”

  “You have none of my sister’s wits,” Cromwell replies, softly chiding his nephew. There is some doubt around Will Draper’s sire, and men can be touchy about these things.

  “Don’t worry about my feelings, sir,” Will says. “I, like you, am making my own posterity. If my father truly was a priest, then he did me enough of a favour to teach me my letters, and pass on to me a portion of his wisdom.”

  “Well said, Will,” Richard says. “Forgive my overly large mouth.”

  “It compliments your overly small brain,” Rafe says, and they all laugh. “What is that?” There is a sudden shouting, and general commotion from the courtyard of Austin Friars, and Will reaches for his sword.

  “Pray, calm yourselves, boys,” Cromwell tells them, though he is disturbed by the sudden intrusion. “It sounds like no more than a couple of out of breath horses. My enemies, when they pluck up enough courage, will come at me in troops, will they not?”

  “And will die in their ranks,” Mush replies.

  Rafe Sadler is already out of his place, and running to the walled front yard. He finds two riders surrounded by a milling crowd of house servants. One man is standing by his mount, whilst his companion is being helped from his, by a couple of Cromwell‘s men. He is mud spattered, and has a bloodied cloth tied about his broken head.

  “Dear God,” Rafe says. “What is this calamity?”

  “Wild murder, sir,” the uninjured man declares, his face streaked with tears. “I must see Master Cromwell, at once.”

  “Your business,” Richard asks, appearing behind Rafe.

  “Cromwell’s business,” the young man replies, touching a hand to the hilt of his sword. “Bring me to him, at once, or stand aside.” The words are bravely spoken, but the flesh is weak, and he crumples to his knees. Rafe catches him, and calls for help.

  4 The Kidnap

  The rider is carried inside, and placed on a soft couch, where one of the women bathes his head with a wet cloth.

  “Keep him awake,” Cromwell says, entering the chamber. “Stoke up a roaring fire, and bring him broth and bread.” He recognises the man, and casts a wary glance at Rafe Sadler, who nods back his confirmation.

  “You are Edward Claypool, one of the Duke of Norfolk’s men,” Cromwell says. “What has happened, man. Who has used you in such a way?”

  “Sir, forgive me for not standing,” the young man replies. “My Lord Norfolk would expect it of me, and speaks very highly of you.”

  “I can imagine,” Cromwell says, smiling to himself. Tom Howard despises his low birth, and awaits the day of his final downfall. “Lie still, sir, and tell me.”

  Edward Claypool tells his story, between groans, and sips of warming broth. He has ridden hard, for two days and a night, and can scarcely muster his thoughts. Both horses are blown, and his comrade, one of Norfolk’s cup bearers, is half dead, and delirious.

  He tells how they watched Cromwell and his party leave Sheriff Hutton Castle, and then waved off the many dukes, lords and knights, back to their own shires. Claypool remains behind with John Herd, who is to be one of Harry Fitzroy’s new servants, in order to settle him down to his duties.

  “Spies, more like,” Mush mutters, and is shushed into silence. Cromwell takes the spoon, and feeds Claypool himself, as if it will draw out the tale quicker.

  The broken man explains how, on that first night, a party of men, led by a Welshman, called Llewellyn, arrive, and seek refuge from the driving rain. Once in, they turn on the servants, and with sword and dagger, slaughter them all, to the last woman and child.

  “John and I tried to get to the Earl of Somerset, I swear, on my honour, Master Cromwell. See my blade, and it is rusting with blood. I killed a man… my first, and held three more at bay, but to no avail. John Herd fought with nothing but a stool in one hand, and a dagger in the other. At last, we were forced back into a side chamber, and the door was barricaded on us.”

  “And what of Lord Harry Fitzroy?” Cromwell asks, though he has a shrewd enough idea. There are many who wish the boy dead, and it sounds as if they have acted on their wicked desire.

  “Gone, sir.” The young man pushes himself up into a sitting position. “It took us several hours to break out, and John Herd was half blind from a head wound. We went to Fitzroy’s chambers, and found his personal servants, their throats torn open. The young man was not amongst the dead.”

  “Are you sure?” Cromwell asks. “You know what Fitzroy looks like?”

  “Not up close, sir,” Claypool says, “but there was none of his age amongst the twenty dead. Then, there was his clothes, and personal possessions.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Gone, sir,” the man reports. “It looks as if the devils packed a trunk for him, and then spirited him away.”

  “Then he lives,” Thomas Cromwell says. “Thanks be to God. Why did you come here?”

  “You are closer than My Lord Norfolk, sir. He is riding down to the coast, and out of our reach. I thought you might be able to rouse the king to action all the sooner.”

  “Well thought out, Master Claypool.” Cromwell is up now, and pacing the room, his head a whirl of activity. “Tom Howard shall know of your efforts, and reward you both well, should Master Herd survive. For now, you both must rest, here in Austin Friars.”

  “But sir, what of poor Fitzroy?”

  “Calm yourself, young fellow,” Cromwell replies, pressing the man back o
nto the couch. “Within the hour, I shall have a thousand men at arms, and every sheriff between here and York out, scouring the countryside. Now, rest.”

  Edward Claypool can do no more now . He has delivered the warning, and needs to sleep for hours. Cromwell is a man of his word, as attested to by Norfolk.

  “Trust Cromwell to keep his word,” the duke always says. “If he promises to hang a man out to dry, it will be done. So, trust him, and do not cross him, unless I say for it to be so.”

  Thomas Cromwell retires to his library, with Will Draper, Rafe Sadler, and his nephew Richard. The soldier in Will is already preparing him for the adventure ahead. Rafe waits patiently, and it is left to Richard to make his usual plaintiff point.

  “I don’t understand, uncle,” he says.

  “No, I expect not,” Cromwell replies. “What do you not understand this time, my boy?”

  “It will take a week, even with the king’s permission, to raise, arm and dispatch a thousand soldiers to York.”

  “Wales,” Rafe mutters.

  “Wales?” Richard really does not understand, and scratches his newly cropped head of spiked hair.

  “Yes, Wales,” Cromwell confirms. “The leader of the gang is a Welshman. Why so?”

  “Because it is a Welsh plot?” Will suggests. “Now I am as like to Richard as can be in ignorance, Master Cromwell. Who do you wish me to pursue?”

  Cromwell strokes his chin, and wonders how much to explain to these, his most trusted young men. At length, he has a notion of what to tell them.

  “Harry Fitzroy is the key to this. If anything happens to King Henry, before the divorce, Mary is the true heir, but a female. The man who holds Fitzroy, holds the future of England in his grasp,” Cromwell tells them. “The country will split into two camps; those for Mary, and a return to Rome, and those who want a Tudor male on the throne, who will refute the Bishop of Rome’s orders.”

  “Then who has taken Fitzroy?” Will asks, eager to be about his business.

  “I can only guess,” Cromwell tells them. “Neither Norfolk or Suffolk would act this way, for it means going up against the king. I can see only one man who might chance his arm this way. I think that it is the 1st Baron Montagu who has acted.”

  “Montagu?” Will asks. He is not well up on the ins and outs of the court. “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Harry Pole,” Cromwell says. “He is a close friend of Henry, and in a position to concoct such a devious plan.”

  “We should have let the Lord Chancellor murder the entire family these months past,” Rafe says. Will Draper was Cromwell’s instrument, two months before, in foiling a plot to kill senior members of the Pole family. “They cannot forget their Plantagenet roots, and will ever strive for the crown.”

  “Baron Montagu plays bowls with the king, eats at his table, and hunts with him across the royal parks,” Cromwell says. “How can I go to the king, and tell him the man is a traitor, without proof.”

  “We must recover Fitzroy,” Will says.

  “Yes, we must,” Cromwell agrees, “but without a thousand royal soldiers. You must chase these villains to ground, Will, and rescue their prisoner. If you fail, Montagu will hide him away, and either wait for Henry to die, or help the king on his way.”

  “That is treason, sir,” Rafe says. “The man is mad to try. Even if Henry is dead, Mary will ascend the throne.”

  “As a good catholic?” Cromwell says, shaking his head. “No, Norfolk and Suffolk will join with Harry Percy, and sweep her aside. Only Fitzroy will remain. Imagine it. The only living Tudor male will come out of hiding, and claim the throne. He is Henry’s acknowledged son, even though he is a bastard born child.”

  “Norfolk must back him,” Rafe agrees. “Then Suffolk and Northumberland will do the same. No civil war.”

  “Correct. Though we will have a young, inexperienced boy on the throne, who must turn to those he trusts most of all,” Cromwell concludes. “Montagu showers him with gifts, and spends his time impressing upon the boy how royal he is. The new Henry IX will listen. From there, it is a small step to reconcile with Rome, and rid England of its heretics.”

  “Sir Thomas More will have a long list.”

  “Perhaps.” Cromwell smiles. “Why, he might even be on it himself. Montagu will remember how More argued for Queen Katherine’s annulment.”

  “You say these thugs are Welsh?” Richard asks. He is catching up, and wondering just how many men can be mustered to give chase.

  “Montagu has a Captain of Horse in his employ,” Cromwell explains. “His name is Owain Gruffedd. The man is a descendant of Llewellyn ap Iorwerth, the last real Prince of Wales. I believe he was this ‘Llewellyn’ who sought shelter. He is a vain, arrogant man, who believes his inheritance to have been stolen.”

  “Two hundred and fifty years ago,” Will says. He knows something of the Welsh, having spent a long six months fighting them, before throwing in his lot with Cromwell. “The man has a long memory, master.”

  “And many friends in Wales.” Cromwell understands about family ties, and loyalties to other than King Henry. “He can reach the mountains, and vanish, or head for Anglesey, where his people have land, and plenty of men to defend a relative on the run from English troops.”

  “Then we organise a small, fast travelling band,” Will says to them. “We ride hard, and try to surprise Master Gruffedd. The hard part will be getting out of Wales alive. Every bandit in Snowdonia will want to skin us, and hold Henry’s bastard son to ransom.”

  “It is a chance we must take,” Rafe says, thus confirming his willingness to travel with his comrade. Richard and Mush are also ready volunteers.

  “Barnaby Fowler is a handy man in a tight corner,” Cromwell says. “Please inform him that he has volunteered also, Rafe. I cannot afford you, though.”

  “But master…”

  “No, Rafe. You are my right arm when it comes to business, and the law. I must keep you here, this time.”

  “As you wish, sir,” Rafe says, but he is having to fight down his anger. Cromwell is right, of course, but he feels as if he is letting his friends down.

  There is a knock at the door, and one of the young scullery maids bobs her head around it. She is all begging your pardon, and curtseying, explaining that some ‘great gen’l’muns is wivout’.

  Cromwell goes out to the yard, and finds three men, and a young adolescent boy dismounting, and handing their reins to the nearest servants. He steps away from the door, and bows to the youngster.

  “My Lord Surrey,” Cromwell asks, “have you come from your father? Is Lord Norfolk following?”

  “He can follow my arse, for all I care,” the young Harry Howard, heir to the Duke of Norfolk sneers. “I was on my way to my Buckinghamshire estates, when I fell in with these two endearing rogues near Monksgate. You know Richard and Tom, I believe?”

  “Master Rich, Master Wyatt,” Cromwell nods to each. Richard Rich is a court hanger on, eager to befriend young idlers like Surrey, and Thomas Wyatt is a popular poet, and the son of Cromwell’s friend, Henry Wyatt. Cromwell turns to the last man. “And you, sir? The face is familiar.”

  “May I name the gentleman, Master?” Richard Cromwell says, bustling out into the fresh air. “This is Sir Jeremy Herbert, one of Suffolk’s men. He came, bearing news of your return, yesterday. I offered him comfort, but he had messages to the court, from Henry Fitzroy.”

  “Your man, Rafe Sadler, bade me bring word,” Sir Jeremy explained. “Now, I have done my duty, and must idle my days in London until Charles… his lordship… decides to come here. I was wondering if Master Richard’s kind offer was still open, and I might beg a bed, and dinner for a few nights?”

  “We are well met, good sirs,” Tom Wyatt says, patting Richard Cromwell on the back. They are of a similar height, but Wyatt is the more athletic, and is considered to be one of the most handsome men at court. “Though I fear we will stretch Master Cromwell’s hospitality too thinly.”


  “Nonsense,” Young Surrey says. “The man was nothing but a blacksmith’s brat. He is now a very rich peasant, and will be grateful of our lordly attention. Am I correct, Cromwell?”

  “As always, Lord Surrey,” Cromwell says, ushering them into Austin Friars’ great entrance hall. As they troop in, admiring the magnificent wall hangings, he draws the delinquent 3rd Earl of Surrey to one side, and leans forward, to whisper in his ear. “Be assured, child, your casual insults are each being recorded in my Vindicatio. I suggest you keep a civil tongue in your head, lest I keep it in a jar, instead.”

  “Why, you impudent…”

  “Must I write to Alonso Bardolfi?” Thomas Cromwell continues, gripping the arrogant boys skinny upper arm. “Shall I tell them that the signature of surety on the loan they advanced to you, is nothing but a crude forgery? Shall I tell them of our dialogue, and that you are in my bad books, sir?”

  “What?” Surrey goes limp. He is a bully, but easily terrified for his own safety. He has heard the tale of Thomas Cromwell’s two great books. Of how one is for those he favours - the Amicus gloriosum, and the other, his Vindicatio, for those marked down for death, or dishonour.

  “You borrowed your loving father’s great seal, and forged his name,” Cromwell explains, still whispering. “Even a lord can be punished for such a crime, and a lord’s father might even remove him from the line of succession. Surrey then, may never enter into Norfolk, and the Italian bankers will want their twelve thousand pounds back, at once. Do you have it, sir?”

  The younger Howard steps away from Cromwell, and smiles weakly at him. Then he waves his hand about, and compliments him on his fine taste in home décor.

  “Yes, my lord, such good taste for a blacksmith’s boy,” Rafe says, guiding the young noble towards the library. “Your coming is most welcome. My master has need of some brave young men.”

  “Brave?” Surrey’s face begins to lose its colour again, almost at once. “Must I now have courage to dine at Cromwell’s table?”