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

by Anne Stevens

  Thwarted by the increase in numbers, the desperate outlaws melt away into the forest, and return to their usual sheep stealing ways. One of their number is concealed up a tree, and is left behind by erstwhile comrades. Spotted by Mush, the scrawny, half starved creature, is surrounded, and forced to come down.

  “What have we here?” Mush says. “A fearsome outlaw of the forest. Your name, wretch!”

  “Gwen,” the shivering creature spits.

  “It’s a girl,” one of the escort says, dismounting. “We’ll have good sport this night, boys!”

  “Stand back,” Mush says, dropping a hand, suggestively, to his sword hilt. “My prisoner, I believe.”

  “Do you now?” the soldier replies. He is a big, seasoned veteran, and expects his share of the spoils. “Then you have her first, and pass her on.”

  “Shall we fight for her?” The words, coming from so slight, and olive skinned, a youth makes the man smile.

  “Sir, I beg you, do not smile,” Will Draper says. “It will only antagonise him. Then, I fear he will do you some great harm.”

  “Get off your horse,” the man commands.

  “Enough!” the troop commander says. “Leave it, sergeant, or answer to me.” The big man looks set to disobey, and drag Mush from his horse, but turns away instead.

  “Another time, boy,” he says. Mush slips from his mount, and follows. The big man already has his hand on his dagger’s hilt, and spins to slash the boy’s chest open. He is not there. With lightening speed, Mush twists aside, draws his own blade, and has it pressed against the man’s throat from behind.

  “Move, and I will slit your throat,” he whispers. The big soldier stands stock still, knowing he is as close as he will ever be to being a dead man.

  “Leave him, Mush,” Richard says. “Your little girl is running away.”

  Mush gives chase, and brings her down with a well timed tackle. She rolls over, knife in hand, and almost cuts his nose off. He pulls his head back, just in time, and disarms her.

  “Be still, girl. I will not hurt you.”

  “Let me go.”

  “Back to the pleasures of the forest?” Mush asks. “How old are you, girl?” She shrugs. Who keeps count of the years, when the days are so hard, in the Welsh marches? He stands, and steps away from her. “Run then, but watch out these men don’t catch you, and have their way. Farewell, Gwen.”

  Mush turns away, and sets off walking back to his horse. The girl hesitates for a moment, then falls in beside him, slipping her tiny hand in his.

  Cromwell does not feel well. After dining at Will Draper’s new house, he invited Eustace Chapuys in for a final glass of wine, which evolved into a couple of bottles. He is not a heavy drinker, and his head is now throbbing. Worse, Chapuys was too intoxicated to struggle the last hundred paces to his own home, next door, and has stayed over.

  The man is now awake, and devouring a huge breakfast, as if he has never imbibed a drop. Cromwell plays the good host, but cannot watch, as he eats a platter heaped with thick slices of bacon, eggs fried in goose fat, and thick, blood sausages.

  “A little watered beer,” he mutters to the serving girl. “And, perhaps, a small piece of dry bread.”

  “Tha’sit yer lor’ship,” she squeaks. “The bread‘ll dry up the wine. I wager your head is as fuddled as a mad bullock’s.”

  “Thank you, Doctor Nelly,” he says, wincing at her shrill little voice. After what seems an age, Chapuys wipes his lips, and stands. He pats his stomach, and belches, appreciatively.

  “You are too kind, my dear Cromwell,” he says. “Are you off to see the king today?”

  “I see His Majesty most days,” Cromwell replies, thus showing how much in favour he is with the king. “Today, he wishes me to go hawking with him. He has a new falcon he wants to display.”

  “I can never get to speak with Henry,” Chapuys complains.

  “He thinks you are the enemy, my friend,” Cromwell says. “He does not understand that you have his interests ever in your heart.”

  “Except over the matter of the Queen,” says the little Savoyard diplomat. “Will you arrange an audience for me?”

  “No. It will do no good. The king dislikes, and mistrusts any official approach, connected to the Bishop of Rome.”

  “The Pope,” Chapuys says, and crosses himself. “Then what can I do? My master will recall me, if I do not make progress.”

  “Come with me today,” Cromwell says. “Ride out with us, hawking, and join in the banter. Henry will accept you as a friend, and speak to you in a more civil manner.”

  “He will?”

  “Yes, unless you best him at something,” Cromwell advises. “That puts him in a bad mood. Ask him about his music, or his poetry… but do not ask him to recite it. I regret that it is not of the finest quality, and usually involves Lady Anne, and his passion for her ‘silken throat’, or her ‘alabaster skin’. Stick to hunting, boisterous jokes, and gossip.”

  “Then I shall come,” the Savoyard says. “It will give me something to report to the Emperor.”

  “Quite so,” Cromwell replies, slyly. “Your latest communiqués have been a little on the dull side.”

  Chapuys laughs, hoping his letters have not been intercepted, and they stroll out into the large yard. The stables are off to one side, and the huge gates stand open, as always. All are welcome at Austin Friars.

  “Horses?” Chapuys asks, cocking his head to one side.

  “I believe so,” Cromwell replies. “I receive riders from all quarters, Eustace. Ah, here they are!”

  A half dozen men gallop into the yard, and must reign in hard to avoid a mishap. Their leader doffs his cap, and bows from his saddle. His men spread out on either side, and dismount. Some of Cromwell’s boys, saved from the streets, come forward to tend to the tired mounts.

  “Sir, is this Austin Friars?” the leader asks.

  “It is sir,” Cromwell replies, affecting a small bow, from the neck upwards. “Have you some sort of business here?”

  “Aye, sir, we do have business here,” the man says. “My master’s business.” Eustace Chapuys tugs at Cromwell’s sleeve, drawing him back to the safety of the big oak front door. “Have I the privilege of speaking with Master Cromwell?”

  “I am Thomas Cromwell,” Chapuys says, tugging harder at his friend’s sleeve. Cromwell stares at him in amazement, then perceives the danger.

  “No, I am Cromwell,” he says, firmly. “What is your business here? Out with it, rascal.”

  “Set to it boys,” the leader calls. “Step aside Frenchie, and you will be spared.” A half dozen swords and daggers are drawn, and Thomas Cromwell’s unexpected guests move forward, to hack him down. One of the urchins, quicker than the rest, realises what is about to happen, picks up a stone, and throws it, with great accuracy.

  The nearest attacker staggers back, his scalp split by the missile, and Chapuys takes his chance. He heaves Cromwell inside, and pushes the great door closed, with all of his strength. The assassins rush forwards, over their injured comrade, and begin to force the door backwards. Cromwell lends his weight to keeping it shut, and one of the kitchen girls, Milly, screams for help, and runs to throw her tiny body into the defence of Austin Friars.

  It is an uneven battle, despite the boys outside, who set up a barrage of lethal stones. Slowly, inch by inch, the door is forced open. One of the men gets an arm inside, and tries to stab wildly and blindly at the defenders. Milly sinks her teeth into his hand, and bites down to the bone. He screams in agony, and pulls the arm free.

  “We must barricade ourselves in,” Chapuys says. Cromwell shakes his head, and stands his ground.

  “In a moment they will think to break in the windows, or come around the back way,” he explains. “The kitchen boys will hold them for but a moment. Run, Eustace, and save yourself. This is not your fight.”

  “It never is,” Chapuys replies, “but when in your company, I still seem to end up with someone trying to murd
er me. Listen!”

  There is another clatter of horses hooves on the big cobbles, and a sudden clash of steel on steel. A man cries out, and another yells a war cry; then it is all over. Chapuys peeps around the door, and gives a cry of exaltation. He begins to pull the big door open, and eager hands help from the other side.

  “God’s teeth, and my wife’s fat arse,” a familiar voice curses into the hallway. “Is he alive, man? Does Tom Cromwell still draw breath?”

  “Oh, my Lord Norfook, you are such a wonderful sight to behold,” Eustace Chapuys calls back. “Master Cromwell is unhurt. He wished to stand, and fight them all alone. Such a man.”

  “Such a bloody, God spitted, arse,” Norfolk roars. “What kind of fool sends off his best men, and leaves himself unguarded?”

  “My apologies, Lord Norfolk,” Cromwell says, bowing, “but I do not command armies, like you do. I am but a poor man.”

  “You clever bastard,” Norfolk says. “I dare say you thought Montagu’s men were all in Wales, but see, you are wrong, for a change. If Rich had not urged me to action, your guts would be spilled across the yard by now.”

  “Not so, My Lord,” Cromwell replies, smiling with relief. “You see, Master Eustace was quite willing to die in my place.”

  “Bloody little frogs, and low born blacksmith’s boys,” the duke mutters, then louder, shouts at one of his men. “Hey, you, get those bodies stripped. Distribute the money amongst the men, and hang the corpses from the nearest trees. By God, sir, but it was a bad day for Montagu, when he thought six men were enough to best us, Cromwell!”

  “Thanks to your timely arrival,” Cromwell says. “Must they misuse the bodies so, My Lord?”

  “They must, it will teach the bastards a lesson, sir!”

  “But they are dead,” Cromwell replies. “I doubt they are up to learning the lesson.”

  “Not them, Cromwell. The other bastards.” Norfolk sweeps his arm around about, signifying that he is referring to the entire population. He is Norfolk, and they are not. So, he must demonstrate his power. “Let them get above their place in this world, and we will end up with … er…”

  “People like me, sir?” Cromwell says.

  “Damn it, man. You know what I mean. Let them think they can rise from the dirt, and there will not be enough soldiers in Europe to stop them.”

  “Ah, yes. The common man.” Cromwell goes over to the nearest body. Norfolk’s men have left no prisoners to question, which is a cause of regret to the Privy Councillor. A nice confession, implicating Henry Pole, the 1st Baron Montagu, would have done very well. “This fellow’s property is, by rights, forfeit to the king’s treasury. They attacked a king’s minister.”

  “Let’s not haggle over a few dead scoundrels,” Norfolk glowers. “We slaughtered the swine, fair and square.”

  “That is true enough,” Cromwell agrees. “Share everything out. Though I must insist on two of their horses for myself and the ambassador.”

  “Done.”

  “And a choice of hat.”

  “What?”

  “A choice of hat,” Cromwell replies, beckoning to Eustace Chapuys. “Master Chapuys’ own hat was dashed from his head, and trampled underfoot. Here, Eustace, choose a new hat.”

  “I shall,” the little Savoyard says. “For I fear the comic effect of the last one was wearing thin.”

  The three men retire to the great kitchen, where Master Chew is found, hiding in one of the store cupboards. Cromwell knows that the last cook, had he not been stolen by the king, would have been in the forefront of the carnage, waving a cleaver, and spitting oaths.

  “Come now, Master Chew,” Cromwell says, drawing him back out into the daylight. “The siege is lifted, and the Duke of Norfolk is hungry from slaying so many men. Feed him, at once, and send food out to his soldiers.”

  “I have only bread and cheese,” Chew says, staring at his feet. “Your nephew stole all the game pies.”

  “That boy will be the death of me,” Cromwell says, but in a good natured way. “Have we any eggs?”

  “Yes, master.”

  “Then prepare omelettes for everyone.”

  “Omelettes?” Norfolk says. “You make eggs into omelettes?”

  “Yes, My Lord,” Cromwell says, suppressing laughter. “Have you never been in a kitchen?”

  “Satan’s teeth, what for? I just sit down, and they put food before me. I love omelettes, but I hate eggs.”

  “Then sit, and eat, sir.” Cromwell marshals his thoughts, and tries not to smile at Norfolk’s lack of worldly knowledge. He has failed to anticipate the attempt on his life; an attempt that was mere moments away from succeeding. He must ensure that there are no more surprises.

  Montagu has won the first hand, with a daring raid on Sheriff Hutton Castle, and believes himself to hold the best cards. It must have occurred to him, as it would to any man plotting against Henry, that Cromwell was a key player, and must be removed. As Tom Howard says; he should have sent more men.

  “How many are you, My Lord Norfolk?”

  “Enough to hold either Whitehall, or Westminster,” Norfolk replies, reaching for a jug set down at his elbow. He takes a great swallow, and is surprised to find that it is fresh milk. “You have cows?”

  “We bring it in, fresh every day, from Cheapside. There is a farmers market there,” Cromwell explains. “The king is at Hampton Court, with your niece. I am due there later, for a spot of hawking.”

  “Damn me, but Henry should be sporting with Anne by now, not with hawks,” Norfolk grumbles. “Will the Pope never yield?”

  “No, sir, he will not,” Cromwell tells him. It is as well the duke fully understands the current situation. “The Lord Chancellor’s envoys have failed. Bedford has failed, and the Duke of Arundel has failed. The Bishop of Rome is under the thumb of Master Chapuys’ emperor, and will not grant an annulment … ever.”

  “Popes die,” the duke offers.

  “They do, and are replaced by others, who may not be so helpful either. Cardinal Wolsey was in line to be our next papal leader.”

  “Damn me, Wolsey, the butcher’s son, made Pope of Rome?”

  “Jesus was a carpenter’s son,” Chapuys says. “Wolsey had a lot of support, before the king ruined him. Had he attained the papal crown, this mess would have been averted. The Queen would have been granted certain favours, then been put to one aside, under the watchful eye of a benevolent, trustworthy English Pope.”

  “I curse the day he was brought down,” Norfolk says, “for if you say this is so, we lost a wonderful chance.”

  “What is past, is past,” Cromwell replies. He knows the guilty ones, and takes his revenge, where he can. “Can we rely on Lord Percy to hold the northern lands?”

  “If Brandon can raise enough men to bolster the drunken oaf, we can slow down any Scottish intrusion.” Norfolk’s face is glowing red, as he begins to understand the enormity of what is going on. “God’s bollocks, you think Montagu has the Scots on his side?”

  “James will grab at the chance,” Cromwell says, “but only if he does not have to face Henry. Were the king to die, Montagu has the bastard son in his camp. Can we fight thirty thousand Welsh, and Cornish, with Henry Pole’s own yeomen thrown in, for good measure?”

  “I’ll have a thousand men in London by tomorrow. We can close the city off,” Norfolk says. “In another month, we can raise the shires. I can count on twenty thousand, and Suffolk will bring another ten, or twelve thousand. As for the rest… who can say? We do not know who will choose which side. If Warwick and Worcester go over to Montagu, Cheshire will be isolated.”

  “Then we must try and stop this thing, before it really starts,” Cromwell tells him. “We must act, before…”

  The words die in his mouth. One of the many orphan children he is always finding underfoot is running into the yard, screaming a warning. Cromwell realises it is the girl he placed with Will Draper’s household, and she is telling him that two men have come to the house
by the river, and are murdering her mistress.

  The assassins have split up, he realises. Montagu wants more than Cromwell’s death; he also wishes to kill his best man, and thus avoid Will Draper coming after revenge. They do not know that the soldier of fortune is away from home. He says as much to Norfolk, who cries out to his men. They stop stringing up the dead, and set up a great shout. They brandish their swords, and rush after Thomas Cromwell, who is running, as fast as his legs will carry him, towards the river.

  He is the oldest amongst them, but fear lends wings to his heels, and he in the lead, fumbling the concealed dagger from his sleeve, even as he runs. The Duke of Norfolk is too old to keep up with the chase. The streets down to the river are narrow, and choked with people. He cannot ride. Instead, he stands, and clutches at the crucifix hanging at his throat.

  “God’s speed, Cromwell,” he prays. “God’s speed to you!”

  8 The King’s Rain

  Miriam Draper hears the commotion a moment before she sees what is afoot. Two liveried men, wearing breastplates have appeared at her front door, and are demanding, loudly, to see her husband. They do not sound as though they want to take him to the tavern for a drink; rather that they want his presence for far more sinister ends.

  The girl, Little Mary, says he is not at home, and is cuffed to one side for her trouble. She is a street urchin, and no fool. Rolling with the slap, she slips around the men, and takes to her heels. Miriam smiles, knowing she is running to Austin Friars. In a few minutes, Master Cromwell’s men will be here to help.

  It only remains for her to hold these ruffians back for a few minutes, and she and her household will be safe. She opens the bedroom door wide, and leaves the wooden latch bolt handy. It is meant to provide privacy, not security, and a strong man will be able to shoulder it open with a couple of strong shoves.

  “Pray, good sirs,” she calls from the second floor landing, “How can I be of service to you, gentlemen?”

  “Will Draper, wench,” one of them shouts up. “Send him forth, for we have business with him.”