by Anne Stevens
“I am Mistress Draper, gentlemen,” she says. They start up the first flight, and she holds up a staying hand. “My husband is not here. I beg you to listen to me. He is abroad, on Master Cromwell’s work.”
“You lie!”
“No, sirs,” she says, in her best simpering voice. “He often leaves me alone for days on end. All for Cromwell.”
“Fear not about that,” the second man says, laughing, “for your Master Cromwell will have no need of him, soon enough. My comrades are finishing with that rogue, even as we speak.”
Miriam catches her breath. It is possible that Cromwell and his men are too busy to come. They may be fighting for their lives, at this very moment. She keeps her nerve, and smiles down at the advancing men. After all they are only two, she thinks.
“I understand,” she says, “but my husband is still abroad, good sirs, and not due home for a week.”
“Is he cowering up there,” one shouts. “Hiding behind your skirts, madam? Come, let us see, Dick.” They advance a few more steps, and are within a few feet of Miriam. Each has a short sword in his hand, and each is ready to do murder.
“On my oath, sirs,” Miriam says, and plays her last card. “I am alone. Will Draper, and his troop are already in Wales.”
Dick stops in his tracks, and they both exchange a worried glance. The enemy are in Wales, which means the plot is known about. The glance is enough. As they take their eyes from the girl, she brings up the dagger, hidden in the folds of her skirt, and slashes it across the face of Dick’s comrade.
The blade rakes his right cheek, slices off the tip of his nose, and scores across his left eyeball. He screams, and tumbles backwards down the stairs. Miriam is moving, at once. She leaps back into her bedroom, slams the door, and pushes home the wooden bolt. The man, Dick, roars in anger, and throws himself at her, just too late.
He swears a foul oath, looks down at his wounded friend, and makes a fateful decision. Instead of fleeing with his maimed comrade, he sets his mind on retribution. If the husband is not there, then the wife will do. The first lunge jars the door, almost off its sturdy hinges, and the second splinters one of the lime wood panels.
Miriam steps back, into a corner, and holds the knife out, as if trying to ward off an evil spirit. There is a sudden, eerie silence, that lasts for a dozen heart beats, then the last charge comes, and the heavy door explodes inwards. The momentum carries Dick into the room, and straight at Miriam. She sees the raised sword, and the flush of wild anger in the man’s eyes, and knows that he has nothing but bloody murder in his heart.
Downstairs, she hears shouting. It is Cromwell, screaming out her name. Too late, she thinks, and the assassin lunges at her. He is a big man, with a steel breastplate, and a visored helmet, and his sheer force crushes Miriam down to the floor.
Footsteps come pounding up the stairs. Cromwell is still in the lead. He comes onto the first landing, where a wounded man is begging for help. The Privy Councillor hardly pauses. He swipes his blade across the unguarded throat, and rushes on, leaving the man kicking out the last drop of his life.
Cromwell bursts into the room, sees the man, Dick, crouched over a crumpled form, and strikes again, driving his dagger, overhand into the unprotected back. It is an unneeded blow. As Dick falls away, Cromwell sees the hilt of Miriam’s dagger sticking out of his throat. It is a precise kill.
Miriam sobs. He cries out a hasty thanks to God, and helps her to her feet. Once again, he seems to have been out thought by his foe, and has survived the day because of good luck, and timing.
“Are you hurt?” Cromwell asks. She shakes her head at him, almost laughing in relief at still being alive.
“There is another,” she explains. Cromwell shakes his head, and makes a calming noise.
“In hell, with his friend,” he tells her. Then his face clouds over. “But, you are hurt, my poor girl!”
“No, I am…” Miriam stops, and moves a hand down to her lap. The fingers come away smeared with her own, dark blood. It takes Cromwell a moment to understand, but Miriam knows at once, and begins to wail, in sorrow for her lost child.
“I have sent for my own physician,” Cromwell tells the Duke of Norfolk. “Mistress Draper is abed, and must rest. Doctor Theophrasus is a man of rare ability.”
“I will pay what ever he asks,” Norfolk says. He is a strange man; who can despise all of mankind as inferior, yet love one slight girl, because she stands up to a couple of assassins. Compassion is a hard thing for him to understand, so he shows it by throwing bags of gold at any situation which calls for empathy. “A thousand pounds, if he saves the girl.”
“Save your money, My Lord Norfolk,” Eustace Chapuys tells him, plucking him away from Cromwell’s side. “Master Cromwell treats the girl as a daughter … and she is losing her child, before his eyes, and he is as powerless as any mortal. We must pray for them both.”
Suddenly, a big, rotund man sweeps into the house, followed by a young manservant. He ignores the group of men, standing around, and takes the stairs, two at a time. Cromwell follows, guiding him to the right room.
“Get that body out of the house, at once,” Adolphus Theophrasus orders. “It will create bad humours. Have fresh well water boiled up for me, and keep out of this room.”
The door slams. Cromwell returns to his comrades sides, ringing his hands. Come what may, he has no control over what happens now. He has seen women die in childbirth before, and he has seen them survive, but lose the child. Most often, the child lives, and the mother dies. In this case, the child has no chance, being little more than three months in the making.
“Adolphus is the greatest doctor west of Constantinople,” he says, to reassure himself, as much as they. “Montagu has failed to kill me, and now he has missed Will Draper. Who else does he fear so much, that he must have them murdered?”
“Once he knows the plot is uncovered, he will stake everything on a last throw of the dice,” Eustace Chapuys replies. “To kill a serpent, you must lop off the head, yes?”
“God’s buggering angels, Chapuys,” Norfolk curses. “What rubbish are you spouting on about now?” He has a shrewd political mind, but the duke can sometimes miss the more obvious details. It is up to Cromwell to explain their fears.
“The ambassador understands the significance of Montagu kidnapping Fitzroy now, My Lord,” he tells the garrulous duke. “Once the king is siring children by your niece, Lady Anne, the bastard son becomes of no use.”
“I see that,” Norfolk says. “I’m not a dumpling brained piss nothing, like Harry Percy.”
“But Norfook,” Chapuys says. “Think. Why would the king not give your niece children? He is a potent man. Fitzroy, Princess Mary and, no doubt, a few other children can attest to that. What would stop him?”
“Nothing,” Norfolk declares. “Nothing, but … Oh, I see.”
“Quite.” Cromwell starts for the door. “If the king should meet with an accident, before he re-marries, it will be a straight fight between Princess Mary, and Fitzroy. Who will you choose, sir?”
“God’s teeth,” Norfolk seethes. “An arse kissing papist lass, or a twelve year old bastard? You offer a poor choice, blacksmith’s son.”
“If Mary rules, you, Suffolk, your son, Surrey, and half the noble heads in England will roll. You support the move to throw Queen Katherine aside. That alone, will cost you your head, My Lord.” Cromwell is hurrying them all back to the wider streets around Austin Friars, having sent a boy running ahead, to demand fresh horses. “Put Harry Fitzroy on the throne, and you might as well place the crown on Baron Montagu’s own head. That also means your death, along with mine, Sir Thomas More’s, and three quarters of the Privy Council.”
“Then we must kill Montagu,” Norfolk growls.
“After Charles Brandon,” Cromwell replies, breathing hard, “he is King Henry’s greatest friend. Why, this very after noon, they are sporting down at Hampton Court.”
“I know. I have been summoned to wi
tness the king’s tomfoolery,” Norfolk confesses.
“I too, and Eustace along side me,” Cromwell says. “We must get down there with all speed.”
“And do what?” Norfolk is not a forward planner, and is quite willing to let Cromwell do all his thinking for him, in a time of great danger to the king, and the realm.
“God alone knows, for the king will not hear anything against those he terms to be his ‘best‘ friends,” Cromwell says. “Ah, here are our horses, gentlemen. Let us ride, and I will think of something, on the way down.”
“God’s teeth, Cromwell,” Norfolk says, heaving himself into the saddle. “Would that we had the bastard in our grasp.”
“Master Cromwell has taken steps,” Chapuys tells his ill matched new comrade. “My spies inform me that Will Draper, and an army of fighting men, are, even now, laying waste to Wales, in their search for the boy.”
An army of men, Thomas Cromwell thinks. Would that were true. The spies employed by the little Savoyard are, in fact, Cromwell’s own agents, who feed him enough information to keep him in his place. Cromwell likes Chapuys, and can work with him. It would be stupid to let him return to Spain.
“God give them victory,” Norfolk says, crossing himself.
“Amen,” Cromwell says, not for the first time. “And increased numbers.”
To attempt a crossing of the busy London bridge is futile, as the crowds are too dense, and awkward to predict at this time of the day. Instead, they follow the inner city wall, turn right at Moorgate, cut across the wide White Chapel thoroughfare, and head down to the great Tower of London. They skirt the outer walls, and come, at length, to the Thames river front.
From here they can catch one of the large, flat bottomed scows that often act as ferries, and so cross to the south bank. Once on the far shore, some of the big, hard working boatmen help them to manhandle their horses from the ferry, and onto dry land.
“A poor day to be riding, Master Cromwell!” a one eyed, bearded man calls. “There’s a blow coming in off the estuary, and no mistake.”
“Good day to you, Master Francis,” Cromwell replies, as though they are old friends. “We must ride to the king, at Hampton Court. I hope the roads are not too muddy.”
“It is open country to Hampton Court, sir,” Francis replies, helping Chapuys back into the saddle. “Stick to the well used tracks, and push on, so that you might get there before the worst of the weather.”
“I thank you for your advice,” Cromwell says. He produces a handful of coins from his pouch, and drops them into the boatman’s hand. “See to your fellows for me, Francis.”
Deak Francis is one of Cromwell’s agents, and supplies valuable insights about those who use the river crossings. He affects to be tightening the Privy Councillors cinch, and whispers.
“Take care, sir. There has been some odd traffic these last couple of days. When the king crossed, yesterday, some fellows hired a boat to row them over. They were not gentlemen, but paid with good silver, and did not baulk at the price.”
“How many men?”
“Four, I think, and if my good eye was not deceiving me, they were all well armed.”
“We are well met, Master Francis,” Cromwell replies. “Come, sirs, let us be on our way. The king is waiting!”
They stop only once, to change horses, and allow themselves a moment to relieve themselves, before pushing on to their destination. Cromwell is relieved when it starts to rain, quite heavily, though Norfolk curses God for getting soaked.
“Do not complain, sir,” Cromwell shouts to him, as they gallop, “for the king will not venture out in such inclement weather. Pray rather that it never stops!”
“Where is the Arch Bishop?” Henry asks, dabbing a few crumbs of food from his lips. He is a big, heavy set man, and of late, enjoys his food more than his doctors feel he should. It is raining outside, and his gout is playing up.
His lunch companions, Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, and Henry Pole, 1st Baron Montagu, exchange looks. Of late, it is impossible to know Henry’s mind in regards to the clergy. Only two days before, he had stopped on the London road, to listen to a wandering preacher. The man, on recognising the king, had launched into a lurid tale of the biblical Herod, who had lost favour with God, because of his wanton lust, and bigamous lifestyle.
“Cast out the whore of Babylon, and put aside the wickedness of Salome,” he cried. Henry had signalled to two of his guards, who promptly threw the man into a nearby well.
“Let us see if a frugal life enables a man to float the better,” the king cursed, and rode on. The Duke of Suffolk, a man of more reasonable temper, had the shocked priest retrieved, and gave him a shilling for his trouble.
“Ah, My Lord Arch Bishop, there you are,” Henry says, smiling at the ageing priest. William Wareham has been the Arch Bishop of Canterbury for over a quarter of a century, and the office lies heavily on his stooping shoulders. His face is lined with worry, and his robes of office seem almost too much for him to bear.
“At your service, Your Royal Highness,” Wareham says, touching the cross at his breast, and bowing. He is a timid, half hearted, supporter of the king, in the matter of his break with Rome, and wants nothing but a quiet life, a comfortable retirement, and a settled succession.
“As always, My Lord Arch Bishop,” the king says, slapping him heartily on the back. “It is my earnest desire to go out, hunting and hawking, this afternoon.”
“Yes, sire?” Wareham is wrong footed. The king does as he wants, and never asks his permission. It crosses his mind that Henry wants him to ride with them, but his health precludes such an adventure. He is about to make his apologies, when Henry bangs his fist on the table, and points a finger out of the window.
“Do you not see, sir?” Henry snarls. “God, in his infinite wisdom, has cause to make it rain down upon my realm.”
“His ways are truly a mystery, My Lord,” Arch Bishop Wareham replies, and receives a dangerous sounding growl in return.
“Don’t tell me how mysterious God’s ways are, Master Wareham,” Henry demands. “Get on your knees, and pray for it to stop!”
The Arch Bishop looks to Suffolk and Montagu for help, but they are studying the elaborately decorated ceiling. He starts to kneel, and Henry roars to his feet, his face colouring with surprise.
“Not here, you sanctimonious idiot,” he cries. “Get to my private chapel, and start praying for good weather. Mind now, Canterbury, I expect quick results. Get out!”
“You are a clever rogue, Henry,” Baron Montagu says, chuckling. “Did you see his face when you told him to pray for good weather? The look alone is worth a hundred pounds. Perhaps you should command him to part the Red Sea, or make wine from water too?”
“These churchmen irk me beyond measure,” Henry replies, calming himself. “I am the king, and they presume to dictate to me.”
“Fools,” Montagu tells him. “If you take Canterbury’s mitre, and place it on the head of a donkey, will the ass become Arch Bishop, or the Arch Bishop the ass?”
“Well said, my friend,” Henry says, smiling at the very idea of such a thing. “Perhaps I should do just that, one day. Damn me, Montagu, I am bored beyond measure. Uplift me, my friend.”
“Will I receive a jesters fee, if I make you laugh, Majesty?”
“Alone, we are Henry, Charles and Harry,” Henry replies, wagging a podgy finger at them both. “You are my only two real friends. Jest, Harry, and I will let you pick your own lands… but only if I laugh. I am in a melancholy mood.”
“The bargain is struck,” Montagu says. He is in his late thirties, and as well built as Charles Brandon. He is in the ascendancy, if only because Suffolk lacks a ready source of funny stories to regale bored kings with. “Have you heard of Sir Dick Whatnot, master of Wherever House, in the county of Nowhereshire… no? Then let me tell you of the wonderful gift he sent to his parents, Lord Not Me Over There, and Lady Well Swived. Do I perceive a smile, My Lord Henry?”
“The gift costs Sir Dick Whatnot twenty thousand pieces of Utopian silver, loaned by the Lord Chancellor, Sir Timorous No More. Ah, you smile again, good sir. Will I win my wager yet?”
“Go on, you fool!” Henry’s eyes are watering. He is fond of a ribald jest, or a story with a funny twist. “The Lord Chancellor would have done better lending me the money.”
“No, sire. Thomas No More a Blacksmith offers far better rates … for a common usurer.”
“The gift .. What is it?”
“ It is a splendid mirror, forged by Turcoman magi, and as large as a portrait.”
“Ho! Magi now is it, Harry?”
“Of course, Majesty, but they are so far away, as to be behind the fabled mountains of High Enough.” Montagu is miming the actions of someone unwrapping the wonderful gift. “‘Oh, my dearest,’ Lord Not Me Over There says. ‘Our son has sent us a portrait of himself. My God, but he looks to be a venal, and lined old man’.”
The king is grinning, and trying not to laugh.
“‘No wonder,’ Lady Well Swived says, looking into the mirror. ‘See, what an ugly old hag he is married to’!”
King Henry begins to laugh. Baron Montagu bows, and waves his hand in a great flourish, as if to say, see I told you I could make you bray like an ass.
“Goodness me,” Charles Brandon says, without even cracking a smile. “The rain has stopped!”
The clatter of hooves can be heard down below in the great courtyard. All three men wonder, for different reasons, what is happening. The king hopes for exciting news, Montagu expects something similar, but Charles Brandon is living in hope of a certain visitor. He is not disappointed.
Suffolk cranes his neck, and peers through one of the tiny glass panes. He will welcome any company, if only to off set the overbearing presence of Henry Pole, 1st Baron Montagu. The man is, in his opinion, a pain in the arse. He wipes away the mist, and looks, hoping to see his wish come true.
