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

by Anne Stevens

  “Who is it, Charles?” Henry asks, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “Not Lady Well Swived, I think!”

  “Uncle Norfolk, Master Cromwell, and that little ambassador fellow, who trails after you, hoping for a word. You should give him two, Henry.”

  “Two?” Henry ponders for a moment.

  “The second being ‘off’?” Brandon prompts.

  “Oh, I see. Very good,” the king says. “Keep it up, Charles, and you might, one day, be as witty as our friend Harry.”

  “I live in hope, sire.”

  The Duke of Suffolk is relieved. Only that morning, a bedraggled Richard Rich has arrived, with a cryptic message, from Thomas Cromwell. He is to keep Henry safe, avoid venturing into the countryside, and blackguard Harry Pole, the 1st Baron Montagu, at every opportunity. Brandon may be slower than some, but he still notices the slight twitch of Montagu’s lip when he mentions Cromwell’s arrival. The man looks as if it is a little unexpected.

  “You flatter me, my friend,” Harry Pole says, throwing Suffolk a sly look, aware that something is not going as he planned. “Though not yet a full wit, Henry, our friend here is, surely, a half of one.”

  “Bravo, Harry,” the king wheezes, amused at the sharp exchange.

  “Montagu is too clever, by half,” Charles Brandon says, becoming bolder. “I knew a man once, called Buckingham, whose wit was so sharp, sire, that he managed to cut off his own head.”

  “You would, jestingly, compare me to the man Stafford, a notorious traitor, sir?” Montagu says, haughtily.

  “No sir, I compare you to another wit.” Brandon is made brave, now Thomas Cromwell is here. “Stafford, the late Duke of Buckingham was a close blood relation of yours, was he not?”

  “Have a care, Suffolk,” Montagu says, quietly, and with real menace in his voice. “You might joke yourself into some mischief.”

  “Of course, Stafford was related to the Poles,” Henry says, as if he has just realised the family connection. “That makes you a three times removed cousin to Buckingham, I think.”

  “My mother’s family come from an ancient Welsh prince, who called the ap Tudwrs his friends, sire. Some of my uncles fought for your blessed father, at Bosworth field.”

  “And some for the hump backed usurper, Richard,” Brandon says, stirring the pot for all it is worth. “My uncles were always for the one side, come thick, or thin. Though my family, I confess, always found that loyalty, to their rightful king, was no real hardship.”

  “Enough,” the king says, slapping both men, heavily, on the shoulder. “We are baiting you, my dearest Harry. No man can be blamed for his relatives. Charles loves you, as I do, like a brother.”

  “Just so,” Charles Brandon says, “but for all that, I will out do you in the hunt today. Save for Henry’s new birds, mine are the best in England.”

  “Really?” Montagu smiles. “I wager fifty pounds, that by the end of today, I will be master of the field.”

  “A wager!” Henry beams. “I love a good wager.”

  “Oh, bugger,” Charles Brandon says. “It has started raining again. Perhaps you need a new bishop in Canterbury, Henry.”

  “The rain is not a hardship,” Montagu protests. “Not for men as robust as you, Your Majesty. Are we to let a little bad weather dampen our ardour for the chase.”

  “I love the chase,” Henry replies, wistfully. He has been trying to corner Anne Boleyn for a long time now, and she still holds him at bay. The matter of the annulment swims back into the forefront of his mind once more. “The birds do not fly well in wet weather. What fun is there in seeing a drenched falcon stooping to take an equally drenched pigeon?”

  “Don’t let Brandon dull your mood,” Montagu says. “Let us ride out, and put our horses at a few ditches. I wager a hundred pounds my mount is the best hunter.”

  “They forbid me from jumping ditches, and wish me to stop jousting too,” Henry says. He cannot be forbidden, of course, but does not wish to admit that he is past his prime. If he wants to prove himself these days, he must slip into the room of Mary Boleyn, and have a midnight gallop. Of late, even that is closed to him, and the other, more giving Boleyn sister is seldom able to visit. “Soon, they will wrap me up in blankets, and make me stay in my bed… alone.”

  “Alone?” Brandon nudges the king, and winks. “Never that, Henry. The La Salle sisters are here, and you have not yet sampled their clever ways. Young Surrey claims that Kate can sing a lullaby, whilst loving a man in the French way, and her sister Primrose has a more the merrier attitude!”

  “You are such a gay dog, Charles. What did my sister ever see in you?”

  “Your sister Mary loves me, sir,” Brandon replies. “She married the King of France, because it was her duty. He was thirty four years her senior, and died soon after. Is it any wonder she fell for me, after having to put up with an old, degenerate French pander?”

  “I forgave you both, did I not?” Henry says, waving the dark thoughts away. On hearing how Charles Brandon had wed his sister, without royal consent, he had threatened to behead his friend, and put Mary into a nunnery. The late, and increasingly lamented, Cardinal Wolsey had smoothed things over, at first, and after his sad death, Cromwell had finished healing the rift.

  “I will bring her back to court, if she ever gets over this awful malady. The doctors are no nearer knowing what ails her.”

  “She is too loved to die, Charles.” Henry is almost beside himself with grief for his sister. “May God preserve her, and keep her safe for you.”

  “Thank you for that, sire,” Charles Brandon says, and wipes at a traitorous tear that runs down his cheek. In his entire life, he has done nothing better than love Henry’s sister, and fears losing her from the terrible wasting illness that keeps her confined to her bed.

  “The mood has changed, I think,” Montagu says, admitting short term defeat. He is not going to get the king out today. “Shall we go, and bait Canterbury for the rain starting again?”

  “No, leave him be,” Henry replies. “He prayed for it to stop, and it did. Let us not tempt fate, by spurning his secular abilities. Let’s pull old Norfolk’s beard, and see what the old man is after now. I do not see why he is with Cromwell so much, these days.”

  “They seem to admire one another,” Suffolk says. “Cromwell also has his little lap dog with him. Perhaps we can enjoy Master Chapuys’ company?”

  “Why not? God, but I hate the French.”

  He is a Savoyard, sire,” Montagu tells him.

  “Then I shall hate Savoy too,” Henry says. “Come, gentlemen. “Let us return to the real world. I do hope Cromwell has some new ideas. The Lord Chancellor is dragging his pious feet over my annulment.”

  “Cromwell is your man, for new ideas,” Montagu says. “My people say he is in touch with Tyndale, and the other heretics, on an almost daily basis.”

  “What?” Henry suspects, but if he is not told, he can turn a blind eye, when he wishes. Montagu has made a serious mistake in mentioning the matter. “I look forward to seeing proof of so base an accusation, Harry. I trust your agents are as good as Cromwell’s, and can furnish documentation, witnesses, and testimonies?”

  “He is far too clever, sire.”

  “He is. I like clever men. Cardinal Wolsey was the cleverest man I ever knew, and I let the whisperers pull him down. I was going to forgive him, wasn’t I, Charles.”

  “You were, Your Majesty,” Suffolk asserts. “We talked of it, deep into the night, but that oaf, Northumberland let him die, before you could act.”

  “Harry Percy. God damn the black day I ever let him arrest Wolsey. The callous idiot mistreated him, and caused his untimely death. I wonder, sometimes, if I have punished the fool enough.”

  “He is your dog, sire,” Charles Brandon says, happy to have the chance of damaging Harry Percy yet again. “If you take any more castles from him, he will be sleeping in a barn, with a cowherd for a servant.”

  “True, my friend. Let him r
ot in the north country, for the time being.” Henry is ready to meet the world. Brandon pushes open a door, and they are in the outer court chambers. Men turn to them, and bow. The king is back with them, and they can, once more, get on with the business of running the realm.

  There is the adjustment to the corn law, and this year’s tax levy on raw wool is to be agreed. Then Henry must inspect the plans for his latest man of war. He has a dream that, one day, his navy will rule the world’s oceans, and protect his empire. Since the idea being mentioned to him by Cromwell, he has forgotten it is not truly, his own thought.

  Later, there are the matters of law to attend to. Three men are waiting for their death sentences, in the Tower of London. Henry has the power of life and death. Two warrants are signed, but the third is more awkward. The young man, caught clipping coins, is the son of one of Norfolk’s dairy women, and it is suspected that Norfolk might hold a closer bond than master to servant.

  Henry is a soft hearted man, when it comes to children, and cannot bring himself to have a child of Norfolk’s, even though he is not acknowledged, executed. He takes up the quill, crosses out the order of execution, and scrawls another.

  “The boy was foolish,” he says, by way of explanation.

  “Your Majesty is a generous, and forgiving sovereign, sire,” the lawyer mutters, and the courtiers all clap in appreciation of his graceful leniency. “I shall amend the document, at once. The boy will be most grateful, sire. I an sure of it.”

  Henry waves the man away. He cannot take too much grovelling from these legal men. He has saved a life, and that is enough. That the reduced sentence involves the young man’s right hand being forfeit, does not cross his mind. That is for Uncle Norfolk to remedy with a small pension for the mother, is it not?

  9 Montagu’s Cracked Mirror

  “God, but I hate the rain.” Will Draper turns from the open barn door, and is grateful they are under cover. Welsh rain is like no other, he thinks, except Irish rain. “In Ireland, babies are born, able to swim, because of the heavy downpours,” he says.

  “And giants walk the roads, eating windmills for breakfast, and stamping on haystacks,” Richard Cromwell adds, dolefully. They are not more than twenty miles into the country, and already, it is depressing their spirits.

  The ever present rain has grown in intensity, and driven them under cover. Mush is off to one side, chatting with Gwen, who, on closer inspection, turns out to be fresh faced, and pretty. The olive skinned youth seems to be smitten. Sir Jeremy is playing cards with Tom Wyatt, and Barnaby Fowler. Richard is keeping himself to one side, fretting over a careless mistake that may now cost them dearly.

  He is in charge of the pack animal, and, on leaving Hereford, fails to secure the supplies correctly. The rain is heavy, and has contaminated the badly packed bag, ruining over half of the food. Richard is mad at himself, and offers to return to the town, and buy more. It is the painter, Hans Holbein, who comes up with a better idea.

  He will ride on, into the next large village. They were, as a band, going to skirt it, for safeties sake. Hans Holbein believes he can pay a visit, and buy food, without coming under suspicion. He will arm himself with an extra dagger, and a vicious looking club, and pretend he is a foreign mercenary, travelling, in search of a master to hire him.

  “In this way, they will be frightened of me, and wish to get me on my way,” Hans Holbein reasons. “I will buy food, and be back by evening. This is a good idea, yes?” His companions can see no fault with it, and send him off, with a promise that should he not return by early evening, they will ride into the village, and rescue him.

  It is just starting to grow dark, when Hans Holbein comes back to them, at full gallop. He is hardly able to speak, as he dismounts. The others cluster around, fearing that things have gone awry, and they are discovered.

  “Here, drink this,” Richard says, pushing a skin of wine at the painter. “Drink, and regain your senses, man. There. Now, what is wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Hans Holbein gasps out. “Things cannot be any better, my friend.” He takes a second, longer, pull at the wine.

  “Speak up, fellow,” Sir Jeremy says. “We are in need of some better news.”

  “I rode into the village, and told my tale,” Holbein explains. “Some men from the nearby farms are, even now, at the blacksmith’s forge, having weapons sharpened for war.”

  “War?” Will Draper says. “What is going on?”

  “News has come, that Owain Gruffedd, a great Welshman, they say, is calling the country to arms. They say he is near, and travelling with the new Prince of Wales.”

  “Fitzroy,” Wyatt says. “They have not gone to Anglesey.”

  “That is so,” Holbein tells them. “He crossed into Wales, and is making a progression down from north to south. He is less than a day’s ride away. He is saying that King Henry is failing, and a new king is needed. He says that Fitzroy is Welsh, and the true son of the king, and that he must be put on the throne. The call to arms is made, Will, and they will flood to the boy king’s banner.”

  “Gruffedd is confident,” Barnaby Fowler says. “Does he know something we do not?”

  “Montagu is a careful planner,” Draper says. “If Gruffedd is raising men, it is because he believes that Henry is either dead, or removed from the throne.”

  “What do we do?” Sir Jeremy asks. He is as brave as any, but wonders how they can make a stand against ten thousand armed Welshmen.

  “Fight,” Mush says, from his quiet corner. “Master Cromwell does not wish us to think too deeply. That is his job. He sends us to take back Fitzroy, and nothing less. We must ride, and confront Gruffedd, before he grows too strong.”

  “Mush speaks the truth,” Holbein says. “The blacksmith tells me he has only a few retainers with him, and says I should ride out, and seek employment with the new king.”

  “How few are a few?” Richard asks.

  “Less than fifty,” Hans replies.

  “Shall we settle on Gruffedd, and forty eight followers?” Thomas Wyatt says, blithely. “Then we know that we must kill only nine each.”

  “They will be hardened men,” Will Draper tells them. “The sort of men who will stand, and fight.”

  “Then we must understand that we are expendable,” Sir Jeremy says. “With an army at his back, Gruffedd, and Fitzroy, will sweep aside all opposition. It is for us to stand, and fight. If we can kill either Gruffedd, or the bastard boy, the threat will ebb away.”

  “True enough,” Mush says. “Cut off the head of the snake, Cromwell always says. I wonder how we will get near enough?”

  “I know the land beyond the village,” Holbein says. “I rode on. There is a steep sided valley; wooded on the west slope, but cleared on the east. Gruffedd and his men must come through it, if they wish to stay at the village for the night. We can meet them there, and choose our own place to fight.”

  “Wooded on the one slope, you say?” Sir Jeremy asks.

  “I have charcoal,” the painter replies. “I will sketch it all out for you, my friends.”

  “Perhaps we can better our chances with a trick, or two.” Draper says. “How brave is your new sweetheart, Mush?”

  “Do not jest at her expense,” Mush replies. “Gwen can draw a bow, or handle a knife, as well as many here.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Will says. “She might be able to help.”

  “Ah, the wiles of a woman,” Tom Wyatt mutters. “Graven in diamonds, with letters plain. There is written, her fair neck round about. ‘Noli me tangere’, Caesar’s I am.” The verse, written in a moment of pique, is about Anne Boleyn, and speaks of how his lover is now bedecked with jewels, and wants him no more. Touch me not, Wyatt, for I am now Henry’s property, she says.

  “A fine verse,” Sir Jeremy says. It speaks of great love.”

  “Unrequited, sir, I assure you,” Tom Wyatt says. “Now, Master Will, how do we reduce the odds?”

  Will Draper explains. He has spent years fig
hting rebels in Ireland and Wales, and knows that there is dirty, violent business ahead. As he speaks, he cannot help but wonder how many of his comrades will still be alive by the following evening. He also worries about his wife, and Cromwell.

  He does not have a political mind, but is wise enough to know that Montagu, if he is to win, must remove not only Henry, but Cromwell, Norfolk, and a dozen others. They will do their duty on the morrow, but it is to no avail, if Thomas Cromwell fails. For that would mean the end for them all, and a regent running the realm.

  The boy prince will be used, and discarded, and Henry Pole, Baron Montagu will rule: a Plantagenet on the throne of England, once more.

  “Where is my army,” the boy asks, looking across to the other side of the river. “I see no teeming multitudes, rushing to my cause, Master Gruffedd.”

  “My messengers are galloping far and wide, sire,” Gruffedd says. He is confident, and knows that within a week, all of Wales, and Cornwall, will be battering at London’s gates. “Most of our men will be on foot. Welsh archers can march twenty five miles in a day, and the Cornishmen are as tough. Two great forces will gather, at Hereford and Worcester, and close on London like the tongues of coal pincers.”

  “Most reassuring,” says the boy. “What if Norfolk is waiting, with his own thirty thousand? Will your yeomen stand against his trained knights?”

  “Our men will fill the sky with arrows.”

  “And they will fill the air with the sound of canon.” The boy yawns. “Have our men ever seen a canon, Master Gruffedd? They belch fire, and can throw a ball a thousand paces. How close must our archers be?”

  “Three hundred.”

  “Oh dear.” The boy’s sarcasm is obvious.

  “You speak as if you wish to lose,” the Welshman snaps.

  “My father is king,” the child replies. “Why need I fight at all?”

  “Your father is dead.” Gruffedd bites his tongue, but there is nothing for it than to explain. “Henry will have been struck down today, whilst hunting. It could be delayed no longer, sire. The realm has no leader. Norfolk is caught between two fires. Will he go north, or come to us? Either way, Montagu’s men will close on his rear, and finish him. Like it or not, sire, you are going to be the ninth Henry!”