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

by Anne Stevens

  Mush, and Will Draper, are also glad to be alive, but do know what to make of what the boy tells them. Once more, they are being used. Manipulated by a sharper mind, and directed like players upon a stage. Thomas Cromwell is the playwright, and gives them, as usual, the most interesting parts to play.

  “I am sorry to have taken a life,” John Adamson says to them. “It is not in my nature, sirs, I assure you. Though when Gruffedd, and his men put the castle to the sword, I would gladly have torn out the cruel man’s black heart.”

  “Oh, cruel heart, made obsidian black by evil deeds,” Wyatt says. “Yes, It might work. It has a certain ring to it.”

  “Trust you to make a poem from all of this,” Holbein says.

  “And will you not paint it, Master Holbein?” Tom Wyatt replies.

  “Not I, sir,” Hans says. “I find the subject matter to be far too black for my poor palette.”

  “God’s teeth,” Richard Cromwell says, finally understanding. “Then where is Fitzroy?”

  “Not here,” Will Draper says. “The answers to all of this lie back in Austin Friars.”

  “Good,” Richard Cromwell replies, “ for I could eat an oxen!”

  12 Lazarus Rising

  “Does the king live?” Cromwell is hovering outside the tent, and can hardly contain himself. Henry, after spouting gibberish for a few minutes, has sunk into a deep sleep. The arrival of Cromwell’s Greek doctor, Adolphus Theophrasus, is causing a stir of unrest.

  “Does Thomas Cromwell mean to have the king poisoned?” Montagu asks of anyone foolish enough to listen. Rafe Sadler is busy putting it about that Montagu is out of favour, and soon to be dismissed from court. Suffolk, eager to curry favour with Cromwell, supports the gossip.

  “Master Pole has told one too many jokes,” he says to Norfolk.

  “Save your stories for another,” Norfolk says. “I have no love for the man, either, Brandon. Though think on this: what happens if Henry does not wake up?”

  “Oh, God, but I have not thought it through.”

  “Then think, man.” Norfolk is a great lord, and does not wish to lose either his status, or his head. “Do not lambaste Montagu too readily, for tomorrow, he may be the new king’s regent.”

  “Then it is true. He has Fitzroy?”

  “Ask yourself this. Where is Draper? That young man is always about Cromwell’s business. He is off, searching for the bastard. I wager his mission is to either retrieve, or kill the boy.”

  “Then what do you advise, My Lord Norfolk?” Suffolk asks.

  “Hold your tongue for a while.” Norfolk taps a finger to his nose. “If the king lives, we are in the clear, and may attack Montagu with impunity, but if he dies, we must pay court to whomsoever gains the upper hand. What if Cromwell and More join forces, and support Princess Mary? She, at least, is not illegitimate.”

  “Will you back her?”

  “Why not?” Norfolk replies. “She will stop all the trouble with Rome, and bring stability. We can marry her off to some noble or other, and get her breeding.”

  “But, if Montagu has Fitzroy, and twenty thousand Welshmen at his back, we are torn apart. The Scots, under James, will raid into the north, and the Welsh will advance on London.”

  “Then we say ‘bugger you’ to dear Harry Percy, Norfolk explains. “The Scottish forces will stop at Berwick, and Carlisle. So, we join up, and throw ourselves on Montagu. I have almost four thousand men under arms, and another twelve by the end of the month. My son, Surrey, though craven, can be relied on for five thousand men. You, I know can raise ten thousand, and the garrisons in Chester, York and Coventry can send another five thousand men. All trained men, Charles.”

  “Thirty six thousand,” Suffolk says, after resorting to his fingers for a tally. “Then there is the king’s ordinance. A dozen great canon, in London alone.”

  “Then you agree with me?” Norfolk says. “We do nothing, until we know how Cromwell jumps. Let him declare for Montagu, and we must do the same. If he backs Mary, we welcome him into our open arms, and thrash Harry Pole, and his bastard prince.”

  There is a sudden commotion. They turn, to see that a large, foreign looking man, decked out in silk robes, is emerging from the king’s tent. He whispers to Cromwell, who holds his hands up for silence.

  “The blow was stoutly delivered, and might have broken the king’s skull, but it did not. He will awaken, and rise as did Lazarus, from the dead, my friend. I shall split my fee with you, for the introduction, Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Cromwell whispers back. “Let us make out that you have performed a miracle, dear friend. For the king to be alive, is a wondrous thing. The blow was mighty.”

  Gradually, the whole of Hampton Court focuses on the grave looking Privy Councillor as he steps away from the doctor. Beside him now, is Sir Thomas More, and the 1st Baron Montagu. Norfolk wonders if deals have already been made, and is he a fool to run with Cromwell’s hounds.

  “The king,” Cromwell shouts, “is alive. Long live the king!”

  The silence is broken, and a thousand voices hail His Majesty’s recovery. They thank God, but Adolphus Theophrasus knows otherwise. Henry is simply concussed, and has closed his mind, until the damage is repaired. He has applied a plain poultice, for which he will furnish a bill for ten pounds.

  “The contents are rare herbs, from far off Turkestan,” he will explain. In fact, he has used some powdered red clay, and a pinch of rock salt, from his little pouch. Cromwell declares that there is to be silence about the court, whilst Henry regains his strength.

  The armistice between Cromwell and Montagu, and Norfolk and Suffolk gives each man time to think. Matters are going awry, and no-one seems to know what is afoot. Montagu is playing a waiting game, wondering when his Welsh hoards will appear, and the two dukes wait upon other men’s decisions.

  Thomas Cromwell calls for a stool, and sits at the flap of Henry’s tented pavilion. He must be there, for the moment when Henry awakes, and asks ’What is going on?’. It is a very good question, and one that will take some careful thinking about.

  The enemy, is Montagu. It is Montagu who has instigated a kidnap, and two murderous attacks on Cromwell, and Will Draper’s house. He is also responsible for armed men, lurking where Henry was to fly his hawks. Then he is thrice guilty, of attempted murder, kidnap, and treason. But where is the proof?

  Will Draper is somewhere in Wales, trying to capture Owain Gruffedd, and bring him to book. If taken, the man will tell all, if only to save his own neck from the block. There is a fact that nags at Cromwell. Captain Will Draper and his band number seven, against how many thousands? The odds are not favourable. Indeed, it is likely that Thomas Cromwell has consigned Will Draper, and his own, dearly loved, nephew to a brutal death.

  Cromwell must deal with ‘what if’ once more, and come up with a reasonable plan. What if the Welsh suddenly appear at the city gates? Will Norfolk’s troops be able to hold them? Or will they throw open the city gates, and welcome the Welsh in?

  “What if the Scots invade?” Rafe Sadler asks, interrupting his master’s thought processes.

  “I have written to James,” Thomas Cromwell replies, but very quietly. “High treason, I know, but it had to be done. I have offered him a few small castles on the border, and a yearly pension, for life. He seems content, and will not muster his highlanders this year.”

  “Then what will we do about Mary?”

  “Should the king die, she is the next in line,” Cromwell explains.

  “Shall she have to die?” Rafe is able to separate himself into several different personas, and is speaking through his hard headed one.

  “No, not by our hand, Rafe. I must support her, and have her gain her rightful place. Then I must fly to the coast, and take a boat to Flanders. For, as sure as I am sitting here, she will have my head, no matter what.”

  “Then we must all go.” Rafe is nothing, if not dutiful.

  “I fear so.” Cromwell glances into the tent. “
The king will live though. The good doctor assures me.”

  “Did he say how Miriam is faring, master?”

  “She is alive, and she is strong,” Cromwell replies. “Though the child is lost.”

  “Will Draper will, be heart broken.”

  “Please God, he still lives.”

  “Oh, it will take more than ten thousand Welshmen to kill Master Will,” Rafe says. “He will come riding home, with the Fitzroy boy at his side.”

  “I doubt it,” Cromwell says.

  “Then why do we bother?”

  “Because we must,” Cromwell replies. “It is our lot in life.”

  “Cromwell seems worried,” Sir Thomas More says, happily. “I fear he is in a deal of trouble.”

  “How so, Lord Chancellor?” George Boleyn asks. “My sister Anne, seems most taken with him at the moment.”

  “Because he claims he can hurry the Pope along.”

  “Is that not what we all wish,” George, Viscount Rochford says. “Do we not pray for the Bishop of Rome to get off his big, lazy, arse, and annul the king’s marriage?”

  “Of course,” Sir Thomas More replies, “but, as I often say, too many cooks will spoil the broth. Cromwell must keep out of state affairs, where the marriage is concerned. He can be of no real use. Pray tell your sister so.”

  “Henry wishes to re-marry, Master More,” the Boleyn brother seethes. “Why do you oppose us?”

  “I do not, sir,” More looks surprised. “I wish only that it is done legally, so no taint can be thrown on your sister’s goodly character. The French already call her ‘the whore’, my lord.”

  “I am fully aware of that,” Boleyn says. “What if the king does not awaken?”

  “Then the marriage is sound, and Princess Mary will ascend the throne.”

  “Gods breath, but he must not die.”

  “I also am praying for the king,” Sir Thomas says, with a wry smile. “For Mary knows I have been trying to have her set aside from the succession. I pray too, that the king sires a healthy boy, as soon as possible. Please, tell your sister that, too.”

  “What about Fitzroy?” Boleyn asks. “There are rumours.”

  “Really?” Sir Thomas knows all about the rumours. He has started some of them off himself. “I hear that Montagu is playing a close game, and speaks well to the king, of the bastard, Fitzroy.”

  “He would have him king, and my sister cast aside.”

  “Of course he would. He is a Plantagenet by birth, and a staunch supporter of the Pope.” Sir Thomas sighs. “So many clever men, all pulling in different ways. Imagine, if we put aside self interest, what a country this could be.”

  “You will not work with Cromwell?”

  “No. Your sister must choose between the two of us. She either listens to his lies, or lets me get on with the business of the king.”

  “Cromwell sends her jewels.”

  “I will send her a queen’s crown.”

  “Then you do not oppose her, sir?” George Boleyn is not entirely convinced.

  “I cannot oppose the king,” the Lord Chancellor says, smiling. “Were he to wish to marry an ass, I would concur, providing he soon gets it with child!”

  “More and George Boleyn look as thick as thieves,” Charles Brandon says. Norfolk glances over, and makes a snorting noise.

  “Pigs in the same trough,” he says. “Rochford is desperate for my niece to marry Henry, and Sir Thomas wants only to retain his power. They seek to make friends.”

  “Your niece should press Henry to throw Katherine aside, no matter what the church says.”

  “Ah, that is Master Cromwell speaking,” says Norfolk. “He would have the Church of Rome cast out, and the church of Saint Thomas Cromwell instituted. Imagine it, Suffolk, church services in English, and a Tyndale bible in every pulpit. Good God, man, are we all to become German? Will Luther sit on the English throne, like some great, constipated toad?”

  “You jest.” Suffolk knows Cromwell holds such views, but will not speak against him. The man holds markers against him, for almost forty thousand pounds, and thus, owns him. “Cromwell is a decent sort of fellow. He will not allow a man to be racked for the truth, and enjoys reading in English. Is it so bad?”

  “I’ll tell you, if, and when, Henry wakes up,” Tom Howard says. He is Norfolk, and will remain so, until his last breath. Then his son, Surrey will become Norfolk. God save us all, he thinks.

  “Wine.” Cromwell almost leaps out of his own skin, as the single word is spoken. He turns, looks inside the tent, and cries out in joy.

  “Your Majesty is well?” he asks.

  “Why should I be otherwise?” Henry sits up, and yawns.

  “The battle, sire.”

  “Oh, yes. Is it time?”

  “The time has come, and gone, sire,” Thomas Cromwell tells him. “You smote mightily, and the French are entirely defeated.”

  “Ah, yes. I remember. And what of Suffolk?”

  “Alive, and much chastened, sire,” Cromwell replies. “I have never seen a mightier blow struck. Had the sword been sharp, you may have cleaved the man in two.”

  “Yes, I was good, wasn’t I? Henry is preening himself like a peacock. “What of the ladies?”

  “I am told that Lady Anne expressed her love, and admiration,” Cromwell lies, easily, “and that certain others swooned at your display of manhood. I swear Your Majesty, were he but a common soldier, could take his pick, and dally until dawn.”

  “There, you see. They say I am too old. They whisper behind my back that my time is nearly done.”

  “Who, sire?” Cromwell asks. It is treasonable talk, and he wants to expand the conversation. “You must not believe all you hear about your favourite jester. What he says is surely meant as nothing but tom foolery.”

  “What? Montagu rails against me?”

  “No, sire!” Cromwell shrugs, and shakes his head. “It is just that some say his humour is a little … near the knuckle.”

  “Such as?” Henry will not be made a fool of.

  “Some silly jest, about a mirror. They say that he meant it as an allegory. That you are meant as the old man, and that Queen Katherine is your …”

  “By God, yes. I see it now. No wonder Brandon did not laugh. Does Montagu mean me to be an ageing fool, too stupid to have his way, and stuck with an old wife?”

  “They say that he meant ‘barren’, rather than ‘old’, sire.” Cromwell is extemporising. “That the thrust of the jest was aimed at your apparent lack of … virility.”

  “They doubt my virility?” Henry is blushing like a virgin.

  “No one doubts it, sire,” Cromwell tells him. “We gentlemen of the court are well aware of your… abilities in that direction. Wise fathers keep their girls away. As I say, Baron Montagu is nothing but a jester. Perhaps he might be… chastised in some way?”

  “Yes, but he is a friend, Thomas. I can hardly have him thrown in to the Tower, for disparaging my pintle, can I?” The king will forgive friends anything. It is his worst failing.

  “Your devotion to him is admirable, sire,” Cromwell says. “I am not suggesting we call for the headsman, with his axe. Though a small scare might teach him to hold his tongue.”

  “I do believe you have a plan, Thomas,” Henry says, smiling like a schoolboy “Will I approve of it?”

  “Sire, a lesson is best learned, when being administered by the master tutor,” Cromwell replies, smiling.

  “Tell me more.” Henry smiles to himself. Of late, he has found it harder and harder to keep up his façade of a lusty, and lustful king. Now, to find out that Montagu is poking fun at him, is intolerable, and he will have his small revenge. “You swear that Montagu will not suffer?”

  “Only his pride will be dented,” Thomas Cromwell tells the king. It will be a small victory, and one he might have to pay for later, but Cromwell too will have his moment. “I mean to trick him into confusion, and make him look guilty of something worse.”

  “I
love play acting,” Henry says. “Do you recall when the gentlemen did make a jest on Wolsey?”

  “I do, sire. Most amusing.” Cromwell recalls how a wicked play, showing Cardinal Wolsey up as a lecher, and a man of vile habits, was played out to much raucous laughter. He has it on good authority that Harry Percy was the main driving force, but that Henry Pole, now the Baron Montagu suggested some of the cruder slanders shouted out. “Perhaps we can spring our trap on the Baron tomorrow, in front of the whole court?”

  “Ah, then I must learn my lines,” Henry says. “Who else will be in the play?”

  “I have in mind, a surprise actor, sire,” says Cromwell, “whose appearance will bring down the curtain.”

  “You must tell me how to play it,” Henry says, growing anxious, lest he forget a line.

  “Do not worry, sire. Once the mummery starts, the words will come to you. Look to me, and I will help expound on the absurdity, until the whole court, sparing Montagu, is doubled over with laughter.”

  “Harry is not a real fool, Master Cromwell.”

  “No, sire, he is not… but his wit cannot match yours, and so, we will have the better of him.”

  “But to show him up in public…”

  “Will prove how clever, and virile a king you are.”

  “By God on the Cross, let’s do it!”

  It is late, and the city gates are just being closed for the night, when there is the sudden clatter of horses hooves, and a small company of men come riding in, from the west.

  “Who goes there?” a young captain shouts out.

  “Captain Will Draper and his troop,” Will shouts back. “We are here, hard ridden from Hereford, with urgent news for the king, and my master, Privy Councillor Cromwell.”

  “Then you are too late, sir.” The man steps forward, and holds up a lantern. “It is you, sir. Forgive the precautions, but I have strict orders to guard the city gates well.”