The Scarlet Peacock

by Field, David

  ‘Perhaps not God, master, but there are others who can ensure that you do not die with your name sullied.’

  Thomas turned his head to look at the draught sitting on the side table.

  ‘They say I may not take more of the simple to ease my pain.’

  ‘I am no physician, master,’ Cromwell replied, his head bowed. ‘Will you grant me absolution for what I must do?’

  ‘Gladly, Thomas. Te absolvo. There, it is done. Your penance shall be to prove my innocence once I am gone. Tell me, Thomas, have you ever taken a man’s life?’

  ‘Once, master. In Italy. On the field of battle. I was a soldier then.’

  ‘Give me the draught, my dearest Thomas, then leave me in God’s hands.’

  Thomas stumbled down the staircase, his eyes blurred by tears, and nodded solemnly towards George, whose white face appeared briefly through a crack in the open pantry door, before Thomas reclaimed his horse and rode hard to London, cursing loudly into the night air.

  *

  Four day later, Cromwell bent the knee before Henry, who sat in his Presence Chamber at Westminster with the Lady Anne at his side. She was smirking, and Thomas wanted to strangle her with his bare hands.

  ‘Did he confess at the end?’ Henry asked him fearfully.

  ‘Only to his confessor, and even then not to those matters most recently libelled against him, of which he was innocent, as I have a witness to attest.’

  ‘Who is this witness?’ Henry enquired eagerly.

  ‘A man in the employ of your Treasurer, your Highness. A man named Richard Bullmore, a skilled forger of coins and documents beside. It was his hand that created the document of which my late master was accused.’

  ‘Bullmore is dead,’ Anne announced gloatingly. Cromwell’s eyebrows shot upwards, and Henry looked suspiciously back at Anne, who looked momentarily confused, then explained.

  ‘My uncle informs me that the man accused by Master Cromwell was found floating in the river at Whitehall steps two days ago.’

  ‘I had not then publically named him,’ Cromwell said ominously. Henry looked back at him.

  ‘It is of no matter now, since my old friend is dead. Do you arrange his funeral, Master Cromwell?’

  ‘He was buried in Leicester Abbey, your Majesty. A simple ceremony.’

  ‘I shall ensure that his name is cleared of any suggestion of treason,’ Henry promised. ‘It is the least I can do, for such a loyal and steadfast friend.’

  ‘He will no doubt look down from Heaven and bless you for that,’ Thomas assured him.

  ‘If indeed he be in Heaven,’ Anne added.

  Thomas bowed from the presence, and looked up at a grinning Anne before departing the chamber, with an oath burning through his head that he would one day bring her down even lower than she had worked towards the downfall of Cardinal Archbishop Thomas Wolsey, the ambitious and tragically proud victim of a noble-dominated society that could not tolerate his lowly origins.

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