by Anne Stevens
“Master Cromwell will not like it.” Will uses his master like a first line of defence, giving himself a moment to think.
“It will free up our room,” Miriam replies. “He will not mind, as long as you do not leave his service.”
“Leave his service?” Will cannot comprehend such a foolish act. Cromwell has restored his lost savings through his connections with the Lombard bank, made him his senior secret agent, at a good wage, and treats him like a favourite nephew. “That I shall never do, my love. We are his people.”
“Then we can look at houses close by?” Miriam asks.
“I don’t see why not,” Will says. “Looking can do no harm.”
“There is a lease for sale, down by the river,” she says, the moment her husband relents. “James Whitcombe, the wool merchant, says we can have it, if we like.”
“I see, and do we?” Draper asks. He is used to campaigning in Ireland, and sleeping under wet canvas. It will be nice to have their own home, of course, but it is not an essential to him. He lets Miriam have her head, because she has a fine eye for a bargain.
It has a private jetty, four good bedrooms, servants quarters, and a block of stables. There is a neat little garden, and the mooring rights are included.” Miriam replies. “We might be able to have a small boat … a skiff. Apart from the good sized good bedrooms, there are downstairs rooms, for entertaining our friends. The garden is modest, but very pleasant. We’d need two or three of servants though.”
“That is hardly a problem, my love,” Will tells her. “Master Cromwell’s house is full of waifs and strays. I’m sure he’ll let us employ a couple of them. Young Mark is a willing lad, and little Mary is a hard worker, and can bake.”
“Then I am to give word?” Miriam asks.
“What, you haven’t already?” her husband says, smiling. “That is slow of you, mistress.”
“He would not let me sign,” Miriam explained, blushing in annoyance. “He says you must guarantee the transaction. I explained that it was my fortune, but he said that, under English law, I am your property, and the money is yours.”
“Why yes, that is so, my sweet,” Will says, grinning at her unease. “I had not thought. Perhaps I should have it locked up in Master Cromwell’s strong room, and only give you a few silver shillings, as I see fit.”
“You would not!” Miriam flares up, then sees he is merely mocking her. “You beast… you are too kind.”
“And I do not wish to wake up with your brother’s knife at my throat,” Will replies, thinking of the practicalities. He pulls her to him, and kisses her on the lips and forehead. “I trust you to make the right choices for us. I shall earn it, and you shall manage it.”
“Truly?”
“Truly, my love. I have no head for business, and trust you to invest wisely. Tell James Whitcomb that he had best deal with you, for if not, I shall call on him with Master Cromwell, and drive a very much harder bargain. What are his terms?”
“He will grant us a twenty year lease, at twenty pounds a year,” Miriam explains.
“Will he indeed?” Draper smiles. Cromwell has taught him one thing, above all else. Never take the first offer. “Insist on thirty years, with an option for another twenty, and offer him fifteen pounds a year, payable quarterly, in advance.”
“I will make the offer, and threaten him with your unpleasant company, my love,” Miriam replies. In truth, she has already squeezed the man, and made an even better bargain, but does not wish her new husband to feel redundant. “Master Whitcomb shall give me the documents for your signature, and everyone shall be happy.”
Will Draper adores his new wife beyond measure, and feels compelled to tell her the truth.
“You must make us a fine home, my dearest one, but keep it always in your mind that I am at Master Cromwell’s bidding, night and day. I may not be home often, or for long.”
“Then we must make the best of the few hours we do have,” Miriam says, slipping the bolt on the door. “Hurry, my husband, duty demands your immediate action.”
“Afanya't, gos mandrós,” Eustace Chapuys loudly curses, and slams his fist on the table. Normally the most benign of masters, he is becoming annoyed with his servant. Luis Gomez, resentful of being labelled a lazy dog, pretends not to understand his master’s instructions, and brings the wrong embroidered jacket from the huge travel chest.
Chapuys, pushes him aside, and finds what he is after. It is a fine velvet doublet, with fashionably slit sleeves, and a soft, rabbit fur lining. He holds it up, and smacks the recalcitrant servant on the back of the head with his free hand.
“Oh, señor!” Gomez gasps, and cowers back in a suitably frightened way. “Your father would never treat his poor Luis so. He never raised a hand to me.”
“My father was ever too soft with his servants,” Chapuys grumbles. “Fetch me my hose, and the new hat, the one with the goose feathers. Tell me you cannot find it, and I will have you flogged through the streets of this perfidious city.”
He will not, of course, and Luis Gomez knows it. He usually knows just how much he can get away with, but tonight, Chapuys is nervous, and quick to lose patience. All because he must go to dinner with some English lords. It is not like him to be so easily flustered.
Gomez does not understand the finer points of the dinner invitation. The ambassador is to dine with a table full of men, not unsympathetic to the queen’s cause, and the host is Cromwell, one of the most dangerous men in England. Recently elevated to the Privy Council, the lawyer, a son of a blacksmith, is Henry’s man in all things, and should not be promoting such a convivial meeting of minds. There is mischief about.
The ambassador feels rather like a mouse, invited to dine by the local cat. Whatever the motive is, at some point, the cat will unleash its sharpened claws. Chapuys has asked around about Cromwell, and finds the man to be quite unfathomable. Some men hate him, more fear him, and quite a few say he is the most amiable of men, keeping the best table in London, and the finest cellar outside of Rome. He treats his friends well, and his enemies politely, is the oft used phrase.
With Master Thomas Cromwell, it seems the knack is to know which you are to him. The man is a melting pot of opposites in Chapuys’ estimation. His capacity for kindness and cruelty seem to exist in equal measure.
“Señor,” Gomez calls, from the window. “There are men with blazing torches outside.” Ambassador Eustace Chapuys sits the hat on his head, and descends to the lower floor. He orders a second servant to throw open the heavy, oaken, barred door. A slight young man with ginger hair and pointed beard steps forwards, and bows low.
“Ambassador Chapuys,” Rafe Sadler says. “We are here to guide you to dinner. I am Rafe Sadler, Master Cromwell’s chief law clerk. If you please?” Rafe bows once more, and waves for his three friends to take up their stations. Chapuys studies their faces.
“Where is the dangerous one tonight?” he asks, out of simple curiosity. “The one who looks like Satan might cross the road to avoid him.” Rafe smiles. Will Draper, who scares the very devil away with his doleful looks. It will make a good story around the breakfast table.
“Captain Draper does not do escort duty, sir,” he tells the dapper Savoyard. “He is Master Cromwell’s special agent. His task is to ensure my master’s will be done.”
“I see. Then I did well to accept his invitation,” Chapuys replies, falling in with the torch lit party. The men hedge him in cosily.
“Indeed, sir,” Richard Cromwell mutters, “else he might have tied you up in a sack, or rolled you in a rug. My uncle’s dinners are famous throughout the city sir, and must not to be missed, I assure you.”
“Wait. Who goes there?” One of their number calls, and produces a short, stout club from beneath his cloak. His companions move hands to hidden daggers, or sword hilts.
“My Lord Suffolk’s men,” comes the haughty reply. “Name yourselves, gentlemen, or face the worst.”
“Cromwell’s men,” Rafe Sadler replie
s. “Walk with us, sirs. We are well met, my dear Lord Suffolk.”
“Rafe Sadler, is that you?” Charles Brandon steps out of the shadow, slipping his wrist knife out of sight. He means to give Thomas Cromwell’s favoured young man a hearty greeting, but he sees the ambassador, and gives him a cursory sort of a bow instead. “I could eat a horse.”
“One is roasting, as we speak,” Richard Cromwell calls back, and they all laugh, except Chapuys. He is not a lover of horsemeat, and he fails to grasp the humour of it. “Don’t worry, Señor Chapuys, it is only a small horse!”
Thomas Cromwell greets them at his front door, and ushers them into the main hall, where a huge log fire is warming every corner. A thin, sour faced man, is already seated at one end of the table, with a tall man, dressed as a cleric, at his side. Charles Brandon is a little taken aback by their presence, but smiles and bows, politely.
“My dear Lord Chancellor,” he effuses, then to the other he says a terse “Gardiner.” Sir Thomas More acknowledges Suffolk’s greeting, and hopes he will not be seated next to him. He thinks Charles Brandon is the stupidest nobleman in Europe, and has no conversation worthy of any note. He sits opposite, whilst Cromwell takes great pains in putting Ambassador Chapuys next to the great man.
“Ah, Thomas,” Cromwell says, heartily. “Have you met Eustace Chapuys, the Holy Roman Emperor’s ambassador to the court? I see you have, if only in passing. Stephen, why so glum, have I put you in the wrong place? I thought sitting on More’s left hand side would suit you rather well.”
“A rose between two thorns,” Brandon says, amiably. He is unaware of the unintended insult, and pulls a wicked looking knife from his sleeve. Chapuys is startled, until he realises it is for eating purposes only. The use of cutlery is still not widespread in England, and gentlemen often carry a sharp blade, in case the lamb is too tough to chew. “I see you still dress yourself up like a priest, Gardiner.”
“I am in holy orders, as Your Lordship knows well,” Stephen Gardiner tells him. “I am a Doctor of Canon Law, sir.”
“Oh, are you? I wondered, what with you being friendly with the Bulstrode girls. Margaret and Jane are such a lively pair… are they not, Master Gardiner?”
“You listen to idle gossip,” Gardiner replies, tartly. He dislikes Brandon, who is an upstart, placed in a high position because of his friendship with Henry. This vexes the cleric, who has claims, if only illegitimately, to being a distant cousin to the king. “There are those who are ever ready to do the devil’s mischief.”
“Gossip, you say? Not so, sir,” Brandon says, raising his voice to include the whole company. “It was I who saw them leaving your company, my dear Stephen. They often perform their immoral arts a deux, I hear.”
“Only hear, my Lord Suffolk?” Cromwell says, quietly, and Brandon sinks into silence. He is in debt to the blacksmith’s boy for more than money, and has no wish to cause any lasting offence at his dinner table. “My information is that they give you a special price, such are your skills in that way.”
“As you say, Master Cromwell.” Suffolk reddens and bites his tongue. It is a sorry thing when an earl of England cannot jest about carnal matters when in the company of gentlemen.
Ah, Chapuys thinks, that is why I am here. Master Cromwell wishes to display his hold over these men, the better to thwart any move before it is begun. Suffolk is under the man’s thumb, and trembles at the slightest rebuff. Interesting. He wonders about the other guests. Servants appear, moving softly on house slippers, and serve up large bowls of a delicious smelling soup.
“My cook roasts the vegetables first, then stews them until they turn to liquid. At the last, he stirs in some herbs, and a ladle filled with sour cream.” Cromwell seems delighted at his ability to impress with his knowledge of the culinary arts. “Though I ask, the man will not tell me which herbs he uses.”
“Flog him,” Stephen Gardiner says. “Or threaten to break him with the rack.”
“I am not the Lord Chancellor,” Cromwell replies, smiling at Thomas More. Chapuys senses a sudden undercurrent. “Is the soup to your liking, Thomas?”
“I prefer plain fare,” More snaps back. “I have simple tastes, often dining on bread, and a little watered down wine.”
“That is why you lack friends,” Cromwell replies. “And that is also why I have invited Ambassador Chapuys. He is the Holy Roman Emperor’s man, and a close friend of the Bishop of Rome.”
“The Pope,” More says. “You’re discourtesy clearly shows you up as what you are, Cromwell.”
“I say ‘the King of England’,” Cromwell retorts, “so why not ‘the Bishop of Rome’?”
“You speak like a heretic,” More replies, pushing his barely tasted bowl away. “You must take care, Master Cromwell, for I am the king’s man in matters of the church.”
“As I now am in more secular ways,” says Cromwell. “I hear you have taken up some good men this week past.”
“Ah, I see. You wish to plead for them.” More smiles now. He feels to be on safe ground. “One of them, John Vesey, was discovered with proscribed books in his house.”
“Foolish of him,” Cromwell says. “Proscribed by whom? Who has the power to forbid? He should have visited the king’s excellent library, and read them with impunity. Henry, God bless him, condemns no man without knowing the facts.”
“Yes, he has read Tyndale. The better to understand why we must destroy the Protestant influence.” More is being watched attentively by the entire table. They have seen the trap, and are surprised when the Lord Chancellor blunders into it. “He has asked my opinion on points of church law, many times.”
“And you were able to explain the heretic nature of Tyndale’s writings?” Cromwell raises one eyebrow, and his voice assumes an inquisitive tone.
“Of course. I am the foremost expert in Europe on this wicked heresy.” Stephen Gardiner gives a small cough, and taps More’s ankle with his, but it is far too late. The Lord Chancellor has allowed pride to blind him to the path Cromwell has picked out for him.
“What is the offence, sir,” Cromwell asks, “possessing these books, or reading them?”
“Both, of course.”
“Then both you, and His Majesty, stand accused,” Cromwell tells him. “For you both own to having these books in your possession, and have read them thoroughly.”
“We must, to determine the heresy,” More replies, and almost bites his tongue at his folly. He has allowed Thomas Cromwell to win an easy victory.
“Then the men you have arrested may not be heretics at all, but simple people who wish to discover if Tyndale is a true heretic,” Cromwell says, holding his splayed hands out to his guests, as if in supplication. “They are guilty only of curiosity. A curiosity they share with both yourself, and the king.”
“It is not their place to be curious.” More is on the defensive, but will concede nothing to this upstart lawyer. “The church forbids…”
“What about you, my Lord Suffolk… have you read Master Tyndale‘s notorious tomes?” Cromwell turns his stare onto Charles Brandon.
“Well, yes. The writings are freely available around the court,” he replies, “but I found his arguments to be … ill founded.”
“Thank God,” Chapuys tells him, “for that means you are not a heretic, My Lord. I too have read many such tracts, from Martin Luther to William Tyndale, and am not at all persuaded by them. This, I assume, absolves me of heresy too?” The several guests turn and look at the man in surprise, for he has spoken to them in a very passable English.
“You are a fast learner, Ambassador Chapuys,” Cromwell says, grinning. “I too have read Tyndale. Stephen, I know, has, for he borrowed my copy. I deduce from this that we have all read the good man’s writings, and remain resolutely untainted by the devil.”
“The sin is in believing,” More says. “They hide the books to evade capture, and they evade capture, because they have adopted heretical views. “
“Then if any of these men re
cant, and swear they are faithful to Mother Church, you will let them go free?” Cromwell asks, just as the next course, duck, roasted and served with a poached pear sauce, arrives.
“Of course,” More says, sniffing at the fragrant dish set before him. “They must recant, and mean it. Then they will go free.”
“And how will you know they mean it?” Eustace Chapuys is beginning to enjoy the cut and thrust. “Who can tell what is in a man’s heart, let alone his mind?”
“You speak wisely,” Sir Thomas More tells him. “They will be put to the question, of course. Under duress, a man will tell the truth.”
“Or lie, to stop the pain of being broken,” Thomas Cromwell says, coldly. “You cannot torture a man to confirm the ‘truth’ you wish to hear. It is despicable.”
“You call me despicable? My actions will save this country from heresy,” More replies, hotly. “Men will not return to the wrongful path, if they fear the dreadful consequences. Yet, if they insist on holding to their belief in this abominable new English bible, they are condemned out of their own mouths.”
“You will torture the innocent, and burn those you deem to be guilty?” Cromwell shakes his head in disbelief. “The king will hear of this, and he will not allow it.”
“Really?” More gives his host a crooked smile. “Henry does not want to split from Rome. He fears for his immortal soul. Once he is reconciled with Pope Clement, his annulment can be looked at once more.”
“Can it?” Chapuys asks, startled at so frank a statement.
“It can,” the Lord Chancellor replies, once more feeling he is back on solid ground. “Queen Katherine cannot provide a male heir. It is her duty to step aside, and enter a nunnery. There are many precedents to support this action, I assure you. Henry must have a new, younger queen.”
