Midnight Queen: A Tudor Intrigue (Tudor Crimes Book 2)

by Anne Stevens

  “La Boleyn?” the ambassador says.

  “Lady Anne is but a passing frivolity,” More tells him, confidently. “She will surrender that which the king wants of her, as did her sister Mary, before her. He will lose interest after a few weeks, and look abroad for a new consort.”

  “I see you have it all planned out,” Cromwell says, biting into his duck. “May I ask the name of the king’s future bride?”

  “That is down to diplomacy,” More explains. “He must seek out an alliance with either France, or the Emperor Charles. I make no mystery of where my aims lie, Ambassador Chapuys. Your master is dear to Henry, and will make a good ally.”

  In one sentence, Sir Thomas More has stated his intent to marry England to the Holy Roman Empire, the moment Queen Katherine is gone. Chapuys’ breath is taken away by the audacious way the proposal has been put to him, in front of Cromwell and the others.

  Then he realises why. Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, is Henry’s best friend, and can be relied on to convey the gist of the conversation back to his king. Henry will be tempted, and the Emperor Charles might well consider substituting one Spanish princess for another, more fertile one.

  All that would remain, is for the queen to retire to holy orders, refute her royal claims, and abandon her daughter Mary to the king’s mercy. Mary will be set aside, and her claims to the throne ignored. It is an attractive, insidious and deeply wicked idea, which Eustace Chapuys will fight with all his ability. He understands that there is a long, difficult diplomatic battle to be fought, and prepares himself for the struggle to preserve the current status quo. For the moment, he must reply to More in as ambiguous a way as possible. Diplomacy is the art of saying nothing, cleverly.

  “My dear Sir Thomas…” he starts.

  There is a sudden, insistent pounding on the front door, and a loud voice booms out.

  “Open up… in the king’s name!”

  4 The Strange Alliance

  Thomas Cromwell raises a hand, stilling the disquiet that has sprung up. There is another loud knocking, and both Suffolk and Gardiner start to rise to their feet, casting nervous glances at the door. After a few moments, Rafe Sadler appears. He is grinning mischievously.

  “There are two young gentlemen demanding entry, Master Cromwell. They are in their cups, and can hardly stand. They wish to be fed and watered, and claim this to be the most hospitable eating house in all of London.”

  “Damned impertinence!” Sir Thomas More stands, and looks as if he is about to issue orders for their immediate expulsion.

  “At least it is not the king’s men, come to burn my English bible,” Thomas Cromwell says, calmly waving More back into his chair. “Who is it, Rafe?”

  “Young Henry Howard, the Earl of Surrey, and Master Richard Rich, sir.”

  Thomas Cromwell raises an eyebrow. Rich, a rising young lawyer, and the Duke of Norfolk’s fifteen year old son and heir, are not noted as friends, and he is intrigued enough by this development to allow them entry. Besides, he thinks, Tom More hates the young Earl of Surrey with a vengeance, and it will vex the wretched man to share his meal with him.

  “A fine evening, Master Cromwell,” Richard Rich says, staggering in, arm in arm with Surrey. “You know Henry Howard, I believe?”

  “My Lord Surrey,” Cromwell replies, and elbows More, who has refused to bow to the boy. “Is your father well?”

  “The old bastard is as fit as a fighting cock,” the young earl pronounces, bitterly. “He has installed a powdered strumpet in the family home, and thrown my ageing mother out. Though, I must confess, Master Cromwell, his mistress is a rather comely little wench, and seems to saddle up well enough.”

  “Have you not found out for sure yet?” Master Rich says, and laughs at his own ribald remark. It is the humour of young rakes, and Richard Rich is desperate to be accepted amongst the court’s younger bucks. Henry Howard, though only just fifteen, is wealthier than them all, so is their acknowledged leader.

  Surrey guffaws at this, and flops into the chair vacated by Stephen Gardiner. He sees the abandoned duck, and grabs at it, eating greedily. Thomas Cromwell swiftly rearranges the seating order, and puts the ambassador as far away from the two intoxicated rowdies as he can.

  The level of conversation changes. More is now sullen, and annoyed at being displaced by a callow fifteen year old, who makes no bones about his violent dislike of the parsimonious Lord Chancellor.

  “Damn me, More,” young Surrey sniggers. “The food is much better than the filthy slop you serve. My father says you make a virtue of parsimony, and can count your loose change without removing it from the purse. I hear you have taken to breaking bones over this new Tyndale book. Is it true that anyone who reads it, is now declared to be a heretic?”

  “We have been over this muddy ground already, My Lord Surrey,” Cromwell tells the young drunkard, “and it seems quite clear that there are certain exclusions to the rule.”

  “I pay no mind to it,” Surrey replies. “Reading never quite took with me, d‘ya see? I leave it to mealy mouthed preachers, and stick dry scholars to write for me. A real gentleman can have too much education, can’t he Dick?”

  Richard Rich winces at the use of the diminutive, but does not correct his new friend. If the price of entry to the boy’s clique is to be known as ‘Dick Rich’, then so be it. He refrains from mentioning his own excellent education to Surrey, which has left him with a fine legal mind.

  “Then these rumours are true, Master Cromwell?” he asks, glancing at Sir Thomas More.

  “That the Lord Chancellor is to begin torturing free men to see what they are thinking?” Cromwell replies, raising his voice over Surrey‘s drunken chattering. “I fear so, my young friend. I suggest you go home tonight, and destroy anything in your library that might offend him.”

  “You go too far, sir,” More mutters, angrily.

  “I pray you do not,” Cromwell replies, smiling thinly. “I have many friends, throughout Europe, who have read the translations of William Tyndale.”

  “His books are banned,” Sir Thomas insists. “What will it take to get it through your thick blacksmith’s skull? To even possess a single copy, is an act of high treason.”

  “Treason?” Cromwell asks. “Against whom, sir ... King Henry, or England?”

  “They are one and the same in this matter,” More tells him, smugly. “My mind, and Henry’s, are one and the same when we consider the filth that Tyndale spews out.”

  “Save your breath, Thomas,” Cromwell snaps. “You will find no friends under my roof, and no supporters of your twisted theological outpourings!”

  Chapuys consoles himself that, though the evening is now spoiled, he has a better idea of English politics than he had before the soup arrived. Despite their outward show of open handed fairness, the English are complex, and have more skins than an onion. He finds it strange that men of such opposing views, can still like and admire one another.

  Cromwell and More strut around like two prize fighting cocks, each looking for an opening, but there is more to this than meets the eye, the ambassador thinks. The Lord Chancellor is a most learned man, and has a set of principles that he will not abandon, whereas Thomas Cromwell is the new cockerel in the pit, ready and willing to change his mind, as easily as he would change his coat.

  Several more courses follow, each consumed with varying degrees of gusto, and the talk turns from contentious religious texts, to cock fighting, bear baiting, and card games.

  “I saw Sir Peter Hawbray wager ten pounds on which way a falcon would turn last week,” Henry Howard declares, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “I was there, and the king called him an addle pated fool, for we all know the bird well, and have seen it stoop often.”

  “Fascinating,” Cromwell mutters. “I trust he learned his lesson?”

  “Hardly,” Surrey says. “I took another twenty off him playing ‘Find the Lady’. He has as much sense as a head louse!”

  “If that,“ Cromwel
l guesses. “How is your dear mother taking her enforced separation?”

  “No idea,” young Howard replies. “I haven’t seen her since Christmastide. She is a frightful old bore over money, lectures me like she was a priest, and resents father having a little fun.”

  Cromwell makes a mental note to look into the matter, and ensure that the Duchess of Norfolk is provided for. Rafe can arrange for a small pension, until Norfolk takes her back. She is yet another cousin of the Tudors, and must not be left to starve, whilst old Norfolk dallies with a painted whore. Henry will not approve. The putting off of wives is a serious business, and one better left to kings.

  At last, the gargantuan meal comes to an end, and the company make ready to depart. Cromwell has learned a little about Chapuys, and has used the occasion to demonstrate Sir Thomas More’s callous disregard of human life. He hopes the lesson has not been wasted on the company.

  The Lord Chancellor breaks away from the main company, and relieves himself against the stable wall. Cromwell is suddenly beside him.

  “My apologies, Tom,” he says. “Had you requested it, I would have found you a golden chamber pot to piss in.” It is a direct reference to Thomas More’s famous book ‘Utopia’, which has such silly ideas within its pages.

  “I see you have read my book,” More sneers. “Then you will see I recommend golden fetters for those who abuse their perfect society. Mock my writing, if you will, but it is printed in Latin, sir. Unambiguous Latin. The language of Holy Mother Church. The language of prayer, and scriptures.”

  “Unreadable by the common man,” Cromwell replies. “Do you need one of my men to light your way back to Utopia?”

  “I am the light, and the way, our lord said,2 More snarls. “I need nothing from you, sir. Grow as powerful as you might, but beware the flames of hell. You are a heretic, Thomas, and I will not stand for it.”

  “Then we must fight,” Cromwell sighs. “A pity, for I so enjoy your company.”

  “My God must come before my friendship for you,” More concludes. “Take care.”

  More is a dangerous zealot, and will put the world to the stake, if it dares disagree with his narrow minded view of Christianity. Why Henry has raised him to high office is a mystery, but it is so, and must be dealt with. Cromwell will slowly undermine the Lord Chancellor, removing a spade full of sand here and there, until his strong walls crumble. It is a bad day that sees Englishmen being tortured over what they read.

  Chapuys is almost out of the door when he is called back by Rafe, who has found his splendid new hat abandoned in the cloakroom. The gentlemen in the company compliment him on his flamboyant style, and Suffolk examines the item, before handing it to Rich who passes it on, until each man has admired the feathered cap.

  The ambassador, smiles and nods, realising that he is being mocked, but only in a friendly way. Overall, the dinner has been an enjoyable affair, and the company has been jovial, interesting, and often a little bawdy. He is pleased that there were no ladies present to hear the ribald comments, and talk of fornication, and mightily sated lust.

  He is back in his own house, and undressing, when his old servant ambles in without knocking. There is a fold of parchment in Luis’ right hand, and the new hat is in his left. He holds both up for inspection by his master.

  “This was tucked into the hat’s lining, Señor Eustace,” he explains, and hands it over to his master. Chapuys is puzzled. Inside his hat? Placed there by one of his fellow diners, or by one of Cromwell’s servants, he wonders?

  The paper is of a fine quality. The writing is small, neatly scripted, and to the point.

  There is a plot made. It is to murder Katherine, her daughter Princess Mary, and many of her closest followers. Look to Thomas Cromwell, sir, and be ever on your guard.

  A Well Wisher.

  Chapuys is used to intrigue, and is not unduly shocked by the contents of the note. He would be more surprised if there were not plots and counter plots surrounding the queen.

  He has been her loyal supporter for almost two years, and has been on constant watch, ensuring her safety to the best of his abilities. The two Moroccan bodyguards never leave her side during daylight hours, and her best friend, and loyal companion shares her nights.

  “Look to Thomas Cromwell,” he mutters, then smiles as he unravels the true meaning. “Luis, stop standing there like a lout, and fetch my cloak, and a torch.”

  Rafe Sadler is on his rounds, checking window catches and extinguishing candles, when there is an insistent knocking at the door. He shakes his head in disgust, sure it will be Henry Howard, covered in vomit, and unable to find a boat to take him home. He calls out, begging a moment, and fetches a solid looking club from the cloakroom. He works for Cromwell, and one never knows who might be knocking in the dark of the night.

  As he unbolts the door, Will Draper appears on the staircase, half dressed, and with a business-like looking dagger in his right fist. The sudden late visit has aroused his curiosity.

  “Have a care, Rafe,” he whispers.

  “Ambassador Chapuys!” Rafe steps back, and the little Savoyard steps in, out of the drizzle that has just started. He gestures for his servant to wait outside with the blazing torch.

  “Forgive my unquestionably bad manners, Master Sadler, but I must speak with Thomas Cromwell… at once.”

  “The master is in his bed,” Draper says.

  “Lying is a sin, Will,” Cromwell says, emerging from his library. “My dear Eustace, I hoped you might pay me a further call… but so soon?”

  “I received this,” Chapuys says, slipping into Latin. “A casual reader might suspect you to be a murderer.”

  “Not you though?” Cromwell replies. His Latin is better than the ambassadors. “I respect your wish for secrecy, but Rafe speaks Latin well, and Captain Draper is the bastard son of a bishop.”

  “My God,” Chapuys gasps. “You are having one of these English jokes with me… yes?”

  “Yes,” Cromwell replies. “He was only a priest. Now, come into my library, and we will talk. Rafe, bring us some good wine, and then make sure we are not disturbed.”

  Chapuys takes the offered chair, and admires the well stocked library. He has as idea of the cost of so many books, and guesses that Cromwell is already a very rich man.

  “You like books, I see.”

  “Knowledge is power,” Thomas Cromwell says with a casual shrug. “How was the note delivered to you?”

  “My servant, Luis, found it tucked into my new hat,” Chapuys explains. “It can only have been put there during my visit to your home.”

  “Has it occurred to you that I might be the leader of this prospective plot, sir?”

  “No, not really,” Chapuys says. “It says that I should look to Thomas Cromwell. Not look ‘at’ him, you see. And an accuser would not bother to use your given name. He would say something like… ‘Look at Cromwell’, or ‘Beware of him’. The message is clear to me. My unknown friend is advising me to look to you… for help.”

  “Have you no inkling as to the note’s author?” Cromwell is going over the evening, wondering when the warning was put in place, and can think of only one chance.

  “I have not,” the ambassador replies. “My hat was out of sight from my arrival, until my departure.”

  “It would be in the cloakroom, by the side door,” Cromwell explains. “The room is in plain sight of my servants, and a man would be foolish to try to slip in without detection. I think it was put in your hat as you left. Who handled the hat?”

  “Everyone,” Eustace Chapuys says, and his shoulders slump. “I think every guest touched it as it was admired, and several of the servants too.”

  “I can assure you, it was none of my people who placed the note,” Cromwell tells him. He makes a quick calculation. Suffolk, Surrey, More, Gardiner and Rich each handled the hat, and each could have slipped the fold of parchment into the hat’s lining.

  “Then who?”

  “You are missing the
point, my dear Eustace,” Thomas Cromwell explains. “We have been warned of a plot, and must uncover it. The death of the queen, other than by natural means, would be a disaster for England.”

  “Then my secret friend was right. I must look to Thomas Cromwell for help. I cannot protect Her Majesty with my slender resources. Will you join with me, Señor?”

  “Thomas… or Cromwell will do,” Cromwell says. “Yes, I must. If Queen Katherine’s life is at risk, we must save it, and uncover the plotters.”

  “The queen has many loving friends,” Chapuys says, diplomatically, “but also many enemies. Where shall we start, Thomas?”

  Cromwell understands all about plots, both real, and imagined. They all have points in common. To have a plot, you must have plotters. Usually several come together, in the hope of strengthening their hands, but this is a fallacy.

  The more plotters there are, the more likely that there will be a Judas amongst them. A man who, enticed by the intrigue, suddenly realises the danger. To murder a queen is treason, and to even think about it is likely to lead to the block. So he tells what he knows.

  The plot unravels quickly, heads roll, and rewards are given to the turncoat plotter. Cromwell knows this, but is still uneasy about some things. Why warn Chapuys, instead of himself, directly? Why write in French, and why conceal their name? An anonymous man cannot be rewarded.

  “The note warns that the queen’s followers are to be killed too,” Cromwell says, at last. “The plotters fear them, and want them out of the way. The king is innocent in this matter, for he has no need of intrigue. One word from his lips, and a dozen Dukes would fall over themselves to kill his enemies.”

  “He would do this?” Chapuys asks.

  “No. He believes in the due process of the law. It never fails to find in his favour. His enemies would be charged, found guilty in a court of law, and legally executed.”

  “Then where do we start?” the ambassador asks a second time.

  “I think we must set a hound on the trail of these would be queen killers, and sniff them out.”