by Anne Stevens
Will buys a bed for the night, and sees Moll is well enough stabled, before turning in. There is food to be bought, and a passable wine to drink, but Will has little appetite, and wishes to keep his head clear for the morrow.
The following morning sees him back on the old Roman road to St. Albans, and another mysterious death. The morning is dry, but there is a cold breeze blowing, which makes him wish for a heavier cloak. He arrives before the burial has taken place, and is able to view the deceased. She is laid out in the great house’s large reception hall.
“Are you a family friend, sir?” An aged man asks of him. He is the dead woman’s eldest brother, and is somewhat suspicious of strangers. “Forgive my bluntness, young fellow, but these are strange, and trying times.”
“I am here on Privy Council business,” Will replies, offering a prepared half truth. Thomas Cromwell is a member of the council, and he is here by his leave. “My interest is in how your poor sister died, sir. I bear the family no ill will.”
“She drowned, sir,” the brother tells him. “Though I’m damned if I know how. My sister was found in a shallow stream on the edge of our south pastures. She had been out, attending a wedding on the estate.”
“A wedding?” Will feels the hair on his neck bristle. “One of your people?”
“Young Dan Fairclough,” says the brother. “The son of our land agent. He wed an estate girl yesterday. My sister attended the festivities, set off for the house, and vanished from our sight. We found her in the stream.”
“Was she not attended, sir?” Will asks.
“On our own land?” the man says. “There was no perceived danger. My sister is a veritable saint, sir, beloved by all of our people. Unfortunately, I left before the entertainment began, so am unsure of the exact train of events.”
“Entertainment?” Will asks. He knows what the reply will be, and offers up a small prayer of thanks. A clue, at last.
“Yes. Tumblers, and a juggler,” he replies. “Some damned foreigners, touring the countryside. I paid them ten silver shillings for the day.”
“Someone is asking questions,” the Englishman says, huddling back into a dark corner of the tavern. “It might threaten our endeavour.”
“Have you a name, Sir Edward?” Gilbert Guyot asks. “Give it to me, and I will kill him.”
“Captain Will Draper,” the Englishman tells him, “but that will avail you nothing. He is a Cromwell man, and the whole of Austin Friars is at his back. Hack off one head, and two more grow in its place. I fear we must stop, or face dire consequences.”
“Ah, you English are so dramatic,” the Frenchman mutters into his ale pot. “Give me all of the details, and I will make sure these Austin Friars people stop meddling, for ever.”
“You can’t kill them all.” The Englishman is horrified at the prospect of mayhem spreading across London. His master’s instructions were, after all, quite clear on the matter. Secrecy, and subtlety, were to be the watchwords. “They are like a small, indefatigable, army.”
“Mais non, Sir Edward,” Gilbert says, smiling. “Sometimes, you only need to lop off one little branch to affect the whole of the tree. Leave the pruning of this bush to us!”
Lady Anne Pole’s body can remain unmolested. Will Draper has found his connection, and is riding hard for London, where he will organise a search for his new found suspects. Gilbert Guyot, travelling in the company of two unknown men is meandering across England, murdering anyone who claims friendship with Queen Katherine.
Anne Pole’s brother is of little help. He does not know where the troupe came from, or where they will go next. It is up to the excellent young men at Cromwell’s disposal to put out feelers, hoping to ensnare the murderers, before they can kill again.
Moll is a sturdy Welsh Cob, taken from the leader of a gang of border bandits, after Will relieved him of his head in single combat. She is capable of covering very long distances at a steady pace, but her master is pushing her too hard. As he reaches the outskirts of the city, her wind goes, and he is forced to dismount, and walk her the last couple of miles.
There are still more than two dozen friars living at Austin Friary, and they often cross Thomas Cromwell’s land to get to the river, where they fish for eels. He grants them free access, and does all in his power to ensure they remain untroubled in these troubled times. If they are ever disbanded, the lawyer will make provision for them, so they do not starve.
He refuses to acknowledge his actions as a sign of kindness, saying instead that he does it so that his enemies cannot accuse him of persecuting the Roman church. In truth, he likes the old men, and often discusses matters of philosophy with their leader. It fascinates him that there are men who do not crave advancement, or seek monetary gain in the world, and he admires them for it.
Miriam Draper does not understand why men would want to live a life of chastity and poverty either, but always drops a freshly baked loaf, or a large game pie in their wicker baskets whenever they pass by. Her faith teaches that man must ever strive towards God, and she sees that this is just their way of doing that.
So it is, that when she sees the two black coated friars sidling past, she hurries out with a small offering of food.
“For the brothers,” she tells them, then turns to let them be on their way. The cloak is heavy, and engulfs her almost completely. For a moment, she is shocked, then opens her mouth to scream for help. Jehan Vernay drives his fist into the side of her swaddled head, and she slumps, unconscious, into his brothers arms.
It is all over in a moment. The two men carry their bundle through the main gate, deposit it onto the back of a low ox cart, and drive off.
“Did you leave the note?” Gilbert Guyot asks.
“As you wished,” Claude Vernay replies. He is the more stupid brother of the two, and often has to be told everything several times. He still does not understand why they are killing people, but the money is very good, and that seems to satisfy him for the moment. “Why are you telling them who we are?”
“They already suspect who we are, Claude,” his brother snaps. “For the love of Saint Jean… pay attention. Our friend, Gilbert, will make everything well.”
“But why don’t we kill this one?” Gilbert Guyot grins as the smarter brother curses.
“She is a surety,” he says, patting the unconscious bundle at his feet. “As long as we have her, no one at Austin Friars will try to harm us.”
“Oh, I see. Who is she, then?”
“I don’t know,” the leader confesses, “but she lives there, and is dressed like a rich lady. She might be this Cromwell’s woman, or his daughter.”
“No matter,” Claude concludes. “She is our hostage, and they must bend to us.”
“Did you get a good look at her, brother? She’s one I’d like to bend for me.”
“You must keep your brains inside your codpiece,” Claude sneers. “The girl is worth more untouched.”
It is a while before the Austin Friars household become alarmed. Some think Miriam is in the kitchen, and the kitchen maids think she is above stairs, embroidering. It is Rafe Sadler who sees the pie lying in the mud outside. He picks it up, sees the muddle of boot prints, and understands why it is there.
“Are you sure?” Cromwell is just back from Henry’s court, and wants all of the facts.
“Not sure, master,” Rafe says, “but there is some strong circumstantial evidence. A pie on the ground, as if dropped. Mistress Miriam often gives alms to the friars. They grow fat on our charity, but not this time. I sent word, and they say none of their people are abroad today.”
“Proof, Rafe. I need proof!” Cromwell is vexed. Miriam is as dear to him as Rafe, his nephew Richard, or his own son, and he is beginning to fear for her life. A fat, slovenly man is hovering by the front gate, trying to catch someone’s eye.
“Who is that?” Cromwell asks. His eyesight is poor, ruined by too much reading by candle light.
“Luis, sir. Eustace Chapuys lazy old servant.”
&n
bsp; “Bid him come over,” Cromwell says. “He seems as agitated as I. Ah, Luis … what is it?” The last he says in fluent Catalan.
“Forgive me, Señor, but I was afraid my master might see me talking to you, but he has just gone out.”
“What is it, man?” Cromwell demands. The old Spaniard has been in his pay since arriving with Chapuys, and is known to decorate the truth in the cause of increasing the reward.
“I saw two big friars carry out a heavy bundle,” he tells them. “They put it on the back of a cart, and drove off towards the great bridge. Is this of use, my lord?”
Cromwell translates, and Rafe almost strikes the man to the ground in frustration. It would have been of more use at the time.
“You dolt!” he cries, and clenches a fist. “One word of warning, and we could have saved all this!”
“What’s this?” Will Draper calls, walking his tired horse into the yard. “Beating servants now, are we Rafe?” He sees their faces, and senses trouble. His smile fades. “Dear God, tell me the worst.”
“They’ve got Miriam, Will,” Cromwell says.
“What do you mean?” Will Draper says, but knows now what is amiss. His wife has a sense of where he is most times, and is usually waiting at the gate for his return. He jokes with her, saying that it is witchcraft, but she just shakes her head, and says ‘no, it is simply love’.
“Where is she?” he asks, and as if prompted, one of the small errand boys gives a shout as he retrieves a folded note from the muddy wheel ruts by the gate. He dashes over to Cromwell and offers the find up for inspection. Cromwell holds it up close to his eyes.
“It is the name of an inn,” the lawyer reads. “The Red Dragon, and it says ’come alone’. These people want me, it seems.”
“I’ll go.” Will holds out his hand for the paper, but Cromwell refuses to surrender it. The last line threatens murder, if not obeyed, and Cromwell does not wish to burden Will with such a terrible prospect.
“No, they demand I go alone… and I shall,” Cromwell folds the note, and slips it into his belt pouch. “We might find out who these creatures are.”
“I already know,” Will says, and explains what he has found out. Rafe and Cromwell listen in silence, before offering their ideas. The three men talk for a few minutes more, and arrive at a course of action.
“How do I get to this Red Dragon?”
“Horse is the fastest,” Rafe volunteers. “It is south of the river, and very dangerous territory, master.”
“I have faced danger before,” Thomas Cromwell replies, testily. He has fought the Spaniards in Italy, for the French, and lost, but it counts as experience. “I suspect they are holding Miriam in Southwark, else why cross the Thames?”
“You must go armed,” Will tells his master. “A sword to keep casual footpads at bay, and a concealed blade in the sleeve. They might take the sword, but miss the backup weapon.”
“Don’t fuss so,” Cromwell says. “I will bring our dear Miriam back to you, Will. I swear, on my honour.”
“We should flood the area with men,” Rafe tells them.
“No!” Thomas Cromwell snaps. “We will stick closely to our plan. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Will says, but in his heart, he knows that he shall do murder if Miriam is harmed in any way.
“Wine, Monsignor?” Cromwell is in the habit of wearing black, and is easily mistaken for an abbot, or a parish priest, but on this occasion the title is used ironically. “You look thirsty, Master Cromwell.”
“You are French?” The man has spoken in French, and he sounds like a native of that land.
“I was born near Paris, but now, I travel the world, plying my trade.”
“Would that be murder, or abduction, sir?”
“Take a seat,” Gilbert Guyot says, gesturing to a plank set across two empty barrels. “We have much to discuss.”
“You wish money?”
“No. I wish to be left, unmolested by your pack of hunting dogs,” the Frenchman replies. “One of your men is trying to upset my business, and I want it stopped, now.”
“Why should I listen to you?”
“Because I have your daughter, or your wife… or perhaps your mistress?” Guyot tells him. “She is very beautiful, so I think it is the last. Stop your interference, and I will let her live. She will be released, as soon as my task is done.”
“Why don’t I have you taken captive, and wrack Miriam’s location from you?” Cromwell has little to bargain with, but tries his best. “My men will make you scream within the hour.”
“A good idea, except for my companions, you see,” the Frenchman replies. “The Vernay brothers are loyal to me. If I am not back inside the next half hour, they have orders to cut her throat. Of course, they might delay long enough to use her first. As I say, she is attractive.”
“You have my word,” Cromwell says, as if resolved to defeat. “Release her, and my people will turn a blind eye to your plot.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. I have no love for the Pole family, or any other enemy of the king.”
“I am told that Master Cromwell is an honest man,” Gilbert Guyot says, “but I cannot accept your offer. You will desist, and I will send her back, at another time.”
“How can I believe you?” Cromwell asks, then smiles and nods. “I have it. To ensure Miriam’s safety, I shall call off my men. Further, I will pay a sum of money to you, when she is finally released. How does five hundred pounds sound?”
Guyot is surprised into silence. He is being promised a fortune, just to let a girl live. He considers the offer, sees there is no profit in killing her, and agrees.
“She will be handed over, once my list is completed,” he tells Cromwell. “Another three names, and she goes free.”
“Free and unmolested,” Cromwell insists.
“Hah! I knew she was your mistress. You don’t want anyone else to squeeze the fruit, eh?”
“Agreed?” Cromwell spits into his palm, and offers it to the Frenchman. They shake on the deal. “I wish you God’s speed in your mission, as I am missing the girl.”
“You are a fool, my friend” Guyot murmurs, as the lawyer leaves. “For five hundred pounds, you could buy a thousand such whores.” He waits for a few minutes, then gets up to leave. No one else rises, or makes a move to follow. He is safe, and knows that Cromwell will not take a chance with the girl’s life.
6 The Daisy Chain
As Gilbert Guyot leaves the Red Dragon, Richard Cromwell, dressed as a street hawker, complete with his swag of goods, falls in behind, and follows him for a couple of streets. The moment the Frenchman glances back, he stops, and begins unfastening his bundle, as if he is about to set out his wares.
The narrow highway is crowded, and Guyot’s eyes flick warily from one face to another. No one is following, and no one seems interested in his progression. A young, ragged street urchin, who has been lounging against a door jamb across the street falls in behind him, and continues following.
Guyot is, with good reason very wary, and pauses a hundred paces on, as if to button up his doublet. The small boy, Adam, saunters past, fingering his nose. He continues walking away from his target, only stopping when he is met by another boy further down the street.
“East or West?” Adam asks of his new companion. The second boy, whilst pretending to chatter with him, watches the Frenchman over Adam’s left shoulder.
“East, back towards the river,” Mark says. “We can cut through the chandler’s yard and pick him up further on his way. If he carries on the way he is going, Master Rafe will pick him up near the wharves.”
The Frenchman takes another look behind, confirming that he is not being followed, and cuts down towards the old boatmen’s wharf. As he comes out onto the busy river bank, a skinny, red haired sailor is sitting on a lobster pot, whittling away at a piece of driftwood.
Gilbert Guyot walks past Rafe, unseeing. The ‘sailor’ puts away his knife, and slowly follows, un
til the Frenchman comes to a ramshackle fisherman’s boathouse, which he enters. Rafe strolls past, and memorises everything he can see about the building.
He turns a corner, and Will is there, waiting with Richard Cromwell and the two boys, Adam and Mark. The lads have equipped themselves with solid, wooden staves, and are ready for a fight. Will places them by the front entrance, and orders them to stay.
“If any escape past us, you may set about them with your sticks,” he tells the willing boys.
“There is a side door, leading to the water,” Rafe tells them. “Else wise, it is in through the front, up the stairs, and rush them.”
“They are armed,” says Will. “Three tough men, who handle knives for their livelihoods. They might hurt Miriam before we overcome them.”
“Do you have another idea?” Richard says. Just then Mark, who has slipped away, reappears with an armful of hay from a nearby stable.
“That’s the job,” Adam says, exposing himself. “Here, let me piss on it, and it will smoke all the more. Do you have flint and tinder, Captain?”
“A splendid idea, boys,” Will says. “We shall smoke them out. They’ll fear a fire, and try to escape.”
“What if they don’t…” Rafe’s words die away as the urine soaked fodder starts to billow thick, grey smoke. The time for words is over. Minutes pass, and the building fills with smoke. Will stands, sword in hand, but no one comes. At last, in desperation, he plunges into the house, and races up the rickety old stairs.
Eustace Chapuys has set himself a mission. He is unaware of Miriam’s abduction, and has decided to uncover the author of the warning note. He reasons that each of the men at Cromwell’s dinner will be loitering around Henry’s court, and determines to seek them out. He will string them along, like a daisy chain, until he has the truth of things.
The king has taken over all of Cardinal Wolsey’s old houses, and the grandest of them is York Place. His Majesty has moved his base from Westminster Palace to the new address because it is bigger, and more sumptuously appointed. He is already adding to the near one thousand rooms, and plans to lay out more gardens, and a new, central courtyard.
