by Anne Stevens
Miriam, wishing to be useful, yet barred from this council of war, has prepared a lavish supper. Thick slices of boiled mutton, honeyed ham, and broiled chicken legs, fill the plates, alongside some freshly baked bread, and a wedge of hard Dutch cheese. On the mantelpiece itself, there stands a large jug of English ale, One of fresh goat’s milk, and two bottles of good, Flemish, red wine.
“Your dear wife fears we are going to be in here all night, Will,” Cromwell says with a broad smile. “How shall we manage to consume so much fine food?”
“Have no fear,” Rafe quips, “for, if that is not thunder, Richard’s stomach is rumbling already. I can hear it from here!”
“And the rest can go to feed the beggars at our gate,” Will adds. Austin Friars is a place of bounty, and it is known, amongst the poor, that Thomas Cromwell will feed anyone in need. It has been known for a Baron and an Earl to sit down with a one eyed carpenter, or a cobbler, down on his luck.
“If they grow more numerous, I might be amongst their number myself,” Cromwell replies, laconically. He finds it hard to listen to a list of his own virtues, and is a modest man, considering his high station in life. There is a grain of truth in what he says though, for he simply cannot refuse anyone in need, and a downturn in his fortunes will bode ill for the poor of the district.
“Never, my friend,” Chapuys exclaims, in Spanish. “There shall always be a place in my house for you.”
“Eustace… I own your house,” Cromwell says. “Your precious Charles rents it from me on a four weekly basis.”
Chapuys slips into English once more. It is a better language to swear in. He expresses his view that so short a rental indicates in what esteem he is held by his distant masters.
“They could, at least, allow me six months to complete my tasks!”
“The prime one being the saving of England,” Will says. “If Katherine and the Pole clan fall to an assassin, the world will place the blame at Henry’s door. Norfolk and the rest will see how the people react, and may be tempted into rashness. None here want to see a civil war.”
“Though some of us would like to test our metal,” Richard Cromwell says, boldly.
“Then ‘some of us’ are damned fools, Richard.” Will wants no one there to think he is keen to fight. “In Ireland, my colonel commanded me to fight, and I fought. The Irish are a great multitude, and do not understand the meaning of fear. A chief of a clan might lead a hundred men into battle, and come out with ten, but if he has killed a few Englishmen, he rejoices as if winning a great battle. I have seen the grass turned red with blood. Imagine that blood to be English, or your brother’s, or friend’s”
“Will is right,” Cromwell put in. “Besides, war is bad for trade. The ports close, and we can’t get our wool to market, or import good wine. Now, how do we stop this madness?”
“We must protect the Pole family,” Miriam says, coming in with another flagon of beer. “Forgive my interruption, Master Thomas, but it is my experience that men always talk too much on these occasions.”
“Well spoken, Mistress Miriam,” Chapuys says, clapping his hands. “If Cromwell permits… may we hear your ideas?” Cromwell smiles, and nods consent. In the few weeks that the Jewish girl has been under his roof, he has grown to love her almost as much as his own two, long dead, daughters, and wishes her to be treated as an equal.
“These Frenchmen have made a mistake,” she says. “They have revealed their identities to us, and know we will be looking out for them. They must hide from our wrath. I ask you, gentlemen, where would you hide a duck?”
“On a pond?” Richard asks, then blushes at his own stupidity. “Oh, I see. In a flock. You think they will flee to France?”
“Of course, but they must have money. To get it, they must finish what they have started.” Miriam tells them. “They know they must act swiftly, else we will capture them. So, how many must we protect?”
“Three.” The gathered company look at Cromwell with varying degrees of surprise. He shrugs, and explains. “Their leader, rather foolishly mentioned he had that number to deal with. I was confused at the time.”
“Why so?” Chapuys asks.
“There are a dozen prominent members of the Pole family, and perhaps as many friends of the queen,” Cromwell replies. “With both Katherine and Mary to murder… who, I thought, was the last one? Then it came to me. I have been a fool, and it may yet cost our cause dearly.”
“You worry me, master,” Rafe mutters through a mouthful of ham.
“How did our killers get to their victims?” Cromwell demands to know.
“Trickery. They present themselves as a travelling troupe of entertainers, and gain access to them,” Will offers. “Who would suspect them?”
“Presumably, by walking up to the front door, knocking and advertising their presence,” says Chapuys.
“Then how would they gain access to the queen, let alone poor Mary, who is under guard, and watched around the clock face?” Cromwell asks. “Royalty does not have the same privileges as others. Stewards would turn them away, or guards send them packing.”
“This is true, Cromwell,” Chapuys agrees. “Even I must beg for a few minutes with her blessed Majesty. These tumblers will fail in their intent.”
“They never meant to murder Katherine,” Miriam says, “nor poor little Mary. They are contracted to kill Poles, and Poles alone.”
“Then which three?” Will ponders. “We know they must act swiftly, so can rule out any family members who live more than a day’s ride. Gilbert Guyot is no fool. He will want to kill, and be on a boat to the continent that self same day.”
“I agree.” Cromwell stands and crosses to search out an atlas of county maps he uses when inventing new titles for Henry to scatter amongst his hangers on, and lifts down a leather bound book that is almost too heavy for him to lift. He places it on the desk, and opens it to the section covering the south eastern Shires, and their principal towns, great halls, and sea ports. The Cinque Ports seem an obvious escape route.
Then he takes down a second, slimmer volume. The cover bears a single word title… Vindicatio. It contains details of every person who Cromwell considers to be an enemy, of either himself, his family, or England. Percy is listed inside, as is Sir Thomas More, and two score lesser offenders. There is an entire chapter devoted purely to the Pole family, and their retainers.
“Are these the people you have marked down for death, Cromwell?” Chapuys asks, reading over his friend’s shoulder.
“No, my friend. They are merely noted as being… less than sympathetic to my cause.” He points to the first name on the page. “See? This fellow has his fortune abroad, and a son who skulks in Paris, blackguarding the king. But he lives near Carlisle. Too far for our purposes. The same as with Sir Adwulf Pole, who resides in Chesterfield.”
“We must scour your little book, master,” Rafe says. “though that may still leave us with too many names to save.”
“Then we select the most likely few, and try to keep them safe,” Miriam snapped. “With your permission,” she adds, assuming a meeker tone. It is hard for her to remember her place in this strange new world. Under her late grandfather’s roof, she was actively encouraged to take part in business matters, and speak openly about matters that concerned her directly.
“Oh, don’t play meek and mild with me, young lady,” Cromwell says, grinning. “Will, your blessed wife is too clever for us poor men. You should whip her more often,”
“I would rather face an army of Scots, sir,” Will replies, and they all laugh. Miriam has suggested a workable plan, and it remains only for the details to be put into place. They talk on into the evening, and, just after midnight, complete their arrangements.
As they finish off the food and drink, then make their way to their beds, Cromwell takes Will Draper’s arm, and begs him to stay behind for a moment. The soldier of fortune ushers his comrades from the room, then turns back to his benefactor.
“Is Miriam
quite recovered, Will?” Cromwell asks. “I shall forever blame myself for the danger she had to face today.”
“Forever is a long time, sir,” Will says, easily. He is a fatalist, and believes that life is a constant struggle to stay on top. If bad things happen, then at least, he has the means to counter them with good. “Miriam does not blame you. She thinks herself to have been at fault. The friars are small, elderly men, and the two she saw were big fellows. She believes she should have suspected something was amiss at once.”
“As I should have suspected my first inclination,” Cromwell says. “I assumed the Frenchmen were going to kill Katherine. I was wrong. However, whoever is behind the plot to kill the Poles will still want the queen and Princess Mary dead. They will see it as a simple solution.”
“How so?”
“The slaughter will silence the Roman Bishop for a while,” Cromwell explains. “Katherine’s death will also free Henry to marry again. The mastermind behind the plot will expect the king’s gratitude.”
“Then you believe the queen to still be in danger?” Will asks.
“Yes, I do…. somehow.” Cromwell is thinking on his feet. Ideas, half formed, flit across his over-active mind. “After we have dealt with Guyot, we must look to uncovering the real conspiracy.”
“With your permission,” Will says. “Miriam’s brother is back from Dover tomorrow, and I will employ his particular skills.”
“Very well,” Cromwell is trying to see things from his adversaries point of view. “We must dig down into the very root of the thing. There is a master’s hand at work, and I want to unearth the whole plot.”
“Mush has the face of an innocent,” says Will, “and people speak too openly when he is about, as if he has a child’s mind. He and his people will infiltrate the enemy, and help direct out attack.”
“He has his own people?” Cromwell is amused. “The boy is only…”
“The boy drove a dagger into Harry Cork’s heart, without a moment’s hesitation.” Will Draper has made his point, and his master bows to the truth of it.
“Have him be a little more subtle this time,” Thomas Cromwell concludes. “We do not want the Thames clogged with too many bodies!”
Eustace Chapuys returns home to find his old servant has lit a good fire, and laid out his night attire, correctly. He smiles, knowing that the aging Spaniard fears for his position, having been revealed to be a Cromwell spy, and decides that he shall have fun with the situation.
“Excellent, my dear Luis,” he mutters. “I am travelling tomorrow, and will need my best riding habit, and the black boots I bought in Santiago de Compostela.” He is going to look every inch the Spanish ambassador on the morrow, sporting the hand made leather riding boots he paid a king’s ransom for, during his visit to Galicia, three years before.
“You are leaving London, Señor?” Luis is not a good traveller, and can foresee a few uncomfortable days ahead.
“Do not fret, old man,” Chapuys replies. “I will be making the journey on my own.”
“Alone?“ Now he is really alarmed. “Where to, sir?”
“Ask Thomas Cromwell, when next you report to him.”
“Oh, forgive this humble man, sir!” Luis throws his hands up in real consternation. “I exchanged worthless gossip for some meals, and a few silver coins. You must expect such behaviour from a poor servant. I have the money safe still, and it is all yours, if you but say the word.”
“I will deal with you on my return,” Chapuys says.
“Then I hope it is a long journey, master,” Luis grumbles, “for my back will not stand too harsh a beating.”
“You sly dog. You know I will not thrash you, as you deserve!” The ambassador suddenly has an idea. “When next you go to confession, put the coins in the poor box.”
“I will, your honour,” Luis says. “On my life.”
“Exactly,” Chapuys says, and dismisses the rogue from his presence. He must sleep. On the morrow, he and Thomas Cromwell’s young men will have a hectic time ahead. He likens himself to a pebble, thrown into a still pond. There will be a splash, and a lot of ripples to watch for.
If their counter plot works, Eustace Chapuys believes it will force the hand of his enemy… whomsoever it might be. He crosses himself, and prays for success. Then it occurs to him that he is asking God for something selfish, and adds an addendum, explaining that it is not for his own gain, but for the good of the queen… and England.
9 The Court of Broken Hearts
“I have received a note, Your Majesty.” Maria de Salinas, the Lady Willoughby, puts the bowl of warm water, scented with rose petals, down by the queen’s bed. Roses in March are a wondrous thing, made possible, she hears, by Thomas Cromwell. It seems he advises the gardeners to keep bushes, potted, and by the great ovens in the royal kitchens.
So, she has petals in March. It is her only real duty, and she fulfils it with pleasure. Katherine is more than her queen, she is her confidant, her best friend, and she loves her for it.
Maria de Salinas’ father had died when she was five, and she was brought up by a cold, remote uncle, who wanted her off his hands, as soon as possible. Entering the service of the House of Aragon was the perfect solution for everyone. She soon became devoted to Katherine, and witnessed all her trials and tribulations, with an angry heart.
“A note?” The queen pushes herself up into a sitting position in the huge bed, and removes her tightly knotted night cap. Her long, red hair, streaked now with white, tumbles free, over her white shoulders. “Is it a love note, Maria?”
“You must not make fun of me,” Maria says, blushing at the notion. “The gentleman says he has written me a song, and wishes for me to hear it. He suggests a private meeting.”
“The poor fellow,” Katherine says. “Does he know you are made of stone in the ways of love?”
“Madam, I am almost forty years old,” Maria explains.
“Love does not count the years, my dear friend,” the queen says. “I still yearn to have my husband beside me here. It is a large bed for so small a queen.”
“Love leads only to pain.”
“Yet your late husband, Willoughby, left you a wealthy woman,” Katherine says, teasing her best friend.
“I thank him for that,” Maria replies, “but I never truly loved him, my lady.”
“That is a sadness.” Queen Katherine crosses to the bowl, and dipping her fingers into the scented water, splashes a few drops onto her face. “The pain of love is exquisite. Send your secret lover a note back. Tell him you will meet him here, in these very rooms, with a queen as chaperone.”
“That is a gracious offer, my lady, but…”
“It was not an offer, Maria,” Katherine says, casually. “It was a royal command. Thank him for his letter, and tell him you wish to hear these poetic words he speaks of. Is he handsome, my dear?”
“He is.” Maria is uneasy. She is soon to be forty, and wonders what her admirer finds so attractive about her. “I think his age is no more than thirty.”
“Wonderful. A young lover, Maria.” Katherine pulls the lace bow at her throat, and her nightwear billows, and falls down to the floor. She is naked. “Imagine how strongly he will plough his furrow. Write back, at once. I am curious to meet this ardent young gallant. What is his name?”
“Richard Rich!” Barnaby Fowler slaps the young man on the back, and falls in beside him. “We are well met, sir. This is a good omen, and no mistake. Where are you headed?”
“Grey’s Inn, sir,” Rich replies, warily. The fellow looks well enough dressed, but has the look of a rogue about him. “Do I know you? The face is familiar, but I can’t place it. Or think why.”
Barnaby Fowler turns the cuff of his short, black doublet, displaying the embroidered letter ‘C’ that marks him down as a Cromwell man. It is a device becoming well known about the city, and usually inspires either respect, or fear.
“Then that is how I know you,” Rich says. “I must have come acros
s you around one of your master’s most excellent breakfast feasts.”
“Indeed, sir.” Fowler takes his elbow, and steers him from the main thoroughfare. “The way you go is dirty, and overcrowded. I know a better, quicker way.”
“But this leads only to the river,” the young lawyer protests, growing a little alarmed.
“That is so, Richard,” Barnaby Fowler replies, winking at the young lawyer. “I have a swift boat waiting at the dock.”
“A boat?”
“Yes, it is one of Master Cromwell’s. He has given me use of it, whenever the need arises.”
“A generous man, your Master Cromwell.”
“Indeed he is, Richard.” Fowler beckons to a big, rough looking boatman. “Let me introduce you to Master Henry Brough. Though folk call him Bad Hal, or Rough Brough, for some unknown reason. He is going to take you for a ride.”
“What is this?” Rich is becoming even more alarmed, and moves his hand to the hilt of his sword.
“Pray, do not make any rash moves, Richard,” Barnaby Fowler mutters, “unless you wish to anger Bad Hal. He is as like to snap your blade, or even your back. Just get into the boat, and behave your good self.”
“Where are you taking me to?” Richard Rich is a lawyer, not a fighter, and he sits, meekly, down on one of the cross benches.
“Why, to see Master Tom, of course.” Fowler has his instructions. He is to fetch Master Rich to a certain house on the river. Thomas Cromwell specifies that he is to be unharmed, but a little fear is acceptable. From there, he will be transferred to Austin Friars. “Afterwards, my friend Hal, will either row you back to the bridge, or drop you off it, after dark.”
“You may invite him here, as my guest.” Katherine is enjoying herself, for the first time in several years. “I will arrange for connecting rooms, and he can slip into you after dark.”
