by Anne Stevens
“Madam, have you no shame?” Maria says, joining in the silly game. “What if I cannot cope with his… ardour?”
“That is true. These English all have big pintles, or so I hear. I myself, have scant knowledge, having dealt with but a solitary one.”
“Hush, my lady. You make me blush. The boy may be even less competent than I, when it comes to making love.”
“Then I shall hide behind a screen, and come out if either of you need support.” The idea is so ridiculous that it sets both women off laughing again.
In their straight laced environment, even such a trivial event as a billet deux is extraordinary, and an event to be cherished. Queen Katherine, having been born the youngest surviving child of Ferdinand and Isabella, the joint rulers of Spain, has been swaddled, and protected all her life.
Her parents had, almost immediately, begun to look for a good political match for her. So it was that, at the age of just three years old, she was betrothed to young Prince Arthur, the son of Henry VII. When she was almost sixteen, Katherine made the long journey to England. She was married at sixteen, shut away in Ludlow Castle, and then, suddenly widowed. Less than six months after the wedding, Arthur was dead of the terrible sweating sickness.
“What if he doesn’t come?”
“Then I shall ask Henry to cut off his head,” Katherine says, sternly, then adds, with a smile, ‘or his pintle.”
“I will fetch paper and ink,” Maria de Salinas says. She is an attractive, well off, widow of a certain age, and if a young, vigorous man wants to court her… why not?
“Master Rich, this is a pleasant surprise,” Thomas Cromwell says, ushering the young man into his library. “All my young agents are away, performing certain duties I find thrust upon us, so I must attend to you myself. Let me make my apologies in advance.”
Richard Rich freezes in terror as the tip of a very sharp knife touches his throat. Cromwell has conjured it from his sleeve in an instant, and has the man up against a wall. The lawyer is reminded of his time in Italy, fighting for the French. He recalls, vividly, how he once fired a crossbow into the throat of a charging knight, and the bounty he reaped from robbing the corpse.
“Dear God, sir!” Rich whispers.
“Do not dare to ‘Dear God’ me, young sir,” Cromwell replies, harshly. He is in a hurry, and cannot afford to play silly games with the fellow. “I will have either answers, or your life. Sit down, and attend me well. I want nothing but the truth from your lips. Do you understand, or shall I have my boatman drown you in my cellar?”
“Mercy, sir. How have I offended you? What harm have I done that warrants such harsh treatment?”
“Tell me about the note.”
“Pray tell, which note?” Cromwell’s hand is a blur, and the dagger embeds itself in the wood panelling behind Richard Rich’s right ear.
“Oh, yes…. You mean that note. Silly of me to forget. You mean the one I sent to Eustace Chapuys.”
“To me, you damned idiot,” Cromwell growls. “You meant for the Spanish gentleman to seek me out.”
“Forgive me, sir. I meant no harm. I only wanted to alert the proper people to something I have heard about.”
“You suggest that bloody murder is to be done, sir,” Cromwell says. “There is nothing casual about where you obtain your information. Who spoke to you about killing the Pole family, en masse?”
“I was approached by a man in the outer court,” Rich confesses. “he fell in with us, and spoke of politicking. He asked us, each gentleman in turn, what would happen if Henry died suddenly.”
“That in itself is treason, Master Rich.” Cromwell pours a single glass of wine, and hands it to the terrified young lawyer. “You know that. It is written into law, that talking of the king’s death is an offence. Wishing for it, means the axe.”
“You misunderstand, sir. The gentleman I speak of loves the king, as we all do. He meant… or so I took it… to wonder if Katherine would rule through Mary. We know the king’s mind in the matter of the queen.”
“You know the king’s mind?” Cromwell grins through clenched teeth. “Even Henry does not know the king’s mind, you damned idiot. What happened then?”
“A few of us, all lawyers, began to debate the legality of things, and concluded that Mary may well rule. Ogilvy suggested the king’s bastard son be a candidate, but I could not see my way to that.”
“Some could.” Cromwell is thoughtful now. “The kingdom will be torn asunder, Master Rich. Is that what you wish?”
“Not I, sir!” He is affronted. “I am for Henry, the one, anointed king. There is enough legal precedent for him to set aside the queen, and marry again. A young, fertile girl will give him boys, and that will put paid to Katherine and her papist daughter’s claims.”
“You said all this to your friend?”
“I did, and he told me that some like minded people had a mind to remove all obstacles in Henry’s path, and that I was a welcome addition to their cause. I almost told him ‘nay’, but the lawyer in me, stayed my immediate refusal.”
“Had you declared against them, you would have been killed too,” Cromwell confirms. “You did the right thing.”
“I knew I could not stop them, nor could I report openly to any of the king’s men. For, who knows which of them are in the plot?”
“So, you chose to drop the mess in my lap?”
“I can only apologise,” Richard Rich says. “I trust you, above all others.”
“That is most reassuring, Richard,” Cromwell says, disguising his contempt for a man who can be both a clever fellow, and a complete idiot at one and the same time. “Though I must disabuse you of your belief in self determination. Did you not wonder why they enlisted you in their odd little enterprise?”
“I believe they want my expertise, as a man, well versed in the law.”
“Then you believe wrongly.” Cromwell dampens down the anger which is swelling inside. He has a mind to beat some sense into the silly whelp, but decides, instead, to elaborate. “If one wishes to kill the beast, you swiftly cut off the head. You do not trim off the toe nails first. In other words, kill Katherine and Mary, and the rest wither away without a fight.”
“Oh, I begin to see.” Richard Rich is catching on, but does not like the way it makes him look.
“At last. The plotters wish to assassinate the queen, but fear my agents. I might find out, and stop them. So, they have devised a plan to divert me from my duty, and it has almost succeeded. They tell you some of their scheme, knowing you will inform on them, and I will have my people chasing about England, trying to catch a band of tumblers.”
“But we do know Katherine is in danger,” Rich replies.
“Yes, though not the how, where, and when.”
“I see. How could they know for sure that I would warn you?”
“Because you are a coward, Richard. They led you to me, knowing you feared me, more than they.”
“Led me?” Rich is sick with himself now.
“Yes,” Cromwell is beginning to tire of the man’s lack of imagination. “”Who fell in with you that night?”
“The Earl of Surrey.”
“Who would as like scrape you off his shoe, as befriend one of your class. The man considers himself above all, save Henry. He even sneers openly at his own father. Norfolk would have drowned the insolent puppy years ago, were he not the first born son.”
“I thought the boy liked me, sir.” The last illusion is blown away, and Richard Rich must learn about humility.
“He picks you up, and suggests a visit to my dinner table. He is a part of it. You were given the opportunity of informing, and you took it. Surrey wants the queen gone, sooner rather than later. He does not wish for the law to work against Katherine. The devil’s child is in a hurry to attain his true rank under Henry.”
“I.. I don’t see.”
“God’s teeth, Richard! Katherine is dead, and Henry is rushed into marriage with Anne Boleyn… young Surrey’s
cousin. In gratitude, she elevates her supporters. When old Norfolk dies in a few years, his son will be more powerful than the king. Imagine the wealth he will command, not to mention the fifty thousand armed men at his beck and call.”
“Then the Earl of Surrey is the leader of the plot?”
“No, he is too young, and too vain. Though only fifteen years old, he is already a hatemongering wastrel, and a notable drunkard. He is being guided, just like you, and Gilbert Guyot.”
“Who?“
“Never mind. I have work to do, Rich. Get out.”
“Yes, of course.” He hesitates, almost too frightened to speak, then says, “You will not let the queen, Mary and Maria die, will you, Master Cromwell?”
The light of revelation suddenly shines down upon Thomas Cromwell. The young fool has little inclination to act either way, except for one, obvious thing. He is in love.
“Maria de Salinas?”
“She is the sun that warms my heart, sir,” Richard Rich declares. “She is the morning and the night. The sun and the moon. She is…”
“At least forty,” Cromwell says. “You fear for her life, and that is why you sent the note. It is as good a reason as any, I suppose. Tell me, what is it, apart from her estates, and five thousand marks a year, that ensnares your heart?”
“I care not for fortune.” Richard is greatly affronted.
“Why not… have you already one of your own?”
“No, I am in debt, but whom, apart from yourself, is not?”
“Lady Maria. She is worth a goodly amount in land and gold.” Cromwell shakes his head, and places a blank sheet of paper before the besotted young man. “Write it all down, including the name of the scoundrel who tried to lead you into treason.”
“Then I am not to be drowned as I leave?”
“What, and deprive the Donna Maria of her sweet young lover?”
“You mock me now, sir.”
“No, I envy you, Richard. You have found a woman you adore, and lust after, and she is very wealthy. It is a fairytale come true for you both, and I wish you every happiness.”
“Then I really can go?”
“As soon as you finish your confession.” Cromwell delights in the look of horror which crosses his face. “Though I fear you might, through your innate sense of honesty, implicate yourself.”
“I might word it carefully, sir,” Rich replies, “avoiding anything that might incriminate me.”
“Of course. Why did I not think of it? That is a splendid solution, but I must insist on a list of those who spoke of Henry’s sudden, violent death.”
“They are just young idlers, Master Cromwell.”
“Oh? Are they indeed? Did you not mention that Harry Percy was in the group? And was not Stephen Gardiner, Thomas More, Tom Cranmer, my lords Surrey and Norfolk, and the king’s own bastard son, Henry Fitzroy all present?”
“But Fitzroy is only ten years old, sir.”
“He is a precocious child,” Cromwell replies. “Put him on the list, just for form’s sake. Do not date it.”
“You would have me draw up a death list, Master Cromwell. I admire you, and trust it will remain unused.”
“It is merely a form of insurance, Richard,” Cromwell tells him. By itself, a few names scrawled on paper, means nothing, but every little piece of evidence helps. A thousand scraps of paper might bring down a duke, or save a queen, one fine day.
“Shall I sign it?”
“Best not,” Cromwell says, taking the goose quill pen from his shaking hand. “For I do not think you would stand up to a hard questioning. Run along now, and give my fondest regards to Lady Maria. Your love for her may yet save many lives.”
“I do love her,” Richard Rich says, then adds, as a Parthian shot. “You do know what love is, don’t you, sir?”
It is a loose stair tread on a dark night, a lie told sweetly, or a blade that cuts both ways, Thomas Cromwell thinks, but does not say. Happiness is a fleeting thing, and he has no wish to spoil the young man’s dreams, unless he must.
Maria de Salinas is waiting. The queen has given her tacit approval of Master Richard Rich, and loaned her one of her best dresses. It is cut in such a way as to enhance the beauty of her neck and shoulders, and draws the eye away from her woeful lack of a large bosom.
“You have a fine face,“ Katherine says. “By the time he gets to thinking of your breasts, he will be too besotted to consider them a drawback.”
At forty, Maria is still fetching, and has often been complimented by gentlemen around the court. Until know, she has resisted all blandishments, and remained an independent widow, but this poetic young man has touched her heart, and convinced him of his undying devotion. He is the only man ever to write a song for her. So, she waits for him.
Richard Rich is still shaking with fear as he leaves Austin Friars, and retires to the nearest tavern to buy a calming drink. After one and a half bottles of wine, his nerves are more settled. He knows he should be somewhere, but cannot think straight. One of the tavern wenches sits down beside him, and begins to stroke his thigh.
There are rooms, Richard is told, where a fine gentleman might take his ease with a willing companion. It strikes him as an excellent idea, and it is only after he has pleasured the raven haired tart a second time, and slipped her two silver shillings, that he recalls his promise to visit Maria. He dresses in haste, and expends another sixpence on boat hire, hoping to make up for lost time.
He arrives at the queen’s private rooms two hours late, and smelling of drink. Maria receives him, but only to chide him for his appalling tardiness. He offers his apologies, claiming he has been on an errand of mercy for the ailing Duke of Surrey. Then he steps forward, kneels, and takes Maria’s hand in his.
“Forgiveness is all a part of love, my sweetness,” he purrs, kissing the hand. “I am younger than you, and more prone to silliness, but give me a chance, and I will shout my love for you from the highest tower in England.”
Maria wants him. She is about to relent, when a traitorous draft, blowing under the door, wafts Richard’s aroma under her nose. She has been married to a man who, despite his years, was an ardent, though clumsy, lover. Master Rich smells of recent sex.
“Master Rich, I have a mind to lay with you,” she says tartly, “But wonder if you have the strength?”
“You will find me a goodly rider, madam,” he says, brazenly. “You have but to provide the mount.”
“No sir!” Maria pulls her hand away from his. “I will not be your second conquest this night!”
Rich stands, and steps back a pace. He sees that further words will only provoke her to greater anger. He bows to her, turns on his heel and strides out of the room.
Maria cries. She now sees how foolish it is to trust any man, and vows to herself.
No more.
10 The Lady’s Hebrew
“There is a strange young man, demanding to speak with you, madam. Shall I have him thrown out?” Lady Jane Rochford, is George Boleyn’s wife, and a principal Lady in Waiting to Anne Boleyn. She has a curt manner, and often oversteps the bounds with her sister-in-law.
“How so… strange?” Lady Anne is bored, and wishes she were still free to mix with all her dear old friends, without Henry’s sanctimonious disapproval. “Has he two heads, Lady Rochford?”
“The one is enough,” Jane Rochford retorts. “It is the pet Hebrew of Cromwell.”
“Master Cromwell is a friend, these days,” Anne replies smoothly, “and must have sent this monstrosity with an important message. Show him in at once.”
“My lady, I don’t think…”
“No, you do not, Lady Rochford.” The Boleyn temper is never far beneath the surface, and besides, she roundly dislikes her brother’s wife “Bring him to me, now!”
Lady Rochford pauses just long enough to show her displeasure, makes a tutting noise, and hurries out. She will complain to George again, but knows it will do her no good. Her husband has little affection for her, an
d seldom supports her in the constant sniping with his sister. The swarthy young Jew is still standing where she left him.
“Come.” She leads him in to Anne‘s presence. “You address my mistress as ‘My Lady’ at all times. Visitors must not approach, unless bidden, and remember to bow. You do know how to bow, don’t you?”
“The English bow, Lady Rochford, or does Lady Anne prefer the French style?”
Anne Boleyn catches the last few words, and smiles to herself. She understands that a clever man might be employing a witty double entendre. For the French style is, her brother tells her, much employed by the city whores these days.
“Master Mush, Lady Anne. A messenger from Thomas Cromwell’s offices,” Lady Rochford announces, and moves to one side. Anne Boleyn is immediately struck by the almost feminine beauty of the olive skinned young man, and beckons him over to stand closer to her.
“Master Mush?”
“Just Mush, Lady Anne.” Moshe ben Mordecai is now used to being known as Mush Morden, to conceal his transparent Jewishness, and thus preserve his life. English law still demands the death penalty for his race. “It is what my friends call me.”
“Cromwell’s pet Hebrew, I am told,” Anne says, glancing over to Jane Rochford. “What message have you for me?”
“I am instructed to remain in your company for this day, my lady. Master Cromwell says I must ignore all your protestations, and stay close by your side.”
“His impertinence is astounding,” La Boleyn says, but not unkindly. In fact, she is intrigued, and Mush’s unexpected presence has lightened her mood considerably. “Does he deign to say why this must be so?”
“Yes, madam. A word alone?”
“Out of the question!” Lady Rochford has heard enough, and comes roaring from her dark corner, intent on expelling this upstart youth at once.
“Leave us.”
“What?” Lady Rochford halts in mid flurry. “You can’t mean to be left alone… with… a … he‘s a …”
