by Anne Stevens
He is unaware that his carefully arranged plans have foundered on the great Cromwell rock, and is pleased with himself, beyond measure. It is in this frame of mind that he decides to take a walk down by the river. His purse is full, and he is in need of some lively, youthful, company.
Despite it being proscribed in English law, and punishable by impalement on a sharpened stake, Sir Edward Prudhoe is overly fond of dalliances with pretty young boys. There is nothing so fine as a doe eyed youth to play with, and the young catamites often hang about the ferry boats, plying their trade.
There are a few such boys about, but they are of the lowest type, and he has used them too often before. His new status demands he find himself a better quality youth to take into his bed. Then he stops, stares, and smiles.
The youth pauses on his way, and smiles back. Sir Edward notes that he is quite well dressed, and indescribably attractive. He decides that he must have him, as soon as possible.
“Good day to you, young fellow,” he says, falling in with the boy. “Do you know the best way to Putney?”
“Why, no sir.”
“I do. I have a house there. Would you care to see it?”
“You are a stranger to me, sir,” the boy replies, lowering his eyelids coquettishly. “I do not, ordinarily, give my company to men, unless they be both kind … and generous.”
“Ah! I knew you to be a sweet little catamite.” Sir Edward tells him. “Come home with me, and I will love you, end to end.”
“Saucy fellow,” the youth giggles. “Shall we walk? For I might not be able, afterwards. From the cut of your hose, I fancy my hands will be full!”
“Not just your hands, I pray,” Sir Edward says, linking the youth. “I have a full purse, and would gladly empty it under your sweet caresses. My name is Sir Edward, child. Pray what shall I call you, in my driving throes?”
“My people call me Mush, sir. Shall we away?”
“He wanted to what?” Richard Cromwell says, shaking with laughter. “I thought one only did that to sheep.”
“If you think the fool’s words were bad, you should have heard what Lady Boleyn did suggest.”
“What? Lady Anne spoke to you of…”
“No, you idiot,” Mush replies. “It was after. I spent the day, as ordered, protecting the lady. As I left, a woman pulled me into a side room, and demanded I satisfy her wants.”
“Never!”
“Truly,” Mush smiles at the recollection. The frantic fumbling of clothes, and the swift, shuddering coupling, over in moments. “Lady Mary has a wicked tongue.”
“Have you told my uncle?”
“No.”
“No matter, he will already know. I wager he was aware, even as you displayed your tiny Jewish pintle!”
“Very funny,” Mush retorts. “At least, I may see mine, when I look down. Now, shut up, and help me unload the cart.”
Sir Edward Prudhoe is bundled up in sackcloth, and his mouth is bound, as are his arms and legs. The ride across town has been bumpy, and he is shaking with fear. One moment he is in a narrow, deserted alley, running his hands over the boy he wants to buy for the night, and the next, he is battered, bound and gagged.
Rough hands grab him at shoulder and ankle, and he feels himself being carried. There are descending steps, and the smell of dampness. He thinks himself to be in a cellar.
“Tie this rope about him, and hoist him up on the beam.” It is the voice of the catamite, no longer soft and inviting, but harsh and commanding. He is hoisted up.
“Shall I drag the table over?”
“Yes. Is the spike fixed firm?”
“It is, and as sharp as a sword.”
Sir Edward Prudhoe is shaking now, as realisation dawns on him. He wants to plead, or offer money for his life, but cannot speak through the rag jammed in his mouth.
“What is the man saying?” Mush asks.
“I don’t know. He is gagged. Shall I remove his hose. It will make it easier… for the spike.”
Prudhoe finds enough strength to set himself swaying, and tries to scream. He is seconds from the most disgusting death allowed by law, and can almost feel the impaling spike.
“Not yet. Loosen the gag, and we will hear him beg for his depraved, and bestial life.”
“Can we not just drop him on the spike?” Richard Cromwell says, but reaches under the sacking that masks Prudhoe’s face, and pulls out the gag. “There, now he will babble like a madman, just to save his worthless skin from just punishment.”
“Please God! Listen to me, sirs. I have never lain with a boy before. I was misled by a pretty face.”
“Oh, he calls you pretty, Mush. I do not see it myself, and would prefer the pick of the flock. Let me cut the rope.”
“I have money.” Prudhoe thinks, frantically, what he might say to avoid a vile death. “I can find you a hundred pounds apiece.”
“Perhaps two hundred,” Mush says.
“I have land. I can raise a loan on it, and find you the gold.”
“How long will that take?”
“A few weeks.”
“Cut the rope.”
“No!” Prudhoe is almost dead with fear. “I can get as much as you want, I have a powerful benefactor.”
“Let me guess,” Richard Cromwell says. “You work for a great lord, who loves throwing his wealth at you.”
“I do, sirs. Please, listen to me. Hear me out, and you shall both profit from it. I am employed by a certain influential man… to do … to arrange matters. I speak of political things, good sirs, beyond our understanding.”
“This great man… he values you so much?”
“He values what I do for him, and fears what I know about him.”
“He sounds like a complete knave,” Mush says, softly. “I suspect you mean Thomas Cromwell, for he is the greatest knave in the land, and must have the most wicked secrets to be kept.”
“No, not Cromwell,” Prudhoe replies. “I cannot speak his name, but he will pay well for my safe return, and my continued silence.”
“Riddles, “ Richard says, giving the hanging man a small shove. “Give us proof. Something to bind us together.”
“Do you know the Pole family?” Prudhoe plays his last, and best card.
“I do,” Mush says. “An ill-omened clan. They have been sadly diminished these last weeks.”
“All my doing. My master demanded their deaths, and I arranged matters. Even now, my men are scouring the Pole name from England’s shores. They have a list, such as will please even the king … if he would but admit it!”
“That is enough to hang you, sir,” Mush replies, coldly. “There is but one more thing. I will have a name.”
“I cannot!”
“Cut the rope.”
Sir Edward screams, and gives a name. Mush smiles, and nods, then says:
“I do not believe your cowardly lies. Now, Richard, cut the rope!”
Sir Edward Prudhoe screams, and the sound reaches the very rafters of Austin Friars. Even Eustace Chapuys, who is strolling in his garden next door, looks up, crosses himself, and shudders. There are things that happen in Austin Friars that will never be really known, and sins committed that will never be forgiven.
Thomas Cromwell studies the report, written by Mush, and nods his approval. It is he who, through his wide range of agents, discovered the secret of Sir Edward Prudhoe’s sexual tastes. It is he, who asked Mush to play the part of bait.
“A fine job, my dear boy,” the lawyer says. “I trust you were not too disgusted by the role I cast you in?”
“I am yours to command, Master Thomas,” Mush replies. “My family owe you our position, and our gratitude. You found my grandfather’s murderer, and gave him to me. You have but to ask, and I will do. I might not be as great a fighting man as my brother in law, Will, but I can serve in other ways.”
“Quite so. I hear you served well the Lady Mary Boleyn, but yesterday. She is a dozen years older than you, and will make a dangerous b
ed mate.”
“In truth, sir, a wall sufficed. The lady was in sore need of a man and, as a gentleman, I was forced to oblige. It will not happen again.”
“On the contrary,” Cromwell says, “it shall. The lady is easily seduced, and has a head full of secrets. You must invite her to visit you here, at Austin Friars, and satisfy her needs. In this way, we will have a clear window into the hidden lives of the Boleyns. Can you do this for me, Mush?”
“It is an arduous task, Master Thomas, but I will rise to it,” Mush replies, smiling. “I will ask her, when next we meet.”
“Caution her to secrecy,” Cromwell advises. “If her sister finds out, she will have her locked in a nunnery. Tell her that, if I am pleased, I will find her another husband, and a small estate in Suffolk.”
“Suffolk, sir? Why Suffolk?”
“Charles Brandon is with us.” He does not bother to explain that the Duke of Suffolk is some thirty odd thousand pounds in debt, and owes his continued fortune to Thomas, who waives the interest, in return for his devotion. “He will have a spare farm or two, I think.”
“What about this Prudhoe?”
“He is recovered?”
“Still shaking. He actually believed there to be a spike on the table. The fool landed on a bed of straw, and wept great tears of gratitude. He has told us all he knows. Shall I give him a quick death?”
“That is your Jewish blood talking, my dear Mush” Cromwell replies. “Sir Edward is a useful sort, and must be kept safe, for now.”
“And the name he gave us?” Mush is still dubious. He cannot quite understand why the man would take so great a risk as to order a half dozen murders. “Can you believe it?”
“I can. It is a name I suspected almost from the start.”
“Will we kill him too?”
“Enough of killing.” Cromwell sighs, wondering if the youth is the most cold hearted killer he has ever known. “We must lay a trap. I can do nothing without proof.”
“There is Prudhoe.”
“A disgusting sodomite who orders murder, and will say anything to save his own worthless skin? I do not think his testimony will carry much weight in a court of law.”
“You mean to go to law?” Mush is amazed.
“Perhaps it might be the only way,” Cromwell mutters to himself. “I fear no man, but our foe is, perhaps, my match.”
“Never!”
“I thank you for that,” Cromwell says. “I pray that you are all backing the winning horse.”
“Horse?” Richard comes into the library at that moment. “It must be nearly dinner time. I have fed Sir Edward, and cautioned him to silence. I swear his hair has started turning grey.”
“I would age too, if suspended over a spike.” Cromwell puts the report to one side.
“The spike was not real,” Richard says.
“In his mind it is,” Cromwell tells them. “Make a man believe something, and it is as real to him as if he could hold it in his hand. The power of….” He tails off, and smiles. “Yes. The truth is that which you can get most men to believe. Thank you, nephew.”
“For what, sir?”
“For the way ahead.”
Maria de Salinas gives a small curtsey to Lady Mary Boleyn as they pass. The queen’s lady in waiting has no choice, as to ignore a Boleyn will only bring more trouble down on them.
“Good day, Lady Willoughby,” Mary says, in as friendly a voice as she can. “I trust your mistress is well?”
“I am on my way to fetch her doctor, Lady Mary,” she confesses. “It is a small disorder, but an uncomfortable one.”
“Oh, you mean the curse?” Mary says. “Have the queen try mulled wine with a grain of arsenic. It eases me greatly.”
“Thank you, madam. I will let the doctor do his business.”
“As you wish. By the way, my dear, I hear about the court that you have been treated badly in love.”
“You go too far,” Maria says, giving Mary a sharp look.
“Often, and with many men,” Lady Mary replies, smiling. “I have no reputation to speak of, but regret the loss of yours.”
“I have nothing to be ashamed of, my lady,” Maria tells the Boleyn woman. “I am as blameless as can be.”
“Yet Richard Rich claims to have lain with you.”
“What?” Tears well in her eyes. “How could he be so vile? I spurned him, because he lied to me. The most he did was touch my hand, and that in the presence of the queen. How shall I clear my reputation?”
Lady Mary Boleyn is genuinely sorry for the woman, and is in the mood to help. She has just heard from Mush, her new, young, lover, and wishes the world to be a happy place.
“I will stop the rumours,” she announces. “Master Rich is a swine, and an inconsiderate lover. I tried him once, and will not waste time on a second visit.”
Maria is wide eyed. Lady Mary talks like a common whore, and she is scandalised. The idea that such a woman can help seems preposterous, but she has no other way to vouchsafe her virtue.
“I will be in your debt, Lady Mary. I regret my mistresses current troubles, but do not wish ill on your family. The king is like a ship, blown hither and thither by the precocious winds. When next he veers, it will be into Queen Katherine’s safe harbour.”
“Let the best woman win, eh?” Mary smiles, and continues on her way. At the end of the corridor, a guard opens the door, and she enters the large outer court, where courtiers, hangers on and unattached ladies congregate.
“Lady Mary, I hear you have a new friend. Do we know him?” Lady Margaret Norris asks.
“A passing fancy,” Mary says, dismissively. She wants Mush, and knows she must keep him a secret. “Though I have heard news of another lady. Do you know Maria de Salinas?”
“Lady Willoughby? Master Rich says he has prised open her particular treasure chest, and found it wanting.”
“Then he is a lying dog, and no gentleman,” Lady Mary tells the gathering. “The truth is, he tried to seduce Maria, but she refused him, having found out that he is enshrined in poetry.”
“What ever do you mean?”
“Have you not heard it?” Lady Mary asks. “The king says it is a timely warning against sin. It goes thus:
When goest ere to fulsome rise,
For to plunder her rich prize,
Wary be, in fortune’s lap,
Or take no heed, and court thee clap.
It is one of Master Tom Wyatt’s little verses, and speaks well of the price of random love.”
“Rich has the clap?” The Duke of Norfolk is standing near, and cannot hide his pleasure. “That is wondrous news, my dear niece.”
“Uncle Norfolk, I did not see you there,” Lady Mary Boleyn’s mother is a Norfolk, and the duke is a patron of the Boleyns. “Forgive my coarseness.”
“Oh, it is forgiven, my girl,” Norfolk says. He is delighted because Rich is going about with his son, and he hopes his youthful heir has shared the same pox ridden little doxy. “My son will be horrified at the news, God rot the impertinent bastard’s hide. Now, when will you call on me, sweet girl? Of all my nieces, I am most fond of you, my dear Mary.”
“You honour me, Uncle Norfolk,” Lady Mary tells him, but thinks how to avoid a private meeting. Norfolk is an old goat, and if he wants his way, she must, for the families sake, endure his disgusting advances. “Though I am a little worried, as I have been… close… to Master Rich myself.”
The duke steps back, as if the sickness will leap from Lady Mary to himself, and bows a hasty good day. It is one thing to laugh over his son’s misfortune, but quite another to contract so vile a sickness from his own sister’s daughter.
The little knot of ladies have dispersed at Norfolk’s approach, and are happily spreading the new rumour throughout the court. Master Rich will soon find himself a laughing stock, and Maria de Salinas’ honour is restored.
Another time, and Lady Mary Boleyn might need some willing help. It is good to know that the queen’s closest
friend is now in her debt.
13 Invitations
Stephen Gardiner is somewhat puzzled. One of Thomas Cromwell’s young men has just delivered a note from the fellow. It is, rather curiously, an invitation to dinner, that very evening, in honour of St. Eustace.
He crosses to a bookshelf, and takes down a book, so old that it is hand written in Latin. He opens the velum covered tomb, and starts to read out aloud.
“St. Abselme, St. Augustus, St. Stephanus, St. Matthias the Lesser… ah, here we are. These damned monks must never have heard of alphabetical lists.”
St. Eustace, he reads, is the patron saint of hunters. For a moment he ponders the incongruous nature of this titbit, then smiles. The great, all knowing Thomas Cromwell has, he perceives, made a silly mistake. How unlike him.
St. Eustace is to be celebrated with a feast at Austin Friars, on completely the wrong day. The blessed man’s day is the twentieth day of September. Cromwell is either too late, or far too early. Stephen Gardiner will rib him mercilessly over so glaring an error.
“Shall I send back word that you are busy, sir?” his new secretary says.
“What, and miss a fine dinner?” Stephen Gardiner enjoys a good table, and Cromwell sets a finer one than Henry. “Let me advise you, sir. There are two men in England one must never refuse an invitation from. One is Henry, because he is king, and one is Thomas Cromwell, because he is Thomas Cromwell!”
The Dukes of Norfolk, Suffolk, and Surrey also receive an invitation, but care nothing for dates. They know that the wine will flow freely, and even a lord of the realm enjoys a gratis meal.
“The butcher’s boy says I may bring a friend,” Norfolk bellows, waving the invitation at his son. “That will not be you then, sir!”
“I have my own friends a plenty, father,” the Earl of Surrey replies. “You do not possess a single one. Not even Thomas Cromwell, who is actually a blacksmith’s whelp, calls you ‘friend’, sir. It was fat old Cardinal Wolsey who was the son of a butcher.”
