by Anne Stevens
Chapuys master, the Emperor Charles will be pleased, of course, and the King of France infuriated. Neither nation will make a good bedfellow, Cromwell believes, and he wishes to steer Henry onto an altogether different course.
Given the chance, Cromwell will wed Henry either to a pliable English girl of good family, or into a powerful Germanic alliance with the Emperor Karel. The two great powers, thus allied, will cow the French and Spanish into peace, and trade will flourish across Europe. For, when all is said and done, peace really is good for business.
16 The Midnight Queen
“Arsenic is the queen of poisons,” Adolphus Theophrasus tells a fascinated Eustace Chapuys. “It was known of in the time of the old Roman Empire, but defined by a great German scholar called Albertus Magnus, about two hundred and fifty years ago.”
“It is a grim discovery to have to your name,” the little Savoyard says, shuddering. “I wonder how many deaths it has caused over these last centuries?”
“Hundreds, I would guess,” the doctor replies. “It was an easy remedy to ease the path of succession. I believe the French court dispose of unwanted heirs by slipping it into their food.”
“Is it hard to prepare?” Will asks. He is a fighting man, but knows you cannot defeat something you cannot see, or even taste.
“The first precise directions for the preparation of metallic arsenic can be found in the writings of Paracelsus, a notorious alchemist who lived about a century ago. He distilled it into a white powder, that could be sprinkled on food, or mixed into a drink. His preparations must have fetched a high price.”
Chapuys pauses at the outer gate, and shows his credentials to one of the guards. The man, who cannot read or write, examines the royal seal, and is satisfied. He takes the small silver coin he is offered, and waves the three men through into the inner sanctum.
“Just down this final corridor,” Eustace Chapuys tells his companions. “There is one more guard to pass, and we are in the queen’s private state rooms. Everyone you meet after that will be one of Katherine’s own people.”
Will Draper follows, but feels naked without his sword hanging by his side. The weapon is dear to him, as he captured it in the heat of battle. The Irish lord had fought hard, and died well, and Will was proud to take his sword. A small dagger is hidden in the folds of his cloak, but will be of scant help in a real brawl.
The final guard, a sergeant at arms, can read, and it will take more than a bribe if he becomes suspicious. He raises a hand, halting the small party.
“Your business, sirs?”
“I am the Spanish ambassador,” Chapuys tells him. “I have an urgent matter to discuss with the queen.”
“And these gentlemen?” The guard is of a mind to be a little awkward. He is not fond of foreigners, and the fat one has a distinctly Jewish appearance.
“Tad Beaton?” Will Draper says, hardly able to believe his luck. “Can that be you?”
“And who might you be?” The big man peers into the gloom, then gives a great oath. “By all the saints in God’s heaven! Is that you, Captain Draper?”
“It is, you old fraud,” Will replies. “Last time I saw you, the Colonel was deciding whether to flog, or hang you.”
“And you says… ‘beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but Tad is the only man I have who knows his way out of this bedamned bog.’ By sweet Jesus, but you saved my thick hide that day.”
“We must have a drink, for old time‘s sake, Tad,” Will says, moving towards the door.
“Sorry, sir, but I has to have papers for you all… not just the Spanish cove.” Will is considering how best to overcome the big mans stubbornness , when the door opens, and Lady Maria de Salinas appears, fluttering her arms at them all.
“Ah, Ambassador Chapuys. At last. You have the doctor? Good. Hurry, Her Majesty is gravely ill. Guard, do not let anyone else enter, unless it is Dr. Vargas.”
They are inside, and the door closes before the guard can object. He shrugs, thinking what a small world it is, and returns to his solitary guard duty. Draper was a decent sort, he recalls, and thinks back to the long months spent chasing wild haired Irishmen across a merciless land.
“Well done, Lady Maria,” Chapuys says. “How did you know we were coming?” In answer, Lady Maria de Salinas crosses to a huge tapestry hanging on the wall, and rummages behind it for a moment. She emerges, bearing Will Draper’s precious sword, belt, and scabbard.
“How is this miracle possible?” he asks. “Did Miriam come to you?”
“I do not know of whom you speak, sir,” Lady Maria replies. “I was approached by Lady Mary Boleyn. She begged a favour of me, saying it will help the queen. She told me a friend had given the sword, and asked for it to be delivered to me. It came in, under her skirts.”
“Then Miriam must have gone to Lady Mary.”
“I think not,” Chapuys says, smiling. “I think Miriam went to her brother, Mush, and sent him to his new lady friend.”
“What? Mush and Lady Mary Boleyn are… lovers?” Will is already buckling on the sword. “She must lack any taste.”
“This way,” Lady Maria says. “The queen is waiting for you all, in her bed chamber.”
They follow Maria, and come into a luxuriously furnished room that serves both as Katherine’s bedroom, and her receiving room. She is sat on a stool by the bed, looking ashen faced, and does not attempt to rise as they enter.
“Have you been sick, my lady?” Theophrasus asks in excellent Spanish. She nods. It is an effort. “Did you take your tonic?”
“Every day,” Katherine replies, “but it seems to do me no good at all.”
“I can well believe that, madam,” the doctor says. He crosses the room, and takes her wrist in his big hand. “Pulse erratic. You have grey patches under the eyes, and your general pallor is unhealthy. Have you eaten today?”
“Nothing. I fear I am dying, sir.”
“Nonsense!” The doctor opens his bag, a leather satchel of large proportions, and searches inside it. “Ah, the very thing. Take this, Lady Maria, and mix it with a little wine. Give it to Her Majesty at once, but make sure there is a bowl close by. It is an emetic, and will help her empty her stomach.”
“Will she live?” Chapuys asks.
“I doubt she has been given a lethal dose yet,” Adolphus Theophrasus tells him. “Once the stomach is empty, we will administer nothing but fresh milk, bread and cold water. The water must be boiled first, and allowed to cool.”
Will glances about the room, and sees the two huge Moroccans standing stock still by the door. They are watching him, warily. The younger one gestures to Will’s sword, and seems as if he will demand he remove it, but the older man speaks in a foreign tongue, and his companion settles back into his previous stance.
“The Musselmen don’t seem too happy,” he says to Chapuys.
“I know a little of their tongue,” Chapuys tells him. “The older one is telling his friend to keep out of this.”
“A wise man,” Will replies. “I think our doctor has a mind to empty the queen of all the bad vapours, and have her convalesce on milk. It must sooth the stomach.”
“Arsenic is a kind of metal,” Theophrasus says, reverting to his ponderous English. “It finds its way into the blood, and settles where ever it might. I have found arsenic in a corpse’s hair, under the fingernails, and in every major organ.” He draws his two companions to one side, away from the queen, who is heaving into a bowl. “I cannot cure her, Chapuys. I can halt the poisoning, and hope she has not ingested too much yet. At best, she will be an invalid in her later years… at worst…. Dead inside a week.”
“Dear God,” Chapuys crosses himself. “What can we do?”
“We have done all we can for the queen,” the doctor tells them. “It only remains to stop this murderous Vargas in his tracks.”
It is then the bed chamber door swings open, and Vargas is framed in it. He is a little taken aback by the scene, but soon recovers his composure. He glances at
the queen, who is retching, and nods his understanding.
“I see you have guessed my little game, Ambassador Chapuys,” he says. “I hope your physician is too late, for it is my avowed intent to destroy the wicked woman.”
“Wicked?” Will steps forward, and rests a hand on the hilt of his sword. “How can you say so, after what you have tried to do to her?”
“Her family now rule my homeland,” Vargas replies. “They persecute all of those who will not convert to Christianity. I am of the true faith, and follow the great prophet, Mohammed.”
“Then you always wished her dead?”
“From the start,” Vargas says. “Imagine my delight when an Englishman offers me a fortune to kill her. His master wants it to be slow, and look like Cholera, or the sweating sickness. I am only too glad to oblige.”
“Your plot is undone,” Will says. “I am here to take you away, Vargas.”
“Have I any hope of surviving the night?” The Spaniard seems unconcerned. “Masha Allah.”
“You must make peace with which ever God you wish, sir, for I am to be your executioner,” Will replies. “This evil cannot go unpunished.”
“Such a pity,” Vargas tells him. “Though I doubt one armed man will be enough to stop me. My Arabic is quite good, you see, and it has enabled me to speak with these two Moroccans, and bring them over to my side. It will be an honour for them to help kill an oppressor of our faith. Should they die, they will be welcomed into Paradise, for all eternity.”
Vargas speaks, explaining the predicament, and the two Moroccans draw their wicked, curved scimitars. Will is suddenly at a disadvantage, needing to defend the queen, whilst contriving to best three armed men. The Spanish turncoat draws a stiletto blade from his sleeve, and crouches into a low, defensive posture.
Draper sees the older Moroccan moving to his left, and knows it is a feint, meant to draw his attention from his comrade in arms. Maria de Salinas begins shouting for help, and the lone guard outside comes in to see who is causing such an infernal row. He is a wily old soldier, with long years service in Ireland, and is alert to any danger.
“Look to yourself, Tad,” Will cries, and the old veteran brings his halberd up, just in time to block a vicious stroke from the younger Moroccan. He cannot swing his own unwieldy weapon in so confined a space, and must be content with pushing his attacker away. The older man takes his chance, and lunges forward, sweeping his sword down in a great arc.
Will Draper drops to one knee, and takes the force of the blow on the hilt of his sword. The Musselman’s blade slides off, without doing any harm, and Will turns his wrist, sending the point of his own sword up, under the man’s left arm pit. He screams, and jumps back,
There is a rent in his gold brocaded jacket, which is seeping red. Will steps back too, and watches, as the second attacker tries to get past Tad Beaton’s guard. The old soldier blocks again, and twists away from the bow. The young Moroccan advances, exposing part of his back, and his right flank to Will.
Draper is far too good a soldier to miss so open an invitation. He drives home his attack, pushing the point of his blade into the man’s right shoulder. The traitorous bodyguard tries to pull away, but Tad Beaton brings his six foot long halberd down in a heavy, two handed blow. The razor sharp axe head bites into the Moroccan’s neck, just where it joins the shoulder, and cuts him down, almost to the waist. A spray of hot blood splashes across the queen’s bed.
The older Moroccan watches, as his young companion topples over. He screams in rage, and rushes at Will Draper, cutting in a frenzy of blood lust. It is a fatal mistake. Will sways away from the wild slashes, and lunges, driving the steel point of his own German sword deep into the man’s heart. Even as he pulls back his blade, he feels a sharp sting in his own side, and turns to find Vargas has struck at him from behind.
He steps back from the man, and tries to raise his sword in defence, but he is already beginning to stagger. The stiletto has gone deep, under a bottom rib. Vargas sees he has the advantage, raises the knife high, above his head, and prepares to deal the killer blow.
“No!” Eustace Chapuys cries out in dismay. He forgets his diplomatic training, runs at Vargas, and barges into him. Like a bull tackling a gate. The Spanish doctor crumples to his knees, and lashes out at this new, unexpected attack. His blade catches the little ambassador, and slices open his sleeve from elbow to wrist.
Tad Beaton lowers his halberd, advances, and drives the sharpened point into the doctor’s throat. The thrust is so powerful, the point emerges from the back of Vargas’ neck. He drops his blade, and grabs at the shaft of Beaton’s weapon, as if he might draw it from his throat. There is a gush of blood, he chokes, and falls to one side.
Tad Beaton stands athwart the body, ready to deliver a final death blow, but sees it is not needed. He glances across at the queen, who is still retching into a bowl. Lady Maria de Salinas is patting her back, uttering soft words of gentle consolation.
Will Draper, takes a quick inventory of the dead, and swoons away, blood seeping from his side. The last thing he sees is the huge shape of Adolphus Theophrasus looming over him, and the last thing he hears, is the doctor’s gruff complaint.
“May the God of Abraham be damned,” he growls. “How many of these accursed Christians must I save today?”
17 Loose Threads
“There can be no doubt about arsenics efficacy as a single large dose, Your Majesty,” Adolphus Theophrasus explains. “It is the recent, regular administration of this poison to Queen Katherine which has provoked violent abdominal cramping, diarrhoea and vomiting.”
“We thank God you were able to save the Princess of Wales, doctor,” Henry replies. The battle to dissolve his marriage is entering a new phase, and Cromwell is advising him to use Katherine’s old title at every opportunity, so that she might become resigned to it. “She will live, will she not?”
“She will, sire, though I fear her health is not what it should be, and a period of isolation and rest, might do her some good.”
Thomas Cromwell has schooled the doctor well. He is giving the queen a clear opportunity to withdraw from public life, without losing face. Having delivered his report, and received a small purse of gold for his trouble, Theophrasus bows, and leaves the two men alone.
“Perhaps a spell away from court, Your Majesty?” Cromwell says, once the doctor has left. “Somewhere with plenty of fresh air?”
“Have it arranged, Thomas,” Henry tells him. “It is for her own good. See what other royal duties you might lift from her shoulders too. Do we know why this doctor… Vargas… wished Queen… I mean Princess Katherine‘s death?”
“I regret not, sire,” Cromwell lies. The blame is Sir Thomas More‘s, but there is not enough proof to make the accusation. “It seems he and the two infidels were in cahoots. Who can fathom the minds of these strange heretics?”
“I believe we have to thank your man Draper again?”
“By chance, he was with the ambassador,” Cromwell says. “He and the guard were able to overcome the assassins.”
“Would that they had done it in a less blood thirsty way,” Henry replies. “Lady Maria de Salinas informs me that a very expensive set of hangings, and the queen’s… princesses… bedding were utterly ruined.”
“The breaking of eggs, and the making of omelettes springs to mind, sire.”
“Yes, quite so.” Henry does not know whether Draper has done him a service, or spoiled things. “We must think of a suitable reward for Master Draper. As for the guard… I will leave that to you, Thomas. My worry is that this will stir up sympathy for Katherine’s cause.”
“The incident has been contained, sire,” Cromwell says. “Will Draper is a loyal servant, and the guard has been promoted, paid, and sent to augment the garrison at Warwick castle. Dr. Adolphus Theophrasus is to be appointed as your new, personal Surgeon Practitioner, and I am assured that Ambassador Chapuys will not breath a word. It does his master no credit, as all three murderers we
re the Emperor’s subjects. Eustace does not wish any stain on his master’s character, and will leave the event out of his latest report.”
“Can we be sure?”
“He sends his secret letters home via a banking house in the city, Your Majesty. It so happens that I am now a partner in the establishment, albeit a silent one.”
“Ah!” Henry is cheered up. “You are such a rogue, sir. A wonderful, loyal, rogue. Will it affect the annulment?”
“There will be no annulment, sire,” Cromwell says, exasperated at the need to constantly reiterate his position. He decides to reveal a small piece of information to clarify matters, once and for all. “There is a letter on its way to the Lord Chancellor, from Rome. In it, the self styled ‘Pope’ Clement, Bishop of Rome, refuses your request out of hand, and actually threatens you with excommunication, if you persist in defying his wishes. He will insist you return to Katherine’s side, at once.”
“What? The man actually says that?” Henry is shaken. He has not been refused anything, save la Boleyn’s sexual favours, since he was a small child.
“Not yet, sire,” Thomas Cromwell explains. “The letter is still in transit. Sir Thomas will receive it early next week. I know of the contents, because I have a man in the Bishop of Rome’s private office.”
“You do?”
“I do.” Cromwell cannot resist a small boast. “Saving yourself, sire, I have an agent watching every great man in Christendom. My agent in Rome tells me Sir Thomas sent a bribe, but it was considered woefully inadequate by the cardinals. My man in More’s office will let me know the very instant the Roman letter arrives. It will be a most revealing moment.”
“You think More will withhold it from me?” Henry is uncomfortable with this thought, as the Lord Chancellor has been a loyal friend for many years. “Would he dare. Thomas?”
“Possibly,” Thomas Cromwell replies. “In that respect, he is not unlike Cardinal Wolsey, sire, who always did it for your own benefit. The cardinal always wanted to be a step ahead.”
