by Anne Stevens
He introduces himself to the stout master of the house, and asks after the banking family. The man, a prosperous weaver by trade, looks Will Draper up and down, as if examining a bolt of Dutch linen.
“They’ve gone,” he explains. “Three weeks past. They shut up shop one night, and were away by the morning. I doubt you will find a Lombard still in England, Master Draper.”
“Where have they gone?” Will asks, maintaining a calm facade.
“Did you have much lodged with them?” the man asks, by way of answer. “A few have come calling.”
“All my earnings from the Irish wars,” Draper is driven to confess. “I have scarcely enough to buy food and lodging for a few nights. I must find them, and recover my gold.”
“Do you know Italy well, then?”
“You taunt me, Master Weaver!”
“I speak good sense,” the man insists. “They have fled, under the King’s great displeasure, and will not stop until they are safe in France or Italy. The Galtis failed to understand His Majesty’s great problem.”
“What do you mean?” Will demands to know. “I have been away too long to understand what you say.”
“The King has no son. He wants one, and the talk is of him putting aside Queen Katherine. The Pope and his church will have none of it, of course.”
“And how does that affect my hard earned gold, sir?”
“Henry needs money to pay his army, and to buy jewels for his trollops,” the weaver continues. “The Lombards were to make him a loan, but the Pope has forbade them. They were in a cleft stick. The King demanded, and the Pope demanded otherwise. So, they plotted amongst themselves, and fled in the night. Poor Henry will not get his loan, and you will not see your money, until the Galti family are free to return. Be assured, they will invest your gold well, and someday, return it to you, much enhanced.”
“Someday.” Will Draper curses under his breath.
“You will want work in the meantime, I suppose?”
“I am not a weaver, sir,” Will tells him, smiling, and tapping the hilt of his sword. “Do you have work for a soldier?”
The weaver explains how Henry’s bounty works, and makes an offer. He can fund Will, in return for a part share in his takings. Two days later, the young soldier of fortune is on his way back to Ireland, where he recruit’s a half company of willing men, ready to make their fortunes gathering in bounty.
Now, seven months later, and with almost nine pounds in his purse, Will Drover is done with hunting outlaws, and sets out to see England. He had heard tales about London, and other great towns, such as Nottingham, and Leicester. It is a toss of the coin at a crossroads that sent him on his way towards the latter, and a future he could never have guessed at.
2 The Cardinal’s Messenger
The sturdy Welsh Cob has earned a rest. It has carried Will for two days, and the best part of seventy miles, until he is almost within sight of Leicester. He slides from the saddle, and leads the horse for a little while, allowing it time to regain its wind. There is, in his mind, no particular hurry, other than to be under cover before darkness falls.
The horse’s ears prick up, even as Will Draper senses the subtle change, himself. In the far distance, wheeling crows, and clouds of dust foretell the approach of a large body of men. Over a hundred, he guesses, mounted, but coming on very slowly.
An army marching to Leicester? Has he missed some vital piece of information, and is he riding into war? Henry is at war, perhaps, but with whom? Have the Spanish crept ashore, or the French landed? He has never met either, but will fight anyone, if the money is right. Idly, he wonders how the foreigners fight. Three horsemen appear on the brow of a low hill, pause, then began to gallop towards him.
Three mounted men. The lead one has drawn his sword, and spurs his horse on, ahead of his comrades. Had Will wanted, he might have told the man not to be so impetuous. He might also have told him not to allow a potential enemy to get on his blind side. But Will did not want. The advantage is his, and he is content with that.
“In the King’s name!” the first horseman shouts. He reigns in, sharply, with Will Draper standing, casually to his left. Further most away from the swing of your sword arm, he thinks.
“Which King would that be?” he asks.
“You impudent…” The words are cut off as, grasping the man’s left boot, Will levers him from his saddle. He hit’s the ground hard, and his companions begin to laugh. There will be no killing today. Unless the fool on the ground has other ideas.
“I’m just a traveller, sir,” he says, but the man, made to look foolish, is intent on dangerously compounding his folly. He curses, and unsheathes a fine, light rapier, unfit for purpose. Will is forced to draw his own sword and, with two or three swift moves, he disarms his attacker. “Enough, good sir, I have no wish to kill you.”
The man looks into Will’s eyes, and sees that here is a man who can do as he promises. He looks to his two friends, who shake their heads at him. It is not their fight. They have been sent, merely to see who the stranger is. The older of the three dismounts, and holds out a hand for Will to grasp. He is of an altogether different sort, Will thinks. Cross this one, and you will find yourself in a desperate fight. He is lean, and has the look of a killing man about him.
“Might I name myself, my young ruffian. I am Sir Andrew Jennings, and these useless louts, are my men. And you, sir?”
“Captain Will Draper, late of the King’s army in Ireland.” He neglects to mention his time roaming Welsh hills, in search of elusive brigands. These men are gentlemen, and might not appreciate his choice of career, he thinks.
“A soldier, young Harry,” Andrew Jennings says to his defeated comrade. “There is no shame in being bested by a battle seasoned soldier, is there? Come, shake hands on it, gentlemen!”
Will and Harry shake hands, and he marvels at how easily he has become a gentleman. All it takes is to pitch a fool from his horse, and knock aside his sword. Jennings it turns out, works for the Duke of Northumberland, and is commander of a troop of gentlemen, sent by King Henry, to escort the Cardinal back to London.
“A Cardinal needs a hundred men?” Will asks, and is told the story by Harry Cork, who now wishes to be his best friend.
The Cardinal is Thomas Wolsey. He has failed the King in the matter of his annulment from Katherine, and is to face serious charges, once back in London. He has been in Yorkshire, fomenting trouble for His Majesty. Powerful men have been whispering in Henry’s ear, accusing the Cardinal of treason. The King is in a quandary, for he loves no man more than Wolsey, but does not wish to upset the Duke of Norfolk and his niece, Anne Boleyn.
So the King shows his displeasure, by ordering the dear old Cardinal’s arrest. It is believed by all at court that Henry will huff and puff, before embracing Wolsey, and forgiving him. Some land and money will change hands, and Wolsey will regain his seat at the King’s right hand. A squall over nothing, between two powerful men. That is all.
The Cardinal, in the meantime, is under close arrest, and being escorted back to face Henry’s wrath, Harry Cork explains. The long term result is a foregone conclusion. Lady Anne, he concludes, would not, had she her way, suffer him to live another month.
“Lady Anne?”
“Anne Boleyn,” Sir Andrew tells him. “One of the powerful Howard clan. A niece to Norfolk. She is the King’s new… lady, and would be more. She will be Queen.”
“I wager the church is not happy about that,” Will says, as he mounts his Cob. “Priests look after their own. The Cardinal will find a way out of the difficulty, one way or another.”
“We lodge at Leicester Abbey tonight,” Harry tells him. “Join with us, Will. The King ever has need of good men.”
“A tempting offer, Harry,” Will replies. From Bounty man to King’s man, in one easy step. “Perhaps I might find time to teach you how to fence?”
“Most kind of you,” Harry rejoins. “And perhaps I can teach you how to dress like a gentl
eman, rather than a Welsh sheep farmer?”
“My woollen jerkin keeps out this November chill, sir,” Will says, as he spurs his horse into a gentle gallop.
There is little free space at the abbey, and many of the escorting party are forced to seek rooms in nearby villages, or ride on into Leicester. Will always carries his bed about with him, and unfurls it in the hayloft of the stable. The home spun blanket over an armful of straw suffices. His sleep is always a light one, thanks to his time on campaign, and his bad conscience. Sometimes, but not too often, the face of the priest comes to him, and he awakens with a start. Other times he sees his mother, and has to stifle a tear.
Tonight is different. The men, when they come, have burning brands, and are shouting out his name. There are armed men all about him, and he has no other recourse than to let them take him where ever they might wish. They troop along, marching him into the confines of the magnificent abbey, and place him in a small, tapestry lined room without windows. There is a small niche in one wall, and a silver crucifix is its only adornment.
Sir Andrew Jennings comes in then, bowing and showing in a big, dangerous looking man. Will gages his height and weight, as he would a horse, and wonders if he might have to kill him and flee. He can think of no crime they might know of, but his conscience is ever flawed with guilt of some sort or other. So he waits, and listens.
“Will Draper, a captain in the King’s service,” Sir Andrew says, naming Will to the fur clad giant. “I have the honour to present the Earl of Northumberland.” Will has enough sense to bow, and kiss the proffered ring hand.
“My Lord,” he says. The shadow of death has receded. Harry Percy is a grand Duke of the Realm, and does not do his own murder.
“Tell him, Jennings,” Percy snaps. “I want my bed!”
“Cardinal Wolsey is…”
“Bishop…” Percy says, vindictively. The Cardinal is reduced in rank, by order of the courts of justice, and Percy, once humiliated by him, and an unforgiving enemy, must have his pound of flesh.
“Er.. Yes… Bishop Wolsey is dead, Captain Draper.”
“My condolences,” Will says, waiting for the part he has been chosen to play. “I dare say many will be pleased.”
“Pleased? God’s teeth, but the damnable bastard has cheated us all at the last!” Percy roared. “Do you not see? There can be no trial. No reckoning. Who will be able to unravel his affairs? Henry will be furious… but he must be told. Yes, we must send a messenger at once.”
Will sighs. There is to be no sleep for him tonight then. The fine gentlemen are frightened that the King will dismember the bearer of such news. And well he might. As a child, he was told the tale of how the Tudors would eat children for supper.
“It is a hard ride, over dangerous roads, My Lord,” Will says, opening the negotiations.
“Then, God’s Speed to you, Captain. Jennings, give him a purse of money, and the message in writing. Damn, but we will need a priest, or a clerk. Go and find one!”
“I can write, My Lord,” Will confesses.
“By the holy bollocks of Christ!” Percy roars. He is much wont to such vulgarities, thinking it makes him more fearsome, and can curse better than a Venetian sailor. In reality, it makes him sound like a spoiled child. “Do it, man!” he says to Sir Andrew, and hands him a ring.
The carved impression of the onyx ring will be the messages authenticator, and prove that it came from Northumberland himself. The King will know that Wolsey is dead, and can then tell who he wishes to tell. Will shall take the message, and a small bag of coins for his troubles, and go to London. The old priest told him once, how bearers of bad news were killed for their trouble, and he sighs again.
He is given parchment, ink and a quill. Sir Andrew dictates the news tersely. To His Highness, the most noble…. Etcetera, he begins and concludes with a simple phrase. Bishop Wolsey is dead, this 29th day of November, 1530. Will scratches away slowly, using his best hand. At the foot of the page, he adds, ‘I commend this messenger to you as a fine and loyal subject‘. Sir Andrew is either a gentleman, and cannot read a word, or too disinterested to check the wording.
“Try first at York Place, the Cardinal’s old palace, then the Palace of Westminster next,” he advises. Then watches as Will melts the candle wax, drips it onto the folded letter, and presses the ring down, sealing it against prying eyes.
But Will’s eyes have already pried. His audacious addendum might bring him advancement, or death. He fears neither, but has a preference in the matter. His Welsh Cob is fully rested, and there will be a fresh mount waiting at Harrow, should he have need. He mounts, and is leaving by the south facing gate, when Harry Cork, his new found friend catches at his bridle and beckons him to lean forward in the saddle for a whispered message.
“Go first to the house of Thomas Cromwell at Austin Friars,” Harry says. “He will reward you well for this news. If he asks, tell him Harry Cork sent you, and begs that he is remembered kindly.”
Will Draper rides. The winter roads are bad and, in some places non-existent. It will take him the rest of the night, and most of the next day to reach London. There he must choose whether to call on Thomas Cromwell, or go directly to the King.
Will has been out of the country a while, but has some knowledge of things. Cromwell is a lawyer, and the Cardinal’s man. The Cardinal is dead. If Cromwell has lost his master, it might be dangerous to be seen with him. The danger decides him.
He will seek out Thomas Cromwell, deliver his news, then ride on to the King, where he will hand over a letter with an unbroken seal. With luck, there might be two rewards on offer. Besides, a good lawyer might help him track down his vanished gold. Four hundred and seventeen pounds, sitting in a French bank was of little use to him.
He keeps to a steady pace, never demanding too much from the Cob, and reaches London just as darkness is falling. He asks his way often, and finds himself outside an imposing house situated on the land owned by the venerable Austin friars. The land is still occupied by Augustinian friars, and one, swaddled in a heavy black cloak is lighting torches at the gate.
Will Draper is tired, but knows that civility will work better with the man rather than making demands. He slips from the saddle and removes his sodden bonnet.
“Good fellow,” he starts. The man shuffles about and squints at him in the flickering light. “I seek the house of Thomas Cromwell. Have I found it?”
“Yes, master,” the stout, middle aged retainer said. “Have you business with him?”
“With him, yes,” Will says, pointedly. The message is for Cromwell’s ears alone. “My name is Captain Will Draper, and I would speak with your master.”
“Please, go to the house. I will see your horse is attended to,” the man says, snatching the reigns from Will’s tired grasp. He goes inside, and is amazed at the splendour of the interior. There are coats of arms painted upon the walls, and doors leading off in all directions. Before him is a great, wooden staircase. A greyhound is lounging at its foot, and looks him over with scant interest.
Will has never been in a house with more than one real floor before, and the beauty of the well lit entrance hall makes him understand what true wealth really is. Thomas Cromwell is, for the moment, a great man.
The servant comes shuffling back in, and throws off his black cloak. A young boy runs to catch it, bowing. The old servant is, in fact, Thomas Cromwell, and the small joke has enlivened what promised to be a dull evening reading by the fire.
The lawyer examines the young man, sees the sword, and notes the face. He is good with faces, and sums this one up. The face of a dangerous man. He mutters it, but in Latin. His bland expression never slips.
“Mea Culpa,” Draper responds.
“You have Latin?”
“Some.”
“A scholarly soldier,” Cromwell says, ushering Will into a book lined room which has a roaring fire in the grate. “Come in and warm yourself. Have you a bed for the night? No, stupid of me to ask.
You have ridden hard, all the way from the Cardinal, God bless and save his good soul. How is he?”
Will Draper recites the contents of the letter, from memory. Thomas Cromwell turns to face the fire. The flames light his face up, making him look like a satanic being, fresh from one of Hell’s deeper pits. He stares, unblinking, into the flames, then speaks.
“They called him ‘bishop’?”
“They did, sir. Harry Percy insisted on it.”
“Only the Pope can bring down an anointed cardinal,” Cromwell mutters. “I believe Percy and the rest have over stepped their authority in this matter.”
“I’m sorry to bring you so sad a message,” Will tells him, wondering what he should do now. The news is, clearly, not to Master Cromwell’s taste.
“My servants will make a room up for you, Captain Draper,” the lawyer says, as if reading his mind. “You can deliver your message to the King tomorrow. Hand it to one of his gentlemen, and try not to give your name. It will do you no good to be remembered as the man who brought this message. Instead, you will return here, to me. Is that understood?”
“Am I to be your man then, sir?”
“Do you wish that?”
“I do.” The words came out without a thought. Will’s instinct had taken command. Thomas Cromwell was his sort of man, and promised to be a good master.
“Then you will become my own creature, Will,” Cromwell told him. “They will tell you tales about me. Of how I am the son of a blacksmith, and have served the Cardinal too well. They will tell you I have blood on my hands. What say you?”
“They used to tell me that the Tudors ate children, my lord,” Will replies. “I am quite able to make up my own mind about you.”
“And if I turn out to be a baby eater?”
“That is between you, and your God.”
“My God, Will?” Cromwell studies him. “Is yours different than mine, or … is it something else you mean?”
“God has his place, sir,” Will said. “I nod to him, when I must, but am ever a practical man.”
