Winter King: Murder in Henry's Court (Tudor Crimes Book 1)

by Anne Stevens

  “Martin Luther is a practical man,” Cromwell replied. “If your mind is that way set, it must never interfere with the running of my household. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir. May I ask a question?”

  “Ask it, Captain.”

  “Who is Martin Luther?”

  Cromwell laughs then. He has not laughed since the last time he saw his master, Cardinal Wolsey. Now, here was a young man to tell him that the greatest of men is dead. Alone and untended, in a crumbling monastery. I should have been with him, the lawyer thinks, allowing sentiment to cloud good judgement.

  “Never mind, Will. How did you come to find out the contents of Percy’s letter?”

  “I wrote it, sir,” Will replies. “They could not, and I am well read, and can write with a goodly hand.”

  “Was your father a gentleman?”

  “I don’t know. He died when I was a small, edible, child, sir.”

  “You have a quick tongue, and an even quicker wit,” Cromwell decides. “You shall be my confidential agent. How does twelve pounds a year sound?”

  “I have my own fortune, Master Cromwell,” Will says, and tells the lawyer of his misfortune. All the while the older man smiles and nods his understanding.

  “Your weaver told you the truth, Will,” he says. “King Henry is ever short of ready money, and turned to the Lombards for a loan. The branches in Rome, Milan and Naples are loyal to the Pope, and the Holy Roman Emperor. They stalled over making a decision… then quibbled over interest rates. The King is not a patient sort, and he became too insistent. The French and Italian offices refused to lend, and the English Lombards melted away. Fearing, no doubt, that His Majesty would seek some form of retribution.”

  “Then I have the King to blame,” Will says. “You are a lawyer, sir. Can the King be taken to law? How should I proceed?”

  “Patience, Will,” Cromwell replies. In one short hour he has evaluated the young soldier, and finds him to be most suitable. Apart from that, Cromwell has a flaw. He likes, for no apparent reason, certain people, and his friendship is firm, and unwavering. He has been Cardinal Wolsey’s friend and loyal servant for many years, and will not drop him now, even in death. “Serve me well, and I will write to my friends in Florence, asking them to re-establish access to your fortune.”

  “My sword is yours, sir.” Draper bows, then adds: “For twelve pounds a year.”

  “I am more covetous of your mind,” Cromwell says. “It is young, and eager to learn. You will become one of my young men. I have Richard and Rafe, who are my known men, and help me with my daily legal work.. You will be my unknown man. A silent shadow, flitting about the place, sorting out things that are best not committed to writing.”

  Cromwell’s domestic arrangements are complicated. Richard Cromwell is eighteen, and a nephew who has recently taken his name as a sign of respect, and Ralph Sadler is twenty one, and a foundling, of sorts. He is Rafe to all, and Thomas Cromwell often plays cleverly on the pronunciation, saying tow for tough, or saying the young man is ‘a rough about my neck’. His friends laugh so politely that he thinks he must come up with better jokes.

  “You wish me to kill for you?” Will is testing the waters, to see how much of his soul this affable old devil wants.

  “Is it so hard a matter?” Cromwell asks. In his younger days, he fought for the French King in Italy, and killed men.

  “Not in the heat of battle,” Will concedes.

  “Then it is not a sin to kill for one’s country?”

  “You really do speak like a lawyer, sir,” Will responds. “Perhaps we should take each day as it comes. Bid me do this, or that, as you wish, and I will see what my conscience says.”

  “Well enough said,” Thomas Cromwell tells him. The Captain is young for such a position, but in a nation where half the people are under twenty, a man must mature quickly if he is to get on.

  A bed is warmed, and a fire lit. Will Draper is now a shadowy part of the household. Cromwell is a good host, and lights his new man to his allotted room, leading the way with a tall tallow candle.

  “They really told you to write that?” he asks, one last time. “They called him ‘bishop?” He tut tuts beneath his breath, and ushers Will into his room. “We rise early in Austin Friars. With the first cock crow, my friend!”

  Will crosses to the bed and falls into it. He feels as though he has come home. In a matter of moments he is in a deep sleep, untroubled by leering priests or a sad faced mother.

  Thomas Cromwell seldom sleeps more than a few hours each night. He has the work of two men to do, and so needs the stolen night time minutes. He returns to his warm study, and lifts down two slender, leather bound books from a high shelf. Each bears a title. One says ‘Amicis Gloriosum‘, and the other ‘Vindicatio’. He turns to the first page of the book of vengeance, reads the name and details thereon, and smiles to himself. Then he turns a dozen leaves, to the next empty page, takes up his quill, and writes. His letters are neatly formed, and written as beautifully as any monk or priest might manage. Not bad for a blacksmith’s son, he thinks.

  He carefully writes down the one name, Harry Percy, 6th Earl of Northumberland. Next to this he writes ‘ Canis reddam’ and underscores it twice.

  The dog will pay.

  3 The King’s Jew

  Will Draper wakes to find a suit of clothes laid out for him at the foot of the bed. This worries him greatly. That someone could enter his room, and not disturb him, is personally dangerous. The next time, they might come with a knife, or a deadly efficient garrotte, rather than a doublet and hose.

  He dresses, and admires the well cut jacket, with its slightly puffed sleeves and fine embroidery. On the sleeve the letter C has been picked out in gold thread. The black Worsted suit, and the unobtrusive ‘C’, marks him down as one of Master Cromwell’s men. He is dressed like a wealthy lawyer’s clerk, and it makes him smile. Clothes, indeed, really do maketh the man.

  The sword, when it is buckled on, will, perhaps, make him look slightly more sinister. It is double-edged, and has a distinctly foreign look to it. The sturdy iron hand-guard is in a figure-of-eight loop, and there is a small, gilded shield on the hilt. The yard long blade has three shallow fullers running along most of its length, to help the blood and gore flow away easily. The small shield on the grip is engraved with an angry looking bird. Colonel Foulkes once told him it is the Imperial Eagle of Germany. Taken from the body of a minor Irish lord, its origin will remain, for ever, a mystery.

  The overall impression is that you should be afraid of him, but not know why. He goes down the steeply pitched stairs and is directed by a small child to the kitchens, where a half dozen young men are sitting, eating breakfast.

  “Master Draper,” one of the men says, as he points to an empty stretch of bench. “You are just in time. There is bacon, fresh sheep kidneys, grilled livers, eggs, bread and cheese. What is your fancy?”

  Will can smell the meat and offal as it is being fried, a few feet away. He resists the urge to stuff himself, unsure as to what the day will throw at him. Instead, he takes some fresh baked bread, and a thick slice of creamy yellow cheese.

  “It is Dutch,” another says. “They make fine cheese in the Netherlands. My master says you have a message to deliver this morning, and for me to show you the way. The King is down river, visiting his lady, but will be back at noon.”

  “I am like a good hunting dog,” Will says. “Point me in the right direction, and let me off the leash.”

  This amuses the company, and they laugh and slap the table in appreciation. Will Draper is Thomas Cromwell’s faithful dog, they say, but what breed would he wish to be?

  “An Irish Wolfhound,“ Will replies, recognising their spirited good humour. There is no malice in this room. They are all in the same boat, and if their master ever falls from grace, they will sink or swim together. “I spent some years in Ireland, and much admired their ability to run down their prey.”

  Thomas Cromwell is suddenl
y amongst them, adjusting the folds of his black lawyer’s robe. No one has heard his approach, and the young men jostle to make room at the table for him. He bows his head, murmurs a brief prayer, and reaches for a fat blood sausage.

  “I care little what breed of dog you are, Master Draper, as long as you have a strong bite. Have you eaten yet? I see the suit fits. I guessed you to be the same size as Rafe.” He nods to one of the young men. He is slightly older than the rest, and has a strong looking face. Will nods his thanks, and bites into his bread.

  “Deliver your despatch, and come back to me, Will,” Cromwell mutters to him. The others play deaf. Their master has a new conscript, and will be busy with him for a while. There are things, secret things, to impart, and Thomas Cromwell is not the sort to delegate so important a task to a lesser man than he. “There is a delicate mission I want you to undertake.”

  One of the young men frowns, and makes as if to speak. Cromwell raises two fingers, stilling his voice. Richard Cromwell accepts his uncle’s unspoken decision, and subsides back into his place.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can, sir.” Will has never visited London before, and has a sketchy idea of how things work. Cromwell advises him to take a boat from London Bridge, upstream. The couple of pennies will be money well spent.

  “The city is congested, and a fleet footed man can go where a horse may not pass,” Cromwell tells him. “Take Barnaby Fowler with you. He knows the streets, and can help avoid the stews and bawdy houses.”

  Will tries to object, but is overruled. It is only later that he realises why Barnaby is there. Thomas Cromwell is a lawyer, and seldom takes any man’s word at face value. Fowler is to accompany the new man, not as a guide, but as a witness.

  Breakfast passes with a flurry of exchanges between master and men. Rafe is for the courts, to fetch some documents, Richard must ride to Putney to collect some rents. Another is detailed to attend on the harbour master at Tilbury. Even Cromwell’s son, young Gregory, home from school for the approaching Christmas festivities, is given a task. He is to exercise the greyhounds on the heath, and help his aunt about the great house.

  It has snowed a little during the night, and the edges of the river are frosted with ice. They stroll the half mile from Austin Friars, down towards the bridge. Will and Barnaby are out of luck. There is not a boat to be had, save one that has already been hailed by an elderly gentleman and his companions. The boatman ships oars and steps into the shallows, ready to help his passengers aboard.

  He stops, as if struck by a thunderbolt, then begins to cross himself with the right hand, and wave away the old man with the left. The old man protests and, beckoning to the woman and young man with him, attempts to approach the boat. The river man swears and raises his oar, as if to strike out.

  Will has seen enough. The men might well be able to fend for themselves, but the woman, he sees, is young, and very pretty. He approaches, and asks if he might be of service. The old man turns to him, with a surprised look on his face.

  “We seek only to take a boat up river, sir,” he says, gesturing to the boatman. “This rogue is refusing us passage.”

  “You can walk for all I care,” the man growls. “I’ll not hire out to you, or your sort.”

  “We wish to go the same way,” Will said, calmly. Barnaby comes up beside him, and pulls at his sleeve. He wants his new comrade to come away. There is hidden danger here. Will shrugs him off. “Would you refuse me, master boatman?”

  The man sees the cut of the new man, and the handy way he wears his sword. It hangs, ready for use, rather than dangles in a more fashionable way. Then he looks into his eyes, and casts his own down.

  “Begging your pardon, master, but I will take you and your companion to wherever you command.”

  “Then I shall hire you, good fellow. These people are with me. Help them aboard.” The man frowns. He is caught out, and hasn’t the wits to bow and keep his mouth shut.

  “They are Christ killers, sir,” he complains. “God tells us that we should not suffer them to live.”

  “Really?” He turns to Barnaby. “Come, my friend. You are a man of law. Can you not guide us in this matter?”

  Barnaby is a Cromwell man, which makes him one of the best trained legal minds in London. He sees Will is determined to win the day, and considers the matter.

  “Sir, might I beg of you your name?” he asks.

  “My name is Isaac ben Mordecai, of Toledo,” the old man responds. “These are my late son’s children, Moshe and Miriam.”

  “I see. May I ask if this man’s claim is correct? Did you, sir, by your own hand, murder our lord, Jesus Christ?”

  “I did not,” the old Jew replies, smiling. “Even I am not that old!”

  “There, boatman,” Barnaby says, climbing into the craft. He half expects an oar to come crashing down onto his unguarded head. “These people have a watertight alibi. Now, might I suggest you put your oars to their proper use, before my impetuous friend draws his blade. He is a mad Irishman who lives for adventure, and has done murder already this week.”

  Will touches the hilt of his sword, and the man returns to his oars, his face burning with anger. He is a river man, born stubborn, and must play a final card. His licence only allows for four passengers, he tells them. Barnaby sighs and opens his purse.

  “We shall count the young girl as baggage,” he says, “and pay the extra penny.” The matter is resolved. Will would have done it differently, and the boatman would have come off the worse for it. He holds out his hand and steadies first the old man, and then his pretty granddaughter as they board. The young Moshe jumps aboard, and seats himself directly opposite the rower, glowering at him. For two farthings, he would cut his throat.

  “You are from Toledo,” Will says. “Is that outside England, sir?”

  The old man smiles. Perhaps they do not possess maps in Ireland, he thinks. But then, he has never actually been to Toledo either. Claiming Spanish heritage is a required fiction. England’s laws will not suffer a Jew to live.

  “We are Spanish,” he replies, in perfectly good English. “My son and I came here, from Spain ten years ago. My family are bankers, and sought to open an office for business in London.”

  “I knew your son, sir,” Barnaby announces. “I handled a property lease for him last year. My condolences on his untimely death.”

  “Yes, the sweating sickness cares not for a man’s race, or creed.”

  “How is business, sir?” Barnaby asks, and turns his sleeve, so that the old Jew can see the delicate embroidery. He nods and strokes his beard.

  “It is improving, sir. We have your master to thank for that, I believe. He speaks to Cardinal Wolsey, and the Cardinal speaks to the King.”

  Will and Barnaby exchange glances. The letter is sealed, and so must their lips be. Instead, Will compliments Miriam on her exquisitely embroidered cloak. She blushes, and confesses that it is not her own work, but that of a Flemish woman. Will Draper finds her smile as exquisite as the cloak, and admires everything he sees. Hair, teeth, skin and eyes are, to his mind, perfection. He is a sensible fellow, and recognises the danger he is in from this girl.

  “Have you business in the city today?” Barnaby is probing, seeking information that might interest Thomas Cromwell. He has seen the girl too, but she is just a girl in his eyes. His master will tell him when to look at girls, how to speak to them, and which ones to consider for marriage.

  “The Butchers Guild wish to build a new hall, to advertise their wealth,” Mordecai says. “They must have two thousand pounds to do the job properly.”

  “They wish to borrow it from you?” Will asks. He has a grasp of money matters, and doesn’t understand why they cannot fund the building themselves.

  “They are a guild,” Miriam explains, without seeking permission to speak from her grandfather. “A loose association of butchers, some of whom are wealthy, and some not. They cannot spread the cost evenly. So, they borrow from us, and each man pays back
the same each month. This means that each man contributes evenly.”

  “But at a cost,” Will replies.

  “There is a price for everything,” the old Jew says. “I lend two thousand, and they return it, at four or five percent a year. Eventually, I will be helping to rebuild half of London. Perhaps the King might need my services, one day?”

  “If the Lombards do not return,” Miriam says, and leaves the statement hanging in the air. Barnaby stores it away in his memory, whilst Will drinks in her beauty. They part at the dockside, and Will watches until they vanish into the tumult.

  “A word of warning, my friend,” Barnaby says. “The Jews were expelled from England two hundred and forty years ago, under pain of death, should they return.”

  “They are Spanish,” Will says, and winks. Barnaby shrugs his shoulders in exasperation. How could the new man think of anything, other than his present duty? He plucks at his sleeve, drawing him out of the path of a lumbering brewers dray. Cromwell will not be pleased if his new young man is run over by a beer wagon.

  The house at Austin Friars loses much of it’s glamour when Will is confronted by the great York Place. Barnaby murmurs in his ear, explaining that there are several hundred rooms, and many miles of corridors to negotiate. The building was, until quite recently, the property of Cardinal Wolsey. Now it rivals the great Palace of Westminster as the hub for royal court business. Henry prefers it’s grander state rooms, and much admires Wolsey’s taste in wall hangings, furniture, and soft furnishings.

  There are guards at every door, but Will and Barnaby are Thomas Cromwell’s men, and passage is granted easily, often with a nod of recognition. Barnaby has been before, and leads Will deep into the buildings heart. Now and then, a courier, or some other household servant will stop and pass a few words with them.

  They are Cromwell’s creatures, and it does not do to ignore, or hinder them. The tittle-tattle runs ahead of them, and by the time they reach the outer rooms of Henry’s Inner Court, it is known that they have an important message for the King. They are stopped, at last, by a group of finely dressed gentlemen, who swagger towards them, hands resting lightly on ornate sword hilts. Barnaby bows to them, a grand, sweeping acknowledgement of their elevated positions.