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

by Anne Stevens

  “My Lord’s, may I name Captain Will Draper, late of the King’s army in Ireland.” There is a sigh of disappointment from the group. The subject of Ireland is of little interest to them, as it is seldom more than a plea for more men, or more arms. “He comes with a message, from Lord Percy, the Earl of Northumberland.”

  “What? The whelp Percy writes directly to the King?” Thomas Howard, the Duke of Norfolk is a solid enough man, made to seem bigger by the broadness of his fur outer cape. He is first amongst the gentlemen present, placed just above Charles Brandon, the upstart Duke of Suffolk, and sails through life like a Man O’War, with cannon blazing in every direction. “Give it to me!”

  He holds out his hand with casual disdain. Will shakes his head, and stands up to him. The communication is for the hand of King Henry, and none other. Harry Percy has said so. Norfolk growls and snaps like a bulldog.

  “Bugger Percy, his father was ever the same.”

  Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk, who fancies himself cleverer than Norfolk, suppresses a smile, and beckons Barnaby Fowler closer to him.

  “The King is with the Lady Anne in Esher,” he tells him. Then slips into French, knowing Norfolk is weak in this tongue. “How do we resolve this impasse?”

  “The letter must go to the Lord Chamberlain, until the King returns.” Barnaby explains.

  “That is too long,” Brandon tells him. “My Lord Norfolk will start tearing out throats if he must wait.”

  “Then let the message be kept, its seal unbroken,” Barnaby suggests, “and ask Captain Draper the right questions.”

  Suffolk smiles. He sees the way forward, and sends for the Lord Chamberlain.

  “Do you know the content of the letter, Captain?”

  Draper nods, slightly.

  “How is it with the Cardinal?” the Duke of Suffolk asks. “Is he well?”

  “To comment on that might compromise the contents of the letter,” Will says. The Duke takes a purse from his belt and hands it to the soldier. “We must await the return of Henry then.”

  Will bows, and they back out, obsequiously. Suffolk hands the sealed note to the waiting servant, for safe keeping.

  “Well?” Norfolk roars.

  “The bastard is dead,” Charles Brandon says. “The King will be devastated.”

  “I’ll be damned if he is!” Norfolk grunts. Suffolk is younger, and less important that Norfolk, but feels the need to instruct the head of the Howard clan. Yes, the King, will be upset. Wolsey has been a friend and advisor for many years. Henry will mourn, then look to see who whispered in his ear about so loyal a friend.

  “Bugger!”

  “Just so, My Lord Norfolk,” Suffolk says. “He will recall your spite, and the evil poison spread by agents of the Howard clan, and his mind will turn to revenge. Had Wolsey lived, Henry would have spared his life, but stripped him of all influence. That chance has gone, and only retribution remains.”

  “He will see how he needs us now,” Norfolk says, convinced of his own great worth.

  “How much does good West Country wool fetch these days, Norfolk?” Suffolk asks. “What do the Antwerp weavers charge?”

  “Surely, we have a man for that sort of thing,” Norfolk replies.

  “We do. His name is Wolsey,” Suffolk says, calmly. “You have thrown the dice once too often, my friend. With Wolsey gone, who will hold England together for Henry?”

  “Wolsey sat on his arse at Lambeth,” the older duke says. “He was taking fifty thousand a year for his pains.”

  “And putting ten times as much in Henry’s purse. Wake up, my lord, or there will be all hell to pay.”

  “You seem untroubled, Brandon,” Norfolk says, lashing out with the petulance reserved for powerful men. “Henry will remember how you baited Wolsey.”

  “In jest only,” Charles Brandon replies. “I never wanted his head on a spike. By the time Henry has finished mourning, this country must be running as smoothly as silk through our fingers. If not, he will turn on you, and on your niece, if she does not produce a male heir.”

  “Turn on Anne? Rubbish. He would sooner cut off his own head!”

  “Or yours, Norfolk. Or yours!”

  “What of Wolsey’s household?” Norfolk says, with sudden realisation. “There are men who know how to do our bidding.”

  “Make them your own,” Suffolk advises, but tongue in cheek. The cost will be enormous, even for a duke. “I would start with the blacksmith’s bastard.”

  “Cromwell?” Norfolk is not so sure. “Would he turn from his master so easily?”

  “Wolsey is dead, you fool. Who else will he serve?”

  “Well said,” Norfolk agrees. He sees the way forward now, and can turn his mind to more interesting things. “How is that new girl of yours? I hope your wife does not find out, Brandon, or Henry will be looking for your head!”

  Suffolk is blushing. Who is the fool now, Brandon, Norfolk thinks, with a cruel smile.

  Will Draper opens the purse, and tips the contents into the palm of his hand. He counts swiftly. Fifty shillings. A good morning’s work, he thinks, until Barnaby holds out his own hand. Being one of Cromwell’s young men, evidently, has its drawbacks, as well as its advantages.

  “One tenth goes to the master, and we split the rest around the breakfast table,” Barnaby explains. In the long run, Will Draper will benefit. Some mornings, there might be as much as twenty or thirty pounds to share.

  “Then I shall cherish my four shillings and sixpence,” Will says with a shrug. “It will feed Moll for the month.”

  “Captain Draper? I thought it was you.” Miriam is there, so close he can smell her fresh, soft skin. “Grandfather has business with someone inside, but the guards will not let us pass.”

  “Have you a summons?” Barnaby Fowler asks. Casual callers, even such pretty ones, are discouraged, he explains. May he see the paper? It is passed from the old Jew’s hand to Miriam‘s, and on to Will. Their fingers touch, as if by mere chance, and he is a happy man.

  “Your appointment is with Sir James Fitzwilliam, but he has not attached his seal,” Barnaby advises.

  Will takes the paper from his friend. and demands to see the Captain of the Guard. He is told, politely, to shove off. He squares up to the thick headed Sergeant, and juts out his jaw. He explains that the pass is valid, and is told again, but more firmly this time, to push off. Soon, he will be fighting the entire royal guard, his friend thinks. Barnaby takes the paper, folds a sixpence into it, and asks the man to check the document once more. Perhaps he has misunderstood the order?

  “My apologies, sir,” the illiterate sergeant says, slipping the coin into his glove. Barnaby Fowler has saved the day for a second time, but Miriam smiles only at Captain Will Draper. They part once again, sharing longing looks. Religious differences fade to nothing once love comes hammering at your heart.

  “You owe me sixpence,” Barnaby says, scowling at his comrade.

  “Can we not share out my debt at the breakfast table?”

  Barnaby laughs out loud. You cannot help but like this wild Irish Wolf Hound. Then he bids them hurry back to Austin Friars. There is great news for Thomas Cromwell to hear. There is? Will is at a loss. A message has been delivered, and a few shillings change hands. What is so important. he asks?

  “Why, the Jew, of course.” Isaac ben Mordecai, the mock Spaniard, is called to Court. Sir James Fitzwilliam is a distant cousin of the Tudors, and a trusted advisor to the Privy Purse. He arranges small private loans for the king.

  Will sees. Mordecai is important now, and Cromwell might want a messenger, ever at hand to visit him. The old man seems a pleasant enough fellow, and the girl… Miriam… is an angel. He ponders on the difficulty of her religion, but has none of his own to compare. If he pays court, she will disavow her faith, and join her ‘Spanish’ blood with his own. Will she not?

  “Get your head out of the clouds, Will,” Barnaby advises. “We are at war, and there is no time for foolishnes
s.”

  “War?” Will is confused. “When did this happen?”

  “Why, two evenings past,” his friend tells him. “When Cardinal Wolsey drew his last breath. Master Cromwell must shore up his barricades. For he will be at war with every idiot who wants to rule England.”

  “Henry rules.”

  “Of course, but who will rule Henry? Every landed lord in the country thinks they know how best to order a nation. We are, truly, a land of fools.”

  Will considers this, all the way back to Austin Friars. He sees clearly that he might have joined the losing side, but it is of no matter to him. He likes Thomas Cromwell, and that is that. His mind turns to his next task, and he wonders why Richard Cromwell wanted it.

  4 The King’s Lady

  The Welsh Cob is saddled and waiting in the court yard at Austin Friars. Young Gregory has tended the horse well, and holds her by the bridle. Will ruffles the boy’s hair and offers a penny. It is turned down disdainfully by Cromwell’s son. He is learning how to be a gentleman and, one day, all this will be his.

  “She is a fine animal,” Gregory says. “Has she a name?”

  Will Draper shakes his head. It is a horse, won in battle, to suit his purpose. The boy is not content with this, and decides to call her Moll. She responds by nuzzling him.

  “See? She likes the name, Master Draper.” Gregory busies himself with tightening the girth a fraction more. Clever horses inhale when they are first saddled, he explains. Then Moll will exhale, and the girth loosens. An unwary rider can end up in a ditch that way.

  Will thanks him, and asks if he knows how far it is to a town called Esher.

  “Father says it is about eight or nine miles,” Gregory replies. “He used to visit Esher Place often, when the Bishop of Winchester was residing there.”

  Bishop of Winchester is a title held by the Bishop of York, who was Cardinal Wolsey, and Esher Place was his favourite home. It belongs to another now, and Will is deputed to visit the new owner.

  “Here,” Thomas Cromwell says, handing him a small box, wrapped in a piece of the finest satin, and tied with a yellow bow. “This is to go into the lady’s own hand, Will. No others, not even the King’s. If you are stopped at the door, bluster your way in. If they offer you violence, then offer it them back ten fold. Your heroic demeanour will appeal to the lady. Or so I hope.”

  “What if they kill me?” Will asks. He doubts that would be the case, but it does no harm to ask these things. One should know the rules of engagement, if nothing else.

  “I shall be saved twelve pounds a year,” Cromwell mutters. “Perhaps I should send Richard, or Rafe in your stead?”

  He takes the parcel, and asks for directions. Cromwell speaks quickly, as if he needs to get the words out before he changes his mind. Will must ride fast, and arrive at Esher Place before the news of the Cardinal’s death does. There is a message, of course, but not one to be committed to paper.

  “Go with God,” Gregory says as Will digs his heels into his horses flanks.

  “I fear Moll cannot carry two,” he banters, and the child smiles at the irreverent response. He waves, but Draper is already out of sight. It is December, and night will fall before four o’clock. He must push on, or sleep in some haystack on the way.

  Esher is in Surrey, which means a trip over the bridge. Will has never crossed the Thames before, and is eager to see the marvellous structure. He is disappointed. The bridge is clogged with carts, and women selling their wares. Will must dismount and lead Moll across, as much for his own sake, as hers.

  A knot of men are standing idle at the southern end of the great bridge. They sum Will up, noting the sword, and the embroidered cuff. A Cromwell man, about his business, they realise, and melt away. To interfere with one of Cromwell’s black suited crows can get a man killed with surprising ease these days.

  Esher is a prosperous, though small town. In his day, Wolsey spent money like water, and the local trades people have done well. They will be sorry to hear of his death, but will mourn quietly. Esher Place is under different management now, and allegiances are like the royal pennants that flutter in the breeze, first this way, and then that.

  “Who goes there?” The older of the two pike men at the gate has a stentorian voice, and his companion gives a start, as if he had been dozing at his post.

  “A message for Her Ladyship,” Will says, as instructed. Tell them a little, but in a firm, commanding way, Cromwell has told him. The guards look at one another, stupidly. After a moment, the older man signals to his comrade to step aside.

  “Leave your mount for a groom, sir,” he says. “You need the door at the far side of the quad. They will want your sword.”

  Let them want. Thomas Cromwell says it must be done quickly, before too many people become involved. It will not do for the good lady’s confidants to be swarming around. The message is for her delicate ears alone.

  He dismounts and runs up the steps, passing a guard, who has time only to salute. He recognises a military man, and assumes someone else will intercept him before long. Will is almost at the great chamber, as described to him by Cromwell, before two gentlemen step into his path.

  “Ho! You there,” the first man says. “Your business here?”

  “To speak with your lady.”

  “Stand!” They sense something is amiss, and draw their swords together. Will’s own blade comes out like a serpent, striking from its lair, and cold steel clashes. They are so surprised, that he is able to parry both blades, and step past them. The door is at his back now, and the two men are too shocked to respond. Will sheaths his sword, turns, and pushes into the room. A flurry of women scatter, leaving one, alone in the middle of the room. She is quite pretty, in a tiny, angular way, and is wearing a yellow gown. Her favourite colour. Cromwell knows. The ribbon attests to this. Will goes down on one knee and removes his hat with a huge flourish. The men behind are still too stupefied to react. They should have cut him down by now. So far, so good. Cromwell may yet have to pay out his twelve pounds.

  “My Lady Boleyn,” Will says. “I have a surprise, and a message from my master.” The woman appraises him. He is rugged, and handsome. She is reminded of Harry Percy in his younger days, and gives him a quizzical smile.

  “Who is that?” she asks.

  “My master bids me tell you that the lion is dead.” She stiffens, then waves the two gentlemen away. They have failed her, and will be made to do penance at some future date. She beckons him nearer. He rises, and approaches, until he is within touching distance. Will finds himself making a comparison between Lady Anne and Miriam, the Jew’s daughter. It is like trying to compare ice with fire.

  “Is this really true?” There is the faint lisp of a French accent, which creeps out, unbidden on occasion. She knows who is meant by reference to the lion. “Wolsey has fallen, so quickly?”

  “Not to the headsman’s block, my lady,” Will says. “He died, by God’s good grace, peacefully in bed.”

  “His own?” She hates the man, and can’t resist a final sneer. Will shrugs, and takes the parcel from his breast. Anne sees the beautiful yellow ribbon, and sighs. Will holds it out for her.

  “My master instructs me to tell you this. He never had so good a master, and mourns for the Cardinal. That apart, he says that a good horse needs a good rider.”

  “You are from Cromwell?” She smirks. Cromwell is a spent force without Wolsey. He sends someone to plead for his life. “Is he too afraid to come himself?”

  “He is busy, my lady. He says that if you ask, I am to tell you that there will never be an annulment.”

  “He dares to say that?” She is a shrewd woman, and suspects that there is more than an insult meant by this. She opens the parcel, and finds a huge, yellow Chalcedony Agate ring nestled inside.

  “It is a fact,” Will parrots. “There will be no more crawling to Rome, and you will be Queen within two years.”

  “Only if Katherine is dead.” Anne would trade Wolsey’s de
ath for the queen’s without a moment’s hesitation.

  “Not so.” Will realises that his new master has predicted the conversation, almost word for word. Now, she will ask how it is to be managed.

  “Then how?” Will shrugs, and smiles.

  “I am but the messenger, my lady.” he says. “Perhaps, if you summoned my master, he could explain?”

  “Tell him to come,” Anne decides. The gift is perfectly chosen, and the accompanying offer is interesting. Besides, if it displeases her, she can always talk to Henry. Cromwell’s head on a spike would be almost as satisfactory as Wolsey’s.

  Will stares at the proffered hand for a moment, encased in the finest of kid gloves, then realises he is meant to kiss it. He makes a hash of it, first forgetting to flourish, then actually allowing his lips to make contact. He is no courtier.

  Mary Boleyn, never far from her sister’s side, comes out of a shadow and ushers Will outside. She is the opposite of her sister, all yellow hair and rose like complexion. Her dress is cut in the latest French fashion, and Will is treated to an ample portion of bosom. She notices his glance, and smiles.

  “Lady Anne will send word,” she says. “Do try not to stab any of the nice gentlemen on your way out, Captain Draper!”

  “Your servant, my lady,” he says, unsure who she is. “Is she ever that cold?”

  “You have come on a good day, sir,” Mary says, laughing. “Most of the time, my sister is throwing things, and cursing like a Paris whore.”

  Will has strayed from his remit. If you survive the giving of my message, Thomas Cromwell has told him, run for your life. He decides to bow and kiss Mary’s hand. She lets him linger with his lips, then chases him out into the darkening night.

  “That is a strange one,” Anne says, once her sister returns.

  “A handsome one, certainly,” Mary tells her. “He kissed my hand.”