by Anne Stevens
“That is not my concern, sir. Master Cromwell has promised the king that…”
“Cromwell? Hah! Is the old scoundrel struggling to satisfy His Majesty these days? He and I were colleagues once, you know, but Wolsey set us at each others throats. Has he told you the story of how we quarrelled over the matter of William Tyndale? No, I see not from the look on your face. Did you not know your master is a dangerous heretic?”
“Then I am sure Sir Thomas More will gladly prosecute him,” Will replies. He has heard of Tyndale, and his notorious English bible, and knows that a copy of it resides in his master’s study. “The Lord Chancellor has a way of turning men from Satan, has he not? A turn of the rack, and the smell of roasting flesh.”
“More is a fool. He thinks himself to be safe, because of his great reputation,” Gardiner says, then falls into silence. Cromwell‘s man has been handed an easy victory. “There, you may run off and tell Tom Cromwell that I dislike Thomas More. He will note it down in his book, and drop you a shilling for your trouble.”
“I have no interest in the squabble between two old fishwives, Master Gardiner.” Will sees that this stings. He has scored a hit on England’s second finest lawyer. “I want only an answer to my questions.”
“Which are?”
“When did you leave Sir Thomas this morning?”
“About nine.”
“He says sooner.”
“Then, perhaps it was.”
“Where were you between eight and nine?”
“With More for a little while, trying to get him to forbear annoying Henry. Then, I went for a stroll in the gardens. They look so lovely at this time of year.”
“Did you pick any blooms,” Will says. It is a stab in the dark, but stranger things happen. “I hear that two lovely flowers were up and about early. The Lady Margaret and Jane, her sister.”
“That is a damned lie!”
“Your pardon, sir, but how do I lie?”
Stephen Gardiner is a man of letters, much admired for his cleverness, his honesty, and his religious nature. To better his career, he has taken holy orders.
“You seek to slur my character, Captain.” Gardiner draws himself up and turns, as if to cut Will dead.
“Better that than the suspicion of murder, Master Gardiner,” Will says, and the man’s back hunches, as if a knife has been driven between the shoulder blades. He turns, his face suffused with horror.
“Then it’s true. The Jew is dead?”
“Murdered. I am looking for someone who cannot state where they were at nine o’clock.”
“Dear Christ, young man, I am in holy orders,” Gardiner tells him. “Think what you are asking me to confess to.”
“Not so, sir.” Will understands now. Stephen Gardiner is the kind of priest who cannot eschew the comforts of the flesh, and with two sisters! There is plainly more to the man than Will thinks. Lady Margaret and her sister will confirm who their bed partner was, and that he slipped away early to bring them a little gift of gold for their efforts. Cromwell will love this! “I see nothing to be ashamed of. As a man of the church, it is only proper that you meet with these two Magdalene’s, and try to dissuade them from their carnal ways.”
“What? Oh, I see. Yes. I sought them out to turn them back onto the right path.” Gardiner is saved, and by a Cromwell man. He does not quite see why.
“The ladies will be questioned… in a day or two… and may be asked who they shared their favours with last night. Perhaps you might speak with them before then, and insist they name their lover.”
“Oh, God. What do you mean?”
“I am absolutely sure they will name Harry Percy.”
“They will? I mean, yes… they will.”
“I know this might show Percy in a bad light with the King, but he is an unpleasant young man, and needs to be taken down a peg or two.”
Stephen Gardiner smiles. Percy is no friend to him, and does nothing to help in the matter of Henry’s annulment. He bows to Will, and searches his belt for his purse. Draper holds out a staying hand.
“No need, sir. Your innocence is clear to me. All I want in return is your friendship… for my master.”
“You strike a hard bargain, Captain Draper,” Gardiner says, “but we were friends once, I know.”
“Master Cromwell is with you on the great matter of the King, and will seek your support, one day.” Gardiner nods. He will be Thomas Cromwell’s friend, as long as it helps the King, but he fears they will disagree over Tyndale.
“It is just a book, sir,” Will says. “Few can read anyway, and a few words mumbled in English, rather than Latin will do no harm. Give Harry Percy a copy, and he will have his kitchen girls wrap fish in its pages.”
“Not all are as loutish as Northumberland,” Gardiner says.
“He is on my list,” Will replies. “Do you know his whereabouts, Master Gardiner?”
“What hour is it?”
“About six, sir.”
“Then you must try the dog pits in Westminster,” Stephen Gardiner says. “He has barbaric tastes.”
So he does. Will finds his quarry roistering at Jeb Huntley’s dog pit. It is the best in London, and caters for both gentry, and aristocracy.
“My Lord Percy?” Will bows, but watches Jennings, who sidles off to one side. Harry Percy downs the cup of ale in his hand, and stares at the newcomer. The face is familiar, he thinks.
“I have come from the King, to ask…”
“What does the old man want now?” Percy sneers. “He has my woman, and prates to me about the immorality of his marriage to Katherine. Shall I come and help him in his privy?”
“Have a care,” Sir Andrew Jennings urges. “This one is a Cromwell dog. I can smell them a mile off. You are the one we sent with news of Wolsey’s death, aren’t you?”
“I am, sir.”
“That was a bad day’s work. The King still bears a grudge against us. As if we’d knocked the old man on the head, our own selves,” Jennings says. “My Lord Percy is presently in his cups, and speaks without thought.”
“A dangerous occupation,” Will replies.
“As is yours,” Jennings says, smiling. “Messengers often end up floating in the river.”
“Have a care, sir,” Will tells him. “Read this before you decide to make of me an enemy.” He holds out the warrant, and Jennings, his lips moving, reads it for Harry Percy.
“I see. What do you want of us?”
“Your whereabouts between eight and nine this morning.”
“We were both in bed,” Jennings says.
“Together?”
Jennings wants to draw his blade, and teach the man a sharp lesson. Instead, he laughs and pats Percy on the back.
“Hear this, Harry? The lout thinks we make the beast together. I warrant you’d want a prettier face than mine.”
“You were seen in court at eight.” Wills catches Percy’s glance, and Jennings look back, saying, keep quiet, I will tend to this.
“By whom?”
“People. Several, and diverse, sir.”
“You talk like a lawyer.”
“I seek the truth.”
“My Lord Percy and I … cannot recall. Ah, here are the dogs.”
Jennings turns his back on Will Draper, shielding him from his master. Two men appear, each holding a leashed dog. The animals are placed in the deep pit, and, as men cluster around, the beasts are released at one another in a frenzy of blood lust.
The crowd, who have backed one dog or the other, scream, and push their way to the front. Will loses Percy for a moment, then sees him, standing alone. One of the dogs is on the other’s back, its teeth sinking into its neck. Flecks of blood spatter the watching mob.
Where is Jennings? Will remembers Suffolk’s story, of how he fell on the farmer from behind. The hairs on his neck stand on end. He glances over his left shoulder, just in time to see the man moving on to him. He half turns, takes the man’s wrist as he tries to push, and trips hi
m as he lunges.
The look of fright on Jennings’ face is there, frozen in a moment of time. Then he is gone, tumbling into the pit. The crowd roar their appreciation as the dogs turn on this new intruder. Will steps back, even as Jennings’ screams begin to tear the air. The dogs owners will not let a gentleman die. It is bad for business. They jump in the pit, with shouts and curses, and drive the dogs off their terrified prey.
Outside, Will takes in a gulp of fresher air. He has never liked the smell of blood overly much, despite his profession. A young boy, little more than a child, sidles up and offers his sister for a shilling. He sees that this is not a runner, so offers something else instead.
“Give us a penny, an’ I’ll tell you something,” he says. Will is about to brush the child away, but there is that in his tone that makes him pause. He rummages in his purse, brings out some small coppers, and teases the child with them.
“Make it good, and I’ll give you these.” he says. The boy is hungry, and the money tempts him.
“Someone is following you.” Will nods. He flips a penny to the boy. This is a story that must be paid for by the inch, he thinks.
“Who?” The boy smiles, and holds out his palm. Another penny is exchanged. He bites it. The time honoured method of testing the metal’s worth shows the coin to be as good as the first.
“Me.”
“You? Clever lad. Who set you onto me?”
“A priest, sir. Is that worth another penny?”
“Only if you tell me everything,” Will says. “I am one of the King’s men, and to follow me may see you on the gallows.”
“I can’t tell a tale with a rope around my neck, master.” The boy is a smart one. “This priest is standing outside the jakes when I comes out. You get a lot of Godly sorts waiting around there. The public privy pit seems to attract their sort.”
“Their sort?”
“Sodomites, sir. Only this one just wants me to follow you about for the day.” The boy smiles, knowingly. “I was getting tired of it, and thought I might get you to stay at Moll Deakins’ for an hour or two. She is a good sort, and does not overcharge for her services.”
“Then she’s not your sister?”
“Bless, no, sir. The gentlemen just find it more fun if they think they are tupping my sister. They tip me more copper.”
“You are an enterprising lad. How were you meant to report to this priest?”
“I wasn’t, sir. I was just meant to follow you, and warn you if any evil is afoot.”
“You failed, young fellow.”
“I never thought one of your own was going to do you harm,” the boy replies. “I thought the priest meant some rough or other. I swear. I don‘t think that fellow will make another attempt. Not after the dogs have chewed on him. I was fit to burst laughing.”
“Do you have a name?”
“I do, but I don’t want it written down, sir.”
“It shall be between us. My word, as a gentleman.” Will is intrigued. A boy as guardian angel?
“Adam Bright, if it please… and if it don’t. For that is all I have.” The boy pockets his coins. “Am I to carry on my job?”
“Why not?” Will tells him. “The priest has paid you for it, has he not? Trail behind, and watch.”
“I saw you come out of York Place,” Adam says. “The guards will not let me trespass there.”
“Wait outside then. I can deal with any I find within.”
“Have a care, master. There ain’t no dog pits in the King’s palaces.”
True. Though there are some dangerous creatures roaming the corridors, it seems. A friendly priest, and a murderous tax collector, Will thinks. It is a heady mix. At that moment, Harry Percy, Earl of Northumberland comes staggering out from the dog pit, and throws up.
“Can I be of assistance, my Lord?”
“You again?” Percy looks like warmed over death on a plate. “You threw my man to the dogs!”
“Drew Jennings will heal, sir.” Will takes the Duke by his elbow, and moves him out of the road of a passing cart. “You say the King stole your woman. How so?”
“The Lady Anne.”
“Have a care. Your tongue will lose you your head, sir. Jennings was right to silence you when he did.”
“My lovely Anne. We were betrothed, you know. She pledged herself to me before a priest. Then the bastard Wolsey became involved. I told him… I said… we are one, and he laughed in my face. He gets to his feet, and roars for Cromwell. Of course, that was that. You don’t cross Thomas Cromwell, do you?”
“What happened?” Will bites his tongue. He does not wish to know. Every word is treasonable, and likely to ruin anyone touched by the affair.
“Tom Cromwell wasn’t so high and mighty back then,” Percy says. “He took me by the throat, and swore he would rip it out if I uttered another word. Then he had me taken back to Northumberland, where my father… rot his soul in hellfire… told me to marry another.”
“This was before the King looked on Lady Anne with favour?”
“Yes. I was too grand for her. Her father tried to outdo Wolsey and make the marriage hold, but old Boleyn is a coward at heart. The Cardinal snapped his fingers, and Cromwell saw him off. He called Wolsey a butcher’s boy, and Cromwell struck him to the ground, and kicked his arse back to Norfolk.”
“Enough, sir. You must hold your tongue.”
“Whilst I still have it?” Percy pulls away, and sets off down the filth strewn street. “Have a care, Cromwell’s cur, for he has made too many enemies to live much longer!”
Will shakes his head. It is easy to see why his master surrounds himself with loyal young men. Men who would die for his sake. Percy hates him, and George Boleyn hates him for his father’s sake. It is a wonder that it is Isaac who is dead, when others seem to have so many enemies. He signals to Adam Bright. The boy runs over to him.
“Sir?”
“You see that gentleman?”
“Lord Percy, sir?”
“You know him?”
“A regular with the working girls I run errands for, sir.” Adam grins. “They say he often has trouble with his lordly pintle, but pays never the less.”
“I see. Fall in with him, and guide him to a nice clean house, where he can be with a nice clean girl. See he is kept out of harms way.”
“It will take silver, sir.”
“Here.” Two silver shillings change hands, and the child runs off, after the third most powerful man in England. There, Will thinks, that is Percy out of the way for a while. May God teach him to keep his mouth shut henceforth.
“Any news, brother?” Miriam’s eyes are puffed, and red with tears. She places a hand on Moshe’s forearm.
“Will is abroad, trying to uncover the villain.”
“You should be by his side.”
“I am torn, sister,” Moshe replies. He wants to help his soon to be brother in law, but fears to leave his sister alone. Jew killers seldom stop at one, and he loves her too much to risk her life.
“I am safe in Austin Friars,” Miriam says. “These are good people, and treat me well.” Moshe ben Mordecai, now Morden, sees the truth of this. He himself has been absorbed into the household without a murmur of dissent. The rest of Cromwell’s young men call him ’Mush’ and bait him with slices of pork at breakfast. It is good natured, and they will do anything to help one another.
“I’ll seek your Will out,” he agrees, “but only if you swear not to leave the grounds of Austin Friars.”
“On the bible?” she says, and they both smile. A change of name cannot change three thousand years of history.
“The English one that Master Thomas has under his bed,” Moshe replies. “The Gospel according to Tyndale will tear this country apart, sister.”
“Ah, Mush, there you are,” Rafe steps from behind a half open door. “Not thinking of going out, are you?”
“My sister thinks Will might need me.”
“I’ll come along… for the company.”
“No need.”
“And Richard will come too,” Rafe Sadler continues, ignoring his friends protestations. “I dare say Barnaby fancies a stroll with us also.”
“This is becoming a war party, Rafe.” Moshe says. Rafe shrugs.
“Who strikes one, strikes us all, Mush. The master says that, and we believe it to be so. If there is a Jew killer at large, then we are all Jews, until further notice.”
“Thank you,” Moshe bows. “It will be an honour, sir. We might have a better chance of finding Will mob handed.”
“Fiddle sticks,” Rafe says. “We have a hundred men stationed all over London. Once word is out, we will have our man run to earth in moments.”
“God’s speed,” Miriam tells them. There is only one God, in her book, whatever men call Him. “And Moshe, keep your temper… should you find our grandfather’s murderer.”
“Of course,” Moshe says, but his fingers are crossed tightly behind his back. His history stretches back over four millennia, and is essentially tribal. The God of Abraham is not known for either his leniency or his forgiveness, and his chosen people have learned to understand their allotted place in the world. The Jews are hated and reviled across Europe, and they have no right to either law, or human justice in English eyes.
Moshe has but one thought in his mind. Strike me and mine, and I will strike back, tenfold. Whether with the sword, or through more devious, fiscal means, the ben Mordecai family will be avenged.
12 The Cardinal’s Cook
Will Draper has been sitting in a chair all night. His mind is full of tiny scraps of knowledge, each jostling for position. His list of suspects is still long, for great men do not soil their own hands, if they can avoid it. Sir Thomas More is, theoretically, the most powerful commoner in England, and can bid a man’s death with a stroke of the quill, but why do it so secretively? He could unmask a Jew, and have him burnt in the blink of an eye, and the King would have to stand idly by.
Brandon, Earl of Suffolk owed the victim money, but is more likely to curl up in a corner, feeling sorry for himself than to drive home a dagger. Then again, he is friend to old Norfolk, and the Duke of Norfolk knows no restraints. Tom Howard’s blood line is bested by none, and he knows it. If a man stands in his way, then Norfolk will strike like a viper.
