by Anne Stevens
Why though? Norfolk might owe money, but it is of no consequence. No court in the land will find against him, if they value their own skins. Perhaps Isaac has transgressed in another way? What if it is political? What if the Lombard bankers wished Isaac out of the way, so as to clear their own path back? Will ponders these things into the wee small hours.
Sir Thomas More is political too, of course. He is a true Catholic, and cannot suffer another creed. He might wish the loan to fail, if only to bring King Henry back to Pope Clement again. Will imagines the two great men, Henry and Clement, kissing one another’s hands, but it is not an easy image to picture.
And tall, spare, Stephen Gardiner is another enigma. The man is ordained, yet lets him know he has been with women of loose morals for an alibi. Is he buying his innocence from a murder charge by letting his moral turpitude show?
Then there is Harry Percy, Duke of Northumberland, by the Grace of God. Henry is angry with him, because he handled the Wolsey arrest so badly. He should be as far from court as he can manage, until the storm dies down. He and Suffolk are a pair cast from the same mould, though one is more likeable than the other.
Circles within circles. Will Draper begins to wonder if he is the man for this job at all. Then it is dawn, and he opens the door to his room at court to find a pile of snoring young men outside. He sticks out a boot, and nudges a black clothed thigh.
“Good morning Rafe… Richard… Mush… and who is that at the bottom of this undignified pile?… ah…my dear old Barnaby. Sleep well, my friends?”
They struggle to their feet, smooth out crumpled black livery, and bow good mornings to their friend. It is a full day since the murder, and Henry is known to be an impatient monarch. If Will takes too long, the King of England will pluck a name from the hat at random, and hang the wrong man.
“We are here as bodyguards,” Moshe says. “What can we do to help?”
“Disperse throughout the Court. Listen to every dark whisper, in every dark corner,” Will says. He wants the gossip. Amongst the hundred silly stories told, there will be a few threads of truth. “I must question certain folk today, without observation.”
“Did you not speak with every suspect person yesterday?” Rafe asks. More questions will mean more upset, and might bring danger knocking at all their doors.
“I am done with all these suspects. I can make a case against each one,” Will says. “Suffolk this, Norfolk that, and Percy the other. No, my friends, now I must talk to witnesses.”
“Witnesses?” Richard Cromwell says, rubbing his eyes. He is a big, bear of a man, and the blood takes longer to reach his brain in a morning.
“I thought there were none,” Barnaby says.
“Not eye witnesses,” Will Draper tells them. It is a new thought he has. It came with the dawn, and will not leave him be. York Place is a silent witness, and must surrender her secrets. “I think the murder was planned, and I think the seeds of the crime were sewn in the past.”
“Whose past?” Moshe asks.
“York Place’s past,” Will Draper says. “The old secrets of York Place will reveal the truth to me. I must go down to the kitchens.”
“Ah, breakfast!” Richard is now fully awake. “Perhaps they will feed us all, if we show them the King’s warrant? A man cannot run down murderers on an empty stomach.”
“Sleep well, Will?” It is Harry Cork. He is suddenly amongst them, holding a bowl of rose water. “For the Lady Mary’s room. It seems the king was afraid of nightmares, and needs must have a dainty hand to hold in the dark. Mary dabs it on her wrists, and any other place Henry might wish to kiss.”
“Rose petals?” It is January. Will is not a gardening man, but the bushes are all bare in the gardens. “Where do they come from?”
Harry Cork shrugs. They simply appear. Like the ice in summer, or cucumbers out of season. Someone says ‘Here, take this, fellow’ and he takes it. Is it important? They look at one another. It is a mystery, but not one that seems to touch on the murder. Will is not so sure about this, and frowns at the innocent looking bowl.
“Do you put rose petal water in all the rooms, Harry?” Will does not know why he asks, but it suddenly seems to be important. His friend frowns back at him at him, as if he is losing some portion of his wits.
“Not all,” he replies. “Mostly in the King’s private quarters, and the rooms of any favoured guests.”
“Like Lady Mary?”
“Amongst others,” Harry tells him, dropping his voice. “Henry has an eye for the pretty ones. They say he makes up for Lady Anne’s coolness towards him by ravishing her ladies in waiting at every opportunity. It is said his royal member is prodigious.”
“You do well to whisper such a disgraceful thing, Harry,” Will says. “We must not detain you any longer. The Lady Mary Boleyn will have great need of her rose petal water.”
Harry Cork leaves, and Barnaby Fowler chuckles in an unpleasant way, then makes an odd quacking noise. Will Draper is astonished. He turns to him and asks why.
“One of Master Cromwell’s lame ducks,” Barnaby says, shrugging his shoulders.
“I don’t understand.” Will’s voice has hardened.
“Barnaby means no slight against your friend, Will,” Rafe Sadler says, soothingly. “It is just the master’s way. If he takes to you, there is nothing he will not do for you. You become one of his young men, and your future is assured. I offer you as an example of this. If he is not impressed at all… well, he acts otherwise. He does not like to turn anyone away, you see.”
“Speak plain,” Will says.
“Harry Cork is judged as simply not good enough for Master Cromwell’s service, but he is your friend, and so the master takes pity on the poor thing. He declines to take Harry on, but recommends him to the king’s service instead. Henry is satisfied. The King thinks he has taken on one of Wolsey’s best young men, you see. Master Cork is so pleased, he fails to see he has been rejected by the better employer.”
“Poor Harry Cork. He thinks he is Thomas Cromwell’s secret eyes and ears in the king’s court,” Will says. “He did me a service I will find it hard to repay.”
“No harm done,” Rafe replies. “If he wishes to pass on any bits of tittle tattle, Master Cromwell will thank him, and drop a few silver coins in his hand for his trouble. The simple truth is that we know what Harry Cork knows, before Harry Cork knows it!”
The kitchens at York Court are astounding. Designed and built to Cardinal Wolsey’s strict desires, they are big enough to feed half of London. They contain all the most modern equipment, and are staffed by over a hundred trained men. There are butchers, sauce makers, specialists in cooking fowl, pie bakers, pot cleaners, spit turners, servant boys, and assistant cooks. The huge spits work around the clock, and take two boys apiece to keep them turning. As one boy tires, he is replaced by another, fresher one. Each day, the butchers slaughter and dismember twenty sheep, fifty pigs, and whole flocks of pigeons, quail, ducks, and swans.
The junior members of the staff are set to salting pork, curing fish and beef carcasses, and rendering fat into lard. The sauce makers have each served a year in the French court, discovering the secrets of Cathay spices, and Indian condiments, as well as the hundred ways to use creams in sauces. They are above the mundane peeling, pounding and roasting, and sit, like alchemists, mixing their nostrums.
There are even two musicians in the great kitchen. Their job is to stroll amongst the workers, playing merry tunes on their flutes, or beating a rhythm on small snare drums to keep the cooks at their tasks.
Of them all, the cooks claim to be the most important. There are a dozen men, again trained in the French method, and overseen by Wat Turner, the master cook. He is of truly amazing girth, and it is said that no dish leaves his kitchen, unless he first samples it. In a competition against the French King’s man, he won the purse by swallowing sixty oysters in one sitting, washed down with a half gallon of strong ale.
Cardinal Wolsey admired
the man enough to pay him more than any other cook in London, and enjoyed his cooking, almost to the last. To taste everything was a huge task, and ensured nothing tainted got through. Other kitchens could not match his skill, and great men often tried to buy his services from the Cardinal. Turner wanted to go north with his master at the end, but Wolsey refused, saying he must serve the house, rather than the man.
“Now, there was a real gentleman,” Wat Turner says, when Will asks. “I was with Wolsey from the age of nine. I built this kitchen for him, and never knew a kinder man. God rest his poor, betrayed soul.” He crosses himself fervently, and Will Draper copies the motion, muttering an appropriate amen.
“Master Cromwell speaks highly of him, still.”
“Aye, and to the King’s face,” the old cook says. “No one loved his master as much as Cromwell did the Cardinal. He drops in, now and then, to exchange recipes. His cook is almost my equal. I trained him myself, so no surprise there, I think. What can I do for you, sir?”
“I am seeking history, Master Turner. Can you tell me about the time before King Henry took York Place?”
“Stole it, more like.” The cook is confident of his position. Even a King will not chop the head off so talented a man. “Cardinal Wolsey was a good, almost saintly, man. Henry was poisoned against him, by lesser folk. I look no further for blame than the Boleyn family. Though it must be said that Harry Percy hated poor Cardinal Wolsey with a vengeance too.”
“And Norfolk?” Will prompts.
“Yes, Norfolk wanted him dead also, and he finally got his evil, misbegotten way,” Turner says, “but who can run England now, sir? Answer me that, if you can. It is too great a task, even for dear old Tom Cromwell, and his young men. Oh, how this great house rang with joy when Cromwell and his boys came a calling. He would come in, with his arms full of cherries, apples and pears, and demand I make them into dishes for the Cardinal. It was he who suggested the idea about the red roses.”
“The roses?”
“Master Cromwell suggested we pot some in good, well manured soil, and keep them close to the warm hearths. They flower right through from September to March that way. The boys take the fallen petals and float them in the wash bowls, to help the fine ladies stink less. I dare say Mary Boleyn uses her fair share.”
“Ah, I see.“ Will smiles at the solution to a small riddle. “My master is a wily one.”
“Like a fox, Though he always made enough noise to warn my old master of his coming, did Cromwell. He was common born, right enough… who isn’t… but he really understood.”
“About the women?” Will has an idea, and knows only below stairs knowledge will do now. His arrow is only slightly off target.
“Not women, sir. Bless my soul, the Cardinal was not one for rampant carnality,” Wat Turner says. “It was just the one. A fine, well upholstered lady, sir, even if not of very good birth. The dear old rascal kept her in an adjoining room. ‘Feed her up well, Master Wat’ he would say to me. Then, when any important folk called, he would slip her away from sight.”
“Like magic, eh?” Will laughs at the idea of the Cardinal‘s voluptuous bed partner. “The Cardinal knew how to juggle his public and private life, I see.”
“He did sir, and so clever about it too. Why, even now, this house refuses to give up her secrets.”
“Tell me them, Master Turner,” Will says. “I am in search of a murderer, and it is possible that you have the key.”
“I sir?”
“You sir.” Will draws the cook off to one side and begins to question him in earnest. Rafe, Richard and Barnaby are lusting after a huge game pie, which is cooling on one of the vast oak tables. They remember the Wolsey days, and his casual generosity. How he was as likely to drop a pie into your hand, as a silver coin. Be generous, and you will be repaid, if only in Heaven, he would say.
“What is Will Draper up to?” Barnaby Fowler asks. Rafe shrugs his shoulders, as if that will explain all. It is an odd feeling not to be the leader for once.
“He’s a deep one,” says Richard Cromwell. “Like our master. A man might drown in his mind.”
“Well said, cousin,” Rafe Sadler says, glancing casually about the huge room. “Will this poor orphan of a pie fit under your doublet?”
“Come,” Will says, returning to the small band. “I am done here.” They leave, and Wat Turner, master of the king’s kitchens, stands with his hands on his hips, and curses. The two foot long game pie, left cooling on the table, has gone.
“Did you find anything out from the cook?” Rafe says, through a mouthful of pie. The crust is light and crisp, whilst the blend of venison, hare and wild duck meat is fit for any King.
“I did,” Will says. He takes out his knife, and cuts himself a thick slice. He has not eaten since the day before, and he is light headed with thinking. “The man was here with Wolsey, from the start. He knows things that he does not even know he knows.”
“See, deep, just as I said,” Richard says, and belches. He is on his third large portion, and is already wondering what he will find to eat for dinner. Barnaby has left them, having to attend Lincolns Inn over a legal matter for their master, but has hid his slice under his cap.
“Hush, Richard.” Rafe leans forward, conspiratorially. “What is it, Will? What do you know.”
“Everything… and nothing.” Will swallows a bite, and savours the taste. “I know how it was done, and I think I know who did it but, for the love of Christ, I do not understand the motivation.”
“Do we need to?” Moshe says. He cannot eat the pie, unless its contents have been prepared ritually. “Give me a name, and I will slit his throat.”
“No, that is the last thing we must do. I need to understand the motive, so that I can understand how far this thing goes. The King will not be satisfied with a badly done job.” Will wipes his knife and slips it back into its scabbard.
“Then where do we go from here?” Rafe asks. “You say you know how the deed was done?”
“Yes. That is easy to demonstrate. The ‘how’ reveals the ‘who’,” Will explains, “but I do not know why. Was it through anger, or a crime of gain? The motivation is important. I need to know some things, but I scarce know where to start.”
“We have agents the length and breadth of the country, Will. Tell me what you need to know, and I will set our bloodhounds on the trail.”
“Very well, Rafe,” Will replies. “I need to know the entire history of someone, from the cradle to the present. There is a thread that runs through the killer’s life, preparing him for this deed, and we must know it. Once we do, we will see who has been pulling the puppet’s strings.”
“Just give me a name.”
“Patience, my friend. Moshe, will you find our master, and bid him arrange a meeting with the King for tomorrow, at nine? Tell him I wish him to command certain people to attend also. Here, I will write you a list.”
Moshe stands by, watching Will scratch down a number of names on a sheet of vellum. Then he rolls it up, and seals it with wax. The young man knows he cannot violate the seal, and smiles. Will does not fully trust him yet. He thinks he will murder a full half of the court in revenge.
“I’ll be off now,” he says. “You will be able to reveal your killer’s name to Rafe in perfect peace.”
“Thank you, Mush, I knew you’d understand.” Will hands over the scroll. “Take a slice of pie with you. You are an Englishman now, Master Morden.”
“I fear the name will not stick, my friend. Besides, I prefer Mush ben Mordecai. It has a certain ring about it, don’t you think?”
Rafe watches the young Jew leave, then turns to face Will Draper, who is writing a second note. A soldier who can write is an enigma, and he makes a mental note to keep on digging into Draper’s past.
“Here, this is what I know of our killer. You have until nine tomorrow to find the thread I seek.”
Rafe takes the note, and glances down at the name. He blinks, then looks up into his friend’
s eyes.
“You jest, surely?”
“No.”
“Why would he wish to kill Isaac Ben Mordecai? It makes no sense.”
“It does, if you look at events through a different set of eyes,” Will says. “You must not think the obvious.”
“I don’t think anything,” Rafe replies. “I am, by my very nature, a man of the law. We deal in facts… even if we present them in a more beneficial way for our clients. It is nothing to do with either religion, or money, is it?”
“No. It is to do with secrecy… and time, Rafe. Find me what I need, and I will reveal all, tomorrow.”
“And in the meantime?”
“I must visit a bawdy house near the dog pits,” Will replies.
“Miriam will not be pleased.” Rafe sniggers. Another funny story for the breakfast table is in the making. “Do not catch something evil.”
“On the contrary, I hope I do,” Will replies. “I wish to offer Harry Percy a personal invitation for the morrow. He is shut up safely in a whore house.”
“And his part in all this?”
“I mean to reveal why he came to court so early, and why he brought Sir Drew Jennings with him.”
“Another riddle.” Rafe is beset with doubt.
“One that Master Cromwell will be very interested in,” Will Draper says. “I think I might enjoy tomorrow. It has the makings of a very interesting sort of day.”
13 Norfolk’s Gold
Will Draper’s small room is lit by a single tallow candle, burning down to a splutter. It has a bed, a chair, and a table in it, and is the best York Place can manage at short notice for a mere Captain of the King’s Horse. The other rooms are nicer, and filled with visiting nobles, ladies of the household, and the odd mistress or two. Those less fortunate are curled up on window sills, or asleep in chairs, or stretched, like dogs, outside barred doors.
