by Anne Stevens
“There was a clue, sire. On that first morning, I noticed the candle on the clock was out. Yet you say it was on when you left the room.”
“It was. The Jew was sitting in front of the screen, and the candle was lit.” The king is curious now. He knows magic is not involved, so wants answers. “I had to light the lamp near the table too.”
“You closed the door, and the secret panel was opened. The draft caused blew out the candles. The murderer slipped in, perceived someone sitting in your chair, and stabbed them from behind. Then they slipped out, closing the panel behind themselves.”
“I don’t understand,” Henry says. “How did they know Isaac was with me?”
“They did not, sire,” Will tells him, and watches the look of horror cross the King’s face. “They came with but one intent in their heart. To kill the King of England.”
“Assassination!” Norfolk takes a step closer to the Henry. “To think, how close they came.”
“The candle blowing out was a clue,” Will continues, “but it took a while for me to see the significance. Once I suspected a secret way in, I went to one of the oldest servants here in York Place, and questioned them. Wat Turner was cook to Cardinal Wolsey, and knew the secret.”
“Then the cook must have told the assassin about it,” Lady Anne says. She is shivering with fear, for if Henry falls, so to does the entire Boleyn family. “Have him arrested at once, Henry!”
“Not so, my lady.” Will gestures to the wooden screen. “The secret was told, in all innocence, by another, many years since. They mentioned it in the hearing of a small child and, in later times, the wicked plot was conceived. A secret way to the King had been uncovered, by those who bear him the greatest ill will.”
Will Draper uses his master’s teachings well. In one sentence, he has reminded Henry that it is he who is to be thanked, that the plot was wicked beyond forgiveness, and that there are those who want him dead.
“Then the Jew was killed by accident?” Suffolk is a little slower than the rest, but finally understands.
“The candle was out,” Will reiterates. “The killer made a mistake in the dark.”
“You know who it is?” Henry has backed himself up against the panelled wall of the room. He sees himself as suddenly beset by would be assassins. Norfolk rests his hand on the dagger concealed within his blouse.
“Of course. It is obvious, once you remember the rose petals on the water.” Will takes the time to look each person in the eye. He sees the returning look of fear from one, and knows for sure. “Behind each screen, there is a small table with a bowl of rose petal strewn water set upon it. It is placed fresh, each morning, in all the royal rooms. The killer, if he were some outside agent, would not know this small fact, and coming through the secret door, would knock it over in the dark.”
“Oh, I see,” Cromwell says. “How clever.”
“Only someone used to this arrangement would know to step around it in the gloom.”
“Then who is it?” Henry is white faced, and wants only to be told. The moment is upon them, Will perceives.
“Only a trusted household servant would know,” he says. “Isn’t that right, Master Cork?”
Harry Cork’s face betrays his guilt. He has failed once to rid England of a tyrant, and now, must take his last chance. A quick dash forward, sword drawn, and thrust it deep into Henry’s bloated body, he thinks. His hand is barely on the hilt of his sword before Mush transfixes him with an upward thrust into the heart. Between the ribs, Will Draper has explained, and twist it to rip open the heart. Death, he is assured, is almost instantaneous.
He takes the weight, and lowers the body to the floor. A woman screams. It is not Anne: she is fearless. George Boleyn has drawn a dagger, as has Norfolk and Suffolk. The room bristles like a porcupine with steel quills. Will raises his hands, and gestures for the deadly blades to be hidden away.
“My good Lords, remember where you are,” he says. “It is an offence to bring concealed weapons into the King’s presence. There, another point for Cromwell’s side. Will reminds the Henry Tudor that his security is poor, and should be looked at by more competent men. Men like Tom Cromwell’s young fellows. “Though I am sure his majesty will forgive you, because of your honourable intentions. They seek only to save Your Highness, sire.”
“It is forgiven,” Henry murmurs. For a moment, he feels like Caesar standing at the foot of Pompeii’s statue, and he shudders. “Pray, Master Cromwell, have your gentlemen remove the assassin’s corpse. It is disturbing the ladies.”
Harry Cork is dragged from the room. Will crosses himself as the sightless eyes fall on him. It is better this way, Will thinks. Had you been taken, Harry Cork, your death would have been prolonged, and indescribably painful. In France, your arms and legs would be tied to four horses, and here, your entrails would be plucked from you, even as you breathed.
The room is silent. No one quite knows what to say or do. The King, thank God, is still alive, but what of the next assassin? If Henry dies, they think, the country will erupt into a bloody civil war. None knows this better than Thomas Cromwell. The northern shires will demand Princess Mary takes the throne, and the Howard clan, led by Norfolk will oppose. Suffolk will side with Norfolk.
Henry Fitzroy, the bastard son of Henry and Bessie Blount is at the age of ten, still too young, but there are some, like the Welsh aristocracy, who would wish him to ascend the throne. Then there are the old royalty. There are living Plantagenet’s, like the Pole family who Henry should have had killed years ago. They will wish to sweep the Tudor dynasty aside, and restore the old order.
Politics, Cromwell thinks, and which ever party wins, they will want his head on a spike! He pushes between Norfolk and the King, whispers in his ear, then raises Henry’s hand to his lips.
“Almighty God, and my man Captain Will Draper, has preserved you life today, sire,” he says. “Now, there are urgent steps to take. Send them all away, save for Draper.” Henry nods, once. In all of this, it has been Cromwell, or Cromwell’s man who has stood between he, and death.
“Leave us,” he says. “Captain Draper, you will stay. My lady, back to Esher with you. Norfolk, Suffolk… I never doubted you for a moment. You are ever in my thoughts. I thank you for your devotion to my person.”
The two Dukes breath easier. In such circumstances, it is easy for a King to throw the baby out with the bath water, and Dukes heads have adorned the gates of London before. They both remember the Duke of Buckingham, condemned merely for listening to a prophesy of the King’s death.
Henry waits until the room is emptied, then allows himself to slump down into his chair. There is a sudden banging from the next room, and he starts like a scared rabbit.
“Be calm, sire,” Will Draper says. “I gave orders for the court carpenters to seal the secret door up. I did not realise they would be so attentive to their duty.”
“Well thought of, young fellow,” Henry says, regaining his regal aspect. He is reminded how this commoner has saved his and Lady Mary Boleyn’s honour. “You are a good servant to your master.”
“I serve Master Cromwell, sire, but you are master of us both,” Will tells him. Over and over, Cromwell has said, the King must be reminded of our worth. If he seeks advice, let it be from Thomas Cromwell, or one of his household. If he seeks a confidant, let it be one of us. “I take my instruction from Master Thomas, he obeys you, and you listen to what God puts in your heart.”
The carefully learned phrase has been planted. Cromwell is beginning the steady move away from Rome. The king is subject to none, save God.
“Then I tell you this, God has put it into my heart to reward you, Cromwell. Choose what you will, and I shall bestow it upon you. I leave it to you to pass a portion of your new acquisition to your young fellows, for they have served us both well.”
“Your Majesty is too kind,” Cromwell says, but he already has his list of gifts, and will suggest one in due course. “Though I must ask you to attend
to a more pressing matter first. Captain Draper saved your life today, but what of tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?”
“Harry Cork did not act alone,” Cromwell says. “He is but the instrument. Speak, Will. The King wishes to hear the full story, so that he may decide where the true guilt lies, and what punishment must be meted out to these would be regicides.”
Regicide: to kill a King. The word alone is enough to make Henry tremble with horror. He is the chosen one. The people of England, the aristocracy, and the church accept him as the one, anointed with sacred oil, to rule this realm. He beckons Will Draper forward.
“You have my ear, young man,” Henry Tudor says. “Tell me the whole sorry tale.”
Will bows, and starts his report with a sin. He explains how, whilst travelling the realm, from diocese to diocese, Cardinal Thomas Wolsey was wont to break his vow of chastity.
“The Cardinal always considered his vow to be one made more in the spirit of the thing,” Cromwell mutters. “In all other respects, he was a good churchman, and a loyal subject, sire.” Henry nods. He understands that every man has carnal needs, even popes.
Will continues. He mentions several places, and several women taken to the Cardinal’s bed. They last only for a night or two. Then, he sees a woman of quite low birth, who has become a much sought after seamstress. He is rebuffed. Not to be beaten, he renews his courtship by finding her a position in one of the grander houses. The various stages of seduction, Will skips over. It would be prurient to dwell on the great Wolsey’s tactics. Henry agrees.
Suffice to say, the Cardinal finally reaps his reward. The woman is brought to York Place from time to time, and Wolsey has the secret panel fitted, to facilitate ease of access. In those days, this room was Wolsey’s master bedroom. It can tell a tale or two, if only the walls could talk. The King smiles, pleased that they cannot speak of his own indiscretions.
Will tells of how Wolsey kept the woman as his mistress for two years, before tiring of her. He is a good man, and cannot simply cast her out into the cold. She has a sister, and a brother in law who live in Worcestershire. He bestows a farm house, and a hundred acres on the woman, stipulating that the brother in law and his wife move in, and run it for her.
She is content, and spends her time making dresses for the local gentry. It brings in enough, when the farm profit is added. They sit about the fire of an evening, and she tells tales of how she was once mistress to the highest cleric in the land. It is amongst family, so not considered indiscreet.
Now, comes the twist of fate. The sister has a child. A small boy, who absorbs every word he hears. The boy’s name is Harry Cork. He grows, and goes to seek his way in the world. By chance, he is taken on at one of the great houses his aunt used to work for.
Cork is a boastful young man, and talks of his aunt, York Place, and Cardinal Wolsey. The mistress of the house gets to hear, and forms an attachment to the lad. She is fond of younger men.
“Lady Hurstmantle,” Thomas Cromwell says, softly. It is best coming from him. The damnable woman is a distant relative, on her first husband’s side. Though she is related to the Plantagenet bloodline too.
The King sighs heavily. Is nothing in this life easy, he curses. Then he bids Will Draper finish his tale.
Will is on firm ground now. He can tell the tale from first hand knowledge. Harry Cork is smitten by the older woman’s charms, and soon becomes a loyal follower of her doctrine. Lady Jane Hurstmantle is a devoted friend to Queen Katherine, and opposes the King’s will in the matter of the annulment.
If only Anne Boleyn were out of the way. King Henry might see the error of his ways, and reconcile himself to Katherine. Then Princess Mary would rule afterwards, keeping England in the true faith. The followers of Luther, and the readers of Tyndale will go to the stake, and England will be saved.
“The bitch!” Henry cannot contain himself. The depth of the betrayal has stricken at his heart. To even think of the king’s death is treason, he believes.
“Not in law,” Thomas Cromwell says, “but it can be, Your Highness. It can be.”
Jane Hurstmantle has a plan. She has heard of a Dutchman who can kill with dolls, and seeks him out. Harry Cork has a grander idea though. Why not put Mary on the throne at once? All that needs to be done, is effect the death of Henry. Her ladyship is taken with the idea. If they could only get close to the King. Close enough to deliver a decisive killing blow.
Harry Cork has been played like a fish on a line. He thinks it is all his own idea to volunteer. He will find a way to get into Henry’s court, and wait for a chance. It is then that certain people conspire to have His Majesty issue an arrest warrant for Cardinal Wolsey.
“A bad day’s work,” Henry says. “I meant only to reprimand him in private conversation. Why was I so swayed?”
“You were persuaded by clever men, with their own idea of how you should run your country, sire.” Cromwell says. He will continue the process, until Henry is convinced he was tricked into Cardinal Wolsey’s downfall. Then Norfolk, Suffolk and Harry Percy will dance to an altogether different tune.
“Cork managed to join the arrest party,” Will says. “Where he came across me. He was friendly, and gave me some good advice. In return, I recommended him to Master Cromwell. To give him his due, my master did not take to him at all.”
“It was only that he was not the sort of lad I could use,” Cromwell tells them. “He would be fine at fetching and carrying. So, I, like a fool, set him working in York Place.”
“I do not blame you, Thomas,” Henry says. “You sought only to put good young fellows around me.”
“He was keen,” Will says. “He rushed to do any small service, and asked if he might place the rose petal water bowls each morning. For he longed to glimpse the King. Such devotion, they think, and let him take on the small, onerous job. It is his moment.”
“So close,” Henry says.
“Yes, sire. If you had not taken Isaac ben Mordecai into your room, you might have died that day. Cork was next door. He hears the noise in this room, and decides to strike. He slips in, avoiding the water bowl deftly, and finds the room in darkness. Opening the secret door has caused a draft, and the clock candle is blown out. Never mind. There is someone in Henry’s chair. Who else, but the King? He draws his dagger, leans over his victim, and strikes.”
“The fiend!” Henry feels queasy.
“It was that which first led me to suspect,” Will says, though now he is boasting. “When I spoke with Cork, he knew the victim had been stabbed in the heart. How could he, unless he was the assassin?”
16 A King’s Forgiveness
“Steady on, Mush!” Richard Cromwell says. “I can scarcely keep apace of you.” They are pushing a handcart, borrowed from York Place’s kitchen. For transporting meat, Mush has told Wat Turner. This meat is fresh killed though, and destined for the swirling river.
“I looked into his eyes as I struck,” the young man says. “He knew it was I. My grandfather would be proud of me.”
“Perhaps,” Richard replies. “Here, the river is fast at this point. The body will be at sea by nightfall. “God curse his soul.” There is a splash, but no one bothers to turn and look. Best not to know. The two are wearing Cromwell livery, that is enough.
London is learning fast. It is not wise to cross a Cromwell man.
“Well, Drew Jennings, you look a sorry sight.” Rafe sees the half healed scars where dogs have bitten, and the bruises from the beating he received when being stuffed in his cupboard. “You know me?”
“I do,” Jennings says. He recognises the Cromwell dress, and the close shaven red hair. “Are you here to kill me?”
“What do you take us for?” Rafe replies. “We are not Spaniards, or even French. Master Cromwell decrees that the punishment must fit the crime. You sought to murder my master at the behest of yours. No, do not dare try to deny it, you cur. All is known. Percy wept like a baby, and swore it was all your own doing.”
&
nbsp; “That bastard,” Jennings says. “I am the mirror of you, Master Sadler. I reflect only what my master wishes. If he bids me kill… what else can I do?”
“Well enough spoken.” Rafe sits on the edge of one of the big tables. “You are disowned by the Duke of Northumberland, and therefore without a master. Thomas Cromwell bids me offer you two courses. The first is to give you a day’s start. Run, and hide away. If caught, my master reserves the right to take your life.”
“And the second?”
“Swear yourself to him.”
“Every pack has its leader,” Jennings replies. “One dog is much as another. I will serve Cromwell, if he wishes.”
“He does. Now, here is his first instruction.”
“Does this chicken taste well enough to you, Cromwell?”
“Or is it fowl, sire?” Cromwell smiles at his little joke, and bites into a drumstick. “It is perfect. I will send you my poultry cook. He has a way of basting that makes the mouth water.”
Henry fears every dish is poisoned, but is reassured when Cromwell calls for Wat Turner. The huge cook explains, in detail, every step in preparing food for the King. Everything is fresh. It is locked away until needed, then tasted during, and after the cooking process.
“Then, Your Majesty,” Wat declares. “I taste it myself. Finally, the dishes are presented in a random order. No man, waiting on, can know which platter will end up in front of the King. Even then, the man who stands behind you tastes each dish.”
“Stout fellow,” Henry says, then laughs. He has made a joke, so the rest of the court laugh too. Wat Turner, pleased to have finally met King Henry, slaps his hand on his belly. The noise resounds throughout the banquet hall.
“I’ve been eating my own food for thirty five years, sire,” he says. “The Cardinal, God bless him, ate it for upwards of twenty. It has done me no harm, and Wolsey neither.”
“There was never a better man, Master Turner.” Henry has convinced himself, and Norfolk tries to keep out of the King’s line of sight. “I see you shrink away, Tom Howard. You do well to, for you and your like hounded the poor man to his untimely grave.”
