Shaking the Throne

by Caroline Angus Baker

  ‘Come now, Waif,’ Chapuys chided, ‘God willing, Henry shall have Lady Jane for both and we can have an heir, one with a mother of the true faith.’

  ‘You stand in a country swept by reformation, Ambassador,’ Nicòla reminded him. ‘On my master’s orders.’

  ‘We both know that this country will sway in whatever direction Henry’s bedfellow directs him.’

  Nicòla sighed, averse to agree, but so much truth swirled in Chapuys’ words. If tonight, at the party, Henry held discussions with Chapuys, there could be, in writing, an alliance with the Holy Roman Emperor. Cromwell would be paid by Charles, with an annulment of Nicòla’s marriage to Duke Alessandro, straight from the Pope’s office. King Henry would never need know that Cromwell formed an Imperial alliance to suit Nicòla’s personal needs.

  ‘I must say,’ Chapuys said, the slightest hint of laughter in his tone, ‘many at court have been keen to see the end of Anne Boleyn for some time, and we never thought we would have Thomas Cromwell on our side. It had been thought we would first need to destroy Cromwell to rid ourselves of the false queen.’

  ‘Be advised,’ Nicòla said coolly, ‘in this English court, we all know that when we wake in our beds each morning, and go to prayer, by the end of that day, any of us could have our heads on a spike on London Bridge. That is the game we play, the price we pay. You shall never defeat Secretary Cromwella, Ambassador Chapuys. We all have secrets.’

  ‘Cromwell and Cranmer have been close for these past years,’ Chapuys replied. ‘Now Cranmer has openly supported Anne over Henry, so would Cromwell destroy him?’

  ‘We have enough gossip on Cranmer to keep him on our side.’ Nicòla paused and thought of Cranmer’s pregnant wife Margarete, endlessly moving between Cromwell’s estates to remain a secret. ‘Just as we could have you executed for treason for these very conversations, Ambassador. Your closeness to the Lady Mary could be used against you also. She may be declared a bastard but she is still the King’s daughter.’

  ‘I know you also wrote to the Lady Mary,’ Chapuys sneered. ‘I know you personally send her monies, that you supported Queen Katherine even while sitting in the whore’s rooms and laughing with her. You have the heart of a woman, “Mister” Frescobaldi.’

  ‘To think the heart of a woman is weak would be a fatal move on any man’s part.’

  Groups of talking nobles slipped aside for the solitary figure of Lancelot de Carle, the young Bishop of Riez and secretary to the French ambassador. He walked with his head down, his white vestment hidden under a black cassock cut too long for him, dragging on the stone floor. The purple cincture about his waist caught the light coming from the window across the gallery.

  ‘Bishop de Carle,’ Nicòla said and stepped forward and bowed slightly in politeness. The gentle poet and scholar did not often stop to talk.

  ‘Ambassador Chapuys, Master Frescobaldi,’ he said, his French accent chewing Nicòla’s name.

  ‘I understand that Ambassador de Castelnau shall attend the evening’s festivities,’ Nicòla continued.

  ‘Well indeed.’

  ‘Might I seek an audience with your master in the afternoon?’

  ‘His Excellency shall be in his rooms. I shall tell him to expect you, or shall it be your master, Secretary Cromwell?’

  ‘Just me, kind sir.’

  With a single nod, de Carle disappeared into the group of people standing around after Mass, lost in a moment.

  ‘You seek the French ambassador? He would be most pleased to see a waif like you in his rooms. Be careful,’ Chapuys snorted.

  ‘We must all play our part.’

  Chapuys opened his mouth to reply but his lips screwed up at the sight of George Boleyn. Boleyn caught sight of the disdain and trotted over to the pair in the corner.

  ‘Old Chapuys gathering in dark corners with the Waif,’ Boleyn said with a tease, his hair not covered by a cap like most in the gallery.

  ‘Lord Rochford,’ Chapuys curtly replied as Nicòla bowed slightly in acknowledgement. ‘Surely even you have not been distasteful enough to attend Mass when under the influence of too much drink?’

  Nicòla eyed Boleyn up and down; he did indeed sway a little on his feet, his hair messed, no cap, his dark eyes reddened.

  ‘The night was indeed a long one,’ Boleyn said under his breath. ‘You know Lady Margery Horsman, mistress of the Queen’s wardrobe? She has been at court almost ten years and has been as tight as a nun! Well, until last night!’

  Nicòla could not hide her distaste for Boleyn’s choice of words. It had been mentioned that Lady Margery had been acting oddly recently, but to be deflowered by George Boleyn was a cruel fate indeed.

  ‘Oh, did you rather not enjoy that story?’ Boleyn laughed, louder than the hushed conversation needed. Several heads turned in Boleyn’s direction. ‘You, Chapuys, trusted ear to nobles across Europe, ordained and blessed by the Pope, and you, Frescobaldi… well, no one knows what you enjoy.’ Boleyn laughed loudly again, attracting more attention this time, including Cromwell and Audley’s.

  The foolish Boleyn fell into disarray as the gallery hushed and bowed for the Queen herself, followed by her ladies, who entered through a hallway leaving the chapel. In an instant, Chapuys turned to disappear. He never attended Mass when Anne was close; he had never met the Queen in all the years he had lived in England. Nicòla prayed he did not suspect that Cromwell asked him to attend chapel this morning, so he could accidentally bump into Anne; the alliance with Rome needed Anne on the throne, at least for now.

  Boleyn grabbed Chapuys by the shoulder. ‘I think you should find it in your heart to pay respects to your queen,’ Boleyn uttered through fetid breath.

  ‘As I just said to you,’ Nicòla said as she jumped before Chapuys, blocking any escape, ‘we must all play our part.’

  Queen Anne stopped in the centre of the gallery, where Boleyn had dragged the ambassador by the shoulder. Chapuys barely made eye contact with Anne and bowed deeply. Anne nodded her head in respect to him as her ladies bowed gently in their matching blue gowns. With a swish of her pale gown, Anne pushed passed Chapuys, who scuttled out the way of Anne and the ladies who bobbed their way from the gallery. In a moment all was done; the ambassador of the Holy Roman Emperor had acknowledged Anne Boleyn as the Queen of England. Without a word, Chapuys stormed from the gallery and down another hallway, no doubt livid at having to come face-to-face with the concubine after all his years of loving Katherine and Mary. Once Chapuys recovered himself, he would be angry enough to start a war, so Nicòla moved in an instant not to be caught near him, and away from Boleyn’s stench.

  Audley spun away from Cromwell to leave the gallery and Cromwell’s eyes landed upon Nicòla with great delight. ‘Twas almost too simple indeed,’ he said as he rubbed his hands together, his golden eyes sparkling.

  ‘Contain such open displays of joy, Master,’ Nicòla said with a smile. ‘You did not plan Chapuys to acknowledge the Queen, remember? It was an act of mere surprise.’

  ‘Soon we shall have England turned from France and in an alliance with Rome. Your annulment shall be assured.’

  ‘Are we wrong to deceive a king this way? For you work so openly without the blessing of the King. All so the Pope shall sign a parchment to end my marriage? We could end up at war with France or sending men to fight the Turks due to this alliance.’

  ‘All shall benefit. You spoke to the French ambassador’s secretary? Are you to meet with Castelnau?’

  ‘As you commanded,’ Nicòla smiled. Cromwell’s grin of delight at their plan caused her own smile to grow. ‘I can threaten the man with such subtly and ease.’

  ‘Are you certain you wish to do this task? For I could send Rich. He is a great lawyer and liar both.’

  ‘No one can lie better than I, Master. My lies have got me before the greatest men in Europe.’

  ~~~

  The French ambassador’s apartments smelled of oranges, which sat in a bowl in the afternoon sun upon
Castelnau’s desk. The round bishop sat upon a cushioned chair and watched a servant pour wine into two cups before them. Nicòla only watched the boy through the corner of her eye, while Castelnau’s quiet secretary closed the door upon the conversation.

  ‘I was most joyed to hear Cromwell wanted to send a messenger to my rooms,’ Castelnau said as he waved the servant away. ‘Rumours swirl of an alliance with the Roman Emperor,’ He spoke in French with much pace, and Nicòla thought perchance Castelnau hoped to confuse her with his language, yet Nicòla could keep up with his gently smug voice.

  ‘Can England not be in alliance with all the countries of Europe?’ Nicòla replied and resisted the wine before her.

  The old bishop leaned back in his chair, his ring-laden fingers rubbing the knobs of the armrests either side of his ageing waistline. The way he delicately touched them made Nicòla discomforted at once. ‘We are at war over Milan,’ Castelnau continued. ‘England would need to side with one or the other, as an alliance with a nation would need reinforcements in any war.’

  ‘Perchance your nation could leave the duchy of Milan alone,’ Nicòla shot back as Castelnau licked his lips. ‘I come today to seek of your thoughts on the Queen Anne, as your country has always been something of a home to Her Majesty. I come in search of your king’s private thoughts on Anne.’

  With one hand still rubbing the knob of the chair, Castelnau used his other hand to wave to Nicòla, as if swishing her words in the air between them. ‘Tell me of you, Monsieur Frescobaldi,’ he answered. ‘You are the brother to the Duchess of Florence, no?’

  ‘Well indeed.’

  ‘It is well known that your sister is something of a recluse, for none see her at her husband’s side in Florence or any of the Medici estates.’

  ‘I can assure you that my sister is the wife of Duke Alessandro.’

  ‘I doubt it not, but the Duke is well known for his mistresses and his appetites.’

  ‘Men must satisfy their appetites,’ Nicòla answered, watching Castelnau’s hand rubbing the knob. Something about the way he touched it quite unseated her.

  ‘I heard the Duke Alessandro sometimes enjoys the company of men as well as women.’

  ‘I cannot give you an answer to such sinful thoughts, for I spend little time in the company of my sister’s husband.’

  ‘I hear the Duke of Florence wants an annulment, so he can marry the Emperor’s bastard daughter? Is it true? Is your sister to be abandoned? On what charge? For there is a child, no? A child between the Duke and Duchess?’

  ‘A daughter, Giovanna,’ Nicòla paused and thought of her precious daughter Jane, whom she had not seen in weeks. ‘As the Medici family has the friendship of the Pope, all remains for His Holiness’ ears only.’

  ‘A curious choice,’ Castelnau said, still avoiding Nicòla’s questions about Queen Anne. He could not be fooled into saying something treasonous if he continued to ask about Nicòletta Frescobaldi. ‘Why would the Emperor want to give his bastard to Alessandro de’Medici?’

  ‘The Duke is a wealthy man.’

  ‘As was his current wife, your sister. So, you too have a fortune? Is that why Cromwell enjoys your company? Why is a man like you hither when you could live the life of royalty in Italy?’

  ‘As I said, all men must satisfy their own appetites,’ Nicòla half-smiled.

  Now Castelnau stopped rubbing the chair and rose his heavy frame from his chair. Nicòla too stood in politeness for the ageing ambassador. She noticed sweat running alongside his ear, his balding head unable hide his discomfort in moving about freely.

  ‘I like you, Monsieur Frescobaldi,’ Castelnau said as he rounded the desk towards Nicòla. ‘You intrigue many at court, as you know. You spend much time with Sir Thomas Wyatt, and the musician boy that dances about the Queen.’

  ‘Mark Smeaton,’ Nicòla replied. ‘I dare call them close friends.’

  Castelnau stood before Nicòla and looked her black doublet and hose up and down a few times. ‘Cromwell dresses you well. You are secretary to a rich man, and a rich man yourself. All at court wonder about the Waif; I do not escape hearing the English rumours.’

  ‘There is little to know of me.’

  Castelnau grabbed Nicòla by the shoulders as she gasped. ‘So gentle of voice,’ Castelnau said of her cry. Despite his age, Castelnau had the advantage of weight. He pushed himself against Nicòla, which her frame could not hold. The pair fell to the floor in a moment, Castelnau’s lips against her face, trying to find her lips as she struggled. Nicòla could feel a wayward hand fumbling between her legs, searching for something the ambassador would never find under her hose. Castelnau’s heavy hand continued to caress between Nicòla’s thighs, but his hands slowed as he could not find the part he longed to touch. They locked eyes for a moment, as if the Frenchman found shock in the lack of manhood in his hand.

  The door to the office opened to the sight of Bishop de Carle accompanied by George Boleyn. The pair gasped at the sight of the wide ambassador on top of Nicòla, the pair squirming upon a rug. At once, Castelnau rolled off Nicòla, landing on his back with heaving, desperate breaths. The flustered de Carle ran to his master, and Nicòla leapt at her feet in a moment, her clothing rumpled about her form. She moved for the door and Boleyn relented in a moment, so she could leave the sad scene.

  ‘What was that?’ Boleyn called as he followed Nicòla through the ambassador’s presence room and out into the hallways of the palace. His own reasons to see Castelnau were forgotten; indeed, all he cared for was gossip he could spread in minutes around the warrens of Whitehall.

  ‘Lord Rochford, I must ask you to desist!’ Nicòla said as she scurried around the hallways, rather bare of others on a quiet afternoon.

  ‘The appetites of the Bishop of Tarbes are well known,’ Boleyn continued, only one step behind Nicòla.

  ‘Yes, he spoke lustily of appetites.’

  ‘Did he rub the knobs upon his chair?’

  Nicòla stopped and eyed Boleyn. ‘Ask me not of the scene.’

  ‘Do I see tears in your gentle eyes, Frescobaldi?’ Boleyn asked with a smile. ‘Did you gain more favour than you sought with the ambassador?’

  Nicòla swallowed hard and did not respond. Her clothing kept her feminine frame from the hands of men. She looked either way along the hallway, yet none walked the space, no guards, no one.

  ‘Everyone wonders what lurks beneath your doublet, Frescobaldi,’ Boleyn continued. ‘My question is, what did the ambassador hope to find?’

  ‘The body of a man surely,’ Nicòla replied and took a deep breath. ‘For I am a man, the brother to the Duchess of Florence.’

  ‘I am close to my sister,’ Boleyn said and tilted his head sideways as he examined Nicòla. ‘My sister knows all about you and Cromwell. And my sister is angry at present with your master… and lover.’

  ‘I am no man of carnal appetites such as yourself.’

  With a sudden movement, Boleyn thrust his hand between Nicòla’s legs. A painful reminder of the meeting just moments before, his fingers grabbing hard, looking for a body part never present. Nicòla jumped from Boleyn as he began to laugh, and she shuffled from the man, who dared not follow. Cromwell could be tainted if Nicòla’s sex was ever revealed. Nicòla herself would be imprisoned, or sent home to her life in Florence, one of grave uncertainty once the Medici divorce reached the Pope. Gossip to threaten the French ambassador with had come from the meeting, but at great cost. With luck, God’s grace, or even just chance, the ambassador would assume he simply did not grab Nicòla rightly and think nothing of her gender. Boleyn however knew all, as long thought, and could speak up at any time. His hand was a threat, almost a promise, that she and Cromwell could be destroyed at any moment. Tonight’s meeting and the alliance formed between England and Rome simply had to pass, or the power of the Boleyns would surely destroy everything.

  C

  Chapter 38 – April 1536

  lyes will scream when they are forcyd into t
he lyght

  Greenwich Palace, outer London

  ‘Would it be best if I leave court?’

  Cromwell ceased his pacing at the question. Across his office stood Nicòla, dressed her best new doublet and hose, in aid of the King’s party. Even Cromwell wore something special, silver rather than his usual black, while Nicòla sparkled in pale blue, her favourite fabric from Italy. She protested that all was well after her moment with the French ambassador and then with George Boleyn, yet when Cromwell observed her, Nicòla’s eyes were not upon him, and her hands shook with fear. He had placed his precious Nicòla in a place of great harm; it had been her legal mind which was to draw the ambassador into a place of disgrace, not her body. Cromwell sought the French ambassador to be brought low due to sharing treasonous words against the King or Queen, to make an Imperial alliance appear more enticing to Henry. Yet Castelnau had acted in a way even Cromwell had not foreseen, for the ambassador’s leanings were mere rumour until today.

  ‘If you leave court, it says you have done something wrong, or that the ambassador discovered a secret about you,’ Cromwell said. ‘If either Castelnau or Boleyn seek to out your fair sex now, you running from court only endorses their words. No, you must tarry hither, and act as if nothing is wrong.’

  ‘Boleyn has known the truth of me for years,’ Nicòla argued. ‘He had no reason to bring us low until now.’

  ‘But he will if his sister is constantly angry with me,’ Cromwell shot back. ‘No, we simply push ahead. Tonight, Henry and Chapuys will formally agree to an Imperial alliance, the Emperor will be joyous, and the Pope shall sign your annulment. We all win. Besides, trade between England and Italy will flourish, and for merchants like ourselves, the money will be beneficial. There are no losers in this arrangement.’

  ‘Except France, who will be seated between two enemies in an alliance together.’

  ‘France made their choice the moment Castelnau threw himself upon you.’ Cromwell paused and pulled at the collar of his new linen shirt. He employed only the best tailors and seamstresses and yet the shirt still felt wrong. Perchance it was his mood that ill-fitted, as he felt ready to fight any man who came near him.