Edward stood again, glared, and stamped both feet, making the fire bounce. “Not to be trusted with my coin, no, but with my daughter, yes? He turned sweeping out the wilting layers of doublet and coat, and when he flounced back, he was suddenly smiling. “Women? Love ‘em all, sir. I’ve spent my life happiest at sea, but on land I’ve had the adoration of the prettiest, and of my daughter too. When her mother died, I didn’t send the child away as most fathers do. I kept her, and took on a lover to help care for her. Alba, my swan, and a good pair we made.”
Richard was striding towards the door but he looked back. “I know her. Didn’t Jemima tell you?”
“She told me.” Thripp grinned. “Told me what a dance you were leading them, lies about investigations, filling your household with my women.”
“And the corpses in the attic?” Richard paused, his hand to the door.
“A weird story it is.” Edward came forwards. “But you know my answer. When I was up there earlier I could see where they’d been, poor little scraps. Dead many years, Jemima says, and long before I bought the house. But you forget such silly stories, sir and get after my daughter, if that’s what you want. And bring her back safe to me. Bring back the treasure too, or she’ll be visiting me either in Newgate, or watching my own corpse go floating down the Thames.”
“I’ve no interest in your treasure, only in your daughter, sir.” Richard threw open the door, and the two pages listening outside fell backwards into the corridor. Richard marched past. “I swear to bring Jemima back safely, or not return myself.”
It was after both men had left, that Edward, brushing Cuthbert from his side, smiled at Katherine. “Well,” he said, “that’s one way to get the girl wed.” He waved to his empty cup. “And to one of the richest men in all England. I can expect a better brew, and a better home too, perhaps. And maybe as father –in-law to such a one, I can retire and live a life of ease and luxury without risking my neck anymore.”
Chapter Seventeen
The Christmas pageant reached its raucous crescendo in an almost unbearable pitch, the three jugglers bouncing to one side as the great cart plodded through the palace hall, pages scurrying behind in case the ponies deflowered the polished boards, and the actors rushed to set up the manger, straw, wooden animals, small hiccupping infant, and three bewildered sheep on tethers.
His majesty guffawed and patted his silken knee, leaned forwards and indicated that the miracle play might begin.
Beside him the queen wore golden brocade underskirts, an over-gown of deepest ocean blue silk damask embroidered in pure gold thread, outer sleeves trimmed in sable, inner sleeves heavily layered in lace, little blue leather shoes and a huge dark scowl.
The infant Jesus, well laced with claret, stared in glazed contentment at the bearded face of Joseph staring back down, fascinated by the beard coming loose at both ears. The whispers from the principal actor and company leader, muted and sufficiently soothing to keep the biblical scene in appropriate peace to all men while the lutes played on, were able to ensure that the six dancers moved carefully around the manger, avoiding the sheep, which were increasingly confused.
“Well done, well done,” roared the king, benign, well fed after the midday feast, and as suitably filled with a good claret as was the baby now falling asleep on the straw. One pony farted but this blended nicely with a few of the nobility who had also eaten extremely well, and had no intention of moving to scuttle off to the privy since they doubted whether their legs would carry them that far,
Her majesty’s ladies clustered around, offering sweetmeats and comfort, but the queen remained silent and stared ahead. The pageant interested her not in the least. She was large with child beneath her grand skirts and her bladder was bursting. Discomfort, however, was something she was accustomed to, and it was the conversation she had suffered with the king that morning which was the matter troubling her more than anything else.
“You’ll keep your place, madam,” he had told her.
She had lowered her eyes, sunk deep into a curtsey which had made her back ache. Then she had not followed as her husband turned his back and marched away. His entourage, tittering only quietly and once they could not be individually heard and recognised, had hurried after him. The queen’s ladies then helped her back to her chamber, prepared a posset, and had rubbed her aching shoulders.
“His majesty does not mean it,” Lady Urban assured her.
“Yes he does,” said Anne.
That evening, shortly before the second feast of the day at supper time, a great choir took their place in the minstrel’s gallery, and for one haunting hour they sang the blessings of Christ’s birth, and of joy and pride now that their sovereign was head of the church, directly responsible only to the Lord God who had appointed this man, chosen above all men to rule over England and Wales, looking on as the greatest monarch in the world was anointed before the alter.
After the midday beneficence, few had any appetite for supper and the queen picked only at a slice of suckling pork with stewed apple sauce, although she drank three full cups of wine. His majesty, however, sampled most of the platters within five full courses, and declared that the kitchens had outclassed themselves and deserved a day off at some time in the future.
As England’s nobility slumped back on their benches, mumbled their loyal adoration for their sovereign and their need for a piss, his majesty, still alert, looked aside to his wife. She had maintained a certain silent dignity throughout the day since his warning earlier, and he approved. Her scowl did not concern him. He had no particular interest in her happiness, only in her obedience. So his gaze wandered from her sullen profile to the pale delicacy of one of her ladies, standing dutifully behind her chair. His small blue eyes were momentarily aware that the young woman’s equally blue eyes were linked to his. Her smile was timid, and she looked quickly down. He found her shy humility delightfully restful after some years of his wife’s acerbic wit and loud intelligence. This was certainly not the first time he had noticed her and she was already perfectly well aware of his interest. Not bedded yet of course, for the chase was as much a pleasure as the mattress. Indeed, there were times when swiving seemed less delightful in deed than it had seemed in anticipation. No matter. This new woman was the new game, prettily flirtatious in maidenly modesty, and not too far off the snatch. With his heir due to be born within a few months, and a new quiet woman in his bed, the dawning year looked promising.
King Henry sniggered under his breath, returning cheerfully to his half-empty wine cup and half-eaten syllabub.
It was Thomas Cromwell, seated at some distance from the high table, who smiled and spoke quietly to his neighbour.
“I offer a wager, William,”
“Then I’ll take it, whatever it is, unless it’s my own neck you’re betting against.”
Cromwell snorted. “Not this time, Will. It’s Mistress Jane Seymour I’m naming, and it’s not her neck I’m picturing, but quite the other end of her body. The king is bored and looking for new blood. I’m naming her. But you’re a fool if you accept the wager, for the deal is well-nigh sealed. ”
Sir William Bligh pursed his lips. “The Seymours are a ragtaggle batch and as corrupt as they can manage without being hauled up before a court for treason and avarice.”
“Is avarice against the law, Will?” Cromwell laughed softly. “Then we are all in danger, I think.”
“We are anyway.” Sir William looked carefully away from the royal dais. “And it’s the innocent as much in danger as the guilty. I’ve thought of leaving court, but the suspicious would ask why, and think me hiding some awful secret. As for you, Thomas, you’re safe enough. His majesty needs you more than most.”
“For the moment.”
“Not all, perhaps, but most of the Privy Council are safe enough, and a few others too. You. Her majesty of course, with the expected heir to arrive within a month or so. Norfolk, in spite of his religious zeal. The Boleyns. The Seymours. Dickon the Bastard
.”
“I would not be so sure about the queen, unless she produces a fine healthy son.” Cromwell lowered his voice further. “Until now, her failures have been more noticeable than her successes. Our mighty monarch believes he was bewitched, otherwise why would he have struggled for so long to acquire a miserable wretch of a woman who no longer pleases him?”
William raised both eyebrows. “The queen is delightful, treat her right. Energetic, witty, intelligent.”
“If she was intelligent, she’d keep a silent tongue.” Cromwell bent his head to the roast goose. “I’ve considerable admiration for her majesty myself, but she argues with Henry, she makes him look foolish in front of his courtiers, and she no longer thrills him in bed. She’s angry with life, finding that what she yearned for and slaved for and struggled for seven years to gain, now does not satisfy her in the least.”
Someone had spilled his wine and two pages rushed to clean it, repour, and adjust the stained cloth. Cromwell shook his head and stopped talking. Sir William turned away. It was not a wise conversation to continue in public and although drowned by the noise, the laughter, the choir, the tramping feet and the clash of knife on spoon, there was always the possibility that someone who appeared to be unaware of anything except his own food and drink, was indeed listening carefully and memorising every word.
It was as Mistress Jane Seymour blushed, that the queen turned her head. Her scowl deepened.
The following day, being the Eve of Christmas Day itself, there was no rush to rise early nor bustle to the chapel for Mass since it would be celebrated that evening in the Chapel Royal, on their knees at midnight with the bells tolling, a thousand flaring candles perfumed with honey, and the giddy anticipation already well-lit for the morrow. So the lords and their sovereigns slept unusually late, snug beneath their eiderdowns, awaiting the arrival of the first hippocras of the day. Bitter weather was not welcomed, but huge fires beamed their own surge of flaming warmth, and there would be skating on the Thames once the next holiest of all days was done and St. Stephen dawned.
But it was far, far to the south that one woman and three men rode silently through the snow banks, heading for Dover. It had been the previous day, the 23rd day of December, when they woke early to a hushed calm. It had continued to snow throughout the night but as they tumbled out the wayside inn that morning, they discovered that the blizzard had blown itself out and a pure unspoiled white was spread like a sugar subtlety across the land. The sky was clear, almost as white above as below, and no birds sang.
Jemima had shared a bedchamber with two other female travellers, one heading west, one heading north, both of whom snored and rolled in their sleep, dragging at the covers and taking up a good deal more than their fair share of the bed. But Jemima, having recently become accustomed to sharing her mattress with Ysabel, did not complain. She had slept fitfully, not because of her enforced companions but because of her own troubled thoughts. Now she was in a hurry.
The two other women were also impatient and had no intention of waiting for breakfast or any other form of female dalliance. Jemima had barely time to wash her face and hands. Her mare was already saddled and waiting, stamping and shaking its mane in the frozen cold.
“Are ye ready, mistress?”
Jemima stared at the man now holding the reins of her horse. Her nose was moist and pink, and her eyes were watering, but being wrapped in wool from the top of her head to her toes, she was able to keep her dignity and her composure. “You’re not required to hassle or lead me like a donkey on a tether, Master Warp,” she said with deliberation. “This is my father’s business we are on, and I’m sent by him, and trusted to do as he wishes. You’re my escort, not my master.”
“Tis our business too, lass,’ Samuel Warp replied with a sniff. “Ned’s treasure it is, that’s true. But ‘tis mine and all, and Gerard’s, and Alf’s too, for we all takes shares, and are entitled. We done the business. We shares the rewards.”
She was speaking through a condensing cloud of her own breath. The vapour made her sniff as well. “I represent my father. He’s your captain.”
“Was,” Gerard Durbank pointed out. “No ship. No captain.”
Jemima swallowed back irritation. “But still your leader, and still the one man who may end up giving his life for this hidden treasure of yours.”
She had followed the men, quickening to trot immediately on leaving the stable courtyard, and into a canter once out on open ground. There was little allowance made for a young woman somewhat less experienced as a rider and less practised at travelling fast in freezing conditions, but Jemima rode astride and asked for no lesser pace. She asked for nothing. She had no breath for anything except speed, and to keep the freeze from blocking her lungs. The tree branches dripped ice when knocked, impossible to avoid when riding fast. The horses steamed. Jemima clamped her thighs to the saddle-rug and the heaving muscles beneath, kept one hand to the reigns and the other to the pommel, and prayed for strength and guidance. She was no longer sure what madness had overtaken her when she had offered to help her father reclaim his hidden wealth and also wondered just what sort of wickedness he had instigated in order to obtain it in the first place.
Twice they had nearly been attacked on the road. But twice they had escaped. Her three companions were more ruthless than any highway robber, and had more than one simple knife to hand on their saddles. Jemima had been given her father’s old knife, and the one he swore by. He had told her its story and how it had a blade which never notched, never blunted, and never hesitated. It was longer than most, double edged, and the hilt was leather bound bone, well balanced and hard as rock.
“Use it, my girl,” he had told her. “Forget the maiden in you and remember the blood of your father. Kill before they kill you. Never wait. Never stop to think. Mercy is a fool’s game.” She had agreed and that first day she had thought herself capable of it. Her courage wavered when she saw the group of mounted men waiting under the trees as the night’s darkness slipped down over the land.
No great defence had been needed after all. Sam, Gerard and Alfred had looked, muttered one to the other, and in unison raised their swords, screeched bloody attack, yelled blasphemous cries of slaughter and battle, and had turned aside from the main path, galloping straight for the huddle in the shadows. The thieves, with a crash of breaking branches and tumbling snow, had galloped in the opposite direction, having no intention of facing a clash of uncertain outcome. It was not even possible to see how many there had been for with a confused swirl of manes, tails, rearing hooves, the flying capes of the men and the flash of moonlight on steel, the small throng had disappeared. The neighing and snorting of the horses was silenced by snowfall and thickening twilight.
Gerard, Samuel and Alfred had returned laughing. Jemima had waited, unsure, staring at the chaos while not admitting fear, even to herself.
“What if,” she asked Samuel as he came beside her, “they weren’t thieves at all? What if they were respectable country folk who needed guidance, or were simply waiting for someone else?”
“There ain’t no honest folk in these parts will huddle in shadows like that,” Samuel told her with faint contempt. “In this bloody awful weather, waiting in the dark? Not likely, missus. Don’t you go troubling that little female head o’ yours on matters what you knows nothing about.”
“We’ll protect you,” Alf assured her.
“And from yourselves?”
Gerard sniggered. “Don’t you go thinking silly stuff, missus. Do ort to Cap’m Thripp’s own little lass? That we wouldn’t never do, no way.”
“It wasn’t molestation I was worried about,” Jemima glared. “It was bloody rudeness. Protect me from that if you can.”
“You tell your daddy what rude buggers we is when you get back home,” Gerard said. “But Ned won’t say naught, never fear. Be too busy counting his share o’ the loot.”
“Best put up wiv us, missus,” Alf nodded. “We ain’t so bad. We’ll treat
you fair, that I promise, and will protect you wiv our lives too, if need be. We won’t touch you, nor will let anyone else touch you, like we swore to Ned Thripp afore we left that grand house o’ his in the Strand.”
“I know.” Jemima slumped a little in the saddle, tired and wondering at her own irritation, and the lack of all the courage she thought she had when faced with thieves in the night. “Papa explained. But I’m not used to travelling with men. With sailors. With pirates. And you’re not used to travelling with respectable women.”
“That we ain’t,” Gerard said, sliding his sword back into its saddle scabbard. “But you makes a good eddication, missus.” He tightened his knees, spurring the horse faster. “But we knows the way to the coast. Not a cliff nor a port we doesn’t know and sailed from in the past. Them mile stones is all hid under snow, but we knows our way like we might keep our eyes shut. And whereas on our owns, we might sleep wiv our saddle blankets under the trees and light a fire in the woods, wiv you longside, lass, we bin in comfort, in them inns and taverns along the way. So you thank us, missus, and we’ll thank you. No need to go rough and no need to cause trouble.”
So three days passed, and as Christmas Day approached the weather grew softer, with a lilac sheen across the smooth lying snow, and a flicker of brightness breaking through the serenity above. But they still had a long road to ride.
The Deception of Consequences Page 19
