The Deception of Consequences

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  They did not dare even whisper, but soothed Anne’s brow, held her hand, rubbed her back and shoulders, and waited until the crying ceased. Wrapped tight in a bloody cloth, the minute corpse was hurriedly carried from the chamber. It was a long time before the queen could speak.

  “Will I live?”

  “Majesty, with God’s mercy, I believe you will. Your life is not at risk.”

  “And may give birth again? My body is not – destroyed?”

  “No, beloved.”

  Anne grimaced. “Beloved? You pity me then?”

  “We do indeed, and love and honour the great lady we have served for three years and more.”

  “Then tell his majesty,” Anne wedged herself up, one elbow to the bed, striving to sit, but then fell back. “Tell the king that this tragedy came about through the terrible shock and fear I suffered when he himself was declared at death’s door after the jousting accident.”

  “But lady, that was five days past.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” sighed the queen. “The fault must be seen to be his. It must not be mine. He blames me already for too much.”

  “I will inform the doctors, majesty.”

  “And then sit by me. I am too tired even to cry.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “You have been gone months,” she whispered. “I thought, just perhaps, you might have been killed.”

  He smiled at her. The tuck at the corners of his mouth and the smile creases at his eyes had grown ingrained, as of a man who is often happy. You never looked like that before, Thomas had grinned at him. How quickly a man can change from an arrogant bastard complaining of boredom, into a man of chuckles and diversions.

  Now Richard gazed down at the small worried face tucked against his shoulder. “Months? Just a few days, my love, and I apologise for the time it took. I had no way of making it pass the faster, though would gladly have returned sooner had it been feasible.”

  She was still whispering, half an eye to Thomas standing close by. “You called me – love – again.”

  “Should I not? You run into my arms and kiss me, so you are certainly my love.”

  She sighed and leaned back against him. “You might have been killed and all you do is send me a silly message about owls.”

  “Which you would have understood, but which would have alerted no one else should the message have reached the wrong hands. And,” he put a finger to her cheek, smoothing away the curls escaping from her headdress, “I sent another message when all was over, telling you of success, my safety, and Thomas too.”

  “It’s not the same as seeing you, Richard.”

  “Then come inside,” he laughed at her, “and let me tell you what has happened, and what I believe must happen next.”

  “Happen next?” Thomas called from behind the busy ostlers and the innkeeper running to fetch beer and prepare the kitchens for dinner. “Going home. That’s what has to happen next. By all God’s mercy, it’s well nigh February.”

  Richard shook his head. “There’s more to discuss than going home. But this must be discussed in private.”

  “After dinner. After beer. After a rest by a very, very large fire.” Thomas strode forwards, holding open the door of the inn. “Come on. Pleasure first, after all we’ve been through. And your poor lady too, alone and worrying.”

  “Very well,” Richard led Jemima back into the stuffy shadows of the passage. “First we talk of success, exaggerate our own courage, and tell the story of Babbington’s fall. There’s the additional story of Alfred, your own previous companion, to relate, and Tom’s magnificence under attack.” He paused, laughing, then stood silent a moment. Finally he said, “We will leave all future plans for this evening, by the roaring fire I shall have lit in the bedchamber, when I can explain in absolute privacy.” He looked at Jemima, eyebrows raised. “If you do not object, madam, to the most improper behaviour of sitting unchaperoned in a gentleman’s bedchamber after dark.”

  “I’ve told you before,” Jemima murmured, “I’ve never been proper. I’ve never been chaperoned and I’ve never learned the manners of the nobility.”

  “It is just as well, then,” Richard smiled, “that none of us are nobility.”

  “And,’ added Jemima, “I shall probably be even more shockingly improper, and wear my new bedrobe.” She blushed slightly. “It’s very beautiful and warm, you know.”

  “I hope you will show it to Socrates on our return,” Richard smiled.

  It was the last day of January, when Richard Wolfdon stretched his legs to the fire, clasped his hands behind his head, leaned back and regarded his quiet companion. He was exceedingly comfortable, in the company of the two people he cared for most, and was deeply intrigued by the situation which now faced him. He asked little else of life.

  The bedrobe was deep green, the colour of oak leaves in summer. The collar swept up around her neck, and was fastened beneath her chin with a small silver clasp. It then fell in deep folds to her feet, the weight increased by a lining of combed squirrel. Jemima sat on the small chair near the fire, and regarded her host with surprise.

  “You could simply send Alfred,” she pointed out. “And go with him, just to make sure he doesn’t run off with everything himself.”. She was sitting opposite Richard on the other side of the hearth. Thomas stood, leaning against one foot post of the bed, cup in hand, and saying very little.

  “It is,” Richard pointed out, “exactly what you originally came down here to do.”

  “But I was reckless. I’ve admitted that.” Jemima clasped her hands in her warm green lap, and attempted to look contrite. “I was so excited about Papa’s return, so I would have done anything at all he asked. And I understood why he couldn’t do it himself.” She looked up, but found Richard’s gaze disconcerting. “You came after me,” she pointed out, looking back into her lap, “exactly because you knew it was too dangerous. You knew I’d do everything wrong. And I did. I got abducted.”

  Thomas sniggered slightly into his cup. “It seems all the best people get abducted from time to time.”

  “And since you rescued Tom,” Richard said, taking up his own cup, “I would say you proved yourself the more capable.” He smiled. “I followed you, my dear Jemima, not because I expected you to fail, but because I did not dare face the consequences of losing you.”

  Jemima blinked, and felt her lashes moist. She gulped slightly, saw Tom grinning, and returned her gaze to her lap once again. “Papa shouldn’t have sent me and I was a fool to go.”

  “I must agree that your Papa, although his decisions are not mine to criticise,” Richard said, “was wrong to send his daughter into such danger. I do not agree that you were foolish. You were remarkably brave. But,” and he sat forwards suddenly, “the danger is virtually passed. Babbington is dead and his gang are dispersed, or dead themselves, or in gaol. If we are circumspect, there seems little likelihood of further danger.”

  “I suppose,” Thomas interrupted, “we ought to do the obvious, just to make sure Thripp isn’t torn limb from limb by Staines.”

  Jemima looked up. “Lord Staines knows that Papa is alive?”

  “Gossip,” Richard answered softly, “rules the land. Everyone knows everything after a few days, whether the rumour is true or not.”

  “Alf knows where this hoard is hidden.” Jemima stared into the dancing flames of the fire before her. “I don’t even know. Papa hinted. That’s all.”

  “The gallant Alfred,” Richard told her, “knows this and is waiting to assist. He seems aware that should he attempt to steal every coin for himself, he stands in greater danger from Thripp than he ever faced from Babbington. He will lead us.”

  “And you need me too?” She was surprised. “After all, everything Papa hid, whatever it may be, is stolen. It doesn’t belong to him, or to me, or to Alf. Perhaps – even though Papa would be cross – it should just be left where it is.”

  “So something of considerable value should be abandoned to the
earth and the water, simply because it’s original owner can no longer be traced?” Richard’s smile was barely hinted.

  “And if you die? After all you did for me? Just for Papa’s greed.” She sniffed and, blinked away the tears. “Babbington’s gone but there’s always someone else. Even Alf might turn. I never liked him and he doesn’t like me.”

  “He likes your adventurous father.”

  One candle flickered low, with a smell of sheep fat, but the fire leapt and blazed and smelled of wood smoke and forest mulch. The golden light spread up to the rafters and the scarlet depths bathed the bedchamber, turning faces to moving black and red animation, and their eyes crimson. The bed curtains, drawn back, were heavy in ocean blue, and the bed, neatly smoothed by the chambermaid, was topped by a thick blue coverlet over a welter of pillows. Richard had ordered the best available and the Lydden innkeeper had brought out whatever he had. There were no other customers, except in the drinking room each evening. With only three bedchambers to hire, Richard and Thomas shared the largest, and Jemima the snug chamber at the back. This was not, then, a conversation likely to be overheard, but Richard kept his voice low.

  The jug of hippocras stood half full on the little table, but it had long since gone cold and no steam rose from its brim. Thomas poured the last of its spiced dregs into the three waiting cups, and raised his own. “Should I have understood correctly,” he said, “Master Thripp stands to lose life and limb if he cannot reclaim the coin to replay Staines , and perhaps buy a new ship to take himself off to safer shores until the latest scandal is forgotten. I stand for the law. I stand for honest trade. But I see no reason not to take Master Thripp’s lost money back to him, since he’s sat no trial, been legally accused of nothing, and I’ve no proof that the coin is stolen at all, let alone who from. If it’s the French or Spanish, then they stole it first.”

  Jemima muttered, “But perhaps, just perhaps, he’s no more a thief than the original owner.”

  “In that case,” Thomas grinned, “the deal is done. We get his wicked profits back for him. Richard, of course,” he drained his cup and set it down with a thump, “simply wants adventure. He fears going back to the tedium of Holborn and the Eltham court. But,” and he suddenly turned grin to frown, “I see no reason to involve Jemima, even if the risk seems small.”

  “Simply because,” Richard said, leaning back against the side of the hearth where the flames had turned to embers, “rescuing the pirate hoard will involve moving to Dover. I have no intention of leaving Jemima behind and alone once again. She has been abandoned rather too often already.” He turned to her, and nodded. “I can ensure your safety. I can ensure your continued freedom, and I can ensure your peace of both mind and body. I have no intention of dragging you with us, shovel in hand. But I will not leave you so far distant while I involve myself in the adventure alone.”

  She laughed. “So Tom is right. You simply want the adventure?”

  He watched her a moment, then lowered his own gaze. “There are many forms of adventure,” he said very softly. “and some are more dangerous than others. But the most dangerous of all are the most common of all.”

  The shadows were deepening and the wind gusted down the chimney. Blowing smoke in a muffled grey dither from flame to soot and back into the chamber. Jemima coughed, and Tom shook his head. “All this calls for more wine. I shall call the tapster.” And he grabbed the empty jug, whisked himself out of the doorway, but looked back briefly, saying, “But beware, my friends, I shall be back in a moment.”

  Richard’s laugh was a low chuckle and as the door closed, he looked immediately to Jemima, eyes narrowed. “No time, then I’m afraid, for raptus, seduction, nor lude suggestions. That’s a shame indeed.” She stared back in silence, so he said, “Too improper, perhaps, even for someone who disclaims propriety?”

  Jemima stared with determination into the small sizzling flames, gripped her hands into a tightly clutched bundle in her lap, hoped that her blushes would be unnoticeable in the shadows, and hiccupped. Finally she said, eyes lowered, “I offered some time ago. Hardly proper behaviour, but it was an honest offer. You turned me down.”

  “I have no particular aptitude for propriety myself, my dear.” His smile flickered, and his voice was little louder than their crackle in the hearth. “Nor do I aim for a sainthood. But I would offer you something more – let us say, more permanent – than your father’s habitual arrangements.”

  Into the growing silence, Jemima whispered, “I don’t know what you mean.”

  And was interrupted. The door was flung open and Thomas strode back with a full jug, refilled the cups, and returned to his place at the end of the bed. “Well now,” he said cheerfully, “have you both sorted it all and when do we leave for Dover?”

  They left two days later, riding the new horses into a bluster of wind, a threat of rain in the dark clouds above, and the promise of a huge fire and a laden table of roast duck, peas and onions, custards and jellies, “At The Sleepy Oyster,” Thomas declared.

  “The Sleepy Oyster,” Jemima said, standing very still on the cobbles as her horse was led across the courtyard towards her, “is the place where I stayed before. I was taken from there, practically naked, in the middle of the night, terrified of being slaughtered by Babbington in the forest. I shall never sleep there again.”

  “At least, perhaps not alone,” Thomas muttered under his breath as he mounted, He was not heard above the shouting of the grooms, and smiled only to himself.

  Instead Richard said, “I understand, and you are right. There is a far smaller hostelry at some distance from the coast. The White Rabbit, I believe. I asked for you there when I was still searching for you and Thomas. Small, quiet, respectable, and perfectly suited to our purposes. We will remain unseen, should there be anyone still looking out for Edward Thripp’s daughter, and the hiding place of his stolen coin.”

  He helped Jemima mount, her foot in his clasped hands. She sighed, and thanked him. “I’m sorry to be such a nuisance.”

  “Not at all,” he told her softly, though speaking half to himself. “In a small quiet hostelry, what a man chooses to do to a woman is more likely to remain unnoticed.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  It was snowing again. February blizzards turned the countryside white. The palace ground shivered and the bare branched trees turned ice to icicles.

  “Get me Cromwell,” roared his majesty, striding through the torchlit corridor, stamping until the tiles vibrated. “Get me More. Get me Wolfdon.”

  “Forgive me, sire,” bowed Thomas Cromwell. “But you had More executed many months back. And Richard Wolfdon has not yet returned to court. He is not at the palace nor at his own home. His whereabouts are unknown. Many consider him dead. Met with an accident, perhaps. Or foul play. He is not always well liked.”

  “Don’t like him myself,” glared the king. “Can’t stand the man. How dare he disappear for so long, without a word, not permission, nor explanation. Been bloody murdered by some poor soul as irritated with him as I am.” King Henry stamped both feet and the ground shook again. “But you’ll do, Thomas. Come with me. I’ve a good deal to discuss and I need someone who can keep his tongue still, and his hands active.”

  “Sire.”

  “Yes, exactly,” said the king and strode off with Cromwell in his wake.

  A hundred candles flared through the haze of their spiralling smoke, the vast carved wood, the vaulted ceiling beams and coloured tapestries lining the walls. The windows reflected back the candlelight against the flurry of drifting snow beyond the palace walls. Along one vast wall the stone hearth was alight with fire, the scent of wood smoke and beeswax. Above swung a chandelier holding twenty more candles, and the smoke from every flame merged and danced and twined blue with grey and soft brown until the Turkey rug’s crimson colours were lost in the mingled drift. In the middle of it all stood England’s monarch, towering over Cromwell’s smaller plump figure, and the two pages scurrying to brin
g wine in golden cups and a huge platter of raisin cakes and sugared spices.

  “Do it,” roared Henry, shouting over the hiss of flames around him.

  “Your grace, is there motive?” Cromwell asked softly.

  “My motives, man,” Henry shouted back. The pages ran. The door closed gently and the smoke swirled. “No other motive concerns you. Be careful, Thomas, and don’t pretend not to understand me. You know my motive.”

  “But, majesty,” Cromwell answered, hands behind his back, dark velvet almost to the floor, “her majesty remains ill and confined to her bed. The loss of her child has saddened the entire country. The queen is in mourning, and, I believe, also in pain.”

  The king lowered his voice so that it hissed like the candles, and peered down very closely into Cromwell’s eyes. The malice and threat were a shrouded murmur. “I have no care for the woman’s pain, nor for her mourning, nor for her bed. I’ll make no more visits there. She had me dancing attendance on her for nigh on seven long years before the bitch spread her legs. Me! I thought myself so deeply in love that I played the suitor until my groin ached. Witchcraft. It was the tricks of a witch and the craft of a whore.”

  “Majesty,” Cromwell kept his voice even, “there have been suggestions from your daughter the Lady Mary, as to witchery used to bring the death of her mother – ”

  “Exactly.” Henry spun around, the rubies on his doublet and sleeves catching the fire’s reflections as if his own illustrious person was alight. “But I’ll not divorce a woman for witchcraft. It would lead into paths of magic and religion, and I’ll not court that danger. There has to be something else.”

  “I am not entirely sure, your grace,” Cromwell bowed, frowning, “that I have understood your intentions. If your majesty would explain?”