The Deception of Consequences

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “Henry’s eyes narrowed. “You understand me all too well, Thomas,” he said softly. “Don’t play the fool with me. You want it spelled out? Then let me tell you, the queen has ruled for long enough. She plays the cat and thinks to make me her tame mouse. After years of promises, as soon as I put the crown on her head she pretends superiority, mocks my position in the church and calls for greater Protestant mercy, flounces in public and laughs when they call her whore. Then she gives me another living daughter, and three dead boys. Does she mock me by copying every move that Catherine forced on me? No heir for the man who dared to love her?”

  “Your majesty – ”

  Henry stamped and every candle flame sizzled and flared. “The things she says, with that sarcastic laugh of hers, would once have earned her a death at the stake for heresy.” He pointed at the hearth and its blazing heat. “She’d have been thrown to that. Now she has the courage to contradict me. Me! And still denies me an heir.”

  “Yet the queen has proved the fertility of her belly, sire, and is still young enough to bear more infants.”

  “Dead infants.” A pause. “And not so young anymore.”

  “I will not contradict your grace,” Cromwell spoke with some care, “but a divorce could be – let us say – difficult. Now that the Lady Catherine has passed, even the old church cannot speak so readily of impropriety. And in the new church, your grace’s marriage is held sacred indeed.” He hesitated, then said, “I will study the possibilities, sire. But at this moment I can see no grounds for divorce.”

  “Then find some,” said the king bluntly.

  “I shall, sire.” Cromwell sighed. “If your majesty is quite sure that he no longer loves his queen – ”

  “Love her?” spat the king. “I can’t stand the woman. She glowers, she sniffs, she swears she knows more of religion, of history and of worldly wisdom than her own husband and king. She tries to humiliate me in public by making clever comments. She holds court with heretics. And in bed, all those secret promises she made before the marriage are forgotten. There’s no excitement and no love. She expects me to arouse and please her, while she yawns and complains of belly ache.”

  “Perhaps while she is carrying a child, sire, and the pains – ”

  Henry glowered, pouting, muttering, “Naturally very fond of Elisabeth. Sweet child. Looks like me. Blood of my blood. And Mary too, though she’s gone into mourning and seems set to weep herself into another grave.”

  “Declared illegitimate, sire, by your law.”

  “Well, of course. But that’s hardly important, Cromwell, don’t try to distract me. No boys, that’s the arrowhead of this damned disaster. No heir. No future king.”

  Cromwell bowed his head. “Majesty, there’s time, I believe. Not while her grace is ill, but soon – ”

  The king paused, stared, and pursed his lips. “Are you arguing with me, Thomas?”

  “I would never dream of such a thing, sire,” Cromwell said at once. “And if you will give permission, majesty, I will retire and consider what you desire, and discover the solution. What you wish, your majesty, will indeed be done.”

  “Permission given,” grunted the king. “Off you go. And when Wolfdon finally reappears, have him incarcerated. Have him beaten. Throw him from the windows and into the snow. Then bring him to me.”

  “Naturally sire.”

  “Oh and Thomas,” the king added, striding tot the fireside, “I expect this arranged within the month. Don’t go thinking I’ll wait another seven years as I did getting rid of Catherine. This bitch goes quick and no second thoughts. I want her gone. And I’ve an idea for who will take her place.”

  “I understand, sire,” said Cromwell, who understood very well indeed. “And I give my word that within the week I shall arrange the solution.”

  The snow turned to blizzard.

  Queen Anne lay sweltering in the huge bed, gazing across the vast chamber at the fire, its flames licking scarlet tongues up the chimney, then blazing downwards as they battled with the wind and smoke. Then coughed, which hurt her. She rolled over, closing her eyes. Her ladies grouped, some beside the bed and others in the further corners. They chattered, hemmed and flounced, practised needlework and embroidery, or stared forlorn through the window at the storms sweeping the palace grounds beyond.

  Her majesty turned to the Lady Margaret, sitting attentively at the bedside. “Wine, perhaps, Margaret. Read to me. Tell the others to stop their giggling. And get me a clean chemise. This one is creased beyond saving, and stinks of sweat.”

  “Majesty, the doctors will not permit draughts. The fire must be built high and kept burning day and night. There are cloths laid at the base of the door in case cold air enters. The window should be shuttered too. It is only on your orders that we’ve permitted the shutters to be lifted. Though we dare not admit that to the doctors.”

  The queen stared up at the bulging velvet of the tester over her head. “I feel like a sausage sizzling in a boiling pot, ready for some wretched man’s supper. I need sunshine on my face again.”

  The Lady Margaret Hansard sighed. “You have not yet been churched after the tragic loss, my lady. You cannot risk your health by rising too quickly.”

  “Then help me sit,” Anne complained, “more pillows – quick – and read to me. The Green Man or Camelot. Chaucer, perhaps. Make me laugh. I’ve done with crying.”

  “I’ll fetch pillows, your grace, and wine, and the Tales of Canterbury to make you laugh. But laughing may hurt your belly, majesty, and do more harm than help.”

  “Nothing,” said the queen very quietly, “can hurt more than it does already.”

  Thomas Cromwell returned to his own chambers, and sat quietly in the great wooden high backed chair, listening to the howling of the wind beyond his windows. He lit neither fire nor candle, but remained in darkness, avoiding the distractions that would interrupt the thoughts, inevitably as dark as the chamber where he sat. He clasped his hands over the swell of his belly and drifted into the winding avenues of contemplation, considering the possibilities and his king’s commandments.

  He did not hate. He did not love. Since leaving the misery of his own childhood, he rarely wasted the enormous effort required in hating. Most of the lords who bustled, sycophantic, around their king, were men he disliked but they were of too little consequence for loathing. Love was now kept for his own family, and he had none to spare for others. His majesty was king and must be obeyed. It was sublime irrelevance to ponder the king’s judgements. The choice was obedience or death. Cromwell was not yet ready to die. Yet, even in the silent depths of lengthy, careful and intelligent consideration, Cromwell could discover no means by which he might arrange another royal divorce.

  The lowly chamber of Lord Staines was at some distance from that of Thomas Cromwell, and even further from the royal apartments, but the room was snug enough if you had no pretence at grandeur. He sat by his own fire, legs crossed, and regarded Lady Rochford over the brim of his wine cup. “I am honoured madam. But the reason?”

  “Do I need a reason, sir?” The lady smiled, hands neatly clasped in her lap. “I have decided to consider you a friend, my lord. And so, even a married lady might visit an unmarried friend when she wishes?”

  “Unexpected, madam. And I doubt your husband would approve.”

  “You know perfectly well that he takes not the slightest interest in what I do.” She smiled. “But I have heard, my lord, that you do. Now, I find that most interesting. That a gentleman of no particular standing at court, a baron indeed, but with no place on the Privy Council, no place in Parliament, and no place at the king’s side, should ask about me behind my back.”

  Staines shivered, straightened and drained his cup. “You are misinformed, my lady. I have never done anything so – improper – nor – irregular. Indeed, I was speaking to his grace the Duke of Norfolk when your name – came up, as it were.”

  “I’ve no argument with his Grace of Norfolk.” The lady looked up
sharply. “Nor he with me. We do not share –neither opinions nor gossip.”

  “Nor I, nor I, my lady.” Staines spoke in a rush. “Please don’t mistake me. The conversation was entirely peaceful.”

  She clasped her fingers a little tighter. “I have heard, sir, that you have recently undergone the misfortune of a financial setback. Considerable losses at sea, I believe. I wonder, sir, if this is behind your discussion with Norfolk? And if so, why my name has been mentioned?”

  Having woken late and still only barely dressed, Lord Staines had sent his manservant off to fetch him a quick breakfast of bread, cheese and beer to be served in his quarters. He now found himself at some disadvantage, since his hose remained wrinkled around the ankles, his doublet was undone, and his shirt was open at the neck. He had certainly not expected visitors, and even less a lady of some importance who swept into his small shabby chamber, eyeing it with distain and his own self with even greater contempt, while shooing her maid to stand outside in the corridor, and ordered his page to go out with her.

  “A short but important discussion in private, sir, if you wouldn’t mind,” she had said. And he had minded, very much, but had certainly not said so.

  Now he said, “My lady. I cannot tell how you have heard such inaccurate stories concerning my private finances, but I have indeed been discussing business with his grace of Norfolk. And I can give you my word, my lady, that your name will never be uttered by me again. Not to anyone.”

  Lady Rochford stood, brushed down her skirts as though wiping away the soiled contamination of his presence which might have lingered on her velvets, and turned towards the door. “Simply a word of warning, sir. Make sure that it never does, Should I hear of any such thing again, I will know what to do. We both walk the same corridors, stable our horses in the same quarters, sometimes even eat in the same great hall. But remember this, sir. We do not, in effect, live in the same world.”

  She walked from the room without looking back, while Staines scrambled to bow, and beckon back his page, and his man servant now hovering outside. Lady Rochford marched off with her maidservant in tow, and silence returned. Lord Staines hurried back to his chair, collapsed and sighed. He had been threatened many times by many people in his life, but he was not accustomed to such unexpected tirades.

  He turned to his page. “Brat. Get that bread onto the platter and refill my cup.”

  Lady Rochford said nothing until quite sure that she could not be overheard, then spoke very quietly to the lady who had been posing as her maidservant. “Mary, my dear,” she said, slowing her pace. “if you ever see that vile man again, you have my permission to spit in his face.”

  Mary Barresford giggled faintly. “I know his reputation, my lady.”

  “Then know this,” said Lady Rocford. “He is a conniving bastard, with a venomous tongue and his only desires are to elevate himself at the cost of others.”

  The other woman hurried to keep up. “Not unlike every other man at court, my lady?”

  “Perhaps.” Lady Rochford stopped suddenly, backing into the darker shadows as the passageway turned abruptly into the grander and wider corridors, which was a busy bustle of servants, lords and their ladies. “But,” she said, lowering her voice, “something is afoot, Mary, and I’m not yet sure what it is. I can threaten Staines, but I cannot threaten Norfolk or Cromwell. Yet Staines would be too frightened to tell me what is being planned. I have to know, and I have to choose whether to stop it if I can, or join it and rise to benefit.”

  “I’ll speak to his grace’s manservant again, my lady. He tells me everything once I’m on his lap with his hands up my skirts.”

  “Be careful,” the lady whispered. “I don’t want you caught. You’d be quietly tortured you know, and even with the best of intentions, you’d end up betraying me.”

  Mary shivered, backing into the shadows. “I shall be careful. In three years, my lady, I’ve never been suspected.”

  “But this,” Lady Rochford replied, “may be more serious. Norfolk is a bigot and hypocrite of religious zeal. The wrong religion! He’s as Roman Catholic as any treasonous priest, but far too powerful to accuse of heresy. Yet he’s careful. He won’t give the king any excuse to turn against him. He may be the queen’s close relative, but he’d never back her against the king. And I have heard enough of the gossip to know that the king wants rid of our Lady Anne.”

  The girl whispered, “I shall take Jon to the back of the stables. I’ll give him the swiving of his life, my lady. And I’ll know all the gossip within the week.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Dover lay beneath a sullen February sky, ignoring the lapping of the Narrow Sea against her skirt of bright cliffs, and the reflections of cloud from horizon to horizon, broken only by the swoop of hungry gulls. The port, welcoming no new shipping at this time of year, was noisy with over-spilling taverns, the repair of cranes and barges in readiness for spring, and the preparation of harbour-side warehouses for the cargoes, nets of fish and traders to come when the weather improved and the winter seas tamed.

  The White Rabbit was a tiny hostelry, set way back behind the town square. Their principal business was stabling and the long low barn stretched across two laneways at the rear of a snug little drinking house. Above the stable block straw pallets were rented out for sailors, traders and the servants of travellers staying nearby in grander establishments, but whose horses were stabled where they received more than cursory attention. Above the tiny tavern two small chambers offered the only comfort, and these were both immediately taken by Master Wolfdon for his party.

  While Mistress Jemima settled reluctantly but obediently to rest on a narrow posted palliasse, watching as the single maidservant unpacked her little chest of new clothes, Richard Wolfdon and Thomas Dunn set off to discover the whereabouts of Alfred Liverich. The search was not a long one since Alfred was drinking heavily in the small squashed drinking room of The White Rabbit itself.

  “Might have knowed,” Alfred grunted, nose still in his tankard. “Them bastards will be back fer Captain Thripp’s treasure soon enough, I says to myself. But Dickon the Bastard, he pays well. And I’s due a share o’ the captain’s coin as well. So I’s ready. At your service, Master Wolfdon. But I reckon on finishing me beer first.”

  “Good merciful heavens,’ sighed Richard, “I’ve no intention of going anywhere today. I’ve been in the saddle since dawn. But tomorrow, I think, we might start at least to discuss the business we have come for.” He lowered his voice. “Once we start the expedition itself, do you know exactly where to go?”

  “Wish I did,” Alf replied, reappearing from the tankard. “No. I doesn’t know exactly. But I got a bloody good idea.”

  “You weren’t with your captain when he hid his secret haul?” frowned Thomas.

  Alfred sniffed into his beer. “The captain don’t trust no one. When it were done, he went alone, and came back alone. After we come back safe and the captain, he went into hiding in his own house, he told me some. And then, natural-like, when we sets off again fer Dover, he told more. I reckon he’d damn near forgot, since he said it were night and he didn’t dare take too long. He’s a good idea of having been seen by one o’ Babbington’s men and some other folk too. So the captain wanted out quick. So he didn’t say much, and what he did say, I ain’t telling you neither – in case you sneak off in the night without me and keep the lot for yerselves.”

  “The dishonest man will always distrust others,” Richard sighed. “But since I would undoubtedly distrust you, I will not complain at your own suspicious nature. We will talk about this tomorrow, and meet outside at dawn.”

  “If the fellow hasn’t already gone to grab it alone,” said Thomas.

  “He won’t.” Richard smiled. “If he were capable of it, he’d have gone so already and have returned either to Thripp’s Strand house, or have run to the other end of England to spend it all himself. The fact that he is still here, drinking cheap beer in a run-down hostelry is
proof that he does not really know where this interesting hoard has been hidden, and is also dubious of being seen and murdered by any of Babbington’s men who escaped the battle.”

  “I ain’t scared o’ nuffing,” Alfred objected, and was ignored.

  Thomas said, “Well, I hope he has a fairly good guess, or we’ll be here weeks searching in the cold and wet.”

  Richard shook his head. “A matter to discuss tomorrow, I believe, with less possibility of being overheard.”

  The weather had calmed. The coastline swept clear, and across the wide expanse of grassy flats at the top of the white cliffs, and although without pathway, there was a windy blast of tumbled climb and the possibility of speaking with only the gales to listen.

  Jemima wore her new cape. Fur lined, she wrapped it close around her, hood pulled up, and able to peep with a one eyed squint into the wind’s whistle. “It’s – challenging,” she said. “Interesting but challenging. Socrates would be swept away. I may be too, and at any moment.”

  “I should hold onto you then,” Richard murmured, and wrapped his own caped arm around her, pulling her tight to his side. “It would, after all, be a shame to lose you just now, on the point of a fascinating discovery.”

  She turned quickly, her one eyed squint beneath a frown. “Discover what, sir? Gold and treasure?” She hesitated, then murmured, “ Or something else?”

  His small smile widened but he said softly, “Discovery takes many forms, my dear. So tell me about your father. Did he give no clues before sending you on this insane and dangerous commission? I find his motivation strange.”

  Jemima shook her head, which dislodged the hood of her cloak. She stared out to sea, but did not shake off the protecting arm around her shoulders. “Papa is – not an average man.” The waves were a splash of gentle spray at the bottom of the cliffs. The sky was pale cloud and reflections were dull. “He didn’t trust anyone I suppose, not even me. He thought I would be stupid and say the wrong thing to the wrong people. Others might simply steal. So all he told me was hints and puzzles.”