The Deception of Consequences

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Henry spat blood. “Willow bark. Wine. Soft towels,” he roared. And turned to Cromwell. “Keep talking,” he demanded. “And everyone else – out. Out, out, out. I want privacy. Bring the wine. Here, you, give me that towel. And now out.” He leaned back in the chair. His face was bloodless and white, although his mouth was full of blood, dribbling from lips to towel. “Now then, Thomas. Names. Do you tell me you’ve arrested Richard Wolfdon of all people? And what’s the game? What’s the accusation. And who is this other man?”

  “Sir Walter Hutton is attempting, I assume, to speak with your grace. There is another man whose voice I do not recognise.”

  Standing back, the doctor began to dismiss his assistants, sending the pages to the inner chamber to fetch clean water. The king smiled through the last dribbles of bloody saliva. “Then,” he said with a sudden chuckle of relief, “we had better let them in.”

  A steam of pages, livery flapping and their hose baggy around the knees, came running back with their outstretched arms laden. One brought hippocras, steam rising in blue curls from rich red ripples, another carried replacement candles on a silver platter, a third was out of breath and balancing sugar dusted apple codlings, and the last and smallest was heaped to his nose with soft white towels.

  “Here,” indicated the doctor. “Willow bark, your grace. A strong solution, concentrated with berries of the wild vines.”

  “There,” added Cromwell.

  “Pour me a cup,” his majesty pointed to the wine. “And then let these fools in to the outer chamber.”

  Sir Walter sank to his knees, and the king graciously told him to come forwards. Thripp and Staines, also on their knees, were left to remain where they crouched.

  “His majesty,” Cromwell smiled with evident polite boredom, “is pleased to grant audience, in spite of having been interrupted during a difficult moment. Sir Walter, perhaps you might explain.”

  “Your majesty,” Sir Walter began, “if I may speak regarding the matter of my son Richard?

  “Ah,” nodded the king. “Your step-son. I am listening, my lord.”

  During the explanation, Sir Walter was offered wine, which he gratefully accepted, apple codlings which he reluctantly refused as he imagined the difficulties of pleading with an irate sovereign while his own mouth was full of sweet oozing fruit, and sympathy, which was his greatest relief.

  Master Thripp, in his gaudy silks, huge leather belt and ruddy complexion, was not offered anything at all. But Cromwell, after a discreet nod from Henry, took control of the situation.

  “Master Wolfdon’s arrest,” he said, tucking his hands into his sleeves, “is an unfortunate necessity, but there has not yet been any confirmation of the charges. I have known the gentleman for some years, and believe him to be a man of trust. I have some hopes of exonerating him within a few days. In the meantime, I cannot offer details on a situation of the most intimate secrecy and diplomatic importance.”

  “Treason,” muttered Sir Walter. “My step-son treasonous? Impossible, your grace. You cannot suppose he would ever even speak against your majesty. Richard is a man of honest devotion.”

  “Humph,” said the king, patting his jaw where the jolt of the tooth removed was now beginning to ache more persistently.

  “It is precisely on this matter,” Cromwell continued, “that I journeyed with some urgency this morning from Westminster Palace and the council meeting which I attended there, to come to see his majesty here this afternoon.”

  “And,” announced his majesty, gulping his wine and holding it inside his cheek against the offending toothache, swelling his cheek with a rich cerise, “although,” and he swallowed with a slurp, “this business interests me somewhat, having heard other explanations from Master Cromwell only moments ago.”

  “I do not even know, sire,” hurried Sir Walter, “what the charge is against him, sire, except it be treason. But my step-son has been absent from the city for some months.” He looked around. “On business concerning the father of his, er, intended bride.”

  Cromwell interrupted him. “Confidential, sir, confidential. Matters of this kind are not open for general discussion. I have given you, I believe, some assurance at least of hope to come.”

  But it was not the last interruption, and a young woman’s voice was raised immediately outside.

  “It is so terribly important,” she said. “And I have been permitted to come this far. Why not allow me admittance?”

  The guard at the door had only time to announce his orders, when the king, with a faint sigh, said, “The bride to be? Well, now! Let us have a look.”

  As the doctor, arms full of soiled towels and blood stained cloths, tubs of ointment and stoppered jars of willow bark tonic aimed for the door, so it opened for his departure and Jemima entered in a swirl of mulberry damask, while Thomas Dunn, who had entered close behind her, sank quickly to one knee and lowered his head.

  In a dazzle of unexpected haste and bewilderment, Jemima remembered to curtsey and stared at the Turkey rug beneath her toes. “Your majesty. I had not thought to be received immediately into the royal presence.” Indeed, she had expected a series of antechambers, and coming white faced to ruddy face with the king himself staring down at her, she forgot what she had initially hoped to say.

  The king, on the other hand, had discovered something to smile at. “Very pretty, very pretty,” he said with a brief nod. “Now then, let us all accept the word of Master Cromwell, who is, from this moment, my mouthpiece.” His amusement was waning, but Jemima’s appearance improved his humour. “I am well acquainted with Richard Wolfdon. But his innocence, or his guilt, cannot be determined here.” He looked up, having been directing his smiles at Jemima, and briefly nodded to Sir Walter. “And I have been given to understand,” he added, “that the accusatory body is Lord Staines. What is it, precisely, that he has set against my friend Master Wolfdon? He has, I imagine, some degree of proof. Witnesses, perhaps?”

  Sir Walter bowed. “Your majesty is most kind,” he said with a noticeable gulp. “I humbly ask forgiveness for entering your presence at such a time. I came only to excuse my step-son, knowing that the Lord Staines would bear false witness.” He presented his discomposed companion. “Master Edward Thripp has also recently suffered from Lord Staines unjust accusations, my liege, and is here to explain, should your grace wish it.”

  “Who the devil is Edward Thripp?” muttered the king, bending his head towards Cromwell.

  And Cromwell, whose smile had been growing, said softly, “The man in crimson silk and emerald velvet with a torn hem and a ripped cuff, your majesty.”

  His majesty beckoned. “What diversion,” he said, pointing. “I have almost forgotten the toothache.” And, with a slight leer towards Jemima, the king seated himself in the copious armed chair just behind him, stretched out his long legs, and nodded. “Who will begin?” he smiled. “Mistress – er – the lady, perhaps?”

  Blushing, Jemima once again curtsied. Her tongue felt dry. Only rarely devoid of words, she now discovered her mind as dry as her mouth. “Your majesty,” she whispered in a rush, “I plead for my friend. We are to be married. At least, I think we are. And whether we are or not, he is still innocent of absolutely everything.” She paused, saw the amusement in the king’s pale blue eyes, and said, “I also plead for my father. He didn’t mean it.”

  “Really?” smiled the king, arching his back a little so that his over-large codpiece rose perceptibly into the bright warm candlelight. “Did not mean what, precisely, madam?”

  At a small distance behind her, Edward Thripp staggered to his feet, tripping over his torn hem. “Problems at sea, sire,” he said, gruff and hesitant. “A valiant battle against the Spanish, sire. Followed by an accident where I – nearly – lost my life.”

  Cromwell sniggered slightly. “I believe, sire,” he said, silencing all others, “that your time is being taken without just cause. I can deal with this absurd group of supplicants elsewhere, without causing your
majesty further disturbance. If you give me leave, sire, I shall meet with each of these men in my own offices within the hour.”

  “And the woman?” smiled his majesty, eyes on Jemima.

  “And most certainly with Mistress Jemima,” added Cromwell.

  They were dismissed. As the doors were swept wide, Edward Thripp, Thomas Dunn, and Jemima filed out quietly into the corridor. The king raised one finger, and spoke softly to Sir Walter before he left with the others. “I am aware of your difficulty, sir,” he said. “And shall deal with it. But in private, sir, most certainly in private. You are as yet unaware of the full difficulty. Treason, sir, is not the full story. But I shall not discuss this with you. Be assured that young Richard Wolfdon will soon be back in his young lady’s arms. Betrothed, eh? I thought he had a heart of stone. And the girl seems pretty enough. I approve.”

  “Your majesty is very kind.”

  “As for the other business, stories of battles at sea and Lord Staines telling stories, well I take no interest in such nonsense. Cromwell will deal with that.”

  “Your majesty is more than kind, sire.”

  “Naturally,” said the king. “And there’ll be a wedding yet.” He smiled again, and lowered his voice slightly. “More than one, perhaps.” He chuckled. “Most certainly – more than one.”

  It was some moments after Sir Walter’s departure that the king, once again clamped to his cheek, slumped deeper into the cushions of the chair, and frowned. “Damned fools,” he muttered. “See to it, Thomas.”

  “I shall, your grace.” Cromwell backed towards the door behind him. “Wolfdon will be exonerated. He is clearly innocent, my lord. Lord Staines, on the other hand, is a suspicious character and I may have to further investigate his behaviour. The Thripp character, he is of no importance and little consequence. Piracy is no concern of mine.”

  “Just one small matter,” the king nodded, but his frown descended into dark furrows. “Wolfdon ran off without word or request. He asked no permission. He was absent over the Christmas season. He was aware of my dilemma. He did not consider my needs. Only his own. A few – weeks, perhaps – in the Tower may do him good. Innocent, yes indeed. But proving that may take time. No need to rush the investigation, I believe.”

  The backward steps, the deep bow, and the turn towards the door were all delayed. Pausing, Cromwell chewed his lip. “Master Wolfdon has already spent six days incarcerated, sire.”

  “Not quite enough, I would have thought, Thomas.”

  Pausing, Cromwell then nodded. “Two weeks in total, perhaps, sire?”

  “I think a little more, sir. No unnecessary force, you understand. Merely a time for Wolfdon to contemplate the folly of his actions.”

  “I have already refused to authorise the use of the rack, your grace. No torture will be sanctioned. But you consider fifteen days sufficient, sire? More might easily be arranged.”

  “Let us say sixteen days. Quite sufficient,” The king leaned back, half closing his eyes. “And once freed, Thomas, I expect there to be others to take his place.”

  ‘Your grace, my investigations are almost complete. Richard Wolfdon will therefore be released on the twenty ninth day of April. A Saturday. He may then spend the following day in church thanking the Lord for his fortune.” Cromwell bowed, and lowered his voice. “The following day, sire, the next arrest will take place, and the culprit taken to the Tower on the Monday.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  It had been sixteen bleak dawns imprisoned and more since the initial arrest, and the lassitude of misery seeped from the stone, far colder than the condensation that oozed, catching the sudden glint of dark crimson from the fading brazier.

  High over the turrets the wind gusted, sweeping leaves from path to sky in swirling circles of busy bustle, cut by the wings of the ravens as they hovered, searching for carrion.

  Richard stood, his shoulder to the window’s stone frame, watching the nothingness. He thought of nothing, remembered nothing, and expected nothing. The window was unglazed and the sting of the wind slapped into his eyes, making them water. But he did not move. There was nowhere else to go.

  Tired before falling to the crumpled bedcovers and the mattress he now hated, tired rising the next morning to continuous darkness, and tired as the endless days dragged like a horse to the plough, too old for the weight it pulled. It was, Richard thought when capable of thought at all, a judgement from the Lord for having complained all his life of boredom. Now the whole terrible truth of extreme boredom shadowed every minute and in retrospect his previous life seemed to him entirely interesting and bulging with activity, both mental and physical.

  Now, he decided, he knew that tedium could be the cause of his imminent death.

  Thought dithered, words in a pointless rush, no road opening for either feet or mind. The window, where he stood until his back ached, showed only tiny details of change. The world was a heartless disillusion.

  When the door of the cell opened, he did not bother to turn. But it was Cromwell’s voice which addressed him, and Richard slowly looked, shrugged, turned, and came across to face him.

  “You know,” he said softly, “that I am here without meaning. You know you had me arrested because of entirely different intentions, none of them pleasant, and none of which have the slightest relevance to me. You know that you bring me to my knees for no more reason than to see how to break a man, and in order to fulfil the king’s wishes on other matters. And,” he stared, unblinking, down into Cromwell’s impassive expression, “you know that what you do, and what you intend to do, is cruel. One day you will pay for it, Thomas.”

  The edge of fury showed only in the unblinking eyes. Cromwell said, “I obey my king. As do you, Richard. As must we all.”

  “Cruelty must be answered for to God. Not to the king.”

  “Our king,” Cromwell replied, jaw taut, “is now the sovereign of the land, of the people, and now also of the church.”

  “Yet not of God,” Richard murmured. “But no doubt you have come to speak of other things, Thomas. Have you come to set me free?”

  Thomas Cromwell paused, straightened his back, and looked up into Richard Wolfdon’s tired eyes. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I have. You are free, Richard, from this moment, unless you choose to complicate your situation by insulting your king.”

  “He does not interest me.” Richard sighed, his body slumped, and his eyes half closed as if the relief was too huge for him to fully comprehend. But then he looked up again and the light was back in his eyes. “But it is Lord Staines that I intend to kill.”

  Cromwell shook his head and the glimmer of a smile flicked, loosening his jaw into the several chins below it. “A very different destiny awaits Lord Staines,” he said. “And it will not be a quick death. Leave him to me, Richard. His cruelty in implicating you in a business he knows had no place in your life, is of no special importance to me. But the man is a shadow supporter of the Pope and had plotted and conspired many times. I need culprits. He will not be missed from court. He deserves a fate he cannot escape.”

  Richard looked down to his boots, pausing, then saying, “I would prefer him to suffer for the faults he has committed, rather than for those in which he had no part.”

  “The choice is not yours, sir.” Cromwell pointed. “You are free to go now. The guards will escort you to the Keep where the official papers for your release will be signed and sealed. Outside the walls, your step-brother awaits you. He was informed some two hours previously. I imagine he has brought your horse. Go home, Richard, and forget the king’s business. Concentrate on your own. It is, I imagine, in need of a dust. You have my word that you will not be recalled.”

  Richard breathed deep and turned, waited one brief moment, nodded, said, “Thank you, Thomas,” and left the cell, taking nothing with him.

  It was a cold, bright day and the swallows were flying high. Richard stood on the great paving stones of the Tower’s bailey, staring out at the Keep. He straighte
ned his back. It seemed he had been stooping ever lower, lost in gloom for an age of hopelessness, where confined inactivity brought far greater tiredness than any battle, any race, or any joust.

  The guard was waiting. “Tis freedom out there, m’lord. Will you not hurry to that?”

  “I’ve not the strength to hurry for anything,” Richard said, “except breathe the air that smells fresh and sweet again, and look up to a sky instead of to stone.”

  But he turned, straightened his shoulders, and entered the Keep by the side stairway. The shadows once again enclosed him. He sighed. The papers were ready, but completing, signing, and adding the melted wax and the official seal took a time which seemed to Richard to hover like rain clouds, waiting to devour.

  The reins still loose in his grasp, Peter rushed into his arms like a small child, excited at some amazing promise. “Oh, Dickon,” he mumbled, half in tears. “It’s true. You’re free.”

  “I am, thank the Lord,” Richard said, and smiled the first smile for almost three weeks. “I am not even sure what day it is.”

  Peter blinked back sympathy, and instead, smiled. “The twenty ninth day of April. Spring is nearly over, big brother, so welcome to the promise of summer in the sun.”

  “You have the horses? Then I shall ride directly for home.”

  “Not to the Strand?” Both Peter and Richard mounted, turning the horses directly west. “They are waiting for you there, and as excited as ravens on a dead rat.”

  “I feel remarkably like a dead rat, and have no desire to be devoured.” Richard dug in his knees, and the mare tossed her head and sped from trot to canter. The wind was in Richard’s hair. A sense of dazzle exhilarated him. “I want my home, Peter. I want desperately to stagger to my own bed, walk in my own garden, eat what I order at my own table.”

  “Jemima?” Peter kept abreast. The horses took Lower Thames Street, and the ambling shoppers rushed to the sides of the buildings as the horses sped.