The Cardinal's Court

by Cora Harrison

  ‘Let’s walk outside for a few minutes,’ I said and I took his arm.

  He shrugged it off instantly. I should have remembered how self-conscious he was about his lameness.

  ‘It’s snowing,’ he said.

  ‘You won’t melt. Come on.’ I waited, made sure that he was in front of me, but said nothing more. He walked stiffly, trying in vain to disguise his limp. A servant carrying a tray of wooden platters was ahead of us. We stood for a moment in the doorway watching him go. There were indeed blobs of snow on the man’s shoulders. The clock tower courtyard was bitterly chilly, the grass bleached a desolate shade of yellow; even the crimson bricks lacked warmth under the leaden sky. The gravel beneath our feet was frozen into clumps and I saw James stumble. I took his arm and held it firmly, making him stop and turn towards me.

  ‘Did you do it?’ I had waited until we were alone in the square space before I asked the question. It wasn’t a day for people to linger and here in the centre of the clock court, there was no danger of being overheard.

  ‘Of course I didn’t.’

  I eyed him. Like other boys he would tell a lie sometimes if it served his purpose. He wasn’t stupid, though. I was his father’s lawyer, or Brehon, as we said in Ireland. He knew that I would look after his interests in this English court.

  ‘I know that there was some fuss, some affair that Master Pace uncovered,’ I warned him. ‘There were rumours about it.’ I eyed him keenly. ‘Did you pay his blackmail?’

  He was taken aback for a moment and then he shrugged. ‘Well, you know what it’s like. Gave him a crown to shut him up. He threatened to go to the cardinal. It wasn’t anything serious. He had something on Gilbert, too. And Thomas. Probably Harry, too. We all had good matches, rich brides in the offing. He threatened that he could put a stop to the marriages if he told what he knew. He had us all paying him to keep his mouth shut, otherwise we’d have to behave like young priests.’

  He’s lying, I thought. There was something more than that. Even Cardinal Wolsey with the affairs of Europe on his shoulders had spotted something, knew that there was something amiss, had dropped a hint to me that was impossible to ignore. I wouldn’t pursue it at the moment. The man was dead and I had to make sure that my employer’s son was speedily freed of all suspicion. If we had been back in Ireland, I could have afforded to take my time. Under the Brehon law, in which I had been trained, the punishment would have been a fine. Here it would be death. And death was very final, held no room for mistakes, no possibility of redressing a wrong. I needed to work fast, needed to absorb all the available information.

  ‘And this arrow, your arrow in the man’s chest. I saw it. It was definitely yours. Bodkin-tipped, your initials …’

  ‘I lost that arrow a few days ago; I told the serjeant that. I was aiming at a duck flying over the moat, just near to the west entrance, just by the stables. It was getting dark. I thought that I would search for it next morning but I forgot about it.’

  I suppressed a groan. It was a possible story, but taken with the evidence put forward by the lady, Mistress Anne Boleyn, and by Harry Percy, it was not good enough. Admittedly it was likely, if the man was a blackmailer, that one of the other boys, all eight of the cardinal’s pages, all of them armed with these toy arrows, might have had reason to shoot the instructor of the wards, but two people were prepared to swear that they saw James with a real arrow, bodkin-tipped, and that was the arrow which had killed Master Pace.

  And the arrow itself was undoubtedly his.

  ‘Anyone with you when you lost the arrow?’ I asked the question without much hope and wasn’t surprised when he shook his head. Not too many people would have gone out duck shooting on a freezing day in the month of February. The others were probably cosily tucked up by a fire, playing cards and discussing their marriage prospects. James was always driven, always setting himself goals. Perhaps it was the lame leg, or perhaps he had just been born like that.

  ‘Did you notice anything, anything last night during that …?’ I stopped myself using the word ‘ridiculous affair’ and substituted the word ‘pageant’. No matter how puerile the amusements of the king, a man past his thirtieth birthday, it was unwise to voice such opinions.

  James shook his head. ‘No, but it was very noisy. Everyone was shouting and flinging things and the girls were all shrieking. Mistress Anne was crying ‘au secours’ at the top of her voice and her sister Mistress Carey, she was ‘Kindness’ and she was screaming – pretending to be frightened, and holding her arms out to the king – everyone knew it was the king, of course. He’s the biggest of the lot of them. So we were all laughing at that and cheering her on. And then, of course, there were the sweetmeats thrown in my face and Her Grace the king’s sister, the French queen, she emptied a pitcher of rosewater over young Tom Seymour’s head and …’

  ‘Were you near to Harry Percy?’ I interrupted him. The cardinal was not patient man. In another moment a servant would appear with a polite message requesting our presence.

  ‘I’m not sure. I can’t remember.’

  A question for one of the ladies-in-waiting. They were up high. The pretend castle had been erected by the carpenters on the dais. The girls would have been looking down at the melee. Not Anne Boleyn, nor her married sister, Mary, but perhaps I would question Bessie Blount, Gilbert Tailboys’ designated wife.

  ‘Let’s see what the cardinal has managed to uncover,’ I said. I went ahead of him, hearing him limp behind me. If things looked too bad I would smuggle him out of the country, and let the marriage to Anne Boleyn hang in abeyance. I did not think that I could face Margaret, Countess of Ormond, if anything happened to her beloved eldest son.

  2

  The cardinal’s room above the entrance archway of the clock tower had a window overlooking the court so I was not surprised to see young Francis Bigod already posted at the doorway ready to bow us into the room. Francis was the descendent of earls, but the younger boys, even fourteen-year-old George Stanley, Earl of Derby, acted as pages in the cardinal’s household.

  ‘Thank you, Francis,’ I said, but James, I noticed, could not even manage a smile. His face was whiter than ever and I swore under my breath. Francis looked embarrassed, his eyes avoiding James’s. Perhaps by this stage I should have been down at the stables choosing two good horses to take us to Bristol. However, it was probably too late for that now. As soon as we came in the king’s serjeant-at-arms stepped forward from the shadows. The cardinal, a man who felt the cold, had the stone walls of his room darkly panelled in wood. Not even the brightly burning fire and the many-branched candelabra could illuminate the gloom on this grey morning and it took a few minutes before the other shadows resolved themselves into shapes.

  Six ladies-in-waiting, I noticed. Even the king’s sister, known as the French queen since her brief marriage to the now-deceased Louis XII, although she was now Duchess of Suffolk, even she and the Countess of Devon were there. And so was John Rushe’s sister, Alice.

  Alice would be, I reckoned, about my own age, about thirty. She had been married, John told me once, at barely fourteen. An Italianate beauty, she had dark green eyes, almond in shape, olive skin, but her hair was a rich gold, the colour of ripe corn, an unusual colour where a subtle shade of red tinged the blondness of the smooth locks. It had been a brilliant marriage to a very wealthy knight, three times older than she. On the death of her husband a few years ago, her wardship had been given by the king to Cardinal Wolsey. He had made various attempts to find her a new husband, she had wealth and beauty, but she had always objected. In the meantime the cardinal benefited from her estates and from her presence. It was rumoured that Serjeant Rushe owed his promotion to his sister’s elegance and charm. She was looking very serious this morning. The almond-shaped eyes that met mine held a warning, before they moved to focus on the king’s serjeant-at-arms.

  Deliberately I picked up a wooden candlestick and held the light in my hand, moving it slowly from face to face and watch
ing the features spring to life. Harry Percy looking, not guilty, rather more excited, though his hands, pale in the candlelight, were twisted together, one entwined in the other in a nervous fashion. Thomas Arundel appeared embarrassed, confused, but looking away from James. Thomas and Harry were very close and now I could see how they seemed to range themselves together, as though to face an emergency. And Gilbert Tailboys, James’s best friend, was looking frightened. I glanced quickly at the king’s sergeant and was not surprised to see that his eyes were fixed on Gilbert. The boy did look as though he knew something.

  ‘James, Hugh, come in, come in. Come and get warm by the fire. Today is no time for the outdoors! You Irish. You’re a hardy race.’ Scolding lightly, the cardinal got us both sitting by the fireside while he himself took a chair behind a small table, resting his clasped hands on its carpeted surface and smiling gently.

  ‘Now, Hugh, we know that you were busy last night so were not able to watch the pageant.’ The cardinal, a consummate actor, bore a note of commiseration in his voice. He knew well that I loathed loud music and took any excuse to get away from it.

  ‘That’s right, Your Grace,’ I said briskly. ‘And now I very much regret that fact.’ I looked grimly across at Richard Gibson. The king’s sergeant would not find me an easy opponent. I had often beaten him at tennis and he knew I was ruthless under pressure. I kept an eye on him while I smiled politely at the cardinal and waited for the next move.

  ‘And so, I’ve asked George here to describe the scene as he remembers it. George has a way with words and if he makes a mistake, then the others here can assist him. Come on, George, we are agog.’

  It was George Cavendish, of course, one of the gentlemen ushers, the newest of them, not long in the post. He looked nervous as he came forward from the shadows, but when he began to speak, everyone perched on chairs or stools, or leaning against the panelled walls, stayed very still and listened intently.

  How like the cardinal to have discovered a talent in this latest recruit. He was the one who had encouraged James to become a master bowman, a skill where his lame foot did not impede him; the one who had continually lauded Gilbert Tailboys as the most sensible and the most level-headed of his pages and caused him to put his father’s sad history to the back of his mind. And now this George Cavendish, nervous, tentative, probably quite unsure of himself while performing his duties in supervising the servants, scolding people for bad service, was being praised as a gifted teller of tales.

  And George did it very well. He fixed his large blue eyes on me and spoke in a musical, almost rhythmic fashion.

  ‘You must know, Hugh,’ he said, ‘that my lord would do anything to please the king, to relieve him, if only for a few hours, of the cares of state. And so, on this Shrove Tuesday, all was appointed for his entertainment. The castle looked for all the world as though made from stone, the ladies, the queen’s gentlewomen, all sheltered behind its castellated walls, imprisoned by these young men, dressed as women from Inde …’ George waved his hand towards the cluster of the cardinal’s wards. And, he, the kindest of men, flinched at the sight of James’s white face and went hastily on with his story. I half-listened to the flow of words in the antique storytelling accent:

  and on every braunche were thirty-two torchettes of waxe, and in the nether ende of the same chamber was a castle, in which was a principal tower, where there was a cresset burning: and two other lesse towers stode on every side, warded and embattled, and on every tower was a banner, one banner was of three rent hartes, the other was a ladies hand gripyng a man’s harte, the third banner was a ladies hand turnyng a mannes hart: this castle was kept with ladies of straunge names, the first Beautie, the second Honor, the third Perseueraunce, the fourth Kyndnes, the fifth Constance, the sixte Bountie, the seuenthe Mercie, and the eighth Pitie: these eight ladies had Milan gounes of white sattin, euery Lady had her name embraudered with golde, on their heddes cauls, and Milan bonettes of gold, with jewelles. Under nethe the basse fortresse of the castle were other eight ladies, whose names were, Dangier, Disdain, Gelousie, Vnkyndenes, Scorne, Malebouche, Straungenes, these ladies were tired like to women of Inde.

  George gesticulated towards the eight wards, who had played the part of the unpleasant ladies with such gusto. Something about James’s white face must have struck him, because he stopped there and he looked anxiously at the cardinal.

  ‘And you saw them aim their arrows at the attackers, that’s right, isn’t it, George?’

  George nodded mutely.

  ‘And you would have been observing them carefully, would you not, as I had given you the responsibility for that part of the evening’s entertainment?’ queried his master.

  Never ask an important question if you don’t already know the answer to it was one of the many pieces of good advice that Cardinal Wolsey had given to me and now I awaited George’s answer with confidence.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ said George stoutly. He cast a quick look of defiance at the two serjeants, standing side by side, and then turned back to the cardinal. ‘I was watching with great care the arrows that your wards were firing, Your Grace, as I was the one that thought of using a mixture of finely ground-up leather and glue to fashion them in the likeness of real arrows. I took the idea from some of the medallions in the great hall which, when painted, looked just like wood.’

  ‘And it was a great success, George, wasn’t it?’ The cardinal’s voice was smooth and he did not even glance towards the king’s serjeant. I noticed John Rushe look at the man by his side uneasily, though. John was a decent fellow but he was keen for promotion. Master Richard Gibson had the ear of the king and John’s future could depend on him. ‘I saw one of them glide off the king’s sleeve,’ continued the cardinal, ‘and I saw it fall to the floor. I picked it up. It snapped more easily than a cornstalk. You did very well, George. His Grace was pleased to say that he had seldom enjoyed an evening as much.’

  George flushed a rosy red. He gulped, his large Adam’s apple moving up and down his neck. In a flustered way he stepped back from the candlelight and remained silent as though the compliment had robbed him of words.

  ‘No one thinks that those arrows did any harm, Your Grace,’ said king’s serjeant impatiently. ‘But Master Harry says …’

  ‘Ah, yes, Master Harry.’ The cardinal’s voice, used to the negotiating tables of kings and emperors, overrode the serjeant’s voice very effectively. ‘Yes, indeed, Master Gibson, you remind me of the tale that you told me. Stand forth, Harry. Don’t look so worried, boy. Anyone can make a mistake. The wine flowed freely last night, didn’t it?’ And the cardinal gave a fat, comfortable chuckle ready to reassure that all sins could be forgiven.

  Harry Percy was the heir to the Earl of Northumberland, not the most important of the cardinal’s pages – that would have been young Stanley, already the third Earl of Derby – but he was probably the one that His Grace worried the most about. A dark-haired boy with a high complexion and a difficult nature. One who turned to wine not just for the fun of the moment but as a release from inner demons. It was rumoured that his father favoured his younger brother and openly regretted that Harry had not died of a bout of sweating sickness five years ago.

  ‘I saw James with a real arrow in his hand.’ The words spurted out and young Percy gave a defiant glance around the room and then a hasty, furtive look at Mistress Anne Boleyn.

  ‘And you could see it plainly. God bless your young eyes. I couldn’t make out much in the confusion. All that rosewater! And the fruit flying through the air. The candles flickering!’ The cardinal threw his hands in the air, the gesture causing a stretching of the flames in the top tier of the candelabra in front of him. A drop of hot wax fell onto the crimson carpet of the table. George rushed forward and scratched it off with a well-trimmed nail, but the cardinal’s eyes never wavered from the face of Harry Percy. I remained silent. The cardinal would do a good job of interrogation.

  ‘I could see it plainly.’ Once again there was
that glance at the girl. A self-possessed young lady. She was standing very still and looking politely at the cardinal. She stood as gracefully as she moved, slight, small-boned, very slim, but quite upright, silhouetted against the dark brown squares of panelling, her bejewelled French hood, like a crescent moon, catching the light from a nearby candle. She wore a dark veil attached to the slender hood, floating down her back and it enhanced the rich colour of her very black hair.

  Harry Percy could not take his eyes from her. ‘Ask Mistress Boleyn.’ He blurted out the name as though he could no longer restrain himself from attracting her attention. She looked at him then. For a second a half-smile flickered over her lips and then she looked back at the cardinal.

  ‘And you, Mistress, what did you see?’ The cardinal turned from Harry and she met his gaze with one of her graceful curtseys.

  I saw the same as Master Percy, Your Grace.’ Her voice was musical, well modulated, reached across the room with ease.

  ‘And that was?’ The cardinal raised his eyebrows at her.

  ‘A wooden arrow, ten times the girth of the other arrows that the young gentlemen were firing.’

  ‘And you could see that clearly, from where you stood, even amongst the crowd.’

  ‘I saw the candlelight glint on the metal point of it, Your Grace. That attracted my attention and so I looked more closely. My eyes are very good, Your Grace.’ She dropped a slight courtesy to him, a graceful movement and widened those very black eyes as though to display their excellence.

  ‘And the other ladies? What did they see? Your Grace?’ The cardinal gave a courteous wave of his hand towards the king’s sister. She seemed to me to hesitate, but then she shook her head.

  ‘And the other young ladies?’

  Again heads were shaken. It would have been difficult for anything as small as an arrow to have been noticed in the confusion. Oranges flying from the fists of Ardent Desire and his men would have meant that the ladies would have been continually ducking below the parapet. I looked tentatively at Bessie Blount. I would have a word with her afterwards, I promised myself and then eyed Gilbert Tailboys. He averted his head and would not meet my eyes. I would leave him until afterwards, too, I decided. If Edmund Pace had been blackmailing those whom he was paid to instruct, then it might be difficult to get anyone as shy and as diffident as Gilbert Tailboys to speak out in company.