by Anne Stevens
“A lady, of middling years, on her travels,” Will tells him as he slows to a walking gait. “She is going to visit Sir Peregrine Martell, at Broome Hall.”
“This is a surprise,” Thomas Cromwell says, calmly. “Does she have a name?”
“Lady Agnes O’Cahan, sister-in-law to the late Earl of Leinster.”
“Irish then?”
“Yes. Let me name you to her, and you can question her to your heart’s content.” Will does not wait for Cromwell’s answer, but dismounts, and pulls open the coach’s door. “Lady Agnes O’Cahan, may I have the pleasure of naming my companion to you as Master Thomas Cromwell, Privy Councillor to the King of England.”
“The English king?” Lady Agnes asks, as she steps down from her coach. Cromwell is confronted by a woman in her late thirties, who is slender, and slightly stooped. Her face has a greyish pallor, and her lips are drawn into a thin line. Despite this, the lawyer can see that she was once, and still is, to a great extent, a rare Irish beauty.
“Henry is King of Ireland too, madam,” he replies, in what he hopes is a kindly sort of voice.
“So he is, Master Cromwell,” Lady Agnes replies, her eyes twinkling with naughtiness. “Though he has yet to visit us, and make his claim in person.”
“He is a busy man, Lady Agnes,” Cromwell says, and is suddenly stuck for words. Instead, he offers his hand, and leads her a little way from the rest.
“Would you stroll with me, at such short notice, sir?” she says, in a gentle, husky way. “You Englishmen are fast workers indeed.”
“Madam, I mean nothing by it,” Cromwell replies, and feels like a callow youth under her gaze. “I sought only enough privacy that I might ask you some questions.”
“Then ask, Master Cromwell,” she says, turning her large, hazel coloured eyes on him.
“How come you to know of Sir Peregrine?”
“I do not know of him at all.”
“That is strange.”
“How so, Master Cromwell?” Lady Agnes locks stares with Cromwell, and he finds that it is he who must look away.
“You know the man not, yet you go to visit him at Broome Hall?” Cromwell asks.
“Is that where I’m going?” Lady Agnes shakes her head, as if to signify that she knows nothing more. “I received an invitation, informing me that he has something of immense worth to impart to me. I was intrigued, and set off yesterday, from Coventry way.”
“Did your lord not wonder at this unusual invitation?”
“I am a widow, sir.” Lady Agnes smiles at the sudden light in Cromwell’s eyes. “These four years past. And you, sir? Are you a widower, or do you toy with my affections?” The middle aged lawyer steps back, and almost chokes on his words. He realises that he has been holding her elbow in his hand the whole time, and in a most forward manner.
“My wife also is deceased,” he manages to get out. “Though my intentions are completely honourable, Lady Agnes. I have not trifled with anyone’s affections for many years.”
“I am glad to hear it,” she says, her voice lilting and attractive to Cromwell’s untrained ear. “Now, might I ask why you stop and question me in this way, sir?”
“Please, Lady Agnes, call me Thomas. I think you and I will become firm friends, as I too am invited to Sir Peregrine’s nest.”
“Oh, you make a small jest, Thomas,” Lady Agnes says, clapping her delicate hands together. “For does not every peregrine falcon have its nest … as every Agnes has her day?”
Cromwell is pleased with her clever response, and nods his appreciation of her own, much sharper, witticism.
“Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, Miserere nobis,” he intones. Lamb of God, you who take away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us. Yes, he thinks, she is, indeed, a beautiful lamb of God. “With your permission, Colonel Draper and I will ride on with you, madam, and ensure your safe arrival.”
“My pleasure,” Lady Agnes replies, executing a pretty little curtsey. “Perhaps you might wish to ride inside the coach with me, Thomas, and inform me of all the latest happenings at court. I have not been since my husband died, and I am starved of all the gossip.”
“It will be an honour, Lady Agnes, though I will make a sad companion if it is gossip you seek,” Thomas Cromwell tells her. He ties his own horse to the rear of the coach, and informs Will of the new travel arrangements.
“God must have been listening to our conversation,” the retired soldier mutters into the ageing lawyer‘s ear. “For here he is, providing a rich widow for your appraisal. A rich widow who seems both charming, and attractive.”
“Attractive… is she?” Thomas Cromwell is red faced. “I have not noticed. Still, she seems like pleasant enough company.”
“To be sure, sir,” Will Draper says. It is not until they are back on the move that he considers his geography. For someone who is coming from Coventry, she has made amazingly fast time, and seems to have come from entirely the wrong direction. He eases Moll away from Lady Agnes’ four outriders, just to be on the safe side, but they offer no threat, and even share their ration of wine with him as they progress.
“Have you been with your mistress long?” he asks, after a second pull on the wine skin.
“Three days,” the most talkative one replies. “She hired me and my mates from our master’s livery stable in Chelsea.”
“Then she is not from Coventry?”
“Irish, if you ask me,” the man says. “Though she might have travelled to London from Coventry, before hiring us.”
“You go well armed.”
“The lady requested it. I told her there are no outlaws in these parts, but she was not reassured. We have a sword apiece, and young Abel has his fowling piece, but I doubt we will need them.”
“God willing,” Colonel Draper mutters. “I pray we all reach Broome Hall in safety.”
Despite not being on particularly good speaking terms with his god, Will’s prayer is answered, and just as the blood red sun finally sinks below the horizon, they breast a low hill, and come upon the house. It is a solid, brick built, two storey building, with a square, stone tower at the east end, that harks back to the days when fortifications were the normal way of things. At some point, a previous owner has felt secure enough to build a roof atop the crenulated tower, and put in large, leaded windows. The surrounding land is mostly pasture, and a lone shepherd is gathering in a grazing flock of sheep.
“Welsh,” Cromwell says, as if to himself. “They make for the best wool yield, and the meat is most tender. Sir Peregrine is well provided for at the king’s expense.”
“It does not look too inviting,” Lady Agnes observes from the coach window. “I hope Sir Peregrine has a good fire going.”
“Ride ahead, Will, and let them know of our coming,” Cromwell asks. “Pray, have them stoke the fires, and prepare a room fit for a lady.”
“At your service,” Will says, affecting a slight bow from the back of Moll. There are two, modern looking chimneys on the main roof, and he is pleased to see wisps of smoke issuing from both. This means the master of the house is at home, and, he hopes, ready to welcome his invited guests.
“I do not know what you mean, sir,” Sir Peregrine, a tough looking man in his late thirties or early forties growls through the small grill set in the house’s huge oak door. “You come to visit me, sir … at my request?”
“My master, and a fellow traveller, Sir Peregrine,” Will says through the small gap. “At your own personal invitation. I have seen the document myself, with your seal hanging upon it.”
“I am expecting no-one.” Sir Peregrine is about to slide the opening shut, and end the conversation. Will draws his dagger, and pushes the point into the gap to stop this happening, and drops his voice to a menacing drawl.
“Do not fool with me, sir,” he says. “I am the King’s Examiner, Colonel Draper, and I am in company with Master Thomas Cromwell, one of the king’s Privy Council members. He is invited to visit you, and tha
t is that!”
“Thomas Cromwell, you say?” A bolt slides back, and the huge door swings open on well oiled hinges. “This is still a mystery to me, Colonel Draper, but Thomas Cromwell is always welcome under my roof. For is he not the king’s right hand man? He travels with another, you say?”
“A lady, sir,” Will says, slipping his knife away. “She also has an invitation to Broome Hall.”
“Then I am doubly mystified,” Sir Peregrine replies. “Bid Master Cromwell enter, and I will rouse the servants and have food prepared. We are caught unawares, but shall cope.”
“You truly do not expect us?” Will’s stomach knots, and he wonders what kind of trap he has brought Cromwell into. “Have you many men about the estate?”
“Just a couple of old house servants,” Sir Peregrine tells him. “I am new to the estate, and my tenants all live beyond the parkland.”
“And the shepherd?” Will asks.
“My tenants tend to their own small flocks,” Martell explains. “I let them graze close to the house, as it keeps the grass close cropped, but I do not employ a shepherd, sir.”
“Then the mystery deepens,” Will mutters. “Ah, here is the coach. May I present Master Thomas Cromwell, and Lady Agnes O’ Cahan, late of Leinster in Ireland.”
Sir Peregrine’s eyes flick from one to the other, then he bows to Cromwell, and waves them inside. He knows the lawyer only by reputation, but understands he is close to Henry, and able to hand out honours almost as he wishes.
“I am surprised by your visit, Master Cromwell,” he says, “but assume it is to do with a certain honour?”
“I come at your beckoning, sir,” Thomas Cromwell replies, curtly. “As does this gracious lady. We have travelled far. Do you deny sending us invitations?”
“I most certainly do,” Martell replies, genuinely puzzled by the sudden arrival of guests. “Have you the document with you?”
Cromwell pulls a paper from his tunic, and holds it out for inspection. He waits impatiently, as Sir Peregrine stops to examine it by candle light. After a moment, he shakes his head, and returns it to the Privy Councillor.
“The seal is mine, sir,” he says. “I cannot deny it, but this is the first I have heard of your visit. Despite this, you are still most welcome here … as his Lady Agnes. Pray, go through to the main hall, and warm yourselves. I will have food and drink brought, as soon as I can rouse my lazy servants.”
“What is afoot, Colonel Draper?” Cromwell asks, as soon as their bemused host is gone. “You are unseasonably quiet.”
“A trick, sir,” Will says. “Both you, and Lady Agnes are lured here for some reason. The shepherd outside is no shepherd, and Sir Peregrine, though I do not like the man on first meeting, is telling the truth. He seems visibly shocked at our arrival.”
“Then we might expect some kind of attack?” Cromwell asks. “Tis a pity that Lady Agnes is caught up in this business.”
“She received an invitation too, Master Thomas,” Will reminds him. “She is as much the prey as you are. I will see the house is well guarded tonight, and get us safely back to London on the morrow.”
“Colonel Draper, I am alarmed,” Martell blusters, as he returns from the back of the house. “Both of my men are gone. It seems that we are deserted, and must fend for ourselves.”
“Do you have any arms in the house, Sir Peregrine?” Will asks. “I have a brace of pistols, and a sword, but more might come in useful.”
“You think us to be at risk?” Martell is horrified. “There is no outlawry in these parts, sir. I have several fowling pieces, and a small barrel of good black powder. Once my door is barred, Broome Hall is nigh on impregnable.”
“Secret passages?”
“None that I know of,” Martell says. “What is going on, Colonel Draper - are we in some sort of danger?”
“I do not fully understand, sir, but we must assume the worst and be on our guard.” Will is examining the inside of the house, even as he speaks. All the windows are shuttered tight, and the great front door is double barred. At one end, a smaller door, no higher than a man’s chest stands ajar. He makes for it at once. “Where does this lead?”
“To the tower stairs,” Martell tells him. It is the only way in, and goes up two floors. Each level has a bed chamber in it.”
“Empty?”
“Of course. Until you came knocking, I was alone … even though I did not know it.” Martell stoops, and goes into the base of the sturdily built tower. Stone steps spiral upwards. “You will need a torch to proceed. The way ahead is pitch black. Shall we go on?”
“No, just close the door, and bolt it for now.” Will glances at Cromwell to seek his advice, but to his surprise, he is fussing over Lady Agnes, whom he has placed in the best chair, close to the roaring fire. The middle aged lawyer has found a down filled cushion, and is placing it behind her, for comfort’s sake.
No fool like an old fool, he thinks, and immediately regrets the cruel thought. If Cromwell is taken with Lady Agnes … then good luck to him.
“I have urgent business in St. Albans tomorrow,” Martell says. “Must I cancel it?”
“On the contrary,” Will says. “Lady Agnes has four ruffians with her. Two of them can ride with you, and fetch back enough men to secure Broome Hall against attack.”
“I must disabuse you, Colonel Draper,” Martell says. “The coach, and all Lady Agnes’ entourage are gone too. Only your horse, and the two in my stable are left. I assume they have orders to lodge in some nearby village.”
“God’s teeth!” Will sees that the trap is closed on them. “Then we are here, and must await our enemy’s next move. Master Cromwell, do you hear this?”
“I do,” Cromwell replies, tearing himself away from Lady Agnes’ side. “Though I do not fear an imminent attack. We are here for some other reason, not yet apparent.”
“How can you be sure, Thomas?” Lady Agnes asks.
“Because the house is well appointed to withstand an assault, Agnes,” Cromwell replies. First names already, Will muses. “Anyone with murder in their hearts would have stopped us before our safe arrival.”
“True. With just the three of us, we can stand off most things an enemy might throw at us. Even if they number a hundred, and fire the main house, the tower is solid stone, and once barred, impregnable to ought save concentrated canon fire. Let someone start discharging canon, and the whole shire will be in arms, and rushing to our aid.”
“Just so,” Cromwell confirms. “Our enemy wants us here for another reason. As we have never met before, I cannot see what we three have in common.”
“We all know the king,” Martell ventures.
“Lady Agnes has never spoken to Henry, and your position at court - forgive me for saying - is somewhat ambiguous. The king favours you, but is seldom in your company, and does not seem that overjoyed at your presence.”
“He seeks my business advice, now and then,” Martell replies, gruffly. “Not all the king’s friends need to be jesters, or good with a falcon.”
“Of course not, Sir Peregrine,” Cromwell rushes to explain himself. “I mean no slight against you. I too am but a boring advisor to our king. We are useful sorts, I suppose.”
“Then why are we targeted?” Martell asks. “Do these unknown villains mean us physical harm, or do they seek to use us in some other way?”
“I am of no use to them,” Lady Agnes puts in. “I am a widow, living on slender means. When I received your invitation, I came, hoping that you sought to do me a great kindness.”
“A kindness, madam?” Martell is not a kindly sort of a fellow, and wonders what the woman is going on about.
“You are a single man, sir,” she says. “I thought Lady Anne might have prevailed on you to … offer me marriage.”
“What?” Martell cannot believe what he is hearing, and looks to Cromwell for help. “I did not invite you, madam, and I do not wish to marry you!”
“Calm yourself, Martell,” Thomas Crom
well says, sharply. “The lady is not at fault. Lady Anne Boleyn wishes to remind Henry of the joys of matrimony, and to this end, dislikes the king having bachelors about him. She plays the part of Diana, the goddess of love, and seeks to pair single men with suitable ladies about the court. I live in constant fear of a wife being thrown into my arms. It is quite likely that she would try to marry you off, and Lady Agnes is a most suitable match.”
“Not for me.”
“No, sir, I mean to a suitable gentleman.” Cromwell turns, and executes a neat little bow to Lady Agnes. “I see how you might be tricked, My Lady, and think it a cruel deceit to play on so noble, and lovely a lady.”
“Sir, you have the tongue of a poet,” Agnes replies with a slight smile. “I am duped, as you were, and must accept that I have let my financial desperation lure me into forgetting my good sense.”
“Your husband left you un-provided for?” Cromwell not being a gentleman himself, has no qualms about asking such delicate questions.
“He was a third son, and had nothing but a small allowance each year. He gambled, and lost heavily. On his death, I was forced to sell my house, and move to lodgings.”
“Then you have not been at court for a while?”
“Almost a year.”
“Then you will not have heard about the king’s new pension for distrait gentle widows,” Tom Cromwell says, lying with expert ease. “You must apply at once. In fact, with your consent, dear lady, I will arrange matters on my return to London.”
“A pension, Thomas?” Lady Agnes’ pallor seems to lift a little. “Will it be enough to pay off my husband’s debts?”
“A gentleman’s gambling debts die with him,” Cromwell explains. He will whisper in a few ears, and the problem will go away. No one wishes to upset Cromwell. “You will be entitled to two hundred pounds a year, for the rest of your life.”