by Anne Stevens
“Two hundred pounds?” Martell, with very good reason, cannot believe his ears. “It will cost Henry thousands.”
“There are certain qualifying requirements,” Cromwell says, dismissively. Yes, there are, Will Draper thinks. First of all, you must be attractive, and catch Cromwell’s eye. He knows that the idea of a pension for widows will never happen, and his old master is exercising his own odd sense of morality.
“Then I am stuck here, until you say otherwise?” Martell asks. He has business in St. Albans with his lawyer, and a fortnightly arrangement with a pretty young woman who lives in one of the town’s many taverns. For five shillings, she is discreet about his harmless, but peculiar tastes in the bed chamber.
“Not at all,” Cromwell says, taking Will by surprise. “Go to St. Albans on the morrow, and settle all your business. The colonel here shall give you a letter to be forwarded to the keeper of The Angel Inn, near Cambridge. See it is on its way, and come back. By then, we will know what our invisible foes want of us.”
“Might they not waylay me on the road?” Martell is no coward, but even armed to the teeth, he cannot fight off a gang of outlaws.
“They are too few,” Cromwell says. “Else they would have taken Will and I on the road, or kidnaped my dear Lady Agnes. No, they number but a few, and do not wish to use violence.”
“And the letter, Master Cromwell?” Will asks. “What shall I write, and to whom?”
“To Rafe,” Cromwell says. Have him send Mush and a few others to escort us safely home again.”
“That will take two days,” Will argues. “Cannot Martell raise the local militia?”
“For what reason?” Cromwell asks. “Have a hundred armed men descend on us, only to find we have no enemy to fight, and who will pay to feed that crowd? We will be jested about from here to Scotland.”
“Then we play a waiting game?”
“Why not?” Cromwell smiles across at Lady Agnes. “We are secure, and have fine company to pass the time. One way or another, we will unravel this mystery. After all, Colonel Draper, are you not the chief King’s Examiner in all the realm?”
“Sir,” Will replies, with a wry little smile, “I am the only King’s Examiner in all the realm!”
4 A Perilous Kiss
“Dear Sainted Christ in Heaven!” Rafe Sadler can hardly believe the words written on the parchment, and so reads them over again. Thomas Cromwell is absent, and the very first evening, something goes dreadfully amiss. “Boy, run like the wind, and fetch Master Mush. Try Mistress Miriam’s house first. He will be dining with her, I think.”
“Nah, he’s in the Elephant, sir,” the child answers. The inn he means is really called ‘the Infanta de Castile’, but over the years, locals have come to call it ‘the Elephant and Castle’, and it is one of the roughest establishments in Westminster. “He goes there, hoping some thick eared roughy will try to pick on him. He likes giving them a good thrashing.”
“Then find him, and bid him come to me at once,” Rafe urges. He understands Mush too well, and knows he fights to forget his lost Gwen. Perhaps, Rafe wonders, he hopes one of them will be good enough to kill him, and so end his terrible misery.
The child is back within a few minutes, leading a worried Mush by the hand. The young Jew glares at the child, and makes as if to strike him down. The boy ducks the slap, and, with a grin, dances out of range.
“Sorry, master, but it was the only way I could get you to come away,” the boy says. “The big fellow you were goading has six brothers, each bigger than he, and they would have stamped you to pieces.”
“What did you say, child?” Rafe asks, amused at the scene.
“I told him you was crushed under a horse, and callin’ for him, with your last breath.”
“Clever lad. Here’s a shilling.” Rafe waves him away, and hands Mush the official letter he has just received. “I might as well be dead under a brood mare. See what has come about. I am completely undone.”
Mush frowns, and reads the short letter. It is an immediate summons to the king’s presence, where he wishes to discuss the wording of the new oath to be taken by his subjects. It is a most contentious piece of legislation, and must be handled with the skill and care of a Wolsey, or a Cromwell. The secret is, to make the oath so full of contradictions, that men can slide around it without too much difficulty.
“It says immediate,” Mush says. “Shall I accompany you to Whitehall Palace? The streets are not safe at this hour.”
“Nor is the palace,” Rafe Sadler replies. “I want you in there with me. Richard is down in Kent, concerning the suspected witch, Elizabeth Amadas.”
“Has she not just died?” Mush is not sure why Richard Cromwell is interested in a deluded Lady in Waiting who had the ill manners to call Anne Boleyn a ‘dirty French whore’, and predict her death, burnt at the stake, as a witch.
“Yes, of natural causes,” Rafe confirms. “It took us by surprise, as we were keeping an eye on her. It seems she was a prolific diary keeper, and her writings must be confiscated, and burned.”
“Richard is burning books now?” Mush says, still a little angered at his friend. “Does the lady write treason?”
“She uttered vile lies against Boleyn,” Rafe explains, “and made certain allegations against the king. She claimed he often tried to seduce her, and was most persistent, despite her firm refusals.”
“Then ‘tis good she died a natural death,” Mush replies. “Shall we get on our way … lest we incur Henry’s wrath?”
It is late when they arrive at Whitehall, to find that Henry has overeaten, and is in a gruff mood. Lady Anne Boleyn has dined more sparsely, and is sitting by the king’s side, stroking his arm.
“Ah, Master Rafe,” Henry says, beckoning them forward.
“You have your little monkey with you, I see.” Lady Anne smiles at her own jest. She has a suspicion that Mush was once a lover of her sister, and the idea makes her resentful towards the young Jew. “Is he not of a breed that hails from the Holy Land?”
“I am a Jerusalem ape, madam,” Mush replies, bowing to her. “I have a fondness for fruit, and sitting on ladies shoulders.”
Rafe cannot believe how young Mush taunts the woman so, and seeks to get down to business, before he lets his rogue mouth lose him his head. He takes a leather satchel from under his arm, and lays it before the king, with a flourish.
“Your Majesty, may I present some proposals for the wording of the new oath.”
“You may, sir,” Henry says. “Though I have an idea as to how it will be written in my own mind. I take it that the king‘s thoughts are of interest to you, Sadler?”
“Sire, these papers are mostly your thoughts, as given to Master Cromwell. He and I have merely turned your will into a legal form, added a few Latin flourishes, and made it suitable to present to parliament.”
“What if those evil minded rascals try to oppose it?” Lady Anne feels secure enough to interrupt with her own thoughts. Since Henry’s divorce is now passing through parliament, and he wants nothing more than marriage to her, she has allowed him more favours than hitherto. Though stopping short of full consummation, she has satisfied him in every other way, and thinks he is now her creature. “Men can be very silly when it comes to taking oaths.”
“It will pass, if worded correctly, sire,” Rafe addresses the king, but does not take his eyes from hers. He tries to read what is going on behind her cold stare, and wishes Cromwell was here to decipher each glance.
“I do not see why it has to be so complicated,” Henry tells Rafe. “A simple oath, swearing allegiance to the king, in every way, and taken by all, will suffice.”
“We must make clear that the oath is sworn to you, sire.”
“But, I am the king.”
“Of course, Your Majesty, but what if you were challenged in some way. What if King James of Scotland, or the king of France, or Spain … or even Russia were to lodge a challenge to your rule?”
“Nonsense.�
�� Henry’s face is beginning to grow red with anger. He is king, and will not tolerate any opposition. Anne has warned him of these tricks. “The king… is king.”
“And if you are some northern baron, suddenly told that England has not just you, but another claimant to the throne, what then? To whom does he owe allegiance?”
“To me, of course.”
“Why so, sire?” Rafe presses on, despite the king’s mounting rage. “For an oath to be of any use, it must be made not to a title, but to a real, flesh and blood man. The people of England must swear their oath to King Henry, and then, to the son who comes after. An oath, with each new Tudor monarch, sworn to the man… not the title.”
Henry’s face begins to lose it’s suffusion of blood as the implication becomes clear to him. Of course a man can swear to a king, but that might allow him leeway to change his allegiance, because he is unsure who is rightful ruler.
“We see,” he says, glancing at Anne Boleyn. “Swear an oath to Henry Tudor, and there is no ambivalence. You must see that, my love?” Anne Boleyn does not wish to become embroiled in minor points, so nods her approval.
“A great oath to Henry, renewed when the son I will give him ascends to the throne.”
Rafe is relieved. Cromwell has explained the finer points to him, and he knows this to be vital. Should Anne ever have a son, and wish to put him in Henry’s place, she cannot do so, legally. The oath is to Henry, and as long as he lives, no-one can claim the throne, unless they usurp the rightful ruler. Then, the oath will compel England’s great men to support the true king. The Boleyn clan is blocked, and can only further their aims by committing high treason.
“What is this?” Lady Anne has picked up the proposed legislation, and is reading the opening sentences. “An oath to be taken by those deemed to be of noble birth, or any man deemed to owe allegiance to the crown, by dint of …”
“A legal requirement, My Lady,” Rafe says, reaching for the papers. “As with any new law, there must be working boundaries.”
“You seek to allow men the choice, whether to take the oath, or not?” Anne asks.
“Not so, madam,” Rafe Sadler says, affecting a shocked expression. “It is impractical to administer the oath to every subject in the land, so we seek to allow only select people to take it. Every Earl, Duke or Baronet would take it, as would their sons, and any other who might claim noble blood. We will also administer the oath to anyone who holds royal patronage, or is employed by the crown in any other way. The staff of all your palaces, the Royal Mint, and all the king’s stewards, gentlemen in waiting and even your head gardeners must swear.”
“A wide enough net, I think,” Henry says, smiling. “I am pleased, Master Rafe.”
“I am not.” Lady Anne stands, and begins pacing. “What if a man does not take the oath, then utters falsehoods against the king?”
“That would be treason, My Lady,” Rafe tells her. “He would be taken up, and tried. The penalty, as you know, is death.”
“And what if he does not speak out, but writes?”
“Again, that is treason … whether spoken, or written, the effect is the same.” Rafe knows where this is going, and tries to head her off. “It is not the king’s wish to actively persecute any man, My Lady, and both the treason laws, and this bill set out sensible guide lines.”
“Sensible, sir?” Anne snaps. “A man may keep the oath, only in so far as he thinks it to be sensible?”
“You misunderstand, madam,” Rafe replies. “It is not for the individual to decide what is sensible, but for the state. If you remove the guidelines, we will end up with a Catholic mess. Go to Spain, and say ‘by God, that was a fine dinner’, and you have blasphemed. The penalty is torture, and death. We seek to make a greater, freer, realm than that.”
“Then a man might write against the king, without fear of punishment?” Henry asks.
“Why would he, sire?” Mush puts in. “To say ‘death to the king’ is treason, but to say ‘is the king right?’ is nought but open debate. Any man might doubt the king, but he is constrained from inciting against him.”
“This will not do,” Anne says, and turns to stalk out of the room. “The king must be free to agree who takes the oath.”
“Of course,” Rafe says to her back.
“And add a name or two, where he sees fit.”
“The vicious bitch!” Rafe Sadler can scarcely contain his anger. Anne Boleyn is close to wrecking the new oath legislation, and has put a dangerous thing into Henry’s mind. She has shown him that he need only write a man’s name down, and that man is destroyed. “She would ruin ten thousand men to get her revenge on one.”
“She wants Sir Thomas More dead,” Mush says. “Though once she has a list, who else might she not put on it. Give her the power, and she will have every fishwife in England swearing an oath, every time she guts a herring.”
“Wait until she realises that she is not included in the oath,” Rafe says, tucking his papers under his arm. “She thinks that, once she is queen, she will have the same power Henry wields. The woman does not see that she is more powerful as the king’s mistress, than his wife. Wives, under the new laws, can be put aside as easily as a bad egg, and Anne is not personable enough to cater for Henry’s true needs.”
“Henry is like all men,” Mush says. “He is led by his pintle, and might do anything for a taste of a woman’s secret places.”
“Were that Lady Anne’s places were so secret,” Rafe says, and bites his tongue. Whitehall is not the place to cast doubts on Lady Anne’s virginity. Cromwell has his own doubts, and knows of Tom Wyatt’s infatuation. He is also in contact with an agent in Paris, who is employed to seek out any detrimental gossip about the Boleyns, during their stay in France.
“You Englishmen place such a bounty on virginity,” Mush tells his friend. “You search it out, marry the girl, then throw her over for some whore. I do not understand.”
“Nor I, Mush,” Rafe Sadler replies.
“Master Mush?” Mush turns, and is confronted by Lady Mary Boleyn. “You have not visited Whitehall for some while.”
Rafe bows, and walks away. He knows of the couple’s previous history, and does not want to be drawn into their business. Mush also wishes to walk away, but good manners constrain him.
“Lady Mary, you are looking well,” he says, truthfully. The woman has a radiant beauty that counterpoints the cold good looks of her sister.
“As are you, Mush,” Lady Mary Boleyn replies, allowing her fingers to rest on his sleeve. “Have you tired of your little Welsh wife yet? I cannot wait forever, you know.”
“No, madam, I have not tired of Gwen,” Mush says. “I will love her until my last breath. Even were I to bed a hundred women such as you, I would not tire of her memory. Good night to you.”
“Memory?” Lady Mary feels a cold chill in her stomach, and hurries after the handsome young Jew. “Dear Christ, my darling Mush, what have I said? Forgive my vicious Boleyn tongue. Your wife is dead?”
“You did not know?”
“How could I?” Mary says. “My sister starves me of friends, and news from outside. She is a vindictive shrew. How came this to happen?”
“Avignon.” Mush tells her. “She picked up a slight chill, and by nightfall, she could not breath. She died in my arms.”
“Poor girl,” Mary says. “And poor, poor Mush. I know how you did love her, and grieve for you on that count. Come, sit with me, and take some wine. A grief shared is a grief lessened, is it not?”
“I think not, madam.”
“I speak as a friend,” Mary says, hurt in her voice. “I do not seek to profit from your wife’s sad death.”
Mush knows that Mary is the opposite of her sister, and regrets his harsh response. He offers his arm, and they turn to face the outer court doors.
“Are you still in the same chambers, My Lady?”
“I am, dear Mush,” she replies. “It will be a change for you to enter my rooms through the door, r
ather than the window. I used to watch you climb like a monkey, from branch to branch.”
“How funny,” Mush says. “Your sister has just likened me to an ape. I fear she dislikes me.”
“She hates anyone who pleases me,” Lady Mary says. “She set her mind on the king, simply to lure him from my bed chamber.”
“And now she must marry him.” Mush almost laughs out loud. “They say you should be careful what you wish for. I fear marriage to Henry will not be a bed strewn with rose petals.”
Mary closes the chamber door behind them, and crosses to a low table, where wine and glasses stand ready. She pours out two measures, and offers the young man one.
“My sister is embarking on a rocky road,” Lady Mary agrees. “When Henry first came to me, he knew I was a flower, already plucked. He sought only to take his pleasure, and give nothing in return but a few pretty jewels. Now, Anne must fool him into loving her, and keep him happy with a son.”
“Let us hope she is fertile, and that it is not a girl.”
“Do you really care?”
“No, not really.” Mush sips his wine, and glances about the all too familiar chamber. “They deserve one another.”
“Anne knows her devil, but he is on unsteady ground,” Mary tells him. “He has never asked about her past. Even when Harry Percy, the Duke of Northumberland swore he had married her in secret, Henry closed his ears.”
“Then there is Tom Wyatt.” Mush speaks without thinking, and Lady Mary’s face drains of colour. “My love, are you unwell?”
“Never jest about Wyatt and my sister, Mush,” she says, clutching his hands in hers. “No matter what may become Henry’s marriage, you must always keep Tom’s name out of it.”
“Then it is true?” Mush asks. “Tom Wyatt and Lady Anne?”
“Not they.” Mary takes a deep breath. “He loves Anne, of course. All the gentlemen do. Though she never gave him any token of her own feelings. It is just that Wyatt holds secrets best left unspoken.”
“Such as?”