by Anne Stevens
“Will cannot part with his German sword,” Miriam says. “He must have told you the story of how he won it.”
“Only a thousand times,” Mush replies, laughing. “And each time, the number of slain Irishmen goes up a score.”
“Am I expecting too much from him, Mush?”
“Who can tell,” Mush replies. “Let us await his return, and see if holding his son in his arms can work a miracle for you.”
9 The Lady’s Man
The great hall’s hearth has been piled high with kindling, and a fire roars in the blackened grate. Sir Walter is standing by the door, with a hand on his sword hilt, as if expecting the culprit to attempt to flee. Jean Carnet, Lady Agnes and Sir Roderick are seated around the blaze. Sir Peregrine Martell is standing off to one side, as if the taint of murder might spread. He has wiped Richard Pound’s blood from his face, and exchanged his doublet for a cleaner one.
Will Draper descends the stone steps, and moves to the centre of the big room. Thomas Cromwell makes his way to Lady Agnes’s side, and takes her hand in his.
“You are cold, my dear,” he says.
“Not as cold as poor Master Pound,” she replies. “Do we know what has happened?” Cromwell shrugs, and sits beside her.
“Gentlemen… madam… I am afraid that Richard Pound is dead. He has been murdered, and I must ask you all some questions.”
“Questions?” Martell seems still to be shocked. “What is there to know? Some fiend has gained entry through the window, and stabbed him to death.”
“Dear God!” Sir Roderick shakes his head in horror. “They scaled the tower?”
“Apparently,” Will says.
“Then you are looking for a rigger, sir.”
“A what?”
“A rigger. Sailors who can climb masts in the worst weather, and rig the sails,” the seaman explains. “In my day, I could…” He tails off as he realises that he is placing himself centre stage.
“Sir Roderick is past his prime,” Cromwell mutters.
“You could not do it now, then?” Will asks.
The seafarer holds out his hands, to show how they now tremble, and shakes his head. It would take a steadier hand, and a younger man, to tackle such a climb. Will has already guessed this, and cannot see how anyone within could accomplish so hard a task.
“Perhaps they had a rope?” Martell puts in.
“How could they have attached it to the window?” Will asks, and there is no reply. “I must ask where each of you were last night, and whom can vouch for whom. M’sieu Carnet?”
“I was in my room, all night. Once I ventured out, for a moment.”
“To piss out of the window,” Sir Walter says. “Your pardon, madam. I heard a noise, and opened my door. Carnet opened a shutter, relieved himself, then returned to his room. The floors creak awfully loudly, and I did not hear him stir again.”
“You sleep lightly then, Walt?”
“As do you, Will,” Sir Walter replies. “I wager you keep one eye open at all times. It is a soldier’s training with you, and advancing old age with me. I do not need much rest.”
“Yes, I sleep lightly,” Will Draper says to them. “What of you, Travis?”
“I am used to the swell of the ocean,” the seafarer says, “and can sleep the sleep of the dead. Once in bed, I was gone.”
“With no one to vouch for you?”
“Me.” Thomas Cromwell says. “Sir Roderick is the loudest snorer I have ever heard. I can vouch for him staying abed, Will.”
“And you, sir?” For a moment Cromwell locks eyes with Will, and the older man feels another small piece of their friendship crumbling.
“Master Cromwell did not leave his room all night.” All turn to stare at Lady Agnes. “I joined him in his chamber, for a game of cards. We fell to talking about happenings at court, and at some point, we fell asleep. I woke up to the sound of Sir Peregrine, battering down his own door. Thomas was with me.”
“My apologies, Lady Agnes,” Will says. I do not mean to pry beyond the bounds of my investigation. “You spent the whole night with Master Cromwell?”
“I did.” Will Draper is surprised, yet happy at this revelation, even if they only talked. To admit such intimacy will force Cromwell into action. He cannot allow the lady’s good name to be besmirched, and will surely offer marriage.
“Before another word is spoken,” Cromwell says. “Lady Agnes and I have reached an understanding. It is with pride that I tell you all, that she has consented to be my wife.”
“This is wonderful news, sir,” Will says, and takes the man’s hand in his. “I will be proud to stand for you, should you wish it.”
“You, and Rafe both,” Cromwell says, smiling, “and Mush, Richard and Miriam shall stand for Lady Agnes. The chapel at Westminster will suit us well, and the king must be invited, of course.”
“Pray, do not rush on so, my dear,” Lady Agnes says. “We have the rest of our lives, have we not?”
“To be sure,” Cromwell tells her. “Forgive me, Will, but I interrupt you too much. Pray, continue.”
“There is little else to ask,” Will confesses. “Sir Peregrine slept below the murder room, and heard nothing. It was he who forced the door open, and found Master Pound. I can think of only one reason for Master Pound’s death, gentlemen. He was killed, by mistake. The murderer may have meant for Martell to die.”
“Dear Christ above!” Martell steps back, to put a cold stone wall at his rear. “You mean I might yet be marked for death?”
“It is a possibility,” Will says.
“Perhaps you might wish to put your affairs in order, Sir Peregrine?” Cromwell jests, but there is no laughter. There is the spectre of death stalking Broome Hall, and none are in the mood for macabre humour.
“I must ask you all to leave, at once,” Martell snaps. “If one of you is the killer, I must have you all out of my house. I will sleep alone, and bar every window against the killer. I will send to St. Albans, and have a dozen armed men patrol my grounds!”
“These are harsh words, sir,” Will says. “To drive guests out, without warning is…”
“I for one am happy to leave,” Jean Carnet puts in. “I am here on another wild goose chase, and do not care for the sordid company of my host.”
“As you showed last night,” Sir Walter pipes up, as his slow wits pick up on something he thinks of importance. “Did I not have to stop you drawing a blade on Martell? Perhaps you meant to visit him later, and finish the job!”
“You vouched for me during the night,” Carnet says, astonished at this sudden attack.
“Perhaps I was in error,” Sir Walter says. “I might have dozed for a moment, and you foreigners are a cunning lot.”
“A moment, during which M’sieu Carnet decided to leave his room, walk over creaking boards, cross a long gallery, climb a high tower, kill a man, then contrive to lock the door behind him as he fled the murder scene?” Will Draper says. “Let us have no more of this idle chatter, sir. The killer, or killers, may still be out there. I saw two people on the low hill to the east last evening.”
“Ah, your shepherd. There is a disused hovel just beyond the brow.” Martell jumps at the notion. “A couple of wandering felons, intent on robbery. They break in, realise there is nothing to take, and Pound wakes up. They stab him, and escape, whether through the window, the door, or the damned chimney!”
“Why not enter through a lower window, or steal a horse from the stables, instead? These are too wild a set of theories,” Will says. “Might I suggest we all think hard on the matter. Did Richard Pound know any of you? Did he say something to any of you, that might point to the killer? Or is one of you the murderer? Speak now, and I will ensure a swift end, rather than the rack, and an agonising quartering.”
The room falls silent. Each one looks from one to another, wondering who will be first to speak. At length, it is Sir Peregrine Martell who speaks out.
“This is a waste of time. You must all
leave … now!”
“Oh that we could,” Thomas Cromwell says from the warmth of the hearth. “I fear that we are all going to be here for a while yet.”
“How so?” Jean Carnet asks.
“Look outside,” the Privy councillor says, with a rueful smile. “It has been snowing this last half hour, and already, it begins to drift. Soon, we will be trapped within, until the weather eases.”
Will Draper crosses to the door, and opens it inwards. There is already a foot of snow, and a cold wind is blowing big, icy flakes into his face.
“No carriage can travel in this weather,” he says. “Even on horseback, it would take a good man to reach St. Albans. I fear we are here for another night.”
“Good.” Thomas Cromwell is beside him on the step. He drops his voice to a lower tone. “Then something might happen that will unravel this foul happening.”
“I know some of it.” Draper considers how much he might say, without straying from what he knows for certain.
“You do, Will?” Cromwell frowns. “I do not see what. I have all the knowledge that you have, and see nothing. Is the pupil outgrowing his master?”
“It is not to do with the murder,” Will whispers. “It concerns that which Martell holds over King Henry.”
“Then you know what it is?” Thomas Cromwell is overjoyed at this news, and wishes to know everything.
“I have no idea what is in the document, but I think I know where to find it.”
“Is it here, in the house?”
“Ask me no more, sir,” Will says, “lest Martell gets to wondering at our muttering. Suffice to say, I will have it, as soon as I can get away from here.”
“Then his power is broken,” Cromwell says. “The king will reward you well for this, Will.”
“Let us not count chickens too soon, sir.” Will closes the door, and informs all within that they are stuck for another day and night, at least. Carnet shrugs, and slumps into a chair, and the seafarer growls and goes in search of something to drink.
Martell positions himself by Sir Walter, as if using him as a bodyguard, and curses the day he let so many into his house.
“I did not ask for this,” he says. “Now, I have strangers eating and drinking me into penury, and a dead man up in my tower.”
“Worry not about Master Pound, sir,” Sir Walter says. “With the snow, and no fire in the room, he will freeze, and refrain from stinking too much. This weather will not last, and we can have your house cleared by tomorrow.”
“That is some comfort,” Martell says. “The King’s Examiner seems not to have any idea, and I wonder if he is promoted far beyond his paltry ability?”
“Colonel Draper is a sound man, sir. If the murderer is still in the county, he will bring him to book,” Sir Walter tells his reluctant host. “Why, he can sniff out a felon with his eyes closed.”
“Most reassuring,” Martell says. “In the meantime, will you stay by my side, until bedtime? That way, my life will be all the safer.”
“Of course,” the Under Sherriff says, puffing up, self importantly. “My sword arm is yours, Sir Peregrine, and none shall do you any harm whilst I am close by.”
“The Under Sherriff is much attached to Martell,” Lady Agnes observes, dryly. “Might there be yet another engagement announced, before the snow melts?”
“Who knows,” Cromwell replies. “Will Draper has found Martell’s secret for me, and I am pleased, beyond measure. The man is an unimaginable rogue. Would that you were not involved in all this, my dear.”
“And never met you, my dearest Tom?” Agnes says, shaking her head. “I am obliged to the fates for this chance to find happiness with you. A poor widow is no catch for so great a man.”
“I am a simple blacksmith’s son,” Cromwell says. “After I lost my wife, and my two precious daughters, I thought life was over, save for a succession of courtly intrigues. Then, the moment I saw you, I was thunderstruck. Even Will noticed, and urged me to tell you of my feelings.”
“Then I owe him a great debt, for I have never met a kinder, more gentle man, Tom. It will be my delight to be your wife, and spend my days tending your needs.”
“They are few, Agnes. I wish only for your pleasant, loving company. Knowing you will be there, each night I come home, fills me with pleasure. Might I come to you again tonight?”
“Are you still so ardent then, dear man?” Agnes asks.
“I am like a bull, when alone with you.” Cromwell fancies this is what ladies like to hear, and recalls the poet, Tom Wyatt, saying a similar thing to one of the ladies at court.
“A gentle one, I hope,” Agnes says. “Though I must admire your little romantic couplets. I did not think you to be a poet too.”
“Alas, the words are stolen, but meant just as ardently,” Cromwell confesses. “Tom Wyatt writes them, and gives them to those most in need.”
“Ah, I have heard of Tom Wyatt. Is it true about he and that French princess?”
“It is usually true. Tom has a way with ladies, and a tongue that may well get him into trouble.” Cromwell sighs. “Would that I had not made so clear cut a promise to his father, as it would save me much trouble.”
“We must invite him to visit Austin Friars.” Lady Agnes is adamant. “He shall give a reading of his best love poems at our wedding feast. Très romantique, est-ce pas ?”
“We are to have a feast?” Cromwell pushes out his bottom lip, and drops into French also. “Que doit faire un homme pour amour?”
“Everything, of course… and yes, we must.” Agnes knows Cromwell is a retiring sort, but cannot help jest at his expense. “All your friends, and relatives shall come, along with your staff, and their families. Then you must invite Henry and Anne as guests of honour. Oh, and everyone at court. Then there are all my late husband’s Irish relatives. We must cater for about eight, or nine hundred.”
“Dear God, what have I gotten myself into?” Cromwell says, kissing his new lady’s hand. “To pay for all that, I must have the king give me a lordship. Earl Thomas of Putney, I think.”
“Would he?”
“After Will has done his work,” Cromwell replies, “Henry will bestow any title I choose … Lady Putney… or would you prefer being the Duchess of Lambeth?”
Will Draper sits at the dining table, and chews on a lump of hard bread. There is enough food to last through to the morrow, and plenty of wine. He must keep an eye on the living, and work out who created the dead. The day passes slowly, as snow continues to fall. By sundown, it has stopped, but is up to a man’s waist.
They gather in the great hall for dinner. Lady Agnes has found some eggs, and boiled them hard. She serves them up with the remains of the previous day’s bake, and an abundance of wine. Each man takes his portion, removes himself as far from the next man as he can, and begins to eat and drink.
Will, Cromwell and Lady Agnes occupy one end of the table, and talk about Austin Friars. Cromwell’s new lady is thrilled by Will’s outrageous description of his time in Italy, where he swears to have destroyed an army of thousands, almost single handed. Then Cromwell tells her about Mush, and his recent loss. He worries that his own good news might upset the boy further, but Lady Agnes believes not.
“He will be happy for you,” she says, pouring Will more wine. “Everyone, save the French whore, will be happy.”
“Hush, my love, you must not call her that.”
“Why not?” Agnes sighs. “My late husband had stories to tell about her. He was in France when she was, and said how she flirted, and enjoyed the company of men.”
“Flirting comes easily to pretty girls,” Will Draper says. “It does not make her into a harlot.”
“Then you like her?” Agnes asks.
“No, I fear her,” Will replies, honestly. “Once Henry is in her bed, she will be more powerful than all the Earls in England put together. She harbours grudges, and is very easy to offend.”
“Does she like Thomas?”
“This w
eek… perhaps.” Will drains his mug. “Next week, well … who knows? I am tired and ready for bed.”
“As are we,” Cromwell says, happily. “Though I fear we must linger until all are ready.”
“Not so,” Will says, standing up and clapping his hands. “Good fellows. It is time for bed. Let each go to his room, and bar the door. Let no man leave his room, lest I, or Sir Walter, run you through. Sir Peregrine… this is your house. I leave you to make your own arrangements.”
“I will stay in my lower tower room.” There is no window to climb through, and the hearth is too small to effect an entry. I shall bolt my door, and sleep with a loaded fowling piece by my side. Any who wish to may visit, and I will gladly send them to join Master Pound. Good night to you, Lady Agnes, and to you sirs!”
“Rude swine,” Travis sneers.
One by one, they obey Will Draper’s injunction, and retire to their various beds. They have taken much wine, and are ready to sleep. Will watches each man go into his room, and waits until he hears a bolt, or bar being slid into place. Finally, he walks Cromwell and Lady Agnes to their chamber, and bids them goodnight.
“Lock your door, and keep my pistol to hand,” Will advises the Privy Councillor. “Let no man in, until morning. If there is any upset, stay here, whilst I and Sir Walter deal with it.”
“You speak like a father to a son,” Agnes jests.
“Not my father,” Cromwell says. “He was more likely to slap me about the ear than not.” He ushers Lady Agnes inside, and pats Will on the back. “Sleep well, my friend. And do not worry about the morrow. These things find a way to resolve themselves, one way or another. I am sure everything will turn out as it should.”
Will slips into his own room, and lays down on the bed. He is inordinately tired, and wonders that his eyes are so heavy. By his side, he places a loaded pistol, and his sword. There is scarcely enough time to consider the day, before he is fast asleep. It is a deep sleep, and is only broken when he hears an urgent knocking on his door. He rolls over, and picks up his sword.