by Anne Stevens
“You tell a strange tale, Master Draper,” Cromwell says. “I do not see where this is leading.”
“Why, to the gallows, sir. Should not all murderers pay for their crimes?”
“A moot point, Will,” Cromwell replies. “Does the hangman have to hang, or the headsman lose his head? Is the judge guilty when he sends a man to his fate?”
“I talk of murder, sir,” says Will. “Tobias was a bad man. He often stole, and committed other crimes. Martell used him for one such crime, and cheated him out of his pay. Having killed once, he decided that another would not detain him in Hell any longer. So, he visited Broome Hall, let himself in, and killed Martell.”
“I do not believe it,” Cromwell says.
“I have a confession,” Will Draper tells him. “Tobias Charnley swears he is the murderer. The statement was sworn, and witnessed by two upright citizens of St. Albans. You would do well to believe me, sir. For otherwise, I must dig deeper, and that would not be a good use of my time.”
“I would like to question the fellow,” Sir Walter says, finally remembering that he is, after all, the Under Sherriff of the town. “It might shed light on other matters.”
“Alas, the magistrate, Sir Alexander Appleton is a swift worker, my friend, and Tobias Charnley was hanged at noon. I told him of your official involvement, Walt, and he has a mind to advance you. The Sherriff of Hartford is ageing, and must be replaced soon.”
“I do not know how to thank you,” Sir Walter replies, bowing to his friend, who waves his thanks aside.
“Then two terrible murders are solved,” Lady Agnes says. “I, for one, am most happy with this outcome.”
“A happy one for all,” Will Draper says. “Sir Roderick’s fortunes are restored, a fine lady has found a new husband, a somewhat dull, but honourable man has found his lady, and I have solved my first case as the King’s Examiner.”
“And I, sir?” Jean Carnet is bewildered by their amused laughter. “Am I brought here for nothing then?” Will glances at Cromwell, who gives a slight nod.
“Ah, your daughter,” he says. “Tell me sir, are you for having her back, no matter what has happened these last years? If she were found in a low whorehouse, or mistress to some old man, would it truly matter?”
“I wish only to find her, sir,” Jean Carnet says. “As Master Cromwell well knows. She is everything to me.”
“Then I suggest a trip to the stables, M’sieu Carnet. There, you will find a gentleman called Barnaby Fowler, he is shepherding a lost lamb.”
“My daughter?” Carnet looks from one to the other, with tears in his eyes. “I do not know what has truly passed here, but you have my undying gratitude, gentlemen.”
“Our pleasure, sir,” Cromwell says. “She has been praying that you still want her … or so I hear.”
Carnet runs from the house, and Lady Agnes claps her hands in delight. Like any woman, she loves a happy ending, and the reunification of a father and daughter, after so long, makes for a good ending to the sad tale. The effort sets her coughing again, and she curses the feebleness of her breathing. Cromwell places a protective hand on her shoulder.
“This has given me much to discourse on, around the dinner tables of St. Albans, Master Cromwell,” Sir Walter tells him. “To be present whilst two murders are solved … is quite …” The Under Sherriff stops, and ponders for a moment. “But, how did Charnley get into the tower room. It was still locked when we found Martell.”
“A detail we can no longer ask the culprit about,” Will says.
“No, I expect not,” Sir Walter replies, rubbing his unshaven chin. “Then again, he was clever enough not to leave any footprints in the snow, and …”
“Enough, Walt,” Will Draper says. “Save all your conjecture for the dinner table, where you can astound the ladies with your story.”
“Ah, the ladies,” the older man says. “That French fellow was a rum one. Running off like that.”
“To his daughter,” Cromwell says.
“Oh, has she turned up then?”
“Yes, Walt. She has turned up,” Will Draper says with a sigh. It seems that the Under Sherriff is slow witted enough to miss most things, and he finds that reassuring. “Though I fear their reconciliation might not be all that Jean Carnet hopes. Perhaps our mysterious host might not have acted wisely.”
“Our mystery host?” Sir Walter asks. “Ah, I see what you mean. Martell was a mystery, was he not?”
Will glances at Cromwell, and they both laugh.
Jean Carnet is first to leave. He rides off, with his daughter holding on behind. For the moment, it is enough that he has her back, but in the weeks to come, he must learn of her past, and learn to live with it, as she must. His term of exile is long over, and he says he will return to France on the first available boat. Cromwell presses the address of one of his agents in Calais into his hand, and urges him to visit on his way home.
“This man will open a line of credit for you, sir,” Cromwell says, “and see that you may both re-enter courtly life without hindrance.”
“I shall repay you, once my chandlers shops in Norfolk and Suffolk are sold,” the Frenchman promises.
“I know of someone who has cogs up that coast,” Will says. “I will speak with her, and see if she wants to move into the chandlery business.”
“She?” Carnet asks.
“My wife,” Will replies. “She will offer a fair price, and the business will be in good hands.”
The brief conversation will enrich Carnet, and add to Miriam’s swelling business interests. Cromwell makes a mental note to advise the girl on the right price. If need be, he will lend her the money, for chandlers have access where few others can go, and he foresees the chance of placing agents in the new business who have free access to foreign shipping. The possibilities are many, and varied.
Sir Roderick is next to leave. He gives Thomas Cromwell an address in Plymouth, and asks that he is kept in touch with naval matters. The Privy Councillor assures him that he will be called on, and that by pledging his service to the king, his debts no longer exist.
“No more gaming, Sir Roderick,” Will says, shaking the mariner’s hand. “It does not befit an Admiral of the King’s Navy.”
Sir Walter Beasley will stay, and have the two dead bodies removed. Then he will lock up the great house, and wait for a new tenant to be appointed. The king owes many favours, and Broome Hall will not be empty for very long. Some witty young chancer will make a bawdy jest, and Cromwell will be detailed to reward the fellow with a house, and modest acreage.
Barnaby Fowler is not in his usual gregarious mood after several nights under the stars. He has been stuck out in the deep snow, living in a semi derelict shepherd’s hut, with a pretty young woman, whom he is sworn to protect. Having scoured the north country, looking for her, Cromwell’s man was eager to find out what kind of a woman she had become. Though the fine manners, and genteel air still cling, Marie had been well trained in the art of pleasing a man, and has been, these last twelve months, mistress to an old, very rich, merchant. She is not ready to become a dutiful daughter again, just yet, and might well pander to anyone with a purse full of silver.
Her father would be well advised to keep her locked up each night, until her former composure reasserts itself. In time, he must find her a strong willed husband, who can keep her in comfort, else watch as she returns to her old life once more. The girl is very pretty, Barnaby thinks, and the French court is full of noblemen, ready to turn a blind eye, for such a prize in their bedchambers.
A coach is found, and brought for Lady Agnes. It is only twenty eight miles to London, but her cold has worsened, and she coughs too much to sit astride a horse. Cromwell is concerned that she is comfortable, and joins her in the coach. He covers her with an array of blankets and furs taken from Martell’s wardrobe.
At such short notice, no-one can be found to act as driver. Barnaby Fowler shrugs, and assumes the position. He has done more menial tasks, a
nd he can handle a pair of horses with ease. He checks that the traces are correctly attached. Then, he climbs up onto the box, swaddles himself up in two extra cloaks, and picks up the leather reins. The whip needs only the gentlest application for the well trained beasts to set off at a steady pace.
Will Draper saddles Moll, and soon catches up with the coach. The curtains are drawn, to keep out the cold, and Barnaby Fowler is not in a talkative mood, so Will kicks his heels , lightly, into Moll’s flanks, and rides a little way ahead. They have travelled but ten miles, when the snow starts again, and Thomas Cromwell fears they will be stranded. He waves Will over, and expresses his worries.
“It is growing colder, Will, and Lady Agnes is uncomfortable out in the open.”
“If the snow deepens, and we become stranded, we might have to cut the traces, and travel onwards, on horseback. Can Agnes manage that?” Will asks.
“She is not strong enough,” Cromwell replies. “Is there not an inn nearby?”
“Not that I know of,” Will says. “Here, let her have my cloak too. I am warm enough riding.”
“My thanks,” Cromwell says, “but you will not last an hour in this cold without it.”
“There is a convent not far on, as I recall,” Barnaby Fowler calls from his high box seat. “We might seek shelter there. Though I would not give your real name, master. These nuns do so love their Bishop of Rome, and might turn us away.”
“Then I shall be Sir Thomas More for the night,” Cromwell calls back. “Ride on, Barnaby, and let us find a warm fire.”
The nunnery, near the village of Bushey, is known to locals as ‘the Harlot’s House’. Those inside throw its big gates open in reserved welcome, and the coach clatters noisily into the cobbled courtyard. A tall, elegant looking nun appears, and introduces herself to the weary travellers.
“I am Beatrice, Mother Superior to the House of St. Mary Magdalene,” she says, holding up a burning torch. “We do not admit men, but there is a guest house attached to the nunnery. It is sparse, but will suffice, I think.”
“We have a lady with us,” Thomas Cromwell says. “Pray see she is well cared for, as she is tired, and has a bothersome cough.”
“Usually, we expect a small donation,” the Mother Superior says, “but in your case, Master Cromwell, a large one will suit me much better.”
“You know me, Reverend Mother?”
“I do, though your memory is obviously not so good as it once was, Thomas. Shall I slap your face again?”
Cromwell steps into the circle of torch light and stares at the patrician features of the holy woman. Then, he smiles broadly, and nods his head in acknowledgement.
“Lady Bea Portman,” he says. “How come you to be here, within these walls?”
“When Sir Jeremy died, my darling sons wished to be rid of me,” she replies. “I chose holy orders, hoping for a quiet life. I did not reckon with Tom Cromwell though. Are you here to close my nunnery down, you worthless rascal?”
“I wish only shelter, and help for my … Lady Agnes.” Cromwell helps his new love down, and supports her as she is wracked by a coughing fit.
“Then bring her in, you dullard,” Beatrice says. “It has settled on the poor woman’s lungs. You do not count for a man, Thomas, so may join her. You two can fend for yourselves next door. I will send a novice to prepare a fire. Touch her, and I will cut off your members, gentlemen.”
“She means it, boys,” Cromwell says, laughing. “Lady Bea once boxed my ears for me, when I stole an apple from her husband’s orchard.”
“I should have let them hang you from that tree,” the old woman scolds. “Now come inside, you dolt!”
The novice nun has come and gone. Barnaby Fowler has never seen a plainer, stouter, girl and wonders that he need be warned from touching her. He warms his hands, and unpacks food from a saddle bag.
“Cold bacon, cheese and beer,” he says, placing each item on the rough wooden table. “I cannot wait until we are back in Austin Friars. These last nights have chilled my bones.”
“Had Master Cromwell let me know it was you, I would have sent out a jug of hot mulled wine. Though surely, did not Mistress Marie Carnet keep you warm, old friend?”
“I was sworn to keep her safe,” Barnaby Fowler replies. “Though it was hard work keeping me safe from her. Ten years as a pampered whore is hard to give up, especially when she actually enjoyed it. I had to go to war for her, with six toughs to help me, and then put her in a sack to get her to move.”
“Then it was Cromwell who set you onto finding her?” Will asks casually. There are still secrets to uncover, and Barnaby might let something slip.
“Of course. Once we investigated Martell, and found out about his other life, the master became obsessed with righting his wrongs.”
“Like trying to buy Sir Roderick’s loyalty, and finding a stolen girl?”
“Yes.”
“And Lady Agnes, of course.”
“I know nothing of that.” Barnaby is a poor liar, but Will is a friend, and cannot press him any harder.
“Cromwell has asked her to marry him, you know.” Will sees the look of surprise cross Fowler’s face, and smiles. “They will wed at Austin Friars.”
“Then God bless them both,” Barnaby says, honestly. “For the master almost died of grief when he lost his wife, and both daughters. Such sweet little things. Do you think there will be children?”
“Lady Agnes is thirty seven,” says Will. “I have known some ladies bear a child at forty, but it is uncommon. Perhaps we ought to pray for them.”
“No matter… there is always Gregory,” Barnaby says. “He is growing into a fine lad. He still boasts of how he charged through thirty mounted men with you, and put them to flight.”
“It was a dozen, and his horse bolted,” Will replies, recalling the adventure of the king’s stolen angels, when a gang of well armed Catholic agents had tried to kidnap Queen Katherine. “How he was not cut down I do not know. One blade passed within an inch of his throat. Master Cromwell would have never forgiven me. Still, the boy has been blooded now, and it will make more of a man of him.”
“I wonder where they keep the really pretty nuns?” Barnaby Fowler muses. He has heard the stories of how bored novices are to be had for a smile and a handful of coins. “There must be one or two about.”
“Did not you hear what the Reverend Mother Beatrice told us?” Will Draper asks his old friend. “I do not want my privy parts ripped off, and hanging from her belt!”
The night air is rent by what sounds like the roar of a wild beast. The sound echoes around the cold stone walls of the room.
“Dear Christ, what was that?” Barnaby Fowler asks. Both men snatch up their swords, and run out into the courtyard. The cry, more animal than human, comes from the main house, and the doors are barred. There is a second, even worse bellow of pain, and they begin to hammer at the portal. It is no animal in pain, they realise, but Thomas Cromwell, crying out as if being murdered.
“Let us charge together,” Will instructs. He can only assume that, once lured inside, the daughters of Christ are murdering their arch enemy. Two shoulders crash into the door, just as it is unbarred, and they tumble into the hall of the nunnery. Will stumbles to his knees, and Barnaby Fowler sprawls, face down on the tiled floor.
“Put aside your swords,” the Reverend Mother Beatrice tells them sharply. “Your must attend your master, at once, lest he drives a knife into his own heart!”
12 The Last Draft
“My spies tell me that Master Rafe Sadler went to Utopia the other day,” George Boleyn tells his sister. “It seems that Sir Thomas still has his supporters.”
“It was to show him the oath,” Anne replies. “Why else would he visit More? They want him to take it, and hope that he can see some way to escape.”
“Sir Thomas is the finest lawyer in Europe,” her brother says. “Might he not unpick the thing, and allow even noble Catholics to refuse it?”
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��Do you take me for a fool, brother?” Anne Boleyn wonders at his lack of guile, and bids him come with her into the outer chamber, where Tom Howard, the Duke of Norfolk is waiting for them. He is in a foul temper at being summoned like some common lackey.
“So, you finally deem to see me, niece?” Norfolk snaps. “But for the hold you have on the king, I would deal with you and your upstart relatives harshly.”
“Of course you would, Uncle Norfolk,” Anne says, prettily. “I apologise for the tone of my summons, but the matter is grave.”
“Oh, have you upset him then?” Norfolk expects Henry to ditch his niece at any moment, and wonders why he is still so infatuated, when the other sister is so much better looking. “Does he fail to court you ardently enough?”
“No, I seek only to save your own position, sir,” she replies.
“My own place, you say?” Norfolk goes from upset to angry in a flash. “What have you gotten us into now, you stupid cow!”
“Have a care, sir, of how you speak to my…” George reels back from the backhanded slap, and wipes blood from his lips.
“Silence, puppy, else I’ll whip you back to your rascally father’s house.” Norfolk’s knuckles are sore, but he could not resist striking the irritating idiot, and his garnet ring has split his lip in a most satisfying way. “Now, speak woman. What is it?”
“Henry’s oath.”
“Damn the thing,” Norfolk growls. “I have told Cromwell that I will be indisposed when the law goes to parliament. Henry will have his oath.”
“But neutered, My Lord, to let Catholic lords escape.”
“There is give and take in any law,” Norfolk tells her, smugly. He fancies that he has done a pretty piece of business with the Blacksmith’s boy, and repeats what Cromwell said to him.
“Not with this one,” Anne explains. “Henry thinks any noble who avoids taking the oath is against him. He is looking to see who will be first to refuse. Might your absence not be … misconstrued?”