The King's Examiner: A Tudor Felony (Tudor Crimes Book 6)

by Anne Stevens

  “Poor Mush,” Wyatt says, giggling like an idiot. “Did dear Mary not send word of her leaving? No sweet little note to slip under your lonely pillow? Perhaps she has another hand on her tiller now, my friend. Ouch!”

  Mush shoves, and Tom Wyatt tumbles out of the window, and drops the dozen feet to the bare cold ground. He lands heavily, and grunts, before staggering to his feet, and declaiming at the top of his voice.

  “Oh sad the day, when Paris lost his Helen!” He pauses, and listens. There is a distant shout, and then the sound of several guards running. “Time is transient, my friend, as we must be if we are to escape!” He turns in the direction of Chelsea, and runs, with Mush Draper pounding at his heels.

  They weave back and forth, trying to shake off their pursuers, but several of the palace guard are closing on them fast. Mush can easily outrun them, but Tom Wyatt is too drunk to run well, and the young Jew cannot abandon him. He is about to turn and face the chasing soldiers, when a small, dapper man comes around the corner, accompanied by two servants with lit torches.

  Eustace Chapuys, Spanish ambassador to the court of Whitehall Palace recognises both men, and hears the chasing footfalls. He holds out a restraining arm, and bids the two breathless men stand still. In a moment, the soldiers, led by a young sergeant come rushing up, swords drawn.

  “Thank God,” Chapuys says, flapping his arms about in a most comical fashion. “Two footpads, sergeant. They sought to rob us, but must have heard you. Quickly now, and you might yet capture them!”

  “Ambassador Chapuys,” the sergeant says. “I fear our quarry is lost. Did you recognise either of them?”

  “I did not,” Chapuys replies, opening his purse. “You and your men must be thirsty from all this running. Here, take these coins, and find a tavern.”

  “My thanks, Your Honour,” the young soldier says. “Good evening Master Wyatt … Master Draper… it is lucky we cannot find these rogues. The penalty for entering the king’s palace without permission, is death.”

  “Then they are fortunate fellows,” Mush says. “They will, I am sure, never attempt such a foolhardy thing again, sergeant.”

  “Have you far to travel, sir?” This said to Chapuys, is more of an injunction to get his rowdy friends off the streets at so late an hour.

  “I am on my way to Colonel Draper’s house, down by the river,” Chapuys says. “I have a gift to celebrate the arrival of his new son, and wish to deliver it at once.”

  “At this time of night?”

  “It is a special fruit cake, made by my cook, and will spoil if left.” Eustace Chapuys lies with charm, and practised ease. In fact, he has heard that Cromwell is back, and wishes to speak with him about the king’s forthcoming trip to Calais. This little adventure, however, peaks his interest, and he wonders why two young men see the need to break into the royal palace, at dead of night.

  The soldiers, having regained their collective breaths, go off to find a late opening tavern, where they can drink the ambassadors continued good health.

  “Now, gentlemen,” Chapuys says, once they are gone, “You must tell me which pretty ladies you have been caught visiting!”

  “What is it, my dear?” Henry is studying the cards he has been dealt, and frowns at his ill luck. Anne Boleyn has promised him a kiss, and a fondle of a half bared breast, should he win a hand.

  “Nothing, My Lord,” Anne says, turning from the window. “I think the guards have disturbed a beggar trying to find a warm burrow for the night.”

  “There is enough work in England for all,” Henry grumbles. “If a man begs, it is because he is lazy.”

  “The poor are our responsibility, my sweet,” Anne replies. “It might be a wise thing to set money aside for their support. Perhaps some of the money from the closed Roman churches?”

  “That is for the Royal coffers,” Henry tells her.

  “Surely, Cromwell can spare a few thousand?”

  “He assures me that every penny must be spent on my fleet of war ships.”

  “Every penny?” Anne smiles, and pats his hand, lovingly. “My dear, trustful Henry. With so much, there is bound to be a little spillage. Why, I hear that the sail maker is a cousin to Master Sadler, and that Richard Cromwell is in charge of purchasing the canon.”

  “They are good men, madam,” the king says, playing a card.

  Anne Boleyn smiles, and places her queen over it. Henry frowns as she draws the few silver coins towards her. He has lost six games in a row, and his temper is becoming hot. She takes his hand, and slips it into the top of her gown.

  “Madam, I lost,” Henry says through dry lips.

  “Sir, you are the king,” Anne says, “and I cannot help myself. Would that we could fulfil our desires, like any common couple. Imagine taking me in any way you desire. I almost faint for wanting you, my love. When shall we be married?”

  “Come with me to Calais,” Henry begs, stroking her warm flesh. “We shall be married in private, and wed officially on our return.”

  “Then I shall call you ‘Husband’, and demand my conjugal rights, sir.” Anne kisses him, and slips away as he tries to press her for more. “The king shall have his queen, and our lives will be complete.”

  “The king shall have a son, and his life will be complete, madam.” Henry ponders his life, and wonders how something that any peasant can have is denied to him. It seems that there is a price for everything, and the cost of having a son is great indeed for the king. “It has been a long, hard road, and we are still to come to its end.”

  “The journey will prove to have been worthwhile, sire,” Anne tells him. “It is your right, and God’s divine will, that you have a son.”

  Henry nods, but cannot help reflect on the price that is still being paid. He thinks of Cardinal Thomas Wolsey, his friend, and chief advisor for over twenty years, whom he had stripped of his high offices, and charged with treason because of his failure to negotiate an annulment.

  The cardinal is dead, these years past, of natural causes, and Henry still tries to convince all who listen that he was about to forgive the man, and restore him to power. It was Norfolk who whispered poison in his ear then, and caused so calamitous a rift between England’s two greatest men. Though he also recalls how Harry Percy, the dissolute Duke of Northumberland, hated Wolsey.

  “I was thinking of letting Harry Percy return to court,” he says, by way of a test. He seems to remember Lady Anne was fond of the fellow, and Wolsey had to intervene. “You liked him once, did you not, my dear?”

  “I fear it was vice versa, my love,” Anne says in an off hand manner. “There was some talk, on his part, of marriage, before you and I, but it was not to my liking. He is a drunkard, and a fool. It might be best if he was left guarding the marches for another year or two.”

  “Then you did not love him?”

  “What is this, sire?” Anne smiles, and strokes his cheek with her hand. “Do you seek ways to put me aside?”

  “Not that,” Henry replies, earnestly. “Never that. It is just that I am older, and they…”

  “They, My Lord?” Anne Boleyn stiffens, and removes her fingers from his cheek. “Have you a list, sir, or must I guess at whom these invisible suitors are? Pray tell me, are any of them as noble as you, or as kind, sire? Do any of them wish to make me their queen?”

  “Forgive my foolishness,” says Henry. “If I were to frown on every gentleman in court who finds you to be delightful, my face would look like thunder. I am not as talented as some.”

  “Really?” Anne is getting used to Henry’s little bouts of melancholia, and knows that the best way to bring him around, is to flatter his monumental belief in his own worth. “Then who is it who sends me such pretty poetry, sire? Which of my many suitors writes me such beautiful songs? Let me think.”

  “Then you liked that air they played tonight?” Henry preens himself, sure that his talent matches that of the clever fellows who hang about his court.

  “I did,” Anne replies. �
��It was merry, and made me wish to dance. You would not, and I had to force poor Henry Norris to escort me about the dance floor. He dances like an elderly goose.”

  “I wrote it.” Henry reveals, and Anne nods her head, and smiles sweetly.

  “I wondered as much,” she says, playing the silly game. “It had a certain … charm about it. Have you written any words for it?”

  “I will, my love, just for you,” Henry tells her. His mood is lifting, as suddenly as it came, and he dismisses Wolsey from his mind. It is harder to forget about Sir Thomas More though. “Do you think More will take the oath?”

  “Ah, Sir Thomas More is the cause of your frowning face,” Anne says. “Why would he refuse, my love? It is simple enough. Refuse the oath, and you commit treason. More is an old fool, but he loves you well enough, and would not betray you.”

  “Then he will swear, and I shall forgive him his past sins against us,” Henry says.

  “Yes, my dear,” Anne says, but she knows that More cannot take the oath, and reconcile it with his devotion to Rome. “Once he swears, we will have him to dinner again. Then Master Cromwell can stop all of his plotting.”

  “Plotting?” Henry dislikes the word, and fears its use when talking about those close to the throne. “Surely not, Anne. Not plotting.”

  “Well, scheming then,” Anne replies, casually. “Sir Thomas is an old friend of Master Cromwell’s, and he would do all in his power to save him.”

  “Cromwell will urge More to take the oath,” Henry says. “It is in all our best interests. I do not want to take action against Sir Thomas, lest Cousin Francis is upset.”

  “Then it is with France you wish to ally us?” Anne asks. She is pleased at this, as her childhood was spent in Paris, and she likes to think herself as part of their blood. “You care not for the Holy Roman Empire then?”

  “Politics, my dear,” Henry says. “Cromwell favours the Habsburgs, and the Hansiatic League, for the trade, whilst Arch Bishop Gardiner prefers the more noble French. Even Cranmer has a preference … other than his usual ‘think as I think’ way of things. He wants us to ally ourselves with the Scots, and so alienate them from France. It is all very well having wise men, but what if they each have a differing opinion?”

  “When I am your own dear queen, I shall help you with all this diplomacy,” Anne tells him. “I shall appoint all those who displease you as ambassadors, and send them to far off places, where they have black skins, or ride on dragons. Where is that land where they paint themselves and eat one another?”

  Henry finds this most amusing, and wishes it were ever so simple. Displease the king, and find yourself in the land of the Russians, or festering in Naples. It seems less severe, and not as permanent a solution as the axe.

  “A splendid idea, my love,” he says. “I shall start by sending Harry Percy to the Scots court, and Tom Wyatt to the New World!”

  “Poor Wyatt,” Anne says, carefully. “Banished for being a lesser poet than his king.”

  “Ah, well said!” Henry is completely restored, and cannot wait for his trip to Calais. “Soon, it will be Queen Anne at my side.”

  “I will walk with you, sir,” Mush says to Chapuys. “Miriam will be happy to see you, and there are rooms enough for us all to stay the night.”

  “That is kind of you to suggest, my young friend,” the Savoyard diplomat says, “but I must confess that I was lying. I am on my way back from Utopia, where I spent the evening with Sir Thomas More. The poor man is in a sorry state. It seemed that you and Master Wyatt required help, so I pretended we were together.”

  “Most cunning, sir,” Tom Wyatt says, swaying from side to side. “The wily fox throws the hounds off the scent.”

  “Shut up, Tom, you are drunk.” Mush tries to steer him on his way. “Then I bid you good evening, Master Chapuys.”

  “Intoxicated with love, this swain has lost his pretty French dove.” Wyatt attempts a bow, and stumbles over.

  “Pray, take Master Wyatt with you to Will Draper’s house, and let him sleep off his inebriation,” Chapuys says, chuckling. “For my part, I have letters to write to the emperor, and they must be ready to dispatch on the morrow.”

  Eustace Chapuys sprinkles fine sawdust over the wet ink, and shakes off the surplus grains. He holds the parchment up to the light of his candles, and reads it, one last time.

  Your Imperial Highness,

  My agents inform me that the king is to visit Calais before Christmas, where he will sign certain treaties with the French king. It is likely that he will take the Boleyn woman with him, and their romantic attachment remains very strong.

  Lady Anne is not popular with the people, who call her ‘the French Whore’, and she is seldom seen in public, for this reason. The crowds do not acclaim her, and at a recent state function she was cursed from amongst the multitude. The king likes this not, but is pleased that the same people do cry out their love for him.

  I have it from a reliable source that Thomas Cromwell will soon announce a divorce, thus freeing the king to marry again. I urge you, sire, to write to Henry, under your own hand, and offer him a princess of your choosing. In this way, he might come to see that an alliance with the Holy Roman Empire, against France, will benefit him beyond measure.

  Should he continue with his insane desire to marry the French Whore, many of his nobles, and the common people, will turn against him. Though she be a niece of Norfolk, he does not like her overmuch, and Charles Brandon, the king’s great friend, does loath, and despise, all of the perfidious Boleyn family.

  Information has come to me, just today, that Lady Anne might be more like her sister, Lady Mary, than was first thought. I have it from a young man of the court that she is of a most flirting disposition, and he hints that she be no maid. If this is so, and it can be shown, then the king will have nothing to do with her, for fear of ruining his own reputation. He must put her aside, or else keep her only as a common mistress.

  I have met with Sir Thomas More this evening, and urged him to stay faithful to Mother Church. He is most distraught about an oath that is to be taken, and fears for his immortal soul, if he swears. I did flatter the man over much, and put in his mind that he would be most welcome should he wish to visit Bruges. Though, I do fear the king might not allow such a trip, for fear of More writing against him, and decrying the new protestant heresy.

  I have secret word from your aunt, who sends her devoted love, and asks that you once again urge Henry to return to her side. I understand that she has been unwell, and that she is ever kept from her daughter, Princess Mary. Each time I visit court, I ask for permission to visit the dear lady, but I am looked upon with suspicion, and my requests are put aside.

  Your servant,

  Eustace Chapuys.

  The letter, he knows, will be intercepted, opened, and copied, before being sent on its way. In this instance, Chapuys does not mind. In fact, he wants Thomas Cromwell to read the contents, and understand about Anne Boleyn.

  If the Privy Councillor can make Henry aware that Lady Anne has a shadowy past, surely he will step back from the alter, and reconsider his position. Marry the Boleyn woman, and all Europe will be laughing at him.

  Henry Tudor, King of England, and nothing but a pathetic old cuckold. It is something to be avoided, whatever the cost. Even if the divorce goes through, Henry must be paired off with a good, fertile princess, without a blemish on her character, rather than Anne.

  “Do not let me down, Thomas,” he mutters to himself. “Stop this creature, before she can do any more harm.”

  14 The Last Word

  Miriam lights more candles, and places them on the hearth’s high mantelpiece, throwing flickering shadows across the room. She can feel an air of unrest between her husband and Tom Cromwell, and leaves them to talk in private. They must settle whatever it is that hangs, like a black storm cloud, over them.

  Will waits until Miriam ceases her fussing, and they are alone again, before he ventures to ask about Lady A
gnes. The shock of her sudden death hangs between them, but he cannot let another night pass without understanding every aspect of the recent events at Broome Hall.

  “You say I may ask you anything?” Will starts. “What if it touches upon Lady Agnes?” Thomas Cromwell gives a heavy sigh, and shrugs his shoulders.

  “What does it matter now?” he replies, his voice cracking with emotion. “Were she alive, I would deflect your inquiring ways, and use my cleverness with the law to block the truth, but she is not.”

  “Would she were here with us now, sir, then I would seal my lips forever on the subject of her involvement,” Will tells him, earnestly. “You would do well to unburden yourself now, and let her soul rest in peace. I am sure a forgiving God will see why she thought it acceptable to kill so cunning, and deceitful a rogue as Sir Peregrine Martell.”

  “His name was Peter Martin, and I fear you have jumped to some wrong conclusions,” says Cromwell. “He first came to my attention when the king favoured him, yet did not like the fellow. As you later found out, I feared the dog had something over Henry, and set Barnaby, and others, on his trail. That he came from the northern counties was clear from his mode of speech, but there, the trail ended.”

  “Because of his new identity?” Will knows how easy it is to become that which you are not, having come from a peasant beginning to be an agent for Cromwell, and then the king. “There was no Peregrine Martell to be found?”

  “Oh, but there was. Master Fowler was most ingenious. He wrote to every shire, and enquired into the name. Had a Martell ever paid taxes, or been arraigned in court? That sort of thing. Then, a few weeks later, a merchant in Chester wrote, saying that a Peregrine Martell had owed him money, but then died of the sweating sickness in the winter of ‘twenty eight. There were no family to speak of, and he left his small wealth to a clerk in his office. It seems this clerk was a shrewd fellow, and there was some doubt over the authenticity of the man’s Last Will and Testament, but it was signed and witnessed well enough, and the clerk, Peter Martin, inherited two hundred pounds, and a small house.”