by Anne Stevens
“The seeds of his advancement,” Will says.
“Just so.” Cromwell continues. “About the same time, Martin’s uncle died a violent death. The evidence pointed to an accident, but there was some talk of Martin, and a friend, Richard Pound, being implicated. The pair prospered, until Martin thought he might abscond with everything.”
“Leaving Pound behind to start again.”
“Correct.” Cromwell picks up his wine, and drinks it off in one gulp. Will has never seen his old master drink so heavily, and it worries him. “Martin became Martell. As the man had once lived, it made building a new persona easier for Martin. Only when this merchant heard about Martell being sought did he think to enquire, and see if he might get his money back. Barnaby Fowler went to Chester, spoke with the fellow, and realised he had our man.”
“Then he could investigate not Martell, but Martin,” Will says. “I take it that he did not speak with Pound?”
“No, he did not. Barnaby sought out all he could, secretly, and found out about the whore houses, and Martell’s habit of ruining people, then buying up their debts. That is how we came to hear about Sir Roderick, amongst others. Then Barnaby was told how Martin and Pound would kidnap girls. He uncovered Jean Carnet’s sad story, and sought out his estranged daughter.”
“With great success,” Will says.
“Yes. The crimes were mounting, you see. Murder, kidnap, theft, blackmail… the list went on, and on. Then came the foulest crime of all. Martell, or Martin as he then was, befriended a young nobleman, and drew him into a world of gaming. The fool lost his fortune, and more besides. Martin intended to use the fellow to get into better company, where he might meet richer men.”
“A cunning ploy,” Will says. “A sprat to catch a mackerel, you might say.”
“Only, the young noble had a very beautiful wife,” Cromwell explains, his lips tightening in disgust. “Martin offered an exchange, the man’s gambling debts set aside, in return for a dalliance with the unsuspecting wife. I am ashamed to say, the fellow accepted the deal.”
“It was Lady Agnes’ husband?” Cromwell nods, and struggles to continue with the tawdry story.
“He invited Martin into his home, and left him alone with Agnes. She was almost eighteen, and had no idea what was intended. He proposed, and she refused him. The very thought of it sickened her, and she resolved to expose him for a pander, and a man of low morals. So, he forced himself on her, in the lewdest way, and treated her like one of his whores.”
“Then rape can be added to the list of perfidy.”
“Yes. Agnes was left, hurt and misused. Realising that he might have gone too far, Martin made arrangements to disappear, and later became Martell. Her husband‘s debts were cleared, but within months, he was penniless again. Agnes’ brutal ill treatment had been for nought. It was then she stopped loving him. They slept apart, and she refused his advances. Out of shame, he accepted the situation.”
“I know you suspected Martell of blackmailing Henry, but when did you decide to punish these other crimes?”
“The idea came to me in the middle of a very sleepless night.” Cromwell pours yet another glass of wine. “Why not invite some of his victims to Broome Hall, and let them meet their tormentor? I thought it a fine idea. So, I wrote eight invitations, and sent them forth. I thought enough would respond to make it interesting. Apart from myself, four came, thinking they might prosper from the visit.
“Carnet sought his lost child, Pound thought he would make a profit, Agnes believed Lady Anne had found her a new husband, and Sir Roderick hoped to escape his gambling debts. None knew of any Martell, and those that came, did so quite innocently. I helped none, save Lady Agnes, whom, my agent told me, could not afford the trip. I secretly paid for her coach, and arranged guards to deliver her safely.”
“Did you know her?” Will asks.
“Not at all,” Thomas Cromwell says, touching fingers to his heart. “I thought she might recognise Martell as her attacker from twenty years ago, and denounce him as a rapist. That is all. The meeting on the way was pure chance, but it allowed me to know the dear lady, for which I thank God.”
“And so, we came together,” Will puts in. “I assume Martell did not recognise Lady Agnes?”
“No, he did not. She stared into his eyes, and it was as if she had never existed. That is when she resolved to kill him.”
“Then why did she wait?” Will is confused, but has drunk a lot of wine himself. “Why spend the night?”
“Opportunity,” Cromwell explains. “We rode together in the coach, you will recall. I was struck by her, at once, and let slip what I was about. She demanded to know her part in my plan, and I told her who Martell really was. She swore then to kill him, but I begged her to wait. Then, that first night, I stayed with her. We talked, and talked, until the night was done, and in the morning, I asked her if she might ever love one such as me. Before she could answer, Martel set up his banging and shouting. It took me a while to realise that he had connived to kill Pound. I had hoped that Pound might denounce Martell as a thief, or even kill him outright, but Martell was too clever for him.”
“So, there you were. In love with a woman, and unable to stop her from wanting her revenge.”
“Just so, Will.” Cromwell smiles and displays his open palms. “How was I to deflect her from her course a second night?”
“It was then I told you that I had an idea where Martell might have hid his secret documents,” says Will. “It came to me that he would be terrified of having so dangerous a scrap of information in the house, and that he would conceal it. Once he insisted on going to St. Albans … on business … I knew. He meant to lodge it with some confederate. As there was but one lawyer in town, it was easy to cower him into giving up his partner’s secrets.”
“I see. You thought it must be some equal in crookery … so sought out a lawyer,” Cromwell cannot hide his amusement. “Are we all tarred with the same brush, Will?”
“Why sir, some have done worse,” Will replies. “Why, I know of one lawyer who contrived to get his lady love into a stranger’s bedroom, so that she could stab him to death.”
“Oh, harsh fellow,” Cromwell says, wincing.
“With Richard Pound dead, there was no other way,” Will continues. “He was the only man who could reveal all of Martell’s crimes, and ensure his conviction. Lady Agnes’ word, after twenty years, might not have been enough. Sir Roderick did not even know Martell, and could lay no information against him … other than that he wanted to buy his markers. As you already had them, that was no use.”
“I hoped Jean Carnet might testify,” Cromwell offers, “but to what? His daughter was twelve when they stole her, and may not even recognise either man now. No, if he was to be punished, I had to take a hand.”
“Why not simply do nothing?” Will asks. “Why not just go to bed, and let Lady Agnes do what she might?”
“You heard Martell,” Cromwell objects. “He was armed, and ready. Though he did not fear Richard Pound’s murderer … it being himself … he knew someone was after him. He would have killed again, and been able to swear self defence.”
“So, which of you suggested the drugged wine?”
“Mea Culpa, mea maxima culpa, my dear old friend,” Cromwell confesses. “Like you, I guessed Martell had drugged Pounds drink the night before, and went in search of whatever opiate he used. I searched his room, hoping to find incriminating papers, but came away with nothing, except a vial, hidden under his bed.”
“Then you drugged the evening’s drinks?”
“You will recall how Lady Agnes was so attentive to us all?” Cromwell says. “She dosed each drink she served, save those I drank, or her own, of course. In this way, everyone was fast asleep, including Peregrine Martell. He scarcely had time to sit down in his room before the potion worked. I think Agnes double dosed him, to be sure he slept.”
“We all slept, and Lady Agnes went to the tower room,” Will suggests. �
��How was she armed?”
“I gave her one of my daggers,” Cromwell tells him. “The one I keep up my sleeve. Mush taught me to be prepared. One for throwing, and one to follow up with, he says. I must thank him for his advice, when next I see him.”
“Peregrine Martell was no fool,” says Will. “He knew someone was after him. A man like that has a past of black doings, and it is only a matter of time before he was found out. He just did not know who would come calling.”
“That is so. He knew that Richard Pound would not send the invitations,” Cromwell says. “Had Pound known that Martin and Martell were the same person, he would have come alone, and in the night. No, Martell had another enemy. The story of Carnet’s daughter might have rung a bell, but Carnet would have demanded his daughter, then killed him, without any trickery. As for Lady Agnes, he stared into her eyes, and did not even remember a casual rape, twenty years before.”
“That tells me that his crimes were many, and varied,” Will says. “I am sure he sups with the Devil tonight.”
“Amen.”
“Lady Agnes went to the tower room, and …?” Will pauses, pointedly, to let Cromwell know he must confess more.
“The door was barred, of course,” Cromwell replies. “I did the same as you. I took my blade, and worked the bolt back. Afterwards, I slid it closed, in exactly the same way.”
“As I thought.” Will is almost finished. “Now we come to the final part of the story. Murder is a crime, punishable by death, sir, and Martell was murdered.”
“By Tobias Charnley,” Cromwell says. “Shall we let it rest there?”
“No, I cannot. I will never speak of it again outside these four walls, but I must have the truth, if only for my own sake.”
“Then say it.” Cromwell tells him. “For I will not try to stop you.”
“Lady Agnes … did not murder Peregrine Martell. You did.”
“Ah, I see … and what is your evidence, Master King’s Examiner?” Cromwell does not deny it, and Will is satisfied that he is right.
“You have already confessed to opening Martell’s door. I suggest that, being the sort of man you are, you could not let Agnes go on alone. You took her to where Martell was sitting, and she raised her dagger, and struck. Perhaps, at the very moment, she coughed, or had a change of heart. Whatever the reason, the blow was wild, and did nothing more than score down Martell’s chest.”
“I see,” says Cromwell. “Could she not then have struck again and again?”
“No, it was you. You saw she was not the murdering sort, and so you stabbed him again and again. Each blow, after the first, feeble attempt, went deep into his heart … without wavering. The steady blows of the executioner, delivered unto a guilty man.” Will raises his glass, as if toasting his friend. “To you, sir, for a job well done. My only sorrow is that Lady Agnes is not here now.”
“She rests with our blessed saviour,” Cromwell replies. “My sins are legion, Will, and one more death cannot darken my soul much more. When my time comes, I will share the same fate as poor Charnley, whose confession leaves Agnes and myself absolved.”
“I am pleased that you took my advice, and brought away both weapons,” Will concludes. “For one is thin, and sharp, whilst the other is broader bladed. Anyone examining them would have been able to deduce two attackers.”
“Such a clever fellow,” Cromwell says. He tries to stand, but is quite drunk. He settles back, and decides to sleep where he is. As his eyes close, there comes a steady knocking at the door. Will curse, picks up a dagger on the way, and goes to see who is without.
“Name yourselves,” he hisses through the door.
“Let these lover’s lips whisper quiet,
‘tis only Mush, and his friend Tom Wyatt,
come here to seek themselves a bed,
now the long, cold day hast fled.”
Will Draper cannot help but smile. He opens the door, and hushes them into silence. Mush pinches his lips together, and Tom Wyatt attempts a salute.
“Hail … Colonel … where are your troops?”
“Hold your damned noise, else Miriam, and the child will awaken,” Will whispers.
“Ah, yes. I must write an ode to the boy, this instant. Fetch me paper, and ink at once, Will. Mush, repair to the kitchen, and fetch me something to drink. Poetry is thirsty work, sir!”
Will gives up the effort, and he urges them both into the room where a good fire still blazes. Tom Wyatt is fascinated to find Thomas Cromwell slumped in a comfortable chair, snoring, and sits at his knee. The man has been a second father to him for as long as he can remember, and he both loves, and fears him. He thinks for a moment, then takes Cromwell’s hand in his, affectionately.
“Good Father Cromwell, sleep, I pray,
For how many men have you ruined today?”
“For God’s sake, Wyatt,” Will snaps. “You think to make fun of him? How often has ‘Good Father Cromwell’ saved your poor, benighted hide?”
“Too often,” Tom Wyatt replies. “Though he is not my only saviour. Mush and I were in the company of Eustace Chapuys but a little while ago. He saved us from the soldiers who bravely guard Whitehall Palace.”
“And what were you doing there?” Will asks, throwing a sharp look at Mush.
“My friend and I, were out to woo two sisters,” Wyatt replies, with a crafty smirk. “But one has gone to the country, and the other will soon rule it.”
“Christ above,” Will curses. “Would you have the whole world down on us, man? Can you not see how mad this is? The lady you speak of is to marry within a couple of weeks. Your continued behaviour will get you into serious trouble.”
“It will get you killed,” Cromwell says, pushing himself up in his chair. He rubs his eyes, and yawns. “I might be in my cups, little poet, but I tell you this, for your own dear sake. If Henry suspects … true or not … you will go to the block. Then all hell will break loose. For people will ask if you were the only one, and Henry is a jealous man. He will cut his way through every man in court to save his honour.”
“I love her.”
“Then let her live,” Cromwell says. “Henry will not suffer a wife sullied this way. No one will be safe. Do you understand what I say, sir?”
“I have not … I swear that she has… not with me, Master Cromwell,” Wyatt says. “It is just that she is so playful with those around her. She wants us all to love her, but speak of love, and she slaps us away. I swear, Anne will do anything to be queen, even play the virgin.”
“Then find some excuse to travel again,” Cromwell tells him. “Never speak of her, to anyone.”
“Then I must dream instead,” Tom Wyatt replies. It is true that he has never managed to woo Anne Boleyn, but his jealous, unrequited lust, is as strong as Henry’s, and he wonders where her love truly lies.
“Even dreams can get you killed,” Mush mutters.
“Come now,” Will says. “No more of this foolishness, my friends. There is much to celebrate. My newborn son, my new rank of colonel, and my happy reconciliation with a dear friend… Master Thomas.”
“Are we truly reconciled, Will?” Cromwell asks.
“With all my heart,” Will tells him. “Let this be the last word on the matter. What is past, is past, and what was done, had to be done.”
“Amen again,” Cromwell says. “Wyatt, pray give us a merry poem, full of clever jests, and free of the word ‘love’. For, in my humble estimation, it causes more hurt than one soul should have to bear. Here, drink this, and spin us a tale.
“Would that we had brought Master Chapuys with us,” the poet jests, “for his name does rhyme with trees, peas, sees, and please. Let me see… Here, flitting through the trees,…No, that will not do. How can you write a poem about a man whose sole wish is to gather gossip, and weave it into…” Tom Wyatt stops in mid tirade, and looks at Mush, whose young face has dissolved into a mask of horror.
“What is it?“ Cromwell is suddenly wide awake. “What has happen
ed?”
“He was coming from Utopia,” Tom Wyatt says. “He sent the soldiers packing, after they said …”
“Said what, pray tell?”
“That two men were seen coming out of the palace quarters,” Mush admits. “We were outside Lady Mary Boleyn’s window, sir. I thought only to spend a few hours in her company.”
“Then we must see what poor old Eustace makes of that,” Cromwell says. “No doubt he will write to his master soon.”
“Let us hope that only our agents open his letters,” Will says.
“No, let us make sure we are the only ones,” Cromwell says, with a huge sigh. It is time to get back to business. “Mush, see that dear Chapuys mail is stopped for the next week. Once copied, have it resealed, and sent on its way. Have our people at Calais and Bruges be aware that it must not be further tampered with. I do not want Arch Bishop Gardiner‘s black crows, or Norfolk’s toadies to read a word. ”
“As you wish, sir,” Mush says. “Though if the lady proves to be as … giving… as her sister, it will come out some time. Perhaps the king might be informed, so that steps can be taken.”
“You are a wise head on a young neck, Mush,” Thomas Cromwell says. “Henry would kill any man who suggests Anne is untrue to him. I must think of a way to make the king request an informal investigation.”
“Perhaps mention Harry Percy?” Will suggests. “His claim to have known Lady Anne is long standing, and has never been investigated.”
“Wolsey knew.”
“Wolsey is dead.”
“I am not,” Cromwell replies, “and it was I who kicked his arse back north, and threatened him into silence. Now must I kick his arse back down south, and have him confess to swiving Henry’s woman?”
“Can that be done?” Tom Wyatt asks, amazed at the power Cromwell seems to have at his fingertips. To kick a lord’s arse must be a most satisfying pastime.