by Anne Stevens
“Make way… make way for the Royal Alchemist,” he shouts. “Lest he do magic you unto death!”
“Go on, do some magic,” another calls, and the crowd laughs. Master Mercurius keeps a dignified silence, until they reach the door of the selected inn. There, he turns to the crowd, and raises his hands for silence. His assistant kneels at his feet, with his hands crossed over his chest.
“Behold, unbelievers,” the younger man shouts. “See the power of Aldo Mercurius!” There is a sudden flash of light, and a cloud of acrid smoke. A woman in the crowd screams, and grown men fall back in horror. The alchemist has vanished, leaving behind the pungent smell of The Devil. His assistant stands, bows to the astonished crowd, and closes the door in their faces.
The secret ways of the sect of the alchemists have come to London, and its greatest practitioner is amongst them. Word will travel far and wide, and by nightfall, all of the city will know that a sorcerer walks amongst them. Doors will be locked, and charms hung above windowpanes, against the evil eye.
The boy pockets the silver coin, given to him by the foreign gentleman, and sets off whistling to himself. It is his duty to report anything unusual back to Austin Friars, and there is nothing more unusual than a couple of real magicians lodging at the Elephant and Castle.
With luck, Master Rafe, or even Cromwell himself will give him a further reward. He works his way through the densely crowded streets, just back from the river, and finally makes it to Austin Friars. There is a high wall running all about the property, but the main gate is never closed. The lad nods to another boy, who often acts as gatekeeper.
“Any one of them in, Dick?” he asks.
“Master Cromwell,” the second boy says. “He’s been waiting for you, Alfie.”
“For me?” the lad is surprised, and wonders if he is in some kind of trouble.
“You’ve been down near the ships, ain’t you?”
“Yes.” Alfie is relieved, for Thomas Cromwell wants only whomsoever has dock duty that day.
“Then you are to go straight on in.” Dick resumes his place on the low stool, and returns to watching all who pass by.
The boy shrugs. There is always something going on around Austin Friars, so he should not be surprised when the master knows things before they even happen. He slips through the open front door, and hovers outside the door to the master’s study. Only once has he ever been inside the book lined room, and the smell of leather, and the incalculable value of the precious books leaves him awestruck.
“Come in, child,” Cromwell calls. “No need to loiter.”
“Beg pardon, master, but I just…”
“Came from the wharf.”
“Saints preserve my soul, guv’nor,” the lad whispers. “Have you got watchers watchin’ us watchers now?”
“Never mind that,” Thomas Cromwell says, smiling at the child’s confusion. “Where did you lodge them?”
“The Elephant, sir.”
“A wise choice.”
“One of them said he was an alchemist, and then he alchemised himself to nothing,” the boy says. “A puff of smoke, and he was gone. It fair stank of Old Hob, an’ no mistake!”
“Ah, a true magician,” Thomas Cromwell says. “Here, take this letter to them. Tell them that I set the finest table in England, and that both are welcome, this evening. Warn them that the streets are dangerous after dark, and I will send some of my young men to escort them.”
“Yes, sir,” the lad says, staring at the letter. “How can you write a letter to a man who is not there yet?”
“I saw it, in my magic crystal ball,” Tom Cromwell tells the lad. He takes a silver coin from his purse, and holds it out. The boy goes to take it, and it is, of a sudden, not there. Cromwell opens his other hand, and shows off the same coin. “Cromwell’s Magickery, my dear boy. Now… be off!”
“You should not waste your power like that,” the short man says to the alchemist. “These people are as easy to please as children.”
“Dangerous children, Popo,” Aldo Mercurius says. “They cheer one day, and want to burn you the next. It is good that they fear us a little.”
“Shall I have the inn keeper prepare us some food?”
“No.” Mercurius touches fingertips to his head, and strokes his long, pointed beard with the other hand. “There is a dinner invitation already coming to us. Tonight, we will dine with the greatest in the land.”
“Will we have to impress them?” Popo asks. The alchemist smiles, and shakes his head.
“There is no point in trying to impress Thomas Cromwell,” he says. “There is not a sharper mind in all Europe.”
“What about Erasmus?”
“That old fool?” the alchemist sneers. “You bring his name up, merely to annoy me, Popo. He spends his days talking to God, and his nights writing down His replies. Can he make himself vanish, or bring a cat from an empty box?”
“He does not have to roam the world,” Popo mumbles.
“Cromwell is clever,” Mercurius says. “He lives by trickery, yet understands the truth behind the magic of alchemy.”
“Then he is the second cleverest man in the world, after you?” Popo says, grinning. The alchemist considers the question for a moment, then shakes his head.
“There was another, but he is dead.”
“Ah, the great Machiavelli,” the alchemist’s assistant says, and starts rummaging through their luggage. It is his place to ensure every scrap of sulphur, each piece of equipment, and all the necessary ingredients are to hand, and he never fails to please.
“Machiavelli was a genius,” Mercurius says. “He said ‘it would be best to be both loved, and feared. But since the two rarely come together, anyone compelled to choose will find greater security in being feared rather than being loved. It is a maxim that I have taken to heart, my little friend.”
“Which gown shall you wear?”
“The silken black, with the symbols on it,” Aldo replies. “Oh, and the black cap. The one that flops over my ears. If Cromwell wants a demonstration of my powers, then let it be so.”
“Please, master … do not frighten them too much. Remember what happened in Paris.”
“Ah, yes. Fear can make men behave in the most unfortunate ways,” the alchemist says, recalling a hurried flight from a howling mob. “Perhaps Machiavelli was not quite right. Perhaps there must be a little love mixed in with the fear.”
“These English favour the rack, and the stake,” Popo advises.
“Not Cromwell. I hear he is a gentle soul… when it suits his purpose.”
“They do say he sets a fine table,” says Popo. “It will be a change from the terrible ship’s food!”
By an odd coincidence Thomas Cromwell has, at that very moment, a book laid open before him. It is ‘The Prince’ and details how a political mind works to gain its own ends. Cromwell is saddened to read that, a constant of much of Machiavelli's work, is that the ruler must adopt the most unsavoury policies, for the sake of the continuance of his regime.
This is not something he wishes to happen in England, during Henry’s rule. With the right sort of direction, he is sure that the king’s reign can be largely benevolent. Unfortunately, there are those who would ruin his carefully laid plans, and he is forced to take remedial action.
Next to the Italian book is another. It is his infamous black leather bound ‘Vindicatio’. The book is whispered about, amongst those in the know, and it contains details of all those who have crossed Thomas Cromwell in the past. It contains many names, and a good part of them have been crossed through, as they have been claimed by death, or ruined. Sir Thomas More’s name adorns one page, but Cromwell has no wish to destroy the man any further. It is enough that he has lost his place, and is a broken old man, living out his last years in Utopia.
There are four pages, dedicated to the Boleyn family, and these entries are amongst the most recent of all. Until her marriage, Anne was little more than an irritant, but now, he sees, her
family have become the greatest threat. Monsignor, and his son, George, are taking an active role in opposition, and must be challenged, before they grow too powerful.
Thomas Cromwell sighs. Then he picks up a freshly penned quill, dips it into his inkpot, and begins to make notes. That very evening he must entertain two of his worst enemies, and reassure them that, though in different camps, he means them no ill will. For their part, they will pretend friendship, and look for some weakness, whereby they can tear down Austin Friars, and condemn him to failure… and death.
“Must we go?” Even before the words are out, Will Draper knows he has no choice.
“Of course we must, Will,” Miriam replies, as she examines yet another dress from her wardrobes. It is yellow silk, and adorned with pearls. “It will be like the old days, with Rafe and Mush trying to out jest one another, and Richard eating enough for an army. Master Tom will smile, and the world will be a happier place.”
“He wants something,” Will mutters. “The old devil always has some other motive. That last sojourn he took me on was supposed to be a restful break, yet I ended up investigating two murders.”
“He did not know, when he asked you to go with him.”
“He knew well enough.” Will cannot explain everything to Miriam, but she suspects enough to know that Cromwell used her husband to remove an enemy. He does not know, and never will know, that Cromwell had murdered Sir Peregrine Martell, and let the blame pass onto another. “Who is paying for all the food?”
“Master Thomas has already sent that new fellow, Digby Waller around, with a purse of gold. More than enough.”
“Digby Waller, you say?” Will’s ears prick up. It is a name he has heard whispered, in connection with several unsavoury incidents, over the past months. “Then it is true. He works for Master Cromwell now?”
“I suppose he must.” Miriam discards the yellow silk, and takes down a magnificent dark blue dress, that has a bodice encrusted with semi precious stones. “What of this ... Too opulent, perhaps?”
“What does this fellow look like?”
“Who?”
“Digby Waller.”
“Oh, Will, you do not need to be so stuffy,” Miriam replies, smiling at his question. “The girls were present, and he behaved like a gentleman should. Besides, he has a pox marked face, and is younger than Mush.”
“I am not jealous, my dear,” Will reassures her. “I simply wish to know with whom Master Cromwell is associating, these days.”
“Very well. He is as tall as you, though not good looking. He has a flat nose, as if broken, and long mouse brown hair. He dresses like a courtier, and tries to adopt the same manners, but you can tell he is of low birth.”
“As was I,” Will reminds her.
“My grandmother’s mother was a Babylonian princess,” Miriam says, smiling cheekily. “Oh, how I have come down in this world!”
“You mock me.”
“I do.”
“It is not meet for a wife to treat her husband so.”
“Then how shall I treat you … husband?” Miriam throws the dress aside. “There is time enough, and little Gwyllam is asleep.”
“Then let us make proper use of this bed, my girl,” Will says.
“Take your boots off first,” Miriam tells him. “These sheets are Egyptian, and cost six pounds!”
“Thank God I married a rich woman then.” Will pulls her into his arms, and feels the heat of her sudden passion. She pushes her tongue into his mouth, and clings, as if it was going to be the last time.
“It will give us an appetite for tonight,” she says.
“Not that one, you idiot!” Ambassador Chapuys is at his wits end with his new servant. The man has come to him with good references, having worked for the royal household in Ghent, yet he seems incapable of even the simplest task. “The one with the pearl on the crown.”
The young man, nods, and pads off to have another look for his master’s best hat. He cannot understand all of the fuss, as the ambassador is only going next door for dinner. Since the invitation, the little Savoyard has been frantic about what to wear.
Eustace Chapuys is delighted with the invitation to dine with his old friend, Thomas Cromwell. It has been a while, and they have found themselves on different sides too often, but this is an opportunity to mend fences, and resume what was, for Chapuys, a close friendship.
“The purple cloak, I think,” he mutters to himself. How much easier it would be, if only he had a wife to do such things for him. For a moment he allows himself to recall how Lady Mary Boleyn had once offered herself to him, and how, like a fool, he had politely refused the offer.
Then there was Ilsa, whom had been his one true love, back in Savoy. Her early death, before they could marry had broken him for years, and made him wary of women for ever after. Still, there was the boy. His son would grow to maturity, and be cared for and provided with an income, despite never knowing his father.
“Here, master!” The servant appears, waving the correct hat, and Chapuys smiles at him. “Though the pearl seems to have fallen off!”
“God’s teeth!” Eustace Chapuys curses. “Must I wear my second best hat?”
Digby Waller picks up the thick, silver chain, and fastens it about his wrist. It is more than a simple adornment, it is a way of concealing ready money about his person. Each link is worth a shilling, and there are twenty four links. Then he selects his smallest knife, and slips it up his left sleeve.
He has been taking lessons from Mush Draper, and has become quite good with a throwing knife. The young Jew is a patient teacher, and since joining the staff at Austin Friars, the two have taken to going about as a pair. They loiter about Cromwell’s study, and are the first he calls on, these days.
Waller can hardly believe his good fortune, having come from such a poor background. Orphaned at five, he has been raised by the servant of a well to do churchman, Friar Wilfred of Lambeth, who taught him to read and write well enough. It was only after being brought before Cromwell, for shouting abuse at Queen Anne, that his future has been assured.
The Privy Councillor had seemed to like him, and offered him a place at Austin Friars. Whilst still not one of the favoured inner circle, he hovers on the fringe, and is always ready to step up, when needed. It is this readiness, he thinks, that has earned him the honour of escorting Cromwell’s gusts to Austin Friars. He, and Mush Draper are to go to the Elephant and Castle Inn, and bring Aldo Mercurius and his assistant safely to dinner.
“Ready, you coxcomb?” Mush says from the doorway.
“I am, Master Dandiprat,” Digby Waller replies, and they both laugh. Such insults help them form a bond. He pushes a second knife into his belt, picks up his cudgel, and follows his friend out into the street.
“Dick will walk ahead, with a blazing torch,” Mush says. “I fear we will make a pretty sight, and half the fools in London will follow.”
“Let them,” Waller replies, and swishes his club in an arc. “I am up to knocking a few heads, Mush.”
“Then let us get on.”
“Our escort awaits,” Popo says. “Two young popinjays, with a torch bearer.”
“Then let us be on our way,” the alchemist replies. “Bring the cedar box.”
“Is that wise?”
“Perhaps not, but I must have it.”
“And the powder?” Popo asks.
“Of course,” the alchemist snaps at his assistant. “How else can I make gold?”
“You look very … regal, father.”
“Thank you George,” Thomas Boleyn replies, as he straightens his cap on his head. “Scottish pearls, and gold thread on the collars. Even the king has not anything so fine.”
“Then do not wear it in his presence,” George tells his father.
“Monsignor is above such things,” the father replies. “As the king’s father-in-law, I am looked up to by all.”
“Not by Cromwell,” the son replies. “He is as like to poison your soup, fat
her.”
“He would not dare,” the Monsignor says, haughtily. “To offer me violence is to offend the king.”
“Perhaps, but I shall only eat from the common plates,” George tells him. “I have no wish to turn blue, and choke my last at Austin Friars.”
“Cromwell is not so crude.” Monsignor fiddles with the ruff at his neck. “When he strikes, it will be subtle. He will try to show us up, as misusing the king’s treasury, or some such thing.”
“I don’t know,” says George Boleyn. “I still think it was he who put that damned rumour about, saying I was a … a sodomite. I have had to swive half the ladies in court to still that nonsense!”
“You are too suspicious,” the father tells him. “Let us dine well, but use a long spoon … for we are supping with the devil!”
“I would rather serve the master’s guests, than sit at table, my love,” Rafe Sadler’s lover, Ellen Barré, tells him. “Can I not be excused?”
“Master Cromwell invites you to dinner, my dear. It is a great honour,” Rafe replies. “Miriam will be there, so that you might have someone to talk to. Then again, you like Will, and Richard, and neither Norfolk nor Suffolk will bite you.”
“But the other lords….” Ellen Barré insists. “They are not to my taste, my dear.”
“They are only Boleyns,” Rafe says, soothingly. “They are not really noble. Why, Monsignor’s own father was a low sort of a merchant, and his grandfather used to gather wood, and hawk kindling, for his living.”
“And I am a servant.” Ellen is adamant that she will be out of place.
“You are my betrothed,” Rafe replies. “Master Cromwell shall have your husband declared legally dead, in a few more months. Soon you might find yourself to be a grand lady. The king takes note of me, and there might be a title coming my way. He knows that it was I who drafted the great Oath of Supremacy, and that it is I who will guide it through parliament, stage by stage.”