by Anne Stevens
“Then we will all have to swear?” The woman, who has known a poor husband once, distrusts vows, and oaths.
“Not women, of course. They have no legal say.” Rafe Sadler tells his betrothed. “We are still working on other exceptions too, so that those who can be, are spared.”
“Like Sir Thomas More?” Ellen Barré asks. She is fond of the old fellow, and dislikes the way he is being mistreated, for the sake of the new queen.
“Even Thomas Cromwell might not save that one.” Rafe kisses her cheek. “Now, put on your best dress, my dearest one, and let us dine with these Boleyn rogues.”
“Why does Master Cromwell invite them?”
“Politics, I suppose.”
“They hate him.” Ellen is worried for them all, and Rafe reassures her, with a smile.
“Master Tom says they hate everyone, so we are in good company, my love!”
4 The Alchemist
Miriam Draper, in her capacity as caterer, has excelled herself, Thomas Cromwell thinks. The great table is placed down the centre of the great hall, and has a linen runner going the full length, from end to end, and covering the centre of the oak top. Every couple of feet, there is a silver candlestick, of Flemish design, with real, wax candles, illuminating the room.
There is an engraved silver platter at each place, with a pewter goblet, and a fine glass, for wine. Set on either side of the silver platters, are a fairly new innovation to noble English diners: a sharp, bone handled knife, for cutting meat, and a triple tined silver fork, to help the food into the mouth, without resorting to ones fingers.
“Such splendour,” Thomas Cromwell mutters. Then he claps his hands to attract one of the house servants. “James, you are to make a note of all the silverware, and make sure none of the guests take it away as a keepsake.”
“As you say, Master Tom,” the old man says. “Though Master Charles is back in funds, and will not pilfer.”
“I think more of the Boleyn guests,” Cromwell replies, with a smile. “It has cost me six hundred marks to set up this table, and that is without food on it. I want them dazzled by my wealth, not enriched by it. They must understand that I am worth as much as they. Have the servants dress in their very best Sunday clothes, and be at their most attentive.”
“Of course, sir,” James, who has been with Cromwell for many years, has never known his master be so frivolous. In the past, he has always counselled caution where money is concerned. In the entrance hall Ellen Barré, and Rafe Sadler are waiting to greet the others. First to arrive, by palanquin, is Tom Howard, Duke of Norfolk.
“Damned womanly way to travel,” he curses, as he steps through the door. “Only my bastard of a hunter threw me this morning, and I landed on my arse!”
“My Lord Norfolk, I am sorry to hear this. Are you discomfited?” Rafe asks, showing professional concern.
“Bruised arse. A cushion will do nicely, Sadler. I see the king has let you off for tonight. I say, who is this fine filly?”
“Mistress Ellen Barré, my betrothed, Your Lordship.”
“Lucky beggar!” Norfolk says, and stamps off into the main hall. “Am I early?” The servant, James, hurries forward, and pushes a goblet of red wine into his hand. “Ah, keep them coming, old fellow. Keep them coming!”
Richard hears the commotion, and descends the stairs. He espies Norfolk and goes to him.
“My Lord Norfolk,” he says. “Have you heard the one about the poxed whore and the bishop… no?” They sidle off, and Norfolk roars with laughter.
Will arrives a moment later, with Miriam on his arm. They throw off their cloaks, and join Richard and Norfolk. Charles Brandon is next, and comes galloping into the courtyard, as if the devil was on his tail. He jumps from the saddle, and almost runs into the house.
“God Bless all here,” he says, and takes a glass of wine from one of the servants. “I thought I would not make it in time, Rafe. Is this the lady I hear so much of?”
“Mistress Ellen Barré, sir.”
“Charmed.” The Duke of Suffolk bows, and kisses Ellen’s hand. “She matches Colonel Draper’s wife in beauty, old fellow. I should keep her away from court!”
“If you would care to go through, Charles?” Thomas Cromwell appears, and ushers Suffolk into the great hall. “Are there more to come yet, Rafe?”
“We are waiting for… ah, here they come now.”
“Cromwell!” George Boleyn nods his head. “You know my father, do you not?”
“Monsignor,” Cromwell bows. Yes, he thinks, that is the supercilious arse I once kicked out of Lambeth Palace. “My house is your house. Pray, do go through, where your brother-in-law, Norfolk awaits.”
“Oh, that old fool,” George groans. “Is he as boorish as ever?” The Boleyns move inside, and almost at once, Eustace Chapuys is there in his best cap and gown. He holds out his hand to Cromwell, and they embrace, warmly.
“Old friend, thank you for coming,” Cromwell tells him.
“A pleasure, Thomas, though I see it is not to be an intimate dinner. Was that Boleyn I saw before me?”
“I regret so,” Cromwell says, “but I will not sit you near them. The old fellow is so tedious these days. Ah, I see torches coming. I believe my guest of honour is here.”
“Goodness, is it some Ottoman lord?” Chapuys catches sight of the extraordinarily be-gowned alchemist, and his fat little compatriot. They are decked out in silks, and on his head, Mercurius has a conical hat, trimmed with huge feathers. “Such a magnificent hat!”
“Ostrich feathers,” Popo explains, as he bows to Chapuys, in mistake for Cromwell.
“Have I the honour of addressing Lord Cromwell?”
“This is he,” Chapuys says, stepping to one side.
“Then, on my honour, good lord, I am presenting to you, Aldo Mercurius, Alchemist Royal to Prince Ygor of Lithuania!”
“I am pleased to meet you,” Cromwell says. “And you are Master Popo, his assistant?”
“Secretary, assistant, and principal disciple,” Popo replies, bowing again. “We eat, yes?”
“We do, please come inside.” The room falls into silence as the alchemist makes his appearance. It is Norfolk who first finds words to utter.
“What is this, Cromwell, are we dining with Turcomen now?” He laughs, but none join in.
“May I name, Grand Master Aldo Mercurius, Alchemist Royal to the Prince of Lithuania.” Thomas Cromwell gestures to the table. “Let us be seated, my friends, for there is a magnificent feast to get through!”
Rafe Sadler knows whom dislikes whom, and nudges them all into reasonably acceptable places. Only the alchemist seems unwilling to take his place of honour, beside Thomas Cromwell.
“Do sit, Grand Master Aldo,” Cromwell urges, but the alchemist makes a criss-cross gesture with his hands, and mutters in a mixture of Latin, and an unknown language.
“I dare not,” he says, in a thick, north European accent. “Can you not see how many we are?”
Thomas Cromwell takes a quick head count, and groans at the appalling oversight.
“Thirteen,” the alchemist says, with dread in his voice. “We are thirteen, and that will not do. Bring me salt, at once!” James hurries forward with a silver bowl, and the alchemist takes it from him. He chants, in the same, strange, unknown language, and sprinkles the salt across the table.
“That is not Latin, sir?” Chapuys asks.
“Chaldean,” the alchemist replies. “It is most beneficial in these cases. There will be no ill luck around this table now.”
Almost at once, there is a loud knocking at the door. James scurries to answer the knock, and returns, in quick time, with a tall, good looking man at his shoulder.
“My pardon, dear Master Thomas,” Tom Wyatt says, bowing to Cromwell, “but I thought to beg a bite of convivial supper. I see that I intrude, and I shall withdraw at once, dear sir.”
“No, you will not, Master Wyatt,” Thomas Cromwell says, happily. The dissolute court poet, and diploma
t, is there, as if by magic, and saves the evening. “Draw up a chair, and you shall make us up to fourteen, my friend. Later, you shall sing for your supper, no doubt.”
“The trick is trying to stop me, Master Cromwell,” Tom Wyatt says. “I say, is that you George, you old roisterer? Still giving it to poor old Suffolk’s mistress, whenever his back is ... Oh, hello there, Charles… I did not see you behind Norfolk. Do forgive my jest… I spoke out of turn.”
“As always,” Suffolk replies, with a charming smile. “I fear you bell poor Boleyn with your own crime. Is there a lady safe from your attentions in London?”
“Not in the world, Charles,” Wyatt says. He affects to be a little drunker than he is, as it acts as a useful cover for the times his tongue works before he has thought. “Why, Colonel Draper will regale you with tales of our adventures in Venice, and Rome. Whilst he stabbed the men, I afforded a similar service to their women.”
“I am pleased it was not the other way around, Tom,” Miriam says. “For he was away a long time.”
“Ah, Miriam… I did not … Perhaps I should look about the table, and see who else is here that I must avoid offending. Good God, sir, I did not know it was fancy dress!”
“Aldo Mercurius, sir,” the alchemist says, softly. “I wear the dress of my profession.”
“Juggler?”
“Alchemist.”
“Ah, you are the entertainment,” Wyatt says, and giggles foolishly. “Will the rabbit come on a dish tonight, or from up your sleeve, Master Mercurius?”
“Manners, Wyatt,” Cromwell mutters.
“Do not worry on my account, Master Cromwell,” Mercurius tells his host. “I am armed with the power of alchemy, and can perform feats beyond the normal knowledge of mere mortals.”
“Excellent,” Wyatt says, with a supercilious grin plastered to his face. “I divine that the first course is here. Is that Miriam’s famous peppered hare stew I smell?”
“Talented, as well as beautiful,” George Boleyn mutters to his father. “I wonder which is more tasty… she, or the soup?”
“That is a matter of taste,” Aldo Mercurius says, from the further end of the table. George, who has scarcely whispered, is shocked, and stares at the stranger in their midst. The alchemist smiles, and taps a finger to his forehead. “The power of thought, George Boleyn. From your mind, to mine. It is a curse.”
“It is horse shit,” Tom Wyatt whispers to Richard Cromwell, who cannot help but laugh.
“Ah you doubt my powers, little poet?” Aldo Mercurius leans over and says something into Cromwell’s ear. The Privy Councillor nods, and claps for his servant.
“James, bring ink, quill and paper for the Grand Master,” he says. “For he wishes to make a small demonstration. With My Lords’ permissions?”
“Ah, magic!” Norfolk says, through a mouthful of peppered hare stew. “Good show, Cromwell. You know how to entertain a fellow, and no mistake.” Despite everything, Norfolk likes his host, and does not look forward to the day when they must clash. He will take no pleasure in sending the man to his death, but politics can be a hard world to inhabit.
The assistant, Popo, takes three sheets of paper, and tears each of them carefully into four pieces. He lays a piece out before each guest, and takes up the ink and quill. His master closes his eyes, and appears to slip into a trance like state.
“I will pass amongst you,” Popo says. “Let each one here write their name, and a question they wish answered. Then fold your papers, and place them on this dish. The Grand Master will divine, by touch, and answer where he can.”
“Me first,” Tom Wyatt says, and snatches the quill. A few minutes later, and all have done as they have been told. Popo takes the platter of folded papers, and stands by the roaring fire. The alchemist stands, and with eyes still closed, crosses to his servant. The table falls silent as he hovers his hand over the plate.
“No touching, Master Magician,” George Boleyn calls, and they all laugh. The alchemist does as he is bidden, and keeps his eyes closed.
“Ah, a sensible question, sir!” Aldo Mercurius opens his eyes, and turns his gaze onto Thomas Cromwell, who stares back, stone faced.
“You look at me, sir, but you do not…”
“The price will hold,” Mercurius says. “Seventeen shillings a bushel. Is that what you wish to know?” He picks up the top paper, opens it, and nods. “Cromwell … what price will …”
“A bushel of corn be, this summer,” Cromwell finishes. He stares, open mouthed at his guests, and a murmur runs about the room. The alchemist tosses the opened note into the fire, and touches the second in the pile.
“Really, Master Wyatt!” the alchemist says. “Is the word ‘arse’ a question, or a description of your oafish manner?”
“Jesus!” Tom Wyatt blushes, for it is what he has written beneath his name. The second question goes into the flames, and the third is touched.
“Ah, a lady.” Mercurius smiles. “Good manners forbids me to reveal your question … but the answer is … yes, soon.” Miriam claps her hands in delight.
“That is my question,” she says. “Thank you, Grand Master.”
“Now, here is a man who likes to play with fire.” Aldo Mercurius picks up the next question. “I fear that this is bordering on treason, sir. Shall I name you, and answer?”
“Burn it!” Thomas Boleyn almost leaps from his seat. He has been foolish, and the paper can cost him his head.
“As you wish.” The paper goes onto the fire. “Next, we have another lady. Fear not, Mistress Barré, it will come to pass, perhaps even more often than you wish.” Ellen Barré blushes, and nods her thanks. “The next question is … ah, one for me, Ambassador Chapuys. As you use your official title, and write in Latin, I will answer in the same way, shall I?”
Eustace Chapuys claps his hands in delight, and shakes his head. His question is flippant, and not one that could be guessed at.
“English will do, sir,” he says, bowing in respect.
“Which ever language I choose, I fear I must disappoint you, lest you have a fast galley at your disposal. The feathers you admire are ostrich, and cannot be found in England. Popo discovered mine in far off Barbary.”
“No matter,” Chapuys, whose sartorial taste is questionable, replies. “Though they are such magnificent adornments.”
“Then you shall have my spares,” Aldo Mercurius says, and the little Savoyard almost feints with joy. The demonstration continues in a similar vein, until the last of the dozen questions is burnt to ashes. The room is stunned by such an amazing display of magic, and they look from one to another to see if any has an explanation.
“Can you see through paper?” Rafe asks. He is sure it is a trick, but cannot discern how it was done.
“Still you do not believe?” Mercurius shakes his head. “It is important that each person touches the paper. Their life force impregnates the sheet, and the image of that person comes into my mind. Once I know who has written the question, I cast out my thoughts, to mingle with theirs. Usually, the question is still in their mind, and I ‘see’ it, as clear as day.”
“And this always works?” Thomas Cromwell asks.
“I must be in a safe environment.” The alchemist returns to his meal. “Once, a lord in Hungary set me by an Infidel ambassador, so that I might perceive his secrets, but I failed. If I am hungry, frightened, or tired, it does not work. The same applies to personal readings. If the stars are not right, my powers are lessened.”
“Then you swear it is a real power?” Richard Cromwell demands.
“Think of a number between one and twelve, Master Ogre,” the alchemist says. “Do you have one?”
“Yes.”
“Say it out loud.”
“Seven.” The alchemist holds up his right palm, to show that it is empty. Then he clenches it into a fist, and makes several rapid passes through the air. He opens the hand, to show a crumpled piece of parchment, no bigger than a couple of inches square.
“For you, Master Richard.” The big bear of a man grunts, and snatches at the paper. He opens it, and gasps. The number seven is scrawled on it. “Whenever you stop believing, look upon this!”
“More!” Norfolk shouts, and slaps the table. “By God, Cromwell, but this fellow is a treat!”
“I came as Master Cromwell’s guest,” Mercurius snaps. “Not as some faker of magic tricks. I am a true alchemist, born under the most auspicious signs, my Lord Norfolk. I have spent twenty years learning the greatest secret of the age, and am almost there. I do not do after dinner ‘tricks’, sir!”
“Then tell my fortune, you knave!”
“That is a small thing,” Mercurius says, stiffly. “For a block head, shall finish on a block.”
“Eh, what is that supposed to mean?” Norfolk sinks down into his seat, and frowns at the riddle.
“What secret do you speak of, sir?” Cromwell asks.
“What else?” Aldo Mercurius straightens himself to his full height, and makes a sign in the air. “Transmutation.”
“You have the stone?” Thomas Cromwell almost bites the words back. “We must talk, later.”
“Not so fast, Master Cromwell,” Monsignor says. “What stone is this you speak of?”
“It is nothing, My Lord.” Cromwell waves for the servants to recharge their glasses.
“You speak of the philosopher’s stone, do you not?” the older Boleyn says. “Am I right?”
“It is just a dream,” Cromwell says.
“A dream?” Aldo Mercurius sneers. “I am the greatest alchemist of the age, Master Cromwell, and I assure you, it is no dream. I can turn base metal into gold!”
“Gold?” Suffolk and Norfolk say together.
“Then prove it,” Monsignor Boleyn demands.
“One moment, sir,” Miriam says. “There are another eight courses to come. I will not have such fine food wasted. If Grand Master Mercurius can make gold, then let him do it after we have eaten.”
“Well said,” Will Draper says, supportively. “The fellow works best on a full stomach, did he not just say?”