The Alchemist Royal: A Courtier's Fall (Tudor Crimes Book 7)

by Anne Stevens

  “I have never heard such…”

  “Horse shit, Master Wyatt?” Popo says, sniggering at the poet’s discomfort. “Scoff all you wish, but I am here to tell you all, as God is my witness… I have seen it.”

  “Then we shall eat,” George says, “and discover the truth of this matter later. The stew was wonderful, Lady Miriam, and I look forward to the remainder of the feast.”

  “I am no Lady, sir,” Miriam says.

  “Then you are a mistress,” George says, and casts a sidelong look at Will Draper. His intention is to put a doubt in the fellow’s mind, and make him wonder if it is more than just Suffolk’s mistress he is swiving. He hopes to prick his foe into doubting his own wife.

  Will understands, and silently reserves the right to give the younger Boleyn a good thrashing, at the first opportunity. He is aware of his loutish behaviour at court, and still has his doubts over George’s sexuality. The man protests his innocence by sleeping with any woman who will have him, except his wife.

  “She is my mistress, Boleyn,” he retorts. “As Suffolk has his mistress … and your own good wife.”

  “What’s that?” George’s face glows red. He has been suspicious for a while, and finds his wife’s interest in Charles Brandon personally insulting.

  “Why, I say sir, that we all have our ladies,” Will says with a frown. “How is the health of your good lady?”

  “Do you bait me, Draper?” Boleyn leans forward, and touches a finger to his belt, where an ornate dagger hangs.

  “Do you call me out, sir?” Will Draper senses the table go quiet. Then the alchemist raises his hands, and speaks.

  “Have a care, my dear Lord Rochford,” he intones at George Boleyn, “for I foresee an empty place at table, and a beautiful widow who will not grieve.”

  The prediction makes George hold his tongue. He is a competent swordsman, but he knows that to call out Will Draper is to court certain death. He will keep silent, and deal with his enemy in a safer way. London is a dangerous city, and even the best of men have been struck down from some dark shadow.

  “Come, eat up,” Tom Howard, Duke of Norfolk bellows. “I will see this man do miracles this night. Gold, by God … Gold!”

  5 The Transmutation

  The final course, custard tarts, scented with rose petals, remains only half eaten. The consecutive platters of hare, broiled chicken in cream, roasted cuts of Spring lamb, beef, and pork, chestnut stuffed quails, turbot, roast swan, and eels, poached in milk, have taken their toll, and the company concludes the feast with goblets of the best Italian wine.

  “I am fit to burst my breeches,” Norfolk says, and belches loudly. “Your pardon, Miriam.”

  “A rare compliment to the food, Lord Norfolk,” Miriam says.

  “Come now, call me Tom, or Uncle Norfolk if you will, my sweet girl,” Norfolk replies. “If you ever leave that rascal Draper, come to me, and I will treat you like a real lady.”

  “My Lord, can even you manage three mistresses … and a wife too?”

  “Bugger my wife,” Norfolk curses. “I wish someone would, for the old mare makes my life a misery.”

  “What, even from her separate castle, sir?” Will Draper says. He knows the Lady Norfolk, and finds her to be a most attractive, though dangerous woman.

  “Ah, Colonel Draper, I was just trying to seduce your lovely wife away from you. You are a lucky man, old fellow.”

  “As are you, sir,” Will replies. “Miriam carries a castrating knife concealed in her dress, and has unmanned other men before you.”

  “Dear Christ!” Norfolk winces, and moves a hand to cover his codpiece. “You mean …?”

  “What do you think I put in the stew, sir?” Miriam says, and the duke bursts into laughter.

  “Let us be down to it,” Monsignor demands. “I will see gold tonight, or have this fellow’s back flayed!”

  “The Grand Master is my guest, Boleyn,” says Cromwell. “It is for me to say who shall go punished, or unpunished, under my roof. Just as it is for the master to kick the dog’s arse!”

  “You dare insult me?” the older Boleyn says. Since his elevation to becoming father-in-law of the king, he finds any kind of opposition to his will to be infuriating.

  “Insult you, Monsignor?” Cromwell spreads his hands, as if to indicate his complete surprise. “What have you to do with the kicking of dog’s … ah, I see. You hold an old grudge against me, for doing my sworn duty, sir?”

  “You enjoyed it!” Monsignor hisses.

  “I was Cardinal Wolsey’s man, sir,” Cromwell says, “and you offered him an insult. He had to serve you back in the same way. I was his instrument.”

  “But you enjoyed it!”

  “Of course. I always enjoyed serving the great Cardinal Wolsey, sir,” Thomas Cromwell replies, lightly. “Now, shall we get on?”

  “Yes, damn it,” George Boleyn says. “If this fellow speaks the truth, we are all made men. Imagine knowing how to work such magic!”

  “To what end, George?” Thomas Cromwell sneers. “Would you make enough gold to make you the richest man in the world?”

  “Why not?” George cannot see why he could not have rooms filled with gold. The idea makes him heady with power.

  “Because it would be worthless,” Rafe Sadler puts in.

  “There speaks a wise man,” Tom Wyatt says. “Imagine if each man in this room could make all the gold he could? Why it would be like a half penny loaf for a farthing.”

  “You are talking in riddles,” George Boleyn snaps.

  “Only to you, George … only to you.” Cromwell sighs, and explains, as a tutor to a child. “Imagine that there is a million pounds of gold in the world, and someone finds a million more, overnight. Then the first million is worth only half as much. Therefore, if there is one million, and we make another ten… our gold is worth that much less.”

  “Exactly,” Chapuys mutters, listening to the lively exchanges. He will have much to write to the emperor about, in his next official letter.

  “Then what do you propose?” Monsignor demands.

  “Propose?” Thomas Cromwell smiles. “Why, nothing sir, for there is no magic in the world that can turn turnips into carrots… as there is nothing that can turn base metal into gold!”

  “The Grand Master knows how,” Popo says, quietly from a corner of the room. George Boleyn is the only one to hear this, and sidle over to the magician’s assistant.

  “Tell me true,” he asks. “Can it be done?”

  “In a small way,” Popo replies, softly. “I think there are too many here for so fine a secret. Methinks Grand Master Mercurius will find it all too much for him.”

  “If not, I will have his secret.” George taps the heavy purse at his belt. “Perhaps we can come to an understanding?”

  “I would dearly love to accept your bribe, sir,” Popo says, but the secret is in my master’s head. It is he you must bring over to your way of thinking.”

  “Would he take a bribe?”

  “Of gold?” Popo smiles. “Why, when he can make his own gold. The machine is small, and makes only enough for our daily needs, but if there were a grander…”

  “Behold!” George spins around, to see that Aldo Mercurius has cleared one end of the table. He takes a green cloth from inside his gown, and spreads it across the oak surface. Next, he takes from his loose sleeve, a cedar wood box, and places it on the cloth. “Popo, bring the powder. Hurry man, the moon will not stay this bright all night!”

  Popo sighs, and produces a small velvet bag. He holds it up for all to see, before depositing it next to the box. Mercurius beckons for all those interested to draw nearer, and most of the men crowd in to watch.

  “My aparatus diaboli awaits.” He smiles at them, noting the greed stamped on several faces. “Yes, my devil’s machine, gentlemen. It holds the power of the cosmos within its workings, and can turn powdered lead into gold.”

  “Must it be lead?” George asks.

  “Lead
is the only element heavy enough,” Mercurius explains. “One can hardly make golden feathers. You see, that was where all the others went wrong. Each element has its place, and lead is next to gold in the cosmic list.”

  “How does it change into gold?” Cromwell asks. “I confess I am dubious, Grand Master.”

  “That is perfectly understandable,” Mercurius replies. “How many charlatans have pretended to knowledge they do not possess?”

  “Enough,” Rafe Sadler says. “The last one was hanged, I believe.”

  “Do you understand that everything is made of the same thing?” Mercurius asks his audience. There are several blank looks, so he explains. “When the Creator made the world in seven days, he used Himself, for there was nothing else. He took of Himself, and made the earth and the sky, and all the things upon the face of the waters.”

  “Then God is in everything?” Miriam asks.

  “Of course. Therefore, it follows that we are all made of the same matter. This matter, I call ‘flux’.” Mercurius intertwines his fingers. “Put the flux together so … and we have wood, so … and it is soil, manure, or water. One has only to know how to break down the flux, and put it back together in another way, and you can make anything.”

  “And the box?” Cromwell is becoming interested.

  “An intricate little device, containing a precise clockwork movement,” the alchemist tells the audience. “Small cogs fit within frames, and twist apart the lead, until it is primeval flux. This then passes through an internal compartment, that holds certain fluids, where the flux is purified, and allowed to settle back into another form.”

  “It turns into gold?” Monsignor asks.

  “Eventually,” Popo puts in, “but it is a damnably intricate process, and the Grand Master’s box can make but a few grains in a night. It has to be night, else the formulae do not work.”

  “A minor matter,” Mercurius says, casting a doleful look at his assistant. “My transmutator works, but on a small scale. If I could make the aparatus on a much larger scale, it would alter flux on a better ratio. This small engine cost me my fortune to build.”

  “But it works?” Thomas Cromwell looks around the table. He sees that Norfolk, Suffolk, and both Boleyns are calculating how they might benefit.

  “Of course it does.” The alchemist slides open a slot in the box, and tips in a thimble full of powdered lead. He closes the aperture, and produces a small key, which he inserts into a hole on the side of the box. He turns it, several times, and there is an audible clicking noise from within. “There, it is set. Now, we must wait for an hour or two. Might I trouble you for more wine, Master Cromwell, whilst we all wait?”

  The two women become bored quickly, and retire for the night. Norfolk tries to match Tom Wyatt drink for drink, and soon passes out in his chair. Suffolk stays awake, and keeps a wary eye on the magical box. The alchemist spends the time entertaining Thomas Cromwell, and the Boleyns, with vanishing coins, and clever card tricks. Rafe stokes the fire, and ponders all he has witnessed that evening.

  Will Draper escorts Miriam to a borrowed bedroom, and excuses himself for a while. She tries to entice him into the bed, but he insists on returning to the great hall.

  “I must see this out, my love,” he says. “There is something afoot, and I cannot rest, until I am at the root of it.”

  “We Jews are a race of mystics,” Miriam says. “It does not interest me. Grandfather used to read about such things, and always maintained that it was for God alone to know about these matters.”

  “Then you do not believe this alchemist?”

  “It matters not to me, husband,” she explains. “Our business has made us rich beyond measure. I have no need of gold made from turnips.”

  “Lead,” Will says. “He uses lead. It seems so … plausible. I watched his every move with the questions, and could see no hint of trickery.”

  “That is when you must be most wary,” Miriam says. “Now go, and see lead turn into gold. Promise me but one thing, dear husband.”

  “Yes?”

  “Do not buy this fabulous apparatus, without speaking to me first.” Miriam kisses him then, and he is tempted to stay.

  “What question did you ask of him?” Will asks.

  “Hurry back, and I will whisper it in your ear.”

  “It is time.” Grand Master Aldo Mercurius, Alchemist Royal to Prince Ygor of Lithuania, crosses to the table, and taps the cedar wood box with his knuckles. It whirs once, then remains silent. “A sheet of paper please, Master Cromwell.”

  The paper is laid beside the box. Mercurius picks the box up, and moves his fingers over one edge. There is a click, and a small panel slides open. The alchemist tips the box on its edge, and shakes. To the gasps of all, a trickle of golden dust cascades out onto the paper.

  “It is scarcely enough to make a lady’s ring,” George Boleyn moans.

  “True enough,” Tom Wyatt says, “but what if this wondrous box were a hundred times larger?”

  The Boleyns exchange a glance. Thomas Cromwell examines the gold powder, and nods his head. He confirms that it is real, and assesses its value.

  “With these amounts, the box might produce enough to keep a gentleman in small comfort.” He turns to Mercurius. “You have spent your fortune making a clever toy, Grand Master.”

  “Alas, yes,” the alchemist confesses. “I have spent over ten thousand Ducats on my transmutator, and had but a thousand back. It will take me twenty years to get back to where I started. Even Prince Ygor would not fund me any longer. That is why I now travel the known, and the unknown, world.”

  “How much would it take to build a box big enough to change sheets of lead at a time?” George Boleyn asks.

  “Oh that it were so easy,” Popo says. “It is a dream, gentlemen. Fifty thousand pounds would build the box, but before that, there would be other things.”

  “Enough, Popo,” the alchemist warns.

  “There are the special fluids, which must be brought from the far off Spice Islands, and then we would need a huge grinder, for the lead powder. It must be milled by moonlight … or did I not mention that earlier?”

  “Why?” Cromwell asks.

  “God knows,” Popo replies. The Grand Master will not tell me that part of the ritual.”

  “Then it is magical?” Monsignor asks.

  “Everything is magical, until you understand the science of it, sir,” Mercurius says. “The moon affects our moods, and makes the tides of the great ocean rise, and fall. It seems that this same moonlight helps the process.”

  “Then it can be done?” Old Boleyn is fascinated. Like Cromwell, he knows that too much gold will ruin a country, but regular extra amounts will not be noticed, and can make a man richer than the Roman emperors of ancient times.

  “For about seventy, or seventy five thousand pounds,” Aldo Mercurius, the alchemist admits. “But who, in all the world can find so much money? It would take the ten wealthiest men in England to gather such wealth at short notice.”

  “Perhaps we could discuss this further,” Cromwell replies. “I can raise a portion, and these gentlemen, together, might contribute. What say you, Boleyn, shall we form a company, and each take a part of the wealth?”

  “I think not, Master Cromwell,” Thomas Boleyn says.

  “But father…”

  “Enough, George. It is an idle dream. Seventy five thousand pounds is a ridiculous sum.”

  “I suppose you are right, Monsignor,” Thomas Cromwell admits. “Though, imagine the power. We could control the world’s economy with such an apparatus. Nations would bow down to us, and we would be richer than …”

  “The king?” Rafe Sadler says. There is an uncomfortable silence, as each man ponders the traitorous thought. “We will do well to forget this demonstration, Master Cromwell. It will come to no good.”

  “Henry would ruin us.” Suffolk shifts uneasily in his chair, and looks to Thomas Cromwell for guidance.

  “A fool’s drea
m,” Cromwell confirms. “Let us resolve never to speak of this again. Master Mercurius, we thank you for your entertaining demonstration, and wish you well with your … toy.”

  “Let lips be closed,

  our words to hold,

  lest we lose our heads,

  o’er devil’s gold.”

  Tom Wyatt’s couplet seems to have a sobering effect, and the party begins to break up. Cromwell calls for Norfolk’s palanquin to be brought into the courtyard, and asks Rafe Sadler to see Eustace Chapuys safely back to his house, next door.

  “Do you need men to see you home, Lord Suffolk?”

  “I have a mind to visit some lower house, sir,” Charles Brandon replies, patting his full purse. “For I find I am in funds again.”

  “May you never lack for silver, sir,” Cromwell says. “As long as you have friends, you will prosper. Good night to you.” He glances about, and sees that the Boleyns’ toughs have arrived, and will see their masters safely away. “Master Waller!”

  “At your service, sir,” Digby Waller says, stepping from the shadows. “Pray, escort the Grand Master back to his lodgings. Take Mush with you.”

  “The rogue is asleep under the kitchen table,” Waller says, with an affectionate smile. “Let him rest, and I will take these gentlemen off. They will be safe enough with me.”

  “Then God’s speed to you.” Cromwell pats the young man on his shoulder, and turns to retreat within. Those who are staying overnight are all abed, save Will Draper, who watches from a quiet corner of the hall. He recalls a time, not too distant, when Thomas Cromwell treated him with such open friendship, and it saddens him that they are no longer so close.

  He wonders when they shall ever be friends again, and wonders off to find his wife. Miriam is asleep, but awakens the moment he slips into bed.

  “Did it work?” she mumbles.

  “It did,” Will replies, cuddling into her. “Though God alone knows why!”

  The streets are quiet, save for the occasional night watchman about his duties, and Digby Waller has no trouble in getting the alchemist and his assistant safely back to the Elephant and Castle Inn. The inn keeper is still up, and ready to serve them a nightcap.