by Anne Stevens
“Will you stay a while, and have a hot, mulled wine, Master Waller?” Mercurius asks.
“Why not?”
“Excellent. Then you can discharge your duty, as instructed, and we can all go to our beds happy.”
“My duty, sir?”
“Come now,” the alchemist says, giving a knowing smile to Popo. “Must I touch your palm, and divine what is in your mind, young man?”
Digby Waller pulls his hands away, and places them behind his back, away from any magical touch. He tries to close his thoughts to the man, but decides it is futile. For how can you ever know what the man can truly divine?
“Then you know what is in my mind?”
“That which is put there by your master.”
“Then I do not need to speak.”
“No, you do not… save for the details,” Mercurius replies. “I do not ‘see’ the where, or the when. Your mind is chaotic, my boy.”
“I will bring you to my master tomorrow.”
“When he will make me such an offer, as cannot be refused?”
“That is not my business, sir,” Waller says. “I am instructed to tell you only this. The money can be found. How long will it take, and can it be done in secret?”
“Three months,” Mercurius tells him. “Though it cannot be done in secret in London. Every great lord has his spies, and the king has men to seek out such things.”
“Colonel Draper, you mean?”
“I do. There is a man who must be kept busy, else he will sniff us out, Master Waller.”
“He shall be taken care of.”
“I will have nothing to do with murder!” The alchemist is aghast at the thought of it.
“God, no!” Digby Waller throws his hands up in horror. “The king shall discover some task which the man must attend to. It might be in Ireland, or Scotland, but he will be kept away from court, until it is too late.”
“Then we must find a secret place, away from here.” Mercurius turns to Popo, who nods.
“Somewhere on the coast,” the assistant replies. “A quiet port, where the shipments of special oils, and spices can be brought in, without notice.”
“Secrecy is of the uttermost importance,” Digby says. His instructions are clear, and his master will brook no errors. “Put it about that you will tour the northern towns, and slip away. I will keep in touch with you, and I alone. If any other comes to you, they mean to play you false. Trust no-one, save me, and my master.”
“Very well. Now, my price.”
“Seventy five thousand pounds.”
“That is to make my apparatus work, sir.” Mercurius steeples his fingers, and smiles benignly. “I will have one fifth of all we produce.”
“The master said you would speak thus,” Digby Waller replies, “and he charges me to offer you a tenth part. If you wish to refuse this offer, then I must suggest that you read my mind.”
Aldo Mercurius nods his acceptance. There is no point in demanding that which will turn these people against him. For a tenth, they will settle, but for a fifth, they might consider cutting his throat instead, once the machine is built.
“Let us shake hands on it,” he says, and they clasp hands. The alchemist groans, and shakes his head, as if groggy from too much good wine. “Take care, Master Waller, for I see a terrible end awaiting you!”
“What?” Digby snatches his hand away. “Are you mad?”
“Forgive me, my dear young fellow,” Aldo Mercurius says, as he wipes at his eyes with one, voluminous sleeve. “It is the overuse of sulphur, and other such chemicals. It sometimes makes me utter the most ridiculous nonsense.”
6 Plots
The moors to the south of York are dotted with flocks of sheep, and tiny hamlets, where Catholicism still rules, and stubborn men refuse to forsake what is, to them, the true faith. They band together, in secret cabals, and attend a Mass, whenever it can be arranged.
Finding a priest to uphold the old ways is becoming increasingly harder, and those recalcitrants who still follow Rome lead a vagabond existence, wandering from village to village, where the misguided few hide them in secret places. It is to this bleak landscape that Will Draper is despatched, with orders to track down those miscreants, who will not swear loyalty to King Henry, and his new way of worship.
The commission has come directly from the king, and Will is mystified by it. Usually, his tasks are suggested by either Cromwell, or one of the others who are close to the king, but Henry has written his orders out with his own hand, and appended the royal seal.
So, Will has packed his belongings, saddled Moll, and set off north. He is to be away from the beginning of May, until the end of August, and does not look forward to life without his wife.
“Your business will take you far and wide,” Miriam says. “As will mine. I have a mind to visit the northern ports, where my cogs, and ships, often put in. Might we not agree to meet up on our various travels?”
“A good idea, my love,” Will replies. “I have business in York, Ripon, Whitby, and all down the east coast. Let us arrange matters, so that we see one another, every week or two.”
Looking back, Will sees that it was a fine idea, and the visits with Miriam has kept his spirits up these last months. With only visits to Skipton and Helmsley left, he has little to show for all his efforts. In three and a half months, he has found a handful of women and a couple of men, still following Rome.
Will is not an inquisitor, and his orders are to bring these people into line, not persecute them. It is an easy matter for him to meet with the poor misguided folk, and give them a lurid description of the fate that awaits transgressors. By the time he has explained the workings of the torturer in the Tower of London, and the agonies of the stake, or being hanged, drawn and quartered, they are only too willing to convert to the new church.
“Return to your old ways, and there will be no second chance,” Will tells them. “If the king comes, it will be with a sword in one hand, and a flaming torch in the other!”
Two more calls, to display Henry’s new Royal Examiner, and his power, and he can ride home, happy that his task is complete. It is after Helmsley, and on the road to Skipton, that things start to go awry.
He is a mile short of the town, and its huge, fortified castle, when two riders come galloping towards him. Will slows Moll to a gentle amble, and loosens the pistol hanging from his pommel in its holster. The two riders also slow, and the older man waves, to show he is unarmed. Will canters forward.
“Good day, good sirs,” he says, warily. The men look like father and son, and they are of the merchant class, from the cut of their clothes. “Might I name myself? I am Colonel Will Draper, the King’s Examiner, and I am on a tour for His Majesty.”
“God save the king,” the younger fellow replies. “I am John Beckshaw, and this is my father, Joshua. He is a member of the town council, and acts as a magistrate for the county.”
“Then we are well met, sir,” Will says, bowing in the saddle. “I require a bed for a few nights, and your assurances that Skipton is for the new English church.”
“That I cannot give, Colonel Draper,” Joshua Beckshaw replies, with tears in his eyes. “I have known of your coming this se’night, and have been living in fear. There are those on the council who mutter about allegiance to Rome. They speak of Pope Clement being God’s kinsman, and turn the common folk to the old religion at every opportunity.”
“This is shocking news, sir,” Will says. Indeed, it is, he thinks, for he is but one man, and town councillors often have men at arms to support them. It would be an easy matter to hang the King’s Examiner, and raise a rebellion. “How many are they?”
“Three, but they command the Town Watchmen, and employ a dozen or more roughs, ready to crack heads.” John Beckshaw explains. “We are merchants, sir, and know nothing of fighting.”
“Who holds the castle?”
“Henry, First Earl of Cumberland, sir,” Joshua explains. “He is the king’s man, to h
is very marrow, but is raiding along the Scottish borderlands this season. He and My Lord Percy, the Duke of Northumberland, are intent on knocking a few Scots heads together. The castle is garrisoned by a few very old soldiers, and some servants.”
“Will they fight?”
“Bless me, sir,” Joshua exclaims. “I doubt they will even open the gate to us!”
“Then I must meet these fellows, and frighten them into submission,” Will says with more courage than he feels.
“There is worse,” John Beckshaw adds. “Things were quiet until ten days ago. We were all for Henry, and ready to worship as the king demands of us, when the priest came.”
“What priest?” Will is suddenly alert. There have been rumours on his travels. “A tall man, built like a blacksmith, and breathing fire?”
“Yes, that is he. He claims to be a priest, but he carries a great axe in his belt, and curses us all with damnation, if we do not bow to Rome.” the younger man says. “I do not want to go back to those days, sir, and will ride with you.”
“Can you handle a pistol, or a sword, lad?”
“I can try.”
“Good fellow. Where are these scoundrels now, Master Joshua?”
“Marching up and down, outside the castle’s gate,” the merchant replies. “The priest is demanding entrance. Once inside, he will be able to dominate the whole of North Yorkshire, and every fool in Christendom who still loves Rome, will flock to him.”
“Will the garrison hold out?”
“There is a good well inside, and plenty of food,” John tells Will, “but if some are Catholic, they might betray their lord.”
“Then we must act, now.” Will passes one of his pistols to the son, and explains its use. “Draw this back, point, and pull this trigger. If you must fire, get as close as you can, and do not close your eyes!”
“Sir, do not get my son killed,” Joshua Beckshaw begs. “He is all I have in the world.”
“Fear not, Master Beckshaw,” Will replies, checking his second pistol. “I am the King’s Examiner, and no man will withstand me.”
“The priest is a giant,” John mutters. “He speaks in a strange tongue, which I believe is Irish.”
“Perhaps,” Will says. Ireland is slow to bow to the new church, and the country is overflowing with hellfire priests, ready to swarm across England, for their cause. “I have a way with Irish rebels, and that is all this fellow is. He preaches against the king, that is treason. Come, let us ride. Master Joshua, pray slip into the town by another road, and raise all you can against this Catholic devil. Have them take up any weapon they can, and come to the castle.”
“They are not fighters, sir!”
“They need do nothing, until the moment is right,” Will explains. “I shall order this priest’s followers to surrender. Have your friends shout for the king, and wave their scythes, and their axes in the air. Seeing that they are not for the pope, but against the king will unnerve the priest‘s followers. For none will wish to be called a traitor.”
“Open the gate, or I will call down the damnation of Christ on all within!” The priest, a huge Irishman from the bleak Cork countryside, is full of self righteous anger, and he is quite prepared to conjure up a host of demons if need be, to terrorise the castle’s sadly depleted garrison.
“Bugger off!” The retort comes from the battlements, and it is followed, closely, by a bucket full of stale urine, which splashes just short of the priest’s feet. “This is the Earl of Cumberland’s domain, not the bastard pope’s!”
“Then we will tear down your gates, and destroy you all,” the priest shouts back. He has a crowd of about fifty men with him, and less than half are armed with spears and axes. If he is to get into the fortress, he must rely on the power of God’s Will. He starts to curse in Latin, and urges his followers to storm the huge, barred gate.
At that moment, two men trot into the cobble stoned square, and rein in their horses. The older of the two dismounts, and strolls over to where the priest and his men stand. They do not know the man, but there is an angry murmur, as the younger fellow, John Beckshaw, is recognised.
“Traitor!” Someone shouts from the back of the crowd, and they move forward, menacingly. The young man raises the pistol, and points it at the mob.
“Who will be first to die?” he asks, keeping his voice as calm as he can. The crowd of men stop advancing, and look to each other. The first man to go for John Beckshaw will have to take a lead ball for his trouble, and none wish to be the first martyr in the great rebellion.
“You do well to listen to my young friend,” Will Draper shouts. “For my troop of King’s Horse is but a couple of miles behind. Before nightfall, your town will be in flames, and most of you will be hanging, next to this … Irish priest. Now, name yourself, scoundrel!”
“I am Father Dominic O’Hanlon,” the priest snarls. “I am the appointed representative of His Grace, Pope Clement.”
“And I am Colonel Will Draper, the King’s Examiner, come to scourge papists from his realm. You are under arrest, Master Priest.”
“Kill him!” The priest is mad with rage, and affronted that a mere soldier defies his master, in Rome. The crowd makes a forward move, and Father Dominic hefts, one handed, his huge, double edged axe.
John Beckshaw forgets his instructions, and closes both eyes as he fires. The pistol’s lead shot hit’s the nearest man in the foot, and he screams in pain. The priest raises his axe, and Will, with surprising speed, draws his German forged sword, and delivers a savage back handed blow. There is a gasp from the crowd, as Father Dominic’s severed head bounces on the cobbles. For a moment, the giant body stands, headless, then crumples to the ground.
“God save King Henry!” Joshua Beckshaw shouts, and a dozen men rush forward, waving makeshift weapons, and crying their support for the king. The stunned, once rebellious, crowd parts, leaving three of their number shaking with fear. It is over in minutes, and the great Skipton rebellion is nipped in the bud.
“Take them away,” Joshua Beckshaw orders, and the three men are bound, and dragged off. “I have never before seen such a thing, sir!”
“Had he posted guards, the town would have fallen to him,” Will says. “It was my good fortune that he was no soldier. Though he died bravely enough.”
“Skipton is for the king, Colonel Draper,” John Beckshaw says, handing back the borrowed pistol. “Now I must apologise to Master Brough, for I fear I have shot off his big toe. I shall explain that I was aiming at his heart!”
Will Draper has something to report to the king, at last. He will explain that Father Dominic was spreading sedition, but that he had no takers, save the three merchants, whom sought to profit from a rebellion, and whom he cannot save from justice. Joshua Beckshaw is the local magistrate, and will have them tried, sentenced, and hanged before the next dawn.
“Do not forget to put the heads up on the castle tower, sir,” he advises, as he remounts Moll. “It will prove Skipton’s loyalty to the king.”
“Then your task is complete?” John Beckshaw asks.
“It is.”
“I have a mind to visit London, Colonel Draper,” the young man says. “Might I ride with you?”
“What will your father say?”
“He will give me some advice, and a purse of silver. I will take the latter, and not the former. I seek adventure.”
“Very well. If your father agrees, you may come with me.” Will has a rush of blood to his head. “I might even offer you a place under me, as an assistant King’s Examiner. How does twenty four pounds a year sound?”
“Sir, I will do it for nothing, if you but ask,” John replies, happily. “Though an advance of pay might help me buy a decent sword and pistol.”
“They come with the position,” Will says, “as does the possibility of death at every turn.”
“I care not.”
“No? Then you must learn to fire a pistol, sir, for I cannot have you shooting off gentlemen’s toes in e
rror!”
“Did you hear?” The king is waving a report about, and striding up, and down, the throne room in a most agitated way.
“Hear what, sire?” Thomas Cromwell asks. George Boleyn and his father are present, as always, these days. They court the king, and seek to separate him from the rest of the world, at every turn.
“Rebels in Yorkshire,” Henry replies, handing over the report. Cromwell has already read it, of course, but the king does not know that. All important documents go through the Privy Councillor’s hands before reaching the king.
“Goodness,” he says, affecting horror. “I see that Colonel Draper has rooted them all out for you, sire.”
“By God, it was a happy day when I appointed that fellow to his post,” Henry says. “He has ridden the length, and the breadth of my northern lands, and destroyed my enemies. Why could not Harry Percy do that for me? The duke is a slack jawed coxcomb. Why, I have a mind to strip him of his titles.”
“Sire, Lord Percy is along the borders, with the Earl of Cumberland, and ten thousand troops,” Cromwell explains. “Now is not a good time to punish him. Let us wait until he has thrashed the Scots for you, then consider how to proceed.”
“Well said, Thomas,” Henry says, calming down. “How do I reward the good colonel?”
“He is rewarded enough, sire,” George Boleyn says. “The man is of Irish birth, I hear, and that is as low as can be. Do not honour him above his station in life any further, sire.”
“Just so,” the father puts in. “Nor does he need a money reward. It is rumoured that he is richer than any man in your realm.”
“What is this?” Henry admires self made men, but he does not like them to be too good at what they do.
“The fellow earns a hundred a year, sire,” Thomas Cromwell puts in, hurriedly. “His wife, Mistress Miriam, has a successful mercantile business, and pays her taxes in full, and on time. Unlike some I could name.”
“Do you look at me, sir?” Monsignor demands.
“I simply look,” Cromwell says. “There are those who think the treasury fills itself. If you wish to reward so loyal a man, sire, then give him a pay rise. With two hundred a year, he can train others in his methods, who will serve you just as well. Your Majesty will be the only royalty in the whole world with his own private Examiner’s Office. The emperor will be livid, and poor, gibbering François will fall off his throne in envy.”