by Anne Stevens
“Oh, shit!” The man, normally a fetcher of wood, and setter of fires steps away, and mutters to the man beside him. As the pennant is waved, the rabble, forewarned of the danger, part on either side of Will and Gregory.
“Charge!” Will cries, and they rush forward, towards a phalanx of startled men in armour. “Visor down, and stand fast, boy!”
Almost at once, Crompton, an old friend of Henry’s approaches, as if to pass the time of day. Will does not slow down, but rushes inside the man’s lazy swing of the sword, and shoulder charges him, using his shield like a battering ram. The man grunts, and topples backwards under the onslaught. Will strides over him, and delivers two solid whacks with his blunted sword to Sir Roderick Travis’ shield. Henry’s newest Admiral of the Fleet staggers back a pace or two, and curses.
“By God, Will, but you mean business,” he curses, and tries a backhanded cut, which Will flicks aside, before delivering a crashing blow to the mans helmet. Travis staggers away, with his head ringing from the hit. He has the good sense to hold up his hand, as a sign that he begs for quarter. Will turns from the defeated man, and pushes on, with young Gregory shielding his left flank.
Then, suddenly, amidst the general mayhem, Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, and best jouster in Europe, stands before him. He is as tall, and broader than Will, and he has the better armour, and weaponry.
“What ho, Will!” he says, cheerfully. He sets his feet apart, ready to withstand any sudden rush. “You have done well… but now…” He lunges, and Will Draper takes the blow on his shield. And is forced to give ground, if only a step.
Gregory’s ill fitting visor almost makes him blind, and he contents himself with following Will, and lashing left and right at any who venture too close. Men are fighting all around, settling old scores, or creating new grudges. It seems that no one is interested in jousting with a mere boy.
Then, to one side, a voice rings out a challenge. Gregory turns, and is met by the most amazing sight. A knight, no taller than he, dressed in French armour, and bedecked with the most amazing feathers in his helmet, offers to fight. Gregory swings his blunted sword, and the little man dances away, and parries. Then he dances back and delivers a light blow to Gregory’s armoured shoulder.
The boy winces, and slashes back. His little opponent leaps back, and lures Gregory further away from the main mêlée, as if keeping him from Will’s side. Gregory rushes forward, with shield raised, and chops down at the man’s wrist. The fellow pulls back from the blow, but Gregory’s blade catches the man’s sword, and knocks it from his gauntleted hand.
“Quarter, good sir,” the man cries, and throws open his visor.
“Master Chapuys?” Gregory Cromwell is surprised, and a little confused.
“You have defeated me in your first joust, Gregory, and I salute you. Now, come from the field for your father’s sake!”
“Be damned if I shall,” Gregory cries, as he realises that his father has set up this duel. He turns to look for Will, whose flank he is sworn to guard.
Charles Brandon has no wish to humiliate Will Draper, and decides to disarm him quickly. He employs is favourite feint, crossing his sword back and forth, before delivering a blunted thrust, that would kill under normal battle conditions. In twenty years, it has never failed him.
His sword point meets empty air, and he has just enough time to realise that Draper has gone, before the flat of a sword blade clangs against his helmet. He curses, and tries to regain the upper hand, but Will is already inside his guard, battering him down with blow after blow. He has no choice but to raise his arm, and yield.
“By God, but I have a new champion!” Henry shouts, and roars with laughter. “Stay down, Charles, whilst I deal with Colonel Draper!”
The king comes on, and beats at Will’s upraised shield, only to receive a blow in return that dents his own. Henry grunts and pushes forward, knowing that his greater height, and extra weight, will overcome Will’s resistance. The King’s Examiner pushes back, and the two look eye to eye through their visors slits. It is a battle of wills, as well as strength.
Will senses that he has the edge over the king, and that he is younger and fitter. It will be an easy matter to turn his man, and deliver a sharp blow to the king’s back. He cannot resist, and knows he cannot fail. It is against his nature to let any man best him… even a king.
Gregory sees Brandon go down onto his knees, and Will holding off the king’s first mad lunge. He gives a great yell, raises his shield, and charges the king. Suffolk, having yielded, staggers to his feet, across Gregory’s path, and takes the full brunt of the charge. The impact sends him reeling, into the exposed back of Will Draper, who is thrust sideways.
Will falls to one knee, and the king is on him, pressing his blunt blade against his throat. For one , mad moment, Will considers drawing the knife from his belt, and feinting under Henry’s blade. It is a battlefield move, and he has killed many men with it.
“Yield, sir!” Henry demands. “For pity’s sake, yield with honour, for I know when I am well matched.”
Will nods his head, and the blade is removed. Henry holds out a gloved hand, and helps him to his feet. Brandon is recovered, and is pulling Gregory back into a standing position.
“By God, Harry, but these two fellows almost had us that time,” Suffolk says, adopting the voice he always uses to curry favour with his childhood friend. “I swear they had a plan, and plotted to bring us both down. Thank God, you held firm, for I was sitting on my arse.”
“Yes, you were, old friend. Leaving me to deal with these two rogues at once!” Henry is already beginning to believe his own fiction. “I swear you are a man after my own heart, Colonel Draper.”
“Your Majesty flatters me.”
“I never flatter,” Henry says. “There is no need, for I am the king. My compliment is well said, and well meant, sir. Now, who is your dwarf-like friend?”
“Master Gregory Cromwell, Your Highness,” Suffolk says, effecting a royal introduction. “The fruit does not fall far from the tree. The lad shows great promise … if only he stops falling over his betters.”
“Ha! Just so, Charles,” Henry is in an expansive mood. He sees that the household servants are getting their usual battering, and calls a halt to the mêlée. “Do we have any casualties? Go and see, Charles. Make sure the doctors are on hand, and give the servants a few extra coppers for their bruises.”
“At once, sire,” Suffolk says, and goes off on his errand.
“Well, I am for a glass of wine,” Henry says. “Draper, you and the boy, must join me in my pavilion, once you have taken off that awful armour. Did you see that bantam cock, with the huge feathers in his helmet?”
“Ambassador Chapuys, sire,” Gregory admits. “I fear I gave him a terrible whack, when I disarmed him.”
“An arm-bassador without arms, “Henry says, and goes off, laughing at his own jest.
“That was prettily done, Colonel Draper.” Will turns, to find Norfolk standing to one side. He is no man’s fool, and has dodged most of the fighting. No one would dare injure the Duke of Norfolk, and he has spent a few minutes, clouting a couple of servants, and kicking Crompton, whilst he was still down on the ground. “Would you really have used that knife?”
“Sir?” Will shows no emotion at being caught out.
“I saw it in your stance,” Norfolk continues. “Had it not been Henry, you would have gutted your man, would you not?”
“I did not learn to fight in a pretty way, My Lord Norfolk,” he says. “In Ireland, men will drop from trees, or leap out of bushes, and cut your throat, before you can cry for help. You learn to kill, in what ever way you can.”
“Once, when I was young, I strangled a fellow with my bare hands,” Norfolk says, as if discoursing in polite society. “The Scots had sneaked into our camp, and almost took us unawares. I was unarmed, and did as you have said. I killed, with what I had at my disposal. Lord, but how the bastard’s eyes bulged.”
&
nbsp; “It is not an easy death.” Will wonders why he is being told the story. “I take it that you drove the attack off?”
“We lost three men, but killed a dozen of them. I had their heads lopped off, and stuck on spikes.” Norfolk smiles benignly. “One day. Your old master and I will clash. You would do well to be on the right side by then.”
“Thank you for your concern, My Lord,” Will says, and sets off towards the tents.
“The old bastard,” Gregory says. “He would buy you, if he could, Will.”
“That he will never do. Mark his words well though, Gregory. One day, you may have to kill the man, to save your father. Is that something you could do?”
“Without a moment’s pause,” Gregory says. “And I will do that bastard George Boleyn too, for doing this to you.”
“What has George Boleyn got to do with it?” Will asks, then realises why he was insulted, and why he was set up to fight the king. “You know this?”
“Yes, the royal armourer was bribed to arrange matters,” Gregory explains. “Once he had been paid, he came to father, and told him what George had done. He is on our strength, you see.”
“Then George must pay.”
“He is on his way to get out of his armour,” Gregory observes. “If we cut across the field, we can head him off.”
Will steps up his pace, and comes on Boleyn just as he reaches the tent’s opening. The ground underfoot is churned into a muddied mess by a hundred armoured feet.
“George!” Boleyn turns, and almost gags in fear, as he sees Will Draper coming at him. He tries to run, but stumbles, and goes face down into the thick mud. Will places a heavy foot on the fallen man’s helmet, and pushes down. The younger Boleyn’s arms and legs begin to wave about, as the mud fills his visor, and clogs his mouth and nose.
“Hold, sir!” A page comes running over, and is soon joined by more of Boleyn’s men. Will removes his foot, and allows them to haul their master up onto his feet. He waits until they drag off his helmet, and allow him to gasp in some air, before, quite deliberately, smacking his face.
“At your service, My Lord, anytime you wish.” Will says. “I would settle our quarrel know, except the king demands my presence. He is much taken with Gregory and myself, it seems. Good day to you.”
“I wager he was scared,” Gregory says, excitedly, as the return to their own tents. “The fool must have really believed you would have killed him.”
“I would have, had not his men come,” Will Draper replies, grimly. “One day, the house of Cromwell, and the house of Boleyn must clash, and I will have to kill him anyway.”
“Then I will be by your side,” Gregory says.
“Rather that than under my feet,” Will replies, and they both laugh. For the moment, Henry likes them, and they must take full advantage of his friendship. The queen is close to giving birth, and such an event can only make the Boleyns’ stronger.
8 The King’s Magician
“Your Majesty honours my family,” Thomas Cromwell says, as the king is divested of his expensive armour. “Your acknowledgement of my son, Gregory was most gracious.”
“Bugger me, Thomas, the lad bettered that damned Imperial ambassador, Chapuys,” Henry tells his minister. “The little French bastard. What is he doing working for the Emperor Charles, anyway?”
“He is a Savoyard, sire, not a Frenchman.”
“He speaks French.”
“And Latin, German, Italian, Flemish, and English, sire,” Cromwell explains. “He has been most helpful in the matter of the divorce.”
“Has he?”
“Yes, sire. M’sieu Chapuys kept Clement in an obstinate mood, and helped us bring the Venetians out against any annulment. Because of that we were able to bring in our new laws, and force through a divorce.”
“I see. We should reward him then.”
“Your Highness has already signed the papers, awarding Chapuys a small pension. He will receive a hundred a year, once he has left the employ of the Holy roman Empire.”
“You are a clever fellow, Thomas,” Henry concludes. “Will you join us for dinner. Nothing as grand as your table, but a goodly spread, I wager.”
“I regret, sire, that state business keeps me from my dinner tonight,” Cromwell says, apologetically. “It seems that there are some irregularities with the royal treasury.”
“Irregularities?” Henry asks.
“Nothing to worry about, sire,” Cromwell explains. “Some careless clerk has placed a nought in the wrong column, and the figures do not match. It seems that there was no church revenue, these last three months.”
“But that cannot be,” the king says.
“No, it cannot. I will find the error, and give Your Majesty a full report, when next we meet.
“All will be well with you in charge, old friend,” the king tells Cromwell. “You are a magician with figures.”
“Then perhaps you might appoint me as the King’s Magician,” Cromwell jests.
“And have them burn you at the stake?” Henry replies, smiling. “I think not, Tom. I think not. Now, be off, and I will make do with lesser company.”
“Lady Jane Rochford, Your Highness,” Suffolk says, introducing George Boleyn’s misused wife to the king. He squints at her over his goblet, and smiles. At twenty seven, the woman is in her prime, and is prettier than most at court.
“Ah, yes. Georges wife. I seem to recall you about the court, my dear girl. Do you wait on the queen?”
“I do, sire.” Lady Jane has been warned by Suffolk that the king is in an amorous mood, and what she can expect. Once he has bedded a lady, Henry can be most generous. “Though we have never been formally introduced. My idiot of a husband has been most remiss. Perhaps he fears me meeting a real man.”
“Come and sit with me, child,” the king says, and pats the seat by his side. “Let a real man whisper in your ear.”
“Your Majesty,” Will Draper bows, and pushes Gregory into a vacant seat at the foot of the table.
“Will, come here, and sit beside me. Piss off Crompton, your pathetic jests weary me.” Crompton, a long standing friend, smiles, and bows himself away, and down the table, where he glowers at the usurper who takes his place.
“You almost had me today,” Henry says. “I must be getting too old.”
“Is the oak merely old, sire, or does it gain in strength as it ages?” Henry turns to see who has interrupted him so eloquently.
“Ah, Tom Wyatt, you cunning bastard. What hole have you crawled out of?”
“I have recently been out of town, sire,” Wyatt replies, sitting next, but one, down from Will, where Monsignor should be. “I have come into funds again, and so have returned. It is my good fortune that, whilst away, two of my creditors have died; one of the pox, and the other of old age. You were wonderful in the mêlée, sire.”
“I was, was I not?” Henry drinks off his goblet of wine, and grips Lady Jane’s plump little thigh with his free hand. “Eat up quickly, lads, for I am tired, and will soon need my bed.” He leers at George’s wife, and she simpers back at him.
“I am driven by my muse, Your Majesty, to compose an ode to honour the event. Might I employ your bravery within my poetic scrawling?”
“Scrawling? You are our finest poet, Wyatt, as well you know.” Henry gives praise, in order to receive more back.
“The finest, sire?” Wyatt shakes his head. “Then why, wherever I travel, they play another’s airs instead of mine? No, I confess I am brilliant, but you outshine me. Your words, when set to music have a certain … effect, that mine does not.”
“I confess that my music is admired,” Henry says, “but one never knows if it is flattery, because I am king.”
“Sire, in Norwich, and York, they dance to your tunes, without knowing if they be by a king, or a commoner. Only my dirtier poems are ever repeated.”
“ No wonder, for I have never met a randier fellow,” the king declares.
“Save only Your Majesty,” Will s
ays, and they all laugh.
“My chair, I do believe, sir.” Monsignor is affronted that someone is actually in his seat.
“My arse, I believe sir,” Tom Wyatt replies.
“Your Majesty, this is too much.” The older Boleyn turns to Henry for assistance. His lip is curled, most petulantly, and he is shaking with anger.
“Oh, let him sit down, Wyatt.” Henry does not want to upset his wife’s father, so close to the birth of his child, yet dislikes having to pander to his churlish ways, and perceived slights.
“With the greatest of pleasure, sire, for the chair does smell of … old farts!” The poet stands, and gestures for Boleyn to be seated. Henry is stifling a guffaw, for he has a weakness for childish humour, that Wyatt plays to, perfectly.
“Lady Jane, perhaps you might leave us to our manly talk. I will speak with you, anon.” He leans across, and whispers into her ear. “You know where my bedroom is, do you not?”
“I look forward to seeing your mighty oak, sire,” she mutters back, and he grins like a small schoolboy.
“Where is that boy of yours, Boleyn?” the king asks.
“He is unwell, sire, and begs your pardon.”
“Is it something he ate?” Will asks, and Monsignor sticks his nose in the air, and ignores the remark. Henry senses that there is something he has missed, and wonders at how the two men dislike one another so much. “I hope the king is not too insulted by poor George’s absence.”
“I see Cromwell is not here either,” Boleyn snaps back.
“My royal magician is working his spells on the royal treasury,” Henry says. He is slightly drunk, and does not see the look on Boleyn’s face.
“Master Cromwell is too fond of courting Your Majesty’s wealth.”
“Why not,” Will replies. “He has made most of it for the king. If not for Thomas Cromwell, and Cardinal Wolsey before him, the coffers would be empty.”
“Ah, dear old Wolsey,” Henry moans. “If only he had lived another day, for I was about to pardon him, and restore him to his former glory. Have I ever mentioned that to you fellows?”