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

by Anne Stevens

  “Your Majesty is, as ever, too kind,” Wyatt mutters.

  “What’s this, started without old Uncle Norfolk?” The duke comes in, and looks about for an empty place, not too far from the king. Will Draper stands, and offers his own chair to the duke, who waves him back down. “I will sit here, amongst theses lower class rogues. The jesting is usually cruder, and much funnier. Is that you Tom Wyatt?”

  “Is that you, father?” Tom Wyatt replies. “Ah, no it is not. For I am one of the few men from Norfolk not sired by you, sir.”

  “You lying scoundrel,” Norfolk scolds, but in a genial sort of way. He thinks back to recall if he ever had swived Wyatt’s mother, but his memory is not what it once was, and his lovers run into the hundreds. “Give us a ballad, you young bugger!”

  Wyatt thinks for a moment, then begins a soft, lilting air. The room falls silent, at the sound of his soft baritone voice.

  ‘I shall sing a song of our Good King Harry,

  whose strong right arm brought Will Draper low,

  and turning aside his cleverest parry,

  The king did deal him such a mortal blow,

  Now our Hal wishes not to tarry,

  For his Lady Jane lies a bed,

  and her keep, our Hal must carry,

  To let his stallion have its head.’

  The room becomes tense with expectation. All heads turn to watch Monsignor’s reaction to Tom Wyatt’s song, but he acts as if he has not heard a word. The silence is broken by Henry’s cackling laughter. He lurches up, and raises his goblet into the air.

  “Uncle Norfolk, gentlemen, I must let my stallion roam where ever it might. Good night to you all!” He lurches from the hall, accompanied by Crompton, and several more hangers on. They will undress him, and ease him into bed beside Lady Jane, without noticing her presence. Nor will they ‘see’ her flitting back to her own chambers, come the morning.

  “In the morning, your daughter-in-law will be a richer woman, Monsignor,” Tom Wyatt says, grinning at Boleyn. “I wager Henry is her first real man.”

  “I will take that wager,” Suffolk calls, and the room erupts into boisterous laughter. Thomas Boleyn stands, and waits for the noise to abate.

  “In a few days, the king will have a new heir, and I will have my revenge on every man who now laughs at my family. I will see you kicked from your post, Draper, and have your old master dragged out of Austin Friars, and hanged like a common criminal.”

  “Is it something we have said, My Lord?” Norfolk growls, and the room bursts into fresh gales of laughter. Boleyn raises his nose in to the air, in what he thinks is a dignified manner, and leaves the hall. Behind him, someone makes a rude noise with their lips.

  “Then Henry is tupping George’s wife?” Norfolk asks. “About time. The girl must be desperate for a swive. Little George hardly seems up to the task.”

  “It seems to have been a bad day for the Boleyns,” Suffolk says. “Let us hope that all goes well with the queen.”

  “Careful, Charles,” Norfolk warns. “You can skin Boleyn, and his bastard son, for all I care, but do not speak ill off Anne. My niece is a bitch of the first order, but she carries the future of England in her belly.”

  “One can only hope,” Suffolk replies. There is a commotion, and the doors to the great hall are thrown open. Mush and Richard come in, and make straight for Will. He stands to meet them, fearing that something has gone awry.

  “Master Cromwell begs your presence at once, Colonel Draper,” Richard says.

  “Of course,” Will replies. The diners watch as he and Gregory are marched from the room. Once outside, Will turns to Mush. “Well, what is it?”

  “Cromwell is in trouble,” Mush says.

  “Is it bad?” Gregory asks.

  “I think so,” Mush tells them. “He seemed very happy when he came from here, earlier on, as if one of his schemes was about to bear fruit. Then a messenger came, from Folkestone, and the master locked himself away in his study. Next thing we know, he is demanding to see you, and he is in a terrible state.”

  “I am the king’s man now,” Will says. “Whatever it is, must not be against His Majesty.”

  “Is this the king you were going to slaughter at the tourney?” Richard says. “It is the talk of the court, how you could have killed him, but forbore.”

  “A stupid tale, spread by a stupid man,” Will says.

  “Cromwell needs you.”

  “What about Master Waller?” Will says, sharply. “Can he not do what must be done?”

  “Digby Waller?” Mush frowns at this. “He is not yet one of us, Will. It has always been we select few who Cromwell turns to, when there is trouble. Will you let him down now?”

  “Of course not,” Will says. “Though he has played me false again.”

  “How so?”

  “The alchemist.”

  “Ah, you know something then?” Richard says.

  “I do now,” Will tells him. “I just do not understand why Cromwell kept me at a distance.”

  “To keep you uncompromised,” Mush says. “He did not want Henry to think you were still Cromwell’s man. Then, when the time comes, the king will trust your word.”

  “I see,” Will says, but he does not. Thomas Cromwell is mixed up in something again, and needs his help. That seems to be enough reason for his old master to demand his attendance.

  They hurry through the deserted streets, and come to an Austin Friars ablaze with light. Every room is bedecked with candles, and torches burn about the courtyard, as if to ward off some evil thing. Will strides into the entrance hall, and stares. On the long bench outside Cromwell’s study, Barnaby Fowler sits, and beside him are the alchemist, and his confederate, Popo.

  “God’s teeth!” Will throws off his cloak, and raps on the master’s closed door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Will, sir.” The door flies open, and he is urged to step inside by a grey faced Cromwell. “What is it?”

  “Disaster,” Thomas Cromwell says, slamming the door on the rest. “I have been a fool, and risked too much. Now I must pay the price.”

  “Because of this nonsense with your alchemist?” Will asks.

  “Ah, you know then?” Cromwell looks sheepish, and pours out two glasses of red wine.

  “Not at first,” Will confesses. “You played it very well, and I fell for the great lie, because the small lie was so convincing. Like the rest around the table that night, I saw Mercurius actually read minds. There was no doubt about it. So, when he mentioned being able to make gold, I was ready to believe his ridiculous claim.”

  “You saw the apparatus diaboli work, did you not?”

  “We all did,” Will says. “As I said. The small lie led us to fall for the grand one. I actually believed the man could divine thoughts, until I realised that he had an accomplice, other than his fat friend. When the questions were written down and placed on the platter, all you had to do was make sure yours was at the bottom of the pile.”

  “Yes, so simple, was it not?” Cromwell asks.

  “Very clever. Mercurius pretends the top question is yours, and gives a prearranged answer. You are amazed, and he opens the paper. Once he has read what is really written, he burns it, and uses the information to surprise one of us. The process goes on, until all have been answered, and the last paper he burns is your own.”

  “You should have seen your faces.”

  “Oh, yes, we fell for it.” Will shakes his head in disgust. “Then the best trick of the night. Demonstrate the gold making box, and insist that we never talk of it again. Every man must have thought how to get a full sized one. Is that what you intended?”

  “Yes. I wanted Thomas Boleyn to fall into the well laid trap,” Cromwell says. “I used Digby Waller to help me. When Digby came to me, I resolved to bring Boleyn down, so had the boy call on George Boleyn, and offer to spy for him. George jumped at the chance, and we fed him a few pieces of information to make it look genuine. Then, I arranged for
Digby to escort Mercurius back to his inn. Boleyn saw his chance, and had him arrange a meeting between Mercurius, and himself the next day.”

  “Clever.”

  “Digby reported back, and the meeting was set,” Cromwell explains. “Aldo Mercurius, as you guessed, was already working for me. He and Popo tour the continent, putting on magic shows. I sent for them, and invented the famous alchemist, and his assistant. Boleyn demanded that Mercurius build him a full sized gold making box, and he agreed. He told Boleyn that it would cost seventy thousand, and that he wanted a share of the gold too.”

  “Monsignor is not so foolish as to hand over so much,” Will says.

  “That is true. He sought to be very clever, and told Mercurius to build his box, using a line of credit, guaranteed by the Boleyns. My alchemist was well prepared, and agreed the deal. He told Thomas Boleyn that the box would be built, but that it must be guaranteed in writing. The various craftsmen would extend credit, he explained, if they knew Monsignor, father-in-law of King Henry, guaranteed payment. Boleyn was flattered, and gave him a signed paper, made legal by the family seal.”

  “Then Mercurius drops from sight, and pretends he is working on his invention?” Will guesses.

  “Yes, for these three months past. Boleyn kept everything secret, and saw that you were kept out of London. It seems he fears your investigative powers greatly.” Cromwell sighs. “He was told the box was ready, and that it would be in Folkestone, today. All that was needed, was the seventy thousand pounds, to cover the costs of making.”

  “I wager he and George were dancing a jig,” Will says, wryly.

  “Of course. Boleyn had already embezzled the money from the vast church revenues, as it arrived. He meant to use it to pay for the machine, and intended replacing the stolen amount, after the box was working.”

  “The fool.”

  “He fell for the big lie,” Thomas Cromwell says. “Such men usually do. He detailed Digby, and a half dozen thugs, to deliver the money, and return with the wonderful apparatus. On the way there, twenty armed men - not mine - ambushed Boleyn’s force, and stole the money.”

  “Then Boleyn is finished.”

  “As am I,” Cromwell says. “The king will not believe my innocence in the matter. We will both be punished. I sought to show Boleyn up as a thief, and have destroyed myself in the process.”

  “Can you not simply replace the money from your own funds?” Will asks. Cromwell’s wealth is fabled amongst those who know him.

  “All my assets are in land and wool. I can raise about eight thousand, at short notice.”

  “Miriam and I will help.”

  “Your fortune is also invested,” Cromwell replies. “I advised Miriam to keep her money locked in cargoes and a fleet of cogs. She also owns half of the building land along the Thames.”

  “Summon old Boleyn to see you tomorrow.”

  “What for?”

  “I think I have a fair idea how we can clean up this mess,” Will says, “but you must do several things to aid me. First, Mercurius and his friend must vanish, forever.”

  “I cannot have them killed,” Cromwell says.

  “I know that,” Will replies. “Have them put on a ship for France, and give them enough to keep them out of England. Tell them that if they return, I will cut their throats. That usually works. Then you must have Boleyn come here tomorrow morning, and arrange a small dinner for tomorrow night. I will give you the list of guests, so that the evening might prove profitable.”

  “What is it, Will?” Cromwell asks. “What do you know that I do not?”

  “Why, sir, I know how not to be a fool!”

  “Can you see a way out?”

  “A narrow passage, Master Cromwell, but one that we might navigate safely.”

  “What is your aim?”

  “Why, to put Boleyn in your power, and restore the treasury’s lost thousands, of course.”

  “But how?” Cromwell demands to know.

  “With magic, sir,” Will says, and smiles at Cromwell’s mystified look. “Is that not what all of this has been about?”

  9 A Friendly Word

  Thomas Boleyn is horror struck when news comes of the loss of his money. He realises that the seventy thousand is gone, and is at his wits end, when George reports that the gold making box is nothing but a fraud, and so compounds the tragedy.

  “Dear Christ Alive, George, we are as good as ruined,” he moans to his son. “If Cromwell finds out about our little loan, he will run to Henry, and denounce us.”

  “Perhaps he will not find out, father.” George is an idiot when it comes to finance, and he thinks talking about money is common. “The man is a rogue.”

  “A clever one. He deals with the great bankers of Europe, and knows how to account for every penny in the treasury.” The elder Boleyn wrings his hands in anguish. “The king says he is already searching the accounts. It is only a matter of time.”

  A servant enters, bows, and hands over a folded note. Boleyn curses, and opens it, thinking it to be some supplicants application. He reads, and almost chokes.

  “It from Cromwell. He wishes to see me, at once.”

  “Tell him to call on you,” George snaps. “The fellow does not know his place!”

  “George, just for once, stop being such a complete idiot. He knows, damn it. The fellow knows!”

  “Shall I come with you?”

  “No, stay here. I do not wish to antagonize the man any further than necessary,” Boleyn replies. “If I am arrested, go to Anne, and plead my case.”

  “Perhaps she has seventy thousand?” George says.

  “That she can lay hands on within the next hour?” Boleyn sneers. “No wonder half the court make fun of you, and the rest bed your wife!”

  “What?” George is taken aback. He knows about Suffolk, but that is a quid pro quo situation, as he is swiving his mistress in return. “Name the fellow, and I will call him out!”

  “The king, you dolt,” Old Boleyn snaps. “Now, let me be on my way. Perhaps there is some hope, for he has not send soldiers to arrest me yet!”

  “Shall I leave you?” Will asks. He is in Cromwell’s study, and expects Thomas Boleyn, the 1st Earl of Wiltshire, to come calling at any moment.

  “No, we will meet him in the great hall,” Thomas Cromwell decides. He has regained his composure, and is looking forward to the day ahead. Thanks to Will Draper, there is a chance he might yet prevail. “When this is over, I promise you that I…”

  “No!” Will holds up a hand to silence him. “Do not promise that you will always play me true in future, sir. For it is not in your nature, and I would not have you restricted by honesty.”

  “Cruelly said, but true enough,” Cromwell replies. “Let us move across to the great hall.” They are no sooner in place than Richard announces that Monsignor Thomas Boleyn, First Earl of Wiltshire has come calling. “Show him in, nephew, and guard outside the door. Let no one in.”

  Boleyn slides into the great hall, and covers the twenty paces to where Cromwell stands, with trepidation. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Will Draper standing by the window. He bows to Cromwell, for the first time ever.

  “Master Cromwell, you wish to speak with me?”

  “Ah, yes, a friendly word, sir,” Cromwell says. “I have been going over the royal treasury accounts.”

  “I can explain.”

  “As can I,” Cromwell tells him, coldly. “Every week, for the last three months, revenue from the closing down of Roman Catholic churches, and abbeys, has been diverted into your pocket. I assume that the king has authorised the loan?”

  “I might have mentioned it to him … in passing.” Boleyn is trapped, and finds himself unable to formulate a sensible answer.

  “In passing, sir?” Thomas Cromwell shakes his head. “This will not do. Where is the paperwork for such a loan? Have you the king’s seal on the arrangement?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Not at all.” Cromwell corr
ects the dithering earl.

  “Yes, not at all,” Boleyn confesses, and his eyes fill with tears. “It was meant only as a short term loan, and I did not wish to bother Henry at this time. Then something went wrong.”

  “Never mind, sir. You are the king’s father-in-law, and the odd loan is not a problem, providing it is repaid, on demand. I fear that the king will want his money back, at once.”

  “I do not have it.”

  “Seventy two thousand pounds, and you do not have it?”

  “Seventy, Master Cromwell!”

  “You forget the interest, Monsignor.”

  “I see you are enjoying this, sir,” Boleyn says, raising his voice. All he has left in his armoury now is bluster, and threats. “Do not meddle in Boleyn affairs.”

  “Of course not, My Lord,” Cromwell replies. “Though strictly speaking, this is the king’s affair, is it not?” Boleyn casts his eyes down, like a small lad, caught scrumping apples. “Where is the money, sir?”

  “Stolen.”

  “By whom?”

  “I know not, Cromwell. A gang of armed men waylaid the wagon, and robbed it,” Thomas Boleyn confesses. “I have neither the money, nor the …”

  “Nor the what?”

  “Nor the gold making box.”

  “Ah, I see. Did I not warn everyone that we must forget the alchemist’s magic box?”

  “You did, of course, but …er … George convinced me that we could get it … for the king. We could have made seventy thousand back overnight.”

  “Had it worked.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which it does not?”

  “No. It was a fraud. The alchemist duped us.”

  “Duped you, sir… not I. I knew he was a trickster, right from the start,” Cromwell boasts.

  “Then I wish you had told me!” Boleyn wishes to blame anyone, but himself.

  “I did not think you were about to steal seventy three thousand pounds from King Henry, sir!” Boleyn notes that he has been charged another thousand interest, since the ‘friendly word’ has begun. “I thought we would all laugh, and go home. Now, what to do with you, My Lord.”