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

by Anne Stevens

  “That is for Henry to decide.”

  “Are you completely mad?” Thomas Cromwell calls across to Will Draper. “Colonel, what will the king do, if you report this to him?”

  “Strip Monsignor, and his brat, of all their titles, and banish them to Ireland… if he is in a good mood. Else he will have them tried for treason, and beheaded.”

  “Dear God, have mercy, sir!” The elder Boleyn is now in tears. “George misled me sir. He is a stupid boy, but we do not deserve the block.”

  “Do you have your Boleyn seal with you, sir?” Thomas Cromwell asks, and Monsignor takes it from the pouch hanging from his belt. “Excellent. You will draw up a paper, pledging seventy four thousand pounds to me, in respect of a personal loan to you. Your lands, and all your possessions will be put down as collateral. Repayment will be due in two years time, and I will charge you at five percent a year.”

  “I do not understand.” Boleyn cannot see the merit of such a deal for Cromwell, other than the extortionate interest rate demanded.

  “It is simple. You owe Henry seventy thousand pounds. I will pay that amount back into the treasury tomorrow, and your life is saved. In return, you will owe me the debt. I shall expect monthly repayments, and that you keep a civil tongue in your head when we are in Henry’s company.”

  “Is that all?” Boleyn is shaking with relief. Then a thought comes to him. “You have that much money at your disposal?”

  “It has been a good year for wool,” Cromwell lies. “It will almost clean me out of ready cash, but I have enough to save your fleece, Boleyn.”

  “I expect you want my thanks.”

  “No, just my money back, with interest,” Cromwell says. It is an impossibility, he knows, for Boleyn’s estates do not produce enough to cover the monthly payments of over three thousand.

  “You will get your money, Cromwell,” Boleyn snaps. “Once my grandson is heir to the throne, my revenues will rise, ten fold.”

  “Oh, and one more thing.” Cromwell says this to the man, as he fumbles for his seal. “I am grown weary of that silly title you affect, and will call you ‘Boleyn’ from hence forth. You may continue to refer to me as ‘Cromwell’. Now, shall we get something down in writing?”

  One hour later, the loan agreement is set down in unbreakable legal language. The lawyer in Cromwell has seen that every loophole is sealed, and that any default will benefit him in land and property, to the tune of, at least, seventy four thousand pounds. Boleyn melts some wax, and presses his seal onto the document.

  “A job well done,” Cromwell mutters. “Now, sir, can I offer you some refreshment?”

  “Will it be poisoned?”

  “One never knows in Austin Friars,” Cromwell replies, smiling. “Let us drink from the same flagon, if you so wish. Will, come and sup with us.”

  “Not I, sir,” Will Draper replies. “I am sworn to revenge myself on George, and do not think it proper to drink with the father of a man I must kill one day.”

  “He means no real harm, Colonel Draper,” Thomas Boleyn says. “He is my only son, and dear to me, despite his stupidity. If I swear to keep him away from you, will you not call him out?”

  “I will try,” Will says, testily. He has no intention of trailing the younger Boleyn, just to force him into a duel, but keeping the man in fear will curb his grosser offences. “Warn him that I have a fierce temper, and cannot always stay my hand. Remind him of how I slew the Irish priest, and explain that I can kill without flinching.”

  “I will do so, sir,” Boleyn says. “Might I ask what you will tell the king about this ‘friendly word’?”

  “Nothing, unless he asks. Then I will say I witnessed a loan being closed. If he asks after his treasury, I shall refer him to his Privy Councillor, Master Cromwell, who will say, truthfully, that all is well … to the last penny.”

  “A wise young man,” Boleyn says, turning to Cromwell. “I often think that were he to have been my man, things would have ended differently. You know, I suppose, that Waller is my man?”

  “I know that I sent him to you,” Cromwell says.

  “Ah, then I have been well and truly tricked.” Boleyn makes a note to have Waller killed, at the first opportunity. Later, when things have settled back down, he will do the same to Cromwell and his followers. It is no use trying to outthink the blacksmith’s son, he realises. The answer is to resort to brute force. A sudden accident at Austin Friars, or a swift knife thrust in the night, will suffice. One way or another, he will not repay one penny of Cromwell’s loan.

  “Come, Boleyn, no hard feelings,” Cromwell says. “I forgave you for bruising my toe, the time Cardinal Wolsey had me kick your arse out of Lambeth Palace.”

  “You still bait me with that, sir?”

  “Only to warn you. The toe has healed, and I can kick your arse again, whenever necessary!”

  Will Draper watches Boleyn walk out of the courtyard, and smiles at the morning’s events. He turns back to face Cromwell, and sees that he is not happy.

  “Why the long face, Master Tom?” he asks.

  “Was I too hard on him?”

  “On Boleyn?” Will shakes his head. “The fellow will try and duck out of paying you back, and he will still whisper in Henry’s ear, dripping his poison like a snake.”

  “You are right, of course. I was foolish to think I could destroy the man so easily. Though the repaying of this loan will keep him in check, for a while. Now, I have but one more problem to solve.” He shivers, and holds his hands to the fire, despite it being nothing more than a few glowing embers. “The treasury is light by seventy thousand pounds, and I have assumed responsibility for the shortfall. When next in court, the king shall ask after the treasury, and I must answer him, truthfully.”

  “I understand,” Will says. There is still more to accomplish, he thinks, and the race has not yet run its full course.

  “Do you, Will. I must find seventy thousand at once, and cannot raise a tenth of that amount.”

  “Cheer up, sir,” Will says. “Tonight we dine with a select group of friends, and I am sure we will be able to arrange matters to your satisfaction.”

  Cromwell thinks of who he has invited, and assesses there liquid assets. Amongst them all, they might raise fifteen thousand, which is of little use. Whatever Will has in mind, it must be done quickly, and effectively. The idea of being taken by Henry’s men does not worry him, but he fears for all those whom he has succoured over the years, and who will fall with him.

  “May God support your endeavour, my boy,” Thomas Cromwell says. “Or all is lost.”

  “Another dinner?” Chapuys says, as he reads the invitation from Austin Friars. “Since the affair of the alchemist, Cromwell has had him to eat at least once a week, and their friendship is thriving again. “I will wear my ostrich feathers. Take them from my helmet, and arrange them on my blue cap.”

  The ambassador’s armour lies, scattered about his dressing room, and bears silent testimony to his friendship with the Privy Councillor. It is years since he last wore it, and it is only out of storage now because he has done his friend a favour. Young Gregory needed a victory at the tourney, and Eustace Chapuys has provided it, at minimum cost. Neither were hurt, and the boy has been advanced in the king’s eyes.

  “I do hope it is the sucking pig again!”

  “Dinner at Cromwell’s place again,” Charles Brandon says to his mistress. Mary, his wife, and the king’s sister, has been dead for ten weeks, and he feels it is time to move on. “Boys only, I fear, my love.”

  “Is George Boleyn going?”

  “I doubt it,” Suffolk replies, testily. He still smarts from finding out that she has slept with George several times previously, but cannot complain, as he has been swiving the fellow’s wife for months, and has even passed her on to the king, who finds her to be great fun. “It is for men, not catamites.”

  “Oh, I thought he was a sodomite,” the girl sniggers. “Pray, sir, what is the difference?”
<
br />   “Lay back, my dear, and I shall show you!”

  “Here, my friend,” Mush says, handing an invitation to Digby Weller. “Cromwell favours you. Even I do not always receive a free dinner.”

  “I hardly know how to behave like a gentleman,” Weller admits. “These new fork devices confound me.”

  “Sit by me, and watch which I pick up first,” Mush advises his new friend. “Though many gentlemen still prefer to take their own knives for the meat courses, and use their fingers. Always act as though you do not much care, but answer the master promptly, and honestly. Cromwell has it in mind to bring you on, Digby, and that will make your fortune.”

  “Then I should bring something.”

  “We will fetch some of Miriam’s custard tarts,” mush tells him. “They always go down well.”

  “Mistress Miriam is a wonder,” Digby says, wistfully. “One day, I will have a fine house to live in, and a woman like her.”

  “I doubt another exists,” Mush says, “At least, not this side of the world!”

  “I have told the cook to do sucking pig again,” Richard confides to Rafe Sadler. “None of that fancy stuff that the ladies love so much. A good soup, roast pig, and some sweet cake, cheese and wine will suffice, provided there is enough to feed eight.”

  “Nine,” Rafe says. “The master has asked Digby.”

  “That boy is a marvel,” says Richard. “He is younger than Mush, and twice as clever … though that does not say much!”

  “He is a good lad,” Rafe concedes. Too many good lads are coming through for his liking, and he feels that his place beside Cromwell is in some jeopardy. “Though lacking experience.”

  “Jealous, Rafe?”

  “A little. I would like to be twenty again, and fancy free.”

  “Do not tell that to Mistress Ellen,” Richard replies, grinning, “else she has your manhood off, with her sharp dress making shears!”

  “Why was I not invited?” Miriam is in a mood, because Cromwell has only asked her husband to dinner. She moves in a man’s world, and considers herself their equal. It is upsetting that the very man who has supported her, like a father, now sees fit to exclude her.

  “It is a man’s night, my dear,” Will says.

  “Is it now?” she snaps. “How many whores will Master Tom have in?”

  “None!” Will is shocked. “You choose to misunderstand me, my love. When have I ever given you cause to doubt my complete devotion to you?”

  “Never.”

  “Even when I was in Italy, fighting the condottiero, and his army, I did not so much as wink at another woman.”

  “I know. Mush told me how chaste you were,” Miriam confesses. “He would never keep something like that from me. We are blood, you see.”

  “I will never understand your … Jewishness.” Will enfolds her in his arms, and kisses her on her forehead. “Though I do enjoy it. Do you never miss having your own people about you?”

  “We Jews must wander the world,” Miriam tells him. “It is our punishment, for killing your Christ. My people have paid the price for one and a half thousand years, and will do so for as much again. We can never settle down for long.”

  “But we are safe enough,” Will tells her. “Mush and I will protect you, and little Gwyllam, and you will make our fortune.”

  “Until some greedy noble whispers into the king’s ear,” Miriam says. “A Boleyn, or a Norfolk, who will remind the king that I, and my blood are not wanted in England. They will try to take all we have from us.”

  “And this worries you?” Will kisses her again, but this time, on the lush red lips. He runs a hand up her spine, and she shudders with pleasure.

  “No. Most of our wealth is at sea, and can be diverted to a foreign port if need be. Master Tom has our money invested in Lombard banks, and French land. I have a thousand pounds sitting in each of ten counting houses around Europe, waiting for the day the storm comes. All that remains, is for us to recognise that day, and get out of England.”

  “You worry too much,” Will tells her. “You are married to the King’s Examiner, and there are legal documents that trace your family back to Coventry, in the year Thirteen Eighty Three. You must learn to trust your adopted country.”

  “Queen Katherine has legal documents, proving her to be the rightful wife of the king, yet Master Thomas rewrote the law in a trice, and she is now a dispossessed woman, living in a lonely prison.”

  “She has over two hundred servants, a thousand acres of park land, horses, her personal jewels, and two pensions. One from King Henry, to assuage his guilt, and another from Master Cromwell, who sends her a hundred a month!”

  “Oh, I did not know.”

  “Cromwell supports half the impoverished gentry in four counties, and funds two universities,” Will concludes. “Now, the man is in a hard place, and it will take men whom he trusts, to help him. He does not invite you tonight, for fear of implicating you, if anything goes wrong. You will be able to swear that you know nothing.”

  “About what?” Miriam asks.

  “There, you prove my point,” Will says. “You know nothing about anything. Now, I do not need to dress for another hour or so. Is there anything you can think of, to pass the time?”

  “Chess?”

  “Oh, what a good idea,” Will says, as he slips a hand into the top of her dress. “Does that not call for a lot of mating?”

  “Are these fellows up to the task, Haskins?” George Boleyn asks of his steward. The man smiles a thin smile, and pats his bulging purse.

  “For a hundred pounds, they will cut their way through Hell, My Lord,” Roger Haskins tells him. “All three would have hanged, if not for your patronage. They live in your forests, and make their daily bread by robbing any passing travellers. Each man has killed before, and they are bound to you, because you own the local Sherriff, and secretly condone their actions.”

  “I do?” George has no idea that his steward was so cunning, and on his behalf. “Yes, I do. Need I meet them?”

  “God forbid, My Lord,” Haskins says, his voice registering shock. He is used to George’s slowness of wit, but wonders how he has survived so long in this cruel world. “They cannot apportion any blame to you, should they be caught. If taken, the magistrate in Hever will demand they be turned over to him, for past crimes.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “Sir, your family own Hever Castle,” Haskins explains. “Once back in your family’s jurisdiction, they know they will be allowed to quietly escape.”

  “I see,” George Boleyn says, nodding his head. “What is a jurisdiction?”

  “It means the land where you, and your father, of course, have real power.”

  “Ah, yes… jurisdiction … That’s the thing, eh? Then they really are up to the task?” George asks again. The steward, who takes a slice of all Boleyn business, sighs, and explains how it will be done.

  “The house is on the river front, a big, timber and brick thing. The lads will approach from upstream tonight, by rowing boat. They will be ashore, and torching the house before anyone can even wake up. They will use tarred torches, and buckets of lamp oil, to get the blaze going. Anyone inside will be caught, and burnt to a cinder, or jump to their deaths.”

  “I would love to watch.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “This is a secret raid, to destroy Will Draper,” Haskins tells his slow witted master. “If you are seen, even the king will not be able to save you. Think of it, sir… Will Draper, his wife and child, and all their servants, killed in a conflagration. The finger will point at you, and a public outcry will force Henry to act. He will want a culprit to hang.”

  “Oh, I see.” George would like to watch his foe burn, of course, but does not wish to hang for the pleasure.

  “You must dine with your father tonight, My Lord. Have some other local gentry there too. Make yourself as conspicuous as possible. Then they can testify as to your whereabouts, when y
our enemy dies. Your innocence will be obvious, and they must look elsewhere. After a while, they will claim it was an accident. Some careless servant who has not blown out a candle.”

  “That is really excellent, my dear Haskins,” George Boleyn says. “My damned father tells me to hang back, and to stop upsetting Cromwell, but that is the coward’s way of things. Draper is an insult to my family, and I will have him, and all those about him dead … now!”

  “Yes, My Lord.”

  “Though it would be good if little Miriam Draper could be spared,” the young Boleyn muses. “For she would make a pretty widow, and be ripe for a good swiving. I do not suppose that we could…”

  “No, sir, absolutely not. They all die, and that is the end of the matter.”

  “Oh, very well … but I do wish I could watch!”

  “I must dine without my husband, tonight, Megan,” Miriam Draper tells her maid servant. “Master Beckshaw must provide me with company. See little Gwyllam is settled down, and I will see that all the doors, and the windows, are locked. My husband thinks me incapable of looking after myself.”

  “Bless him,” Megan says. She enjoys working for the Drapers, for they treat her with respect, and pay her on time. Her previous master would dock her pay for the tiniest thing, and thrust his hand up her skirts whenever he pleased. Will Draper always speaks kindly to the servants, and even says ‘please’ when he asks for something to be done. Indeed, she reflects, the man is everything a girl might want in a fellow. Tall, handsome, rich, and kind. It is a pity, she reflects, that he does not want to fondle her each night. “He is such a fine man, mistress, and a good husband.”

  “Yes, I am lucky to have him.” Miriam smiles as she remembers the delightful love making from but an hour before.

  “Yes mistress,” Megan says. The whole house have heard her cries of passion, and she wonders that the master has any strength left to go feasting with his friends. “I will rake out the embers, and throw them into the river. We do not want to risk a fire, do we?”