by Anne Stevens
10 A Good Roast
Eustace Chapuys is pleased that the night is dry, for he does not want his splendid ostrich feathers to get wet, and go limp on him. A study of one of Thomas Cromwell’s excellent books reveals to him that the ostrich bird is an amazing creature. It is almost a tall as a man, and has along neck. Its feathers are prized in Africa, and the bird is hunted by the faithless Mussulmen of the vast Ottoman Empire.
The ostrich, cannot fly, and is said to hide its head in the sand when afraid. Chapuys considers the ostrich to have a lot in common with the Boleyn family, and thanks God that they are not invited tonight. Instead, he expects a convivial evening of risqué stories, and fine wine. Cromwell keeps the best cellar in England.
Will arrives at Austin Friars in good time, and sees Chapuys coming across the garden, from next door, which is the official embassy for the Holy Roman Empire. He waves, and smiles at the funny little man, and almost bursts out laughing when he sees the immense feathers hanging from his cap.
He does not make the mistake that, because he looks foolish, Eustace Chapuys is a fool. The man has a sharp mind, and would make a dangerous enemy, if you ever crossed him. Thomas Cromwell has invited him to make up the numbers, for real friends are few, and far between.
Will checks that his clothes are not in any disarray, as he has dallied overlong with Miriam, and ended up dressing in a hurry. He still feels excited by her looks, and the way she touches him, and wishes that he could evade this evening, and stay with her for the night. The moon is in its last quarter, and obscured by cloud, making it a cooler, darker night than of late. A night for thieves and vagabonds, he thinks. Evil likes darkness, and the streets of London will be a dangerous place tonight.
Richard Cromwell is annoyed to find that his linen shirt has shrunk again. The washer woman disagrees, and swears that his clothes are the same size as ever before. It is only when he goes to buckle up his belt that he accepts the truth. He must let the leather belt out another inch, to accommodate his growing girth.
“Too many good dinners, and not enough action,” Rafe tells him, as he saunters into the bed chamber. “If you get any bigger, Master Tom will have to widen his doors, lest you be trapped within.”
“Oh, such a merry jest,” Richard growls. “I need to be in the saddle, alongside Will Draper again, hunting out our enemies. A few good scraps, and the weight will fall off me.”
“The world changes,” Rafe Sadler says. “There are fewer chances to pick a good fight these days. Why the last time I recall, was when that wicked Lady Norfolk caused such a …” He trails off, as he recalls the outcome of the great fight in Suffolk, between Cromwell’s men, and a band of mercenaries.
“Do not be dismayed,” Richard says. “There is not a day goes by that I do not see the faces of those men, and recall how bravely they went to their deaths. A soldier should die with a sword in his hand, not kicking on a gallows. Will Draper granted them quarter, and I hanged all sixteen of them, behind his back.”
“It could not be avoided.”
“I know. Uncle explained, but it does not make me feel any better. Perhaps that is why I eat so much?”
“What, sorrow is making you fat now, old friend?” Rafe shakes his head, and wanders off to see if Cromwell needs any help in dressing, as his fingers are not nearly as dexterous as they once were. Age, he thinks, is a greater leveller than death.
Tom Wyatt is pleased to have been invited to eat at Austin Friars again. He is short of money, as usual, and a feast will raise his spirits. With luck, the meal might last until very late, and he will be able to cadge a bed for the night. Though there are several married ladies who would accommodate him, they do not provide such a good breakfast, as Cromwell does.
He has been working on a few saucy couplets, to get everyone smiling, and has a couple of pieces of court gossip which, if conversation flags, will enliven them all. It is ‘common knowledge’ that Queen Anne has found out about Henry swiving George Boleyn’s wife, and wants her thrown out of court. It is also rumoured that Monsignor has suffered some sort of a reverse in his fortunes, though no one quite knows why. He was absent from court in the morning, and came back a changed man.
For the entire afternoon, he has been correcting any who address him as ‘Monsignor’, saying instead that Boleyn, or Wiltshire will suffice. Wyatt wonders if he received a knock to the head at the recent joust, which has quite addled his brain. Still, he thinks, whatever the cause, it makes for a funny situation. Perhaps he might even compose something to please Thomas Cromwell, who hates the fellow.
“Monsignor sat on a low stone wall,
and Monsignor took a sudden bad fall.
If only the wall be that much higher,
we’d gladly build his funeral pyre.”
He chants his scurrilous little poem, improvising, even as he arrives at Austin Friars. Wyatt pauses before he enters the courtyard, and tries to pull his crumpled clothing into some sort of order. He cannot afford a valet any longer, and he is slipping into a state of personal disrepair. His chin is unshaven, but it adds to, rather than detracts from, his rugged good looks.
Wyatt is pragmatic, and takes each day as it comes, but he must confess that he is surprised that Anne Boleyn has not found a position for him, now she is queen. Instead, she employs effeminate Flemish musicians, and base flatterers, like Sir Henry Norris. He blames George for his situation, for they have never really liked one another.
As young children, Anne’s brother always hated her showing any attention to other boys, and still seems inordinately jealous of his position. This attitude has made him many enemies, and Will Draper is George’s current pet hate. The poet determines to warn his friend of how spiteful Boleyn can be, at the first opportunity. He would not put it past him to arrange an assassin, or inflict some other nasty revenge.
Cromwell is already dressed for dinner. He has chosen to deck himself out in black, from head to toe, and he looks like an executioner, looking for his hood. The black, silk trimmed, cap sits on the bed, awaiting a final decision.
Will Draper promises a surprise after dinner, and has a plan to save Austin Friars from the wrath of the king. Cromwell is in such a quandary that he accepts his young friend’s word, without reservation. He is like a knight, beaten down in the mêlée, who must rise again, and fight for his very life.
“If only this damned armour of regrets, and misdeeds, were not so heavy,” he muses. “Then I might move all the easier.”
There is a knock at the bed chamber door, and Rafe Sadler pokes his head around. He sees how Cromwell is dressed, and frowns deeply.
“Tonight is supposed to be a meeting of good friends, master,” he says. “Cannot you, perhaps, put on a clean white ruff, or a scarlet scarf, to enliven your apparel?”
“It suits my mood, Rafe,” the older man replies. “I am not in the right state of mind for lace and ruffles. Besides, who will look at me, once Eustace arrives. Why, with all those feathers, one expects him to fly out of the window, at any moment.”
“Ostrich birds cannot fly,” Rafe tells him. “Master Chapuys never tires of telling everyone he meets. He says it is an affectation of the Mussulmen.”
“I hope that there are no hunters abroad,” Cromwell muses, “for he makes a pretty target.”
“Shall I fetch you a bow, sir?” Rafe is gratified to see Cromwell smile at his small jest, and hopes his black humour soon lifts, for the guests are arriving.
Charles Brandon is in a merry mood. He has treated himself to some gold thread, and his new servant girl has embroidered the edge of his doublet with it. Always appear well off, his father used to tell him as a lad, and your creditors will believe you are good for another loan.
“Good evening, Mush,” he says, striding into the entrance hall. “I have brought a couple of flasks of wine.”
“Master Thomas has a cellar full, Your Lordship.”
“Damn it, my friend, but you must call me Charles, in private … or Brandon, if you wis
h. Are not all men equal in their cups?” Suffolk holds the wax sealed flasks up for examination. “They are a Roman vintage … over fifty years old, and as mellow as a wench after swiving. My vintner tells me they go well with any roasted flesh.”
“Then I shall have them opened at once, and given air, My Lor … Charles.” Mush goes off, smiling to himself. Suffolk is in a rare mood, and might cheer up Cromwell.
“Men only, or so I hear,” Brandon says to Richard, who has just descended the stairs. He nudges the big bear of a man in his ample midriff, and winks, slyly.
“That is so,” Richard replies. “Master Cromwell has given strict instructions that no ‘ladies’ are to be brought in.”
“Bugger!” Suffolk is not happy. “Why, even Cardinal Wolsey used to ship in a few whores. ‘My sweet little Magdalenes’ the old rogue used to say. I remember one night … we had this girl in, who could turn cartwheels … stark naked, and the cardinal leapt to his feet, and did a wild Norfolk jig with her!”
“It is a pity he is gone,” Cromwell says, as he joins them. “I seem to recall you keeping very quiet when the king showed him disfavour.”
“At least, I did not speak against him, Master Thomas,” Suffolk says. “Unlike some, who I wager are not invited here tonight. Old Boleyn and his son, were poisonous, and Harry Percy asked to deliver the arrest warrant, personally. Even Norfolk was a greater sinner against Wolsey than I. You know that opposing the king gets you nowhere.”
“True.” Cromwell keeps his thoughts to himself. Since that black time, he has seen to it that Harry Percy, Duke of Northumberland, has had nothing but bad luck. He is deeply in debt, and has seen his lands shrink, by half their worth. Now, thanks to Cromwell, Thomas Boleyn, Henry’s leading courtier has taken a great fall. He may be the king’s father-in-law, but his power over Henry Tudor shall be diminished from now onwards. “I stood by Cardinal Wolsey, and see how King Henry treats me.”
“You are different,” Suffolk replies, colouring up. “You had less to lose, and Henry always likes a …”
“Commoner?” Cromwell smiles. “Enough of this talk now. I want to enjoy a fine dinner.”
“I have brought Roman wine… fifty years old.”
“Ah, something that is even more aged than I,” Thomas Cromwell says, wryly. “Look, here is Eustace. Pray, Brandon, do not mock his hat.”
“Why should I do … Good God!” Suffolk stifles the urge to laugh, and bows, instead. “As always, Ambassador Chapuys, it is a real pleasure to meet you.”
“Ostrich,” Chapuys says, “before you feel the need to ask, Lord Suffolk. They are all the rage in… Turkey.”
“Please, call me Charles,” Suffolk replies, genially. The little Savoyard is a pleasant fellow, and he does not mind him being a foreigner at all. After all, he thinks, five hundred years ago, his own people were Norman French. “We are all friends here, are we not?”
“Just so… Charles. A fine name, My beloved emperor also bears that name. It is derived from Charlemagne, I believe.”
“Really?” Suffolk says. “Do tell me about these ostrich birds, my dear Eustace.”
Tom Wyatt finally makes his entrance, and declaims an impromptu verse, concerning the poor, maligned ostrich.
“The ostrich is a wonderful bird,
for it lays an egg, shaped just like a turd,
and sticks its head … o, what a farce,
up its own be-feathered arse.”
“Thomas Wyatt, by God‘s Holy teeth, but you are just the man for tonight,” Suffolk cries. “What was that again? Farce and arse … you rascal!”
“Sir, you are mistaken,” Eustace Chapuys complains. “It only sticks it in the sand!”
Two servants clear away the soup bowls, whilst two more carry in huge platters, each bearing a whole sucking pig. Richard claps his hands in appreciation, and belches. He nods an apology to Digby Weller, into whose face he has delivered it, and the young man smirks back at him.
“Ah, sucking pig!” Eustace Chapuys, who has already downed several glasses of good Italian wine stands, unsteadily. “In the north of Andalusia, they carve this delight up with a pewter plate’s edge, to show how tender is the meat.”
“Bollocks!” Charles Brandon says. “Five silver shillings says it cannot be done.”
“Lend me the coin, and I will bet with you, Brandon,” Tom Wyatt says, cheekily.
“A challenge?” Chapuys looks to Cromwell for permission, and he nods his head. “Bring me a plate, and I will serve out the portions in the Spanish way.”
A pewter plate is brought, and Chapuys proceeds to dismember each pig, with unbelievable dexterity. As the edge of the plate does its work, each guest receives an expertly butchered helping. Suffolk is delighted at losing his bet, and slaps down the money, at once.
“That was wonderfully done, my dear Chapuys,” Will Draper says. “How many times have you done that before?”
“Never,” Eustace says, with a little wink. “Though I once saw a servant do it, some years ago.”
“Then the bet was a fair one,” Suffolk declares. “For Master Eustace has great pluck to try such a thing, unpractised.”
“Please, keep your silver, Charles,” Chapuys tells Suffolk. “I feel as though I tricked you.”
“What, like that alchemist fellow?” Will Draper asks.
“The Grand Master,” Chapuys replies, nodding. “He was a very clever man. Had I not guessed his little trick, I would have sung his praises.”
“Trick?” Richard tears into his sucking pig. “You mean the fellow was a fraud?”
“It was but one of my little ruses,” Thomas Cromwell tells them. “I thought to see who might be foolish enough to fall for his magical gold making box.”
“None here.” Rafe is struggling to use the new fork properly.
“Why do you say that, my friend?” Will Draper asks.
“Well, Master Tom has just admitted that it was he who set up the trick,” Rafe replies. “My Lord Suffolk, myself and Mush could not fund the charlatan, Wyatt lives on fresh air, Digby earns twelve pounds a year, and Miriam would never let you invest in so mad a scheme.”
“What about me?” Richard asks.
“You do not have the brains, or the money,” Mush says, and the table erupts into laughter. “Shall I have them bring out another pig for you, my friend?”
“Oh, how I laugh,” Richard tells the young Jew. “Why, I see you do not eat any at all. Are you seeking to lose weight, or…” The sentence peters out to an embarrassed silence. Mush’s religion is a closely kept secret, and Richard realises that he was about to speak of it, openly, in front of two who do not know. The penalty for being found in England, if Jewish, is still death.
Many Jews pose as Spaniards, to evade the law, but every now and then, the common people take it upon themselves to expose a few, and set upon them. Just a few weeks ago, three Jews have been kicked to death, and their bodies hanged from London Bridge. It is not against the law to kill Jews, and this makes for an awkward situation for those Chosen People whom Cromwell favours.
“ I do not wish to grow as fat as you,” Mush says, and the moment is passed. Richard throws a glance at his friend, that is an apology for his crassness, and Mush nods back. It is alright. It is a matter between friends, and to the young Jew, that is a bond that must never be broken.
“A good roast, Thomas,” Suffolk says. “Your table is better than Henry’s, though you must never tell poor Hal that.”
“Of course not,” Cromwell replies. “He has already taken my best young men into his own service, and I would rather keep my cook, if I can.”
“We may work for the king…” Rafe starts to say, but Cromwell shushes him into silence.
“It is a privilege for me to let him have you, Rafe, and as for Colonel Draper … well, he is his own man. He has ever been thus.”
“I am the King’s Examiner now,” Will Draper tells the jovial gathering, “and must root out corruption and deceit, wherever it impinge
s on His Majesty’s business. That is why it is my unpleasant duty to be here tonight.”
“Unpleasant you say?” Eustace Chapuys wonders if he has misunderstood, for English is not his first language, and in his early days, as ambassador, he pretended no knowledge of the tongue at all. “How can you speak of duty, on such a pleasant evening, my dear fellow?”
“I must go where my duty, and my office takes me,” Will continues. “I have suspected a plot against the king for some time now, and I am here to bring matters to a head. Will you all swear, here and now, to help me uncover a wicked act, that was aimed at King Henry, but has hurt many others?”
“Of course we will,” Rafe says. “For all here, save our friend, Eustace, are sworn to His Majesty. Tell us what is going on, Will, and we are your men.”
“Well said, Rafe,” Will replies, “but I have heard the same sentiments uttered from the mouths of men who later turned out to be traitors.”
“You seem to have our complete attention,” Thomas Cromwell says. “Pray tell us what you must, and be damned to the consequences.”
The rowing boat bobs up and down on the turning tide, and three men lurk under the northern arch of the bridge. They have made up a half dozen torches; stout sticks, wrapped in rags, and dipped in tar. They place them in the prow of the small boat, where they should remain dry.
“Where is the blasted lamp oil, Deakes?” one of them demands. “I told you to bring as much as you could find.”
“You are sitting on it, you stupid pintle,” Deakes growls back. “What else did you think was in the barrel … brandy?”
“It would burn as well,” the third man sneers.
“Only if you two did not drink it first, Hardy,” Deakes says.
“Then let us get it aboard, for the tide is on the turn, and it will get ever harder to row against it. We must be there before midnight, do the job, and let the incoming rush sweep us back to Chelsea.”