by Anne Stevens
“What if there are guards?”
“It is a private house,” Deakes explains, for the tenth time that day. “By ten, everyone will be long abed. We land, take out our tinder boxes, light our faggots, and hurl them into the place. I shall breach the barrel, and toss it in afterwards. The oil will spread across the floor, and help the flames reach every corner. The whole place will go up in minutes.”
“What if some escape?”
“Then they escape.”
“What if they manage to put out the fire?”
“That is not going to happen, Black Ned. It will burn too well.”
“Say one escapes, and sees us?” Black Ned is the more timid of the three, and has a healthy respect for his own neck.
“Not our worry,” Deakes says. “Haskins pays only for the house to be torched. If any live, then it is by God’s grace, or bloody good luck. They do not know us, nor do they know who it is that we work for. Remember, if caught, keep silent. Haskins will have us taken up by the Hever Sherriff, and he will let us loose.”
“Then it is Lord Boleyn’s hand behind us?” Hardy asks. “It is he, or his son, who want us to torch this place?”
Deakes, who has been a professional criminal for all his life, shakes his head in disbelief. He cannot understand how he has fallen in with two such idiots. He shall explain, once more, in language that even a simpleton might understand.
“Forget Tom Boleyn. Forget his idiot son, and forget Haskins,” he snarls at them both. “Do this right, and we are all rich men. Get it wrong, and I will slit your bastard throats!”
11 Conflagration
“I must start with the events of several months back,” Will Draper tells his small audience. “You will understand why, as my story progresses to its unhappy end. You will all remember the day our Sovereign Lord, Henry, married his queen, and the unhappy remarks shouted from the crowd?”
“We do,” Tom Wyatt says, with a little chuckle, “and they were wrong. Anne is not French.”
“Have a care, sir,” Will tells the young poet. “The marriage does not make your position any safer. If anything, it puts you at greater risk. Henry is a jealous fellow, and can easily be brought to hate any who knew Anne Boleyn in her younger days. The king was furious at the shouts, and ordered me to investigate the matter at once. Had he been presented with the culprit there and then, Henry would have strangled him to death, with his bare hands.”
“He is powerful enough,” Eustace Chapuys mutters, having once experienced a friendly Tudor hug. “Did you find the scurrilous fellow, Will?”
“No, I did not. I had several lines of enquiry to follow. For instance, the fool might have just felt like calling out insults, or he could have been goaded by drunken friends. Then again, and much more likely, he might have been paid to do it.”
“Scandalous!” Suffolk says. “Why did you not run the rogue down?”
“I was sent away, to the north of England instead,” Will explains. “It seems that there were certain rumours of a rebellion simmering. I spent almost three months chasing after an Irish priest, who had been well paid to cause trouble.”
“By whom?” Thomas Cromwell asks. He is as surprised as the rest are, about this sudden revelation. “I heard nothing of such an infamous plot.”
“You were not meant to, sir,” Will Draper tells him. “The priest was wont to tour Ireland, threatening fire and brimstone, on all who turned away from Rome. He was recruited by a man called Haskins, who paid him to come across the sea, and cause as much trouble as he could, in Yorkshire, Cumberland, and Lancashire. I found incriminating documents on the priest’s body, after I had dealt with him.”
“Haskins?” Suffolk muses. “I seem to know that name.”
“He is one of the stewards on the Hever estate, in Kent,” Rafe Sadler says, angrily. “His name often comes across our desks at Austin Friars. He is in the employ of the Boleyns.”
“Then one of them acted against the king,” Richard Cromwell says. “This is a clear case of treason!”
“That will be hard to prove,” Digby Waller puts in. “They will deny it all, and this Haskins fellow will have some explanation, to help him worm his way out of things. A forged paper, or a fancied impersonation, will muddy things up, and the Boleyn family will escape again.”
“As you well know,” says Will Draper. “For you were in their employ, were you not, Master Weller?”
“I was,” Weller admits, with a cheeky grin. “I knew their schemes, well enough, and took their silver.”
“At my instigation,” Thomas Cromwell says.
“Yours?” Chapuys is beginning to lose his way. “You set one of your own men to work for these people, against you?”
“Master Cromwell knew that Tom Boleyn, and his son, were plotting against us,” Digby Weller explains. “I went to them, in secret, and pretended to be a turncoat. I took their silver, and fed them a few silly bits and pieces, to make me look trustworthy to them. Later, when Master Cromwell set up his own trick, I was able to convince them of the authenticity of Aldo Mercurius, and his gold making box. I warned them that Master Cromwell meant to discredit the alchemist, then buy the wonderful secret for himself.”
“You cunning old dog!” Eustace Chapuys cannot hide his admiration for his old friend’s clever ways. “You show the prize, then seem to toss it aside. Poor Boleyn must have thought himself so clever at outwitting you.”
“Just so.” Will Draper sees that they have, with the exception of Richard Cromwell, all perceived the trick. “Boleyn went to his trusted spy, Digby Weller, and told him to arrange a meeting with the alchemist. Master Digby consented, and the interested parties met. Mercurius played his part well, and even tried to squeeze more money out of the father.”
“That was what clinched it,” Digby tells them, grinning widely. “The greed of the alchemist fed his own, and Boleyn agreed to pay over seventy thousand pounds. Then he added a proviso, which made things more awkward. He gave a promissory note to Aldo Mercurius, witnessed, and sealed. The money would be handed over, only on completion of the task.”
“Which meant a three month wait, to make it plausible,” Will Draper puts in.
“That is so. We hid our fraudulent alchemist away, and I acted as go-between, giving updates on the manufacture of the gold making box. Right from the start, there was a problem. George Boleyn was sure Colonel Draper would sniff out the plan, and alert Henry. You see, old Boleyn meant to turn out gold at a steady rate, and become the richest man in England, without anyone realising, until it was too late.”
“So they decided to send me up north?” Will says. He is unsure on this point, and is glad to let Weller clear it up.
“Not at first. George suggested that he hire some thugs to murder you down some dark alleyway, but I said this would cause further investigations, and that George would be a certain suspect. Then I suggested that Monsignor had you sent away. I am sorry, but it was that … or your murder, Colonel Draper.”
“I see.” Will nods his understanding. Had he remained behind, he would have discovered that it was Digby who was spreading rumours about Queen Anne, and writing pithy slogans on the palace walls. That might have led him to the alchemist plot, and caused his own assassination. “Then I seem to have had a lucky escape.”
“I meant to warn you, Will,” Tom Wyatt pipes up. “George tells any who will listen, that he will get even with you, one day. I played with him as a child, and he was a very strange little boy. He hated anyone who smiled at his sisters, Anne, and Mary, and took revenge on any who upset his petty minded plans.”
“All children can be like that,” Eustace Chapuys reminds the company.
“Remember Chuppy?” Wyatt tells them. They all recall the funny little dog, owned collectively by Anne’s ladies-in-waiting, so named because it reminded them of Chapuys. Only the ambassador does not know the tale of what happened to his namesake. “How it fell from a high window? George was alone with Anne, and she refused him some trifle.
He kicked the poor beast through the window, to its death.”
“Good God!” Rafe Sadler gasps. He is a great lover of dogs, and cannot believe such cowardliness. “What could provoke any man to so vile an act? How did the queen upset him to such an extent?”
“That is not for me to speak of,” Tom Wyatt replies, his voice flat, and emotionless. “Suffice it to say, he will do something, my friend. Trust me.”
“Chuppy?” Eustace Chapuys mutters to himself. English humour will always evade him.
“I will watch out for myself,” Will says. “Besides, I have a recruit to the office of King’s Examiner, who can mind my back.”
“Some northern ruffian?” Rafe asks.
“Of sorts,” Will replies. The boy, a merchant’s son from Skipton, will train up in the art of investigation, rather than soldiery, but he will become a fine officer, and take some of the load from Draper’s shoulders. He is lodged in a room at Draper’s House, down by the river, and is already a firm friend of Miriam’s, and little Gwyllam. “I mean him to learn the art of detecting felons, by their acts, and by their smell. I can always smell a bad apple, my friends.”
“Continue your tale, Will,” Thomas Cromwell urges. He is still in urgent need of seventy thousand pounds, and wants all the facts from the King’s Examiner. “We are all fascinated as to how it concludes.”
“I have a clue,” Tom Wyatt says. He sniggers, and tells them how old Boleyn has come back to court, a much changed fellow. They listen, politely, for a moment, but Cromwell shows no surprise at Boleyn’s new leaf, and the poet’s revelations fall flat.
“How does the rest of your story go down?” Rafe asks.
“Simple enough to tell,” Will continues. “The Grand Master, after being in hiding for three months, resurfaces, and sends word that the great box is finished, and awaits only payment. He claims that the crafts people, and the workmen want their pay. Seventy thousand pounds must be produced. A king’s ransom, for an imaginary wooden box.”
“Thomas Boleyn has been diverting treasury funds for months,” Thomas Cromwell tells all those present. “He stole the seventy thousand, and sent it off.”
“Outside Folkestone, a troop of heavily armed men appeared, and stole the cart loaded with money.”
“Yes, I was going to hand the bounty over to the alchemist, Aldo Mercurius, who was to pass it on to Master Cromwell,” Digby Weller confirms. “It was to be such a straightforward transaction. Then these fellows came out of nowhere.”
“As if they knew of your coming?” Will asks. Digby shrugs his shoulders, and addresses the entire room.
“The plan went perfectly, until then. I had only six men with me, and we faced levelled muskets, and pistols. Had I fought, we would all have died, and the gold would have gone anyway.”
“I am not blaming you, Digby,” Cromwell says.
“Oh, but I am,” Will Draper snaps. “Who knew about the payment? Thomas Boleyn, George, and you?”
“The alchemist knew, as did his assistant, and Master Cromwell, of course” Weller replies.
“They would not steal what was being freely given,2 Will suggests. “Anyone else?”
“There is Haskins, I suppose,” Digby Weller replies. “He might have told any number of folk.”
“Besides,” Eustace Chapuys puts in, “was not the plan still a good one? Boleyn loses his money. Money he has taken from King Henry, and money which the king will want to have back?”
“Yes. I have old Tom Boleyn under control now,” Thomas Cromwell says. “He knows that I know of the theft, and I have loaned him the seventy thousand, to keep him from the block. In this way, he ceases to be a political threat. There is but one fault with my plan. I do not have the money.”
“Ah, I see it now,” Eustace Chapuys announces. “You call us here, so that we might resolve your financial problem. I will give you all the ready money I possess, my dear friend, as will these others, I am sure!”
“Would that we few had that much,” Will says. “Miriam can find ten thousand, and Mush says he has another three. I doubt that, between us, we can raise above fifteen or sixteen thousand pounds.”
“Then I am finished,” Cromwell says.
“It is darker than I thought it would be,” Hardy, a tough, pox marked Kentish man mutters.
“It is night, you fool, What else would you expect?” Deakes growls across the width of the boat. He is the cleverest of the three, and their natural leader on such raids. “Now, keep rowing. Pull hard on the left oar. We need to be getting towards the bank.”
“Is there a jetty?” Black Ned’s hands are sweating, and slipping on the shaft of his oar.
“God’s teeth, Ned, are you mad?” says Deakes. “We run up on the river bank, further up, and come upon the house from the blind side. There, see the place?” They stare at the dark outline, and put in a couple more fast strokes of the oars. The boat’s prow runs onto the muddy shore, and they drag it further up, to save it from being whipped away by the strong tidal pull. Later, that same pull will carry them back, under the looming shape of London Bridge, and to the safety of the Chelsea shore. From there, they need only stroll past Utopia, and disappear into the stew of taverns and whore houses that adjoins Westminster.
“Tinder, lads,” Deakes commands, and his comrades crouch down, out of any breeze, and start their tinder boxes smouldering. A spark shows that one has been successful, and he blows the spark into a small gutter of flames, and then holds it to one of the well tarred torches. The oil and tar soaked rags catch, at once, and the first torch gutters into life.
John Beckshaw cannot sleep. He has never been more than ten miles from Skipton in all his life, and finds the move to London to be most unsettling. With his father’s consent, he is to become an officer with the King’s Examiner’s Office, and learn his craft under the tutelage of Colonel Will Draper. He is King Henry’s own Special Examiner, and Beckshaw feels privileged to be at his command.
The Drapers have been very kind to him, and provided him with his own, small room on a lower floor, and the help of a servant, as needed. The food is magnificent, and the company delightful, but he is still unsettled. He is worn out, and yet, he wonders why he cannot close his eyes.
Finally, he decides to get up, and take a breath of night air, to see if it will help him go off to sleep. He goes downstairs, and eases open a ground floor window. He looks out, and imagines that he sees a boat gliding past the foot of the garden. He rubs his eyes, then looks again. It is not a dream, or a trick of the moonlight. A rowing boat, with three men aboard has grounded, just a little way down the shore line.
He knows this should not be, and crosses to the big chest of drawers by the front door. It is the first thing Colonel Draper has shown him; the whereabouts of the house’s various fire arms, in case of trouble. He pulls open the top drawer, and takes out two loaded, and primed, pistols. Then he opens the front door, and strides outside. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, and he is almost acclimatised to the darkness, when a torch flares into sudden life on the riverbank. Then another, and another.
Even now, John Beckshaw does not quite understand the very real danger, so does not turn to shout for help. Instead, without reasoning things through, he marches towards the source of the blazing torches. It is only when he is within a few yards that he realises their intent, and he curses them for scoundrels.
The three men rush up to the house, where it stands in almost absolute darkness, and are amazed to find a window, open to the elements. Deakes does not hesitate, but hurls his blazing torch into the building. Black Ned follows suit, and Hardy adds to the conflagration. Then, the small barrel of lamp oil follows.
“Hey, you men!” a voice cries from the darkness. “Stand fast!”
The oil splashes, and spreads across the ground, bursting into flames as it goes. In moments, the lower floor is a roaring inferno, and the three men roar their approval to one another, and turn to flee the scene. It only then that they realise there is som
eone almost upon them. There is a single pistol shot, from close by, and Hardy pitches backwards, with a ragged, bloody, hole punched in his forehead.
Deakes ducks low, and races for the boat, whilst Black Ned makes, what will prove to be, a fatal mistake. He pulls his knife, and runs at the young man who has appeared from nowhere, and shot dead his comrade. John Beckshaw has killed his first man, and his blood is racing. He sees a second dark shape coming at him, and sees the glint of steel by the firelight. He raises the second pistol, tries to keep his eyes open, and squeezes the trigger.
Black Ned screams in pain, as the lead ball smashes into his left shoulder, and sends him spinning around. He falls to one knee, and does not realise that the nearby timber and brick frame is twisting, and falling, because of the intense heat. A large section of masonry tumbles down, and crushes him into the ground.
John Beckshaw staggers back from the flames, cursing, as the entire structure is engulfed. He retreats to the river edge, and looks for the third man. Both pistols are now empty, so he reverses them, ready to use them as clubs. The boat is already well away from the river bank, and the surviving arsonist is heaving himself aboard. Beckshaw curses again, but this time, in pure frustration. His quarry has eluded him.
“Bastard!” Deakes snarls, as he gains the safety of the rowing boat. “Who goes for a walk with a brace of pistols?” Still, he is free, and the house is already collapsing in a great, smoking heap of twisted timbers, and red bricks. “More money for me, lads. I told you to watch yourselves!” He laughs, insanely, and waves at the young man who is shaking a fist at him, and cursing him to Hell.
“Go and be damned!” Deakes yells back, and laughs at his assailant’s fury.
The little boat hit’s the turbulent mid-river, and starts to turn in a tight circle. Deakes grabs at an oar, and searches for the second, in the darkness. It is slipping from the rowlock, and he makes a lunge. It slips from his cold finger tips, and is swirled off in the strong tidal current.