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

by Anne Stevens

  “It was real enough,” Digby Weller replies. “We are kindred spirits. Whilst I was Cromwell’s man, we suited one another, and our friendship grew apace. We had similar thoughts, and similar likes, and dislikes. That is why we became such good friends, is it not?”

  “Yes.”

  “There is still time, Mush.”

  “For what?”

  “Why, for you to row us back to the northern bank,” Digby Weller explains. “We can take two horses, and ride for Suffolk’s little hideaway. His men know my face, and expect the money to be moved. We can be on a boat to France by first light. Just think what can be done with thirty five thousand pounds each.”

  “No.” Mush does not care to elaborate, or explain how much he owes to Thomas Cromwell. Such a crime would destroy the man, and be the greatest betrayal since Cain felled his brother in Eden.

  “Sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you have a purse for me?”

  “I have a purse.”

  “Good man. I knew you would stand up to Sadler. He does not understand true friendship.” Weller sees they are drifting back to the wrong bank, and leans on the tiller, to force them back towards the Southwark side. “We had some good times, Mush, did we not.”

  “We did, right enough. “ Mush is blowing hard, and seems to be struggling against the tide. “The undertow is strong tonight.”

  “Really?” Weller sniggers. “Is it not that you are a weakling, old fellow?”

  “I am stronger than you,” Mush replies. “It is just hard to fight the current.”

  “You milksop.”

  “Coxcomb!” Mush snaps back, and they both laugh. “God, but I am going to miss you, Digby. More than I can ever say.”

  “You can always ride south, one day. I dare say I will be thriving in Sussex, or Surrey. Perhaps I will find a rich widow, or two, to fleece.” Digby Weller feels a moment of regret for the tarnished friendship, then shrugs the feeling off. “Watch out, you will have us back where we started.”

  “Damn it, but I cannot get us into clear water,” Mush confesses. “Let us change over. You show off your professed strength, and I will steer us true.”

  “Like I said … milksop,” Digby says. “Come, I will lash the tiller. Watch we do not overbalance. You go to the right, and I to the left.”

  They stand, and cross each other. Mush seems to lose his balance, and snatches at his friend’s sleeve, so as not to overbalance the boat. Digby Weller suddenly stares at his friend, and shakes his head in utter disbelief. The dagger has come up, and into his chest with practiced ease.

  “Why?” He cannot believe how he has been killed. Mush eases him down onto one of the seats, and puts an arm about his shoulders. “Oh, Mush… I…”

  “Hush,” Mush Draper whispers into his ear. “It will be done in a moment. You see, it was the betrayal I could not forgive. I let you inside my defences, and liked you. In time, I would have loved you, like a brother. You betrayed my friendship. I could forgive anything, except that, my dearest friend.”

  Digby Weller is no longer listening. His eyes glaze over, and his body relaxes. Mush eases him over the side, and into the cold water. He sits down by the tiller, and unlashes it. The rush of the river will take Digby away, and push the small boat back to the northern bank once more.

  The skiff grounds, and men appear out of the darkness, and make the craft secure to the jetty. One of them is Rafe Sadler. He is about to make a stinging remark about Digby Weller’s generous treatment, when he sees that Mush’s doublet is stained with splashes of fresh blood. He reaches out a hand, and helps him to the shore.

  “It is done,” Mush says.

  “I know,” Rafe replies. “It is for the best. The man was far too clever to live. If he could delude us into loving him once, we might fall for it again.”

  “I broke my own rule,” Mush says. “Trust no-one, save for the closest family. Miriam, Will, Master Tom, and you.”

  “I hope I will always enjoy that trust, my friend,” Rafe replies, and they embrace. “We need not tell Master Cromwell what has occurred. He sought to let the man slip away, because he made the same mistake we did. He will think you did murder for him, rather than for your own reasons.”

  “Digby Weller took my bag of silver, and set off into the night, on foot,” Mush says. “Now, I must clean up, before anyone else sees the state I am in.”

  “Austin Friars is empty,” Rafe tells his friend. “Go there now, and I will explain your absence, by telling them all how you slipped on the bank, and became covered in mud. It will make a fine jest for the breakfast table. Mush capering about like a complete ninny; slopping around in the mud, until his finest clothes are quite ruined. Now, get yourself off!”

  “By God, and by thunder,” Henry says, as the royal barge grounds a few yards from the shore, “but your new house is a sorry sight, Colonel Draper. The timbers are quite burnt through, and no two bricks stand upon each other. Still, what a great adventure we have had.”

  “My wife will be pleased,” Will says, before he can stop himself.

  “What, to have us back for breakfast?” Henry replies, in boisterous good spirits. He leaps from the barge, intent on splashing ashore in his manly way, and lands in a trench, scoured out by a thousand years of successive tidal shifts. The water surges up to his chest, and he gasps in horror. Will has him by the scruff of the neck, almost at once, and heaves him back into shallower water. For a moment, the king is furious, and looks to see who is laughing.

  “God’s teeth, Hal,” Gregory guffaws, “ but I swear you did that on purpose, just to lighten our mood!” Whereupon he leaps into the very spot just vacated by a furious king. “Christ on the Cross, but the water is cold!”

  Henry burst into laughter, and the crew follow suit. Gregory, who is a head shorter than Henry, almost disappears, but comes up floundering. Will drags him ashore also, and slaps his back.

  “A fine jest, sire, and a fine riposte, Gregory,” he says, heartily. “Now we must get to a roaring fire, lest we all die of cold!”

  “Well said,” Henry roars. “Come on you dogs, into the water. I have not got all day!” As each hapless member of the party drops over the side, Henry roars his approval. “A fine night’s hunting, Will, and a good conclusion. Why, the way we ran that fellow into the bridge, and saw off his fellow rogues, was a treat. It almost matches the time I routed the entire French army. Did I ever tell you, Colonel Will, how they tried to hold me back from the fray? I shook them off, and damned them for trying to make a coward of their king.”

  “They thought only to keep Your Majesty safe, sire,” Will says. “Though it was ill advised to even try and stop you.”

  “Stop me?” Henry slaps his thigh. “I took to my horse, couched my lance, and charged. They ran after me, crying like women, as I scattered twenty thousand French knights, almost single handed!”

  “The French cannot face real bravery,” Gregory puts in. “Why, did not another Henry confound them once, at a place they called Agincourt?”

  “By God, you are right,” the king says, squelching up the shoreline. “It must be something about the name, what?”

  “Very good, sire,” Will says, ushering him into the hall of Draper’s House. Miriam sees them enter, and sighs. The young Jewess comes forward, and takes charge. She orders blankets, hot drinks, food, and a great fire to be set, at once. Lady Jane is by her side, eagerly examining her hostesses good looking husband, standing by the stouter, muddier king.

  “See,” Miriam says to George Boleyn’s wife, “ the children have come in from their playing!”

  14 Consequences

  Three days have passed since the night of the great fire, and the legend has already begun to grow about the events. The court swap gossip, and then accept the version that is to become ‘common knowledge’ to them all. Henry, whilst visiting the Draper household, has confounded a foreign plot, and, single handed, killed three or four dangerous felons.

  When
asked, the king affects an air of humility, and mentions that Will Draper, and a few others did help in the adventure. No mention is made of George Boleyn’s wife being on the royal barge, and no one is surprised when, with his usual generosity, Henry sends his own masons to help with the restoration of the burned out shell of the house.

  “Such occasions lift the spirits,” Henry says to Cromwell at the next meeting of the Privy Council. “Otherwise, one might end up like that dried up old stick, Norfolk.”

  “I fear Norfolk is old before his time,” Thomas Cromwell replies. “Rafe Sadler tells me he is most vexed by his various mistresses, and that his wife is causing him more trouble. Perhaps you might consider taking some of the load from his shoulders?”

  “Who else can keep order in my dockyards?”

  “What about Sir Roderick Travis?” Thomas Cromwell wonders, as if the name has just entered his head. “He cannot fight on land, but he has a talent with ships.”

  “Do I know him?”

  “He knew Martell… and hated the fellow,” Cromwell explains, knowing that the king also disliked the late blackmailer, and murderer. “He was one of those felled by Colonel Draper at the joust, just before you triumphed over him.”

  “A damned fine bout,” Henry muses. “Travis is bested by Draper, then I best him. Yes… and he disliked Martell, you say?”

  “He was there when he died,” Cromwell says, and taps a finger to the side of his nose.

  “Ah, I see,” the king says, not seeing at all. Martell ended up murdered, and he still does not quite understand how, or why. “And he is good with ships, you say?”

  “Sire, you knighted him, fifteen years ago, after he sailed to the New World, and captured French and Spanish treasure ships.”

  “That Travis?” Henry’s interest is aroused. “Is he the man for it still?”

  “He awaits only your command, sire.” Thomas Cromwell cannot believe how easily he is able to insinuate his own man into a position of power. “With the four new men o’war almost fitted out, we could put Admiral Travis in command, and have him patrol the entire Channel.”

  “Would that not infuriate the French?” Henry asks.

  “Would it, sire?” Cromwell asks, slyly.

  “Oh, you dog, Thomas,” Henry says, digging him sharply in the ribs. “Ugly little Francois might even dare to send out his own navy.”

  “Why, yes, he might,” says Thomas Cromwell. “In which case, an accomplished old corsair, like Sir Roderick Travis, might expertly dismast a few of them, and tow them all into an English port. Once re-masted, they will make a useful addition to your navy, sire. As you know, a new built ship can cost up to twenty thousand pounds. If we pay Travis a bounty of, let us say, a thousand a ship, we will save a fortune.”

  “See to it, Thomas,” Henry whispers. “Though do not let Norfolk think that I think any the less of him.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty,” Cromwell says. He strolls away, and circulates amongst all the others in attendance. At length he comes to Norfolk, and bows. “I am pleased to see Your Lordship is in good health.”

  “Why should I not be?” Norfolk asks, suspiciously.

  “It is just that the king worries after your well being, My Lord.”

  “As he did after Sir Thomas More’s?”

  “Not quite, sir,” Thomas Cromwell says. “He seeks only to lighten your load. It seems that he wants to give something to Sir Roderick Travis, and thinks he will make a good admiral of the Channel Fleet.”

  “I am the king’s admiral.” Norfolk stiffens, as he scents an affront, and no man in England is better at taking offence, than he.

  “The king has a mind to send the fleet to Africa,” Cromwell says, “or raiding along the Ottoman coasts.”

  “Jesus on an Ass!” Norfolk has no stomach for such a mad escapade, and suddenly does not mind being moved aside. “Though I fear that the king might flinch at insulting me so. It might be better if… yes, I will resign … due to ill health. Then again, what if he keeps the fleet at home?”

  “He may not.”

  “But I am the admiral of the fleet!”

  “You were, sir,” Thomas Cromwell says, shrugging his shoulders. “I did plead your case, somewhat, but his mind is made up. Odd really.”

  “What is?”

  “He seemed happy enough with you, when last we talked,” Cromwell says. “Then, he is allowed a visit with his confined wife, and … well, it may be nothing, but …”

  “That cow!” Norfolk spits. “She seeks to put me aside for one of her favourites, now she is queen!”

  “Hardly that,” Thomas Cromwell replies. “Why, what reason would she have to do that? Although, Admiral Travis is quite friendly with her father, I hear.”

  “I will not have it.” Norfolk snaps. “I will see the king, at once.”

  “And tell him what?” Thomas Cromwell asks. “That your niece wants rid of you? Why, he might put you aside, just so she is not upset. The king is placing a lot on the coming birth.”

  “Then what should I do?” Norfolk asks. He is like a rudderless ship, ever since his confederate, Suffolk withdrew from court, claiming ill health.

  “Hold your peace.” Cromwell beckons to Rafe Sadler. “Let yourself be guided by Master Sadler. He has no love for the Boleyns, and will warn you, if anything more occurs. He will also let you know when it is time.”

  “Time?”

  “To strike, sir.” Cromwell says. “What else can you do when a poisonous snake comes at you? The head must be cut off.”

  “Have a care, Cromwell,” the duke says. “You speak of the queen.”

  “Do I?” Thomas Cromwell asks. “I speak only of protecting oneself from a dangerous creature.”

  “Of course.” Norfolk nods to Rafe. “Be my man then, Sadler, and I am grateful for it.”

  “Sir,” Rafe Sadler bows. “You do well to step aside. Henry means to provoke the French navy. If the fleet fights, and loses, there must be certain consequences. Heads will roll, if he loses, and if he wins… you can claim it is because of your prior good husbandry of the fleet.”

  “Clever fellow,” Norfolk says. “Come, we will speak more.”

  “Much, and often, sir,” Rafe says, as they stroll off, towards the gardens.

  “Are you still here, waiting to speak to the king, dear Eustace?” Thomas Cromwell asks his friend, as he leaves the council chamber.

  “I am, Thomas. I wish permission to visit the queen.”

  “The queen?” Cromwell raises an eyebrow. “She is abed, and with child, sir.”

  “The Dowager Princess of Wales then,” Eustace Chapuys replies. “The lady who many still think of as the rightful wife of King Henry. She is very unwell, and I fear for her life.”

  “Seriously, old friend?”

  “Since Arch Bishop Cranmer forced through the divorce, Katherine’s health has been declining. She spends most of her time in prayer, hoping the king will come to his senses.”

  “She prays for Queen Anne to die in childbirth, and for the baby to be stillborn.”

  “That is outrageous, Thomas,” Chapuys says. “How can you say such a thing?”

  “I have it written down. A detailed report from one of her ladies-in-waiting; that she does curse the queen, and prays for her death, daily.” Cromwell sighs. “I cannot allow her to spread her vile poison further a field. Nor can I allow you a private visit, at this time.”

  “What if…” The ambassador is thinking of the dangers of childbirth, and wishes to put forward a hypothesis.

  “Do not say it, Ambassador Chapuys!” Cromwell’s tone becomes sharp, and his face freezes into a stone like expression. “To even think it is treason. I would have to denounce you, and have you sent back to your emperor, in disgrace.”

  “Then I will not say it,” Chapuys tells his friend. “Though I wonder what outcome will suit you the best, old friend?”

  “I go with the tide, Eustace,” Cromwell answers. “For whatever happens, there are conseq
uences. I pray you, do not petition the king today. Flatter him, compare him favourably to a lion, and tell him a funny story.”

  “I do not understand English humour.” Chapuys knows when he is beaten, and shelves any hope of seeing Katherine in the near future.

  “Tell him the new one that Tom Wyatt is putting about.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Why about the fellow who asks Wyatt if he be as great a wit as folk make out. Tom Wyatt says he is, and can pun on any subject the fellow might name. Whereupon the man says ‘the king’ to Wyatt, and the poets smiles at him, and says… ‘but kind sir, the king is not a fit subject!’ It will have him roaring his head off.”

  “I do not understand,” Chapuys says. “The king is not a subject… he is the king.”

  “Just use the jest.” Cromwell moves off, hoping to catch Stephen Gardiner, the Archbishop of Winchester. They were once good friends, and he seeks to win him back. Gardiner, for his part, wishes to stay sitting on the fence.

  “Good day, Stephen.”

  “No, Master Cromwell,” Archbishop Gardiner says, as he attempts to sidestep his old friend. “I cannot see my way to coming down your road just yet.”

  “We all need friends, even the Archbishop of Winchester,” Cromwell replies. “If you must sit on your high fence, then let me caution you. Do not come down from it… ever … lest you land on the wrong side!”

  “Good day, Cromwell,” Gardiner says. He affects a slight bow, and moves off into the outer chambers.

  “Seeking allies, Thomas?” Archbishop Cranmer asks, as he comes out from the king. “Henry tells me that you, and that ass, George Boleyn, have fallen out over something. Can you not see your way to forgive him?”

  “Why not, for the king has.” Thomas Cromwell shakes his head, sadly. “He has his new wife now, Cranmer, and little need for us. We must shift for ourselves, lest we be swept away, like poor old Tom More.”

  “Was it not you who did for Sir Thomas More?” Cranmer asks, sarcastically.