Twilight of Queens: A Tudor Tragedy (Tudor Crimes Book 8)

by Anne Stevens

  “What is that?” the captain asks. “Who are you, fellow?”

  “Peter Yale,” comes the reply. “I am Master Cromwell’s agent in Calais.”

  “The devil you say!” the seaman curses. “Mistress Miriam left here a half hour since… with Master Cromwell’s agent.”

  “I assure you, sir, that I fulfil that role.”

  “Are there two of you then?”

  “Sir, what are you saying?” Peter Yale demands. “I am sole agent in Calais, for Thomas Cromwell. Where is my charge?”

  “Gone, sir,” The captain is ashen faced now, and does not know what to say for the best. “A young fellow came, claiming to be Cromwell’s man. Mistress Miriam went off with him!”

  “Sweet Christ, man!” Yale cannot believe his ears. “Then the lady has been taken by an impostor. How did they leave?”

  “On foot,” the captain replies. “Though the rogue claimed to have a coach waiting a street or two away, where the road widens, and is better cobbled. He even took her valise up onto his own back!”

  “I must report to the Governor,” Yale snaps. “He must raise the soldiery, and close the city gates.”

  “Too late, I fear,” Miriam’s captain says. “I am returning on the next tide, and will send messages to Master Cromwell, and to Colonel Draper too. By God, but they will have our heads for this days work!”

  “I do not understand,” Peter Yale asks. “Why would anyone wish to kidnap Will Draper’s wife?”

  The clothes are authentically worn, and smell of every ingredient in a kitchen. Cromwell is as alike to his cook as possible, and he has even adopted the fellow’s shambling gait. He lumbers from the boat, as it lands at the jetty, and sets off up the lawn, to Utopia’s once grand entrance. Margaret is waiting for him, and opens the door, at once.

  “Ah, Master Oakley, I see you have our victuals,” she says, and ushers Cromwell into the great hall, which lacks a good fire, and is bitterly cold.

  “What is it?” Sir Thomas More says, starting up from a doze. The book on his knee slides to the floor with a soft thud.

  “Christ’s Thunder, but it is cold in here, Tom,” Cromwell growls. “Surely, you have enough chopped wood, do you not?”

  “Cromwell, is that you?” More says, rubbing at his sleep hooded eyes. “Has Anne Boleyn sent you to murder me now, to save the expense of a long trial?”

  “Hush, man,” Thomas Cromwell replies. “Where will my lawyers fees come from if there is no grand show trial? A man of my worth is paid by the hour, these days. We must make your court proceedings last as long as we can.”

  “Margaret, how could you let…”

  “Leave the girl alone. Her only crime is to love you too much, you miserable old fool.” Cromwell sits, unbidden. “I come to discuss our defence.”

  “Our defence?”

  “If the Boleyn woman brings you down, how long will it be before she wants my head?” Thomas Cromwell asks. “Your star is allied to mine, sir, and we stand or fall together, I fear. They will send Archbishop Fisher against you first. You must refuse to discuss the oath with him, Tom.”

  “Ah, do I perceive a strategy then, Cromwell?”

  “You do, if you let me stay a while.”

  “I have nothing to offer you.”

  “I have brought it with me, old man,” Thomas Cromwell tells him. “Fresh bread, a pie, and some ale. Let Meg serve it up, whilst we speak… please. For friendship sake.”

  “For old friendship’s sake.” More is pedantic, and does not wish Cromwell to think he still loves him as a friend. “A few minutes will not hurt, I suppose.”

  “After Cranmer has failed, they will send some clever young fellow, who will try to lie you into submission. They will say that you need only write down your acceptance, or pen the reasons for your refusal. Do not give them any.”

  “Then I am to stand on my refusal, and not offer any reasons?”

  “Yes.” Cromwell sees the light of reason flicker across his friend’s eyes, then die.

  “It will not work,” More tells him. “They will simply legislate around the difficulty.”

  “I know, but it will give us valuable time.”

  “For what?” Despite his reservations, Sir Thomas More is interested in what Cromwell has to propose. As a student, he used to throw the young Cromwell a coin, now and then, and marvel at his clever repartee.

  “To work on the king, and against the queen,” Thomas Cromwell tells his old friend. “After all else is tried, they will take you to the Tower of London, and try to terrify you into taking the oath.”

  “I think I can stand a little pain before I die,“ More says. “Besides, they will not want to look bad in the eyes of Europe. Henry is a thin skinned soul, and hates to be criticised.”

  “They will lock you up, and demand that you either sign, or give your reasons for refusal. You must refuse to say what it is you object to. Simply refuse.”

  “It might give us a few months, I suppose,” More says, “but the fact remains, I will not take the oath. You, and all of your lawyers have done far too good a job of things. I have dissected every word, a thousand times over, and there is not even a chink of light to give me hope.”

  “I know, but if Queen Anne were to … fall from grace … the king might forget to press the oath on you, and those of a like mind.” Cromwell hopes this chance will enervate his old friend, and give him the strength to carry on the fight.

  “It is a slim chance.” More does not seem convinced.

  “Take it, for Meg’s sake,” Cromwell tells him.

  “At the last, I am willing to die for my beliefs, Thomas Cromwell.”

  “And I am willing to live for mine, dear friend.” Cromwell can say no more. It is now down to Sir Thomas More’s cleverness of wit, and the vagaries of time. He adopts his shuffling gait again, and starts to leave.

  “Thomas.”

  “Yes?” Cromwell says, from the door.

  “I knew it was you, at once.” More sighs. “Take care, my friend, for you hold your own life dearer than I do mine.”

  “If I fall,” Cromwell replies, “then, like it or not, everyone will go with me. I pray to God that day never dawns!”

  Captain Jake Timmins goes straight to the castle, the moment he lands back at Dover, and reports to the Warden of the Castle, who sends a fast galloper to London. The man delivers his news to Austin Friars first, then goes on to see who else will drop him a coin for what he knows.

  By chance, he is relaying the news to the Duke of Norfolk, when Charles Brandon, who is back in favour at court once more, overhears. Despite being under a cloud with Cromwell and his faction, he considers Will Draper to be an honourable man, who has helped him in the past, and he resolves to have him told of Miriam’s disappearance as soon as he can. He seeks out one who knows most things in court, and approaches him, with some trepidation.

  “Doctor Theophrasus… a word, if you please,” the Duke of Suffolk whispers to the big, olive skinned man, dressed in the soft, black gown of the medical profession. The venerable old man pauses, on his way to the throne room, and casts Brandon an interrogative glance.

  “Do you ail, My Lord?” Adolphus Theophrasus asks, with a slight smile playing about his lips. Lord Suffolk can cure himself in a moment, by stopping all of his drinking, and staying up all night gambling and whoring about the city.

  “Not I, sir,” Brandon replies, rather stiffly. “It is just that I seek Colonel Will Draper, and know you are close to him.”

  “I am quite close to the whole Draper family,” the doctor says, carefully. Adolphus Theophrasus is part Greek on his Athenian father’s side, and part Hebron Jewish, through his mother. This manifests itself by giving him an olive skinned, and exotic appearance; ideal for his chosen profession, where patients choose a doctor for his ostentation, and mystical looks, rather than any innate medical skill he might possess.

  He is a man of some wealth, these days, ever since he and Will Draper were able to save the
old queen from poisoning. He now has a medical practice, situated in a small, but lavishly furnished house close to Whitehall. The doctor is much sought after by those rich idlers who enjoy following the latest trends in medicine. Some, but only behind his back, call him a quack, whilst others claim he is the greatest anatomist since Leonardo Da Vinci, who learned his trade on the bloody battle fields of Italy.

  The Lord Chancellor’s office are mindful of his heritage, and would like to expel him from England, on the grounds that he has Jewish blood in his veins, but find they cannot. Apart from now being a physician to the royal household, it seems that, on further enquiry, the good doctor’s closest blood relatives are from a small town in the depths of rural Cornwall; a fact attested to, and confirmed by documents uncovered by some of Thomas Cromwell’s people. They are clever forgeries, of course, but of such a fine quality that they surpass the originals in many ways.

  “I have news of Miriam.”

  “Does she need a doctor, so soon?”

  “She has been stolen away, sir,” Brandon says. “Will needs to know, but he is shunning me, at the moment.”

  “Do you wonder?” Theophrasus growls. “The girl is kidnaped?”

  “In Calais.”

  “Then we must act,” the old doctor says, firmly. “You must put aside your petty differences, and find Mush. Have him round up some able fellows, and take a cog across the Channel at once. In this way, we will have men on site. I will attend to the king, and then send out to find Colonel Draper. Are you up to that, sir?”

  “You ask if I am sober enough,” Brandon tells him, and drops his head in shame. “I shall do as you ask, and will not touch another drop, until Mistress Miriam is brought safely home again.”

  “I find myself to be irrefutably English, thanks to Master Cromwell,” the doctor tells Suffolk. “A Cornishman, in fact. This means I can hold my wealth in London. So, tell me, young man, are they going to ask for a ransom?”

  “God alone knows,” Suffolk replies. “The Drapers are worth many thousands, I hear, but why take her captive abroad?”

  “To elude Master Cromwell’s long reach?” The doctor shrugs. “Now, be off about your business, My Lord Suffolk, and I will tend to that which is my portion.”

  3 Amongst the Beasts

  Hertford is a pleasant enough little town, with a commanding, stone built, Norman castle, and a twelfth century priory, which is still fighting, forlornly, to remain within the Roman Catholic faith. It is overseen by a council of twelve burgesses, who employ a bailiff, and rely on the local County Sherriff to administer justice.

  Sir Walter Beasley has come to his higher office late in life, and finds anything other than petty thievery, and drunken brawling, to be beyond his abilities. It is this fear of his own inability which drives him to call on an old acquaintance for help.

  “You sent no word of your coming, Colonel Draper!” The garrulous older man bustles forward, and holds out a welcoming hand to the younger man. “Are you alone?”

  “I am, Sir Walter.” Will’s companion, John Beckshaw is entering the town by another road, and is going to spend a few shillings in Hertford’s various inns and taverns. This unofficial approach often loosens tongues, and provides otherwise concealed facts, and snippets of gossip. “Might you tell me all that you know, so far?”

  “A beast is abroad,” Sir Walter states.

  “Facts, sir?” Will asks.

  “A month ago, a sheep was found on the heath, with its throat ripped open, and its body dismembered, as if some great animal had torn away the flesh,” Sir Walter reports. “I was sent for, and saw the terrible sight with my own two eyes. I set a patrol on the heath, for the next week, but the beast never returned.”

  “Then came a second attack?” Will guesses.

  “Horrible. An animal from the same flock as before. Gabriel Haddow owns many of the flocks about here. He called me in, and I can honestly say that I have never seen such a brutal slaying. The head was severed, and huge portions of the carcase ripped off, as if by sharp teeth.”

  “You investigated, of course,” Will says. “What did you find?”

  “A couple of paw prints in a patch of muddier ground. Each one as big as a man’s fist.” Sir Walter shudders at the thought. “I had called off my men, but the night before, and kick myself for my impatience. Had they stayed abroad, the beast would have been seen… even hunted and killed.”

  “I doubt it,” Will tells the Sherriff. “I have hunted wolves in Ireland, and they are a shy breed. They can be seen, only when there are none to see them.”

  “True.” Sir Walter frowns, and thinks what he might suggest next, but Colonel Will Draper is ahead of him.

  “We must post more men at night,” he says. “During the day, we can organise a hunt. The local burgesses, and the nobility will love a chance to scour the heath, from end to end.”

  “You have the king’s authority, Will,” Sir Walter replies, happy that someone else is ready to take the blame. “Tell me what to do, and it shall be done.”

  “Master Sherriff!” A boy, about eleven years of age is in the open door, and hopping from foot to foot.

  “A moment, child.”

  “But, sir!” The boy cannot be denied. “The beast has come again, in the night.”

  “But there were two men patrolling the whole heath,” Beasley says. “Tad Blake, and Gabriel Haddow. Did they see nothing?”

  “Tad was off abed with a whore,” the boy explains, “and it was left to Master Haddow to face the beast!”

  “Gabriel Haddow faced the beast?” Sir Walter feels a flood of relief. “Thank God, for he is a goodly huntsman.”

  “It ate him, sir.” The boy relishes the effect of the news on the two gentlemen. “Tore him apart. We found the head in one place, and an arm in another. Master Haddow is half devoured, and his horse has claw marks ripped down one flank.”

  “Where about, lad?”

  “The northern end of the heath, sir,” the boy replies, pointing vaguely to his left. “Half of the local men are guarding the body, with scythes and daggers, but Bill Abbot, the farrier, says the creature will have magical strength, and might even be able to fly through the sky … or disappear.”

  “I once came upon a vicious, hungry wolf,” Will Draper says, then pauses for dramatic effect. “Its pelt made me a fine saddle lining, and stopped my arse from aching. Whatever it is, my sword, or my pistol will stop it. Now, take us to the place where this murder has taken place.”

  “Murder?” Sir Walter is puzzled at Will’s remark. “How so?”

  “If a beast causes the death of a man, it must be killed,” Will explains. “In Halifax, some years ago, a pig was tried, and hanged, after trampling its old master to death in the sty.”

  “Then must we have a jury of twelve cows, or a panel of clever sheep?”

  “We need not go so far,” Will tells the Sherriff. “Let us first establish the facts of this case, shall we?”

  “I have a mind to spend the rest of my days here,” Mush says. Lady Mary Boleyn is naked, and lies in the crook of his arm. “Is that to your liking?” Mary kisses him, and simpers into his olive skinned chest.

  “Forever… or until I grow too old for you,” she says.

  “I do not notice the years,” Mush tells her.

  “No? I am far too old for you, my love.” She kisses him again. “One day, you will ride away, and never look back.”

  “Until then, I am yours,” the young man tells her. “The new steward starts today, and I have warned everyone within riding distance, that you are under the protection of Thomas Cromwell, and that I am his agent. Upset you, and I will visit swift retribution on them.”

  “Listen, I can hear a rider,” Mary says, trying to rise. Will pulls her back down, and runs his hands over her firm, naked body.

  “It is just a rider,” he says. “keep warm, and I will see the fellow on his way. Mush crosses, quite naked, to the window, and throws it open.

  “A sight
for sore eyes!” The lone rider calls up from the back of his horse. “This will make a pretty tale, around the breakfast table, at Austin Friars!”

  “Barnaby Fowler, how come you to be here?” Mush reaches for some clothes.

  “The court gossips,” Barnaby replies. “The tale of you fleecing the Duke of Surrey, and demanding this particular estate is all about. It is a wonder queen Anne is not already signing your death warrant!”

  “Very funny,” Mush says. “Now, what is so important that you…”

  “It is Miriam, my friend,” Barnaby says.

  “She is in Calais.”

  “She is taken, Mush,” Barnaby Fowler tells his friend. “Some trickster lured her away from the boat, and she is taken. Lord Suffolk fears a ransom demand will come. Some of us are crossing the Channel later today, and I come to see if you will join us.”

  “How many are we?” Mush is almost dressed, and is busy concealing his throwing knives about his person.

  “Me, Richard Cromwell, Suffolk, you, and Tom Wyatt.” Barnaby Fowler confirms. “Doctor Theophrasus thinks they might be foreigners, and wish to negotiate on their own territory. Which is why Tom Wyatt demands to be invited. He speaks French, the Flemish dialects, Italian, and Latin.”

  “Saddle my horse,” Mush cries. “I will be down in a moment.” He crosses to the bed, where Mary has turned her back to him, lest he sees her tears. “I must go, my dearest one,” he says to her bare back. She does not answer, and he runs from the room.

  Ever since being told she was the king’s plaything, men have taken their pleasure, and then left her. Her life has slid, remorselessly down into ruin, until Mush. He is like a hero from the tales of King Arthur, but he is as flawed as they. Within each man is a beast, and a woman can only pray it remains hidden from her.

  It is only when she hears the sound of a second horse, and the gabble of men making plans that she climbs from the bed. She watches from the window, as the two comrades gallop away, towards the Dover road. She watches until they quite disappear from view, and she wipes a hand across her eyes.