by Anne Stevens
“Then I would be foolish to play you, Thomas,” Henry says, warily. He has an unswerving belief in the innate cleverness of his blacksmith’s boy, and senses that he is telling the truth. “I shall sit out the early hands, and admire how you two play.”
“As you wish, sire,” Sir Paul says. The Earl of Wiltshire, and his son, George Boleyn are listening, and draw near, hoping to see Cromwell shown up. “What shall we play, Master Cromwell?”
“As I know no games, might we not simply draw cards, and the highest wins?”
“If you wish.”
“Check his sleeves, Paul,” George Boleyn sneers. “The scoundrel might have a …”
“Leave the room!” Henry is close to having enough of Thomas Boleyn’s idiot son, and cannot let his insult to Cromwell pass unchallenged. “You dare offend Master Cromwell … and in my presence!”
“Pray, let him stay, sire,” Cromwell says. He pushes back both sleeves, and displays his exposed forearms for all to see. “For, as I have said, I cannot lose. Here, I have a purse, sir. Will you count the contents?”
“I am a gentleman,” Charnley says. “I do not need to display my worth, for my word is quite enough. Leave that purse in sight, fellow, and we shall soon lighten it.”
“And the stakes, Sir Paul?” Cromwell asks.
“A pound a turn?” The young man usually plays for the customary shilling a turn, but wishes to frighten his opponent with a stiff wager.
“Ten.” Cromwell states the amount with cold deliberation.
“Twenty, if you like.” The words are out before Sir Paul can stop his foolish mouth, and he must abide by them.
“Or fifty?” Henry puts in, as he begins to enjoy the jest. He loves a game of chance, yet does not understand the subtleties of gambling. There is not a man alive who would wager so much money on the turn of a single card.
“Why not make it a round hundred?” Thomas Cromwell says, his face as calm, and unmoved as if he were discussing the weather, or the price of wool. Sir Paul Charnley’s heart misses a beat. A hundred pounds can keep a gentleman for twelve months. To wager such a huge amount on the turn of a single card is unheard of, but he has a certain dexterity with the deck, and trusts to his own cleverness at dealing.
“A hundred it shall be,” he says, nodding to George Boleyn, who returns the action. It is a tacit agreement to back him, should things not go well, which George is happy to make. His friend can slide a card from the bottom of the deck with practiced ease, and they have won many a wager by the trick.
“Excellent,” Thomas Cromwell says. “Now, we must have a fair umpire. Who better than the king? Sire, will you turn the cards for us?”
“At your service,” Henry says. He takes the deck, from a dumbstruck Sir Paul, and gives them a rough shuffle. “King shall be high card. Let each man know that the highest card wins. I shall deal to Sir Paul first, then to Master Cromwell. Is that understood?”
“And His Majesty’s word is final?” Cromwell knows that none might contradict him. “Then, for a hundred pounds… sire?”
Henry flips over one of the painted pieces of card, and drops it in front of Sir Paul. “Eight.” Henry mutters. He turns a five over for Cromwell, and there is a polite ripple of applause from the small crowd of watchers. Charley has won a hundred pounds, and Henry is perturbed. Cromwell is infallible, and boasts that he cannot possibly lose. George Boleyn slaps his friend on the back.
“That has shown the upstart!” he announces.
“Again?” Cromwell asks, and the small crowd of courtiers gasp, in unison.
“If you wish.” Charnley is no fool. He is already a hundred up, and can only lose the same back. The king grins, and turns over a four for Sir Paul, who curses, then smiles, as Thomas Cromwell is given a three.
“Ah, I see I am improving,” Cromwell says. “Next, we shall tie, and then I shall start winning.”
“As you say,” Charnley replies. “Again then?”
“Again.”
“Thomas…” Henry frowns. “Enough, my friend.”
“Oh, if Sir Paul wishes to run away… then I shall let him.”
“How dare you!” the man almost stands, but is conscious that any violence in Henry’s presence is forbidden. “Turn again, sire!”
“Queen,” Henry says, as he flips the next card. Cromwell closes his eyes, and smiles, as a nine is placed in front of him.
“Thomas, I think…” Henry’s eyes implore his councillor to stop. Some men draw bad luck to them, and this now seems to be the case with Cromwell.
“Sire, I cannot lose,” Cromwell says, stubbornly. “Let us make it two hundred on the next turn.”
The cards land, and Cromwell’s seven is beaten by Charnley’s painted king. The man is five hundred up, and smiling at his great fortune. The watchers think that the king’s favourite councillor is mad, and many of them smile at his obvious undoing by a better card player.
“Let us say five hundred pounds, on the next turn,” Cromwell says. His eyes are slightly glazed, and his top lip seems to tremble, ever so slightly. Charnley glances to George Boleyn, who returns his gaze with a blank, noncommittal look. Poor George, his friend thinks, have you so little courage? Sir Paul nods his acceptance of the wager.
“Ten of Hearts,” Henry says. He pauses, as if unwilling to turn again. He sweeps the next card from the deck, and throws it down, face up.
“Five!” Charnley cries, unable to believe his fortune. “That is a thousand pounds you are down, Cromwell. Enough?”
“Again.” The room falls silent. “There is a purse of one thousand pounds on the table, sir. Match it, and we shall carry on.”
“Why should I?”
“It is a matter of honour, sir,” Cromwell says. “When King Henry couched his lance, and charged twenty thousand Frenchmen, who was first to break?”
“By God, yes!” Henry’s blood is roused at the false memory of his brave charge. He forgets that he was hemmed in by five thousand of the best troops in England, and facing an ill trained rabble, ready to run at the first sign of battle. “I went at them, and never flinched. It is a matter of honour, Sir Paul. Honour!”
“I shall not back down, sire,” he replies, unable to get out of it. “Pray, turn the cards.”
“Queen,” Henry says, glumly, then flips over Thomas Cromwell’s painted card. “Great Christ above … a king!” he cries.
“Ah, then we are even again, Cromwell says. “Another thousand wager, Sir Paul?”
“What?”
“Remember how our own, dear King Hal swept the field clear of Frenchmen?” Thomas Cromwell mutters.
“Damn you, Cromwell… you doubt my nerve?”
“No, sir, only your good judgement.”
“Turn!” Charnley demands, forgetting his manners, and to whom he is speaking. Henry looks from one to the other of the players, and licks his lips. His fingers are damp, and the cards slip across his fingers. He turns the top card over, and there is a sigh of relief, as a king appears. The king sighs, and turns the next card over for Cromwell. It is another king. The hand is void.
“Turn again, if you please, sire” Cromwell mutters to the king. Henry nods, and deals Charnley a ten of spades. The next card is flipped over, and smiles up at Cromwell.
“Why, sire, it is your own dear queen, for she is festooned with hearts!”
“Oh, Christ!” Sir Paul Charnley is horrified. He has, in the space of a quarter hour, lost a thousand pounds.
“Again?” Thomas Cromwell asks, then smiles, shaking his head. “I cannot be so cruel, sir. Pray, go and lick your wounds.”
“After you have paid Master Cromwell his thousand,” Henry says. “It is my rule, gentlemen. I never allow gambling debts to remain unpaid, lest it causes greater ill feeling.”
“I have no ill feeling for Sir Paul,” Cromwell says. “After all, he was kind enough to let me play on credit.”
“But you placed a purse on the table,” Henry says.
“Your Majesty
instructed me to make a treasury loan to Sir Paul, after George Boleyn petitioned you to help him. I was here to hand over the sum to him, and obtain his signature on the loan. You must have heard me tell him I had a purse, but he bade me leave it on the table.”
“Then that money is mine!” Charnley curses.
“It was, sir,” Cromwell says. “You gambled it away. Surely, you must know that I would never have let you stop, until one card favoured me? The worst that could happen was for me to break even with you, and the best … that I won the last hand.”
“But you might have lost,” Henry says.
“In which case, I would have kept playing, until I won.” Cromwell explains. “Once it became a matter of his honour, I could not lose. He was lucky that I won so early on. Had we gone on another five hands, he would owe me … sixty four thousand pounds.”
“Then you sat down without any stake money?” Henry asks, his face creasing into a smile.
“Am I not a gentleman, sire?” Cromwell replies, with a rye smile on his lips “Is not my word good enough?”
“Then that coxcomb still owes me a thousand pounds,” the king realises. “What a jest on the Boleyns. They make me lend, then it is lost … to my finest minister.”
“Who owes you your commission, sire,” Thomas Cromwell says. “Shall we say a hundred, for your excellent umpiring skills, Your Majesty, or shall we turn a card?”
“What, and let you steal my kingdom?” Henry roars out laughing, but he sees that his minister has taught him a valuable lesson, about when to gamble, and when to stop. “Have we any news? I am still bored.”
“The Portuguese envoy is in London. They wish to sign a full treaty with us, at once. I believe it will be on very favourable terms to us, sire.”
“How so?” Henry is confused. “I thought the French had their trotters in that particular trough?”
“It seems not, sire,” Cromwell says. “It seems that the French launched an unprovoked attack on the Portuguese port, at Tangiers. They bombarded the city walls, then sailed away.”
“Damn it, I thought that admiral Travis was supposed to be keeping the French locked up in their own harbours.”
“He is, sire,” Cromwell explains. “One third of the fleet is in safe harbour, being refitted, and one third is cruising the Channel, daring the French to show their noses.”
“And the last third?”
“With Admiral Travis, sire. On their way back from an overseas mission.”
“Oh, where?” The king is intrigued, and wonders which far flung spice island has been raided, and whether he is any the richer for it.
“Why, did I not mention it earlier, sire?” Thomas Cromwell says, in a melodramatic stage whisper. “Tangiers.”
“You clever dog, Thomas,” Henry mutters. “You use my navy like a diplomatic tool, rather than a weapon. What about the Spanish? Did not their fleet wish to contest Admiral Travis’ safe passage to the Barbary coast?”
“Apparently not,” Cromwell says, with a wink. “They received a secret letter from their ambassador, stating that you had authorised a fleet to sail to the Americas, and ravage it, from end to end.”
“What, little Chapuys told them that?” Henry asks. “What on earth for?”
“It seems he saw a certain document, on my desk… and misconstrued it. Poor fellow.”
“By God, Thomas, we must put the sainted fool on a nice pension,” Henry says. “For he is worth a dozen men o’war!”
7 The Mouser
“You do not need my permission, lad.” Will Draper is cleaning the barrels and firing pans of his pistols, for the tenth time since he arrived in Calais. His sword, taken in battle, from an Irish High Chieftain, is in the fortress’ forge, being re-edged for him. “It is for you to decide if you are ready for marriage.”
“Pru is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen,” John Beckshaw gushes. “I knew, the moment I…” He stops boasting about his new love, as he realises how much Will must be hurting.
“Then good luck to you, John.” Will says. “I cannot give you a raise in pay, but you must stay at Draper’s House, for as long as you need.”
“We will both return, with our ladies, sir… when Hell freezes over. I cannot help but wonder at the prophesy.” John turns, and gestures out of the low arrow slit window. “Three cogs are in harbour, full of munitions, and food rations. We have brought a company of Lord Suffolk’s own soldiery, armed with pikes, and thirty of Master Cromwell’s rogues. They have the best muskets he could buy. With the volunteers from the fortress guards, and those friends you have here, we number a hundred and twenty.”
“No horses?”
“The doctor says he has agents scouring the Calaisis area, buying up anything with four legs. They will be here by morning.”
“Another day gone,” Will mutters.
“Haste is the enemy of success, my father used to say,” John smiles and slaps his commander on the shoulder. “We do not yet know where the enemy lies, but when the time comes, we must have enough force to win the day.”
“It is like San Gemini, all over again,” Will muses. We fooled Malatesta Baglioni into thinking a huge Venetian army was about to attack him in Perugia, and drew him out of the city.”
“And you met him at San Gemini?”
“Yes. A small, hilltop commune, ringed with walls of Umbrian stone.” Will Draper recalls the smell of gunpowder, and the screams of dying men. They had held the walls against the odds, until a relief force arrived, then joined in the final battle. “We won the day, and captured the greatest condottiero of all … Malatesta Baglioni. I thought that would be the end of it.”
“Did you not think to ransom him?” the level headed Yorkshire man asks. “The pope would have paid good money for his warlord back.”
“That might have been the best solution, but a girl, Pippa Micheletto had sworn vendetta against him. She poisoned the man, right in front of me, and I did not realise, until it was too late. Father Ignatius gave him the last rites.”
“And now, he is here, claiming to be the sworn enemy of this new Baglioni.”
“Cardinal Angelo Baglioni is no condottiero, but if he is half the man his brother was, we are in for a bad time of it,” Will concludes. “How are you with a sword?”
“I used to use a scythe, as a lad,” John replies. “I have drawn the sword you loaned me twice, but I do not know how to use it effectively.”
“Then we must get you on the tilting ground,” Will Draper decides. “For once you have fired off your pistols, a sword may mean the difference between life and death. A few hours training with Tom Wyatt, and Mush, will sharpen you up.”
“You seek to make a soldier out of me, in a few hours,” John says. “I shall do my best, sir.”
“I have soldiers,” Will replies. “They will line up, and advance, with pikes held out, and with a line of muskets behind them. What I need, is for you to become a killer of men. I know you can do it, because you killed the men who came to burn my house down, but I want you to do it without a thought.”
“I will not let you down.”
“Tom will show you how to parry a thrust, and cleave another man’s blade from his hand, but Mush will show you how to kill.” Will Draper paces the room again, for the hundredth time. He is impatient to be about the business at hand, and wishes that the cardinal would make a move.
“We will have our day, master,” John Beckshaw says. “Your friend, Thomas Cromwell bids me tell you that Stephen Vaughan is on the scent, and that he is the best mouser he has.”
“Master Thomas jests. Having Stephen Vaughan sniff out an enemy is like setting a cat after a mouse. He is a good diplomat, and an even better spy. He speaks the language like a native, and will go where others fear to tread.” Will is reassured. His friends are doing all they can for Miriam, and she will be found, no matter what.
“Goat’s piss!” Stephen Vaughan spits out the wine, and bangs the cup down on the inn table. “What has a man to do to ge
t a decent drink in this stinking town?”
“Your French is good,” a broad, bearded man says, sitting down opposite him.
“I’m Flemish,” Vaughan lies to the Frenchman. In Antwerp, he excuses himself as being French, and thus, his slight accent is accepted by all. “Can you not tell from the fine cut of my doublet and sleeves, fellow? You French … you are so unfashionable.”
“And our wine tastes of piss,” the man scoffs. “You Flemings are always so much better dressed, or have better wine, or prettier women.”
“Not so,” Stephen Vaughan replies. “French girls are quite delightful. It is the men who are damned ugly.”
“You sound as though you are spoiling for a fight, sir.” The big man shifts his weight, and rests a hand, casually, on the handle of his dagger.
“I am,” Vaughan replies, “but not for nothing, Frenchman. I am a trained man, and never draw a blade, unless there is a purse on offer.”
“You are a mercenary?” The Frenchman asks, suddenly interested in this man with a funny French accent.
“I am. I have fought for the Pope against the Venetians, for the Venetians against the Lombards, and for the Lombards against the Spanish. The only buggers I have not fought against, are the French. I have lately been to Savoy, but the threatened war with you lot has turned into so much hot air. I hate these bloody do gooder fellows, who preach peace, and let honest soldiers starve.”
“What brings you to Amiens then?” the man asks, scratching at his matted beard. “There are no wars here abouts.”
“I thought I might return to Antwerp, or chance my arm in Bruges. The emperor always has need of good men.”
“I hear he pays badly,” the Frenchman sneers. “He owns a whole new world, full of gold, and spends it all on the church.”
“Then I should become a priest,” Vaughan replies, crossing himself. “I drink, fight, and chase whores, so should make a fine man of Holy Mother Church.”
“Speak softly, friend,” the big man councils. “Amiens is a priest ridden city, and your jests can bring the inquisition down on us both. My name is Pierre, friend. What do you call yourself?”