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

by Anne Stevens

  The two volleys are enough to cut down almost every heavily armoured knight. The midday air is rent with the horrible screams of dying horses, and dismembered men. Those not killed by the canon, are plunged into the shallow stream’s icy cold waters, where their heavy armour drags them beneath the surface. In the space of minutes, as many drown, as are killed by the murderous chain shot.

  The cataclysm is so swift, that Cardinal Baglioni leading the second, more hectic, charge, has no time to slow his advance, or even swerve away from the mayhem. Four hundred mounted men plough into the bloody carnage, and find themselves being unhorsed, or their mounts brought down, as they trip over some unidentifiable carcass, or mutilated body.

  “Muskets … take aim… give fire!” Mush commands, and a ragged volley of musketry is sent into the slowing mêlée of attackers. More of the cardinal’s men, but fewer, this time, tumble from their horses, as the heavy lead musket shot hits home. Captain Paulio sees that only by pressing home the attack can they win the day. The professional soldier of fortune screams out his orders, and the well disciplined men who are still mounted, press on. Almost three hundred men burst clear of the scene of carnage, and launch themselves up the slight incline, intent on braking their enemy’s thin line of defences.

  Tom Wyatt’s men have reloaded first, and send another three rounds of chain shot ripping into Cardinal Baglioni’s advancing right flank. This is followed by another blast from the right wing, and dozens more men and horses are obliterated. After this second battering, Baglioni’s army grind to a halt, and try to draw breath. They have lost a third of their strength, and are yet to close with the Englishmen.

  “Pikes.. advance!” Will Draper cries, and the mixed bag of Swiss and English pike-men lower their twelve foot weapons, and begin to march forward. Unarmoured cavalry, Will knows, cannot face such an attack, as the horses will swerve away from the sharp points. The remainder of the enemy, see the glistening line of deadly pike heads, and do all that is left for them to do. They split apart, into two unequal groups, and try to gallop around the menacing pike thrusts.

  “Charge, lads!” Richard Cromwell yells, as he sees the enemy line break. As one, every mounted man in Will Draper’s tiny command gallops into the attack. Will spurs his own mount forward, and rides straight for where the purple clad cardinal is. Angelo Baglioni is stunned into inaction, as he sees his army disintegrate all about him, and does not see the harbinger of his own death, who rides at him with murderous intent.

  Richard rides into a knot of the enemy cavalry, and begins slashing about him with a huge war axe, whilst Mush leads his men at any who seem willing to stand their ground. Baglioni’s men are professional soldiers, and they do not consider flight, except as a last resort. Run, and you risk being cut down from behind, they think, so they stand fast, and they die well, until the English see they have won, and offer quarter.

  “Lay down your arms, and you shall have your lives!” Richard shouts, over the clash of steel on steel. Many of the cardinal’s hired soldiers throw down their arms, but as many more, believing they fight for the Holy See in Rome, fight on. Tom Wyatt’s canon are silent now, and he, and his gunners snatch up whatever weapons they favour, and wade into the fray. Though still outnumbering their English enemies, the paid mercenaries have had enough. Those driven by their faith see a priest amongst the enemy, and begin to doubt their cause. It is only when they see Captain Paulio lead the cardinal from the field, that they start to throw down their swords, and beg for quarter.

  Will Draper gives chase, as Baglioni gallops away, protected by a few men of his personal bodyguard. The Englishman ducks under a swipe from a mounted man, and runs his sword under his arm. The man screams, and topples from his horse. Will touches his heels to the flanks of his own mount, and gallops towards the fleeing cardinal. A second man charges at him, and Will leans away from the well aimed sword slash. He twists in the saddle, and returns the compliment with a fierce backhanded stroke, that sends his attacker crashing from his mount, with his back sliced open.

  Will pulls the horse’s head back around, and scours the field of conflict. The cardinal is about a hundred strides distant, and he urges his own mount to flight. Will kicks his horse’s flank, and trots after the fleeing man.

  “Running away, Baglioni?” Will cries, over the lessening din of battle. “Your army is broken, just as I smashed Malatesta’s forces at San Gemini. Surrender to me now, and I will grant you quarter, despite your evil deeds.”

  “And hang me from a tree later, Draper?” Angelo Baglioni sneers. “I have sworn vendetta against you, and it must be to the death.”

  “Then climb down from your horse, and let us finish this, here and now.”

  “You would kill a cardinal?” Baglioni asks. “Do you not fear the retribution of God?”

  “Not your god, Baglioni,” Will calls back. “What are you, but the bastard son of a Paduan bandit? Your brother was a better soldier than you, and, for all his evil doing, he did not run away from me. You are a coward, Cardinal Baglioni.”

  “Kill him!” Angelo Baglioni orders, and Captain Paulio obeys, without hesitation. He hands the cardinal his own reigns back, and draws his sword. It is a heavy cavalry sabre, designed to slash, and cut, from horseback. Will tightens his grip on his own trusty German-made blade, and nods at the big Italian mercenary.

  “You have fought well today, my friend. Surrender, and you will be given honourable quarter,” he calls. In answer Paulio swears at him, in Italian, and spurs his horse into a gallop. Will kicks his heels, and his own, smaller mount leaps forward. The Italian leans to the left, and delivers an expert cut with his blade, but Will Draper sways away, and they pass one another, without harm.

  Paulio drags his mount around in a tight semi circle, and comes racing back. Will charges, and waits for the next swing. The Italian reverses his tactics, and, leaning to the right, attempts to run the point of his sabre into Will’s throat. The Englishman catches the man’s point with his own, and lets it run up, and over his right shoulder. They are almost past one another again, when Will Draper delivers a swift backhanded swipe, which rips through the mercenary’s leather jerkin, and slashes open a shallow wound in the man’s back.

  Paulio turns, and feels the searing pain. He knows that he is losing blood, and that he has one last chance of victory. Throwing caution to the wind, he rides straight at Will, and sends his mount crashing into his. Both men tumble to the hard ground, roll apart, and leap to their feet. The Englishman loses his grip on the fine German sword, and it falls, several feet from where he lands. Paulio sees that he has the advantage now, and lunges at Will. He is a fraction too late with the thrust, and Will Draper is able to step inside his guard, and duck away. He darts to one side, and forward rolls as the Italian cuts at him again. He hit’s the ground, and comes up, with his sword in hand, just as Captain Paulio closes in on him, his blade poised for the death blow.

  Will manages to bring his own blade up, to block the savage downward cut, and deflects his enemy’s blow. He performs a neat half turn, allows the unbalanced man a moment to pass him, then flicks the tip of his sword up at the man’s face. He screams in pain, and staggers back, with his left eyebrow split open. The Englishman sees the rage in his opponent’s eyes, and knows the moment is here. The big Italian lunges, wildly, and Will stabs at him, with considered calm. The point of the fine German sword catches the man under his chin, and goes up, into the mouth.

  Captain Paulio staggers back, and falls to one knee. He drops his sword, at last, and raises a hand, begging quarter. Will brushes past the badly wounded man, and leaps back onto his mount. The renegade cardinal has dug in his heels, and is galloping back towards the safety of Amiens. Will chases, and is within fifty yards of his quarry, when a party of French soldiers ride from the city’s gate, and gallop towards them. Will curses, and draws to a halt. The cardinal rides up to the rescuers, and blesses them. Then he turns, and waves at Will Draper.

  “I live to carry on
my vendetta, Colonel Draper,” he calls from safety. “I swear, none of your family will escape, as long as I draw br…”

  The boast is cut off, mid sentence, and the cardinal clutches at his chest. A slow, red stain spreads out from his fingers. He looks up, and past Will, before sliding from the saddle. Will turns in his own saddle to look back to where Mush is. The young Jew has followed, and is holding a smoking musket, cradled in his arms.

  “Family,” Mush calls. “Angelo Baglioni’s vendetta was against family, my family. Come, Will, the day is won, and Miriam wishes your safe return.”

  The riders from the city have no wish to fight. Baglioni was an outsider, with the king as a friend. They have no wish to die for a stranger’s cause, and turn back to Amiens.

  Will Draper and Mush ride back to the scene of the battle, where Richard is organising the systematic plundering of the dead, and the amassing of a small fortune in horses, weapons and purses.

  “Mercenaries always carry their wealth with them,” he explains, happily, as his friends return. “We will be able to effect a good share out, lads.”

  “Do not forget the church, my son,” Ignatius Loyola informs the big Englishman. “We have much to do, and will need a great deal of gold.”

  “Ask your Pope Clement,” Richard jests. Will shakes his head, surprised, once more, at how jovial men can be in the face of so much death.

  “How did we fare, Tom?” he asks.

  “We lost eight men,” Wyatt replies. “Though Baglioni’s casualties were worse. The chain shot alone accounts for over a hundred dead, and our charge doubled that number. What of the cardinal?”

  “Dead,” Will replies. “We will camp here tonight, and return to Calais on the morrow. Have the enemy bodies covered with the straw, and burned. We cannot spend days burying so many. Then have the men camp further up the hill, to avoid the stench of this fearsome Hell.”

  “The Battle of Hell,” Mush mutters. “An apposite name for such carnage.”

  The small force do as Will commands, and, after a meal of hot broth, and hard bread, they rap themselves in blankets, and go to sleep on the unforgiving ground. It is the middle of March, and the harsh Calaisis has one last surprise for the weary men. In the early hours of the morning, white flakes begin to fall, and by first light they awaken, under a finger’s depth of snow.

  “Will, get up!” John Beckshaw can hardly contain his excitement, and shakes his master fully awake. “Wake up at once, my friend … for Hell has frozen over!”

  9 Whispers

  “The merry little month of May,” Thomas Wyatt muses. He is struggling to finish the book he has promised to write for Miriam Draper, and is trying to find couplets that will stimulate his jaded imagination. “Not so damned merry, and not so damned helpful.”

  “Talking to yourself again, Master Wyatt?” Thomas Cromwell asks, as he saunters past the arbour the poet has occupied in the gardens of Westminster Palace.

  “I have lost my muse, Master Tom,” the poet replies. “Ever since my return from Calais, my mind has been full of … other things. The carnage was appalling.”

  “But necessary,“ Thomas Cromwell replies. “You helped us all with your expertise, and more than that, you helped save the Draper family from destruction.”

  “For which I have been handsomely rewarded, sir,” Tom Wyatt says. “The king favours me again, thanks to you, I believe.”

  “It will only last as long as he favours me, young man,” Cromwell tells him, truthfully. “Now, I must leave you to find your lost muse.”

  “Stay a moment,” Tom Wyatt says, softly. “Pray, set your face into a smile, as though I am jesting with you. There is something I think you should know.”

  “Go on.” Cromwell nods, and chuckles, as he is instructed.

  “It is only a rumour.”

  “As is all truth, until it is proven.” Cromwell laughs again.

  “I spent this last night with Lady Grace Ferriby, one of the queen’s women. I hoped her caresses might bring my poetic abilities back.”

  “Anne will not like you swiving her ladies-in-waiting, Tom,” Cromwell replies. “She is a jealous woman.”

  “Who is desperate to bear a son.”

  “What do you know?”

  “Only that she was complaining that the king does not visit her enough, and that his skills are … not what they once were.”

  “And?”

  “Then, about a week ago, her mood changed. She became light hearted, and generous.”

  “Then she is with child?”

  “Lady Grace is a silly girl, and does not know when to remain silent.” Tom Wyatt is uneasy now, and wishes he had remained silent. It is only the realisation of what he owes to the man that spurs him on.

  “There is more?” Cromwell knows how Wyatt loves to tease a story out. He must be patient, if he is to know all there is to know.

  “Anne took a late supper with her brother, George, and her father. Afterwards, the two Boleyn men were in very high spirits, with much back slapping, and fooling. Then, just yesterday morning, the queen felt sick. She locked herself away, with a few of her closest ladies, and was not seen until nightfall.”

  “Pray finish, Master Wyatt, for my poor old face aches from all this smiling.”

  “Just before Grace came to me,” the poet replies, “she was sent to the kitchens, to burn something.”

  “What?”

  “Bloodied clouts,” Wyatt whispers. “Rags, some of fine linen, all soaked through that did make me think…”

  “She has miscarried,” Cromwell concludes. “It is not uncommon, within the first few weeks of carrying a child. I wager a bag of gold angels that she has not yet told the king.”

  “Will you sir?” Wyatt asks. He still loves Anne, and does not wish her any harm.

  “Not I,” Thomas Cromwell says. “For Anne Boleyn is no fool. She will laugh in my face, and say it was but her normal woman’s time. The king will believe her, and I shall look like a conniving mountebank or, at best, an addle-pated old fool.”

  “Then my news is of no use to you, sir?”

  “On the contrary, young Wyatt.” Cromwell drops his voice even lower. “It tells me that the woman is having problems in the quickening, and might not be able to hold onto a child. Elizabeth might have been her only chance to furnish England with a legitimate heir.”

  “Then we say silent?” The poet is relieved, and will be only to happy to stay tight lipped about the affair. It is enough that Cromwell has witnessed his devotion in revealing the secret to him.

  “We do.” Cromwell thinks for a moment. “Write me a poem about a poor woman, who is driven mad over the loss of her child. I want it to be mournful, and I want it to press home how she fears never to have another child to love.”

  “A sad subject.”

  “Which might come in useful,” Cromwell says. “Show it to no one, and let me have a copy by the end of the week.”

  “I am a poet sir, not a shepherd,” Wyatt protests. “These things cannot be ordered up.”

  “I see. Then make it the next week.” Wyatt looks into Cromwell’s face, for a sign that he is teasing him, but receives nothing back, save a pointed stare. “Once written, I shall introduce it into the court, where it will be widely read. The message shall be clear to those in the know. It will tell them that Thomas Cromwell knows their secret, and chooses to let them get away with it, for now.”

  “How may I be of service to you, my dear, Lady Rochford?” Cromwell asks. He has granted Lady Jane Rochford, wife of George Boleyn an interview, at her request.

  “I need money, sir, and hoped that you, out of your friendship to me in the past, might help.”

  “Does your husband keep you penniless, Lady Jane?”

  “Ever since he found out about myself, and my foolish dalliance with Charles Brandon.”

  “Then we must see what can be done, my dear,” Cromwell says, affecting the air of a kindly old uncle. “Though I do not see George’s problem. Y
ou once told me he prefers boys to women, did you not?”

  “I think I said he preferred anyone other than I, sir,” Lady Jane replies, straight faced. She is an adept liar, but sometimes forgets whom has been told what. “I was upset about his rejection of me, and spoke hastily. Such bestial action is punishable by death, is it not?”

  “It is, though half the men in court indulge, I hear.” Cromwell knows that he and Henry share an aversion to the act, but cannot recall when last it was punished by impalement. “I think the king would only pass sentence, if it touched on his own personal honour.”

  “George is his brother-in-law, sir.”

  “So he is,” Cromwell says. “That might well upset the king enough to ruin your husband.”

  “My future is looking grim, Master Cromwell,” Lady Jane replies. “George shuns me, and now, Lord Suffolk is tiring of me, and does not send me gifts anymore.”

  “I shall speak with both men,” Cromwell says. “Now, tell me, Jane, who does George like, these days?”

  “He slept with Charles’ mistress a few times, and has bedded some of Queen Anne’s ladies, but he does not seem to enjoy it much any more. He spends most evenings playing cards with Queen Anne, and her coven of poisonous cronies.”

  “What does the queen say of me?”

  “Sir?”

  “Come, girl,” Cromwell snaps, and it makes her flinch.

  “She calls you names.”

  “There, that was not too hard. What names?”

  “Master Blacksmith,” Lady Rochford says. “When she is most irked by you, she says you are a bastard, and a son of a lowly shilling whore.”

  “She calls my mother a whore?” Cromwell smiles with cold contempt. “Most rich, coming from that quarter. Now, what plans has she for me?”