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

by Anne Stevens

  “Snotty little bastard,” Norfolk grumbles.

  “Rafe Sadler is a clever man,” Suffolk says. “He smells the wind, and knows where to set his sails. Will Anne step aside?”

  “Never.”

  “Even if the king insists?”

  “She knows he will not.” Norfolk sounds confident, but does not fully understand how the court can be manipulated, and the king subtly influenced. “He is far too honourable.”

  “Quite,” Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk says. He is more pragmatic than the older Norfolk, and knows that nothing is immutable when it comes to politics. “I hope your niece realises that which does not step aside, can be put aside.”

  “She is a wilful young woman, and may not make the right choice.” Norfolk concludes. “I must speak with her father, at once.”

  “And what of More?”

  “Oh, have Rich draw up the charges. Tell him to throw it all in, and make it sound as legal as he can. I will allow Sir Thomas the courtesy of answering the charges, in a closed court, and then have him condemned to death. Shall we say, the day after tomorrow?”

  “Not tomorrow then?”

  “Good God, no!” Norfolk is scandalised. “I am stag hunting all day, and will not miss it for anything!”

  “Tell me how it went, Thomas,” Henry asks. “I know you will speak the truth. The rest, I fear, are not to be trusted.”

  “As Your Majesty wishes.”

  “We are alone now, Thomas. Like this, I am but your old friend, Henry,” the king says. He resorts to first names when most stressed, and thinks it makes common men more open with him. In fact, it is when Cromwell, and the others, distrusts him the most.

  “Well, Henry, they brought Sir Thomas More from the Tower on the first day of this month, and called him to trial. The courtroom was closed to all, but a chosen audience. Sir Richard Rich, your new Attorney General, read out the main charge, which was one of High Treason.”

  “Treason would have done,” Henry mutters. “Why must they always go too far?”

  “Rich put the charges, in a hesitant, stumbling way, and then started to read out the evidence. I was forced to stand up, and stop him, for he had made a mistake. I pointed out to the most senior lawyer in the land that Sir Thomas had not yet been asked to plead.”

  “Christ, but the man is a damned fool,” the king curses. He has promoted a man beyond his ability, in order to have a willing stooge, and now he pays the price. “I will be ridiculed, as the king with an incompetent fool as his legal voice. What then, old friend?”

  “The Attorney General made some sort of mumbled apology, and asked Sir Thomas to plead. He stated, in a clear, strong voice, that he was not guilty, and added that he had never spoken out against the king, or denied his headship of the Church of England.”

  “Stout fellow,” Henry says. “I cannot believe he ever would, Thomas. What then?”

  “Sir Richard Rich looked to the Duke of Norfolk, who nodded, as if giving him permission to speak.” Thomas Cromwell pauses for dramatic effect, and sees that the king is hanging on his every word. “Then Rich did testify that Sir Thomas More had, in his presence, denied the King was head of the Church, and that only the Bishop of Rome … Pope Clement … could represent God.”

  “It is what he always thought.”

  “Perhaps, but I cannot read a man’s mind, sire. In all my conversations with him, Thomas More never once spoke a treasonable word against you. I cannot understand why he would then utter such infamies to a man whom he did not trust, and whom he once dismissed, for petty dishonesty.” There, Master Rich, that is you paid out, Cromwell thinks.

  “Then Rich is not the man I am told he is.”

  “Someone has lied to you, Henry,” Thomas Cromwell says, softly. “Who would dare do such a thing?”

  “Queen Anne proposed him.” Then you are paid out, in part, too, madam, Cromwell thinks.

  “It was also decided by the jury that Sir Thomas More’s silence was ‘clear, and irrefutable, evidence’ of ‘a corrupt and perverse nature’… whatever that might mean. The man never took a coin that was not earned, and as for him being perverse … I say only that George Boleyn was in court, with a close male friend.”

  “What?” Henry cannot let this pass. “What do you mean to imply, Thomas?”

  “Nothing but that which I have heard rumoured about court, Henry,” Cromwell says. “You asked me to have Colonel Draper investigate the Boleyn family, in regard to the likelihood of a second divorce, and he reports back, on a weekly basis. It seems that the father uses the treasury like his own personal bank, and that George has unusual tastes in the privacy of the bed chamber. He lacks proof yet, but knows that the young man is, in some way, corrupted.”

  “Dear God, I am beset by evil, Thomas.” Henry is in danger of slipping into one of his maudlin broods, which results in nothing being decided. Cromwell realises that he must work fast.

  “For evil to triumph, it only needs good men to look away,” he says, sharply. “Perhaps, Henry, because of your own innate goodness, you have looked away too often? Forgive my criticism of you, dearest friend, but you are almost too honest to be a king.”

  “But king I am!” Henry is enthused by Cromwell’s clever rhetoric, and lurches to his feet. “So, they have managed to kill my dear friend then?”

  “Sir Thomas went to the block, this morning, sire. His final words were to beg your forgiveness, because he could not abandon his God. I took the liberty of commuting the sentence, to simple beheading. Richard Rich, after speaking with both the Boleyns, wanted him drawn, part hanged, and disembowelled first, but I knew you would be revolted by such an act of blatant barbarity.”

  “You did well, my friend.” The king frowns. In a few short sentences, Thomas Cromwell has pointed out why his court is so blighted. “Urge Colonel Draper on to complete his report. I want my divorce, and once I have it, I want George Boleyn, if he is found to be guilty, to be tried as a sodomite.”

  “And the father?”

  “If he is stealing, then he must be punished.”

  “Rich?”

  “If I remove him now, I will be the laughing stock of the realm,” Henry reasons. “Leave him in place, but have Master Sadler fulfil his usual duties. See that Rich receives nothing more than his usual salary, and let him find his own living accommodation. He is no longer welcome in my court, and I do not wish to see his face again.”

  “As you wish, sire.” Cromwell has most of what he wants, and feels uncomfortable using the king’s given name. “We must now brace ourselves for the backlash which Thomas More’s death will bring. Those who tried him should have known the ill will it would cause, both here, and abroad. It was bad enough when they killed poor Fisher.”

  “The French call me ‘Bloody Hal’,” Henry moans. “As if it were all my doing.”

  “Yes, Lord Norfolk was remiss in rushing into things with Fisher,” Cromwell says, with a sigh. “He is far too headstrong to be a good advisor to the king. Why, was he not one of those who so badly treated Cardinal Wolsey?”

  “Yes, it was he, Harry Percy, and Anne … dripping their poison into my ear.” Henry has something else to feel indignant about. “Did I never tell you how, on the day he died, I was ready to forgive him, and restore him to power?”

  “He knew it, sire.”

  “How can I be sure?”

  “I was his man, Your Majesty,” Cromwell reminds the king.

  “Of course. I remember now. He sent you to me, did he not?” Henry is twisting history, but it salves his conscience, and makes him feel better.

  “That is so, sire. He sent me to court, saying that I was to wait on you, until you sent word to release him. It was in your mind to forgive him, when certain people conspired to ruin him, instead. I recall how Percy begged to be sent to fetch the cardinal, and how he overstepped his authority, and arrested him, in a most cruel way. It was the sudden shock of it all which broke his heart. Even at the end, I am told he kept faith with yo
u, and swore his undying love.”

  “He said so?”

  “Colonel Draper was present,” Cromwell says, creating his own little twist. Draper had been there, but not at the bedside, when Wolsey breathed his last. “He brought word to me, and I told you, sire. You were almost inconsolable. Then you bade me stay on, and help you in the council.”

  “A happy day, Thomas,” Henry says. “When you leave here, today, I wish you to make up a list. Put upon it all those who have failed me, twisted my words, or betrayed my love, and we will attend to them, in good time.”

  “As you command, sire.” Thomas Cromwell needs to make no such list up. He has a book at Austin Friars, and it is full of names. The black, leather bound volume was started in his days with Wolsey, and contains the names of everyone who conspired in his downfall. One by one, each name shall be stricken through.

  Austin Friars is a gloomy place that evening. Sir Thomas More was known, and liked by all within its walls, and even the servants mourn his passing. As if by mutual consent, everyone in the big house gathers at the kitchen table at supper time, and conducts a short, intimate service, which concludes with a heart felt prayer, and a good meal.

  “He gave me a penny, once,” Young Adam, the stable keeper, says, as they sit around the kitchen. “That’s to keep you honest, fellow, he told me. A penny, I ask you!”

  Thomas Cromwell is standing in the door, and he smiles at the story. As a youth, he too had received a coin, but a silver shilling, with the same injunction from the man, who was then studying to be a man of the law. He has used a similar device since on most of his people. Here, it says, stay honest, and prosper by it.

  It works with most, but Thomas Cromwell recalls how Digby Waller preferred evil, and how Richard Rich’s inner weakness will let him down. Still, he thinks, for every bad one, there is at least a dozen good ones. Colonel Will Draper is a case in question. Since coming to him, as a near penniless soldier of fortune, he has exceeded all expectations, and remained loyal to the Austin Friars cause.

  His nephew, Richard, is making his way as a merchant, and often acts as a front man when the more ‘died in the wool’ old merchants will not deal with Miriam Draper, because she is a woman. He is proud to remember how he saw the girl’s worth, and helped her build her business up to what it now is. Her ships roam the world, and her dealings with the Spanish and French, help his agents go where they could not, previously.

  “Where is your trusted right hand, Will?” he asks.

  “On the king’s business, Master Thomas,” Will replies, vaguely. “He and his wife are looking into certain matters, appertaining to the queen’s affairs.”

  “Pray, keep me informed, Will,” Cromwell tells him, and the King’s Examiner simply nods. He serves two masters now, and must be careful what he tells to each. If pressed, he will always come down on the side of Cromwell, but he must not be seen to be too partisan.

  “How is the king?”

  “He talks of making up lists, and of vengeance.”

  “Is that good, or bad for us?” Will asks.

  “Good, one hopes. You might even be able to give George Boleyn a kick up the arse, to pay him back for burning down your house.”

  Will holds his peace. Word has come to him that some great secret has been uncovered, that involves Boleyn, but he does not wish to act too soon. John Beckshaw and his wife are on the scent, and will report back, when they have found something out. Inside, he is no different from Cromwell, and wants to wreck those who have crossed him.

  “Did you attend the execution, Master Tom?” Mush Draper asks. He was fond of the garrulous old Sir Thomas, and could not watch him die.

  “I had to,” Cromwell says. “It was good that, at least, one friend was with him, at the end.”

  “Amen,” Barnaby Fowler intones, and one or two even cross themselves. Cromwell smiles at the unconscious action, and wonders if Rome can ever be truly eradicated from his England.

  “I wager that arsehole Richard Rich was there, in his new finery,” Will says.

  “He was.” Cromwell grimaces at the thought of the man rising so high, and so quickly. “He was as a flea on my back, and I am a flea upon Norfolk who is a flea upon the king. We all fight for our place in the sun.”

  “I wonder who Henry lands on?” one of the servant lads muses, and the entire room erupts into laughter at the coarse innuendo. Poor Henry, they think… all dressed up, and no-one to hop upon!

  “Thank you, for sparing me a moment of your time, Master Cromwell.” Margaret Roper is dry eyed, and as dignified as any queen. She curtseys to the Privy Councillor, and places a sealed document on the desk before him. Cromwell does not look at it, and gestures for her to take a seat.

  “You are always welcome at Austin Friars,” he tells her. “Though you should not travel unaccompanied. There are those who would do ill to any who loved your father.”

  “I will not sit,” Margaret replies. “The letter is for you, and was written by my father, just before they took him to the Tower. As for me, I come begging a favour.”

  “You want the body?” Cromwell guesses. It is beyond his power, as traitors are usually dismembered, after death, and their remains scattered to the corners of the realm.

  “No, I know that cannot be,” she tells him, “but his head is to be stuck on a spike, for the rabble to laugh at. Can you spare him that indignity, sir?”

  “I shall send word to the Warden of the Tower, within the hour,” Cromwell says. “Have your husband call on him, tomorrow, and he will hand over your father’s head. The fellow will expect a reward for this, so take this purse, and give it to him.”

  “You are kinder than you need to be.”

  “I loved your father, Meg, and I used to bounce you on my knee once.” Cromwell stands, to signify the end of the business. “If I could have saved him, I would. All I can promise now, is to deliver retribution, where it is deserved. Master Fowler!” Barnaby Fowler, who is only in the next office, comes bustling in.

  “Master?”

  “Find a couple of reliable young fellows, and have them escort Mistress Roper back to Utopia.”

  “I shall be honoured to take the lady home, sir.” He bows, and beckons Meg out into the corridor. Cromwell closes the door behind her, with a finality that makes her sigh. “You must forgive Master Cromwell’s shortness, Mistress Meg. He does not know how to handle grief very well, but his heart is bigger than most men’s, and it is in the right place.”

  “He is a busy man,” she mutters. Meg Roper understands that she is now, despite her gender, the head of the More family, and worries at what the future holds for them all. “I doubt he has time for my trivial worries.”

  “That is not so,” Barnaby replies, leading her out into the sunlight. “The master has already instructed me to arrange a small pension for your step-mother, and bids me find plenty of work for your husband in the law courts. Roper is a sensible fellow, and has taken the oath. My master loved your father well, mistress. He did all he could to avoid so terrible an end, and he does not wish to see you penniless.”

  “He said nothing of this,” Meg says. The information lifts some of the weight from her shoulders, and gives her hope for the days ahead. “I should return, and thank him.”

  “No, mistress, you should return to Utopia, and pass as quiet a life as you can.” Thomas Cromwell’s man frowns, and decides to be frank with her. “Until Queen Anne’s fangs are drawn, you will not be safe. Her bile is enough to poison everyone of your family. I wish you would all consider going to France. Colonel Draper can have you all on a boat, within a couple of hours.”

  “My father could not run away, Master Fowler,” Meg replies, softly, “so, how can I?”

  Thomas Cromwell spends a long time studying the letter, and wonders if there is some hidden meaning in the words. In the end, he decides that it is exactly what it purports to be … a last goodbye, from a dear friend. It starts with Dear Tom, and goes on to thank him for his friendship, a
nd devotion to his family. Then it commends his wife, and family to him, and begs Cromwell to help them, where he can. It concludes with an assertion that he will soon be walking with God, and advises Thomas Cromwell to follow in the same, well trodden, footsteps.

  “Too late for me, old friend,” Cromwell mutters, as he folds the paper, and slips it into a drawer. “Perhaps it is even too late for England.”

  “Master?” Mush is, as he often does, these days, loitering close by. “Did you call?”

  “Did I speak aloud?” Cromwell’s brow creases in consternation. “I must be careful, for some thoughts do not bear voicing, lest the wrong ears perceive and understand them.”

  “There are no dangerous ears in Austin Friars, sir,” Mush replies. “I saw Meg Roper leaving. Will she not leave England?”

  “No. I fear her only safety lies in even more death.”

  “You mean Anne?” Mush dislikes the queen, as he has seen how she treats her own sister, and distrusts her more than anyone.

  “Do you still bed her sister?” Cromwell regrets the words, even as they leave his mouth. “I do not seek to judge you, Mush. Forgive me, but… “

  “You want to know where she stands,” Mush says, completing his master’s thought. “She is frightened of Anne, and is afraid what will happen, should she fall from grace.”

  “The king would not harm her.”

  “No?” Mush smiles, and shakes his head. “She knows something … about her sister. I do not know what, but it frightens her that she has the knowledge.”

  “Can you coax it from her?”

  “Perhaps.” Mush considers how casually they talk of betraying a lover, and feels a pang of sorrow that he has become so hard. “She wants to come back to court. If I can promise her a place, and all that goes with it, she might speak.”

  “Then promise her,” Cromwell says. “If we do not find a way to remove the queen, we will all soon follow Sir Thomas to the block.”