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

by Anne Stevens

  “Leave it with me,” Mush says. “Might I promise her marriage?”

  “To you?” Cromwell shakes his head. “That can never be, my dear boy. Henry would see it as a plot against him. Imagine it, lad. Lady Mary Boleyn, allied with the house of Cromwell is a step too far, I fear. No, we shall find her a decent gentleman, and an estate in the north.”

  “Then we must part?” Mush is surprised that he is not more upset at the prospect. In truth, he still loves the wife he lost, and can only ever look upon Mary as a loving friend.

  “Can you?” Cromwell asks. Mush feels a lump in his throat, and has to clear it with a short cough.

  “Yes,” he replies, softly. “ Though it shows me to be a lesser man, I can.”

  “Then go to her. Make her offers, and find out what you can,” Thomas Cromwell says. “It was always going to end this way, Mush. Mary Boleyn must go on without you. She will fare better than you think, and anonymity will be her friend. Let history fasten onto her sister, and spare Mary from too close an inspection.”

  14 A Forest of Traitors

  Will Draper yawns, and sits up in bed. On the floor below, he can hear Miriam, and her maids, preparing the house, and the two children for the day ahead. He smiles at the thought of the caring husband, father, and gentleman, he has become, and calls for his own manservant.

  Young Adam appears, as if by magic, carrying a bowl of warm, rose petal scented water, and a freshly stropped, single edged razor. It is the youth’s duty to shave his master’s chin, with practiced ease, then help him dress for the day in his newest hunting finery. He has an invitation to join the king, whilst he jaunts about the woodlands surrounding Hampton Court Palace.

  “Did you manage to have my sword edged?” Will asks, as the blade scrapes over his chin. The boy’s hand remains as steady as a rock. He wipes some excess lather from the blade, onto a towel draped over the back of the chair.

  “I took it to Caleb … the blacksmith, over in Cheap Street, sir” Adam replies. “It costs tuppence, but he does a very good job, master.”

  “And the pistols?” Will asks.

  “All cleaned, sir,” Adam tells his master. He is expected to carry out many tasks, and has to be in constant attendance, but does it willingly. He knows that, if he pleases the colonel, he will be considered for a position in the King’s Examiners Office, once he reaches his later teens. “I also warned the stables to have Moll readied, sir. She will enjoy a good gallop. I assume you are still riding down to Hampton Court Palace today?”

  “Damnation to it, boy, but I wish I could avoid this invitation,” Will replies. “The king does love his stag hunting though, and likes to surround himself with those he considers to be close friends. That means George Boleyn will be there, and I shall have to keep a hold on my temper.”

  “I hear that Master Cromwell is preparing a surprise for His Majesty,” Adam says, scraping away the last of his master’s stubborn stubble.

  “You hear too much,” Will says, and smiles to lessen the reproof. His young servant is a close friend of the Austin Friars people, and picks up much useful gossip. “What is Master Cromwell up to then?”

  “A visit to the country.”

  “With Henry?”

  “Yes. He has written to the Seymour family, at Wulfhall, and warned them to expect a royal visit.”

  “Ah, I wondered when he would make his move,” Will Draper muses. “Fresh country air, good hunting, and Mistress Jane at the dinner table. Master Tom knows what a poor picker the king is, and seeks to be the royal matchmaker this time.”

  “Methinks Queen Anne will not like that,” Adam says, with a wry grin. “I doubt Queen Katherine will be much pleased either.”

  “Yes, the king has a veritable queue of consorts,” Will jests.

  “Not for long, perhaps?” Adam tells his master. “My friends at Austin Friars tell me that Master Chapuys is a frequent visitor these days.”

  “Eustace Chapuys?” Will wonders why the little Savoyard ambassador is becoming so active of late. “Does he still hope to put Katherine back on the unsteady throne?”

  “He begs Master Cromwell to let him visit the queen,” Adam explains.

  “Anne?”

  “Katherine ... The Dowager Princess of Wales.”

  “Why?”

  “She is stricken down with some ague, and is dangerously ill, I hear.”

  “Again?” Will Draper shakes his head at the news. “It sounds like another ruse. Keep your eyes and ears open, lad. I want to know if Cromwell is foolish enough to allow this visit.”

  “He will refuse,” Adam says. “It is all he can do. Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”

  “How goes your investigation, Draper?” The words cut across the gathering of titled men, and court hangers on, like the slash of a keen knife. Will Draper is busy, checking Moll’s girth strap is tight enough. She is a cunning old girl, and knows enough to breath in at the right moment. Will waits, until the Welsh Cob exhales, and pulls it as tight as he can. Then he turns, as if just noticing George Boleyn is even included in the king’s boisterous hunting party.

  “Which one, Boleyn?” he replies. “The king bids me look into any matter that he deems worthy. Why, just the other day, His Majesty bade me look into the privy, where he feared there was something foul. I looked, and saw you coming out, and the problem was solved at once.”

  “Ho!” Henry is already mounted on his huge hunter, and towers over his subjects like some ominous cloud. “Well riposted, sir. You see the jest, George? Methinks Colonel Will knows a bad stink when he sniffs it. Now, stop your mewling noise, and mount up.” Henry notices Boleyn’s horse, and nods in appreciation. “A fine steed, George. New, is he?”

  “My steward bought him at the last Nottingham fair, sire.” George smiles, smugly, basking in the king’s attention.

  “Oh, I thought I hanged him,” Henry replies, and tries to recall the details. “Did he not try to burn down Colonel Draper’s house?”

  “My new steward, sire,” Boleyn answers. “Haskins was a bad lot, and paid for it with his life. Your Majesty brought his crimes to my attention, and I am grateful for…”

  “Stringing up your personal steward?” Will says, sharply. “I wager the king knows well enough what his servants get up to.”

  “Well said, Will,” the king says. “Though I do not see how we can bet on it … lest I number them all off, and that will take all week.”

  “Might I suggest another, more interesting wager, sire?” Will asks. He knows Henry’s love of a bet well, and is sure it will pique his interest.

  “First to bay the hart?” Henry guesses. “Or who will be first to take a tumble?”

  “Your Majesty is renowned for his many tumbles,” Will replies, with a sly wink at the king. “Few here could even try to match him with the ladies.”

  “Ha!” Henry’s laugh is loud, and demanding of attention. Everyone in earshot must respond by either laughing, or applauding at everything that amuses him. “Let us not try to enumerate our tumbles, sir, lest we make the company blush!”

  “Then let me issue a challenge,” Will says. “How much did your fellow pay for your stallion, George?”

  “Enough.” George Boleyn does not like the sound of this sudden challenge. He knows that, in any fight, Will Draper would drub him. “Why should it concern you?”

  “My guess is thirty pounds,” Will says. “Any more, and you have been robbed. I challenge you to a race, George. Your handsome beast, against my little Welsh cob. I wager thirty pounds that Moll can win the day.” Boleyn is relieved that his fighting skills are not to be tested, and pleased at the challenge. His own horse is three hands higher than Moll, and almost twice the size. He has hunted the beast across his Kent estate, and knows he can cover five miles at a strong gallop.

  “Done.” George is still smiling when Will takes his hunting bow from Moll’s saddle, and crosses to Henry.

  “Sire, your arm is still the strongest in this gathe
ring,” Will says, as he offers up the bow. “Send an arrow into yon woodlands, and we shall use it as a marker.”

  “A race… oh, what a wonderful idea!” Henry bends the bow, with practiced ease. He is over six feet tall, and still possesses a powerful pair of shoulders. The arrow arches high, and strikes home in the upper branches of a huge oak tree. “There is your mark, gentlemen. First to round the oak, and arrive back here, wins the wager. Agreed?”

  Will nods, and takes the bow back. He returns to Moll, and is just mounting her, when George Boleyn kicks his heels into his horse’s flanks. The huge beast spurts forward, and is twenty paces clear, before Will can urge Moll into pursuit.

  “Cheating bastard!” the Duke of Norfolk cries to Henry, who can only roar with laughter. Charles Brandon, and the rest can only join in. Norfolk growls, and calls his support for Will Draper, against his disreputable nephew. “God be with you, sir, and damn that worthless arse to Hell!”

  George Boleyn is a good rider, and lighter than Will Draper, by several pounds. He has a clear advantage, and gloats at the prospect of finally giving the upstart Draper his comeuppance. His horse is striding out well, and Boleyn risks a look over his shoulder, to find that Draper is within five or six paces of him. He digs in his heels, and bends low over the horses neck, urging it on.

  Will Draper has chosen his race course well. The big stallion has stamina, and is used to many long miles running, whilst his own Welsh cob is small, and bred for speed. In open battle, the little mare can cover a quarter mile in thirty or forty heart beats. Better still, she is trained to respond to her master’s knees, which leaves the rider free to carry weapons in each hand.

  Boleyn reaches the huge oak, still four paces clear, but fails to account for the sharp turn. He pulls the horse around, as hard as he dares, but still has to describe a large arc. Will leans to his right, and Moll turns in the space of two strides, and is around the big tree. Will lets her have her head, and she surges forward, as if she had no weight on her back.

  Will Draper is almost alongside Boleyn now, and he prays he has judged it right. He knows Moll’s turn of speed has its price, and that she will tire quickly now. The little cob seems to sense the importance of the gallop, and pushes on, until she is a half length clear. George Boleyn is horrified that his arch enemy is besting him again, and pulls his horses head hard over, making his mount swerve into the flank of Draper’s mount.

  If timed better, the manoeuvre would have knocked Moll onto her haunches, but the collision is badly executed, and Boleyn’s mount stumbles. The big horse goes down, in a flail of arms, legs, and screams. Moll’s final burst of speed sends her back to the roaring crowd around Henry, where she slows, and begins to blow hard. Will leaps from her back, and gives her an affectionate slap on the neck.

  “By God, sire,” Will calls to the king. “It seems poor George Boleyn has beaten you to the first tumble of the day after all!”

  “And one I grant to him, Will,” Henry roars. “For it is one he truly deserves!”

  In the end, it is only George Boleyn’s tender feelings that are hurt. Both horse and rider manage to recover, and hobble in, a very poor second. As is the way, amongst the court, George must follow the official line, and laugh, along with the king, at how he has been humiliated, once more.

  “A well earned thirty pounds, Will,” the king says, as they sit down to dinner, that evening. “I trust Boleyn has paid up?”

  “It is of no matter, sire.” Will bows, and moves into the seat allocated to him by the king’s Master of the Halls. It is not amongst the highest places, but is well situated to hear what is being said. “I knew my Moll can out run any horse, over a quarter distance. It was not a fair challenge.”

  “Blasted little turd,” Norfolk growls, as he sits to the king’s right hand side. Suffolk will take the left, and the men only hunting party will sit, each according to their perceived station. “What sort of a gentleman cheats like that?”

  “Enough,” Henry replies. “Boleyn is not the worst of men. Did you note how those fellows felling trees looked at us, as we passed?”

  “Empty bellies make for poor subjects, sire,” Brandon says. “Once the harvests start to come in, they will cheer us again.”

  I’ll wager that there were many in the forest today, who would wish me harm,” Henry mutters.

  “Then we shall cut down every tree,” Will says. “When there is nowhere for them to hide, we shall see what we shall see.”

  “The king is well loved,” Suffolk puts in. He is close to the king, and dislikes such fears being pandered to. “His people love him, and his nobles serve him well.”

  “I do not think there is anyone, of any real consequence, here today who means him harm,” Will says. The king glances about the room, and frowns. Will Draper’s words have struck home, and he notes that the Earl of Wiltshire is absent.

  “Boleyn, where is your father?” The words tumble out, angrily, and the chamber falls silent.

  “He has business, sire … on his estates.”

  “In Kent?” Henry asks.

  “No, sire. He is in Wiltshire,” George replies. There is something amiss, and he does not understand what it can be. He has taken his usual humiliation in good stead, and cannot see what his father’s day to day business has to do with anyone. “He is trying to raise money, to pay the tithe you require of him.”

  “Tithe?”

  “You assessed the Earldom, sire,” Thomas Cromwell informs the king. He has just arrived at Hampton Court Palace, and is still in his riding cloak. “I dare say that is what the boy means. I am pleased to see how diligently he attends to his debts. One can only hope he is as prompt with settling his debt to me.”

  “Thomas, my dear old friend,” Henry calls, and waves him forward. “The Master of the Halls is remiss, placing you so low down my table. Charles, shift yourself over, and let dear old Cromwell sit with me. There, that is better. Now, tell me, truthfully, old friend, does Boleyn owe everybody?”

  “I know not, sire,” Cromwell says, easing himself in between Suffolk and the king. “I know he owes you, and I, about one hundred and twenty thousand. As for the rest, I fear he uses his relationship to the crown as surety.”

  “More fool them,” Henry says, and winks at his Privy Councillor. “For the relationship is but through marriage. Which reminds me, we must talk … later, after these wine sodden souls are all abed.”

  “As you wish, Your Majesty.” Thomas Cromwell catches Will Draper’s eye, and gives him a nod of polite recognition, as if they seldom met. “Colonel Draper… how are you?”

  “Well sir.”

  “Excellent. I was just about to spring a surprise on the king, and I am pleased that you are here, for it saves me writing to you.”

  “A surprise, Thomas?” Henry is suddenly alert. “It takes something quite magnificent to surprise a king. What have you hidden up your sleeve for me?”

  “A royal progression, sire.”

  “Oh, a progression,” Henry says. He is greatly disappointed, and wonders why Cromwell thinks it such a wonderful thing. Royal progressions are seldom more than a few decent meals, and hundreds of subjects wishing to complain to the king, in person.

  “To Wiltshire, sire.” Cromwell smiles, as the king’s face lights up in pleasure. “I thought we might visit the Seymour family, in Wulfhall, where you will be most welcome.”

  “The queen will not like it.” Henry begins to see pitfalls, where none exist. Cromwell has thought of everything.

  “The queen is not invited,” he says, softly. “A messenger will arrive, shortly, hinting that there is some sort of unrest in the county. You will gather a few friends, and loyal servants, and gallop off, to quell the disturbance.”

  “Is there unrest?”

  “There is always unrest, sire,” Will Draper says. “The common folk enjoy a good grumble, when things are hard. Though it is a strange coincidence that the Earl of Wiltshire is visiting there, at this very moment.”

>   “The damnable fellow,” the king says, lowering his voice from a boom, to a more normal tone. “He is as difficult to deal with as his daughter.”

  “Then a few days hunting at Wulfhall will help lighten Your Highness’s mood,” Thomas Cromwell says. “For he is not invited either.”

  “Clever fellow,” Henry says.

  “I trust I am invited, Cromwell,” Norfolk says. He is straining to listen in, and does not wish to be outside the chosen few.

  “Of course, My Lord,” Cromwell says. “You must come, if only to keep you from whispering to your niece.”

  “Blast the woman,” Norfolk says. “I say we leave them all behind, and round up a few of the local girls instead. Just like the old days, Hal. Hunting by day, and tumbling willing village girls by night.”

  “Our swansong,” Henry mutters. Not that he will ever admit it, but the years are catching up with him, and he suffers from the usual curses of ageing. “Damn it, why not? I shall want Charles with us, of course, Thomas, and send for that cheeky young rogue, Tom Wyatt. He will liven things up with his cleverness, I dare say. Who else shall we have, Norfolk?” The old duke, who has been carefully primed for the moment, glances at Cromwell for reassurance, and receives a slight nod back.

  “Harry Percy is back from trouncing the Scots,” he offers, and waits for the harsh refusal. Instead, Cromwell jumps in with a few well chosen words. The Duke of Northumberland has been well punished these three years past, and must be a changed man, he says to the king. Henry frowns, and tries to recollect why he dislikes the fellow so much.

  “Might he not now feel your generosity?” Cromwell concludes.

  “Besides,” Will Draper says, “he is a mighty roistering sort, and can bawd with the very best of us.”

  “Then it is done,” Henry says, slapping a hand on Cromwell’s back. “See to it, my friend. I trust the ban on ladies does not extend to the Seymour family itself?”

  “I do believe Lady Jane will be at home, sire,” Cromwell murmurs. “Will that be a burden to you? I thought Your Majesty liked the dear girl.”