“I do not know whether I would have reached England in time to be with him,” Denoriel continued in a more moderate tone, “but I was sailing farther east and my messages were lagging behind me. The letter that told me he was dead did not reach me until I was on my way home. And after that, you are quite correct, Your Grace, I did not want to return to an England that seemed empty to me so I lingered in Spain and Italy and southern France.”
Norfolk raised an eyebrow. “But you did return.”
“I mourn him still,” Denoriel said, gesturing at his subdued clothing, “but I discovered that I missed England itself. In the other lands, somehow I could not put down roots. I kept thinking of my house here in London and my memories of Harry. And when I returned, my roots were here. I was at home, in a way I had not been since my own land was lost to me.”
“And there was another child in whom you were interested. Not so?” the duke asked shrewdly. “I have heard that you are a frequent visitor to Lady Elizabeth.”
Denoriel allowed his face to light and produced a broad smile. “Indeed it is so!” he exclaimed. “If you remember, Harry was besotted with her, and half the time he dragged me with him so that I came to love her too. I cannot say she reminds me of my little brother nor of any of my sisters either, but she is so clever and pretty that I find myself besotted.” He nodded at Norfolk. “And by the grace of God, the Lady Elizabeth is so far from the throne that no one could believe I seek that kind of influence through her.”
“True enough, and the king is still young enough to breed more sons.” Norfolk cleared his throat as if he had said more than he intended, and added hastily. “You do not need my influence or permission to continue your attentions to Lady Elizabeth, so perhaps it is time to come to the business that made you ask for an audience. What do you seek, Lord Denno?”
“A profit, Your Grace.” Denoriel smiled again. “What else does a merchant seek? I have no great estates, nor concessions from any crown, and noble blood still requires sustenance and shelter, so I continue to do as I must. Do you remember years ago when Harry was, oh, seven years of age perhaps, that I had a shipment of Turkey carpets? I gifted you with two, I think, and in thanks you laid those carpets where they would be seen and told any who asked who had provided them.”
Norfolk actually smiled. “Yes, of course I remember. I still have the carpets and they have worn so well that they scarcely seem used.”
Denoriel bowed slightly from the waist. “I sold several tens of those carpets, Your Grace, because of your recommendation. Different patterns and colors, but of the same make. I made a very good profit. So now I would like to gift you with a fine Flemish tapestry.”
Denoriel gestured the footman forward and bade him unwrap the package and hold up the tapestry. It was not overly large, a long rectangle, showing a scantily clad female figure advancing down a beflowered path toward what seemed to be a glint of water. The colors were rich, the maiden luscious. Denoriel caught the glint of acquisitiveness in the duke’s eyes before Norfolk burst out laughing.
“So, you want me to hang that work on my walls and tell anyone who asks that you gave it to me?”
“Please, Your Grace,” he protested, putting a twinkle of humor in his eyes. “Do not say that I gave it to you.”
Norfolk laughed. “Ah. And what am I to say that it cost me?”
Denoriel grinned at him. “Whatever you think they might be willing to pay. There are three other panels that are companions to this. They would fit excellently well around the windows here—one on each end and two between. Shall I send them, Your Grace?”
“Why not?” Norfolk tried to sound indifferent, but when Denoriel began to rise from his chair, he added quickly, “Will you have some wine?”
He eased back into his seat. “With great pleasure, Your Grace.”
The footman had refolded the tapestry and set it on a small table. At Norfolk’s signal, he went to fetch the wine.
The moment he was out of the room, Norfolk said, “Did you know that Lady Elizabeth wrote a letter to Queen Anne?”
“No, I did not,” Denoriel replied, “but I am not surprised. Lady Elizabeth loves to write letters, and she is very pleased to have a stepmother. She hopes, I think, to be invited to court. Should she not have written?”
“Not to Anne of Cleves.”
“But you said the king was young enough still to breed another son …” Denoriel covered his lips with his hand. “Ah. I see. I had heard the merest uneasy whisper.” He pondered what to say that was politic. “How sad that the greatest king on earth has so little fortune in matters of the heart.” There. Proper support for Henry without placing an iota of blame upon the man for what was, after all, largely his own fault for his roving eye.
Denoriel had heard that the king could not abide Anne of Cleves from the first time he laid eyes on her. Now he understood why Norfolk had tried so quickly to change the subject to business after his slip of the tongue about the king being young enough to breed another son. Clearly King Henry had found a new lady more to his taste. So Anne of Cleves would have to be removed.
There was not much Denoriel could do for the poor lady, except for one thing. He raised his brows until they almost touched the fringe of silver hair that crossed his brow. “I hope, Your Grace,” he continued, “that no harm will come to Queen Anne. You know there are bonds between the German principalities from where Queen Anne comes and the Low Countries. Should Anne be ill-treated, there might be serious repercussions in trade.”
“Is that so, Lord Denno?” Not sarcasm; Norfolk’s expression was serious and intent.
“Yes, and the Hanse traders would also not be pleased.” He nodded. “Recall where England’s wool goes.”
Norfolk licked his lips, thoughtfully. “I did not know you were connected with the Hanse. I thought your trade was with the East and southern Europe.”
Denoriel laughed gently. “And you think I would have no use for furs or amber? And that the Hanse would have no use for silks and fine wool? I am not partnered with any Hanse merchant, but we trade … and we talk.”
Norfolk stared at him hard for a long moment, then nodded. “No harm is meant to Queen Anne, I assure you. If she will be agreeable … ah … every arrangement will be made for her comfort and honor.”
Denoriel pursed his lips. “Yet I think I once heard that the king swore he would not again have two living wives?”
“The situation is completely different.” A flush rose in Norfolk’s usually sallow cheeks and for a moment he would not meet Denoriel’s eyes. Then he did meet them, challengingly. “The king now has a son whose legitimacy cannot be questioned. If … if another son should be conceived and born … if Queen Anne should accept a divorce, no one would dare raise any question.”
It was no wonder that Norfolk was a trifle uneasy. He himself had sat as a judge on his niece Anne Boleyn’s trial and condemned her to death for a series of adulterous affairs no one believed in—except possibly the king himself because he wanted to believe. Of course there had been no possibility of a clean annulment for Anne Boleyn; clearly the marriage had been consummated. A daughter the image of her father had been born. Besides that, Anne Boleyn would never have meekly accepted that her daughter be named a bastard. And by the time she had been willing to accept a divorce, it had been far, far too late. At that point, Henry would never have offered one.
There had been worse complications with regard to Anne Boleyn. For the king to be able to claim his marriage to Anne Boleyn was illegitimate would imply that his marriage to Catherine was legitimate. And the whole structure by which Henry had made himself head of the Church of England would collapse. He could not claim consanguinity, he could not claim infertility, he could only claim adultery, and the adultery of a queen was punishable only by death, not divorce.
The king’s pride had been at stake, the king’s power had been at stake, and the king’s will was being thwarted. No, against those forces, Anne Boleyn had not had a hope; she had
to die. Denoriel thrust the memory aside. He could only hope that Anne of Cleves was more amenable to reason. All she had to claim was that the marriage had not been consummated, and it would be annulled. The king would have his divorce.
“No, I am sure no one would have any doubts of the legitimacy of a second son if the king should marry again,” Denoriel said softly. “And I will be sure to warn Mistress Champernowne to discourage Lady Elizabeth from any further attempt to correspond with the—present queen.”
“That would be wise.” Norfolk smiled thinly and added, “Specially as Lady Elizabeth’s chances for an invitation to court may be much better soon. There is no need to speak of that just yet, but I hope you will not make yourself a stranger to my house, Lord Denno. You carry interesting news, and perhaps I can give you a hint about this or that which would be of use to Lady Elizabeth’s governess.”
He rose, and Denoriel rose too, and bowed. “You may be sure I will say nothing until you give me leave, Your Grace. I will see that you have the other three tapestry panels later today or tomorrow. And I thank you most sincerely for your permission to call on you again, and even more gratefully for any advice or information you can offer concerning Lady Elizabeth.”
At almost the same moment, Pasgen in the swarthy disguise of Fagildo Otstargi, was also bowing, but in greeting. It had taken him somewhat longer to receive an appointment to meet Sir Thomas Wriothesley than Norfolk had taken to reply to Denoriel. In fact, it had taken the dispatch of an imp with a golden sovereign carrying a renewal of the compulsion spell. The sovereign, left where Wriothesley would be sure to find it, did gain Pasgen an invitation, but only to Sir Thomas’s office, not his home. Sir Thomas Wriothesley had gained advancement without his former tame magician’s advice, and had grown far more self-confident.
Thus, despite the spell, Sir Thomas did not look particularly welcoming and was, indeed, wondering why he had agreed to see the charlatan. Pasgen realized his subject was further annoyed, when he simply pulled a chair close to the table where Wriothesley sat and sank into it. Sir Thomas opened his mouth, likely, to tell Master Otstargi that he had changed his mind and had no time to give him after all, but Pasgen reinforced his compulsion.
What came out of Wriothesley’s mouth then was, “You do not look at all well, Master Otstargi.”
“I do not feel at all well, Sir Thomas,” Pasgen snapped. “I have been traveling since the eighteenth of last month.”
“You have been gone a long time. I suppose you must have come a long way.” Curiosity barely tinged the otherwise cold and toneless remark.
“Very long—longer than you could know or understand.” Pasgen hardened his voice as well. “But that is irrelevant. I have had things revealed to me which you should be aware of. On the eighteenth of April Thomas Cromwell was made Earl of Essex and on the nineteenth he became lord chamberlain. On each day there was a red flare, followed by a black pall in my glass.”
Wriothesley stirred uncomfortably in his seat, but then said, “Whatever you think that means, Master Otstargi, it has nothing to do with me.”
Pasgen gave a thin smile. “Yet it was only a few weeks after you and Sir Ralph Sadlier were appointed joint secretaries to the king.”
Wriothesley snorted. “You can’t have been so very far away if you got news of all of that in time to be here now. And really Master Otstargi, I have no time—”
“I told you I saw these things in my glass, not by any—mundane means.” Pasgen’s voice had become low and threatening. “Now I see that I am a fool for maintaining this connection with you. But when I saw disaster looming …” He shook his head sadly, as if Wriothesley was a fool hardly worth humoring. “Never mind. At least satisfy my curiosity. Not all Seeings are true and I want to know whether this one was correct, and if it is, whether it is also true that you and Sadlier executed several writs of confiscation and reassignment for the lord chamberlain with no other authority than his order.”
Now Wriothesley looked startled. Those transactions were a private matter about which none other than those involved should have had information. Pasgen congratulated himself on setting Rhoslyn, in her persona as Rosamund Scot, a friend of Lady Mary, to investigating via the Imperial ambassador’s spy network anything about Cromwell’s financial transactions.
Rhoslyn had also told Pasgen of the increasing pressure on King Henry to rid himself of Cromwell, who was greatly hated for his harshness in dissolving the monasteries. Cromwell had profited from the dissolutions, yes, but so had many others and the king most of all. Yet it was Cromwell who was associated with the expulsion of the monks and nuns, and Henry, alert to the fact that the confiscation of monastic property was nearly complete, was seeking a way to leave that blame where it was. Most particularly the king wished to be sure the opprobrium did not flood over and stain him.
Cromwell was also connected with the most radical changes in religious practice. Henry had welcomed the impetus Cromwell’s reforms had given to his claim to be supreme head of the Church of England. He had made no move to protect Bishop Samson of Chichester when he was imprisoned as a papist nor seemed to object when Cromwell threatened other bishops, but Rhoslyn said that the king must by now be aware of the rising anger against his minister. And Henry was not truly in favor of the Reformed religion; he wanted all the parties in a balance to which he held the key.
Rhoslyn was the source of far more useful information than Pasgen would ever had thought possible. For all that the Lady Mary had been relegated to a position of no overt power or importance, she was the center of an invisible web of those who had power now, and saw her as the way to much, much more of it.
Mary had told Rhoslyn that in spite of the favors recently shown the chamberlain, he was on the brink of disaster. She knew that Chapuys, the Imperial ambassador, was telling the king that Emperor Charles had a strong distaste for Cromwell, and Henry was looking to make alliance with the Empire against France.
In addition, Bishop Gardiner, a conservative Catholic, had told Mary that he believed the king’s marriage to Anne of Cleves, distasteful to Henry from the beginning, was about to be dissolved. Henry had a new amour, the niece of the duke of Norfolk. All these things Mary discussed in whispers with her maids of honor, and all these things came straight to Pasgen.
Now Pasgen placed his hand on the edge of the table as if he were about to rise and said, “For the sake of our late connection, I will offer a piece of advice. You should go to the king at once, and declare the confiscations and reassignments to him, so that he knows what Cromwell is doing. It is very possible that the king will approve of Cromwell’s action; if he does not, he will at least know that you acted only to oblige his minister.”
Sir Thomas stood when Pasgen did, a deep frown marking his brow. “But to bring the matter to the king’s notice when he might otherwise not have been aware might make trouble for Cromwell. And then would he not blame me in the future?”
“Cromwell has no future,” Pasgen said harshly, half turning toward the door. In fact, he had used his FarSeeing talent to look at the English Court in the near future—alone, he could not look much further than that—and Cromwell had not appeared. Still, he decided to cover all possibilities. “Believe or disbelieve as you choose, I told you what my glass showed,” he added. “Except … there is one chance he might save himself. If he immediately arranges a divorce from Anne of Cleves, the king might be so wrapped up in his new marriage, that Cromwell might slip away unharmed.”
He left then, with no more than a brusque farewell, aware of Wriothesley’s anger but pretending indifference. In a little over two weeks, however, he had won his gamble. On 10 June Pasgen received a note from Sir Thomas in a slightly shaky hand, requesting an appointment, and on 12 June, the man was escorted into Pasgen’s parlor by one of his new bespelled English servants.
“You were right,” Sir Thomas said grimly, attempting to conceal the fact that his hands were trembling. “I should have paid heed to your warnings. Cromwell
has no future! He was arrested on the tenth at the very council table by the captain of the guard. Norfolk took the George from his neck and ordered me to take his garter. I—”
“Please, Sir Thomas, seat yourself,” Pasgen said smoothly, gesturing toward a chair opposite his own. Well, the shoe was on the other foot, now! “Will you take some wine?”
“Yes, thank you, Master Otstargi. A glass would perhaps calm me.” Wriothesley took the offered seat, looking very much in need of calming. “I have been uneasy since we spoke, most uneasy.”
Wriothesley, Pasgen thought, hiding a smile by turning away to gesture to the servant, was much more polite than he had been at their first meeting. The servant went off, closing the door behind him, and now Wriothesley frowned as if he realized he had said more than he should with the servant listening.
Pasgen allowed his smile to show. “You need not be concerned about what my servants hear,” he said. “I assure you that they cannot repeat anything. I am glad that you came to me, for you are in strong need of my advice. But you must not allow yourself to be shaken by untoward events, Sir Thomas. You will need to remain calm and steady, even in the face of accusations. There will be a time of upheaval—”
The pupils of Wriothesley’s eyes contracted with alarm. “But not doom, I hope? No red flares or black curtains over my future?”
Time to twist the knife a little, to punish the man for his arrogance. He pursed his lips. “I have not specifically consulted your future, Sir Thomas. You did not seem eager for me to do so—”
“A mistake!” the fellow bleated, now truly in a panic. As well he should be. When the master fell into disgrace, he often took his underlings with him, and they had no one to protect them. “Forgive me!”
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