The King's Angels: High Treason in Henry's Court (Tudor Crimes Book 5)

by Anne Stevens

  “Plenty of time for that later!” Will Draper appears in the doorway, and spoils the moment. “Master Cromwell wishes us to go to Calais.”

  “Again?” Mush well recalls his last visit to the stinking, sink hole of England. “Can he not send someone he doesn’t like?”

  “Therein lies the problem,” Will replies, laughing. “For Cromwell likes everyone, even his enemies!”

  “Of which I may become one,” Gwen mutters, and stamps off to seek out Miriam. She finds her by the new jetty, supervising the loading of her barge, which she has had built to suit her purposes. Once loaded the craft, under the command of an ageing boatman, called Hal Petty, will deliver fresh produce to various points along the Thames.

  “There you are, Gwen,” Miriam says. “I thought you might miss today’s trip.”

  “Not I, mistress,” Gwen replies. “For I have little else to do, now your husband has stolen my Mush away again.”

  “What?” Miriam’s heart sinks. The last time Will went away, it was to Venice, and she had to cope alone for six months without him. “They are scarcely home, and Cromwell beckons again. I swear, did we not all owe him so much, I would set up a ringing in his ears!”

  “They seem pleased enough to go,” Gwen bemoans. “Mush almost leaped for his sword.”

  “Pray tell me, girl. Where to, and for how long?”

  “Calais, your husband says.” The girl is upset, and wishes to show her anger. “Why can he not take Master Rafe, or that big ox, Richard Cromwell instead? Mush has his duties at home too.”

  “Be happy our men are in such great demand,” Miriam Draper replies. “For they bring home good money, and help us live so well. Take heart, Gwen and, in the meantime, we shall get on with our own business. Once you have your own house, you will want Mush out from under your feet more times than not!”

  “What you say may well come to pass,” the petite Welsh girl replies, “but for now, I would as fain have him here to pester me, and want me home.”

  “I doubt they will be more than a few days,” Miriam tells the girl. “Then you can play housewife as much as you wish.”

  “God keep them safe,” Gwen says, “for each time they go forth, they face the chance of death.”

  “Enough,” Miriam concludes. “We must all do our best, and trust to fate. Come, perhaps old Master Petty will let you steer as far as the bridge!”

  “Might we stop at Master Gough’s yard?” Gwen asks. “Mush says I am to offer him fifty pounds for the new house.”

  “Offer forty, and let him force you up to fifty,” Miriam advises her friend. “Men love to think they have the upper hand, and it will make him more pliable when you ask for the land next door.”

  “What, that piece of scrub?2 Gwen is surprised. “What ever would I want that for?”

  “Offer him ten pounds,” Miriam explains. “If I ask him, he’ll think he can push the price up. I will buy it from you for twenty, and build a house on it.”

  “Then I will make ten pounds for nothing,” Gwen says, smiling.

  “And I will build a grand house on the river bank, and lease it out to the Earl of Surrey. He wants a new town house, and will pay a pretty rental.”

  “The Duke of Norfolk’s son is a scoundrel, Mistress Miriam,” Gwen replies, frowning. “Are you sure he will pay on time?”

  “Norfolk will stand as guarantor for him.” Miriam has done her sums, and knows such an arrangement will bring her in a forty pound a year profit. “When the boy tires of the place, I can sell it on, for a tidy sum.”

  “Then I should buy the land, and sell you half, should I not?” Gwen asks.

  “You learn fast,” Miriam says. “Very well, let us do it your way. Why, I could use you to buy up half the riverbank, on the quiet, and fill it with houses.”

  “Then I am a partner?”

  “In this matter, yes,” Miriam agrees. “I will fund the buying and building, and you will act as my buyer, for a fifth part of the profit.”

  “A fourth.”

  “Then you must put in some capital.”

  “I can find five hundred within the week,” Gwen says, and watches Miriam’s look of surprise. “Master Cromwell keeps it safe for us, and Mush earns gold in mysterious ways.”

  “The price of cutting throats for Master Thomas must have risen,” Miriam says, and regrets the jest at once. Gwen’s face drains of colour as she understands what her friend means to imply about her brother.

  “Mush only kills when he must,” she says.

  “Of course,” Miriam replies, squeezing the girl’s cold hand with her own. “As does Will. He often says the world is a better place for those he and my brother send from it.”

  “Ah, here is Master Gough’s landing,” Gwen says. “Let me go ashore, and finish our business with him. Ten pounds, you say, for the scrub?”

  “Twelve, if pushed.”

  “Pushed?” Gwen grins. “Who would dare push the wife of a Cromwell man?”

  No, Miriam thinks, that would be decidedly unhealthy.

  2 A Council of War

  Eustace Chapuys’ hand is trembling again. He notes that it is something which only happens when he is in the presence of the Boleyn woman. She smiles, and makes delightful small talk, but hovers over him like a hungry bird of prey. One day, she will stoop, and rip out his heart.

  “I hear that the emperor prays six times a day, M’sieu Chapuys,” she says. “One can only hope his knees are up to the task!” The ladies of her court giggle at the lame jest, and admire how the little Savoyard diplomat keeps his composure.

  “Emperor Charles is a robust man, Lady Anne,” he replies, smiling to hide his disgust of the woman. “As can be attested to by his great fecundity. To date, he has sired four healthy, living children.”

  “Including his bastards?” Lady Mary Boleyn asks of the Imperial ambassador, playfully. “For if that is the case, he will soon be overtaken by another.”

  “Watch your tongue, sister,” Anne snaps. “When my time comes to give Henry sons, all others will be illegitimate. The emperor will come to understand that a strong England must take precedence over a mere family tie.”

  “Queen Katherine is the emperor’s very much loved aunt, Lady Anne,” Chapuys says, and immediately regrets his words.

  “The Dowager Princess of Wales,” Anne says, her voice growing cold, and hard. “In France, they know how to handle these matters better.”

  “Take care, madam,” Chapuys replies, throwing caution to the wind. “For what befell the French queen those many years ago, can befall any man’s wife, with enough money to pay the assassin!”

  “You tire me, Chapuys,” Anne says, turning away. “I meant to introduce you to one of my ladies, but fear you might bore her to death … in quite the wrong way. Good day.”

  Eustace Chapuys is diplomat enough to know it is time to depart. He bows to her back, and leaves the chamber, accompanied by Lady Mary Boleyn, who plucks, urgently, at his sleeve, so that he steps into an alcove with her.

  “My lady?” he asks, stiffly.

  “Do not scowl at me, sir,” she says, with a smile. “For I am the other Boleyn girl. The nice one. My sister wants only for you to tell your precious master, Charles, how futile his opposition to her is. The king will have his way, despite all. You might be better employed trying to get the best of things for your mistress. If Henry wishes a quiet transition, make him pay for it, dearly.”

  “Why tell me this?” Chapuys asks, suspiciously. He knows that Mary is an ex lover of Henry’s, and has born him a child. Perhaps it is her way of gaining a subtle kind of revenge?

  “Ask Katherine’s lady-in-waiting, Maria de Salinas whether I am a friend, or a foe,” Mary persists. “Implore the queen to step aside gracefully, and demand lands, and titles, in recompense. Henry will agree, if it is done well. Thomas Cromwell would know how to ask for her. Seek his advice, sir.”

  “I am the emperor’s ambassador at the king‘s court, Lady Mary, not the queen’s, t
hough I love her well enough.” Chapuys means this, and respects Katherine’s stubborn adherence to the marriage.

  “Then speak to Cromwell,” Lady Mary insists. “He has an audience with the more wicked Boleyn girl soon. Wait about, and take him to one side.”

  “Our friendship is hard tested, of late,” the little man confesses.

  “God above!” Mary takes his hand, and places it over her left breast. “Think with this, Senor Chapuys, rather than with your head.”

  Eustace Chapuys is so surprised that he does not remove his hand, and they look into one another’s eyes for long moments. At length, Mary takes the hand, raises it to her lips, and kisses the fingers, one by one.

  “Should you ever wish to consummate our friendship,” she whispers, “I will be waiting.”

  “My Lady!” Eustace Chapuys is only human, and Mary’s blonde good looks are a sharp counterpoint to her sister’s darker, thinner self. “What are you saying? If I were ever to visit you, it must be in secret, for such a liaison would ruin both of us.”

  “Not if I return to Spain with you,” Mary Boleyn replies, huskily. “You might marry me, and we can live in Madrid, or even back in your dear Savoy.”

  “Mistress, you make me sound like a desperate last measure,” the little man tells her. “You are a very fine looking woman, and I am an ageing diplomat. Find yourself a worthy young buck, and give yourself to him.”

  “If only Henry would let me,” Mary confides. “Master Cromwell will find me an estate, and a young husband in an instant, were he allowed, but the king does not want to lose his stand by.”

  “Dear God, I have heard, of course, but did not believe the king could treat a lady with so little gallantry. Is not your sister upset by this sordid arrangement?”

  “Were she to know, I would end up like the French queen, dear Master Chapuys.”

  “My heart goes out to you, my dear Lady Mary, and were circumstances otherwise, I would take you home, without a single regret.”

  “Oh, you are so gallant, my dear Eustace,” she replies, softly. “Forget my foolishness, and speak with Cromwell!”

  Thomas Cromwell does not like being summoned to court, because it means he is at a disadvantage. He is seldom caught out by Henry, because he knows his character so well, but a visit with Lady Anne Boleyn can be akin to walking on an acrobats high rope.

  “Mon cher Croh-mewl, but this is plus charmante,” the lady says, using the childish mixture of French and English which the king finds so fascinating. The Privy Councillor bows, and kisses the proffered hand. She is wearing the huge yellow stone, with which he effected his introduction, almost two years before.

  “The ring adds charm to the already charming,” he says, thanking his poet friend, Tom Wyatt, for the useful lines he once penned for just such an occasion.

  “Flatter them, Master Cromwell,” he had advised. “Tell a mare it is a filly, and swear their beauty blinds you, and most women will swive with you all night.”

  “Yes, it reminds me of you, constantly, my good friend,” Anne says. Cromwell is minded of the old saying about over egging the pudding, and smiles benignly into her cold, calculating eyes. He wonders when she became so dangerous.

  “My old heart beats faster at the prospect of being of some service to you, my dear lady.” Cromwell strains for another compliment, but does not wish to be too giving, too soon. “How can I help you today?”

  “Master Cromwell,” she says, slipping back into her normal, soft Norfolk accent, “I thought only to meet with you, for an amiable chat. I hear the king’s matter is going very well.”

  “It is, Lady Anne,” Thomas Cromwell says, feeling on safer ground. “Pope Clement has been confounded. He has refused my master’s request for an annulment, and put it in writing to the Doge of Venice, who has, very kindly, agreed with him. This means we can proceed with our plans, without losing any more time. What is more, the marriage I was to arrange between the French princess, and Alessandro Medici, the Pope’s illegitimate son, has been rejected by the young duke.”

  “How does that benefit us?” Lady Anne asks.

  “The bribe of one hundred thousand pounds is still locked in our vaults, My Lady,” Cromwell explains. “Perhaps you might remind the king of this windfall, and share in his joy?”

  “How so?”

  “I hear that the Duke of Saxony is selling a very fine necklace, to raise money for his fight against Lutheranism. I could procure it, for about five thousand.”

  “That might damage the Lutherans in Saxony,” Lady Anne says. “All for a string of pearls?”

  “Yellow diamonds, set in the most beautifully filigreed silver,” Thomas Cromwell replies. “Besides, Duke George limits his actions to confiscating those books that offend his Catholic doctrine. He takes the books, burns them, and compensates the owners by paying the full market value.”

  “Seriously?” Lady Anne is beginning to laugh. “Are all these German fellows as mad?”

  “They are certainly not good business men,” Cromwell tells her. “Why, I’ve a mind to buy up all the Lutheran tracts I can, at a low price, and let Duke George confiscate them, and pay well over the odds for their sad loss.”

  “That is why I like you, Thomas,” Anne says. She calls me Thomas, he thinks, which means the unpleasant part is about to commence. Cromwell takes a deep breath.

  “So, My Lady, what is it you want of me?”

  “The Lord Chancellor tries to insult me, at every turn,” she replies. “Thomas More has taken to staying away from court when I am there.”

  “That is just how the king wants it,” Thomas Cromwell tells her. “He feels the man should be kept away from you.”

  “Where he can spread his poison, unhindered?”

  “No, My Lady, that is not so.” Cromwell wonders how best to explain matters to the woman. She bears a grudge for ever, and keeps lists of those whom she believes has slighted her. There is going to be a day of reckoning, and the Privy Councillor fears the consequences. “I have spoken to Sir Thomas, and we have an understanding. He has failed the king badly, and knows he is now out of favour. Though the king, graciously allows him to keep his title, he is confined to Utopia, and advised to read books, rather than write them.”

  “There are pamphlets, concerning my honour.”

  “Not of his doing, My Lady.”

  “He opposes my marriage.”

  “Not so, Lady Anne. He opposes nothing, but has an opinion, like most men. As his opinion in this matter does not coincide with the king’s, he must hold his tongue.”

  “I want rid of him.”

  “Lady, he is already gone.” Thomas Cromwell wants her to stop talking now, and accept what he says, but she cannot. She hates, far better than she loves.

  “I mean, really gone,” Anne Boleyn snaps. “Like Wolsey!”

  “The Cardinal was a great man,” Cromwell says, carefully, “and he died in his bed. The king has often spoken of how he was going to forgive him, and restore him to his rightful place. We must have a care that you do not remind the king of Wolsey, My Lady, lest he turns me out, and brings More back in. For then, madam, your position would be a dangerous one.”

  “Then he should die, for both our sakes.”

  “Enough!” Lady Anne steps back, startled, and Cromwell shakes his head, wondering how he can possibly deal with this vicious woman. “The man is disgraced, and sitting by his fire, with a bible on his knee. He can do no more harm to you.”

  “Have him gone,” Anne says, doggedly. “Then we will know peace, Cromwell.”

  “Can you not understand?” The Privy Councillor makes a final effort. “If I do this, and Sir Thomas dies, the whole of Europe will call him a saint, and say his blood is on your hands. Not mine, and not Henry’s. Yours. For they see you as the king’s mistress, and the one who most benefits from his murder.”

  “By then, I will be queen,” Anne replies, stubbornly. “Who then could hurt me?”

  “The king will let you ki
ll More,” Cromwell concludes, “but it will weigh on his conscience, as Wolsey’s death does, and he will seek out those who caused the mischief. Once it is in his mind, he will not rest until he expunges the guilt. Think, My Lady. Who else can he blame, but your family?”

  “I cannot allow him to sit at home, laughing at me,” she tells Cromwell, who sighs, and nods his understanding. It is a simple matter of revenge, and Anne must have a full measure.

  “Very well, I will make it so he must resign his Lord Chancellorship, and forgo his pensions.” Cromwell can always make arrangements so that the man and his family do not starve to death. “Will that be enough?”

  “I suppose it must, for now, Cromwell,” she says, but she feels as if she has been cheated of her real wish. “I think you are making a serious mistake.”

  “Let it be on my head, Lady Anne,” Cromwell replies with finality, “for I will not do murder for you!”

  “Then go,” Anne Boleyn tells him. “I see you do not wish to keep my friendship, Master Cromwell.”

  “My friendship is a valuable asset, My Lady,” Cromwell says. “Do you really wish to discard it over so trivial a matter?”

  “You have made it so that I will be queen before this coming Christmas, Master Cromwell. Within the next year, I will have borne the king’s son, and be in an unassailable position. Then, I will not ask you for More’s head, I will demand it!”

  “Perhaps you might do well to remember the French queen, My Lady,” Cromwell says, bowing. “Her only crime was to displease the king.”

  “You threaten me, Cromwell?”

  “No, I warn you, for your own sake,” the Privy Councillor says. “Now, are we to continue as allies, if not friends?”

  “How can you serve me now, stable lad?”

  “My father was a blacksmith, My Lady,” Thomas Cromwell explains. “As yours was a petty farmer, who managed to wed well. I can make your father rich, and keep your brother from ruining things. I can stop the Duchess of Norfolk blackening your name at every turn, and I might even be able to find another husband for your sister, and have her moved from court.”