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

by Anne Stevens

  “I will whip Mary if she still harbours thoughts of love for Henry, Uncle Norfolk’s wife can go hang, and my brother can mind his own business.”

  “Can he mind his wife’s?” Cromwell enjoys the look of shock on her face, but it quickly goes.

  “What is Lady Rochford complaining of?” Anne asks. “Does she want to ruin her husband?”

  “As he has ruined her?” says Cromwell. “There are rumours going about, which, if believed, can destroy George. I can stop those idle tongues from wagging.”

  “You speak in riddles,” Anne snaps at him. “Speak plainly.”

  “Very well. The king wishes to keep Mary close by. It is almost time to give in to his desires, lest you lose him. The Duchess hates you, because you seek to be higher than she. A queen precedes a mere duchess, after all. She spreads rumours about Henry and another lady, which might ruin your chances. Lady Rochford has confessed to me that your brother was not happy to wed her. On the wedding night, he became very drunk, and forced himself upon her, in a most disgusting, and unnatural, way.”

  “Dear Christ, Cromwell, what is it you do not know?”

  “After that night, he has never touched her again,” Cromwell says, pressing home his advantage. “I can only assume he finds his pleasures in other ways, and in other places. Your brother does not love women, I fear.”

  “Do you know what you say?” Anne asks. She is shocked by the depth of Cromwell’s knowledge. “Such a rumour might get my brother … punished.”

  “Impalement, whilst still alive,” Cromwell says, brutally. “I cannot imagine a more horrific death. Now, madam, for one last time… are we to be allies, or enemies?”

  “Mon cher Croh-mewl,” Lady Anne Boleyn says, slipping back into her sibilant French accent, “Nous sommes amis, jusqu'à ce que la mort nous sépare.”

  It is not the best French, but Thomas Cromwell understands that the deal is struck. Sir Thomas More will be allowed to fade away, sister Mary will be married off, and Norfolk’s wife told to mind her manners. George will be warned to keep his codpiece out of strange places, and Lady Anne will content herself to be guided by her faithful friend … Cromwell.

  Friends, she agrees, until death us do part. Cromwell takes his leave, but wonders how long it will be before the Boleyn family overstep the mark once more. A dark, half hidden shape steps from a shadowy alcove, and resolves itself into Eustace Chapuys.

  “A chance meeting, Ambassador Chapuys?” Cromwell says.

  “You must return to calling me Eustace,” Chapuys says, as he hurries to keep pace with the taller man. “For, though we fell out over your Venetian adventure, I never really stopped being your dearest friend.”

  “Nor I yours,” Thomas Cromwell replies. “Will you come to dinner tonight?”

  “With pleasure,” says Chapuys, “for my cook knows only how to boil beef. I am wasting away to nothing!”

  “We cannot have that, my friend.” Cromwell steps out into the fresh air. “Shall we say about eight?”

  “Shall I bring anything?” Chapuys must ask, but in truth, his salary is three months behind, and his credit is almost used up. He cannot even afford a few bottles of cheap wine.

  “Just your good self,” Cromwell replies. “I need to speak with you about your share of the venture. Your letters to Pope Clement, and the Doge of Venice, in which you so castigated the king, and demanded they refuse my emissaries, worked well.”

  “I did not write those letters to …” Chapuys stops, and frowns. “How did you know about them? I wrote in code, and sent them by the most circuitous routs.”

  “No matter. I have a fiftieth part of the profit held in your name, and only need to know when you want it.”

  “I have made money from your outrageous enterprise?”

  “Yes, by happenchance, we won a famous battle, and there was much gold taken from the fallen. The Pope also sent gifts, as did Andrea Gritti, the Doge of Venice. Your share is a fiftieth part, which comes to seven hundred ducats … or four hundred and ninety eight pounds.”

  “Seven hundred ducats,” Chapuys says. He is aware that he is being consoled, for losing the battle to keep Henry and Katherine together, “That is a lot of money, my friend.”

  “A paltry sum,” Cromwell replies. “Will Draper, Tom Wyatt, Mush Draper, and my nephew each gained two fiftieths. For my part, which was mostly sitting at home, drinking wine, I receive twelve fiftieths. Nine fiftieths went on expenses, and bribes, and the remaining twenty fiftieths went into the royal coffers, where it will be turned into a new man o’ war, or a thousand new muskets.”

  “But seven hundred ducats…”

  “Less outgoings, of course.”

  “Outgoings?”

  “Yes. I deducted the six months rent you owe me.”

  “Then we are even, my friend,” Chapuys says. “Though I am unable to accept this money. The emperor might see it as a bribe.”

  “For what?” Cromwell asks. “We have not spoken for almost three months, and you seek to undo me at every turn. I advise the king, and you argue against it. I speak to Lady Anne about you, and she says what good company you are. I try to force through the separation, and you denounce me, in writing, and pay for rude pamphlets to be sent about London.”

  “Not those that concern Master Whatnot, my friend.”

  “I know that, Eustace,” Cromwell says. “That is another, more poisonous hand. No, I mean the one that draws a picture of me as a fat, penny pinching, Tyndale lover.”

  “Ah, you have seen that one?”

  “Seen it?” Cromwell slaps his friend’s back, and they set off walking back towards Austin Friars. “I own the printer who ran it off for you.”

  “You sly dog!”

  “Just so. I will also deduct the printer’s charges from your seven hundred ducats,” Cromwell tells his friend. “Now, what is it that you wish to tell me?”

  “The matter is … rather delicate,” Chapuys says, colouring slightly. He is a pious sort of man, and not given to wanton lewdness.

  “I am a man of the world, my friend. Speak.”

  “Firstly, Lady Mary Boleyn, still a most handsome looking woman, has expressed an explicit desire to have … carnal relations with me.”

  “Dear God, I hope you kept your hand on your codpiece, old friend,” Tom Cromwell says, laughing. “For, if you did, we are the only two men in London she has not swived. My doctor tells me it is because of an inflammation of the womb, which excites ladies to excessive lust. She will lay down for any man who wishes it.”

  “Yet the king still seems enamoured,” Chapuys says.

  “Even His Majesty can enjoy indulging himself in low tastes,” Cromwell replies. “I am told that the lady was French trained in the art of seduction, and knows well how to please any man.”

  “And Lady Anne?” Eustace Chapuys cannot help but point out the obvious inference. “Was she not also at this same French court, my friend?”

  “Have a care, Master Ambassador,” Cromwell says. “Your position might keep you from execution, but you are not above being poisoned. The Boleyn clan would have your tongue out for saying such a thing in public.”

  “Henry must be blind,” Chapuys chuckles. “In that respect he, and love, have something in common.”

  3 A Night in Calais

  Mush Draper is suffering before the small cog has even left Dover’s harbour, and by the time they reach Calais, he wants nothing but a soft bed for the night. His brother-in-law, Will Draper, and Richard Cromwell have no wish to carry their ailing friend all about the town, so take lodgings in the first inn they come to, once off the boat.

  “He smells like a pigsty,” Richard complains, hoisting Mush into one of the three narrow bunks in their room.

  “The streets smell just as badly,” Will replies, kicking off his boots. “Calais is the only part of France we still rule, but it is the backside of England, my friend. Our man is either in the town, or the English Calaisis countryside beyond. We need not linger,
once we have found our man.”

  “Stephen Vaughan is not the sort to bring us on a wild goose chase,” the big man says. “He is a dour sort of a fellow, and not prone to scare mongering. If he says there is some great danger coming our way, I am inclined to believe him.”

  “Your uncle has said much the same,” Will replies. “Though what it might be is beyond my understanding. Master Vaughan is a merchant, and spends his days with bankers, and wool merchants. He does not mix with desperate men.”

  “Someone wishes him dead,” Richard says, testing the comfort of his straw filled mattress. “He is in fear for his life. Once he is found, we will know all, no doubt. How do we start?”

  “I suggest we get a night’s sleep, then start our search of the town tomorrow.” Will yawns, and unbuckles his sword. “There cannot be too many places for our friend to hide. I suspect he will be lodged with one of the English wool merchants who run the place.”

  “And if not?”

  “Then we spread out net wider,” Will explains. “The English Calaisis stretches beyond the town walls, for a few miles. He might be in one of the two dozen outlying villages.”

  Richard grunts, and rolls over onto his side. He is a simple soul, and seldom has any trouble sleeping. Will lies awake for a while longer, wondering what calamity Stephen Vaughan believes is coming at them, and who the enemy might turn out to be.

  He ponders if the threat might be from the Fugger family, who are wealthy friends of the Holy Roman Emperor, or some powerful Catholic faction who wish to stop England’s coming church reformation. It is midnight when he finally falls asleep, still not knowing from whence the threat is coming.

  “Father George Constantine?” The wiry, middle aged preacher looks up, nervously into the eyes of a swarthy, Spanish looking fellow. “My name is Don Alessandro Gomes, and I am here to help you, my friend.”

  “Help me?” the man asks. “Do I know you, sir?”

  “We have mutual friends,” the tough looking Spaniard explains. “Master William sends his best wishes, and begs that you listen to my proposition. It will be to your liking.”

  “How so?” Constantine asks. He has been living in a small village outside Bruges, since fleeing England the previous Christmas, and his funds are dwindling. “Do you have money for me?”

  “If you need it,” Gomes replies. “My master wishes you to undertake a mission for him, and you will be well rewarded. We wish you to return to England.”

  “Impossible,” Constantine says. “I have too many enemies there, these days.”

  “You also have friends, sir,” the Spaniard tells him. “Your denunciation of the heretics to Sir Thomas More made you many powerful friends. Those friends offer to protect you, if you return, and work for them.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “As an agent.”

  “A spy?”

  “No, an agent. My master wants you to meet with certain well placed gentlemen, and further his designs for him.” Gomes takes a purse from his belt, and drops it on the table. “There is plenty more gold to come, Father George. Will you accept the commission?”

  “And do what?” Constantine asks. “You speak in riddles. I am a country preacher. How can I serve your master?”

  “By arranging for a certain package to leave England, and come to Bruges.” Gomes calls for wine. “Once delivered into my hands, you will be rewarded.”

  “How much?”

  “Two hundred English pounds.”

  Father George Constantine does not need much persuasion to accept the offer. Having once betrayed his friends, he will find it increasingly easier, from now on. His only concern is his own personal safety. Having tasted the rack once, he has no wish to fall into More’s hands again, and says so.

  “The Lord Chancellor has fallen from grace,” Allesandro Gomes says. “The king turns more and more to Thomas Cromwell, who is little more than a heretic himself. He will turn a blind eye to you.”

  “Whilst I do what?” Constantine asks, again. “For two hundred pounds, you could wish me to murder the king.”

  “We mean no harm to Henry,” the Spaniard replies, smiling at the very notion. “You will cross the channel, meet some people in London, and return here to us.”

  “With a package.”

  “Yes.”

  “For two hundred pounds?”

  “Yes. Then you can disappear.” Gomes considers for a moment. “You might buy a small estate, in France, or become a silk merchant. We do not really care.”

  “Who is your master?”

  “The name will mean nothing to you.”

  “I believe you wish to involve me in a criminal act, rather than a political one,” the preacher says.

  “Think what you wish. Will you do it?”

  “I cannot fall into More’s hands again,” Constantine says. “He threatened me with death, if I ever return to England.”

  “You will travel under a Flanders passport, and with a false name,” Gomes tells him. “Once in London, you will send word to a certain person, who will arrange a meeting. They will give you a package for us. Return, and you are a wealthy man.”

  “And if I decline?”

  “Can you afford to?” The preacher frowns. He has a few shillings in his purse, and does not know how he will continue, without financial support.

  “No, I cannot. I am your man, sir.”

  “Good. Then let us drink on it.” Gomes is pleased with the outcome, for the alternative was not to his liking. Had the preacher declined his offer, he was to have the man killed.

  The dinner lives up to Eustace Chapuys’ expectations, and the new Italian wine, brought home by Will Draper, is light, and refreshing on the palate. The little Savoyard is so content, that he almost forgets why he is back at Austin Friars. He and Cromwell find themselves to be mutually beneficial, and Chapuys owes his friend at least one good favour.

  “I had a communication from home the other morning,” he says, casually. “It came by unusual means.”

  “What, I must uncover another of your mysterious postal methods, Eustace?” Cromwell says, pouring more wine. “Do you do it just to keep my agents on their tip toes?”

  “A monk came to me.”

  “A monk?” Cromwell sighs heavily. “The Bishop of Rome is getting intrusive, my friend.”

  “Brother Gustav is some sort of German.”

  “From Saxony?” Cromwell’s mind jumps back to his flippant conversation about the Saxon Duke’s necklace.

  “Hessen, I believe, which is not too distant from there,” Eustace Chapuys replies. “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, ‘tis probably nothing,” Cromwell says. “Do go on. This monk brought you a letter, you say?”

  “No, he brought me a message from the emperor, which he had committed to memory.” Chapuys is a little uneasy. He has something to say, but does not want to divulge the whole message.

  “Which part do you think concerns me, Eustace?”

  “He used a phrase, to confirm the veracity of the message,” the Savoyard diplomat explains. “Then he spoke of several things that must remain private. At the last, he told me that I might be approached by ‘a great personage’ soon, and must render them any help I can.”

  “I see.” Cromwell can sniff out a conspiracy like a pig finds truffles, and the news annoys him. “You are an ambassador, and should be held above such petty intrigues, my friend.”

  “Would that it were petty,” Chapuys responds. “Brother Gustav, who is a dour sort of a man, intimates that I am to be part of a great undertaking, that will bring about the downfall of England.”

  “A plot against Henry?” Cromwell is vexed, as he runs the best string of agents in Europe, and has heard nothing of any planned assassination, or uprising.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Chapuys replies. “Though the monk is but a messenger, he actually means the end of England, not its king. I am worried, Thomas. How do you destroy a whole kingdom, without laying it waste, from end to e
nd?”

  “You cannot,” says Cromwell. “It would take the combined armies of France and Spain, and two thousand ships to transport them. Then you must continue to supply your men with fresh horses, food, and reinforcements … for we would fight to the death.”

  “But it could happen,” the ambassador says.

  “Imagine it, Eustace. Norfolk, Suffolk, and Percy can field sixty thousand men within a week. Then we have the Welsh army, numbering another fifteen thousand. Add to that every land owner, and free Englishman who can raise a pike, or swing an axe, and the odds are nearer even.”

  “The monk seems confident.” Chapuys is not, and thus seeks to put his friend on guard. “It is my duty to encourage friendship between our two masters, Thomas, yet I am being recruited into something that can only do harm.”

  “Who is this great personage the monk talks about?” Thomas Cromwell asks. “I cannot believe any man would raise his standard against Henry. The king is too well loved by his people, and he is protected by my own agents.”

  “How many Will Drapers do you possess?” Chapuys means it as a jest, but Cromwell understands well enough what he means. One determined man is all it takes to kill even a king. He remembers how, once, only the knife of Mush ben Mordecai stood between Henry, and a cruel death.

  “I take it that you do not wish to become embroiled in this scheme?” Cromwell knows Chapuys wishes a quiet life, but cannot be seen to disobey his master, Charles V, the Holy Roman Emperor.

  “I must obey instructions.”

  “I expect nothing less, Eustace. You are the most loyal of men, and have served Katherine well. Any move against the king now, might seriously affect her future position. I do not threaten, my friend … I merely warn you.”

  “I come to you openly, Thomas, in the hope that you can see a way out of it for all of us,” Chapuys explains. “I must obey, and my master must not feel betrayed. Nor can we allow Europe to become embroiled in a terrible war, which will ruin us all.”

  “Tell me true, Eustace, is Charles behind this?”