by Anne Stevens
“I think not. He might have endorsed Brother Gustav’s strange visit, but I wonder if the last part of the message was not added later, by some person, intent on mischief.”
“We think alike.” Cromwell calls for a hot poker, and mulls two mugs of honeyed mead for them. “A warmer, to send us comfortably to bed, my friend. You will stay tonight.”
“I cannot, for I have to…”
“No, you misunderstand me, Eustace. You will stay here tonight. I fear for you. This monk you talk of sounds … dangerous, and I must have him taken up, at once.”
“Good luck with that, my friend,” Chapuys says, quite agreeable to stopping over. The beds are more comfortable, and the breakfast is quite sumptuous. “The fellow seems to be a wily rogue, and well able to disappear into the river mist.”
“You make him sound like a spirit,” Cromwell replies, chuckling, but he too is well aware of how hard it can be to find a single soul in a city the size of London. Especially when they do not wish to be found. “My young men will try to find him, and stop him from making any more mischief. Now, let me show you the wonderful manuscript Bishop Gardiner has sent me as a gift.”
“You are on friendly terms with him again?” Chapuys marvels at how simple Cromwell makes it all seem. Stephen Gardiner, now Bishop of Winchester, and a confidant of the king, has been a friend, become an enemy, and is now a friend again.
“He sees that we are of a like mind,” Cromwell replies. “He has no taste for burning heretics, and wishes only for a quiet life, in a stable realm. Together, we will stand firm against the king’s enemies, and guide him onto the right path.”
“The Cromwell road?” Chapuys snipes. “You know that Anne Boleyn dislikes him, of course?”
“All the more reason to cherish his friendship, old friend,” Cromwell explains. “For if Henry makes her his queen, we will all need allies.”
“If?” The ambassador smiles broadly. “Is there some doubt?”
Cromwell shrugs, as if to indicate that it is all in the lap of the gods. He links the Savoyard diplomat, and strolls out into the chill late afternoon sun, where several young men are loitering; waiting for their benefactor’s orders.
“Master Christian!” Cromwell calls, and a stocky, square jawed ruffian steps forward. “There is a troublesome monk on the loose. Señor Chapuys will give you a good description. I want him found, and brought to me, alive.”
“Alive, sir?”
“Dead men tell no tales,” Cromwell replies. “Have the boys search every ship out of the harbours, and look into every inn. Best check the whore houses too, seeing as how he is a monk!”
Mush is not sure how long he has been awake, but the sickness from the rough boat crossing has started to subside, and his mouth is dry. He realises that he is lying on a low, hard bed, and the noises from below suggest he is in some sort of inn, or wayside tavern. He is fully clothed, and does not smell too good. He is about to try and sit up, when he hears a latch scrape, close by.
Someone is coming into the room, with as much stealth as they can muster. Mush moves is right hand down towards the knife which he has concealed in his right boot, and holds his breath. If there is more than one visitor, he must be quick. Once on his feet, he will have but a moment to kill one, and turn to face the other. Any more than two, and he must rely on the others waking up to save the situation.
The bedroom door opens, but the evening is so dark that Mush must rely on his ears, rather than his eyesight. The intruder is little more than a darker shape within the dark, and seems to be of a middling size. He touches the knife hilt with his finger tips, and draws it into the palm of his hand. The shape shifts, and looms over one of the other beds in the room.
Mush senses the man’s position, rather than sees it, and springs from his bed. The figure turns, and starts to cry out, as Mush grasps him about the neck. One wrench, and the man is down. The young Jew pulls the head back, and raises his blade, ready to slash it down, across the exposed throat. From out of the dark, a big hand grabs his wrist, and stays the blow.
A candle flares into life, and Richard Cromwell holds Mush back from his would be victim. Will Draper, candle in one hand, and sword in the other, steps forward, allowing a pool of light to illuminate the scene. Mush is hanging onto the intruders neck for all he is worth, and cursing his big friend, who is laughing, and shaking the knife from his grip.
“Let him go, Mush,” Will says. “I don’t think we have anything to fear from Master Vaughan.” The newcomer gasps for air, and staggers to his feet, rubbing his neck.
“You expected me?” Stephen Vaughan asks.
“Calais is a small town, sir,” Will tells him. “Once news of our arrival went abroad, I suspected you might come calling. Forgive my friend, he was laid up with sea sickness, and did not know of my suspicion.”
“I thought myself to be in the wrong room, and a dead man, for sure,” Vaughan tells them. “Good evening, Richard, I see you are as strong as ever.”
“Stephen,” Richard says, nodding a greeting. They are of a similar age, and have both been in Cromwell’s service for the past ten years. “It is good to see you alive.”
“Just so,” Vaughan replies. “The rogues have tried to silence me twice. My information must be truly important.”
“Your note spoke of great danger,” Will says. “To whom?”
“I have no idea.” Stephen Vaughan is unused to the rough and tumble that comes with being one of Cromwell’s more active agents. He is a more subtle type of spy, often spending days trying to catch a wrong word, or unravel a partly deciphered message. “I was supposed to be on a transparent errand to the bankers of Augsburg.”
“Perhaps you might tell us what you do know?” Will prefers action to intrigue, but cannot fight an invisible enemy. “How came you to be amongst these bankers?”
“I had need of a safe haven,” Stephen replies. “Old Tom More was after my blood in England. It seems that some preacher called Constantine has denounced me as a heretic, and I must needs be abroad for a few months. The king wishes to borrow a large amount of money from somewhere, and I was to be the conduit, between Henry, and the German banking houses.”
“The Fuggers?”
“Exactly. Anton Mugger is a delightful fellow,” Vaughan explains. “I think he must sleep with an abacus under his pillow. My task was to try and raise a loan, with almost no collateral. He has taken over from the Medici family, and is as rich as the ancient king of Lydia, Croesus.”
“I don’t know him,” says Richard. “Perhaps he could lend to Henry?” Mush, who is now fully recovered, smirks at his friend’s lack of wit, and slips his knife away.
“You are under our protection now,” he tells the man whose throat he was so lately trying to slit. “Who is after you?”
“As I say, I am not sure.” Stephen Vaughan martial’s his thoughts. “All I saw was a part of a document. It purports to be from the Emperor Charles to Anton Fugger, and speaks of a ‘great plan’ that is to be set against England.”
“Not Henry?”
“No, which is odd, for Charles has a dislike of the king, because of his relationship to Queen Katherine. The emperor supports her, and has a morbid hatred of any protestant feelings.”
“Then he must hate Henry, and Anne Boleyn, as much as Martin Luther, and William Tyndale.” Will can understand this, but does not see how one can wish to harm a whole country, without going to war. “What else did you see?”
“Nothing then. The document was on Fugger’s desk, half covered with other documents. As he was in the room with me, I could hardly pick it up and have a good read, could I?”
“Then how is it he wants you dead?” Richard asks. He is a good man in a scrap, and faithful to his uncle, but slow on the uptake. “Did he see you looking at the document?”
“No, I was discreet, and carried on my negotiations as if nothing was amiss.” Stephen Vaughan is tired, and finds it hard to keep his tale in order. “It was later, when the h
ousehold was asleep that I went in search of more information.”
To tell of how he crept from his bed, and made his way down long, silent corridors, with only the light of the moon to guide him, and of how he had to make his way past a dozing guard by the main hall’s great door, would have taken too long. Nor did he explain how he came to Anton Fugger’s study, and slipped inside. It was a moment of great satisfaction, but also of rising fear to see the heaps of correspondence on the banker’s huge desk.
“What did you find?” Mush asks.
“The same letter, which rambled on about the pervasive sickness of protestant heresy, then concluded with Charles writing: ‘It is clear that we are of a like mind in this, and I consider it God’s Work that we shall proceed with this great plan, and utterly confound England, unto its final ruin.’ I memorised it, word for word.”
“Anything else?” Will Draper can only see war being any nation’s ruin, and wonders where the troops and supplies will come from. The only safe place to launch an invasion from is Flanders, he thinks, and the Holy Roman domain must be flooding with men, even as they speak.
“A second letter, in draft form, from Fugger to someone unknown. There are many crossings out, and alterations, and it seems he was struggling to disguise his true intent. He speaks of ‘going to take account of his holdings in Flanders’, and of ‘seeking out our good father’ who will ‘convey our wishes to that great personage, whom we hold dear, in England.’ Then he closes with a line about ‘restoring the faith, once our enemies are confounded.’ Which leads me to believe that Anton Fugger is using some secret agent to further his plot.”
“Do we have no clue to this man‘s identity?” Will asks.
“Not really. Save that he writes in Spanish.”
“There we have it, my friends,” Mush says. “We know who sets the plot in motion, and that a Spaniard might be involved, alongside some priest, and a great person in England. All that is left for us to find out is, what do they mean to do, where, and when.”
“The intent is clear,” Richard says, echoing all their thoughts. “The emperor means to invade England, and destroy it.”
“Then he must have vast armies,” Will says. “Where are they, and why does the emperor use a banker to head the plot? Surely, would he not put his greatest generals in charge?”
“True enough, and why would they need some great personage in England?” Mush asks. “I can only think of three or four with enough power to upset the military balance. My money is on that toad Harry Percy. The Duke of Northumberland is out of favour with Henry, and he is always looking to gain revenge.”
“Then he might raise the north, and join up with the Scottish king.” Will Draper considers this, but thinks it is too wild a card to play. “He can march south with, perhaps twenty five thousand men. Chester will stay loyal, as will Warwick and Worcester. That will be enough to halt their advance. Then Percy’s only hope will be a huge invasion across the channel. Taken from two sides, we will be hard pressed.”
“Yes, I agree, but not so as to be utterly destroyed,” Stephen Vaughan says. “They must capture at least one port. Dover is too strong, and Sandwich, along with the other Cinque Ports, are too well garrisoned. The plan is doomed to failure, even if they manage to land troops.”
“That is what I cannot understand,” Will concludes. “Any general, worth his salt, will confirm these facts. An invasion on so large a scale will cost a half million pounds, at least, and cost twenty thousand dead, just to establish a toe hold on our shores.”
“Then what are we missing?” Richard asks. “How do you spirit eighty or a hundred thousand men across the channel, and get them into England, without us knowing?”
“Perhaps they are already there?” Stephen Vaughan says, softly. “Dear Christ, what if this great person they speak of has the men under his command already?”
“But who has that kind of power?” Will says, shaking his head. “Even Suffolk must have a month to raise his yeomen, and then they number only fifteen or twenty thousand. Besides, he loves Henry too well to betray him.”
“What if he and Norfolk combine?” Mush sees a traitor around every corner, and dislikes both men.
“Then why involve Charles and this Anton Fugger fellow?” says Will Draper. “Why not just raise their armies, and march on London? The king might have enough to withstand them, but they will hold the rest of England. No, we are on the wrong tack, my friends. Tomorrow, we must ride out into the Calaisis… the rural hinterland, and see what we might find out.”
“A sound idea, sir,” Stephen Vaughan says. “For no one can hide so many men … not even in all of Flanders.”
“Unless Richard is right, of course … and we are up against invisible spirits,” Mush says. “Now, can we get back to sleep?”
4 Domini Canes
“Hold hard, sir!” The mounted sergeant reins in his mount and bars the rutted track. “What is your business?”
“I am, as you, an Englishman, good fellow,” the mud spattered traveller replies. “From your livery I see you are from the Calais garrison. Am I far away from the town?”
“This is good English soil you ride on,” the man tells him, proudly. “Though it do be stuck on France, like a boil festering upon its hairy arse. Again sir, what is your business?”
“I am a poet, sir.”
“A poet?” the soldier grins, and notes the fine sword, at the man’s waist, and the heavy saddle pistol in its holster. “If you are a poet, prove it, for I have a fancy that you are a spy, sir.”
Thomas Wyatt, who is on the last leg of his return from Portugal smiles, and clears his throat.
“The soldiers' endless tales of triumphs won,
Then the day that doth refute their lies,
I see the wounded wailing in the hot noon’s sun,
Those dead, the dust, and blood gorged flies.”
“A soldiers tale indeed, sir,” the man says, admiringly. “Not a poets lying words. You must come with me. My commander is a half mile behind, and will have words with you.”
Tom Wyatt shrugs. Now he is within the English Calaisis, he is no longer under threat. He pulls his horses head about, and canters after the big English sergeant. A minute later, and the following band come into sight. The poet is astounded, and spurs his mount forward to meet old friends.
“Will Draper,” he cries, “you treacherous bastard! I have a mind to pull you from your horse, and run you through.”
“We are well met, Tom Wyatt,” Draper replies, subduing a smile. “How was your trip to Portugal?”
“Too damned hot,” says Wyatt. “I was forced to leave Lisbon after I misjudged the temperament of a local magistrate. It seems he was the jealous sort, and I had to flee into Spain. Since then, I have been borrowing from every banker between Madrid and Paris. I used Cromwell as my surety.”
“Then I take it our meeting is a coincidence,” Will Draper says. “See, old friend, Mush and Richard are with me, and the fourth is Master Stephen Vaughan. Sergeant Buffery you have met.”
“Well?” Tom Wyatt asks, still somewhat petulantly. “What deviousness are you about now, Master Draper? ”
“Please, call me Will,” his friend asks of him. “Anyone might think it was I, and not Richard, who knocked you out, and put you on a boat to Portugal.”
“True enough,” Mush puts in, with an impish grin. “Will and I merely stood by, and watched the fun.” They cannot all help but laugh at this, and the awkward moment is forgotten. The poet is fully aware of what would have befallen him, had he continued on to England. Since then, he has learned to mind his tongue better when it comes to talking about Anne Boleyn.
“Then let bygones be bygones,” Tom Wyatt says, holding out a hand to Richard, who, fool that he is, takes it. The poet, kicks his friend’s horse, and grips the proffered hand. Richard Cromwell’s own great weight works against him, and he tumbles to the ground.
“Why, you…” Richard surges to his feet, but cannot help roar w
ith laughter at his own gullibility. “That will teach me, I suppose.”
“Perhaps, my big friend, but from now on, I suggest you salute, rather than shake hands,” Tom Wyatt says. “Now, what is afoot?”
“We are scouting the land, for hoards of Holy Roman soldiers,” Mush says, sarcastically. “Will thinks there are about eighty thousand hiding in the villages here about.”
“Then they are well hidden,” the poet replies. “I have ridden all the way from Paris, and lodged in a half dozen villages, without seeing a single armed man.”
“Not a single troop?” Will is dismayed, and wonders what is going on. “Can they be thinking of coming from Spain, by sea?”
“You would need five hundred galleons,” Stephen Vaughan says. “There are not that many ships in the Christian world, Will.”
“Then we are wrong footed,” Mush concludes. “If Charles has an army, it must be hidden in far off Muscovy, or Sweden. We are missing something, my friends.”
“The only armed men I have seen all morning, are the Domini Canes from the Friary in Artois.”
“They are far from home,” Stephen says. “They call them that … God’s Hounds … because of the way they doggedly track down victims for the Inquisition. Since it spilled out of Spain, the Inquisition has reached far and wide.”
“They are not allowed to set foot on English soil, sir,” Sergeant Buffery advises. “Black Friars, we call them, and it’s a good name, for never was any so black hearted as the Dominicans.”
“Not on English soil, you say?” Tom Wyatt gestures down the road, where about twenty men are riding towards them. They are all dressed in the familiar white cassocks, and black cowls, except their leader, who is wearing a steel breastplate, and helmet.
“It seems that the Inquisition has come to England, gentlemen,” Will says, coldly. “These fellows are coming on like they wish to do us harm. Spread out, and prepare to defend yourselves.”
“Fighting with priests?” Richard scowls. “Uncle Thomas will never believe it!” He draws his sword with the right hand, and a long handled axe with the other. His intention is to control his mount with his knees, and so be able to deal out twice as much in blows.