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

by Anne Stevens

  Will selects six of his best men, and places them under the command of Mush, with orders to take the Norfolk road, and track down Constantine.

  “I will ride on to Cambridge, and try to halt this mad caper,” he says. “Once I am done, I will leave Richard to guard Katherine, and send word for Tom Wyatt to make haste to Norwich, with as many men as he can muster. If Norfolk is the heart of the plot, we might be able to bring our enemies to battle before they are ready.”

  “Take care, Will,” Mush says. “For these enemies are still invisible to us, and how can you cut down a phantom?”

  Despite the fullness of the moon, Miriam Draper, and her companions, can only advance at a steady walking pace. Their only consolation is that Constantine’s men can only do the same. It is a cause of frustration to Chapuys, who fears for his queen, but he dare not go any faster. It is still a couple of hours before dawn when they hear the sound of other horses approaching. Gregory reaches for his pistol.

  “It cannot be Constantine’s men, Gregory,” Miriam advises the nervous youth. “They are coming from the wrong direction.” Suddenly, two dozen mounted men are milling around them, and a familiar voice shouts out for them to reign in their mounts.

  “Will, is that you, my love?” Miriam is relieved to see her husband, and Gregory gives a childish whoop of joy.

  “Now we are an army,” he cries.

  “Ambassador Chapuys,” Will says, “we are here to escort you to the Dowager Princess of Wales. Miriam and Gregory, you must turn aside now, and return to your original task. Master Worthy has orders to deliver your carts to you at the Angel Inn. My regards to Sergeant Buffery.”

  “I shall ride with you, Will,” Gregory says, firmly.

  “And who will look after Miriam?” Will Draper replies.

  “Master Worthy’s men,” Miriam tells him. “Do not stop Gregory from earning his spurs, husband. Though make sure he is not too brave, or Master Cromwell will be angry with you.”

  Thomas Cromwell finally abandons his quest for sleep just before dawn breaks, and calls for his servants to help him dress, and prepare for a move back to Austin Friars. His deliberations during the night lead him to the conclusion that it is not he who is under threat, thus freeing him to take matters in hand.

  By early morning, he is standing in the great kitchen, with the breakfast table filling with his young men. Rafe Sadler is there, along with Barnaby Fowler, and a half dozen of the trainee lawyers and financiers he sponsors. Each one will gladly give his life for Cromwell, and await his instructions.

  “Soon, gentlemen, we will be at war,” he says. “Though not one that is to be fought with canon, and swords. The enemy is more powerful than any king, or emperor, and it will take all of our wits to beat them.”

  “You begin to frighten us, master,” Rafe says, speaking for them all. “Are we then up against something beyond human ken? Is Mush right, when he talks about invisible spirits?”

  “To a degree,” Cromwell tells them. “Though there is nothing of the supernatural about them. Rather, they are out of sight, than invisible, and they will strike from afar. Tell me, Rafe, how do we keep the French from our shores?”

  “A good navy, and strong coastal defences,” Rafe replies, his brow furrowing. “They do not have enough wealth to match our arms.”

  “Precisely. England is strong, because she is wealthy. You need gold to buy ships, and pay soldiers, do you not?”

  “You do.”

  “Then how would you defeat us, Rafe?” Rafe considers the question, then smiles as he understands the answer that Cromwell seeks.

  “Why, by making us poor,” he says. “Without wealth, we cannot defend ourselves, and will fall prey to any who wish us harm. It is an easy answer, sir, but an impossible one to achieve. We have the wool trade, Cornish tin, and Welsh goldmines. Then we have the coastal trading cogs, who control import and export in the channel. Not to mention our rich pastures, fishing grounds, and fine craftsmen’s skills. Our people are the finest stone masons, bridge builders, canon makers, and ship builders in the world.”

  “True. This little island of ours is a cornucopia of wealth,” Cromwell says. “It would take an audacious plan to dry that wealth up, and reduce us to poverty. Some might think that only a great war of attrition would suffice, with our armies smashed, and our land laid waste, but who could do that alone? It would take the entire might of the Holy Roman Empire, and France. As they are at war with one another, I cannot see that as a likely proposition.”

  “We know what cannot be, sir,” Barnaby Fowler says, “but what of that which can be?”

  “I have a strong suspicion, but that is not enough,” Cromwell tells the assembled young men. “We are lawyers, and lawyers deal in proof. You must go out, and find me the facts I need to confirm that which I suspect.”

  “We await your instructions,” Rafe replies. “Though I doubt we will be much use, in the event of any trouble.”

  “I need minds, not swords,” Cromwell tells his favoured assistant. “We must fight with our intellects. I need copies of all foreign bills of lading, for the last month, and sight of any government contracts, where they concern dealings with foreign merchants.”

  “We will need several days,” Barnaby tells his master. “Most of those documents will be spread from here to Dover.”

  “I also want to know the extent of lending, between us, and the Fugger banking house in Augsburg. I do not mean crown loans, but private transactions. That will do to start with.”

  “What of our men in the field?” Rafe says. “Tom Wyatt is rounding up troops, even as we speak.”

  “Have him stay close by,” Cromwell says. “We may still have recourse to violent solutions. Let Will Draper complete his mission against these mysterious interlopers, and let us keep on looking for George Constantine. If he is taken, we might find out the entire plot, and be able to counter it.”

  Cromwell’s young men disperse, about their allotted tasks, but Rafe Sadler hangs back. He is concerned, and wishes to know what Cromwell suspects.

  “I cannot conceive what harm you envisage,” he says. “One treacherous preacher, and a dozen men cannot bring down England.”

  “The men, I fear, are an escape party, sent to remove Katherine to safety,” Cromwell explains. “I pray they are stopped, before the queen is foolish enough to join their scheme. As for Constantine, he is little more than a messenger… sent to awaken a ‘great personage’, and rouse them to some terrible action. That is the second part of this plot. The third part is more insidious. I believe that some event is planned, that will ruin our economy.”

  “But what?” Rafe cannot conceive of anything, short of war and plague that would lay England low.

  “I don’t know,” Cromwell admits, “but there are odd things happening. Why would a Flanders timber merchant ask for payment in Ducats?”

  “I don’t understand,” Rafe says. “English gold is preferred over al other coinage. The exchange rate will cost him dear. How does that benefit him?”

  “It does not,” Cromwell replies, “and that is the true mystery in all of this.”

  “Do our enemies seek to stop us buying broad timber?” Rafe conjectures. “Even if they manage to stop imports, our own forests are sufficient to keep the ship yards building war ships. Perhaps they mean to burn down every wood in England, and starve us of precious oak.”

  “Forget about wood,” Cromwell replies. “We must see what else they seek to sell only for Ducats. The answer is staring at me, Rafe, but I cannot grasp it to me.”

  11 The Manor of the More

  The Manor of the More is, by any standards, a magnificent house, which is thought by many to be the equal of King Henry’s opulent Hampton Court Palace. It has a modern, and elegant red brick façade, and comprises of a long, central building, with two shorter wings, which house stables, staff, and kitchens. The soaring towers, to right and left, conceal the very latest design of chimneys, that service the multitude of fireplaces b
elow.

  There are sixty four bed chambers on the upper floors, a magnificent long gallery to walk down, and sweeping staircases, built in the French style. The dark stained, oak panelled walls are hung with one of the finest collections of paintings in England, and the great library is said to contain over two hundred books, from beautifully illuminated bibles, to the most risqué modern Italian love poetry.

  Once owned by Cardinal Wolsey, the great house has played host to King Henry, and the French ambassador, during the celebrations of the last peace treaty between the two realms. It is now owned by the king, and is staffed by almost two hundred servants, and another dozen ladies in waiting. The grounds are bounded with high walls, and cleverly concealed ha-ha ditches to the fore. The estate is closed to outsiders, and guarded by a half dozen armed men.

  These days, the sumptuous Manor on the Moor is home to Katherine of Aragon, and is where the ex queen must, for now, live out her quiet retirement. The solid, red brick house is a comfortable place of exile, and it boasts a long gallery, that is fifteen feet wide, and over two hundred and fifty feet in length. The deposed queen spends her days strolling up and down, gazing out over the rolling parkland that is her only allowable view.

  It is from this gallery that she first sees the distant group of horsemen, and wonders who it might be who dares visit her. Henry allows her visits, but makes it plain that to request an audience with Katherine means swift disfavour back in court. The figures are less than a half mile away, when a second force appears, and closes on them. She turns, and claps for a lady in waiting to attend.

  “Your Majesty?” the girl asks, bowing.

  “We have guests arriving, Donna Esmeralda,” she says, excitedly. “Pray ask the cook to set the great banqueting hall table for … let me think … forty, or so.”

  “Madam, the guards will not admit them,” the startled Spanish girl says.

  “I doubt the guards can do much to stop them,” Queen Katherine replies, testily. “Now, be off, and see to it!” So large a band can mean one of only two things. They are coming to rescue her, or kill her. She hopes for the former, and wonders if they will be able to get her safely away. Then she pauses, and thinks of her daughter. To leave England without Mary will be an intolerable thing, and she dreads the possibility.

  “They have stopped,” Donna Esmeralda says, softly.

  Katherine stares into the distance, and sees that the girl is right.

  “Hold fast, gentlemen,” Will Draper says, as they come within a dozen yards of the twelve armed men. “I will know your business here.”

  “I am Sir William Cross,” one of the men shouts back, and we have urgent business at the house.”

  “Then state it, sir, for we are under orders to protect Queen Katherine from unwelcome visitors.” Will uses Katherine’s old title, to gauge the other band’s reaction. Sir William touches a hand to the saddle bag by his right knee.

  “I have orders to remove the queen from the Manor of the More, and convey her to a safer place. These gentlemen are all true Englishmen, sir.” Cross is not lying. He does have orders, but not from Henry, and his companions are all men of good birth, devoted to saving England from what they perceive to be a disaster.

  “That I know,” Richard Cromwell mutters to Will, as he draws alongside him. “I see at least three devout Roman Catholic gentlemen amongst them, who are currently barred from court because of their obstinacy. Cedric Barton is a born Papist, and John Freeman has no love for the king. They are a nest of vipers, and no mistake.”

  “Sir William, the queen is safe enough where she is, and the outlook will not improve with some sea air,” Will shouts over. “Lay aside your arms, and come with us.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Dead or alive, sir, it makes no shift to me!” Will draws his saddle pistol, and his men follow his lead.

  “Put away your weapons, good Englishmen,” one of Cross’s men calls. “We seek only to rescue the rightful queen, and take her from Henry’s wicked clutches. Would you have the Boleyn whore decide her fate?”

  “Enough,” Will snaps. “Surrender, or fight!” One of the men draws his sword, and the air is filled with the crack of pistols being discharged. As the smoke clears, there are three or four men unhorsed, and the rest spur their mounts forward, eager to hack at one another. Will charges, and is horrified to find young Gregory by his side, waving his borrowed sword around his head like a demented butcher.

  The boy rushes straight at Sir William Cross, but Will rides into his flank, and pushes the boy’s horse wide, and out of reach of a vicious slash, that would have cleaved him in two. Will rides on, and drives the point of his own blade into his enemies side. Sir William screams, and slides out of the saddle.

  Gregory continues his wild rush, waving his sword about with no ill effect, until he is through the enemy. Richard is being far more economical with his thrusts, and has unhorsed another two men. Then, suddenly, it is over. Four men cry for quarter, and eight more are either dead, or wounded on the ground.

  “Did you see?” Gregory says, as he rides back to them, his face flushed with excitement. “I charged right through them. Did you see, Will?”

  “I saw,” Will tells him. “Your father will be proud of you, lad. Now, let us bind these fellows fast, and take them to the house.”

  “Your Highness,” Will bows low. He has chosen his form of address carefully, so as to avoid the difficulty over titles. Highness implies, but does not admit that Katherine is still a queen. She is satisfied, and beckons him forward.

  “Why, my dear Captain Draper, I never see you without some attendant bloodshed. On the last occasion, you slew my physician, and my two Moroccan bodyguards. Pray explain yourself.”

  “The men we fought, were sent to steal you away, madam.”

  “Then I owe you no gratitude, sir!” She turns to leave, but Will is not finished.

  “Had they taken you, the whole countryside would have been raised against them, and you would be taken within the day. I think it was intended that way. Once you left here, your life would be forfeit. Think, My Lady, how convenient to certain people, if you were to be tried, and executed. Anne Boleyn would clap with joy, and though your nephew, the emperor, would shed a tear, his councillors would rejoice.”

  “Not so!”

  “Madam, they see that you tie Charles’ hands, and would have you gone. Your death would rebound on Henry, and make him into a monster.”

  “I wish no harm to my husband,” she says. “Why would those men sacrifice themselves for a lost cause?”

  “Because they were lied to, by a man called George Constantine,” Will says. It is the only thing that fits the facts, and he begins to see some of his enemy‘s plan. “There are plots hidden within plots, and your ultimate death, along with your daughter’s, was but a part of the overall scheme.”

  “You speak in riddles, sir,” Katherine says. “Though I do not doubt your sincerity. That is twice you have saved me now. Have a care, sir, lest the Boleyn whore finds out, for she will not forgive you. Here, take this, as a token of my grateful thanks.”

  Will Draper bows, and takes his leave. It is not until he is back with his men that he opens his palm, to gaze at the beautiful ruby ring therein.

  “God’s teeth!” Richard Cromwell exclaims. “How will you divide that amongst Cromwell’s young men?”

  “I shall not. Rather, I will pay Austin friars a bounty for it, and place it on Miriam’s finger.”

  “A Jewish girl, wearing a queen’s ring,” Richard says, with a broad grin. “What is the world coming to?”

  “You must explain yourself, sir,” Katherine says, sharply. “How do you come to be in the company of my enemies?” Eustace Chapuys sighs, and realises that he is in for a difficult interview with his mistress.

  “It is the only way I can gain access to you, My Lady,” he replies. “Your husband refuses me a private audience, time after time. Now, he banishes you here, so far from London.”

/>   “It is Cromwell’s doing,” the queen says. “He is my enemy, and wants me put aside. Well sir, it shall happen only over my dead body!”

  “God forbid such a dark day ever comes,” Chapuys tells her, earnestly. “Thomas Cromwell cannot change the king’s mind, so does what he can to make you safe. Court is too dangerous a place for you, these days. He seeks to keep you in comfort, and works towards a time when you might see your daughter again.”

  “He is a perfect saint,” Katherine sneers. “Yet he sends men to foil my rescuers.”

  “Leave here, and you sign your own death warrant, madam,” Chapuys replies. “It is eighty miles to the nearest port, and there are a thousand men waiting to halt your flight.”

  “The good Captain Draper tells me as much.” Katherine sees the truth of what they say, but she is disappointed not to have had the chance of flight.

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I must ask a question of you, that requires a truthful answer. The fate of England might hang on your reply.”

  “England has stopped loving me, Chapuys,” she says, “so why should I care?”

  “Madam, you are under a misapprehension.” Chapuys waves an all encompassing arm, to signify the general populace. “The people would line the streets, if you ever returned to London, and each night, those of the true faith pray for your soul, a hundred thousand times over.”

  “Yes, I believe you.” Katherine composes herself. “Ask your question, Ambassador Chapuys.”

  “Did you expect this attempt at rescue?” There is a long pause, and the little Savoyard begins to think she will refuse an answer, but then she speaks.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “How so?” Chapuys asks. “You are so closely guarded, and your letters, both in and out, will be opened.

  “Oranges.”

  “Oranges?”