by Anne Stevens
“There are messages concealed within gifts of oranges,” the queen confesses. “They are delivered, from time to time, and have letters concealed within them.”
“And these letters informed you of this attempt?”
“The last did.” Queen Katherine is struggling to give a fuller explanation, as she has no wish to incriminate anyone. “Before that, the notes were private communications, sent by my nephew.”
“The Emperor Charles writes to you?” Chapuys is surprised, as his master has told him nothing of this.
“On family matters only,” she replies. “There is nothing treasonous in them. The last note was not from the emperor. It said only that I should prepare myself for a visit from some loyal Catholic gentlemen.”
“And who is this mysterious benefactor, who sends you oranges, My Lady?” The queen shrugs, and shakes her head at her ambassador.
“I do not know,” she tells him.
“Then how do you know they are not poisoned?” Chapuys does not believe her, and presses the point. “Why trust this fruit?”
“Because I know its provenance, sir,” Katherine replies. “The oranges come in a wicker basket, and always have an embroidered napkin with them. The warders recognise the coat of arms, and allow delivery.”
“Whose coat of arms, madam?”
“Why, Tom Howard’s, of course. The guards would never refuse the Duke of Norfolk.”
“Nor-fook?” Chapuys high pitched pronunciation would sound comical, under any other circumstances. “His Lordship is the most pre-eminent peer of the realm. You suggest he is betraying the king?”
“I am not,” Katherine retorts, sharply. “I am merely stating a fact. The napkin comes from the Duke of Norfolk’s household. It may be a gentleman in his service, or a lady in waiting of my dearest friend, Elizabeth.”
“She is no longer a part of Thomas Howard’s life,” Chapuys tells the queen. “He has cast her out, and installed a … putain in her place.”
“It is the fashion, these days,” Katherine says. “Poor Elizabeth. She is a devoted friend, and has stood by me loyally. I hear that she dislikes her niece, and refuses to curtsey to the woman.”
Chapuys blushes. Not so long ago, he was forced to bow to Anne Boleyn, and is compelled to chat with her, whenever they meet. In his heart, he feels as if he has betrayed his queen.
“Sometimes, there is no other option, than to bow the head, or bend the knee,” he says, “but the heart knows the truth, madam. I think Lady Nor-fook should mind her manners, and keep her thoughts private. She will live longer.”
“That is not Elizabeth’s way.”
“No, madam?” Chapuys shakes his head. “Then God protect her from her own foolishness.”
The principal servants of the house are lined up in front of Will Draper, and have an air of collective guilt about them. It is their duty to keep Queen Katherine secluded, and they have failed, miserably.
The Head Steward, the Senior Cook, Keeper of the Chambers, and senior Lady in Waiting expect a harsh punishment, and can only hope to mitigate their fate with the truth. Will Draper has no intention of hurting them, but has his men to hand, should they prove recalcitrant.
“Who amongst you knew that the Dowager Princess of Wales was receiving illicit letters?” Will uses his best ‘military’ voice, and the four servants quake in terror. The steward is the first to regain the power of speech, and he denies all knowledge.
“Nor would these good women know, sir,” he confirms. “We are all chosen for our devotion to His Majesty.”
“Who brought the oranges?”
“Oranges?” the Keeper of the Chambers, a portly, red faced woman of indeterminate age, asks. “I don’t understand.”
“The letters were placed inside gifts of oranges,” Will persists. “Such a rare delicacy. Surely you saw them?”
“Why yes, sir,” the woman replies, “but oranges is oranges, ain’t they? I know naught of any secret letters.”
“Nor I,” the cook puts in. “They just comes in, at the back door. A serving fellow, on a horse. ‘Here,’ says he, and gallops off. I must have seen him three or four times, these last months, sir.”
“Did you not think to examine the basket?”
“I did, sir,” the woman replies. “An’ it were a basket, plain an’ simple. I sent the fruit up to the princesses chambers, but did not touch it, for fear of bruising. I ain’t never seen such fresh oranges before, sir. They must usually get a battering on the way from Spain, but not these. Fresh as the day they was picked!”
“I am sure,” Will replies, frowning. All four sound to be telling the truth, and the trail is cold again. True enough, there is the evidence of the napkin, bearing the coat of arms of the Duke of Norfolk, but other than that, nothing comes to his mind. “Very well, you may go. I will send a report to Master Cromwell, asking him to be lenient towards you all. If anything else comes to mind, I will be outside with my men.”
He steps out into the gardens, where Richard Cromwell is playing dice with another of his men. The big man stands, and looks at him enquiringly.
“Well?”
“Nothing.”
“By the buggering horns of Satan,” Richard curses, and the men laugh. “If we cannot find out the truth, Norfolk will escape us.”
“What if it is not Tom Howard?” Will says. “The duke spends his time swiving Bess Holland these days. What benefit will he have in kidnapping Katherine, and putting England into turmoil?”
“None, I suppose,” Richard says. He tends to think in slow, straight lines, and cannot abide a mystery. “See, here is the steward, who has held back from leaving with the rest.”
The Head Steward approaches, diffidently, wringing his hands. Will sees that he is in mortal fear for himself, and smiles.
“Come, good sir, I will not eat you,” he tells the man. “Do you have something to get off your chest?”
“I do not have a shred of guilt in this matter, Captain Draper,” he replies, becoming bolder. “Though I have had a thought that might be of some help.”
“Pray speak up, sir,” Will says, and places one hand on the pouch of silver coins hanging at his waist. “I can be a generous benefactor … if what you say pleases me.”
“Thank you, master. It is the oranges, you see.”
“You noticed something odd about them?”
“No, I never saw them,” the man says, “but I am minded as to what the cook says. They were as fresh as any she had ever seen.”
“Yes, that is odd,” Will says.
“It is, if they came from Spain, sir.”
“Where else?” Will can only wonder what the man is getting at. “Oranges grow in warmer climes. I have yet to see an orange tree in England.”
“There are some,” the man says. “Puny things, that lack the heat of the sun. But I recall something I was told about Framlingham Castle.”
“In Suffolk?” Will has a vague recollection of the place.
“It is an imposing sight, I hear,” the man tells them, warming to his story. “There is a Great Chamber, a strong gatehouse, a moat, and twenty odd fine bedrooms. It also has a chapel … dedicated to the Papist church … and an extensive pleasure garden, with ornamental ponds, terraced walkways, fountains, and a herb garden.”
“Come to the point, sir,” Richard growls. “What is so special about this place?”
“It has a high walled garden, which is kept warm all year around, with exterior fire places that burn day and night,” the man concludes. “Within, the duke’s gardeners grow exotic fruit trees. Pears, damsons, apples, and oranges.”
“That might account for the oranges’ fresh state,” Will says. “Who owns the place?”
“Though it is in Suffolk, the Duke of Norfolk holds it. He does not live there. He lives in Kenninghall, with his new … lady.”
“Then who?”
“The Duchess of Norfolk, sir,” the man says. “She is banished there, in the hope that it will stop her slanders against Lady Anne
Boleyn, and Master Cromwell.”
“The queens best, and most loyal friend,” Chapuys says. He has been sitting close by, and has heard everything. “Can you not see, Will, that you have found the identity of the ‘great personage’ you seek?”
“A woman,” Will Draper says. It is possible, he reasons, for some women, like his beloved Miriam can function in a man’s domain. “Yet she is still a great power in England. She is descended from kings, and must have many influential ears to whisper into.”
“Of course it is her.” Chapuys is relieved to find that it is an English hand, and not a German, or Spanish, that is involved in the treason. “Nor-fook has thrown her over, and she swears vengeance on him to any who will listen. Why, she has even asked me to arrange a visit to Queen Katherine.”
“You did not find that odd?” Richard asks.
“She is a friend of Her Majesty’s, and a devout Catholic person,” Chapuys says, in his defence. “Besides, what could a mere woman do? I, like you was looking for a masculine piece in this puzzle.”
“A puzzle that is beginning to unravel,” Will replies. “We must take horse for Suffolk, at once.”
“But we have not slept!” Chapuys complains. “Can we not set out tomorrow, refreshed, and able?”
“You may stay here,” Will tells the ambassador, “but we must get to My Lady Norfolk, before she can act. Once we have her, we can find out what her part is in this matter.”
“Chapuys does not shirk his duty,” the little man snaps. “I will come with you, and see this out to its end.”
“Good man,” Will says, “though I have a mind to split my forces, and send some back to London.”
“For what reason?“ The ambassador asks. “Send one man back to Thomas Cromwell, and warn him that he must look to Norfolk’s lady. Then, if she escapes us, he will seize her as she tries to enter the city.”
“Wise advice, sir. Pray, take your leave of your queen now, and join us at the horses.”
My queen, Chapuys thinks. Yes, I am one of a dwindling band who still keep up the fiction. Soon I will have to stand alone.
11 The Good Samaritan
Elizabeth Howard pauses, with her quill poised above the letter she has been writing since daylight. In it she asserts, for the three hundredth time, that she has been a most dutiful wife to the Duke of Norfolk. She mentions how she has served her husband well, at court … daily for almost sixteen years …and accompanied him to Ireland when he was posted there. She re-reads the part where she details the bearing of his children, and states, clearly, that Tom Howard was a devoted, and loving husband.
She dips into the thick ink, and writes that anyone might think them to be bonded together, by mutual love, and respect, until the unhappy day that he took a mistress. ‘A woman without breeding, and of previous immoral character’, she pens. Then, after a moment’s thought, she adds a final paragraph to her letter to Pope Clement in Rome.
‘No man can put aside his lawful wife, and expect to remain within the grace of God, Your Eminence, so I beseech you, write to Thomas Howard, 3rd Duke of Norfolk, and command him to return to me. By the time you receive this, great things will have happened, and England will be upon its knees, and begging for your forgiveness.’
As she signs the sad plea for help, her steward knocks, and comes into the room. She ignores him whilst she dusts the letter with sand, and blows on it, to aid in its drying.
“What is it, Dallard?” she asks, finally glancing up at the tall, young man. He holds out a gentleman’s riding glove for her inspection, and smiles when she does not ask where it is from.
“Someone was in the house, during the night, My Lady” he says. Elizabeth remains silent, for she is quite aware of the fact. A gentleman, purporting to be an old friend of her husband arrived, after the servants were settled in the stable block, and begged a bed for the night. “It seems he had free access, and was able to search the house, at his leisure, madam.”
Elizabeth, starved of both company, and affection, has accepted the man, Stephen Vaughan, at face value, and spent the evening drinking large amounts of wine with him. He is witty, charming, and knows her husband and his business well. Some time around midnight, he had helped her to her bed chamber, and into bed. She is unsure exactly who first kissed whom, The love play, she recalls, was quite exquisite, and bore none of the bestial traits common to her clumsy, malodorous old husband. Stephen had told her the sweetest lies, and coaxed her into acts that she thought only the French were prone to employ. After the third time, she was too drunk, and too exhausted to continue, and fell into a deep sleep. She woke up, as if from a beautiful dream, to find him gone.
“How do you know this?” she asks. Her lack of funds is almost complete, and she cannot afford to keep servants for the house. One steward, and a couple of village girls, is all she can keep, and they sleep on straw, in the stables. Her midnight tryst should have remained a sweet secret.
“Effie answered a call of nature, My Lady, and saw the rogue leaving.” The man was beginning to feel rather satisfied with himself. The girl was a regular bed companion, and shook him awake at once. “I saddled one of the carriage horses, and gave chase. He was not expecting any kind of pursuit, and I came upon him on the top Ipswich road.”
“Dear God, what has come about?” Lady Elizabeth is now completely mortified. If Stephen Vaughan is taken, the whole story will come out. He will tell the whole of England of how he pleasured her, and her privileged life will be ruined beyond redemption. Norfolk will have her charged with adultery, and divorce her at once. The king, if he is so inclined, might even demand a harsher punishment. So much to lose, she thinks, mournfully, for one or two hours of passion.
“Fear not, madam,” the steward tells her, smugly. “I struck the rascal down, with my cudgel. I bring the glove as proof of my action. In his saddle bag, I found many important looking papers, taken from your library.”
“Sweet Jesus … the man was a spy then?”
“It is a wonder he did not come upon Your Ladyship, in a state of … undress. For who knows what might have happened to you. Thank God your honour is still intact.”
“Just so,” Elizabeth says. The steward grins, and gives her a look that says he knows what has happened. “How can I ever repay such a noble deed, Master Dallard?”
“Perhaps I might come to your chambers … later … and we can discuss my reward.”
“You are too saucy, sir!” she snaps. “How dare you.”
“How dare I, madam?” Dallard replies. “It is you who have dared, and almost lost everything. I can see from your face that you have given of yourself to the fellow. The papers I recovered are inflammatory, and border on treason against the king. No doubt, your ‘friend’ was sent to spy on your husband, and settled on you instead. ”
“You are too clever for your own good, Master Dallard.”
“Come, madam, and stop this nonsense at once,” the steward sneers. “You have betrayed your husband, and your king. The papers tell me the one thing, and your blushes the other. Do not fret, for do not the nobility swive as well as we mere servants?”
“I will not speak of it.”
“Then I will, madam. You have been had, and to get out of your predicament, you must be had again.”
“What of the man?”
“Dead. I could feel no heart beat, and there was a great deal of blood.” Dallard, in truth, is not sure, for the night was dark, and the man had tumbled from his horse, and into a field of stubble. The blow, however, struck from behind, had been prodigious. “It will look as if thieves have waylaid, and robbed an unfortunate traveller, Lady Elizabeth.”
“Then you have done me a good deed,” she says, forcing a smile to her lips. Once open, she realises, Pandora’s box cannot be closed again. Adultery is adultery, whether it be one gentle lover, or a hundred fierce ones. “Have you a mind to lay with me then, sir? I am a full ten years your senior.”
“And still as desirable as a peach,” Dallard r
eplies, touching her hair with his fingertips. “A woman with your looks, and fulsome body, will be a welcome change from the sluts you employ.”
“Come to me tonight then, and I will reward you well,” the duchess says. The steward bows, slightly, and smiles a crooked smile. Then he reaches down with his hand, and slips it into her chemise. She closes her eyes, and wets her lips with the tip of her tongue.
“No, My Lady, the reward will be yours.”
“You promise much, sir,” she tells him, but his insolence excites her, and makes her wish for nightfall again. “Have you the papers?”
“Safe, My Lady,” Dallard says. “I will return them to your keeping, page by page … as reward follows upon sweet reward!”
“Then I am to be your creature?” Lady Elizabeth can feel her heart beating in her breast, and wonders if he will be as gentle as the previous night’s lover. As if in answer, he pulls her to her feet, and lets his hands roam where they will, pinching, and squeezing, until she moans at the casual misuse of her soft body.
Richard Cromwell is a big man, in every way, and it is because of his great height that he sees over a hedgerow, and wonders at the sight of a man, curled into a ball, and covered with blood. He draws his sword, and calls a halt. Will gallops up to him.
“What is it?”
“A dead body, in the field,” Richard says. “I almost missed it. There is some mischief afoot, and we must be on our guard.”
“What, here?” Will gestures, and Richard nods. “You two men,” he says, “bring the poor wretch to me. We must see if we can identify him.”
“I doubt his purse will be there,” Richard mutters. The two men dismount, and push their way through the edge. A minute passes, and one of them shouts to Will.
“Captain Draper, the fellow is still alive, and I know him. It is Master Vaughan!”
“Stephen?” Will cannot hide his surprise. “I knew he was helping in our search, but what brings him here?”
“Perhaps he suspects Tom Howard’s wife?” Richard says.
“Or the duke himself,” Will Draper conjectures. “Handle him with care, lads, for he is one of ours, and dear to Master Cromwell‘s heart.”