by Anne Stevens
“Come, woman,” he sneers, raising her chin with his free hand. “Tend to me, in the French way, like a penny slut!”
Elizabeth, Duchess of Norfolk is aghast at the crudity of the man, but feels tempted to fall in with his wishes. It is an art that she is untrained in, but is willing to learn if it increases her own pleasure. The steward understands that she is only playing the innocent, and draws her lips onto him.
“A pretty picture.” The steward spins around, and Elizabeth screams, as the man framed in the bedroom door saunters in. “My humble apologies, Your Ladyship, I did knock, but you were otherwise engaged.
“Who are you, fellow?” Dallard says, clutching at his hose.
“Captain Will Draper, sir. The man who is minded to have you hanged from one of those nice orange trees in the garden.”
The steward blanches with fear, and starts to step away from his erstwhile lover. She, for her part, draws a chemise about her nakedness, and stands to face the newcomer.
“I am the Duchess of Norfolk, sir,” she says, as if greeting him in her sitting room. “What is your business with me?”
“Madam, I have fifteen men outside. Pray, instruct this rude fellow to have them fed, and given shelter for the night. Then you must make yourself decent, and attend me downstairs.”
“Must?”
“Must madam. Your castle is now under my orders,” Will says. “You are already guilty of two crimes, and I must question you about a third.”
“What two crimes?” Elizabeth asks.
“Adultery…”
“Is it a crime to seek love, when your husband will not do his duty?”
“… and attempted murder.”
“What?”
“Stephen Vaughan, a friend… struck down not two miles from here,” Will says, coldly. “Now, get dressed!”
“That was not my doing,” the duchess cries, pointing a finger at Dallard. “That rogue struck the blow, before coming back here, to force himself on me.”
“I witnessed the forcing, madam,” Will Draper tells her, bluntly. “Now get dressed.”
He leaves a man on guard, and goes back downstairs, where Richard Cromwell is detailing men to keep an eye on the two servant girls, and take up strategic points around the grounds.
“We don’t want any surprises,” he is saying. “Keep out of sight, and keep an eye open for this accursed preacher. You all have an idea what the rogue looks like. Take him alive, whatever happens, or Will Draper will have your heads on poles!”
“With an apple in the mouth,” Will adds, with a smile. They are good lads, and will follow orders to the letter. “Richard, there is a naked steward upstairs. It seems he was being favoured by the duchess. She claims he was the swine who tried to kill Stephen, so bind him fast, and lock him in the cellars.”
“Why not hang him?” Richard replies, sternly. “The dog deserves nothing better.”
“I need him, to bear witness against the duchess,” Will explains. “I care not who she lets swive her, but she does. To keep her lewdness a secret, she might confess all … whatever ‘all’ may turn out to be.”
Lady Elizabeth takes her time dressing, doing her own hair, and adorning it with her newest, pearl embroidered hat, and an array of ivory beads, and rubies. Just as Will is about to send men to drag her down, she makes her appearance. In the candle light, she looks like a twenty year old, and a fine looking one at that.
Neither Will nor Richard can understand why her husband has chosen to put her aside, and take up with Bess Holland at Kenninghall House. She sits, and awaits their questions, with her hands, demurely in her lap. The action presses her bodice down, slightly, and displays the twin orbs of her full breasts, to very good effect.
“Madam, you are in serious trouble,” Will starts.
“What you witnessed, sir, was a lady being forced against her will, into an abominable French act.”
“The man is your steward, and he tried to kill one of my friends earlier. Was it because Stephen Vaughan has discovered your involvement in a crime against the king?”
“If swiving is a crime, sir … then you must lock up every man at court, including the king. He puts the queen aside for a whore, whose sister and mother he has already covered. Do not tell me I have done him any wrong.”
“Your illicit couplings are a matter for the Duke of Norfolk to sort out, My Lady,” Richard says. “You are charged with harbouring George Constantine, an enemy of the realm.”
“Have you found him under my roof?”
“Not yet.”
“Nor will you,” Elizabeth replies. She turns to Will, and bestows a beautiful smile on him. “What else am I charged with, young man?”
“You conspire to free the Dowager Princess of Wales from her confinement.”
“Then she is under arrest?” the duchess asks, in mock surprise.
“Not actually,” Richard Cromwell says. He is not the man his uncle is, and is more used to getting confessions with his big fists, or at the point of a blade. “The king thinks it meet that she does not wander the countryside.”
“Then she is not restrained, which means she cannot be freed,” Elizabeth tells him, as if explaining to a small child. “How have I angered the king?”
“You send oranges, madam,” Richard snaps.
“Oranges?” She takes a deep breath, and watches the younger Cromwell’s eyes slide to her bosom. “Are you a lover of fruit, Master Richard?”
“You placed messages inside them,” Will says, trying to bring some order to the questioning. “Do not deny it, My Lady, for I have the evidence.”
“Were not the oranges consumed then?”
“Then there is the treasonable congress with George Constantine,” Will says.
“Whom I have never met, nor written to,” Lady Elizabeth replies, demurely.
“He comes here to further the treason,” Richard Cromwell says.
“What treason?” the duchess asks of him. “I hear only talk of oranges, and mysterious preachers. My only crime, if crime it be, is to have a rogue’s pintle forced upon me. Now, is there anything else, gentlemen?”
“You do not know Constantine?” Will asks.
“No.”
“You have never heard of him?”
“Never.”
“Then how does it happen that you know him to be a preacher, madam?”
“I tire, young man,” the duchess says. “Might I retire to my bed?”
“Alone?” Richard asks, nastily. The Duchess of Norfolk runs a finger, delicately down her cheek, her neck, and into the ample cleft of her breasts.
“Pray, do not put your puerile thoughts onto me, sir. Better you go and swive one of the servants, in my pigsty. It might satisfy your baser feelings.”
“You rut like a whore, and play the traitor without a second thought, madam,” Richard Cromwell cries across the room. “Let us see what happens when Tom Howard hears of your adultery!”
“Let us,” Elizabeth replies, calmly. “For it is no man’s business, save his, and he will not want his dirty laundry washed in public places. Do your absolute worst, sir, but until then, I am for my bed … alone.”
She stands, and with the most regal of bearings, heads for her chambers. Will raises a hand, to stop Richard dragging her back, and watches her climb the long marble staircase. Half way up, she pauses, and looks back at them. There is the hint of a smile about her mouth, and he cannot help but smile back. One last thing remains to be tried.
“Madam… we know about the Angels,” he says.
“Do you, sir?” she returns, giving him a most quizzical sort of a look. “Then, if that be so, why are you here … save to peep through my keyhole.” She continues mounting the steps, allowing her slender body to sway with each movement.
Were I a free man, Will tells himself, with stark honesty, I would be joining her. How can any man throw such a pearl aside?
Thomas Wyatt is tired of his allotted task. He and his men have been criss-crossing t
he county for three days, in the hope of stumbling on Constantine, or his band of rogues. The search has been quite fruitless, and he is finally reduced to sitting atop a low hill, and watching the Ipswich road. It is the only byway of any note within twenty miles, and travellers can be seen from miles away, stopped, and questioned.
After a night sleeping on a bed of straw, under a clear May sky, the poet is refreshed, and atop his horse, like some silent sentinel of the road. He watches the small party of men ride towards him, recognises at least one of them, and grins. He turns in his saddle, and addresses the dozen men clustered behind him, in clear stentorian tones.
“Lo, here comes our Prometheus bold,
With stolen fire from above,
To save those souls within Cromwell’s fold,
And snare them with his father’s love.”
There is a scattering of applause, a few hearty ‘hurrahs’, and from the back, a very rude noise, which makes them all break into raucous laughter. The smaller group of riders are close now, and the poet can make out Mush Draper, Rafe Sadler, and Barnaby Fowler trotting along, with their master. Tom Cromwell is riding a sturdy hunter, and looks out of place on the huge beast. He is getting too old and fat for these adventures, and only the need for speed has enticed him back into the saddle.
“Well met, Master Wyatt,” Cromwell says, easing his mount to a stop. “Have you come upon any fellow travellers this morning?”
“No, sir, we have not. Our search for the elusive preacher goes badly,” Wyatt replies. “Have you come to help in our task?”
“Not to find Constantine any more,” Cromwell says. “I fear that he was yet another trail, set to mislead us. We are in pursuit of a greater quarry.”
“Then you know what is happening?” Wyatt asks.
“I do, Tom,” Cromwell says. “Thanks to my young men, and their diligent paperwork. I was too obsessed with plots, and could not see the obvious. Come, we must ride on to Framlingham Castle, and end this thing, once and for all time.”
“You speak in riddles,” Wyatt replies. “Is not Framlingham one of Norfolk’s castles? Then we have our enemy, for …
though Norfolk be held in so much awe,
He is n’er a match for Cromwell,
Who’ll wrap him up in England’s law,
And send him to the flames of Hell.”
“A poor effort, Thomas, even on the spur of the moment,” says Cromwell. “ Nor do I like being rhymed with Hell. Besides, you leap to the wrong conclusion. It is not Tom Howard we seek, sir, but his cast off wife … and her clever cousin.”
“The nobility have so many poor cousins, that I am lost as to whom you mean … but I have never known you be wrong … so, to the road men. Let us follow Master Cromwell to the bitter end.”
“Oh, not bitter, I hope,” Rafe Sadler says. “For life is just becoming sweet, my friend.”
“What’s this, Rafe Sadler smiling?” Tom Wyatt looks his friend in the eye, and nods. “Ah, you are in love. I see it in the stupid look on your face. Who is she, and is she good looking?”
“Do not try to bait me, you rascal,” Rafe replies, “for my new love is proof against your taunts.”
“Then she is plain?” Wyatt asks, suppressing a chuckle. “If she is, it is unlikely that I know her.”
“Enough,” Mush says, riding between them. “She is a clever woman, and though of a certain age, most comely.”
“A name, I must have a name, so that I can write a poem for her, Rafe.” Wyatt spurs his mount, and the small, well armed force set off on the Ipswich road. “How certain an age?”
“Ignore him, Rafe,” Cromwell says. “We live in the same house, and I have been too blind to see. I hope you will consult with me, before you marry, so that I might attend to your household needs.” Rafe Sadler cannot meet Cromwell’s gaze. “What ever is it, my boy?”
“She does not know yet.”
“Know what?”
“That I love her … or that she must love me in return.”
“Ah,” Cromwell says, and lapses into silence. He remembers so well how much he once loved, and craved nothing, but its return.
“We will be there in a couple of hours, master,” Mush says, to try and change the subject of their conversation. “What if we are too late, and our quarry has beaten us?”
“Catching the Keeper will not help us. It is his Angels that we must take,” Cromwell says.
“The ports are guarded.” Rafe has seen to this in person, giving orders that every boat is searched, and every traveller’s papers are checked. “Their only hope is to find some deserted beach, and have a small sailing ship waiting.”
“Then we must stop it now, before we have to search the whole of England.” Cromwell digs his knees into the big hunter’s flanks, and it steps up its pace. The Privy Councillor clings on for dear life, and prays for a safe delivery to Framlingham. Tom Wyatt and Rafe gallop alongside the older man, ready to try and stop him from falling, if he should stumble.
“Then you are in love with her dowry?” the poet persists.
“Thomas, I beseech you to shut up,” Rafe Sadler replies. “For I fear she will repulse me, and break my heart.”
“You must have the right words,” Wyatt decides. As an ardent seducer of women, he knows the power of a well turned phrase, or a casually dropped compliment. “I shall write something for you to study.”
“That is so thoughtful of you,” Rafe replies, smirking to himself.
“It is the least I can do for a friend,” the poet says, oblivious to the sarcasm. “Now, some facts. I must know her hair and eye colour. Is her nose pretty, or far too big, like yours?”
“Did you sleep well?” Will asks, yawning.
“Well enough,” Richard replies, sheepishly. In truth, he took the duchesses advice literally, and has been with one of the two serving girls for most of the night. She has fulfilled his immediate carnal needs, and then demanded two silver shillings in return.
“I can get as much for sixpence in London,” he complains.
“Then you can bugger off to London then,” the girl replies, saucily. “You’re in Suffolk, Master Cromwell, and you must pay Suffolk prices for your pleasure.”
Now, he is dressed, and buckling on his sword. After taking his pleasure, he has ensured that the guards are still awake, and sought out the kitchen, where an old crone from the village is making bread.
“Bacon, eggs and sausages,” he says to her, and drops a couple of pennies onto the kitchen table.
“Some fresh baked bread, cut ale, and a few slices of hard cheese,” she replies. “Lest you want to pay more, and I must send to the village for it. My Lady Nose in the Air owes everyone of us, and cannot pay. I’m paid for by His Lordship, and am told to do nothing, but keep her alive. The duke is as mean as a Jew money lender, and will not spend gold, where silver will suffice.”
“Then she lives on watered ale, and a peasant’s food?”
“Of course. The duke is done with her, sir.” The old woman shrugs. “Soon, she will have to part with what jewels she has left.”
“The Duchess of Norfolk is the first lady of the land,” Richard says, suddenly feeling sorrow at her plight. “I want this kitchen overflowing with food, within the hour. Cured hams, wild fowl, chickens, fresh vegetables, and a decent barrel of wine. The bill is to be sent to Master Thomas Cromwell in London.”
“Some will not like it.”
Richard frowns, and drops a hand to his sword hilt.
“I will visit any who refuse,” he says. “Tell them that I am an ogre, and will smash to pieces their shops, and break off their arms and legs. Tell them that we are the only law here about, and shall deliver justice our own way. Now, be off, woman!”
“Trouble?” Will asks, coming into the room.
“No, I’m just organising breakfast for us all,” Richard replies. “How has our lovely duchess fared?”
“She has slept the sleep of the innocent, and looks even fresher and lovelier
than last night.”
“Dear Christ, the woman is almost as much of a force as Uncle Thomas.” Richard considers their options, which seem few. “Can she not see which path she must take?”
“We can prove nothing against her,” Will tells his friend. “She claims the steward was forcing her, and will be believed. The fellow is still under lock and key?”
“He is. Perhaps he will speak out, once he knows his fate.”
“Why should he confess anything?” Will says. “I caught him, with the duchess on her knees before him. Norfolk will have him strung up. What has he to gain?”
“We can promise him a quick death.”
“A cheering thought,” Will replies. “Confess all, and I will cut your throat, rather than burn you at the stake, or dismember you, whilst you still draw breath. He will keep silent. Rather be killed for violating a member of the nobility, than admit being involved in high treason.”
“Can we not hang her ladyship up by her pretty ankles,” Richard asks, only half in jest. “Until she tells us what we must know?”
“Good Christ, Richard, she is the Duchess of Norfolk,” Will replies. “The king would boil us alive for such an unauthorised act.”
“Then we are no further on,” Richard says. “Do we mount up, and continue our search for the preacher?”
“I think not.” Will considers his one remaining option, which is to stay put, and sees that it is a case of damned if you do, and damned if you do not. Perhaps, he thinks, there is no more to do, other than hope for a stroke of luck, or a small miracle. He is saved from making a decision by a cry from one of the lookouts.
There is a party of men approaching, the man shouts to them, led by none other than Thomas Cromwell. Richard sees the relieved look in his comrade’s eyes, and roars his delight.
“Ah!” he cries. “Here is the chess master now, Will … and the game is changed for the better!”
Cromwell’s approach to Framlingham is also being watched by another. Father George Constantine is holding the head of his horse, whilst concealed in a copse of woodland. Since early childhood, he has been afraid of everything, and he is no better now. The plot is coming apart, and he knows he cannot get to the duchess, and collect Fugger’s precious Angels.