by Anne Stevens
When taken by Sir Thomas More, eight months before, it was the fear of losing his own life that made him confess, and so consign two innocent men to the stake. Then, under threat of the stake, he allowed himself to name another man, Stephen Vaughan, whom he had never met. Once started, it is hard for a coward to stop his mouth, he thinks.
There is only one thing to do now, and it is that which comes naturally to one of his weak nature. He must mount his horse, and gallop away, for dear life. By the time Elizabeth Howard is broken, and the plot revealed, he can be on a fishing boat, and seeking refuge in France, or Flanders.
Once he decides to abandon his mission, and let his confederates be taken, he feels better. There is nothing more precious than a human life, and George Constantine will do anything in his power to preserve his own. Let the duchess be damned, and may her precious Keeper of the Angels make his own way out of trouble.
13 Understandings
“What is it, Charles?” Henry calls from the heavily laden breakfast table. “Come and eat something, before we get off after our sport.”
Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, and the king’s childhood friend, is undecided as to what to do. A messenger has come, with an urgent despatch for Henry, and he has him at the door. Under any other circumstances, he would take the sealed letter, and toss it to one side, unwilling to bother the king before a stag hunt.
“A moment, Hal,” he calls, with a good humoured smile on his face. “Lay into the eggs, and I will soon catch you up.”
“Ho!” Henry is in a good mood, and senses a sporting proposition. “I wager ten pounds that I can eat more than you!”
God help us, Brandon thinks, must he be ever thus? Always there must be a game, or a wager, to keep his royal attention, and a string of bawdy humorous stories to lift his spirits. Nothing should get in the way of a fun packed day, on pain of Henry’s displeasure. He cannot turn the message aside, however, because the bearer is in Cromwell livery, and to do so will insult a man who owns his very soul. Now the king must win another foolish wager.
“You’re on,” he says, heartily. He takes the sealed letter, and dismisses the messenger with a curt nod of his head. “Boiled, coddled, or raw?”
“Raw?” Henry is amused by the prospect of this, and wonders why anyone might do such a thing.
“Marvellous for too much wine, sire,” Charles Brandon explains. “Though can one ever drink too much wine?”
“Well said, old fellow. See, here are some soft boiled eggs in mustard sauce … let us begin.”
The Duke of Suffolk, second most powerful noble in England sits, and spoons an entire egg into his mouth. Henry whoops in delight, and follows suit. They repeat the performance another five times, until Charles judges the time right to concede defeat. He raises the sixth egg to his mouth, pauses, then shakes his head.
“A draw, Hal,” he says. “Unless you can manage one more?”
“You doubt me?” Henry says, and pops a sixth egg into his mouth. He hardly chews, then swallows it down. “Ten pounds, you rascal. Pay up, or must you go borrowing off Master Cromwell?”
“He is a most amenable fellow,” Charles says. “Please, never cut his head off, sire, else we will all be stuck for a few shillings in our purses. Cromwell is a wonderful conjurer, and can turn anything he touches into money. I almost forgot … he sends a message.”
“I am going hunting, Charles,” Henry says. “Will it not wait until we have our stag at bay?”
“Of course,” Charles Brandon replies, tossing it onto the table. “Though I have never known the man waste your time with nonsense.”
“You think it important then?” Henry is hooked.
“Cromwell does,” Brandon says, covering himself from blame. “Perhaps it explains why he has left London.”
“What, my blacksmith has left me?” Henry likes to know where his principal ministers are at all times, and worries when one is up to something without his knowledge. “Why did he not tell me?”
“Mayhap he has,” Brandon says, nudging the sealed message. “All you need to know might be within.”
“If I open it,” Henry says, darkly. “It might ruin the hunt.”
“Or bring something of the very greatest importance to your immediate attention, Hal,” Suffolk says, climbing down from the fence at last. “Cromwell rode off with his best young men about him, and he has a hundred more scouring the eastern counties. Open it, sire, I beg you .. if only for duty’s sake.”
“Yes, duty,” Henry says, ripping open the wax seal, and opening the sheet of parchment. “The king must always do his royal duty. God’s teeth!”
“What is it, Hal?” Brandon is unnerved by Henry’s reaction to the contents.
“Where is Norfolk?” the king demands.
“He has lodgings in the city.”
“Why is he not in court accommodation?” Henry does not understand why his most important lord is sleeping in a common house.
“He has his tart with him,” Brandon explains, “and does not wish to cause any offence. Her father is an under steward on one of Lady Anne’s estates. To present her would be most inappropriate, and might well cause both ladies great distress.”
“You mean Anne hates the girl?”
“No, sire, she enjoys the fact that Bess has displaced the duchess, whom she dislikes, but cannot accept her uncles whore as an equal. So Norfolk swives her in a tavern. I fear he cannot leave the poor girl alone.”
“Is she so comely?” Henry’s curiosity is aroused.
“She is, sire, and a most accomplished lover.”
“You rogue, Charles,” Henry says, and chuckles.
“Not I, Hal, but that tomcat, Wyatt,” Brandon replies, without thinking. “Why, he even wrote a saucy verse about humping her, before Norfolk ever got into the saddle.”
“Master Wyatt again,” Henry says, thoughtfully. “Still, that is for another time. Have Norfolk brought to me, at once. Master Cromwell is considering arresting his wife, and talks of treason against the state. He bids me keep the duke with me, so that he might not be unsupervised for the while.”
“Then he does not suspect Tom Howard, and seeks to have him kept aside,” Brandon says. “What can Elizabeth Howard be up to? A mere woman can hardly …”
“Let us not dwell on the matter,” Henry says, reading the remainder of the message. “After Norfolk is secured, you must take some trusted men, and go to the Tower. Master Cromwell says we are to detain certain people, if they be there. Here, see their names?”
The Duke of Suffolk takes the proffered letter, and reads where the king indicates. His eyes widen in surprise as he recognises several names.
“These people are all loyal servants, sire,” he says. “Why, one of them is married to a cousin of mine, and Sir Ragnar Delabord is closely related to …”
“Elizabeth Howard,” Henry says, his suspicions now fully aroused. “To business, Charles, and let us take heed of what Master Cromwell tells us. At least the stag will be happy for, it seems, he will live to fight another day.”
Tom Howard is still dressing when they come for him. He is commanded to come along by a thick set sergeant at arms, who has a half dozen armed men at his back. The duke is speechless with shock, and leaves his young mistress, Bess Holland, sprawled naked in bed. To the delight of the crowd already milling about Whitehall, the duke is marched to the king, flanked by stone faced soldiers.
“What ho, Your lordship,” a nameless voice calls out from the tumult. “Have you lost your new whore already?”
“Better lose the whore, than your head,” a woman cries, and there is a burst of laughter.
“By God, sergeant, send your men into this mob, and crack their heads.” Norfolk demands, but he is ignored. “You scum. I’ll have you all flogged for your insolence!”
“Let’s wait to see what Bluff Hal wants you for first,” another wag calls. For such an unusual action, they are sure that Norfolk has fallen from grace, and that his head will soon adorn th
e city walls.
Norfolk is marched into Whitehall Palace, and escorted right to Henry’s inner chamber. The doors swing open , and he is ushered inside. The king is stooped over a table, studying some documents. He looks up as the doors open, and smiles, broadly at his visitor.
“Ah, there you are, Thomas,” he says. “I have the new land reformation documents from Cromwell, and wish to discuss them with you. Is not Mistress Bess with you?”
“Your Highness,” Norfolk says, bowing low. “I was not asked to bring her.”
“I see. Perhaps that is for the best,” the king replies, “though Charles tells me she is a beautiful, and spirited young thing.”
“She suits me well, sire.”
“And a few others too, I hear.” The king smiles at Norfolk’s discomfort. “You will dine with me tonight, and bring Mistress Bess along. Lady Anne is down at Hampton Court, and will be none the wiser.”
“Sire, my Bess is not yet fit to be presented at court,” Norfolk says. He knows the king well, and realises that he is being invited to lend out his mistress for the night.
“Oh, I am sure she is well acquainted with the company of gentlemen, Thomas,” Henry replies, tartly. “I shall put it to the test, and let you have my considered opinion. If the girl pleases me, I might make her a lady in waiting. Then you can dally in court with her as you wish, and spend the rest of your time with your lawful wife, sir.”
“We no longer live together, sire.” Norfolk is affronted, but suspects there is more to this than is first obvious.
“Perhaps that is why you do not know what she gets up to at her leisure, Norfolk.” Henry remains calm, and the effect is quite chilling. “I expect you to come to a more cordial understanding with the duchess. I cannot have my nobles running off with whores at the drop of a hat.”
“Bess is no whore, sire!” Norfolk flares, before he can control his temper.
“No, sir?” Henry asks. “Then I suggest you speak with Thomas Wyatt, should he ever appear in court again, for he seems to have taught your sweet love most of her tricks.”
“Wyatt is infamous for his debauches,” Norfolk replies, coldly. “There are few ladies in court who he has not tried.”
“Take care, Tom Howard,” Henry growls, “for once aroused, I am a dangerous man to bait.”
“What?” Norfolk realises his error, and tries to retract his thoughtless words. “I mean no inference about my niece sire. The girl is as different from her sister as can be. She will make you a fine queen. Our two bloodlines will produce a dynasty that will last a thousand years. When I am long gone, men shall still call you the ‘father of kings’.”
“You believe so?” Henry says, tugging at a stray red hair in his side whiskers. “Anne will give me sons then?”
“Why not?” Tom Howard affects an intimates voice. “You certainly know how to sire a boy. The evidence walks amongst us, does he not?”
“Young Harry is my joy,” the king replies. “I pray he soon has a little brother to bounce on his knee.”
“Amen,” the duke says, relieved that he seems out of immediate danger. “Now, how can I help you in your task, Henry?”
“Thomas Cromwell’s plans are far too clever for me, Uncle Norfolk,” Henry tells the older man, and uses the pet name to calm him further. “He seems to want us to give my land away to …. well, to my subjects.”
“What, give land to the lower orders?” Norfolk is dismayed.
“Yes, he claims that it will easily increase my wealth, almost four fold,” Henry continues. “A small landowner works harder for himself, and that means we get more in tax. Does that seem right?”
“Give me an army, and point me in the right direction, sire, and I’m your man,” Norfolk confesses. “But finance is a mystery to me. Old Archbishop Wolsey was your man for that.”
“Ah, Wolsey,” the king sighs. “Did I ever tell you that I was about to pardon him, and forgive his transgressions?”
“Yes, Hal. The world knows you loved the man … but sometimes, duty comes before friendship.”
“That applies equally to a man’s duty to a wife, before his friendly mistress,” Henry says.
“Consider me reprimanded,” Tom Howard replies. “From now on, I shall have to keep two stables.”
Good, the king thinks, providing the duchess survives Master Cromwell’s attentions.
“Thanks be to God,” Will Draper says, as Cromwell strides in, covered in dust. “Here, sir, drink some wine, and rest yourself.”
“There is not the time,” Cromwell replies. “Tell me what you know … not what you might think, Will.”
“There was an attempt to release Katherine,” Will starts. “We foiled it, and took prisoners. They were all Catholic gentlemen, sworn to make the attempt.”
“Fools,” Cromwell mutters. “They could never succeed.”
“We learned that the priest, George Constantine had left the troop, and rode away. Thanks to some oranges, we were able to establish the involvement of the duchess.”
“Oranges?” Cromwell asks, then holds up a hand. “No, the details can wait to later. So, you came to Framlingham Castle?”
“We did, sir, hoping to overtake the preacher. Instead we found Stephen Vaughan, cruelly beaten, and almost dead. He spoke but a few words, about angels.”
“Angels?” Cromwell’s face lights up. The threads are coming together, and he is close to knowing the whole, tawdry thing. “Does he live?”
“He is in Ipswich, and still alive, as far as we know,” Richard puts in. “We guessed he was spying on Norfolk.”
“No guesses, nephew,” Cromwell replies. “It often leads to wrong conclusions. The Duke of Norfolk may be guilty of many things, but not high treason. I take it that you have Constantine?”
“No, sir.” Will is uneasy, and hates letting his benefactor down. “I fear he is long gone.”
“Then you have the duchess?”
“We do,” Richard says, loudly. “Will caught her playing with her steward. She claims rape.”
“Then we must accept what she says,” Cromwell explains. “Is the man taken?”
“Locked in the cellar,” Will tells him. “He is the man who tried to kill Stephen.”
“Then we do not need to trouble the law courts,” Thomas Cromwell decides. “The man is guilty of enough to warrant the action, and him airing his love life in public will do him no good. As a Privy Councillor, I am empowered to act as judge in such cases. Guilty, as charged. Richard, take him out to the main gate, and hang him from it.”
“Yes, uncle.” Richard hovers, unsure if he is to stay, or go.
“Now, boy,” Cromwell says. “Make it quick, and do not let him dangle overly long. I never like to see the birds pecking at a dead man’s eyes. It is not dignified.” Richard bows, and retires to carry out the arbitrary sentence. “Now, what of the lady?”
“I can get nothing from her, master,” Will confesses. “She knows I cannot beat her, or throw her into a deep dungeon, without risking the king’s wrath. So, she smiles prettily at us, and denies everything, save that her steward was about to rape her, when we turned up, and saved the day.”
“A clever woman,” Cromwell says. “She will hold her tongue, and hope to come to an understanding. The rape, we must believe … you witnessed it, in part.”
“She was on her knees, and seemed very willing,” Will protests.
“She gives in, hoping the fiend will spare her poor life,” Cromwell says what her lawyer will say, and shrugs. “Both Henry and Tom Howard will believe every word of such a tale. They are gullible, and wish only to think the best. I am more pragmatic, and seek only the truth of certain things that threaten the state.”
“She will say nothing about her involvement with Constantine, and stares blankly if we question her about her oranges.” Will sounds, and feels foolish. Twice he mentions oranges, and Cromwell smiles, and shakes his head.
“Forget oranges, my boy,” he says. “It is for Angels that I come
so far from home. Fetch the woman to me, and I will bring forth the truth, and her part in it all.”
Richard Cromwell cannot coax the steward, Dallard, to stand like a man. The wretched fellow is quite undone at the prospect of hanging, and clings to the big man’s legs, imploring him for mercy.
“Get up, and face it like a man,” Richard growls, and catches him by the ruff of his shirt. “Your pleas cannot move me. Master Cromwell is arbiter here, and considers you guilty of attempted murder, attempted rape, and attempted treason. So many attempts, and so many failures doom you, Dallard.”
The man manages to stagger up, but still clings to Richard, as if he were a raft on a stormy sea. Then a glint of an idea comes into his head, and he tries a final gamble.
“Spare me hanging, good sir, and I will prove the duchesses treason,” he says. “I am but a casual victim of her plotting.” Richard pauses, and considers for a moment. The man claims he can show Elizabeth Howard to be guilty, and that might well save some time.
“Convince me of what you say, and I shall spare you from being hanged,” he offers.
“She has received letters from a foreigner. I cannot read the language, but the signature is that of someone called Anton Fugger,” Dallard says. “Then there are drafts of letters, in French, or Latin to that bastard Pope Clement, and one note to Katherine, warning her to be ready for flight.”
“You lie.”
“No, your fellow stole them from her chamber,” Dallard confesses, “and I took them from him. I did not mean to hurt him overmuch. You must believe me.”
“Then you have these letters?” Richard cannot believe his luck, and prays the man is not a liar.
“I do.”
“Where?”
“Your promise, master?”
“If you have the things, I swear on my immortal soul that you shall not hang, and further … shall have a full purse for your trouble.”