by Anne Stevens
“Bless you, sir,” Dallard shudders at his close escape. “The letters are hidden under a bale of straw in the first stall as you come into the stable.”
“All of them?”
“Yes … all of them.”
Richard nods his approval, and takes his own purse from his belt, and pushes it into Dallard’s eager hands. Then, with fearful ease, he grabs the man by the chin, and twists. There is a sharp cracking noise, and Dallard collapses to the floor.
“My word, sir,” Richard says. “You have a purse, and you did not hang.” He calls for a couple of men, and instructs them to take the body away. As they manhandle the corpse from the house, Elizabeth, Duchess of Norfolk is coming down the long sweep of the stairs. She raises a hand to her mouth, and stifles a gasp at the sight of her erstwhile ravisher.
“Is it so easy then?” she says, touching her own throat.
“Life is like a candle caught in a draft,” Richard sneers. “I can snuff a great lady’s flame as well as any.”
“Did you enjoy my pigsty, Master Cromwell?”
“The lass was more wholesome than anything you have to offer,” the big man replies. “The only difference betwixt you is the price, and at two shillings, she is worth a shilling more than you, madam. Now, I suggest you hurry along. My uncle awaits you.”
She is shown into the lavishly furnished library, where Thomas Cromwell sits by the hearth, with an open book balanced on his knee. It is a warm enough day, and there is no fire in the soot blackened grate. He stands, and bows, as if acknowledging her at court.
“My Lady, I trust you have not been ill treated, other than by the rogue, Dallard?”
“I cannot complain, sir,” she replies. “Though Master Dallard is not so disposed.”
“Ah, you have seen?” Cromwell purses his lips. “A necessary death, if I am to prevent yours.”
“Mine, Master Cromwell?” Elizabeth smiles, and sits down in the next most comfortable chair. “Your fellow, Draper arrived before the rape was done. Other than that, I am what you see before you now. A wronged wife … a victim. Wait until Henry sees my tears, and offers me a consoling shoulder to cry upon. The king is still susceptible to a powdered bosom, and a pretty face.”
“Which is exactly why you will not have the chance to meet with His Majesty,” Cromwell says. “He is far too soft hearted. No, a quick trial, here, and a swift end, I think.”
“You bluff well, sir,” the duchess says. “I am no steward, to be strangled, and thrown aside. I am born a Stafford … daughter of the Duke of Buckingham … descended from three kings.”
“Buckingham died a traitor’s death,” Cromwell replies, quietly. “Then again, one of those precious kings suffered the death of a sodomite. Impaled on a red hot poker, if I recall my history. You must tell me about Constantine, madam.”
“I do not know the man.”
“Anton Fugger?”
“No, I am at a loss,” the duchess says. “He sounds like some foreign rogue.”
“Sir Ragnar Delabord?” Cromwell notes the flicker of concern that shows, then vanishes from her eyes. Ah, he thinks, she is wondering how much I know, and how much she can safely tell to save her neck. There is a knock, and Will Draper comes in, begging forgiveness for the intrusion.
“Richard has found these, sir,” he says, and hands a sheaf of papers to Cromwell. The Privy Councillor needs only a quick perusal to understand the content. He nods, and turns a cold eye on his prey.
“One should never put anything dangerous in writing, madam,” he says. “Failing that, you must not append your signature to such treasonable rubbish.”
“I have never seen …”
“Enough!” The single word echoes from the wood lined walls, and abruptly silences Elizabeth Howard. “This is almost too much proof, madam. Now, I will ask my questions again … one last time. Answer me straight, and I will see if I can keep your head on your shoulders. Do you know George Constantine?”
“No, I knew only the name.”
“In what context?”
“He was to come to me, and collect something. He never came.”
“Anton Fugger?”
“I met him in Bruges, last year,” the duchess admits. “He sent me gifts, and entertained me, whilst Tom dallied with his latest little whore. I thought nothing of it.”
“Until he asked what you thought of Queen Katherine’s plight,” Cromwell says, drawing out the tale.
“Yes. He guessed I was a sympathiser to her cause, and suggested a way of me helping her.”
“A rescue?”
“Yes.”
“You knew it could not work.”
“I thought it might,” Elizabeth tells him. “Then, he drew me into his net. Before I realised it, he knew everything about me, and how best to use the knowledge.”
“He found out about Ragnar Delabord, and saw his opportunity to damage England,” Cromwell says. “Imagine, his pet duchess … cousin to the Keeper of the Angels.”
“Yes. I did not understand the significance, until Anton sent a man called Gomes to me. This Spaniard had me write a letter of introduction to Ragnar. Then, I do not know how, he brought my cousin over to Fugger’s camp.”
“So, there it is,” Cromwell says. Will Draper is standing to one side, and does not understand what is going on. He knows that Elizabeth Howard is in the process of confessing, but has no idea what she is confessing to.
“I am still in the dark, sir,” he says, and Thomas Cromwell explains, occasionally glancing at the duchess, as if seeking confirmation of this fact or that.
“We were looking for an invading army,” Cromwell tells him. “A hundred thousand of the emperor’s troops landing at Dover is hard to hide. Anton Fugger is no general … he is a financier of kings, and a banker to Europe. How does a banker beat you? Why, by calling in a debt, or refusing a loan. Fugger saw his chance to ruin England financially, by using Sir Ragnar Delabord.”
“Forgive me, but the name means nothing to me.”
“I am not surprised. It is often the shadowy figures who are the most important,” Cromwell explains. “Sir Ragnar is a devout Roman Catholic, as is his cousin, Lady Elizabeth. He has been convinced that England must be brought low, so that Henry returns to the Roman church. As Keeper of the Angels, he is in a unique position to cause this country the greatest harm.”
“What are these Angels you speak of?”
“Forget any religious involvement, Will, and look to your own purse.”
“What, you mean the coins?” The currency of England comes in denominations from a farthing, to a gold pound, and includes silver pennies, groats, sixpences, shillings, crowns, and the gold angel - a coin worth seven shillings and sixpence.
“Yes, the coin,” Cromwell confirms. “The Angel is the most widely used coin in England, and is often preferred by foreign merchants. It is used to pay a craftsman’s weekly wages, and is the price of a bale of raw wool. There are about eight hundred thousand of them in circulation, and they are the bedrock of our economy.”
“And Sir Ragnar?”
“He is one of several gentlemen working in the Tower Mint, entrusted to be Keepers of the King’s Moulds. Delabord’s task is to attend to the striking moulds for Angels, and ensure they are always fit to use.”
“How do you know this, sir?” Will asks.
“My young men found disturbing irregularities. Certain foreign merchants, and one French banking house had started demanding payment in Ducats.”
“But why?”
“Because Delabord was going to steal a set of the Angel moulds, and bring them to the duchess. She was to pass them to Constantine, who was to return to the continent with them. Once Fugger had a genuine set, he was going to start minting Angels, but with a much reduced gold content.”
“How does this bring England low?” Will is not of a financial mind, and does not yet understand.
“Tens of thousands of fake Angel coins, flooding the market place,” Cromwell says. “The
n, he lets the cat out of the bag, and every merchant in England will know that the coins are, potentially worth less than the mint value. Trade will stop, almost over night, and business will only carry on where Ducats are available.”
“Then I might have found some fake coins in my purse?”
“Imagine that on a grand scale, Will,” Cromwell tells him. “What if the king cannot guarantee the worth of his coins. He is a bankrupt, and no one will deal with him. Only Spanish, or Venetian money will be held good. Instead of an Angel being worth a Ducat, men will demand two for one, because Fugger’s coins have much less gold in them.”
“But most of the coins will be good.” Will thinks his argument a good one, but Cromwell shakes his head.
“Who will stand surety? How can you check every coin, every time it is spent? No, Will, our economy will be ruined. The king will be forced to mortgage his realm, just to keep it solvent, and the repayments will be crippling. Catholic bankers in Italy will demand high interest, and a return to Rome.”
“Henry will not.”
“He will have no choice,” Cromwell says. “I have left orders for Delabord to be taken at the Tower, but if he is already on his way here, we must catch him, and regain the moulds. The Keeper of the Angels will go to the Tower, but under lock and key.”
“What of Anton Fugger, and this Spaniard?”
“Without the moulds, there is no plot,” Cromwell concludes. “Fugger cannot claim our money is debased, without showing it to be so. He will have to think of another scheme.”
“Then we must take Delabord,” Will says. “He might still come to us, but we must search the countryside too.”
“Well, My Lady Norfolk?” the Privy Councillor asks. “Can you help us, or will you stay tight lipped?”
“I cannot,” Elizabeth says. She is only now beginning to realise the scope of the Augsburg banker’s plot. “Ragnar is due here at any time. If he suspects a trap, he might simply head for the coast, and slip across the channel.”
“God help us if that is the case,” Cromwell curses. “For if he eludes us, England may never recover.”
“I have told you what I know, sir,” the duchess says. “Do we have an understanding?”
“For whatever good it will do you, madam,” Will says. “You sought to ruin your country, because of your husband’s desire for a new woman. You should rot in Hell.”
14 Conflict of Angels
The dull crack of a musket being discharged makes Will Draper order Cromwell, and the duchess, to stay put. Then he spins on his heel, and strides out of the library.
“It comes from the gate,” Richard says. “I have men on guard there.” They run to the main gate, where one of the men is busy reloading his gun, whilst the other is aiming at a small copse of trees in the near distance.
“Riders, sir,” the man reports.
“At least twenty, from the dust,” the first man says. “I thought it best to rouse everyone to the danger with a shot.”
“You did very well, Adam,” Will Draper says to the young man. “Richard, get men onto the battlements, until we see what is afoot. How many are we?”
“Two dozen,” Richard says. “Enough to ride out, and put these fellows to flight.”
“No, have our lads keep down, out of sight. Let them think we are weak in numbers, until we wish otherwise.”
“Fair enough, Will. Look, here comes one of their number now … to parley, I suppose.” The lone rider comes on at a trot, and draws up a dozen strides short of the dry moat. He sees the narrow bridge, and wonders if those within have enough men to stop a strong charge. He cannot see Rafe Sadler, Mush, and Tom Wyatt, crouching out of sight with most of their men.
“At your service, sir,” the man says, bowing in the saddle. “My captain bids me demand entry to the castle.”
“No.”
“We have business with the duchess,”
“State it then.” The man is well versed in what to say, as Jan Gruyer, his Dutch leader expects this reply. He pretends to consider his words, whilst assessing the defences. The young mercenary can count only four or five armed men, and only two of them with muskets.
“Captain Gruyer has a message for the duchess … from her husband, the Duke of Norfolk, and it is of a delicate nature,” the man says. “It is for her ears only. As a gentleman, you will understand this.”
“I am no gentleman, sir,” Will says. “I am a soldier. As for any message from Norfolk … you surprise me, for he is closeted away in Whitehall Palace with the king. Now, state your real business, or be off, before my fellow puts a musket ball into you.”
“Captain Gruyer demands your immediate surrender, and free access to the duchess. He will not negotiate, and these terms are a final offer. Refuse, and I am instructed to say that no one will be spared.”
“Then we are in for a fine scrap,” Richard calls. “Let us hope your captain has a few canon with him, or he is in for a sorry time of it. Will he fly over the battlements?”
“You jest, sir, when I predict your death?”
“Bugger off,” Richard tells the astonished mercenary, “or I predict I will kick your scrawny little arse!”
The rider turns, and gallops back to the line of trees, where Captain Jan Gruyer, a veteran soldier of fortune, and leader of the mercenary band awaits. By his side is Sir Ragnar Delabord, who has just stumbled onto them, as he rides to Framlingham.
“What do they say, Thorpe?” the Dutchman asks.
“Their leader bids us leave,” Thorpe replies. “His name is Draper, and he knows his craft well.”
“You know him?”
“He was in Ireland, as I was,” Thorpe explains. “I never served under him, but I saw him at headquarters once.”
“And you say he is a competent man?” the Dutchman asks.
“He knew how to kill Irish rebels well enough,” Thorpe tells his commander.
“What of his strength?”
“I saw only five of them. Two have muskets, and one is a great lump of a man, who does not know his manners. The moat is dry, but twenty feet wide, and easily as deep. Once in there, and we have nowhere to go. The only way in is straight over the bridge, and through the gate. It is a fixed structure, and cannot be drawn up.”
“They will close the gate as soon as they see us riding at them.” Jan Gruyer considers his options. Once they do that, he can put his own men close up, and pour musket fire through the crossbars of the wooden gate. That will drive the defenders back, and give them time to chop their way in with axes. He tells his lieutenant this and the young man nods his approval.
“We may take a few losses, if they put their muskets high up above, and fire down on us. By the time we are through, they might kill four or five of us. The men will not be happy at that prospect, sir.”
“Why must we get inside?” Delabord says, gruffly. “I have what we need, and we can be on a boat in hours. Leave my cousin Elizabeth to her own devices. She is a cunning girl, and will win through.”
Jan Gruyer casts a sharp look at the Keeper of the Angels, and has to remind himself to be wary of what he says. His orders are to bring the coin moulds back to Fugger, and leave no witnesses to complicate matters. Once the duchess, and her protectors are all dead, he is to kill Delabord too.
“Fugger’s orders,” the Dutchman replies, evasively. “He wants the lady safe abroad. Perhaps he has a passion for her.”
“More fool him,” Ragnar Delabord says. “She can be a shrew, when the mood is on her.” He knows her well, having been related to the Stafford family. As a youth, he used to visit the Buckingham estates to hunt, and often saw the spoiled little girl having a tantrum. In later life, she has changed little, and can still drive a man mad with her looks, and her sharp tongue. “If your men are not up to it, Captain Gruyer…”
“Silence!” The mercenary is losing what scant patience he has, fast. With the coin moulds in his possession, he would prefer to ride for the coast, and take ship, but orders are orders,
and he has yet to be paid his quite substantial fee. “We will take the castle, and be damned to it. Lieutenant Thorpe, let us be frugal with the lives of my valuable soldiers. This place must have more than one point of entry. Seek it out.”
“There is the gate in the east wall,” Ragnar Delabord suggests. “As I recall, it is not that stout, and leads into the walled gardens. Once amongst the fruit trees, your men can work their way to the main gate from the rear … and do your worst.”
“You are a strategist, Sir Ragnar,” Gruyer says, nodding with satisfaction. “There then is our plan, Thorpe. I will take the best part of my men to this gate, and force entry. You will mount up six men, and gallop to and fro, at the main gate. Discharge your muskets, and make as if you are going to storm the place. They will defend the gate, and we will come upon them from behind. Yes?”
“A good plan, sir,” Thorpe replies. He has been with the captain for almost two years, and fought several skirmishes in Flanders, and two of the Germanic states, against protestant reformist troops. Gruyer fights well, and knows how to win. “Might I suggest you withdraw to the far side of the woods, and proceed to this rear gate on foot. The ground is dry and hard, and your horses will kick up too much dust.”
“Very well. Give us a half hour start, and commence your diversion,” Gruyer says, then as an afterthought he adds. “Sir Ragnar will come with me.” He knows that Thorpe will do his duty well, but does not trust him to kill either the Keeper of Angels, or his shrewish cousin, the Duchess of Norfolk.
“You wish me to fight?” Sir Ragnar has served in Henry’s army, and once fought in France, but he is a stout forty two year old man now, and no longer skilled with a sword, or pistol.
“No, I wish you to walk,” Gruyer replies, testily. “We will do the killing, but you must be there to calm the lady. Has she many servants?”
“A couple of girls, I think,” Ragnar replies, remembering their willingness to please. “Oh, and a sly faced steward. Other than that … nothing.”
“Very well, we go!”