by Anne Stevens
George Constantine cannot believe his good fortune. His horse, urged on at a gallop, has collapsed under him, and sent him sprawling to the ground. The grass is sparse, and the soil is of a sandy feel. He staggers to his feet, and climbs the low dune to see the waters of the English channel lapping on the desolate shore.
Out in the bay, a sleek little skiff tacks, and turns towards the beach, and the preacher mutters a selfishly offered prayer of thanks for his deliverance. The boat is exactly as Anton Fugger’s agent, Gomes, promises. In a few hours, he will be across the water, and free to hide from those who would seek him out.
True, he does not have the promised parcel to deliver, but that is hardly his fault. He frowns at the thought of not receiving the balance of his fee, but recalls the hundred pound advance, safe in the keeping of an Antwerp banking house. It will keep him in some comfort for a couple of years.
The skiff is manned by three men. One is at the tiller, a second is lowering the sail, and the third, a rough looking fellow with a beard, and a scar across his forehead, hails him.
“A fine day, sir,” the man calls. “Do you hark to the meadowlark?”
“And to the wild geese,” Constantine replies, using the carefully memorised phrase.
“Then you are well met, sir. Though I was told there might be others?”
“All taken up by the king’s men,” the preacher says, hurrying to the shore. As he comes alongside the skiff, he sees two men lying in the scuppers, their faces grimaced in death. He stops, and gulps in terror.
“As are you, Master Constantine,” the scar faced fellow tells him. “Move, and I shall cut you down where you stand.”
Constantine can feel tears of frustration running down his cheeks, and he weeps for himself, and knows he is in the worst trouble of his life.
“You are the king’s men?” he asks, wondering if they might accept a bribe to let him slip away.
“I am Jethro Brent,” the man says, laying a big hand on the preacher’s shoulder. “Agent for Master Thomas Cromwell. It is he who bid me watch the coast. It was a simple matter to take these two, and make one of them talk. I almost pissed myself laughing when I had to ‘hark to the bloody lark’. Now, sir, you are in my custody, and will spend this night in a prison cell.”
“Then I am to live?”
“I have no orders to kill you,” Jethro Brent says, coldly, as if such an order were an everyday occurrence. “My master, Thomas Cromwell wants you kept alive … for now.”
“Cromwell?” The preacher’s eyes roll up into his head, and he slips to the ground in a dead faint.
“Mush, secure the main gate,” Will Draper says. “Pick four men, and have them give shot at any who venture too close. Richard, collect the rest of our lads, and follow me to the east wall.”
“Where the orchard is planted?” Richard asks.
“It provides the best cover, once inside the wall,” Will explains, “and I cannot believe there is no door to the outside. These men are trained soldiers, and will think to look. If they find it, they will force an entry, and come on us from behind.”
“Then we will give them a hot welcome,” Richard replies. He has twenty men at his disposal, and a dozen have muskets. “Are you sure of this, my friend?”
“Hell, no,” says Will with a grin, “but battles are won and lost this way. Fail to guard our rear, and we are sure to get the worst of things. If they do not come from the back, then we will rush back, and fight them to our front.”
“Then let us get to it,” the big man replies, drawing his sword. “God spare us, Will … and let us be about the Devil’s work!”
The gate is old, and made of a few oak planks, nailed roughly onto a frame. It is the height of a small man, and only wide enough to admit one at a time. The Dutch mercenary signals for his best sergeant to try the latch, and he is surprised to find that the entry way is unlocked. Sergeant Scott pushes the gate back, and slips inside the high walled garden. Gruyer lets two more men go next, then follows, when there is no sound of fighting.
He places a hand to his lips, ordering those that follow him to keep silent, and ushers them all within. Once all fifteen are accounted for, he signals for them to move through the closely ranked fruit trees, towards the main building. There is a movement ahead, and a branch cracks under a boot. Gruyer realises his approach is expected, but has no time to shout out any orders.
One of his men, keener eyed than the rest, sees a man ahead, kneeling into a firing position, and raises his own musket. The shot cracks out, and all Hell breaks loose, as almost thirty muskets spit fire at one another. The man to Gruyer’s left grasps his throat, and falls, spitting blood to the ground, and another to his right takes a lead ball in the knee, and tumbles over, screaming in pain.
The Dutchman knows there is but a moment to act, and runs forward, sword in hand. His men drop their now useless muskets, draw blades, and follow their captain. A great bear of a man suddenly comes out of the trees, yelling, and barrels into two of Gruyer’s men, slicing one down, and driving his fist into another’s face.
The Dutchman parries a murderous cut from one of the defenders, and stabs him. The young man cries out, and drops his sword. Gruyer finishes him with a second thrust, and turns to face the next man. All about him, men are being hacked and smashed at, and a dozen bodies already strew the earth. Then the noise of battle ends, as soon as it began.
Will Draper sees how his muskets have devastated the enemy, and urges his men to the attack. Richard is already there, beating man after man down with his sword, and delivering a killer blow. To his left, Tom Wyatt is deftly parrying and thrusting, driving his opponent back, until he stumbles, and begs for quarter.
Then it is almost done. The invaders are all either dead, wounded or taken, save for their leader, who sees Will, and comes straight at him. Gruyer thinks that in killing him, he might yet turn the tide. His first cut whistles past the Englishman’s ear.
Will dances back, parries a second thrust, and steadies himself to go on the offensive. He feints, and drives in for the kill. It is a trick he has used a dozen times, but he finds his opponent has guessed, and danced away. Gruyer is on Draper’s blind side, and has only to thrust into his unguarded flank.
It is then that Richard Cromwell steps forward, and lands a crushing blow with his fist. The Dutchman staggers sideways, and drops his sword. Will regains his composure, and puts the point of his own weapon to the man’s throat.
“Yield, sir,” he says. “It is over, and you are my prisoner.”
“I am at a disadvantage,” Gruyer replies, spitting blood from a split lip. “Will you give quarter to my men and I?”
“Gladly, sir,” Will tells him. “Honourable terms for honourable men.”
“Then we surrender to you, Captain Draper.”
“You know me?”
“My officer does, and would that I had paid more attention to him. He thinks you to be a fine soldier.”
“I regret the loss of so many of your men, sir,” Will says. “Though you have killed two of my own.”
“C’est la guerre, my friend,” Gruyer says. “It is the best way to go … sword in hand.”
One of Will’s men has gone to make sure there are no more lurking outside, and comes back with Sir Ragnar Delabord at the point of his sword.
“Another one here, Captain Will,” young Adam calls.
“Ah, the Keeper of Angels,” Will says. “Come sir, Master Cromwell will wish to speak with you.”
“So much trouble, for such insignificant things,” Cromwell says, as he examines the coin moulds. “If these had reached Fugger’s minters, England would be flooded with debased coinage.”
“Then we have done a good day’s work,” Will says. “Delabord, Gruyer and his few surviving men are locked up, and the duchess is in your power.”
“Now comes the awkward part,” Cromwell says. “Will, I must ask you to escort Lady Elizabeth back to her husband in London. I shall give you a letter for the k
ing.”
“Will she lose her head?” Will does not like the idea that he might have, in some way, brought about her death.
“No, she will not. I will ask the king to force Norfolk back into her life. His slut can take a cottage, and wait for his attentions. I do not think a public trial will do any good.”
“And the others?”
“Exile, I think.”
“Then I will set off at once, sir.”
“Excellent. Once the duchess is in London, you must take a few days off, and retrieve your wife from darkest Cambridgeshire. I think she will be missing you. Take Wyatt with you, for I do not yet think him safe in London. He still has too much love for a certain lady, my friend.”
It is only when Will, Mush, Elizabeth Howard, and an escort of Cromwell’s men are on the London Road, that the Privy Councillor sends for his nephew Richard.
“Uncle?” Richard is not the cleverest of Cromwell’s young men, but he is amongst the most loyal. “What can I do for you?”
“I have a problem, nephew,” Cromwell says. “Will has placed me in a quandary. He has given quarter to Gruyer and his men, and would have me give them all parole.”
“Is that a bad thing, sir?”
“Not for me, but for England, my boy.” Cromwell sighs, and thinks of how history will paint him to be such a villain for what he must do. “Delabord is a traitor, and the others know about the plot. I know it has failed, but they might spread enough rumour to still cause damage to us. You see what must happen?”
“Yet, the duchess can live?” Richard asks, sensing the innate injustice of it.
“She is a noble,” Cromwell says, “and that excuses her much in this world. A better time will come, when all are equal.”
“Utopia, Uncle Thomas?”
“Perhaps not in our lifetime.”
“Or theirs,” Richard replies. There will be no written orders, or court records for posterity, he thinks, just some unmarked graves in a Suffolk meadow. “Will Draper will not be happy.”
“It was his word given, not mine,” Cromwell replies, sharply. “I am the king’s man, and cannot allow sentiment to cloud my better judgement. Let it be as quick as possible, so that they might not suffer unduly.”
“Yes, uncle.” Richard pauses in the door. “What of George Constantine, now we have him … is he to die also?”
“No, he must live,” Cromwell says. “I have a use for him.”
“He betrayed his friends, and almost had Stephen Vaughan burnt as a heretic, uncle,” Richard argues. “Surely, he is the most guilty of them all?”
“Constantine is consistent,” Cromwell tells his nephew. “He can be relied on to betray anyone to save his own skin. Once I convince him to fear me more than any other, I will have the man’s very soul in my hands.”
“Let me kill him.” The younger Cromwell cannot see beyond the next action, and has no idea what his uncle is planning. The older man loves his nephew dearly, but wishes he might posses even a modicum of forward thinking. He takes a deep breath, and explains.
“We have thwarted a plot against the king, have we not?”
“Yes, uncle.”
“To do so, I am forced to put hundreds of men out into the city, and across three counties.”
“Yes.”
“Each man must be paid, given a horse, fed, and rewarded afterwards,” Cromwell says. “Rafe … come here … have you a tally yet?” Rafe Sadler, who is ever in a corner, waiting on his master produces a thin ledger, and consults it.
“I have yet to reckon a full account, sir,” he says, apologetically, “but to date you have expended seven hundred and eighty three pounds eleven shillings and four pence. I expect the final amount to reach a thousand.”
“And my profit?”
“We have twenty two horses taken from Gruyer’s men, their purses, and the worth of their weaponry.” Rafe does a swift mental calculation. “Allowing for the depressed market in muskets and horseflesh, I think we might recoup around two hundred and forty pounds … give or take the odd Angel.”
“When I tell the king, what will he give me, Rafe?”
“His gratitude.”
“Then I am eight hundred out of pocket,” Cromwell says, shaking his head. “Do you see, boy?”
“You have lost a fortune,” Richard says, awareness finally dawning.
“And must make it good,” Cromwell concludes. “George Constantine will help us, and in return … he might just survive.”
15 A Time to Pay
“I am sorry to see you and Mistress Miriam leave us, Captain Draper,” Rob Buffery says. “It has been a pleasure talking with another military man, these last few days.” The retired sergeant, now a well respected inn keeper, will miss the company, and has enjoyed hearing Will’s carefully censored account of his recent adventures.
“I am sure Miriam and I will have need to call frequently, Rob,” Will replies, as he tightens his horses girth. His stay has been a pleasant one, and he is just a little ashamed to have suspected the man because of the name of his inn. In hindsight, he is surprised that he did not think of Gold Angels in the first place.
“God keep you and your’s, Master Buffery” Miriam says, climbing up onto one of the carts.
“And may he protect you … and your’s, mistress,” the old soldier replies giving her a pointed look. Miriam colours slightly, and drops her voice to a whisper.
“You can tell?” she asks. Rob Buffery smiles, and shakes his head.
“Not I. The wife knew right away though. Does Captain Draper know?”
“Not yet,” Miriam replies. “In truth, I was not sure myself.”
“Then he is in for a pleasant surprise,” Rob replies. “May your first born be a fine son, mistress.”
“May it be healthy, whatever comes,” Miriam tells him. The pain of her earlier miscarriage is still with her, and she hopes that this new child will fare better.
“What are you two whispering about?” Will calls over. “Not trying to sell the poor man more wine and cheese, I hope, my love.”
“Leave her be,” the old soldier calls back, winking at the girl. “Soon enough, you will be praising her for a fine delivery!”
“Damn your eyes, Norfolk!” Henry slams the parchment down on the desk. “Have you no idea about this new tax structure?”
Norfolk dips his head, and has no answer. He is fresh from a screaming row with his restored wife, and is a thoroughly chastised man. He tries to divert blame.
“Cromwell is your legal man, sire,” the duke says, slyly. “Should he not be here, explaining it to you?”
“And if he were to drop dead with the pox?” the king replies, sharply. “Who then will guide me?”
“There are other lawyers.”
“None as fine as Cromwell.”
“Sire, you say that of Wolsey.” The words are out before Norfolk has thought them through, and he almost chokes at his own stupidity.
“Yes, and who was it who advised me to have him arrested, my dear Norfolk?” Henry is working up into a fine rage. “Why, it was you, as I recall. Then, just as I was about to forgive him … he dies on me.”
“I was but one of many, sire,” Norfolk replies. “You will recall that it was Harry Percy who rushed off and arrested him, so abruptly. Percy was the prime mover, with …”
“With whom?” the king demands. “Tell me no names sir, for I am of a mind to shorten the list of my enemies, and that will be most unfortunate!”
“With a grudge against the poor man … I was about to say, Your Majesty.” Norfolk clutches at one of the many talismans he has secreted about his person, and prays for some calm. Where is Cromwell, he thinks, and what the devil is the man doing, showing Henry such inflammatory stuff. “Might I read these new laws again, sire, and try to unravel them?”
“Why bother,” Henry says, with an air of defeat. “The fellow is as clever as Cardinal Wolsey ever was. Did I ever tell you, Norfolk, of how I was just about to pardon the man?”
/>
“You have mentioned it, sire,” Norfolk says, and has a sudden idea. Not being a thinking sort of a fellow, he blurts it out without a moment’s consideration. “As for Harry Percy, you should show your disapproval in a way that will hurt him most.”
“Would you have me do to him, as I did to Buckingham?” the king asks, narrowing his eyes, and frowning.
“Buckingham was a traitor, sire,” Norfolk replies. “Percy is just a malicious young fool. Hit him hard in the purse. Levy a tax that will make him squeal.”
“Such as?”
“Have Cromwell think one up,” Norfolk says. “When he finally turns up.”
“Are you feeling any better, sir?” Rafe Sadler asks his benefactor. “It was a rough crossing, for the start of June.”
“I hate sea voyages,” Cromwell replies, dabbing at his lips with a linen cloth. “I have never had so empty a stomach. Are we safe in harbour?”
“Docked, and tied up fore and aft,” Rafe informs him. Richard and Mush are already ashore, seeking out the best lodgings for us all.”
“Have they enough money?”
“They have, sir … for everything.” Rafe is pleased to find himself free of the debilitating sea sickness that often attends channel crossings, and has been busy making arrangements. “I have been into Calais, and found a stable that can provide enough good horses. The owner can even loan us a sturdy cart … should it be needed.”
“Can we depend on his silence?”
“Mush put the point of a dagger up one of his nostrils, just to confirm the need for secrecy. The man does not know who we are, and cares not, thanks to the generous price I paid.”
“Not too much, I hope,” Thomas Cromwell replies. “Pay a rogue too much, and he will grow curious.”
“Trust me, sir,” Rafe says. “You have taught me well, these last few years.”
“I see that.” Cromwell loves the young man like a son, and is pleased with all he does. Still only twenty five, Rafe is a successful lawyer, and is becoming a man with a noted political mind. “What are you worth now?”