by Anne Stevens
“It is all yours, master, if you need it,” Rafe Sadler replies, without a moment’s hesitation. “Every penny I have is because of your patronage.”
“A pretty compliment, my boy, but I asked ‘how much’.”
“I am earning about three thousand a year,” he admits, “and have some savings… which amount to a goodly sum.”
“Twenty six thousand pounds,” Cromwell says, and watches Rafe’s surprised look. “You bank with Blackshaw in the city, who has dealings with the Lombard, Celli, in Paris. His nephew is married to Bartelli’s youngest daughter in Milan, who is friendly with the Doge, Andreas Gritti. Andreas listens to all the gossip, and writes letters to his friends.”
“Then I am undone, for I thought my affairs safe from prying eyes,” Rafe says, a little discomfited.
“Every penny you have was honestly earned,” Cromwell tells him. “In all these years, you have not stolen a single groat from me, or misused my good name in any way. This, my boy, I know.”
“Then you know I love you, as a father, and what is mine, is yours.”
“I do not want your money, Rafe.” Cromwell sighs heavily. He has to tell his protégé something that will change the dynamics between them, for ever more. Rafe nods, and smiles like a mischievous little child.
“That is good news, sir, for I am just about to buy a plot of land in Hackney. It is in the heart of the village, yet still only a three mile ride into the city.”
“Why?”
“To build a house on, master,” Rafe says, and his face lights up with ambition and pride. “It will be almost as grand as Austin Friars, and I shall build it with bricks … not timber and wattle.”
“Why, I ask again.” Cromwell must have the reason from Rafe’s own lips.
“I wish to marry.”
“Ah, then it is serious?”
“The lady has consented to marry me,” Rafe says, but he expects opposition. The young woman, a servant at Austin Friars, has been married once before, and has children. “Mistress Barre is of good repute, and will make a fine wife, sir.”
“She will, Rafe, but not yet.” Cromwell sees he must explain matters to the love smitten young man, and indicate the course his life must take. “Ellen’s husband may not be dead. Though it is believed that he lies in his grave in Ireland, there is no proof. We must make diligent enquiries, before you can marry.”
“I have it from a man in Braintree that Matthew Barre is long dead. Why else is nothing heard of him?”
“We must make enquiries,” Cromwell insists. “Once we know for sure, I can petition the king, and ask for his dispensation for you to wed your love. A year, or eighteen months will suffice.”
“Sir, we wish to be together.”
“Of course. You will carry on living at Austin Friars, and Ellen can remain as a servant. Discretion now will help when I ask Henry for the favour.”
“Can he do this for us?” Rafe asks, warily.
“He can, as head of the English church,” Cromwell explains. “As such, the king is all powerful.”
“Let us hope he takes wise council.”
“Indeed. That brings me to a more urgent matter,” Cromwell says, and must compose himself for what he must impart.
“What is it, master?” Rafe is worried, for Cromwell never hesitates.
“You must leave my service.”
“Never!”
“You must, Rafe. The king has noticed you, and wants you to enter into his service.”
“Why me?”
“You are one of the sharpest minds in England, Rafe,” Cromwell says. “Henry wants you, and that is that. Stay with us, until your brick house is finished … then move, and take Ellen with you. Once you can marry, take her to wife, and live long, and happily.”
“But master,” Rafe has tears in his eyes. “Might I not still work for you?”
“Not openly. Norfolk will whisper in Henry’s ear, and your career will suffer. From now on, we must remain friends … and talk to one another, in a casual way.”
“You are not happy with the arrangement, I can tell.”
“It is Henry’s wish. Join him, and we will help rule England for him,” Cromwell concludes. “Now, who do we have for the task in hand?”
“Mush was first to volunteer,” Rafe replies. “Then Richard and Barnaby have dragged along poor Hans. Tom Wyatt wished to stay in London, but his verses, and proximity to Anne Boleyn has come under scrutiny again. Rather than end up in the Tower, he threw his lot in with us.”
“What news of the Bishop of Winchester?”
“Stephen Gardiner landed in Calais yesterday, and is already on his way to Bruges.”
“I hope he understands his part in all this.” Cromwell, like all great thinkers, often considers things too deeply, and he is in danger of finding fault, where none lies. “I preferred the man as a friend, and wish with all my heart that Henry might not have elevated him so high.”
“Henry calls his ministers his angels, or his falcons, as the mood takes him,” Rafe says. “Sir Thomas’s wings are clipped, and Gardiner can easily go the same way. He will not fail you, sir, for like George Constantine, he fears you greatly.”
“I would rather rule men with love, than fear,” says Cromwell. “Though, if they cannot love me … they must fear me.”
“Perhaps you should have stayed in London, master.” Rafe knows there is an element of danger in their escapade, and does not want his benefactor put at risk.
“Bugger that!” Cromwell wipes his mouth, and struggles to his feet. The boat is swaying slightly, and he wants to get ashore, if only to still his heaving stomach. “I have fought battles, and killed men, before you were born, my boy. Let us get to it, and damn the danger!”
“At your service,” Rafe Sadler says, but vows to keep the old man safe. A stout man in his forties should not be wearing a sword, and ready to fight for that which he most wants … the utter defeat of Anton Fugger.
“Good of you to see me, Your Eminence,” Alessandro Gomes says, kissing the bishop’s ring. “I hope your visit to Bruges proves a success.”
Stephen Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, smiles, and, raising two fingers, blesses Gomes. The Spaniard notes his behaviour, and thinks to himself that here is a true Catholic, and not a pawn of the protestant English king.
“I, and my friend, are here on a private matter,” the bishop replies. The tall, handsome gentleman by his side bows, and introduces himself.
“I am Thomas Wyatt, late of the king’s diplomatic service, sir.” Wyatt bows, and touches a finger to his lips. “Henry thinks me too clever a poet, and mis-likes my ardent ways.”
“Ah, Master Wyatt, I know of you,” Gomes says. “Is it true that you have slept with every one of your king’s ladies in waiting?”
“Only the pretty ones, Captain Gomes,” Wyatt replies, and winks at the astonished Spaniard. “You should visit Henry’s court, sir. With your dark looks, I dare say several ladies will wish to make your close acquaintance.”
“I regret, my duties keep me here, close to my master.”
“Do you mean the emperor, or the banker … Anton Fugger?” Stephen Gardiner asks, slyly. “For I would have words with one of your lords.”
“How so, Your Eminence?” Gomes is at once on guard. The bishop sees the wary look in his eye, and plays one of his better cards.
“I hear that Herr Fugger likes religious art,” he says, smiling benignly. “I wonder if he might be interested in the effigy of an angel?”
“Angel, you say?” Gomes realises that he is soon going to be out of his depth, and casts about the large outer court for his master.
“Yes, I have come into the possession of a certain kind, which might interest a banker.” The bishop folds his arms across his chest, and waits for Tom Wyatt to play the next card.
“I am a close friend of Sir Ragnar Delabord,” the poet says, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial level. “He is detained in the Tower of London, because of an unexpected a
udit. As we are both good sons of the church, he begged a favour of me. I was to ride to Framlingham Castle, and deliver a certain package to George Constantine.”
“Really?” Gomes says. He is wondering how to reply, when he sees Fugger, and waves him over. After a speedy introduction, Gomes tells his master what has been said so far.
“Then you have the Angels?” Fugger asks. “What proof have you?”
Tom Wyatt fishes a piece of gold out of his purse, and hands it to the wary banker. It is a golden Angel, but the obverse side is blank.
“Half struck, to show we have the moulds, sir,” the poet says. “The bishop is with us, and wants nothing more than Henry’s ridiculous English church to fail. For my part, I wish to be rich.”
“Ah, greed,” Fugger says, flipping the half minted coin back to the poet. “That, I understand. What do you want?”
“George Constantine is in Calais, with the moulds. He wants his rightful share, and suggests we set up and mint Angels somewhere in the Calaisis hinterland. He surrounds himself with tough rogues, and says he will chisel the moulds into scrap, if we do not comply.”
“That was not the arrangement.”
“No, the arrangement was to kill him, along with the duchess, and anyone else who knows,” Wyatt replies, smiling. “Your Captain Gruyer is inept, and failed to do anything, but get us involved. Will we barter, or stand here smiling all day long?”
“How do we work this?” Fugger says.
“Constantine has the moulds hidden away. I have taken possession of a remote barn in the Calaisis, and equipped it with anvils, striking blocks, and a good furnace for the smelting. All we lack is the metal.”
“Then we must deal, sir,” Fugger says. “For I have promised the emperor that England will be brought down low. He is not concerned with profit, but I am. I will take eight tenths of all the coins we mint. You and the bishop shall have a tenth part each.”
“And Constantine?”
“Once you have the moulds, kill him, and save his portion for yourselves.” Fugger thinks this is a good deal, but Wyatt shakes his head.
“No, sir, that will not do.” He raises a finger, and beckons over one of his servants, who is wrapped tightly in a cloak. “See, here is my bargaining piece, Herr Fugger. Speak, sir.” The servant opens his cloak, and reveals himself to the banker and Gomes as Constantine. He is terrified of Cromwell, and speaks his part to perfection.
“I have the Angels, and will only produce them when I am safe in Calaisis. I do not want to mint them, or be involved in any other way. Master Wyatt has a proposal that will satisfy us all. If you decline it, I will go to Paris, and try my luck with the French king.”
“Please, take your hand away from your sword, Captain Gomes. I have a dagger in my sleeve, and will cut your master’s throat in a trice. Now, do we deal?”
“Very well,” Fugger says. He has no wish to die, and is eager for his plan to come to fruition, one way or another. Revenge is a dish best served cold, and retribution can always come later.
“My men will mint all the gold and silver you wish into debased, counterfeit coinage, and keep them all,” Wyatt says, and watches the look of surprise on their faces. “In return, we will pay you one third of their face value. That way, you get real money, and do not have the risk of distribution.”
“What then?” Fugger is calculating how much silver he can get together, and works out that his share will almost double his personal fortune. “How will you get the coins into circulation?”
“That is the wonderful part,” Wyatt says, smiling broadly, and playing the last card. “Once in England, I will have them put into the vaults at the Tower Mint, by Sir Ragnar Delabord. “Then, over the months, he will release them into general usage. The gold saved by using the debased coinage will be spirited out, and sold to you, for Italian Ducats, Herr Fugger.”
“Why?” Fugger cannot believe such a scheme.
“Because you are the only man in Europe who can afford so much gold in one delivery. You will strike it into genuine Ducats, or send it to my private mint, to be mixed with silver, and made into even more Angels.”
Fugger is astute enough to know that this ploy is not limitless. After three or four such deals, England will be flooded with fake coins, and almost destitute of real gold.
“England will collapse.” Gomes cannot resist gloating.
“Just so,” Bishop Gardiner says, with a sigh of pleasure. “The king will be ruined, and have to crawl to Pope Clement. Once we are reconciled with Rome, my country will prosper once more.”
“Then we have a deal,” Fugger says. “Give Gomes the details of your secluded barn, sir, and I will arrange the first shipment. Be sure that the preacher keeps his end of the bargain.”
“Rest assured, Herr Fugger, Master Constantine is in fear of his life, and will not fail us.” Fugger watches Gomes and Wyatt step to one side, and fall into plotting. He smiles, and makes small talk with the bishop, who is a fool to think the Pope will forgive Henry so easily.
There is enough silver to mix with the gold at a ratio of four parts to one. This means that he can turn his investment of around twenty eight thousand Ducats into a little over one hundred and fifteen thousand Angels. The banker will clear a profit of almost fifteen thousand Ducats, with each transaction.
“May God bless our venture, Herr Fugger,” Bishop Gardiner mutters.
“Amen, Your Eminence … amen,” Fugger replies, grinning broadly.
The Calaisis is a beautiful piece of France, that is under the rule of the English king. The farms, villages, and wayside taverns are owned by Englishmen - often retired soldiers - and most inhabitants speak both English and French.
Captain Alessandro Gomes rides at the head of his little convoy of heavily laden wagons, and keeps a wary eye out for stray rogues, or bands of bandits. The countryside still teems with outlaws, and men disinherited, and looking for trouble. Each wagon has a driver and an armed guard, and there are another thirty armed men on horseback riding in close order.
They are a half mile away from where Wyatt is meant to be waiting with his illicit mint, when the road is blocked by a fallen tree trunk. A lone ox cart is sitting on the far side of the blockage. A thick set man in his forties is sitting on the fallen trunk, drinking from a flask of watered down red wine.
“Good day to you, sir,” the man calls. “I fear we have a problem. Each side of the road has a deep ditch, and I cannot pass.”
“English?” Gomes asks, and the man nods.
“That I am sir, as are my companions.” Mush, Richard, Tom Wyatt, and Barnaby Fowler stand, with muskets at the ready. Cromwell is enjoying himself, and plays the part to the hilt. “Might we trouble you and your men to put aside their weapons, and help move the tree?”
“Five against thirty, old man,” Gomes says. “We will cut you down, and you Wyatt, I will kill, personally.”
“Your arithmetic is lacking, Captain Gomes,” Cromwell says, pointing to the trees on the Spaniard’s right. Brushwood, and uprooted bushes are thrown aside by men in armour, to reveal four canon and forty muskets, pointed straight at him. And to your rear, you will find a troop of horse from the Calais garrison. That, I fear makes it your thirty to my one hundred and fifty. Now, kindly turn about, and gallop away. These wagons are contraband, and are now the property of King Henry of England.”
“My master will have you all killed for this!” Gomes is furious and can hardly restrain himself from drawing his sword, but his men are already wheeling about, and galloping back to the border.
“My regards to your master,” the thick set man snarls. “Tell him Thomas Cromwell accepts this in part payment, and will submit the final account at a future time. Now go!”
“George Constantine is gone,” Mush reports to Cromwell, once they are safely back in Calais. “He must have slipped away when we were taking the wagons. Shall I put out word for him to be taken again?”
“Do not bother,” Cromwell says. “The man must w
ake each day with another black mark on his soul. Each betrayal takes him closer to his own personal Hell. If he disappears, then so be it, but if he should be fool enough to surface again, and comes within our reach … have him killed. Let that be his punishment … to always wonder when some stranger might step out of the dark, with a knife in his hand.”
“Richard is supervising the gold and silver being loaded at the docks,” Mush continues. Cromwell realises that the young Jewish man has something on his mind.
“What is it Mush?”
“With my share of Fugger’s treasure, I will be very well off, sir. It comes to me often as I sleep. The same dream. I want to travel, and visit the land of my fathers.”
“Why tell me this?” Cromwell asks. “You are a free man, and can follow your heart.”
“My heart is ever at Austin Friars, master, and my devotion is to you alone.” Mush struggles to carry on. “But if I do not go … I will regret it for the rest of my life.”
“Go, with my blessing,” Cromwell replies, but he does not mean it. First Will and Miriam move away, then Rafe will have his house of brick, and wed a woman who still has a husband. His son never visits, unless he is out of funds, and now Mush and his Gwen will leave him.
“Are you sure, master?”
“I am,” Cromwell tells him. All things change, he thinks. It is the way of the world. His clever plan to cheat Fugger has paid him out in kind. He will lose yet another of the small band he loves.
Anton Fugger downs a fourth glass of wine, in the hope that it will help him sleep. Since being fooled, and robbed by the Englishman, Cromwell, he has trouble sleeping. Twenty eight thousand Ducats out of pocket, and half of the world laughing at him, is a heavy burden on his mind.
Gomes eventually came back with the disastrous news, and he has banished him back to Spain, where he can rot, for all the banker cares. To add insult to injury, the Spaniard delivers a message from Cromwell, threatening further revenge. It is an empty threat, of course, for he is behind thick stone walls, and has a personal bodyguard of a hundred.