The Stolen Prince: A Tudor Conspiracy (Tudor Crimes Book 3)

by Anne Stevens

  “I can,” Richard replies, as though he is in the habit of keeping such things lying around his room. “Is there enough time to eat before we set off?”

  “I’m sure the kitchen can produce a few scraps,” Will says, smiling. Richard Cromwell has the appetite of four men, and will eat anything that comes his way. It is nothing for him to eat a twelve egg omelette, along with thick slices of ham, and fried bread for breakfast, and still need a wedge of hard Dutch cheese, and wheat biscuits to tide him over to his midday repast.

  “If not,” Richard tells him, “I shall ride north, to Yorkshire, and devour one of these horrendous cannibals you frighten my poor uncle with.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Mush says, patting his friend’s massive girth. “Though I fear you will need a cart horse to support your well fed frame!”

  Will smiles at the banter, but he worries about Cromwell, going off without anyone, other than Rafe Sadler, to watch over him in such dangerous climes. He has offered to go, of course, but Master Cromwell will have none of it.

  “Be at your ease,” his master says. “It is just a birthday celebration, Will. I must go, to represent the king, and in honour of my old master, Cardinal Wolsey.”

  “The man uses you, even from beyond the grave.”

  “I would have it no other way,” Cromwell tells him. “For I owe everything I have to the man. God rest his soul.”

  2 The Progress

  For a man in his forties, Thomas Cromwell thinks he is almost as robust as when he went to war, decades before, or so he tells himself. In truth he is not the strong framed youth who sailed to France, enlisted under the French king’s colours, and went to fight against the Italians. He is a little stouter, for one thing, and finds it harder to ride for long hours, over rough country.

  He, Rafe Sadler, and young John Adamson are mounted on sturdy hacks, and will cover the two hundred miles to Sheriff Hutton Castle in six arduous stages. As they leave the city, they are joined by Harry Percy, the dissolute Duke of Northumberland, and a dozen of his young hangers on. They are travelling back up to Percy’s northern estates.

  “Fools,” Thomas Cromwell mutters, but he is glad of the extra armed men. He cannot help wondering why these pampered young men of Henry’s court choose to attach themselves to Percy. He is a penniless drunkard, who has upset the king on too many occasions, and when he finally falls, they will fall with him.

  At Cambridge, they stop, and find food and lodging to be already provided. Harry Percy and his brood accept the miracle, and do not wonder who has arranged things in advance. Rafe Sadler has been preparing for this trip for months, and is content that his careful plans seem to be working out, as they should.

  Charles Brandon, and Tom Howard, the Duke of Suffolk, and the Duke of Norfolk respectively, arrive for the second stage of what Henry now refers to as, The Progress. They also have many followers, and expect Tom Cromwell to arrange, and pay, for everything. The Privy Councillor accepts that this is the way of things, and tells Rafe to keep a careful tally of all the outgoings.

  “Record every single meal, and every thrown horseshoe, Rafe,” he tells his man. “On our return, we must put the cost beside each man’s indebtedness to me.”

  “The whole trip, including birthday gifts for Henry Fitzroy, will come to over five hundred pounds, master.”

  “A drop in the wide, western ocean,” Thomas Cromwell says. Norfolk owes him sixty thousand pounds, and Suffolk about forty five. The two greatest men in England, after Henry, are mortgaged so heavily, that their grandchildren will still be paying interest, long after they are dead. “Charge them two hundred and fifty each, and so let them cover our outlay.”

  “This trip is not to your liking, master?” Rafe asks, but he knows Cromwell is duty bound to visit Fitzroy on the occasion of his birth. In recent years, as a small child, Henry’s bastard son has lived in London, and was easy to pay homage to, but just six months ago, it has been decided that he should move to Yorkshire, and become his father’s eyes and ears in the northlands. “Is it not odd that he must celebrate his twelfth birthday in the bleakest castle in England?”

  “It goes with his new titles,” Harry Percy says, having overheard Rafe’s last remark. “I was at the bastard’s elevation to the peerage, five, or six years ago. Henry made me carry the sword of state, and we all had to parade around the cathedral, bowing down to the pompous little bugger.”

  “I pray you guard your tongue, my Lord Percy,” Thomas Cromwell counsels.

  “Or what?” Percy says, draining his mug of strong ale. “In that same year, the Duke of Richmond and Somerset, as the bastard came to be known, was granted many other great appointments. Henry was under Wolsey’s sway back then, and the cardinal, damn his soul, favoured the scrawny little brat.”

  “Do not blacken Cardinal Wolsey’s name so, my Lord Percy.”

  “I say only what happened,” Percy says. “The saintly Wolsey ‘advised’ Henry, and little Harry Fitzroy, then a six year old child, was made his father’s Lord High Admiral of England. Then he became Lord President of the Council of the North, and Warden of the Scottish Marches.”

  “And your point, sir?” Thomas Cromwell’s voice has become dangerously calm. Rafe sees the signs, but Percy is too sodden with wine to really notice the danger he is walking into.

  “My cousin Henry has, in effect, placed the government of the north of England in his hands. I am Northumberland, Master Blacksmith’s Son. I am no bastard. My family have stood against the Scots for generations. I should be the High Warden of the Marches.”

  “When you cannot even piss without some whore holding it for you, My Lord?” The room falls silent. It is as if there is a thunderstorm about to break, right above their heads. “The young Duke has been raised like a prince, and his father has a particular fondness for him. The boy might only be twelve years of age, sir, but King James of Scotland will not move against us whilst he is here, as he fears King Henry … not you. For who could ever fear such a base creature?” The duke’s hand goes to his sword hilt.

  “You piece of…” Harry Percy stops in mid sentence. Young John Adamson has stepped up close to him, offering another mug of ale with his left hand. The right, concealed from view, holds a dagger, its tip pricking Percy’s belt buckle.

  “More wine, Lord Percy?” the boy asks, before dropping his voice. “Let us pray it is the only thing spilt tonight.” Percy drops his hand away, and takes the drink. His look says that John will be remembered, when the time of reckoning finally comes.

  “You make enemies easily, Son of Adam,” Rafe says, patting the boy on the shoulder. “Take care when that one is about, youngster.”

  “A stupid man,” Cromwell says. “Although there is something in what he says. The cardinal, God bless his soul, wanted Fitzroy acknowledged, and in a place of influence. Harry Percy is not a general, and cannot fight the Scots. Only the Earl of Westmoreland, and Charles Brandon know how to lead an army.”

  “Will we invade Scotland then?” Rafe asks.

  “Only in retaliation,” Cromwell says. “Why waste a hundred thousand pounds trying to take a country that does not produce more than twenty, or thirty thousand a year?”

  “Then young Fitzroy will have a quiet life,” Rafe replies.

  “One hopes so.” Cromwell thinks the boy is being treated like a prince for an altogether more sinister reason. If the divorce goes through, Mary is out of the line of succession. Then, if the Boleyn woman fails to give the king an heir, and he dies, the throne is vacant, and open to offers. King James might invade, hoping to become king south of the border too.

  With a strong, young, Duke of Somerset holding the north, the Scots would fail. Then Fitzroy - son of a king - might ride to London, and claim the throne. Who would be better? Cromwell knows a twelve year old boy does not have the wit to think of such things, but someone is behind these latest political manoeuvrings.

  It is down to Thomas Cromwell to find out who is backing the spurious prince,
and ensure they do not progress their cause too fast. The king’s bastard son might well make a fine king, but not until his father is dead.

  Once, years before, Peter Bumstead visited Winchester, and shuddered at the fearsome gargoyles leering down from the gutters and spires, but they had not terrified him as much as the sight now before him. He tries to speak, but the cloth in his mouth halts his words. The creatures, in black from head to toe, have come from nowhere, and taken all inside Adamson’s house hostage.

  One of the black hooded forms puts a dagger to his back, and urges him outside, where a cart awaits them. Bumstead, Luke Dupay, the Letworth brothers, and Arthur Adamson, are pushed aboard, roughly.

  “Go carefully,” one of the apparitions orders. “Master Executioner Cropper wants his cart back, undamaged, and scrubbed free of blood and gore.”

  “Then let me use the rope,” another says. “We can swing them from London Bridge.” Then a huge creature, nothing short of a black robed giant, pushes through, and holds up gloved hands, like great, swollen hams.

  “One squeeze, and their eyes will pop,” he promises.

  “Enough!” the leader commands. “On to the Tower. We must be done with this business, before dawn.”

  Arthur Adamson wants to protest his innocence, and ask what the offence might be, but he is gagged, and his wrists are bound. He might run, but who can outrun demons? His friends are shaking with fear, and the thought that their guilt has already been decided upon. Only the method of their death, it seems, is left to argue over.

  The cart trundles through the cobbled streets, and covers the quarter mile to the Tower in quick time. There is little moon, and the streets are empty, save for a few sleeping beggars in doorways. The captives are pulled down from the cart, and dragged inside. There is a guard standing close by, who comes over to them, hand on sword.

  “Good evening, Sergeant at Arms Cope,” the black suited leader says. “My master bids you so too, and asks me to give you this small token of his esteem.” A purse, containing fifty shillings, passes from one hand to another. The man smiles, puts the enormous bribe into his own pouch, and unlocks a heavy, iron bound, wooden door.

  “This is the room, sir,” the old soldier says. “Pray, do not wonder further, for the Royal Mint is a few doors down, and that is forbidden to all.” There is a chilling roar, as if some beast was abroad. “The king’s zoo,” Cope explains. “The lion wants his raw meat.”

  “Perhaps we can help in that respect,” the giant says, prodding Arthur Adamson’s paunch. “When is feeding time?”

  They troop inside, and the prisoners legs begin to give way beneath them. They are lined against the wall, facing the infernal machine, known as the rack. The leader goes from one to another, removing their gags. They are struck dumb with fear, and the prospect of being torn apart for the king’s hungry lions.

  “See sirs,” he says, harshly. “I mean to have the truth from you all. The rack is a subtle tool, that will tease from you what I wish to know.”

  “I am innocent,” Joseph Letworth cries, finding his voice.

  “Then you shall be first,” the man replies, coldly. “You have been denounced. It only remains for me to extract a confession.”

  “Then I am guilty,” he cries in terror.

  “That’s the idea.” The man gestures to the giant, who crosses to the rack, and starts to crank the heavy handle. “Now, if you please, sir. Lie down, and we will get on with it.”

  “But I confessed!” the Letworth brother whimpers.

  “Yes, and now we must make sure of it.” A sinister chuckle comes from behind the black hangman’s hood. “A couple of torn muscles, and a few broken bones will add authenticity to what you say. Everyone loves to see a broken penitent, Master Letworth. Come, and let‘s get to it … you heretic.”

  “Oh God, save us,” Arthur Adamson calls out, wringing his hands, and begging for mercy. “These men are all innocent. If there is fault, it is with me, sir. I led them into believing what your master thinks to call heresy.”

  “Wait your turn, please, Master Adamson,” the leader tells him. “The rack will take but one at a time.”

  “Spare them.” The man falls to his knees.

  “No. I am not in the business of taking pity on enemies of the king.”

  “I beg of you.”

  “No. If they truly believe that they are innocent, we must rack them, until they see they are wrong, and if they are admitted to be guilty … well then, they must be racked, to confirm the confession’s truth. Afterwards, you shall all be dragged through the walled part city on a hurdle, along Thames street and on to Tyburn, where you shall be strung up on the gallows, then cut down, whilst still drawing breath. Forgive me, sirs, but there is a lot of ‘drawing’ in this sorry tale.”

  “Very droll.” The giant cracks his knuckles in anticipation. “Do not ‘draw’ the story out though.”

  “At the last, you shall be sliced open from throat to belly, and your very insides drawn out. As they are dangled in front of your eyes, you must dwell on your folly, and repent your foolish sins.”

  “Then there is no escape?”

  “Why should there be?” the leader snaps. “The law says that reading Tyndale, or any English religious tract, is forbidden. If you disobey, then you are flouting the king’s wishes. That is both heresy, and treason.”

  “Then we might as well stick to our beliefs,” Edwin Letworth says, dismayed at the unimaginably cruel horror that awaits him. “Would that I had only thought my heresy.”

  “I dare say you all regret your loose tongues.”

  “Assuredly,” Arthur Adamson says. “Is it too late to send a final message to my family?”

  “No, it is not, sir,” Will Draper says, pulling off his black hood. “Think of this as a warning. Had we been Thomas More’s men, you would be screaming your guilt by now, and accusing your friends and family of consorting with Satan.”

  “What’s this?” A glimmer of hope lights Adamson’s face up. “You are not the Lord Chancellor’s men?”

  “Not us, sir. My own master, Thomas Cromwell, bids me tell you this: No more loose talk. Not even amongst yourselves. It is not safe, and it damages the ultimate cause. Now, get out, and thank God above that you have been given a reprieve, for there will not be a second one. Good night, gentlemen, and sleep well.”

  They are so relieved at their escape from a bloody death that they can only bow, and scurry away. As Luke Dupay makes to leave, Richard Cromwell, the giant strangler in their little play, holds out a restraining hand.

  “Stay a moment, Master Dupay,” he says. “Captain Draper wants a word.” The Dutchman, a ship’s chandler by trade, is a noted man with his fists, but does not fancy his chances against Thomas Cromwell’s huge nephew.

  “Of course,” he says. “Always, I am at the service of Master Cromwell and his agents.”

  “Not so, Luke,” Will Draper tells him. “I could not help but notice your lack of fear. Is it because you are a brave man, or did you know you would be unmolested?”

  “You speak in riddles, Master Draper.”

  “Do I? Then let us put you to the question. Richard, tie him onto the rack.”

  “What is this?” the Dutchman cries, beginning to fear for his life.

  “You are working for the Lord Chancellor, sir,” Will tells him, “and I am going to stretch the truth out of you.”

  “This is madness!” The Dutchman is thinking furiously, of how to talk his way to freedom.

  “No, it is not. You infiltrate groups of men, and listen to them. You show friendship, then report back, when the time is right.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “The rack will change your mind.”

  “Stop!” He backs into a corner, and draws a hidden dagger. “Very clever, Draper. I was warned about Cromwell’s young men. He has a liking for boys, then?”

  “We are unarmed, sir,” Richard Cromwell tells him, backing away. “I beg you to put down the knife.”


  “Not I sir,” Dupay replies. “You have cost me a fine fee by your meddling. I was about to denounce the lot of them, at five pounds a head. I am out of pocket. Still, there are plenty more heretical fish in the sea. Now, stand aside!”

  Mush’s throwing knife hits him in the throat. The Dutchman drops his own weapon, and clutches at the hilt, buried in his windpipe, then he slides to the floor. The young man has thrown from a dozen paces, and found his exact target.

  “Throw him in the river, Richard,” Will says. “There are plenty more fish there too.”

  “Droll,” Richard says. “Very droll. Fish in the sea, and too much drawing. Two fine jokes for the breakfast table at Austin Friars.”

  “Damn it, Mush,” Will curses as he turns on his brother -in-law, annoyed at the violent end to the night’s adventure. “Master Cromwell told me not to shed blood.”

  “He told you,” Mush says, retrieving his knife. He seldom argues with his brother-in-law, but has a strong dislike for Sir Thomas More’s agents. “Why don’t we nail the body to the Lord Chancellor’s door?”

  “No, that will not do.”

  “Oh?” Mush smiles. “Are you not the Captain Draper who, scant months ago, cut off the head of Master Tom’s enemy, and stuck it on a post, for the world to see, and take heed of?”

  “Different circumstances,” Will says. “This Dutchman could have been turned. He might have spied for us.”

  “Or turned us in,” Richard says, throwing the corpse over his shoulder. “Come on, there will be a goodly supper waiting at Austin Friars.”

  “I have other plans,” Mush says, winking at Richard. “There is a certain lady who does not like to sleep alone.”

  “Oh, and how did she discover that?” Richard throws back. “For I hear her bed is never empty. If only she had a sister, then I might rest my weary head on her honour!”

  “Enough!” Will is angry. “We threaten men into silence over their religion, then jest about a lady who is the king’s favourite. If you are not careful, it will be us on the rack.” Mush has the sense to apologise, defusing the situation.