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

by Anne Stevens

  “It is just in my nature to kill vermin,” he says. “The Lord Chancellor’s office despises Jews, and I am an outcast in my own country. Forgive me, Will, but I am but one poor Hebrew, against a thousand of Sir Thomas More’s hunting dogs.”

  “I know, Mush,” Draper says. “One day, when Tyndale is read in every English church, there might be hope. Tolerance is a virtue … but who amongst us can truly claim to be virtuous?”

  “Certainly not Lady Mary Boleyn,” Richard sniggers. “Suit yourselves then. I shall eat enough for three.”

  “Where is Master Holbein?” Will asks. The painter, a big, robust sort of a man, has been dragged into the little charade, and played his part quite well, having only to stand guard outside Adamson’s house, and make up the numbers once in the Tower.

  “Gone to see the beasts,” Mush replies. “He says he has never seen a lion close up, and wishes to sketch one.”

  “I trust he will find his way home to his lodging, easily enough,” Richard says.

  “I doubt that will be a problem,” says Mush, grinning to himself. “For he has been living in the cupboard under the stairs at Austin Friars these past two weeks, waiting for Master Cromwell to employ him.”

  “That explains a lot,” Richard sniggers. “The man is always first for breakfast these days, and gets the choicest cuts.”

  “He has promised to paint Master Chew’s wife for him,” Mush replies. “Though truth be told, he promises to paint anyone who asks. Once Master Cromwell gives his permission, Holbein will be busy painting the entrance at Austin Friars, and then, with any luck, the king.”

  “I hope he has a generous eye,” Will Draper says. “For Henry is the sort who will need a broad canvas.”

  The Dutchman hit’s the water with a loud splash. The tide will swirl him around for a day or two, then send him on his way, back to his own shores.

  “He has three shillings in his purse,” Richard observes, counting the coins retrieved from the dead man. “How do we split it. Will?”

  “A shilling to Hans Holbein, for his help, and the rest into the Austin Friars kitty,” Will decides. The kitty, an invention of Rafe Sadler, is for any ‘found’ money that comes their way. This includes bribes, cash paid for a particular, though not a strictly legal , service and anything taken from a fallen enemy. At the end of each quarter, the fund is divided amongst Cromwell’s young men, and the regular household staff.

  “This quarter’s share is due next week,” Mush says. “I shall use mine to pay my tailor. He is pressing me over the new doublets I had made.”

  “Do I hear talk of money?” Hans Holbein, a big, gregarious German, from Ausburg returns, having sketched the mangy lion locked in the next chamber. Richard tosses him a silver shilling.

  “For your night’s labour, Hansy,” Richard tells him.

  “Really?” Hans tests the metal with his teeth. “For that, I would have strangled the Dutchman for you, and not spilled any blood. See here, I have immortalised us.”

  The sketch, made in charcoal, is a smudge of figures that resolves into a fair presentation of the hooded men. “See the fat one here, is you, Master Richard. I swear, I almost ran out of paper!”

  “There,” Will says, heading for home. “You and the king have something in common. Good night to you all, gentlemen… and sleep well.”

  3 The Return of the Master

  Life is quieter at Austin Friars, with Thomas Cromwell and Rafe Sadler away in Yorkshire. The usual law practice is still run, with smooth efficiency, but Rafe’s absence means the work load must be spread wider. Barnaby Fowler, and a couple of the other young trainee lawyers are picking up nice briefs, and are earning good money for themselves, and for Cromwell. It is the rule that the master, there or not, always receives his part of any fee, as will Rafe Sadler.

  The great house seems empty of life, for no-one bothers to call, knowing Cromwell is away. The servants take the chance to spring clean, and Austin Friars has never looked so fine. Richard and Will keep a watchful eye on things, and Miriam makes sure that the servants know their duty. The days slip by, and even Eustace Chapuys stops calling in around breakfast time. It is no fun without Cromwell and his ready mind.

  A messenger arrives at Austin Friars twelve days after Will Draper’s interesting adventure in the Tower of London. He, and his horse are both tired, having ridden since dawn, and the man demands to know where Richard Cromwell is. One of the many urchins dashes off, and returns with the big man, who is holding half a chicken in his hand, and worrying at it with his teeth.

  “Good day, sir,” Richard says to him. “From your livery, you are the Duke of Suffolk’s man, are you not?”

  “I am sir,” the man says, bowing in the saddle. “Sir Jeremy Herbert, at your service. I am on my way to Whitehall Palace, with news for His Majesty, but Master Cromwell’s man bids me call here first, and warn of his return. He will be here this very afternoon.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Richard replies. “Will you dismount, and take some refreshment?” He beckons to a boy, and whispers to him. The lad runs off to the kitchen.

  “I have not the time, Master Richard,” the young man says, “for the king will wish to hear my news.”

  “Ill, or good?”

  “Good sir,” Herbert replies. “My Lord Somerset has celebrated his twelfth year with much good cheer, and many fine presents. Master Cromwell’s gift must have impressed the boy mightily, for they had a private audience, and your master seemed pleased with the outcome. Northumberland was in a very ill humour throughout.”

  “Excellent news,” Richard says, ingenuously. He does not say whether it is his master’s reception, or Northumberland’s black mood that cheers him. Sir Jeremy smiles at the slight dissimulation.

  “If you enjoy Percy’s discomfort, sir, then you are a man I can call friend,” he says, candidly. “The man is … a boor.”

  “You are too kind to the fellow, Sir Jeremy.” Richard Cromwell can think of worse things to call Harry Percy, who has long hated the House of Cromwell. “Has he not drunk himself to death yet?” .”

  “The happy day cannot be far off,” Sir Jeremy replies.

  “Ah, here is the boy, back from fetching a pigeon. Come sir, take this cooked bird, and eat it on the way.”

  “You are too kind, sir,” the messenger says, and spurs his horse out into the street again. Cromwell’s nephew is not the brightest star in the household, but he is a steady, reliable sort, and knows his duty well enough. He shouts for the servants, and starts to make preparations for his uncle’s return.

  Thomas Cromwell and his party do not arrive until darkness is falling. Rafe Sadler has the horses attended to, and his master’s exhausted entourage dispersed. Cromwell, has played the part of Privy Councillor well, but now, he is very tired, and spurns all offers of food and drink. He retires to his bed, leaving his nephew, Richard, mystified.

  “I thought my uncle was in good spirits,” he asks.

  “He is just tired,” Rafe explains. “His horse stumbled in a pothole, and unseated him this morning. He will not admit it, and I would not say it to him, but the master is not the rider he once was.”

  “He is unharmed though?”

  “Yes, just a little deflated by the experience,” Rafe Sadler replies, yawning. “In truth, it has been a hard few days ride; and all to take gifts to a pampered little lordling.”

  “I see we have acquired another pair of stray cats,” Richard says. Nodding at a pair of youngsters who are standing, heads bowed, and waiting for instructions.

  “The sons of two York weavers, according to your uncle,” Rafe replies. “They heard of his visit, and begged the master to take their lads into the household. They want them turned into men of law, or gentlemen, at the least. I swear, Master Cromwell is too addle pated to refuse any man who seems to have an honest heart. He wishes to educate the whole of England.”

  “Never mind, I’ll find them beds, and we can see what they are fit for on the morrow. Neith
er one looks as though they could carry a keg of ale, chop a log.”

  “Then they will make good law court runners,” Rafe says, waving the matter aside, as of little interest.

  “What of this Somerset?” Richard asks.

  “Vain, arrogant, and wilful.”

  “Then he really is Henry’s bastard?”

  “Hush,” Rafe says, smiling. “But for the circumstances of his birth, the boy would be king, one fine day.”

  “Is he for, or against Rome?” Richard asks, but really is asking if he is for, or against his uncle.

  “He is for hawking, ball games, archery, and racing his greyhounds,” Rafe explains. “In good time, he will be for wining and wenching too, no doubt. He has many advisors who will tell him what to think too.”

  “The messenger reports that my uncle was favoured with a private audience.”

  “At which young Harry Fitzroy, High Lord of the Scottish Marches, and guardian of the king’s borders, begged a loan. It seems he is kept woefully short of silver coin for his purse. Master Thomas was pleased to advance him fifty pounds, against his future prospects.”

  “Has he any?” Richard asks.

  “There are people who will pay to have protection whilst crossing the marches,” Rafe replies. “He can charge tolls, raise local taxes, and generally misuse his position. The boy might be worth a thousand a year in that way.”

  “They start young, these aristocrats,” Richard says. “I sent word to Will that he should call tomorrow, after breakfast. No doubt my uncle will want a report on how things went with the idle tongued gossips.”

  “Is it stopped?” Rafe is tired, but his mind has been dwelling on the matter for a couple of weeks. Loose tongues can cost lives, and cast suspicion on even the highest in the land.

  “It is,” Richard tells him. “We scared them half to death, and one of them the whole way.”

  “What?” Rafe groans. “No bloodshed. I recall the instruction clearly.”

  “The Dupay man was working for Sir Thomas More.”

  “Ah, I begin to understand. He was luring our friends into the indiscretion.” Rafe shrugs. In the world of spies, and counter spies, there are often such casualties.

  “He drew a blade on us, and Mush was forced to act.” It is a nice way to dress it up, but Rafe Sadler understands. Mush is young, and hot blooded, and settles most things with a knife.

  “Then I am sure Master Thomas will forgive you all,” he says. “Is our Hebrew assassin still warming Mary Boleyn’s bed?”

  “With good results,” Richard replies. “She chatters, even in the act, and is most indiscreet. Mush writes regular reports for my uncle, but omit’s the more lurid details.”

  “Thank God.” Rafe watches as the various young men who ‘live in’ at Austin Friars lock windows, close doors, and ensure that candles are safely out. Only the month before, a carelessly guarded candle had ignited floor rushes in a merchant’s house in Chigwell, and he, his entire family, and the house, were consumed in a matter of minutes.

  “Off to your bed, Rafe,” Richard tells him. “I will tend to things down here. On the morrow, you must tell me all about the cannibals of Yorkshire.”

  Cromwell is glad to be back in his own home, and takes to his bed with all the eagerness of a middle aged man. The trip has been fraught with small problems, and his fall has hurt him more than he cares to admit. He is bruised, and his self esteem has taken a very sharp knock.

  “All my gold to be ten years younger,” he mutters. Despite the hurt, and his exhaustion, sleep does not come. It seldom does, these days, and he often lies awake until dawn, pondering some minor affair of state, or a certain, important political manoeuvre.

  This night he is vexed by the business of King Henry’s bastard son, Harry Fitzroy, who they now call ‘Somerset’. The child, who he last saw when he was six, is his father’s son. He is sharp witted, knows his Latin well enough, and is a likeable boy. Men would find it easy to rally to his cause, should the need arise.

  Cromwell sees far more than most men, and he is aware that the Duke of Norfolk also likes the young Duke of Richmond and Somerset. Tom Howard has a pretty daughter, of the same sort of age, he recalls, and wonders if Tom Howard seeks an advantageous marriage for her. Marriage to the son of a king, even a bastard son, would tie the two families together with cords of aristocratic blood.

  The Duke of Norfolk is also uncle to the Boleyn girls, thinks Cromwell, and that would wrap Henry up very nicely. The boy, Fitzroy, is bright, and must see his own worth. He prefers to be called Harry by his friends, and Somerset by everyone else. He has spent a great part of his life living in the same nursery as Mary, his half sister, and loves her dearly, as a brother should.

  The night drags on, and Cromwell passes the time by itemising all those about the young Duke, and assessing what they may want for, or from, the counterfeit prince. Of primary concern are the Boleyn clan. Their feelings towards Henry’s only son are ambiguous, and will be influenced, in the end, by Lady Anne’s degree of fertility.

  If she breeds a son, Harry Fitzroy will, quite rightly, be consigned to the backwaters of history, whilst her child goes on to rule, but let her fail to produce a male heir, and the boy becomes a dangerous opponent in the struggle for England.

  Cromwell doubts she will do any harm to Henry’s bastard son, but her brother, George Boleyn, is made of sterner, more violent stuff, and might connive to remove this obstacle to his sister’s progress. Mush is firmly embedded in Lady Mary Boleyn’s favours at the moment, and will hear if there is anything amiss. The young man reports that she simply cannot stop talking, whilst in the throes of passion, and is most indiscreet.

  Then there are so many others with an interest in the boy’s future, such as the young Earl of Surrey, the Duke of Suffolk, the Earls of Oxford, Arundel, Cambridge, and Salisbury, and Baron Montagu. It is the latter of these that keeps Cromwell awake most, and causes him to worry the deepest.

  The 1st Baron Montagu’s given name is, like a quarter of the men in England, Henry, and he is the eldest son of Lady Pole, the Countess of Salisbury. The extended Pole, and de la Pole family are a perennial nuisance to the Tudor dynasty. They are descended from the Yorkist kings of England, Edward IV and Richard III, and have a tenuous, much talked about, claim to the throne.

  The baron is a wealthy man, from a wealthy clan. He is paying court to young Somerset, showering him with fabulous gifts, and is, despite his suspect family name, one of the king’s closest friends in court. Quite how the man has gained such eminence, despite his name, is beyond Cromwell’s wits to understand.

  Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk, Henry Pole, and His Majesty play cards, chase women, and go hunting together. Is it any wonder that Thomas Cromwell cannot sleep well, even in his own down filled bed? He is beginning to hear rumours from his west country agents that say Henry Pole wishes Harry Fitzroy’s betrothal to go ahead, but to one of his own daughters.

  He has two girls, and does not at all mind which one of them young Fitzroy prefers. The youngest is an eleven year old virgin, and her sister is a ripe nineteen year old, long past the age when she should be married, and producing babies. His agents report that she is a haughty girl, who will settle for nothing less than a prince, or a full blown duke. To this end, she keeps her virtue under lock and key.

  Thomas Cromwell finally falls into a fitful doze, and dreams that Baron Montagu is all powerful, and slaughtering every protestant he can find. There are bonfires on every village green, where protestants twist and turn in the flames, and men with pitchforks smile, and prod the pyres into burning the more fiercely.

  He sits up with a sudden start, and finds one of the servant girls shaking him by the shoulder, as if to break the bad dream. She has brought him a bowl of warm, scented, water, his razor, and a change of clothes.

  He rises, shaves, washes, and dresses, quickly. The sun is well up, and he is wasting away the day in his room. The great breakfast table in the back kitchen shows
signs of a meal already part finished. Most of the young men have eaten, and are about Cromwell’s business; settling bills at the docks, chasing writs through court, or investigating some trifling matter or other, but some still remain. His nephew Richard is busy devouring a bowl of salted, hard boiled eggs, whilst Rafe, Mush, Will Draper, and Barnaby Fowler are picking over the remains of lamb cutlets, thick slices of boiled ham, and mugs of ale.

  “Master, may I get you something?” Rafe Sadler asks, jumping to his feet.

  “Some hard cheese, and a piece of bread,” Cromwell tells him. “It is always a pleasure to see my favourite boys around the table, though I am wondering why? Has Miriam thrown you out, Will? And you, Barnaby Fowler… nothing to do in the Greys Inn courts of law today?”

  “They come to confess,” Rafe says, breaking the uneasy silence. “In the matter of Arthur Adamson and his friends, they disobeyed you. It seems one of the men, a Dutchman, was in the pay of Sir Thomas More’s office.”

  “You mean Luke Dupay?” Cromwell asks.

  “You know him?”

  “I know of him,” Cromwell says. “He is a paid informer, who perjures himself, for silver.”

  “I killed him,” Mush states, quite willing to accept the blame.

  “In self defence, of course,” Barnaby, the lawyer amongst the young men, says. “There were many witnesses to the act. The Dutchman drew a knife, and uttered threats against the lives of both Will, and Richard.”

  “Yes, yes,” Cromwell says, testily. “Please tell me the body was disposed of properly, and not left on poor Thomas More’s doorstep.”

  “He went into the Thames at high tide, with nothing to identify him by. The eels will make sure his face cannot be recognised,” Richard says.

  “Now I am an accessory after the fact,” Cromwell tells his nephew. “I thank you for that, Richard. The Lord Chancellor will wish to lay this at my door, so it is well I know all the facts. The world is well rid of another spy, so I cannot grieve his passing. If you wish to plead self defence, Barnaby, do not dispose of the body. It points to you having a guilty conscience.”