by Anne Stevens
“You mean Master Cromwell’s table,” Richard Cromwell growls. He elbows the boy into the room, and slams the door. The heavy books tremble on their shelves, and a small cloud of dust is raised.
“Yes, of course. I was only saying, how generous your master is, sir,” Surrey replies. The huge man is a terrifying sight, and he is beginning to fear for his personal safety. Such a man might snap his neck, without a second thought. “He is the king’s good right arm. Is that not so, Master Wyatt?”
“Though clothed in simple cloth of wool, that arm doth out glitter all the finery on show, and when it falls on felon, or on foe, the arm is… dah de dah, de dah.” Wyatt strokes his beard. “I extemporise, of course, my dear friends. I shall finish the verse, in due course, and send it to you, Master Thomas.”
“Your servant, Master Wyatt,” Cromwell replies, grinning at the twinkle in Wyatt’s eye. There are rumours that the handsome six footer has dipped his manly quill into a certain lady’s ink pot, but Cromwell still awaits proof. If the genial poet has been bedding Henry’s current woman, he must be sent abroad for a while, if only for his own safety. “Rafe Sadler states the case well. I have need of brave men in an time of trouble. Men who will gladly surrender their lives for the king.”
“You intrigue me, sir,” Sir Jeremy says, perching himself on the corner of the large desk. “Is there some danger, hovering over King Hal?”
“The castle at Sheriff Hutton has been sacked,” Cromwell tells them. Then, in a few, brief sentences, he brings them up to speed with current events. The atmosphere in the room becomes tense, and their nerves are as taut as a bow string. Collectively, they look to Cromwell, as the elder statesman, to tell them what must be done. All, save Surrey, who is shivering with fear.
“Are you sure about Baron Montagu?” Sir Jeremy Herbert asks. “He is a close friend of my master, the Duke of Suffolk.”
“No, I am not sure, as you put it, sir,” Cromwell says. “There is not enough time to draw together enough evidence. We must act, and act now. Who will ride with Will Draper?”
“Perhaps I could go for help?” Surrey is almost quaking in fear, and can only stammer out the words. Cromwell sees this, and comes to a quick decision.
“An excellent idea, my Lord Surrey,” he replies, glancing at Richard Rich. The man is a soft palmed lawyer, and of little use in a fight. “Master Rich, perhaps you might accompany Lord Surrey to his father, where a full report can be made. You must urge the duke to raise as many men as he can, and fortify his castles, lest Montagu falls on him unexpectedly. Then ride on to see Charles Brandon. The Duke of Suffolk must go to Henry, and whisper in his ear. We may not bring Montagu down, but we can set the king thinking in the right way.”
“Then I have Richard, Mush, Barnaby Fowler, Master Wyatt, and Sir Jeremy.”
“To the death, my friends,” Suffolk’s man declares, rather melodramatically. “We shall be six against the world.”
They disgorge from the opulent library, and Cromwell is immediately assailed by a squat, red haired man, who would look at home, running a brothel, or a wayside inn. He has been sleeping under the stairs, on a straw mat, waiting for Cromwell’s return.
“I am here, Master Thomas,” the big man says, in a thick German accent. “You want me to start with these badly daubed murals?”
“My dear Master Holbein,” Rafe says, trying to move him to one side. “We have urgent business, and I must ask you to wait a while.”
“Not I, sir. Cromwell says come, and I come. Hans Holbein charges by the day… for your information… whether he paints, or sits on his … what is the word?”
“Arse,” Richard says, obligingly.
“Ach, this is so, jah? Arse is gut , und I will not be the sitting on it!” Holbein pauses, and realises that these men are preparing for some kind of conflict. “I know this look. You boys are going out for another brawl. Yes? I come.”
“No, Master Hans,” Thomas Cromwell says, trying to divert the man. “These men are off on a dangerous mission, for the king.”
“I wish to paint your king,” Holbein declares. “I fight with you, and you tell Henry to sit for me … on his big royal arse.”
“It might prove to be your undoing, Master Holbein,” Rafe Sadler says.
“Damn that, can you use a sword?” Will asks.
“In Ausburg, I was known for my drunken brawls,” the German says, proudly. “I can split a man in two with an axe, and I once strangled a bull.”
“A bull?” Richard asks, surprised at such a bold remark.
“Yes, a bull,” Hans Holbein replies. Then he smiles. “It was a small one, though, and I caught it by surprise.”
“Then you make it seven,” Will tells him. “You may well return, either in a box, or covered in honour, Master Holbein.”
“Fine, but I charge by the hour.” Holbein steps aside, and allows the exodus into the yard. Cromwell watches as they arm themselves, and select their mounts. Will is to ride his Welsh Cob, who bears the unlikely name of Moll, and urges his comrades to choose stocky mounts, more fitted to climbing high mountain pathways. The Welsh country is inhospitable, and there is often snow on the high peaks, all year round.
“In my homeland, there are many mountains,” Holbein says, throwing his leg over a sturdy mare. “With many wild, and dangerous bears.”
“There are no bears in Wales,” Will says. “Though there is often a wolf behind every tree, ready to pounce on an unwary Englishman.”
“Then I am safe,” Holbein declares, kicking his horse into motion. “For I am a big German, with an empty purse.”
Mush smiles, kicks his mount on, and falls in beside Holbein. They are an unlikely crew, thrown together as if by the will of God, and he feels drawn to the big, bull like painter. Perhaps, he wonders, it is because they are both strangers in a strange land, but in different ways.
“Are you a Spaniard, boy?” Hans Holbein asks, eying his new partner’s dusky complexion.
“Yes,” Mush replies, with a glint in his eye. “From Jerusalem!”
5 A Game of Chess
Thomas Cromwell acts swiftly, even as his ad hoc raiding party gallop off on their adventure. Will Draper must lead them safely through outlaw infested border marches, across the high Snowdonian mountains, and to the Island of Anglesey, in the hope of rescuing England’s unwanted prince.
For his part, Cromwell must ensure that word does not leak out about the kidnap of Henry’s bastard. There is too much at stake for idle gossip, and he knows that the Boleyn clan will react with the reflexes of a cornered beast. With Fitzroy on the loose, Lady Anne’s position is under outside threat. Her brother and father, if they find out, must urge Henry to marry, at once, and start the process of producing a legitimate heir.
That would mean death for Queen Katherine, and also for the young princess. Mary is a catholic to her very core, and it would be far too dangerous to let the child live. Lady Anne understands this, and will have the girl smothered at the first opportunity.
Under these circumstances, Henry’s fate is sealed too. He will be forced into an open break with the Bishop of Rome, and face almost certain ex-communication. His greatest fear is to be cast off by the world, and for him to be outside the church. The king will become a tortured wreck.
Then too, Norfolk must react. When Surrey tells him the news, Tom Howard will send out the call to arms, and twenty five thousand men will answer. Henry Percy will reply by raising another twenty thousand, and Suffolk will arm his own people. The other great houses will follow suit, and England shall become a powder keg, waiting for a spark.
Norfolk is a catholic, but also a clever pragmatist. He sees no problem in supporting the king, and can practice his faith without the benefit of a Pope. Without Henry, he is happy to think his niece, Anne Boleyn will make a competent ruler, under his tutelage, until her child is of age.
Percy lacks a brain, and is little more than a drunken, hate filled thug. He will try to grab off the northern counties f
or himself, but Charles Brandon will not wish to recant ownership of great parts of Lancashire, and Westmoreland. The two men will be compelled to fight.
Baron Montagu, no doubt believes that with Henry’s son in his control, can raise Wales, Cheshire, and the best part of Somerset and Cornwall to the cause. With fifty thousand men at his back, and demanding a return to Rome, he might sweep into power, before anyone else can act.
Once either Mary or Harry Fitzroy are on the throne, it will be a devil’s business to dislodge them. Great armies will rip England apart in the bloodiest civil war for a century. Cromwell shudders at the prospect, and prays for Henry’s continued good health. He wants the king to live, cast off Katherine, and Lady Anne both, then marry a fertile German princess.
The kingdom will then be spared a ruinous civil war, and Henry’s strong sons can carry Tudor rule forward for another century. More important though, is the knowledge that, if his plan works, Cromwell will see an England free of the catholic yoke, and able to read its bible lessons in plain English.
This is all mere supposition, of course, and there is much to see to if disaster is to be averted. Cromwell calls for Rafe Sadler, and gives orders for the two survivors to be confined to their rooms. Sadler does this, whilst assuring them that it is for their own health’s sake, and that the king is fully informed, and personally handling any retribution he sees fit.
Then he dictates letters to Rafe. He sends word to York, by fast messenger, ordering his agents there to seal off Sheriff Hutton Castle, and the nearby village, until further notice. No word of the terrible massacre is to leak out, on pain of his severe displeasure. A second letter goes off to Harry Percy, ordering him to go to Northumberland, and stay there until told otherwise. The man will lock himself away in a castle, and start drinking, and worrying about what is coming next. It will be enough to keep the north quiet for a few weeks, at least.
He leaves the hardest task until the last. Cromwell takes a deep breath, summons up a brace of the orphan children he supports under his roof, and sets out for the Draper house, down by the river’s edge. Miriam is in a delicate condition, and must hear the news from himself alone.
“Master Thomas!” The young Jewish girl is delighted at his sudden, unannounced appearance. “Mi casa, su casa.”
Cromwell smiles at the generous Spanish welcome. It is their little joke that Miriam and her brother, Mush, are of noble Catalonian descent. His clever forgers have provided documents, showing the pair to be of English and Spanish parentage, rather than full blooded Hebrews.
“As is mine,” Thomas Cromwell replies, bowing to her, gracefully. “Are the new wall hangings from Cyprus to your liking, Mistress Miriam?”
“They are, sir,” she tells him, waving towards the beautiful woven tapestry, hanging by the stairs wall. “We cannot thank you enough for so generous a wedding gift. It goes well with the fine pewter table ware, and the many other small things you send us. Let me show you about the house.”
“It is very … modern,” Cromwell says, examining the leaded window panes, set each side of the front door. “Have you enough rooms for all the servants? If not, they may sleep at Austin Friars, and attend you in daylight hours.”
“Enough, Master Thomas,” Miriam says, and hugs him, as if he were her father. “You treat us like your own flesh and blood, and ask so little in return.”
Cromwell is usually a man of quick retorts, but now, he looks down at his feet, and coughs, apologetically. He is not here to admire the fine dining room, or the six upper rooms. Nor does he come to see the new stable block. Miriam sighs, and places her hands on the small bump that is to be Will Draper’s child. She gives Cromwell a knowing look, and he finally speaks.
“I come to tell you that Will is away, sent about the king’s business,” he tells her. “It is a dangerous piece of work, and may end badly for us all. I come asking forgiveness, in advance, for my easy way with your husband’s welfare.”
“Then it is granted,” Miriam replies. “Will and I owe you so much, that we never think of saying ‘no’ to you.”
“Gratitude is one thing,” Cromwell says, “but I fear I ask too much. Will is to be a father, and should be by your side.”
“Set your mind at ease, Master Tom,” the girl says. “My husband is a soldier, and has a nose for trouble. If he was not your man, he would be off, fighting the French, or the Irish. In truth, he cannot remain inactive for three days running, without becoming ill at ease. Mush is the same, I fear.”
“Ah, yes. I forgot to mention that. Mush has gone with him,” Thomas Cromwell tells Miriam. There, he has said it all now. The two men she loves most of all, cast out into the wilds of the lawless border marches of Wales. “They may be gone for some time.”
“Months?”
“Days, certainly,” Cromwell replies. “Perhaps even two, or three weeks. Then I am forgiven?”
“Only if you come to dinner tonight.” Miriam is touched that Cromwell is taking the time to let her know her husband’s business, and wishes to impress the older man with her skills as both a cook, and housekeeper. The ageing lawyer purses his lips, and tries to think what he is about that evening. There is always something demanding his attendance.
“Ah, yes,” he says. “Ambassador Chapuys has invited himself along to my house, for a free repast, and a game of cards.”
“Then bring him with you, Master Thomas,” Miriam says, clapping her hands in joy. “We will make it a celebration.”
“Of what?” Cromwell delights in Miriam’s presence, and wishes she were still at Austin Friars, lighting the evenings with her youthful presence. Then he admits the real reason to himself. She is the age one of his daughters would have been, had she lived.
“We will celebrate the arrival of Will’s latest gift to me. He had it made in Antwerp, hand carved by one of their wonderful Jewish artisans.”
“What, a new jewel?” Cromwell asks. It is ironic that the Jews have been cast out of England, considered to be usurers, and vermin, yet must be engaged every time something of beauty is to be made. Jews make the best jewellery, the finest cloth, and the most beautiful artefacts, but are reviled as Christ killers. The world is a mad place, and no doubt about it.
“A chess set.” Miriam smiles at the surprised look on Cromwell’s face. “Carved out of ivory, and mahogany. Will wants me to teach him how to play, as the game is popular in the new Whitehall court.”
“Palace,” Cromwell corrects her. “King Henry is spending eight thousand pounds on building work this year. Whitehall is to be the grandest palace outside that of the Doge of Venice.”
“Then you will come?”
“We will. Though I fear you will be bored by the company of two crusty old men.”
“Nonsense, sir,” Miriam says. “It will sharpen my wits, listening to your discourse, and I might even defeat one of you on the board.”
“My dear Miriam,” Cromwell says, smiling at her, “you are the most amazing, and unique woman I have ever met. You can talk politics, throw a knife, and run a great house. Thank goodness you have not caught the king’s eye.”
“Yes, for it would go badly with him,” Miriam replies. Her Will is loving, but jealous. If Henry ever wishes to dally with her, her husband would be incensed.
“Might Will offer the king harm, if he should wish to kiss you?” Cromwell says, just as a jest. Miriam shakes her head.
“Oh, no sir,” she says. “Mush would slit his throat, before Will could make a move. My brother is like that. He knows that he always has a place to flee to.”
“Spain?”
“No, Master Thomas, the Holy Land. Mush dreams of going home, and driving out every infidel, at sword point.”
“He hates with the strength of love,” Cromwell tells her, and stores the information away for another day. “Might I send my new cook, to help?”
“Thank you, but no.” Miriam is feeling mischievous. “His sauces are too heavy, and he has no skill when it comes to baking custard ta
rts.”
“I will tell him what you say,” Cromwell replies. “He might wish you to teach him your own methods.”
“I am at your service, sir,” Miriam says. “We shall eat, drink, and be merry.” For tomorrow, we die, Cromwell thinks, finishing the sentence. He strolls back to Austin Friars, and sends one of his urchins to seek out his next door neighbour.
“Tell Master Chapuys to wear his funniest hat,” Cromwell tells the boy. “The lady is in need of good cheer.”
“Lord, sir, an’ that fevered un is a lark, an’ no messin’!” the boy agrees. “If that un don’t make her larf, nuffin’ will!”
Will Draper examines the map entrusted to him by his master, and calculates that they have covered a little over twenty miles. The day is beginning to wane, and fade into darkness, but they have made good time.
“We will be in Herford by this time tomorrow,” he tells Sir Jeremy Herbert. “Do you know the place?” The gentleman shakes his head, and dismounts.
“I have never travelled further north than York, or further west Warwickshire,” he says. “My Lord Suffolk has no holdings in Wales, or the west of England, and my geographic knowledge is limited to his domains. Do we sleep here tonight?”
“Yes, under the stars,” Mush says, as he joins them by the great oak tree. “Were we to stop in an inn, this close to London, every agent in the Shire will be sending secret messages about us.”
“Mush is right,” Will Draper says to the group. “We must picket the horses, and make our beds in the clearing. There is a stream for fresh water, and enough fallen wood for a good fire to cook by. Tell us, Richard, what delights have you brought on that trusty pack horse?”
“A side of cured bacon, some cheeses, a couple of loaves of bread, and a piece of pork fat,” Richard Cromwell replies. “The cook also donated two game pies. We have enough to keep us fed for three days.”
“More than enough,” Will says. “We must split up into two’s, and a three, when we get to Hereford. It is a good sized market town, with several inns. We will stay under separate roofs, and each re-victual ourselves. Buy only food that will keep. Cured pork, or salted beef, and hard cheeses. Each of you must buy a skin of wine, or ale.”