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

by Anne Stevens

  “Then we meet up afterwards?” Holbein asks. “I can ride all day, Master Will, but in which direction?”

  “You stay with me, Hans,” Mush tells him. “I will guide you safely through the heathen Welsh. My people wander the world, and my sense of direction is unerring.”

  “After Hereford, we are into the Welsh marches,” Draper continues. “We stay together then, in a troop, and display our weapons openly. Every hand will be against us, once they know we are English.”

  “But I am German,” Hans points out.

  “Then they will not only rob you, but crucify you.” Richard says it in jest, but Holbein clutches at the cross about his neck.

  “They will kill me, for being a good Lutheran German?”

  “Oh, no,” Richard replies, smiling at his discomfort. “For being a bad painter.”

  “You dog,” Hans Holbein retorts. “I would drive you away with a stick, except for one thing. You have all the food!”

  “That is a wise decision,” Will says. “Now, let us divide the labour to our satisfaction. Richard shall prepare the food. Mush, can you collect brushwood, and Hans can stake out the horses.”

  “Then I will climb this tree, and stand guard.” Barnaby Fowler declares. Sir Jeremy looks up the sixty foot trunk, and shudders.

  “I shall patrol the clearing edge, with my crossbow,” he says, picking up the light hunting weapon. “I might even pot a rabbit. Can you prepare game, Master Richard?”

  “Why no, sir,” Richard Cromwell responds, winking at Barnaby Fowler. “I usually eat them un-skinned, and raw.”

  “Dear God,” Sir Jeremy mutters. “I thought it was the Welsh who were barbarians.” He trudges off, winding back the string on his crossbow. It is easy to draw, but the easiness is gained at the loss of power. Once loosed, a bolt might travel no more than sixty paces, before it falls to the ground.

  As Will Draper and his companions settle down to their tasks, Miriam is giving final instructions to her servants. It is her first dinner, given as a hostess, and she wants it to be a great success. Despite being wise beyond her years, she seeks approval from those she considers her betters, and sets out to impress.

  Thomas Cromwell arrives at the eighth hour, with Eustace Chapuys, the Spanish ambassador, and four young men carrying torches, and cudgels. They are the runners, employed by Cromwell to dash between the various courts of law, with messages, or information. Had they not been occupied in this way, he would have sent them off, along with Will and his six companions.

  “Blessings on this house, and all within, Mistress Miriam,” Chapuys says, doffing his cap, and bowing to the girl. It is a ridiculous thing, of French design, and has too many feathers for English tastes. He knows it, but does not mind that people make jokes about it. It distracts, and fools them into thinking the little Savoyard is a figure of fun.

  “Good evening, my dear,” Cromwell says, and offers a small wooden box to her. “A mere token, from my chef. He tells me that the spices within, will improve your wifely cooking. I fear your earlier remarks have stung him.”

  “Then he must know I only jest, Master Thomas,” she replies. “For it is known, by all, that you keep the second best table in England. Tell Master Chew not to worry. I am not after his reputation.”

  “Nor his name, I trust,” Chapuys says. He finds it humorous that Cromwell’s latest cook is called Chew, and wonders if his name drove him into his chosen profession. “Is he settling in well?”

  “He must. Ever since the king, so graciously, stole my last fellow, I have need of a good man.” Cromwell is not as upset as he sounds; for having his old cook, once in Cardinal Wolsey’s service, running the king’s kitchen, brings him a wealth of information that would, otherwise, take six agents to accrue.

  “I have a gift too,” Chapuys says, producing a small object, wrapped up in a fine, purple velvet cloth. “Though it is not for you, my lady, but the child you bear.”

  Miriam glances at Cromwell, whose face shows that he has no idea about the gift, and worries that the ambassador is using his position to make a point. She takes the proffered cloth, and unwraps it, carefully, expecting to find a silver crucifix; a reminder to Cromwell that Rome must rule, and that Miriam is no more than a lowly Jewess.

  She gasps in surprise, and is then made speechless at the beauty of Chapuys’ unexpected gift. It is a thin, golden chain, bearing a gold Star of David, with each point pricked out with tiny rubies.

  “We must never forget our heritage,” Chapuys says. “Without a past, how can we expect a future?”

  “Well said, old friend,” Cromwell tells him. “Now, shall we sample the delights of Mistress Miriam’s table?” He can tell that the girl is deeply touched by Eustace Chapuys’ opulent gift, and wonders what the man is thinking of. Can he believe that the gift, worth at least fifty pounds, will benefit him at a future date?

  “I had it commissioned for another lady,” Chapuys says as they are led into the dining room. “A lady to whom I had the greatest affection. We were to be married, after she had converted.”

  Cromwell knows the story. His agents report all of the worst gossip to him, and thus ensure he is the most knowing man in all Europe. The young Chapuys, a budding diplomat, in Savoy, falls for an unsuitable girl, and she dies, in childbirth. He has a son, now about eleven years old. Cromwell, until now, did not know in what way the girl was unsuitable. Now, he does.

  “Then we are both, of a sort, widowers, my friend.” Cromwell stands by the fire, and warms his shins. “Shall we grow old together, Eustace?”

  “You are employed by King Henry, and I work for the Emperor,” Chapuys says. “What makes you think either of us will get the chance to grow old?” Cromwell nods his understanding. Monarchs demand great men to run their empires, and cannot accept failure. Few ministers ever retire to the country these days, he thinks, not since the question of the annulment. They cross to the table, laid out for three, and take a seat, one on each side of their young hostess.

  “Shall we each say a silent prayer,” Miriam says. “It will save us arguing over which God we are speaking to.”

  “Heresy, before the first course?” Cromwell asks. “But you are right, my dear. Chapuys shall pray to the Roman God, you to your Hebrew master, and I … I shall pray to the printing press.”

  “The devil’s invention,” Chapuys mutters.

  “Then he must be a clever fellow,” Miriam says. “Ah, here is little Mary, with the soup. Careful, girl, Master Cromwell doesn’t want it in his lap.”

  The girl deposits her burden safely, bows, and runs from the room. Miriam grins at the retreating girl’s back, and reaches for the ladle.

  “You must be honest with me, gentlemen,” she says, affecting a blush. “It is my first attempt at this particular dish. I boiled down the carcass of a chicken, and the vitals of a hare. The stock is gamey tasting, and I use it sparingly in the dish.”

  The soup is imbibed, complimented, and pushed aside, as the next course, a goose, stuffed with chestnuts, and then slow roasted, is carried in. Cromwell approves, and there is a slight altercation over the second leg, resolved when Miriam slices the delicate meat from the drumstick, and apportions it out in equal measure between the two men. The banter is light, and friendly; oiled by the liberal administration of a blood red wine that neither man has ever tasted before.

  “This wine,” Cromwell asks “It is not from my cellars, nor is it one I recognise. “It is not French, and it is too rich to be Flemish.”

  “You are good at knowing what you don’t know,” Chapuys says, wittily. “Pray tell us what else you are certain not to know.”

  “I know not,” Cromwell says, and they all laugh. It is only after they have finished the goose, devoured a huge, hot game pie, and finished off a tray of fluffy custard tarts that things go terribly wrong. Miriam ushers them into the reception room, and brings out her new acquisition. The chess set is a thing of astounding beauty, and both men demand to know how they can get their o
wn.

  One hour later, both men decide that they must retire, and have an early night. It is nothing to do with Miriam’s skill on the chess board, they claim to each other.

  “Besides,” Thomas Cromwell says, as they walk back to Austin Friars, “I was not trying too hard.”

  “Nor I,” Chapuys says. “I am sure, without drinking so much wine, we would defeat her.”

  “Yes,” Cromwell says, smiling. “You cannot beat beginners luck.”

  Miriam understands that she has made a mistake. Great men have great self esteem, and she has damaged theirs. It was not her intention to beat them, but once started, her drive, and competitive nature has taken over. Cromwell was the better player of the two, she thinks, but is still too easily overcome. Perhaps, she thinks, he will improve.

  “Put the chess set away,” she says to the girl, Mary. “When I teach my husband, I must be careful not to defeat him so easily. After all, a man must have his pride.”

  Thirty miles away, in a clearing in the king’s forest, Will Draper tossed and turned. The night has grown colder, and the fire is not large enough to throw off enough heat for them all. He does not mind, having been on campaign in Ireland, but his companions will be ill at ease.

  “Are you awake, Will?” Mush whispers.

  “I am.”

  “In the Holy Land, they have creatures called camels, that can see in the dark, and never need to be watered,” Mush says. “My grandfather told me they came from a fabled land, called Bactria.”

  “Then we might ride through the night?”

  “Yes. As we cannot sleep.”

  “I fear we might have to tie Richard onto his camel,” Will replies. “For he can sleep through a thunder storm. Listen to him snore.”

  “It is because he has no imagination,” Hans Holbein says, joining them from the other side of the fire. “He sees only what is before him, and cannot think how something might be.”

  “Unless it is a pie,” Will Draper says. “Do you paint from the mind then, Master Holbein?”

  “I need only see someone once or twice, and I can make a likeness of them.”

  “I am minded to have a portrait of my wife,” Will says, “but a small one, that I can carry with me.”

  “A miniature portrait,” Hans says. “I will do a deal with you, Master Englishman. If you keep me alive, and return me safely to London, I will paint your wife. Is she pretty?”

  “Beyond measure,” Mush says. “She is my sister.”

  “Then she must be a real beauty,” Holbein says, and those who are awake, burst into laughter.

  6 A Night in Hereford

  Hereford proves to be, as Will Draper said, a bustling market town. There are districts devoted to the art of the wool merchant, where men act as herders, shearers, and fullers, and there is work for all, even women and children. The town is prosperous, and boasts three very good, but expensive, taverns. The best provides sumptuous roasted dinners, and comfortable beds, whilst the worst still offers good food and drink, and has a clean looking brothel next door.

  Rafe Sadler, their impromptu quartermaster, has provided ample silver coin for day to day living expenses, and the seven men find suitable lodgings, apart from one another, with relative ease. Tom Wyatt, a rather quiet poet, until now, comes into his own, once in town, and takes charge of Richard Cromwell.

  “Keep an eye on him, Master Wyatt,” Will Draper asks the poet. “He is a fine companion to have about the dining table, but prone to seek out trouble, with unconscious directness.”

  “Put your cares aside, Will, for I will charm him,” Thomas Wyatt replies, “and soothe the savage breast, that beats so fast.”

  “One of your lines?”

  “One day, perhaps I shall own it as mine,” Wyatt says. “I shall sit down, and take the trouble to write down all that comes out of my poor mouth.”

  “It is a rare talent,” Will Draper tells him. “I wish I had your silver tongue, when I speak to my wife.”

  “I shall write you something,” Wyatt says. “Learn it by heart, my friend, and whisper it into the lovely lady’s ear, when next you are with her.”

  “She would know I use another’s words.” Will knows his Miriam well, and knows she will uncover such a fraudulent thing, in a trice. “I wish you good day, Master Wyatt. This is where we must split up, and each enter the town our own separate ways.”

  “Did you see the innkeeper’s wench?” Richard Cromwell says, later, as they share a flask of good, red wine. “She smiled on me with some favour.”

  “Out of pity, my friend,” Tom Wyatt replies, smirking. “She is, I believe, old enough to be your mother. Drink your wine, and mind your wicked ways. I wager that she has a husband, or a violent pimp, waiting.”

  “What, to rob me?” Richard slaps his knee, and laughs. “It will go hard on the fellow. Why, I could wrestle any three of these fellows, with one arm trussed behind my back.”

  “We swore, on our honour, not to cause trouble,” the poet replies. “We must sleep, re-stock our saddle bags, and ride out of Hereford tomorrow, unnoticed. Agreed.”

  “Agreed, Master Poet.”

  It is enough to make any man smile. The thought that two such men can remain unnoticed, is a thing to jest about. Richard Cromwell is a veritable giant, towering two full hands over any normal man, and has the girth, and strength, of a black bear. In any company, he is the first to be noticed.

  Thomas Wyatt is only a little less obvious. He is an inch over six feet tall, has big, broad shoulders, a muscular chest, and a fashionably narrow waist. His clothes are expensive, though not yet paid for, and he is the epitome of high courtly fashion.

  Men cannot help but like him, and women adore him, often swooning, at either his wonderful good looks, or his clever, poetic tongue. He is envied, as a great lover, and can charm even the most hardened old maid with his words. Some say that this adorable son of Kent, has lain with both of the Boleyn sisters, but his silver tongue remains, wisely, silent on that point.

  The king’s jealous nature is well known, and one wrong word will result in the most unpleasant repercussions. A man might only have to study the tragic downfall of Harry Percy, Duke of Northumberland, to understand Henry’s wrath. Having inherited the wealthiest dukedom in England, it has taken only three years for Percy to lose almost everything. An indiscreet comment, concerning La Boleyn’s professed virginity was enough.

  Four years earlier, at the age of just twenty four, Thomas Wyatt’s skill as a linguist, and as a man with a fluid, diplomatic tongue, earns him the much coveted position of private secretary to the Earl of Bedford.

  The Earl is almost revered by his contemporaries. He is one of England’s greatest living diplomats, and King Henry is keen that he travels to Rome, and bargains with the administrators of the Holy See, over the, then new, matter of his desire for an annulment.

  Kings usually get their own way, and ridding himself of Queen Katherine must seem like a simple enough task. Bedford, sure of success, accepts the posting, and takes young Tom Wyatt with him. It is an ill starred decision.

  Wyatt arrives in the eternal city, eager to learn at his master’s knee, and finds himself immersed in a world of double dealing, lies, and treachery. Bedford’s mission is doomed from the start, as he does not have enough money to bribe the right people. One must buy at least ten priests, before being introduced to four money hungry bishops. Upon bribing one’s way past them, you must give gold to another two cardinals, if one wishes an audience with the Pope, and then donate another fifty, or sixty thousand to the cash hungry Papal coffers.

  The young poet whiles away the days philandering with the world famous Roman courtesans, even bedding one of the Pope’s own mistresses in the process. Then comes news of a sudden invasion from the north. The Emperor, Charles V, has had enough of the current Pope‘s attitude, and is sweeping down Italy, intent on his capture, and possible removal.

  Charles, apart from being the Holy Roman Emperor, is King of Spain, and
Katherine’s most devoted, and loving nephew. With the church at his mercy, Henry’s hopes of a quick settlement are dashed to pieces. The Pope, should he wish to live, will side with the emperor, and force Henry to stay in a barren relationship, for the rest of his life.

  On the morning of the sixth day of May, 1527, a vast, rampaging army, made up of Spanish Catholics, and Lutheran mercenaries, sweep into Rome, under the leadership of the Duke of Bourbon. They are furious that the Pope has refused to grant a private audience to their emperor, Charles V, and set about the ruin of the city, and the murder of its population.

  In the space of a few days, over two thousand bodies are thrown into the fast flowing Tiber, and another ten thousand litter the streets. Pope Clement is cowed into submission, and pays over four hundred thousand gold ducats for his life. He is now, and for ever more, the emperor’s pawn.

  The dumfounded Bedford dithers over what to do, and even as Tom Wyatt is urging him to flight, they are taken prisoner by Spanish soldiers, who recognise a good ransom prospect when they see one. The magnificent city of Rome is sacked by the Holy Roman army, and the streets run with blood, but the Duke of Bedford is an important hostage, and will be bought back. Thomas Wyatt is nothing but a secretary, and fears no-one will care enough to purchase his own safe return. He concludes that he is of little worth, and must make his own way out of trouble.

  One night, he slips out of a window, climbs down a clinging Wisteria, and weaves his way through the dangerous streets of the Holy City. Twice he is challenged, and manages to talk his way out of trouble. His French is excellent; as is his Italian, Latin, Spanish, and German. Only at the last, does his luck run out.

  Two Swiss mercenaries stop him, and care not whether he is for, or against their illustrious master. They intend robbing, and killing, him for his fine clothes, and the jewel hilted sword at his waist. He is forced to draw on them. So surprised are they, that he is able to kill them both. Then he steals one of their horses, and sets off on a dangerous ride to freedom.