by Anne Stevens
Adolphus Theophrasus is being poked. He tries to stay asleep, but the insistent finger will not cease its labours. Little Mary jabs him again.
“Hoy, gen’lemun doctor, wake up,” the girl says. “Mistress is a cumin round. She’s awakin’ up, an moaning.”
The half Greek, half Hebrew doctor struggles to open his eyes. It has been a long day and a hard night, and he has only managed a few minutes sleep. He rolls to one side, and pushes himself out of the oak chair he has slumbered in. His body aches in a hundred places.
“Fetch her cold water, and a bowl of beef broth,” he commands. Miriam has lost, aside from the half formed child inside her, a lot of blood. The broth, he believes will help replace it. He approaches the sick room, adopts a smiling face, and goes in.
Miriam’s face tells him that she knows the worst. He spreads his hands, palm upwards, and intones a prayer. It is the Kadash, and Miriam joins in.
“Yit'gadal v'yit'kadash sh'mei raba,” they intone, together, in trembling voices. May His great Name grow exalted, and be sanctified. Little Mary, standing in the doorway, crosses herself, and mutters her own small prayer. A tiny life has been lost, and must be paid for. The girl wonders what will happen when her master returns.
Harry Pole’s servant finishes saddling his master’s horse, just as he slips in. It is just dawn, and a blood red light comes in with him. The servant gives the cinch a final tug, and all is ready. The man has instructions not to say where Montagu is, or even indicate a direction, on pain of death.
Unfortunately for Montagu, James Preston is a man with two masters. Recruited by Rafe Sadler, two years before, he has been Cromwell’s agent, within the Montagu household, for the whole of that time. As Harry Pole goes to mount, a shape materialises out of the shadows.
“Going somewhere, Master Pole?” Rafe Sadler asks, tossing a small bag of silver to the servant. Montagu sees that he is betrayed, and must make the most of things. The man, Preston, is not, fortunately privy to his secrets, and knows nothing of the plot to put Fitzroy on the throne.
“A ride, no more.”
“There are felons abroad, sir,” Rafe tells him. “Leave now, and I cannot vouch for your safety. I think you might be cut down by outlaws, who will then run away… and not be found. The king would mourn your loss, sir.”
“I see. Am I a prisoner then, Sadler?”
“Not at all Master Pole,” Rafe explains. “Master Cromwell simply asks that you remain here, for the moment. There are dark things afoot, and he would not have your good name dragged in the mud.”
“What dark things?”
“Kidnap and murder,” Rafe Sadler replies. “A boy has been stolen away, and one of your men is involved.”
“Owain Gruffedd left my service a month ago,” Montagu says, and almost bites off his tongue.
“Then you know of whom I speak?” Rafe says.
“I simply put the two things together. Gruffedd was disillusioned, and spoke of treasonous things. I dismissed him, of course. It is no surprise that he is now causing trouble.”
“Little enough, sir.” Rafe prepares the great lie. “The Duke of Norfolk has already dispatched his household soldiers, and messages have raised Chester and Warwick to action. In three days, an army of fifteen thousand will join with Norfolk’s ten, and destroy Gruffedd’s peasant force, before it can even march.”
“Good news indeed, sir,” Montagu replies, though his face betrays other thoughts. If Norfolk is already on the move, then the rebellion will become fragmented, and there will be war on many different fronts. He must bide his time, and see where best his interests lie.
Norfolk may be defeated in Wales, or the King of Scotland, may strike into the north. Percy is undecided, and Suffolk is a fool. The parts of the patchwork are there, but how will they join up?
“Henry will need my support,” Montagu says, turning away from the horse. “Preston, you are dismissed.” The servant bows, and moves to Rafe Sadler’s side.
“The king trusts you… God knows why, but my master does not.” Rafe gives the man an ironic bow. Take care how you proceed, Master Pole, for your head is balanced precariously.”
“When all is done, Master Sadler, I will come to terms with your Blacksmith’s boy, and he will come off the worst. Tell him that the king loves me, because we are both of royal blood, and will never believe ill of me. I have done him nothing but good, and better still … I make him laugh.”
“Any jester can do that, sir,” Sadler says. “I go now, else I might, for personal reasons you are still unaware of, slit your lying throat. Even then, I cannot answer for another, when he returns from Wales.”
“James Preston has done well for us, and can return to Austin Friars,” Thomas Cromwell says, over breakfast. “Did Montagu believe you, about the Duke of Norfolk’s troops?”
“I think so, sir. It will give him cause to ponder his next move,” Rafe replies. “Though, in truth, Norfolk can field no more than a few thousand, and not for another week, or even two.”
“As long as London is held,” Cromwell says. “That is the most important thing. If it comes to war, we can rally on the city, and fortify the Tower of London. It will be a long, drawn out business though.”
“Can we not avert civil war?” Eustace Chapuys asks. He has no wish to see England torn apart, even if his own master might benefit from such a course..
“There is only one chance,” Cromwell says. “If Gruffedd is stopped, the war will not happen. Failing that, we must discredit his claim to have the rightful prince in his power.”
“How do we do that?”
“The boy is only a bastard.” Cromwell is uneasy. “The king must be kept safe, and Fitzroy’s threat nullified. With Henry alive, few will support the bastard. Do you agree, Eustace?”
“Yes, I do. God help the poor child.”
Charles Brandon is not welcome at the breakfast table, and the king is in a black mood. The Duke of Suffolk has dared to ride out, on an adventure, and not include his friend, Henry.
“God curse the man,” Henry snarls. “He knows how bored I am, and he does not let me in on his little skirmish. I led the charge against the French, in my younger days, did I not?”
“Yes, sire,” a chorus replies, but it is a lie. The young Henry was hemmed in, all about, by four thousand mounted knights. So, he led the charge, from within a solid phalanx of steel, against a few thousand mercenaries, who ran away at the first sign of a fight.
“He dares to insult my prowess so?” Henry slams his hand, palm down, on the table, and pewter dishes jump. “I do not wish to see his face again. Is that clear?”
“Will Your Majesty be free later this morning?” Cromwell is at his elbow, pretending not to have heard a word.
“For what? It still rains.”
“For the enactment, sire.” Cromwell leans closer. “It seems that My Lord Suffolk has been practicing.”
“Explain?”
“Ah, you do not know, sire?” Cromwell tuts, and shakes his head, as if disparaging the quality of servant one gets these days. “You should have been told, if only to let you practice.”
“Should I?” Henry is intrigued. “What is afoot?”
“Suffolk rode out yesterday, to practice for the little play he has planned for your amusement. He is to be the French… with a few others, in the tilting yard, and your part was to be that of a young king, who must rally his outnumbered men, and charge him. Poor Brandon thought it up, all by himself.”
“And made a fool of himself?”
“Indeed. He crept away, and ran into a pack of knaves by the hawking pens. He showed commendable skill in chasing the rogues off, but his horse baulked at a gate, and they slipped away.”
“Poor Charles,” Henry says, beginning to feel a little calmer. “He boasts that he strung them up from an oak tree.”
“The meadow does not have a tree tall enough, sire,” Cromwell says, and they both smile.
“I wager he is feeling like an idiot.”<
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“Indeed, sire. Now, he finds himself cast out, and his royal opponent unaware of the part he was to play.”
“Was, damn it? Not was… will, Cromwell!” Henry lurches to his feet. “It will amuse the ladies to see how a king can fight.”
“Then Lord Suffolk is forgiven?”
“For being a fool? Of course. He has always been a fool, for which I love him the more. Have my armourer come to me. How many on each side do we have?”
“His Lordship thought six horsemen would suffice.” Cromwell is happy to restore Suffolk’s place with Henry. He is a useful sort, and cannot be allowed to fall from favour.
“Six? Not enough, Thomas. I want a dozen mounted men on either side, and have the servants issued with pikes and swords. We shall be a hundred strong … and at the last, Suffolk shall be the French king, and I will fight him, hand to hand.”
“Indeed, sire,” Cromwell says. “For, had the cur not run away, all those years ago, that is exactly what would have happened.”
“You have a fine nose for history, Thomas. A fine nose. You will ride with me, and your pet Frog with Charles. Oh, this will be such fun.”
“A fine spectacle,” Cromwell replies. “Though I shall make sure the weapons are blunted, and that Suffolk knows who is supposed to win.”
Henry turns, and gripping Montagu by the shoulder, draws him close.
“You shall be my loyal standard bearer,” Henry tells him. “Let us pray that history does not repeat itself too closely, my friend.”
Montagu does not know his history, or he would be worried for his safety. For though the French eventually fled, it was not before the English standard bearer was unhorsed, and drowned in the churned up mud.
Mush commands everyone to look away when Gwen makes her appearance. She looks bewitching, in a dress that has been carefully torn to display lengths of thigh, and the best part of one breast.
“Oh, hush, Mush, she says, and they all laugh. “Either I am of use, or I am not. Would you rather I let you all die, and have Owain Gruffedd and his men take me?”
“I’ll kill them all first,” Mush snarls.
“And he is not in love,” Richard Cromwell says. Mush tries to throw a punch at his friend, but is a foot too short. The huge man grasps him by his shirt ruffles, and hoists him off his feet. “Come now, Master Mush, let’s hear it. Tell the girl you are smitten. Swear you will never swive another woman, as long as you live.”
“I must paint this, when I return to civilisation,” Hans Holbein says. “I wager you can’t lift me, Master Richard.”
“With the help of a carter’s hoist, perhaps,” Richard says, lowering Mush to the ground. “Now, take yourselves off up into the trees. We have killing work to do.”
Mush takes it in good part, but is embarrassed at his own feelings. Gwen has spoken of her past, and he has confessed to his own. They both seem able to accept that what is gone, is gone, and wish to spend their time together.
“Our time together might only be the time it takes to fight, my love,” he says. “If it starts to go badly, you must take my horse, and ride for your life.”
“I will,” Gwen says, but she knows how to lie as well as any girl can. Barnaby Fowler follows, a few yards behind, as if to grant them privacy. He is a single man, and an orphan, but understands about strong bonds. Taken in by Thomas Cromwell, when his father died, he has learned what devotion is. He remembers, the first year, when Mistress Cromwell and the girls were still alive, and the bad times, as one by one, they died.
He is training for the law, but spends much of his time acting as an agent for his master. He is handy with a sword, and knows how to kill a man in many ways. Today will be just another job of work for Thomas Cromwell, but a job he does willingly, out of respect, and love.
On the opposite slope, a steep, rugged, almost vertical wall of barren rock, Richard Cromwell huddles down, trying to hide his great bear like shape. He also owes much to his uncle. Out of respect, he has taken his surname, and is happy to do as he is bid.
Across the end of the valley, odd clumps of bush and angled branches, dislodged by storms, hides the rest of the desperate company. Tom Wyatt makes a particularly fetching bush, and wonders how he comes to be here, in a secluded Welsh valley. He too owes Cromwell, for saving his father from bankruptcy, and himself from a loose tongue.
If Henry ever truly suspects he has dallied with Lady Anne Boleyn, before even he could, things will go badly, and all the poetry in the world shall not save him. So, he keeps a low profile, and goes wherever he is bidden, to act as ambassador, spy, or agent provocateur. Today, because of a chance meeting with the cowardly Earl of Surrey, he is cast as a foot soldier, facing ridiculous odds.
Sir Jeremy Herbert wishes for nothing more than a good fight, and an honourable outcome. If he lives, there will be glory to be shared, and honours to be won. The king might hear of his exploits, and call him to court in his own right, rather than as a lackey of Suffolk. He holds his position, and waits.
Hans Holbein is hidden part way down the valley, and is just beginning to realise how short his career as an artist might be. He is quick to fall into trouble, and wishes to please Cromwell, who may put a word in with Henry. It all seemed like a good idea, but now, he wonders, what will become of him. He is a tavern brawler, not a trained fighting man, and must rely on his strength to see him through.
Will Draper wishes the enemy to come at once. The longer they wait, the less courage they will have. Once a man is ready to fight, you must let him loose, like a hunting dog. Hold back, and anything can happen.
“Come on, Welshman,” he mutters. Killing Owain Gruffedd quickly, is their only hope, and it what he must try to do. Cut off the serpent’s head, and the body will wither. “Let us be at it!”
“Charge, good Englishmen, and this day, do your duty … for God, Henry, and Saint George!” The audience shout, and clap their hands in appreciation. In addition to a mock battle, the king has decided to include some dramatic play acting. “Hold not back, lest the day is lost!” As ordered, none of Henry’s men, mounted or on foot, make a move.
“Aujourd’hui, vous devez mourir, Roi Henri!” Eustace Chapuys, sat on horseback, and wearing an overly large breastplate, waves a blunt sword, and issues a challenge. Today, you must die, King Henry, he calls, and waves his overly long blade. The Duke of Suffolk’s men cheer, and wave a motley collection of banners and weapons gleaned from Hampton Court, and surrounding great houses. One of them, already fortified with a flask of strong wine, bares his backside, and makes a crude remark about its likeness to the English king, which gets Suffolk’s boys roaring their appreciation.
“A challenge, by God!” Henry shouts back, pointing at the unseemly sight. “I shall this day, mite the Frenchmen’s arses back to Calais.” He turns his mount to face the hurriedly erected stands, and flourishes his hand at the ladies. Anne Boleyn is foremost, and waves back, encouragingly. In truth, the rain is ruining her hair, and she prefers the real thing to play acting.
“Your shall be my champion, Your Majesty,” she calls, waving her kerchief at the king. “Go to it, and smite the French from the field.”
“Charge!” Henry spurs his mount, and it canters forward, towards the enemy host. His men give a rousing cheer, and rush after him. The two sides clash, and blunted edge meets blunted edge, as England takes on France. Suffolk is playing dice in his tent, and hears the tumult. He curses, and finishes off his wine.
“Armour, boy,” he says, still peeved over Henry’s treatment of him “The King of France must go to face his drubbing.”
Outside, men are getting carried away with themselves, and a few solid blows land. Some of the king’s men are eager to revenge old wrongs, and try to unhorse their foes. The French, apart from Chapuys, who rides to safety, are incensed, and retaliate, handing out solid thumps, and cracked bones. The king is sacrosanct, but his men are not.
A knight, who is in debt to his ears, charges at Thomas Cromwell, who is stick
ing close to the king. Rafe Sadler steps across him, and gives him a great buffing with his quarterstaff. The man is knocked from his horse, completely winded, and the king roars in delight.
“Strip the body, sir,“ he cries, “for all he has is yours. See if he has a purse on his belt, and take his horse.” Bloodied heads, and cracked ribs abound, and the king is caught up in the action, and believes it to be real. A man approaches, and holds up a nasty looking axe.
“So die all who oppose France!” he cries, as he has been told to say. Henry thrusts his sword, which goes under the man’s armpit, and he moans, and enacts a drawn out death scene.
“Well done, Sir Willoughby,” Henry squeals, just like a small child. “You die well, sir!”
Then all grows silent. The French king, in the person of Suffolk, strides forward, issuing threats and curses, in a babble of English, and schoolboy French. Henry dismounts, then swaggers forward, with cheers ringing in his ears, and Suffolk, lunging forwards, delivers a swift two handed blow. It has, of course, been rehearsed. Henry expects the blow, and needs only parry it, and strike back. The adulation of the women has, however, dulled the king’s wits for a moment, and the thick oak quarterstaff catches him a solid blow on the forehead.
Silence. The crowd, and Cromwell with it, are struck dumb by what is happening. Suffolk has struck the king. For a moment, Henry stands, as if thunderstruck. Then he staggers sideways, and looks as if he will fall. Suffolk is horrified. He throws aside his weapon, and rushes forward, to catch him. Henry gives a shout, and delivers a fine backhanded stroke, with the blunted edge of his broadsword.
Had it been sharper, Suffolk’s head would be rolling in the dust. As it is, he is knocked senseless, and falls to his knees. Henry turns to the crowd, and raises his arms aloft. England has overcome the French, once more, and Henry has led the charge.