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

by Anne Stevens

  “Whose man are you?” Will asks. If the reply ‘Montagu’s’ comes back, he is ready for flight.

  “The Duke of Norfolk’s troopers, sir,” the young man answers. “We have orders to secure the city, against possible attack.”

  “From whom?” Hans Holbein calls.

  “Bless me, but I don’t know, sir.” The soldier moves down the line, satisfying himself that all is well. “The king, and all the court, have decamped to Hampton Court Palace.”

  “Damn. Is Master Cromwell with them?” Richard asks. The man shrugs his shoulders.

  “I don’t know the gentleman, sir. Now, are you coming in, or staying out.”

  “In,” Will Draper says. “We are wet, and hungry. I dare say that Austin Friars can provide us with beds enough. We can ride on to Hampton Court tomorrow morning.”

  “I look forward to a good night’s sleep, Tom Wyatt says, but there, my adventure must end. I must visit my father tomorrow.”

  “And I must start on Master Thomas’ walls,” Hans Holbein says.

  “What about you, Mush?” the soldier of fortune asks. “Will you ride with me?”

  “Of course,” Mush replies, “for I also wish to understand what has been going on.”

  The weary riders troop in, and turn their mounts towards the welcoming arms of Austin Friars. Richard spurs ahead, eager to rouse the kitchen, and have Master Chew provide supper. Barnaby Fowler follows, holding the reigns in his uninjured hand. The shoulder is sore, but will mend, in time.

  “Will you go to Miriam?” Mush asks.

  “No, the hour is late,” Will Draper replies. “I will surprise her when we come back from seeing Master Cromwell at Hampton Court. It will be a happy time for us all. She will welcome Gwen into our home, like a new found sister. If that is what you want.”

  “It is, Will,” Mush replies. “One day, I will make my own fortune, and set up my own home, but until then, we stay with you, and in time, become uncle and aunt, to your forthcoming child.”

  “Happy days, Will replies, smiling. “Happy days, my dear friend.”

  “Our good fortune is well deserved,” Mush replies, urging his mount into a trot. Gwen digs in her heels, and follows. Moll, Wills trusty Welsh Cob, not wishing to be left behind, moves on, unbidden.

  Will hopes Mush is right. Owain Gruffedd is dead, and a war averted. He has the boy, John Adamson, who can tell a pretty enough tale, that might lose a few well placed gentlemen their heads. He must sleep, and ride on, at dawn, and meet with his master.

  That Norfolk’s men hold London, tells will that Cromwell is, at least, still alive. On the morrow, he, Richard, the boy, and Mush will cross the bridge, before the market stalls are set out, and gallop to Hampton Court. Where, God willing, Thomas Cromwell, and the king, are safe.

  13 The King’s Mummery

  The great hall is decked out with fine cloth of gold hangings, and furnished with two great tapestries. One depicts Adam, being sorely tempted by a voluptuous Eve. A serpent winds its way up the woman’s left leg, almost disappearing between her ample thighs.

  The other picks out the story of the seven deadly sins, and hangs down an entire wall, graphically illustrating every vice known to mankind. Lust and Gluttony are attracting the biggest crowds, but all seven sins are being studied by Henry’s courtiers.

  Cromwell is positioned by Envy, and watches as Montagu studies the intricately woven panel that depicts Pride. The man is remaining remarkably calm, considering recent events. News has come, from London, that Norfolk’s troops are filling the city.

  “Do not worry, sire,” Cromwell tells the king. “It is at my request. My agents inform me that some malcontent Welshmen are roaming the shires. Norfolk has secured your city, and is sending out troops to apprehend these delinquents.”

  Montagu hears the news, and his expression does not change by so much as a wrinkle of the brow. There are reports of Welshmen abroad. It can only be Owain Gruffedd, and his men, moving on the capital. Time will tell.

  The huge double doors are swung open, and Henry comes in, heralded by cries of ‘The King’. He strides towards the gold covered dais, with Lady Anne Boleyn on his arm, and sits on the carved throne. Lady Anne, quite pointedly, sits to his right, as befit’s a royal partner. She looks around the court, nodding approval here and there, or administering a cold stare.

  Sir Thomas More, as Lord Chancellor of England, has priority, and moves forward, to greet the king. Henry raises a hand, and halts him, whilst still some distance away.

  “More, have you news for my Lady Anne yet?”

  “I am still awaiting a reply from….”

  “Then, pray, present yourself when it arrives, sir,” Lady Anne snaps. “We are not in the mood for frivolous chatter today.”

  Sir Thomas More does not quite know what to say, or do. He casts about for support, but everyone is suddenly studying one of the sins adorning the walls. He bows, and moves to one side, where Thomas Cromwell is standing.

  “Come, join me in Envy, Thomas,” Cromwell says to his old friend. “Perhaps we can find some common ground.”

  “Are you still preaching the dissolution of the church, Cromwell?” the Lord Chancellor says, scowling.

  “Do not spurn me,” Cromwell replies. “For friends are hard to come by, these days. I see Lady Anne has had enough of you.”

  “A minor set back,” More replies. “The Pope is God’s representative, here on Earth, and cannot be pushed.”

  “Or bribed, it seems,” Cromwell tells him. “My agent in the papal court tells me your offer was rejected, amidst the most ribald laughter. I hear that the Pope’s new mistress complains it is not enough to keep her in pearls.”

  “Your tongue will be your death.” More cannot argue. The bribe was too small, and hardly enough to buy one cardinal. Once more, he regrets Wolsey’s downfall. By now, the damnable man might have been Pope himself, and able to grant all the annulments Henry could ever want. “The king is in a rare sort of a mood, I think.”

  “You think right, Sir Thomas,” Cromwell replies, lowering his voice. “Norfolk has closed the city gates, and fears a Welsh rebel army is, even now, moving against us.”

  “What?”

  “We await word from the north, too,” Cromwell is enjoying the game and extemporises as he goes along. “Rumours abound, that King James has roused the clans, and is almost in York.”

  “Dear Christ!” The Lord Chancellor is horrified. “His agents have reported that something is afoot around Sheriff Hutton, but there is no talk of Scots armies, or uprisings in Wales. “Does the king know?”

  “Of course. He is about to deal with it.”

  “How so?”

  “Watch, and listen, my dear Lord Chancellor,” Thomas Cromwell says, smiling. “Watch, and learn.”

  “Harry, why are you skulking next to Pride?” The king calls out. “Is it your favourite sin, sir?”

  “I prefer Lust, Your Majesty,” Montagu says, touching his fingers to his satin codpiece.

  “Lust for what, though?” Henry beckons him near. “I had a mind to repeat your jest about the mirror, to Lady Anne, and she did not find it at all funny.”

  “No, sire?” Montagu bows to the lady. “Perhaps it was too ribald, for so sweet an ear?”

  “No, she thought it odd that you might compare me to an impotent old fool.”

  “Sire!” Montagu is shocked. “Someone has been dripping poison in to your ear. Do I detect the hand of Cromwell again?”

  “Master Cromwell, who you claim wishes to destroy the church, and cast out all books written in Latin? Or was that just a jest too, sir?”

  “It is well known that Thomas Cromwell hates the Pope.”

  “As do I, Montagu,” Lady Anne says, from her position beside the king. “For he is a corrupt, and venal old man, rather like the character you attach to the king.”

  “That is not so!” Montagu feels, quite rightly, that his words are being twisted.

  “Enough, Harry,” Henr
y says, softening his voice. “I am sure that this is all a misunderstanding.”

  “Indeed, sire.”

  “As are these silly rumours about you.” Henry is ecstatic. His friend has walked into the trap, just as Cromwell predicted.

  “Rumours, Your majesty?”

  “Yes, rumours.” Henry is well primed, and launches his attack. “I hear that you have been making the most lavish gifts to my son, Henry Fitzroy, Earl of Somerset. Is that true?”

  “Not I, sire. At least, not more than any of your council.” A clever answer, but one foreseen by Henry’s fellow jester.

  “But you are not in my council, Montagu,” Henry says.

  “Then I say they are not giving enough.” Montagu thinks he has scored a point against those who run the king’s court, but Henry has an answer waiting, as if composed in advance.

  “Perhaps so. I do expect them to send presents for my natural born child, but you, sir … you deliver them, in person.”

  “Sire, I can explain. I was visiting my estates in the north of Yorkshire, and thought it only polite to call on the boy. It was, after all, his birthday.”

  “Of course. And, as you point out, I was not there for him. A simple misunderstanding then, my friend.”

  “Yes, sire, made worse by lesser men’s idle gossip.”

  “I see… and what about your man at arms, Owain Gruffedd? I hear he is in Wales, speaking against the crown, and stirring up rebellion.”

  “Not on my part, sire,” Montagu says, lying smoothly. “I can only think he acts for another. He left my service over a month ago.”

  “Another misunderstanding?”

  “Yes, sire.” Montagu is sure that Cromwell is behind the gossip, and will pay him back, as soon as he can.

  “Then who does this Welshman follow?” Henry adopts a puzzled expression. “If he does not act for you, then it must be for another greater lord.”

  “I know not, sire.”

  “Is it Tom Howard?” the king asks, and Norfolk blanches.

  “I do not know.”

  “Or Charles Brandon. He was never one to laugh at your jesting ways, Harry.”

  “Sire, I cannot say.”

  “Or will not,” Henry is enjoying himself, and decides to ad lib. “Perhaps it is Master Thomas Cromwell who wishes me ill?”

  This is not in the script, and Cromwell holds his breath, willing Montagu to reply hotly.

  “Perhaps,” the man says, unable to miss a chance to hurt his enemy. “Who knows how far a blacksmith’s boy might go? I’m sure he does not understand the concept of honour, Your Majesty.”

  “And he likes to read, in English,” Henry says, scowling. “Still, that is for another day. I am after bigger game. Give me a name, Harry, and all will be forgiven.”

  “Sire, I cannot.” Henry is almost laughing now. He knows Montagu cannot name anyone, and is innocent, but he will push him further. The moment he refutes Henry’s next statement, he will forgive him, and reveal the jest.

  “Come, come, old friend. You are trying to protect the boy. I can see it all now.” Henry stands, and puts his hands on his hips. “You seek to hide the treason from me, because it is my own son who is fomenting rebellion. Am I right?”

  Harry Pole cannot believe it. Henry has jumped to the wrong conclusion, but it is one that suits Baron Montagu, for the moment. It will suffice, until Gruffedd arrives. He smiles, and steps into Cromwell’s real trap.

  “Yes, sire,” he admits, sorrowfully. “The young prince has acted foolishly. I beg you do not treat him too harshly.”

  “That is most commendable,” Henry says. Cromwell has misled him, he perceives. Montagu was supposed to have denied everything, and grovelled. Instead, he is admitting that Fitzroy is a traitor. Still, he resolves to complete Cromwell’s little farce. “I shall take your advice, and forgive the boy, Montagu. Go, and fetch him.”

  “Sire?”

  “Go, and bring him to me. Now.”

  “Your Majesty, he is in Yorkshire.”

  “Just so, and I want him here.” Henry raises his voice. “Go now, and bring him to me. Go on!”

  Montagu hesitates, then realises that he must act out the silly charade. He turns on his heel, and heads for the door. Cromwell can hardly wait to see the man’s face. The great double doors swing open, and Will Draper is standing there, flanked by two young boys.

  Baron Montagu gasps, and takes a step back. Henry is already beginning to roar with laughter. Will Draper advances, and Montagu falls back, astounded by this sudden, unexpected development. The king is now in on the secret, that Cromwell has kept so well. Harry Fitzroy, his bastard son, has been in court for some days, disguised as one of Cromwell’s young servants.

  “Ah, ha! Fooled you, Montagu. The boy is here, you see, and has been all along. He expressed a wish to see his father, and Thomas is too soft hearted to say no. Now, what is all this drivel about treason, and rebellious Welshmen?”

  Cromwell, like a good master of ceremonies, steps forward, and explains what he can. Fearing a kidnap attempt, he switches the young prince with a boy from his household, a boy called John Adamson, who poses as the king’s son.

  “Imagine my horror, when the boy is stolen away,” Cromwell attests, like the fine lawyer he is, “by a murderous Welsh outlaw, called Owain Gruffedd.”

  “Is this the boy?” Henry asks. John Adamson bows low.

  “I pretended to be your son, only that I might live, sire.”

  “And you, Will Draper?” Henry asks. He is not privy to this part of the tale.

  “I was sent to rescue the boy, Your Majesty,” Will Draper replies. “Master Cromwell is fond of the child.”

  “Such an adventure!” Henry is excited, and wants to know more. “How came you to save the lad?”

  “We caught them near Hereford, sire,” Will replies. “They offered battle, and we went to it. They were fifty men to our seven, or eight, but, with some loss, we won the day.”

  “Well done. What of this traitorous Welshman?”

  “He spoke - no, boasted - of raising an army, sire,” John Adamson says. “Though I saw nothing, but for a few desperate outlaws. He spoke of joining forces with great men.”

  “Did he name them?”

  “Idle words, sire,” Cromwell says. quickly. “There is, I regret to say, no proof. He ranted on about Warwick, Lord Percy, the King of Scotland, and Baron Montagu.”

  “Is he taken?” Henry asks. In answer, Will Draper drops the bundle under his arm at the king’s feet. It rolls, and the cloth falls away.

  “So perish, all traitors,” Will says.

  Anne Boleyn smiles, as she sees the look on Henry Pole’s face. It is only there for a moment, but she understands that his dreams are in tatters. She raises a dainty foot, and prods the severed head. It rolls away, and comes to rest by Montagu.

  “Master Gruffedd seems somewhat … attached to you, Baron Montagu,” Cromwell says. “I must applaud you, Captain Draper, for once again, ridding England of the king’s enemies.”

  “I am ever at your service, Master Cromwell,” Will says. He bows, then stoops, and retrieves the severed head. As he stands, he whispers to Montagu. “Have a care, Master Pole, for I am sure we will meet again.”

  Cromwell has told Will about Miriam, and it has been hard to keep him from killing the Baron, out of hand. Only knowing that the actual men who caused his child’s death are dead, has stayed his hand.

  The king is suddenly full of questions, and wishes to know what Cromwell suggests. The Privy Councillor demurs, and refers the king to the full council, but Henry presses him and, with apparent reluctance, Thomas Cromwell speaks his mind.

  Henry takes him into his private rooms, and bars Suffolk and Norfolk from following. Montagu, still bemused by his complete defeat, does not even make the attempt. His friendship with Henry is all that stands between him, and total disaster.

  “Well, Master Cromwell?” Henry asks, as soon as they are alone. “Who have betrayed me, and who
not?”

  “Sire, I hesitate to speak.” Cromwell chooses his words, carefully. “The boy, Fitzroy, is blameless. As soon as I told him of my fears, he agreed to switch places with John Adamson. He loves you, as a son should, and admires you beyond all measure. As for Warwick, Worcester, and even the Lord Harry Percy, they too are blameless. They knew nothing of the Welsh business, and it is unlikely they would ever raise a hand against their king. Norfolk and Suffolk are loyal. Norfolk made sure London was secure, and Charles Brandon saved you from the villains who lay in wait for you.”

  “Not poachers then?”

  “No, sire. Not poachers.”

  “You tell me over and again, who is innocent, sir,” Henry growls. “What of the guilty?”

  “Owain Gruffedd was the main culprit, sire,” Cromwell tells him. “And has he not paid the price, in full? Make me look further, and I cannot be held responsible for the consequences.”

  “How do you mean, sir?” Henry snaps. “Speak plainly.”

  “Imagine, if you will, that you have asked Sir Thomas More to investigate. He sets his agents on the scent of some great lord, or other, and a name is whispered in his ear. Let us say he takes this lord into custody, and puts him to the question. Few men can stand a beating, or a turn on the rack. So, to save his own skin, this lord gives names. He is a spiteful man, so names all those whom he hates most. Before long, Sir Thomas More is arresting every friend you have, and the guilty are still free.”

  “I see. You say I must spare one man, to save the innocent?”

  “Is that such a bad thing, Your Majesty?” Cromwell asks. “Let the guilty go, for now, and I will watch them like a hawk. We do not have any proof at the moment, but our time will come.”

  “You are almost as wise as Wolsey,” the king says. “Did I ever tell you how I was going to pardon him, Cromwell?”

  “The cardinal knew, in his heart of hearts that you would, sire,” Cromwell lies. “He spoke nothing, but words of love and devotion for you.”

  “You make me ashamed, Thomas. Come, name your reward, and I will grant it.”