Midnight Queen: A Tudor Intrigue (Tudor Crimes Book 2)

by Anne Stevens

  “I look forward to our future meetings, Your Majesty,” he says warmly. “God preserve and support you in your time of tribulation.” He bows, and walks backwards from the room as a sign of his devotion. It is not just diplomacy. He sees that the queen has right on her side, and will move heaven and earth to keep her seated on the English throne.

  As he leaves, one of the younger ladies in waiting slips away and meets her lover in the Chapel garden. He pulls her into a quiet corner, and lets his hands rove over body. She tilts her head back, and lets him kiss her. Later she will allow him all the freedom he wishes.

  “Well,” George Boleyn says, running a finger down the side of her face, “what did the new ambassador have to say for himself?”

  2 The Invitation

  Gilbert Guyot’s English is good. He is from Provins, a small market town a few miles south of Paris, and has been educated by the redoubtable local nuns. They broke many a rod over his back as a child, but have failed to beat out the devil. He can speak English, French, Languedoc dialect, Italian, and some Spanish, due mainly to his need to travel a lot.

  Gilbert is an acrobat, and juggler of some note. He has his own small troupe, and tours the continent, and England, entertaining at country fairs, and the homes of the rich. The Vernay brothers, Jehan and Claude, complete his ensemble, with their knife throwing and tumbling prowess. They are all clever cut purses, and know a hundred ways to turn a dishonest penny.

  “I must have my expenses,” he tells the willowy Englishman. “Half in advance, and the rest on completion. Is this to your liking?”

  “What proof do I have that you are the right man for the task, Guyot?” the English gentleman asks. Asking for character references is not an option.

  “Give me a name,” Gilbert says, casually, “and he will be dead before sunset. There will be nothing to bring the matter back to your door, my friend. Each bag of gold will buy you another death.”

  “It is a long list.”

  “Then, I pray you have enough money,” Gilbert Guyot says, taking a bite from the hunk of bread that came with his broth.

  “More than enough,” the Englishman replies. “My master is rich enough to scour England of this traitorous filth.”

  “What of the mother and daughter?” the Frenchman enquires. “They will cost more, of course.”

  “Do not concern yourself with them,” his co conspirator tells him. “There are special arrangements for them.”

  “No matter,” Gilbert says. “If things do not go to plan, you can always call on Guyot, and his amazing tumblers.”

  Cardinal Thomas Wolsey has been dead for three months, and the order of things, unbalanced by his fall, is beginning to right itself. Eustace Chapuys has kept his head down, waiting to see who emerges as Henry’s most favoured councillors. Every pack of dogs must have a leader, and the vying for position has been amusing to observe. Who will sit at Henry’s feet, and who will have to be content with the scraps from his table?

  In his reports to the Emperor Charles, he draws word pictures of each man of influence, and gives his opinion as to their worth, and capabilities. He is also able to pass on messages from Katherine, having established a link between them both via her doctor.

  The dour Spaniard, Vargas, arrives each week, takes Chapuys pulse, feels his throat, and delivers, parrot-like, his mistresses words. The man’s accent is hard to place, and Chapuys tries to draw him out as to his history. It is important to know about the people you are forced to trust. Vargas admits to being from a small village on the southern border with Portugal, which accounts for the accent, and was sent to Salamanca to study medicine, paid for by the church.

  He is therefore their man. He must repay their investment, by going where he is told. The Bishop of Salamanca is a cousin, twice removed to Katherine, and has decided that his illustrious relative must have the best physician possible. The grim faced doctor is a newcomer to the court, and has been in England for less than three years.

  “Will they ever let you go?” Chapuys asks. The church owns the men she advances, and can be a harsh mistress. Often, Rome will demand half a man’s salary, and a further fee to release his soul.

  Dr. Vargas shrugs, He is bonded to them for another five years, when he will be free to choose his own path. By then, he might have enough to buy his freedom, return to Spain, and open his own hospital.

  “For the poor?” Chapuys asks, and a slight smile turns up the corner of the doctor’s mouth. He shakes his head.

  “No, of course not. It will be for those who can pay. There are already too many poor in this world,” the doctor explains. “Why prolong their sad existences?” Wealthy men, it seems, deserve to live longer, and will pay for his knowledge.

  The ambassador listens, and believes he understands what it is that motivates the man. He is from a poor background, and fears living in poverty. This fear binds him to the queen, his benefactress, and will ensure his loyalty to her, until he has enough gold saved to fly the nest.

  Each week Dr. Vargas comes and delivers the queen’s carefully memorised words. Chapuys selects the relevant parts, and passes them on. He writes two reports each month, knowing that the blander one will be intercepted, secretly opened, and read, before forwarding.

  The second, more informative document, he hand delivers to a certain Lombard banking house in the city. For a small fee, it is sent by courier, mixed in with their usual banking transactions. As an added precaution, Chapuys writes in a complicated code that can only be deciphered by reference to a particular book in the Emperor’s extensive library.

  In this way, the ambassador has managed to avoid having to adopt any partisan relationships, and has kept on friendly terms with Norfolk, Suffolk, the young Earl of Surrey, and diverse members of the king’s privy council.

  Then this! He is stopped in the street, and accosted by a tall young man, who is armed with a fine sword, and looks as though he knows how to use it.

  “Have I the pleasure of addressing Ambassador Eustace Chapuys?” the rogue says, in good French, even though they know one another by sight.

  “You have,” he says, answering the young gallant in the same language. “I am very busy, sir. What is your business?”

  “Pardon my poor French, sir, but you do not have any English, I’m told. My master, Thomas Cromwell, requests the presence of your esteemed company at dinner tonight.”

  “You must thank my neighbour for me,” Chapuys replies, “but I am too busy. Inform him that I will call and make my formal introductions another time.”

  “Your house lies adjacent to his at Austin Friars, sir,” the young man says. “These last months, you and he have waved, in passing, and It seems churlish that you now refuse a hearty dinner. My master will be most aggrieved.”

  Damn him to hell, Chapuys thinks. Cromwell is getting ever closer to the king, but has powerful enemies. It will not do to seem too friendly. He tries to conjure up an escape from his predicament.

  “Perhaps another night?”

  “Master Cromwell bids me say your presence will be most welcome… tonight. He has also asked Sir Thomas More, Stephen Gardiner and Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk. It will be a merry night.”

  Merry indeed, Chapuys thinks. More and Brandon are against the annulment, for differing reasons, and Gardiner is the coming man, and might soon have the king’s ear. He performs a speedy about face. Such men will make good allies to Queen Katherine’s cause.

  “Very well,” he says. “At what hour?”

  “My master’s servants will come and light your way, sir,” the young man says. “Until then…. Adieu.” Chapuys bows, and resumes his passage. “Sir, beware of the dung!”

  The ambassador steps deftly to one side, avoiding the steaming heap, and is almost at the front gate of York Place, the king’s new courts, when he realises that the young man has warned him in English. He is angry at his stupid error, then smiles. It is not often that he is outwitted, and it is a lesson in humility.


  A second, even more humbling, experience awaits him, once in the outer halls of Henry’s court. The king is far too busy to grant him an interview, being much preoccupied with a new pair of falcons. Hunting before diplomacy, Chapuys decides, is the English way. So, he loiters about, passing the time of day with any who have a moment to chatter.

  The king’s main friends, and senior gentlemen of the court are off with the king, of course, but information is still there, waiting to be gathered. He has a few words with one of the king’s physicians, asking after Henry’s health.

  “Robust, sir,” the doctor answers, dutifully. “If the rest of the court were as healthy as His Majesty, I should starve through lack of fees.”

  “God be thanked for His Majesty’s fine constitution,” Chapuys says, dropping a few coins into the man’s hand. “Do mention to the king that I always wish his good health continues, my dear doctor.”

  “Charlatan,” one of the musicians says, seeing the transaction. “His Majesty’s health is not due to that gentleman’s ministrations.”

  “Ah, Master Paisley,” Chapuys offers a slight bow. “is it then your soothing music that makes the king so sprightly. He is only two years younger than I, yet he prances about like a thoroughbred Spanish stallion.”

  “I put it down to these fine fillies the king chases, Master Ambassador,” Cuthbert Paisley replies. “Mistress Anne is a quite remarkable woman.”

  “Then they share a bed?” Chapuys smiles, and drops his voice. “Come, come, my dear Paisley. I have no time for half of a tale. Remind me, did I ever pay that gambling debt to you? Ten shillings, as I recall.”

  “Surely, was it not fifteen?”

  “I believe it was,” the ambassador agrees, loosening his purse. “You were saying?”

  “The idle talk around the court is that poor Henry has yet to storm that particular castle keep, sir,” the musician replies. “The lady is all for saying ‘yes’, then says ‘oh no’ at the very last. The king is left with nothing, and no-one, to warm his long, dark nights.”

  “What of her sister, Mary?” Chapuys has paid, and will demand every ounce of news in return. “She is willing enough, I hear.”

  “Even Henry would not go so far,” Cuthbert Paisley says, slightly shocked at the risqué suggestion. “To pay court to Lady Anne, whilst tupping her sister would be a dangerous game… even for a king.”

  “And yet….” Chapuys leaves the statement hanging in the cold morning air. He decides, instead, to follow another line of enquiry. “What do you hear about the attempt on Henry’s life, the other day.”

  “Less than you, sir,” Paisley says, trying to pull away. He is suddenly frightened by the overly knowledgeable Spanish envoy, and wishes to be elsewhere.

  “Really? I hear that one of his young gallants was taken with a concealed dagger. Am I wrong?” Chapuys asks, ingenuously. Silver coins change hands again.

  “I cannot say,” young Paisley tells him. “Though a few faces have gone from court. Harry Cork is no longer about, and the king’s Jew seems to have left England. Does that mean anything to you?”

  It does. Chapuys has been piecing together small slivers of gossip, and is led to believe that a young devotee of Queen Katherine has been foolish enough to make an attempt on the king’s life. Harry Cork has not been influenced by the queen, who loves Henry still, despite his attempt at having their marriage annulled. Rather, he was misled by a group of people loyal to Rome, and keen to see the king out of the way.

  The ambassador is given to understand, by his Lombard friends, that the Jewish moneylender, Master Isaac ben Mordecai, is dead. This has left Henry’s coffers light, and his people are trying to lure the rich Italian banking families back to trade in England. They are coming, of course, but slowly, and grudgingly.

  Harry Cork, a young gentleman of the court, is named as the Jew’s murderer, and his attempt to slay the king has, mercifully, failed. Success would been the worst outcome for all concerned. It would have meant civil war again.

  Chapuys knows that these things are never cut and dried. With Henry dead, Katherine is queen, and will return to the bosom of the Roman faith. Or so the assassins reason. They are misguided, of course. With Henry gone, the great lords will form themselves into armed factions. Some for the old Plantagenets, some for Princess Mary, and some for themselves.

  Norfolk, Suffolk, Northumberland, and the papist Pole family will rip England apart. The Boleyn faction, lacking any legal claim, will side with Lady Anne’s uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, and form a powerful alliance.

  Chapuys thinks that Charles Brandon, the wastrel Duke of Suffolk, lacks any real wealth, but could side with the northern barons, because of his hatred of Anne Boleyn. The lady distracts Henry from the hunt, gaming, and general roistering that usually bonds the two men. Friendship, especially with kings, is a fragile flower.

  Harry Percy, Duke of Northumberland, allied to the lords who rule Cumberland, Lancashire and Cheshire could raise an army of fifty thousand men. With Suffolk by his side, they could match Norfolk and the Boleyns man for man. The Poles have no real power, but their name still evokes memories of Plantagenet rule, and men would flock to their colours.

  Add to this the sure knowledge that the irascible Scots, led by Lord Erskine, would sweep down from the North, to raid and plunder, and that the Welsh princes would want a true Tudor on the throne, and the mixture becomes ever more volatile.

  Then, there are always the rich and powerful commoners to consider. Chapuys wonders just how well placed Thomas Cromwell is, and whether he might consider an unholy alliance with Sir Thomas, the new Lord Chancellor of England. No, he decides, Sir Thomas More and Cromwell are oil and water. They cannot mix, and are thus lessened in their effectiveness.

  All this is mere conjecture, he says to himself. The king is very much alive, and in firm control of his realm. He moves on, amiably chatting to any who will pass the time, and all the while, he wonders, what is Thomas Cromwell up to?

  “Ah, Will, there you are.” Cromwell says, looking up from the confusion of documents on his desk. “How has your morning been?”

  Captain Will Draper, has been at Austin Friars for a little over three months, and is happy with his lot. He is trusted by Master Cromwell, has a good income, and a beautiful new wife. Miriam comes with her own small fortune, and a strong willed young brother called Moshe. The young men of the establishment call him Mush, and pretend that he and his sister are not of the Jewish faith.

  Jews are forbidden to live in England, on pain of death, so an elaborate set of forged documents exist, created by Cromwell, to safeguard the family. On occasion,, Miriam tries to thank him, but he deflects her with his usual dry humour, asking that, in return, she and her brother must not corrupt his saintly staff of young lawyers and tough bodyguards from their devout Christian beliefs.

  Will Draper reports that his master’s invitation has been, after a struggle, accepted by the Spanish ambassador, and that the man speaks reasonably good English. He explains his simple subterfuge, and Cromwell smiles at its simplicity.

  “That was cruel of you, Will,” he tells his special agent in these matters. “Though I suspected as much. A man who can speak Spanish, French, Latin, German, and Italian, yet knows not a word of English stretches even my elastic credulity. I have it from one of Queen Katherine’s cooks that he even chatters away to her pet Moors.”

  “Perhaps he is a secret Turk,” Draper says, grinning at the idea. “They say that followers of the Prophet may have over a hundred wives. I wonder he has enough time to eat.”

  “Your wit will cut you yet,” Cromwell replies. “Keep your silly stories for Rafe and the others. Make sure that four of our best men collect him. He is to be shown every honour due his station, and I want him overwhelmed with our warmth, kindness, and goodwill. Is that plain?”

  “Yes, sir,” Draper replies, then hesitates.

  “What is it?” Cromwell asks.

  “I don’t understand, sir. Chapuys is a S
paniard, and is for Katherine. His master is Holy Roman Emperor, and the nephew of Henry’s wife. Why do we treat him so cordially? It would be better to starve him of knowledge, and make his stay in England as uncomfortable as possible, would it not?”

  “That is one point of view,” Thomas Cromwell says, “but not mine. I wish to hold out the olive branch of peace to him. See that Eustace Chapuys is well tended.”

  He could explain his thinking to the young soldier of fortune, but there are not enough hours in the day. Eustace Chapuys is a very clever man, and clever men always find ways to prosper in their allotted tasks. Close down one avenue of advance, and they will try harder to find another. No, Chapuys must be courted, not repulsed. In this way, Cromwell hopes to gain an unwitting ally in his quest to see Henry settled. The king is restless, and that is bad for England, and Europe too.

  Cromwell is looking forward to the evening’s meal, when he will entertain probably the most educated man in Christendom, Sir Thomas More. Stephen Gardiner, a lawyer priest, who is a close advisor to Henry will also attend, along with Ambassador Eustace Chapuys, and Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk, a man of great influence, but little brains.

  Brandon owes him a fortune, and is still the king’s closest friend. Because of this, Suffolk is the perfect conduit to the king. He has but to whisper an idea into Brandon’s empty head, and the man takes it as his own, and drops it into his next conversation with Henry.

  A few days later, and the king is espousing Cromwell’s idea as his own, and asking for a candid opinion of it.

  “A most excellent idea, sire,” Cromwell says. “How do you think up such clever notions?”

  Now, the lawyer, and Privy Council member, considers how he shall seat his guests for best effect, aware that they are like oil and water. It promises to be a heady mix.

  3 A Meeting of Minds

  Miriam Draper, nee Miriam ben Mordecai, is working on a delicate piece of embroidery which, once finished, will fetch a good price at the Flanders market. There is no need for her to work, as her inherited fortune, and Will’s steady earnings, give them a comfortable life. They have been married but a few of weeks, and she is already keen to move out of Austin Friars, and build a nest of her own.