by Anne Stevens
“Ah, I see,” Chapuys nods his understanding. “Your man, Draper. I have heard certain stories about him. Is he really so dangerous?”
“He is clever, and loyal,” Cromwell replies. “He can read motives, and has a nose for seeking out wrongdoers. We must give him what we have, and let him run off his leash.”
“Does he love the queen?”
“Really, Eustace!” Cromwell smiles. “We all love the queen… whoever she may be.”
“A lawyer’s answer.”
“I am a lawyer,” says Cromwell. “Let me call Captain Draper in, and appraise him of the situation.”
Will Draper comes at once. He is fully dressed, and is expecting orders. The sudden appearance of the Spanish ambassador must mean trouble, and that is what he is paid for. He takes the note, and reads it carefully.
“The writing is that of a well educated man, sir,” he tells Cromwell. “His French is excellent. The inference is that Master Chapuys is to seek your aid. The writer knows you, and believes you will resolve the matter.”
“Is it a hoax?” Chapuys asks, hopefully. Will Draper shakes his head. Apart from the fact that it is in too bad a taste to be faked, the note hits upon a truth that even Cromwell does not yet know.
“It speaks of the queen’s followers, sir,” he tells Cromwell. “I was sifting through reports this afternoon, and saw that Sir Jeremy Clayton died in a hunting accident this morning.”
“Ah,” Cromwell says, and sighs. He turns to Chapuys, and explains the meaning of this. “Sir Jeremy is known to be a supporter of Katherine. He has spoken out in parliament about the annulment, and is close kin to the Pole family.”
The Poles are of Plantagenet descent, and are thought to have a very strong claim to the throne. They have kept their heads down for decades, hoping that the Tudors do not decide to nullify their claim with the sharp edge of the axe. If the king is forced to keep Katherine, they would only grow in power.
“These Poles might threaten the position of my Lord Norfolk,” Chapuys says. “Was it not his brutish son who dined here earlier?”
“Uninvited, I assure you,” Cromwell replies. “Besides, why would young Howard reveal a plot that can only benefit his family? The Howard clan hate the Poles, and wish them nothing but harm. They will be rejoicing at poor Clayton’s sudden demise.”
“We should investigate the death, sir,” Draper advises his master. “If only to confirm it as an accident. His estate is only a couple of hours ride from here.”
“It is my wish that you look into the matter for me, Will,” the lawyer says. “Smell out who is involved, and end their plotting.”
“Am I to compile a list of the guilty, so they might be tried?” Draper asks. Knowing something is not the same as proof, and Will wonders what evidence might exist, beyond mere word of mouth.
“You must act as you see fit,” Cromwell replies. “If the life of the queen, Princess Mary, or any of her friends is threatened, protect them… to the best of your ability.”
“You are condoning murder, Cromwell,” Chapuys mutters to him in Spanish.
“I am saving your queen’s life,” Cromwell snaps back, in equally good Spanish. “Are we agreed on this alliance, or not, sir?”
Eustace Chapuys has no choice. He is committed to protecting his queen. He holds out a hand, and clasps Cromwell’s tightly.
“To the death!” he says, melodramatically.
“Oh, surely not, Eustace,” Cromwell replies. “Let me pour you some more of this rather excellent wine. We have much to discuss.”
“You must forgive me if I seem a little slow,” Chapuys apologises, “for I am not used to such crepuscular activities, sir.”
Cromwell smiles. Most of his business is conducted at unholy hours, often before dawn with some frightened informant, or after midnight in conversation with one of his murkier agents.
“I too am tired,” he says, “but this insidious plot must be tackled at once. Can you stay awake for another hour or two, my friend?”
“My servant is waiting outside.” It is not an excuse, but a sudden remembrance. The old man will be frozen half to death, and Chapuys to blame for it.
“I will have Rafe take old Luis to the kitchens, and feed him well, Eustace,” Cromwell says. Then adds mischievously, “He is overly fond of our lentil soup.”
Chapuys wonders if Cromwell has spoken without thought, or is trying to show the ambassador the extent of his reach, and the depth of his low born cleverness.
5 The Necropractor
Adolphus Theophrasus is part Greek on his father’s side, and part Jewish through his mother. This manifests itself by giving him an olive skinned, and exotic appearance; ideal for his chosen profession, where patients choose a doctor for his ostentation, rather than his innate medical skill.
He has a medical practice, situated in a small house near to London Bridge, and is much sought after by those rich idlers who enjoy following the latest trends. Some call him a quack, but others claim he is the greatest anatomist since Leonardo Da Vinci learned his trade on the battle fields of Italy.
The Lord Chancellor’s officers are on to him, and would like to expel him from England, on the grounds that he has Jewish blood in his veins, but find they cannot. It seems that, on enquiry, the good doctor’s closest blood relatives are from a small town in the depths of rural Cornwall; a fact attested to, and confirmed by documents uncovered by some of Thomas Cromwell’s people. They are forgeries, of course, but of such fine quality that they surpass the originals in many ways.
“I find myself to be irrefutably English, thanks to your master,” the doctor tells Will. “A Cornishman, in fact. So, tell me, young master, what I can do to help you?”
Will Draper tells him, and watches as the colour drains from the man’s fleshy face. He wrings his hands together, and then tugs at his voluminously cultivated beard.
“Are you utterly mad?” he says to the tall young man who has come to see him. “What you suggest is against the law. Besides, the family will not allow it.”
“The family will not know about it,” Will Draper assures him. “We will visit the family vault, and examine the body in secret.”
“I might have to perform a full necropsy on the man,” the doctor explains. “There will be scars. Someone will know, if they ever uncover the tomb again.”
“Why would they do that?” Will Draper is toying with a heavy purse hanging at his belt. “We open the tomb secretly, examine the corpse, and close it up again. All Master Cromwell needs to know, my dear doctor, is what really caused the poor man’s untimely death.”
“A riding accident, you say?” Adolphus Theophrasus shakes his head. It is a common enough cause of injury and death amongst his better off patients. “Almost certain to be a broken neck… which tells you absolutely nothing, my friend. I might be taking your bag of silver for nought. It also occurs to me that I might also end up swinging on a high gallows. You Englishmen are a pious lot, and not adverse to stringing up a suspected Christ killer. Even half a Jew is unwelcome on these shores!”
“My master is a very powerful man,” Will says. “He will not allow anything to happen to either of us. What say you, Doctor Adolphus? Twenty pounds is enough money to buy the lease of this house for you.”
“I must be mad,” the middle aged physician grumbles, as he approaches the stone clad mausoleum of the Clayton family. “We are dealing with dark forces, young man. What if the body is protected with strong spells, or haunted by dybbuk, or a demon?”
“I do not believe in magic spells, demons, ghosts, boggarts, or hobgoblins,” Will mutters. “As for a dybbuk … I neither know nor care what one is.”
“A restless ghost, waiting to invade the living body of the unwary,” the doctor explains. “It binds to the soul, and causes madness.”
“Your knowledge fascinates me, sir.” Draper says, hiding his annoyance. It is still daylight, and there is a small chance of detection, but it is a chance he must take if his mission
is to be successful. The doctor will need as much light as possible for his grisly work. “If an apparition wishes to spring up, I will run it through with my blade, or serve it with one of Master Cromwell’s famous legal papers. Now, for God’s sake, sir … hurry on!”
The door is barred, but not locked. Will wonders at this strange need to imprison the dead, as if they might rise from their cold beds, and walk about in the cold night air. He eases the wooden bar up, and pushes open the doors. They creak, and the sound causes him to look about him. There is no-one to hear.
He enters, and looks around. There are two small, stained glass windows in the end wall, and the interior is well lit with the cold, late afternoon sun. Will beckons to Adolphus Theophrasus, urging him to follow in his footsteps. The man hesitates on the threshold, then steps inside the chill room.
The doctor is eager to be done with the morbid task, and gone. He touches the magic amulet hanging at his throat, crosses to the newest coffin, and tries to open the lid. It does not yield, and he casts a doleful glance at Will Draper, who draws a knife from his belt. The soldier of fortune forces it under the edge of the lid, and levers the coffin top up, and off. Sir Jeremy stares up at them, with an astonished look on his face. Will fancies that it is a look of surprise, as if he does not know he is dead yet.
“Is he stiff?” Will asks. He has seen many dead men on the field of battle, or killed in the heat of the moment, but never one formally laid out, and ready for his place in heaven.
“No. The corpse stiffens at death, but it passes after a goodly number of hours. I do not understand why, but think it is the moment the soul finally departs. Now, hold your tongue, young fellow, and let me get on with the business in hand.”
The doctor has practiced anatomy in both Italy and France, where it is not so heavily proscribed, and he makes a thorough external examination of the body first. Will stands by, patiently, waiting for him to produce a sharp knife, or a saw, and begin his gruesome task.
He is surprised when the doctor makes an exclamation, and beckons him forward. The older man points to the dead man’s pale face, and smiles.
“There… do you see?” he asks. “The evidence cannot be any clearer, my friend!”
“Sine ut mortui requiescere,” Eustace Chapuys intones in a grave voice. Let the dead rest. It is a wise injunction. He is completely horrified at what Will Draper has done. To defile the resting place of the dead is a mortal sin, he tells Cromwell, and he shall surely burn in hell for it.
“Yes, yes,” Thomas Cromwell says, somewhat testily. “We will deal with Captain Draper’s immortal soul at a future date, my dear Eustace. I shall buy it back from Old Hob himself. Tell us, Will, what is the verdict?”
“Murder, sir,” Will says, perching on the edge of the great oak breakfast table. Chapuys has been invited to supper, and the seats are filled with Cromwell’s young men, all eager to hear of his latest adventure.
“On whose word?” Cromwell, ever the lawyer, asks. “Or did he have a dagger sticking in his heart?”
“Nothing so crude, sir,” Will explains. “The doctor was able to deduce the cause of death in a matter of minutes. You see, Clayton had a broken nose.”
“The bone in his nose was broken?” Eustace Chapuys is mystified. Surely, he thinks, this can happen when you take a tumble from your horse.
“No, sir.” Will Draper marshals his thoughts, and imparts knowledge he was unaware of, until that afternoon. He raises a finger and presses it to his own nose. “What you call the nose bone is but a piece of gristle. The doctor says its purpose is to keep the nostrils open, so we may breath.”
“And Clayton’s was broken?” Cromwell says. “Was it not as a result of the sudden fall?”
“No, it was not,” Will replies. “Sir Jeremy fell backwards from his mount. His horse must have been badly startled by something … or someone … and reared up. He landed, heavily, on his back, as attested to by the cut to the rear of his head. The nose came afterwards. The dead man was smothered.”
The table is silent in anticipation. A dozen pairs of eyes are now fixed on Draper, as he demonstrates murder by placing his hand over Rafe Sadler’s face.
“A strong, gauntleted, hand driven over the mouth and nose… so.” Rafe flinches. “The force breaks the gristle, and closes the airways. The heel of the hand crushes firmly down, over the mouth. Death, my doctor tells me, comes in seconds.”
“My God,” Chapuys is horrified. “How can he be so sure of this?”
“The great force exerted pushes the lip down onto the teeth,” Will tells them. “This results in bruising to the inside of the lip.”
“You saw this for yourself, Will?” Rafe, not usually the squeamish sort, shudders at the thought.
“The good doctor peeled back the upper lip,” Will Draper replies. “I saw.”
Rafe wants to ask more questions, but one of the boys is at the door, beckoning for him to come outside. He crosses the room, and follows him out.
“Is there any clue as to how the crime was committed?” Chapuys is fascinated, but cannot see how this news benefits them, other than confirming that a plot exists.
“I spoke to the wife and other members of the household,” Will replies. “She tells me that her husband is out of favour in the court, thanks to a speech he made, which disgruntled the king. So, they went to stay in their country house at Christmas, and stayed on.”
“A wise move,” Cromwell says, ushering them into his library, where a good fire has been set by Miriam Draper. “Sir Jeremy Clayton was foolish enough to make a disparaging comment about Lady Anne Boleyn, and she has a very long, very spiteful, memory.”
“They gave a few dinners, and tried to keep themselves to themselves,” Draper continues, “but it was his birthday, and they decided to celebrate the event with a small gathering. They invited thirty guests, laid on a feast, and provided entertainment. A touring troupe of men performed acrobatic tricks, and were a great success with everyone, I am told. Next morning, Sir Jeremy went for his usual ride in the forest, and never came back.”
“The first victim, it seems,” Eustace Chapuys says, crossing himself. “How do we proceed, Captain Draper?”
“We must draw up a list of likely targets,” Will tells the ambassador. “Then, we watch them.”
“There are too many Pole family members, or friends of the Poles,” Cromwell says. “They are spread the breadth of the kingdom, and I would need more than a thousand young men to protect them all.”
“Then we must wait for the killers to make a mistake,” says Will. “As each murder takes place, we will find more evidence as to whom we seek.”
“Mon Dieu,” Chapuys mutters. “How can you fight an invisible enemy, Master Cromwell? We do not have their names, nor do we know where they will strike next.”
“St. Albans.” Rafe Sadler re-appears. He is at the library’s open door, holding a report, freshly delivered. “Lady Anne Pole is dead. She was found, drowned in a stream this morning.”
“Our opponents are fast workers,” Cromwell says. “The lady is known to me. Her husband, Sir Anthony, is currently in France, trying to raise money, and sympathy for the queen, and her daughter, Mary. It seems these conspirators have sent him a very harsh message. What do we know of the business, Rafe?”
“Nothing more, sir,” Rafe says. “The news is scant.”
“Then you must ride to St. Alban’s at once, Will,” Cromwell says. “Find out what you can for us.”
“The assassins may already be back in London, sir,” Will says. “Or chasing down their next victim in Kent or Sussex. I might spend a year criss-crossing England, without any luck.”
“I know,” Cromwell replies, “but it is all we have, for the moment.”
5 Stolen Away
Gregory, Thomas Cromwell’s only living child, has brushed Moll down, watered, and fed her. She is standing patiently by the front gate when Will appears, buckling on his fine German made sword. St. Albans is a fair distance, and h
e will have to stay the night at some inn, or wayside lodgings.
“God’s speed, Captain,” Gregory says. He is not yet eleven years old, and longs to be a man such as the captain. His father, however, is intent on making him into a fine gentleman, with dancing, hawking and jousting skills.
“And to you, young fellow,” Will replies as he mounts the sturdy Welsh Cob. “I hear your father is sending you off for more schooling. In Cambridgeshire, is it not?”
“Yes. I am to be turned into a gentleman, against my own nature; learning how to turn a pretty phrase, ride to hounds, and write romantic poetry,” Gregory explains. “I fear that my father wants me to join the court and enhance my position in life.”
“Not a bad thing,” Will says. “Life is all about position and power.”
“And love?” Gregory asks. “Do you place your love for Mistress Miriam above, or below position?”
“A good question,” Miriam Draper says, stepping out into the courtyard. “What say you, my dear husband?”
“I place you above the stars in the sky, my love,” Will responds, without a heartbeat’s hesitation.
“A good enough answer.” Miriam smiles, and blows a parting kiss. “Bring me something nice back, and I might start to believe you mean it.”
Will Draper grins, and urges his horse, Moll, out onto the muddy street. He wonders if a pair of kid gloves will suffice, and calculates if he has enough silver in his purse. Gregory stands, waving, as he canters away towards the north road.
Daylight is almost gone by five o’clock, and he is forced to stop at a small village a few miles short of his destination. The tiny huddle of neat, thatched cottages surround a village green, where a few dozen sheep graze. The land, Will is told, is owned by Lord Stafford, son of the disgraced, and duly executed Duke of Buckingham. Amongst his friends and relatives, there were Plantagenets. He finally paid for his royal family connections, with his life.