by Anne Stevens
King Henry is uncomfortable with the old name, as it reminds him that he stole the palace from Wolsey, who was also the Bishop of York during his long, illustrious career. He has taken to calling his newest residence ‘The White Hall Palace’ or, more usually, Whitehall. There is some talk of Lady Anne Boleyn being given a suite of rooms in the new palace, to ease problems of access to the king.
The ambassador has hopes that this means she is about to surrender her virtue to Henry, who, like any man, will lose interest, once the prize is taken. Lady Anne will join the list of the king’s discarded lovers, and the business of royal politics can assume centre stage, once again.
Chapuys arrives at the main entrance to the palace, and is challenged by one of the guards. He is new, and eager to be seen to do his duty. The Sergeant at Arms, Billingsley, comes rushing out after him, and orders the bemused younger man aside.
“This gentleman is the Spanish Ambassador, Porlock,” he explains. “You can pass him through, without delay, whether it be day or night.”
“Too kind,” Chapuys mutters, dropping a shilling into each open palm. “Is the king here?”
“Bless me, sir, but he don’t let us know generally,” the older man says, chuckling. “King Hal rarely stops for a chinwag these days. The rest of the rascally crew are here though. The lords Norfolk, Surrey and Suffolk came in together, and Lord Percy turned up an hour since, creeping in like a little mouse.”
“The Duke of Northumberland is in court?” Eustace Chapuys is a little surprised, as rumour has it that Harry Percy is much out of favour with the king. “I wonder what he is after?”
“Come to have his aristocratic arse kicked again, sir,” the guard says, jovially. “Bless him, but he was ever in trouble, even as a nipper. Men like his lordship are a constant worry, and need their bums booted on a regular basis. It might save him from the block.”
“Your insight fascinates me, Master Billingsley,” the ambassador tells him. “Perhaps I should employ you as my assistant. It would save me coming into court myself.”
“Why thank you for the offer, sir,” the Sergeant at Arms says, straight faced, “but I’ve done twenty three years with good King Harry, and I’ve my pension to think of.”
Chapuys smiles and enters the huge building. The older guard watches him until he vanishes from sight.
“Now, that’s a gentleman, my friend,” he tells his subordinate. “There’s a few here today who might take a page from Master Charpooses book. He never leaves home without a purse full of change, in case he meets with a friendly face. When was the last time you saw so much as a bent penny from that old miser Norfolk?”
The Duke is used to being talked about. He thinks he is the most important man in England, after the king, and believes everyone to be fascinated by his aristocratic magnificence. If he was ever told how disliked he was, he would simply not be able to believe it.
“Harry Percy, you young puppy,” he booms across the outer court. “It’s pleasantly surprising to see your thick head still on your thin neck. I thought Henry told you to go north, and never show your pudding face again.”
“You thought wrongly, Norfolk.” Harry Percy has no wish to speak with the older Duke, and does not explain that his reprieve is due entirely to a generous gift he sent to Anne Boleyn, and a touch of grovelling to her brother, George.
“Come to my London house tonight,” Norfolk says. “I have a new cook. We can talk about my new stables. They rival even the king’s.”
“Then be wary, sir,” Percy replies. “For the king does not like to be bettered, in any way.”
“A good point, well made,” Norfolk says, chuckling. “It was you who once tried to better him over my niece, as I recall.” Percy goes white, and tries to shush the older man into silence.
“Enough, I pray you,” he stammers. “I was very young, and made a foolish mistake.”
“Claiming to have wedded and bedded Anne Boleyn was certainly that,” Norfolk replies, enjoying his ability to make the younger man squirm. It is an old tale, and it gets better with each telling.
“May I join you, gentlemen?” Chapuys has appeared as if from nowhere. The two men exchange worried glances, wondering what he might have overheard. “Though in truth, it is your delightful son I seek, my Lord Norfolk.”
“He’s lollygagging in the courtyard, trying to talk some young lady into an indiscretion,” Norfolk says. “If you find the ‘delightful’ little milksop, tell him I will not pay out good gold for any more of his bastards.”
“If you wish,” Chapuys says, bowing, and adding in Spanish, “The son should not follow in his father’s footsteps too closely.”
The younger Howard is standing by the sundial, watching one of the numerous ladies in waiting walk away. She is proving an elusive quarry, but he senses the end is near.
“Ah, my Lord Surrey,” Chapuys says, offering a cheery wave. “Your father sends his greetings, and asks that you sire no more children out of wedlock.”
Howard’s face is a picture of surprise, then he throws his head back, and roars laughing. In truth, it is but one bastard, sired on a plump wench of low birth, when he was thirteen.
“The old man can put a goat to shame, and should take his own advice,” he says.
“Yes. Advice is very cheap, young sir.” Chapuys is wondering how to broach the subject of the note. “You admired my hat the other night. Did you examine it well?”
“Your hat?” Surrey frowns, trying to recall the evening through a haze of drink. “Oh, yes. The monstrosity with the silly feathers in it. I dare say it would suit a foreigner, sir, but a little out of place in England. I fear your milliner has advised you badly, Ambassador Chapuys.”
“I admire your frankness,” Chapuys says. The young nobleman shrugs his indifference. He is the heir to the oldest, finest family in the realm, and speaks very much as he wishes. He has been known to criticise the king… but not too often, and only when very drunk. “I found a letter, after I left Cromwell’s house.”
“Yes?” Surrey is fast losing interest, and wants to be off, after his next victim.
“May I ask… how came you to Austin Friars?”
“By palanquins, as I recall,” Surrey replies. We picked them up by the bridge. The chair carriers overcharged us, and I chased them off with my sword. Bloody cheating peasants!”
“You misunderstand me, my Lord Surrey,” the Spanish ambassador persists. “I believe you received no invite?”
“Oh, that!” Surrey explains, as if the little Savoyard is a child who understands nothing. “Norfolk is the most powerful noble in England, and I am his one legitimate son. I can turn up wherever I damned well please. People are always happy to set another place or two, at my request. It is considered an honour to feed a Howard.”
“Then it was you whom decided to visit Austin Friars?” the little Savoyard persists.
“Damned if I can remember. When was this again?”
Eustace Chapuys feels as if he is trying to swim through a sea of tar. Surrey’s mind is in a state of constant alcoholic confusion, and he cannot be relied upon to recall anything with any degree of certainty. He bows to the youngster, and slips away, in search of a more receptive intellect, in the shape of Stephen Gardiner.
The tall, perpetually nervous looking cleric is in his office, which is situated within the court precincts. Henry is often in need of his scholarly advice, and likes to keep him close by. It has taken him almost forty years to reach his present post, and he often bemoans the success of newcomers, like Cromwell.
Eustace Chapuys calls, unannounced, but is invited in with a degree of cordiality he does not expect.
“This is a great honour, sir,” Gardiner says, clearing papers from a stool. “Pray, be seated. Can I have them bring you wine, or something to eat?”
Chapuys declines all offers, and comes straight to the point. He has more interviews to conduct, and time is of the essence. He asks if Gardiner enjoyed the dinner at Cromwell’s house.
“To a point,” the cleric replies, warily. “I thought the tone went down a little, after that pipsqueak Surrey, and Richard Rich turned up. I spoke harshly to Richard afterwards, and he apologised for the intrusion, saying that the boy Surrey had been most insistent.”
“Really?” Eustace Chapuys frowns at this snippet of information. “You found the conversation stimulating?”
“What ever was said over dinner, was said amongst friends, sir,” Stephen Gardiner replies. “Thomas Cromwell sets a good table, and it would be remiss of me to blackguard any of his guests too much, though I fear Sir Thomas More is going too far.”
Gardiner sees a chance to ingratiate himself with Chapuys by disparaging the Lord Chancellor. It shows that he does not fear More, and is leaning towards Cromwell, politically speaking. Besides, they are alone, and he can always deny whatever is said later, if necessary.
“How so?” Chapuys is interested in Gardiner‘s view. He recalls More threatening to rack a few heretics, and wonders why it has caused so much anger. In Spain, and the rest of the Holy Roman Empire, a week does not pass without some bunch of heretics being hanged, burned, or beheaded. The English are far too soft on these people.
“The people he threatens are friends of mine… and of Thomas Cromwell’s too. Decent men, in trade, who make this country wealthy. Perhaps they are a little misguided… but breaking their bones on the rack is abhorrent!”
“Then his crime was to bring the matter up in polite company,” Chapuys replies. “For heretical beliefs are a canker in the churches side.”
“Thank God, I thought I’d lost you,” Will Draper cries, as he cuts Miriam’s bonds. “Are you unhurt?”
“Except for my pride,” she replies, hugging into her husband. “How could I have been so stupid?”
Richard and Rafe are coming down a ladder that leads to the roof. The three men have jumped from rooftop to rooftop, with an agility born of their particular talents, and escaped the trap.
“They are gone,” Richard Cromwell curses. “They leaped away like startled harts in a hunt!”
“At least we have our Miriam back safe, and under our wing once more,” Rafe says. “The master will be relieved at your release, my dear.”
“Just so, but it leaves us no further forward,” Will tells them. “They will keep out of sight now, then strike when they feel safer. They might even speed up their killing, so as to earn their fee and get abroad. We must get back to Austin Friars, and confer with Master Cromwell, at once.”
“What of little Chapuys?” Richard Cromwell asks.
“He is of no real use to us,” says Will. “We must leave him to his own devices, whilst we run these creatures down, and kill them.”
Eustace Chapuys has much to digest, and ever more to understand about the English way of things. Gardiner, Cromwell and More actually seem to like one another, and often work together, but there are certain boundaries.
All three are for the king, and therefore against the queen, but Sir Thomas More wishes to achieve King Henry’s desire without hurting his relationship with the church in Rome. This means he is set dead against the new protestant movements, and will use brutal force, if necessary. Cromwell is, Chapuys believes, an adept of the new heretical faith, and does not mind upsetting the natural order of things. Given his head, he will convert the whole of England to the new religion, and the king along with them.
Stephen Gardiner is sitting on the fence. He does not wish to hurt anyone, yet wants everyone to get their own way. In his world, it seems possible that More and Cromwell can, like the lion and the lamb, lie down together. It does not cross his mind that neither man will surrender an inch, and that, eventually, blood must flow.
He is a true diplomat, even to the point of lying about the ambassadors hat.
“Quite… delightful,” Stephen Gardiner says. “Is it new?”
“I wore it at Master Cromwell’s dinner, the other night,” Chapuys replies.
“Oh?” Gardiner wishes to turn back to his heap of documents. “I don’t recall. Nice feathers, my dear Eustace. I do feel that they add a certain… dignity… to a … hat.
7 A Meeting of Minds
In quick succession, Chapuys confronts Suffolk. Richard Rich, and Sir Thomas More. He is met with a blank stare from Charles Brandon, who is terrified of saying the wrong thing. Cromwell owns him financially, and has warned him not to speak of the evening… particularly to Henry.
“You have lost your hat, sir?” Suffolk says.
“No, my Lord Suffolk,” Chapuys persists. “I say only that it was admired. You, yourself examined it, I believe.”
“I did?” Charles Brandon furrows his brow, and tries to remember. “No. It’s gone. Sorry, old chap. These days, I can scarce remember my own name. Why, just the other day, I had a tryst with one of Boleyn’s ladies in waiting … the plump little one with the big gourds … and forgot all about it. The little slut took it badly, and slapped me in front of George Boleyn!”
“Perhaps you might consider hiring a social secretary, sir?” Chapuys suggests. “I am sure Master Cromwell can recommend a suitable young man for the post.”
“I think I am indebted enough to that fellow,” Suffolk moans, then frowns at the little Savoyard. “I trust you will not repeat what I say, sir?”
“On my honour,” Chapuys replies, and bows himself away.
Richard Rich recalls much of the evening, and apologises again for young Howard’s behaviour at the dinner table. He knows it has left a bad taste in powerful men’s mouths, and placed a black mark against his name in Cromwell’s carefully kept books.
“I tried to dissuade him, really I did, but he is used to getting his own way,” Rich says, casually. “Though God alone knows his motive. He hates More, and thinks Master Cromwell is nothing more than a jumped up blacksmith’s boy.”
“He sneers at the whole world,” Chapuys concurs.
“You must understand, Señor Chapuys, I do not share his views about Thomas Cromwell. I admire his rise from obscurity, and wish to do the same. That is why I hang around the wealthy pups of powerful men.”
“I admire your honesty, Master Rich,” Chapuys tells him. “I am also from humbler seed. I truly believe that clever men will always rise. Do you remember my hat?”
“Your hat? Why yes, I do. Is it in the French style?”
“You passed it to me.”
“Did I?” Rich frowns, then nods. “Rafe Sadler came out with it, and I passed it to Surrey. He made some fatuous comment before handing it on. I think it was admired by everyone, even Sir Thomas examined it.”
“Ah, Sir Thomas More,” says Chapuys. “The man is an enigma. He endows a great university with one hand, and flogs a heretic with the other. I am told he pets stray dogs and the very small … what is the word… niño… yes, childs.”
“Children,” Richard Rich says, correcting his quaint English. “He is a cold man on the outside, but a seething volcano inside. If pressed I would look to a fairer minded man as a patron.”
“Wise words, sir.” Chapuys likes the young man, and appreciates his candid words. He is for Cromwell, and is as good a man as the society he moves in allows. “Now, I must find the volcano, and scale its steaming slopes.”
“Take care, Ambassador Chapuys,” Rich says. “You will find him in the chapel at this time of day. When he is not persecuting honest men, he wears his knees out, praying to God.”
“He is a pious man then?”
“You have not heard him pray, I take it” Rich says with a smile. “O, Lord, I am still waiting for a response to my last list of demands. Amen.”
“Ah yes, I am familiar with that style of worship, Master Rich,” Chapuys replies. “I wonder God’s ears are not worn out with listening to such nonsense.”
“Señor Chapuys, this is a nice surprise,” the Lord Chancellor says, once the Savoyard has gained entry. He means, why have you not first begged for an appointment, Chapuys translates to himself. “What can I do for
you?”
“A point of clarification, Sir Thomas,” Chapuys says in a casual manner. “Concerning the queen.”
“Ah, the annulment.”
“I am told it will not happen.”
“By whom, Tom Cromwell?” The ambassador returns a bland stare. Let him wonder at his sources. “The Pope will grant the act of annulment in the next few months, and the king will be free to marry. Your master must have several promising candidates to put forward.”
“The Emperor Charles is not accustomed to the way Englishmen pick wives, sir.” More raises an eyebrow. “The process, over here, seems to be similar to a cattle market.”
“Will you write to him?”
“I am sure you will know what I write, even before my master,” Chapuys says. “My letters are all intercepted, read and forwarded.”
“Not by my office,” More lies. “That sounds more like Cromwell’s game. He has spies everywhere, except in my own household.”
“Then I must look at Master Cromwell most carefully. You think he aids the heretics?”
“Undoubtedly,” More says. “He holds high office, and is close to the king, which makes him feel safe, but it is a false sense of security. I will follow the devil into every nook and cranny, rooting out his evil. Tyndale will go to the stake, as will every misguided soul he has corrupted.”
“You would move against Master Cromwell?” Eustace Chapuys asks. “I thought you two were close friends.”
“We are,” More says, “but friendship is outweighed by duty, and it is my duty to cleanse England, and reunite us with Rome. Do you agree?”
“I wish our respective countries to be firm friends,” Chapuys says, truthfully. “The Emperor Charles, once acquainted with all the facts, will hold out the olive branch to his dear cousin, Henry.”
“And you, Chapuys?” More stands, and fixes the ambassador with a stare. “The time for sitting on the fence is a thing of the past. Will you join the fight when Cromwell finally shows his true colours?”