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

by Anne Stevens

  “Of course,” Chapuys replies, failing to specify which side he will favour. “Though I am, primarily, here to attend to the queen’s needs. Will she be allowed to go to a home entirely of her choice?”

  “Yes, if it be within England’s borders.” Sir Thomas More’s face is stone-like, and his true thoughts are carefully masked.

  “Will she be honoured in all ways?”

  “As the widow of Arthur, and as the Dowager Queen of England.” More does not waver from the true point, and adds: “She must remove herself from this false marriage cleanly, and acknowledge the new queen.”

  “And Princess Mary?”

  “She will be honoured also, but must realise she will not inherit the crown. Henry will sire healthy children, and her importance will be diminished with time. It is, I regret, the fate of all females. For you will know, if you read my book, Utopia, that I advocate equality between the sexes.”

  “Then all that will happen, is a modest change of title?” the ambassador asks, ingenuously. “The simple addition of the word ‘dowager’?”

  “That’s it, in a nut shell, my dear Eustace. I may call you that, may I?”

  “I shall consider it an honour, Sir Thomas. I must thank you, in advance for your complete honesty, and for the warmth you will show to my dear lady, Queen Katherine, and her daughter.”

  “I am but a public servant, sir,” More tells him. “Here to smooth the way in all matters political.”

  “You are doing an admirable job, Lord Chancellor,” Chapuys replies. “You offer two courses of action to the queen. She can either request her release from the marriage, and enter a nunnery, or admit her marriage to Arthur was legitimately consummated, and become the Dowager Queen of England.”

  “And keep her castles and lands, of course.”

  “Of course.” Chapuys says. There is no mention of the one, glaring fact; Princess Mary is the only surviving legitimate child, and must be declared a bastard if all this is to come about. “Now, where did I put my hat? It is the one you admired so much at Cromwell’s house.”

  “This one?” The Lord Chancellor half rises from his seat, and produces the battered headwear. “My apologies, Ambassador Chapuys, but I appear to have sat upon it … quite accidentally.”

  Chapuys drains the glass of wine, and holds it out to be refilled. He drinks it, but slower this time, and frowns at the story Thomas Cromwell is telling him.

  “Kidnapped, from your very door?” He is horrified at yet another nasty occurrence. The world of diplomacy is becoming a changed place, and he does not much like it.

  “They dressed as friars, and put her in a sack,” Cromwell concludes. “She is in bed, resting.”

  “Thank God your people were able to recover the poor girl,” Chapuys says. “It is a pity the felons escaped.”

  “Yes, or Will Draper would have killed them, to a man.”

  “Would that be a bad thing, my friend?” Chapuys asks.

  “It would. We need a live person to tell us what is going on…. Who is behind all this wickedness.”

  “That is why I am here,” Chapuys says, smiling at his own cleverness. “I have visited the court, and spoken to everyone suspected of handing me the note.”

  “Yes, one of my young men reported this to me a half hour since. Would that I had known what you intended, so I might have put you in a sack too!”

  “I don’t understand,” Chapuys says, deflated at Cromwell’s reaction to his news. “What have I done?”

  “You have alerted the world to our actions, my dear Eustace,” Cromwell explains. “Everyone at court is gossiping about why you have been questioning eminent people about a befeathered hat.”

  “I was, perhaps, a little discreet?”

  “Even my cook’s boy knows.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “Let us not cry over spilled milk.” Cromwell refills their glasses again. “It’s Flemish. I prefer it to the French stuff, and the German wine is fit only for washing one’s feet. What can you tell me?”

  “What do you need to know?”

  “I don’t know, until I know it,” Thomas Cromwell replies, smiling. “Just talk, Eustace, and let me find my own way through your day.”

  “Very well. May I speak in French? I find it a subtler tongue when discussing fine distinctions.”

  “You can speak in any language you wish…. Just start!”

  “Le Duc de Nor- fook was there.” Cromwell suppresses a smile at the funny pronunciation. “He was goading Lord Percy over a girl. I only caught a little of it, but it seems that the young lord had married badly, and was in some sort of trouble with the king‘s people.”

  “Ah, an old tale. It was going the rounds back in my dear Cardinal Wolsey’s day. Harry Percy was not a duke then. He fell into the clutches of a scheming young vixen, and made a promise to her that he should not have. The king decides who shall marry whom.”

  “The impetuosity of youth,” Chapuys says, sighing for days gone by. He has an adolescent son, back in Savoy, born out of wedlock, and sympathises with the dissolute Lord Percy for a brief moment.

  “It was Anne Boleyn.”

  “Dear God!” The story takes on a new meaning for the ambassador, and he wonders how he can use the knowledge to good effect. “Does Henry know?”

  “He did not, until Percy became jealous of Boleyn’s relationship with the king. He went on a drunken trawl of London taverns and, hardly able to stand up straight, made a few silly statements. Unfounded rubbish, mixed in with enough half truths to lose him his stupid head.”

  “What did he confess to?”

  “He boasted that the king was but one in a line of lovers, and that he and Anne had been betrothed, some years ago. By the time I found him, he was telling butchers, and cobblers apprentices how hard he rode the girl on their wedding night, and that he found her to be… already well broken to the saddle.”

  “You found him?”

  “My agents did. He was in a very low place, more a brothel than a tavern. They took him quietly aside, and waited for me to come. Cardinal Wolsey was as furious as hell. He already knew about it, you see. A few years before, he got wind of the romance, and told the old duke to take his son back up north, Then he told Thomas Boleyn to control his daughters, or face financial ruin, and expulsion from court life. The cardinal had another bride in mind for the Percy heir. The Boleyn family came from yeoman farmer stock, and were not grand enough for the Percy family, you see.”

  “How things change.” Eustace Chapuys can see that the Percy family would want a much more advantageous marriage for their son, back then. “So, it was nipped in the bud, before anything happened?”

  “Exactly. Young Harry was married off to Lady Mary Talbot, Shrewsbury’s daughter. He never forgave Wolsey… the ungrateful bastard.“

  “Ungrateful, Thomas, how so?” Chapuys is confused.

  “As a small boy, Percy was a page boy in the cardinal’s household. He was shown nothing but the greatest kindness.”

  “He bit the hand that fed him, then?”

  “You might say so … and more than once. Anyway, one day, Anne Boleyn is not fit to marry Harry Percy, and the next, she is the king’s favourite. It suddenly became important that we establish Anne’s virtue. There is a qualification needed to make the girl Henry’s next queen. Her virginity must be beyond any doubt.”

  “Ah, yes. Caesar’s wife.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So, you spoke with him?”

  “I did.” Thomas Cromwell’s brow furrows as he recollects the event. “I took his thick head in my two hands, thus, and banged it on the table. Twice. Very hard. Then I explained the error of what he was saying, and told him that the king would be furious, and might even do him harm.”

  “What did he say?”

  “The sudden impact of his solid head with the sturdiness of the oak table top seemed to have cleared his mind. He quickly recanted, saying that he spoke only out of childish jealousy at the king’s goo
d fortune in finding such a beautiful… intact… lady to love.”

  “No wonder Norfolk derides him. He is the girl’s uncle, after all, and must have been affronted.”

  “Percy must endure, and watch his step.”

  “Oh dear.” Chapuys recalls something one of his spies has told him. A piece of gossip that he had not thought of any importance. “Percy sent Anne a present last week. A piece of jewellery, I believe. Let us hope Henry is understanding.”

  “I too have sent such a gift to Lady Anne,” Cromwell says. “She has a weakness for yellow stones. I sent it to procure her platonic friendship.”

  “Does Percy know what platonic means, I wonder?”

  “He sent it, so she might intercede for him with Henry, and get him recalled to court. He hates having to live up in Northumberland with a vengeance. Once, he swore to burn Durham down, and replace it with a forest, stocked with boar, deer, and wolves.”

  “Then he is on a tightrope,” says Chapuys. “Henry must accept the gift was made in all innocence, else why let him come back?”

  “Keep your friends close, but keep your enemies even closer,” Cromwell tells him.

  “I see. And how close are you keeping me, my dear Thomas?”

  “You must stick to me like tar to a shoe, my friend,” the lawyer replies. “I have yet to drain your mind of what you know. Pray, continue your illuminating discourse.”

  “I met with Charles Brandon. He is weak, and seems to have a strong regard for you.”

  “He is not your man,” Cromwell says, emphatically. “He is in debt to me, to the tune of thirty five thousand pounds, and is fearful I will call in the loans. So, he would run to me if he heard a whisper, rather than slip you a note. The poor fellow wants only to be loved… and supported financially, in a goodly style.”

  “Then he is a bought soul.”

  “Yes. A pity really, because I like the fellow, and wish he had a stronger character. Did you see Stephen Gardiner?”

  “I did.” Chapuys recounts details of the meeting, and Thomas Cromwell nods. He likes Gardiner too, and doubts he is involved.

  “He will be going away soon,” Cromwell tells the ambassador. “We need a reliable man in France. A couple of years should do it. I want him far away when the trouble starts.”

  “What trouble?” Chapuys is alarmed.

  “The king will have his way, Eustace. Do you agree?”

  “I regret this is so,” Chapuys replies. “Charles is the same. He must be obeyed.”

  “Your Emperor Charles controls the pope,“ Cromwell replies. “Which means, like it or not, Pope Clement must be set to one side. Henry will be rid of his wife, either by annulment, or divorce.”

  “Divorce?” The Spanish ambassador is suddenly aware that the ground has shifted under his feet again. “There are no possible grounds. The lady is blameless.”

  “What grounds do you wish?” Cromwell decides that the ambassador will be more useful if he understands what is going to happen over the next couple of years. “Here is how it works, my friend. The king wants a certain thing… so, he tells me, or Sir Thomas More, or Stephen Gardiner, and we arrange matters to his liking. The king, however, does not want people to speak unkindly of him, so we go along to his elected parliament, and pass a law. Say the king is too fat, or has poor dress sense, and we can charge you with treason. You cannot act against the king’s wishes, or even speak badly of him. We are writing the statute into the law books, even as we speak.”

  “I don’t believe it.” Chapuys does, of course, believe every word. Thomas Cromwell is breaking the mould of political life in Europe. He is making Henry Tudor all powerful with his clever new laws.

  “Yes, you do. England is a strange country, Eustace. In France, if the king desires something, someone does it for him, even if it means killing a few people. In Spain, the common people have no rights anyway, and must obey the Emperor Charles, on pain of death.

  “We are a different sort. Anglo Saxon, Norman, or Welshman, we must have the law. So, we will write a law to suit that which Henry wishes. There will be no power on earth that can be placed above the king.”

  “The church will disagree.” Chapuys is a shrewd man, and can see where this is leading. It is a frightening prospect, but one he cannot stop coming.

  “If the church disagrees, they are committing treason by their wilful disobedience. Even to appeal to Rome shall mark them down as traitors. Henry’s new law will punish them severely.”

  “The Pope is head of the church.”

  “He is the Bishop of Rome, my dear Eustace. Let the Italians, Spaniards, and French, bow down to him. We Englishmen like our freedom.” Cromwell smiles, crookedly at the Savoyard diplomat. “The people … all of them … will swear the Oath of Obedience to King Henry, which places him above even Pope Clement.”

  “The Oath of Obedience?”

  “Yes. I think it a rather catchy title,” Cromwell says. “My young man, Rafe Sadler thought it up. You see, obedience is absolute. You obey, or you do not. It will separate the wheat from the chaff. The Bishop of Rome will not be able to command in England any more.”

  “He will excommunicate Henry.”

  “No, Eustace. It is we who will excommunicate the corrupt catholic church,” Cromwell declares. “The king, once he is prised away from Tom More, will see the sense of it. The Boleyn woman already has provocative, protestant views, and will help the cause.”

  “I am drinking with a heretic!” Chapuys shrugs, and raise his glass. “Tell me no more, sir. I know you will win, Thomas, because you are that kind of man. You and Captain Draper are of the same blood. Strike him, and he will strike back, harder. Draw a blade, and he will have a bigger, sharper, one. Cross him, and he will move heaven and earth to best you, in any way he can.”

  “Think on what I say, Eustace,” Thomas Cromwell tells him. “Use what I tell you wisely. It is possible to serve both Charles , and Henry, without making either an enemy.“

  “And what of Queen Katherine?“

  “Now, what of the last two guests?” Cromwell asks, ignoring Chapuys’ last question. “I regret my agents could not get close enough to give me a written report.”

  “Richard Rich is a clever young man, and fears the Lord Chancellor. He claims that the Earl of Surrey suggested they turn up for dinner, and was most apologetic about the whole thing. He seeks to use young Howard as a key to a golden future.”

  “Then he is a damned fool. What about Sir Thomas More?” Cromwell pours another round of drinks. “He is like a father to me. My own father was a blacksmith…. A good one, and sold ale out of a house on the edge of the common.”

  “Was he a good father?”

  “On the whole… I must say yes. He hated me for not wanting to become a smith, and beat me once when I was about fourteen. I told him I was going to see the world, and he slapped me so hard, I almost went deaf. He was disappointed, you see. I left the same day.”

  “You ran away?”

  “Yes. I worked as a farm labourer, then a deck hand, until I set foot on French soil. I wandered like a lost Jew, learning many useful things. Law and banking came very easily to me, and I prospered.”

  “Then you came home?” Chapuys is surprised at the candour of Cromwell’s digression.

  “Yes… home. You were saying.. About More.”

  “If he is indeed a father figure, then he is a rather cruel one,” Chapuys tells his friend. “He is a dangerous man, and he lies with practiced ease. The man swore that Queen Katherine will be allowed to choose where she wishes to live, and Princess Mary too. If only they relinquish their birthrights.”

  “A generous offer.” Cromwell purses his lips. “Will you consider it?”

  “No, not for an instant, my friend. He lies. His aim is to put a new, malleable Spanish princess on the throne. That means Boleyn, Katherine and poor little Mary must go. Two Spanish queens is one two many.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Cromwell asks.

  “
Nothing. Though I can tell you this much.” Eustace Chapuys pauses, for the full dramatic effect. “I know who sent the note!”

  “Bravo, my dear friend,” Thomas Cromwell replies, grinning like a schoolboy. “So do I!”

  8 Pebbles in the Water

  Austin Friars is part of the old friary grounds, and it is well situated, a little north of the river, and in easy walking distance of Westminster and Whitehall, the king’s newest palace. It is a solid, well constructed house, which has been much extended over the previous decade.

  The great, limed oak, timber framed, building was once an annex of the four hundred year old friary, but has been leased out for many years now. Although now a large, comfortable house, spreading over several floors, it is also the primary place of business of the burgeoning Cromwell empire. Most of the dozen upper rooms are bedrooms, and the ground floor is taken up with a large kitchen, an impressive entrance hall, and a sumptuous dining room. To one side of the splendid oak panelled entrance, is Master Thomas Cromwell’s splendid library.

  The room is large, measuring ten good paces by twelve, but seems smaller, thanks to the almost floor to ceiling book cases, each of which is filled with volume after expensive volume. The books are mostly about either the law, or religion, but there are many more that might be termed frivolous by a man like the Lord Chancellor.

  There are stories about King Arthur, and Celtic legends, side by side with hand illuminated bibles in Latin, and tracts explaining the varied legal issues surrounding the transfer of land. Master Cromwell’s household has an eclectic taste when it comes to literature. Many books have over spilled onto the floor, or the great work desk.

  The desk fills one corner, and looks more like the lair of a wild bear, and faces the only wall not to support bookshelves. This wall, plastered with horsehair, and whitewashed, has a great, carved fire place set in it. There is a chair, and three stools in the room. Any more than three, or four occupants, and it will start to feel a little cramped.

  This evening, Thomas Cromwell is seated behind the broad desk, and the stools are taken up by Eustace Chapuys, Will Draper, and Rafe Sadler, his right hand man in legal matters. Leaning against the solid, carved mantelpiece is the huge figure of Richard Cromwell, the establishment’s chief enforcer. He is hungrily eyeing the pewter platters on the oak desk top.