by Anne Stevens
“Oh, Jane, you are such a prig. Stand outside. Leave the door open, so that you may see me, yet not hear this dark secret I am to be told. Go on!”
Lady Rochford obeys, reluctantly. She stands, observing the rest of the meeting, and tantalisingly out of ear shot.
“Well?” Lady Anne says. “Explain yourself, Cromwell’s little pet.”
“Master Cromwell says he is about to uncover a plot against the crown. It is just possible that your own life might be in some kind of danger.”
Anne Boleyn feels a tightness in her stomach for a brief moment, then recovers her composure. Mush pretends not to have seen the flicker of fear in her eyes.
“Who means me harm?” the lady demands. Mush shrugs his shoulders. He is a foot soldier, and has not been made aware of all the details.
“I am to keep you safe, Lady Boleyn.”
Lady Anne, despite finding the youth attractive, would rather be surrounded by trusted men, with swords. She fears Master Cromwell has taken leave of his good sense, for once.
“How so, Master Mush?” she snaps. “Have you a hundred men outside?”
“Just Mush, lady.” The movement is a blur. Anne flinches, and stares at the bowl of green apples set on the table by the far window. One of the fruits has been skewered by a slender knife. “I can outreach any sword, madam, and kill a man at thirty paces, even before he can unsheathe his weapon.”
“Might not a lady occasionally enjoy an unsheathed weapon, Mush?” The youth’s face remains impassive, and Anne decides that he means nothing more than he says.
“I shall stay out of your way, but always within reach, Lady Anne.” He bows. “By your leave?”
“Very well,” she replies. Cromwell is no fool, and if he says she is to be guarded, then let it be so. The boy is both unusual, and good looking. She might as well spend the day drinking in his prettiness. “Do you know any poetry, Mush?”
“No, not in English, Lady Anne.”
“French?” He shakes his head. In truth, he can speak French, Spanish and a little Italian but, like Eustace Chapuys, prefers to keep it quiet.
“I know a rude song in Irish, taught to me by my brother in law, madam.”
“Then you must entertain me in English,” she says.
“What the hell is this?” George Boleyn, the Earl of Rochford, alerted by his scornful wife, is suddenly there, hand on sword hilt. “Alone, with a … a … a Jew!”
“He is to be my new bodyguard,” Anne Boleyn says, enjoying her pompous brother’s upset. “He will attend to my body, George. I would take your hand from your hilt, brother… if only for safety’s sake.”
“Are you mad? Alone, with a man?” George Boleyn can contain himself no longer, and seeing the youth is unarmed, draws his sword. “Away with you, Jewish dog, or I will forget myself, and gut your worthless body!”
He is not quite sure how Mush has managed to get inside the range of his sword, nor how he has managed to grasp his wrist, but the pain is real enough, and he cries out as his blade clatters to the floor.
“My apologies, Lord Rochford,” Mush tells him, coldly. He stoops, and retrieves the sword. “No edged weapons are allowed within this chamber, by order of the Privy Councillor, Master Thomas Cromwell. The next man to draw on me, in this room, will die. Is that clearly understood?”
“What right have you to….”
“Oh, do shut up, George,” Anne snaps. “If you value my honour so much, you may stay. You can even invite that dried up prune of a wife of yours back in.”
George Boleyn swears to himself that he will get even with the upstart Jew, but accepts Anne’s terms with ill grace. He calls his wife in, and bids her to stay, as chaperone to his sister. She is a valuable commodity, and if there is a hint of scandal, Henry might drop her for another. With Lady Mary Boleyn already compromised by Henry, the family are running out of viable females to throw at the king.
“There, now we are four,” Lady Anne says. “Shall we play cards, or hide and seek?”
“I can play cards,” Mush says. It is a safer option than allowing Lady Anne to conceal herself about the court. “Shall we play for pennies… or shillings?”
George Boleyn has a deck with him, and as he deals, Anne acquaints him with Thomas Cromwell’s worry for her safety. He frowns, and speculates as to who might wish to harm her.
“Take your pick,” she says, bitterly. “Am I not the French whore, hated by all of England?”
Mush picks up his cards, and spreads them, fan-like in his hand. He has a knave, and two queens. He thinks of the queens as Katherine and Anne Boleyn, and wonders who the knave will turn out to be.
“It will all change, once you are queen,” George grumbles.
“Will it ever really change, whilst Katherine and Mary still draw breath?” She grins then. “Perhaps we could convince dear Mush to throttle them for me?”
“It is against my faith to kill women,” Mush replies. “I am more likely to stab a card sharper.”
“What sir?” George stutters. “You call me a sharp?”
“Shall I cut your sleeve, and let the card fall?” Mush says.
“I thought this was to be a friendly game,” Rochford mutters, replacing the stolen card in the deck.
“It is sir, which is why I have not slit your throat.” Mush smiles at the ladies. “Who shall lead?”
Two hours later, George Boleyn takes his leave, his purse lighter by almost two pounds. His sister is delighted, and even Lady Rochford manages a smile.
“You teach my husband a lesson in humility, Master Mush,2 she says.
“Just Mush,” the young man says. “Just Mush will do.”
It has been a long day, and Cromwell is tired. He has concluded his business with Richard Rich, set Mush to guarding La Boleyn, alerted the queen’s swarthy Moroccans to be extra vigilant, and sent his agents out into the unknown, on a quest to save a family he would rather see broken or dead, for political reasons.
It will be a difficult night for the lawyer, as he sits up in his library, waiting for a hard riding messenger, bringing him news. He is particularly worried about Eustace Chapuys, who has become a good friend during the last week.
The Spanish ambassador is a determined sort, and has insisted on riding out to warn one of the plot’s possible victims. Cromwell is worried, because he thinks the man may well be a target too. Destroy the Pole clan, the queen, and her closest advisor, and the job is done. Above all men, Chapuys has the queen’s confidence.
The snow of January and February has given way to an almost constant rain, and the roads to the south coast are softening into cloying mud. Night falls swiftly, and it is a brave, or foolish, man who travels after dark.
Eustace Chapuys is neither a hero, nor a fool, and he stops at an inn outside the tiny village of Chiddingstone. It is close by the great Ashdown forest. He knows that, at first light, he must traverse the wide forest, which spreads across a quarter of the shire, and provides excellent hunting forays for King Henry, and his rich, aristocratic friends.
The innkeeper is, at first, wary of the little foreigner, who travels alone, but warms to him when he asks for his best room, and a good meal. There is the smell of money in the air.
“I have a haunch of venison,” the man says. “It has been hanging this month past, and is ready for the spit. My wife will dress it with vinegar, if you wish.”
“Have you no garlic?” Chapuys asks, more in hope than certainty.
“Bless you, no sir. My customers are honest folk, and don’t like that French muck. I’ll rub her down with salt instead, if you like.”
“Your wife?” Chapuys is confused by the man’s way of talking, and imagines the stout woman by the fire, being treated so.
“My wife?” The innkeeper is becoming as confused as the ambassador. “If she takes your fancy, I could have her warm your bed tonight. Though I must wonder at your taste, sir. My pot girl is but fourteen, and much more comely.”
“No, no!” Eustace Chapu
ys has finally unravelled the convoluted misunderstandings. “cook the animal any way you care, my man. As for your wife, I mean no slight to her, but I am very tired, and must decline your kind offer.”
“And Tilly? She is an eager and pleasing girl.” He leans forward, and winks. “She can just as easily go atop, as below. I can vouch for her readily, sir, if you get my meaning?”
“Food and a bed,” Chapuys repeats, firmly. The innkeeper shrugs his shoulders, and retires, muttering about strange foreign folk, and their strange, foreign ways. An hour later, and Eustace is presented with a platter of steaming meat and vegetables. The serving girl smiles, and pouts at him in what she thinks is a lustful display, until he slips her a silver sixpence, and chases her away.
The food is warming, and only serves to enhance his drowsiness. He eats his fill, and washes it down with a nice, malted ale. Though not up to the standard of Cromwell’s kitchen, it is good enough, and he retires, content.
It is a little past midnight when he finally slips into his bed. He has a full stomach, a room to himself, and a straw filled palliasse, which is very comfortable and, mercifully, free of fleas and lice. He blows out his single candle and, in moments, he is fast asleep.
Eustace is walking down a delightful wooded valley, back in his beloved Savoy. He can see the little house, at the edge of the trees, where he keeps his mistress safe from prying eyes. He sighs, longing to be there, and in his lover’s arms. He is at the door. There is something wrong. Marianne is long dead, of course, and the door is leaning out, covering him. His chest is constricted, his head swims, and he cannot breath. He is on the edge of oblivion.
He comes full awake then, feebly kicking, and thrashing his weary arms. There is something soft pressed over his face, choking his very life away. He cannot fight anymore, and feels his head thumping. So, he thinks, this, at the end, is what death is like. Then the pressure is suddenly lifted, and the room is in black, noisy tumult. Someone cries out.
Eustace fumbles to light the candle, then staggers across the room, and throws open the wooden shutters. Moonlight pours in, illuminating a scene of savage carnage. A huge man is rolling about the floor, locked in a violent embrace with a second, slightly smaller man. They roll again, and the smaller of the two is on top, and strangling the man beneath. With a gasp of horror, Chapuys recognises the bigger man as Richard, the huge nephew of Thomas Cromwell.
Just when it seems the assailant will triumph, Richard grabs the man by the chin and the back of his head, and twists, as if drawing a cork from a bottle. There is a loud snapping sound, and the man flops over to one side, quite dead. Richard gets to his feet, rubbing his neck.
“My God, but he was a strong enough bugger, Master Eustace. Thanks be, I have a neck like a bullock’s, else it would have gone bad for us both.”
“Master Cromwell…. Richard, I praise God you came when you did. I thought myself a dead man.”
“Not on my watch, sir,” Richard Cromwell replies. “My uncle fears for you, and set me to follow. I saw this wretch climb in another window, and knew him for a villain.”
“Is he dead?”
“If not, he will walk bent sideways for all eternity,” the big man says, and smiles at his clumsy joke. “The neck is broken, and that usually suffices in these cases. Shall I stab him a few times, just to make sure?”
“Pray, not on my account,” Chapuys replies. He does not like being near a dead man, and does not wish to compound the horror by seeing blood spurting. “Then I was on these fiends list all along?”
“It seems so, sir. I think this poor, undone thing will prove to be one of the brothers Vernay. It is as we feared, and the troupe have split apart, with each one on a separate mission of murder.”
“We must get on then.”
“No, sir. I must apologise to you, for the ruse, but it was for your own good. Master Thomas suspected you to be on the death list, as a close friend of the queen. So he gave you a task, contrived to flush out the killers.”
“I was bait?”
“You might well say so, Master Eustace, but there was no choice,” Richard Cromwell kicks the body at his feet. “This one followed you from your house, and so, I followed him. I misjudged his fleetness of foot, and arrived later than I should. I would have been mortified, had he completed his task before I got to him.”
“I concur,” Eustace Chapuys says, understanding how close to death he had been. “Let me call for the innkeeper, and rouse him from his bed. We shall have wine.”
“I have not eaten all day, sir.”
“Then you shall have venison, until you cannot stand!”
Richard Cromwell grins. He is a simple soul, and wants only to do his duty, and feast at any opportunity.
“Sir, I fear I might consume the entire beast.”
“What about the body?”
“What body, Señor Chapuys?” Young Cromwell drags the corpse over to the open window, and throws it out. “There, now we can eat. Gomez and I will bury it in the forest tomorrow.”
“Luis Gomez is with you?”
“I followed you, and he followed me,” says the young Cromwell. “He is tending the horses, and would not be deflected from his duty.”
“You amaze me.”
“How so? Luis loves you, sir, as if he were a father.”
“Then I must cherish his devotion, and reward it.”
“Serving your family seems reward enough,” Richard replies. “Besides, he’s probably robbing you blind as it is!”
“Then I must overlook it, for he pecks a few grains, and never devours the whole crop. And what of tomorrow?”
“Back to Austin Friars,” Richard Cromwell replies. “My uncle is closing in on the real quarry, and will have need of us.”
“What about Guyot, and the surviving Vernay brother?”
“Do not concern yourself,” the big man says. “Thomas Cromwell, like your Pope Clement, is infallible!”
11 Baying the Hart
Claude Vernay has ridden hard. He skirts the outlying farms and tiny village, coming, at last to the sprawling, half decayed castle. If he expects more difficulty in his approach, then he is pleasantly surprised to find the grounds unguarded.
It is a simple matter for him to cross the shallow, dry moat, and scale the buttressed outer wall. Once on the battlements, he crouches, waiting for a sign of guards. He is French, and does not understand the King’s peace. For over fifty years it has not been necessary to retain armed men so far south of the more dangerous Welsh border country. The castle’s defences have been sadly neglected.
Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury, has another reason to avoid having heavily armed men stationed about her rambling country home. She is badly out of favour at court, and King Henry does not need his suspicions aroused against her. The king fears her Plantagenet family connections, and keeps a wary eye out for any sign of fomenting rebellion.
Claude Vernay is oblivious of this, and has but one thought in his mind. He must do away with the elderly countess, as fast as possible, and make his escape. There will be a hue and cry raised, and he wants to be long gone, sailing back to France, with a heavy bag of gold at his belt.. He drops from the battlements with practised ease, and makes for the great house.
Somewhere, a dog barks. He crouches, and waits for the beast to come at him, but is again surprised. The animal is kennelled, and unable to do ought but yap at the moon. He scuttles onwards, and reaches the inner sanctum.
He opens a ground floor window with his blade, and is about to climb in when shapes suddenly loom from the shrubbery, and fall on him. He swears, and lashes out with his knife. There is a curse in the dark, followed by a flurry of blows.
It is only a matter of moments, and all is over. The second Vernay brother is dead, clubbed down by Rafe Sadler and Barnaby Fowler. Lights appear, and servants come running. The countesses private secretary leads the way, sword in hand.
“Stay, sirs. It is done,” Rafe shouts. “Your mistress is safe. May w
e leave you to dispose of this offal?”
Things are not so clear cut with Will Draper. He is in Sussex, ready to protect Lady Ursula Pole, daughter of the Countess of Salisbury, but she will have none of it, and mistrusts Thomas Cromwell’s man. The Privy Councillor is for the king, and therefore, against all who might oppose his rule. The Poles are descended from the last Plantagenet king of England, and have a strong claim to the throne, should it ever become vacant.
“Cromwell bears us nothing but malice,” she says sharply. “Why should I believe your preposterous story?”
“I swear it is so, my lady,” Will Draper says. “Someone is coming to kill you, and I must stop them. Tell her ladyship, Miriam.”
“Each minute lost brings you nearer to disaster, Lady Ursula. I am not a paid Cromwell agent, and seek only your safety. Let Will Draper guide you in this, and you might well survive to see another day.” Miriam Draper’s argument seems to work, and her husband is pleased he let her come with him. In truth, he would have to have tied her up in a cellar to keep her away. She is part of this mad adventure, and wishes to see it to its bitter end.
“What must I do?” Lady Ursula asks.
“Undress,” Will says,” and let my … Miriam… put on your finery. I think you have very similar figures.”
“Might I ask you to turn away?” Lady Ursula says. She finds the young man attractive, and wonders about Miriam. As she undresses, she concludes the olive skinned beauty is either a wife, or his lover. Either way, it would be dangerous to try and seduce her companion away from her.
Miriam steps forward, and helps, unlashing the cords at her back. She sees Lady Ursula admiring Will out of the corner of her eye.
“Do not think it, madam,” she whispers. “I have fierce and jealous blood in my veins.”
Lady Ursula gives a slight nod. She has had many lovers, and is practiced in the art of romance. She fully understands that Miriam will fight for this man, and so withdraws from the field. Her husband to be must content her for now.
The dress is finally off, and Miriam puts it on. Will hurries them, then insists Lady Ursula Pole locks herself away in another room. Whatever the outcome this night, she must live. Cromwell demands it.