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

by Anne Stevens

  “Light the windows well,” he commands, and an elderly servant bows, and sets about the task. Miriam takes a seat in one corner, and starts to embroider at the stand Lady Ursula usually employs. She looks amazing in her borrowed finery. A window is left unlatched, as if missed by a servant.

  “There, the trap is set,” Will says to his wife. “ Let us Bay this Hart and take his antlers as a trophy.”

  “Is that how you think of Gilbert Guyot?” Miriam asks. “You see him merely as an animal, to be hunted?”

  “I see him as a great stag, rampaging his way through a forest. It is my task to pen him in, until he turns, at bay. Then I must deal the death blow.”

  “Can you not simply take him captive?”

  “That would be cruel indeed, my love,” Will replies. “For Master Cromwell would be forced to question him then, and the pain would be unbearable, even for a strong man. At the finish, he would have to hang by the neck. No, Gilbert Guyot must die by my hand this day. Besides, he threatened you… the most precious thing ever to befall me.”

  They lapse into silence then, both wondering if the Frenchman will come. It seems to be an age before anything happens. Will fancies he hears a floorboard creak, and puts a hand on the hilt of his sword. Then, all of a sudden, Guyot is there, in the room. His approach has been so stealthy that he is just feet away from Miriam before he gives a great cry. He recognises her, and turns to see where the danger lies.

  Will Draper steps from behind a tapestry, and draws his blade. For a moment, Guyot considers snatching the girl in his arms, to use as a hostage again, but she has conjured a wicked looking Basilard from somewhere, and is pointing the slender, double edged knife at him.

  “So, English… you think to stop me?”

  “I do.”

  “Let me go, or I will spit you, like a pig, then kill the woman.”

  “You French dog,” Will replies. “By now, your friends are both dead, or taken. Defend yourself, for one of us must die.”

  Guyot draws his sword, and has a short dagger in his left hand. Will is familiar with this way of fighting, and knows the Frenchman will try to draw his attention with the dagger, before thrusting home with the sword. It is not the way a gentleman fights, but Will is not a gentleman. He has fought in the bogs of Ireland, and faced the fiercest Welsh outlaws in his day.

  Even with this knowledge, he is almost caught out, as the Frenchman’s blade passes under his armpit. Will turns aside, and feints. Guyot parries, but cuts through empty air.

  “Clever,” the Frenchman says, and leaps forward once more. The sword passes Will’s shoulder by inches, and the knife is suddenly coming up in a vicious thrust.

  Will Draper dances backwards, and the sharp dagger cuts only his doublet front, sending a small bone button skittering across the room.

  “Too slow, sir,” Will says, executing a deft right, left cross cut. The long blade swishes through the air, and the Frenchman is once more out of range. The Englishman dances away, drawing his enemy to him, and practices a few more swift cuts with his fine German made weapon, taken from a slain Irish warlord years before.

  He never allows his eyes to flicker, not for one instant, as he waits for an opening. That it must come soon is obvious, for both are fighting men, and know how sapping single armed combat can be. String the affair out to long, and you risk tiring, or making a simple mistake. Either will kill you.

  In Ireland and the Welsh bandit country, Draper has learned to attack quickly, and kill in what ever way presents itself. Once, after losing his sword, he had fought on with a handy rock, and crushed his opponent’s skull in. The Frenchman is moving his left hand right and left, in an almost spellbinding way. The dagger is moving like a viper.

  Will keeps his eyes on Gilbert Guyot’s blade, and retreats yet another step. Then he is where he wishes to be. The great inglenook fireplace surrounds him on either side, so that he has only his front to protect. The fire is roaring at his back, but he hardly feels the tremendous heat it throws off.

  Gilbert Guyot realises his error in letting the soldier of fortune choose the killing ground, smiles, and taunts him.

  “Do you feel the heat, mon ami?” he says. “It is almost unbearable. I shall keep you here, until you can stand it no more. Then you must come at me, and I will kill you.”

  “You talk a fine fight, Guyot,” Will snaps back. “Yet I have you where I want you.”

  “Come, let us be done. Afterwards, I will find the Pole woman, and kill her.,” Guyot snarls. “Then I will take your woman, and teach her how a Frenchman uses such a slut.”

  Will’s face becomes a picture of rage, and he lunges, madly, stupidly at the man. Guyot ripostes, aiming at the heart. Draper is not there. His uncontrolled rage is fakery, and he rolls aside at the last moment. Guyot’s killing momentum sends him crashing headlong into the fire.

  The Frenchman screams as the flames lick at him, and leaps to his feet. He comes out of the fire, rushing at Will, swinging, and cutting for dear life. Guyot’s left sleeve is ablaze, and he knows he must finish it now, or die. Will dances backwards, parrying each attack. Finally, he side steps the enraged Frenchman, and lets him crash into the wall.

  Gilbert Guyot is entangled in a rich tapestry, which wraps about him, and bursts into flames. The assassin is engulfed in fire, and screams in agony. Will cannot be so hard, and lunges forward, skewering his foe, just under the heart. He withdraws the long blade, and the flaming bundle that has been a man, crashes to the floor.

  Miriam is already at the door, ordering the lurking servants to fetch water, else the great hall be engulfed. She grabs the first bucket, and throws it over the burning wreckage. Will pulls her aside, as others appear, and begin to beat out the fire.

  The air is filled with the pungent smell of roasted flesh, and one young serving girl wretches in a corner. Draper sheathes his sword, and puts his arms about his wife. She has proven her bravery beyond all reason, and he loves her more than ever.

  “Let’s hope Rafe and Richard have faired equally as well,” he says. “Pray the Vernay brothers have not drawn any Cromwell blood.”

  “I hope not,” Miriam whispers, “for the god of Abraham has already been given His burnt offering.”

  Cromwell is content. Messengers are here, sent ahead by his men to proclaim their complete success. His nephew, his task completed but a few miles from London, is just now riding through the front gate of Austin Friars. Chapuys and his servant are just behind.

  “Eustace, my dearest friend,” he calls, “come inside, and take breakfast with us all. And you, loyal Luis… you shall sit by our side.” The old servant bows, and beams his gratitude at his master’s neighbour, but Chapuys is still feeling a little peevish.

  “Would you not prefer to take me fishing, Cromwell?” he says, dismounting. “I am, after all is said and done, the most excellent bait.”

  “Would you rather be dead?” Richard Cromwell says, and is admonished for his abruptness.

  “Enough of that now, nephew,” says Thomas Cromwell, abruptly. “The ambassador has made a good point. I gambled with his life, in order to save it. In truth, Eustace, these fellows would never have stopped. Sooner or later, they would have slipped a knife in your back, or slit your throat open.”

  “Please, let me simmer, Thomas,” Chapuys retorts. “Once I have let my feelings out, and partaken of your fine ham and bread, I will come around.”

  Cromwell is happy. The Spanish ambassador, though a comical figure in some aspects, is an intelligent man, and one he wishes as a friend, rather than an enemy. When the time comes to gently displace Queen Katherine, he will need his support.

  Chapuys will never betray his queen, of course, and Cromwell admires him for that, but he must be shown the way forward in the king’s great matter. Katherine has to go, but there are two ways for her to choose. Fight, and spend her later years in a nunnery, or some damp castle, or comply, leaving her with titles and rank, as Princess of Wales.

  “I a
m half starved,” Richard Cromwell announces. “Let us see what there is on the table!”

  “The man is a phenomenon,” Chapuys says, following his companions through the labyrinthine corridors of the big house. “He ate a haunch of venison, an entire loaf, and a half dozen fried duck eggs. All this after dealing with my would be assassin. He killed the fellow with his bare hands, Thomas. I swear I have never witnessed such a feat of strength in all my days. He is a veritable Samson.”

  “Without a Delilah,” Richard says.

  “Let us pray that we have seen the end of these strolling players,” Cromwell says. “For they met with some success, and stretched my people thinly.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears, my friend.” Chapuys sits at the long table, flanked by Thomas Cromwell, and his aged servant, Luis. “Is that bacon I smell? Come, Luis, help yourself. It is not like you to hold back.”

  “It is not poisoned,” Cromwell says, “Else my nephew would be a shade, these long years past. Eat well, my friends, for we still have much to accomplish.”

  Thomas Cromwell is a very rich man, but recalls his hungry days as a child, and enjoys watching those about him eat well. There is never a beggar turned away without a full belly, and neighbours cherish an invitation to dinner as if it were gold. He is looking forward to the change of season, when his table will bear fresh apples, damsons, and ruby red cherries.

  A young servant, Meg, one of the homeless strays Cromwell employs, enters, and gives a small, clumsy, curtsey. Her job is to sit by the rear door, and attend to any stray visitor. In return, she eats well, is safe from exploitation, and as a warm bed each night.

  “Begging pardon, master, but there’s a strange foreign gentleman, ‘as come around the back. He is asking after Master Charpoose. He says he’s a doctor, but he looks ever so foreign to me.”

  “Ah, I forgot,” Chapuys, rises, apologising. “It is my day to receive Doctor Vargas. Will you forgive my absence, Thomas?”

  “Bring the fellow in.”

  “No, I must decline your offer,” Chapuys says, hurriedly heading for the rear entrance door, “but the man is a terrible bore, and has no conversation to speak of. I see him only out of pity.”

  Or he has much to say that is not for our ears, Cromwell thinks. Poor Chapuys has been forced to lie to him, in order that the queen’s physician’s mission is kept quiet.

  “That is odd,” Richard Cromwell says, tearing off a huge piece of bread. “I trust your friend is not unwell, uncle.”

  “Doctor Vargas is Queen Katherine’s own most private messenger; a conduit between her lips, and Ambassador Chapuys’ ears. Eustace will glean what he can, and put it in his secret letters to the Emperor Charles.”

  “Do we not open all his letters?”

  “No, I let the Lord Chancellor’s men do that,” Cromwell replies. “For they contain nothing of interest. Eustace has another, more secret way, of sending his real news.”

  “The crafty fellow,” Richard says, swallowing down a boiled goose egg. “Have we not uncovered this hidden channel, sir?”

  “I have not looked.” Cromwell sighs. His nephew is a strong, reliable, and loyal young man, but he has no head for the business of state. He explains. “If we look, we will find, and Chapuys will have no safe way to converse with his master. In that unhappy event, he will become useless to Charles, who will recall him, and send a wilier ferret.”

  “Then you let him keep his secret?” Richard is confused, but that is a common state with him. He shrugs, and rips off a chicken leg.

  “For now,” Cromwell replies. “One day, there will be no need for stealth. I shall so regulate the affairs of England, that the people will live under a benign, and open governance. There will be no one to object, and peace will reign.”

  “I’ll drink to that, uncle,” Richard says, gulping down a cup of watered wine. “For do you not say that strife and unrest is bad for trade?”

  “My God,” Cromwell mutters, “the boy understands.”

  Eustace Chapuys laments his missed breakfast, especially when Doctor Vargas has nothing but trivia to report. The queen’s lady, Maria is upset, though he does not know why. The queen wishes to express her disapproval of a gentleman of the court. Poor Richard Rich, he thinks, what have you done?

  “Is that all, Vargas?” he asks.

  There is something else. Vargas is nervous, and seems uneasy. Chapuys pours him a glass of Spanish wine, and sits patiently, whilst the medical man composes his thoughts. At last, he speaks.

  “I have told you all that Queen Katherine says. What I now say, comes from my heart, Señor. I see the guards are more attentive, and the queen’s household are alert to any danger. You fear for her safety. Do not deny it.”

  “There is always danger, Vargas,” Chapuys says, noncommittally.

  “I should have been told, sir.” The doctor is clenching his fists, open then shut, in agitation. “What if something evil befalls Her Majesty, and I might have prevented it? I am in her company almost every day.”

  “Your loyalty does you nothing but credit,” Eustace tells him, patting his arm. “I have her ringed about with guards. The two infidels stand by her door day and night, and her ladies take turns sitting with her.”

  “You might deflect a dagger, sir, but have you considered another method?”

  “Another method?”

  “Poison, sir.”

  “Poison?” Eustace Chapuys is momentarily horrified, then shakes his head. “No, it cannot be. The queen never eats a meal alone. There is a different lady at her table for each meal, eating the same dishes.”

  “Of course,” Doctor Vargas stands to leave, and bows to the ambassador. “Forgive me, Señor Chapuys, but I seek only to cover all of the possible contingencies. With your permission, sir, I will visit the queen’s kitchen often, and inspect the prepared food at random.”

  “Granted, Dr. Vargas.”

  “God be with you, sir.”

  “And you, my loyal friend.” Eustace Chapuys had not given any thought to poison, and is relieved that Katherine’s physician is fully alert to the danger. As he waves the man off, his stomach grumbles, and he regrets his missed meal.

  He recalls what Cromwell has said, just a short while before, when urging everyone to eat. His kitchen is safe. Pray to God, the Savoyard mutters, “that Queen Katherine’s is as sacrosanct.

  12 Inquisition

  Will Draper, his wife Miriam, and Rafe Sadler arrive back at Austin Friars a little after noon, and are greeted by the news that everything has gone to plan. All three of the would be murderers are dead, with no cost, other than a torn doublet, a scratch on Barnaby Fowler’s upper arm, and some loss of Eustace Chapuys dignity.

  “You should have seen his face,” Richard laughs. “He must have thought two bears had jumped in through the window!”

  “Poor man,” Miriam chides. “Do not mock him so, Richard Cromwell, for, unlike you, he is not the killing sort.”

  “I take no pleasure in it,” Richard mumbles, “Only pride in how I do it. The man was beaten, fairly and squarely.”

  Will Draper smiles. Miriam is, in truth, loved by everyone at Austin Friars, and brings the feminine touch, where it is lacking. He knows that Master Cromwell once had a wife, and daughters, but he has never pried. Some wounds run too deep, and Will knows how losing Miriam would affect him.

  Thomas Cromwell has a living son, but keeps him well away from the intrigues of court, and allows him only brief visits to the great house. The boy is almost eleven years old, and is being educated in the country, learning the fine art of being a Tudor style gentleman, with greyhounds and falcons.

  In truth, Cromwell is afraid of loving the boy too much. His wife, Elizabeth, and the girls, Grace and Anne, almost broke his heart when they died, and he cannot face another such loss. Each night, he prays Gregory will outlive him, if only by a few years.

  “A job well done,” Rafe Sadler says, drinking from his mug of ale.

  “A job half d
one, is no job at all,” Cromwell says, coming into the huge kitchen. “Eat up, boys, and let us have a council of war. Our tumblers were paid by someone, and he is the next rung on the ladder.”

  “Have you a name, sir?” Will Draper stands, and rests his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Speak it, and I will deal with him this very day!”

  “Brave words, Will,” Cromwell replies, pouring himself a goblet of wine. “but I want this particular scoundrel alive, and in my power. There are many ways to catch a rat.”

  Sir Edward Prudhoe smiles, admiring the excellent cut of his new doublet. The short leather garment has slit sleeves, to show off the lining which is made of Cathay silk. It has cost him half a king’s ransom, but he does not begrudge it.

  In the last month, he has become a man of means. The knighthood, bestowed unexpectedly at Yuletide, has come with the rent and income from a couple of small estates in Cheshire, and so he is elevated to the level of gentry.

  It is a rapid ascent, made possible by an unexpectedly generous benefactor. He is not ungrateful to his new patron, and when it is suggested that he speak to certain people, and arrange for certain events to happen, he is happy to oblige.

  The Pole clan are the king’s most dangerous enemies, and deserve their fate. Sir Edward is now well placed to spread rumour, and mingle with useful people, both high and low. His tastes are perverse, and it is not uncommon for him to frequent the bawdiest of establishments in search of his pleasures. It is in one of them that he comes upon Gilbert Guyot.

  Under pressure to enlist some useful men, he recognises a dangerous rogue when he sees one, and enlists his aid. It is a simple matter to spread around a little silver, and suggest that there is much more to come. If only the Frenchman and his men might see their way to performing a favour for him.

  “What favour?” Guyot demands to know.

  He hesitates to suggest murder, but Gilbert Guyot is not the squeamish sort, and falls in with the plot readily. It is a small step from planning, to bloody action. Two Poles are already dead, and the rest of the list will soon follow. His master will reward him well, and he is more than content with his lot.