by Anne Stevens
The centre piece of the evening is an amazing platter of stuffed swan, which sees birds, in descending order, stuffed one within the other. On cutting into the dish, one will go through layers of swan, goose, duck, chicken, and quail. This last main dish is to be served up with a rich truffle sauce.
“And in between?” Rafe asks. “The king must not be kept un-amused.”
“Goats cheese, hard Dutch, and soft French cheeses, served with unleavened bread,” the man replies. “Then there are various poached fruits, custard tarts, plum puddings, honeyed dumplings, and other sweet things. Master Cromwell’s vintner has laid on suitable wines, ales and beers to compliment each course.”
“Our guests must never have an empty dish in front of them,” Rafe says, and pads off to make sure each man is in his rightful place. He arrives back in the great hall, to find Henry has usurped the role of Chief Steward.
The king has taken the place of honour, as is his right, and is busy placing each guest as they come in. He puts More to his left, and Norfolk to his right, then decides to shuffle the duke down by one space. This means Norfolk’s guest, the poet, Thomas Wyatt must be shuffled down on the other side of the table.
“I want Tom Cromwell by my right hand side,” the king declares. “You there, stop skulking around! Who are you sir?”
“Richard Rich, sire.” Rich bows, and his knees are shaking at being so directly addressed.
“Never heard of you, fellow. Poet, layabout, or lawyer?”
“Lawyer, Your Majesty.” Rich squeaks.
“Lawyer, eh? End of the table, sir,” Henry says. “Take young Howard with you, and keep the silly coxcomb as sober as you possibly can.”
The guests are getting into a horrible muddle, when Rafe steps in and, with a few quiet words and nudges, seats them without any further upset. As the last one takes their place, Thomas Cromwell makes his appearance, and bows low.
“A happy surprise, Your Majesty,” he says, holding his arms wide. “Your presence honours my humble home.”
“Not too humble, I hope, Thomas,” the king replies, smiling at his own remark. “For I am looking forward to a fine dinner. In honour of St. Eustace, I’m told?”
“It was to be a small, unassuming dinner, given for the ambassador, sire,” Cromwell explains. “I thought it only apt therefore, to feast the patron saint of hunters.”
“Apt?” Henry is confused. Although he prides himself on his pious knowledge of all things religious, he has never heard of this particular saint. Sir Thomas More leans over, and whispers, explaining that Chapuys’ given name is Eustace.
“Droll, my friend,” Henry says. “You liken the man to a saint, though some might think our Spanish Eustace to be more of a devil!” He laughs, as if it might soften the mild insult, and Chapuys smiles. Great men make small jokes, he thinks. It is ever thus.
“You know my lords Suffolk, Northumberland, Norfolk, and Surrey, Your Majesty, but might I name Master Rich, who works diligently for you in the law courts, and Dr. Adolphus Theophrasus, a learned visitor from the Hellenic lands. I also see we are to be joined by Master Wyatt, whose often unbridled wit is renowned across Europe.”
The king waves his fingers in slight acknowledgement, but is more interested in the females seated about him. He nods to Lady Mary Boleyn, smiles at Miriam Draper and her husband, and asks who the raven haired young woman is, sitting opposite the already drunken Harry Percy. Cromwell shrugs his shoulders, and turns to Percy for clarification.
“My Lord Percy, pray acquaint the king with the name of your … delightful… companion.”
“Might I then name, and recommend my dearest cousin, sire… Lady Purity.” Northumberland says, stone faced.
“A rare sort of beauty,” Henry replies. “Where have you been keeping her hidden, Harry?”
“In some low tavern, no doubt,” Surrey whispers to Richard Rich. “Do we not know her, Rich?”
“I suggest a sudden loss of memory,” Richard Rich hisses in his ear. “If the king thinks he is being made fun of, it will go badly for all those concerned. Let Percy have his joke, and let he alone pay the price of it.”
“Alas, the girl has been receiving a fine education in a local convent, sire, and I have but just released her from the imminent threat of having to take holy orders.” Percy is convincing enough to fool Henry, but Tom Wyatt has to hide a smile. It is but a couple of days since he was tupping this particular novice nun, and he admires Percy’s almost suicidal sense of humour.
“And the gentleman by your side, my lady?” Henry is in full flirting mode. “Please, do not say he is your betrothed.”
“Why, no sir,” Purity replies, blushing. “I am well acquainted with many gentlemen of the court, Your Highness, but I fear he is a stranger to me.”
“What’s this?” Henry taps a spoon on the table. “Name yourself, sir. Is it meet that you should remain anonymous, yet have the pleasure of a seat by so regal a young lady?”
“My name is Sir Edward Prudhoe, sire.” Sir Thomas More looks up, for the first time, and sees the man staring back at him, his face a mask of cold fear. He turns then, to see that Cromwell is smiling with pleasure at the springing of his little trap.
“Not a prude by nature oh?” Henry says, and is surprised when nobody laughs. Perhaps, he thinks, I have too subtle a sense of humour. “Prudish Prudhoe… a play on your name, see?”
“Very good, sire,” Prudhoe mutters. “The jest is new to me, and I commend your quick wittedness.” He sits still, as if the sword of Damocles is suspended above his head.
“Sir Edward is lately back from France, sire,” Cromwell explains. “He was of a mind to import their culture, for our entertainment, but found it not to his taste.”
“What news of France, Prudhoe?” Will Draper asks. He is primed, and ready with his questions.
“I did not visit Paris, sir,” Prudhoe replies. He is still nervous, and expects to be choked to death at any moment. “I toured the outer provinces.”
“Have you a patron?” Will prompts.
“No longer,” Prudhoe says. “I fear I am currently looking for gainful employment.”
“Come to me tomorrow,” Thomas Cromwell says, enjoying the contrived conversation. “I am sure to find a use for so well travelled, and knowledgeable, a gentleman, sir. I wager you have much to tell me that might be used to good ends.”
“My thanks, Master Cromwell.” Prudhoe lowers his gaze, unable to face the withering look directed at him by the infuriated Lord Chancellor. If looks could kill, he believes he might already be dead on the floor.
“Enough of dreary diplomatic business,” Henry cries. “How is life treating you, Mistress Miriam? I trust Master Draper is a good, and loving husband?”
“He is, my lord. Our happiness is due to your generosity, and we cannot thank you enough.” Henry is a little confused, but Cromwell whispers in his ear, reminding him of how he has granted Draper’s wife the right to live in England.
“Ah, yes.” Henry is uncomfortable, for he knows the woman’s grandfather, a Jewish banker, died in his place. “You must ask, if there is ought else I can grant you.”
“Peace of mind would be nice, sire,” Miriam says, sighing and fluttering her eyelashes. “I worry about my neighbours, who seem to have offended the crown in some way.”
“Oh?” Henry is not a stupid man, he senses a trap, and looks to Cromwell for support. He cannot allow a woman, no matter how beautiful, to dispute state business with him.
“Enough, Mistress Miriam,” Cromwell snaps. “It is not your place to petition the king, no matter how worthy the cause. Forgive her, Your Highness, she does not understand these things.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Henry replies, smiling at the girl. “Is it a matter for the courts, Thomas?”
“I do not think so, sire,” Cromwell says. “I think it is a matter of conscience, best left to churchmen. Let us not discuss it tonight. I will call on our dear Lord Chancellor tomorrow, along with Prudh
oe. Sir Edward has a good head for ecclesiastical problems, I believe.”
“Let me put your mind at rest, Tom,” More puts in. “Is it about the people my men over zealously took up, last week?”
“Concerning the ownership of certain religious books, I believe.” Cromwell says, pointedly. “There is some rash talk of charges being laid.”
“Let me put you at ease,” More replies. “Having looked into the matter, myself, I find there is no case to answer. The men will be home for breakfast.”
“Unharmed?”
“Of course.” More is not happy. The first racking was to take place the next morning.
“There, Mistress Miriam, I told you that the rumours are false. Sir Thomas More is an absolute stickler for the laws of the land, and will not see any man condemned unjustly.”
“Then we are comfortable with Tyndale?” Henry asks. He is a little surprised at More’s change of heart, but is content that no bones have to be broken over the issue.
“In this particular instance,” More says, hurrying to repair the breach in his defences. “Each case must be looked at independently, sire … by commissioners, appointed by…”
“The Privy Council,” Cromwell interjects. “I will see a select group is put into place at once, sire.”
“Is that hare?” Henry is no longer listening. Talk of the minutiae of law bores him, and he has lost all interest. “Move down a place my dear Lord Chancellor, and let Lady Purity sit by me. The poor child looks famished.”
The meal progresses well, with small islands of diners living out their own small lives. Lady Mary Boleyn asks Sir Roger De Crecy if he has heard about the gentleman who has brought the clap into court. He can hardly contain his mirth, and, staring across the table, wonders aloud who it might be.
“Look not at me, dear lady,” Wyatt calls out. “For I am a poet, and poets, it is well known, are impervious to the ailment. Else how could we write of love so easily?”
Now they are there, neither Surrey nor Richard Rich have the courage to confront the Boleyn woman, and lapse into sullen silence. Lady Mary sees she has the advantage, and presses on.
“Perhaps these things are best kept secret, Master Wyatt” she says, fluttering her lashes at Richard Rich. “For well born ladies always admire discretion in a gentleman‘s nature. It can be a two way thing, can it not, Master Rich?”
“I agree, Madam,” Rich says, nodding his consent to the deal. He will say no more about Maria de Salinas, and expect to hear nothing more about his imagined ailment. It was stupid of him to boast falsely, but he did it out of spite, and without thinking through the consequences.
“The Clap!” Dr. Theophrasus says, rather too loudly. “Now, there is an interesting ailment.”
“I am itching to find out about it,” Richard Cromwell calls from the end of the table, and a ripple of laughter runs around the room.
“I believe it to be caused by bad humours in the womb,” the doctor proclaims for all to hear. “The lady, being out of sorts, passes the sickness on to the man. One seldom hears of sodomites falling ill with the clap.”
Sir Edward Prudhoe shudders, and reaches for his cup of wine. In the space of a single day, his world has turned completely upside down, and he is contemplating ruin and disaster henceforth.
Sir Thomas More nibbles at some dry bread, but is seething inside at his apparent defeat. Cromwell is in possession of Prudhoe, and knows about the plot against the Pole family. He must release a few heretics as the price of his immediate silence.
“Cheer up, Sir Thomas,” Cromwell says. “You have done a good day’s work, to offset the bad. I pray you understand this.”
“I do,” More nods, and smiles thinly. “You have me at a disadvantage, Master Cromwell. I can but bow to your superior abilities, on this occasion. I take it there will be no entertainers tonight?”
“I regret not, Lord Chancellor,” Cromwell replies. “I fear their permits have been revoked… permanently. My fool is somewhere about, should you wish to match wits with a jester.”
“I thought I already had,” More replies, testily.
“Touché, sir,” Cromwell says, and smiles at the remark.
“You must come to see me tomorrow, Master Prudhoe,” More says, pointedly.
“I regret not, sir,” Prudhoe says, noting his sudden reduction in rank. The knighthood seems to have vanished. “Master Cromwell insists on my constant presence.”
“Stick with old Tom,” Wyatt says. “That is… Master Cromwell, for I have never known a truer friend.”
Cromwell is content. He has thwarted a series of heinous, politically motivated murders, and forced the release of some common men, whose only crime is to have read William Tyndale’s writings. The evening progresses well, until the kitchen porters come in, bearing the stuffed swan.
Thomas Wyatt leaps to his feet, and launches into an impromptu, and somewhat lewd ode, dedicated to the various ways a man might stuff a plump bird. Henry is pleased with the young fellow’s sharp wit, and insists he must return to court.
“We’ve missed you, Master Wyatt,” Henry says. “What has France got that we lack?”
Safety, Wyatt thinks. Thomas Cromwell has warned him that Percy was disposed to ruining Lady Anne Boleyn with rash comments alluding to her virginal state. It is a wise man who knows when to make himself scarce. The poet has often written lurid lines of love to Anne, before her elevation to King’s fancy, and it would go ill with him if the king suspects more has happened than an exchange of couplets.
“I must return, on business, sire,” Wyatt replies. “Though my heart is ever here, in England. I shall return at some future date. I promise.”
“If not, I shall send Cromwell to hit you over the head, and drag you back,” the king says. “More wine!”
The Earl of Surrey, wishing to keep up with his elders, has drunk far too much, he vomits, and slides under the table. This is an affront to the king, who sneers at Norfolk.
“The fruit is rotten, Uncle Norfolk,” he says. “You must wonder if he is really yours.”
Tom Howard flushes a bright purple. That Henry feels able to comment so, shocks him. The king has taken twenty five years over the business of producing an heir, and is yet to come good. He is about to reply, but Cromwell squeezes his arm under the table.
“Do not lose your head, Lord Norfolk,” he says. “For once lost, even Dr. Theophrasus might struggle to put it back on your shoulders.”
“Butcher’s boy!” Norfolk growls.
“You confuse me with Cardinal Wolsey, sir,” Cromwell whispers back. “I am the blacksmith’s lad, and a much tougher proposition for that. I am told that your great grandfather was a peat cutter, and the illegitimate son of a wandering priest.”
“He was a bishop,” Norfolk whispers back, then grins. He is beginning to like Cromwell, very much. “It will be a sad day when I have to have you killed, Master Blacksmith!”
Harry Percy is drunk, and becoming quietly furious. Henry has stolen his latest bed companion, and is running his hand up and down her thigh. Suffolk makes to stop him rising, but he shakes him off, lurches to his feet, and shouts down the table.
“Pray, sire, when you have done with my whore, might I have her back?” The room fall silent. Lady Boleyn suppresses a giggle, and Stephen Gardiner clutches at the cross hanging about his neck.
“Have a care, Percy,” Henry says, his voice grown cold, and furious. “remember where you are, and in whose company you eat.”
“You mistake me, cousin Henry,” Percy replies, lurching to his feet. “I mean no insult to the girl, for that is her trade. Purity is a working girl, and will lay down for any man who has a silver shilling!”
Thomas Cromwell makes a small gesture, and two of his young men appear, take Percy under the armpits, and drag him from the room. Rafe Sadler approaches the girl, takes her elbow, and draws her from the king’s side.
“The lady’s attendants are here, sire,” he mutters in the king’s ear, and takes
her from the room. Once outside, he gives her five shillings, and sends her on her way. He returns to find Lady Mary Boleyn in Purity’s place, running her fingers across the king’s chest.
“A pretty evening’s work, Master Cromwell,” More says as the evening stutters to a close. Guests have split into small groups, and are finishing off the last of the good Flemish wine. “Are you proud of yourself?”
“I am proud of stopping your wicked plot,” Cromwell replies. “You set Prudhoe on the Poles, without mercy.”
“Not so. I merely mentioned that the family are a nuisance, and he took the wrong end of the stick. What evidence you have will not stand scrutiny in a law court. Sir Edward will be called upon to swear against the Lord Chancellor, and the full might of his high office.”
“You will not hold that position long,” Cromwell replies.
“No?” Sir Thomas sniggers. “Henry wants his annulment, and I will get it for him. Afterwards, I will suggest that you might need a long rest from your duties. He will agree, out of gratitude.”
“Gratitude?” Cromwell smiles. “It is a dangerous thing to remind a king that he should be grateful. Wolsey forgot that, and seemed too haughty. So, you all pulled him down.”
“Is this what it comes to?” More asks. “Revenge? Suffolk is your lapdog, Percy is shamed before the king again, and Norfolk is reminded of your brute power. You behave like nothing more than a common thug, sir!”
“I am a common thug,” Cromwell replies, staring the Lord Chancellor down. “I use brutish force to get my way, and try to keep order in England. You will have us tied to Rome again, and the king a servant of the corrupt Bishop of Rome.”
“If it saves his immortal soul… yes!”
“I despair of you, Tom,” Cromwell says. If he can only show the man the right path for England, he thinks. “Can we not pool our resources, and work together?”
“Never.”
“Then you intend baulking me at every turn?”
“It is too late, Cromwell,” More says. “I do not dislike you. I simply cannot walk the same path. Your road leads to heresy.”