by Anne Stevens
“And yours to murder.” Thomas Cromwell watches as his one time friend leaves, and shakes his head. The king is in a better mood, and he and Lady Mary are ready to be escorted back to Whitehall Palace. Harry Percy, Duke of Northumberland is in the kitchen, sobering up. On the morrow, he will ask the king what to do with him. Henry will be inclined to forgive, once more, but a price must be paid. Perhaps some of his dangerous border land might be allocated to Suffolk? After all, is not Charles Brandon a true and lifelong friend?
Cromwell spends a few moments with Stephen Gardiner, preparing him for the news of his new position. He will not want to go to Paris, but it is the safest thing for him. He has a conscience, and must be away when it matters, if only to protect his innocence.
“Paris?” Gardiner says. “Do you hate me so much, Master Cromwell?”
“On the contrary, Stephen,” Cromwell replies, trying to reconcile him to the move. “I hold you in high esteem, and believe you will do good work for us. You shall negotiate the marriage between Princess Mary, and a suitable royal prince.”
“Henry will not allow it!”
“I know, but we must be seen to be taking the matter seriously,” Cromwell explains. “The French king will try to put forward a replacement for Katherine instead. You must seem to like the idea, but sidestep it.”
“You wish to keep France in our circle of friends?” Gardiner begins to understand. “Then you have another in mind. A Spanish princess, perhaps… or a German?”
“The situation is volatile, Stephen,” Cromwell replies. “Once Henry chooses, the rest of Europe will want our blood.”
“He will marry Anne Boleyn.”
“Perhaps.” Thomas Cromwell hopes not, and he prays the woman will surrender that which Henry craves, before any ill advised marriage takes place. There is far too much gossip about her and Percy, Wyatt has almost certainly had her, and several gentlemen of the court are too friendly for their own good.
He is tired of all the political chicanery, but must continue to support his view of what England requires. Then he shakes Gardiner’s hand, and escorts him to the front door.
“The world changes, my friend, and we must change with it. Today’s flight of fancy may well become tomorrow’s rightful queen, and the day afters discarded whore. Goodnight to you, Stephen.”
Rafe Sadler calls for a palanquin, and helps Richard Rich load the Earl of Surrey into it. The boy has his father’s overweening arrogance, but none of his wits, or head for strong drink. He will wake up tomorrow morning, unable to recall any of the long night’s events.
Suffolk hovers, wishing to bid a personal farewell to Cromwell, if only to assure himself of the man’s continued patronage. Sir Roger De Crecy lingers too. He owes ten thousand to Cromwell, and does not wish to offend him in any way.
Cromwell sees this. He crosses to them, uttering words of friendship, and reassurance. They must not worry about their overdue loans. The price of wool is going to go up another sixpence a bale, he tells them, and their vast flocks will be worth so much more. Another loan to tide them over until market day comes around again… why not? What are friends for, my dear Brandon? Come back another day, and he will have one of his young men broker a fresh deal, and calculate the current loan rate.
Tom Howard, the garrulous Duke of Norfolk, is amongst the very last to leave. He has cornered Rafe Sadler, and demands to know where the girl, Purity, has gone to. He has a mind to make himself known to her.
Rafe shrugs his shoulders, and explains that she has melted away, into the night. Norfolk frowns at this news, and offers a small bribe, but Sadler must, regretfully decline it. He really does not know where she will be.
“Damn your eyes, but that’s a waste,” he cries. “Never mind, take the coins anyway. It will help to keep you honest, my young friend. Plenty more little fish swimming in Old Father Thames, what?”
“My thanks to you, My Lord Norfolk,” Sadler bows.
“And a fond goodnight to you, Master Tom Cromwell, the blacksmith’s son … from the Bishop’s grand bastard!”
Cromwell bows, and waves the great man on his way. It is only when Eustace Chapuys, deep in a philosophical conversation with Adolphus Theophrasus, sets out to leave, that a niggling worm of doubt crawls into his mind. Something has been said. Something he should have picked up on earlier. He is too tired to pin down the elusive thought.
It is in the deepest part of the night that he comes suddenly awake, and curses. The Lord Chancellor was not half as angry as he should have been. The curtain is finally drawn aside, the shadows melt away, and he can see clearly, at last.
Sir Thomas More has fooled him.
15 A Worm in the Apple
That the most obvious course is often the right one, is a truth that Thomas Cromwell often pounds into his young men’s heads. It is easier to tell the truth, because a lie has to be remembered, and can often trip a man up.
“Stick as closely to the truth as you can,” he tells them. “If you must lie, make it small, and hide it in reality.” Now he sees that he has allowed himself to be fooled by a cleverer mind.
It is not that More is more intelligent, he is simply, in this instance, more devious. Cromwell accepts this, and realises that it is only because he has a scrap more morality than the Lord Chancellor. He rises, washes, and calls a council of war.
It is mid morning before Chapuys arrives, coming in with Will Draper’s pet doctor, who has stayed the night with the Spanish ambassador. Miriam and her husband are present, and Richard Cromwell is there, fresh from a huge breakfast. The council is complete when Rafe Sadler arrives in the library.
“Good day, Master Cromwell,” Adolphus Theophrasus says, taking the most comfortable looking chair. “Am I here in a professional capacity?”
“You are here for advice, sir,” Will says, handing him a mug of ale. “Pray sit, and listen.”
“I am beginning to worry a little, my dear Thomas,” Eustace Chapuys says. “Each time I visit you, it ends in some form of mayhem.”
“Then you will not be disappointed today,” Cromwell replies. He sits behind his desk, and steeples his fingers in thought. The strands of an idea are still forming in his mind, and he needs these people to assess that which he suspects.
“Are there more heads to break, uncle?”
“Perhaps. Sit, all of you, and let me explain.” He takes up a fine Venetian glass, and sips wine from it. “Last evening, we contrived to embarrass the Lord Chancellor, and force him to release a few persecuted friends. The price will be high. Sir Thomas will have noted down each of us, and will take his revenge… if we let him.”
“He cannot harm me,” Chapuys says.
“No?” Cromwell shakes his head. “He can tell Henry you hate Anne Boleyn, and he will have you recalled, in disgrace. The good doctor will find his papers are no longer in order. He might be revealed as a Jew, taken up, and burned at the stake.”
“Dear God!” Theophrasus exclaims. “This is the most barbaric nation on Earth, sir. Even the Turks leave you alone, if you pay them enough.”
“He will turn his scorn on me, and on my people,” Cromwell continues. “I will be turned out of office, and my young men forced to work for lesser men. Our fortunes will go, and some of us may face the axe. Do I make myself clear?”
“You do, sir,” Will Draper replies for them all. “I am minded of the old saying about dogs eating dogs. Sir Thomas is a beast, but we must be bigger and better dogs.”
“You mean to kill him?” Miriam asks.
“We dare not,” Cromwell tells her. “His people would continue to fight against us. In killing him now, we sew the seeds for our own demise.”
“Then what do you propose?” Chapuys is mortified, and fears for them all.
“What I have always intended,” says Cromwell. “We must undermine his position. Make him seem unfit for high office, and Henry will drop him, as he dropped Cardinal Wolsey. Once brought down, all More’s power will ebb away, and we will be safe
to continue with the great work.”
“What must we do?” Draper asks. He is a man of action, and wants to get at the enemy, as fast as possible.
“It is a slow process, and might take a couple of years,” his patron replies. “Let us ponder more immediate events. I knew something was wrong last night, but could not think what. Then it came to me in the small hours of the morning.”
“You speak in riddles, Master Cromwell,” Adolphus Theophrasus says. “What has disturbed your sleep so? There are powders I can prescribe.”
“He did not mind.” Cromwell looks from face to face. Only Miriam nods her head in understanding.
“The Lord Chancellor considers himself to be the finest intellect in all Christendom,” she says. “Yet he accepted the confusion of his plans far too easily.”
“Just so, Miriam,” Cromwell says. “He frowned, and growled a little. He even allowed us an easy victory over the prisoners he meant to torture, but he was not overly put out. He fooled me.”
“We won, Thomas,” Chapuys mutters, unable to understand.
“No. He did. He let us hint at the truth, and coerce him into the right path. In the middle of it all, he hid his great lie. He made us believe we have won, and his great plot goes on apace.”
“You mean the queen,” Chapuys says. “The danger to Her Majesty is not yet over?”
“The threat to Katherine was the only real thing about all this,” Cromwell replies. “We were meant to uncover the danger to the Pole family, and the attempt on your own life. More cared not if the plot succeeded, or failed. It was a trick, done with smoke and mirrors, my friends.”
“Then Katherine is still in danger?” Richard Cromwell asks.
“She has been under constant threat to her life from the outset.” Cromwell has stated the facts, and must now put forward a theory. “More has a plan that will remove Katherine, yet not arouse suspicion. He cannot be seen to have blood on his hands. The king will not countenance that which reflects badly on him. There will be a subtlety about it.”
“Then it will not be the knife from a dark corner,” Will Draper says. “Nor the garrotte. There can be no obvious signs of foul play. More knows that clever, independent minded men will view the body. Señor Chapuys will see the marks, and shout it from the very roof tops of his empire.”
“Correct.” Thomas Cromwell turns to look at Adolphus Theophrasus, who is sitting quietly, sipping his wine. “Well, sir?”
The doctor frowns, then puts his cup down. He composes himself, and prepares to give his opinion, but must clearly understand what is being asked of him.
“May I speak openly?”
“You are amongst friends,” Will Draper tells him. “This meeting is secret, and will never be alluded to outside this room.”
“Very well. Master Cromwell, are you asking me how I would murder the Queen of England?”
“I am.” Cromwell leans forward, directing every sense into what the man has to say.
“Poison.”
“Impossible!” Chapuys cries, and is waved into silence by Cromwell, who then plays devil’s advocate.
“The food is tested as it is cooked.”
“Then I would poison it afterwards.”
“Lady Maria de Salinas eats with the queen,” Cromwell explains. “Surely, she will sicken, and die too?”
“She would.” The doctor frowns again. “Does she drink?”
“Her Majesty enjoys red wine from her own country,” Chapuys tells him. “Spanish wine is the best in the world.”
“Does this Lady Maria woman drink too?”
“Usually.” Chapuys shakes his head. “The bottles come from the queen’s own cellar, and are not opened until they are on the dinner table. The task always falls to one of her body guards, or Lady Maria herself. Even I have performed the duty, on the odd occasion I have eaten with the queen.”
“Then there is no way her food, or drink can be poisoned,” Theophrasus says. “What about the water she washes in?”
“Scented with rose petals. Brought in each morning by a servant,” Will Draper reports.
“It might be poisoned. The doctor says it, but does not give it much credence. “The lady swallows a few drops as she washes her face and, after a few days, she falls sick.”
“I doubt the same servant brings the water each day,” Draper replies. “Besides, it is far too hit and miss. If I were More, I would want something foolproof. A way of poisoning the queen over a few weeks, that seems quite natural to the casual onlooker.”
“What might do that?” Cromwell asks.
“Arsenic can be administered in small, regular doses. It builds up, until the victim convulses, and dies. In the early stages, it might be mistaken for the sweating sickness, or even cholera, as the victim sweats profusely, and is constantly sick. Slow poisoning, over a period of a few weeks, might well escape being detected.”
“Anything else?” Cromwell demands.
“Lead.”
“Lead?” Miriam asks. She is surprised, as she has cosmetics made from white lead powder.
“Yes. It is poisonous in a large enough dose,” the doctor replies. “It is much slower than arsenic, but one can always increase the size of the dose.”
“Two terrible ways to die,” Chapuys says, “but we must discount both. How would they be administered? Besides, there are extra safeguards in place. The two Moroccan guards stand over the queen at all times, even when Dr. Vargas is examining her. Why, he even makes unannounced visits to the kitchens.”
“By the Body of Christ!” Thomas Cromwell lurches to his feet. “I see it all now, my friends. Let us drink to success, before I explain all.”
Everyone in the room drinks from cups, goblets or glasses, except Cromwell. He simply sits, and smiles.
“Master?” Will Draper cannot understand. “What is it?”
“Do you trust me, Will?”
“I do.”
“And you, my friends? Do you all trust me?”
There is a chorus of consent, and Cromwell nods his head, as if well satisfied. He stands, and walks over to his nephew.
“How are you, Richard?”
“Well enough, sir.”
“Really? That is odd, considering I have put poison in all the cups. In two minutes, you will all be dead!”
Eustace Chapuys lurches to his feet, clawing at his throat, as if he is in the last throws of his life.
“Impossible,” Miriam says, calmly. “I prepared the wine myself.”
“Of course you did,” Cromwell confesses. “I lied. You must see what I mean though?”
“I do,” Miriam replies. “Everyone trusts their doctor.”
“Especially one who goes out of his way to inspect your meals, and insists on administering medicine personally.” Cromwell looks to the doctor. “Well?”
“If it were I doing the poisoning, I would make everything I do seem as clear as day. I would express my concern about the chance of poison being used. Then I would demand extra checks on the kitchens, and even more rigorous searches of any visitors. Finally, I would prepare a potion.”
“A potion?”
“A sweet, honeyed syrup,” Theophrasus says. “Something that will go down easily. In each draft, I would put a tiny amount of arsenic. Over three or four weeks, the queen will sicken. It might be put down to the bad air, or women’s monthly troubles.”
“If the queen is ill, Lady Maria will call for her doctor,” Chapuys says. “The patient will be attended by her own murderer. Vargas is a sullen man, but I would never suspect him of so horrible a crime.”
“He is in More’s employ,” Cromwell reasons. “God alone knows why he would wish to kill his own queen. Can it be as simple as money?”
“I will find out his reasons,” Will Draper says. It is time for him to step up, and take his place on the stage. “All I need is access to Queen Katherine, when Vargas is there.”
“Can you arrange it?” Cromwell asks.
“I can,” Chapuys r
eplies. “It must be soon, for I have reports of the queen being ill these last couple of days. Lady Maria says the doctor is being most attentive.”
“I wonder how much Sir Thomas has promised the wretch?”
“Enough, I suspect.” Chapuys is thinking fast, and wonders how he could be so blind. “Vargas is bonded to the church, and would need a fortune to buy his freedom. He talks of returning to the south of Spain, where he can live out his own life without fear.”
“Fear?” Cromwell asks. “Fear of what?”
“Yes, I should have realised what he was telling me during his rambling reports. He comes from Granada, an area that, until recently was a Moorish emirate. Garcia grew up in a world of infidels. No wonder he is liked by the Moroccans.”
“Who probably do not suspect his wicked game,” Cromwell says. “You must get our man into the queen’s presence, Eustace, and you must do it today.”
“Arms are not allowed in the same room as either the king, or the queen,” Will says. “I must think how to get my sword into Katherine’s rooms.”
“Leave that to me,” Miriam tells the company. “I will contrive to get your sword in.”
“How?” Cromwell is unsure. Miriam is a woman of infinite ability, but spiriting a yard long German sword past a dozen household guards, and two armed Moroccans will be a difficult task.
“Trust me, Master Cromwell. This is woman’s work, and I will not let my husband down.”
“Then I will arrange a visit for us both, today,” Chapuys tells Will Draper.
“Best make the audience for three, Señor Chapuys,” the Greek doctor says, lumbering to his feet. “Unless either of you know the antidote for arsenic poisoning?”
Eustace Chapuys nods. He is fearful that they might be too late, and Vargas has administered enough poison to complete his task. Once more he curses himself for not realising that there was a worm in the apple. Vargas, for whatever motive, could affect the entire history of England with his one act of murder.
Cromwell issues a few words of advice, and lets his people go about their business. He has done all he can, and must wait now, to see who will come out on top. It worries him that More might have his way, and drive Henry into the arms of another Spanish princess.