by V. E. Lynne
“But we should fear him, sir, and all those of the White Rose,” Sir Ralph Sadler said gravely. “They are the last of the Plantagenets and they wear the badge of their ancestry with conspicuous pride. They still entertain designs upon the throne, why they would like nothing better than to marry their man Reginald Pole to the Lady Mary, ‘cardinal’ or not. I wager that such a nicety as his holy orders would not stand in their way for long. Then the two of them would take the crown.”
“Indeed not, as such niceties as being a cardinal can be so easily overlooked these days,” Sir William Kingston commented quietly, earning him a sharp look from Wriothesley.
“Cardinal Pole?” Sir Richard perked up at the name. “Exeter and his adherents, Carew and Neville mainly, do sometimes talk of him. They praise his intellectual abilities and they wish, somewhat nostalgically, that he was able to come home.”
Cromwell glanced up from his plate of larks, a quizzical smile on his face. “Do they? Ah, that is right, Sir Richard, you are an acquaintance of the marquess and his circle, I had quite forgotten. Tell me, what else do they say of the good cardinal? I would be fascinated to find out.”
Bridget could see the flash of steel shimmering under Cromwell’s mask of sociability and, under the table, she tapped her husband’s knee, but he either did not notice or paid it no heed. Delighted to find that he was the cynosure of attention, he answered the question with blithe alacrity. “Well,” he began, “the marquess laments that his kinsman, the cardinal, ‘the greatest scholar in Christendom,’ as he calls him, cannot return to these shores because the king hates him more than any man living and, as a consequence of that, has come to hate all the Pole family. They are all most bitter about it.”
“Bitter are they? Well, it is their own fault! The king has good reason to hate Pole,” Sir Richard Rich exclaimed. “Do you know how their beloved cardinal, the great scholar, obtained his fine education? It was at the expense of the king! And do you know how he repaid the king for that generosity? He gleefully and traitorously threw it all back in his face with that blasted treatise he wrote. What was it called again?”
Cromwell cleared his throat. “Pro Unitatis Ecclesiasticae Unitatis Defensione,” he intoned, the long Latin title tripping easily off his tongue.
“More commonly known as De Unitate” Sir Ralph Sadler said, and Sir Richard Rich slapped the table in disgusted remembrance.
“That is the very one, De Unitate,” he sneered. “Writing that piece of filth was how Pole chose to utilise the education he had been so selflessly given by our king! He fashioned his dearly bought words into weapons and attacked His Majesty with them. He showered him in opprobrium and calumny, and held him up to be made a mock and a jeer of throughout Europe. I do agree with Exeter and his companions though on one point: I also wish that he would come back to England, so he could be racked for what he has done. I would turn the handle myself and I would savour every moment of it.”
Sir Richard Rich was so furious that he shook. He had to take several draughts of wine to calm himself.
“Oh, come now, Rich, do not distress yourself so,” Cromwell soothed. “You are thinking of this in entirely the wrong way. Cardinal Pole never did a better day’s work than when he wrote his little book, and mercifully it is little, as all good books are. For within its pages, Master Reginald sets out everything that he thinks, everything that is in his heart. We find out that he considers our king to be a monstrous ruler, a lecher, a poor father and a ‘worse enemy of the Faith and a greater heretic than any in Germany.’ He even goes so far as to say that the kingdom should be removed from the king’s control. All this he puts down on paper, plain as day, for all the world to see. I do so love it when people will insist on doing that—it is as if they wish to provide their own rope for the hangman to string them up with. Tell me, Sir Richard, have you ever had occasion to read De Unitate? Perhaps the marquess gave you a copy to peruse?”
Sir Richard, realising he had fallen headlong into the most perilous of waters, stared down at the partially eaten contents of his plate, as if the right thing to say might somehow lie mouldering miraculously amongst its tepid remains, if only he looked hard enough. He went to take up his cup of wine, but his hand trembled so much that he could not manage so much as a sip. Clearly, he was largely unfamiliar with the history of Cardinal Reginald Pole, not to mention his published works, and regretted bitterly ever opening his mouth on the subject. But it was too late for that. Cromwell had him in his sights and would not let him escape so easily.
“I will take your silence as a no,” Cromwell said. “It is no matter. We cannot all be scholars. I recommend the document to you, if it ever passes your way. Do you have anything else to report of Exeter’s conversations? You have been most illuminating so far.”
“Oh, no, my lord,” Sir Richard stammered. “They speak mostly of the cardinal, really, and sometimes of yourself—they do call you a ‘knave’ and a ‘cur’ and much else . . .” Bridget closed her eyes. “But Master Wriothesley already told you that. I can add nothing else. But I am sure,” he leaned forward, “I am sure they do not truly mean to be insulting or to belittle you, Lord Cromwell. They are great men, born to old families, and they are used to speaking their minds when perhaps . . . they should not,” he finished lamely.
Cromwell swirled the contents of his cup before swallowing it down in one gulp. “Hmm, you do raise a good point, Sir Richard. Many people, both high born and low, suffer from the problem of possessing an ungovernable tongue. It has led lesser men than those good gentlemen into a great deal of adversity for which the only cure is a sharp one. Let us hope that those gentlemen may avoid such a circumstance.”
Sir Richard, a nerve in his right eyelid jumping, was saved from making any further comment by the appearance of a team of waiters at the hall door. They carried an imposing confection, made from marchpane, and fashioned to resemble Cromwell’s house. They bore it in with great ceremony and set it down in the centre of the table to the general acclaim of the guests. They set about cutting it, with a long, wickedly sharpened knife, and then passed the first piece to their master, but he politely baulked and directed them to offer it instead to Sir Richard. He accepted the offer with subdued grace and carefully placed a morsel, a delicately shaped section of roof, in his mouth. He bit down with a smile, though he appeared as if he had never felt less like smiling in his life. Cromwell watched him chew and applauded as he finished. The rest of the guests then received their portions and they all set about eating them with gusto.
Cromwell, though, did not. His eyes trained themselves on Bridget, and she forced herself to meet them. The look he threw her way, as she took her first, unwilling bite into the marchpane, was as hard and as unforgiving as nails.
Chapter Eleven
The first that Bridget and Joanna knew of the fight, the first sign that alerted them to trouble, was the shouting. They were back at court, this time at Whitehall, having returned there with Sir Richard, whose experience at the Austin Friars dinner had left him pensive and edgy. His response had been to stick as close by the king’s side as he could and to avoid the company of Exeter and his followers entirely. He seemed to think that, by doing so, he was demonstrating his fealty to the crown. He had also taken to sporting a new black velvet doublet, sewn all over with Tudor roses. He was literally wearing his loyalty on his sleeve. Subtlety was most assuredly not his strong suit.
Her husband’s anxiety over how his loyalties were being perceived was the foremost problem in Bridget’s mind, as she and Joanna wound their way through the labyrinthine palace corridors, hunting out the source of the noise. Had Sir Richard, deeming it insufficient to swathe himself in the symbol of the ruling dynasty, decided he needed to further prove it with his fists instead? There had been all that talk at the dinner of the tensions that were rising between various noblemen’s entourages. A laugh bubbled up in her throat at the thought of her fifty-four-year-old spouse fighting in his shirt with the young bucks of the cour
t, taking on all comers. Then she reconsidered her mirth. Violence ‘within the verge’ of the court, the verge constituting an area twelve miles from the person of the king, was a serious matter. Others had been punished, and severely, for much less.
Apprehension had therefore replaced amusement as she and Joanna emerged into a courtyard, one of the many at Whitehall, and found they had discovered the source of the disturbance. About forty gentlemen, their jackets discarded, were to be found there brawling, the sickening sound of flesh meeting flesh in seemingly mortal combat echoing off the enclosing walls. Bridget grabbed Joanna’s arm and pulled her back into the shadows of the archway just as a man fell onto the stones before them, his jaw hanging at an odd angle. Bridget desperately scanned the warring parties for sight of her husband but, fortunately, he was nowhere to be seen. The main combatants seemed to comprise two groups: the retainers of Sir Gavin Carew, brother of the king’s Master of Horse Sir Nicholas, and one of the household serjeants, whose identity was unknown to her. Whoever he was, he was putting up a manful struggle whilst at the same time being badly wounded. Behind him, a group of men leant anxiously over a fallen figure, who lay dreadfully still. One of the men stood up straight and turned around, his eyes blazing with rage. It was Will.
“They have killed him!” he roared, and with that, he, and others of Lord Cromwell’s affinity who had joined in the fray, launched themselves at Carew’s men. Carew turned and started to fight Will.
“God above, where are the guards? Why does nobody put a stop to this?” Bridget cried. “This is turning into a riot.” She grasped Joanna’s hand and said, “Go and find Lord Cromwell. You know the direction of his quarters?” Joanna nodded. “His own men are now involved in this, not to mention one of the king’s serjeants at arms; perhaps, he can reassert some semblance of order over this chaos. Go, quickly.” Joanna took off at a run.
In the meantime, Sir Gavin Carew had stopped brawling with Will and returned to his original assault on the serjeant, whose injuries had caused him to fall to the ground. Cromwell’s men came to the serjeant’s aid, and a fresh fight was just breaking out when, at last, a contingent of the guard arrived. They ran in with halberds at the ready, and many of the men scattered at the first sight of them. Carew however refused to retreat and stood his ground; he was eventually overpowered, though not without a struggle. In the end, he was dragged away, loudly protesting his innocence.
Once their master had been taken, Carew’s men took to their heels and Cromwell’s followers gave chase. A few remained to assist the incapacitated serjeant and also to stand sentry by the dead man, whose blood now stained a wide area of the cobbles. In the distance, the sound of renewed brawling floated out over the courtyard. The unrest must have spread as more men heard of it and came forward to throw themselves into the fray, no doubt seeing it as their chance to settle some long simmering scores.
Will had gotten to his feet, but he could barely keep his balance. He was favouring his right side, and pain was etched all over his face. Bridget had kept herself out of harm’s way, but she was not prepared to be a bystander any longer. Regardless of the proprieties, she made a sudden decision and went to him. “What is it?” she asked urgently. “Are you bleeding? Have you been stabbed? Let me help you.”
“My lady, you should not be here!” Will managed between ragged breaths. “This is no place for you. Trouble could start up again at any time, and I will not have you caught up in it. Besides, there is naught wrong with me, I am perfectly fine. I just fell awkwardly, that is all.” He tried to prove this assertion by walking away, but he could complete only a few steps before Bridget was forced to grab him round his waist to prevent him from collapsing.
“Fine, is it? I don’t think so.” She pressed her hand to his side, and he flinched. Happily she could see no blood when she pulled her hand away.
“There is no blood, so I do not think you have been stabbed, but clearly you are injured. Come on, we must get you away from here. I will assist you, and do not concern yourself with the proper decencies. There is no time for that. It sounds like the riot may be heading this way again and you, more than me, cannot afford to become embroiled in it again. Now then, let me take your weight.” He made a feeble attempt at an argument, but he was in no fit state to mount one and conceded almost as soon as he began. He leant on Bridget and allowed her to lead him, with careful steps, away from the courtyard.
He was muscular and therefore heavy, and Bridget’s arms screamed with the effort to keep him upright, but she did not dare to stop and rest. She had to get him back to the de Bretts’ lodgings as quickly as possible. Eventually, after a struggle, they reached the rooms and Will could not help but slump into a chair as soon as they were inside. Bridget hurriedly poured him a cup of wine, and he drank it down as though he were a man dying of thirst in the desert.
“Take off your jacket,” she ordered, her tone brisk and business-like. “I need to see what damage has been done.”
“No, Bridget,” Will replied with as much conviction as he could summon up. “We must observe at least some modesty here. You are another man’s wife, and you cannot aid me in that way. It is bad enough that you had to drag me in here, to the quarters you share with your husband. I just pray that we were not seen in all the confusion. I thank you for your assistance, but now I have had that wine, I am feeling much restored. I must return to my men.”
He got up and made it to the door before he almost buckled against the frame. Bridget pulled him up and virtually carried him, with difficulty, back to the chair. She shoved him unceremoniously into it, braced her weight on the carved armrests and looked him in the eye. “I have never said this to you before, and perhaps I should have long before now, but shut your mouth. Sit there, keep quiet and let me do this.”
She began to remove his jacket, and Will, meekly following orders, allowed her to do so without further objection. She carefully slid the partially torn material off his shoulders and placed it to one side. “Right, now this.” She nodded toward his shirt, and with a sigh, he quickly pulled the sweat-soaked cambric up and over his head, clenching his jaw against the fresh burst of pain as he did so. Once it was completely off, Bridget was able to properly assess the extent of his injuries. Mercifully he had sustained no deep cuts to his arms, chest or torso, but he had suffered numerous abrasions, and deep bruises were already forming in several places. She gently ran her hands over his ribs and he jumped at her touch. His skin was hot and slick with sweat from the exertion of the fight, and she could feel his heart beating strongly beneath her palm. After a moment, he lay his own hand over hers and held it in place, as if he wished to imprint the feel of her onto his skin. She closed her eyes against the answering wave of heat that ran right through her.
“It is possible your ribs are only bruised,” she rasped, “but they may be broken. Either way they need to be bound. I will do this for you now; it will greatly ease your discomfort.” Will protested, but Bridget had already broken away from him, fetched a length of cloth and had set about fashioning it into a makeshift bandage. “Stand up” she said, her voice now under more control. “It will not take more than a minute to accomplish the binding. Then you may return to your men.”
She was true to her word - she wound the cloth speedily around his body, pulling it as tight as he could bear it, whilst trying to ignore the rise and fall of his powerful chest. Will’s eyes followed the movement of her hands and a rapid pulse beat strongly in his throat. In an attempt to distract themselves from their close, physical proximity, Bridget asked him about the genesis of the brawl.
“You spoke of friction with Carew’s men when Sir Richard and I dined at Austin Friars. Long standing rivalries and hatreds were mentioned. Is that the true cause of the friction? If so, these rivalries must run very deep, for we all know what a serious business it is to commit violence within the verge of the court, especially for gentlemen of the king’s privy chamber. You could all lose your places over this.”
&nbs
p; “That won’t happen, at least not for me” Will answered confidently. “The king knows how things stand. As we spoke about at Lord Cromwell’s residence, tensions have been festering between the entourages of several lords for some time and they finally spilled over a few weeks back when one of Lord Hertford’s men killed a man in a duel. He fled into sanctuary at Westminster Abbey. The Earl of Southampton’s men then got involved in a fight, in which another man was slain, and now Sir Gavin Carew has entered the fray. He and his men caused the death of that yeoman, whose body you saw spread out upon the cobbles, and God knows what else they may have done by now. The violence will have spread, and every man who has ever bitten his thumb at another will be looking for revenge.”
“But why? Is it just because of Lord Hertford’s man and the duel? There must be more than that.” Bridget finished binding Will’s ribs and handed his shirt to him. He hastily put it back on, only flinching once as he drew it down carefully over his newly bandaged body.
“There is. There are always rivalries between opposing groups of retainers at court, usually because their masters belong to different factions and are at loggerheads over something or other. Most of the time it can be managed but some of these enmities have been heightened recently due to the state of the king’s health. It’s his leg—it is bad again.”
The king’s leg was fast becoming the bane of his existence, ever since the day he had fallen so heavily from his horse in the tiltyard at Greenwich. Bridget well remembered the incident. Queen Anne, then pregnant, had been visited by her uncle the Duke of Norfolk and told that the king had fallen and was unconscious. In a state of great anxiety, she had ordered Bridget to go down to the tournament ground and find out for her what was going on. It was while she was standing outside the king’s tent that Bridget had first met Will. And Cromwell. She had been the one to give the queen the welcome news that the king had survived his fall. She had also borne witness to the queen’s miscarriage just a few days later. Yes, she recalled that day very well; it had been a momentous one for many people, not just the king.