Winter King: Murder in Henry's Court (Tudor Crimes Book 1)

by Anne Stevens

  Winter King

  by

  Anne Stevens

  Murder in Henry’s Court

  © Tight Circle Publishing 2015

  Foreword

  All nations, should they wish to be considered as great, must be governed by leaders of true ability. Often, these great men came from humble beginnings, and rose to pre-eminence using not only their intelligence, but their native wit and cunning.

  Amongst the great men of England none have risen higher from the ranks, or become a greater statesman, than Thomas Wolsey. His climb to becoming King Henry VIII’s foremost minister of state is steady, yet, seemingly unstoppable.

  The Cardinal has guided his king from youth, to adulthood, through the bright years of promise, and scholarly achievement. He is always there, beside Christendom’s most beloved ruler.

  The years pass, and Henry’s private life turns him from Bluff King Hal, into a man of moods, and sudden angers. He is set on having a son, for his own sake, and for that of the realm. Queen Katherine is grown old, and it is unlikely she will provide an heir to the throne.

  Henry must have his way, and Wolsey seems unable to oblige him by arranging an annulment. Pope Clement baulks the Cardinal at every turn, until, at last, Henry has had enough. Wolsey is stripped of his titles, and finally, in 1530, his enemies feel strong enough to strike. The great man’s fall is spectacular.

  Lesser men must fill the gap left by the Cardinal, and a struggle for power is inevitable. It is a time when men of low birth can try and match the highest in the land, in a quest for their place in history. Some men will only serve, and others, like Thomas Cromwell, the Percy family, Norfolk, with his Howard clan, and the Duke of Suffolk, will use them ruthlessly.

  Henry’s ship of state is rudderless, and will flounder without a strong hand at the tiller. The King might rule by divine right, but needs strong men, soldiers, men of law, and clerics to support him. Once, it was all done by Wolsey, and the king regrets his passing, despite allowing it to come about.

  Even at the end, Wolsey cannot understand how he has failed his beloved master, and believes he will be forgiven. Having guided Henry through the Spring and Summer of his reign, the cleric fails to see that his unforgiving lord is changed for ever. He is now an altogether colder, more dangerous man. Henry is…. The Winter King.

  1 The Bounty Man

  The horse has been a fine acquisition for Captain Will Draper. Its broad, barrel chest and short, sturdy legs bar it from being fit for use in the lists, of course, but compensate for such a lordly shortcoming in every other way. The solidly framed Welsh Cob is, to the soldier’s mind, well worth the small danger to his life.

  The Welsh, ever a troublesome race, had become loyal to the crown, since the Tudors came to the English throne, with the odd exception. Now and then, some lesser lord, grown discontent with his five hundred acres, sheep, and ill fortified stone house, would foment local troubles, hoping to benefit from an old feud, or land dispute.

  The first Tudor Henry had been thrifty enough to stand down his paid armies, but shrewd enough to know that the odd rebellious Welshman would have to be dealt with. To counter these sporadic threats, Henry adopted the policy of offering a bounty to those willing to do the crown’s dirty work. The King thus avoided paying for a standing army, and had no need to find gold, except upon a satisfactory result. His son recognises the worth of his father’s actions, and continues the custom during his own reign.

  Men such as Will Draper are well enough suited by the casual arrangement and will band together, when necessary. Sometimes Will joins a bounty hunt with a few others, and hunts down miscreants for an equal share, and whatever goods they may plunder from the outlawed men. The tracking down of the better led bandit gangs often takes months, and usually ends in a bloody fight, often to the death. The life of a bounty hunter can be well rewarded, but brief, often ending with one’s own comrades dividing your meagre estate amongst the survivors.

  Will Draper knows all this, but it is what he can do. He can fight, and is wise enough to outthink the criminal mind. His time in Ireland has served him well.

  The latest foray sees Will Draper and seven other, similarly qualified, men set out to corner Owen Gryffid. and bring his marauding war band to book. The malcontent Welshman, with a dozen followers, had burned farms, raped and robbed, across the bleak centre of the principality for six, long months. Draper and his band almost give up hope… but only almost.

  The Welshmen are trapped now, in a narrow, snow filled valley, and, with reluctance, they turn to fight. Will dismounts from the sway backed, almost dead pony that had carried him across the mountains, and draws his sword. It is going to be a bloody morning’s work, and he is eager to have it done before the biting cold Welsh air freezes his lungs, and kills him.

  Owen Gryffid is tired too. He has run enough, and now he will fight. There is no other option open to him. He will charge at the head of his men, and try to break through to open ground, where they could scatter to the four winds. If that happens, Will thinks, six months work will be for nought. Will knows this, and so do the men who fan out on either side of him. Win, or die. A simple enough thing for desperate men to understand. It is no matter, either way. To let the Welshmen escape now, means slow starvation before Spring has a chance to arrive and warm their backs.

  Men who have fought in the heat of battle will tell how the shouting would stop after the first, headlong, rush. They will shake their heads, knowingly, and explain that you needed all your breath just to stay alive. A seasoned fighter will always stand his ground, and set about his bloody business in near silence.

  Though outnumbered, Will’s party are stronger, better fed, and better armed. Two of his number have clumsy crossbows, and the Welsh hang back until they discharge their quarrels to no effect. The bolts fly harmlessly over the outlaws heads. Then they are at each other in true earnest. Steel bites into steel, and rips through flesh and bone, filling the narrow valley with the sound, and the sickly scent of death. It is a brutal and bloody morning‘s work, as Draper and his men fight for their prize; a shared bounty of twenty pounds.

  The Welshmen know that there will be no quarter given, and fight like demons against the battle hardened veterans. To lay down your arms means either a dagger thrust, and swift death, or surrender, and the gallows at the next court sessions. The two sides, armed with swords, daggers and axes, lay into one another with a vigour that soon leaves dead and wounded, spilling their blood onto the virgin white snow.

  Will Draper knows his business well and, armed with sword and knife, parries and cuts with cold precision. Beside him, Tam Shaw loses his footing on the ice, and takes a savage sword slash that bites deep into neck and sinew. Even as he dies, Will Draper thrusts his own blade into the killer’s throat. The man staggers back, clawing at the jagged rip, trying to hold in his own precious blood.

  The Englishman takes the force of an axe blow on his knife hilt, and ripostes, plunging a foot of tempered steel into an unguarded chest. He twists the sword free and turns to face the next man. The Welsh fight well, and have numbers on their side, but they are badly disciplined, and can not hold their ranks. Slowly, they are forced back to the head of the valley, stumbling over their own dead, where they finally break, and try to run for their lives. Draper’s fellow bounty hunters have lost two of their own number, and are not in any mood to show mercy as they press home the attack. One Welshman, a boy of, perhaps fifteen, drops his sword, and manages to cross himself, just as he is hacked to the ground.

  Owen Gryffid, the petty lord of some misbegotten, muddy, valley, realises the da
y is lost. He doesn’t wish to die with his men, so leaps onto his horse, and tries to ride clear of the bloody carnage. Will Draper sees. It was to be expected. The horse, thunders towards him, and he drops into a crouch. The whole bounty is there, within the one man, and to let him escape will be disaster for them all.

  The Welshman is carrying a heavy double edged axe, and will swing it with devastating effect at the Englishman, unless he jumps out of his path. Will waits until the charging man is almost on him, thrusts his blade up, and rolls to one side. The horses flying hooves miss crushing his scull by a hairs breadth. It gallops on for a few more yards, until the Welshman slides sideways, and falls to the snow covered ground. The Englishman’s blade has taken him under the right armpit, and is still in place as he lands.

  Will Draper runs towards his fallen enemy, switching his knife from left to right hand with practiced ease. He catches a handful of the man’s long, matted hair, draws the head back, and delivers a swift, killing blow into his throat. Owen Gryffid’s blood gushes, warming his killer’s fist. Behind him, Will knows, his surviving comrades are already stripping the corpses, stealing the better boots, and searching for any concealed coins.

  “The horse is mine,” he calls. The nearest man looks up from the body he is robbing, and assesses the Welsh Cob’s value. In six months, it is the most he has heard the quiet Englishman utter, other than a terse observation on the weather, or a brief opinion as to which trail to follow for the best.

  “Take it, Will, but what about the saddle bags?”

  “I’ll forgo my share of whatever they hold, John Morton,” he replies, wiping his twin blades clean in the snow. “And I will undertake the trip to Ludlow for the bounty.”

  “Then I say you have a deal,” John Morton says, stunned at his friend‘s sudden loquacity. “Lodge our shares with Hal of Ludlow, the money changer who holds court by the cathedral.”

  The other four survivors all nod their approval. Will Draper is as honest a man as they could wish for, and will do just as they ask of him, but no more. The sturdy horse is not worth arguing about. Their comrade agrees to deliver the required proof, the severed head of Owen Gryffid, to the High Sherriff, as required, and receive the twenty pound bounty. He will leave their portions with Hal of Ludlow, who acts as an informal banker for the border shires, and be on his way.

  John Morton might miss the young man. They had served together in Ireland, and ridden bounty on a half dozen outlaws during the last six months, but Will wants to move on. England, he says, during a rare moment of discourse, is a large kingdom, and he wants to see more of it. The horse, Morton supposes, will make that possible.

  “May that sturdy beast carry you far, Will,” he says. The younger man sheaths his sword and slips the long, narrow bladed knife back into the straps on his wrist. It is Spanish made, and cost him a month’s wage in Dublin.

  “Here, tie the proof up in his cloak,” he suggests. “It’s ruined with blood, and will not fetch any sort of price.”

  “May God be with you, brother,” one of the other bounty men calls. Will acknowledges the sincerity of the man with a curt nod. He has as little time for God, as the creator of mankind has for him. If Will Draper had his way, their paths would never cross again.

  As a youth of seventeen, he had prayed in the village church for the sickness to leave his family be, and had watched, impotently, as first his parents, and then his brother and three sisters died. The priest commended them all to God’s good grace, after demanding a fee. Without the priest’s blessing, the man of God explained. his family would spend all eternity suffering the torments of purgatory.

  Will Draper had already decided to leave the village. There was war in Ireland, he’d heard, and willing young men might do well to enlist in King Henry’s army. So he paid the priest with his last pennies, and had him mumble his badly flawed Latin over the new graves.

  The priest was the bastard son of a nobleman in Yorkshire, who had been given the parish to keep him from under his father’s feet. Even the lowest of Baron’s did not like to be reminded of their indiscretions, and a bought parish was a cheap option for a sinful lord.

  Father De Forest arrived in the village at the height of the fever, and had locked himself away in one of the church’s cottages, with a woman he had picked up in Lincoln, and who he claimed as his housekeeper. God, Will thought, moves in mysterious ways.

  In the night, he crept into the priest’s house, cut his throat, and retrieved his money. Escape from Purgatory was not to be bought with a few coins, Will decided.

  He took the man’s mule and, having heard that troops were embarking from the Welsh coast, he set off on a thirty mile journey through outlaw infested land. He is a strong youth, and well armed, so concludes his journey without mishap.

  He enlists without a problem. The king is not fussy these days, he is told. As long as you can use a sword, you are in. The sea is the worst part, churning and roaring until every man is sick to death. The boat, rat infested, and leaking like a sieve, gets them safely to port. Dublin is a shit hole, and the finest part of the country.

  The Irish war proves to be little more than a lot of marching through fever infested bogs, and ruthless skirmishes with wild haired men, intent on strike and run tactics that infuriate the troops. It is Will who suggests a clever ruse. The rebels never attack unless in superior force. He suggests sending out a dozen men on foot, to patrol the road west. A troop of horse follow on. It works, and a score of the Irish are killed in the first ambush.

  Over and over, the trick works. Soon, the men are deferring to Will Draper, relying on his good sense, and sharp wits. It is not long before the colonel of the regiment begins to hear good reports of his new recruit, and sends for him.

  Will’s ability to read, and write neatly, astounds his commanding officer, who holds firmly to the belief that literacy is for cunning priests, and clever lawyers. Gentlemen have no need for such tricks.

  “You don’t look like much of a priest,” Colonel Foulkes says, once the strange thing is brought to his attention. “Damn me, but I wager your father was a man of law. God strike them all!”

  “The old priest taught me,” Will explains, referring to the mild old man who had served the village until his successor came, and had been like a grandfather to him, “He showed me how to write letters, and made me do my numbers.”

  “Then you can keep accounts,” the Colonel decides. “Sergeant at Arms, where the devil are you, man? Give this fellow a stripe and set him to work on the regimental accounts. The King will only pay for what I can prove. God save his majesty, but he is beset by penny pinching men of law. This damned war is costing me dear.”

  So it comes to pass that Will Draper is the regimental clerk. He sits down with a great ledger, and begins to unravel the cipher-like scrawls of officers demands for new boots, fresh arms and horses. After a few hours, it begins to make sense, and he is able to draw up a rough, but accurate set of single entry accounts. By the second day, he has worked out a way of making the regiment a profit. It is almost legal.

  “It’s the horses, sir,” he explains, pointing to a long column of figures. The Colonel nods sagely, unable to comprehend the neatly drawn up entries. “A chit comes in, requesting fresh mounts. We buy them, and issue them as required.”

  “Is this important, Draper?” Colonel Foulkes asks. “My dinner, for what it’s worth, is growing cold.”

  “We should appoint a single agent to buy horses, sir,” Will explains. “He will buy them at say, two pounds a piece, and sell them on to the regiment at fifty shillings a head. You then bill the crown for them at fifty shillings, and our agent returns eight shillings to us. He makes two shillings per horse, and we make eight shillings. The King, God save him, can pay fifty shillings, I’m sure.”

  “Dear God, but I ought to hang you for such an outrageous suggestion, Draper. Will it work?”

  “With all sorts of things, sir,” Will replies. “Providing the papers exist to show the purc
hase, it is all legal. We could do it with fodder, boots for the men, and general rations.”

  “How much would this make… for the regiment?”

  “Perhaps fifty pounds a month.”

  “Free and clear?”

  “As the wind, sir.” Will closes his ledger with a snap. He senses that a deal has been done. “I trust you will take the extra funds into your safe keeping?”

  “Of course.” Colonel Foulkes is not quick witted, and he must think it through for a moment. At last, he speaks again. “And what about you, Will Draper? How can I trust you?”

  “That’s easy enough, Colonel. Make me the regimental procurement agent.”

  “Why?”

  “Because my one fifth part will allow me to support my new rank.”

  “A new rank, corporal?”

  “Yes, sir. A regimental procurement officer must have a more suitable rank. Something substantial, I think. Captain would do well enough.”

  “Get out,” Foulkes growls, but it turns into a chuckle. “I shall expect to see you but once a month. Is that understood… Captain Draper?”

  Will bows, and leaves the tent. He has much work to do, and the regiment is in sore need of supplies.

  Three years in Ireland make Will Draper into a hard, capable fighting man; a man of some fortune. By the time he is twenty one, he had amassed over four hundred pounds, and is ready to lead the life of a gentleman. The money, wisely invested with the Lombard banker, Arturo Galti, in the city of Chester, should bring in enough for him to keep a fine house, and a hundred acres of good sheep land.

  Will resigns his commission, bids his friends farewell, and returns to England. His arrival in Chester is inauspicious. He finds the banking house of Arturo Galti closed, with boards nailed up at all of the windows. A vague disquiet invades his heart, and he is forced to inquire with a neighbour.