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

by Anne Stevens

  “Is that all?” Anne snipes. “What a novelty, sister.”

  “And what does Henry kiss?” Mary can afford to be insolent to her sister. She knows all her secrets.

  “What I let him,” Anne replies, and they both start to giggle, like girls. She slips the new bauble onto her finger and displays it to her sister. “See, even the blacksmith’s boy knows my taste. Where is George?”

  “Our brother has gone off in a fury,” Mary says. The Captain’s skill with a sword made he and Edmund Conway look foolish.”

  “Then it’s as well Cromwell’s creature is back on the road,” Lady Anne decides. “Else he might come to some harm.”

  Will Draper retrieves his horse, and asks direction to the nearest inn. There is one in the town, he is told, with hot food and soft beds, for a man with enough silver in his purse.

  George Boleyn’s feelings are hurt, and he will not rest until the upstart from Cromwell has been taught a lesson. He is clever enough to know that he must not be involved, and details Edmund Conway to take four men and administer a beating.

  “For God’s Sake,” he says, “do not kill him. Cromwell may be a wounded animal, but he is not yet dead.”

  Edmund Conway has little stomach for the expedition, and delegates the task to a big bruiser; a sergeant at arms called Blackwell, who picks three ruffians who will follow orders for a shilling a piece. The sergeant charges Conway ten shillings, and he recovers twice as much again from Boleyn.

  Somewhere in all of this skulduggery, the level of chastisement has been mislaid, and four men, armed with daggers set off, intent on murder. When she hears, Lady Anne will be furious. A dead messenger is no use to anyone!

  “A shilling a night,” the inn keeper says. “Sixpence for a hot meal, and another florin, if you want your bed warmed. You’ll find either of my serving women ready to oblige.”

  “Just a bed,” Will tells him, and drops a silver shilling into the outstretched palm. “Is there a good fire?” The inn keeper nods towards a chair by the fire in the kitchen.

  “Warm yourself there, sir. I’ll have a girl take a pan of hot embers to your room. Drink?”

  “Why not?” Will is not a drinker, but a mug of decent beer will do no harm. It is then that the door bursts inwards, and a crowd of men rush in, shouting and brandishing knives. The inn keeper is wise enough to know when to slip away. Will is left alone with a quartet of men, with murder in their hearts.

  “We come with a message from Sir George Boleyn,” Blackwell sneers. “It is this, you worthless little shite…. Know thy place!”

  “He really called you worthless?” Thomas Cromwell is almost shaking with laughter. “Rafe! Come here, quickly. Captain Will Draper is in need of your advice.” He explains, with mock gravitas, what has occurred.

  “Four of them, you say?” Rafe rubs thumb and forefinger in the point of his sparse, ginger beard. “I would have gone to the Inns of Court and taken out a distrait against them, forbidding them from violence. Then issued a writ against the Boleyn fool.”

  “There speaks an honest lawyer’s man,” Cromwell wheezes, unable to contain his mirth. “Forebear, good sirs, Rafe would say, and let me issue you with legal papers!”

  “There was not time,” Will tells his new comrade. “I was somewhat pressed you see… and their daggers were drawn.”

  “God’s bollocks,” Cromwell says, regaining his sense of propriety. “He cut them into pieces, and sent the whole lot back to Esher Place.”

  “Then we must consider a plea of self defence,” Rafe says. He does not see the funny side of multiple murders, and seeks only how to deflect the King’s wrath.

  “Not the ruffians,” Cromwell tells his right hand man. “Their clothes. Will disarmed them, and made them go back, naked as Adam on his birthday.”

  “I cut up their clothing, so they might understand how cold a night it was.” Will is pleased that his master is amused. On the way back to London, he had wondered if his actions might cause a row. To find himself, suddenly faced with unhappy odds called for swift action.

  He recalls the speed with which he draws his sword, and scores its tip across an unwary wrist. The second man is more circumspect, but just as easily disarmed. The others drop their knives, and he sends them back to George Boleyn with a message of his own.

  I know my place, he tells them.

  “Imagine.” Cromwell has not laughed so much since the last time he met with the Cardinal. “Four bare arsed felons, hobbling back to Esher Place. I wager Boleyn was speechless with rage. Cromwell’s men have drawn first blood, Rafe. Now we must write to Lady Anne and placate her. Tell her Will is a shambling, Irish bog born devil, an ill mannered dolt, and sends his humble apologies to her brother.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then invite Thomas More to dinner tonight. Invite the French ambassador too. That should get things moving nicely. Who do we know who loves the Gospel, and can come at short notice?”

  “Paulus Grynt is over from the Netherlands,” Rafe advises. “He is known to have a kind word for Martin Luther, and hates idolatry.”

  “Invite him too. Seat him between the French ambassador, and More.” Cromwell is enjoying himself. A less harmonious set of dinner guests would be hard to conjure up, but he has his reasons. The knives will be out, once news of Wolsey’s death is abroad, and he wants them deflected from his back. “Serve up roast pork and pigeons with savoury sauces. They will argue all night, and hate each other for being so unyielding. If they fight one another, they might forget us, for a little while, at least.”

  “Shall we make arrangements?” Rafe asks.

  “To meet with Anne?” Cromwell considers how best to go about the delicate affair. It will not do to appear overly keen. “You say Mary Boleyn showed you some favour?”

  “She gave me her hand.” Will is sorry now that he mentioned it.

  “Do you have a sweetheart, Will?”

  “You should ask Barnaby about that,” Rafe tattles. “Our friend likes the exotic.”

  “Stop teasing, Rafe,” Cromwell tells him. “The captain is a fine figure of a man. Any young woman would swoon for him. Why not the Lady Mary Boleyn?”

  “You always say we should keep our plans as simple as possible, sir,” Rafe says. “Tangled love lives can become … unmanageable.”

  “They can.” Cromwell makes his mind up. “Will, you shall be the go-between. If, and mark my words well… if… Mary wishes to pass the time with you, look on her kindly. Make a note of all she says, and bring it back to me. Understood?”

  “Yes, Master Cromwell.” Perhaps, he thinks. His natural instinct is to protect women, not betray them. Strange then, that he felt nothing but coldness towards Lady Anne. He is dismissed, and leaves Rafe and Cromwell to make their plans. As he descends the steep stairs, he hears a final word from Thomas Cromwell.

  “Worthless, he said? Did Boleyn really think that?”

  Moll has been watered, and brushed down. She stands now, waiting for the next job, as does her master. Will finds her an apple in one of the stalls, and feeds it to her, piecemeal. He considers the events of the previous night, and recalls how afraid he was when they came at him.

  Instinct will keep you alive in the heat of battle, and he is grateful that they were poor sorts, more used to robbing drunkards, and beating weaker men. He makes a mental note to have his sword’s blade honed by a blacksmith. It now bears a slight nick where it bit into the lead man’s wrist. Perhaps he should have told Cromwell the full truth, but a half severed hand does not make for a mirthful story.

  5 The Doll Maker

  Will Draper is eating in Austin Friars large kitchen. He is not privy to much of the household business yet, and spends his enforced leisure sampling the cook’s wares. He is just biting into a thick slice of game pie when the boy, Gregory finds him.

  “It isn’t Christmas yet, Captain,” he grins. “You should save yourself for the feasting.”

  “You keep the season well then?” He s
tands, and reaches for his sword, left hanging by the roaring fire. One of the house’s many boys has oiled the scabbard until the worn leather is as good as new again.

  “Better than the king,” Gregory replies. “An invitation to stay at Austin Friars is usually accepted.”

  “Usually?”

  “With Cardinal Wolsey gone, my father’s real friends are few, but he marks them all down in his books. One for friends, and a thicker one for his enemies.”

  “Then I must stay in his good book,” Will says. The boy grins at the slight joke. It is no laughing matter to be in his father’s bad book, for once written, it takes a lot to have your name scratched out. “Am I wanted?”

  “Yes, Captain. My father is in his study. He wants you to find him a doll maker.”

  Will is not surprised. In the few days he has been in Cromwell’s service, he has learned not to be. Nothing is ever quite what it seems, and not one of Cromwell’s men can say they truly understand the workings of his unusual mind.

  “Ah, here is my wolf hound, my lord,” Cromwell says as he steps into the study. The small, well dressed visitor is not introduced. He looks Draper up and down, as if appraising a horse, or greyhound.

  “Is he up to the job?” Thomas Cromwell nods and smiles. He has since heard the full tale about Boleyn’s men, and now knows the scope of Will’s ability.

  “Captain Draper is my falcon, sir. He flies from my wrist, circles, and swoops with unerring aim. I have but to name the prey.”

  The man seems satisfied, but still warns Cromwell of the price to be paid for failure. Fail, and the king will hear of it.

  “And will he hear of it when we succeed?” Cromwell says, once the guest has left. “I think not, but we must do what we can.”

  “How can I serve you, sir?” Will thinks he is about to be charged with the commission of a murder.

  “I need you to find a person for me,” Cromwell says. “They are in London, and they make dolls.”

  “Dolls? Perhaps you should send one of the women down to the market in Putney. I hear anything is to be had there.”

  “These are not the sort of dolls one’s children plays with.” His master touches a small amulet at his throat. His own daughters are long dead, and he is reminded of it now. “We are talking about the black arts, Will. Do demons scare you?”

  “An Irishman with a longbow frightens me more,” he replies. “I think spells and ghosts are for old women to frighten children, sir. Are you troubled by a witch?”

  “A maker of dolls. I am informed that this person is claiming to be expert in the making of graven images. They make a doll from wax, and in your likeness. Then you pray to the devil, and harm the doll.”

  “I have heard of such creatures,” Will tells him. “In Ireland, every other woman claims to be a sorceress. The weak minded pay over their pennies to stop their neighbours cows giving milk, or for a love philtre to turn a young girl’s head.”

  “You should have been born Italian,” says Cromwell. “They believe in nothing, except the power of gold. It seems this particular doll maker is hawking a very special toy. For a fat purse of money, a doll will be fashioned in the shape of Lady Anne Boleyn.”

  “To what end?” Will is an unbeliever, so cannot understand why this matters. “Is Lady Anne afraid of this nonsense?”

  “She believes in witchcraft, and that, I believe, is the key,” Cromwell explains. “A certain lady might make it known that such a doll is being made, and that it will be used to destroy la Boleyn. If Anne hears of this, and believes it to be so, she may be harmed.”

  “Then let me seek out this doll maker, and dissuade them from their task.”

  “Oh, that it should be so simple.” Cromwell does not deal with ‘simple’ things. The lady, it transpires, is a cousin of the king; then who is not? Every aristocrat in England is a cousin to either a Tudor, or a Plantagenet. Lady Hurstmantle’s late husband’s first wife was from Wales, which is almost like being of the blood to Henry.

  “Duw yn achub ein heneidiau,” Will mutters, and receives a raised eyebrow from Cromwell, who asks, in Welsh, if he learned that in Ireland too. He smiles sheepishly, and confesses to a Welsh sojourn in earlier times.

  “Welsh and Latin,” Cromwell says. “Can we hope for a touch of Hebrew soon? It might be useful.”

  “I have a few words of French,” Will replies. “My Colonel fought with them for years, and often cursed me in the language.”

  Thomas Cromwell is a patient man, but time is money, so he gives a little cough to draw their attention back to the matter in hand.

  “The lady in question is a staunch supporter of Queen Katherine, and believes Anne is a heretic who will destroy the monarchy. She harbours this doll maker somewhere, and the magician is known to be under her protection. She will spread her story far and wide, until Anne is in terror. Then she will let it be known that on a certain day, at a certain time, the doll will be used, and Anne Boleyn will begin to sicken.”

  “It is important to let your victim know,” Rafe Sadler says, stepping from behind a carved wooden screen in the corner.

  “I could hear you breathing,” Will says. “You might want to practice holding your breath longer, Rafe. Ten minutes should do the trick.”

  Rafe smiles and gives a small, ironic bow. They spark off one another like stone flints striking, and enjoy the game.

  “One must know one is cursed,” he continues. “Else how can it work on your mind?”

  “Do we know where the doll maker is hidden?” Will is not hopeful of a favourable reply. If they knew that, the witch would already be chained up in a cell.

  “We rather thought the wolfhound might sniff her out.”

  “Where does this Lady Hurstmantle reside?”

  “Near Shoreditch.” Cromwell says. He has already lost interest in the matter, and is looking at some accounts on his desk. “Rafe will give you the details. Good day, gentlemen.”

  They go down stairs and visit the kitchen. There will, perhaps, be a cup of beer with a hot poker in it to scavenge. Someone is already there, being served with the standard bowl of hot broth and piece of twice baked bread. No one is ever turned away from Cromwell’s kitchen, for he still recalls his own hungry youth. The man’s head is bowed over the bowl, spooning the steaming broth into his mouth, but Will still recognises him.

  “Harry?” Is it you, Harry Cork?” The young man jumps up at the sound of his name, and bows.

  “Captain Draper! I am pleased to get so early an opportunity to thank you. Master Cromwell sent for me. I believe it is because you named me to him, in the matter of the Cardinal’s sad death.”

  “God bless his soul,” Rafe says, without irony. “Then you two are friends?”

  “I pray that Will thinks me so. When first we met, I drew my sword on him, and am lucky to still live!”

  “A good friend then,” Rafe says and laughs. “Have you seen my master yet?”

  “No, sir. I hope to be taken on by him.”

  “Rest happy, Master Cork, he would not have sent for you as a jest,” Rafe replies. “Knowledge of Wolsey’s death was most helpful to my master. If he likes your manner, he will find you something to do, even if it be cleaning privies!”

  “Even that is preferable to pandering to the Duke of Northumberland,” Cork says. “Harry Percy is a lout, sir, and he is not half of the man his father was.”

  Will pours out two tumblers of ale, and takes a poker from the fire. The drink steams, and they cross to a quiet corner. Rafe is, as ever, prepared. He gives directions to a Shoreditch house, and administers a few friendly warnings.

  “Do not wear Cromwell livery. Secrecy is important. Do nothing to physically harm the lady. The king will be annoyed. Do not get caught,” he says. “Else we might have to disown you publicly.“

  Will understands. Thomas Cromwell’s position is very delicate at the moment. If successful, it is Lady Anne who will be pleased, rather than Henry.

  Shoreditch is an odd mix
ture of fine houses and rows of filthy hovels, all jostling to find their own patch of sunshine. Lady Jane Hurstmantle’s house is a new, timber framed mansion, with red brick walls. Will finds a welcoming tavern a few yards from her front gate, and settles down to watch.

  He is about to order a room for the night, when the gates of Hurstmantle House open, and a coach rattles out. It turns left, and sets off towards Putney. It takes a few minutes to saddle Moll up again, but he is able to catch up with the slow moving vehicle in no time at all. The driver, Will sees, is armed. A short pike is propped beside him. A second man is sitting on the coach roof, holding a Genoese crossbow.

  The Genoese bow is slow to re-arm, but is accurate, and can pick a man off a horse at two hundred paces with ease. Will allows Moll to slow to a walk, and keeps his distance. The coach continues on its way, and one hour later arrives at a remote farmhouse.

  It is one of those fortified buildings most often found in lawless places like Wales, or the Scottish Borders. With enough warning, villagers can lock themselves inside, and defy an army. The style of building is falling out of use, now a well fired canon can be brought into play.

  The coach stops, and a portly, well dressed lady climbs out. Even from afar, Will can see she was once a beautiful woman. The coachman leaps down and escorts the woman to the great oak door. He knocks, and they are admitted. Will dismounts from Moll, creeps forward, and waits. It is almost night when the door opens again, and Lady Hurstmantle comes out.

  He is behind a bush, less than a dozen feet away, and can hear the conversation clearly. The woman is angry, and issuing dire threats against a skinny, long faced man, who nods and bobs at her every word.

  “I will bring it to you tomorrow,” he says. The accent is strange and his words are stilted. Will has not met many foreigners, so cannot hazard a guess as to his nationality.

  “Do that,” Lady Hurstmantle spits. “I will have the doll, or your head, Mijnheer!” The doll maker is a Dutchman. Will is taken aback. In the tales from his childhood, the black arts were always practiced by aged crones, with hooked noses, and besoms to fly on.