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

by Anne Stevens

  “Would they consent?”

  “They best had,” Cromwell says, “Or your uncle Norfolk will tear into them. Besides, the best part of them owe me money, or loyalty for favours past. Do you see the cleverness of it?”

  “Explain… for George’s sake,” Anne replies.

  “The King will apart from the process. He will have nothing to do with it. Parliament will enact laws that enable them to instruct the King in his duty.”

  “Instruct?”

  “Yes. They will tell the King that his duty is to produce male heirs, and that he must bow to their desire. They will force him to divorce Katherine… much against his will. Then, there it is. He is a single man once more, free of all blame. He can marry your sister, without a blemish on his conscience.”

  “The church will never allow it!”

  “The church? Oh, didn’t I mention them before?” Cromwell rubs his chin. “I shall show Henry how corrupt they are. He will examine the documentary evidence from the commissions we will set up, and ask what can we do? Parliament will enact laws, putting the monasteries and abbeys under the King’s rule. Henry will become head of the church, and the Roman church will be broken. A broken marriage, and a broken church. That is why I say it will take a couple of years, Lady Anne.”

  “With Henry as head of the English church, we might see a more open approach to new ideas.”

  “Yes, Lady Anne, an English bible in every pulpit,” Cromwell says. He knows Anne’s thoughts in this.

  “I will commend you to Henry at every opportunity,” Anne says.

  “Too kind, my lady.” Cromwell is pleased with the interview, and will make a written account of it later. His memory is prodigious. He is bowing himself from the room when George Boleyn’s meagre brain splutters into action.

  “You mentioned money. A fortune, you say?”

  “Do not concern yourself about the trivia, my dear Earl Rochford,” Cromwell replies. “Captain Draper and I are already in negotiation with a powerful overseas bank.”

  “Your man does not strike me as much of a banker, Master Cromwell,” Anne Boleyn says. “Can he even count?”

  “Yes, my lady, he can.” Cromwell is amused. “In Ireland, they say he had to learn his numbers, so he could count the dead men on his sword. One day, you will need him to count for you, my lady.”

  They leave, and Will Draper is red faced. Master Cromwell is taking liberties with his reputation, making out that he is a murderous monster who has killed half of Ireland.

  “I apologise for my exaggeration, Will,” Cromwell says. “It is just the one you have killed for me, is it?”

  “Rafe says it is always self defence…. If I am in your service.”

  “Rafe is a good lawyer. He could prove you are the King of Bohemia, if he wishes.” He looks towards the end of the corridor. There are two guards at the outer court’s doors. “Come, let’s see if there are any great men paying court.” As they pass the guards, who nod to him in a friendly way, he cannot resist it. He cries out: “Make way, make way for the King of Bohemia!”

  The outer court is occupied by a few of King Henry’s older hangers on. Norfolk is dozing on a stool in one corner. Henry is off sweating in his enclosed tennis court, and servants are taking the time to rebuild fires, rearrange furniture and sweep out the old rushes. In the opposite corner to Norfolk, an old man is trying to make himself as invisible as possible.

  “Introduce me, Captain Glover.” Cromwell crosses to the old man and doffs his feathered hat. Will is uncomfortable. He realises now why he has been brought along.

  “Sir, may I name my master, Thomas Cromwell to you. Master Cromwell, may I introduce you to Master Isaac ben Mordecai… a Spanish gentleman. He is a banker from…Toledo.”

  “Young Miriam’s grandfather?” Cromwell shakes the man’s hand, and looks as though he has found a long lost brother. “A fine young woman. My young friend speaks highly of her beauty, and of her amazing intelligence.”

  “Thank you, sir. I have heard of a Cromwell. A lawyer, they tell me. A man who can count the loose change in your purse, without need of it being opened. They say he recently took a great fall, along with a certain Cardinal.”

  “You have been talking to Sir Thomas More, I fear,” Cromwell says, sitting beside the banker. “My fall was but a stumble. I tripped, but fell into the arms of a great lady. A lady who will one day be above all others.”

  “Ah.” Isaac ben Mordecai stroked his beard, cut in the Spanish fashion. “I hear cats have the same ability, Master Cromwell. Drop them from a height, and they land on their feet. Have you come to see King Henry?”

  “I come to see you, sir,” Cromwell replies. “Forgive my crude approach. Normally I would send a gift of wine or fine food… or perhaps a small jewel… to smooth my way, but this matter is urgent, I fear.”

  “You intrigue me.” The elderly Jew could as easily have used the word ‘frighten’ instead. When powerful men seek out wealthy Jews, it seldom ends well for the Hebrew part of the bargain. “What can I do for you?”

  “Nothing. It is the other way around.” Cromwell glances across at Norfolk. He is snoring like a pig. “The King has use of you… no, don’t deny it. Time is too short. I have a boy in your house who is in my employ. This will draw attention to you. Men will wonder what your business is with Henry, and some will resent you for it. Then they will look past your Spanish papers, and say ‘ah, a Jew is amongst us.’ Then they will wish you dead.”

  “An occupational hazard, I fear.” Isaac ben Mordecai shifts in his seat. “I deal with the King’s man… not the King.”

  “It is all the same. I am having legal documents drawn up, as we speak. They will show that you were born in Coventry in the year 1465, and that your deceased father was a soldier in the pay of the fourth King Edward. You will be Isaac Morden, and your family will be named that also. The papers will be ratified and sealed.”

  “You have such power?”

  “I have access to the Duke of Norfolk’s office.” Cromwell explains, softly. “One of his best clerks is a close cousin of my young man, Rafe Sadler. The papers will be dog eared, and aged with vinegar fumes. The seal will be utterly authentic, and indisputable in any English law court.”

  “I still am waiting to hear the heavy price I must pay for such generosity.” The old Jew cannot break his habit of distrust. He has heard of Thomas Cromwell from many sources, and fears what will be asked of him in return.

  “I want young Moshe to join my household.” Cromwell tells him, and the old man smiles. A rose will be hidden amongst the thorns. “He will be trained in accountancy, and can act as a link between our two great houses. As for dear, sweet Miriam… I can do nothing. For she will make up her own mind.”

  “That is true. I know she is close to Will Draper. He is a good man, but not a rich one.”

  “Captain Draper has a personal fortune of almost five hundred pounds,” Cromwell says. “In addition, he is in my employ, and has many opportunities to better himself, financially. Does the girl have a dowry to bring with her?”

  “She wears it about her person,” the Jewish banker says. “Her mother left her with gold, jewels and pearls, to the value of about a thousand pounds.”

  Cromwell shrugs, as if to say, ‘then why do we worry?’ and nods towards Norfolk. The old Duke overbalances on his stool, and crashes to the floor. He awakens violently, and starts to curse. Captain Will Draper bends, takes his Lordship’s elbow, and helps him up onto his feet.

  “God’s teeth, do I know you?” He snarls at Will, half suspecting it is he who tipped his stool. “You smell like a soldier, by Jesus Christ’s bloodied palms!”

  “Captain Will Draper, at your service, my Lord Norfolk. We met here, just the other day. I had an important message for His Majesty.”

  “Yes. About that cur Wolsey’s death, I believe. You are one of Cromwell’s bastards, aren’t you?”

  “I am his man, sir… yes.”

  “Tell him to come to m
e. Tell him, I want him to work for me from hence forth. He can bring you along too, if he wants. I like a well set up man who knows how to wear a sword.”

  “Perhaps you might tell him yourself, my Lord?” Will steps to one side, and reveals Cromwell, with Isaac ben Mordecai, who are sitting, staring at him, their faces covered in smirks. Norfolk’s face is flushed, not with embarrassment, but anger. He is a man of volatile temper, and finds it hard to understand why the old order is changing.

  “You are like sand beneath our feet, Cromwell,” he barks. “Shifting here, then shifting there… like… like… a woman’s mind!”

  “Any particular woman, my lord?” Cromwell says.

  “Don’t try to fox me, you butcher’s boy.” Norfolk lurches up, hand on the hilt of his sword. Will wonders what the penalty is for disarming an Earl of the realm, these days? “You cosy up to my niece like the serpent twining around Eve’s plump thigh. By Darkest Satan’s unholy bollocks, you do!”

  “Ah, that lady.” Cromwell smiles, benignly. “I am not the butcher’s bastard, my lord. I am the blacksmith’s misbegotten whelp, if you recall.”

  “What?” Norfolk knows he has said this at some time, but cannot recall when, or where. York Place’s very walls seem to have sprung ears these days.

  “Might I name Master Isaac Morden, my lord? A gentleman of Coventry. He is recently back from a long stay in Spain, where he was a noted banker.”

  “A banker, you say?” Norfolk conjures up a smile. To him, men of money are as necessary as whores, and should be cultivated in a like manner. “Call on me soon, Cromwell, and bring your fine new friend with you. I hate lawyers stinking guts, but one can never have enough bankers about the place!” He stomps off, having quite forgotten why he was at court in the first place. Will Draper shakes his head, and smiles.

  “You might well smile,” Cromwell tells him. “Master Morden is quite agreeable to you courting his grand daughter.”

  “You honour me, sir.” Will sweeps off his hat, and curtseys, as if the King were present. “I will make Miriam a good husband.”

  “Miriam likes fine furs, beautiful jewels, golden bracelets, and handsome men. In that order, young man. Do not disappoint her. Send one of your young men to me, Master Cromwell, and we will draw up a contract of marriage. Do you manage Will Draper’s fortune?”

  “It is lodged with the Galti family, who do business in Chester and Lincoln.” Thomas Cromwell replies. “They are closely associated to the Frascabaldi banking house, in Florence. As am I. Will‘s return will keep them comfortable, I assure you.”

  “Then I bid you farewell.” The newly renamed Isaac Morden settles himself down. “ I am to meet with Sir David Longchamps, to discuss a small loan.”

  “Sir David is by way of a sounding shot,” Cromwell says. “If you give him favourable terms on a hundred, his master, Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk will seek terms for ten thousand. Satisfy him, and Henry will wish you to finance his kingdom.”

  “My people are not adverse to this,” Isaac says. “Providing it is spent wisely, and is well guaranteed.”

  “Henry’s jewels are worth over a million.” Cromwell sighs. “The late Cardinal Wolsey left the King with York Place, Esher Court and Hampton Court, though much against his will. You might mortgage the three of them for another million and a half.”

  “Over two million?” the old Jew’s eyebrows raise. “Enough to buy half of France. What will he do with so much, Master Cromwell?”

  Cromwell shrugs. “Buy half of France, perhaps?”

  In the boat home, Thomas Cromwell reflects on the day, and marvels that so many understandings have been reached. He and Lady Anne have one that will replace an aging Queen. Then there is the one between the house of Cromwell and Isaac Morden’s banking cabal, and finally, between Will Draper and Miriam.

  “A good day, Will,” he says.

  “If you say so, sir.” The young soldier is in an ecstasy at the thought of his impending marriage. “I must tell Miriam that we are to be wed.”

  “Does that frighten you?” Cromwell asks, surprised.

  “A little.”

  “You should worry about greater things,” he says. “Did you see how George Boleyn looked at you today? The moment he feels his place is secure, he will try to have you murdered.”

  “Does he hate me that much?” Will Draper is taken aback, but not too far. Men have wished him dead before now, of course, but none so highly placed.

  “He hates you, because you have come from nothing, like him, but you have done it on merit. His advancement is through the King’s love for his sister.” Thomas Cromwell considers this for a moment, then laughs. “By the same reasoning, he must detest me also! Hey ho! Is not life difficult, Will?”

  “An old priest once told me that it was like a great thorny bush. If you avoid the pricks, the berries are sweet.”

  “Did he tell you that in Latin?” Cromwell does not expect an answer. He suspects, as does Will himself, that the saintly man was more than just a good family friend. No matter. There have been Popes and Cardinals with wives and children beyond measure. Celibacy is not a natural state for a man, and it is a cruel thing for God to expect such devotion from his followers.

  He remembers his late wife and daughters then, and wonders if he will ever have time to marry again. And to whom? In ten years time, if he lives, he will be one of the richest men in England, and still be sleeping in an empty bed. Rafe and Richard expect him to re-marry, but his son, Gregory, is less sure.

  It will take a remarkable woman to fulfil Thomas Cromwell’s criteria. Perhaps he might bring over a sturdy Antwerp woman to look after him, or seek out a well read lady who understands the need for an English bible, and can manage his many little quirks and foibles?

  “The river is unceasing. It is flowing by so fast, master,” Will says. Cromwell smiles, and wonders if the young man is suggesting it as a metaphor for the speed with which life is spent. Thomas Cromwell is on the ebb tide. Ah, well. Perhaps he will content himself with watching his young men’s children grow, and leave pretty women well enough alone. After all, he thinks, it is thoughts of women that might yet bring the establishment of England to its knees.

  “Blink, and we are at the sea,” he mutters.

  8 Red of Hand

  It is the end of January, 1531, and Austin Friars is preparing for its first wedding. Cromwell is as pleased as any man can be. The house has not been truly merry since before his wife and own girls died. When was that, he ponders? It seems a lifetime ago. He rubs a traitorous tear away from his cheek, and smiles at the young men busy tacking up bunting in every ground floor room, except his sacrosanct study.

  Lady Anne Boleyn is showing her benevolent side. Henry’s new woman has sent along a huge game pie, two cases of the finest French wine, and two dozen brace of game birds. Out of kindness for the young couple, she says in her note, but a seamstress, in Cromwell’s secret service, at Esher Place tells an altogether different tale.

  The Lady Anne never gives presents, unless it is to tie someone to her. Hers is a political form of giving. The reason for the gifts is plain, Cromwell’s spy tells him. The news is brought to the house by a drunken brother. George is feeling sorry for himself, and curses the luck of a common servant; a man rumoured to be a priest’s son, who is to wed one of the prettiest women in London… and fabulously rich with it.

  “Pray, who do you speak of?” Anne asks.

  “Why, the soldier, of course” George replies. “He is to wed the Spanish banker’s grand daughter. God strike him dead!”

  Anne is sitting at ease, with her women scattered at her feet. One of them leaps to her feet, and runs from the room. It is Mary, unable to hide her anger at the news. Lady Boleyn, begins to laugh. The seamstress says it is not a pleasant sound. She has never forgiven Mary for bedding Henry, and finds her upset at losing Will Draper to be, quite simply, hilarious.

  “Can she have imagined that Cromwell would ever let her near one of his yo
ung men?” she cries, and shakes with laughter. Mary has been paid out in fine style. No handsome young captain to warm her cold bed, for sure. “I must send a gift at once. George, my darling brother, what shall I give the happy couple?”

  George Boleyn does not share the joke. If he had anything to do with it, the game pie would be laced with poison. Mary locks herself away, and does not reappear until Anne sends word that she is commanded to come. The humiliation is complete, and the Boleyn household settle down once more.

  The same seamstress tells of another Howard family visitor about this time. It is the Duke of Norfolk. Anne’s uncle is spitting blood and damnation over being closed out of the King’s latest scheme. Henry is disregarding his good advice, and fishing in dark and murky waters for a large loan.

  “I have told him,” Norfolk roars. “It is not proper that we upset the Lombard bankers. They are a link between Rome and ourselves.”

  “And you, uncle?” Anne says, in her sweetest voice. “Are you not in debt to a Milanese house for fifty thousand?”

  “Do not think to prick me, niece,” Norfolk replies. “Your own father is indebted, and as for George… there is not a banker in Italy, or France, who does not hold his mark.”

  “The King will see his way clear to helping my family,” Anne Boleyn says, and Norfolk leaps to his feet in a rage. This, the seamstress reports from her concealment.

  “Your family?” He seethes and growls like a lion. “My family. My family, you ill got bitch! God’s truth, but I damn the day the Boleyn’s ever wheedled their way into it. I curse the night my sister opened her legs to your father.”

  “Have a care, I have the King’s ear.” Norfolk grabs her then, by the shoulder, and shakes.

  “It is the rest you must be sure of!” he cries. “Tell your precious Henry to stop his scheming with Jews and blacksmith’s boys. Have him take heed of his real advisors, before blood is spilled!”