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

by Anne Stevens

  Cromwell reads Rafe’s carefully written report again, and shakes his head. The King is yet to confess to meeting with Isaac Morden, and thinks he is being clever. He plays Suffolk, Norfolk and himself against one another, to see who shall come out on top.

  “And in and around our heels, the puppy More is snapping his jaws, like a good papal representative,” he says. “Look to your immortal soul, and send Cromwell to the fiery pit. Eternity in Dante Alighieri’s inferno is a better option than a visit from the Lord Chancellor.”

  “Master?” Rafe is only half listening. He pauses, and looks up from a list he is compiling. “Where am I to sit Sir Thomas?”

  “Friends close, and enemies closer,” he mutters. “Put him on the top table, at the bride’s right hand. You cannot seat a man of his stature with lesser mortals.”

  “And you, master?”

  “Down with the sweeps and poor pedlars,” Cromwell says. “They are better company than any high born I have ever met.”

  “Will says he has no father.”

  “No.” It is not biologically possible, but he knows what Rafe means.

  “But, master…”

  “I say no. Captain Draper came to us less than two months ago, Rafe. You have been like a son for twelve years. I cannot act the part of his father.”

  “Then he will ask the King,” Rafe jokes. “For you and he are the two closest to him in all of London. Or, perhaps we might sit him beside Lady Mary Boleyn. I hear she is uncommonly fond of him.”

  “Do not let Miriam hear such talk,” Cromwell says, “else she will box your ears for a month.”

  “Then who will sit at top table with him?”

  “Me, I suppose.,” Cromwell concedes. “Though I’d wish him a better father than I.”

  “He could not find one as good the length of England, sir.”

  “Then he should scour Ireland.” Cromwell pauses. A small matter of business is niggling at him. “Did you ever find out about Wales for me, Rafe?”

  “I asked Gwyllm Evans to investigate, when next there on business.”

  “And?”

  “There is nothing. Will was a bounty man for a while, after Ireland.” Rafe is uncomfortable, but no-one works for Cromwell without a full and proper vetting.

  “Then it more than one,” Cromwell says to himself. “The young man understands the workings of death better than he should.”

  “Have you seen the enormous pie Anne Boleyn sent?” Richard says, bursting in on them. He is a broad, hearty sort and, when he is not menacing people in courtrooms, or back entries, he is a man of immense good humour.

  “We must thank Lady Mary,” Rafe says, chuckling.

  “Do you think it is true?” Richard replies, nudging his friend. “If not, I would not mind warming Mary’s bed myself.”

  “Careful what you wish for,” Cromwell says, sharply. “The queue for Mary’s favours is long indeed. She has a giving nature.”

  “Yes. She gives to the King, and half the court, I hear, and with nothing in return,” Richard says. “A good lawyer would have drawn up a legal paper, before she loosened her bodice.”

  Thomas Cromwell does not really approve of smutty talk, but it is a wedding day, and such things are, by custom, allowed. Someone will, no doubt, compare Will’s sword with another weapon, much used by new husbands today. There will be much ribald laughter, and pranks played out on everyone.

  Arrangements are going well when, at eleven in the morning, a horseman gallops into Austin Friars courtyard, at full tilt. The rider, a young squire from York Place, is shivering from the cold, and a glass of brandy is thrust into his hand. He will not release the hold he has on the sealed parchment in his left hand. It is for Master Thomas Cromwell’s eyes alone.

  Rafe sends for his master, who is in the process of having his new, fur lined cloak fitted. Cromwell is annoyed and holds his hand out for the message. The boy shakes his head. He begs Cromwell’s pardon, but the message is written by the King… in his own hand… and must be opened in total isolation.

  “The King called me to him,” the boy says, still shocked, “and spoke to me in the corridor outside his private rooms. ‘For Master Cromwell. To be read in private,’ he tells me. Then, he says that I must die rather than fail in my charge.”

  “He has heard about your lewd designs on Lady Mary,” Rafe whispers, digging Richard in his solid midriff. “And wishes to advise you of the best way to affect an entry!”

  Thomas Cromwell goes to the study. He bids Will Draper, who is like a nervous cat on this special day, stand outside his door.

  “See, boy,” he says to the young messenger. “I am alone within, and my best soldier guards without. Rest easy. Go, and warm yourself by the kitchen fire. Rafe, see to the poor child, before he catches a chill.”

  The heavy door swings shut, and Will stands in front of it, feeling foolish. Is he guarding his master from Richard and Rafe? Or some unseen enemy who might come in, wearing a cloak of invisible wool.

  Minutes pass. Then the door opens, and Thomas Cromwell emerges with the King’s urgent message. He crosses to the fire in the great entrance hall, and puts the parchment into the flames.

  “We must go to Henry, at once,” he says. Will has never seen his master look so angry. There is mischief abroad, for sure. He bows, slightly, then calls for a boy to fetch his warmest cloak.

  “Rafe, can you tell Miriam…” he turns to Cromwell.

  “Tell her that I must steal her man away, on the King’s business, and will return him in good time. And Rafe, tell her that I am profoundly sorry. If any guests arrive before my return, feed them, give them wine, and tell them nothing.”

  “You frighten me, sir,” Rafe says, softly.

  “I frighten myself,” Cromwell replies. “Come Will. I shall explain whilst we are on the barge.”

  “Am I not to be married today then, master?”

  “I am a lawyer,” he says, “not a fortune teller. Ask me again before the day is out.”

  “What do I do if Sir Thomas More arrives. You know how the new Lord Chancellor likes to be early, and always wants all the news.” Rafe dislikes uncertainty.

  “Sit him down, and ask his views on Martin Luther,” Cromwell says. “If that fails, feed him a generous slice of game pie. There is a better than even chance that George Boleyn has poisoned it!”

  They are on the water inside of twenty minutes, and the Privy Councellor’s barge is sliding up stream, towards York Place, with a measured grace not matched by its occupants. Will and Cromwell are wrapped in heavy furs, and sitting in the prow. Will knows when to keep silent. After a few minutes, Cromwell sighs, and gestures to the expanse of London.

  “A great city,” he says, “in a great country. Ruled over by a stable, honourable king. Henry Tudor is a man amongst men. Do you believe that, Will?”

  “I do, sir. England has never been more at ease than under his rule.” Will is worried at the question. Is Henry dead? Do Norfolk and Suffolk scrap over his body; each trying for the crown? “What is wrong, master?”

  “The King has very great need of us, Will Draper,” Cromwell says. “Something has happened. Something that might ruin the King’s reputation abroad, and destroy England.”

  “Katherine is dead?”

  “No, not Katherine.” Cromwell is struggling to understand what has happened. “Someone is dead, and everything points to murder.”

  “Dear Christ. Who is dead?”

  “Isaac, my friend. Miriam’s grandfather is dead. Murdered, whilst alone with the King.” There. It is said. Now, he will see the mettle of his man. Will takes a breath, holds it, then exhales slowly. Alone with the King, Cromwell says.

  “And the King sent for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then he is innocent of this crime, sir.”

  “You trust the King so much?”

  “I trust no man, sir. Not even the King. If he has done murder, and on such a noble, venerable old man, he would wish to conceal the t
ruth from the world.”

  “As would any man.”

  “Yes, sir. You do not conceal the truth by sending for Master Cromwell,” Will says. “For Cromwell sees, and knows everything. The King is innocent, but fears no one will believe him. That is why he summons his best advisor.”

  They are admitted to the inner court as soon as they arrive. One of the King’s close friends, Sir John Chappell, meets them.

  “How is the King, Sir John?” Cromwell demands.

  “Locked in his private rooms,” the man replies, wringing his hands. “He will let no one in.”

  “We received a message.” Will wants to know everything, at once. Sir John looks as though he will not answer, but Cromwell gestures for him to reply. Will is an extension of his master, and must be so treated.

  “The King locked himself in, only opening his door enough to pass out a letter,” Sir John says. “What should I do, Master Cromwell?”

  “Be about your business. Keep everyone from under our feet, and, above all, keep your mouth shut.” Cromwell raps on the King’s door, and announces himself. The bolt is thrown back, and Henry opens up enough to let his new councellor and his man inside.

  “Dear Christ, Master Cromwell, but I did not know where else to turn,” Henry says. Cromwell makes soothing noises. The King has done the right thing. Now, he must explain all, so that Cromwell can arrange matters. Where to start? At the beginning, Cromwell says. And leave nothing out. The king stumbles to a chair, and falls into it.

  “I arranged to meet the Jew here this morning,” he starts.

  “At what time, Your Majesty?” Will asks.

  Henry is shaken, and looks to Cromwell for clarification. Why is this man questioning him? Cromwell raises a calming hand.

  “Captain Draper is my man in all things, sire. He has a way of problem solving that you will find to your taste. Speak to him, as you would to me.” Henry nods. If Cromwell says so, then it is so.

  “Nine o’clock. He arrived just short of the hour.” Henry stands and leans against the fireplace’s mantelpiece. There is a beautiful silver candle clock casing. The candle has been extinguished at some point. “I brought him in here, for privacy’s sake.”

  “To discuss the great loan?” Cromwell is pleased to see the look of surprise on the King’s face.

  “You knew?”

  “I knew, sire.” Cromwell does not explain. It is enough that he seems to know everything. “Will, what do you think?”

  Will Draper is standing over the body of Isaac the Jew. The old man is sitting in a chair, his eyes staring off into the distance. There is a neat hole in his left breast, with a little blood around it.

  “A single knife thrust,” he says. “The entry wound is small, as if made by a very thin blade. Spanish, or Italian, perhaps. The Dagoes favour thin weapons. They are easy to conceal, and kill swiftly. The lack of blood is because the heart was pierced. I have seen such wounds in battle.”

  “I had nothing to do with it,” Henry says.

  “Of course not, sire,” Will responds. “Isaac arrived just before nine, and you started to discuss a loan.”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he amenable?”

  “We had common ground,” Henry says. In fact, he was a fish out of water, and had little idea of how to negotiate a loan. Wolsey had always done such things in the past. “The amount was agreed.”

  “Four hundred thousand pounds.”

  “Yes!” The king is past being amazed. Cromwell is as shrewd and knowledgeable as his old master. “You are Wolsey’s man indeed, Master Cromwell. The Jew spoke very well of you.”

  “I wager he did.” Cromwell smiles. “What happened then?”

  “I needed parchment, and my seal. It was in the next room. I stepped out, for a moment, and when I came back, he was dead. As God is my witness, Master Cromwell, there is sorcery here. There is but one door, and no windows. Yet no-one passed me, either going in, or out.”

  “A mystery indeed.” Cromwell looks to Will Draper, who beckons him over to the body.

  “See how he sits? The quiet look on his face?” The young man touches the wound. “The blood is beginning to dry. May I ask the King something?”

  “If it will help.” Cromwell has noted the circumstances, and is beginning to wonder what demon has been at work. “What about the chimney?”

  “There would be soot across the floor,” Will says. “Besides, how would the murderer know when to emerge from the chimney? Your Majesty, can you draw up a list of anyone who might have been in close proximity at the time of the crime?” The King nods. It will take his mind off the important fact that Cromwell already knows.

  The death of Isaac ben Mordecai is a national disaster. If the King is thought to have murdered the man, every Jewish banking house will close its doors to England. Then the Lombards will return, naming their own interest rates, and Henry Tudor will be at their mercy.

  “I will assist the King,” Cromwell says. Will Draper sets his mind to studying the small room in greater detail. It is twenty paces wide, and perhaps, fifteen deep. There are no windows. The walls are panelled with dark oak. The furniture is expensive, but sparse. A pair of chairs, one of which is by a small table, and the other in one corner, and occupied by a dead man, and a tapestry on one wall.

  Will crosses to the wall hanging, a scene depicting horsemen chasing a magnificent stag, and examines behind it. Oak panelling. There is no lurking felon there. He smiles, but knows he must look at this from all possible angles. Next, he draws his sword and steps into the fireplace. It is as wide as a man’s reach, and tall enough to stand almost erect in. He pokes the blade up into the darkness.

  Apart from a little soot, the chimney is empty. Will crosses a murderous sweep from his mental list of suspects. He goes back to the seated corpse and wonders if he should lay it out flat on the floor. He has seen dead men before, and knows they will stiffen where they lie. If he is not careful, Isaac ben Mordecai will freeze in position, and they will not be able to get his body out through the door.

  Miriam will be worried. Neither her grandfather, nor her prospective husband are at Austin Friars, and there is a wedding service, and a great feast, to be conducted. He should send word, but how? A written message will seem cruel, but a personal explanation, right now, is out of the question. Will has a job to do, and he cannot allow his emotions to control his actions. Isaac is dead, and the best way to honour him, is to find his killer.

  Behind, and slightly off to one side of the seated body, is a latticed screen, made of oak, but with inlaid flowers carved from sandalwood. It cordons off a small corner of the room, and conceals a pedestal, upon which is a delicate bowl, and a hand towel. The glazed bowl contains some water, with rose petals floating on it. Rose petals in January, Will thinks. The room is full of surprises.

  There are fresh rushes on the floor and, apart from the candle clock, two lit lanterns. They are simple candles, their flames shielded by mantles made of the most delicate tortoiseshell imaginable.

  “Were the lamps lit when you found the body, your majesty?”

  Henry thinks. His hand is poised over the list he is drawing up with Cromwell. Then he shakes his head. They were out. The room was not well enough lit when he returned. He had lit the lamps, leaving only the candle clock out. Will rubs his chin with thumb and forefinger. Small ideas begin to come together in his mind.

  The King has left a lit room, and returned to an unlit one. Will imagines him, fumbling to spark flint onto kindle. He lights first one candle, then a second. He turns to the clock candle, and sees the victim in the chair. All the candles were out.

  “Do you know who did this?” The King is beginning to regain his regal bearing. He understands that his innocence must be displayed for all the world to see, but there is another, pressing matter. He must have a name, so that he can visit retribution upon them. The King’s rooms have been compromised, and murder done. Henry must be seen to be the arbiter of justice. Only then will the Jewi
sh bankers trust him again.

  “I have an idea how it was managed, sire.” Will crosses to the door, and tries the handle. It turns easily enough, but makes a loud grating sound. “What I do not know, is the name of the murderer. Your notes will help me out there.”

  “And in the meantime, I have a corpse in my private rooms.”

  “My people will come,” Thomas Cromwell says. Richard and Barnaby will come, and transport the dead man, unseen, from the building. “Isaac ben Mordecai will be found in a lonely street. It will look as if he was waylaid, and murdered for his purse. Then I will take him to Austin Friars, and see the correct rites are observed.”

  “He was a Jew,” Henry said. “What do you know of Christ killers, Thomas?”

  “Captain Draper is to marry the dead man’s grand daughter, sire,” Cromwell replies. “The family are from Coventry, but have Spanish blood in them. Your Majesty will recall that English law forbids anyone of Jewish origin to live in your realm. Therefore, the Jew was really an Englishman.”

  “You are a lawyer, sir.” Henry tells him. “You use ink and paper to change a man’s birthright. Still, I understand your motives. You must see that the girl is pensioned, Thomas. I dare say she will need it. I doubt you pay your young men that well.”

  “Captain Draper is a gentleman, sire. He has a fortune of his own, and a small estate in Cheshire. His family go back to before the Conqueror. I dare say his ancestors are almost as ancient as the Tudors.”

  “Really?” Henry is amazed.

  “Yes, sire. I read it on a piece of paper.” Cromwell gathers up the sheets of information he and the King have been jotting down, and hands them to Will. “There, Captain. God grant you the wit to unravel this evil morning’s work. Return to Austin Friars, and bid Rafe send Richard and Barnaby to me. Attend to Miriam, and set yourself to solving this crime, my friend. Catch this felon, whilst he is still red of hand!”

  9 Too Many Suspects

  Miriam is distraught, and is in her room, surrounded by the Cromwell women who, until now, were to be matrons of honour. Now they will have another role altogether. A spectre has arrived at the feast and sends a shiver throughout the household.