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

by Anne Stevens

  “I spoke with Lady Mary Boleyn just now.”

  “The slut. I should have her sent to France. She could practice her Magdalene ways on the French King.” Norfolk is not a forgiving man.

  “She claims you told her off this morning,” Will says. “Is that so, my Lord?”

  “Damn me, but I did. I told her to get back to Esher, and stop interfering in her sister’s wedding plans.”

  “The King is still wed to Katherine,” Will says.

  “She tells me that Cromwell is her creature now, and promises to sort everything out. Katherine will go to a nunnery, and my niece will be Queen of England.”

  “Do you recall the time?”

  “Time?” Norfolk has only a vague idea of time. He often forgets the day, and seldom knows the hour. It is enough that his servants know when to wake him, and when to feed him. “You must ask Charles Brandon about that. The stupid upstart declares the hour as if he owns time.”

  “I see.” Will has no idea what Norfolk is talking about. “You arrived early.”

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  “My Lord, I must press you. It is a matter of the King’s safety.”

  “What? Oh, I see. No, no I don’t, actually. Never mind. I fled from home early because my infernal wife was pressing me for… certain rights… of a conjugal nature.”

  “So you came to court instead?”

  “You have obviously not met my wife, young man,” Norfolk says. “She bred well enough, but time has not been her friend. She is ugly, and her temper is foul. If must be, I would flee to far off Cathay.”

  Will Draper commiserates, bows, and takes his leave. The Duke of Norfolk is afraid of his own wife. Cromwell will want that for his file on Tom Howard. The great Earl has been sitting on a window sill since early morning, rather than go home and pleasure her.

  “Hold sir, what is your business!” Will turns, hand slipping towards his sword hilt. It is Harry Cork, affecting a booming voice. He laughs, and throws out a hand to clasp. “Steady on, Will, I don’t want to fight you again!”

  “Harry Cork.” Will smiles at the open faced young man. “I see you have landed on your feet.”

  “Thanks to you,” Harry replies. “You vouched for me with Master Cromwell.”

  “You sent me to him, remember?” Will says. “It was a good deed you did me, Harry. I knew my master would help you.”

  “He placed me here, in court,” Cork explains. “I am a fetch and carry boy, but the prospects are good. Master Cromwell asks only that I keep my eyes and ears open.”

  “And have you?” Will takes Cork by the elbow, and leads him off into a quiet corner. “Do you know what is afoot?”

  “I know that Henry was dealing with a Jew banker.” Cork looks around, as if the walls are listening. “The man is dead. Murdered, they say.”

  “Do ‘they’ happen to say by whom?” Will is alarmed that the secret is being gossiped about. Harry Cork shrugs his shoulders. Every single person will tell you different. It depends on who you are for.

  “Master Cromwell’s name is touted about. But he is behind everything, if you listen to the silly talk. Cromwell killed the Jew so he could steal his daughter for his harem. What do you say to that nonsense, my friend?”

  “It is his grand daughter who is taken into Cromwell’s home, but it is I who am to be her husband.” Will sees there are more lies than truths abroad. “We were to be wed today.”

  “I’m sorry for that,” Harry Cork says. “Most think the man angered the King, and he had him done away with.”

  “In the King’s own rooms?” Will shakes his head. “Hardly likely, is it, Harry?”

  “Hardly.” Cork replies. “You know about Charles Brandon, of course.”

  “I know he is a fool, and a waster, and a womaniser,” Will says. “Is that enough, or is there more?”

  “He has been spending his money on a slip of a girl in Norwich,” Cork reveals. “At home, his wife is ill, and close to death. She is the King’s dearly loved sister.”

  “Let me guess,” Will says. “Henry has found out.”

  “He heard it from Harry Percy, who is a relative of the young girl in Norwich,” Cork explains. “He is not keen on Suffolk tupping a Percy lamb. The King, it’s said, roared like a beast. Then he says ‘Bring me Brandon, and I will rip out his heart’. I could hear him clear down the great long corridor!”

  “Then Suffolk is out of favour,” Will says. “Why does he chance coming to court?”

  “You must ask him that,” Harry Cork replies. “Perhaps he owes money to the J… I mean your… relative. He is here to ask for more time, and Master Isaac refuses. They argue, and Charles Brandon takes out his knife, and plunges it into the poor fellow’s heart.”

  “Perhaps, but again, most unlikely.” Will adds these snippets to his bank of knowledge. “Keep on your toes, Harry. I must know of anything unusual that occurs. Any strange visitors to court, or sudden departures. You understand?”

  “I do. Master Cromwell has put you in charge of a murder investigation, and you have the King’s writ in your hand. Speak to Suffolk, my friend. He was curled up in a corner earlier, fiddling with his new toy. Ask him about Isaac, and ask him why he dares to show his face in court when Henry wants his blood.”

  “I will, Harry. Keep yourself safe.” Will means it. There is a killer in court, and he might well strike again. He strolls down the long corridor, until he comes upon a bundle of clothing that is Charles Brandon, the Earl of Suffolk.

  Suffolk has not changed his clothes for three or four days, and his cheeks are unshaven, and rough. Will Draper thinks he has been sleeping under the stars, in fear of stopping in one place too long, lest Henry’s men take him, and put him in irons.

  “Good day, my Lord.” Will bows. The duke looks out of bleary eyes, and thinks he knows this man. He struggles to stand, and Will smells the stench of strong drink on him. He returns Will’s slight bow, his hand resting on his sword hilt.

  “And to you, sir. Have you been named to me before? I think we have met somewhere else.”

  “No sir, it was here,” Will replies. “I brought a message to the King, saying that Cardinal Wolsey was dead in Leicester.”

  “Ah, I gave you a purse in reward,” Charles Brandon says, wishing he had it now. “You have soldiered in Ireland, I recall.”

  “Yes, my Lord. Captain Will Draper, at your service. I am looking into certain matters for His Majesty, and must ask you some questions.” He shows his paper. Suffolk struggles to read the words. He is a gentleman, and the skill was never needed.

  “Ask what you may,” Suffolk says. “I am the King’s closest friend, and, despite our current quarrel, I love him dearly, and Hal loves me too.”

  “Can you tell me when you came to court?”

  “This morning. I rode all night to get here. Henry likes to play tennis, and I hoped to rekindle his love of me during a game. I have never managed to beat him, in twenty three years of play.”

  “A wise move, my lord. I suggest you defer to the King in everything, until his temper cools. Tell him you have been cruelly slandered by Harry Percy, and are still a faithful, and loving husband to his dear sister.”

  “Percy?” Suffolk draws himself up to his full height. At six feet, he is a mere scrap shorter than Henry. “That worthless dog went to Henry, behind my back…. Why?”

  “The girl is some sort of a cousin of his,” Will explains. “Deny everything. Ask the King to appoint Thomas Cromwell to investigate the claims. He will find you to be innocent, and the girl will be settled somewhere far away. Perhaps Percy might keep her… as a penance.”

  “Of course. You are one of Cromwell’s young men. I remember now.” Suffolk seems, all at once, to be more cheerful. Cromwell has the King’s ear, and will stop Henry from putting a fresh head atop the city gates. Then he thinks… what if Cromwell’s price is too high to pay?

  “What will your master want in retu
rn?”

  “Friendship, my lord,” Will tells him. “When Henry asks what you think about a certain policy, tell him you agree with Cromwell. If he should ask who he might appoint to a high office, tell him Cromwell will have the ideal person. Do this, and my master will forget to call in the interest on your debts.”

  “He is the coming man,” Suffolk says.

  “That’s the idea, my Lord.” Will smiles encouragingly. “Now, what time did you say you came here?”

  “A quarter hour from eight,” Suffolk says. “My Lord Norfolk arrived five minutes later. He is hiding from his wife again. Perhaps you can have her sent away to a nunnery. Norfolk would kiss you if you made him a free man.”

  “And Percy?”

  The Duke of Northumberland is staying with a cousin just outside the city walls. He came in at five minutes after eight, with Sir Andrew Jennings in tow. He is a bad bastard, and no mistake.”

  “Percy?”

  “No, though he is a loathsome cur. I mean Drew Jennings. He fawns and bows like a French gentleman, but inside, the very devil is at play. Do you not know the tales, Captain Draper?”

  “Enlighten me, my Lord.”

  Suffolk loves to gossip, and likes nothing more than to find a ready listener, who does not know the story. He tells Will that he must go back to 1520. Jennings was not a knight back then. He was a tax collector for Northumberland.

  “Not Harry Percy, God rot him with pox, but his father, the old Duke.” Suffolk explains. “The old man used to say Drew Jennings was the best tax collector he ever knew. The method is simple enough. I have tax collectors on my estates. They evaluate a man, and levy a tax on him. I usually charge a penny an acre, and a tithe of all cattle, sheep and wool.”

  “And Jennings was good at this?”

  “Excellent. If my tenant fails to pay, we give him another month or two. Then we threaten them. As a last resort, I take their land back, and give it to a worthier tenant. Andrew Jennings collected every penny due, and always on time.”

  “How?”

  “The story goes that he picks a village, waits ‘til nightfall, then sets light to an outbuilding. Then he rides in, the next day, and says, next time, it will be your houses. The word gets around, and they pay.”

  “Very nice. And how does that make him so evil?”

  “One day, an elder of this village… some shit hole near Durham… stands up to Jennings. He says he will appeal to the Duke, or even petition the King. Drew Jennings jumps from his horse as the man turns away, and stabs him thus!” Suffolk makes a dramatic movement with his hand. “Then, he orders all the male relatives of the man to be rounded up. He fears they might seek vengeance, you see… and he locks them in a barn, and sets it alight.”

  “Dear Christ.” Will is appalled.

  “Nine dead,” Suffolk says. “The next day, the man’s wife comes to ask how the women folk shall live, with their men dead. Jennings, has a fine solution. He takes the prettiest of the daughters, and ravishes her. Then he auctions off the rest to the local soldiery, who use them as whores. The violated daughter was twelve years old.”

  “The animal.”

  “When Percy became the new Duke, it is said that he went in search of Jennings. Now he is knighted, and does everything evil the Percy bastard desires.”

  “A terrible story, my lord. Which leads me to ask, how did you know the time so precisely?”

  “Ah, yes. My new toy from Italy.” He brandishes his wrist, to show a casket, half the size of a closed fist strapped to it. “They call it a watch. For the sailors of Genoa use them to mark their watches when at sea.”

  Will is transfixed. Suffolk raises the lid, and displays a miniature clock dial, with a small, silver pin fixed at its centre. Charles Brandon has nothing short of a sundial on his wrist. The Duke loves to boast. He explains how he won it from the Genoese ambassador at cards, and gives a demonstration.

  “See,” he says, crossing to the window. “One must catch the light from the sun. Today is not so good, but this morning, the sky was as clear as a nun’s conscience. You line it up, thus, and observe the shadow. By this method, you can tell the time to within a few minutes.”

  “Amazing, my Lord. Thank goodness I am not concerned with night timings. Or do you hold it to a candle?”

  “Oh, would that work?” Will Draper can hardly contain his laughter. This is a tale for the breakfast table. The idea that Suffolk might go in search of a candle is too rich.

  “I think not, sir. Do you recall any others out and about this morning?” It is a simple question, but Suffolk frowns.

  “Like More, you mean?”

  “Sir Thomas More was here?”

  “He was. As was Stephen Gardiner, and Master Rich. Then there was Lady Margaret Bulstrode, and her sister Jane. They are the mistresses of …well, anyone with the price, I suppose. Lovely girls. I had the pleasure of their company once, before I married. They are inseparable, even in the bed chamber.”

  The list is ever growing. Margaret and Jane, creeping away from someone’s bed. Sir Thomas More, the Lord Chancellor and his cronies, in court at an ungodly hour. As he crosses a name off, more appear in its place.

  “Have I been of use, young man?” Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, is keen for Henry to hear of his helpfulness.

  “Yes sir. You, and your wonderful watcher machine have thrown light where there was none.” He is about to take his leave when it occurs to him that Suffolk is in a parlous condition. “When last we met, sir, you gave me a purse of coppers, as a reward. On opening it, I saw you had made a mistake, and given me silver instead. I have been hoping to see you again, so that I could rectify the matter. Here, sir.”

  Suffolk is speechless. The bag weighs heavy on his palm. It will enable him to eat, have a shave, and bribe his way in to the indoor tennis court. The forty shillings will help him restore his credit.

  “Your honesty is commendable,” he says, shaking Will’s hand with vigour. “Please, mention to Master Cromwell that I might call on him soon.”

  “He will be waiting, sir.” Will bows himself away. He is doing sterling work for the banking interests of Thomas Cromwell, but he is no nearer finding the killer. He consults his mental list. It is best to separate the wheat from the chaff. The chaff are those who are almost certainly innocent. He goes in search of Sir Thomas More’s offices. The Lord Chancellor’s men are distinctive in their livery, and the man is soon found.

  “There is a young man outside, Sir Thomas,” his servant says, dropping his voice to a whisper. “He has a document from the King, saying you must talk to him.”

  “Must?” More smiles. “Words can be interpreted in many ways, I will see this document, and see if it is twistable. Show the man in.”

  Will Draper has seen the Lord Chancellor before. He bows, and introduces himself. Sir Thomas holds out his hand for the warrant, and reads it through, twice.

  “You are one of Cromwell’s thugs,” he says, curtly. “Why would King Henry give you such a dispensation?”

  “I am empowered to ask questions, sir, not answer them.”

  “Good Lord! You aren’t Cromwell’s son are you? You sound like him, and no mistake. I once knew a young man who…”

  “Your pardon, Sir Thomas, but the King is waiting for my report, and I do not wish to anger him further.” Will hints.

  “Further?” More is disturbed. “Who has angered the King?”

  “Is that another question, sir?”

  The Lord Chancellor laughs, and wonders if Will Draper is for turning. No, he decides, Cromwell’s people are loyal, if nothing else.

  “Well?”

  “You were in court at eight this morning,” Will says. “Why was that, sir?”

  “State business.”

  “And?”

  “And not for your ears.”

  “I shall tell His Majesty what you say, sir. Perhaps he can ask you directly.”

  “You threaten beautifully, young man. Cromwell has done a fine job wi
th you,” Sir Thomas says. “I and two colleagues were hoping to see the King before he met with the Jew, Isaac ben Mordecai. I wished to deter His Highness from such an ill chosen path. England should not be mortgaged to Christ Killers.”

  “You knew about the loan?”

  “Half of England knows.” More sees he must explain. “The King tells a close friend, who tells his mistress, who tells her maid, who tells me, who tells Stephen Gardiner, who then tells Richard Rich, who tells Thomas Cromwell… who tells nobody.”

  “Did you arrive together?” Will asks.

  “Yes. The King refused to speak with me so early. He shouted through a door, would you believe? So, we came back here, to my offices, and had breakfast.”

  Poor Gardiner and Rich, Will thinks. It is known throughout England that the Lord Chancellor keeps a very poor table. He imagines the three, sharing gruel and heels of stale bread.

  “When did the other gentlemen leave?”

  “Stephen Gardiner only stayed a few minutes, but Richard Rich helped me sort some letters until about ten. Now, may I ask a question?”

  “You may, sir.”

  “Is my information correct? Is the Jew dead?”

  “He is.”

  “God be praised,” More says, smiling. “By whose hand?”

  Will shrugs. More has taken Stephen Gardiner’s alibi from him, and the list is hardly diminished.

  “Where is Master Gardiner now?”

  It is Sir Thomas More’s turn to shrug. Let Cromwell’s man earn his pay and find the fellow for himself. With the Jewish moneylender dead, Henry must reconcile himself with the Italian bankers, which will bring him back to the Pope. More is against all talk of annulment, and wants the King back in the bed of Katherine of Aragon. England must stand firm against the Lutherans, and remain a devoutly Catholic country.

  11 The Dog Pit

  Will Draper leaves the Lord Chancellor to his machinations, and goes in search of Stephen Gardiner, Principal Secretary to the King. He knows Gardiner was, until recently, a Wolsey man, and expects his full co-operation.

  “What do you expect of me?” Gardiner asks, casually. He is sitting at a high stool in his Greys Inn law establishment. “I told Sir Thomas More he was a fool to try and obstruct the will of the King.”