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

by Anne Stevens

  He is almost asleep when his door opens an inch. He feels for the hilt of his dagger under the bolster, and closes his fingers about it. A short, dark shape slips into the room and stands, observing him. Will tightens his grip on the handle, and estimates the distance to cover. Two strides, and one thrust will do.

  “I know you are awake,” the voice says. “I’ll wager you have a blade in your hand, as I speak, by God’s rattling teeth.”

  Will sits up slowly. The dark shape resolves itself into Thomas Howard, the Duke of Norfolk. He throws back the hood of his cloak, and crosses to the single chair.

  “Do you mind? My legs are older than yours, Draper.”

  “Be my guest,” Will replies, getting up to his feet. “I have nothing to offer you, my lord.”

  Norfolk produces a flask and bangs it down on the table. He has brought his own. Then he reaches into his doublet, and comes out with a heavy bag of coin. He rattles it, and places it alongside the flask of brandy.

  “Fifty pounds,” he says. “All yours, if you like.”

  “For what, my lord?”

  “On the morrow, I am summoned to Henry’s rooms for a meeting about this dead Jew. I want to know why. Do you intend charging me with his murder?”

  “If you thought that, I would be dead already, sir,” Will says, and the Duke laughs.

  “True enough. I’d not baulk at killing even a Cromwell man, if my own life was under threat.”

  “It is, sir.”

  “What? You mean I am on the murderers list?” Norfolk is disquieted. He is no coward, but this killer can magic himself into rooms, and disappear without a trace.

  “I mean, if the killer succeeds in his aim, no one will be safe.”

  “Riddles,” Norfolk says. “Tell me all you can.”

  “For fifty pounds?”

  “A hundred then.”

  “Or a thousand.”

  “A thousand? Damn your thieving ways, you Irisher scum. I’ll skin you alive!”

  “Rest easy, sir.” Will pushes the sack of gold back towards Norfolk. “I do not want your gold.”

  “What then?”

  “Be less of an enemy to my master.”

  “Oh, I see Cromwell’s hand in this.”

  “No, sir. My master intends helping our sovereign lord, King Henry, in the great matter of his re-marriage, to your niece. Give him a little breathing space, I beg of you.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because he is the only man who knows how to run England, now you have killed Wolsey,” Will replies.

  “The Duke of Suffolk said as much to me, the first time we met you,” Norfolk admits. “He says I do not know the price of wool!”

  “The secret is to set the price, my lord, rather than know it,” Will explains. “Thomas Cromwell is a good man, my Lord Norfolk. He knows the ways of business, and understands the law better than any other man in England.”

  Norfolk snorts, but sees the truth in what is said. He has a man to run his farms, and another to manage his ships. So, why not one to manage the country? God knows, he thinks, I don’t want the bloody job!

  “And what of the morrow?” he asks.

  “Come armed. The king allows it, does he not?”

  “He does.”

  “Then wear your sword, and have a few good men loitering about the place,” Will Draper concludes.

  “You expect trouble?”

  “Perhaps. I don’t know. It is late, my Lord Norfolk. May I return to my cold bed now?”

  “At your age, my bed would have a woman in it, making me warm,” Norfolk growls.

  “As will mine, once this affair is settled.”

  “I bid you good night then, Irishman.” Norfolk is gone, as quietly as he arrived. On the table, the bag of gold lies unclaimed. Will shakes his head, unsure that he is not still dreaming the episode. He crosses to the door, opens it, and finds Richard and Rafe, fast asleep outside.

  “Such fine watchdogs,” he mumbles, and goes back to his cold bed.

  “Do you know how much is in this purse?” Rafe asks.

  “Fifty pounds.” Will is busy making himself look as presentable as possible.

  “Where is it from?” Richard asks.

  “The fairy queen came to me in the night, and paid it over, for favours rendered,” Will says. “She likes handsome soldiers, you see.”

  “Really?” Rafe takes off his cap and uses it to strike Richard about the head.

  “Idiot. It’s a bribe, but from whom?” he says. “No one got past us in the night.”

  “Really? Did you not hear Lord Norfolk ride up on his white maned charger, and batter down my door?”

  Rafe is suitably chastened. He admits they might have dozed for a minute or two, and asks what the man wanted.

  “To buy me,” Will says, “but I think I struck a good deal for Master Cromwell instead. Norfolk might be a little friendlier towards him from now on.”

  “Nonsense.” Richard Cromwell cannot believe his ears. “Even his own trained falcons are afraid to land on his wrist, for fear of him biting them. Norfolk is a ravening beast, who lives for nought but the comfort of Uncle Norfolk.”

  “Things change, Richard,” Rafe tells him. “Perhaps Tom Howard wants our master to rid him of his wife too. After all, what is good for Henry, is good for England.”

  “Henry is England.” Richard spreads his arms wide, to signify that his King is of the same size as his country, and grins.

  “The house of Tudor will stand or fall, subject to him producing a male heir,” Rafe says. Civil war is an ugly prospect, he thinks, and it must be avoided at any cost.

  “The annulment is for Master Cromwell to handle. Did you find what I wanted?” Will is beginning to worry. It is no easy thing to confront a room full of lords and ladies, and conjure up a solution to an impossible murder.

  “Of course. I have it here.” Rafe produces a folded paper and passes it across. Rafe opens it, and runs his eyes down a list of names. Most mean very little to him, and he grows despondent. It is when he reaches the last one there that his eyes light up.

  “Are you sure?” Will asks.

  “Sure. It is through her first husband.”

  “And skilfully concealed,” Will says. “See how long this has been planned? What infamy.”

  “I agree,” Rafe replies, “but I still do not know how Isaac ben Mordecai died.”

  “Come, let us collect Mush and Harry Cork on our way. What hour is it, Richard?”

  “Not eight yet.”

  “Then we have time for breakfast.” Will picks up the purse of gold and ties it to his belt. “A portion for Master Cromwell, and the rest amongst his young men.”

  “You learn quickly, Captain Will,” Rafe says, smiling. “I wonder what Master Turner has cooking?”

  “Eggs, I hope. I can eat a dozen if boiled well,” Richard tells them, seriously. Food is not a laughing matter to him. “Or perhaps some cutlets, or jellied calves feet?”

  They find Mush and Harry Cork chatting to two young women of the household. They have already eaten, so Will despatches them to loiter near the King’s suite of rooms.

  “Keep your eyes open, my friends, whilst Rafe, Richard and I go on a quest for boiled eggs.”

  “Ah, the ungodly pie thieves,” the master cook says as they walk in to the kitchen. He crosses his hands over his immense stomach, and belches. “Come to do penance, my fine gentlemen?”

  Will opens his purse, and drops a gold coin onto the table. The cook scoops it up, bites it and bows them to take a seat on one of the long benches. Unbidden, a small child appears, and lays out a series of platters, whilst another deposit’s a loaf of hot bread, and a jug of weak beer in front of them.

  “Any eggs?” Richard asks, hopefully. He has his strength to keep up, and the day promises to be a hard one. A few eggs will fit the bill nicely.

  “Boiled, coddled, fried, poached, or scrambled in cream,” the cook demands. He is an artist with eggs, often producing th
e most divine custards anyone has ever tasted.

  “Boiled.”

  “Hard or soft? Never mind, you look like the hard boiled sort, with a little salt. I have some oak smoke cured ham if it pleases you, Master Will.”

  “Just some bread and cheese for me, Wat,” Will replies. “How did our guest sleep?” The rotund cook smiles, as if he had just been given a sack of silver.

  “He was a little fractious, at first, but two of my butcher boys hung him up in the meat store.”

  “Alive, I hope,” Will says. “My Lord Percy is the guest of honour this morning. By special invitation. Has he been fed?”

  “I tried, but the cold mutton proved far too greasy for his stomach,” Wat Turner tells them. “God alone knows what he’s been supping.”

  “I found him in a low bawdy house,” Will explained to the company. “My young man, Adam Bright was keeping an eye on him, rather than on me.” There is a sudden hush, and Rafe looks at Richard as if they are caught stealing apples. “It might amuse Master Cromwell to know the lad mistook him for a priest, and a sodomite. I’m not angry with him, Rafe. Cromwell has watchers watching his watchers, and I see the sense of it.”

  “The boy failed in his duty,” Rafe says. “He should have kept hidden from you.”

  “The boy chose his master,” Will says. “What would you do, my friends, trust a black garbed sodomite priest, or me? I gave the lad a shilling, and told him to get along to Austin Friars.”

  “Hiring staff now, are we?”

  “Rewarding loyalty,” Will replies. “Adam Bright followed my orders to the letter, and did not fall asleep on the job!” There. That is the final word on it. Rafe and Richard failed to stay alert, and it might have been a killer, rather than Norfolk slipping past them in the night. They are suitably chastised, and can only hope the event does not become a comical tale told around Austin Friars breakfast table.

  “I will have him taken on as a messenger,” Rafe Sadler promises Will. “He can run notes between the house and the law courts.”

  “Excellent. I will see he learns his letters,” Richard says, “and Will can teach him how to turn a blade, and administer a killing thrust.”

  “Eat your salted eggs, and mind you don’t bite your tongue,” Will tells him. “Ah, here is our guest. Good morrow to you, my Lord Percy. Are you well?”

  “You! You kidnapped me, and had me locked up with dead animals,” Percy curses. “The King shall hear of this.”

  “Indeed he will, and within the hour, sir.” Will places a document down in front of the Earl. It is a list of ingredients for making roast sucking pig with chestnuts, drawn up by Wat Turner. “Here, read this.”

  “I have a headache,” Percy says, pushing it away. “Read it to me, if you think it important.

  “It is a confession, sir,” Will says, coldly. “Written by Sir Andrew Jennings, in return for his life. He had a mind to visit France, suddenly.”

  “What?” Percy adopts a blank expression. “Drew Jennings has admitted to a crime?”

  “At your order.”

  “He lies.” The Earl looks from face to face, and sees that his word is not enough for Cromwell’s men. “Bring him here, and I will say so, with my hand on the holy bible.”

  “You swear it was all his idea, alone, my Lord?” Will asks.

  “I do. I knew nothing of it, until that morning.” Percy is used to inferiors accepting his word. “Ask the man, if you ever find him.”

  Wat Turner sees Will nod to him, and swings open a store cupboard by the big hearth. Drew Jennings is trussed up inside, with his mouth gagged.

  “Why, Sir Andrew, we thought you across the wide sea, in France by now,” Will says to him. “His Lordship is outraged at your dastardly behaviour. What say you?” He tugs aside the gag.

  “Bastard!” Jennings cries. “I told you to keep your stupid mouth shut. See what you have done to us. I will not let you take me for a fool, sir. For it was your wish. Yours alone.” Will replaces the gag, and slams the door.

  “Oh, dear. Perhaps we will let the King sort it all out,” he says. “I think you might wish to think hard on what you say to him, Lord Percy.”

  “I do not recall ever speaking to Drew Jennings… about anything, you cur. That will suffice for my cousin Henry.”

  “The man who stole your wife?” Will says. Harry Percy makes a small choking sound in his throat, and his bloodshot eyes fill with tears.

  “I spoke in jest.”

  “In front of witnesses,” Will Draper replies. “I might be a cur, Lord Percy, but I am Cromwell’s cur. Which charge do you wish to face this morning? The crime you devised with Jennings, or the one that accuses you of marrying, then tupping the King’s future wife?”

  “Oh, dear Christ, but it is a lie.” Percy is all smiles. This is amongst friends. Let us joke like men. “I spoke out in jest. As you might make a remark about any man’s wife. The King will not believe me capable of such a thing.”

  “Choose your guilt, Lord Percy,” Will says. Rafe and Richard are white faced with surprise. Will Draper has opened an old wound, and is using it to destroy the Duke of Northumberland. “You might find the King more forgiving if you confess to the lesser crime. If he sees you abed with his lady, if only in his mind, he will have you broken, hanged, drawn and quartered for an imagined sin.”

  “Yes, it was imagined,” Percy says, grasping at the straw offered him. “We exchanged a poem or two, and I admired her from afar only. The entire kingdom knows her to be a chaste lady.”

  “Good. For if Henry spares you, Norfolk will not.” Will pockets the fake confession. “He will ride north with a thousand troops, and use his canon to smash down your castle walls. He is not a forgiving man.”

  “What must I do?”

  “When I reveal your sin, you must confess, then beg forgiveness,” Will says. “That way, you will only be banished from court for a few months. Say Jennings was the real culprit, if you like. His life is forfeit anyway. I can do nothing to spare him from retribution.”

  “Yes, it was all down to Drew Jennings,” Percy says. Give him a glass of wine and in a half hour, he will believe it to be so. “You, boy, I am thirsty. Bring me wine!”

  Wat Turner steps forward, and cuffs the Earl casually behind the ear. In this kitchen, he is King, and it is his will that shall be done. Harry Percy is not a brave bully. He takes the blow, whimpers, and slides down onto the rush strewn floor. The huge cook sighs, and beckons a boy across from his corner. He takes Percy by the collar, and hoists him, one handed, back onto the rough bench.

  “Fetch this washed out wretch a flask of wine,” he tells the serving boy. “ The Italian rubbish, not the nice French red,” he says.

  “You are a saint,” Rafe sniggers to the master of cooks. Wat Turner accepts the truth of this with a pious nod of his leonine head.

  “A good morning’s work, good sirs, “ he says.

  “We are not yet done, Wat,” Will says. “May we leave Drew Jennings in your custody for a few hours?”

  “Of course.” The cook pauses, in thought. The question must be asked, he realises. “When all is settled, Master Will… I cannot have murder done in my kitchens. The King would be shocked at such a thing.”

  “Rest easy, sir. Some people will come and remove your prisoner,” Will tells him. “His fate will be met outside the walls of York Place.”

  “That will please the blessed soul of Cardinal Wolsey too,” the cook replies. “Now, who will try these roasted cutlets?”

  Richard Cromwell raises a single finger into the air. Boiled eggs and hot mutton cutlets will see him through the morning. Rafe and Will watch as he demolishes a platter of the steaming meat, and pick at their own food. Rafe pauses, with a piece of warm bread half way to his mouth.

  “Do you believe this is the body of Christ, Will?”

  “And that water can become wine?” Draper scowls. He remembers the priest demanding money before he would pray over his dead family. He still sees his face
in the night, now and then. “Wine into water is an easier trick. Does not Master Tyndale say that the change is not actual, but…”

  “You’ve read Tyndale?” Rafe is surprised. It is forbidden, and the English bible can lead a man to the stake.

  “Know thy enemy,” Will says. “The king, Tyndale, Thomas More and Pope Clement all have their own views, and are each dangerous to us in different ways.”

  “Then what do you believe in?” Richard asks through a mouthful of meat.

  “Master Cromwell, and my own sword arm.” Will Draper stands, and brushes himself clear of any crumbs. “Ready, gentlemen?”

  14 The Winter King’s Lair

  Harry Cork and Mush are guarding the King’s door, standing on each side, like wary dogs. Rafe thinks of Gog and Magog, the twin destroyers, prophesied for the Hebrew race, and smiles. Mush will soon be more English than Jew, and a convert to the faith that is Thomas Cromwell. He does not remember the old saying about beauty only running skin deep.

  There is still but one God in Moshe ben Mordecai’s mind, but he is content to serve an earthly master too. He will answer to Mush, and climb the slippery ladder with his new lord, and keep faith with the god of Israel too. Cromwell would call him a most pragmatic Jew, and love him for it.

  “All present?” Will asks. Rafe and Richard are flanking Harry Percy, who looks fit for the gallows. His face is white with fear, and his legs can scarcely support him.

  “Everyone on the list, Will,” Cork tells him. “Though one or two are in a black humour. I hope you know what you are doing.”

  “Rest easy, my friend,” Will says. “We have our man. Both of you, follow us in, close the door, and stand before it. None shall leave, save at the King’s order. Understood?”

  Mush and Harry Cork exchange glances. Will Draper is either mad, or the greatest fool in Christendom. Harry Percy is the Duke of Northumberland, and as close to the King as a brother. They usher the small party inside, and close the great wooden door. Inside the room, all is silent.

  Henry is seated in the best chair, behind the table. Norfolk is at his right hand, and Suffolk is standing at the King’s shoulder. To one side is Thomas Cromwell, Sir Thomas More, Richard Rich, and Stephen Gardiner. By the screen, sitting on a stool, is Lady Anne Boleyn. She is flanked by her brother George, and sister Mary.