Justice for the Cardinal

by David Field

  ‘Certainly, Sire,’ Richard replied as he made it to the entrance door on his fifth bow, and slipped happily behind it into the safety of the hallway. He nodded at the guards as he began to walk away, before one of them called after him.

  ‘How did you go in there?’

  Richard stopped and turned. ‘Very well, thank you. And I have a message for you from the King.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘He says to stick your halberds up your arses. Sharp end first.’

  Then he set off at a trot towards his second audience of the day. The more important one, according to his instructions.

  ‘This one’s very pretty,’ remarked the dark-haired matron as she looked up from where she was seated beside the Queen. ‘I didn’t realise it was Christmas already.’

  ‘You must forgive my sister-in-law Lady Rochford,’ said the woman in the centre of the group, who Richard took to be the Queen herself. She reached out a languid hand for the papers that Richard was carrying. ‘How nice of Master Secretary to send such a pleasing substitute, instead of depressing us all with his usual miserable presence. Mind you, after the way he spoke to my Almoner at the Council meeting, little wonder that he dares not show his face in here. You have the list he promised?’

  ‘I do, My Lady,’ Richard replied with a slight bow.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ Anne corrected him with a flash of black eyes that put Richard in mind of a hawk snapping at its prey. Were she not seated in the centre of the group, the obvious focus of everyone’s attention, he would not have taken her to be the Queen of England. There was little evidence of her famed beauty, and even less indication of the child she was known to be carrying. Her frame was light and bony, and not covered by any of the fashionable padding worn by her surrounding ladies, while her haughty face seemed stretched across the bony structure of her head. Only her dark eyes seemed vibrant and alive, as they darted this way and that down the list, occasionally glancing up at him with looks that could kill. Eventually, she handed the list to another woman on her right with a disdainful snort.

  ‘Take that, Mistress Shelton. I doubt I will need it again.’ She looked more carefully at Richard. ‘Who are you, and where are you from?’

  ‘Richard Ashton of Fyfield, Your Majesty. I serve Master Secretary Cromwell.’

  ‘In what capacity? Do you procure him more boys for his household, to pose as musicians?’

  ‘No, Your Majesty. I am one of his senior clerks.’

  ‘So you are not a musician?’

  ‘No, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Master Smeaton, over in the corner there, is a musician. Play something, Mark.’

  A young man with a baby face and a mop of unruly black hair sticking out from under a red velvet bonnet looked lovingly back at the Queen as he picked up his lute from the cushion on which it had been resting.

  ‘What shall I be playing?’ he asked in heavily accented English.

  Anne smiled at him coquettishly. ‘Do you love me, Mark?’

  ‘With all my heart, dearest lady.’

  ‘You see?’ Anne smirked triumphantly at Richard. ‘He loves me, and will do my every bidding. If you are to join our daily company, as I am sure every woman here wishes you to do, you must first appreciate that every man who joins us eventually loses his heart to me. Play something merry, Mark.’

  Mark began to coax a lively tune of some sort from his instrument, and Anne smiled at Richard, then nodded to the far corner of the chamber.

  ‘There is a seat remaining, on the other side of Mistress Seymour. The gentleman next to her is Sir Francis Weston, one of the few Courtiers allowed to beat my husband at tennis. He also outranks him in other matters, about which it is perhaps better that nothing more be said, but I feel sure he would welcome your company, if only to share with him the tedium of wringing conversation from that pale little violet Jane Seymour. You need not fear any inroads into your honour from her.’ She raised her voice to be heard in the corner of the chamber above the rhythmic lilt of the music from the lute. ‘Make way, Jane. Here comes a worthy contender for your maidenhead.’

  It went on like this for the best part of an hour, after which Richard felt that perhaps he should take his leave, since he was getting nowhere in his gallant efforts to engage Mistress Seymour in conversation. Her eyes would only rise from her needlework when she felt obliged to reply to a direct question from Richard, while the Courtier on her other side, Francis Weston, clearly had eyes only for the rest of the company, and most obviously the Queen herself, who would occasionally reward his dedicated gaze with a smile or a gentle wave of the hand.

  Jane Seymour seemed to Richard to be a strange contrast in this chamber full of high-born courtesans. She was pale of countenance, with fair hair that showed modestly from under her hood in the French style that the Queen had made so popular, and — some said — compulsory. Her eyes were either blue or green, depending upon the light, and exuded a demure serenity that seemed like an island of modesty in the midst of all the bawdy innuendo being exchanged by the remainder of the Queen’s Ladies, who seemed almost to be competing with each other in ribaldry.

  He gave up the effort of engaging Jane in conversation, rose, and walked over to where the Queen was playing cards with Mistress Shelton while Lady Rochford looked on with barely concealed boredom. He bowed, and sought leave to withdraw about his business.

  ‘More scribbling for Master Secretary?’ Anne asked. ‘Or has he saved you a randy abbess from one of the holy houses that he plunders for my husband?’

  ‘No, just routine copying from the Chancery Court that my master presides over. As for abbesses, are there any randy ones?’

  ‘Ask your master,’ Anne replied curtly. ‘According to him, the holy houses are a hotbed of lust, with monks going to it with monks, and nuns likewise. It is one of his excuses for closing them down.’

  ‘You do not agree that they deserve to be closed down, Your Majesty?’

  ‘That is one question. Another is what should be done with the wealth they yield. My Almoner says that it should be distributed among the poor, but the King my husband would add it to his coffers in order to further enrich his palaces.’

  ‘Such as this one, Your Majesty?’ Richard could not stop himself replying before Anne’s black eyes flashed once again with the anger of being gainsaid.

  ‘Show him out, Jane,’ she instructed the older woman behind her, and Lady Rochford stepped lightly from the low rostrum on which the Queen’s chair was mounted, took Richard daintily by the arm and paraded him proudly to the door. Instead of leaving him to go through it alone, she closed it gently behind her and led Richard down the hallway, then stopped abruptly and leaned in towards him so closely that he could smell the cloves on her breath.

  ‘You must think nought of all the ribaldry you heard in there, Master Ashton. They are, in the main, but young chicks that have yet to be plucked, and they only go to it in their imaginations. As for the Queen, her mind is fed on memories of former days, and she imagines all men to be in love with her, as indeed she fondly imagines that the King still is. If you should be seeking bed exercise, my advice to you would be to seek it with an older woman, and one who knows what goes where, and how to pleasure it when it does.’

  ‘I thank you for that advice, Lady Rochford, but I saw no older women in that company. One alone, that is, whose beauty deepens with experience,’ Richard flattered her as he felt her full breasts pressed against his arm.

  ‘Have a care how you flatter, Master Ashton,’ she breathed softly, ‘else I may put you to the test. Perhaps one night next week, when I have use of the adjoining bedchamber to the Queen’s? Attend upon us before then, and we shall see what assignation may be made.’

  ‘I swear she was seducing me!’ Richard declared in faint disbelief as he reported back to Cromwell, who smiled.

  ‘Why should she not? Her own husband has not lain with her since their wedding night, or so it is rumoured.’

  ‘But she is mos
t alluring — how can he not want her?’

  ‘Do you lust after boys, or perhaps very young girls who have yet to see any monthly flow?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘Your taste is for women slightly past their youth, as with Lady Rochford?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. Why?’

  ‘Because every man is aroused by something different. With you it is mature matrons — for George Boleyn it is boys and little girls. In the same way that you would not be drawn into sexual congress with a boy, George cannot be teased into it by his own wife.’

  ‘Then why did he marry her, if he found her not comely?’

  ‘He is a Boleyn, and they marry where they are told by their father George, who has risen from very little to become Earl of Wiltshire and Lord Privy Seal through the marriage of Anne to King Henry. His son was ordered to marry Jane Parker, the daughter of Baron Morley, a distant relative by marriage of the Countess of Salisbury who made such a commendable Courtier out of you.’

  ‘He would not have been obliged so to order me,’ Richard replied. ‘As you say, her husband clearly has no eye for mature beauty.’

  Cromwell smiled. ‘There is said to be a particular reason why George was ordered to marry, once his sister Anne was clearly headed for the throne. It is mere rumour, of course, but one that I hope to be able to give more reliable form on our next visit to Beaulieu.’

  ‘Our next visit?’

  ‘Your first visit, of course. By then you may be closer to Lady Rochford anyway, and it will be easy to secure your invitation. As for me, no one ever closes the door of hospitality on Master Secretary.’

  ‘You wish me to encourage Lady Rochford?’

  ‘I wish you to bed her,’ Cromwell replied.

  Richard’s face lit up. ‘And to think that you once warned me that my duties under you would be onerous! When shall I set about this most pleasant of tasks?’

  ‘It is more a question of “where”,’ Cromwell replied. When Richard looked confused, Cromwell revealed more information regarding arrangements inside Whitehall Palace. ‘For some time now, it has been the custom for one of the Queen’s Ladies to sleep on a pallet at the foot of her bed. It is said to be for the Queen’s added protection, since an incident some time in the past when an unextinguished candle caused a fire in the draperies festooned around the walls. Less kindly rumour has it that it is to ensure that the Queen remains faithful. Whatever the reason, the custom has been somewhat modified, unknown to Henry who first ordained it. A side chamber has been created to the Queen’s bedroom, and has been equipped with a bed, on which her ladies take it in turn to sleep every night for a week, with the dividing door kept open. It is an equally open secret that on some nights that door is closed, whether to allow the lady to be visited, or the Queen herself, is subject to speculation.’

  ‘But whoever visits the lady in the side chamber must tiptoe past the sleeping Queen?’

  ‘You are assuming that the Queen sleeps on such occasions. The side chamber may be entered through a secret door from the hallway, hidden behind a hanging depicting the Martyrdom of Saint Anthony.’

  ‘How do you come to know of such things?’ Richard asked in open-mouthed respect.

  Cromwell smiled. ‘One of the advantages of being base-born is the ability to speak with others of like origin. In Courtly company I can play Cromwell the Master Secretary, while in the kitchens and guardrooms I can revert to being Cromwell the offspring of the Putney alehouse.’

  ‘So that is what Lady Rochford meant when she suggested one night next week,’ Richard mused out loud. ‘Next week must be her week to lie in the side chamber.’

  ‘This is excellent, and well to my purpose,’ Cromwell grinned and clapped his hands. ‘Let me know which night, and I may lay my plans.’

  ‘What have you in mind?’

  ‘That is for me to know, and for you to conjecture. But when you hear disturbance from the Queen’s bedchamber, be sure to make yourself a mere interrupted memory in the adjoining chamber. Now, tell me of other conversations you overheard during your audience with Anne.’

  Richard knitted his brows in disapproval. ‘I had never expected to hear such open lewdness between ladies of such high birth. Rarely did the conversation rise above the cods, and it was as if all the ladies were competing to seem the lustier bawd. Chief among them Anne herself, who spoke as if she were a prize bitch on heat, surrounded by panting dogs.’

  ‘It is her manner, of late,’ Cromwell reassured him. ‘She fears that her beauty is fading, and with it her allure for Henry. Now that she is with child, they have withdrawn from nightly congress, and Henry goes to it with royal whores, some of whom she fears that he prefers. But most of all she fears that unless she whelps a son, she will be out of the royal favour, out of his bed, and off the throne. He grows daily more anxious over the succession, and begins to look for another who can land him a boy onto the childbed sheets. He knows that the fault does not lie with him, because of the daily reminder of Henry Fitzroy, who can occasionally be seen wafting around the royal corridors like the smell from an ill-kept drain.’

  ‘There were some very embarrassing references to His Majesty’s alleged lack of sexual prowess, even in the presence of a stranger such as myself,’ Richard told Cromwell. ‘Merely to have heard them makes me feel tainted with treason.’

  Cromwell chortled quietly and patted Richard reassuringly on the back. ‘You may rest easy. Such slights are by no means restricted to the Queen’s chamber, and half of England believes Henry to be one hundred and eighty pounds of siege powder with only a three inch fuse. There are currently broadsheet ballads in circulation through the alehouses along the wharfs describing the failures of “King Littleprick”. If Henry were to learn of their existence, and were he to hunt down their printer, he would have him boiled alive.’

  ‘But does Henry himself fear that his manhood is waning?’

  ‘Perhaps, but do you imagine that he is about to admit it openly around the Court? No — instead he blames Anne, hinting that she has become such a shrew and a nag that his manhood flags at the mere sight of her disapproving countenance. He clings to his memories of lustier days, as of course does Anne herself, and each of them strives to reawaken what has died with fresh liaisons. Unfortunately for Anne, there is only one of them who can convert the thought into deed. If she is unfaithful, she will be for the Tower or one of the few remaining convents. For him it is easy — find another royal bride and hope that his member rises to the challenge.’

  ‘But what ground will he cite for putting Anne aside? Will it be as it was with the former Queen Katherine?’

  ‘That will be for the theologians such as Archbishop Cranmer, and the lawyers such as myself, to determine. But the signs are there already, and I must shortly ride to Wulfhall in Wiltshire.

  ‘Why, and what is at Wulfhall?’

  ‘Your second question first. Wulfhall is the family seat of the Seymours.’

  ‘I met a Seymour only this afternoon. A whey-faced mute with all the vitality of an alabaster virgin on a cathedral wall.’

  ‘Jane Seymour?’

  ‘Such was her name, as I recall. Why should you be riding to visit with her family? Are you seeking a second wife among the Queen’s Ladies?’

  ‘The grief I experienced on the death of my first is not something I would wish to repeat. As for matrimony, it is not I who seeks the limp hand of the daughter of old Sir John.’

  ‘Who then?’ Richard asked. When Cromwell smiled and raised his eyebrows in an invitation to Richard to work it out for himself, Richard’s eyes opened wide in disbelief. ‘You cannot surely be serious? Henry himself?’

  ‘I go simply to confirm that she is in no way spoken for, in order that Henry may thereafter lay siege to her virtue.’

  ‘The only way she could be spoken for is as a novitiate in a nunnery, but you have left precious few of those, as I learn daily. Surely Henry cannot find her comely? She is as cold as the frost on February grass,
and as lively as goats’ cheese. Come to think of it, that is much like her complexion. I own that Anne herself wants some more flesh on her bones, and would be best advised to smile with more warmth than venom, but it is difficult to imagine two more contrasting women.’

  ‘I am minded of two old adages,’ Cromwell replied. ‘The first is that a change is as good as a holiday. And the second is that he who is busy poking the fire into life is not fixated on the mantelpiece above it.’

  Richard chuckled, and Cromwell opted to move the conversation sideways.

  ‘How did you enjoy your first audience with Henry?’

  Richard’s brow knitted at the memory. ‘It was not as I expected. Before I entered the presence, I was burning with resentment regarding how the Tudors had stolen my birthright, and imagining how I might myself have been enjoying all the luxuries of Whitehall Palace. But when I actually came face to face with King Henry, I found myself tongue-tied — almost afraid. He has a most commanding presence, and I would die rather than let him suspect my true identity for one moment.’

  ‘He has that effect on most people,’ Cromwell reassured him, ‘so you need not feel in any way inadequate. Should it transpire, when I speak with Sir John Seymour, that the Lady Jane has another suitor, Henry will surely blow him away like a field cannon, in the same way that he put Harry Percy to flight over a suggestion of his prior understanding with Anne Boleyn. But no time must be lost in discovering the true state of things.’

  ‘When do we leave?’ Richard asked.

  Cromwell frowned. ‘For the moment, it will be me alone. You stay here and light the fire inside Lady Rochford. But do not poke around in her hearth until my return.’

  VI

  Cromwell handed his bridle to the stable groom and strode towards the front door, from which emerged a scuttling Steward, all elbows and knees as his gown fluttered in the late April breeze.