Midnight Queen: A Tudor Intrigue (Tudor Crimes Book 2) Read online

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  Midnight Queen

  by

  Anne Stevens

  A Tudor Intrigue

  Foreword

  In 1529, a new ambassador to the court of Henry VIII has been appointed, and becomes a supporter of Queen Katherine in her fight to remain as the king’s legal wife. Cardinal Wolsey has fallen from power, and new factions are forming within the court.

  Eustace Chapuys, the Spanish and Holy Roman Empire’s new ambassador, becomes embroiled in court intrigue and, in 1531, is forced into an unlikely alliance with Thomas Cromwell, now a member of the king’s Privy Council.

  Friend and foe become confused as the great men of England vie to gain King Henry’s ear. Sir Thomas More is the new Lord Chancellor, and is pressing for an annulment of the royal marriage, whilst the influential Pole family want Katherine reinstated, and her daughter Mary declared to be next in the line of succession.

  Cromwell moves between each camp, trying to further his own ends. He is intent on reforming the church, using his influence with Henry to break the power of Rome, and on providing a male heir to the throne.

  Throughout, Katherine of Aragon remains aloof from every plot and machination, keeping her own council, and fighting against fate from her tenuous position. She must rely on Chapuys to guard her honour, and Cromwell to guard her life. The queen watches from the shadows, wondering when, and where the blow will fall.

  If Anne Boleyn is to assume the role of King Henry’s consort, in the full light of day, then Katherine of Aragon is surely, the Midnight Queen.

  1 The New Spanish Ambassador

  The candles have burned low, and a few have spluttered, and died. The first fingers of what promises to be a cold, grey dawn are making their way, languidly, across the cobblestone courtyard outside, and Katherine, once a princess of Aragon, and now Queen of England watches from her small window. She turns at a small noise behind her.

  “Your Majesty has not slept well?” the woman asks, in Spanish.

  “No, not well, Maria.” She answers in an English, flavoured with her mother tongue’s accent. Over thirty years in England, and she still struggles. “You must speak English to me, even when we are alone. The king does not like to hear Spanish spoken in his court these days.”

  “Yes, madam,” Lady Maria Willoughby says, suitably admonished. She has been in Katherine’s service since 1505, and for almost a quarter century, they have been the closest of friends. “What about French? His Majesty speaks the language well enough.”

  “Do not make fun of him,” the queen tells her. “He does not deserve it.”

  “He does not deserve you,” Maria says, almost spitting the words out. She slips into her native Basque tongue and says “Erregeak txerri bat da!”

  “Enough!” Katherine is suddenly angry. It is difficult to make people understand. The king, she assures her closest friend, is not a pig. It is Wolsey who is dripping poison into his ear. It is always the malevolent old cardinal, weaving his wicked plans, like a spider constructing its web.

  Maria sniffs, and starts to prepare her queen for the day ahead. She will dress her in a subtle mixture of English, and Spanish fashion. There will be no French influence. For la puta dresses that way, showing her shoulders and her pits nus, to any man who cares to look.

  “Maria, do not sulk,” says Katherine. “It will make your face red. Is everything prepared for today?”

  “Everything has been done,” Maria confirms. “All of your ladies have been warned to be at their best, and the household staff have their instructions. Except for the Moroccans, of course.”

  The queens household numbers about two hundred and twenty five souls, ranging from two dozen ladies in waiting, to two personal cooks, a master of horse, twenty three maids, eight cleaners, and a physician. They are all of Spanish blood, except for the two gigantic Moroccan slaves, given to her by Princess Isabella of Portugal, her devoted sister.

  They stand at six feet, and look splendid when they are in their national costume, with their muscles oiled. There is no useful purpose to be served in keeping them, but they can look menacing, if need be, and seem to be devoted to the queen, who treats them like pets. They understand some Spanish, and a few of the more vulgar English words. Orders are usually conveyed by signs and mime, and are often misunderstood, or completely ignored.

  “I will speak to Abdul and Hakim,” Katherine tells her. “I shall have them standing on either side of me. It will impress the new ambassador with my majesty, don‘t you think, Maria?”

  “What do we really know of the gentleman, Majesty?” Maria asks. It is not out of prurience. Maria de Salinas, Lady Willoughby, no longer has any real interest in men. She has been married, and widowed, and her ten years of dull wedlock has left her unimpressed with the male sex. It has also left her with a fine English title, a couple of nice houses, and an income of over a thousand silver marks a year.

  “So little,” the queen says. “I am informed only that he is coming, and wishes to pay his respects to me. He saw the king a few days ago, and asked his permission. I am told he is a young man for such an important post, and is a clever speaker. My nephew must think highly of this Señor Chapuys.”

  “His name sounds to be French, madam,” Maria says, carefully. “He might have some sympathy with the … that woman.”

  “I believe he is a Savoyard by birth, and therefore a loyal subject of my dearest nephew, Charles,” Katherine explains. Savoy, like most of Europe, is under the banner of the Holy Roman Empire, and Charles V is its undisputed head. His power stretches from the Germanic provinces and the Netherlands, through Austria and Hungary, then down into Spain, where he has been acknowledged as the first true Christian king. He has control of most of Italy, and the New World colonies, and is rivalled only by the French on one side, and the Ottoman Turks on the other. His wealth is equal to that of all of his rivals added together.

  “I pray Ambassador Chapuys is an improvement on the idiot he is replacing,” Maria mutters. Katherine pretends not to have heard, but says a silent ‘amen’ in agreement. The outgoing ambassador has been of little use. In over two years, he has done nothing but strut about the court, giving, and taking, offence at every turn. Cardinal Wolsey has turned him about and about, until he has as little influence as a low born jester.

  Time will tell, the queen thinks.

  Eustace Chapuys pulls his cloak tightly about him, and approaches the entrance of Westminster Palace. There are guards, of course, but mostly for show. England is at peace, and has been for over forty years now.
They salute, and uncross their halberds.

  The ambassador sweeps past them, with King Henry’s toady at his heels, twittering away in poor French. Edmund Carlisle is a mincing fop, whose duty it is to deflect Chapuys from his aims, and pamper him into compliance with the king’s wishes. He is of limited intelligence, and does not know how to handle a man of such wit, and perspicacity.

  “You have but to ask, sir,” the young gallant is saying, “and I am commanded to be of service.”

  “Excellent. Please be so good as to wait here for me, and I will try to think of a service you may do me,” Chapuys tells him sharply. Master Carlisle makes as if to follow, but t ambassador steps across him, firmly. “No sir. Enough is enough. I have been granted a private audience with my master’s aunt, the Queen of England, and so it shall be. Now sir, I pray that you desist your pursuit, and wait here for me.”

  He sweeps on down the corridor, ignoring the young man’s scandalized pleas. His French is truly most deplorable, Chapuys thinks. He, himself can speak German, French, Spanish, Italian, Latin, and enough Flemish to get by on. Then he has a smattering of Arabic, Polish, and Russian. He can also speak quite good English, but for the moment, that is his secret.

  Men will say much, if they believe you are unable to understand, and there is much to learn before he can perform his duty to a satisfactory standard. He comes to a door guarded by an attractive middle aged woman, and bows. He notes the style of her dress, and speaks to her in Basque.

  “Pray, present me, madam. I am Eustace Chapuys, ambassador of Spain, and the Holy Roman Empire.”

  The woman is taken by surprise, and smiles.

  “I am Lady Maria Willoughby, sir. You speak the Basque dialect well, I perceive.”

  “Well enough, my dear lady,” Chapuys replies, then slips into more fluent Castilian Spanish. “You are Maria de Salinas? I am told that you are Her Majesty’s closest friend in England.”

  “I have that honour,” Maria replies. “She has few, at the moment, and none in court, Señor Chapuys. I pray you will redress that imbalance.” She waves the guard aside, pushes open the door at her back, and ushers Chapuys into a large room.

  At the far end, under a canopy of red silk, sits the queen. She is flanked by two enormous dark skinned men, standing with their arms folded. As he advances, the new ambassador removes his hat, and executes an elaborate bow.

  “Most gracious Majesty,” he begins, in Spanish. “I have letters of introduction from your loving nephew, The Emperor Charles, and words of friendship from your many relatives in Spain, and Portugal. You are still remembered with love in Aragon.”

  “Your Spanish is excellent,” the queen tells him, “but we must speak in either French or English. My husband, the king, insists on it.” She emphasises the word ‘husband’ and Chapuys gives a slight nod to show he understands. The entire thrust of his mission is to be aimed at the legitimacy of the queen’s marriage to Henry. No matter what, her right to be known as queen, is paramount, and not open to negotiation.

  “Then let us converse in the French tongue, my dear lady,” Eustace Chapuys says, “for English is a barbaric language, far beyond my poor understanding. I would not wish King Henry to receive an unfavourable report of my conduct.”

  Katherine knows that some amongst her ladies have loose tongues, and some are even married to English noblemen, and have sharply divided loyalties. It is best to keep any public conversation as neutral as possible.

  “I agree, Señor Chapuys. His Majesty is currently in a state of confusion, over a certain matter.” Katherine can hardly bring herself to discuss so loathsome a matter as the validity of her marriage. “It has been put into his head that our vows are worthless, because of my marriage to his brother, Arthur.”

  “A patent nonsense, of course, but still a matter which is exercising the minds of many people, Your Majesty,” he replies. “I have heard that Cardinal Wolsey is under a dark cloud at the moment, and that your dear husband is most displeased with his actions.”

  “Wolsey promised him a quick annulment,” Katherine explains. “It is the cardinal’s first false step in twenty years.”

  “It is said that he languishes in his Esher house, and is banned from the royal court. Even so, madam, we must remember the tale of the scorpion.”

  “Ah, Chapuys, you have only been here a few days, and already know more than your predecessor,” the queen says. She is pleased at his perception, and his confirmation that Wolsey has fallen. “Should we be pleased that the Cardinal’s influence over my husband is broken?”

  “There is a difference between a great fall, and a mere stumble,” Chapuys mutters. “The scorpion might yet have a sting in its tail. I advise you to wait; bide your time, and see what happens.”

  “But if he is finished?” Katherine asks again.

  “Your husband, the king, must have many other very able advisors, madam,” Chapuys tells her. “I believe that he has turned to the Boleyn father, and the Duke of Norfolk.” He stresses the latter part of the duke’s name, and someone titters in a corner of the room.

  The queen looks at the source of the noise sharply, and it cuts off. She does not understand the humour, but it will spread throughout the court that Chapuys has invented a new, rather comic pronunciation for Norfolk.

  “The Boleyn family are not my friends,” she says. “They will do me harm at every turn, if they can.”

  “I do not think they bear you any personal malice, my Lady,” the ambassador replies. “It is just that they seek advancement, and fear you, because you stand in their way.”

  “To my dying breath,” Katherine mutters.

  “And mine,” Chapuys confirms, bowing. “I believe you have a Spanish doctor, madam? Can you recommend him, as a good man?”

  “There are many competent doctors at court,” Katherine says, then catches herself. The man is, indeed, very cunning. “Though few speak Spanish, of course. If you are unwell, I will send my Doctor Vargas to you. He is a dependable sort of man, though a little dull, conversationally.”

  “You are too kind, Your Majesty.” Chapuys stares into her brown eyes, willing her to understand his true meaning. “I have some small, but regular ailments, and would appreciate a consultation with your man.”

  “Of course. I have just found you, my dear Chapuys, and wish you to continue in good health. My doctor will call on you once each week.”

  “A most agreeable arrangement, madam,” Chapuys tells her. Then curiosity overcomes him. He asks about the towering bodyguards.

  “They are Abdul, and Hakim, my loyal Moroccan giants,” the queen explains. “They seem to understand nothing but a few words of Spanish, and my signs.”

  “Ah, I see,” says Chapuys. He turns to Abdul, the older of the two men. “As salaam aleykum”. The big man steps back in surprise, then grins, and replies. The ambassador speaks slowly, his knowledge of the eastern tongue being much inferior to his grasp of the European languages.

  “You speak our tongue well, for an ajami,” says Hakim. Ajami is the nearest he can come to describing Chapuys and his like. It means ’Persian’, and is meant as an insult. The ambassador smiles, and explains why.

  “I was once an envoy to the great Suleiman the Magnificent, when he was at the gates of Vienna.”

  “Bless his name,” Abdul mutters, touching chest and forehead, reverently.

  “My master, Charles, defeated him, and turned the infidels back.”

  “You win some, and you lose some,” the older Moroccan says, shrugging his great shoulders. “Another day, and it might be your master who has to flee. It need not worry small men, such as we, sir.”

  “Indeed not.” Chapuys cannot help but smile. “Guard the queen well, and I will see you well rewarded.”

  “Your gold will strengthen our devotion, master,” Hakim says, grinning.

  The queen is both amazed and delighted by the sudden flurry of incomprehensible chatter, and asks what Eustace Chapuys has told her bodyguards.

&
nbsp; “I greeted them, my Lady,” Chapuys tells her. “Then I said they must guard you with their lives. They say they love and revere you, and will lay down their lives if need be.” This is a fair approximation. The ambassador greeted them simply, and has promised them a few gold coins if they do their sworn duty. Hakim smiles, and agrees that they will be ever watchful.

  “This is splendid, Chapuys,” the queen says. “You must ask them something for me. They came to me as slaves, you see, and I do not know their histories. Are they brothers, or is one, perhaps, the father of the other?”

  Chapuys asks, and they both grin, and the older man explains their relationship, which the ambassador cannot, in all politeness, repeat to the queen. After a little thought he says, diplomatically: “They say they are just good friends, Your Majesty.”

  “And how did they come to me?”

  Chapuys asks Abdul about their past, and receives a garbled tale of treachery and deceit. An uncle of their cousin has stolen their birthright, and sold them into slavery. They long to return home, slit his fat gullet open, and recover the herd of camels he cheated from them. Then they will return to being honest farmers again, and praise Allah for their deliverance.

  “Shall I ask the queen to free you?” the ambassador asks, trying to hide a smile. “Then you may sail back to your far away land, and live happily once more.” The two men are utterly aghast at the suggestion, and swear they want to stay with the queen for ever.

  “After all,” the older man confesses, “it was a very small herd of camels!”

  Eustace Chapuys understands. Home is often a mythical place that is better kept in the heart, and left deep in the past. The two guards have no wish to go home, and their mistress, Queen Katherine feels exactly the same. Her heart is Spanish, but her roots have grown deep down into England’s rich dark soil, and back home, she would be nothing but a passing curiosity: an aging, casually cast off monarch, unable to hold on to her king.