The Alchemist Royal: A Courtier's Fall (Tudor Crimes Book 7) Read online

  “He wants something.”

  “Then, like the rest, he must pay.”

  “What if it is something you cannot bestow?” George asks.

  “Dear boy, I am the king’s father-in-law. I can do what ever I wish,” the older Boleyn says. “Our star is in the ascendancy.”

  “Then why is Henry so stingy with his gold?” George asks. “He throws titles about well enough, but there is no money to go with them. Nor does he take my advice. I told him that Draper was a rogue, and do you know what he said?”

  “No, I fear I missed that one, boy. What did Henry say?”

  “He said ‘Quite right, George. Go, at once, and force him to draw on you’. Then, he laughed!”

  “When Cromwell falls, they all fall,” Monsignor says. “Colonel Will Draper is no exception. You will be able to live in Austin Friars, and keep your pigs in Draper’s House.”

  “I would rather it were the other way about,” George replies, grinning. “For Draper keeps a very pretty wife, and I would be glad to draw my dagger on her!”

  “Draper is away a great deal,” Monsignor replies. “Why can you not call on the girl then, and press home the advantage? By the time the fellow returns, she will be broken to the saddle, and we might all have a ride.”

  “She was attacked in her home, about a year ago,” George says. “She drew a dagger, and slew the fellow on her stairs, or so the story runs. I have no wish to be skewered, whilst struggling to get out of my hose. No, father, I will bide my time.”

  2 Spring

  The smell of wet grass, on a fine Spring morning, is a memory that reminds Will Draper of his time fighting in Ireland. It, along with the constant buzzing of insects, and the awkward gambolling of the new born lambs in the meadows, makes him feel as alive as can be.

  “A very good morning to you, sir.” The man doffs his cap, and bows low. Will still has a problem with his new status as the King’s Examiner, and returns the bow awkwardly. “Have I the pleasure of addressing Colonel Will Draper, the King’s Examiner?”

  “You do, sir, and you are…?”

  “Marmaduke, sir,” he replies. “Walter Marmaduke, head steward of Oxton Manor. The house is less than a mile ahead.”

  “Then let us get on, Master Marmaduke,” Will tells him, “for I doubt the body will last long, even in this mild heat. This is the second day, is it not?”

  “We sent right away, sir,” the steward says, fearful of attracting blame to himself. “I found her, you see. It fair shook me, and I knew the magistrate would blame me for any delay.”

  “How come you to know of my office?” Will is glad of an adventure, but cannot help wonder how the steward of a small estate in Suffolk is so aware.

  “Master Charles, your honour,” Marmaduke explains. “Sir Anthony Clough is one of his tenants, and he was here just after Christmas. His lordship told a fine tale of how you investigate matters that affect the king.”

  “You mean the Duke of Suffolk?” Will nods to himself. Brandon has spread his fame, without making it clear that he is meant only to investigate matters that involve the crown. “I fear he misled you, as this does not touch upon the king.”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but it does,” the old steward replies. “Lady Clough … that is the deceased …did often entertain King Hal, when he was still but a prince. There was some talk of a love match, but she wed another, and then, Sir Anthony ended up with her. I reckon Henry will want to know how his old love died, do not you, sir?”

  Will reckons that Henry does not remember the woman from twenty years, or more, back, and guesses that there has been a hundred such ladies in his life since then. Still, it is a pleasant day, and there is the chance of resolving a mystery.

  “You say you found the woman?”

  “I did. I was going to saddle up the master’s favourite hunter, and there she was … hanging there. I was out of that barn in a moment, and barred the door. Then I sent a fast rider, with orders to find you.”

  “He did well,” Will says, recalling the annoyance with which Miriam had thrown open the bedroom window at three in the morning. “My wife took pity on the poor exhausted boy, and found him a warm place in the kitchen. He will be following on, no doubt, having been fed, almost to death by her.”

  “My lad, sir,” Marmaduke explains. “He is the only one I trust. I put a man on guard, and set off to meet you. I am amazed at the speed of your coming, Colonel Draper.”

  “I set off at first light, and have been on the road these last four hours. Though you might have been better advised sending your lad to Ipswich, Norwich, King’s Lynn, or even Boston.” Will reins Moll in, and stares down at the manor. It is a big, modern red brick affair, with a moat, a small gatehouse, and a church, close by. The surrounding gardens are immaculate. Some fifty yards to the rear of the main house is a large, wooden barn.

  “None of those places, though so full of people, have any real law, sir. This is not for a mere Sherriff.” Will does not argue. Country folk are a constant mystery to him.

  “Apart from cutting her down,” he says, “did you disturb anything else, my friend?”

  “Cut her down?” the steward looks aghast. “Not I, sir. You must not touch a suicide, for fear of the evil spirit within, a-comin’ without!”

  “Ah, quite, I see your point.” Will has little truck with the supernatural, and does not believe evil spirits inhabit the bodies of dead men. Were that to be the case, he would be overrun with malevolent spirits from all those whose lives he had taken. “Still, someone must do it.”

  “You are the King’s Examiner, Colonel Draper.”

  “Yes, I am,” Will says, smiling cheerfully. Riding for hours, and cutting down hanging corpses for a hundred pounds a year, when his wife is making almost a thousand pounds a week from selling cheese, fish oil, nails, salt, spices and wool, suddenly seems a strange way to earn a living. “Will you at least stand by the door, with a dagger?”

  “A dagger?” Marmaduke looks horrified. “Whatever for, sir?”

  “If there is any evil spirit in there, stab the second thing to come out of the barn… for the first will be me!”

  “It takes a brave man to jest so,” the steward mutters.

  “Then let us hear no more about ghouls and spirits, fellow,” Will tells him. “Have a carpenter prepare a suitable box, and warn the gravedigger that he must have a plot dug before noon. The lady will be ready for the ground, and no mistake.”

  “The priest will not let her rest in hallowed ground.”

  “What?”

  “She hanged herself, sir.”

  “Is that not for me to find out?” Will shakes his head in disbelief. “Is the priest a Roman, or of the new church?”

  “New, sir. The old priest would not stop chunnering in Latin, so some soldiers knocked him on the head, and dragged him off to Ipswich gaol. The new man is much better. He says there is no purgatory, sir, and that God speaks directly to King Harry, not the pope… I mean … the Bishop of Rome. Is that right?”

  “I know not,” Will says. “What does the new English bible say on the matter?”

  “I do not know, sir. My reading is not that good. The new man says that Jesus washed away all of man’s sins, and that we will all go to heaven. He says that in our father‘s house there are many mansions.”

  “Good for him. I doubt he will begrudge a poor woman one small piece of ground then.” Will slips from Moll’s back, and is disturbed by the sound of horses in distress. He glances over at the steward, who shrugs.

  “I dared not go in,” he explains. “They’ll be ready for watering and feeding by now.”

  “God’s teeth, man!” Will unbars the barn door, and steps inside. The bright morning sun illuminates the interior, and he gasps in horror. A woman, of middle years, is hanging from a crossbeam, with a toppled milking stool at her feet, and a sad, bloated look on her face. Worse of all is the smell. A cloud of flies attest to the start of the rotting process. “Get the horses out,
and see to them.”

  “But, sir…I,”

  “Now, or I will put my boot up your arse, fellow!” Will is gratified when the threat works, and the steward crosses to the stalls, where two mares are kept. The King’s Examiner approaches the hanging body, and stares. He has seen many hangings in his time, but never that of a woman. Her dress is of a fine make, and she is obviously of good birth. “This is definitely your mistress, Lady Clough?”

  “No doubt,” Marmaduke replies, tremulously. He even crosses himself for good measure. “Lady Isabella Clough.”

  “And her husband?”

  “Mad with grief,” the steward replies, shooing the two mares outside. “He’s in the big house, with one of the lads keeping an eye on him.”

  “That is for the best,” Will says softly. He circles the body, which is now twisting in the slight breeze from the door. At length, he stoops, and stands the stool back up on its legs. “Such a terrible way to die. I am going to cut your lady down now, Master Marmaduke. Can you help, or must you look away?”

  The steward takes a deep breath. It is the bravest thing he has ever been asked to do, and his poor soul is scarcely up to it, but he nods his head, and comes forward. He takes the body around the knees, closes his eyes, and waits until Will Draper climbs onto the stool, and slices through the rope.

  “Agghh!” Marmaduke staggers, and might easily fall, if Will does not jump down, and help take the weight. “Sweet Jesus, but the smell!”

  “Lower her down, my friend There, that will do,” Will pats the fellow on the shoulder. “Bravely done. Now, leave me to my task, and find that priest.”

  “With pleasure, Colonel Draper,” Marmaduke replies. He scuttles away, gulping in huge breaths of fresh air, and wiping away tears. He has known Lady Isabella for almost twenty years, and cannot believe she is gone.

  Will examines the length of rope, and sees that it is not unlike the good quality three strand jute his wife buys in, from the rope makers, in Castleton. The Derbyshire village, dominated by a derelict Norman castle, survives on its plaiting skills. It is strong, and supple enough to fashion a noose with.

  He sits down on the stool then, and contemplates the cold, dead eyes of the hanged woman. They are milking over, and the pallid skin is assuming a more marbled effect, with every passing moment. There is a small, nagging thought at the back of his mind, and he worries at it, until the answer comes.

  Of course, he thinks. There has to be a stool, how else did she gain enough height for the final drop? Then again, why choose a barn to kill yourself in? What if one of the farm labourers had happened by, or the steward had come looking earlier?

  He wonders what it is that drives someone to so desperate an act, and kneels beside the body. It is a distasteful task, but Will Draper grips the noose, and loosens it from her neck. The head lolls, making him jump back in alarm. He scolds himself for his stupidity, and resumes his examination. The mark left by the heavy rope is a livid purple, and, here and there, the skin is broken, and crusted with flecks of dried blood.

  “Damn,” he says, softly to himself. “Why could they not have just called for the local Sherriff?” He turns the lady onto her side, and examines how she is dressed. After a moment, he smiles, and shakes his head. “Now then,” he says. “what have we here?”

  Walter Marmaduke is not having a good day. Having had to help cut down a suicide, he is now trying to explain matters to Father Matthew Brady, who is preparing for a church service.

  “But father, you must come,” he says, “for the King’s Examiner demands…”

  “Demands?” Matthew Brady glowers at the old servant. “I am a man of God, Master Marmaduke, and none commands me, save Himself … or his representative, King Henry. Nor must you call me ‘father’. I am a reverend gentleman, not your blasted father. If I have to read the bible from end to end, every Sunday, I will beat the way of things into you peasants!”

  “That is not necessary, fath… I mean Reverend,” Marmaduke stammers. “I believe there is no purgatory, and I believe that the Bishop of Rome does not speak to God. I spurn Latin, and have faith in the new English writings. I also know Jesus is my saviour, but there is a man, in my master’s top barn, with a dead body, and he bids me bring you to him.”

  “Cannot you bring the dead body here?” Brady asks.

  “He will not move it yet, as he is investigating it.”

  “Dear Christ! What kind of rogue is it that wishes to investigate the dead? Is he some sort of…”

  “No, Reverend, you misunderstand. The manner of her death is … unusual, and he would have you come, and reassure him that you will bury her.”

  “Ah, a suicide.” Brady scratches his beard, and places a wide brimmed black hat on his head. “I’ll say a few words over the poor creature, and bury her up by the church wall. That way, she may climb over on Judgement Day, and seek salvation. Come on.”

  “We should serve up a lot of pork,” Miriam says, as she peruses Thomas Cromwell’s provisional menu. “Seeing as how the Boleyns are coming, and they are pigs.”

  “Hush, my girl,” Cromwell says, from his desk. He has his godson, Gwyllam dangling on one knee. “I want it to be a night to remember. I want nothing, but the best, and I want you to supervise it for me. You must charge me, as you charge your great lords.”

  “I cannot do that,” Miriam admits, “for my conscience will not let me. If I charge you at but half my usual rate, I will still make too fine a profit. I charge each to their worth, you see.”

  “You overcharge Norfolk and Warwick?” Cromwell smiles, and nods his approval. “How could I not be your father? You and I are so alike.”

  “You are my father, sir… or as close as any can be,” she says. “Gwyllam’s first word shall be ‘grandpa’, I wager.”

  “Your respect, and love, is worth more than any amount of gold to me, Miriam,” he replies. “Has Will fully forgiven me yet?”

  “He holds you above all men,” Miriam says. “What about custard tarts? After all this meat, they will want something to lighten the palate.”

  “I am in your hands.” Cromwell considers for a moment. “I ask only that you do not poison those you do not like.”

  “That is more the queen’s style,” Miriam tells the Privy Councillor. “I swear, that woman is so unpopular. Did you know that the people shout at her in the street, and the other night, someone daubed ‘Whore of Babylon’ on the north wall of Whitehall Palace?”

  “Goodness. In English, or Latin?” Cromwell cannot help but smile at the idea of one of his agents writing ‘Babylon meretrix’ in foot high letters on a wall. He pays a fine young rogue, named Digby Waller, to cause these small discomforts to Queen Anne, and employs him to do those small tasks that are now below his nephew Richard, or even Mush Draper.

  “It is a Tyndale man,” Miriam says. “Will is commissioned by the king to find the perpetrators, but has had little luck so far. It is not like him to struggle with a solution. He sets men to watch, and uses your own agents to mix in with the crowds, to no avail.”

  “Poor Will, I fear he must fail.”

  “Oh, no, I doubt it,” Miriam says, giving Cromwell a knowing look. “He already knows enough to describe the felon. He is a head taller than I, is well educated, and is left handed. He also has a crack in the sole of his right boot.”

  “And how does he come to these conclusions?” Cromwell asks. He is stunned at the truth of these deductions, and marvels at how proficient his old agent is becoming.

  “From the height of the letters,” Miriam explains. “When you are painting, you stand so… and raise your arm so. The letter height means his head is about a foot lower, hence he is a head taller than me. The painted letters all start, and finish, with the brush being pressed on, and then slid off. The strokes are those made by a left handed man.”

  “And the boot?” Cromwell has actually noticed the crack in Waller’s boot, and remarked that he should treat himself to a better pair.

  “H
e has stood in mud. The print is clear,” Miriam tells her benefactor. “He should buy a new pair. It would be a shame to hang, all for a worn sole, would it not, Master Tom?”

  “Perhaps the silly game might cease,” Cromwell says. “In that way, Will shall be seen to have stopped it, and improve his standing with Henry.”

  “I’d rather it were the queen who loved him more,” the young Jewess complains. “For Henry hangs on her every word. Let me take this list away, and I will ensure your guests have a wonderful feast. Shall I supply the wine… for my stocks are better than yours.”

  “You excel in so many ways, my dear girl,” Cromwell says. It is time to relinquish his hold on little Gwyllam, and he is pleased when the child cries, on being handed back to his mother.

  “See, he loves you already,” Miriam says. “Might I misuse your love for my family to suggest something, Master Tom?”

  “Go on.” Cromwell cannot think of anything he might refuse the girl.

  “The guest list is unbalanced,” Miriam says. “Might it not be better if more ladies were invited?”

  “Ah, I see.” Cromwell shakes his head, sadly. It is too soon since his sad loss, and Lady Agnes is still in his heart. “Who did you have in mind?”

  “Bernice Goossens,” Miriam says. “She is a widow. Her husband used to handle my Flemish cloth trade for me. He died a month ago. She is a goodly woman, and a fine housekeeper. She is in London settling her late husband’s affairs.”

  “Is she pretty?”

  “Does that matter in a wife?”

  “True. Can she speak English?”

  “English, Flemish, French, and Latin,” Miriam tells him.

  “A veritable Plato,” Cromwell mutters. “There are many better men in London, my dear. Invite her if you must, but I am not ready to meet another woman just yet.”

  “Perhaps she might catch the eye of one of the other guests,” Miriam says, straight faced. She knows Cromwell is ready to have another woman in his life. He needs female influence in his life, and if he marries a young enough widow, he might yet have more children. His son, Gregory is always away in Oxford, and is more his mother’s son, than his father’s.