A Love Most Dangerous (20 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Why is the King Happy?

9th January 1538

Richard Rich hurried along the road to the river. He
was late and he hated to be late.

Not as much as his servant, Jenny Coles hated it,
however.

The previous night he had told her to wake him at
five.  She entered his chamber at six, her face tired and sleepy. No doubt she
had been rutting, he thought. So he had struck her hard across the face,
raising a red mark which would give food for thought for her lover Mason.

Rich could not tolerate wayward servants.

The sharp January air bit at his face as he walked.
His stomach grumbled and he paused for a moment to buy a meat pie from a stall
close to Blackfriars. He crammed it into his mouth as he walked, its scorching
heat a welcome relief from the bitter chill. It was only when he had almost
finished that he tasted the sharp tang of meat gone rotten. He turned and
searched the street for sight of the pie stall. He would seek amends from the
seller when he returned.

Half a dozen boats were tied up at the wharf. A few of
the watermen turned away when they saw him, more willing to lose a fare than
take him on their boat. Pennies did not make up for the penance of his
presence.

He clambered aboard a boat with a sturdy looking
fellow who looked as though he could pull fast.

'Hampton Court Palace,' he said. 'And quick about it.'

The waterman hastened to pick up his oars and pulled
out into the stream. There was a thick mist upon the water and the sounds of
other boats were magnified.

Rich leaned back against the threadbare cushion and
thought that this must have been like King Arthur's journey to the Isle of
Avalon. Adrift in swirling mists, dislocated from the world, uncertain of what
lay ahead.

Rich shuddered. He did not like this feeling.

'Can't you row any faster?' he demanded.

'I could indeed, sir,' the waterman said. 'But I'd
risk collision in this fog. The sound is chancy you see. Boats that are far
away seem close by. Those that are next to your elbow seem far away and safe.
But they're not safe. Not necessarily. My father died in his boat in weather
like this. I loved him but I've no mind to follow him just yet.'

'What do I care of your father,' Rich said. 'Save your
breath for your rowing.'

He peered  to his right. The north bank of the river
could only just be seen. The south bank was hidden altogether. 'And keep your
ears sharp,' he said. 'If we suffer collision I'll have you in court and beggar
you.'

The waterman did not answer. A moment later Rich heard
the soft plop of the man spitting in the river.

What does Cromwell want so early in the morning, Rich
wondered. He cast his mind over recent events. There seemed nothing untoward,
nothing to trouble the King overmuch. Had Cromwell put a foot wrong? Had he
angered the King?

Rich shook his head at so unlikely a scenario.
Cromwell could juggle a dozen balls while walking on a high wire.

A sour taste rose all sudden in his mouth. Is it me
who's put a foot wrong? Is Cromwell angry at something I've done or left
undone?

He felt his stomach heave at the thought and hung his
head over the side of the boat, thinking he might well vomit.

He grasped hold of the timber, trying to recall
anything that he had done which might have caused such wrath. Not that Cromwell
needed cause to move against a man. No cause beyond his own advancement at any
rate. And the King? The King would strike down a man for no reason whatsoever.
Because he could. Because he was King.

Rich dipped his hand in the waters and wiped his face.
Then he groaned. The Thames was foul with waste and rotting things and he had
dribbled its waters upon himself.

My God what a day this is proving.

The waterman pulled into the wharf of Hampton Court and helped Rich clamber ashore.

'Should I wait, sir?' he asked.

Rich threw him a coin. 'Of course not. I've business
with Lord Cromwell.'

The man's face gave nothing away though he had heard
of Cromwell sure enough.

'God be with you, in that case,' he said. But he spat
on the ground next to Rich's foot nonetheless. A spit was the surest proof
against devils who supped with Satan.

Rich turned and hurried up the road which led to the
palace. Guards stood at intervals along the way, stamping to force some warmth
into frozen feet. He was recognised by the guards at the gate and allowed to
enter without showing proof of his business. His heart lifted a little at this.
The thrill of power still tasted sweeter than a virgin's flesh.

Once inside the Palace such thoughts deserted him. It
was little warmer inside than out at this hour, for the roaring fires had not
had time to heat the vast expanse of halls and passageways. His own heart grew
still colder. What does Cromwell want of me so suddenly?

He knocked upon the door and entered on the curt
command.

The Lord Privy Seal did not deign to glance up but
bent at his paper-work, his quill working inexorably upon some document. Rich
gave a little cough but still Cromwell did not as much as raise his eyes.
Eventually the quill moved, pointing to the chair in front of his desk.

Rich slid into it and waited, his heart in his throat.

The scratch of the pen upon the parchment was the
loudest noise by far in that room. The fire in the grate crackled merrily but
it was not so loud. Cromwell's breathing was faint and low, barely a murmur.
Even the pounding of the blood in Rich's head could not drown out the
scratching. It was a thing of power, a portent of great majesty. He had known
that pen to obliterate men's worlds, to ruin monasteries, to torment flesh.
That pen had made great men insects and puny men giants. That pen had even
banished the Pope's power from the land, made rogues of holy man and saints of
villains. That pen was life and even more; it was death.

'You sent a message to me,' Cromwell said, still
without looking at Rich. 'You asked me why the King was so happy.'

'I did my lord.'

'Did you know the answer? Or did you expect me to
know?'

Rich licked his lips. How to answer? He sensed that
Cromwell was livid with fury at him. He cursed the conceit that made him send
the message. How to answer?

'I thought that you might know, Your Grace.'

Cromwell put down the pen and stared at Rich.

'And if I did, what of it? What business is it of
yours? What possible business, Richard, what possible business?'

Rich swallowed, and the spittle in his mouth felt like
lumps of clay.

'To do my work, my lord,' he mumbled, 'I need to
know.'

'No, Richard, you do not.'

Rich's mouth opened but he could pluck no word to fill
it.

'Do close your mouth, I beg you,' Cromwell said. 'I
can see some pie caught in your teeth.'

Cromwell rolled up the parchment and placed it
carefully in a box. Rich stared at it as if it were the warrant for his own
execution. Surely I am worth more than this to him? Surely more than this to
the King?

'So,' Cromwell continued, 'you send me a note without
good reason.  You seek information from me when you know full well, or should
know full well, that it is I who send you snouting out information for me.'

'I did not mean to offend, my lord.'

Cromwell gave a mirthless laugh. 'You did not offend
me, Richard. A fly offends me when it buzzes around my head, a hound offends me
when it shits where I wish to tread. But you did not offend me.'

Rich laughed, his voice so tight it sounded like a
child's.

'Now you offend me.'

Rich heard a new sound in the room. It was his teeth
chattering one against the other.

'But I have an answer for you,' Cromwell said airily.
'Help yourself to wine while I tell you what it is. You look in need of a
draught to warm you.'

Rich poured wine into a cup. Some spilt and spread
across the desk like blood. He took the cup to his lip and gulped down the
wine.

'The King is so happy,' Cromwell said, 'because he has
got himself a new bed-companion.'

'A new whore?'

'Tut tut, Richard. It is not wise to use such words of
the King's friends. Especially not this one.' He gazed into the distance,
thinking on Alice Petherton.

'Why so, my lord?' Rich ventured.

'Because this one is special. Not like his other
women, not even like his Queens. She is clever, subtle and of devious mind. Not
like his other women at all. No, perhaps I am wrong in this. Maybe she is like
Anne Boleyn at least. Yes, maybe she has something of Boleyn about her.'

'Is she handsome?'

'Of course she is, you fool. She is more; she is
beautiful.'

'I wondered,' Rich said, 'because not all the King's
women have been great beauties.'

'You're right, there, Richard. It is a strange thing
now you remark upon it. He closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them
again they were tight with malice. 'You think he chooses only women who are his
inferior in comeliness?'

Rich gulped. 'I think nothing of the kind, my lord.'

Cromwell pursed his lips. 'Some think it of him.
Though few would say it.

'But it is not true of this woman,' Cromwell
continued. 'Not Alice Petherton. She is a beauty, Richard, a rare beauty. I am
sure that sight of her would gladden even your jaded eye, my friend.'

Rich's mind raced. Alice Petherton? Could it be the
same? Could it really be?

'If Venus were to take human form,' Cromwell said
quietly, 'she might take form as Alice Petherton.'

Richard Rich heard Cromwell say this and wondered if
he had been meant to. His windmill mind began to turn, grinding this
information to make new flour.

He saw Cromwell watching him and quailed. Of course he
had meant him to hear. It was a trap. He could not see the complexity of the
trap but realised that his master had laid it for him nonetheless. Does he
really think I'm foolish enough to spread rumour that he lusts after the King's
new whore? The question died in his mind. Of course he doesn't. He doesn't
think I'm foolish enough. But he suspects I am ambitious enough.

Rich closed his mind for a moment and saw a vast abyss
opening up beneath him. Let me be, he pleaded silently, let me be.

'So now you have it,' Cromwell said levelly. 'You are
as well informed about the King's happiness as you have need to be.' He pushed
a pile of documents towards Rich.

'I want these priories investigated. No, that is not
the right word. I want them closed. See to it.'

Rich nodded.

'Oh, and Richard,' Cromwell said.

Rich stared at him.

'Breathe not a word of this to anyone. Not if you
value life.'

Rich scrabbled up the papers and scurried from the
room.

Cromwell leaned back in his chair and pondered. And
then he gave a little smile.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Sir Thomas Seymour Hunts

6th February 1538

The services in the chapel were not the highlight of
my week. Father Ambrose was a mumbler, dribbling words onto his chin in a
dreary monotone. This may have been a mercy for I imagine his words, could we
have actually made them out, would be the very pinnacle of tedium.

It was a freezing February morning and I huddled near
the back of the chapel with Susan, Mary and Lucy. Lucy, good girl that she was,
strained to listen to the sermon. Mary was humming a little tune of her own
making without realising that she was doing so. Susan, on the other hand, was
listening intently in order to make witty and disparaging comments about
Ambrose after the service.

As usual I began to day-dream. The old man's droning
was like the buzzing of a bee in summer time, soporific and conducive to
flights of fancy.

I imagined myself owning my own lands, somewhere in Cornwall or Cumberland for preference, somewhere far away from Court, somewhere I could not be
easily found.

I would live in an ancient manor house with sturdy
walls and grand entrance. Dotted around the house would be numerous other
buildings: a buttery, a stable-block, a lodging place for my visitors. All
would be decaying in a most romantic manner.

And in the furthest part of the manor would be a
little building all for me. It would be round, the bottom storey of a tower
maybe. There would be windows dotted across the wall so that the sun would fill
the inside of the tower from morning until night. And there I should write
poetry and paint. No one would disturb me save one ancient servant, Manners
would be his name, who would trudge over to the tower to tell me dinner was
about to be served. He would always carry my books back to the house, no matter
how heavy they were. I would follow him with a light step, brushing my hands
against the flowers which fringed the path, releasing their fragrance to the
wind.