Chapter One: La Parola Scritta non è Fedele
"I can never enjoy these parties," Robert Ludlum grumbled as his manservant shut the door of the manor. Tall and broad-shouldered, he seemed more a soldier than a nobleman even garbed in English finery.
"Oh hush," his wife told him as a well-practiced smile fell away from her elegantly beautiful face, though a mischievous sparkle remained dancing merrily in her deep blue eyes. "You know why we keep having them."
"I also know why there are several days in a month when I cannot enjoy your more physical charms, but that does not in any way mean I condone it."
Annette laughed her bubbly laugh at her husband's wit as she took his arm with one delicate, long-fingered hand and led him from the front hall. "Enough of that, love," she said as they entered the library. "We've business to attend to."
"Indeed we do," Robert sighed as he sank into an elegantly carved chair near the fireplace. "And a sorry business it is, leaving dead messengers around the city."
"It was one messenger, which of course makes it impossible to have left dead ones all over the city. Barring dismemberment, of course," a man in one of the chairs by the fire replied. He tucked the rosary he'd been twirling into a pouch somewhere in the folds of his priestly robes and stood. "And before you continue making jokes about it, you may want to look at these," he continued, throwing a packet of papers onto the table in the middle of the room. Robert stood and walked to the table, then picked up the envelope on top and opened it carefully. Thre three fell silent as he slowly read through the letter inside.
"Our beloved monarch grows bolder," Robert commented, his dark eyes still on the piece of paper.
"And more upset with Clement," the tall blonde priest commented. "Neither development is unsurprising, but they are most unwelcome. This will not be good for us."
"Ever the pessimist, James," Annette remarked as she too began perusing the heap. "Still, I suppose this does call for a closer watch on the King's activities. Has Charles returned from Northumberland yet?" This last was addressed to her husband.
"Not yet, but I expect him back within the week."
"I'll handle it," Father James Connelly volunteered. The man wasn't technically a Catholic priest – though his order had been formed a decade earlier, the Church hadn't formally recognized it yet – but technicalities mattered little to the people in such a time of disorder. What did matter was that those still unwilling to accept the new religion had someone to turn to. His position made Connelly uniquely suited to information-gathering – something Ludlum, his immediate superior, put to good use.
Ludlum nodded his approval, then turned to Annette. "See what your friends in court know. I want to find out what the Boleyn girl thinks of all this."
"She does have a name, husband of mine," Annette laughed lightly, still flipping through the papers. She suddenly stopped and caught one with her thumb and forefinger, her expression changing from benign cheerfulness to serious contemplation. "Well, that's interesting." The two mens' gazes immediately snapped to her as she singled out an envelope and slit it open with the small knife she always kept up one sleeve. "Now what do you suppose our beloved King Henry had to say to Thomas Cranmer?"
"Nothing we want to hear, be sure of that," Connelly promised darkly. Robert silenced him with a crook of his finger.
Finally, Annette sighed and placed the letter atop the pile. The firelight danced on her ivory skin and cast a shimmer over her raven hair. "Henry wants Cranmer to return to London at once. He's planning to dissolve the monasteries."
"Good," Robert remarked, "let them find somewhere else from whence to bother the Lord. Other than solidifying his position as head of England's religion – no small matter in itself," he admitted, catching the look on Connelly's face, "what else does that gain him?"
"The dissolution of the monasteries means their lands and wealth go to the crown," Annette answered plainly. "And I think we can all agree that more power – physical or otherwise – is hardly what Henry needs."
"But why does he need Cranmer for that?" Connelly asked. "It's Henry and that snake Cromwell who hold the power."
"Well, he's the Archbishop of Canterbury, isn't he?" Robert supplied. "Technically, Henry can't make a move like this without Cranmer's blessing, even if it's little more than a farcical formality. Henry's needed Cranmer's support since the beginning of this little Reformation of his.
"The question is, what do we do now?"
After a moment's reflection, Connelly stated, "I think we can all agree that Cranmer needs to die. We should have acted long ago, when we could have prevented this madness."
Robert nodded his acquiesence. "I agree. Are you volunteering, James?"
"Yes. I can be in – "
"Before you run off murdering the king's friends," Annette interrupted, another newly-opened letter in her hand, "we should look to our own." Once more, the two men turned their full attention to her. She handed the letter to Connelly as she explained, "This is an order for John Fisher's arrest. It seems Henry wants him back in the Tower of London."
"On what charges?" Robert asked, shifting his focus to Connelly.
"Officially, misprision of treason under the Act of Succession," Connelly answered, his grim green eyes still flicking back and forth over the words. "Unofficially…" The priest paused, and when he resumed his voice took on an even more serious edge than it usually had. "Henry's discovered a most inconvenient truth. He knows John Fisher is an ally of the Assassin Order."
"I told you to entrust your best man with those letters."
"I did, milord."
"I ordered you to send your best soldiers with him."
"I did, milord."
"I instructed you to select the most complicated, most crowded route through the city so an ambush of any kind would be next to impossible."
"I did, milord."
"You have said that thrice now," Henry VIII of the House of Tudor, King of England and Lord of Ireland, grumbled angrily as he tapped his fingers on the armrest of his throne. "You repeatedly insist that you gave the letters to your best soldier, surrounded him with your most highly-trained guards, and had them take a route that would prove nigh impossible to intercept."
"I did, milord." The man on his knees before the throne was beginning to tremble.
"Then why are the letters gone?" the king roared, shooting to his feet.
"Your Majesty, I – "
"You failed me!" Henry bellowed, striking the kneeling courtier to the ground. "Everything I have worked for may have been undone because of you!"
"My lord, we can still – "
"We can do nothing," Henry cut the man's stuttering pleas off. "You are no longer of any use to me. Take him away!" The last words were directed at the guards standing just inside the throne room. The pair wordlessly obeyed the king's order and dragged the protesting man from the king's presence. Henry's advisers remained silent as their monarch sank back into his throne, his head in his hands.
"We need to move fast, my king." Henry looked up as his chief minister Thomas Cromwell approached the throne. "Cranmer is in danger so long as he remains outside the city."
"You seem to believe London is itself fully secure," Henry grumbled as he signalled a servant for wine. "Recent events would indicate otherwise, I should think."
"Not London, no, but our enemies would not dare strike us within these very walls."
Henry nodded thoughtfully as he accepted a goblet. "You are correct about that; they'd certainly think twice about assaulting my own palace. But the letters – "
"The letters are beyond our power to retrieve, my liege. We must concentrate on what we have some degree of control over. Assemble an armed escort and send them to bring Cranmer back to London. Even the Assassins wouldn't dare attack a column of horsemen; they haven't the strength of numbers."
"Privy to the inner workings of their order, are we?"
"Merely being logical, my lord. Had they the forces to defeat our soldiers in any great number, they would have done so by now rather than striking at small targets."
Henry nodded in agreement and gestured one of his guards to approach the throne, which the man did. "Gather twenty horsemen and send them to fetch Cranmer from Sherwood. Two carriages; armed guards in one, the other with a single soldier." The guard nodded his understanding and disappeared from the hall with remarkable swiftness. "Now that's taken care of," the king said, turning back to Cromwell, "what do we do about Fisher? The Assassins now have his arrest order in their hands, and you can be sure they will take measures to protect him."
"The arrest must proceed nonetheless and immediately," Cromwell insisted. "If we move swiftly, our men will at least be able to intercept their rescue attempt." Unable to see any alternatives, Henry could only nod again as he summoned another soldier to his side.
"Arrest John Fisher, immediately."
"It's settled, then," Robert declared as he strode down a corridor towards his private study, Annette and Connelly in tow. "James, set off for Sherwood as soon as you can. The king will not be sitting idle on his throne. Annette, send a messenger off to Charles, someone we can trust; hopefully they'll pass on the road. James may need his assistance." Annette and Connelly both tilted their heads in acknowledgement, and the priest peeled off in the direction of the entrance hall. "Once you've sent the letter off," Robert continued as husband and wife entered his oak-paneled study, "prepare another one for Anne. Warn her that the king is onto us, but be discreet."
"As always," Annette assured her husband as he finally stopped in front of the room's sole bookcase. He reached to one side and depressed a tile slightly behind the woodwork. Hidden gears ground, and the bookcase along with the wall behind it slid to one side, revealing a small unornamented room. "What of you, my love?"
"Time is of the essence," Robert replied as he began removing the vestments of an English noble until he stood in only a black tunic, pale cream breeches, and a pair of leather boots. "If there is to be any hope of rescuing Fisher, he will have to be moved tonight." As he disrobed, his wife opened a sturdy iron chest against the wall opposite the secret door. From it she lifted a stack of assorted weapons and articles of clothing.
In silence, Annette pulled a blood-red doublet over her husband, over which went a dark gray leather jerkin attached to a leather pauldron. As Robert pulled a pair of long black leather gloves over his hands and tucked them into the sleeves, Annette buckled a diagonal leather strap that ran from her husband's right shoulder to his left hip. To hold this and the jerkin in place, she fastened a leather belt around his waist.
A sheath was buckled to both the diagonal and horizontal belts to keep it steady, and into this went a finely-wrought schiavona which Robert had received as a gift from some friends in Italy. Annette twisted the sword around to ensure it sat snugly in its glove.
As Annette adjusted the fit of all the leatherwork, Robert snapped an unusually heavy vambrace over his left forearm. He flexed his wrist a few times before attaching the vambrace's twin to his right forearm, then tightened the straps holding the pair in place. After making sure his wife was out of the way, he triggered the hidden mechanism on each bracer, causing a thin steel blade nearly as long as his forearm to erupt from the underside of each bracer. Robert cocked his head to one side and inspected each of the traditional Assassin weapons, running a leather-clad finger along each one before finally retracting them.
As he checked his weapons, Annette strapped a pair of plate greaves to Robert's shins, to each of which was fitted a sheath holding a small steel dagger with an elaborately carved ebony handle. She tightened the straps of the greaves before finally standing to put on the finishing touches. Using equipment from a small box on a shelf, she loaded the miniscule pistols that sat beside the hidden blades, then stepped back to look her husband over. He silently awaited her approval, a half-grin tugging at one side of his mouth. Finally, she nodded and threw a black cloak over his shoulders, fastening it by means of hook-and-eye devices to the pauldron.
She followed Robert as he exited the secret room and caused the bookcase to slide back into place by pressing another panel.
"I'll rescue him myself."
In his modest residence beside the church he'd until recently held Mass at, James Connelly was making his own preparations. Over his own tunic and breeches – both white – went a three-piece metal chestguard and brown leather vest, the latter long enough to cover his upper legs. He bent down and snapped a pair of greaves over his black boots, making sure the throwing knives were snug in their sheaths. A leather belt the width of his hand went around his waist, and to it he attached the six-buckled sheath of his exotic curved talwar, one of the many odds and ends he'd picked up on his travels. A second belt festooned with small leather bags joined the sword belt. Finally, the hallmark vambrace of the Assassin Order went over his left forearm. A second one went onto his right, though unlike Robert Ludlum's, the right vambrace was not equipped with the Mockingbird Gun, as they had come to call the miniscule firearm.
Connelly donned a white cloak and pulled its hood up over his head as he stepped out into the cold night. At the same time, Robert Ludlum emerged atop his manor, his face already hidden in the hood of his black cloak. With one last look at the warmth of their homes, both men vanished into the night to continue the work of their ancient order.
