A/N: And the weekend hoves into view once again! Thanks again to everyone who has commented, favourited, followed and read this story. I really do appreciate your support.
The action now takes a brief stroll over the channel, as we spend a bit of time with the oddest of odd couples. Sadly, however, there's not a lot of comedy in their situation...
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
A Florin for Twenty Words
To a first time visitor, the narrow streets and high gables of Brugge seem most charming, even quaint; though the weath that has paid for the fine architecture and the grand frontage of the Cloth Hall is anything but. Being a great trading city, Brugge attracts all manner of men; men of talent, men of wealth, men with nothing but who are eager to make what they can of themselves in a glittering world of trade and opportunity. Such as the two men who have been obliged to seek out a crumbling garret in which to rest their heads, lacking the funds for anything more appropriate to their once noble state.
The chamber is tiny: little more than an attic with steeply sloping roofs - worse, it is separated from another by only the thinnest of walls, thus obliging the two men in residence to be rather more in one another's company than either would like. It is, to be sure, vastly superior to the horribly cramped cabin of the small merchantman that was the only vessel that was willing to carry them, given the limited funds they had available to pay their passage.
Seated at a small writing desk alongside a grubby dormer window that gives a limited view of the street, the commoner who was once the Duke of Suffolk squints at the paper before him, and sighs with disgust. To be so far from home at such a time…and to know that the true Queen of England endures a personal purgatory in Sweden while the woman who displaced her rules in her stead. What use is he to her now? Trapped in this wretched little space, and reliant upon a small community of English exiles who have found sanctuary in one of the few northern realms that seem disinclined to bow to the heresies of Luther.
Catherine has, of course, declined to join him in his exile. All of his properties and wealth have been snatched by the Concubine, except for those that became his when his ward married him. Whether it was the Woman herself, or that craven monster Cromwell, who purchased her loyalty with the land and its associated income, he cannot speculate; but then - what does it matter now? He has been attainted, his rank and privileges revoked. He is no longer 'Suffolk'; but is now 'Brandon'.
At least he has succeeded in one endeavour - the employment of a printing house to create tracts and pamphlets condemning the wantonness and sin of the woman who has stolen England. That it has taken them two years to even get to this point gives him cause to shudder; all of his grand plans to prepare the way for the rightful Queen rendered down to meagre daydreams in the cold light of their infuriatingly long-lasting penury. The people of that poor, beleaguered realm need to be reminded of the origin of their Queen Regent - a commoner, a wanton whore…he stops that thought sharply - all such contemplations ever seem to do is drive him into a pointless rage, and deprive him of his ability to effectively plan.
The first such pamphlet was smuggled back to England aboard a merchantman some weeks ago, and is doubtless now being passed amongst people all along the route from whichever port at which they landed to London, and Winchester - and possibly even Coventry, Oxford or Norwich if it can be managed.
The door to the small room alongside slams shut, and he shudders with revulsion. Of all the people to be enclosed with in such confinement - Thomas Bloody Boleyn.
Not that he has any right to complain - Boleyn has proved to be far more able to secure something approximating an income upon which they can subsist, and he has his diplomatic experience behind him, not to mention a command of most of the great languages of Europe that he, Brandon, cannot hope to emulate. Many of those who would once have welcomed him now look the other way, thanks to his equal opprobrium, but some remember their former friendship, and thus he has been able to resume some degree of employment in the cloth trade. He is, of course, born of tradesmen, and thus it is in his blood to undertake such menial work - but for Brandon, who has lived as a Lord for much of his adult life, it is more than he is ready to stomach. Thus he works upon the pamphlets, while Boleyn works to pay for their rent and victuals. And despises such an unequal division of labour. The promised support from Norfolk seems not to be available, though it is likely that he has opted not to act until all is truly settled again. Either that, or he has reverted to his habitual pastime of allowing others to take the risks when he plots.
"I heard from our contact in the Hospital of St John." Boleyn reports, shortly, and without casting even a glance at Brandon, "The pamphlet has been circulating in various cities, though it is not possible yet to determine how it has been received." He sets a small flagon of wine down upon the rickety table and fetches out a single cup, "I imagine that the Council are already floundering like a panicked herd of cattle trying to identify the source."
"Not that they shall find it." Brandon observes, coldly, as Boleyn pours wine for himself and takes a rather larger than necessary gulp. Unspoken though it is, it has not gone unnoticed by Brandon that Boleyn seems to be doing that rather a lot these days.
"I would give an eye to see their floundering as they fail to find a perpetrator to punish." He smirks.
Brandon shrugs, and resumes his brooding. The paper before him has few words upon it, and looks set to remain that way; for he has no words to set down that are not all-but-identical to those of his previous tract. Idly, he wonders if anyone has fitted a tune to that ridiculous doggerel 'ballad' that a disgruntled former monk set down for them. There must be another; there has to be. If there is not, then what momentum they might have gained from the first pamphlet shall be lost - but he cannot think of anything to write other than the same angry words over and over again.
If only the Pope would issue a bull condemning the woman and her bastard babe - but still he does not. Why not? Why? She is a harlot, a wanton fornicator whose progeny sits upon an unwarranted throne and falsely rules England - and it is but a matter of time before the heretic woman begins to destroy what remains of the true faith in the Realm…
He stops again, for he can feel his hands clenching into fists as that impotent rage attempts once more to blast out of his heart as though it is a javelin that he can hurl back towards England to bury itself in that vile whore's breast. No - this shall not do. It shall not do at all.
He stops and genuflects at the sound of the noonday Angelus from the nearby Church of Our Lady; before sitting back in his chair and realising that he is hungry. He is not surprised at Boleyn's utter failure to disguise his resentment that they must share the victuals that he has purchased - with his money, that he has earned. Sooner or later, Brandon imagines, that resentment shall emerge and they shall have the inevitable argument that has been brewing between them from the moment they were obliged to flee Arundel, travel in secrecy through countyside filled with men promised grand rewards for their capture and take ship from Hastings, not daring to use a larger port for fear of discovery. It is hard to be comrades in difficult times when one has always despised one's companion.
The meal is a spartan affair of rough bread and sharp cheese, with a poor claret to drink. As he eats, Brandon muses again on the problem of composing a second pamphlet to follow the first. Perhaps he should look again to the monk who wrote that ghastly ballad - he seems to have something of a way with words. Yes. That is what he shall do. He knows that the man attends taverns nowadays more than he attends mass, but where better to discuss such matters as this than a tavern - where most men are interested only in the business of emptying ale-pots?
Continuing to ignore Boleyn's air of sulking martyrdom, Brandon swallows the last of his cheese, and stands up.
"Where are you going?"
"To meet with Brother Benedict."
"Benedrunk, more like." Boleyn snorts, "I do not recall a time when I ever saw him sober."
"Drunk or no, he is a skilled scribe, or at least he was when he was cloistered. I am keen to discuss the text of our next pamphlet."
"In which case," Boleyn advises, "I shall return to the Cloth Hall - there are merchants from London expected this afternoon, and thus fresh rumours for our consideration."
Brandon nods, "If that is so, then perhaps we shall be able to set them down, and thus discomfit her even more."
As he says the words, he marvels at the irony of discussing a conspiracy to inspire scandal around a woman with that woman's own father. Necessity makes for strange bedfellows, indeed.
But if it can restore Mary to her Realm, he shall do it. For her - for her late, sainted Mother, and for his lost, finest friend. He cannot truly have wanted his crown to be so misplaced as this…
I shall restore your truest will, old friend. Your first, and only, true-blood child shall restore your legacy. I promise you.
Leaving Boleyn to clear away the plates, he grasps his cloak and bonnet, and sets out to search for the monk.
Geert Vervloet is a slight man, with something of a squint and a long, thin nose upon which are perched a pair of thick-rimmed eyeglasses. Despite his rather fussy mannerisms, he gives an air of expertise as he presides over a great wooden printing press with a well practised eye.
"Ah, Thomas." He looks up as Cromwell crosses to join him, clearly a regular visitor to this place, "It is most good to see you again. Are you well? How is Gregory?" He squints beyond his friend towards Rich, who looks intrigued, never having seen such a device before. To his entirely inexpert eye, it seems more to be something that should be retained in the Tower for the interrogation of prisoners: a wooden structure with a flat wooden bed and a heavy screw-press atop it that is lowered with a great lever. Rather than interrogation, however, the men who operate it extract paper upon which is set thick black text, over and over again. It is quite fascinating.
Cromwell is amused at his interest, "I am most well, Geert, as is Gregory - thank you for asking. Allow me to introduce my colleague, Mr Rich."
Vervloet smiles in greeting, "Welcome. Any friend of Thomas is a friend to me."
Cromwell smiles inwardly at the awkwardness of such a comment - Rich is still not entirely a friend.
"Forgive our intrusion into the midst of your industry - but a document has come into my possession that requires a more expert eye than my own."
Immediately, Vervloet is interested, reaching out for the rather crumpled pamphlet, "Hmm…rather ripe sentiments are they not? Anonymous - but then that is no surprise. You require me to identify the source?"
"If that is possible." Cromwell confirms.
The squinting Fleming crosses to the large window to examine the document, "The paper is remarkably thick and rough, Thomas, perhaps to preserve it for a long time. That is unusual - the pamphlets I am employed to print are rarely set upon such heavy paper - which suggests to me that the one who has created them is not an accomplished propagandist."
"Can you identify a source?"
He nods, "I have never seen the like in England - though I recall a maker in Antwerpen who uses a particular mixture of linen and cotton in his furnish, and the resulting paper is known for its thickness and roughness. Thus I would suggest that the paper at least is from Flanders." He brings the pamphlet closer to his nose, and removes the eyeglasses, "The typeface is remarkably distinctive - despite the lack of a name to the document. I recall seeing this form of roman type at a number of presses across Flanders - mostly in Antwerpen and Brugge - so it is my considered opinion that this pamphlet originated in either one or the other."
"In which case," Rich adds, "our propagandist is an exile, and thus beyond our reach."
"At this time, yes." Cromwell agrees, "Thank you for your most helpful analysis, Geert; it has given me a worthy insight into the origin of this scurrilous document, and thus it is possible to lay plans to counter it."
Emerging back into the sunlight, Rich looks bemused, "What plans do you intend to lay to counter a writer who resides in Flanders?"
Cromwell turns to him, "There is naught that can be done overseas; I warrant that, Mr Rich. I think, however, that it would serve us well to increase the number of officials to collect Her Majesty's Customs in any port that accepts vessels from overseas, and to institute a more intensive system of inspection of those that originate from the Low Countries. While we have no means to prevent their production, it may be that we shall be able to stop them at the ports."
"And, should we do so, perhaps it shall be possible to ascertain the identity of the originator." Rich adds, "For if it is possible - perhaps then we can issue pamphlets to counter them."
"That is my thought." Cromwell agrees.
Anne is perusing the pamphlet again, "So the writer is in Flanders." She says, quietly, "And we are helpless to stop them."
"I fear so, Majesty." Cromwell sighs, "Our only means of preventing the arrival of more such pamphlets is to increase the presence of Customs officials in the ports, and to ensure that smaller ports are also watched. If we cannot identify the perpetrator, then our best hope is to make the distribution of further such documents so troublesome that they shall lose any momentum."
"After two years of effort to overturn the hatred of those who thought me naught but a whore, I am determined that I shall not lose that love to a disaffected exile who seeks only to sow discord in my daughter's realm." Her words are firm, but Cromwell can see that her expression is pained, and there is a glistening in her eyes. No one longs to live in a world where they are despised and unfairly maligned - and to be helpless against some unknown individual who intends to make her despised and maligned is a cruel burden.
"Perhaps a game of chess, Majesty?" He says, quietly.
She looks up, and pulls forth a watery smile, "I should like that, Mr Cromwell."
The long tapestry has moved on again, apparently showing a scene from Androcles and the Lion, while a new lutenist, a man of considerably greater age than Smeaton and therefore quite impossible to envisage as a wanton's plaything, works his way through a sequence of French Ballades with an expert virtuosity that exceeds even that of the young man he has replaced.
The combination of quiet conversation over the frame, and the gentle trickling of plucked strings is remarkably soothing, and Anne finds herself able to set aside the cruel words of her unknown enemy, concentrating instead upon the chessmen set before her, and thinking of the moves that she must make, and their consequences.
"Mr Sacks is a fine player, is he not?" she muses, reaching for a white pawn to commence their game.
"Indeed he is, Majesty." Cromwell agrees, "I am advised that he is also most capable of setting words to music, and creating pieces that shall serve most well for the Courtiers to dance to. He has worked in a number of noble houses, and I understand that the Court of France were interested in seeking his services at the time that he entered into your service."
"Then we are fortunate to have him."
"Indeed we are."
"Commission him to write some anthems for the Chapel Royal, Mr Cromwell. If his abilities to write for a choir match his ability with instruments in the gallery, then I shall be most pleased to retain his services within the Court."
He nods, unsurprised. If it is possible to employ this man in place of the lovelorn Mark Smeaton, then dispensing with the young man's services shall be an easier prospect than it might otherwise have been. Talented though the young man is, the abilities of his replacement are greater, which shall certainly offer a sufficient reason for the dismissal - though it shall hardly soften the blow.
"If it is easier, Majesty, I am prepared to advise the young man that his services are no longer required." They both know that such an outcome shall cause him to hate the one who advises him of it, "It shall be better if he hates me for making the decision - for then he shall be less likely to speak ill of you."
"Does that not concern you? Being hated?"
He shakes his head, "I have been hated for much of my life at court - it is no concern to me that there is another who despises me. Particularly a disgruntled musician." He reaches for his king's knight, and moves it forth to endanger one of her bishops.
"I thought that I did not care that the Courtiers despised me when I first became Queen." She admits, "It seemed of little consequence in the face of the King's love for me." She pauses, "And then I lost that love - and there was nothing to shield me from that hatred. To find myself so despised was considerably more distressing than I anticipated. Even when I thought that my actions were for the benefit of the realm, that hatred remained."
"Those who think ill of those of us who walk in these great halls see nothing of the burdens that trouble us, or understand that our concerns are for the good of the realm, not for our own comfort." He reminds her, "It is easy to hate - for then we are not obliged to look more deeply, and understand what it is that drives us to do so; or to blame the one that we do not want to blame, regardless of their equal culpability. Most who look upon you as a wanton prefer to see all the blame set at your feet for his late Majesty's pursuit of you, and his determination to gain your hand - as though he were naught but a mindless creature incapable of his own thoughts or will."
"And that, he most certainly was not." She smiles, sadly, "For all our storms and strife, I loved him, Mr Cromwell. When first he sought me, I was appalled; for he was the King, and I was the daughter of a mere Knight - but he wooed me with such gentility, such honeyed words, that I saw beyond that glittering face of royalty, and saw the heart that beat beneath it. My father did not need to prevail upon me to seek a greater prize than entry to his Majesty's bed - for I wanted to give him the son that Katherine could not, and be more than a mere mistress."
Cromwell eyes her, gravely. For a man so observant of human nature as he, her words are no surprise: she could not have made it clearer to him had she had a man behind her holding forth a great banner declaring her love for the King in those early days. Had he loved her in return - or was it merely carnal ardour? Surely not - she is hardly the most beautiful woman at court, and never has been. Had she not come to Court with her French fashions, manners and learning, then it is likely that she would never have captured his attention, and would instead have been married off to some suitable Courtier as had been intended when she was recalled to England. But she did; and captivated all about her with her words, wit and intelligence. Including the King.
"Regardless of scurrilous words, Majesty," he says, eventually, "I think God has chosen wisely. We are a realm that has only recently emerged from deadly, internecine wars - and the folk of Tewkesbury still call a long field in the vicinity of the river 'Bloody Meadow' thanks to the rout of the Lancastrians by the fourth Edward. Were Henry to have been taken from us prematurely, then this is the safest outcome for England. Mary, for all her encroaching womanhood, would have been powerless against Norfolk; Elizabeth more so. But, in setting the Crown of St Edward upon your head, our late Majesty created one who could stand ahead of those who would fight one another to be the power behind England's throne."
She smiles at him, "You have such faith."
"I do." He admits, then smiles back, "But then, my head relies upon it, does it not?"
As predicted, the former Brother Benedict is comfortably ensconced at a table in a dark corner of a tavern just off the Market Square, and is well in his cups. Despite his disgust at such dissolute behaviour, Brandon purchases a cup of ale, and seats himself at the same table. Unlike most displaced Brothers who have travelled abroad, this man seems to have opted not to enter one of the many Cloisters in the Low Countries, but has chosen to embrace the widest range of earthly delights instead.
"You look at me as though I am the lowest of creatures." The pouch-eyed man observes, with studied disinterest, "And yet you come to me for aid. Why should I risk my neck for your wild enterprise?"
Brandon ignores his comment, but answers his question, "Do you not wish to lay the ground for the triumphant return of England's true Queen? And the restoration of the Catholic faith to a strayed Realm?"
"What is it to me how Englishmen choose to address their prayers to God? I was a second son - my vocation was imposed upon me by a father from whom I would inherit nothing, and I was torn from my family before my voice broke. The end of my House was no misfortune - it was a liberation; and now I engage in trade."
"Trade?"
Benedict leans forward, and smiles, "The ability to read and write is highly valuable, Mr Brandon. I have some facility with languages, and thus I read and write letters for those who cannot - be they Englishmen, Flemings or, like you, Lordlings with a price upon their heads."
His lips drawing back into a snarl, Brandon snatches a handful of the grinning man's tunic, "Have a care. I may not always be in such circumstances. When her Majesty Queen Mary rules England again, as she should, I shall be restored to my Dukedom, and I shall not forget those who were ill mannered, or unwilling to aid me."
Benedict laughs, a hollow, barking sound, "Perhaps you shall; perhaps not. I have no doubt that I shall long since have drunk myself to death before you achieve such an aim. I entertain no illusions as to my state - though I think that you do. I hear the rumours - she is a Consort to a foreign king, and shall never come again to the realm that cast her out. It would serve you better to run to her side and offer yourself as a lapdog."
Slowly, Brandon withdraws his hand.
"That's better." Straightening the stained and gravy-spotted garment, Benedict takes a deep breath, followed by an equally deep gulp of his ale, "I do not doubt that you have come to me to seek my services as a pen-man. I know you to be literate, as I am - so it is my skill with words that you require. Thus, I suggest that you treat me with more respect than you have yet shown me. From the threadbare state of your own garments, I suspect that your attainder has left you poorer even than I."
He smiles again at Brandon's scowl. With no alternative, however, the former Duke takes a pull of his own ale, "Very well, have it as you will. It is my intention that another pamphlet decrying the sinfulness of the Usurper Anne Boleyn be sent forth into the hands of Englishmen. Thus I look to you to write it."
"And what shall you pay me for my services?"
"Your payment shall be the gratitude of a Queen."
"And can I drink a Queen's gratitude? No; you shall pay me, or you shall have not a word."
Scowling again, Brandon delves into the pouch at his belt, and fetches out what few coins he has in his possession - a few grooten, some English pennies and one florin - the last silver coin he has left. God, to think there was a time when he wore gold, jewels, silks and furs…
"I'll take the florin." Benedict eyes the coin hungrily - its worth, while not great, is sufficient to keep him in ale for three days at this Tavern's prices, "It shall serve as a down payment. I shall accept a florin for each twenty words that I write. No less."
It is tempting to refuse; to abandon the table and depart - but he is at a loss for new terms to use to darken hearts against the common usurper of England, and this man is reputed to have no equal amongst the scribes-for-hire in all of Brugge. And he knows it. They both do.
"Very well." He snaps, grudgingly, "A florin for twenty words."
"I shall expect to be paid in full before I relinquish any work." Benedict adds, then smirks, unpleasantly, "If you find it hard to secure the funds to do so, perhaps I might suggest securing some paid employment? You may find it a refreshing experience. I believe the cook of this very tavern requires a spit-hand. Ten grooten an hour and all the ale you can drink."
Benedict has the upper hand - and they both know it. Fighting to contain his anger, Brandon turns and departs without another word.
Boleyn is pleased with the weight of his purse - a successful day of trade at the Cloth Hall has earned him sufficient funds to secure another month or more in that garret - and still enable him to squirrel away a proportion with a Jewish banker that is at least passing for honest. Much as he despises such rude accommodation, the discomfiture of his even-more-despised colleague compensates for the insects in the mattress, the leak in his roof, and the crack in a window pane. Its additional virtue of being singularly inexpensive ensures that his small fund is growing well - and, in time, he shall be a man of independent means. Mary's day is done - Anne shall never welcome him back to Court; while Norfolk thinks himself still to have some relevance to England. Fools; the lot of them. He shall be glad to accumulate sufficient funds to abandon Brugge - perhaps a return to Paris? Yes - he has friends there who shall welcome him, and aid him in establishing a footing as a trader. But not yet - his money pot is not of sufficient size to warrant it.
Behind his head, the great tower of the Belfort soars to the sky; a square shaft with an octagonal belfry, and he watches the busy Market with an altogether more practised eye. The tavern that is supposedly the favoured haunt of that fallen Monk is located in one of the narrow streets that peels off from the Marketplace, and he waits with ever decreasing patience for Brandon to return from his meeting; gradually eroding his pleasant sense of satisfaction.
Then, at last, the man emerges from the crowds, "There you are." Boleyn snaps, crossly, "I was beginning to wonder if you had decided to earn a tract by engaging in a drinking competition." He ignores a withering glare, "Well?"
Brandon shrugs, "He shall write it."
"And I presume that it is not his intention to do so out of the good of his heart, or a devotion to the cause?"
"A florin for each twenty words."
"A florin? For a mere twenty words? God's blood, you are a fool! He has robbed you! I would have demanded a hundred for that price!"
"It is of no matter. He shall write it." Brandon snaps back, brusquely.
"And it is for me to provide the funds, I take it?" Boleyn growls, furious, "Perhaps there shall be some time - preferably before hell becomes ice-bound - that you shall take it upon yourself to deign to seek work. Or is it still beneath you as a man who once wore Ducal velvet?"
"The rewards that shall be granted us when Queen Mary is restored to her throne shall more than outweigh any expenditure that you must meet at this time. Her benevolence shall be matched by her gratitude."
"And you still believe that shall happen? She is in Sweden! A wife to a King; a King who has no claim to our Crown and does not seek it! Under what circumstance can you possibly envisage the girl emerging from Stockholm to reclaim a realm that did not flock to her when she called upon it? She could only depart if her husband left her a childless widow! And you wish that fate for her?"
He feels a sense of spiteful satisfaction at Brandon's stricken expression. No - he has not thought that far ahead, it seems. As long as King Gustav lives, she shall be obliged to remain in Sweden. Should she bear a son, then, again, she must remain in Sweden. Only widowhood, and childlessness, shall free her to return to England - and what burden would that be upon her? Would England even want a Queen who had failed in her primary duty?
His expression hardening, Brandon shakes his head, "I swore my loyalty to her - and thus I shall remain constant. England shall, in time, learn the mistake that she has made in denying the rights of her true Queen. Thus I shall prepare the way for her Majesty to reclaim her stolen Crown. If you choose not to do so, then that is your prerogative; but I have no doubt that she shall be most intent upon demanding an explanation from you - in person - as to why you abandoned her at her darkest hour."
Boleyn eyes him, scornfully, "Are you still a child? Do you think that scurrilous tracts shall bring down a Government? If we are to succeed in doing what you so greatly desire, then we must do more than disseminate spite. Without the support of the Princes of Europe, any claim by Queen Mary to regain England shall go entirely unheard. Our best hope is to seek out that support - and that can only be done if we present ourselves as her Embassy. If you truly believe that any shall welcome you to their Courts dressed as you are, then we have already failed in the duty to which you cleave with such determination. To form a suitable entourage, we must have money - and a great deal of it - which we cannot hope to achieve without considerably harder work than we have undertaken to date. Set aside your assumption that wealth is a fruit that can be plucked from a tree. It is time for you to learn how men live without grand estates to keep their coffers full."
Brandon scowls again - but Boleyn knows that he has won the day. How strange: in the space of a few words, he has changed all of his plans. It shall not be a trade that he shall seek out in Paris - instead it shall be an Embassy, and thus he shall resume his life as a diplomat, which shall be a true pleasure. But first they must accumulate the funds to support such an enterprise; and the knowledge that the former Duke of Suffolk shall have to work like a burgher in order to achieve that aim shall be a greater pleasure still.
Truly happy for the first time since his flight from England, Boleyn turns upon his heel; and, without looking to see if Brandon is following, takes his first steps towards his new future.