It’s late afternoon when the travellers, guided by Roselyn, ride up Strond, previously a bridle path in times long past, which has become an area popular with the aristocracy. Lined with many important buildings, mansions and town houses, between them narrow streets that run down toward the River Thames. They follow her through her families gated driveway which takes them past alder and hazel trees that line the outer courtyard, beyond them lie tulips and bluebells growing in a checker board pattern of flower beds. Several steps flanked by columns lead up to a large main door. Like most properties along Strond, the back of Roselyn’s timber-framed family home has an airy garden, this containing apple, peach and apricot trees which overlook the river. At the bottom of the garden is their own river gate and landing stage.
Roselyn brings her hand to her mouth to whisper to Raoul pointing with her other, ‘our landing stage is at the bottom of the garden.’
Raoul takes the hint and they continue to ride toward the house in silence.
A grinning, smartly dressed, thin young man, pale faced with copper coloured hair, waves from the doorway as they reach the entrance and struts down the stairs. He advances toward Roselyn with a jaunty walk, his arms swinging wildly. She looks at him with distaste. ‘Hello, Nigel.’
He reaches up to help her dismount. ‘Roselyn. What a happy day this is, seeing you again and, having the honour to inform you, we are soon to be engaged.’
She looks at him in shock. Raoul with jealousy.
He continues in his monotone voice, ‘That’s a pleasant surprise I know. Our parents have already arranged it.’
Raoul butts in, anger curses through his body. ‘Without her consent?’
The dandy turns to Raoul. ‘Can I help you friend?’ ‘You’re not my friend.’ Raoul says, narrowing his eyes.
Scorn flashes across Nigel’s face. ‘What did you say?’
‘I think you heard me just fine.’
‘Nothing here is concern of yours.’ Nigel turns back to Roselyn, barely glancing at Raoul, dismissing him from his mind. ‘My father has spoken to the King; his Majesty’s approval is our command. We can be married within the month.’
‘A lot can happen within a month.’ Raoul pulls on the reins to manoeuvre his horse so it comes between Roselyn and Nigel. Nigel, enraged, is about to draw his sword but Jean rides forward to intervene and speaks forcefully to Raoul. ‘Now that Lady Roselyn has reached her destination, we can move on to the Tower to complete our mission.’
Raoul feels his shoulders slump, he knows he can do nothing, only leer at Nigel who stares back with as much hostility. Raoul bows deeply to Roselyn, he can clearly see tears in her eyes and angrily rides back toward the gate. She feels her heart twist in her chest, a weakness in her stomach.
Jean inclines his head to her, smiling faintly. ‘Good day to you my lady, may you keep well.’
***
Reaching the Tower Jean can hear nails being hammered into wood. Carpenters are building a wooden scaffold as Jean and Raoul arrive. Jean stops to have a good look at the construction. Raoul looking around has a quiet laugh to himself, seeing the ravens being fed by their keeper. When a groom appears, they dismount to hand their horses over to him and enter the large entrance to be greeted by an officer who looks them up and down and mumbles a brief ‘follow me’ and escorts Jean and Raoul through a number of passages and up an imposing winding staircase to the apartments of Sir William Kingston, the Constable of the Tower. Raoul waits outside while Jean enters.
On first entering, he notices a couple of large, imposing oil paintings on the wall of justice scenes. Below, sat in a richly upholstered armchair behind a large, marble topped, oak desk covered in papers, is a tall man with a neat, white beard, elegantly dressed in black who rises from the chair, ready to greet Jean with a firm handshake. His chain of office the only contrast to the dark clothing he wears.
‘Welcome.’
‘Sir William I presume?’
Sir William smiles pleasantly, ‘You speak English!’
‘Yes. The Pale of Calais has been a domain of England for centuries. We have always been encouraged to maintain English.’
Catching a movement at the side of his eye, Jeans turns his head to see into an alcove on the far side of the room, full of leather-bound books. A sinister looking figure steps out of the shadows, slender of build, a lean face, hair and eyes as dark as his clothing, who silently looks Jean up and down. He is introduced by Sir William.
‘This is our Chief Minister, Thomas Cromwell. We welcome you to London. A great shame we could not meet under more pleasant circumstances.’
Jean nods. ‘Yes, a great shame indeed. I hear there have been other executions?’
‘Unfortunately, yes. Mistress Anne’s, ah, accomplices, have already been dispatched.’ Kingston resumes his seat.
‘By axe?’ Jean asks.
‘Yes.’ Cromwell takes over the conversation. ‘By others who lack your finesse. The King wanted the whole matter over and done swiftly. But he wanted you for Mistress Anne. He knows of your reputation with the blade rather than the crudeness of the axe and block. Call it sentimental, he desires her entry into the next world to be as painless as possible.’
‘Did the others die for treason?’
Kingston nods rather impatiently as he begins to look busy by gathering some papers on his desk together.
Cromwell continues, ‘All were found guilty on all their charges. I will not discuss this affair further. Judgement has taken place, it was guilty, a unanimous decision made and the sentences carried out.’
Kingston prepares wax for sealing the papers in front of him.
Cromwell speaks further, almost as if giving a command. ‘Your duty is arranged for the nineteenth.’
Jean frowns. ‘I thought it was scheduled for tomorrow, the eighteenth.’
‘Not tomorrow. The day after.’
Kingston opens a draw taking out an elaborate purse full of coins which he weighs in his hand, jingles it then passes across to Jean. ‘I have this for you. That is your payment for your duty, plus a little more for new clothing as tradition demands. A tailor is waiting to measure you in your quarters, along with food and refreshment.’
Jean nods in thanks and is about to leave. Cromwell has one more thing to say. ‘Anne betrayed the King, she must die. Have a pleasant stay.’
***
A fire hisses in the fireplace of Jean’s quarters, being adequate and comfortably furnished. Two cots are made up with fresh bed linen, two curule chairs by the fire and on a table, bread, cured meats, fritters, fruit, custards, a carafe of wine and a flagon of ale are neatly laid out.
Raoul is stood feeding bread to a pigeon at the window sill while the aged tailor is showing Jean various samples of leather, wool and velvet for his new uniform, although Jean is in conversation with a lost-in-love Raoul. ‘Everyone finds love Raoul, then something always happens to thwart it.’
‘And that’s it!’ Raoul argues.
Jean turns to the tailor while feeling a velvet sample. ‘Yes, that’s quite supple.’ He returns back to Raoul. ‘As simple as that. She has obligations.’
‘Then how can she be made free of her obligations?’ Raoul asks, wiping the crumbs from his hands.
Jean looks at him bluntly. He shakes his head and turns back to the tailor, tapping a dark blue piece of velvet confidently, ‘This is the one.’
The tailor bows his head, takes a measuring tape and begins to carefully measure Jean up for his new costume, who stands straight and perfectly still. ‘You can only be true to your own kind, and she to hers.’
‘What’s your point?’ Raoul folds his arms.
‘Nothing else would be allowed. There are conventions.’
Raoul scoffs, ‘What conventions?’
Jean sighs. ‘You know what. Don’t try to swim against the current.’
The tailor finishes with Jean’s body and bids him to sit so as to measures Jean’s head for his mask.
‘I’ll not let my conscious trouble me.’ Raoul replies in a firm voice.
Jean gives his nephew a sad look. ‘Do you feel resentful toward me? I know it is not an easy matter.’
‘I know.’ Raoul’s shoulders slump as he sighs wearily. ‘There is no discord between us.’ He begins to close the window.
Jean nods and speaks more brightly. ‘Keep that open would you.’
Raoul does as his uncle asks, looking out toward the darkening sky, still hearing bird song. He remains there, head raised, feeling the breeze of spring air on his face as it wafts into the room.
As he is finished, the tailor gathers his materials together, bows and leaves. Jean opens up his saddle bag and begins to remove some herbs which he is to prepare into one of his potions. ‘Now I have the sedative to prepare, then a bath and rest after that journey from Dover.’