The King's Spy: A Tudor Tale by Pilling David

Author:Pilling, David
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2025-03-02T00:00:00+00:00

2. KNIVES IN THE DARK

They do themselves uncommon well, those monks. Or at least they did, until our present king, Harry the Eighth (God bless him, I should add, in case any of his agents are reading this), set about looting the monasteries. All that wealth, piled up over centuries, tipped into the king's coffers. All those relics, saint's bones and skulls and fingernails and mummified testicles and the like, thrown out like so much rubbish. It was just that, of course.

​Never mind. It all happened later, much later, when I was old and done with the affairs of the court. Officially, at any rate. Let us rewind to Culham priory on a chill spring night, early in the reign of Harry the Seventh.

​No wonder the brethren got so fat. Heavens, what a spread! I sat at high table in the refectory, next to the prior, gorging my way through several meat dishes, excellent soup, fruit and tarts and a range of cheeses. Meanwhile my lads crammed aboard the lower tables, stuffing themselves as only soldiers can. The ancient rafters of the church, used to the sweet noise of plainchant, reverberated to a very different tune. Belching, bawling, good-natured curses, a couple of fistfights, some very dirty songs.

​The prior swallowed his resentment and tried to butter me up. “I pray you, Sir William,” he simpered, prodding at a mess of powdered chicken with a fork, “tell the lord king of our hospitality. We are loyal subjects, truly. The Staffords forced their way in here, with swords drawn. What could I do but accommodate them? We are not warriors.”

​You could have barred the doors, I thought. After all, it took my men almost an hour to batter them down with axes. What could Humphrey Stafford and his halfwit brother have done, blown them down? They had no followers. Not any more.

​I might have said all this, but there was little point. The prior was merely trying to save himself. Instead my thoughts turned to profit. What else could I screw out of him?

​“Perhaps, if God wills, this is the end of it,” he added when I failed to answer. “Perhaps England shall know peace at last.”

​ “A trifle optimistic,” I replied through a mouthful of cold beef. “Small hope of peace, with so many Yorkists on the loose. That idiot Lovell, and Sir Thomas Broughton, to name just two.”

​“Ah, yes. Ah, yes,” murmured the prior, solemnly wagging his fat head. “Viscount Lovell has fled up to Cumbria, I understand.”

​I gave him a suspicious glance. What else did he know? For a moment I toyed with putting him to the question. Shake a few secrets out.

​ I decided against it. No time to waste here, torturing monks. Harry wanted me back in London at double quick time. We lived on a knife-edge in those days, fending off one conspiracy and rebellion after another. There was no end to Yorkist threats. They seemed to pop out of the ground, like dragon's teeth.

​Here I should pause a while and explain.

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