Base Court Stories

Jeremy Clayden

Description

On a cold January day with the mists from the River Thames being dispersed by the soft seasonal zephyrs, barely bothering the banners and flags of the festivities, the most important man in England lay motionless on the tilt dirt. He could not move with the pounds of gold- and silver-embossed armour holding him to the ground like a vice, even if he was conscious, which he was not.The crowd having gone from rapturous delirium to a silence, within the blink of an eye, only broken by the cries of the highest in the land; Norfolk, Cranmer and of course a trembling Anne, all gripped in terror for differing reasons.Could the actions of two low-born servants change history and will the actions of two other servants have consequences beyond?Are four lesser servants to blame?

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
• Date de parution: 31 janvier 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781528962827
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Base Court Stories
Jeremy Clayden
Austin Macauley Publishers
2020-01-31
Base Court Stories About the Author Dedication Copyright Information © Preface 1536 Introduction Richard Wotton (Wooden Top) Chapter 1 Greenwich Chapter 2 The Consequence Chapter 3 The Tower Chapter 4 The Journey Chapter 5 Red Bricks Master Thomas De Couch (Dosy) Chapter 1 Hever Castle Chapter 2 Greenwich Chapter 3 Flight Chapter 4 Hiding Chapter 5 Hampton Court Catherine Smith (Mischief) Chapter 1 Austin Friars Chapter 2 The Secret Chapter 3 The Journey Chapter 4 The Consequence Chapter 5 Hampton Court Jasper Lach (Dilemma) Chapter 1 Eltham Chapter 2 Greenwich Chapter 3 The Search Chapter 4 Hunt Chapter 5 Hampton Court
About the Author
Poppy is 13 years old, studying in a secondary school in Surrey. She was inspired by Hampton Court from her first visit, at age 5, and the re-enactments of the various stories of Henry VIII, his wives and associated themes of Tudor history. She developed a further interest in Georgian History at Kensington Palace and the Tower of London.
Since the age of five, she has been going to one of the four Historic Royal Palaces on a regular basis and has read a number of books on history.
Jeremy is a Chartered Surveyor of some 40 years’ standing and initially developed an interest in history through the historic houses he surveyed.
Having spent the past nine years taking Poppy to the various palaces and pursuing her interest, he started reading about the Tudor era, in hope that he could answer Poppy’s questions. This sparked an idea in Poppy’s head, and they researched the book together, and from a small acorn, a sapling oak was born – this book.
Dedication
To Jenny and Richard.
Copyright Information ©
Jeremy Clayden (2020)
Co-author: Poppy McGill-Clayden
The right of Jeremy Clayden to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528919753 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528919760 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781528962827 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2020)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Preface
Base Court, the first courtyard of Hampton Court, Cardinal Wolsey’s inspired and beautiful palace, taken possession by Henry VIII, has witnessed over 500 years of English history, but within this magnificent quadrangle, lie, sit and stand, four silent witnesses, to one of the most troubled years of English history, this could be their stories. The year…
1536
Introduction
1536, winter, Anne Boleyn pregnant for the second time, so eager for the child to be male, a prince! Her grip on the throne weakens at every disagreement with the King, she sits wrapped in furs, watching her husband pursuing his passion. Will the actions of four lesser servants cause a change of history?
Richard Wotton (Wooden Top)
Chapter 1

Greenwich
The cold, foggy mists started to drift up from the constant flow of the lazy River, half disguising the stench of the Thames, as the watery winter sunlight, caused rippling constellations of sparkling brightness where the oars of boatmen cut its mirrored surface.
The flambards and banners glittered limply in the cool, frosty air, the ground unyielding, covered in a gossamer layer of winter frost.
“Richard!” Silence…
“Richard!” came a loud, frustrated shout from the gleaming, magnificent mounted shape. “Damn you, man! Have you done it yet? My Queen awaits, hurry, or a gong scourer you be.”
The trembling armourer, trying to fight against the cold and fear in his fingers, about to fasten the final buckle of the chamfron to the horse’s head, “Sire, ’tis done,” he said, handing the horse’s bridle to the beautifully attired squire, walking away, bowing disdainfully and walking backwards until out of sight of his King. But not realising that the final buckle pin had been deflected by the hardness of the leather, stiff and like a jouster’s lance had been deflected from its target, and the buckle was left undone and unknowingly, the fixing had fallen into his shoe, held fast by the friction of the fall and the roughness of the leather of his footwear.
As he disappeared into the tent, an icy droplet found its way between his woollen collar and his skin, sliding shockingly down his spine, sending a shudder through his already quivering body.
Muttering quietly under his breath, “Thank the saints that it was done. To think I was aroused at the witching hour to get from the Tower to Greenwich, when I thought I had a quiet day taking Mary to Mass, as it has been many months since I started as an Armorer at the Tower and had taken her to church.”
Meanwhile, a sound, by now familiar to his ears, a heraldic trumpet call, announcing the entering of this bejewelled figure and the assembled throng of the great and the not so good of England, squires, servants and associated lesser men and women, let out an enthusiastic cheer, “God save the King,” heads bowed in reverence. The ladies beneath the glittering, gilded canopy, with the blue quarters, and bearing the Tudor Kings’ Coat of Arms, the gilding of the lions, shining in pale sunlight, almost leaping from out of the blood-red of the quartered background, opposing, the similarly gilded fleur-de-lys on the blue quarter, showing an albeit tenuous French claim, bow respectfully.
Richard pushed aside the flap of the tent, absentmindedly, an action he had performed on countless previous occasions, little realising that today, of all days, was about to change history, in a way, even to this day, little understood. A stocky individual, with a round face and well-developed biceps, from constant forge work and carrying and fetching of steel sheets and wielding of heavy hammers.
He made his way through the chaos of hay bales and horse detritus to a timber fence, being part of the corral in which a few impatient steeds remained, awaiting their few minutes of glory. His flagon of ale should have been hanging where it had been left, but one of the brightly coloured horses in their multi-coloured comparisons on which the symbols of honour so hard fought, were displayed – had casually brushed it from its home, then almost with disdain, crushed it into the frozen ground spilling its contents, which now resembled a muddy mush.
“Oh, by the saints,” he cursed with his favourite expression, “and I needed a drink,” casting his mind back to the previous Sunday, when the Court drunk wine from the fountain. He thought, Yes, forget Mary, I need that wine , in full knowledge that it was still flowing. It was then he caught a glimpse of something shiny stuck in the top of his shoe. Thinking he had brushed against something in the tent, he bent down and fingered the offending item, pulling it gently, it yielded from the loose grasp of his shoe, and he held it up to the light.
Fear, no, not fear, that was something he knew and could comprehend, something he had been coping with since the start of his apprenticeship at the Tower, so scared of his master, the guards and the archers, needless to say, the constable; this was a different feeling, terror pure unadulterated terror. This feeling was new, uncontrollable was his terror as the realisation of his haste dawned upon him, a terror so overwhelming he stumbled, only to save himself from falling into the mess that was the ground where he stood, by gripping the corral’s post.
He gagged, all the colour draining from his face.
“Good day, young Wotten,” a harsh voice retorted, “how’s your new master?”
Swooning, he was going to tell the person to…but thankfully he managed to look up and replied almost out of duty, “Well, squire.”
He recovered composure, he was stocky, not tall for Tudor standards but strong having handled armour for much of his life, he stumbled as he made his escape, as the tall squire turned the corner of a tent.
His mind raced, so many thoughts jumbled in his head, “What if…” he gasped, “What if… No, no!” He composed himself. Thinking, he mused, No, I cannot contemplate that. He paused. Then he shouted out loud, “I must go.” But he knew, as his mind returned to clarity, where to run, with the evidence in his possession.
It is strange when thoughts forced to the back of his brain, blanked from memory, suddenly, without invitation, stab the mind, remembrances not contemplated for over a year, the day he fell out of his own front door, with the Barbers’ words ringing and whirling around his head, “Richard, they are all dead!” Thinking of the day, his beloved wife and two little girls died within three hours of each other, so is the pace of sweating sickness.
He sighed a deep long sigh and said to himself, “If I am to live and see my beloved Mary again, I must return this strap to the Tower to hide it. So be it, I must try or die trying!”
Chapter 2

The Consequence
A crescendo of cheers, raised caps and kerchiefs added to the splendour the moment. The King’s horse was released by the squire once the lance was secured in Henry’s hand. His opponent was calm, and his mount composed at the end of the tilt. His crest of feathers gently fluttered in the winter zephyr, the watery sunlight catching the colours on the knight’s brightly coloured wooden ecranche, his lance vertical, his back turned to his noble rival, awaiting the cry and then the turn.
The crowd was being worked into a frenzy by the younger nobles, squires and lesser servants, those too young or inexperienced to Tourname