by Sam Burnell
“They are love letters! My father’s addled love-struck words and his whore’s replies. There is nothing, nothing, in there that the Reformist cause could use.” Mary’s temper flared.
“Your Majesty, Knox’s works are…”
“These you have not found, and maybe it does not exist at all? Kate is right to protect her mistress’s possessions, that does not mean in itself that she colludes to keep secret such things does it?” Mary snapped at him.
“Your Majesty, if I may just have a little more time…”
“More time? You’ve been hunting for months, Gardiner. First, you told me she had secret communications with Courtney, then you tell me that Knox had been writing to her, and now you tell me that she is openly within her household, reading aloud his latest heresy? What proof is there? None and I fear you begin to make a fool of me.”
“Your Majesty, I just want to keep your royal sister safe, there are many who would collude against her.” Gardiner insisted, perspiration starting to form on his brow.
“So you keep telling me,” Mary sounded weary. “Do not continue with this, Gardiner, unless there are some grounds. The Lady is our royal sister, do not bring me mere hearsay.”
“Indeed, Your Majesty.” Gardiner’s resolve hardened. He knew that to return England fully to Rome he had to remove Elizabeth. She was a figurehead for the disaffected and – worse - for the Protestant cause. However much Mary tried to tell herself this was not so, and that she could bring Elizabeth to the Catholic Church and let her see the joy of the Mass as Mary did, Gardiner knew that this would never be the case. Even if Elizabeth herself eschewed Protestantism and became outwardly devoutly Catholic, they would still flock to her as Anne’s daughter; as a sister who was closer to her dead Protestant brother Edward VI than Mary had ever been.
Knox’s latest pamphlet which had been printed outside England was a direct assault on Mary. Titled, “The First Blast of the Trumpet Against the Monstrous Regiment of Women,” it was aimed directly at Catholic Mary. Knox saw it as an affront to God that a woman could in any way rule over men, and that she was a Catholic made it an abomination. However, his polemical treatise against female sovereigns and their policies was gaining popular support.
Chapter Two
†
Used to the South, and to London, York made Jack feel a little more at home. A city of some ten thousand souls, it had a strong heart, the noise and odour comforting and familiar. At York, for the moment, his weary northern trudge was halted. You could smell York the closer you got: a knot of a city, wound in a tight ball around the bend in the river, walled and secure, and although he’d never been here before, there was a feeling of homecoming as he rode towards the City.
The towering walls were punctuated by four main entrances and as his horse plodded down Holgate Road, Micklegate Bar came into view. Two round towers gilded with arrow slits stood either side of the darkened opening. Between them, supported on a thick oiled chain, was a raised portcullis. The lower walls were blanketed in shadow but the top of the towers shone white in the sun’s rays, the heraldic shields fastened there glinted like gold. In front of the gate were the first set of defences, lower stone walls and wooden palisades, with a first gate house where visitors, into and out of the city, had to queue before being allowed to enter through Micklegate Bar.
They passed easily through the security at the gates, being as they were a small pilgrimage group. Jack led his horse and stood amongst the group unnoticed, then made his way into the city.
“Stay with us, Jack,” Paul asked, still a little nervous around him after the violent incident on the road. “Annie has family near Bootham Bar and we’re to stop with them a few days. I doubt as one more will make a difference.”
“That would be most appreciated, I’ve not been to York before, and it would be good while I find my way around,” Jack accepted as he walked next to Paul leading Corracha.
“We’ll be going to the shrine tomorrow, come with us lad.” Father Andrew added his own invitation.
Jack gave him a black look. He had no liking for religion, priests or churches. He would have thought Father Andrew would have understood that by now.
“Don’t be so bleak,” Father Andrew continued, and he leaned a little closer, “You seem to me, lad, like you could use some help. And it comes from strange places sometimes, come and join us. Paul there, he’d not tell you, but he has a little one at home. Fair ill the boy is, and he hopes his namesake will help the boy’s cause.”
“I might,” conceded Jack gruffly.
“This way, this way,” Father Andrew herded his followers through the gate and onward into the northern stronghold. They followed the crowds under the raised portcullis and onto Micklegate towards the river. The way was narrow, the black and white buildings on either side crowding in towards the road, diamond glass panes twinkling in the sunshine.
“There, look,” Father Andrew was acting as their guide, “the tower came down in a great storm in 1551.” On their right the road opened up as they drew level with the Priory Church of the Holy Trinity, and indeed one end of the church resembled a masonry yard rather than a monastic building. Stacks of stones stood around the church yard and makeshift wooden props held up the end of the nave that the storm had not taken down.
“Was a terrible storm,” Father Andrew continued, “the parish folk hereabout were sheltering in the Priory Church with the monks when a single bolt of lightning lit the sky and blew the tower apart. And mark this, not a soul in the church was hurt.”
Annie crossed herself, awe on her face, “A godly miracle, Father.”
The cleric nodded sagely in agreement, “Indeed, indeed. We are in a place now oft touched by God.”
The group continued further on down Micklegate. The way narrowed even more, and those coming and leaving the city jostled for space on the busy street. The road swung gently to the right and when they rounded the bend, the grand structure of St Martin’s Church stood on their right. Beautiful arched windows seemed to reach to the very tops of the walls. The tower was graced with a magnificent clock-face and as they passed, the bells began to toll. The group smiled at each other and the boys put their fingers in their ears and received a belt round the back of the head from Father Andrew.
“They’re God’s bells, boys!” he admonished harshly. Jack agreed with the boys. He winked at them mouthing that he too would like to put his fingers in his ears.
The buildings on both sides stopped abruptly. Jack realised they had reached the bridge over the River Ouse which took travellers into the very heart of the city. Much to the annoyance of the passing traffic, Father Andrew brought his group to a halt and bid them kneel while he recounted the tale of Archbishop William’s return to York.
William had come back in triumph to take up his godly position once again, after being wrongly outcast by a misinformed monarch. Many had lined the streets cheering at his return to the city. So mighty had been the weight of the faithful that the bridge had collapsed and over two hundred souls had been cast into the cold folds of the River Ouse. Archbishop William had fallen to his knees and begged God to save the citizens of York, and not one life was lost on that day.
Jack saved his knees and, despite a hard stare from Father Andrew, he remained standing. With his weight against the side of the bridge he stared about him. To his right, further down river, was another crossing over the Ouse, and a myriad of small boats made their way up and down the river carrying every kind of cargo: men, beasts, barrels, timber. York was a busy place.
Finally the group rose from their knees and continued into York’s centre. Once off the bridge, the street became narrow and tightly packed again. They continued up Micklegate, turning left into the even narrower High Ousegate. Progress became even slower as Paul carefully manoeuvred the cart past shop fronts and the displays of wares for sale piled in front them.
They turned twice more in the narrow streets. At one corner the wagon got completely stuck with the wooden flatbed hooking
into the frame of another wagon going in the opposite direction. Only with the strength of four men did they manage to untangle the wagons, the boys holding the startled pony still while they heaved and jostled the cart round.
Jack was sure that Father Andrew had no idea where they were going as he led them into Davygate, another busy little street. The smell of ale wafted to his nose along with that of roasted meat, and Jack was sure everyone heard his stomach rumble in complaint. They pressed on, and it was with relief when they turned into Stonegate which was wider and a lot easier to navigate.
“Soon we will be there. Look forwards,” Father Andrew’s voice was excited as he urged them all on to their final destination. The group carried on down Stonegate and already they could all see, towering behind the streets of York, the great edifice that was York Minster. Even Jack was impressed as they emerged from the narrow, dark street to stand in the sunlight in front of the great Cathedral. The sun picked out all the tiny facets that made up the enormous rose window; jewelled glass held secure in the exquisitely carved stone: stone that appeared like it was carved like clay to form the beautiful sweeping forms and shapes that decorated every part of the towering building. So many windows. Jack had never seen a building like it.
Everywhere were towering, arched frames; each one paned with glass; each one pointing to the heavens, and all bounded by carved pillars, hundreds of them all leading the eye up to the top of the Minster. Every point on the roof, every corner, was finished with a towering pinnacle reaching even further towards the sky. The roof line was embellished with a fretwork in stone as delicate as ladies’ lace. While Jack gazed in wonder at the Minster, Father Andrew was offering a prayer. All his pilgrims were on their knees, humbled by the majesty of Gods house, a house where Saint William had been laid to rest centuries before.
They left York centre. Paul’s wife’s sister lived near the walls and they began to retrace their steps back through the narrow streets. Jack, as he helped heft the cart bed round yet another bend, asked himself for the umpteenth time why the hell they hadn’t left the bloody thing wherever it was they were going to stop rather than jamming up most of York with it. They were not popular.
Finally, the light poured in and Jack recognised the break in the buildings where the road led on to the bridge. On the other side, the road was twice as wide and the flat bed of the cart would not get rammed up constantly against the sides of the narrow streets and the rest of the crammed traffic could at least get past them.
Jack had just remounted Corracha to lead him over the bridge when there was a scream from behind him followed by the hammer of pounding hooves as a horse drew level and overtook him making straight for the bridge. Hanging on for dear life, round its neck, was a child.
Without thinking, he kicked Corracha hard and took off straight after the fleeing horse. It didn’t seem like he would be able to reach the beast, but Corracha’s stride lengthened and he drew level with the small mare. Jack pressed his heels into the horse’s side and forced him over so the saddle on the mare was within arm’s reach. Swinging one leg over, he judged his moment before he loosed Corracha’s reins and jumped. He caught the pommel on the mare’s saddle in both hands, legs hanging freely, the toes of his boot sliding along the bridge. Bending his knees, he brought his legs forward in a practiced move. As his heels contacted with the wooden boards they provided the momentum he needed to swing back upwards and into the mare’s saddle.
One hand wound around the reins to slow the horse and the other none too gently, grabbed at the cloth and skin of the rider who was still clinging screaming to the horse’s neck. The boy would have fallen had one foot not still been tangled in a stirrup. Before the horse had made it across the river, the mare began to slow. Recognising the feel of a controlling rider on her back she responded as she had been taught, slowing her gait steadily to a bouncing trot, the screaming child in front of him balanced uncomfortably on the pommel of his own saddle.
“Steady there, girl,” Jack slowed her to a halt, and helping hands appeared instantly to lower the boy from the horse and hold the mare still on the bridge. Corracha had been brought to a halt some way in front of him and a large man with a leather apron was leading him back towards Jack across the bridge.
The boy was still crying loudly, taking in great big, gulped mouthfuls of air between wails, snot and tears pouring down his red face. He couldn’t be more than six or seven, Jack thought.
“Oswald…Oswald.” There came a shout from behind, “Lord be praised, Oh, Oswald, are you alright?” The man who appeared was well dressed, and he dropped to his knees in front of the bawling boy taking him into his arms. Jack presumed it was the boy’s father and stood back, a little embarrassed. He still had hold of the mare’s reins and a second man in livery held out his hand for them.
“That was a feat: I’d thought for sure the horse and boy were going to end in the river.” Jack handed the reins over. Everything was just moving too quickly; just moments before, he had been trying to slow the speeding mare.
“Aye. Is the lad alright? What happened?” Jack asked of the kneeling man.
“He’ll be fine, thanks kindly to you. Some stupid fool just before the bridge was taking chickens out of a cage and let the lot out. They ran across the street and the horse took off.” As he spoke he used an expensive sleeve to wipe the worst of the mess from the boy’s face.
“It’s a big mare for such a little lad,” Jack observed. “He’ll not stop her if she’d a mind to go.”
“I agree, sir.” The man rose, a protective arm still around the boy, “I was against it, but his tutor insisted the boy have a new horse and I’ll be having a few words, I can tell you, after this.”
“How old is he?” Jack asked, pointing to the child who had stopped crying and was now wrapping his arms around his father’s leg.
“Five, just gone.”
“Five! No wonder he ended up round its neck. He needs a little, sturdy mare, something about ten hands, no bigger,” Jack exclaimed.
“Well, you seem to know your horses, judging by what I’ve just seen,” he grinned, “I’m Roger Clement, and this is my son Oswald. What do you say, Oswald.”
“Thank you, Sir.” Oswald complied quietly.
Jack dropped down onto his haunches at the boy’s level. “Don’t let her scare you, lad. Get back on now, and take her over the bridge. She’s calm now and with someone leading her she’ll not take off with you again.”
“No, don’t want to.” Oswald pressed his face against his father’s leg.
“It’s always best to get back on, I’m sure you’ve been told that.” Jack tried.
“Will you come with me?” The boy asked, turning to observe Jack with tear reddened eyes.
“I could, or I could lift you up and lead her for you. Should I do that? I’ll not let go of her, and she’ll walk nice and quietly for you I’m sure.” The boy smiled weakly, and Jack lifted him back into the mare’s saddle.
“I’ll lead him over the bridge for you, if that’s fine with you?” Jack asked, taking a tight hold on the mare’s bridle.
“I’ll walk over with you,” Roger turned to the liveried servant.
“Callum, go and get my horse and bring…” he looked at Jack, who supplied his name, “…Jack’s horse as well and we’ll meet you on the other side of the river.”
Jack spent some minutes chatting with the grateful Roger until Callum arrived with Corracha and Rogers own mount. Jack turned down the offer of a meal, very much wanting to be elsewhere, not enjoying at all the attention he was getting. Father Andrew and his group stared on, waiting for Jack to re-join them which, with some relief, he did and they continued on to Paul’s in-laws.
York was the end of a long journey; Jack, seeking solitude, declined the invitation to stop with Annie’s family. The Black Swan’s rooms offered travellers good fare and for those who could afford it, better than average food. The ale was expensive as well, half a shilling for a tankard, and the room on
the creaking floor above him had cost him two shillings a night. Jack knew he could have found another inn, less central, and could have halved his spend, but right now he didn’t care too much. The Black Swan had been close and the smell of cooked food too inviting to resist. Famous locally for a pie stuffed with game and herbs, he’d fed well and was, on the whole, feeling much better. A night in a dry bed with a roof over his head, and tomorrow would be another day. Jack resolved to ponder the future in the morning. When he’d slept well surely then he’d be able to think a little clearer?
Jack wanted to be alone. There were few patrons inside and he’d easily found a table in a peaceable corner. The door to the inn swung open, lighting the inside. Jack, feeling the cold draught, instinctively turned to the doorway. There, framed by the light, was Father Andrew closely followed by Roger Clement. For God’s sake, what were they after now? Quickly he looked away, hoping that they’d not seen him. It was a dark corner if he was lucky… but he was not.
“There you are, lad. Annie said she’d seen you come in here. And what a place to be in after our travels.” Father Andrew, without invitation, hooked a stool out from under the table and pulled another one over for Roger, and the pair sat down opposite Jack.
Leaning back, Father Andrew settled his shoulders comfortably against the wooden boards behind him, it was obvious he meant to stay. “So Jack, what will you do now?”
“I’ll think of something,” Jack replied tersely, interested not at all in talking with either of them, and hoping very much that his unwanted companions would realise this and leave.
“You told me that a week back. Have you not made any plans from here?” Father Andrew persisted. He had caught the eye of one of the serving girls, “Ale for three, lass, please.” Jack groaned inwardly, Father Andrew turned back to his companions, “You must have some notions about where you go next?”
“No, I haven’t,” Jack’s eyes were full of fury, and Roger Clement, looking between the pair of them, was looking less than comfortable.