by Derek Wilson
Chambers’ self-control now gave way completely. ‘You may leave that to us . . . er . . . to the bishops!’ he snapped.
‘I am certainly glad that it is their problem and not mine.’ I yawned. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, I think I will retire early.’
I rose and left the room. Outside, I counted to fifty, then put my hand to the latch and pushed the door open. The two men were now standing by the window and Chambers was examining his assistant’s notes. ‘That reply could be made to sound . . .’ The chaplain’s voice tailed away as he saw me.
‘Pardon my intrusion, gentlemen,’ I said as I crossed to the chair I had been sitting in. ‘I think I will read a little more poetry in bed.’ I picked up the book from where I had left it and once more made my exit.
In my chamber I filled a saddlebag with necessities, drew up a chair to the fire, sat down – and waited.
I do not recall how many times I had to get to my feet and walk around the room to prevent myself being overwhelmed by sleep. Three or four times I opened the door and listened carefully for any sounds of activity. When I had satisfied myself that all was quiet, and when, on looking from the window, I saw the half-moon drifting towards the horizon, I collected my luggage and went to Antonio’s chamber. His candle was still burning, but he was stretched, fully dressed, on the bed, fast asleep.
It took a good shaking to rouse him, but once roused he was fully alert and wasted no time in being ready. We felt our way down to the lower floor, feebly assisted by what moonlight entered through the windows. We located a side door, walked around the chapel and, rather than striding straight across the lawn, we skirted it, just in case anyone was watching from the house. Once in the trees we moved along the edge, seeking the track that would lead us through the wood to our improvised stable. That was when we realized the flaw in our plans.
There were several rides cut through the trees and we had omitted to mark the one that would take us close to the cottage. We both agreed that the first was not right, but when we came to the second Antonio was convinced that we should take it. ‘It lines up with that corner of the house,’ he said, turning to point to the priory.
We set out purposefully through the wood, but the pathway steadily narrowed until we found ourselves enmeshed in ferny undergrowth. Hurriedly we retraced our steps. When we came to the next track, Antonio said, ‘This must be the one.’
‘Before we try it,’ I said, ‘let us be clear how far we have to go. Otherwise we will merely blunder farther and farther into the wood.’
‘By my reckoning,’ he replied, ‘’tis about half a mile. Then we come to a cross-track and turn right.’
‘Half a mile? That means about eight hundred paces, nine hundred if the ground is rough. No more. If we have not found our cross-track by then, we must turn back.’
My companion protested. ‘What then? We cannot abandon our plan now.’
‘Better that than losing ourselves completely. We might have to wait till first light.’
‘There will be servants about by then, and anyway we will have lost the chance to put distance between us and Launde.’
‘Aye, that is true. Leaving our departure till later would reduce our advantage, but if we are found stumbling about the Leicestershire countryside – well, who knows what might happen?’
So we set off along track number two, counting our paces as we went. Antonio, taking longer strides, quickly moved ahead. Eventually I caught up with him.
He was leaning against a silver birch. ‘That is eight hundred,’ he said. ‘How many have you done?’
‘Eight hundred and forty-three,’ I gasped, ‘and I felt every one of them.’
‘You want us to go back, then?’
‘I do not want us to go back, but I know not what to do for the best. Let us give it fifty more paces.’
We resumed our march, peering anxiously ahead through the gloom, desperately hoping to see around each bend another track crossing our own. There was none. We found an oak stump and sat on it, back to back, too dispirited to speak.
After a couple of minutes I stood up. ‘We must lose no more time,’ I said.
Antonio did not move. ‘Wait.’ He held one hand to his ear. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘I heard nothing.’
‘Listen! There it is again.’
‘There what is?’
‘A horse whinnying.’
‘You are imagining things. If you heard anything it must have been an owl.’
‘No, I’m sure . . . over that way to the right.’ He jumped up and ran ahead along the track.
It twisted to the right, then to the left. Then to our great relief it crossed another. We turned on to the new path, stumbling and running.
‘’Tis not far,’ Antonio called out. Then, ‘There! Look!’
A solid, regular shape stood out from the irregular shadows. A building. A cottage. Our cottage.
Within minutes we had mounted, trotted the short distance to the Peterborough road and were pressing our horses while they were still fresh in order to make up for lost time. Eventually, the sky ahead lightened and we found ourselves riding into a new day. Dawn took on the nature of a metaphor for escape; we had left behind us the darkness of suspicion, intrigue and unspoken threat, and exchanged it for a sunlit landscape where we could see more clearly the country we were passing through.
‘Help me to get things straight,’ Antonio said, standing beside his mare and watching her drink. We had stopped in a village and were watering the horses at the local trough. He continued, ‘Do you believe that you have, all these months, been the victim of a plot by the Cromwell family?’
‘No. When I first met Sir Richard last summer and he encouraged my attempts to gather information about Thomas, I am sure he was motivated by real affection for his uncle. He felt he was quite secure in royal favour – even boasted of it. But by the time I returned to England things had changed. Politics and family loyalty made poor bedfellows.’ I thought of Queen Marguerite, struggling with her feelings for her daughter and the king, her brother. ‘I know not what malicious whispers and poisonous suspicions were creeping around the chambers and galleries of the royal court, but they were sufficient to alarm Sir Richard. He had seen Thomas raised to the pinnacle of power, wealth and kingly favour, only to be thrown down, within days, into the muddy pit of disgrace, imprisonment and ignominious death. He is a realist. He knows it could happen again. That means he must distance himself and his family from the poisonous legacy of Thomas. My reappearance was an opportunity too good to be missed.’
‘I see.’ Antonio remounted and gathered up his reins. ‘By the bye,’ he added with studied casualness, ‘We were right about Susan.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I asked her whether she was under instructions from her mistress to create a distraction if she was given a signal.’
‘And she confessed?’
‘In words, no, but her face betrayed her guilt.’
As we continued our eastward journey, Antonio asked, ‘Where are we going now?’
‘At Peterborough you can join the London road,’ I said. ‘Return to your circle of new friends in the capital. Make the most of your talents among rich burghers and courtiers.’
Antonio looked around sharply. ‘You are not coming?’ After a pause, he added, ‘Ah no, of course, your best plan is to make for the nearest port and take passage for France.’
I nodded. ‘Should anyone ever ask, tell them that is exactly what I have done.’
‘And where are you really going?’
‘’Tis better you know not. I have one more errand to perform before I can leave England.’
‘Not something more to do with Thomas Cromwell?’
I nodded.
‘Jesu Maria!’ he blurted out. ‘Has that man not caused you enough mischief already
? Sometimes I see his shade hovering around you, beckoning, cajoling, leading you on to destruction. I think he will not be satisfied till he has lured you to the block or the fire.’
I laughed. ‘Aye, my friend. ’Tis a vision I share. Over the last months I have come to feel Thomas Cromwell as almost a tangible presence. But ’tis not he who spurs me on now.’
‘Who, then?’
‘All those who seek to stop me, to silence me. The harder they strive, the more stubbornly I must resist them. I am a poet. There was a time when I thought I knew what that meant. Over these last months I have come to realize that it means so much more; demands so much more. Aristotle taught us—’
‘Pah! Not philosophy again,’ Antonio protested.
‘If the word “philosophy” worries you,’ I said, ‘forget it. The great thinker merely put into words what would have been obvious to us if we had applied our minds in a disciplined way. For example, when you paint a portrait are you content to record the wrinkles, the flesh tones, the colour of the hair?’
‘No. There is more to it than that. I want to say something about the sitter as a person.’
‘Exactly. Now, Aristotle drew a distinction between reality and truth. Reality is what happens in the world. Truth is what lies beyond the appearance. It reveals why things happen, what they signify. As a poet, I too deal in truth, or try to.’
Antonio shrugged, unconvinced. ‘What has all this to do with Thomas Cromwell? He was no poet or philosopher – merely a politician.’
‘So I thought – once. Even after I met him a few years ago and realized how well read he was, how much he had learned from his travels in Italy and elsewhere, how deeply he had meditated on God’s word, I saw him as a clever manipulator of men and events; a master in the realm of reality. Now that I have met people who knew him well and were greatly influenced by him, I realize he was a man who saw through reality to truth. While there is still a chance to learn more about him, I have to take it.’
There are some relationships that, though brief, send down deep roots. My young Florentine friend and I had been through so much in our brief but dramatic months together that parting was always going to be difficult. It happened in a modest inn close by the abbey where, soon after noon, we shared a simple meal.
‘You will find the road good all the way to London,’ I said. ‘The local authorities have to keep it clear.’ I was conscious that I was speaking only in order to avoid an embarrassing silence. ’Twas something Plato had warned about when he said that a wise man speaks because he has something to say; a fool speaks because he has to say something.
Antonio grimaced. ‘I wish you well in your quest, but I still think you are mad.’
‘You are probably right, though I prefer to think of it as divine folly. It would certainly be better for you to make no mention of our travels and doings. I hope England is kind to you and that one day you will visit Navarre as a famous painter come to work in the royal court.’
The level of ale in our flagon lowered. Antonio offered to order a refill, but I declined. ‘You should make a start,’ I said. ‘Get as far as you can before nightfall.’
In the inn yard we embraced quickly. Through moist eyes I watched my companion mount and steer his horse out on to the road without a backward glance.
I collected my own horse and swung myself into the saddle. Then I set off in search of Richard Bisley.
18
Oxford
I covered about half of the journey to Oxford before England’s notorious winter intervened. From Northampton the country was lashed by a fierce westerly wind laden with something between snow and rain that stung my face and made the mare toss her head in irritation. The road – rivers of mud between frost-hardened ridges – was treacherous and I dared not ask my horse for more speed. Indeed, I rested her for a whole day at Towcester, and spent much of it staring morosely from the inn window at the storm-thrashed trees.
By mid-afternoon there was a lull in the weather and, tired of inactivity, I walked along the street to the squat-towered parish church. I was not driven by a need to meditate, but the atmosphere inside the building made an unexpected impact on me. The first surprise was the light. I had expected to walk into a space of sacred, sombre mystery, the sunless sky outside filtering only weakly through stained glass and making the frescoes difficult to read. But there were no frescoes. The muted daylight was reflected from whitewashed walls. Such old paintings of Bible story and church legend that must once have filled the walls had been obliterated and plastered over in glaring white. There was an overwhelming feeling of emptiness. I stared down the length of the church. If there had ever been a rood screen dividing the realm of the laity from the sacred realm of the clergy, it was there no longer. Nor, walking forward and gazing around as I went, could I see any holy images. Niches there were, where saints’ statues had once stood. Now they were empty, yawning their meaninglessness. There were certainly additions to the sacred furnishings. At the front of the nave, gathered close to the pulpit like chicks around a hen, were six wooden pews – indication that Towcester boasted some wealthy families determined to listen to sermons in comfort.
I sat in one of them to absorb the unfamiliar atmosphere of the holy space. Without visual stimuli, I asked myself, where were devout townsfolk to gain inspiration? The obvious answer was the pulpit. Here, it seemed, was one of those rare churches that was home to a preaching ministry. But this was not the only innovation. Not three paces from where I sat was a reading stand – a simple, businesslike structure of oak – and upon it the new English Bible.
I closed my eyes – for prayer, perhaps; for contemplation, certainly. Again I confronted the demon doubt. Had Antonio been right to call my crusade madness, the product of curiosity pushed to the point of obsession? Did wisdom dictate that I should make haste to abandon my pilgrimage across this winter-gripped landscape? Now, suddenly, I knew that the answer lay not in nice arguments but in the material evidence that lay all around me in this church, and doubtless hundreds of other churches across the land. Centuries of image-focused devotion had been swept away in less than a decade. It was not just the monastic life that had been ended. The traditional props supporting the devotion of ordinary people had been utterly removed. Not merely challenged. Obliterated! Quite literally. The people of Towcester could no longer comfort themselves with the image of St Christopher bearing the Christ child. Never again would they be inspired by the representation of St Lawrence, their patron saint, undergoing his fiery martyrdom. The change that had overwhelmed Henry VIII’s kingdom had gone beyond politics and beyond theology. The age of haloed, miracle-making saints had passed. What England now officially embraced was a religion of the word. And one man had contrived and carried through this transformation.
As I rose to leave I noticed that a local woman – probably a tradesman’s wife to judge by her dress – had entered the church. I watched as she walked purposefully towards the altar. She stopped just short of it and turned towards the south wall, obviously a habit acquired by years of devotion. She knelt before a shallow alcove, crossed herself, then kissed the stonework, stood and left as quietly as she had come. As the west door closed behind her, I walked along the chancel to discover the object of her devotion. The niche, which once would have held a statue of the Virgin, was empty. No enacted parable could have been more powerful. I had witnessed the obsequies of a dead faith.
As I walked back along the street my thoughts went to Tom Crom’s defaced crucifix. There was obviously a connection, I realized, between his talisman and the little scene I had just witnessed. It lay in the single word ‘idolatry’. Thomas had devoted strenuous energy to removing statues and paintings from churches because God’s commandments had strictly forbidden the worship of religious images. He realized that King Henry’s subjects could not be weaned from papal myths and legends until the visual reminders of those popular storie
s had been completely removed from all churches. This aspect of his mission was so vital, I speculated, that he had found it necessary to keep a perpetual reminder about him at all times. The broken crucifix helped him to ‘Remember Always’ the mammoth task he had undertaken.
By the time I arrived in Oxford at dusk the following day I was utterly weary. However, I lost no time in pursuing my objective. Having obtained lodging at the Bear Inn, I asked for directions to All Souls College. I walked the short distance thither only to be confronted by a surly porter who seemed pleased to give me depressing news. Master Richard Bisley, he informed me, was not currently in residence and was not expected to return for several days. I left a note for Bisley (with little confidence that it would be delivered), then returned to the inn. Tired and disheartened, I ordered a large flagon of Rhenish and sat drinking in my chamber. Eventually, I fell asleep in my chair.
‘Your pardon, Sir. Your pardon, Sir.’ I was hauled back into wakefulness by the innkeeper’s daughter, shaking my shoulder. ‘Your pardon, Sir. There is a gentleman below asking for you.’
‘For me? No, I am expecting no one. You are mistaken.’
‘Well,’ the girl replied with a pout, ‘if you be Master Bourbon, then there is a man below waiting for you – a Master Bisley.’
Cranmer supplied Canterbury with a store of excellent learned preachers. One Bisley this year went along with the King’s visitors, as one of their preachers, who converted not a few to sincere religion, as may appear by those numbers in Canterbury, that in Queen Mary’s reign suffered the torment of fire for their profession of the Gospel.
(John Strype, Memorials of the Most Reverend Father in God, Thomas Cranmer, Sometime Lord Archbishop of Canterbury)
The man waiting in a corner of the Bear’s main room was, I judged, in his early forties and dressed in a clerical gown and cap. He was beardless and sharp-featured, his thin lips carrying the slightest trace of a smile. He was impressive. I cannot explain what I mean by that word. I can only state it. There was something about him that commanded attention. Perhaps it was a quality of stillness. Before he spoke or gestured, I was drawn to him. His handshake was firm as I sat opposite and introduced myself.