by Derek Wilson
As I watched the boys scampering for home, I could scarcely avoid interpreting the spontaneous ‘parable’ they had performed, as it seemed, for my sole benefit. How far out am I justified in reaching? I asked myself. There is potential danger in every risk we contemplate taking.
That boy had been prepared to go farther than his friends, and he had been wrong. Time and again I too had ventured beyond the limits approved by my more prudent self. Antonio had not masked his disapproval of my continuance with my quest and I had ignored his misgivings. But what had I achieved? Only the hint, the suggestion, the suspicion that I might achieve my objective by venturing out still farther on the thin ice before me. And thin it was: a possibility that there might exist somewhere a lady called Mary who would have the vital evidence I needed to complete the story I had set myself to tell.
I recalled the siren song that had so delighted the ears of Homer’s hero:
Come hither, renowned Odysseus, great glory of the Achaeans. Stay your ship that you may listen to our voices. For never yet has any mariner rowed past this isle in his black ship till he has heard the sweet song from our lips. Nay, he has joy of it and goes his way a wiser man.
The Trojan War hero had escaped the fatal song of the sirens by having himself tied to the ship’s mast and filling the ears of his crew with wax. Thus he could listen to the singing, but his men could hear neither the seductive melody luring them on to the rocks nor their captain’s order to take the ship in closer to the island. Odysseus had gained his prize and avoided paying the price. Unfortunately I lacked his cunning. My choice was thus a simple one: I could continue my pursuit, knowing that I faced, at best, months or possibly years of frustration and, at worst, provoking the displeasure of King Henry (a man it was unwise to displease), or I could resign myself to the knowledge that I had done all I reasonably could and that what was now unknown about the life of Thomas Cromwell would remain forever unknown.
During the course of a light meal at the Bear I made my decision. Then, having collected together my few belongings, I sought out the innkeeper in order to settle my account.
‘I will be leaving straight away,’ I said. ‘I hope to cover as much ground as possible between here and London before nightfall. Could you please direct me to the road?’
‘Certainly, Sir, ’tis very easy.’ He explained the route out from the town centre. ‘That will bring you to the Barton crossroads on the London highway. God speed you.’
I stared at the man, wide-eyed. ‘Barton, you say?’
‘Yes, Sir. ’Tis a tiny village, scarce more than a cluster of houses, but it straddles the main road. You’ll not miss it.’
Miss it? Miss it? That was exactly what I had been doing – missing the connection, the very link I had been seeking for days. It had been offered by Mercy Prior at the Cromwells’ dinner table, and the interruption engineered by Lady Elizabeth had driven it from my mind. But now I remembered. The old lady had mentioned that her son-in-law had, before marrying her daughter, been betrothed to a Mary Barton . . . Mary Barton . . . MARY! She had been Thomas’s first love – the one he had vowed always to remember.
I hurried out to the stable yard, collected my horse and set out for London – and Putney.
***
I could not, of course, be sure that Mary Barton was still alive or that, if she was, she still lived in Putney. It was reasonable to suppose that she, like Thomas, would have married at some point and that her name would have changed. However, there must still exist, I told myself, people in the village whose memories were long enough to recall that, some forty years before, there had been a young woman called Mary Barton living in their midst. Family chronicles survived long in such small communities. I permitted my ever-too-active imagination to paint a portrait of the lady I sought. She would be in her fifties and of some substance, for if she had remained as attached to Thomas Cromwell as he had to her, surely she would have benefited in tangible ways from her friendship with one of the richest men in England.
After a very brief stay in the capital, I rode my horse the short distance upriver. Islands of ice were afloat on the Thames and were making navigation difficult, so although the stiff ruts made hard going for horses, overland travel seemed the better option. I set out at dawn and reached Putney village by mid-morning. My only memory of Putney was the view I had had of it from the river – a sprawl of houses along the south bank and rising up to higher ground beyond. I began my enquiries at the inn, then moved to the landing stage, then the farrier’s forge. A succession of shaken heads initially suggested that my optimism had played me false. After a while, however, I sensed that the negative response bordered on hostility.
This was confirmed when I called at the curate’s house alongside the church. The incumbent, a rough-looking fellow, came to the door and did not invite me in. ‘I’ve heard who you are looking for,’ he said.
‘Then you know her and where I might find her?’ I asked.
He scowled. ‘What is your business?’
‘A private discussion,’ I replied, trying not to match his tone.
‘If ’tis Mary Hankley you seek, you would be best to turn your horse around and head back whence you came.’ With that he slammed the door.
I returned to the inn. My horse needed hay and water, and I needed time to think. I stationed myself at a corner table and ordered cheese and ale. I was not a whit distressed by the priest’s churlishness. His few ill-favoured words had answered my most pressing questions. Mary Barton was still alive. She still lived in or near Putney. And she now bore the married name of Hankley. Why she was apparently widely unpopular was a puzzle. Could it have something to do with her connection to Thomas Cromwell? That might explain the curate’s contempt for her and might also colour the emotions of his Catholic-inclined flock. How should I proceed now? Judging by the hostile glances being cast in my direction by the few other occupants of the room I was unlikely to learn anything of value from further enquiries.
After some minutes of this rueful reflection, a tall man approached my table. He wore good boots, a blue cloak and a chain of office around his neck.
‘Good day to you, Sir,’ the stranger said. ‘I gather you have had a sample of our Putney hospitality. I am Nicholas Welton, the constable. May I be of service?’
He seated himself opposite and I explained the reason for my visit.
‘I think it very likely Mary Hankley is the lady you seek. She is one of our wealthier residents.’
‘Why is she so unpopular?’ I asked.
‘Well, as to that,’ he replied with a sad shake of the head, ‘I could give you a long list, though probably it all comes down to envy. She is a widow. She is rich. She has friends in high places and dines at some of the best tables hereabouts. But she started life as the daughter of a farmer trying to make a living from thirty acres of inferior pasture.’
‘Yes. I can see that would create resentment.’
‘That is but the half. Mistress Hankley owns the mill. Have you ever met a popular miller? The world believes that they all make their money from false weights and adulterated flour.’
‘Is Mistress Hankley dishonest?’
‘No court has ever found her so, but that does not silence malicious tongues. If her wealth comes not from dishonest dealings, then there must be even more sinister explanations for it.’
‘You mean witchcraft?’
‘Aye, there’s plenty of folk will tell you stories of nocturnal demon gatherings at that lonely house on the hill.’
‘All invented, I suppose.’
‘Not all. Mary Hankley does sometimes play hostess to groups of other outcasts – heretics, the ones people call “Lollards”.’
‘Has she not been prosecuted by the Church for her beliefs?’
‘The curate would have me arrest her, and then he would doubtless find witnesses to bring fal
se testimony against her, but I will have none of his scheming. Mary Hankley attends mass, pays her taxes, contributes generously to the relief of the poor.’ He paused. ‘More than that, as I said, she has powerful friends.’
‘Including Lord Cromwell?’ I asked.
He nodded. ‘So you see, Sir, I have no cause to molest her and it would not be in my interests to do so.’
I thanked the constable for the information and asked him for directions to the mill.
‘’Tis a mile or so out of the village at the top of the hill. Would you like me to have two of my men escort you?’
‘Is that really necessary?’
‘It might be a wise precaution. Word is already going around that you are a foreign heretic peddling banned books.’
I laughed. ‘They are welcome to search my panniers.’
His reply bore no trace of humour. ‘They already would have done so were it not for my men in the yard keeping an open eye.’
Thus it was that I rode out of Putney a little later accompanied by an armed guard. My excitement mounted with every yard of our progress up the long, straight hill. At last I was to meet someone who had been familiar with Thomas Cromwell – had known him intimately – before he became well known and, by that fact, unknown. As we approached the mill, I could see that its sails were stationary but that it was very busy. Men were loading bulging sacks on to one wagon and an empty vehicle behind it was waiting to be filled. In the doorway a customer was checking the sacks as they appeared and beside him stood the person who was obviously the mill’s proprietor.
Mary Hankley was small and slight, yet carried an air of authority. She wore a wide hood over her grey hair, and both it and her long apron were covered with a thin layer of wheat dust. Without pausing her conversation, she keenly appraised the new arrivals, particularly noting my armed escort. ‘Ned!’ she called out. A burly fellow appeared from the interior. Mistress Hankley spoke briefly to him, shook hands with her customer, then stepped across to where I stood beside my horse. ‘Good-day to you, Sir. I think we have not met before.’
I had thought much about how I would open my conversation with Cromwell’s Mary, and hopefully persuade her to share her memories with me, but now the words would not come. After some moments of stupid mumbling, I brought out the demi-crucifix and unwrapped it. ‘I have come to return this to you and I hope that you might satisfy my curiosity about it,’ I said.
Nothing could have prepared me for the lady’s reaction. She stared, wide-eyed, at the wooden fragment, held a hand to her mouth, then fell forward. I was only just able to catch her. The swoon was momentary but she was still very shaken and clutched my arm. ‘I must sit down,’ she said. ‘Come.’ She led the way to the house next to the mill.
When we were seated at the table in her spacious main chamber, Mary had her maid set before us silver goblets and a jug of cordial. She left the room briefly and returned bringing something which she laid on the table. It was the bottom half of the crucifix. I reunited the two fragments and we both stared at it wordlessly. Of itself it was nothing – a cheap, crudely carved devotional aid such as one might buy from a market stall anywhere in Europe. Yet what it signified was more than obvious from Mary’s tear-streaked face. Seeing her obvious distress made me realize that it would be impertinent, perhaps cruel, to ask for the story of the figurine.
‘Thomas kept this until the very end,’ I said, ‘and now it returns to where it belongs.’
‘Did he give it to you?’ Mary asked. ‘On the scaffold, perhaps?’
I described the rather less dramatic circumstances that had brought Cromwell’s talisman into my possession. Then I told her something of the adventures into which it had led me.
‘Strange. Strange.’ She sighed. ‘It was all meant to be so very much simpler. A common enough story of young people in love. We made a vow that these two pieces showing our Lord’s death would be reunited on our wedding day. It was not to be. Our happiness was denied to us.’ She was silent for a while. ‘But if we had quietly married here in Putney my Tom would not have become a great man and a great champion of the Gospel. That thought gives me much consolation.’
‘’Tis my belief he was born for greatness,’ I said.
‘He was certainly very different from all the other boys here – wild, confident, impetuous. He promised that he would gain a fortune and make me a great lady. That was even before it . . .’ She faltered. ‘. . . before it happened.’ Another silence followed, her eyes glistening with the tears of painful memory. ‘When he came back from his foreign travels a rich and successful man, he would have married me. But by then it was not possible. I was already another man’s wife and, soon afterwards, Tom Crom married Elizabeth Prior, a dear soul and a good friend to both of us.’
‘Do you mean that you remained on close terms even after he became a member of the royal court?’
‘Oh yes, he had property nearby and we were able to meet there when affairs of state were not too pressing. Tom Crom made sure I never lacked for anything, including education. He urged me to learn my letters and I took lessons from our old curate, who was a good scholar – not like the clodpole we are cursed with now, who can scarce stumble through the mass.’
More silence. This time it was I who broke it. ‘I crave your forgiveness, Mistress. I have resurrected old sorrows. ’Twas not my intention. I will leave now and trouble you no further.’
‘That you will not, Sir!’ Mary Hankley was immediately on her feet. ‘’Tis not every day I have a visitor from the French court. I should be a very poor hostess if I allowed you to depart without a good meal in your belly.’
The lady was as good as her word and we were soon sitting to an ample meal of good country fare. Our conversation was lively. I traded anecdotes from my travels for amusing stories of life among Mary’s rural customers and neighbours. Some of her experiences, however, lacked any trace of humour. She spoke of local women who shunned her. She spoke of children throwing stones at her windows.
‘Once, I found one of my own mill workers searching my bed chamber,’ she said.
‘Searching for money?’
Mary shook her head. ‘Oh, no.’ She paused, thoughtful. ‘Though financial gain was certainly involved. The poor man had a sick wife and could not afford the apothecary’s charges. He went to the friary to seek help from the herbalist and was offered a deal: a potion in return for my copy of Tyndale’s New Testament. I need not tell you what would have happened if he had handed it over to the bishop’s snoopers.’
‘Then ’twas a mercy he did not find it.’
She smiled. ‘Oh, he found it, but then God stirred his conscience. He confessed all to me and I helped him to pay for the remedy.’
‘Did it occur to you that his story might have been a ruse to prevent you from having him arrested?’
Mary cackled a laugh. ‘Oh, yes. I know my workers. Poor John was a proud man. He did not like begging for my aid. His accusation of the friars might have been invented, but it was certainly plausible. Many of the local folk misliked the Franciscans – always begging money from simple people struggling to make a living, just to keep their own table well spread.’
‘That is interesting,’ I said. ‘Do you think Thomas’s assault on the whole monastic system had its origins here in his early years?’
She nodded. ‘Oh yes, he loathed that whole brood, even before . . .’ She stopped abruptly and there was an awkward pause.
To deflect her from obviously painful memories, I asked her to describe her earliest recollections of Thomas Cromwell. What sort of a young man had he been?
She responded readily. ‘Tom Crom was four years older than me, and a close friend of my brother, who was also baptized Thomas. They were almost inseparable. That was why, to distinguish between them, we called them Tom Crom and Tom Bart. They were part of a gang of young men, always drinking
and gaming together, but it was invariably Tom Crom who was the leader. I cannot think of a time when I did not idolize him – and I was not alone. Several of my friends tried to catch his eye.’
‘A popular fellow, then?’
‘Oh, yes. Always fun to be with. Forever thinking up new escapades.’
‘Was he inclined to religion?’
‘I think that came later. He certainly never discussed it with me. One or two of our mutual friends were from Lollard families and perhaps some of their beliefs interested him, but he was much more concerned in planning out his future. He used to say that his aim in life was to make a mark in the world.’
‘He certainly did that,’ I said. ‘But I can well see that Putney was no place for a young man with that ambition. His father’s trade would have held no attraction for him.’
Mary laughed. ‘Trade? What trade? Old Walter tried his hand at many things – farming, brewing, cloth shearing and so forth – and made no great success of any. I am sure it was his father’s failures that spurred Tom Crom to succeed.’
‘I have heard that the two of them were never on good terms. There is a common story that Thomas ran away from his father’s severe beatings.’
‘My Tom Crom could stand up for himself,’ the old lady asserted defiantly. ‘He did not so much leave a bad life as search for a better.’ Mary fell silent. Her fingers lovingly caressed the crucifix, but she was not looking at it. Her mind was somewhere else.
At last she turned in her chair and addressed her maid: ‘You may go now, Madge. These last dishes will wait until tomorrow.’ She looked across at me with a wistful smile that expressed both friendship and sadness. ‘You are a good man, Nicholas Bourbon. It was a great kindness to seek out the truth about Thomas at a time when he was out of favour and his name was being besmirched. I am so glad that you have come to me to help you complete the story. But this makes a problem for me.’