The First Horseman: Number 1 in Series (Thomas Treviot)

by D. K. Wilson

  I struggled to control the resentment boiling up within me. I turned to face my old friend. ‘Robert, you mean well and I am grateful but I have not come home after an unpleasant ordeal to be chided like a child.’

  There was no irritated response. I do not recall ever having seen Robert give way to anger. It would have been easier for me if he had. As it was, I could only stand there regretting my outburst but unable to apologise for it. Robert stood, slowly drained his goblet and set it down carefully on the stool he had vacated. ‘Then it is time for the pedagogue to withdraw.’ He walked towards the door. Halfway across the room he stopped. He turned, stood for a moment as though in thought, then thrust his hand inside his doublet and drew something out. He walked back and placed it on the stool beside his cup. ‘You might find this a valued companion on your lonely wanderings. But don’t let anyone know you have it.’

  From the oriel window I watched him emerge into West Cheap, turn right and stride purposefully through the throng towards his own home in nearby Sopers Lane. ‘Meddling fool,’ I muttered to myself and knew, even as I did so, that I did not mean it. After some minutes I picked up Robert’s parting gift.

  It was a small book, bound in hide and designed for the purse or pocket. I turned to the title page and knew immediately why Robert had advised me to keep it clandestinely:

  The New Testament, yet once again corrected by William Tyndale,

  whereunto is added a calendar and a necessary table wherein easily

  and lightly may be found any story contained in the four Evangelists

  and in the Acts of the Apostles.

  Printed in the year of our Lord God MDXXXIV

  I dropped it on the table in sudden alarm, as though it had burst into flames. Flames indeed – this was the notorious book men were burned for reading. I was astonished, shocked even. William Tyndale was a renegade priest who had fled to some Lutheran enclave on the Continent from where he had been smuggling his heretical text into England. Now the bishops were busy seizing every copy they could find and making bonfires of them – and sometimes of the men and women who owned them. What was Robert doing with such a dangerous book? I knew a couple of young men who boasted about reading Tyndale’s Testament. They were Inns of Court students – bold anti-establishment fellows who liked to consider themselves ‘advanced’ thinkers. But Robert Packington? No one was more staid, conservative, respectable and orthodox than Robert. He was the very epitome of the correct and successful London merchant. He had grown rich from his trade in woollen cloth and risen to be Upper Warden of the Mercers’ Company, overseeing all its affairs. He was on the Common Council of the City and a member of parliament. Could such an establishment figure be a covert Lutheran? The idea of connecting him with the wild-eyed preachers who stood in the public pulpits ranting against the evils of Rome was absurd.

  It was a puzzle – but one I did not tax my brain with. Religion was something I was content to leave to the bishops and the learned doctors. However, I had become the surprise recipient of a dangerous book and Robert had, wisely, warned me to keep it away from prying eyes. I slipped the little volume in my purse, carried it to my own chamber and locked it in a coffer, meaning to get rid of it at the earliest opportunity.

  Chapter 4

  Until my shoulder healed and I had fully recovered the use of my left arm, I could not venture out on solitary expeditions, nor was the dismal winter weather conducive to them. Despite myself I was obliged to give more attention to matters at home and in the workshop. My son had been put to a wet nurse who was provided with quarters on the top floor of the house. As far as I knew his progress was satisfactory. I saw little of him but any neglect of mine was more than compensated for by the attention and adulation lavished upon him by my mother and the women of the household. Business matters were less easy to avoid.

  The morning after my return, my deputy, John Fink, presented himself in my chamber carrying a ledger. He was a small, spare, saffron-haired young man who wore a permanent frown of concentration and who stood now almost apologetically in the middle of the room.

  ‘You’ll be wanting to check the accounts, Master,’ he suggested.

  ‘I’m sure they’re all in order, John,’ I replied. ‘You’ve been doing a splendid job these last weeks.’

  He stood rooted to the spot. ‘I really would rather you took a look, Master.’

  I sighed. ‘Very well.’ I cleared a space on my table and settled into my wainscot chair.

  John set down the large leather-bound volume and unlocked the metal clasp. He drew up the joined stool and perched on it. The first thing I noticed as he turned to the most recent entries was that there were fewer of them on the later pages.

  ‘Business slackening off?’ I asked.

  He nodded mournfully. ‘Some customers will only deal with you personally, Master. My Lord Basing’s man called several times but… well, Master… what with your affairs so often taking you from home… I believe His Lordship took his order to Master Leyland. Then there were the loans. I issued some for smaller amounts, as you can see.’ He turned the pages and pointed out four or five entries. ‘But anything over a hundred pounds I durst not sanction. Sir Arthur Talbot became… well… rather abusive when I tried to explain; though I think, Master, you would have turned him down yourself. As you know, he gambles heavily at court. He said he would make sure that it was well known how ill we used the king’s friends.’

  ‘Poor John.’ I smiled at him. ‘I have been preoccupied and I see what a burden that has laid on you. Don’t worry about Talbot. He’s angry because he knows how heavily he is already indebted to us. He’s in the process of mortgaging his family into penury. I have no plans to be absent in the next few weeks. Leave me a list of customers you have had to disappoint and I’ll contact them.’

  Promises are easily offered.

  I did make an effort. I spent more time in the workshop. I talked with the goldbeaters. I examined the gem-setters’ work. I discussed with the draughtsmen the designs they brought in for new jewellery. I despatched letters to our more important customers assuring them of my personal attention to their requirements. Yet my heart was not in it all. It was not just my yearning for Jane that frequently burst in upon my waking thoughts and kept sleep at bay; I could not get the St Swithun’s people out of my head.

  Shrove Tuesday in 1536 fell on 3rd March. That afternoon I was obliged, with all members of the Company, to attend the Shrove Feast in Goldsmiths’ Hall. After mass in St John Zachary we processed across Maiden Lane into the hall – or, it would be truer to say, we scurried, for it was a day of squally rain and we had to tread quickly but carefully to avoid soiling our shoes and hose with mud or our livery gowns with the water trickling from the roofs. Once inside we were glad of the good fire roaring in the hearth and the light from the candelabra overhead from which smoke spiralled into the dim recesses of the rafters high above us. Ours was not a large building by comparison with those of the other merchant companies and could in no way be compared to the impressive edifice of the Mercers’ new hall, but none could rival us for display. All along high table and the long table that ran the length of the hall, at right angles to it, light glinted on plates, salts, goblets and dishes of gold and silver gilt, while other no less impressive items stood ready for service on the livery cupboards and buffets along the walls.

  We were seated in strict order of precedence, which meant that I was closer to the screens passage than the high table where our Prime Warden, Sir William Beaumont, and senior officers sat with the guests of honour.

  ‘I thought Gardiner was on embassy in France,’ Will Fitzralph, my friend and left-hand neighbour, observed, indicating the man on Sir William’s right, resplendent in a scarlet cope festooned with gilt embroidery.

  ‘He’s just back for a brief visit, reporting to the king,’ someone further down the table responded. He leaned forward to make himself heard against the clatter of dishes and the buzz of conversation. ‘Those in the know s
ay the good Bishop of Winchester is determined to keep a close eye on the monasteries bill.’

  ‘What bill is that?’ I asked.

  There was a flutter of laughter around me and Will asked, ‘Do you never listen to gossip, Tom, or are you still off on rural rides most days? Everyone’s talking about the king’s plans for the abbeys. They say that it is all the fault of the queen – Henry’s concubine as some call her. She is supposed to be in league with Cromwell to drag us all into Lutheranism.’

  The man opposite me, Simon Leyland, was not laughing. ‘That’s just rumour, spread by papists and other troublemakers who do not like the king’s efforts to reform the Church. I trust you’re not among their number, Will.’ Leyland was a choleric man, well known for picking arguments. He glowered across the table, his high colour accentuated by the candles’ glow.

  Will stood his ground but replied in a calm, almost casual voice, ‘No empty talk, Brother. I had it from a member of the Commons house.’

  Simon glared back belligerently. ‘You don’t want to believe everything politicians tell you, especially those who have fallen for this fashionable heresy they call “New Learning”.’ He wrinkled his nose in a sneer. ‘Do you really think Henry so foolish? People grumble about idle monks and lascivious nuns but if the government tried to turn out all the religious from their convents, folk would soon band together in their defence.’

  ‘Very likely, Simon.’ Will refused to spoil the festive atmosphere. ‘Anyway, when the bill is debated Gardiner and the other bishops will, doubtless, make sure that it is voted down.’

  I turned to glance up at the high table. The Bishop of Winchester (‘Wily Winchester’, as people called him) seemed to be enjoying himself, sharing a joke with the Prime Warden. I had never seen him this close to. What I observed was a man in his fifties with dark eyes that sparkled in a fleshy face. He wore no beard but his upper lip was adorned with what the Italians call a mustaccio. So this was the master of the Southwark Stews; the bishop Lizzie and her associates loved to hate. I ran over in my mind what little I knew about him: career cleric; one of Henry’s new men raised from obscurity to help secure the break with Rome; appointed royal secretary and very close to the king but a jealous guardian of the Church’s privileges, which was why – or so men said – he had been sent on various foreign embassies, as a result of which another upstart, Thomas Cromwell, had taken over as secretary. I looked wistfully along the table at the faces of my brothers. Was it my imagination or were they more grave than they had been in previous years? I had always enjoyed our convivial gatherings but now it seemed we were all looking at each other through a grey haze of politics.

  Conversation flagged as we fell to on the first mess set before us by the servants – a course of conies, venison and teal with sundry sauces. While Simon was busy skewering morsels from the dish, I asked Will quietly, ‘What exactly did your Commons friend say?’

  He poured the two of us cups of Rhenish. ‘That a bill is being drafted to close down just the smaller monasteries – ones sitting on large endowments but with too few members to keep up the prayers their patrons paid for. There are plans for the money to be used for educational purposes.’

  ‘That seems reasonable,’ I said.

  ‘Aye, but many folks are saying that this is but the beginning.’

  ‘I am reluctant to admit it,’ I muttered, turning my head close to Will’s ear, ‘but I’m inclined to think Brother Leyland is right on that score. All the abbeys to go down? England would be a different country – unrecognisable. The people will never stand for it.’

  ‘Think you so, Thomas? There were those who said “the people will never stand for it” three years back when the king kicked out the pope and made himself head of the Church – and all for love of a woman.’ Will grinned. ‘And that is enough politics talk for one day.’

  The feast extended well into the hours of darkness and all of us were feeling extremely mellow by the time we had disposed of the courses of meat, fish, cheese, elaborate sweetmeats and finally arrived at the voider of apples, nuts and hippocras. Eventually we left the table and, for a while, stood around chatting in groups. It was then that Simon Leyland drew me to one side.

  ‘How is business, Brother?’ he asked. ‘It is difficult when there is a change at the top. Your father was much respected.’ He crossed himself and wrinkled his brow into a frown of concern.

  ‘You have benefited from it, I gather. Some of my customers have moved along the Row to your shop.’

  He shrugged. ‘We cannot stop men doing business where they will but you must believe me when I say I take no pleasure in seeing your trade decline. I will do anything in my power to help you back on your feet.’ He tried to smile. It seemed to take a prodigious effort.

  ‘Treviot’s is not on its knees,’ I replied, with an equally insincere grimace.

  ‘Of course not. Of course not.’ He paused, then lowered his voice – unnecessarily, for there was little chance of his being overheard in the general hubbub. ‘You will, I suppose, be seeking a new wife ’ere long.’

  ‘I’m in no hurry to forget my late wife,’ I said quietly, struggling to keep my temper.

  ‘No, indeed, but we all have to look to the next generation.’

  ‘I have a son and heir.’

  ‘Indeed, but a viol must have more than one string and life is so very uncertain. Think of the trials of our poor king – nearly thirty years married and only two girls to show for it.’

  ‘Brother Simon,’ I said, ‘is there a point to this line of talk? There are one or two others I want to catch before they leave.’

  ‘Just this, Brother. I have a niece – my ward, actually, daughter of my late brother, Edward. She will soon be of child-bearing age and is comely and remarkably accomplished…’

  I hitched up my gown and turned aside. ‘You must excuse me, Brother. I need a word with Under Warden Hayes.’

  ‘You will remember what I said,’ he called after me.

  ‘Indeed, Brother, when I feel inclined to cradle-snatching I will certainly let you know.’

  I moved towards the upper part of the hall, through the thinning crowd and stood to one side to allow two servants to pass supporting between them a member who had taken more advantage of the pre-Lenten bounty than was wise. In doing so, I glanced back at Simon Leyland. He was standing where I had left him fixing upon me a glare of smouldering hatred.

  Chapter 5

  Two weeks later I attended a celebration of a very different kind. It came about as the result of a chance encounter. I was still having trouble sleeping and would often wake from some hideous dream with sweat oozing from every pore. My mother pestered me to take some remedy. She herself was an ardent patroness of apothecaries and had in her chamber a cupboard containing numerous pots, jars and bottles for dealing with the various ailments from which she suffered or believed herself to suffer. Eventually I agreed and, thus, one bright spring morning, I walked the short distance along West Cheap as far as the Great Conduit and turned right along narrow Bucklersbury, the street where all the best grocers, perfumers and apothecaries did business. Smells from the bags of dried herbs and fruits and the onion strings hanging in open windows mingled with the acrid and sweet fragrances from open jars and simmering cauldrons. It all seemed particularly pungent that day in the mild, breezeless air. At the bottom end, at the Sign of the Boar, Stephanus Magnus plied his lucrative trade in a wide-fronted shop that, when the shutters were folded back, revealed a cavernous interior where several assistants were employed with pestles, mortars, measuring jugs and balances, while in the gloomy rear of the premises servants were bent over cauldrons on a stove. To one side, wrapped in a blue robe embroidered with mystic symbols and stained by his various concoctions, the proprietor was seated on a raised stool below a shelf of old vellum-bound books. He held a sheet of parchment and appeared to be reading it while, at the same time, keeping an eye on his underlings.

  I approached and introduced myself.
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  He peered at me briefly before returning his attention to his manuscript. ‘See my man there. Give him your urine and your birth date and threepence consultation fee.’

  ‘I have not come for a horoscope. I need only a sleeping draft,’ I explained.

  ‘We will know what you need when we have completed your zodiac reading and assessed the balance of humours in your body.’ Master Magnus seemed to be addressing his remarks to his reading matter rather than me.

  ‘I really do not need…’

  ‘Threepence,’ he muttered and wafted a hand.

  I did not know whether to shout angrily or laugh and contented myself with turning abruptly and striding out into Bucklersbury. I had gone no more than a few paces when I heard my name called. Walking towards me, carrying a basket, was Ned Longbourne.

  ‘Master Treviot, well met. The shoulder gives you no more trouble, I trust?’

  ‘No, indeed, it has mended excellent well. I am very grateful to you… and to Lizzie for her care.’