by D. K. Wilson
He chuckled. ‘I am sure she enjoyed playing nurse… not that she would ever admit it.’
‘No, she made it quite clear that she doesn’t approve of me.’
He smiled. ‘There is only one thing about you that she does not like.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You are a man.’
‘Yes, I suppose from her standpoint we are beneath contempt; creatures who deserve to be exploited because we are obsessed with fornication.’
‘Oh, it goes deeper than that. It was her own father who put her to the trade she now plies.’
An image of Simon Leyland flashed into my mind. Was there any difference, I wondered, between a poor man who sold his daughter into prostitution and a rich man who offered his niece for marriage in order to become even richer?
Ned broke in on my thoughts. ‘I am here to replenish my stock of herbs but what brings you to Bucklersbury? I do hope you haven’t been patronising that charlatan who calls himself Stephanus Magnus.’
‘I needed a sleeping draft and my mother suggested —’
‘Pah! You need say no more.’ In our brief acquaintance I had not seen Ned look so angry. ‘Stephanus Magnus – Stephen the Great, as he likes to call himself – is a considerable success with the ladies. He impresses them with his potions and his magical fee-faw-fum. He poses as a scholar plumbing secrets far deeper than mere mortal men can understand. He calls himself an alchemist and apothecary. That’s an insult to men who follow those callings honestly. The man is a fraud, a dissembler, a shammer. He started out as pedlar of farthing cures, travelling from market to market. Then he discovered that showy play-acting was an easy way of impressing weak minds. Master Treviot, you should warn your mother to steer well clear of him.’
‘That won’t be easy but, yes, having had a brief taste of the man and his way of doing business, I’ll take your advice.’
‘Good, good. I’m sorry to hear about your sleeping problem. Sometimes pain or discomfort, caused by something like a broken bone, makes sleeping difficult and, even when the sensation has gone, we may find it hard to regain an untroubled night’s rest.’
‘’Tis not the shoulder that troubles me, Ned – unless there’s a demon sitting on it.’
He smiled. ‘A demon?’
‘Forgive me. Just a foolish fancy. Sometimes I feel an evil presence around me. I’ve learned to banish him from my daytime mind but at night he nips me sore.’
‘Then, young sir, your “demon” lodges not on your shoulder, but in your spleen. ’Tis from there those vapours rise that bring on the melancholic humour. I have seen it often in the convent. Novices smitten with doubt about their vocation, overscrupulous brothers tormented by their supposed sins. Seek a physician, Master Treviot, and, above all, avoid quacks like Stephanus. As for the sleep problem, with your permission I’ll have some dried valerian root prepared and delivered to you. I think you would find it calming and beneficial.’
Ned was as good as his word. A couple of days later a package of evil-smelling valerian root arrived, with careful instructions about dosage and the preparation of an infusion. It certainly worked. I began to enjoy better nights than I had experienced for months.
Lent passed, and Easter. I was proved wrong about the monasteries bill. Parliament did pass it and Secretary Cromwell wasted no time in sending out his agents to receive the surrender of small religious houses and pack up their treasures. There was no rebellion. Most people seemed stunned. Stunned and confused. Radical preachers (the ones Leyland had referred to as ‘New Learning’ men) were put up by the king’s council to applaud this new snub to the pope. It seemed that England was sliding into heresy; moving towards the kind of religion that had taken root in parts of Germany, some of the Swiss states and Denmark. But then, after another couple of weeks, all went topsy-turvy once more. King Henry had his new queen arrested and charged with adultery. Anne had, or so rumour had it, been lying with several men of the court, including her own brother. She and her lovers were tried, convicted and sentenced to death. Most Londoners were delighted. They had never liked the ‘concubine’. All their sympathies had lain with old Queen Catherine and her bastardised daughter, Mary.
I had no strong feelings one way or the other. However, I was not to be allowed to distance myself from the king’s affairs. One day in early May I received a summons from Under Warden John Hayes and dutifully walked along to Goldsmiths’ Hall. There were half a dozen brothers present. We were informed that the king required representatives from all the crafts to be present at the Tower on the nineteenth of the month to witness the execution of the ex-queen and that we had been selected to represent the Company. The news was received with mutterings of annoyance.
‘I know exactly what you are all thinking,’ Warden Hayes said. ‘The nineteenth of May is our patronal festival.’
St Dunstan’s Day was, indeed, the most important date in the Company’s calendar. Not only did we celebrate the life of our patron saint at solemn mass, we also went on procession with our banners and a choir, inaugurated our new wardens for the year and changed the date stamp applied to all assayed items of gold and silver. Of course, the celebration ended with another great feast.
I was, perhaps, more irritated than most of my brothers. I was trying hard to take Robert’s advice and re-establish my reputation as a reliable and dutiful member of the Worshipful Company, so it was important for me to be seen as participating faithfully in all our rituals. Having to watch Queen Anne’s execution would be as inconvenient as it would be distasteful. If only I could have known just how drastically the events of St Dunstan’s Day, 1536, would change my life.
‘How are we expected to be in two places at once?’ someone protested.
Hayes nodded. ‘It is, indeed, very unfortunate, but His Majesty has decreed it and we have no choice in the matter. You will have to miss the mass and join the rest of your brothers as soon as you can.’
Later that same day, as I sat at my desk in the workshop, another message was handed to me by one of my men. ‘Brought to the front, sir, by an uncouth fellow none of us recognised,’ he explained. ‘He’s waiting for a reply.’
The letter was in a neat hand and, shutting out the din from the workbenches, I read its few lines.
To Master Thomas Treviot. I commend me to your remembrance, good sir, and am in hope that you are in no worse case than at our last meeting. You spoke then of a daemon that troubled you and I was so bold as to recommend you to seek the ministrations of a reliable physician. I have thought much on what you said then and you will, I hope, forgive me if I venture some further observations. There are several ways to regain a balance of the humours. I have sometimes found borage and black hellebore efficacious in cases of melancholia, and hot, moist food expels dryness from the spleen vapours. Yet, I must not make great pretence to the physician’s art lest you think me as big a quack as that dissembling cozener, Stephanus. However, there is a balm that, in my experience, soothes the melancholic spirit. I refer to company. Time spent with agreeable companions is better than overmuch solitariness. To that end my friends and I are in hopes that it might please you to come to us for supper at the Sign of St Swithun at five in the afternoon of the eighteenth day of May. The bearer will bring your reply.
Your assured friend,
Edward Longbourne
I reached for my quill and inkpot to write a reply offering regrets and explaining that I could not accept an invitation to a party on the eve of St Dunstan’s Day, when I would be extremely busy and would certainly need to have a clear head. Even now, I know not what changed my mind at the last moment. Perhaps it suddenly seemed churlish to turn my back on people who had shown me kindness. Lizzie’s taunts had certainly stung me and it may be that I hoped to convince her that I was not the haughty, judgemental swellhead she took me for. Whatever my reason I accepted the invitation, promising myself that I would not stay long at the party and that I would be safely back in my own bed by nightfall. So, the following Thursday I set off
for Southwark, naturally without letting anyone know my destination, for what I imagined would be but a few hours’ diversion.
I heard the party before I saw it. As I entered the courtyard of St Swithun’s House the steady beat of a drum reached me, accompanied by a bagpipe’s wail. These sounds led me to a ground floor room of moderate size already half-filled with revellers. In the centre a circle of men and women were caught up in a lively dance while the spectators encouraged them by clapping the rhythm. It was noisy and very hot. The air was filled with the mingled smell of sweating bodies and cooking meat. I made my way along to the far end where trenchers of food and jugs of ale were laid out on a long table. An older woman with a heavily painted face pressed a flagon into my hand and I had just taken a sip when Ned Longbourne clapped a hand on my shoulder.
‘Welcome to our humble feast, Master Treviot. How like you Wily Winchester’s ale?’
‘Gardiner has provided this?’ I asked in some surprise.
A wispy-bearded little man standing next to Ned laughed through blackened teeth, half-choking on his drink. ‘Oh, aye,’ he spluttered, ‘only he don’t know it. Ain’t that so, doctor?’
‘What Long Ben here means,’ Ned explained, ‘is that a wagon of barley on its way to the good bishop’s brew house from one of his manors met with the same fate as the man who travelled from Jerusalem to Jericho – it fell among thieves. Somehow it ended up here.’
That sent Long Ben into a paroxysm of laughter. Ned steered me away. ‘Come and meet some of your fellow guests.’
The company was more diverse than would have been found in any other gathering within the capital and its sprawling settlements. There were men wearing the aprons or breeches that indicated their trades, young students from the Inns of Court in their gowns and others whose stylish clothes suggested a possible connection with the royal court. The favours of the St Swithun’s ladies, it seemed, were a cloak spread over the whole of society – or, at least, those members of society who cared little for their reputations. In an adjoining room there were tables for cards and dicing. I moved among the crowd, hoping for a glimpse of Lizzie but it was some time before I saw her enter the room with a customer in an unfastened doublet, who had an arm round her waist and was slobbering over her neck. It was no very great surprise that this ‘supper’ was also a way of increasing the bawdy house’s clientele or that Lizzie would be simply doing her job but, somehow, I found the sight distasteful. Coming here, I realised, had been a mistake. Robert was right. It was foolish of me to put my reputation at risk for such people. I decided that I would drink my fill and then leave. I found a corner near the table to lean against and from this vantage point watched the dancers who, as the evening wore on, became increasingly leaden-footed in their capers. From time to time one or other of the women volunteered to convey me to another room for ‘extra entertainment’ but I curtly waved them away.
When candles were lit in the sconces I judged the time was right to leave. The drink, the din, the heat and the smell had begun to cloud my head. I needed fresh air and my own bed. I made an uneven progress towards the door.
‘Not enjoying yourself, Master Treviot?’ Lizzie appeared at my side and linked her arm through mine.
‘It has been very pleasant but I must away home.’
She pouted. ‘Before your wife starts asking awkward questions?’
I turned to face her. ‘I have no wife – and if I had I certainly would not be spending my evenings here.’ The words came out more angrily than I had intended and brought back Lizzie’s familiar scowl.
‘Till you tired of her charms. Then you would be back here soon enough.’
‘Not so!’ I protested and felt my cheeks burning with indignation.
‘Oh, yes so!’ Lizzie stood, shouting. ‘God’s blood, master self-conceited merchant, do you suppose we don’t know all about husbands here? You want your wives to be as chaste as the Blessed Virgin, while you take your pleasure where you will.’ Her sneer was ugly. ‘You’re all from the same mould as Lecher Harry. He grows tired of his wife, goes panting after little Mistress Seymour and when the queen protests it is she who must be charged with adultery.’
A circle had now formed round us and Lizzie was enjoying her performance. ‘Don’t you know why we celebrate today? This is our wake for Queen Anne, who will die tomorrow. The king protests that she’s a whore. Well, then, she’s our sister and we mourn her.’
There were cheers from the audience but also a few angry murmurs. A thin, yellow-haired young man in a fashionable doublet of sky blue silk stained with ale stepped forward. ‘Who speaks ill of the king?’ he demanded. ‘I’ll not drink with traitors.’ He threw the dregs of his tankard at Lizzie and it splashed in her face.
She fell back a pace. The crowd roared their anger. The assailant sneered. With another jerk of his hand he threw the tankard at me. ‘And there’s for your whore-master!’ he shouted. I stepped forward to confront him. He stood his ground, swaying slightly, cheeks flushed with insolence and drink. I called out something – I know not what. He responded by putting his hand to the poignard at his belt. I fumbled for my own weapon. The crowd closed in on us. Someone shouted, ‘Fight!’ and others took up the chant: ‘Fight! Fight! Fight!’
Blue-doublet and I circled each other. My opponent made a sudden lunge. I twisted sideways to ward off the blow. His point tore my sleeve and I felt its sharpness against my flesh. With an oath I swung round for a counter-blow. The other man stepped back a pace. Behind me, Lizzie cried, ‘Enough!’ But my eyes were fixed on the courtier’s blade, watching for his next sally. Ned stepped briskly between us. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, there’s no need…’ My foe planted his left hand in the old man’s chest and sent him sprawling among the rushes. My anger was now fully aroused. I hurled a mouthful of insults and made a leap forward. Blue-doublet sidestepped. Then, taking advantage of my impetus, he came at me again. He missed and lost his footing in a pool of spilled ale. As he struggled to right himself his upper body was undefended. I drew back my right arm and thrust my dagger at his chest. With a scream he dropped his weapon and fell to the floor.
At that moment I felt my hand grabbed and I was pulled away. Lizzie dragged me from the crowd, through a doorway and up a staircase. I was vaguely aware of entering a chamber and being pushed towards a bed.
After that I remembered nothing until I was shaken into consciousness in my own room on the morning of that fateful St Dunstan’s Day with an angry Robert Packington standing over me, impatient to take me to my ordeal at the Tower.
Chapter 6
After Anne’s execution, I did not attend the Company’s St Dunstan’s Day celebrations. I was in no fit state for a long day of formal activities and enforced camaraderie. Robert hustled me home and wrote a note excusing me on grounds of ill health. I signed it and had John Fink take it to Goldsmiths’ Hall. Then I returned to my bed in hopes of sleeping off the effects of the previous evening. It was some hours and a couple more vomiting attacks before I began to feel myself.
Meanwhile, my behaviour had not gone unnoticed among the craft fraternity. The incident in the Tower provoked a formal complaint to the wardens of the Goldsmiths’ Company. It also set tongues wagging, as I learned when Will Fitzralph called the following morning. He pointed out gleefully that I had missed a particularly good dinner.
‘There was roast swan for us below the salt, as well as above,’ he enthused, ‘and partridges, woodcocks and plovers aplenty. Our new cook is a wonder with pastry. His side dishes were very novel – payn puffs filled with ragouts of port, dates, raisins, spices and I know not what else. The minstrels gave us some of the latest airs from France.’
‘I regret missing it,’ I said, ‘but I fear I would not have been able to do justice to it.’
‘I was sorry for your absence.’ He paused, suddenly solemn. ‘There were those who were not. It gave Simon Leyland and his boon copains opportunity for gossip. They grumbled that you’ve been ignoring your business these las
t months. Leyland actually had the gall to suggest that you were well enough to visit the Stews but not to fulfil your obligations to the Company.’
‘Leyland is a malicious troublemaker who hopes to advance his own business by ruining mine.’
Will nodded. ‘That’s well known, Thomas, but you’d be wise to mark him. He’s not without influence, especially with one of our new wardens, Thomas Sponer.’ He paused before looking at me with an anxious frown. ‘There’s no truth in it, is there – about your getting drunk witless in a bawdy house?’
‘What does Leyland care about truth?’ I blustered. ‘He’ll say anything to harm me.’
After Will left I sat for a long time in my chamber, thinking hard. Something must be very wrong if I found it necessary to lie to my friends. It was ironical, I reflected, that, just as the ache of grief was slowly fading and my life was regaining some normality, I should find myself in fresh trouble. I roundly cursed my own stupidity. Just how serious my trouble was I learned that very afternoon. A messenger from Goldsmiths’ Hall came to the sign of the Swan to deliver a summons. I was to appear before the Court of Assistants, the Company’s governing body, to answer charges of ‘disrespectful and disorderly conduct unbecoming a freeman of the Worshipful Company of Goldsmiths’. My first reaction was to spare my mother this disagreeable news. I arranged for her to make an earlier than usual departure for Hemmings, our manor in Kent. We usually spent the summer months there to avoid the plague and the fevers that haunted the City in the hotter weather. She was protective of her health almost to the point of obsession so that when I passed on a ‘popular rumour’ that the sweating sickness was about to pay a return visit, she readily agreed to have her coffers packed. I promised to join her within days.