by D. K. Wilson
‘Oh, no, no. Indeed no. I mean Queen Anne. I was her personal mercer. I furnished the silks, velvets and brocades for most of her wardrobe – and the little princess’s.’
‘I believe you were a close friend of Robert Packington,’ I ventured.
‘Yes, indeed. A fine man, a godly man. He had many friends.’
‘And, alas, some enemies.’
Locke reined in his horse. ‘As I say, he was a godly man. As God has enemies, so did he. This is where I train Jeanette.’ He gently stroked the bird’s feathers.
We were on an open, gently sloping tract of rough grassland. Yards away Locke’s servants were struggling with the wind to get a small kite airborne.
‘You know what they’re doing?’ he questioned.
‘I’ve never taken up the sport,’ I said.
‘This bird has been hand-reared. So we have to teach her to hunt. My men are sending the kite up with a lure attached. You can see that bag there with yellow feathers on it. Jeanette already associates that with food. Now watch.’
He removed the hawk’s hood, held her at arm’s length and released his hold on the jesses strapped to her legs. The bird flew and quickly soared higher than the kite. I watched as she circled several times.
Locke dismounted. ‘She was a falcon, you know.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t quite hear…’
‘Queen Anne – her heraldic badge was the falcon. How high she flew. How high and how beautiful.’
I watched the gently gyrating bird, captivated by her graceful, effortless gliding. Then, suddenly, she became an arrow, cutting the air in speared flight, taking the lure and plunging with it to earth.
‘And all at once, in a moment, she fell.’ Locke stooped to feed the hawk her reward and gather up the jesses.
Later, the session over and the party returning to the lodge, I said, ‘You must have been very close to the queen.’
‘I brought her more than silks and news of the Paris fashions. She grew up at the French court and I kept her in contact with old friends and new ideas.’
‘New ideas? Does that mean what people call the New Learning?’
‘What scoffers and God-haters call the New Learning!’
We were silent for some minutes as we rode through a belt of trees, glad to be out of the wind.
‘You said earlier that Robert’s enemies were God’s enemies,’ I probed. ‘Do you think he was killed on the orders of the bishop or his senior clergy?’
Locke gave me a sideways glance. ‘Do not tempt me to name names, young man. I know you not well enough. Permit me rather to catechise you. Is it God’s will, think you, for all to be saved through knowledge of his truth?’
‘I must believe so.’
‘And is that truth contained in God’s holy word written?’
‘So the Church teaches us.’
‘Should all who are literate read that word for themselves? What says the Church to that?’
I stumbled around for an answer. ‘Some say “Yea”. Others say “Nay, it is too profound for ordinary men; it must be interpreted by priests.”’
‘And what say you?’
‘I… I am neither on one side nor the other.’
‘You think it too dangerous to hold an opinion on such things.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘Then by the same yardstick I will not name Robert’s killer.’
I groaned inwardly with frustration. It seemed that my excursion to Hampstead had been in vain. I decided to try one last, bold overture.
‘Robert spoke warmly of a group he belonged to – the Christian Brothers.’
Locke yanked on his rein, bringing his ambling mare to a sudden halt. He turned her round to stand before me on the path and fixed me with a penetrating stare. ‘You lie,’ he said quietly.
I opened my mouth to protest but Locke went on: ‘Robert would never break his oath. If any such organisation existed and if he belonged to it, he would not mention it to an outsider – no matter how close a friend such an outsider might be.’
‘That secrecy did not save his life,’ I muttered angrily, ‘but it seems that it will protect his murderer.’
That obviously stung Locke. He raised his head, thrusting forward his grey-flecked, neatly trimmed beard. ‘Robert was a brave Christian warrior who knew the risks he was taking for truth’s sake. But he was not the only one, nor was he the greatest to lose his life for what he believed.’
‘You are thinking of Queen Anne?’
He nodded.
‘I was there,’ I said, ‘in the Tower. I saw. I heard what she said.’ The memory was still vivid – the small woman in grey, standing beside the block, poised and untrembling, her hands clasped before her. ‘She confessed nothing.’
‘And had nothing to confess.’ Locke’s cheeks blazed with sudden anger. ‘She was a God-fearing woman and a faithful wife. No king ever had a truer consort or one who used her position more for good. I know better than most what she believed and what she achieved. It was I who bought her books for her – Bible translations in French and English, works of devotion by the best scholars in France, treatises urging reform of abuses in the Church. His Majesty will never have a better wife, nor England a better queen.’
‘Then why —’ I began, but Locke’s passionate devotion to the late queen was like a key to the coffer of his memory that, once unlocked, spilled out its contents.
‘She did not merely study holiness; she practised it. Her reign was short but she achieved remarkable things. She had godly preachers, like Dr Crome, appointed to their livings. And bishops! Where would Latimer be were it not for her patronage? Or Archbishop Cranmer? Who set the king on his course to close the abbeys so that all their hoarded wealth could be used for the common good? How much more might she have done if she had been spared? She was zealous in rooting out nests of papists and would have purged even the chapter of St Paul’s, given time. And the Bible! Oh, how close we came to having an English translation set up in all churches by royal command…’ He paused for breath, then continued in a quieter voice scarcely audible above the whining wind. ‘So, of course, she made enemies – God’s enemies – as Poor Robert did.’ He shivered and drew his cloak tighter round his shoulders. ‘But dusk is almost upon us and you must make your way back to the City. Come, I’ll show you a shorter route across the heath.’
As I set out on the return journey with my attendants I was deep in thought about what William Locke had said – and what I could deduce from what he had not said. Had I been less preoccupied I might have been readier for what happened when we had travelled a scant mile. We were passing a couple of cottages that appeared to be derelict when there was the sound of a gunshot. Dickon reared up. I was thrown from the saddle and fell heavily. I lay momentarily dazed and winded. Then, unthinking, I sat up. That was when I heard a second shot.
Chapter 20
I felt this one. The metal pellet tore through the thick folds of my cloak and hood. It seared the flesh of my neck. That brought me to my senses. I looked around. Two of my mounted companions were standing like statues. The third was trying to calm his skittering horse. ‘Take cover!’ I shouted. Easily said. The heathland was wide and empty. The shots had come from our right, almost certainly from a small clump of trees. To our left, some twenty yards away, stood the ruined buildings. ‘The cottages!’ I yelled. ‘That’s our only chance.’ The others spurred their horses towards the shelter of the ruined walls. I pressed myself close to the damp grass. I looked around for Dickon. He was ten yards to my right, limping, holding one of his forelegs off the ground. I stared at the trees but could see no movement. Leaping to my feet, I charged towards Dickon at a crouching run. I had almost reached him when another shot rang out. Good, I thought. The attacker will have to reload. I reached the horse and grabbed the reins. Frantically, I hauled him towards our chosen refuge. We were a few paces away when I heard another shot. This one whistled past my head. We scrambled into the shelter of the broken walls.
�
�Is everyone all right?’ I called out as we reached safety.
There was a reassuring chorus of replies.
I peered round the side of my refuge across the open heath. ‘Can you see them? How many are they?’
‘Two, I think,’ said Walt, my groom.
‘No, only one,’ someone else added.
We crouched against the wall and stared across the darkening landscape. Almost immediately there was a flash amid the cluster of elms and a ball thudded into the decaying wattle and daub to my left. Then silence. I watched intently and moments later, another shot was discharged from exactly the same spot.
‘One it is,’ I agreed.
‘God damn him!’ Walt muttered. ‘Whoreson highwaymen and footpads! This area has always been plagued with them.’ He seemed more angry than frightened.
‘Well, he’s going to be out of pocket today.’ I needed to encourage the others. ‘It’s one against four and he daren’t come over here until the light has gone. That gives us time to get help.’ I called out to the youngest and most agile member of the group. ‘Simon, do you think you could reach Master Locke’s and tell him what’s happened?’
‘Yes, Master Thomas.’ The reply was eager.
‘Good! Take Walt’s mare. She’s the fastest.’
Instantly Simon ran over and took the reins from my groom’s hand.
‘No wait!’ I shouted. ‘See if our attacker fires again. Then go while he is reloading.’
Simon’s mare whinnied and backed away, sensing well the danger. We waited for what seemed long minutes. Then came the flash again.
‘Go!’ I shouted.
Simon leaped into the saddle, spurred his mount into a canter and was away up the track in an instant.
I sat down with my back to the wall, thinking hard. Highwayman? Footpad? Some infantryman from the king’s wars using his knowledge of firearms for personal profit? Somehow, I doubted it. This assailant was no common robber lying in wait for fat-pursed travellers. If he had wanted money he would have confronted us in a place where the woodland gave him cover, threatened us with his weapon, grabbed his loot and made off through the trees. If he was intent on murder what would his next move be? He would realise we had sent for help. That meant he had little time to finish his job. But he would have to wait for darkness to mask his movements. I turned to peer at the space between us. Grey clouds crowding in from the west were hastening the dusk. The shapes of trees and bushes were already becoming blurred.
‘Will help arrive in time, Master Thomas?’ Walt called out quietly.
‘I’m sure of it,’ I said. ‘Master Locke is an upright man. He’ll waste no time before sending aid. Meanwhile, keep a careful eye on our friend out there. Watch for any movement, however small. I must look to Dickon while there’s still enough light.’
I had tethered the grey to a broken door frame and he stood, now, patiently holding up his damaged leg and whimpering quietly. Blood was running down his flank. I peered at the wound closely, trying to see how deep it was. Dickon pulled away as I probed with my fingers. I made soothing noises and felt for the ball. If it was in deep there would be no hope for my horse and I vowed that his attacker would pay dearly for the loss of my faithful steed. But I could feel no metal and concluded with relief that the ball had not penetrated the muscle. It had, as far as I could see, cut through hair and skin, then emerged, leaving only a bloody furrow behind. I patted Dickon’s neck. ‘Be brave, old friend. Whoever did this will pay dearly,’ I promised. I was more angry about the damage to my horse than about my own peril.
As I stepped back, I was suddenly aware that everything had gone quiet. The marksman had stopped firing. Had he gone? Was he creeping forward in the deepening gloom – coming to finish his task?
‘What’s happening?’ I demanded of the others. ‘Can you see him?’
‘No.’
‘Not a sign.’
Walt said, ‘Shall I go out and have a closer look?’
‘No!’ I replied. ‘That may be what he wants. We must turn the fading light to our own advantage. Time, I think, for a game of hide and go seek. If he wants to find us, he’ll have to come looking. Collect your horses and come, with me – very quietly. We’ll move back, using the buildings as cover.’
‘Shouldn’t we just wait for Simon to get here with help?’ Walt asked.
‘Our friend out there will know he hasn’t much time. He’ll come.’ It now seemed that we might be able to turn the tables on our assailant. I certainly hoped so.
We moved back some twenty yards, until the cottages were nothing more than a black mass against an ash-grey sky. We waited. And waited. And waited. Nothing. No sound but the wind ruffling the heathland grass. Then there came noises away to our right. Clattering hooves. Men calling. Our rescuers had arrived.
I was actually disappointed.
There was no point in searching for our attacker. We returned to the lodge. William Locke came out to greet us, solicitous in the extreme. He insisted that Dickon should be cared for in his own stable with Walt to look after him until the groom declared him fit enough to be moved. Then, when we had made the horse as comfortable as we could, my host insisted that I join him for supper and that we all spend the night under his roof.
We sat alone in a room that was something between a small hall and a large parlour. Though modest in size it lacked nothing in opulence. The walls were hung with impressive Flemish tapestries and the food was served on fine silver. Locke himself was no less impressive than his surroundings. He was dressed in the latest fashion and the pomander hanging from a chain around his neck was of gold. Here was a man who enjoyed aping his social superiors and had the taste and wealth to do it well. He made me recount my misadventure in minute detail but made no comment until he had dismissed the servants.
Then, ‘You think it was the same assassin?’ he asked.
‘I am sure of it.’
‘Why? We live in evil times. The realm is full of desperate men.’
‘But none who lay murderous ambush and cut their victims down with handguns.’
Locke pondered for a moment, fingering his close-trimmed beard. ‘If you are right, this fellow must know that you are hunting him.’
‘The criminal world has its own efficient information networks,’ I said. ‘That is something I have learned in recent days.’
‘In which case, the sooner you find him, the better.’
‘Aye, him and his paymaster.’
Locke closed his eyes and lines of concentration scored his brow. I noticed that his lips were moving slightly, almost as though he were praying. Then he looked up suddenly. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘there is something I will tell you for your own safety. We spoke earlier about Englishing the Bible – how some promote it and some oppose it. You declared yourself neutral.’
‘Yes, I can see that there are arguments on both sides.’
He shook his head vigorously. ‘Young man, you have already taken a stand. Whether you like it or not; whether you know it or not, you have joined the battle.’
‘Not so. I simply —’
‘Nothing is simple!’ he snapped. ‘Everything – ideas, beliefs, principles, convictions – they’re all up in the air, whirling around like leaves in an autumn storm. What are men arguing about everywhere from the royal council chamber to the most verminous village inn? The king’s divorce, his murder of his queen – aye, murder, I say, look not so shocked – the pope’s setting up other princes to make war on us, the downfall of the monasteries, pilgrimages and fraudulent miracles, the abomination of jewel-bedecked statues and other fripperies in our churches, the greater abomination of the mass.’ Locke’s tone had risen almost to a fervent shout. Now he lowered his voice. ‘Yet is there one issue that underlines all, defines all, decides all, judges all: shall we or shall we not base our life on God’s word written?’
The man’s zeal was undeniable – and worrying. ‘You seriously believe all our problems can be solved by one book?’ I asked.
He smiled. ‘If you knew how that book is already changing many people’s lives you would not be so sceptical. There are thousands of copies of Master Tyndale’s Testament being read all over the land.’
‘Much good that did Tyndale,’ I muttered.
‘There are other Tyndales. They are at work in Antwerp and Cologne. Soon we shall have a whole Bible in English to distribute.’
Now that Locke was speaking less guardedly he was confirming what I had come to suspect. ‘Then, that is what the “Christian Brothers” were doing – distributing Bibles? What part did Robert play in this traffic?’
Locke sidestepped the question. ‘’Tis the bishop’s laws not the king’s that are being disobeyed. Last year the queen herself persuaded His Majesty to sanction an official English Bible. Had he done so, there would have been no more need for copies to be smuggled over the Channel in bales of cloth and barrels of wine. Now that Her Majesty has gone’ – he shook his head sadly – ‘the enemies of the Gospel have their tails up and think that by rebellion, and burnings and imprisonments – aye, and by murder in the streets – they will prevail. So the war continues and you have taken sides. By setting yourself to uncover the truth of Robert’s death you have been marked as one of us. Tonight’s work apparently confirms that.’