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

by D. K. Wilson

  ‘Françoise, good day. How is the work coming on?’

  She laid aside the sheet and wiped her fingers on an ink-stained rag. ‘We have started the Second Book of Kings,’ she said. ‘You will have proofs next week, I think.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Rogers responded warmly. ‘Let me introduce a visitor from England. Master Thomas Treviot is an envoy from Lord Cromwell.. He turned to me. ‘Françoise de Keyser came here with her husband, Merten, some years ago. Sadly Merten died a few months since. Françoise now runs the business – and does so very well.’

  ‘If Master Treviot comes from His Lordship, then he is twofold welcome. None of this’ – she indicated a pile of printed sheets – ‘would be possible without the good lord’s support.’ Françoise spoke with a pronounced French accent. She was a small woman but muscular and her strong features suggested energy and determination. Her dark hair was covered by a simple kerchief, her sleeves were pulled up to the elbow and a large apron protected her gown.

  ‘Delighted to meet you, Mistress Merten,’ I replied politely. ‘What is it that you work on now?’

  It was Rogers who replied with enthusiasm. ‘Nothing less than the complete Bible in English. William Tyndale translated the New Testament, as you know, and he was working on the Old Testament when he was arrested by the Procurer-General —’

  ‘Cochon!’ Françoise spat.

  ‘Yes, indeed, a despicable little man who far exceeded his authority in his persecution of God’s flock. Well, as I was saying, he tried to seize all Tyndale’s papers but we were too quick for him. We saved our friend’s work on the Hebrew Scriptures – he had completed about a third of the Old Testament. That is what Françoise is printing now.’

  ‘That leaves a large portion of the Bible untranslated,’ I said.

  Rogers nodded with a satisfied smile. ‘That, too, is in hand. We have other scholars sent here from England by Lord Cromwell. Even now there is a much-learned Hebraist by the name of Miles Coverdale working on the Psalms, and I, myself, have undertaken part of the work. Between us we will have the entire Holy Scriptures ready for despatch and distribution by the spring.’

  ‘More books for the bishops to burn?’ I asked.

  ‘They cannot destroy the truth. The more people read Scripture, the more they want. Do you know how many New Testaments have escaped the episcopal flames?’

  ‘Several hundred, I suppose.’

  ‘Nearer ten thousand,’ Rogers said in a tone of zealous triumph. ‘And that doesn’t include copies pirated by other printers. The demand is insatiable. This book will change society,’ he enthused. ‘When people can read God’s word for themselves there will be an end to popish error. More than that, we will be able to establish a godly commonwealth based on justice, fairness and care for the poor.’

  I recalled Cromwell’s talk of a ‘new England’. It sounded very attractive but did he and his supporters really believe that it could be brought into being by a book?

  As we left de Keyser’s atelier and made our way to the waterfront I took the opportunity to learn more about Robert’s participation in the book-smuggling business. Rogers was obviously proud of the operation and was not at all hesitant about explaining how it worked.

  ‘The organisation is complex and meticulously planned. The sheets go from here concealed in bales of cloth and other merchandise to be bound in English workshops. Robert was part of the small secret committee in London that oversees distribution. It is their task to keep one step ahead of the opposition. They know which harbours are safe for landing contraband and which must be avoided because the bishops are keeping watch. They carefully monitor the market. Most books go to the universities and the Inns of Court but we have some brilliant salesmen who travel the country selling testaments in towns and villages everywhere.’

  ‘I had no idea Robert was involved in something so intricate.’

  Rogers smiled. ‘Intricate and secret. But, God willing, there will soon be no need for such subterfuge. We are in great hopes that Lord Cromwell will persuade the king to sanction the unrestricted issue of vernacular Bibles.’

  ‘What makes you think he will change his mind?’

  ‘Oh, you of little faith,’ Rogers chided. ‘This is a work of God. It will not be denied indefinitely. Besides, Henry knows that his church is backward in banning the Bible. It is available in the language of the people here in the Netherlands, in Germany, Denmark, France, Spain and even Italy. The bishops may throw up their hands in horror and cry “heresy!” but the Bible is freely read in royal and noble courts throughout Christendom. Our king will not want it thought that his realm is a cultural backwater.’

  I was not convinced by this line of reasoning but had no desire to dampen the chaplain’s enthusiasm. I still could not see what was remarkable about this book so many men were crusading for but they seemed to be intelligent people and Robert had certainly been of their number. The next day I was to come a little closer to understanding them.

  Chapter 28

  It was a Sunday (3 December). I had been invited to join with the English community for the main mass of the day and to dine afterwards in Stephen Vaughan’s private quarters. The service was both familiar and strange. The chapel of the English House was traditional in layout, although there was no rood screen, which was certainly unusual. The coloured windows, painted walls and well-decked altars bore witness to the wealth and generosity of generations of merchants. The first object that thrust itself upon my attention was the pulpit. It was a large structure of carved oak with a canopy and was clearly of recent construction because it hid from sight part of a painting of St George and the Dragon on the north wall. It jutted out well into the nave and slightly restricted the view of the high altar. The church seemed to have two conflicting focal points and I found the visual dissonance slightly unnerving. Before the pulpit several rows of benches had been arranged. Opposite it, at the junction of nave and chancel, a small group of musicians were tuning their sackbuts, shawms and lutes. While servants and children stood in the rear part of the nave, some of the senior members of the community had already taken their places on the seats and Stephen Vaughan motioned me to join him at the front. I saw that he and his colleagues were holding what appeared to be printed pamphlets. I assumed that these were devotional manuals such as many devout literate people read to themselves while the priest performed his ritual acts on their behalf. This was a practice I had never adopted, preferring to tell my beads during the solemn moments of the mass, but I accepted the pamphlet handed to me by one of the servants.

  The choir and clergy entered in procession and the liturgy began. The singing was beautiful and much enhanced by the contribution of the instrumentalists. It was some time before I realised that I was not hearing the mystic Latin, which had worked its way into my mind, without effort on my part, Sunday after Sunday, feast day after feast day ever since my earliest years – Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison… Gloria in excelsis Deo, et in terra pax hominibus bonae voluntatis. No, the mass was being sung in English! But if that was a shock, more was to come. When we arrived at the Credo the congregation stood and, reading from their pamphlets, declared, ‘I believe in God, the Father Almighty, maker of heaven and earth…’ Then, at the distribution, everyone received, not just the consecrated host, but also wine from a common cup. By this time my brain was reeling and I knew not what to expect next. When the mass was over, John Rogers, having laid aside his vestments, ascended the pulpit and preached a sermon. It lasted the better part of an hour but, even then, the ritual was not over. The musicians struck up once more. The congregation now joined with the choir in singing a hymn lustily. Once more the words appeared on the printed pamphlets. I have my copy still and whenever I read it I experience the frisson of that first hearing:

  With you is naught but untold grace,

  Evermore forgiving.

  We cannot stand before your face,

  Not by the best of living.

  No man boasting may draw near.<
br />
  All the living stand in fear.

  Your grace alone can save them.

  The group that assembled around Stephen Vaughan’s table for dinner was small. Our host excused the absence of his spouse, who was still recovering from the birth of their latest child. Rogers was there with his wife, a local woman who spoke little English. Also present was Thomas Poyntz, the stocky grocer I had last seen exiting hurriedly from Robert’s inquest. Apart from Mistress Poyntz, the only other person present was another visitor, a man of about my age, who was introduced as Thomas Theobald.

  ‘I am relieved to see you safe and well,’ I said to Poyntz, by way of opening conversation. ‘I heard that several people had been arrested in Stokesley’s latest purge and I feared you might be among them.’

  Poyntz laughed and the others joined in.

  ‘Am I missing something?’ I asked.

  Poyntz laughed. ‘I was quite safe. So were Barnes and the others. It was not the good bishop who had us detained.’

  ‘Who then?’

  ‘Why, Lord Cromwell,’ he said. Then, in response to my obvious surprise, he explained further. ‘The Gospel tells us to be as wise as serpents and gentle as doves in dealing with enemies of the faith. We are to be subtle, devious even, and Cromwell is a master at that. When Barnes preached at our brother Robert’s funeral he stirred up a wasps’ nest. The papists were all abuzz with indignation and like to sting any true Christians they could find.’

  ‘It seems that Barnes was not displaying the wisdom of a serpent,’ I commented wryly.

  Poyntz shrugged. ‘Our dear brother is inclined to be headstrong. Anyway, before any harm could be done, Cromwell acted. He had Barnes and a few other of us put under lock and key until things had calmed down.’

  His wife pouted. ‘You may make light of it. Next time it will be the bishop who takes you. Then what will become of me and the children?’ She turned to the chaplain. ‘John, tell him it is madness to return to London.’

  ‘My dear Madge,’ Rogers replied in a soothing voice, ‘things are getting better. Lord Cromwell tells me in letters brought over by Master Treviot that the rising in the North has made the king more determined than ever to bring papists to heel. His Majesty is still considering an alliance with some of the German Lutheran princes and is almost ready to sanction an official English Bible. When he has punished the rebels no one will dare oppose him. It will give him all the excuse he needs to make new laws to reduce the powers of the bishops.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Poyntz urged, ‘and I must go back to take care of my business.’

  His wife pursed her lips in defiance. ‘Well, I’m not moving from Antwerp.’

  I took the opportunity to steer the conversation in the direction that interested me. ‘Is Antwerp really so safe? Tyndale was captured and executed here, wasn’t he?’

  It was obvious from the glances exchanged round the table that I had stirred up a sensitive subject. Poyntz muttered, ‘He was tricked.’

  ‘What exactly happened?’ I asked.

  Vaughan explained. ‘Our security here in the English House rests on a very simple foundation – we are commercially indispensable to the municipal authorities. Of all the goods passing through this entrepôt, our woollen cloth is by far the most important. It feeds hundreds of native workshops that dye and dress the cloth. It brings buyers here from all over Europe. If we moved our staple to another port – which, theoretically, we could do – the Portuguese, the Italians and the rest would follow us. So the city fathers cannot afford to upset us. Nor can their master, Emperor Charles. He relies heavily on the money Antwerp’s trade pours into his coffers. That is why here within our walls we are virtually independent. So, we can worship in the Lutheran style, as you saw this morning. We can print Bibles and other books setting forth Gospel truth. We can offer asylum to brothers and sisters fleeing from papal persecution. Of course, in Rome they hate this. We are a real thorn in their flesh. They are constantly pressing the Emperor to eradicate heresy. But His Unholiness may huff and puff all he will; Charles dare not offend us.’

  ‘So what went wrong in Tyndale’s case?’ I demanded.

  ‘Treachery!’ Madge Poyntz cried. ‘The papists tried to lure him back to England but he was too clever to fall for their knavery. He knew how dangerous England is.’ She glanced meaningfully at her husband. ‘Then they sent a smooth-tongued villain to trap him with lies and flattery. I never liked the rogue – not from the first moment I set eyes on him – but you men couldn’t see his true colour.’

  Vaughan took up the story. ‘Sadly there’s some truth in what Madge says. Tyndale was lodging with the Poyntzes last year when this fellow, Henry Phillips, turned up. He was a gambler and a wastrel – though, of course, we did not know that at the time. Desperate to pay his debts, he had become a papist spy and informer.’

  Misery was writ large on Poyntz’s face. ‘Phillips was so plausible. He posed as one of us and had all the right language to be convincing. Poor William was a trusting soul. If only I had been here on that day!’

  ‘Don’t blame yourself, Thomas,’ Rogers responded. ‘Phillips deliberately waited until you were absent on business. He went to Dufief, the imperial Procurer-General, and lured William out into the street where Dufief’s men were waiting to pounce. They threw William into a disgusting prison and then actually had the temerity to force their way in here in search of his books and papers. Praise be God, we managed to foil them. Then we set about trying to get our friend released. No one worked harder on his case than Thomas here. He appealed to Cromwell and to other members of the English court.’

  ‘And Cromwell did nothing?’ I asked.

  ‘On the contrary,’ Vaughan responded. ‘He did everything in his power to help. He appealed to the imperial authorities and sent several agents to investigate Phillips and his contacts. One was Robert Packington and another was Master Theobald here. We were very nearly successful. We were promised William’s release. But the wretch Phillips had one more ace in his scrip. He denounced Thomas Poyntz as an accomplice of Tyndale and we were unable to prevent him being held under house arrest for three months. God be praised, we managed to engineer his escape. He got back to England and gave Secretary Cromwell a detailed report of the situation here. Unfortunately…’

  I tried to bring the conversation round to my friend’s involvement. ‘What exactly was Master Packington’s part in all this?’ I asked.

  It was Theobald who responded. ‘Robert and I were both sent over to identify the agents of Bishop Gardiner and Bishop Stokesley and to discover all we could about how they were trying to undermine Cromwell’s policy. Phillips had hurried south to Louvain after his treachery here. He was too terrified of reprisals to stay anywhere near Antwerp.’

  ‘If he’d come anywhere near me, I’d have given him cause,’ Madge interjected.

  ‘What did you discover?’ I prompted.

  ‘Oh, Phillips was very bold in that seething papist wen,’ Theobald replied with a scowl of utter contempt. ‘He boasted to anyone who would listen that he was part of a major operation to have Tyndale, Barnes and other champions of the Gospel burned as heretics. He tried to impress the Church hierarchy with his own importance in the campaign against heresy.’

  ‘Who was behind that campaign,’ I asked.

  Theobald shook his head with a rueful smile. ‘Ah, that was the one thing he would never say. He railed against the king, mouthed all manner of vile slanders about Cromwell and Cranmer but never revealed who he was working for. I think Robert had his suspicions but…’

  Vaughan held a finger to his lips as a servant entered with a fresh flagon of wine. When the door had closed again, he explained: ‘Some of our own people are not above being bribed to gather information.’

  Poyntz said, ‘I don’t believe that rogue Phillips had such an important paymaster. He was a mere scavenger, picking up scraps of information and selling them wherever he could.’

  ‘You may be right,’ Theobald conc
eded. ‘Anyway, we had a stroke of luck with one of his couriers, an English monk by the name of Gabriel Donne. He was studying at Louvain University and was due to make a visit home, carrying messages from Phillips to his contacts in London. Now Donne came from a London merchant family Robert knew well and he made a point of befriending him. Robert obtained a passage on the same ship and during the visit he persuaded the monk to change sides and betray Phillips to Cromwell. That was in the summer of last year and I heard no more about the matter until Robert returned here a few weeks ago with fresh instructions from Lord Cromwell.’

  At last I felt I was getting closer to the centre of Robert’s secret life. ‘Did he say who Phillips’ contacts were?’

  ‘He was too busy trying to save William. We all were,’ Vaughan explained. ‘He mentioned that he had learned something important from Donne. Cromwell was apparently so pleased with it that he gave Donne the rich abbey of Buckfast in Devon. But Robert never told me what the information was. In fact we hardly ever met. Robert spent most of his time in Brussels, talking with the imperial officials.’