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

by D. K. Wilson

  ‘’Tis all on account of Placentia being so close by,’ she explained.

  ‘Placentia?’ I asked.

  ‘The palace at Greenwich.’ She tut-tutted. ‘I still call it by the old name. Can’t get out of the habit. Lovely it is – and big, that I grant, but I prefer Eltham. It has the dignity of age, if you understand me, Master Treviot. But His Majesty prefers Pla… Greenwich. So there you are.’

  ‘Is the king coming here for Christmas?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, indeed. He wouldn’t be anywhere else. He used to spend a lot of time at that ugly, sprawling place upriver that was the Cardinal’s.’

  ‘Hampton Court?’

  ‘That’s right, Hampton Court, but between you and me, I think he’s got tired of it. He likes to come here and see his ships being built in the new dock. Oh yes, he’ll be here for Christmas, right enough. And his new queen, of course. Have you seen Queen Jane? I haven’t, not yet. But I’m hoping to get a glimpse of her this time. They say she’s taller than the last one. More stately, but, then, she could hardly be more unstately than the last one – that lewd Frenchified jade.’ The lady laughed raucously.

  Mistress Flower paused for breath and I managed to get a word in. ‘I suppose the inns are always full when the court comes to Greenwich.’

  ‘Yes, only ’tis worse this time. All these northerners, you see. Now that the rebellion’s been put down we’ve got gentlemen and noblemen and churchmen and I don’t know what else all coming here to prove their loyalty. They say – and I was told this by one of Archbishop Cranmer’s gentlemen waiters… Now there’s an odd man. Have you met him? I’ve seen him two or three times. Looks a bit of a dreamer to me. Not your typical bishop. He never seems, well, comfortable at court, if you understand my meaning.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘The archbishop?’

  ‘No, the archbishop’s gentleman.’

  ‘Oh, him. Well, that was funny. “The king has invited the ass to come down from the North,” he said. Now what he meant by it, I can’t think. Some sort of a court jest, I suppose. Can you think who the “ass” might be? They do have some funny ways, these court folk. I remember Queen Catherine’s silk woman. She stayed here. Spanish she was, though her English was good enough. Insisted that I sat here and tasted all her food in front of her before she would put a morsel in her mouth. She thought that I would poison her! There’s many folk would have been right put out by that. I just laughed at her funny ways. Of course, there’s some as you can’t laugh at. When one of the Duke of Norfolk’s men was staying here, the duke himself came to visit him, along with the Bishop of Winchester. Can’t say I ever liked the looks of him. Sat round this very table, they did, talking till nigh midnight – and no one allowed to come near them. Soldiers on the doors. What they were hatching only our Dear Lady knows. Not treason, I hope – not under my roof.’

  It was late before I was able to disengage myself from Mistress Flower and go thankfully to my bed.

  Flurries of snow slowed my progress the following day and it was gone noon before I reached the City. My first sight of the river above the bridge revealed islands of ice packing up against the stone piers and beginning to spread eastwards. Several lads had gathered at the bank and were testing the ice, daring each other to venture further and further out. I was glad to reach my own workshop where the refining furnace emitted a welcome heat and where a healthy fire blazed in my own chamber. There was, as yet, no message from Cromwell but, inevitably, there were many other matters that had accumulated in my absence and I was soon absorbed in writing letters, supervising the ongoing work and dealing with requests for new commissions. And I was enjoying it. It may not have been until months later that I reflected on the effects that recent events had had on me but I then came to see that, by the Christmas of that terrible year, 1536, I wanted nothing other than to be allowed to be no more and no less than Master Thomas Treviot, goldsmith of Cheapside in the City of London.

  That was not to be – not yet. Late that afternoon I received an unusual visitor. The young woman who asked for me by name arrived unattended but was certainly not a servant bearing a message from a noble mistress. Equally clearly, she was not a lady of means, come to order a piece of gem-set jewellery. She was a slight creature of seventeen or eighteen, wearing a russet woollen overgown, which can have been scarcely adequate on such a freezing day. The auburn hair tucked into her linen coif paid no obeisance to prevailing fashion. The frost had pinched her cheeks to a high colour and the eyes that looked at me pleadingly were soft and brown – kindly, I thought, rather like those of a young foal. She had refused to disclose her business to my assistant and when told that I was very busy, she declared that she would wait. I went through into the shop with the intention of dealing with the woman quickly and getting on with more important matters. My assumption was that she had come on the embarrassing errand of seeking to pawn some precious object for much-needed cash. This was dispelled as soon as she curtsied and introduced herself.

  ‘I greet you well, Master Treviot. My name is Sarah Walling, wife to Benjamin Walling.’

  I hope I covered my surprise. ‘Then, you are welcome, Mistress Walling. Your husband has been a good friend to me,’ I said, leading her to the parlour.

  When we were seated before the fire, I asked, ‘Is Ben well? Is he not able to come with you?’ I was suddenly anxious for the young man. I had strongly counselled him to quit the capital in case my enemies decided to pursue him. Could it be that he had ignored that advice and was now languishing in some damp cell awaiting interrogation by the bishop’s officers?

  ‘Thank you, Master Treviot,’ Sarah replied. ‘Ben is in good health.’ She lowered her head. ‘I fear it is shame that keeps him from your company.’

  I was puzzled. ‘Shame? I can think of nothing that he could possibly reproach himself for.’

  ‘Then, by your leave, I must explain. Ben and I have been in love for more than three years. My father was furious when he found out. He made life very difficult for Ben but Ben stood up to him and told him that we wanted to be married. No daughter of his, my father said, was going to marry a penniless apprentice. They had a terrible argument and my father threw Ben out. The poor lamb was reduced to begging for work – any work. Ben is strong and clever and diligent and honest. If he can only get a start in life, he will be very successful. He got occasional labouring jobs and saved whatever he could so that, one day, he could make me his wife. And I promised to wait. But my father was very determined. He arranged what he called a “suitable” match. If Ben and I were ever to be together we had to act quickly. That was when Ben met you. He was standing by the Standard in Cheap, hoping to be hired as a day labourer, when your friend was so horribly murdered. When you paid him to make some enquiries, well…’ She hesitated. ‘That seemed to be our chance. I escaped from the house and Ben gave the last of your money to an old priest, who married us. That was four weeks ago.’ She sighed a long, shuddering sigh. ‘I brought a few trinkets with me but they are gone – sold or pawned. And now we have nothing. I said to Ben, “Perhaps, you might turn to your friend Master Treviot for help”, but he would not hear of it. “Master Treviot has his own problems,” he said, “and I have not been wholly honest with him. I cannot face him.” So I have come in my husband’s stead to plead with you. He doesn’t know I have come. I feel as though I am betraying him – but we are desperate.’

  ‘You must tell Ben to have more faith in his friends,’ I said in what I hoped was a reassuring tone. ‘If he comes to see me I will certainly see if there’s anything I can do…’

  ‘You have you not heard all.’ Sarah stared mournfully into the heart of the fire. ‘We have a room in a tenement in Love Lane, off Coleman Street. ’Tis small enough, God knows, but now we must share it with a great friend of Ben’s, newly returned from the North.’

  ‘Would that be a young man by the name of Bart?’

  Sarah nodded. ‘Aye, Bart Miller. Do you know him?’


  ‘We have met briefly. I understand he went back to his own country to join the rebels.’

  ‘Yes, beef-witted fool! Now he is here again, minus an arm and lucky still to have his head, from what he tells us.’

  ‘And he is staying with you?’

  ‘Aye, when his “great cause” collapsed he ran back to London to cast himself on his old friend, who is already at wit’s end to know how to support a wife. Ben’s trouble is that he is too soft-hearted – or, perhaps, it would be truer to say “soft-headed”.’

  ‘I can see it must be a great strain for you.’

  Sarah nodded. ‘Now you know all our troubles. Can you do anything to help?’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘the least I can do is fill your bellies. Bring Ben and Bart here this evening and we’ll talk about things over supper.’ I recalled what Ned had said about the people for whom I was responsible. It seemed that the list was longer than I had thought – and still growing.

  The next arrival that day was altogether more welcome. William Locke’s head groom appeared, bringing with him a sprightly looking Dickon, now fully recovered from his injury. We welcomed each other warmly and the grey whinnied with pleasure when he was led into his old stall. Was this an omen that the bad times were behind us both? I dared to hope that it was.

  Chapter 33

  When my evening guests arrived I had supper served in the parlour. I had asked Lizzie to join us so that Sarah would not be the only woman present. I also hoped that her essentially sympathetic nature might help to dispel any awkwardness in the atmosphere. The three friends were a subdued trio and it was clear that there were tensions between them. Gone was the careless ebullience of youth. Ben and Bart bore the signs of young men pitchforked into responsibilities and experiences that had sapped their energies and troubled their minds. The transformation was most marked in Bart. The studious enthusiast who had spurred northwards to join in an uprising that would right the wrongs being perpetrated by the current regime had returned defeated and bearing the scars of battle. His left arm was missing below the elbow but that was not what immediately struck me as different about him. His thin face was scored with the lines that indicated strain. His clothes were shabby and his hair and beard unkempt. No longer was he ready with a jibe or a laugh. Ben and Sarah were equally reserved – two people divided by their love. Looks and gestures made it obvious that they had been arguing – and that they loathed themselves for arguing.

  ‘Sarah told me I had to come and apologise,’ Ben said, standing by the fire as the rest of us took our seats around the table.

  ‘Then she mistook my meaning,’ I replied. ‘I am overjoyed to see you and to know that you have not suffered as a result of your association with me. If anyone should apologise, it is I for putting your safety at risk. Sit down, Ben, and let us hear no more of recriminations.’

  He took his place at the table rather grumpily and for several moments we sat in awkward silence. The sombre mood might have lasted all evening had it not been for the excellent – and obviously much needed – food. While my guests ate I regaled them with an edited account of my recent travels and some of the people I had met. By the time I introduced them to Sir Sebastian Humphrey they were smiling and my description of the impossible Mistress Flower produced laughter.

  ‘The ass from the North!’ Bart almost choked on his hippocras. ‘I know who she meant – Robert Aske. For sure the king has made an ass of him.’

  ‘Who is he?’ I demanded.

  Bart sneered. ‘He was our chief captain,’ he said. ‘He is our chief betrayer.’

  ‘Can you give us a clear picture of what’s been happening?’ I asked. ‘We get only garbled reports here.’

  ‘I well believe it. All’s been confusion beyond Trent and Humber too – rumours, squabbles, purposed misinformation. All is at six and seven.’ He laughed. ‘Do you know there was even a story going round that the Duke of Norfolk, the king’s general, was really on our side. Some said that he and Cromwell had come to blows and that the duke had stabbed Cromwell and killed him. How’s that for an example of wishes giving birth to thoughts?’ He drained his beaker and held it out for a refill.

  ‘Speaking of killings,’ Ben said, turning to me, ‘has your quest for Master Packington’s assassin borne fruit?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘It has been a confusing labyrinth of wrong turnings and misleading paths but I have, I believe, reached the truth.’

  ‘And?’ Ben enquired eagerly, setting down his knife.

  ‘’Tis quite clear that the man behind it was John Incent, one of the clergy at St Paul’s; a Catholic zealot convinced that preservation of what he regards as truth justifies murder. He commissioned Il Ombra to gun down Robert and, when he thought I was getting too close to the facts, he hired some other villain – fortunately less efficient – to kill me. When that failed he had me hauled before the bishop. I suppose he reasoned that, even if I escaped conviction for heresy, I would be too frightened to pursue the matter of my friend’s death. He reckoned without the king’s Secretary.’

  ‘I hope Cromwell strings him up from the nearest gallows,’ Lizzie declared. ‘Him and that red-headed demon brother of his. Mother of God, I’d do it myself and ask no fee.’

  The others laughed at this outburst and Sarah asked, ‘Who is this brother and what has he done?’

  ‘What has he not? Goes round all the villages poking his long nose into everyone’s business. “You must come to me for confession,” he tells folk, “I’ve got a special licence from the pope to release souls from purgatory.” Lying, power-crazed mammet! He thinks himself pope and cardinals all wrapped up in one. None of the parish clergy dare stand up to him. If anyone’s stupid enough to confess any trifle, he pesters them to sneak on their neighbours and puts the fear of hell into them if they don’t. He’s recruited a little gang of busybodies to go prying into other folks’ affairs. And all this prattle-prattle he writes up in a book. Ooh, how I’d like to get my hands on the hypocritical, canting rampallion!’

  ‘Well,’ I said. ‘Sir James Dewey has doused Hugh Incent’s flame for a while at least and I hope to bring his brother to account ’ere long. I’ll be seeing Lord Cromwell in the next few days. I’ll set the facts before him. It would be useless for me to take direct action against Incent but I’m sure Master Secretary will have cunning ways to obtain justice for Robert. But let’s not talk of my problems. I want to hear everything about the northern rebellion. What can you tell me, Bart?’

  Setting down his drinking vessel, Bart said, ‘It was big. Thousands of us – all come together to show the king that he couldn’t make his people victims of a few “new” thinkers like Cromwell and Cranmer. Radical ideas may sound very simple in the royal court or the parliament house – get rid of idle monks, pull down their houses, strip the churches of idolatrous images – but out in the country, well, it’s like tearing the heart out of society.

  ‘I got to York just in time for the council that gathered there to hear the king’s response to the pilgrims’ demands. Hundreds crammed into the Minster. The rest of us waited outside in the rain to hear what our captains decided. Too many captains, that was the trouble. Some were men the pilgrims had elected to speak for us but there were also nobles and gentlemen. They all wanted different things. By all accounts it was a babel inside the church.’ Again Bart emptied his beaker at a gulp.

  ‘What exactly was being discussed?’ I asked.

  ‘The pilgrims had sent their demands to the king: restoring of the dissolved abbeys; sacking of the king’s evil councillors; a parliament to meet in York and an end to the making of all decisions in the South; free pardon for all the pilgrims…’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘we’ve seen the list. No one with any knowledge of His Majesty could imagine him being dictated to like that.’

  Bart nodded several times – emphatically. It was obvious that the drink was affecting his movements. I left his beaker empty and kept the flagon well out of reach. ‘I know that,’ he
said. ‘That’s why I went north. What’s clear here is not obvious to some of the folk up there. They really thought Henry would negotiate. Knot-pated fools! All he wanted to do was keep the pilgrims talking until the winter weather forced them to disperse. I told everyone I could think of, “Don’t trust this king; use the power you’ve got; you’ll never get another chance.” Some of the commons – most, perhaps – were of the same mind. We had an enormous host – thirty thousand at least; some say forty thousand – and more ready to join us from Northumberland and Cumberland. We could have smashed the puny army that was all the king could send against us. Well, His Majesty had sent his reply – a compromise, of course – and that’s what the captains were discussing. Those of us outside only got news by little and little but what became obvious was that most of the gentlemen and nobles wanted to disband the host and do a deal with the king. The size and mood of the pilgrim body frightened them. Huh!’ He sneered. ‘If we got what we wanted from the king, what would there be to stop us turning our attention to their exploitation of the people – enclosing common land, packing juries, maintaining gangs of armed ruffians?’