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

by D. K. Wilson

  All this was putting flesh on the bones of what I had already heard about the northern rising and it seemed that Ned’s assessment of royal policy was close to the truth.

  ‘Tell Master Treviot about that Aske fellow,’ Ben prompted.

  ‘Aske? He’s a gentleman, a one-eyed lawyer from Selby; clever. But for all his birth and learning he was one of us – or so we thought. At the beginning he had captured Pontefract Castle, taken Lord Darcy and the Archbishop of York prisoners and rallied the host to march south. But then he started listening to the other captains, the well-bred fainthearts, and he changed his tune. So all that came out of the York council was agreement for the captains to meet with the Duke of Norfolk at Pontefract. Another council. More talking… talking… talking.’ Bart’s head began to droop.

  Ben nudged him. ‘Tell Master Treviot about the ship at Hull.’

  ‘Ship… Hull… Yes.’ Bart shook his head and rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘Pontefract was a dis… dis… traction. Many pilgrims rode to Pontefract but we got news that a king’s ship had arrived in Hull. It was loaded with ordnance for Norfolk and the army. Sir Robert Constable called for volunteers… Never volunteer… Never… Never.’ Bart slumped on to the table.

  Ben hauled him upright and slapped his face but his friend only groaned and his head fell forward again, until it was resting on his arm on the table. Ben shrugged. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Bart’s not fit for company. He’s been through a great ordeal.’

  ‘Let him be,’ I said. ‘What happened at Hull?’

  ‘Bart and his “pilgrims” boarded the ship. There was a fight. That was when he lost his arm. Luckily someone got him to a surgeon, who did a proper amputation. He’s still in pain but he refuses to give in to it. Meanwhile, the Duke of Norfolk had promised the rebels a complete pardon and agreed to all their terms. Aske disbanded the host and accepted an invitation to come south for personal talks with the king.’

  ‘So it really is all over,’ I suggested.

  Ben frowned. ‘I wonder. Bart doesn’t think so. He’s convinced that the rebels were tricked into going home. Norfolk was simply driving a wedge between the commons and their betters. Aske isn’t the only one of the captains coming to London. They’re all flocking here, eager to demonstrate their loyalty. Bart reckons there will be no pardon. As soon as the pilgrims are dispersed, the army will be sent in to exact the king’s revenge.’

  ‘Exitus acta probat,’ I murmured, half to myself.

  To my surprise, Ben responded. ‘Oh yes, there’s no morality in politics now. Perhaps there never has been.’

  ‘Why has Bart come back?’ I asked.

  ‘He seems to think he has some sort of mission. As soon as he was able, he got on a horse and rushed to London. He aims to seek out the turncoats and confront them. You can see why we have to keep an eye on him.’

  ‘Why us?’ Sarah demanded sharply.

  ‘Because he has no one else. He’s broken his indentures by rushing off. Neither his family nor his old master want anything to do with him. We’ve been over all this a dozen times, sweetheart.’

  Sarah pouted. ‘I know you feel loyalty as his friend but he has only himself to blame and we have problems enough of our own.’ She turned to me. ‘Master Treviot, can’t you make my dear dolt of a husband see sense?’

  ‘I’m sure none of us wants to see Bart whipped through the City at a cart’s end for begging in the street,’ I said. ‘Perhaps, between us, we can find him a job.’

  ‘What jobs can a one-armed man do?’ Ben asked mournfully.

  ‘He has a mind,’ I said, ‘and it seems he knows how to use it.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Ben agreed readily. ‘He went to a grammar school and has good Latin. He isn’t foolish. If anything, his problem is that he thinks too much.’

  ‘Then, perhaps we can persuade him to channel his thoughts into something more positive than rebellion. I’ll make some enquiries among my merchant friends. But you will have to sober him up – in more ways than one. No respectable businessman has room for a powder keg that’s liable to explode at any time.’

  Smiles of relief appeared on the faces of the newlyweds.

  ‘As for you two,’ I said, ‘your first task is to make peace with Sarah’s father.’ I ignored Ben’s scowl and went on. ‘I don’t think you want to remain at enmity with your family for the rest of your lives and I suspect they don’t want that either. The longer the estrangement lasts, the deeper it will become. It will be worth a little humbleness on your part to put a stop to it now. May I suggest that Christmas would be an appropriate time for a reconciliation? If your olive branch is spurned, come and see me again but, please God, that won’t be necessary.’

  ‘You collect people with problems, don’t you?’ Lizzie said after the others had left. ‘I feel sorry for that one-armed scapegrace.’

  ‘Oh, Bart is his own worst enemy,’ I replied, ‘like someone else I know.’

  Lizzie made a face at me as she left the room.

  In the days leading up to the festival, London was, as usual, abuzz with excitement and anticipation. The food sellers were doing good business and staying open late. My shop was busy with customers buying jewellery to give as New Year gifts or negotiating loans to pay for their celebrations. Christmas is the season of generosity, when households relieve the gloom of midwinter with feasting on the last fresh meat of the year, from fowls and beasts kept and fattened for the occasion. But there were other reasons for the euphoria that pervaded the City in the Nativity season of 1536. News had spread that the northern rebellion was over. The fear that disaffection would spread and that southern counties faced a possible inundation by peasants brandishing billhooks and pitchforks in the name of Holy Church had evaporated. The feeling of relief was almost tangible and seemed to be shared even by many who were in sympathy with the ‘pilgrims’. Also it was noised abroad that the king was coming.

  The splendour of the royal court was very rarely seen on our streets. When Henry and his richly adorned attendants travelled to and from the palaces near the capital they almost invariably went by the river. The royal barge and a flotilla of other craft conveyed our social elite to Whitehall or Hampton Court or Richmond. But this year the king decided to keep his Christmas at Greenwich and to go there by road. This meant that his cavalcade would pass from Westminster, right through the City and across the bridge.

  The immediate reason for the change of routine was ice. The river had a solid coating for a hundred yards or more upstream of the bridge and beyond that there was floating pack ice. But the bitter weather did no more than provide the opportunity for a royal show. Henry loved spectacle. Tournaments, pageants, processions – he was never the one to miss an opportunity for public display. And at no time did he have a greater need to remind the people of his power and magnificence than in the Christmastide of that woebegone year, 1536. The event planned for 22 December was to be a triumphal procession. Henry would appear before the citizens as their saviour, the warrior king who had delivered them from bloody rebellion. It mattered not that his victory had been achieved by guile rather than military might, nor that throughout the crisis he had not taken the field in person, but had skulked behind Windsor’s ancient walls. He would claim credit for defeating the ‘pilgrims’ and appear before a grateful populace to receive their plaudits.

  The day before this display I received Lord Cromwell’s command to wait upon him at Greenwich on St Stephen’s Day, 26 December. Before then there was much to do. All householders whose properties fronted the processional route were required to deck their houses with tapestry and rich cloth and to ensure that the street was covered in gravel of a regulation depth so that the finely caparisoned horses did not become besmirched with mud. The hard frost made this task easier. The attitude of the overseers sent from Westminster did not. They expected citizens to spread gravel twice – once for the royal baggage wagons that would come through on the twenty-first and once for the court personnel. Several of us went t
o the Lord Mayor to protest strongly the impossibility of complying. He, in turn, rode to the palace to discuss the problem with the Master of the Horse. After much arguing, it was agreed that some at least of the court’s furniture and chests of plate would be transferred across the river from Whitehall and proceed from there along the south bank. The Lord Mayor agreed to allow the paraphernalia that could not be thus transported to be brought through the City and to keep back a supply of gravel to effect any repairs that might be necessary before the royal party entered via Ludgate and Paul’s Yard. As well as decorating my own house front, I had to help with the impressive furbishment of the stretch of road allocated to the Goldsmiths’ Company.

  We were charged with decorating with cloth of gold the house fronts opposite St Michael’s at Querne at the end of Cheap, close by the gate to Paul’s Yard. However, it was not our gaudy preparations for the royal show that dominated our conversation as we supervised the servants clambering up ladders to attach our loyal tributes.

  ‘Have you heard? He’s been called to Westminster to be knighted by the king. Scandalous!’

  As usual, it was Simon Leyland who was complaining. The ‘he’ referred to was Ralph Warren, alderman, sometime Master of the Mercers’ Company and reputed the richest man in London. His nomination as the new Lord Mayor had been announced some weeks before and had divided the merchant community into warring factions. The Common Council had determined upon Sir Ralph Holles as the next holder of the leading civic office but had been overborne by the king, who had sent his mandate instructing the council to elect Warren.

  ‘He has lent the king large sums of money,’ my friend Will Fitzralph commented.

  ‘That’s not to the point,’ Leyland retorted. ‘The king likes not Holles for certain foolish words spoken in support of the northern rebels.’

  ‘Are you, then, a secret sympathiser with these papist pilgrims?’ I asked with a wink at Will. We both knew where Leyland’s religious sympathies lay.

  ‘Certainly not,’ he roared. ‘Holles is a troublesome heresy-hunter and I like not the man but there is a more important principle at stake. Our ancestors fought hard to establish our civic liberties and we should not allow the king to trample them.’

  ‘I fear present politics count for more than ancient rights with our Harry,’ Will said, being careful to lower his voice so that the servants could not hear. ‘At the moment he is all for the new men.’

  I was surprised to hear our new Lord Mayor named in that context. ‘I had not heard that Warren is a religious radical.’

  ‘Well,’ said Will, ‘he’s very close with Cromwell and he has just been appointed the king’s representative to the German merchant community here at the London Steelyard – and we all know what a nest of Lutherans that is. No, no, Peter, more to the left!’ This last comment was addressed to one of the servants balanced on a ladder above our heads.

  ‘I got up a petition to the Common Council while you were away from London – again.’ Leyland glared at me and emphasised the word. ‘I asked them to appeal against the king’s order.’

  ‘Which they did,’ Will added. ‘But Cromwell produced an old statute that, it seems, gives the monarch the right to interfere in all our elections.’

  When the great day arrived, I breakfasted early and allowed all my household to gather in my chamber where they would have a good view of the street, while I donned my livery robe and went to take my place with my brother goldsmiths on the platform erected for us over against St Michael’s Church. Even at that early hour the crowds had begun to gather, pressing against the cordon of troops who lined the route.

  It was soon after ten o’clock that we heard the cheers from the direction of Fleet Street. Within minutes the procession emerged from the cathedral yard. First came the aldermen in their best liveries, then various officials of the court wearing rich furs against the cold and sporting jewelled bonnets. Then the escort of Gentlemen Pensioners marched past and we craned our necks to see the king and queen. It was then that I heard gasps from my neighbours. Leaning forward and turning to the right, I straightway saw what was surprising them. Immediately preceding the royal couple, in the position of honour, riding a richly caparisoned stallion, and carrying an ornate gilded mace, was Ralph (now ‘Sir Ralph’) Warren. ‘God’s blood,’ my neighbour muttered, ‘the king means to rub our noses in it!’

  Whatever indignation may have been caused among the mercantile elite, there was no doubting that the royal show was a success. King Harry’s flawless instinct for simple ways of pleasing the people once again served him well. Fear of the Pilgrimage of Grace had stirred ancient prejudices about ‘uncouth’ northerners and, whatever religious divisions might exist among London’s citizens, there was unity when it came to their dislike of rebellion and their concern for the security of their property. Relief gilded their curiosity about Henry’s young queen, small and demure as she trotted past in the wake of her corpulent husband. Both royal horses were caparisoned in yellow, symbolising, I suppose, sun-like brilliance and warmth triumphing over winter darkness and rebellion. The entourage made its way past ranks of robed company men, mitred bishops and abbots, and priests swinging censers, and was cheered all the way to the bridge. It was on such occasions as this, when the City’s mercantile nobility were on display in their full livery, that I realised what a gap Robert Packington had left in the ceremonial and business life of London.

  When Twelvetide arrived, I led the celebrations of my household on the first day. After mass in the morning we feasted and played various games over which the youngest scullion presided as our Lord of Misrule. The following days I gave permission for those who wished to depart and celebrate with families and friends to do so. I, of course, had much more serious matters on my mind, when, at dawn on 26 December, I had Golding saddled (I wanted to ease Dickon back into service) and set off for Greenwich and my meeting with Lord Cromwell.

  Chapter 34

  It was easy to see why the king favoured Greenwich Palace above his other residences close to the capital and spent most of his winters there. As I emerged from the deer park and began the gentle sweep down to the sprawl of red-brick buildings set amidst walled gardens, I was impressed by its sheer size and its location. On such a crisp, clear winter’s day the palace could be seen to its best advantage, its towers and turrets outlined against the green-blue of the Thames. Looking down from a southerly approach was almost like seeing a map of this old royal home. I could make out the Italian-style gardens, where plants and grass were disciplined, in obedience to the latest fashion, into geometrical shapes intersected with gravelled walks. The tiltyard, Henry’s own addition to the ensemble, was clearly visible. I could just see the craft moored beyond on the palace waterfront and upriver the tall masts of larger ships in Deptford dockyard. Placentia, or Pleasaunce, as it was sometimes called, seemed to have everything a cultured and fun-loving prince could want. I could only hope that this visit would ‘pleasure’ me; that Cromwell would receive my report and deal with Incent and his confederates. The prospect of seeing that red-haired head grimacing from the top of a pole at the end of London Bridge was one that I relished.

  I left my two servants with the horses in the stable block and showed Cromwell’s letter to one of the guards, who arranged for me to be escorted into the depths of the palace. We passed across courtyards, up staircases and through several rooms until we arrived in a large and busy antechamber. I presented my credentials to a secretary sitting at a table and took my place among a score of petitioners and messengers standing in small groups and all waiting to be shown into the great man’s presence. I wandered across to a window embrasure commanding an excellent view of the river. I was peering idly at the marshland spur opposite held in, as it were, by the steep bend of the Thames when someone came up behind and quietly spoke my name. I turned and recognised the sombre face of Augustine Packington.

  ‘Thomas, what brings you here?’ he asked anxiously.

  I explained briefly the
commission that had taken me to Antwerp and that I had now come to deliver my report.

  He plucked me by the sleeve and drew me into a quiet corner of the room where we could not be overheard. ‘What did you discover about Robert’s last mission to the Low Countries?’ he demanded.

  ‘That is confidential,’ I explained. ‘I am bound to report only to Lord Cromwell.’

  ‘But I am Robert’s brother,’ Augustine pleaded, in a tone of reproach. ‘Surely you can tell me.’

  I considered carefully, then replied, ‘What I can say is that Robert’s friends told me he was in a state of very great distress over Tyndale’s death.’

  ‘I know that,’ Augustine responded, almost tetchily. ‘He said as much in his letters.’

  ‘Did he say why he took Tyndale’s execution so personally?’

  Augustine shook his head and gave a mournful sigh. ‘He described the burning in some detail. Apparently Tyndale’s friends had paid for him to be strangled before the fire was lit. It was the last kindness they could do him. Robert was at the front of the crowd. He heard and saw everything.’ Augustine’s voice became muffled with emotion. ‘He said the martyr’s last prayer was, “Lord, open the King of England’s eyes.” Imagine that! Praying for the man who had done nothing to help him all those months in a damp, dark cell. Did they tell you in the English House that Tyndale’s appeals for warm clothes and books to read had been denied?’