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

by D. K. Wilson

  I stared across at the thickset figure opposite, talking jovially with his north-country guest and found it difficult to identify this ebullient figure with the melancholy sufferer described by my companion. Another thought that troubled me was why Hugh Seagrave was sharing with me information that must certainly be confidential. If the king really was a sick man and troubled in mind, he would not want it known and that would mean that if Hugh’s indiscretion was detected he would be in serious trouble.

  Suddenly a signal horn rang out away to our left. I saw the king raise a crossbow to his shoulder. Behind him and a little to one side one of his attendants also lifted his weapon. With a crash and a hullabaloo from the pursuing horsemen, a fine full-antlered stag burst through the undergrowth. I heard, rather than saw the crossbow bolts zing towards it. The animal’s headlong flight carried him several more yards before his front legs buckled and he skidded into the ground, antlers tearing up the ferns. Immediately the watchers broke into loud applause and the king received their congratulations (though which bolt had struck the fatal blow, I cannot say).

  As I watched I saw Cromwell lean across and say something to the king. Henry nodded. The minister rose and called for his horse. I pointed this out to my companion. ‘We should get back to the palace,’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘I know a short way. Follow me.’

  We very quickly found ourselves in the thickest part of the woodland and on a narrow track that only allowed us to go in single file. After about fifteen minutes I saw Hugh rein in his horse with an oath and leap from the saddle. He stooped to examine his mount’s near foreleg.

  He looked up with a rueful expression. ‘Sorry about this. Wretched creature’s gone lame. You’d better ride on. I’ll only hold you up. It’s not far. This track will take you all the way.’

  He drew his horse to the side to let me pass. ‘Be sure to call in on us before you leave the palace,’ he said cheerily as I rode forward.

  I jogged on along a path that seemed to become narrower, with several overhanging branches beneath which I had to duck. It was after I had negotiated one of these obstacles and turned a sharp right-angled bend that I found my way barred by a man in a brown cloak, standing ten yards away and pointing a handgun at me.

  Chapter 36

  Startled, I brought Golding to an abrupt, protesting halt.

  I was now no more than five paces from my assailant, a short, stocky man with a swarthy face. He was grinning at me along the short barrel of what I instantly knew was a wheellock pistol.

  ‘Master Thomas Treviot,’ the man said and his accent left me in no doubt whatsoever about his identity. ‘I regret this, sincerely I do. But, unfortunately, you have enemies who wish me to do this. So, I must bid you farewell.’ He took a careful sighting along the barrel but at this range he could not possibly miss. I had no space in which to turn my horse. The location for my assassination had been chosen carefully. If I cried out there would be no one to hear me. Escape was impossible. I was seconds from death. I mumbled the only thing I could think of.

  ‘Look, however much you’re being paid…’

  The man merely grinned, displaying a row of blackened teeth. ‘Do not try the bribe, Master Treviot. I have my professional reputation to consider.’

  Ned’s words came back to me, his plea that I should not share Robert’s fate. That was precisely what I was about to do. Why, oh why, had I not listened?

  ‘You don’t need to do this!’ I called out. ‘You have no grudge against me.’

  ‘There is nothing personal about it,’ he replied. ‘I am a mere agent. If you have made enemies…’ He shrugged. I realised that he was savouring the moment.

  Suddenly – miraculously almost – that realisation cut through my panic; allowed me to think. There was no one in these dense, silent woods who could come to my aid. Il Ombra knew this as well as I. He had no need to hurry. He had plenty of time to do a clean professional job. Could I, perhaps, play on his self-confidence… make him relax, just slightly. ‘Please, oh please, spare me,’ I whined.

  The Italian shook his head. ‘Impossibile.’

  ‘Then, in God’s name, give me a moment or two for prayer,’ I implored with a show of trembling helplessness.

  ‘Very well.’ He nodded and lowered his pistol slightly.

  That was my chance. I leaned forward, pulled on the rein and tapped Golding’s flanks with my heels. ‘Stand,’ I whispered.

  Immediately, the grey reared up, his front hooves thrashing air. The Italian staggered back, raising his hands defensively to cover his head. The pistol flew from his grasp, discharged with a bang as it hit the ground and lay hidden among the ferns. Il Ombra turned, looking for a path through the dense undergrowth. I did not wait for him to find one. I urged Golding forward, straight at the assassin. He fled along the track, his only means of escape. Within yards I ran him down. He flung himself among the ferns to his left. I leaped from the saddle and was on him instantly. We rolled around on the ground. He grasped my throat. I pummelled his face with my fists. My assailant was strong and lithe. He slipped from my grasp and staggered to his knees. I grabbed his legs and brought him down again. Now the fight began in earnest. My foe clawed with hands, struck out with booted feet and, when he could get close enough, tried to bite with his stained teeth. My responses were equally savage. Physically we were well matched but I had the advantage of unbridled fury. Weeks of grief and rage at what this man had done to my friend at last found their outlet. Anger at what I and others had suffered gave added puissance to my muscles. Slowly I felt my enemy weaken. He groaned. He shouted. He implored me, in his own language and in bastard English, to stop. His entreaties had the opposite effect. I pounded his face, my gauntlets tearing into his flesh. When eventually he lay silent I went on hitting him. Then I jumped up and aimed kick after kick at his inert body. Had I not been interrupted, I would certainly have killed the man but now I became aware of rapid hoofbeats and shouts.

  I was surrounded by three of the king’s guards, all with drawn swords.

  ‘What’s all this?’ the captain demanded.

  Struggling for breath, I tried to reply. ‘This fellow… tried to kill me… You’ll find his pistol… over there, somewhere.’ I pointed to the ferns and brambles where it had fallen. Then I sank to the ground, trembling all over.

  The soldiers dismounted. One went in search of Il Ombra’s weapon while another examined the prostrate Italian. ‘He’s breathing,’ was the verdict, ‘but only just.’

  ‘Both of you have some explaining to do,’ the captain said. ‘Making affray in the purlieus of His Majesty’s house is a capital offence.’

  His subordinate returned from among the bushes and handed over the gun.

  ‘Mother of God!’ the captain exclaimed. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘A wheellock pistol,’ I gasped.

  ‘I’ve heard of these,’ he said, ‘but I’ve never seen one.’ He cast a professional appraising eye over the weapon. ‘No one is allowed to carry firearms in the court except His Majesty’s guard. To do so is treason. You say it was brought here by this fellow?’

  I nodded.

  ‘And how do I know it’s not yours?’ he asked.

  ‘You could see which one of us is carrying powder and shot,’ I suggested.

  He gave the order and the Italian and I were searched. From a pouch still slung round Il Ombra’s neck one of the soldiers produced a powder horn and a handful of lead pellets.

  ‘Right,’ said the captain, ‘I’m not going to sort all this out. I’m taking you to the guard room.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, getting painfully to my feet. ‘But you should know that I was on my way to an appointment with Lord Cromwell. This rogue was determined to stop me. It might be in your interest to inform His Lordship that you have taken me into custody.’

  We made our way back to the palace. The captain led, followed by Il Ombra slung over one of the horses, then me on Golding and the other king’s men, one on foot. We w
ere taken straight to the guard room where I was placed for safe keeping in the captain’s own quarters. The Italian was laid on a pallet in one of the cells and a physician was called to examine him. I was glad to lie down on the truckle bed and ease my sore, pummelled body. I was bruised and aching all over and my limbs trembled uncontrollably. It was some time before I was able to think clearly about the afternoon’s events. Then I remembered Ned’s warning about Hugh Seagrave. He had been right. Nathaniel’s brother had plotted my death and, despite his father’s supposed falling out with Doggett, had managed to secure the service of Il Ombra. Did that mean that he had also been responsible for the attack at Hampstead? Had I been wrong to blame John Incent? I was still exploring these disjointed thoughts when I fell into an exhausted sleep.

  I was woken by one of the king’s guard. ‘Up you get,’ he said. ‘Lord Cromwell has sent for you.’

  ‘Gone six of the clock,’ the man replied. ‘You’d better smarten up.’ He indicated a towel and a bowl of water on the table.

  I looked at my image in a small square of polished tin hanging beside the door. My face was streaked with blood and grime and fronds of grass still stuck to my hair. I cleaned myself as best as I could and brushed most of the dirt from my clothes. When I asked for my bonnet the soldier shrugged and shook his head. I realised I must have lost it in the fight. When I had done the best I could to make myself presentable, I signalled my guardian that I was ready to be escorted to Master Secretary’s quarters. Many were the curious looks I attracted as I was marched through the palace but when we reached Cromwell’s antechamber the room was empty apart from the halberdier standing guard. After a word from my escort the inner door was opened for me.

  Cromwell was standing before the fire, reading a book by the light of a lamp hanging from a high bracket. He set the volume aside as I made my obeisance. ‘Thomas, Thomas, Thomas, you seem to have a positive genius for getting into trouble,’ he said, seating himself and motioning me to a chair on the other side of the hearth.

  ‘’Twas none of my doing,’ I protested. ‘The villainous Seagraves —’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he interrupted. ‘We’ll come to that in a moment. First, I want to continue our earlier discussion. We were talking about Gabriel Donne. Have you met him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you familiar with the family?’

  ‘I know his father and uncle by sight. They are leading members of the Grocers’ Company but I have never had any dealings with them.’

  ‘Very well and there’s nothing more you can tell me about Robert’s last trip to the Netherlands?’

  I considered the question carefully before replying. ‘No, My Lord. I believe he carried out his commission faithfully and was bitterly disappointed that it did not succeed in achieving Tyndale’s release. If there was any other reason for his murder perhaps you will discover it by interrogating Il Ombra.’

  Cromwell’s eyebrows rose slightly at mention of the name. ‘Are you sure about the identity of this assailant? How is that?’

  ‘After my conversation with Doggett, it was not very difficult to recognise the man employed by the Seagraves in their trap. A foreigner, expert in the very latest firearm technology – it had to be Il Ombra.’

  ‘Then your quest is ended,’ Cromwell observed quietly.

  ‘Almost, My Lord. Only two things now remain.’

  ‘And they are?’

  ‘To see justice done upon the assassin and to have his paymasters unmasked.’

  Cromwell tapped his nose thoughtfully with the small book he was carrying. ‘As to the first, I can satisfy you immediately: Il Ombra is dead.’

  I was stunned by the news. ‘Dead? But his injuries did not seem… I was sure I had not killed him… Does this mean I’m to be charged…’

  He looked at me with a quizzical, cynical smile. ‘You? Charged? What with?’ The smile vanished to be replaced by a concentrated stare. ‘Whatever occurred here this afternoon did not involve you.’

  My obvious bewilderment must have appeared comical, for Cromwell laughed. ‘Let me describe to you the unfortunate incident that occurred at Greenwich on the Feast of St Stephen in this year of our Lord, 1536. Princes, as you know, always have to be on their guard against assassination attempts. Regrettably, there are always madmen, fanatics and agents of foreign powers whose twisted thinking convinces them that the violent removal of a head of state will make the world a better place. Our gracious sovereign lord is no less a potential target than other kings and, like other kings, takes careful precautions for the safety of his person, especially in these troubled days. The palace grounds here are kept under constant surveillance by royal guards. This afternoon such a patrol came upon an armed desperado, skulking in the woods not far from where His Majesty was hunting. When challenged, this villain discharged his firearm at the king’s men. There was a struggle in which the evil interloper was killed. The king was saved. The executioner was spared a job. All in all, a satisfactory outcome, would you not agree?’

  I sat back with a gasp. ‘This is what the king believes?’

  ‘This is what the king wishes to believe and it is, therefore, true. Were the story any more complicated it might give rise to speculation, and, in politics, speculation should whenever possible be avoided. Such incidents as this have to be dealt with swiftly and decisively. Then no awkward questions can be asked.’

  I felt… well, truly, I know not what I felt – outrage, relief, disappointment, distaste. I could only stare gloomily into the fire. ‘Doubtless, that story will please the Seagraves,’ I muttered.

  ‘Ah, the Seagraves.’ Cromwell nodded. ‘I suppose you would like to see them dragged into the law courts and made to pay for their murderous attempts on your life.’

  ‘I would like to see justice done, My Lord. I am a simple man and I hold to the simple man’s conviction that law and justice bind a kingdom together. Without them…’ I shrugged.

  ‘Without them,’ Cromwell said, in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘we have politics. It may not be as stout a cord as law and justice but when it is all we have, we would be wrong not to use it. Take the Seagraves, for example. A trial would have brought numerous facts to light that many people, perhaps including yourself but certainly including the king, would prefer to keep hidden. As it is, Sir Harry and his brainless son are now tight fastened by political shackles. They know that I have information against them that I can use at any time. Should they ever behave in a way harmful to His Majesty and the realm my sword of Damocles will fall.’

  ‘They are close to the Duke of Norfolk, are they not?’

  Cromwell looked up sharply. ‘Why do you say so?’

  ‘The brainless son boasted of it this afternoon and told me many things because he was sure I would not live to repeat his indiscretions.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘He warned me not to become too closely involved with Your Lordship. He hinted that one day you would fall and that then the duke and his supporters would take control.’

  Cromwell laughed. ‘Aye, and whisk the country back to the baronial wars of the last century, when he and his kind wrestled for the crown. Well, we must make sure that doesn’t happen, mustn’t we?’

  ‘He also said the king was ill and becoming difficult to serve.’

  The minister avoided the subject. ‘You will have no more difficulty with the Seagraves. I can promise you that,’ he said.

  ‘’Tis strange,’ I mused, ‘that the Seagraves and John Incent both employed the same killer.’

  ‘Not really,’ Cromwell replied. ‘You know, don’t you, that they are related?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They are of old Suffolk families. Sir Harry’s brother is married to the eldest Incent girl. Together they all make up as nice a brood of papists as you could ever wish not to find.’

  ‘And unscrupulous. Defending their doctrine excuses any evil, any crime. Is there a good reason, My Lord, why we should not proceed against John Incent for
Robert’s murder?’

  ‘Absence of proof,’ Cromwell declared quickly. ‘Without Il Ombra there is no one who knows who paid for the murder.’

  ‘There is one man who does know. I’m sure of it. His name is John Doggett.’

  Cromwell laughed aloud. ‘You’ve come across that scoundrel! You must know he’d be little help to us. If you could get him into a court of law – which is extremely unlikely – no sane jury would believe a word he said.’

  ‘But could you not put pressure on him?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he replied, ‘if I did not have a thousand and one other things to do.’ He stood up. ‘Thomas, be content. You have found Robert’s killer and he has paid for his crime. You are beyond the reach of your own enemies. For tonight, lodging has been arranged in the palace. The guard who brought you here will escort you. In the morning, go back to your trade. Make a success of it. Be a credit to your father and to the Honourable Goldsmiths’ Company. And may God prosper you.’