by D. K. Wilson
With those words I was dismissed. They were sensible words. There was no one who cared for me or had my interest at heart who would not have heartily endorsed Cromwell’s sage advice.
So why was I unwilling to take it?
Chapter 37
‘By all the saints, Thomas, what have you been doing now?’ Ned Longbourne was genuinely shocked when he called on me the next day. Everyone was – and with good reason. My face was badly bruised and one eye half closed. I walked with a limp and a pain in my chest made me wince whenever I took a deep breath or coughed. I was still resting on my bed when Ned arrived. I got up, hobbled to the table and poured out two tankards of ale. Then I reported briefly on the events at Greenwich while Ned listened in wide-eyed wonder.
‘God in heaven and all the saints be praised that Il Ombra is dead, and at the king’s order,’ he said. ‘I trust we shall see his carcase in chains at Tyburn with a placard of his sins hung round his neck.’
‘I fear not. His activities and his very existence are to be kept secret.’
‘But why?’
‘Cromwell’s strict instructions. The armed assassin was captured in the palace grounds. If that news leaks out, it could cause general panic and also encourage the king’s enemies. I shouldn’t be telling you but I know you will let it go no further.’
Ned nodded and stroked his beard. This was now of collar length and streaked with grey. ‘Was he interrogated? Did Master Secretary’s torture specialists extract details of his crimes?’
‘I don’t know. If they did, the information is not for general circulation.’
Ned took a long draught of ale and set down the pot with a sigh. ‘So you are no nearer discovering the identity of his paymaster.’
‘Oh, I know who he was working for.’ I took Ned through the process of deduction that had led me to the inescapable conclusion that John Incent was one of the prime movers of a campaign to stamp out supporters of Tyndale. ‘Robert had unearthed important information about this plot,’ I explained. ‘That was why he had to be silenced. Then, when I began to investigate Robert’s death, it became necessary to dispose of me too. Incent knew that his firebrand nephew Hugh Seagrave was also after my blood so it was easy for him to get that halfwit to lay in wait for me with his arquebus out on the heath.’
Ned listened carefully. ‘You may be right,’ he said. ‘Probably you are. But it’s all speculation, isn’t it? You have no proof; nothing that would persuade a magistrate to open proceedings against Incent and his co-conspirators.’
‘Very true. His Lordship made the same point. There are only two men who, I think, might be able to provide useful information. One is Doggett. The other is Gabriel Donne, abbot of a monastery in Devon. Lord Cromwell doesn’t want me to approach them. In fact, he has ordered me to abandon my enquiries.’
Ned shrugged. ‘Then that is what you must do, and I, for one, am not sorry for it.’
‘Poor Ned,’ I said. ‘I’ve caused you much anguish over the last few weeks. You gave me your support even when you thought I was quite mad. I’m truly grateful. You are right, of course. Now is the time to call off the chase and return horses and hounds to the stable. But…’
‘But?’
‘I just hate to see these fanatics go unchecked. To murder someone like Robert, simply for wanting to read a book…’
‘A book that might challenge the instigator’s authority and the authority of all priests.’
‘But how can the Bible and the priests be at enmity?’ I demanded. ‘And, if they are, which should we trust?’
‘Now you’re speaking like a Lutheran,’ Ned said solemnly.
‘I know very little about Luther but sometimes I wonder —’
Ned interrupted firmly. ‘Then, I bid you keep your dangerous wonderings to yourself, Thomas.’
On 1 January I had a visit from Ben and Sarah. They looked radiantly happy and, though I could guess the reason, I allowed them to tell me how they had been reconciled to Sarah’s parents and had moved back to the family home in Candlewick Street. They brought Bart with them but he said little and after a few minutes asked if he might seek out Lizzie.
As the door closed behind him, Sarah giggled. ‘He’s talked about no one else since we were last here. He wanted to know where she comes from, whether she’s been married, all sorts of things. Now he’s come bearing a New Year gift.’
‘Does he know about her former life?’ I asked. ‘I wouldn’t want him to find out by accident.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Ben replied. ‘I made sure.’
Sarah added, ‘He must like her for what she is, not what she was.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘if anything comes of it, Lizzie might be very good for him. He needs someone with a firm hand and I can vouch for the fact that she certainly has that.’
At the Sign of the Swan we celebrated Twelfth Night in style. I owed it to the whole household to signal that we had put behind us the anxieties and troubles of recent weeks. We filled the house with families and friends. All the lamps were lit and the walls hung with branches of holly and bay. The scene was set for a night of riotous festivity. The tables were piled high with food, a hogshead was kept replenished with hot wassail and the kitchen produced the biggest king cake I have ever seen. The workshop benches were cleared to the sides of the room to make space for musicians, dancing and performances by mummers hired for the occasion.
It was customary that a gold half-crown should be concealed within the cake and that whoever found it would be leader of the revels. On this occasion I cheated and ensured that Lizzie discovered the coin. She was by now very popular in the household and her nomination as revel queen was enthusiastically received. Many were the suggestive shouts, whoops and whistles when she nominated Bart as her consort. Together they presided over the night’s events with bawdy good humour and the party ran on well into the early morning.
Three days later I called on Margaret Packington. A servant bade me wait below while his mistress was concluding a meeting with other members of her household. When I was shown up to her chamber, I saw a number of chairs circled round a table.
‘We were having our prayers,’ Margaret explained, as she rose to greet me. ‘Robert always conducted them when he was home. I do my poor best to keep up the tradition, though I’m not as learned as Robert. But then, everything we need is in here, isn’t it?’ She pointed to the open book on the table – Tyndale’s Testament.
‘Should you not be more cautious about reading that?’ I asked.
Margaret squared her shoulders and looked at me with unblinking eyes. I realised that something about her had changed. Her demeanour was more confident, even defiant. ‘When Robert was here,’ she said, ‘I did sometimes worry that Stokesley’s men might come a-raiding. But then I told myself that he and his crew would not dare make trouble for Robert. I see, now, that I was hiding behind my husband’s reputation. Well, no longer. We have just been reading what is written here in Second Timothy.’ She picked up the book and recited, ‘“I am not ashamed. For I know whom I have believed, and am sure that he is able to keep that which I have committed to his keeping.” If the bishop wants to send someone to shoot me or drag me off to one of his Smithfield bonfires, so be it. He will be doing me a great service to reunite me with dear Robert.’
I could not find an appropriate response and, after a brief silence, Margaret continued brightly, ‘So, Thomas, sit down and tell me what you have discovered. The last I heard was that you had been to Antwerp. Thomas Poyntz came to see me before Christmas – poor man – and told me that you had been busy over there.’
‘How is Master Poyntz?’ I asked. ‘I thought he was staying longer in Antwerp.’
‘He is in wretched case.’ Margaret seated herself opposite. ‘The Emperor’s people made so much trouble for him that he had to leave the English House in great haste. His wife and children remain over there and are safe but he is staying with his brother in Essex. He cannot continue his business and is like to be
utterly ruined. Thus does ‘Stoker’ Stokesley make honest Englishmen fugitives in their own country. Oh, the wickedness of these papists!’
At that moment, a maid appeared bearing a tray on which stood a jug and two glasses. She placed it on the table and departed silently.
Margaret poured out a deep yellow liquid. ‘Escobar,’ she said. ‘My physician prescribes it as a remedy for melancholy and the damp humours. Unlike most of the concoctions he brings me, it is quite palatable.’
I sipped the sweet cordial. ‘Very pleasant – as is the news I bring. Robert’s murderer is dead.’ I reported Il Ombra’s detention and despatch, omitting any data that might be considered politically sensitive.
My hostess nodded solemnly. ‘And you have sufficient evidence against Stokesley as the instigator of the assassination?’
‘He was not the perpetrator,’ I explained. ‘The man who had a vendetta against Robert and, later, against me was John Incent, a member of the cathedral chapter.’
‘Hoh!’ Margaret uttered a scoffing laugh. ‘That haughty lewdster with hair the colour of hellfire! I know him well. He is a sworn enemy of Bible people. He came here once – it must have been six months since – complaining about a speech Robert made in the parliament house. He said Robert should have more respect for the clergy. It will be good to see him brought to book.’
I was struggling to find words to explain, as gently as possible, that this was not going to happen, when the arrival of a new guest was announced. Moments later William Locke bustled into the room. He and Margaret greeted each other warmly and for several minutes we exchanged small talk. Locke had laid aside his cloak, revealing an exquisite doublet of dove grey, embroidered with black and silver thread. Now he unfastened the large purse attached to his belt and drew out a thick pamphlet whose pages were crisp and uncurled. ‘I am delighted to find you here, Master Treviot. I brought this along to show Mistress Packington but it will interest you, too.’
He laid the document on the table and pulled up a chair. I stared down at the blank cover. No title. No author’s name.
‘Printed in Antwerp,’ Locke explained, ‘and arrived in London two days since. I bought it from a bookstand in Paul’s Yard and straightway read it, cover to cover. When I went back this morning the stallholder told me his stock was all gone and he’d sent for more. “’Tis the talk of the City,” he said, and I well believe it.’
‘So, what is it?’ I asked.
‘’Tis about the Hunne case,’ Locke replied. ‘You were a child when it occurred and may not have heard of it, but it caused much commotion at the time.’
‘Indeed, I do know of it,’ I said. ‘In fact, I had the privilege of experiencing Master Hunne’s accommodation in the Lollards’ Tower. But this is an old story. Why should people be interested in it now?’
Locke smiled knowingly, excitement showing on his usually grave face. ‘Now is precisely the time to publish a full account of that appalling affair. All London is talking about poor Robert’s death – and we all know who encompassed that. Then there is the burning of Master Tyndale. People are still outraged about the sordid doing to death of a fine English scholar. Now, with the collapse of the papist rebellion in the North, the truth can finally come to light on all these things. Also, good news comes from the court —’
‘Then the pilgrimage is definitely over?’ Margaret interrupted.
‘As good as,’ Locke replied. ‘When the king had the arch-traitor Aske to court and made much of him, the other leaders in the North felt themselves betrayed. The latest information is that the one-eyed lawyer has been shunned by former supporters and that his movement is falling apart in mutual recriminations. But, as I was saying,’ he hurried on, ‘good news comes from court. Cromwell, at the king’s command, is to preside over a grand council or synod of clergy and laymen to debate the great doctrines of our faith. The bishops will be called to justify all their traditions from Holy Scripture.’
‘All this is interesting,’ I said, ‘but how does it help us?’
‘Don’t you see?’ Locke looked at me impatiently. ‘It all affects the mood of the City. Now, though he might wish it otherwise, the king cannot afford to ignore London. He can threaten and dissimulate with the barbarous northern rabble but he dare not antagonise his capital. This’ – Locke prodded the pamphlet – ‘will inflame the populace and force His Majesty to expose the plot against Robert. Twenty-two years ago, a leading London merchant was brutally murdered in the Lollards’ Tower. Why? Because he challenged the power of the clergy and because he put his trust in English translations of the Bible. Today we have another leading member of our mercantile community assassinated for the very same reasons. Anyone would have to be totally beside his wits not to make the connection. After the Hunne case the complicity of the Bishop of London and his cohorts was hushed up, largely because the king did not want to antagonise the clergy. This pamphlet explains how the truth was suppressed and prints documents of the time that were concealed. It will infuriate people. The clergy will not find the king so compliant now, especially after the support some of them have expressed for the rebels.’
‘What exactly did happen to Master Hunne?’ Margaret asked. ‘I’ve often wondered.’
Locke picked up the pamphlet. ‘’Tis all here, in great detail – an appalling indictment of the lengths churchmen will go to to protect their own kind. It shows exactly how the bishop’s chancellor, William Horsey, plotted brutal murder. Thomas, this will help you to expose the truth about Robert’s death.’
Margaret shared his enthusiasm. ‘Perhaps the tide is really turning at last, William. Thomas here has worked so hard in our cause and, as a result, the villain who shot Robert has paid for it with his life. I ought to say, “God rest his soul” but, in truth, I cannot. Now, it only remains to expose the ones who lay behind this crime and, as you say, the papists will not escape punishment this time.’
After that, how could I tell Margaret that my interest in her husband’s death was at an end? For Locke’s benefit I went over again my censored account of events at Greenwich. The three of us talked until the great clock of St Paul’s struck eleven and the mercer scurried away to a business appointment. Before he said his goodbyes, he urged me to borrow the pamphlet. ‘It will give you a better idea of what these papist fanatics are capable of,’ he said.
That night I retired to my chamber to read the lamentable account of Richard Hunne’s last days. Whoever had compiled this record had had access to official documents, hitherto ‘lost’ or suppressed, and had set them out clearly with a commentary that revealed the full details of his conflict with church authorities and the horror of the revenge taken by those authorities. As I read, my thoughts went back to that small, bleak oppressive chamber in the Lollards’ Tower where I had spent dismal hours looking up at the hook from which that earlier occupant had been suspended. I identified with the poor man’s fate. It both repelled and fascinated me.
Hunne’s difficulties had begun in 1511 in a disagreement with his parish priest over a payment for professional services. The vicar took his stand on ecclesiastical law and Hunne countered with an appeal to civil law. Neither side would give way and the priest took the case to higher authority. The clergy closed ranks in support of their colleague and Hunne found himself facing a charge of heresy. He responded by bringing a civil case for slander against his accusers. It was to pre-empt this action that the bishop’s officers struck first and had Hunne thrown into the Lollards’ Tower, in October 1514. The whole City was now up in arms and waiting for Hunne’s civil action to come to court. There was only one escape route for his enemies – the ‘heretic’ must die. They concocted a plot and carried it out one night in December 1514. The coroner’s report set out all the vile details: the original plan was to make it appear that the prisoner had died from natural causes. They locked Hunne in the stocks in his cell while they made a last-minute attempt to persuade him to drop the charges. When this failed they dumped him on his bed with his
arms bound behind him. There he stayed till past midnight, when William Horsey entered the cell, accompanied by John Spalding, a jailer, and Charles Joseph, a member of the bishop’s staff. They lost no time in setting about their grizzly task.
Joseph heated a long needle in a candle flame. While the others held their victim down, he thrust this up Hunne’s nose, aiming to pierce the brain and, thus, cause death without leaving any marks on the body. All this achieved was a massive effusion of blood, which stained Hunne’s shirt and Horsey’s jerkin. The prisoner was now screaming and writhing in agony, half on and half off the bed. The murderers panicked. They grabbed Hunne in an effort to silence him. They silenced him well enough: in the fracas they broke his neck.