by D. K. Wilson
Now they had to make the best of a bad job. That meant arranging a fake hanging. They cleaned the body and put a fresh shirt on it. Then they removed Hunne’s sash, formed a noose for his neck, hoisted him up and tied the other end of their makeshift rope to the hook in the wall. They tidied up the cell as best they could but were so anxious to get away that they bungled the job badly. The stool the suicide was supposed to have used was placed upon the bed. His bloodstained coat was left lying in a dark corner. There was more blood on the floor. And in their zeal to make everything appear as normal as possible, the criminals carefully extinguished the candle that Hunne would have had to have used in order to fix the rope to hang himself. The coroner’s jury could not fail to draw from all the evidence that Richard Hunne had been murdered.
While a search was instigated for the culprits, news of the atrocity gripped the capital. There were demonstrations of citizens, calling for justice against the clergy. The bishop and his accomplices were now so deeply mired that they could only press on in defiance of the evidence and the court proceedings. At a hastily convened tribunal, Hunne was posthumously declared a heretic, his body was duly burned and his goods confiscated, thus reducing his wife and children to penury.
It was late by the time I finished reading. I fell, fully clothed, upon my bed and extinguished the candle. My mind was still in a whirl. That was when the nightmares began.
Chapter 38
The dreams that invaded my sleep over the next few nights became so persistent that I scarcely dared close my eyes. The details varied but the main elements were constant. I was lying on the bed in the Lollards’ cell, unable to move or cry out. Hideous, distorted faces leered down at me. They were chanting, chanting, chanting and my silent screams could not drown their monotonous, tuneless formula: exitus acta probat, exitus acta probat, exitus acta probat!
For two or three days I wrestled with a pressing, unwanted inevitability. An accusing conscience insisted that, whatever well-meaning friends might advise, whatever Lord Cromwell might order, whatever dangers might threaten, that which I had begun I had to finish. God in heaven knows I tried to stop my ears to that nagging inner voice. I immersed myself in work. I refused to think about murderers and heretics and Bibles and when such subjects thrust their way into my mind I told myself that I had already done more than enough to avenge my friend.
Pragmatism would probably have won out in the end had it not come under attack, not only from my conscience but also from a very pronounced change of mood in the City. Locke was right. The anonymous pamphlet had stirred up virulent anti-clericalism. There was always an undercurrent of ill-feeling towards the senior clergy among the mercantile community but now the hostility was almost tangible. In every tavern, alehouse and marketplace, people were talking about the fresh revelations concerning the old Hunne case. Even Cromwell benefited from the change of attitude. People who had grumbled about the New Learning and its impact on their traditional activities now applauded the minister’s initiative in bringing the overmighty ecclesiastical establishment to heel. Robert’s murder offered proof that the arrogant and power-hungry senior clergy had not changed in the twenty or so years since they had done to death another respected London merchant. Thus it was that the conviction grew that I could not remain inactive; that I had a public duty to expose the crimes of the Incents and their accomplices. Perhaps I was being called to play a significant role in bringing about real reform.
As I brooded on this I could see only one way to achieve my objective. There was no one from whom I could obtain fresh evidence. The Seagraves might know something but if I approached them Cromwell would undoubtedly hear of it and exercise a firm veto. Doggett undoubtedly possessed the information I desired but I could see no way to obtain his cooperation. If Incent was to be delivered up to the magistrate, it would have to be with the support of his own confession. Slowly I put together a plan – admittedly desperate – to obtain his signature to such a document.
While I was still pondering this initiative, a messenger called with an unexpected letter. It read:
Master Treviot, be assured of my right hearty commendations.
Please be advertised that I have today had the pleasure to call upon Mistress Packington. Being in Westminster for the great council summoned by His Majesty’s Vicegerent in Spirituals, I took the opportunity to visit the lady in hope to bring her some comfort after the tragic loss of her husband. She received me graciously and was, I think, somewhat solaced by memories I shared with her of that fine gentleman. It was the lady’s wish that I might call upon you and impart to you my recollections of conversations between Master Packington and myself as we came together from Antwerp into England and of our subsequent correspondence. These presents are to desire you to agree your conformity and goodwill thereunto.
I pray you, Master Treviot, indicate by the present bearer if it might please you to give me welcome, as I trust it shall.
Fare you well and the Holy Trinity have you in safe keeping.
Gabriel Donne †
From Westminster, this thirteenth day of January, 1536*
I sent word back inviting Donne to dine the following day. I also despatched a letter to Ned, asking him to join us. He would, I thought, enjoy meeting a fellow monastic and he might be able to help me understand Abbot Donne’s point of view.
The kitchens were pressed to provide a good table for my honoured guest. As it was a Friday and, therefore, a fast day, I had my cook scour the stalls in Fishmongers’ Row. The result was that I was able to set before my visitors oysters, stuffed trout, pike in a pastry crust and a supply of my best Rhenish. Ned, always a stickler for punctuality, arrived just as Paul’s clock was striking noon but he was soon followed by the abbot, attended by two of his cowled acolytes. Donne was a tall spare man whose bald head provided little evidence of the tonsure that had once surmounted it. When we were seated at table in the parlour and the servants had withdrawn, my guests made relaxed conversation about life in the cloister. Only when Ned introduced that subject which, as I knew, was dear to his heart did Donne betray hesitation.
‘Does His Majesty intend to close all the remaining houses?’ Ned asked.
‘Well, he is restoring some of the abbeys closed in the North, at the request of good Christian men there,’ Donne replied, ‘so I hardly think he is intent on putting an end to the religious life.’
‘Is that not merely a bone thrown to the rebels to quiet them?’ I asked.
‘I prefer to think better of my king than that,’ the abbot said, in a tone of mild reproof. ‘There is no doubt that the system is in need of overhaul. Much of the rigour has gone out of cloister life. Numbers have fallen. Standards have dropped. Discipline wavers. You must have seen this, Brother Ned – I shall insist on calling you “Brother” – else would Farnfield not have closed voluntarily.’
Ned stabbed with his knife at a morsel of pastry. ‘’Tis a hard road, I grant you. Some embark upon it who lack the stamina. Others of us, I think, are placed there to test our faith.’ He stared down at his trencher. ‘We are called to love God only and we take the cowl because that is what we dearly wish. If our love is ever diverted from God to… others, then we cannot sustain our high calling.’
‘And that was the case at Farnfield?’ Donne probed.
‘Perhaps. To my mind, Master Secretary’s visitors collected a little mud and built with it a tower of bricks.’
Time, I felt, to change the subject. Turning to Donne, I said, ‘It was kind of you to visit Margaret Packington. She was a devoted wife. I fear it will take long for the wounds to heal.’
‘A shocking business,’ the abbot stated gravely. ‘Such a good man. Uncomplicated. I knew him only a few weeks – we travelled together from Antwerp – and yet I felt that we became quite close. Being on narrow shipboard together sometimes turns acquaintances into friends.’
‘People tell me that he was in a state of some distress over the fate of William Tyndale.’
Donne
shook his head wistfully. ‘Poor Tyndale. Such a scholar. He is a great loss.’
‘Yet,’ I persisted, ‘Robert surely had no need to blame himself for Tyndale’s incarceration, and certainly not his death.’
‘He confided in me that he was devastated that he could not persuade Tyndale to change his mind but, as I tried to impress upon him, no arguments would ever have moved Tyndale.’
I was puzzled. ‘Change his mind about what?’ I asked.
‘Why, about the divorce.’ The abbot spoke as though what he was stating was obvious.
Ned clearly shared my surprise. ‘Do you mean that Master Packington was sent over to induce Tyndale to accept the king’s rejection of Queen Catherine in favour of the Frenchified whore?’
A faint smile hovered over Donne’s lips. ‘I would not put it quite like that, Brother. Tyndale based his rejection of His Majesty’s proceedings on his interpretation of Scripture. His Majesty was gracious enough to pardon his presumption and welcome him back on condition that he would admit that his exegesis had been wrong. Now, in my opinion, Tyndale was wrong, both on his reading of the Bible and his defiance of the king. He should have accepted the olive branch His Majesty was graciously offering. Sadly, he was too stubborn, too proud to admit his error. Nothing I or Robert or any of his other friends could say would sway him.’
By this point I was really confused. ‘My Lord Abbot, are you saying that you were in Louvain acting on Tyndale’s behalf? I thought —’
‘That I was in alliance with that repulsive Phillips scoundrel?’ Donne’s smile was superior, indulgent. ‘That is what Phillips and his backers and any other observers were meant to think. In fact, I was acting on confidential instructions from Lord Cromwell to learn all I could about the opposition to Tyndale.’
‘So, you and Robert were employed on the same mission,’ I suggested.
‘Similar,’ Donne agreed, ‘though we did not realise it until we sailed together.’
I struggled to rearrange my thoughts. ‘Then, Cromwell was eager to bring Tyndale back to England?’
Donne sat back in his chair. ‘Lord Cromwell was – and is – eager to have an English Bible. This can now be stated quite openly. He said as much only yesterday to the Grand Council. He has persuaded His Majesty that a new translation will put an end to dissension. Tyndale would have been useful, not only as a translator, but as a skilled writer, producing books and pamphlets to confound the enemies of vernacular Scripture. Such a pity that he refused to be reconciled to the king. Accepting the royal divorce would have been a small price to pay for seeing his Bible placed in every English church.’
Ned had sat scowling and silent during Donne’s explanation. Now he spoke, obviously choosing his words carefully. ‘My Lord Abbot, are we to understand that you are in favour of all this New Learning?’
‘Not at all, Brother, but I have yet to be convinced that the Church is best defended by burning books and people who read books. I am not afraid of the Bible. Devoutly read and properly taught, it can only do good.’
‘Even if it tells people to pull down abbeys?’ Ned persisted.
‘In point of fact, Brother, it says nothing of the sort, as any who read it will discover.’
Once again it was time to divert the conversation into a smoother path, not beset with rocks and ruts. I asked the abbot about his journey up from Devon and from this we moved to other non-contentious matters until it was time for my guests to leave. I accompanied them out to the stables and saw Donne mounted upon his horse. When he and his companions had left, Ned also climbed into his saddle. As I stood close by his stirrup he leaned forward. ‘Mary and all the saints preserve us from men who don’t know whether they are monks or politicians,’ he muttered.
By this time my plan was well formed. It was bizarre, even grotesque, but I was determined to pursue it. I knew it would be risky but by now my anger was so great that I waved aside such considerations. In truth, the only thing that might have blunted my resolve was failure to recruit the accomplices I needed. I was still calculating how best to approach the men I had in mind when fate played into my hand.
On Sunday morning I was returning from mass at the Goldsmiths’ Chapel with the rest of the household when I felt a tug at my sleeve. Bart was walking beside me and looking miserable. He had become almost a fixture in my house of late and my first thought was that he looked disconsolate because he had fallen out with Lizzie. I could not have been more wrong.
‘Master Thomas, may I speak with you’ – he looked around at the group of servants following us – ‘in private?’
‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘Let us take a turn around Paul’s Yard.’
It was a bright, frosty morning and many people were enjoying the open space around the cathedral away from the dark, narrow streets. ‘Well,’ I prompted, as we strolled past the open-air pulpit.
‘It’s about Lizzie,’ he began hesitantly.
‘I rather guessed it might be,’ I said.
‘Then you know how I feel about her and she has feelings for me. We want to be together and I want to look after her. She’s had a hard life but she’s a wonderful woman and she deserves better.’
‘I agree.’
‘Well… the thing is…’ He stared wistfully at a couple standing in the angle between transept and nave and throwing a ball for their infant son to catch. ‘How can that ever be for us?’
‘Why not?’
‘Why not!’ Bart’s anger flared out. ‘Lizzie lives on your charity and what am I good for?’ He waggled his left stump.
I stopped and faced him. ‘Lizzie does not live on my charity. She does an excellent job looking after my mother and my son. I depend on her enormously. As for you, if you could get rid of your self-pity, you could find yourself a useful occupation.’
He nodded glumly. ‘That’s what Lizzie says.’
‘Was it she who told you to talk to me?’ I demanded.
His downcast gaze was my answer. ‘She has an idea… Oh. I can’t ask it.’
‘Then you will never learn my answer,’ I prompted.
‘Well, since John Fink… died… Well, your present senior apprentice is very good at his craft but, according to Lizzie, he can’t keep the books properly.’
‘That’s true. I’ve often had to correct his figures.’
‘Well, Lizzie’s idea was that I might look after that part of the business for you. I have a good head for numbers. I wouldn’t need much training. I could learn about the business quite quickly.’ He looked at me appealingly. ‘If I could earn enough, we might be able to get married in a few years.’
We walked on in silence for several moments. I deliberately gave the impression of thinking very carefully, although I knew what I wanted to say. When I spoke it was in a tone of great solemnity that was not entirely feigned. ‘If you were to become a party to my business secrets, I would need to be sure of your complete loyalty. I would have to know that you would not go chasing off on some new crusade every few months.’
‘Oh, I can promise —’
I interrupted. ‘Don’t make any comment until you have heard what I have to say. I have a test for you, something that will prove both your loyalty and your ingenuity. If you manage it successfully, then I will trust you with other affairs.’
Bart’s face glowed with relief. ‘Just tell me —’
Again I silenced him. ‘What I am about to propose you may not like. You are free to refuse but, whatever your decision, you must swear to reveal it to no one.’
‘I swear,’ he replied eagerly.
We continued our circuit of the cathedral grounds and I unfolded my plan to him. He was surprised, shocked, as I had guessed he would be, but when I had finished he responded firmly. ‘You can rely on me, Master Treviot.’
Having persuaded Bart, it was not too difficult to enlist Ben’s aid. Ned was by far the hardest person to bring into my scheme.
‘You are not the man for such devious plots,’ he protested.
‘I am a much changed man since first we met,’ I replied.
‘And you are determined to cast away what little innocence remains? If you use the methods of corrupt men, you become corrupt yourself. I cannot be a party to that.’
‘Then, by default, you become a party to murder.’
Ned winced. ‘That is unfair,’ he protested.
‘Is it? We are dealing with a priest who poses as a man of God but does not hesitate to use the Devil’s own means to achieve his ends. What’s worse, he lacks the courage to perform his evil deeds himself. He paid the Italian to kill Robert and he instigated Hugh Seagrave to shoot me. He weighed down John Fink’s conscience and drove him to self-destruction. Not content with damning his own soul, he endangers the souls of others. Heaven alone knows what more mischief he might do if he is not stopped now. We have the opportunity to stop him. Can we, dare we fail to take that opportunity?’
Ned shook his head. ‘I do not like it.’