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

by D. K. Wilson

  ‘My dear friend, I would not involve you if I could conceive any other means of achieving my objective. The cause is just.’

  ‘And, therefore, unjust means may be used to achieve it?’

  That verbal thrust went home. Ned was accusing me of using the excuse I condemned others for employing: exitus acta probat. ‘My means are not unjust,’ I protested. ‘Revenge would be unjust. Behaving as judge and jury over Incent would be unjust. I seek only to bring him into the law courts, where he will be able to speak in his own defence. Please help me.’

  With the utmost reluctance Ned agreed eventually. It only remained to set the plot in motion.

  Chapter 39

  ‘Fish Wharf three o’clock.’

  I had waited with growing impatience for a visit from Bart. Three days had passed since our discussion in Paul’s Yard. Everything depended on him. It was Bart who had to set the wheels of my plan in motion. When no word came I casually asked Lizzie if she knew his whereabouts. She replied that she had not seen him since Sunday. I began to wonder whether he had had second thoughts about our agreement. Worse still, had he bungled his assignment and fallen foul of John Incent? It was, therefore, a great relief when a ragged urchin appeared at the shop door with a scrap of paper and solemnly demanded a penny for it, ‘like the man said’. It was already well past two o’clock. I had Dickon saddled and rode, by way of Walbrook and Thames Street, down to the dock area for my rendezvous with Bart.

  I found him leaning against a warehouse wall, talking with a fishmonger who was lamenting the decline in trade. As I dismounted I heard the man’s complaint.

  ‘Plaguy ice,’ he muttered, spitting and staring gloomily over the river, still partially mottled with frozen blotches. ‘Catches are down and what does get here comes by cart. Much of it’s stinking by the time it arrives.’

  We spent a few moments sympathising with the merchant before moving on down the almost-deserted quay. When we were quite alone, I asked, ‘How are you getting on? Why haven’t you been in touch?’

  ‘That Incent’s a wary one,’ Bart replied. ‘At our first meeting he said he was too busy to talk. Then, after we met a second time, he actually had me followed. I was on my way to report to you when, fortunately, I spotted the churl who was keeping an eye on me. I spent a whole day wandering the City aimlessly till the clodpole gave up.’ Bart chuckled. ‘I reckon his feet must be ready to drop off.’

  ‘But what of Incent?’ I urged.

  ‘Snared,’ Bart said, in a tone of triumph. ‘He fell for my story. I told him all about my time with the northern “pilgrims” and how bitter I was that we had been betrayed. Well, I didn’t have to make that up. I convinced him that I’m a kind of religious mercenary, ready for any dangerous exploit against the “New Learners”. When I told him that the word was going around that you were out to make trouble for him, he really sat up and took notice. By Our Lady, he really hates you! He asked, straight out, if I was ready to rid the Church of a pestilential enemy – you. I said, if the price was right. We haggled. Eventually we agreed a figure.’ Bart laughed. ‘Do you want to know what your corpse is worth? Three new sovereigns.’

  ‘I hope you weren’t tempted,’ I said.

  ‘No, you’re safe – at least from me – Master Treviot.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘Well, it was a bit like a Twelfth Night play, at the Inns of Court.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It was as though I’d written the part for him and he’d learned it by rote. He said exactly what I wanted him to say. I didn’t have to steer the conversation. “How will I know you’ve done the job?” he asked. I said I’d show him the body.’

  ‘And he agreed to come and check your handiwork?’

  ‘Without a moment’s hesitation. You should have seen the look on his face. It was as though he could see you lying before him, all cold and bloody. “Dead in a whore shop,” he said. If he hadn’t been so busy gloating, he might have questioned me carefully. He believed me because he wanted to believe me. “Master Nemesis” – that was the code name I’d invented – “Master Nemesis,” he said, “you will be doing God’s work and you can come to me for absolution.” Rather odd, that. If I was doing God’s work, why would I need to be absolved?’

  ‘And you arranged a time?’

  Bart nodded. ‘I said I would do it tonight and he could come and see the body tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Excellent, Bart. Bring him about ten o’clock. We’ll be ready. Now we’d better leave separately to be absolutely sure no one sees us together.’ I swung myself into the saddle.

  As I turned Dickon’s head, Bart called out. ‘Will you give this to Lizzie for safe keeping?’ He held out a gold sovereign. ‘First instalment of my blood money,’ he explained, before striding away down an alley between two warehouses.

  I went in person to find the others and confirm our final arrangements. Then I returned to Goldsmith’s Row. That night I enjoyed the best sleep I had had in more than a week.

  The next morning four very nervous conspirators gathered in Ned and Jed’s room at St Swithun’s. We assembled early to await our unsuspecting guest. Carefully we went over our plans, such as they were. Ben and our hosts all looked to me to preside over our business. For my part, though tense, I was eager for the confrontation. Though there were still a few gaps in the case against the priest, I was sure I had enough evidence to frighten him into a confession. We left the door ajar and Ben was placed beside it with a good view of the main entrance. Ten o’clock came, chimed from the tower of a nearby church. There was no sign of our visitor. We all exchanged silent glances. Ned said, ‘You can’t go by that clock. It’s never right.’ The words were scarcely spoken when Ben put a hand to his lips and quietly closed the door. I joined him behind the door. Jed lay down by the far wall and drew a coarse sheet over himself.

  Moments later Bart strode in, pushing the door wide. ‘There you are,’ he said, pointing to the recumbent form. His companion hurried across the room, his eyes fixed on what he supposed was my lifeless body. Instantly, Ben slammed the door. He and I grabbed Incent by the arms and forced him to a stool. Jed threw aside the sheet and jumped up with a coil of rope he had ready and, while the priest struggled and shouted, he tied our prisoner’s hands securely behind him.

  ‘You may save your breath, Sir John,’ I said. ‘No one can hear you here and if they could they would know better than to interfere.’

  Incent’s first reaction was bluster. ‘What do you mean by this outrage? How dare you lay profane hands on me! You’ll regret this – all of you. I’ll see you on a gallows for it.’

  I let him rant. When he had subsided into surly silence, I said, ‘Sir John, no ill will befall you at our hands. We are not thieves or murderers. We have brought you here for one purpose and one only.’ I produced a paper from inside my doublet. ‘Before you leave, you will sign this short document.’

  ‘I’ll do no such thing,’ Incent snorted. ‘What is it, anyway?’

  ‘A confession of your implication in the foul murder of Master Robert Packington.’

  ‘Pfah!’ Our guest made a sound like a suddenly deflated pig’s bladder. ‘What nonsense! Master Treviot, I’m surprised at you getting involved with this bunch of knaves in order to play such foolish tricks.’ Incent seemed to have recovered his composure slightly. I wondered whether perhaps it had been poor tactics to play my trump card straightway. If I was to shake the truth from the priest, I would have to build up my case stone by stone until he realised there was no escape. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘we’ll leave that matter for the moment. Let us consider first something that happened a mere two days ago. That was when you engaged my friend here to murder me for a fee of three sovereigns. It would be futile for you to deny that.’

  Incent sneered. ‘You are not going to take the word of this churl over that of a respected priest.’

  ‘Your presence here gives the lie to your denial, Sir John. Why are you come, sav
e in the hope of beholding my corpse?’

  ‘I was tricked,’ Incent snorted. ‘It was a plot to get money out of me.’

  ‘A plot that could only succeed if you wanted to see me dead,’ I responded, ‘and why would you desire that?’

  Our prisoner’s only reaction was to glower at us and wriggle in a vain attempt to escape his bonds.

  ‘Let’s leave that on one side also,’ I suggested. ‘We will go instead to the afternoon of 20 November. That was when you made an unannounced visit to my home and persuaded my assistant John Fink to reveal my whereabouts to you. Having discovered that information, you arranged for me to be waylaid on Hampstead Heath.’

  Incent shook his head violently but cracks were beginning to appear in the cladding of his choleric indignation. ‘That was a pastoral visit,’ he whined. ‘Nothing more.’

  ‘Then why,’ I demanded, ‘did you hasten to tell your nephew, Hugh Seagrave, all about it and why did he, with equal haste, ride out to Hampstead to lie in wait for me?’

  The priest was thoughtfully silent for several moments, calculating carefully.

  ‘Master Treviot, if the Seagraves have some quarrel with you, it is none of my doing.’

  ‘So you say.’ I pulled up a stool, placed it in front of the prisoner and sat down, our eyes on a level. ‘But, again, let us leave that hanging in the air and come to other matters. The attempt on my life failed. Three days later, I was arrested at your instigation and clapped into the Lollards’ Tower.’

  ‘That was nothing to do with me,’ Incent asserted, gazing straight at me. ‘If My Lord bishop had you arrested, he undoubtedly had good cause to do so.’

  I glanced around at my friends. They were looking distinctly uncomfortable. I decided on a change of tactics.

  ‘Have you ever been inside that dismal prison?’ I asked. ‘That place where men are shut up for presuming to believe things other than you ordain? ’Tis a fearful place. If you set your ear to the stone, you can still hear the screams of Richard Hunne, brutally murdered by your predecessors.’

  A sudden defiance flashed in Incent’s eyes. ‘Hunne was a heretic who hanged himself in a fit of remorse.’

  It was Ben who responded. ‘All the world knows that for a lie!’

  ‘Indeed,’ I said, ‘but what does a lie matter if it rids the world of one heretic? That is your philosophy. You hate heretics, do you not, Sir John? Any crime, any bestiality, any sin that leads to their extermination is justifiable. Isn’t that an article of your creed?’

  Incent mumbled something.

  ‘Speak up, man,’ I said sharply. ‘We did not hear your reply.’

  He raised his eyes and again there was a touch of defiance. ‘I am a priest. It is my responsibility to protect the Church from error. There can be no so-called “New Learning” if it does not come from our doctors and is not sanctioned by the pope.’

  ‘Fortunately,’ I continued, ‘I was rescued from your evil designs by Lord Cromwell.’

  ‘Cromwell!’ Incent’s sharp, raucous laugh took me by surprise. ‘You young simpleton! You should choose your protectors more carefully. Do you really think His Lordship is interested in you? He cares only for his own power. He would betray you tomorrow if that would serve his purposes, just as he did Queen Anne and that deluded ninny, Tyndale.’

  Our duel had reached the point when only a strong thrust would break through the man’s stubborn defence. ‘That is no matter,’ I said. ‘We must take one more step back in time to discover why you should want to destroy me. I am no heretic. There was no reason why I should figure on your list of “New Learners” to be exterminated – until you discovered that, like you, I was on a crusade. You learned that I was determined to discover the murderer of Master Robert Packington. That alarmed you.’ I thrust my face close to Incent’s and almost spat the words at him. ‘Because you were the man who paid for his assassination!’

  If I had hoped for a gasp of guilt unmasked or a gibbering denial, I was disappointed. Staring straight into the prisoner’s eyes, I read surprise. I sat back to continue my interrogation. ‘You are a self-appointed heresy-hunter and what worse heresy can there be than distributing the English New Testaments by that “ninny”, William Tyndale. You knew Master Packington was a leading figure in that business. You knew that he was far too circumspect and too well connected for you ever to be able to bring a successful charge against him so you did what your predecessors had done to Richard Hunne years ago: you hired someone to murder him.’

  ‘This is nonsense!’ Incent shouted.

  I stood up and towered over the trembling figure in the chair. ‘No,’ I said, ‘not nonsense. The simple, naked truth.’ I was forced to bluff. ‘The Italian mercenary you paid has been apprehended and he has confessed all. The case against you is complete for all these crimes.’

  At last the red-headed priest’s composure was broken. He began gibbering about ‘lies’ and ‘conspiracy’. In the commotion I did not hear the door open behind me. As I brandished the prepared confession in Incent’s face, I felt someone clutch my arm. Turning, I was astonished to see Lizzie.

  ‘Thomas, we must talk!’ she said urgently.

  ‘Not now,’ I said, shaking off her hand.

  ‘Yes now!’ she insisted. ‘Come with me.’

  ‘Lizzie, I cannot! This is not the time.’

  She refused to let go. ‘It is the only time, if you value all our lives.’

  Reluctantly I followed her out of the room and up the stairs until we came to what I recognised as her old chamber.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I demanded angrily.

  ‘I have come to prevent you committing a great folly,’ she replied. ‘When you gave me that money from Bart, I knew something was amiss. He could never have obtained such a sum honestly. I went to him last night and made him tell me what you were all planning.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that. This has nothing to do with you!’

  ‘It has everything to do with me. If I hadn’t… But that’s not to the point. The fact is you are making a grave mistake.’

  ‘Really?’ I mocked. ‘And how do you know what I don’t?’

  ‘You remember, right at the beginning, I told you there was one man who knew the truth about your friend’s murder.’

  ‘John Doggett? Yes, but he refused to tell me.’

  ‘Well, I have been to see him this morning. I have ways to persuade that you lack.’

  ‘Do you mean you —’

  She laid a finger on my lips. ‘Not a word of that – ever – especially to Bart.’

  ‘Are you telling me that Doggett confided in you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, then…’

  ‘He would not tell me because, he said, the information was dangerous. Instead he wrote something on a piece of paper, sealed it and told me to give it to you. He said he wanted you to know the truth to stop you blundering about in matters too deep for you. He hoped it would act as a warning. I was to tell you that if you persist in making a nuisance of yourself… Well, knowing Doggett, you can guess what he threatened. And you know that he can carry out his threats. Please, Thomas, read his note and stop this business now.’

  I unfastened the scrap of paper Lizzie gave me. The message was brief; curt in the extreme. It made no sense. ‘This is ridiculous!’ I shouted. Yet even as I did so, I was aware of a twinge of doubt, somewhere at the back of my mind. For several minutes I paced about the room. Questions tumbled around my brain: what was Doggett up to? How could his claim possibly be true? How could I give up my search for justice just when I was about to achieve it?

  Lizzie stood there, hands clasped before her. ‘Please, Thomas. I know what this means to you but you have done all you can. Doggett sent a couple of his Dogs with me. If you carry on with this… inquisition… you will not live to see another dawn. Nor will I or the others.’

  I thrust the paper inside my doublet and stamped to the door.

  In the room below I turned to J
ed. ‘Untie him,’ I ordered. As a bewildered Incent shook off his bonds, I said, ‘Get out. In future stick to your prayers and if anything untoward ever befalls me or my friends, expect a knock at your door.’

  My companions stared at me and each other in mute astonishment. I did not stay to explain. I strode out to the courtyard, mounted my horse and rode away from St Swithun’s. Not to London. Not across the bridge. Dickon and I ambled along Bankside and took the westward road between the Thames and Paris Garden. The ice was breaking up and the winter sun streaked the river with gold. It was, I realised, a year almost to the day that I had last come this way. A year? It might have been a century, crammed as it had been with bitter and bewildering incident. What had it all meant? What had I achieved? What had I learned?

  Exitus acta probat. If any three words could sum up what I now knew about human nature and had not known the previous January, they were these. ‘Results validate deeds’ – it had been Stephen Vaughan who explained that Latin tag to me, with evident disapproval, yet it seemed to me that almost everyone I had encountered was motivated by this principle. Those who believed some objective to be good considered it legitimate to employ any means – illegal, immoral, cruel or inhuman – to achieve it. I thought of the woman in grey, silently appealing to her audience to believe her innocence. For what good reason had her life been severed by a French headsman? According to Hugh Seagrave, she had made fun of her husband’s sexual inadequacy. If true, that threatened the dynasty. Kings must have sons. That is one of the rules they live by. Henry believed that the peace and security of the realm depended on his potency and his finding a wife who could give him the necessary man-child. No subject could be allowed to doubt the king’s ability and determination to conceive an heir. To scotch any such anxieties was, seemingly, an objective he deemed it worth killing for.