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

by D. K. Wilson

  He ran his eyes appraisingly over my torso. ‘Hm, yes, very fine. If I mistake not, you are a keen archer, Master Treviot.’

  ‘I practise regularly, as the king ordains… At least I did until recently.’

  ‘What deterred you? I prescribe regular exercise to all my patients. Now, turn round to the light.’ He ran his fingers over my upper back and neck and his touch was gentle but firm – like a woman’s.

  ‘Tell me, rather, how you came to leave the life of holy contemplation for this squalid haunt of whores and other outcasts,’ I said.

  ‘Did not Christ himself live among whores and outcasts? This may hurt a little.’ He pressed firmly on the broken bone. ‘This is what we medical men call the clavicula. It is particularly vulnerable to fracture but mends itself readily. What we have to do is make sure that it is straight when it reknits. You don’t want that fine physique marred by a crooked shoulder, do you? So we just tighten this binding a bit… like this.’ I winced as he did so.

  ‘Three weeks should see it completely mended,’ he continued, ‘though you should wait a little longer before you draw a bow again.’

  ‘You avoided my question,’ I said.

  ‘How came I here? I was the infirmarian at Farnfield for more than twenty years. Looking after the health of a community of men – many of them aged – provides one with a wide knowledge of simples and poultices, broken bones and fevers, herbs and tinctures. I had a good teacher and I also read the standard texts – Galen, Mundinus, even some of the Arab anatomists in Latin translation. But we were a small house and getting smaller, year by year. It’s hard to recruit novices these days. Young Jed – he was my companion on the road the other day – was the last to join us. Our prior was old and close to death. So, when Master Cromwell sent his commissioners out, Farnfield was ripe for the picking. We were all offered generous bribes to abandon our vows and threatened with being accused of unnatural vices if we refused. We took the easy option.’

  ‘But why come here?’

  Longbourne shook his head. ‘That’s enough of my story for one day. Let’s get your shirt back on. I’ve a sling here for your arm and a tonic of mugwort that will rebuild your strength.’ He gave a throaty chuckle. ‘You could say it was mugwort, or Artemisia, that brought us together. Jed and I were out gathering roots along the roadside on Tuesday when we came upon you.’

  ‘What day is it now?’

  ‘Saturday. You had a bad concussion but, God willing, there is no reason to fear permanent damage.’

  ‘Then, I may go home?’

  ‘Whenever you wish – though I would counsel another two days of rest to build up your strength. Jed makes a very efficacious chicken broth with leeks, and the women keep a good pottage on the go. Your horse is not yet rideable. He’s been reshod and I’ve poulticed his pastern. Come Monday he should be fit for duty again.’

  ‘You’ve taken a deal of trouble. I’m sorry I took you for a common highway thief.’

  Longbourne was busy repacking his knapsack. ‘You had reason. ’Tis not for nothing Southwark has its reputation. There are many of our neighbours who would have cut your throat for the clothes you stood up in. But not all men are bad and most men are not all bad and no man is so bad as to be beyond redemption. You might want to think on that.’ He shouldered his bag and left. Once more I heard the door being bolted.

  Still a prisoner, then, despite the apothecary’s assurance. I prowled the room, looking in vain for some means of escape. Manoeuvring through the window with one arm was out of the question. There were two doors but one led only to a tiny latrine closet. The stench suggested that the bucket had not been emptied for days and I quickly shut the door again. Sitting on a rickety chair beside a small table (these were the only items of furniture besides the bed), I assessed my situation. Should I watch for a chance to break free of my confinement or trust these strange people? How much easier it would have been, I reflected, if Ned and Jed had been murderous ruffians; if they had despatched me and thus reunited me with Jane.

  I was still nursing these melancholy thoughts when the woman came in. She set down on the table a kettle, from it ladled soup into a wooden bowl and plonked a small loaf of grey maslin bread beside it. It looked and smelled good and I stared at it.

  ‘Well, eat it,’ the woman said, hands on hips. ‘Or perhaps you think it’s poisoned.’

  ‘Would that it were,’ I muttered.

  ‘Oh!’ She gave a light laugh. ‘Weary of life today, are we? In that case I won’t waste good food.’ She stooped to retrieve the bowl.

  ‘No,’ I said hurriedly, taking up the spoon. ‘Thank you for the soup.’ I began to eat hungrily.

  ‘I’m sorry if I appeared ungrateful yesterday,’ I mumbled, not catching her eye.

  ‘You did not appear ungrateful; you were ungrateful.’ She shrugged. ‘But that’s no less than we’re used to.’

  ‘I don’t know your name,’ I said, trying to thaw the atmosphere.

  ‘Lizzie.’

  ‘Just Lizzie?’

  ‘We have no use for family names here. We’re all family.’

  Now that I could see her more clearly I realised that this young woman was quite pretty – in a basic sort of way. No vulgar stain coloured her lips. Her cheeks still had the bloom of youth and needed no creams. There was about her a strong smell of rosewater, presumably another concoction of Master Longbourne. Southwark had yet to turn her into a jaded bawd.

  ‘Your apothecary suggested I might walk free,’ I ventured. ‘Yet I see the door is still kept locked.’

  ‘There’s too much of the monk about old Ned.’ She scowled. ‘He says, because you’re a gentleman, you’ll see us right. Well, I don’t set no store by gentlemen. You see this?’ She pulled her hair back and turned her head to the light, revealing a long, livid scar across her neck. ‘That was done by a gentleman. Gentle is as gentle does in my reckoning. We aren’t a charity. I’ve given up several customers these last days, looking after you. Well, I deserve payment for my services, don’t I?’

  ‘Of course.’ I finished the soup and held out the bowl for a refill. ‘As soon as I get home I’ll have money sent to you.’

  She threw back her head and laughed. ‘Oh yes, my fine merchant. Part with the goods now and accept payment later? Is that the way you do business? When you walk through that door that’s the last I see of you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Then come with me and collect your fee in person.’

  ‘And have your servants send me off with a flea in my ear? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Lizzie, I don’t know what else to suggest. There has to be trust somewhere.’

  ‘What I trust is silver with the king’s head on it – here!’ She held out her hand.

  I could see her point. The question was whether I could make her see mine. I seized the hand and held it. ‘Look, we seem to have made a bad start. I’m sorry. Blame the bang on my head. You ask how I do business. Well, the answer is only with people I trust. And I find that trust breeds trust. That whole city over the water has its foundations in trust. Without trust London would not be one of the greatest trade centres in the world. I owe you a debt. You and your friends probably saved my life. I will honour that debt. Trust me. Please.’

  She withdrew her hand but her frown had gone. She looked thoughtful. I tried to read the thoughts behind her dark eyes and she quickly turned away. Then she stood suddenly. ‘Very well. I’ll probably regret this but I’m prepared to put your “honour” to the test. Come with me and I’ll show you something. Make a run for it and I’ll know what a sham your “honour” is.’

  She led me out into a corridor that had been formed by reducing the size of what had once been interconnecting rooms so that each chamber now had its own door and enjoyed privacy. We descended the original wide staircase into a hall where half a dozen women sat huddled around a hearth in which logs blazed. An outer door led into the courtyard, which we crossed to the main gateway and so passed out, under the creaking s
ignboard with its image of a mitred saint, into a busy, narrow street.

  ‘This way,’ Lizzie said, taking my arm. We turned to the right and followed the lane until we were confronted by the high stone wall of Winchester Palace. Sometimes my guide nodded to or exchanged a word with passers-by – members of her own close-knit community. At one point a woman leaning from an upper casement called out, ‘Who’s your new darling, Liz?’ and Lizzie stuck out her tongue by way of reply. After we had passed the palace gatehouse, where she paused to flirt with the guard, my guide steered me off the lane and on to a track, barely distinguishable under the melting snow, which crossed the bishop’s parkland. A few more paces and she stopped.

  ‘There, do you see it?’

  I scanned the empty expanse of white, dotted with trees.

  ‘Where am I supposed to be looking?’

  ‘Just here, in front of us.’

  The ground closest to us was uneven, broken by a series of little mounds. There was nothing to attract attention.

  I shook my head. ‘I can’t see…’

  ‘Exactly. Just an unremarkable stretch of land, generously donated by His Grace, the Bishop of Winchester. It’s called the Unmarried Women’s Graveyard. You know, of course, what “unmarried women” means. This is where we end up – where I will end up – buried in unconsecrated ground, an unrepentant sinner not worthy of Christian burial. The bishop takes our rents. His priests use our services. But at the end the Church turns its back on us. We enter purgatory with no shriving, no passing bell, no sacrament. We can go to hell for all the Church cares.’

  There was a long silence. I stared at the bleak, unmarked hummocks and thought of my Jane’s memorial in the Berentine Chantry in St John Zachary with its carved, fresh-painted effigy; the tomb where I had often imagined myself being laid beside her – together again and supported by the obits of the priest performed every year’s mind. But for this girl-woman beside me no such comfort. It had never occurred to me before that respectability was just as much a barrier in whatever lay beyond death as it was in the London and Southwark of the living. We had begun our walk back to St Swithun’s House before I said, ‘At least you have one churchman who seems to care.’

  ‘Old Ned?’

  ‘Yes. How did he come to be here?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps he regards it as a sort of penance. He and Jed had to quit the monastery.’ She paused, and seemed to be choosing her words carefully. ‘At St Swithun’s we ask no questions and make no judgements. Anyway, he’s useful to have around.’

  ‘For treating the pox and carrying out abortions?’

  I had not meant the words to sound judgemental but Lizzie stopped suddenly, glaring. ‘Mother of God, you spleeny, puffed-up ingrate! Ned and Jed should have left you to freeze to death. The folks here are flesh and blood, same as you. We get sick, same as you. Just because you can afford fancy physicians and barber surgeons don’t think you’re any different underneath your fine clothes.’

  We completed our journey in silence.

  That evening I asked for pen and paper and wrote a brief letter to the only man I could take into my confidence; a man whom I knew would provide ransom money without demur and without alarming my mother – Robert Packington. He was a prominent member of the Mercers’ Company, had been my father’s closest friend and was now a great stay to my mother in her widowhood. To me he had always been a sort of unofficial uncle, somewhat austere in demeanour but always understanding and encouraging. Without disclosing my whereabouts, I asked him to entrust to the bearer a sum of money that, I calculated, should more than compensate everyone at the Sign of St Swithun for my board and lodging. I showed it to Ned Longbourne for his approval and he arranged for Jed to deliver it and return with the cash.

  So it was that after spending six days in the Southwark Stews I returned to Goldsmith’s Row and respectability – and to the inevitable inquisition that, I knew, would await me.

  Chapter 3

  I had a tub of hot water brought to my chamber, washed myself thoroughly and changed my clothes before going to my mother’s rooms on the upper floor. I found her in the window seat with one of her women bent over her sewing. As soon as she saw me she jumped up, the needlework falling to the floor.

  ‘Tom! Oh Tom! Thank God! Your father and I have been so worried, haven’t we, my love?’ She gazed past my shoulder into the empty space beyond. ‘We have had the servants out every day scouring the City. Your father posted reward notices and alerted the constables to look for you. We distributed your portrait – the one done for your sixteenth birthday. Master Holbein made a copper engraving. No one saw you anywhere. You really must stop going off by yourself without telling anyone. If you must go a-riding take one of the servants. What would happen here if any ill befell you? Tom, I don’t know whether to be cross or happy.’

  I was saved from responding to this torrent by a familiar footfall on the stair. A moment later the tall figure of Robert Packington was framed in the doorway. He was dressed in his usual black with a simple gold chain round his neck. The square cut of his grey-streaked beard made his frown look even more formidable. With scarce a glance at me, he strode across the room, scuffing up the herbs which the servants always kept fresh-laid. He made a slight bow.

  ‘Isabel, how are you today? I see the prodigal has returned.’ He turned to me. ‘God be praised for our answered prayers. Someone entered the shop and told me you’d been seen. I came round straightway. You’ve been attacked, I see. I’ll send straightly for Doctor Drudgeon to examine that arm.’

  ‘I thank you, Robert, but there is no need. ’Tis no more than a broken collar bone – my horse stumbled – and it’s been reset by… er… a professional.’ I had not yet decided how much I would tell Robert about my adventure. I was sure he would never understand the people at the Sign of St Swithun.

  ‘Excuse me, Mistress.’ My mother’s woman was hovering in the doorway. ‘The horse litter is here at the door from Mistress Galloway’s.’

  ‘Mistress Galloway?’ My mother shook her head, trying to remember.

  ‘Aye, Mistress, her time is nearly here and you promised to call.’

  My mother rose with a sigh. ‘Ah yes. Now, Tom, you’re not to set foot outside the house till I return. Stay and tell your father everything. Everything, mind! You understand?’

  When she had left, Robert drew a joined stool up to the window and perched himself upon it. ‘I’ve told her nothing about the letter or the uncouth fellow who brought it,’ he said. ‘It would confuse her, or, I should say, increase her already growing confusion.’

  ‘Thank you, Robert. That was thoughtful. And thank you even more for helping me. I could not leave my hosts without showing my appreciation. Before you leave I’ll reimburse you.’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing. I’m just happy that I was there for you to turn to. Now, tell me what happened.’

  ‘I really remember little about it. Poor Dickon stumbled in the icy ruts and I had a bad fall. I was unconscious a long time. Fortunately some kind folk found me and nursed me back to health.’

  Robert held me in an unblinking gaze. ‘And where did all this happen?’

  With a great effort I managed not to look away. ‘Somewhere south of the river. As I say, it’s all a blur in my mind.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Robert regarded me with a quizzically raised eyebrow. ‘Last week I was offered six bales of fine silk by a Spanish merchant who claimed to have imported them direct from the Orient. The price was good but I turned it down. Something about the man did not ring true. Later, news arrived that a Venetian merchantman had been waylaid by pirates off Coruna and despoiled of a cargo of silks. As I grow older I find my first impressions are usually reliable.’

  I stood up. ‘I’m forgetting my manners, Robert. Let me pour you some wine.’ I stepped across to the livery cupboard and returned with a goblet of Canary. ‘I’m sorry about all the fuss and worry I’ve caused but I really did contact you as soon as I could.’


  He waved a hand. ‘And I am sorry that you feel unable to take me into your full confidence. But, no matter, we’ve more important things to talk about. Solomon wrote, “A foolish son is grief to his father and bitterness to she who bore him.” If your father were here now he would, indeed, grieve to see how much you have let yourself be overwhelmed by the loss of Jane. As for your mother, she has had her own cross to bear these last months and you have seen how hard it is for her to bear it. You should have been here to comfort her instead of disappearing, day after day, to brood in private. And you must look to your standing within the Goldsmiths’ Company. Reputations are easier lost than gained.’

  I stood by the window, staring out at the busy street. ‘No man can know how deeply the loss of a loved one will affect him.’

  ‘Do you suppose you’re the only man to lose a wife? I have buried two.’