by D. K. Wilson
‘Out! Out!’ she screeched, her eyes glaring at me through the visor of her cloths. ‘You damned slack-brained clodpole! Look what you’ve done to me! You’ve killed me!’
‘Not so, Lizzie —’
‘Yes. Look at me. I was only good for one thing! Who will want to bed me now?’
Ned tried to calm her. ‘The scar may not be that bad. We shan’t know until —’
‘Damn your lukewarm lies, monk! I’m as good as starved to death and you know it. Why did you ever bring your merchant friend here? Everything has gone wrong since then.’
I tried again. ‘Lizzie, please listen. I can help. Perhaps take you somewhere where you can recover properly; where you’ll be safer.’
It was no use. ‘Do you think I’d go anywhere with you? Jolthead!’ She lay down again and turned away from us.
We retreated to Ned’s chamber.
‘She’s right, of course,’ he observed mournfully. ‘We’re a tight, supportive community here but if she can no longer pay her way…’
‘That’s why I think I should take her into my own household.’
Ned’s thick brows rose in an incredulous stare. ‘Master Thomas. I commend your compassion, but to take a whore under your roof. The scandal!’ He shook his head. ‘Even if Lizzie agreed, I cannot think it would do either of you any good.’
‘No one need know about her past,’ I said.
Ned’s laugh was mirthless. ‘I doubt you could keep that secret from prying neighbours and gossiping servants.’
‘I have an idea that might work,’ I explained. ‘My mother is away at our country house with a small household. It’s very quiet there and my mother would value the company. If we tidy Lizzie up… some respectable clothes… Do you not think she could be made very presentable?’
‘I have little experience of ladies,’ Ned said, ‘but I think your mother would not be easily fooled.’
‘My mother, alas, is failing in mind. Sometimes she does not even know me.’
Ned stood for several moments, his brow furrowed. ‘Thomas,’ he said at last, ‘I have seen what evil tricks guilt can play. I have watched brothers punish their bodies and minds with self-imposed penances. Scourging and hair shirts are all very well for the saints but they are not right for all of us.’
‘I’m not suggesting this to quiet my own conscience,’ I replied. ‘At least I don’t think so. You heard what Lizzie said about me…’
‘She is bitter and frightened…’
‘I know what she fears.’ I recalled our visit to the unmarried women’s burial plot. ‘I want to deliver her from that fear if I can. That much I owe her. Do you have a better plan?’
Ned’s mournful silence was my answer.
‘Then will you try to persuade her to give my plan a try?’
Chapter 8
The next day I arrived at Robert’s house in Sopers Lane in good time for our appointment with the Wardens of the Goldsmiths’ Company. I was shown into the garden where his wife Margaret sat reading beneath a mulberry tree, which was just coming into full leaf. She rose to greet me and, in so doing, let slip her book. When I retrieved it she took it hastily, closed it and, placing it beside her, covered it with a piece of tapestry she had been sewing, but not before I had read the name ‘Luther’ on the fly leaf.
Margaret, a plump lady in her forties, was as serious in her demeanour as her husband. ‘I am sorry Robert is not back yet,’ she said as I seated myself at her side. ‘He had to go to Bakewell Hall. A consignment of cloths in from Suffolk, I believe. You know how it is when the clothiers arrive; all the dealers converge like wasps on a honey pot. Of course, if it had not been the clothiers, it would have been Mercers’ Company business, or City Council business or parliament – you did know he’s back in the Commons house? – and as if that wasn’t enough there always seem to be little jobs to do for Master Cromwell. What with one thing or another we rarely see him these days. ’Tis particularly hard on his children.’
When she paused to draw breath, I said, ‘I know how busy he is. I feel guilty that this little affair of mine is taking up still more of his time.’
‘Oh, no, Thomas, you must not think that. Robert is very happy to help. He was so very fond of your father. He regards you as almost one of his own children.’
At that moment Robert appeared from the house, striding over the newly scythed grass with his usual purposeful gait. As soon as he had greeted us, Mistress Packington took her cue and returned indoors. Robert took her place on the bench.
‘Now,’ he began, in his usual brisk manner, ‘I have made enquiries into Brother Simon Leyland and the business he runs with his younger brother. It seems that they are not the most scrupulous merchants in London. There was a case of false weights a few years ago which they managed to escape with a small fine. Their clients include some of the highest in the land and that has created problems for them.’
‘How so?’
‘They have lent to members of the king’s council and court who have been less than prompt in making repayment. As a result they have been obliged to borrow secretly from foreign merchants. They desperately need new customers.’
‘Which explains why they have been poaching mine.’
‘Exactly. Now, we cannot make accusations at your hearing. The Leylands are not under examination. But we might be able to make subtle references that the Court are sure to recognise.’
‘Why do you say “we”?’ I asked.
‘You’ve never been present at a meeting of the Court of Assistants, I suppose.’
‘No, I thank God. No one is summoned before that august body unless he is in real trouble.’
Robert allowed himself a slight smile. ‘You should not be too much in awe of them; they are only a dozen fallible present and past wardens and they have to overlook every aspect of the Company’s life. They will have several other matters on their agenda today. I suggested to the Prime Warden that your affair might be dealt with more expeditiously if I were to speak on your behalf.’
‘But you are not of our fellowship,’ I protested.
‘The rules permit you to have an advocate present and they do not specify that he must be a member of the Company. So, I will be beside you and I suggest you take your lead from me. Above all else be sure to appear humble and contrite.’
We spent several more minutes discussing the forthcoming ordeal and, after a light dinner that I was too nervous to do much justice to, we set off for Goldsmiths’ Hall. My examination by the Wardens’ Court took place in what was called the Ladies’ Chamber, a first-floor parlour of large size but comfortably furnished. It was here that members’ wives and daughters were entertained and where the Court held meetings.
After a short wait we were admitted. The new Prime Warden, Sir John Mundy, sat behind a long table, flanked by eleven of his colleagues, all wearing their blue scarlet-hooded robes of office. At one end a scribe was stationed. The only sound was the scratching of his pen. Robert and I stood in the middle of the room.
Eventually Mundy looked up with a grave half-smile. ‘Master Packington, it is an honour to welcome you. Brother Treviot is extremely fortunate to have you as his advocate.’ Mundy directed his gaze at me and the smile faded. ‘Brother Treviot, it is not the custom of this Worshipful Company to pass judgement on the private lives of members. We are interested only in preserving the high standards of workmanship and business practice for which we are justly famous. However, when the conduct of a brother attracts unfavourable comment and impairs his relationship with other members as well as customers, we have to take note of it. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’ I stood, looking, I hoped, suitably abashed, my eyes fixed on the herb-strewn floor.
The Prime Warden continued. ‘It has been noted for some months that you have neglected your shop and effectively delegated the conduct of business to someone who is not a freeman. Furthermore, you have been recognised paying frequent visits south of the river to a place of disrepute, a
s one result of which you absented yourself from the St Dunstan’s Day assembly. All this may suggest to some observers that you have scant regard for the privileges and responsibilities of membership of this Worshipful Company. If this council failed to take action it might appear that we condoned such a casual attitude. Can you produce any explanation that might influence the decision we have to reach?’
Robert now intervened. ‘Masters, not twelve months since, your Worshipful Company and, indeed, the whole merchant community of the City suffered an irreplaceable loss in the death of the older Thomas Treviot. That loss, however, was as nothing compared with that sustained by his family. Before his grieving son could recover from that blow he sustained another in the decease of his young wife. The wise Solomon tells us, “There is a time for sadness and a time for mirth; a time to grieve and a time to dance.” Who can say how long these times, set by God, should last? Grief may be like a cave a man enters, hoping to pass through it and emerge into the sunlight once more. Yet, if the cave be long and beset with twists and turns, he may despair of ever escaping from the dark. Such despair may turn to madness. Masters, should not those of us who are older and have seen more of the world’s trials be lights in the darkness?’
It was Under Warden Thomas Sponer, a lean-faced, thin-lipped man, who responded. ‘Eloquently put, Master Packington. We are well aware of our responsibility to help and we have given support in various ways over the last few months. But we do have to satisfy ourselves that the recipients of our beneficence respond by doing all they can to help themselves. As Prime Warden Mundy has said, our ultimate responsibility is to guard the good name of the whole fellowship and we cannot permit any individual to jeopardise it.’ He turned a stern gaze upon me. ‘Brother Treviot, this council is entrusted with certain disciplinary powers that it must exercise for the good of the Worshipful Company. Our ultimate sanction, as you are aware, is the suspension of a brother freeman from membership, either temporarily or permanently.’
Beside me, Robert coughed lightly and, when I glanced in his direction, he nodded imperceptibly. I took the hint.
‘Sirs, I am very grateful for your wise advice and for the practical assistance you and other brothers have given me over these difficult months. I see now that my preoccupation with my own troubles has blinded me to the problems I have posed to the Worshipful Company. For this I beg Your Worships’ forgiveness.’
Robert added, ‘I can vouch for the fact that Brother Treviot has, indeed, carefully considered his former conduct. He has already reassumed full responsibility for his business. If Your Worships are prepared to allow me to act as his guide and mentor, I believe it will not be necessary to take any drastic action at this stage.’
The councillors consulted in lowered voices. I watched nervously, my whole body taut with anxiety. From their gestures and glances I gained the impression that, while several were responding favourably to Robert’s words, Under Warden Sponer was arguing for an example to be made of me. My advocate chose his moment for another intervention.
‘Masters, it might help if I were to mention a not dissimilar incident that occurred some months ago in my own company. One of our brethren had fallen into financial difficulties. He was too proud to seek help from his seniors. Instead, he tried to recover his position by dishonest means. Eventually we summoned him before the wardens. Instead of answering that summons, he cut his own throat. To this day I feel guilty about that. I know that my colleagues and I should have intervened sooner. But worse was to follow. When we met to sort out the poor fellow’s affairs, we discovered that members of our own fellowship had been seeking to profit from their brother’s difficulties. I forbear to go into details. I simply wanted to assure you that I am only too aware of the responsibility you carry and the many factors you have to take into account.’
Some twenty minutes later Robert and I were walking back down Foster Lane, he in his usual steady stride, me with a decided spring in my step.
‘Thank you so much, Robert,’ I said. ‘That was masterly. Perhaps you should not have abandoned the law.’
He waved a hand dismissively. ‘My hypothetical case may have made them reflect more deeply.’
‘Hypothetical?’ I exclaimed.
‘Yes, I did mention that it was simply an example of what could happen, did I not?’ He stepped ahead to sidle past a wagon that was taking up all the width of the lane because of scaffolding coating St Vedast’s Church. I caught up with him as we turned into West Cheap.
‘Did you see Sponer’s face? He was furious.’
‘You must have a care for friend Sponer. He is very thick with Leyland. And you must follow your wardens’ injunction to the letter. You are on probation for six months and must appear before them again in December. Your behaviour between now and then must be impeccable and I have solemnly sworn to ensure that it is so. It will do no harm for you to be seen accompanying me to church sometimes. Above all, you must look to your own soul. I trust you are still reading the New Testament.’
It was after this that I did start to leaf through Tyndale’s book in the seclusion of my own chamber. I began with the fifteenth chapter of St Luke’s Gospel, to which Robert had particularly directed my attention. There I read about a graceless son who forsook his own home, wasted all his money in ‘riotous living’ and returned to his father, who welcomed him as though nothing had happened. I could not doubt that I had been directed to this particular text as the strongest possible hint that I should repent of my involvement with disreputable companions and return to mercantile respectability. I was now more than ready to comply. The days passed with no word from Ned and, as it was evident that Lizzie had spurned my offer of help, I satisfied myself that I had done all I could and, probably, more than I should.
Come early June I had put St Swithun’s House and all its turbulent events behind me. That was when I received a message from Ned. He had, with great difficulty, persuaded Lizzie to accept my offer of a temporary refuge.
Chapter 9
There was much to organise if Lizzie was to be comfortably installed at Hemmings. First she had to be supplied with a suitable wardrobe. I had retained one of Jane’s close attendants and now I had her make a selection of my wife’s clothes. Jane’s press had not been opened since her death and I still could not face going through her things. I left the task to young Susannah, saying that I was making provision for a friend of Jane’s who had fallen on hard times. When a large coffer had been filled with what Susannah assured me were all the necessary garments, I sent word to Ned, who brought a wagon to collect it.
The move began on a midsummer day that promised great heat. Ned and Jed came to Goldsmith’s Row to collect my koch or coach. My father had been one of the first in London to order a vehicle built to the latest design from the Continent and it made journeys to and from Hemmings much more comfortable for my mother and her attendants. It was also the envy of our neighbours – a fact from which my mother derived secret pleasure. Soon after the koch’s departure I set out on horseback and reached my house near Ightham in the Wealden valley early in the evening. Thus, I arrived a full half day before the Southwark party and was able to prepare my mother to receive our guest.
I was in the small summer parlour overlooking Hemmings’s broad lawn when that guest arrived. Mother sat by the window to catch the light on her sewing. Lizzie entered, holding Ned’s arm. I had been faintly curious to know what she would look like in her new attire but was quite unprepared for the transformation that had come over her. Gone were the wrinkled chemise and the brown, drab woollen gown. Gone was the lustrous but unruly cascade of unrestrained hair. Lizzie now appeared in a dark-green embroidered kirtle, with sleeves of a lighter shade and a russet overgown. Her hair was combed and covered with a simple linen coif. She appeared every inch the modest maiden. The only thing that marred her appearance was the dark oval patch applied to her left cheek. When I introduced her she made a light curtsey.
‘Mistress Treviot, this is so kind. I
do hope I shall not be a bother to you. Oh, what fine needlework. May I look?’
My mother handed over her sewing frame, completely won over. ‘You are more than welcome, Mistress…? You must tell me your name again, child. Tom mumbles so.’
‘Garney, Elizabeth Garney, but my friends call me Lizzie.’
‘Come and sit here, in the window, Lizzie. I think Tom has told me very little about you but I do tend to forget things.’
‘Dear Tom is such a secretive young man.’ Lizzie threw a cynical smile in my direction.
I left them to become acquainted and withdrew with Ned to the hall.
‘How did you persuade her to come?’ I asked. ‘I really thought she hated me too much even to consider my proposal.’
Ned chuckled. ‘Ah, that was before I was able to offer her the bribe.’
‘Bribe?’
‘There are many women who would do almost anything for a fine set of fashionable clothes.’
