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

by D. K. Wilson

  I took out the copy of Tyndale’s book that Robert had given me but before I began to read another thought struck me. Robert had but just returned from the Netherlands where, to judge from his brief letters, he had been in some difficulty, perhaps in danger. I recalled what he had said about Tyndale’s death – strangled and burned for a heretic. Since Robert held the author in such high regard, could it have been that he, too, had fallen foul of the Dutch authorities? Might some agent of their Catholic rulers have followed him to London with orders to kill him? I recalled Robert’s last, brief note, ‘I am returned safely and have much to tell you.’ What dark news had he been bringing from over the sea? Was he silenced to stop him passing it on?

  So many questions. No answers. The coroner was seeking them in his own ponderous way but I had little confidence in his ability to uncover the truth. My easiest option would have been to leave everything to the authorities but that was not possible – not only because of the outrage I felt at my friend’s brutal and cowardly murder, but also because I did not know whether I was safe. And, if my life was under threat, might not the same be true of those closest to me? Anxiety impelled me to make an urgent journey to Hemmings.

  Chapter 12

  I was out on the Rochester and Canterbury road by first light, riding with a pair of well-armed servants. I had to get down to the manor as quickly as possible. An ungovernable fear gripped me: might not the mysterious assassin or his paymaster have marked my mother and son for death? If I was their target, they would soon have realised that their plot had failed. The news of Robert’s murder had been all over London within a couple of hours. For aught I knew, fresh plans were already afoot for another attempt on my life and, if on mine, why not also on the lives of those I loved?

  There was another reason for my impromptu visit – I wanted to see Lizzie. One clear idea that had disentangled itself from the nocturnal jumble in my mind was that she might be able to help me. She had spent much of her life in the company of violent men – desperate vagrants, soldiers turned highway robbers, child-stealing gypsies, hucksters of every hue and cut-throats who would, as they said, ‘skene a weasand-pipe’ for a purseful of groats. The more I thought about the events of the previous day, the more convinced I became that the assassin must be a professional. That or a madman. He could obviously handle an arquebus with deadly accuracy (though just how he had managed it was still a mystery). He was bold enough to discharge his weapon in full view of other people, and agile enough to make his getaway quickly and safely. As I rode along the rutted road between trees silvered with frost, I tried to form a mental picture of Robert’s slayer. If I discounted the idea of a lunatic, it seemed that the man we were dealing with must be one who was not new to his craft. He had killed before. Whether or not he was foreign, he must be someone existing on the margins of society, a member of the law-defying underworld. He could not live in total isolation. He needed accomplices; people he could turn to for contacts, for shelter, for information. If I could gain access to that criminal Hades, I might be able to find some leads.

  We reached Hemmings late in the afternoon. I saw Dickon stabled, took a few loosening strides round the yard and splashed icy water from a butt over my face. Then I went indoors through the domestic quarters. Entering the small hall from the screens passage a wave of warm air met me. A good fire blazed in the hearth and a semicircle of chairs and stools was arranged before it. I approached this barrier and found Lizzie kneeling on the rushes with little Raphael. She was holding out a bright red apple to him and encouraging him to walk in order to grasp it. Both of them were absorbed in the game and I was able to watch unnoticed for several seconds. The boy seemed very sturdy as he wobbled forward, holding out one hand for the fruit and clutching his skirts with the other. His hair was darkening now and when I looked at him I did not automatically think of Jane. When he fell, Lizzie did not lift him; she simply waved the apple until Raphael got to his feet unaided.

  ‘The boy is doing well,’ I said quietly.

  Lizzie looked up, a quick smile dissolving rapidly into a frown. I was pleased to see that she no longer covered her scar, which had faded to a thin white line. ‘We are honoured,’ she said, rising and picking up the child as she did so. ‘Raphy, look, here’s your father come to visit.’

  The boy surveyed me uncertainly, then turned his face away and buried it in Lizzie’s neck. She came forward and held him out to me. ‘Here, you two need to get to know each other.’ As I clumsily took the boy in my arms, Lizzie walked away. ‘I have to prepare his food,’ she said and strode through the screens doorway.

  I sat in an armed chair with Raphael on my lap but immediately he squealed, slipped to the floor and tried to follow his nurse. After a few staggered paces he fell and lay on the rushes. His face creased into an expression of desolation and he let out an anguished wail. When I tried to pick him up he struggled and refused to be comforted. I picked up the apple and held it out but the child’s interest in this colourful lure had waned. I set him on his feet and tried to help him walk but he pulled away with surprising force. In doing so he rolled over backwards. His head was within inches of the fire. I quickly grabbed him and pulled him away. This, of course, frightened him and he now began howling in real earnest.

  Fortunately Lizzie returned at this moment carrying a bowl and spoon. These she set down and, with a scowl in my direction, picked up Raphael and jogged him gently until his tears had subsided. My presence was clearly superfluous.

  ‘I had better go and see my mother,’ I said, rising. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In her chamber, as ever. She seldom leaves it.’

  ‘Right. When I come down I shall want to talk to you.’

  Lizzie shrugged by way of response and I left her to her duties.

  The atmosphere in my mother’s room was close almost to the point of being stifling. The windows were fast closed and the shutters only half open. Smoke seeped from the smouldering fire and the light was so dim that it was some moments before I could discern her. She was sitting to one side of the hearth, upright in a padded chair, wrapped in furs, staring motionless straight ahead.

  ‘Good day, Mother.’ I stooped to kiss her cheek.

  She inclined her head slightly. ‘Who’s that?’ Her voice was faint and wheezy.

  ‘It’s Tom, Mother, come to see how you are.’

  ‘Tom? My Tom?’ Her wrinkles seemed to deepen with the effort of understanding what I said. ‘Tom isn’t here… not any more. He’s gone.’

  ‘It’s your son Tom. I’m still here. I’ve been in London… in the shop. I’ve ridden down to see you.’ I took her hand in mine.

  ‘Tom’s gone,’ she murmured. ‘Gone… gone.’

  I opened the shutters fully and, though the outside air was cold, I threw wide the casement, letting in a breeze to disperse the stuffy atmosphere.

  ‘Where’s your maid? Where’s Margaret?’ I demanded.

  The only response was a puzzled frown and the repetition of the word, ‘Gone.’

  Distraught and angry, I hurried down to the kitchen. The cook was there with two scullions. They looked at me warily from across the table, as though they feared I might strike them. When I demanded to know Margaret’s whereabouts they looked sheepishly from one to the other and it was the cook who answered. ‘Left, Master Thomas. Not two days since.’

  ‘Left? Why?’

  There was no reply.

  I slammed my fist on the table. ‘Answer me, damn you! No servant of mine leaves without my permission.’

  ‘Perhaps she was afraid of the Yorkshiremen,’ the cook suggested. ‘Is it true the rebels are camped on Smithfield?’

  ‘Certainly not! That is a silly rumour. She had no cause to run away and leave her mistress. Who is saying such things?’

  ‘Most of the people round about – and the servants you sent down from London, Master. They say there’s panic in the City and like to be war, as in our grandsires’ day. They reckon we’ll be no safer here than in West
Cheap.’

  ‘That is foolish scare-mongering.’ I tried to sound calm and reassuring. ‘It was only as a precaution that I sent everyone down from Goldsmith’s Row. The rebellion is all in the North. You are safe here. Now, who is looking after Mistress Treviot?’

  Again the exchange of embarrassed glances. At last the cook said, ‘That will be your… friend, Master Thomas.’

  ‘You mean Mistress Garney?’

  The woman nodded.

  I strode back to the hall. Lizzie was standing before the fire, cradling Raphael in her arms. Before I could speak she raised a finger to her lips. ‘Wait while I put him down,’ she said quietly.

  When she returned and we were seated by the fire, I asked, ‘What has been happening here? The servants seem terrified, Margaret has disappeared and my mother is getting worse.’

  Lizzie nodded. ‘Aye, I’ve seen less juggle-headed souls in Bedlam.’

  ‘But why? Has there been trouble – strangers calling, people making threats? Is there danger? Do you think anyone has traced you here from Southwark?’

  Her face twisted into its familiar scowl. ‘If you think I’ve brought danger to your household, you can send me back. I’m only here as your conscience, anyway.’

  ‘What is that supposed to mean?’ I tried to keep the anger out of my voice.

  ‘You sent me here to do what you’ve no liking for – to care for your mother and your son.’

  ‘That is not true. I am trying to do the best for everyone. There are terrible things happening and I just want to be sure that you are all safe here. Can you not credit me with some finer feelings?’

  Lizzie shrugged and stretched out her hands towards the glowing logs. ‘Bad things are happening here, too,’ she said. ‘Three men were arrested in Ightham for speaking against the closure of a local nunnery and there was a brawl in the church on Sunday when someone tried to pull the preacher out of the pulpit. You talk about being safe, is anyone safe anywhere?’

  ‘I don’t know. All I can do is try to protect everyone under this roof.’

  After a pause, I asked, ‘What became of Margaret and why did she leave?’

  ‘She found your mother difficult to handle. I tried to help. She resented it.’ Lizzie stared into the red heart of the fire and added, ‘They all hate me. They think I’ve brought bad luck to Hemmings.’

  ‘You must not pay any attention to such nonsense,’ I said. ‘Anyway if anyone is a courier of bad luck it’s me.’ In as few words as possible I told her about Robert’s murder and the mystery assassin.

  Lizzie showed no emotion. ‘Death and trouble seem to follow you everywhere,’ she commented eventually.

  ‘I was just wondering…’ I faltered. ‘Look, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way… I’m completely at a loss because this creature lives in a world I know nothing about. Can you think of anyone who might be able to tell me something about such an assassin.’

  Her reply was prompt. She turned to face me. ‘No, and if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.’

  ‘Lizzie, I…’

  She stood abruptly. ‘You talk about keeping us all safe and in the next breath you tell me you want to stalk a murderer. God, Mary and all the angels, I see now why your mother is beside her wits. ’Tis in the family. You’re all mad!’ She turned to walk away.

  I stood in her path and grabbed her arm. ‘Lizzie, I owe it to Robert. I have to find this villain.’

  ‘Go on, then!’ Her face was inches from my own, her cheeks flushed with anger. ‘Get yourself killed. I’ll lose no sleep over that. But what’s to become of everyone here… poor Mistress Treviot… and little Raphy. He has no mother and now you want to make him an orphan. And all out of some petty thirst for vengeance. Do you think that’s what your precious Robert wants? Is he looking down from heaven,’ she crossed herself, ‘and urging you to throw away everything, destroy even more lives? Some friend that! Now let go or, by the saints, I’ll kill you myself!’

  I retained my grasp. ‘Lizzie, please listen. All you say is absolutely true and don’t think I haven’t thought of it. In fact, I’ve thought of little else these past twenty-four hours and more. But things are not that simple.’

  ‘Why not?’ She shook herself free. ‘You can leave everything to the coroner and the constables. ’Tis their job. I doubt they’ll find the assassin but your conscience will be clear.’

  ‘I have no choice. If it was just a matter of getting justice for Robert and his widow, I might walk away. I don’t think I would but it’s possible and your arguments just might persuade me. But what if the murderer and his paymaster are really after me? Suppose Seagrave’s family is determined to avenge his death. They blame me… and probably you. And they certainly have money enough to pay a professional killer.’

  ‘But, you don’t know —’

  ‘No, I don’t! That’s the trouble. I just don’t know what all this is about. What I do know is that until the mystery of Robert’s death is solved, none of us may be safe… not me, not my mother, not my son… and not you. Whatever you may think of me, I have the utmost respect and… admiration for you. Do you think I can stand by and do nothing while there is just a chance that all our lives might be in danger?’

  Lizzie sank on to a stool. She groaned. ‘I should have known you were trouble the first time I set eyes on you. If I had not been such a fool and taken pity on you…’ Her hand went to her cheek and she left the sentence hanging.

  ‘I shall always be grateful for that,’ I said. ‘Is there really nothing you can tell me that might help settle this matter quickly?’

  She sat staring into the hearth for a long time before answering. At last she said, ‘Very well. Go to the Red Lamb beyond Southwark. Go in broad daylight and when there are many people abroad and, in God’s name, don’t go alone. Ask for Doggett. John Doggett knows everything but tells nothing unless he is sure it’s safe… and unless the price is right. You might take Ned to vouch for you. Doggett and his associates don’t care much for strangers.’

  Chapter 13

  The following morning, before I made the return journey to London, I called the whole household together. I had to exhort them to vigilance without alarming them – no easy matter. I told them not to believe wild rumours about the northern rebels. The king’s army, I assured them, had the situation under control. London, I reported, was its usual busy but calm self. Nevertheless the disturbed times inevitably encouraged an increase in lawlessness and they were to be on their guard, especially if they encountered strangers. On no account were the doors of Hemmings to be opened to anyone unknown. In private I instructed my steward to employ all the extra men he needed to patrol the estate. He was also to find a competent and trustworthy replacement for Margaret. In the meantime, I told him, Mistress Garney would attend my mother as well as my son and should be treated with courtesy by all the servants, if they valued their jobs. Part of me – a large part – wanted to stay longer but if I was to have any chance of locating the man I was looking for, I would have to act quickly.

  On my way through Southwark later that day I called at St Swithun’s House in the hope of enlisting Ned’s help. He was not there so I left a message asking him to call at Goldsmith’s Row as soon as he could.

  Ned came that evening and I settled him in my chamber with a glass of sack while I recounted the circumstances of Robert’s death.

  He stretched out his legs to the fire. ‘We heard, of course, about Master Packington, but I had no idea that you were involved in that terrible business.’

  ‘He was my truest friend and I am ashamed to say that only now am I beginning to realise just how much I owe him.’

  ‘That is often the way,’ Ned reflected. He stroked his chin and I noticed that he was letting his beard grow longer. ‘We appreciate things most when we have lost them. Life in the cloister could be tedious and there was certainly too much petty bickering and rumour-mongering. Jed and I suffered much from sniggering innuendos. It was malicious tale-telling that ma
de it easy for Cromwell’s men to accuse the community of heinous sins, contra bonos mores, and threaten to close us down. Our abbot took the hint – and a sizeable bribe. So, those of us who elected not to be transferred to another house ended up back in the world. Only now do I realise how much I relied on – and needed – the holy routine and the fellowship of brothers who, like me, were certainly not perfect. Master Packington was, by repute, an honest man of charitable disposition, though some of the City clergy had him marked for a heretic. I sympathise with your loss.’

  ‘Have you heard any more of the Seagrave affair?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh aye, I doubt his people will let that rest for a while yet. The coroner questioned several of our St Swithun’s friends after the discovery of the body back in the summer but they told him nothing, of course. It was left to Seagrave’s family to seek out the facts. They used different tactics.’

  ‘Threats? Bribery?’ I suggested.