by D. K. Wilson
At this point there was a sudden commotion at the back of the room.
‘We all know who did it!’ someone shouted. ‘The Dean of Paul’s and his popish crew!’
There was an immediate uproar. I turned in my seat and saw two of the constable’s men struggling with another, who continued to shout, ‘Send for the Dean of St Paul’s! Summon the bishop! Call for Canon John Incent! They know who killed Master Packington! Their gold paid for it!’ The protestor was still screaming his accusations as he was hustled out. I recognised him as the grocer who had spoken to me at the funeral.
When order had been restored Kernish resumed his address to the jury. After a brief consultation, they did as directed and reported that Robert Packington had been fatally shot by an assailant as yet unidentified. The coroner’s clerk entered the verdict in his records. Kernish explained that this verdict would be conveyed to the magistrates who would further pursue their enquiries.
As we all filtered out, I looked for Ben Walling and caught up with him beside the old walled orchard in Ironmonger Lane. ‘Where’s Bart?’ I asked. ‘Is he sick?’
‘Only in his head,’ the fair-haired young man replied, not slackening his pace.
‘What do you mean?’ I put out a hand to stop him and when he turned I saw the shadows beneath his eyes that betrayed a lack of sleep.
‘’Tis nothing,’ he muttered, and made to move on.
I gripped his arm. ‘Come and tell me this nothing over a jug of ale,’ I said and steered him towards an alleyway that led through into St Laurence’s Lane.
Minutes later we were seated in Blossoms Inn. I guessed that many days had passed since Ben had enjoyed a good meal so I ordered food as well as ale. When the maid had set before us a capon from the spit and slices of autumn-cured ham, together with wedges of maslin bread, I resumed my enquiry. ‘So what of Bart? Have you two fallen out?’
The apprentice spluttered something through a mouthful of meat and I had to ask him to repeat it.
‘Gone north,’ he said.
‘North?’
‘Aye, to join the rebels, or “pilgrims” as he calls them.’
‘But the rising is over,’ I protested. ‘The Duke of Norfolk has made a truce with the rebels at Doncaster and the Duke of Suffolk has pacified Lincolnshire. I have this on good authority from people at the royal court.’
Ben paused in his hungry devouring of the food to scowl. ‘That’s the official story put out to quieten the people. If the trouble is past, why do the king and his council still skulk at Windsor? The truth is the rising has spread north towards the border. Bart’s family is in Cleveland and his cousin rode down two days ago to bring the latest news and recruit support. Have you seen this?’ Ben fumbled inside his tunic and brought out a crumpled sheet of paper, which he passed to me underneath the table.
I ran my eyes quickly over the printed text, keeping the paper on my lap:
A Call to All the King’s True Christian Subjects to Come Together in a Holy Cause
Stand with your brothers in the North!
Demand
Return to the true Catholic faith
Restoration of all confiscated monastic property
Surrender of Cromwell, Cranmer and all base-born councillors
A new parliament to consider the people’s grievances
Deliverance of all heretics to the church courts
Stand Firm Across the Realm to the Shedding of Blood for God’s Truth
In Nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti
I folded the paper and handed it back hurriedly.
Ben said, ‘This is the rubbish Bart’s cousin and other messengers have been spreading everywhere. He says lots of men have responded and are making their way north.’
‘And that’s where Bart has gone?’
‘Yes, arsewipe fool!’ He jabbed viciously at the meat with his knife.
‘Your friend is a religious zealot, then,’ I said.
Ben snorted. ‘Bart? Not he! He’s simply looking for what he calls “action”. He’d join any mob, support any demonstration, sign up for any cause, just for the thrill of it. He came to London because he thought this place was more exciting than his Yorkshire moors. Now he’s gone back there because that’s where he thinks things are happening.’ The young man dabbed his eyes with a shirt sleeve. ‘Arsewipe fool!’
‘And you?’ I asked. ‘What are you doing?’
He shrugged. ‘Waiting. My master is still mad at me but he’ll come round. I’m a good worker and he knows it.’
I pushed my trencher away and watched Ben eat the lion’s share of the meal. ‘Would you like to do something for me… while you’re “waiting”?’ I asked.
‘What sort of something?’
‘Well, two things, really. First, see if you can find that noisy fellow who interrupted the inquest. I’d like to know whether he has any evidence for his accusations of the clergy or whether it’s just his prejudice talking.’
‘That’s easily done,’ Ben replied. ‘What’s the other job?’
‘Have you heard of Il Ombra, “The Shadow”?’
Ben shook his head. ‘No, what is it?’
‘“It” is a he, a man, an Italian ruffian.’ I lowered my voice, though the inn was by now almost empty. ‘He is the one who killed Robert Packington.’
Ben raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re sure of this? Why didn’t —’
‘Why didn’t I say anything at the inquest? Because if he knows I’m looking for him he’ll take flight – probably leave the country.’
‘Or he might mark you for his next target.’
‘That had occurred to me as a possibility. It’s another reason to keep quiet about what I know.’
‘So, you are still determined to track this fellow down.’
‘That I am. The problem is that if I am known to be asking questions, word will certainly get back to my quarry.’ I did not mention Doggett by name nor his instruction to let the matter drop. By no means would I have wanted my honest and straightforward young friend to become involved with the devious host of the Red Lamb. ‘Will you keep your ears open for any mention of Il Ombra or an Italian villain skulking in or around London? Listen out particularly for any reference to someone who knows about something called a wheellock.’
‘What’s that?’
I told Ben the little I had learned from Doggett about the assassin and his chosen weapon.
He nodded gravely. ‘Yes, I can do that.’
‘Thank you but do be very careful. You know the sort of hellhound we’re dealing with. Don’t draw attention to yourself.’ I took some coins from my purse and placed them on the table. ‘This will keep you fed and lodged for a few days. Try out the inns and marketplaces. Encourage people to gossip. Let me know if you hear anything.’
Ben looked happier when we parted, glad, I think, to have something to occupy his mind and relieved to know where his next meal was coming from. I just hoped that I had not put him in any danger.
After supper that night I went to my chamber and read some more chapters of Tyndale’s Testament. I was intrigued to discover fuller accounts of stories I had seen vividly depicted on church walls or exuberantly performed in the mystery plays I had loved as a child. It was a strange experience to be able to ponder words spoken by Christ or the apostles and find my own meaning, rather than have interpretation thrust at me from the pulpit. Bringing my own imagination to the text made it somehow more personal and permanent. It would be false to say that I fully understood what I read but in a sense, that was unimportant. What mattered was that I was reading it and I would make my own judgement upon it. If it was this kind of intellectual freedom that the New Learning men were advocating, they were, indeed, revolutionaries.
I had just closed the book and locked it safely away in my coffer when there came a sudden rattling at the window. I peered out and saw a hooded figure in the street below. I opened the casement and called, ‘Who’s there?’
The reply came
from the darkness in a voice somewhere between a croak and a hoarse whisper. ‘Thomas, it’s me, Augustine. For the love of God. Let me in.’
I took my candle, descended the stairs, went through the shop and drew back the bolts. Augustine slipped quickly inside and I returned with him to the chamber. He held out his hands to the embers of the fire. I noticed that he had come without gauntlets.
‘You must be frozen,’ I said. ‘Let me mull you some ale.’
He shook his head vigorously as he threw back his head. His dark hair was all atangle and there was stubble on his usually shaven chin. ‘No thank you, this is but a brief visit. I’ve come with a simple urgent message: you must stop any enquiry into Robert’s death.’
‘What!’ I stared at him aghast.
‘Meddle in the matter no further.’
‘I can scarcely believe what I’m hearing,’ I protested. ‘Is this the man who only yesterday urged me to discover the truth – even to the shedding of blood?’
He looked down at his feet. ‘Much can happen in twenty-four hours,’ he muttered.
‘Sorry, Augustine,’ I said. ‘I have given my word to your sister-in-law. I’ll not go back on it. In God’s name, sit down and tell me why this fright has come over you.’
He shook his head. ‘No. I must not stay. I came here as soon as I knew what was afoot. You are a marked man, Thomas. Look to yourself. Let one man’s death suffice.’
Chapter 18
Augustine was hovering by the door, anxious to be gone. Seldom have I seen a man more frightened.
‘What is it, man?’ I demanded. ‘Why this complete change of heart?’
He hesitated, a hand on the latch. ‘All I can tell you is that Friar Barnes is arrested and thrown in the Tower.’
‘Because of his sermon at the funeral?’
‘Yes.’
‘What has that to do with me?’
‘Barnes is not the only one. Several others have been taken also.’
‘New Learning men?’
‘Yes.’ Augustine now had the door open.
‘I still don’t see what I have to fear. I am not of their party.’
‘That is not what many people say.’ With that Robert’s brother hurried out and clattered down the stair.
I followed and locked the street door after him, then walked through to the deserted kitchen, suddenly hungry. There was a kettle of rich pottage on the hearth, cooked for the servants’ supper and still hot. I found a stoup, poured myself a bowlful and sat at the table, still damp from its nightly scrubbing, to eat – and think.
How seriously should I take Augustine’s warning? He was not the most stable of men and, perhaps, it was not surprising that he was blowing hot and cold. But surely he could not really believe that I was in any danger from a new purge of radicals. Unless… Barnes had directly accused Stokesley and his minions of plotting Robert’s murder. On reflection, I had dismissed this as the raving of a fanatic against authority. But what if it were true? Then those with guilty consciences would certainly stop at nothing to prevent further enquiry into Robert’s death and they had their own well-tried methods to silence criticism: sudden arrest and trial in an ecclesiastical court where the verdict was a foregone conclusion.
Barnes was not the only one to point a finger at the senior clergy. In his outburst at the inquest, the grocer had called out one name in particular – John Incent, a member of the cathedral staff. I did not know Incent well but he was a familiar figure around the City. A tall red-headed man with a reputation for haughtiness, he was most often seen in public on festival days, when he appeared, resplendent in brocaded cope and attended by incense-wafting acolytes. He was certainly one of the most persistent preachers against heresy. Was it possible that he and his colleagues were Il Ombra’s paymasters? If so, what could Robert possibly have done that could warrant a hideous act of foul slaughter – an act, moreover, that would immediately attract suspicion to themselves? Too many questions. Dangerous questions. Questions that Ned, Lizzie, Doggett and now Augustine urged me to stop asking. I began to think that my solicitous advisers might be right. Perhaps the time had come for me to abandon my quest. Perhaps it was dangerous folly to pit myself against powerful forces I did not understand – folly that, as Lizzie had pointed out, would harm others as well as myself. She had certainly learned self-preservation the hard way and her advice deserved careful consideration. Yet, there was still one person who was even more concerned than I to get to the truth. I resolved to call upon her the next day.
I found Margaret Packington in her chamber, with her maid, folding items of her late husband’s clothes into a chest. ‘They are to be sold for the benefit of the Mercers’ Company charities,’ she explained. ‘The warden has been wonderfully kind. He is supervising the distribution of all Robert’s bequests and helping with the formalities of Humphrey’s takeover of the business. Everyone has been so good. I never knew Robert had so many friends.’
‘I’m not in the least surprised,’ I said. ‘He touched many lives. In fact, that was something I wanted to ask you about… if you don’t mind a few questions.’
‘Not at all, Thomas.’ She dismissed the girl and motioned towards the window. ‘Let us sit here. It is the one place that gets much light at this time of year.’
We settled side by side in the window embrasure from which we had a clear view all the way along Sopers Lane. In the street below a pie woman was making her way up to Cheap market with two baskets laden with her wares. A carter, unable to pass her in the narrow lane, allowed his horse to clop along patiently behind. Two men, heads close together, stood arguing in a doorway.
Margaret watched wistfully. ‘Strange, isn’t it, how the world goes on, when your own life has come to a sudden halt. I feel like throwing open the window and shouting out, “Why are you all carrying on as though nothing had happened?”’
I laid my hand on hers. ‘I know, Margaret. Believe me, I know and I wish I could say that feeling will pass quickly. ’Tis fourteen months since Jane… but I am still like a church clock that has stopped and needs someone to set its cogs turning again.’
She patted my hand. ‘Poor Thomas. You must find what comfort you can in the knowledge that God took Jane in his time and for his purpose. What happened to my Robert was so… wrong… so evil. The time was not ripe for him. I cannot believe God purposed it so. You will track down this villain, for me, won’t you, Thomas?’ she pleaded.
‘I’ll do my very best, Margaret. Can you give me any leads? I will do all I can,’ I said cautiously, ‘though this affair may run deeper than we know. There are many accusations flying around but no clear evidence. People say that the bishop and his clerical hounds… but I find that difficult…’
‘Old Stokesley!’ She pulled a face. ‘How well named he is. Our good bishop, so men say, is never happier than when stoking the fire under those he calls “heretics”.’
‘Is it possible that he believed Robert to be a heretic?’
‘If all who love the word of God be, in his mind, heretics, then, yes, Robert was of their number. But I don’t think Stokesley would have dared to lay a finger on him. He was highly respected in the City. He was of the parliament house. And he was a friend of the king’s most trusted councillor.’
‘Cromwell?’
‘Yes. Men say he is riding so high that no one, whether gentleman, earl or bishop, dares to cross him.’
‘A pity this friendship did not protect Robert,’ I said, looking at the widow, who sat twisting a kerchief in her fingers. I understood well her need to find an answer to the question, ‘Why?’ that was screaming in her head. Yet I felt sure that there were things she was not telling me – perhaps because she thought they might cast doubt on Robert’s good name; perhaps because there were confidences she could not betray or because she was protecting other people. ‘Margaret,’ I said, as gently as possible, ‘if I am to help, there are things I must know. I feel that Master Tyndale’s English Testament lies at the root of this affair
. Could Robert have known men who were involved in bringing copies of that book across the sea from the Netherlands?’
She sighed deeply. ‘Robert knew many things about many people but he never confided them in me. He wanted to protect me. He said it was safer for me not to know.’
‘It seems, then, that he had a private life; that he moved in a secret world.’ I blurted out my frustration. ‘How can we find out about that world? There must, surely, be someone who was party to his most intimate thoughts.’
Margaret frowned. ‘Augustine was involved…’
‘Augustine is frightened. He came to me last night to warn me off. Stokesley has ordered a fresh purge of New Learning men and Augustine is terrified of being netted.’
