by D. K. Wilson
I was still so dazed that I could scarcely take in what was being said. Somehow I found myself stumbling up the winding staircase clutching a couple of the ragged cloths ennobled with the name of ‘blankets’. Young Harry followed, urging me to the top level, where a door stood open. The chamber within was large enough to accommodate a rickety truckle bed, a low bench that obviously doubled as stool and table and, leaning ominously against a side wall, a set of stocks. The only other furniture was a wooden slop bucket. Wind and occasional flurries of rain blew in through holes in the glass of a high, narrow window.
‘Best room in the ’ouse,’ my guardian declared. ‘We’ve ’ad some wonderful wild ’eretics in ’ere. See that there ’ook?’ He pointed to a large iron half loop protruding from the wall some ten feet above the stocks. ‘’Unne, the ’eretic ’ung ’isself from that ’ook. Of course that was afore my time and afore Old ’Arry’s time, too.’
The lugubrious jailer spent another couple of minutes itemising the rights and ‘privileges’ of prisoners. I might have anything brought in – meals, linen, writing materials, books (so long as they had been vetted by ‘them as understands ’em’). I might also receive approved visitors. All these favours, of course, were available at the customary fixed rates. At last Young Harry produced a candle from his pouch, lit it from his lantern, handed it to me and left me to accustom myself to my new surroundings.
I sat on the bed, mentally and emotionally numb. ‘Heretic. Heretic. Heretic.’ The word hammered in my brain. What was it Ned had urged – ‘Don’t go to the stake for your friend’? Was I about to do just that? Or would my end be quick and private? In either case it would have been better if I had perished on Hampstead Heath at the hands of the mysterious assassin. But then what would have become of those I cared about? Well, at least they would not have been tarnished with my shame. Ralph would have been looked after by the Goldsmith’s charitable funds. What chance would he have now, growing up with nothing but dishonour, because all his father’s assets had been seized when he went to the fires of Smithfield as a condemned heretic. That word again!
I raised my eyes to the hook my jailer had mentioned. It was not difficult in this awful place to see why a prisoner, with only death by burning ahead of him, might take his own life. But, according to Thomas Poyntz, that earlier occupant of this cell had not committed suicide. He had been brutally murdered within inches of where I now sat. Since that tragedy more than twenty years ago how many wretched men and women had lain in utter dejection on this very bed, or been left overnight in the stocks, or manacled to the iron rings in the wall. I held the candle higher and saw marks scratched into the stone. Names. I made out ‘James Sawyer, mercer’ and ‘Hugh Baldwin – Christian’. There were other writings, most of which I was unable to decipher in the feeble candlelight. But one was clear – and – poignant: ‘FATHER FORGIVE THEM THEY WOT NOT WHAT THEY DO.’ God in heaven! What times we were living in! I laid down and drew my meagre coverings over me, shivering with what might have been either cold or fear. The candle I left burning, unwilling to surrender to the dark and the hideous images it harboured. I had little expectation of sleep.
It was, therefore, with some surprise that I opened my eyes to discover late-autumn dawnlight slanting in at the window. Stark and menacing though my surroundings were, there was something comforting about the confident sequence of night and day. The passage of the sun and moon in their orbits suggests a permanence, a cosmic normality that seems to reveal the affairs of men in their true proportion. I recovered from the panic that had followed my arrest and began to martial my thoughts. I was not a Lutheran. Nor did my enforced lodgement in the Lollards’ Tower make me one of those truculent native fanatics men called Lollards. I was a respected member of a worshipful company. Surely that would count in my favour; if and when the bishop or his officers examined me, I would soon be able to clear my name of the stigma of heresy – or so I tried desperately to convince myself.
Meanwhile, I had more urgent matters to attend to. News of my incarceration would already be slithering along the streets, lanes and alleys of the capital, whispered from door to door, casement to casement, distributed by the carters along with their merchandise. Members of my household would be being besieged for information. They would all be worried and fearful. As soon as the duty jailer appeared (this time a younger, healthier-looking fellow by the name of Michael), I sent him out to fetch pen and paper. With them I wrote a carefully considered letter to be delivered at the Sign of the Swan. It explained that I had been detained on the mistaken assumption that I had become tainted with heresy. This was untrue, as I would make clear as soon as I had the opportunity. Meanwhile, they were to carry on as normally as possible and heed John Fink’s instructions as though they were my own. I addressed the message to Fink, with orders to read it to the assembled household and to assure all callers that Treviot’s was conducting business as normal. I knew this would not make much impression either among my own worried people or among the wider community watching with interest, not to mention the wardens and brothers of the Goldsmiths’ Company, some of whom would be delighted to see the fall of the house of Treviot. However, I could do nothing more in absentia and I needed all my energies to extricate myself from the mess into which I had fallen – or, to be more truthful, into which I had rushed headlong.
Chapter 23
Being shut away from the world did have one advantage: it freed my mind from distractions. Now I could think. The Lollards’ Tower was cold, damp and uncomfortable but I had extra clothes and wrappings brought from Goldsmith’s Row, as well as a supply of paper and ink. As soon as they arrived I huddled on the bed wrapped in my thickest cloak and tried to set down all the recent events, make some sense of them and banish the clouds of bewilderment. It took until the evening of my first day’s incarceration to martial my thoughts in some sort of order. After much scratching out and rearranging this was the result:
1.
Robert may have been a member of a secret band who called themselves ‘Christian Brothers’ and used their trading connections to smuggle into England banned books by William Tyndale and, in all likelihood, other inflammatory material by men such as the German, Martin Luther, condemned by the pope as a heretic.
2.
Robert had been in direct contact with William Tyndale in Antwerp during his business trips and was there when the translator was arrested and executed. According to Robert’s last letter, he had information about that event that he could not put in writing.
3.
He had almost certainly fallen under suspicion and was a marked man by the bishop and his cronies but they were hesitant about bringing such a prominent and highly respected citizen before the Church courts, particularly as he was known to be in favour with Thomas Cromwell, the most powerful man in England, under the king.
4.
But in recent months the mood of the country had changed. With all northern England in revolt against the New Learning, traditionalists in the capital had grown bolder – bold enough to use any methods to force a change of government policy. It was against this background that Il Ombra, a professional assassin, had been brought into England to rid the Church of Packington the ‘troublemaker’ in such a way that his death could not be traced back to the religious hierarchy.
5.
Il Ombra was now under the protection of John Doggett who, it seemed, intended to hire out the Italian to anyone prepared to pay a high price for murder. That meant there was no way that I could get to the assassin and force him to tell me who had paid him to kill Robert.
6.
My enquiries into the circumstances of Robert’s death had attracted the attention of those responsible, as Ned had warned that it would. Was that why an attempt had been made on my life and, failing that attempt, why I had been arrested?
7.
Not necessarily. I had other enemies who wanted me out of the way. Simon Leyland was a ruthless competitor who would probably stop at noth
ing to force Treviot’s out of business. Then there was Nathaniel Seagrave’s father. His mind might be so deep- wounded by grief that only my death could salve it. Either of these might have been responsible for the Hampstead Heath attack. They might even have been acting in concert.
8.
Whoever it was had made a clumsy attempt to copy Il Ombra’s technique. That suggested an opportunistic crime that had not been well thought out. The instigator would be more careful next time.
9.
So, what was his plan? He had laid evidence against me, believing that, in the current atmosphere of religious ferment, the bishop’s officers would be bold enough to put me on trial. But that in itself would achieve little. In all likelihood I would be examined and released with a caution. Unless false evidence was presented to the court. Perjury was an all too common resort of people who wanted to make trouble for their neighbours. This was what I had to be prepared to face. My adversary would pay someone to accuse me of denouncing the Church’s leaders or denying some basic doctrine. My denial would achieve nothing and I would be quite unable to disprove the charges. My only chance of escaping the fires of Smithfield would, then, be to recant my supposed heresies and perform some public penance, such as being paraded through the streets bearing a faggot and with a placard pinned to my back declaring my detestable errors. That disgrace would be enough to put an end to my career. The Goldsmiths’ Company would disown me. Such ruin would, in all likelihood, be as satisfactory to the perpetrator as my death.
I went through my notes over and over again, my spirits sinking lower with every reading. My adversary seemed to have forced me into a corner in which I was trapped. And yet there was something here, something I had written that, I sensed, offered a way of escape. There was a detail the enemy had overlooked and, try as I might, I was overlooking it, too. When the light faded and I was obliged to use a candle I set aside the papers and lay on the bed, hoping that rest might clear my head.
Minutes later the door was unlocked and Young Henry entered. ‘Visitor,’ he muttered, and stood aside.
Ben Walling strode in. It was a pleasant surprise but one I could not be completely happy with.
‘Ben,’ I said as he warmly clasped my hand, ‘this is very good of you but you really should not be here. The jailer will report anyone who makes contact with me. You could find yourself in a place like this.’
He looked around the cell. ‘Not too bad.’ He grinned. ‘You should see my lodging.’
‘I assume the news is all over town,’ I said.
Ben seated himself on the bench. ‘Yes, you’re quite famous today.’
‘What are people saying?’
‘What you might expect. Some are cock on the hoop. They say the bishop’s men have flushed out another heretic. But I think more people are angry about the power of the clergy.
‘Steeth! The whole City’s gone mad. Neighbour denounces neighbour as “Lutheran heretic” or “papist traitor”. Cromwell has bills posted forbidding preaching of “disputed doctrines” but that doesn’t do any good. It doesn’t stop the hotheads who think they’re speaking in the name of God. Not only in the pulpits; you find them in every marketplace and they pluck you by the sleeve in the inns and ale houses.’ He stood up, stretching his legs. ‘Saints in heaven know how it’ll all end. It’s like a summer storm a-brewing out there. You can feel it in the air. Now, do you want to hear the latest rumours about Master Packington’s death?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s being put about by the cathedral priests that the murder was ordered by one of the late queen’s chaplains, Robert Singleton.’
‘Singleton? Wasn’t it him who caused a stir a couple of months back for preaching against purgatory at Paul’s Cross?’
Ben nodded. ‘That’s right. He’s a dyed-in-the-grain New Learning man. It’s no wonder the dean and his arsewipe fellows want to make trouble for him.’
‘And to divert suspicion from themselves.’
‘Yes, most people think the cathedral chapter were behind your friend’s death and they’re desperate to cover it up.’
‘And particularly John Incent?’
‘That name is certainly being bandied about.’
‘He’s had his brother stir up trouble in Kent. Now, why would he do that if he wasn’t worried?’
We stared gloomily at each other for several seconds. At last I said, ‘I should have listened to a good friend of mine. He warned me that if I didn’t leave well alone, things would be bad not only for me, but for my family and friends, too. How are they coping at my house?’
‘They’re all terribly shocked, of course. Shocked and frightened. That journeyman of yours… What’s his name? Finch?’
‘Fink,’ I corrected. ‘John Fink.’
‘Yes, well, he seems to have collapsed completely. When I called, I found him in a corner, sobbing. He obviously holds you in high regard. If my craftmaster were carted off to jail I’d go out and celebrate.’
‘Then I’m glad I don’t have you for a journeyman. Strange, though.’ I pondered. ‘John has always been level-headed. He usually copes well in a crisis. Perhaps I’ve grown too accustomed to pushing responsibility on to him.’
‘Now, then.’ Ben abruptly changed the mood. ‘We have to get you out of here. What can I do to help?’
‘Nothing, absolutely nothing,’ I said. ‘You’re a good fellow, Ben, but this time I have to face things on my own. Do you know how heresy cases work?’
‘Well enough.’
‘Then you know the accused is completely on his own. No witnesses allowed for his defence. Not even a clear indictment. Just hostile interrogation.’
‘Aye, and at the end of it all, just one choice: “repent or burn”.’
I groaned, head in hands. ‘I don’t know what I’ll be accused of, or by whom, or what evidence they have, or what false witnesses they’ve paid. I feel like a man setting out on a journey who knows that highwaymen have been primed to lay in wait for him but doesn’t know where the ambush will be laid.’
And that was when it struck me. Suddenly I recognised the missing link in the chain of events I had so carefully tried to record.
‘That’s it!’ I shouted. ‘Move along the bench, Ben. I need room to write.’
The sound of footsteps on the stone steps outside added urgency to my task. I grabbed pen and paper and scribbled a note.
The door opened and Young Harry came in. ‘Time’s up,’ he announced. ‘You’ve ’ad your pennyworth.’
I wafted the paper to dry the ink, folded it and handed it to my visitor. ‘There is something you can do, Ben. Take this, as fast as you can, to John Fink. I must see him. Urgently.’ Young Henry was quite puzzled at the speed with which I hustled Ben out of the cell.
That night I had much to think about: re-examining my notes, re-adjusting, re-evaluating, reconsidering my own behaviour. Most urgently of all, I had to decide what I would say to my long-serving journeyman apprentice. The man I now recognised as my betrayer.
Chapter 24
No less a person than Old Harry woke me. He rarely dragged his aged bones to the top of the tower, designating all routine duties to his more agile subordinates. The fact that he had come in person to rouse me suggested that it was a mission of some importance.
‘Up yer gets!’ he ordered, wheezing from the effort of the climb. ‘Bishop wants yer. Be sure to tell ’im ’ow well yer being looked after.’
A glance up at the window told me that it was yet scarcely day. I cursed inwardly. It was vital that I saw Fink before my examination began. ‘Look, I’m expecting an important visitor, someone vital to my case,’ I explained in some desperation. ‘Can this wait… just for a couple of hours?’
A sound somewhere between a laugh and cough exploded from the jailer’s mouth. ‘What? Keep ’Is Lordship waiting? More than my job’s worth. Get a move on… and remember you’ve been looked after right ’andsomely in the Lollards’ Tower.’
Outside, in Paul
’s Yard, I was met by the same captain who had brought me to the prison but this time he was in charge of a small troop of mounted men. They had a horse for me and, as soon as I had climbed into the saddle, we set off.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked, as we passed through Ludgate.
‘Fulham Palace,’ the captain replied. ‘His Lordship will see you there.’
I had several other questions for my escort but they were either not disposed or had strict orders not to answer and we spent almost the whole journey in silence. With the untidy sprawl of royal Westminster behind us, we crossed open country to Chelsea beneath a scowling sky that threatened rain but did not deliver. Where the road narrowed through Parson’s Green hamlet we were held up by two women driving a gaggle of geese – until the troops rode through them and laughed to see the owners pursuing the frightened birds over hedges and ploughed fields. By the time we reached the river the sun was a smudge on the lightening clouds to our left. Then we entered the bishop’s park and so arrived in the courtyard of the palace, bustling with visitors and servants.
