by D. K. Wilson
He laughed. ‘His Lordship does not confide in the likes of us.’
With that I had to be content. Yet now my mind was in a wilder ferment than before. What purpose could Cromwell, now generally acknowledged as the king’s most powerful councillor, the man who had come to displace all the nobles and bishops, possibly want with me? He would scarcely have snatched me from the bishop’s clutches to discuss a loan or place an order for a set of gold plate. The idea was almost comical. Not so humorous was the thought that, in exchanging incarceration by Bishop Stokesley for detention at Master Secretary’s pleasure, I might have leaped out of the cauldron into the fire.
Our passage along the City’s main thoroughfare aroused interest. Passers-by stopped to stare. Some, recognising me, waved. At the Stocks Market I thought I caught a glimpse of Ben Walling but when I looked again, his lithe figure (if, indeed, it was him) had disappeared among the crowds thronging the fishmongers’ stalls. We took the leftward of the three streets that debouche into the marketplace, jogged along Three Needle Street, and so to Broad Street, where the slender and graceful spire of the Austin Friars’ church beckons passers-by into the seclusion of the priory yard. The most impressive town house fronting that open space was the mansion Thomas Cromwell had been extending and improving for the last couple of years and more. There was still scaffolding clinging to the north-east corner, facing the monastery. As we drew up, a mob of beggars made way for us – not altogether willingly.
‘Idle wretches,’ one of the soldiers grumbled. ‘There are more of them every day turning up for the dole. His Lordship is too indulgent.’
We dismounted and I was led into the hall. The escort went to announce my arrival and I was left to look about me. It was immediately evident that this was the home of a man of wealth and taste. In keeping with the latest fashion, the ceiling of this long room had been lowered to allow for more chambers to be constructed in what had originally been the rafter space of the old hall. Large Flemish tapestries covered much of the panelled wall space and before them stood cupboards and presses, some richly carved and coloured in the Italian style. A page in Cromwell’s livery appeared with a tray – red wine in a ewer, with a silver goblet and a dish of ginger and cinnamon biscuits.
‘His Lordship is still at dinner,’ he said, setting the tray close to the fire. ‘Be so good as to wait for him.’
I waited. And wondered. What sort of man lay beyond that door? Robert had served Cromwell and held him in high regard. He had advised me to seek the minister’s favour. On the other hand, Ned – and probably most Englishmen – regarded the ‘upstart’ as the fount of all the evils now pouring across the land. Curious and apprehensive, I waited.
It was some half an hour later that the page reappeared. I had expected to be led to a private dining room where the master of the house would be taking food with friends or distinguished guests but we entered a small room overlooking the garden. The man who sat facing the window at a table covered in a Turkey rug was surrounded by papers and books in neat piles. An open coffer set beside his high-backed chair where he could reach it contained more documents. A trencher and silver dishes piled at one end of the table indicated that Cromwell had just completed a solitary repast. These items were being cleared away by servants.
The door closed behind them but Cromwell did not turn to me. He continued writing – at considerable speed, as though determined to give form to his thoughts before they escaped him. He wore a plain black gown over a doublet, some of whose points hung loose. His head was uncovered. The most striking feature of his broad, unlined face was the dark eyes, which seemed to peer out as though through holes cut in the flesh. My first impressions did nothing to cast light on the enigma.
This great man’s informality was disconcerting. This was a man who enjoyed the confidence of the king and spent his working days with councillors and ambassadors, yet he had admitted me into this private centre of his wide universe almost as one might admit a friend. I was loath to interrupt his thoughts but after standing for several moments in the centre of the room I felt I should make some comment.
‘I am grateful to Your Lordship for releasing me from the bishop’s prison.’
Cromwell nodded.
‘May I ask whether this is a temporary respite?’
‘We have better things to do than chase heretics.’ His comment was almost an aside as he finished his letter and added it to the pile of others waiting to be sealed. I could not think of a suitable response. Suddenly he looked up. ‘Have you ever seen an elephant?’
I shook my head.
‘The Duke of Ferrara had two when I was in Italy – along with scores of other remarkable creatures. He used to try to make them fight each other to amuse his guests. Interesting spectacle. They trumpeted and stamped their ponderous feet and flapped their enormous ears. But they did not charge with their massive tusks. They walked backwards. They made a great display of ferocity until, at last, one of them turned. Then, and only then, did his adversary give chase. Stokesley reminds me of an elephant. He makes a lot of noise. He issues threats. He has his clergy shout defiance from City pulpits. But he’ll never lock tusks. He’s waiting to see my arse.’ Cromwell chuckled. ‘He’s in for a long wait.’ He paused. Then, struck by a new idea, he said, ‘The King of Portugal does a good trade in elephants. I wonder if I can get one for His Majesty. We can call it Stokesley.’ Master Secretary took a sheet of paper and scribbled a note, then looked up smiling, inviting me to share the joke. All I could think of was one very simple question.
‘My Lord, am I free to go home and resume my business?’
He set down the pen and stared across the desk, no sign of drollery now in the eyes deep-set in his fleshy face. ‘Does your usual business include seeking out Master Packington’s killer?’
I considered my answer carefully. ‘When he was alive, My Lord, he cared for me almost as a father. Now he is dead there is only one thing I can do for him, as a dutiful son. Sadly, my efforts only seem to be making things worse. I’ve decided to follow the advice of my friends and abandon the quest.’
Cromwell nodded. ‘A good reply. Death does not cancel all debts. When the great cardinal was alive…’
‘Wolsey?’
‘Yes. When he was alive I was his closest confidant. When he died in disgrace, all those who had fawned on him and benefited from his bounty fell over themselves to curse his memory. Not me. I salvaged what I could from the wreck of his fortunes. Did my best to safeguard those projects that had been dearest to his heart. Friends feared that I would suffer for it. Enemies hoped that I would. But, as you see…’ Cromwell waved a hand, indicating the piled documents, ‘His Majesty recognises loyalty. He knows whom he can trust… and that is important for kings. They are surrounded by sycophants and time-servers, men who throng the court seeking only their own advantage. If you knew the number of petitions I have to deal with daily…’ He grabbed up a pile of unopened letters. ‘Suits for positions at court; requests for grants of land; appeals for intervention in legal cases – the list is endless. Few there be who serve the king out of unfeigned love. Loyalty is a rare flower and I cherish it. That is why I have rescued you from My Lord of London’s clutches.’
I faltered for an appropriate response. ‘I am more grateful than I can say… If I can serve Your Lordship in any way…’
For the first time he turned his attention full on me. I was even more conscious of those searching eyes. ‘Did you see Robert on his return from his last visit to the Low Countries?’
‘No, we were to meet on the morning of his death.’
‘Had he written to you… told you anything about his mission?’
‘He mentioned Master Tyndale’s execution but not in any detail. I had the impression that he might be in some danger… that he felt it unsafe to put things in writing. Do you think he was followed home by enemies? Was it they who organised his killing and not the Bishop of London?’
Cromwell drummed on the table with his fingers. He frowned. �
��Tell me what you know about Robert’s death.’
I reported what I had discovered. It was little enough: the confusion on that dark, misty morning two weeks ago; John Doggett’s acknowledgement that Il Ombra was the paid assassin; my efforts to track down the Italian gunman; the attempt on my life and the informers who had denounced me to the bishop (which might or might not be connected to my investigation).
Cromwell listened with every appearance of total concentration. Then he said, ‘These things go deeper than you know and involve issues more important than you can guess. You would have been wise to follow your friends’ counsel. Cicero tells us wisdom is the most valuable of human virtues.’ He paused as though recalling the words of some text read long ago. ‘However, he also says “nothing is more noble than loyalty”. In this business of our mutual friend’s killer you did have a choice between the prudence born of wisdom and the somewhat headstrong actions stirred up by loyalty. Now you no longer have that choice. You cannot wind back the clock and simply take up your life again.’
‘My Lord?’
‘You are too far into this business, Thomas Treviot. You are close enough to the fires of Smithfield to feel their heat and I am the only person who can deliver you. But my help comes at a price.’
I felt a sudden chill of apprehension.
Cromwell continued: ‘Robert Packington was a good servant of mine. He was employed in affairs that carried some danger.’
I grasped the opportunity to obtain, at last, an unequivocal answer to the question that had forced its way to the front of my mind. ‘Stokesley accused Robert of being a smuggler of banned books. Was he right?’
Cromwell scrutinised me silently for several seconds, stroking his chin with one hand. Suddenly he stood up. He stepped across to the window and beckoned me to join him. ‘I’m making a new garden,’ he said.
I looked out at a stretch of grass flanked by ancient mulberry trees whose bare, wide-spreading branches almost touched. Beyond were piles of earth and three workmen dismantling a stone wall.
‘That means, not just putting in more plants; I have to take into account what was there before. Some things have to be reshaped… and others removed. The same is true of the new England some of us are making. It will be a nation with a strong monarchy, supreme in state and church, secure from foreign interference, rich enough to be able to solve the problems that now trouble us – poverty, vagrancy, corruption in the courts, clergy who are above the law. Most importantly of all, it will be a nation guided by the word of God. But first we have to clear the ground; get rid of obstacles; deal with grumblers who can’t or won’t share our vision for a new garden.’
‘Like Stokesley?’
‘I was thinking more of the northern rabble that His Majesty is now bringing to heel, but, yes, Stokesley is certainly one of those who are more at home with the old garden, running to seed and overrun with weeds as it was. Tell me, Master Treviot, you have a son. Which England would you like him to grow up in – the old or the new?’
I was too surprised by the minister’s apparent knowledge of my family life to come up with an answer.
He did not wait for a response. ‘But I’m rambling. What is important at this moment is this: I can help you in your quest but only if you help me. First I must know whether your little adventure with Stokesley has taught you anything. I need you to step into Robert’s shoes. To do that you will need to temper your impetuosity.’
‘My Lord, I will gladly…’
He smiled. ‘As a lawyer, I must advise you never to sign a contract without reading it carefully. Listen to my terms. Robert was undertaking certain confidential work for me in Antwerp. He was killed before he could make a full report to me. I want you to go to Antwerp and find out what he had discovered.’
‘But why me, My Lord? I’m just a simple merchant.’
‘Exactly. There are many English merchants in that city. No one will pay much attention to the arrival of another.’
‘But, My Lord, I have a business to run. I have just lost my journeyman. He was very capable. Whenever I had to be away…’
‘Ah, yes.’ He returned to the table and selected a slip of paper from one of his neat piles. ‘John Fink,’ he read. ‘Foolish fellow.’
I gasped. ‘Your Lordship is remarkably well informed.’
‘I have to be. Everything depends on reliable information. So I gather intelligence in many ways and about many things… including Robert’s death.’
I stared at Cromwell, trying to grasp what was going on behind that expressionless face. ‘As you say, My Lord, I have no choice.’
His reply was calm and emotionless, almost nonchalant. ‘There is no one else who can keep Stokesley’s hellhounds on the leash indefinitely.’ He resumed his seat and picked up a small hand bell. ‘Well?’
I nodded.
He rang the bell. Instantly a secretary entered. Cromwell handed him a pile of letters. ‘These are ready for sealing and despatch. Take Master Treviot and give him the package that has his name on it.’ Looking up at me he said, ‘God speed you, Thomas. Make all the haste you can. Events have a habit of changing suddenly in these days.’ With a sigh, he reached into the coffer for more papers. Did I hear or imagine him adding, under his breath, ‘and with this king’?
Chapter 26
The rest of that day was a blur of impressions, decision-making and emotions: walking home and being stopped every few yards by people wanting to know what had happened to me; finding my household, shocked and uncomprehending, barricaded behind locked doors against the malice or mere curiosity of neighbours; trying to comfort John Fink’s widowed mother, who was distraught, not only by her son’s death but also by her parish priest’s refusal to allow Christian burial to the suicide; arranging for another senior apprentice to step into John’s shoes; and, on top of all this, trying to evaluate and understand the toings and froings of my own fortunes. It was well past midnight before I was able to retire to my chamber with the package I had brought from Broad Street. I lay on my bed fully dressed, broke the large seal and severed the strings around the linen-wrapped parcel. By the light of a candle I spilled out its contents on to the counterpane. But, before I could begin to examine them, I fell into an exhausted sleep.
By the time I awoke it was broad daylight. I had food brought to my chamber and examined Cromwell’s package as I ate. The instructions for me were to the point: a ship called the Sweepstake was waiting at the Custom House Wharf to convey me to Antwerp where I was to report to Stephen Vaughan, the Chief Factor at the English House: I was to pass him the sealed packet that accompanied my instructions. I was to make full enquiries about Robert Packington’s recent visits and make careful notes on everything I discovered – no matter how seemingly trivial. I was to return as soon as I was satisfied that there was nothing else to learn and report immediately to Cromwell, whom I would find either at his London house or at the royal court. Cromwell expected to see me back in England by the second week of December.
It was obvious that His Lordship expected me to set out on my mission within hours and I was in no doubt that he would soon know if I prevaricated. Yet there were still personal matters I had to attend to before I could leave England. My main concern was for my family at Hemmings. I was anxious lest news of my recent misadventures might have reached them. Since I could not spend time travelling down into Kent, it was imperative that I send them a reassuring message. I pushed my breakfast to one side and took up my pen to write a hurried note.
I was too late.
Before I had scrawled three or four lines I heard a commotion on the stair outside my chamber – angry, shouting voices. I jumped to my feet but had not taken a couple of paces before the door burst open. To my astonishment a dishevelled Jed strode into the room, pursued by two of my men, who were trying unsuccessfully to restrain him. His head was thrown back, his hair was wildly ruffled, his boots were caked in mud.
Fear gripped my throat so tight that I could hardly croak, ‘In G
od’s name, Jed, what’s the matter? Has something happened at Hemmings? Why are you here and not there? I waved the servants away as my visitor dropped unbidden into a chair and unclasped his cloak.
‘Master Treviot,’ he gasped breathlessly, ‘is it really you? Thank God I find you safe!’
‘Why should I not be? What have you heard? Here, man, take some ale and get your breath back.’ I passed my tankard to him and sat down again.
Jed shook his head. ‘Read this first,’ he said, fumbling a creased letter from his purse. ‘’Tis from Lizzie.’
‘I didn’t know Lizzie could write,’ I muttered, as I unfolded the paper.
‘There’s much you don’t know about our Lizzie.’
Apprehensively I peered at the unsteadily formed letters. The writing was almost illegible but the message was very clear and typically Lizzie. She might almost have been in the room, shouting it at me:
Thomas Treviot, if they let you see this in your prison I hope it makes you…’
The next few words were heavily scrawled out.
