by D. K. Wilson
You have gone and left me in a hellbred hole. That swell-headed pock-brained pious prating hypocritical priest Incent was here all agloat. He said you was taken for a heretic and would be burned within days. He said we must confess all our heresies to him or he would be sure we burned too. Well I aint going to burn and nor I aint going to let anyone burn Raffy. I’m taking him somewhere safe. Not going to say where in case your jailers get their hands on this. God send you better than you deserve.
Lizzie
I read the message over, again and again, speechless with anger, fear and guilt. Then I implored Jed, ‘In God’s name, where are they? Are they safe? What’s happening at Hemmings?’
Jed drained the tankard and wiped a sleeve across his mouth. ‘Everyone’s safe for now,’ he said. ‘Our old abbey of Farnfield has a sister house in Sussex. Ned’s taken Lizzie there with your son and your mother. The nuns will look after them as long as need be. But how is it that you are free? That whoreson Hugh Incent came to the house with the most terrible tales. Were they a pile of lies?’
Briefly I explained my extraordinary change of fortune. ‘So I am now under Lord Cromwell’s personal protection,’ I concluded. ‘There is nothing Hugh Incent or Bishop Stokesley or anyone else can do.’
‘So what happens now?’ Jed asked.
I stood up and paced the room. ‘I don’t know,’ I moaned. ‘What I long to do is saddle up this instant and ride with you into Sussex. I want to go to my family and Lizzie and take them back to Hemmings and assure them that they’re safe. But I cannot. I must set out on a mission for Lord Cromwell.’
‘Can that not wait?’
‘No, my orders are very clear. I must set out this very day. If I fail My Lord, I will lose his favour. Then we shall all be at the mercy of Stokesley and the Incents and their like.’ I stood by the window and watched the new day’s light bring West Cheap to life. ‘Joseph, Mary and all the saints, what do I do? It seems my choice lies between abandoning my family and abandoning my patron.’
‘Well, Master Thomas, Lizzie and your lad and Mistress Treviot are secure for the moment. They will rejoice to know that you have escaped the bishop’s clutches.’
‘Will they forgive me if I don’t come to them straightway now that I’m at liberty?’
Jed made no answer, nor could I expect him to resolve my dilemma.
I returned to the table. ‘Go to the kitchen while I think,’ I said. ‘Get some food.’
When he had gone I crumpled my unfinished letter, tossed it into the fire and took up another sheet of paper. By the time Jed returned I had completed two letters, and handed them to him.
‘Take this straightway to Lord Cromwell at his house close by Austin Friars,’ I said, pointing to the sealed note that had ‘Urgent’ scrawled across it in large letters. ‘Don’t leave until you are sure he has received it. Then haste you back to Sussex with this message for Ned. Ask him to explain to the ladies. Tell them all that you find me well and out of danger. I shall be away two or three weeks. Persuade them all to be at Hemmings for my return.’
The young man looked doubtful as he placed the letters in his pouch.
‘Trust me, Jed,’ I said, with as much confidence as I could muster. ‘All will be well. Now make haste!’
When he had left I had my own London household to reassure – and to interrogate. I wanted to discover, while memories were still fresh, why John Fink had turned against me, what grievances he had harboured and, above all, who had encouraged his betrayal. Of course, I had my own thoughts on that matter; Simon Leyland headed my list of suspects but I found it difficult to believe that even he would go so far as to denounce a brother goldsmith as a heretic.
The image of my late journeyman that emerged from these interrogations was of a troubled young man whom, to my shame, I had failed to understand and who struggled to run Treviot’s single-handed. He had sometimes grumbled to other members of the household. When I asked whether John had shared his discontent with anyone outside the business, Leyland’s name certainly cropped up. It was apparent that he had visited several times when he knew that I was away and had spoken with John in private. John had hinted after one such meeting that he would soon be leaving to set up his own workshop. When I pressed for more specific information about Leyland’s comings and goings, the replies I received were much more vague. Had John spoken to the rival goldsmith the previous Monday – the day I was attacked on Hampstead Heath? My steward thought Leyland might have called that afternoon but he could not be sure. A young scullion, however, was certain that John had received a visitor that day.
‘I thought at the time ’twas a bit odd, Master,’ she said. ‘I was just on my way back from the conduit with the water buckets an’ I met this priest at the back gate. He said as how Master Fink ’ad asked him to come there. Then Master Fink came out and the two of ’em went to Master Fink’s room.’
‘Well remembered, Mary,’ I said. ‘Do you know who this priest was?’
‘I suppose he was Master Fink’s confessor, Master.’ She worried the edge of her apron with nervous fingers. ‘I think I’ve seen ’im once before – at some festival or other. I recognised him for his red hair. He’s not our parish priest – that I do know.’
‘Did you hear anything they said?’
Mary’s cheeks flushed. ‘Oh, I don’t listen to other people’s conversations, Master. That’s wrong, isn’t it?’
‘It certainly is, Mary, and I know you are a good girl. But sometimes we can’t help overhearing what someone says – even though we don’t really want to.’
She frowned and bit her lip, still, I guessed, wrestling with her conscience. ‘Well,’ she said at last. ‘It can’t do him no harm now, can it? Master Fink, I mean. He was definitely agitated. “Praise God, you’ve come, sir,” he said. “I am innocent, whatever men may say.” Then the door shut. That was why I guessed the priest had come to hear his confession.’
I recalled John’s great anxiety on the morning of my return from Hampstead. He had been full of questions about the attack. At the time I had imagined that he was simply shocked at the news. Now, I was not so sure. Could it be that he was desperate to find out what I knew about the failed attempt? If he had revealed my whereabouts to someone and only discovered afterwards that, by doing so, he had put my life in danger that could well explain his need to send for his confessor. Then, when he heard that I had survived, he might have fallen prey to a new fear – that I would discover his complicity.
These thoughts were still running around in my mind as I supervised the packing of my travelling chest, had it hoisted on to a wagon and despatched to the wharf. I delayed as long as I could over following it, hoping at any moment to receive a reply from Lord Cromwell. None came. I pictured him in his office with his pile of correspondence and wondered whether he would trouble himself with my desperate appeal. The afternoon was half spent when I rode out of the yard, turned into Bread Street and thence, via the broad thoroughfare of Candlewick Street and Thames Street, reached the crowded waterside between the bridge and the Tower. At Custom House Wharf I enquired for the Sweepstake and was pointed to a sleek two-masted craft at the furthermost end of the quay. Waiting beside the gangway, I recognised Cromwell’s page. He stood stamping his feet and blowing on his hands. As soon as he recognised me, he ran up, thrust a letter into my hands and hurried away.
I immediately broke the seal. The message was brief:
This is to signify that I have received your letter and have thought convenient to send men to the convent at Ladborough to convey my lady your mother, your boy and his nurse to your house in Kent and there to remain as long as necessary to guard them during your absence. I most heartily fare you well. Thomas Cromwell
Chapter 27
It is difficult not to be impressed with Antwerp. Standing on the Sweepstake’s foredeck as it rounded the last bends of the long Scheldt estuary, I beheld a city that seemed to explode from the wide flat expanse of meadowland and marsh in an upthrus
t of spires and windmills. The waterfront was thronged with the vessels of many nations, loading and unloading cargo, and our captain had to wait three hours for a vacant berth at the English Quay. I took advantage of the delay to send a message ashore to Stephen Vaughan, together with my letter of introduction. When I eventually disembarked I was met by a servant who conveyed me to the guest quarters in a nearby building.
The English House comprised a large group of warehouses, dwellings and business premises within a high, walled enclosure. I was conducted to a comfortable chamber overlooking the river and had just finished supervising the unpacking of my chest when I received a visitor. The man who almost bounced into the room was thick set, in his mid-thirties with an exuberant growth of beard. I say he seemed to ‘bounce’ because the overwhelming impression Stephen Vaughan conveyed to all who met him was one of enthusiasm. Having shaken my hand and expressed an effusive welcome, he seated himself on the bed.
‘Lord Cromwell speaks highly of you, Master Treviot, and that is sufficient recommendation for me. I’ll help you in any way I can.’
‘Have you known Cromwell long?’
‘Ever since he entered Wolsey’s service. That must be ten years or more since. He advanced me in the cardinal’s household and, because my mercantile activities brought me often abroad, I was able to prove useful to him.’
‘As a messenger?’
‘Messenger, diplomat, intelligencer – all those rolled into one.’ He laughed – a deep-throated, hearty laugh. ‘Is there a single word for it – “spy”, perhaps? But tell me about yourself. How come you to be in My Lord’s service?’
I briefly related the events of the last few weeks.
He listened carefully, almost ostentatious in sympathetic attentiveness. ‘I was devastated to hear of Robert’s martyrdom – we all were. He was much loved by the community here.’
‘And by all who knew him,’ I added. ‘You speak of “martyrdom”. Does that mean you know who was responsible for his death?’
‘Oh, aye, you know what Paul says in the sixth of Ephesians: “We wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against rule, against power, and against worldly rulers of the darkness of this world.” Robert was a man of the Gospel and Satan was determined to stop his activities.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ I muttered, ‘but do you know which particular human agent of Satan paid an Italian marksman to gun down our friend?’
‘Do you doubt that it was Stokesley or one of his papist crew? You have suffered personally at his hands. I know full well what that is like. In exactly the same way I fell foul of the bishop’s predecessor, Cuthbert Tunstall. He had me to his episcopal court. Were it not for Cromwell I would now be in glory, like Robert. And you and I are not alone; several of the people you will meet here in this haven of the English House have escaped overseas from the snapping jaws of papist pursuers. We praise the Lord for raising Cromwell to a position of power but that has made our enemies even more desperate. Since they cannot use their corrupt judicial system against us, they resort to other measures.’
Stephen Vaughan was obviously a man who enjoyed the sound of his own voice. As he rambled on I began to wonder whether I had made my long and uncomfortable journey in vain. If he and his colleagues could only trot out rumours wrapped in pious words, I would learn nothing useful about the activities that might have led to Robert’s death. ‘You believe the bishop and his ilk will not stop at assassination?’ I asked.
‘That and any violence and duplicity that will enable the pope and his acolytes to cling to worldly power. I recall being at dinner once with Cromwell when he was regaling the company with his wide reading on this very subject. “Exitus acta probat,” he said, quoting some ancient Greek philosopher or other – “Results validate deeds.” He went on to explain how this immoral, antichristian concept had recently been expounded by the Florentine politician Machiavelli, and taken up with enthusiasm in Rome. From that headquarters of Antichrist orders go out to the princes of Europe to exterminate all true Christians – by whatever means come to hand.’ Suddenly the scowl left his face and he laughed again. ‘Fortunately, here in Antwerp we are under the protection of Mammon.’
‘Does your trade wealth really buy you freedom from persecution?’
‘Our overlord, the Emperor, would dearly love to please the pope and allow the Inquisition free rein but with 70 per cent of the Netherlands’ commercial revenue passing through here, much of it in the hands of men he would call “heretics”, why he dare not. Without our taxes and duties he would be unable to keep up his war with France – and that is very dear to him.’
‘This I well believe and yet when Robert was here, only a few weeks ago, he seemed to think that he was in some danger.’
Vaughan looked up sharply. ‘Did he say what he feared?’
‘I had only a brief letter from him in October. He did not detail his anxieties yet I sensed they were very real. He said he had something to tell me as soon as he got back to London. Unfortunately… I can’t help wondering if he was killed to ensure his silence. I think Lord Cromwell has the same suspicion.’
‘And that is why you are here?’
‘Yes. Do you know anything that was worrying Robert while he was here – perhaps something connected with the death of Master Tyndale?’
Vaughan’s mood changed abruptly.
‘I believe you have a packet of letters for me,’ he said.
It was as though the mention of Tyndale had dammed the flow of his eloquence.
‘Yes, of course,’ I said, going across to my travelling chest. ‘Forgive me, I should have handed them over straightway. I fear I shall make a very poor intermediary.’ I passed him the package Cromwell had entrusted to me.
The loquacious factor now seemed in a hurry to leave. ‘I must go through these carefully. There are sure to be many matters His Lordship wants me to attend to. We can talk at more leisure tomorrow. Meanwhile, please feel free to eat with us in the common hall. The servants will show you around.’ With that Stephen Vaughan bounced from the room.
The following morning I received another visitor, a spare young man with thinning hair, who introduced himself as John Rogers, chaplain to the English community.
‘Stephen thought you might find it useful to have a brief tour of Antwerp,’ he said. ‘It’s a very compact city. Strangers can easily lose their way, particularly if they don’t speak the local language.’
I was pleased to put my mission briefly from my mind and explore this city, so different from my own. London was a higgledy-piggledy of ancient streets and alleys but much of Antwerp was new built with room made for open squares and spacious courtyards. I noticed very quickly that our tour included few churches. Rogers was disdainful of the ‘papist hovels’ and their ‘idolatrous shrines’. He did, however take me to the cathedral. It was not, I realised, as big as St Paul’s but its nave was of a prodigious width. I commented that its regular congregation must be very large to fill such a space. He nodded noncommittally. ‘We rarely come here. The authorities allow us to conduct our own worship. They don’t like it but it’s part of the sacrifice they have to make to the real god of Antwerp – money. Come, I’ll show you where he is worshipped.’
We passed through several streets and eventually turned under a large archway into an open square enclosed by colonnades, which had the appearance of an abbey cloister. It was, however, more spacious than any ecclesiastical enclosure that I had ever seen and it was obviously of new construction. It was all athrong with men, most of whom were standing in pairs or small groups, locked in earnest conversation.
‘Behold Antwerp’s real cathedral, the Bourse, opened about four years ago,’ Rogers declared, with an expansive wave of the hand. ‘This sacred area is dedicated to trade. Even as we watch, millions of Spanish dollars are changing hands. These people are buying and selling spices, broadcloth, silk, diamonds – any and every commodity that can be turned into profit.’
‘How useful having one commercial exc
hange building for all merchants,’ I said.
‘Yes, and in the offices behind the colonnade we have money changers, who keep a constant record of currency values – Spanish dollars into German thalers or Florentine florins or English sovereigns – and the market masters who set the specie values for the trade fairs. The more important merchants have their own premises here where they draw up bills of exchange, make contracts and arrange transport details.’
‘Very impressive,’ I said, and meant it.
‘You think so?’ Rogers questioned. ‘Well, now I will show you where we deal in something infinitely more valuable than Guinea gold or even Calicut pepper.’
There was, on the face of it, nothing unfamiliar about the place to which Rogers now introduced me. I had seen print shops in London and recognised instantly the stacks of paper, the typesetters’ frames and the heavy oak press. A dozen men were engrossed in their various tasks but the person in charge, who was now holding up a finished page to scrutiny, was a woman. Rogers approached her.
