by D. K. Wilson
‘We were all depressed but Robert seemed to be more deeply affected than any of us,’ Rogers added.
‘He was certainly greatly distressed when he wrote to me,’ I said. ‘Do you know why that was?’
Rogers pushed his trencher to one side, his meat only half consumed. He sighed. ‘All he would say was, “I should have done more.” That wasn’t true, of course. Winning Donne over was very important. It must have exposed Phillips’ network.’
Vaughan nodded. ‘He had certainly put an end to Phillips’ usefulness. That double-faced, hell-hated villain is good for nothing now but to crawl from town to town seeking in vain for anyone who will trust him.’
‘But none of you has any idea which of his backers might have wanted to be revenged on Robert?’ I pressed.
All round the table heads were gloomily shaken.
Rogers said, ‘I don’t believe his melancholy was caused by concern for his own safety.’ He glanced round at his colleagues. ‘At times he seemed almost bent on martyrdom. We all noticed it.’
The others muttered their assent.
I blustered my disbelief. ‘That is not the Robert I knew. You must be mistaken.’
‘You didn’t witness Tyndale’s end,’ Vaughan replied. ‘We all went to Vilvoorde, near Brussels, to give him what comfort we could. We watched William fastened to the stake. He was allowed to pray and he called out something to his friends at the front of the crowd. I didn’t hear it clearly but Robert did. He was straining against the cordon of soldiers and let out a howl of rage and grief when the executioner strangled William. When the fire was lit I believe Robert would have cast himself upon it if he could have broken through the guards.’
Still my mind would not accept what I was being told. The man they were describing was not the urbane, wise, impassive Robert Packington I had known for years.
‘His spirit was broken,’ Rogers added. ‘Only days before he had delivered a sealed letter from Cromwell to the authorities, an appeal for clemency. I suppose he believed that would gain William a reprieve. When his hopes were dashed…’
Vaughan said, ‘Nothing would solace him, right up to the time he left here. He seemed doom-laden. I saw him on to shipboard and when we parted he grasped my hand firmly and begged me, with tears in his eyes, not to think ill of him. His last words were, “Till we meet in heaven, dear friend.”’
‘Why should you think ill…’ I began, but broke off, realising that these people were as mystified as I was.
I stayed in Antwerp a few more days and eventually took ship on 7 December. I called on Vaughan before my departure and thanked him for his help and hospitality.
‘Have you found what you came here seeking?’ he asked.
‘I’m not sure,’ I replied. ‘I fear I have not discovered what Lord Cromwell sent me to find.’
‘Take my advice; give Master Secretary a very precise report of everything that has passed here. The details may not seem important to you but he has a genius for fitting together tiny scraps of information. He sees the big picture. We do not.’
I asked Vaughan to extend my greetings to his colleagues and asked, ‘What will happen to Thomas Poyntz?’
He sighed. ‘Poor Thomas. He is a marked man on both sides of the Channel. I think he plans to stay here until after Christmas, then return to England. He is still in hope to take his family with him but you have heard what Madge has to say on that score. She believes the children are safer here. We must pray that the times will change so that Christian families like theirs are not faced with such choices.’
The vessel I boarded was bound for London via Calais. I was now desperately anxious to be back in England, to make my report and then ride to Hemmings as quickly as I could. It was the weather that conspired to delay me and stoke my impatience. A sudden storm prevented us making landfall on the French coast and we were driven out into the German Sea. For four days we pitched about on moving mountains of water that cast the ship to and fro like a tennis ball. I could do nothing but lie in my berth groaning. I was certainly not able to martial my thoughts or consider what, if anything, I had learned. As I rolled from side to side, cold yet sweating, hearing only the thud of waves and the creaking complaint of the hull’s timbers, jumbled fragments of conversations banged around in my head – meaningless, yet persistent, as though they would tell me something, if only I could make sense of them: ‘more valuable than gold or pepper’; ‘exitus acta probat’, ‘results validate deeds’; ‘not by the best of living’; ‘wise as serpents and gentle as doves’; ‘reprieve’; ‘reprieve’; ‘reprieve’.
Chapter 29
By the time the tempest blew itself out we were well north of our planned route. As darkness fell on the evening of 12 December and the cloud veil lifted, we could see the lights of the English coast but the master did not dare take his vessel closer inshore and so anchored for the night. The following morning we came to harbour in the port of Harwich. I went ashore immediately and few travellers can ever have been more thankful to find unshifting ground beneath their feet. My next problem was reporting back to Cromwell with the minimum of delay. Our ship had sustained serious damage in the storm and the master told me that it would be several days before repairs could be completed and the voyage to London resumed. There was no alternative but to make my way overland. The decision was easy enough to take. Putting it into effect proved to be less so. I needed a reliable horse and a couple of sturdy countrymen to ensure my safety on the road. Enquiry at the hovel that called itself an inn proved fruitless as did my questioning of the taciturn fisherfolk and petty merchants. They seemed quite unimpressed when I told them that I was on government business and I had resigned myself to waiting for the ship to be ready when a well-dressed man on an impressive black mare rode up to the quayside. He introduced himself as steward to Sir Sebastian Humphrey, the leading gentleman of the area. News of my plight had obviously travelled swiftly and the name of Lord Cromwell had had an almost magical effect upon this rural squire, who insisted, via his agent, in offering me hospitality and seeing me safely on my way.
The later events of that day would have been quite amusing had I not been anxious to reach home and discover what had been happening in my absence. Sir Sebastian was of a good girth and his wife and two daughters scarcely less so. The ladies were eager for news of the latest fashions at court but the head of the household was more concerned about developments at the centre that might affect his own situation. Since I was an intimate of Mr Secretary Cromwell, he entreated, did I think His Lordship might be prevailed upon to intercede with His Grace, the Earl of Oxford. There was land in Dovercourt that bordered Humphrey’s estate and had belonged to the Benedictine priory of Earl’s Colne. On that house’s dissolution back in the summer it had been acquired by Lord Oxford. Sir Sebastian would gladly have it if Lord Oxford was disposed to sell. I tried to persuade him that my influence in court circles was limited (which, in itself, was certainly an exaggeration) but my host dismissed this as false modesty and when he renewed his pleading I promised to mention the matter to Lord Cromwell.
Humphrey was effusive in his gratitude and the dinner he set before me, consisting of a dozen or so dishes, was more than my still delicate stomach could do justice to. The best plate was laid out and Mistress Humphrey’s tongue lashed the servants whenever any of them displayed behaviour that might have appeared gauche to the ‘distinguished guest’. Over the meal her buxom daughters competed for my attention, giggling and simpering as they helped me to portions of food or replenished my goblet. As I took my last sip of sweet, warm hippocras Sir Sebastian casually asked whether I would care to look over his stable. He was, he said, rather proud of his horses. I rose thankfully from the table, more than ready for some crisp, fresh air to clear my head. It rapidly became apparent that Humphrey was extremely knowledgeable about horseflesh and he had some admirable beasts. As we toured the stalls he described the pedigree and merits of each incumbent in turn. He asked me which I liked best. My eye had
been caught by a compact grey gelding of similar conformity to Dickon, though a couple of years younger.
When I pointed him out my host nodded his approval. ‘You are an excellent judge, Master Treviot. Golding is what I call a “stayer”. He will go all day and still have the spirit for a gallop when he smells home. Would you like to try him?’
Minutes later I was in Humphrey’s schooling paddock, putting Golding through his paces. My host called out flattering encouragements. ‘He goes well for you, young sir. You’ve won his approval.’ He strolled over and ran a hand caressingly down the horse’s neck. ‘He has a favourite trick he only performs for those he really likes. Lean forward, pull back on the rein, tap his flank lightly and whisper to him “Stand”.’
I did so and the next moment was almost unseated. The grey flicked his ears and reared on his hind legs, his front hooves pawing the air.
Humphrey roared with laughter. ‘Excellent! Stoutly done! You were made for each other.’
I dismounted and patted Golding. ‘Fine horse,’ I said. ‘He handles well.’
‘Just the mount you need to take you back to London.’ Humphrey smiled disarmingly but there was a glint in his eye – the look of a businessman sizing up a prospective customer. Somewhat belatedly I realised that the bluff, naive countryman pose was just that – a pose. Sir Sebastian Humphrey was, in reality, a cunning and professional horse coper.
‘You would hire him to me?’ I asked, matching his feigned innocence.
‘Oh, Golding is no hack for hire,’ he protested. ‘He is just the mount for a wealthy gold merchant.’ He emphasised the word ‘wealthy’.
There was no doubt in my mind that the grey’s name had been invented for my benefit. For some minutes seller and buyer performed the verbal galliard of haggling. Humphrey named an outrageous price. I recoiled in mock outrage. He enumerated the horse’s ‘outstanding’ qualities. I indicated that I might be interested at a much lower figure. The compromise we eventually reached was more in Humphrey’s favour than mine. He had the advantage. He knew that I needed a reliable horse if I was not to be left stranded in Harwich. So, I ended up paying dearly for Golding. As things turned out, I never made a better investment.
That afternoon I completed plans for my onward journey. I would leave early on the morrow accompanied by two of Humphrey’s outdoor servants as escort. My chest was consigned to the ship master, who – for an additional fee – agreed to have it delivered to Goldsmith’s Row when he reached London. It was early on Tuesday 13 December that I set out with my companions under a slate-coloured sky, our cloaks wrapped tightly round us against a cutting wind. We made good time across the flat, largely empty landscape and, as the last light faded, we were crossing the marshland bordering the Thames estuary. The smoke blown horizontally from Tilbury’s huddled houses was the only sign of occupation and we had to hammer on the inn door to rouse the proprietor. A wretched night followed in the most cramped and draughty guest chamber I have ever encountered. In the morning I located one of the ferrymen and, after the usual ritual of bargaining over his fee, he roused the oarsmen from neighbouring cottages and we boarded his broad, flat-bottomed craft for the crossing to Gravesend.
What I planned to do from this point was travel to Hemmings, which was only seventeen miles away, check that all was well there, send Humphrey’s men home, and continue on to London with some of my own servants. Alas for the vanity of human designs!
I could tell that something was wrong as soon as we entered the stable yard. Walt came running out to greet us.
‘Praise God you’re here, Master Thomas,’ he said, holding Golding’s head while I dismounted.
‘Why, what’s the matter, man? Is it my mother? Or my son?’
He shook his head. ‘No, master; they are safe and within doors.’
‘Mistress Garney, then?’
‘She is well.’
‘God’s blood, man, tell me plainly what troubles you!’ I shouted.
‘’Tis your other friends, Master Thomas. They… the magistrate…’ He struggled for words. ‘Best let Mistress Garney explain.’
I rushed into the house and found Lizzie in the hall, leading Raphael by one hand as he made tottering steps over the strewn rushes. The relief at seeing them both safe was almost overwhelming.
‘Thomas!’ she gasped and, for once, actually looked pleased to see me.
‘In God’s name, what’s been happening here?’ I demanded. ‘Where are Ned and Jed?’
She picked Raphael up and seated herself by the fire, with the child on her lap. She looked up. ‘Thomas, you have to help them. No one else can.’ I had never seen her more anguished, not even in the depths of her own problems.
‘That will be difficult if I do not know what has befallen them. I’ve had no news this last sixteen days. What has been happening?’
Lizzie took a deep breath. ‘Well, that’s easily told. Incent, that snivelling, ranting, villainous hypocrite, came marching in here to tell us you were taken by the bishop’s men and would be burned for a heretic.’
‘Yes, yes,’ I said impatiently. ‘Jed told me that Ned had taken you for safety to the nuns at Ladborough. As soon as I heard I arranged for you to be under Lord Cromwell’s personal protection.’
‘Aye, and that we were. Three of his own guards came down. After four days they said it was safe to return here. Everything was well as long as the soldiers stayed. Incent was furious at being baulked but he could do nothing while Cromwell’s men were here. But last Friday they were recalled by their master. Well, that hellfire-headed priest wasted no time. Three days ago, he came back, this time with the local magistrate… Whatsisname…’
‘Sir James Dewey.’
‘Yes, him. I was sitting here in this very chair, changing Raffy. “Slut!” he shouted. “Stand up in the presence of your betters. Go and fetch the buggers!”’
‘“And who would that be?” says I, staying put. That made his face go as red as his hair. “Strumpet!” he screamed. “Don’t play the innocent with me. We know you’re turning this house into a filthy bordello.” He raised his hand to strike me but Whatsisname stopped him. Then the magistrate explained that they’d come to arrest two men believed to have taken refuge here. “On what charge?” says I. “Why, buggery,” he says. “And since when has that been against the king’s law?” says I. “These three years since,” he replies. Lying puttock!’
‘No, he’s right.’ I said. ‘It was made a civil law offence so that the government could wield a stick over monasteries they wanted to close.’
‘Well, we haven’t got a monastery here, have we?’
‘No, but I know what the Incents are up to. They’re angry because I escaped their clutches. This is their way of hitting back. What’s happened to Ned and Jed?’
‘The magistrate brought armed men with him. They put our friends in irons and took them off to Ightham jail. Thomas, you’ve got to do something.’ She released a wriggling Raphael. Staring watchfully after him, she muttered, ‘You are bad luck to everyone who knows you, Thomas.’
‘That’s a just rebuke,’ I admitted, ‘but I’ll get them freed. God’s blood, the Incents are not going to get away with this!’
I hurried back out, had Golding re-saddled and set off for the magistrate’s house, some five miles off, at Hadbourne. Sir James Dewey was an old friend. His family and mine had been leaders of local society for a couple of generations. Many were the private gatherings we had enjoyed and the public events he and my father had organised together. I could not reconcile what Lizzie had told me with the man I knew. I had to talk with him face to face.
But what was I to say? As the local representative of the king’s justice he had solemn responsibilities. When alleged violations of the law were reported to him he was bound to investigate them. I knew and respected James as a man of impeccable honesty and one not swayed by offers of bribes or by favouritism. If I were to persuade him not to proceed further with the case against Ned and Jed, I would
have to make an unassailable case. As I jogged southwards beneath the bare-limbed trees I went over in my mind what little I knew about John and Hugh Incent and their interest in me and my friends. And, suddenly, I understood. Like sunlight breaking through clouds, my hazy recollections became hard-edged and vivid. Facts fell into place.
Chapter 30
I did not need to travel all the way to Hadbourne to find James Dewey. I came up with him a mile from his house and we journeyed on together. His welcome was warm, as I had known it would be.
‘Thomas, well met!’ His weatherbeaten countryman’s face glowed with a wide smile. ‘I hear you’ve been over to the Netherlands.’
‘Aye, on business for Lord Cromwell.’
James’ thick eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘Moving in high circles, eh? Better than the business you were doing with Bishop Stokesley, by all I hear.’
‘Ill news rides a swift horse.’
He laughed. ‘You know our locals. They know everything about us and what they don’t know becomes the subject of vivid imagining.’
