The First Horseman: Number 1 in Series (Thomas Treviot)

by D. K. Wilson

  We watched the old lady as she sat methodically spooning up her pottage and staring vacantly into space.

  ‘She’s like this most of the time,’ Lizzie said. ‘Sometimes we have quite long conversations but they’re less frequent now.’

  As if to confirm her words, my mother suddenly looked up from her bowl with a smile. ‘Is this man your husband, my poppet? He’s a lusty young fellow, isn’t he?’

  Lizzie rose and went to her side. ‘Mistress Treviot, this is your son, Thomas. Yes, he is a lusty lad, isn’t he? Perhaps too lusty for his own good,’ she added under her breath, with a flash of her familiar scowl.

  But the old lady’s eyes had glazed over again and she made no response.

  Lizzie resumed her seat with a sigh. ‘I sometimes think she’s the only happy one here. At least she lives in her own world – wherever that may be.’

  My mother began to hum an old tune and to rock from side to side with the rhythm.

  ‘Yes,’ Lizzie said. ‘It’s she who has her wits about her and we who dwell in a hellish Bedlam.’

  On an impulse I rested my hand on hers. ‘Don’t be melancholic. Things will get better. They must.’

  ‘Why must they?’ She turned her head, eyes blazing. ‘Every scrap of news we hear is worse than the last.’ It was the sort of indignant outburst that was typical of this high-spirited woman. But she did not remove her hand.

  ‘Well, from what I’ve heard on the road, it seems that the trouble in the North is over. The rebels have disbanded and been promised a royal pardon.’

  ‘Oh, we’ve heard all about that!’ Lizzie’s nose wrinkled in a sneer. ‘Ned says that’s just a trick of the king’s. He says as soon as the poor people up there have gone to their own homes, our Harry will send a fresh army to drag them out and put them to death.’

  ‘Ned is a bit too sympathetic to the rebels’ cause. I hope he will learn to be less free with his opinions. Perhaps his brief spell in the local jail will make him more careful.’

  ‘Prison doesn’t seem to have knocked any sense into you,’ Lizzie snapped, and now she did remove her hand. ‘But then you’ve become a copain of Master High-and-Mighty Cromwell, haven’t you?’

  I was spared the need to respond by a knock at the door. One of the servants brought the news that Ned and Jed had returned. I hurried out to meet them and Lizzie was at my heels. Our two friends had barely dismounted when she ran up to embrace them. ‘Mary and all the saints be praised!’ she exclaimed between tears and laughter. ‘I prayed for you every day – every hour!’

  Ned beamed and, with some difficulty, disengaged himself from her entwining arms. ‘Then your prayers have been answered – though we must give due praise to Master Treviot as well as Our Lady.’ He grasped my hand. ‘Thank you, indeed, Thomas. Long years in the monastery accustomed me to confinement but a few more days in that damp, stinking hole…’

  ‘It’s good to see you safe.’

  ‘And you,’ Ned responded warmly. ‘We have much news to catch up on.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘and best we do it well away from eager ears. Come with me.’

  I led the way to the large wagon barn, next to the stables. Ned, Lizzie and I climbed to the loft and settled ourselves among the sweet-smelling hay. I described, as succinctly as possible, my arrest, release and visit to Antwerp.

  ‘So,’ Ned said, when I reached the end, ‘you are now in the employ of the great man. What is your impression of him?’

  I had been pondering that question myself ever since my surprise interview at the house beside Austin Friars and it took me some moments to offer a considered reply. ‘I think Lord Cromwell is a man who speaks much and says little.’

  ‘That agrees with what I hear. Those around the court believe that his rise to power has come from telling people (especially the king) what they want to hear. While he lulls them into believing all is well, he quietly pursues his own subversive policies. That was how he brought down Anne Boleyn.’

  ‘Brought down Anne Boleyn! That cannot be!’ Lizzie exclaimed. ‘Were they not both of the New Learning? Surely they worked together to pull down the monasteries? That’s what everyone says.’

  ‘That’s just what the devious Cromwell wants everyone to say. Our contacts at court tell a different story,’ Ned replied.

  I laughed. ‘Your contacts at court? Come now; what does St Swithun’s House know about great affairs of state?’

  ‘Don’t scoff, Thomas.’ I could see that Ned was quite serious. ‘Gossip at the king’s supper table is often common talk in the Stews by breakfast. As it happens, we’ve been finding out more about these “New Learners” at court. We had a pair of their friends to St Swithun’s one evening a few weeks back. Some draughts of our excellent ale – embellished with a certain powder from my chest of simples – and they bade farewell to discretion. What they had to say about their betters would have made the Devil blush.’

  I laughed but Ned ignored my mockery.

  ‘You would be shocked to hear what goes on between the pious ladies of Queen Jane’s chamber, the king’s hunting companions and even the royal chaplains. But that’s not to the point. Basically, it seems, we must abandon any idea that the “New Learners” are a close fellowship of Bible students, united around an agreed core of fashionable, novel doctrines. Having severed the cables binding them to Mother Church, they are adrift on a sea of treacherous currents that carry them in several directions. His Majesty’s household is all asquirm with a myriad heretics. It is a cockpit where enemies of the truth unleash their talons against honest Christians. Some are hot to desecrate churches and pull down religious images but others distance themselves from such vandalism. Some proudly follow Luther’s heresy, insisting that faith is all and good works count for nothing. Others point out that this only leads to unbridled licence and the abandoning of Christian virtue. ’Tis no wonder the realm is in such a state when those at the centre are so divided.’

  Ned was becoming increasingly agitated and loquacious. I tried to head off his verbal stampede. ‘Where stands Cromwell in all this?’ I asked.

  ‘Who knows,’ he replied. ‘As you say, His Lordship reveals little of his real thoughts. However, what our inebriated friends revealed was that Cromwell and the Boleyn whore had a fierce argument only days before her fall. It was about the monasteries.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Lizzie said with wrinkled brow. ‘Was the queen against their closure?’

  ‘No, she wanted to use the proceeds for schools, poor scholars, and such like.’

  ‘What makes you think Cromwell would oppose that?’ I demanded.

  ‘Because the only way that he had been able to get the king to agree to wholesale dissolution was by pandering to his greed.’ Ned lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. ‘All that was needed, he said, was a few Acts of parliament for all the Church’s gold and jewels and rents to be poured into the royal coffers and make Henry VIII the richest king in the world.’

  ‘And because the queen was trying to appeal to the king’s better nature, Cromwell plotted to destroy her! The hell-bred, viper-minded, double-tongued hypocrite.’ Lizzie glared at me. ‘That’s the sort of man you’re working for!’

  It was clearly time to change the subject. ‘Enough of politics,’ I said. ‘Have you learned anything useful from these “court contacts” of yours?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I have,’ Ned replied. ‘I had asked our Southwark friends to gather any information about the Seagraves. When Jed came up to town to deliver Lizzie’s letter, he called in at St Swithun’s House and picked up some interesting gossip. It seems they’ve been in touch with Doggett.’

  ‘Why for?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t be so dim,’ Lizzie scoffed. ‘Doggett knows everything. If they want to find out who killed their sottish Jack Napes relative, Doggett would be the man to turn to.’

  Ned nodded. ‘That’s right. And Doggett set his Dogs on to gathering information in their usual – very effective
– manner. Unfortunately, in the course of their investigations, your name cropped up, Thomas.’

  ‘But they can’t still think I had anything to do with Nathaniel Seagrave’s murder,’ I gasped.

  ‘They need someone to blame if they are to assuage their grief,’ Ned replied sombrely. ‘However, that is the bad news. The good news is that the parties have fallen out. The Seagraves wanted Doggett to arrange your murder. He refused.’

  ‘The man does have a conscience, then,’ I said.

  ‘More like they fell out over money.’ Lizzie gave a cynical laugh.

  ‘Lizzie is probably right,’ Ned agreed. ‘Doggett’s assassins don’t come cheap.’

  ‘Perhaps, then, they will abandon their dreams of revenge?’

  ‘I think it likely they will seek other ways to destroy you, Thomas. You must stay on your guard.’ Ned went on: ‘Sir Harry Seagrave, Nathaniel’s father, is a member of the Privy Chamber and a friend of the king. He is a born schemer, who has worked his way from rural obscurity to the centre of power by a calculated programme of ingratiation and betrayal. My guess is that he will watch his moment very carefully and only act when it is safe to do so. His only surviving son, Hugh, is quite another matter – headstrong, proud, jealous of his family honour and not very intelligent. Sir Harry has him at court to keep an eye on him but the young man is virtually uncontrollable. It might even be him who took a shot at you at Hampstead.’

  ‘Will this nightmare ever end?’ I groaned.

  Chapter 32

  By first light on Saturday we were all ready to set off. Horses were saddled, carts packed and my mother and son made comfortable in the koch, with Lizzie to cater to their needs. I hoped that the journey would last no more than two days because the weather had taken a very bitter turn. We were all heavily wrapped against the easterly wind which rattled the bare branches, snatched at our cloaks and carved the track into sharp ridges.

  Progress was slow but our pace improved slightly once we had reached the Dover road near Wrotham. I rode part of the way with Ned for company. I wanted to press him further about what we had been discussing the previous day without alarming Lizzie.

  ‘Now that I have met Lord Cromwell,’ I began, ‘I find it hard to recognise the picture you paint of him. He spoke to me about creating a new and better England. Now, whether you think that’s a good thing or not, it’s difficult to see what he had to gain by bringing down the queen. She, too, was all for reform. I’ve met men who were close to her. They praise her for her boldness in appointing preachers and bishops of the new persuasion and campaigning for an English Bible. Getting rid of her could only set back Cromwell’s cause.’

  Ned gave a cynical smile. ‘And has it? Six months ago most people assumed that Queen Anne’s disgrace and death would put an end to all this New Learning nonsense. They thought the king would make his peace with the pope, that the monasteries would be spared, that heresy would be rooted out, that Cromwell and his grovelling creature, Archbishop Cranmer, would be staked out as scapegoats to bear the punishment for unpopular policies. Has any of this happened?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No. Cromwell is more secure than ever and hatching who knows what devilish plots to sink England deeper in the mire of heresy. The heroes who raised the North in defence of Christian truth certainly worried the king. They wanted to see the heads of Cromwell and Cranmer stuck up on poles but I fear the heretics are too firmly entrenched in royal favour.’

  ‘You still believe he intends to put a complete end to the religious life in England?’

  ‘Why would he stop now? The attack on the smaller houses was like a gage thrown down to see if anyone would take it up. Well, the brave northerners’ challenge very nearly stopped him short. It was our last – our only – chance. If the Pilgrims of Grace, as they called themselves, had pressed home their advantage, we’d have seen an end to this headlong plunge into heresy.’

  We moved into single file to negotiate a narrow packhorse bridge. ‘Of course,’ Ned continued, ‘brave Harry would not have had the wit to think out this scheme for himself. It took your friend Cromwell to harness the greed of the gentry and would-be gentry. Distributing some of the confiscated land to eager estate builders was a clever move – diabolically clever.’

  I thought of men like Sebastian Humphrey and could only agree. Such men would be invaluable allies for Cromwell as he set about creating his ‘new’ England.

  ‘Do you miss the life of the cloister?’ I asked.

  He paused a long time before replying. ‘That is a question I often ask myself. I was comfortable and secure at Farnfield. As a child I had been put there by my father and had no choice in the matter. I was the youngest of four sons and there was no way he could provide me with any inheritance. I suppose he thought it would be useful to have at least one member of the family pledged to pray constantly for his soul. I don’t recall any time when I did not assume that I would live out my whole life in the priory. And I never doubted that my brothers and I were performing a useful service – praying for the king and the realm from one dawn to the next.’ He sighed. ‘Hubris! We had no real contact with the realm and certainly not with the king. How could we pray properly – particularly as our numbers dwindled. The world outside our walls was changing, spinning – perhaps to its destruction. Had we any right to be cocooned from that reality? Religious communities needed to be shaken out of their complacency if they were to serve this land turned topsy-turvy. There was a time when I thought that what Cromwell was about was a painful but necessary reform and that I might play some part in reviving monastic life. Self-deluding fool!’ Ned laughed, mirthless. ‘I think that is no answer to your question but ’tis all I can offer.’

  ‘Well,’ I said. ‘I still think better than you of Lord Cromwell but, even if I did not, I would have no choice about serving him. I need his protection.’

  ‘Then pray God you continue to please him,’ Ned observed grimly, ‘for we are all in the same case.’

  ‘All?’

  ‘Aye. You and me and Jed and Lizzie and your mother and little Raphael and all your household. We stand or fall with you. You have recruited us to His Lordship’s service – without giving us any say in the matter.’

  A young hind pranced across the road in front of us and made Golding prick up his ears. I was no less taken aback by Ned’s statement. God forgive me, it was true. I had been dicing with the lives of people I cared about.

  All I could think to say was, ‘Well, please God, this business will soon be over, and we can all resume our normal lives.’

  ‘A fond wish.’ Ned stared at me solemnly. ‘Life is not a trundling wagon you can jump on and off at leisure. For example, have you thought what’s to become of Lizzie?’

  ‘She’s welcome under my roof as long as she wishes to stay. Raphael will need a nurse for several years. I don’t know what other options she has – but then there’s much about her I don’t know. For instance, how did she learn to write?’ It was a clumsy attempt to turn the conversation but Ned seemed as ready as I for a new topic.

  ‘As far as I can gather from snatches of conversation, her father was servant to a wealthy merchant,’ he explained. ‘Lizzie grew up alongside this man’s daughter and, when he hired a tutor for the girl, Lizzie also attended lessons. She even has a little Latin. That all came to an end when Lizzie’s father fell out with his master – something to do with drink and missing money, I think. When the family were turned out, her father had no hesitation in putting his pretty thirteen-year-old daughter to work in the dockland streets to please sailors who came ashore with their wages.’

  ‘Poor Lizzie.’

  ‘Indeed. Fortunately she’s a girl of spirit. It didn’t take her long to calculate that if she was doomed to be a whore she would work on her own terms. That’s how she ended up at St Swithun’s. That’s why I ask you what’s to become of her. She deserves a better life.’

  We stopped in Ash at the Sign of the White Swan to refresh ou
rselves and see the horses rested, fed and watered. After that I left the members of my little caravan to make the best time they could while I rode on ahead with a couple of servants. I wanted to get as close as possible to London before nightfall in order to reach home the next morning. If Cromwell had sent to summon me to his presence I had no wish to keep him waiting. We reached Deptford before a darkening sky obliged us to seek lodging. We had almost left it too late. The man I sent on ahead returned with the news that the inns were full. However, he had discovered that a certain Mistress Flower had a house near St Nicholas’ Church on the Strand, where she sometimes welcomed guests. I, therefore, presented myself at her door and the good lady, having inspected me closely to ensure that I was what she called ‘suitable’, welcomed us in.

  It was immediately apparent that, by good fortune, we had stumbled upon a haven much more agreeable than any of Deptford’s bustling and overcrowded inns. We were comfortably accommodated and well fed. The only drawback was the garrulity of our hostess. Having had a substantial meal set out for me in her main room, she insisted on joining me at the table and regaling me with anecdotes about some of the impressive ladies and gentlemen she had welcomed beneath her roof.