by D. K. Wilson
‘Yes, but his friends were convinced that they had done all they could for him. Unfortunately, the severe restrictions governing his imprisonment severely limited their charity. Only Robert, it seems, carried a burden of guilt. He believed that he should have done more but I cannot see why he should have reproached himself.’
Augustine looked round the room, as though fearing that someone might have been listening or was suspicious of our private conversation. ‘Tyndale was doomed,’ he said at last. ‘There could have been no other end. Beyond the English House he was a marked man and he could never have returned here.’
‘Why so?’ I asked.
He dropped his voice, although there was certainly no one near enough to hear what he said. ‘He knew that his presence here would have played into the papists’ hands. They’d have had the king’s backing in hunting him down. And, if Tyndale had been burned at Smithfield instead of outside Vilvoorde Castle, do you think we would have had the remotest chance of seeing an English Bible in our lifetime? William was well aware of that. Rather than see his work come to nothing, he embraced perpetual exile.’
‘I am confused,’ I said. ‘If His Majesty was so opposed to Tyndale, why did he send agents to intercede for him with the imperial authorities?’
‘There are two things you should know about our king. The first is that he is a great hater. He takes any kind of disagreement personally, as proof of disloyalty. You saw what happened to Queen Anne. God alone knows what she did to turn his passionate love into frenzied hatred. There was a time when the king was an admirer of Tyndale. He praised him to the heavens as a wise and godly scholar – as long as he thought this genius could be useful to him in his battle with the pope. I once carried a message from Cromwell begging Tyndale to come back and produce books supporting Henry’s governorship of the Church. He was promised a generous pension and every facility for his work. Then Tyndale committed the unforgivable crime.’
‘What was that?’
‘He had the effrontery to disagree with the king over his reading of Scripture,’ Augustine said bitterly. ‘Henry’s case for having his first marriage annulled was that the Bible declared it unlawful. Tyndale knew that this was wishful thinking; the king was twisting the meaning for his own benefit. Now a prudent man – or a coward – would have kept silent. Not Tyndale. He was too much a stickler for the truth of Holy Scripture. He pointed out that Henry had misinterpreted the text and that, therefore, his marriage to Queen Catherine was valid. After that Henry’s supposed love and admiration turned to black hatred. Without this Bible “proof” the king had no case. That was why he joined the baying pack screaming out that Tyndale was a heretic. After that there was no possibility of his ever returning to England. He was, and would always be, an outlaw. He had no citizenship, except, as he once said to me, “in heaven”. And this great saint’s last prayer was for the man who had abandoned him to his enemies!’
I considered Augustine’s angry words. ‘And what is the second thing I need to know about His Majesty?’
‘That he is a master dissembler. Unless I am very much mistaken you will see that when you discover what happens to this Aske fellow. His visit is all the talk at court this Christmas. He was the chief instigator of the northern rebellion but now he is welcomed here like the Prodigal Son. All is forgiven. Aske is showered with gifts. Henry walks with him in the privy garden with an arm round his shoulder. Well, we will see how long this supposed friendship lasts. I’ll lay you a hundred gold sovereigns that we see this little lawyer’s head on a pole before Easter.’
My mind rebelled against this cynicism. ‘No, Augustine, the picture you paint is of a capricious, feckless monster. I cannot believe such things of our lawful king. How could the realm possibly be governed if what you say is true?’
‘We must praise God that Lord Cromwell is at His Majesty’s right hand. He understands —’
‘Master Treviot!’ My name was called by the secretary and I went over to the table. ‘His Lordship will see you now.’ The man waved me towards the doorway behind him.
Cromwell’s office was not large but its window commanded the same wide view as that of the anteroom. The king’s secretary had placed his table in such a way as to make most use of the winter light. Like its counterpart in His Lordship’s London house, it was topped with papers, letters and books in tidy piles. Cromwell was attired in an expensive black robe with a fur collar over which he wore a gold chain of office. As I entered, he set aside the document he was working on and drew towards him another sheaf of papers.
‘Ah, Thomas.’ He looked up, all affability. ‘I wish you a good Christmas.’ If I had been an old and trusted friend, his welcome could hardly have been warmer.
‘And I you, My Lord. I see you are no less busy in the festal season.’
‘If His Majesty is to enjoy celebrating the Nativity, some of us must lift the cares of state from his shoulders. And what of you, young man? Free of the worries that beset you when last we met, I hope.’
‘I am thankful that the Lollards’ Tower is no more than an occasional nightmare, My Lord.’
‘Good, good… and your personal quest to discover the murderer of our dear friend, Robert Packington?’
‘I am glad to say that I have reached a conclusion on that matter. The culprit’s name —’
Cromwell held up a hand. ‘In time, in time, Thomas. First I need to hear your report of what passed in Antwerp. Please, take a seat.’
I had rehearsed several times the narrative of my visit to the English House. It seemed to me that I had discovered little that could be of interest to Cromwell and I was anxious lest he should think me completely incompetent. Someone in Antwerp had described His Lordship as possessing a mind like the workings of a mechanical clock. As such a timepiece ticked its way with relentless precision from minute to minute, so Master Secretary’s thinking moved, in an orderly fashion, from fact to fact, detail to detail, spurning the irrelevant in its logical pursuit of the inevitable conclusion. I tried, therefore, to set out my account in an orderly fashion. Cromwell listened with total concentration.
I had scarcely begun when he interrupted. ‘Did Robert deliver the message entrusted to him to the Regent of the Netherlands, the Emperor’s representative in Brussels?’
‘I believe so, but it distressed him greatly that Your Lordship’s appeal for clemency was ignored. He seems to have blamed himself for that and become convinced that he had failed.’
Cromwell shook his head. ‘Robert did not fail. No one could have saved Master Tyndale. All we can do is save his work and complete it. How goes the Bible printing?’
I reported my visit to Mistress de Keyser’s printworks and Rogers’ optimism about the progress of the translation. Again, he listened intently and I had the feeling that my words were being dissected minutely, as a surgeon explores a cadaver.
‘Good, good!’ For the first time real enthusiasm broke through the surface of logical calculation, like bubbles in a cauldron of pottage. ‘That is a fine work and, praise God, we have excellent scholars like Master Coverdale to bring it to a conclusion.’
‘Then we are to have an official Bible?’ I asked.
His face became expressionless once more. ‘If the king wishes it.’
‘Would it not be ironical,’ I ventured, ‘if His Majesty were to give his blessing to the work of a man he had come to hate?’
‘Omnia mutantur nos et mutamur in illis.’
‘I’m sorry, My Lord, my father never put me to Latin.’
Cromwell smiled. ‘Well, it is not too late for you to learn. I picked it up when I was about your age, travelling in Italy and elsewhere. That little piece of ancient wisdom might be translated, “Everything changes and we must be adaptable.” He rose from his chair, stretching his arms and stifling a yawn. He stepped across to the window. ‘Now here is a timely case in point,’ he said, beckoning me to join him.
We looked down at the palace quay. A royal barge had just pulled alongsi
de and the king was disembarking with his band of attendants.
‘You see that small fellow.’ Cromwell pointed out the man with whom Henry was deep in conversation. ‘Two weeks ago he was the biggest traitor in England. Now he is His Majesty’s honoured guest and special entertainments have been laid on for him. He has just been to Deptford for a tour of the Henri Grace à Dieu, the pride and joy of the English fleet. Situations change and His Majesty is wise enough to change with them.’
‘So the rebels’ demands are to be accepted,’ I said.
For some moments the king’s minister stood watching the royal party making its way towards the river gate. ‘If only politics were that simple.’ He sighed, then turned to me. ‘It grieves me that Robert felt a burden of guilt over Tyndale’s end. He knew that Phillips was part of a papist conspiracy. I had hoped that he would be able to gather useful information about those in the plot.’
‘I believe he did his best. He befriended Phillips’ confidant, Gabriel Donne, and won him over to our side. But, of course, Your Lordship will have heard all this from Donne himself.’
Cromwell looked thoughtful as he returned to the table. ‘Indeed. Then it appears we shall never know what troubled Robert so deeply.’ The remark was made casually but I had the faint impression that something lay behind it.
‘I think it must have been the horror of Tyndale’s execution. I’ve witnessed one burning and never wish to see another.’
‘Only one?’ Cromwell gave me a faint smile. ‘How fortunate you are. I have seen things… in the Italian wars… that turned my stomach. But do you know what the worst of it is?’
I shook my head.
‘I got used to them.’
There was a knock at the door and Cromwell’s secretary entered. ‘My Lord, forgive the intrusion.’
‘What is it, Robin?’ Cromwell asked.
‘His Majesty has sent for you, My Lord.’
‘Very well, I will be down directly.’ Cromwell turned to me. ‘I regret we must postpone this conversation till later. Stay in the palace and I will summon you as soon as I can.’
I bowed and turned towards the door.
Cromwell called out, ‘One more thing, Thomas.’
‘My Lord?’
‘Everything that passes between us within these four walls stays within these four walls.’
I walked back through the anteroom in something of a daze. I had arrived with my thoughts well assembled and intelligently linked together. Now I found them disconnected, bumping into each other as they rattled uncontrollably around in my head along with other strange and unwelcome newcomers. I wandered aimlessly through the palace amidst hundreds of servants, guards and courtiers in their extravagant silks and velvets. Occasionally I was greeted by someone I recognised as a customer. I had to pause and exchange pleasantries but all I really wanted to do was find somewhere quiet where I could think. Until now I had been laboriously peeling layers from the onion of my problem. I had thought that I had reached the central truth. Now I saw that there were other, deeper strata still waiting to be uncovered. I was now convinced that the truth about the murder of my friend and all its implications was neatly filed away in the mind of the king’s chief minister. Would he reveal it to me? Probably not. Yet if I could ask the right questions… if I could be mentally ready for my next interview with Cromwell… Eventually I found myself in the royal chapel. A priest was at the altar saying a mass assisted by two acolytes. I discovered some stone benches along a wall and sat down close to the west door where I would be least distracted by the murmured liturgy. I set myself to look with fresh eyes on the shifting cloudscape of political calculation, dissimulation and deceit.
Exitus acta probat – that was the justification everyone was using for their deeds. England must be saved from heresy, so the bishops could claim to be pursuing a holy cause when they sent desperate rogues like Henry Phillips to lure Tyndale to his death by lies and subterfuge. The translator’s ‘detestable heresies’ must be prevented from circulating throughout the realm, so John Incent could excuse hiring a foreign assassin to gun down Robert Packington. Since the reputation of the ecclesiastical hierarchy must not be sullied, this unlawful action must be covered up. Therefore, Incent felt fully justified in having me silenced. When that failed, who could doubt that it was a pious stratagem to have me discredited by laying false information to the bishop or having brother Hugh make trouble for my friends and servants in Kent?
But what of Cromwell and his political allies? Their commitment was equally self-evident. They were striving to create a new England, one in which private and public life would be governed by the teaching of the Bible. Would they be as unscrupulous as their enemies in pursuing their ‘holy’ ends? Was Cromwell seeking to manipulate the king? His meteoric rise and the power he now wielded had taken everyone by surprise. Was he using his unassailable position to achieve his vision of the kingdom – by any means? Why had the minister saved me from Stokesley’s clutches? Only because he thought I could be useful to him. To do what? The more I pondered that question, the more obvious it seemed that something had happened in Antwerp that Robert had been prevented from reporting back; something that might spoil his master’s plans.
Then there were the Christian Brothers. They were no less committed to their cause. They claimed to be honest and pure-hearted believers in the written word of God. They risked their money in buying and distributing English Bibles, so that their countrymen could have easy access to the salvation plan set forth in them. Some were prepared to sacrifice their lives in this holy crusade. And yet they flagrantly broke the king’s law. They defied the appointed leaders of the Church. They funded and encouraged firebrand preachers who disturbed the peace of the realm. Would they, no less than their enemies, stop at nothing in order to achieve their ends?
Behind all these questions stood the bulky figure of King Henry. He, too, had a vision of a new England but was it the same as Cromwell’s? It would be a kingdom without the pope, without many of the monasteries, a land in which the ancient powers of the clergy would be seriously curtailed. But would it be a realm from which corruption and exploitation would be banished? Would his subjects be free to read the Bible in defiance of the bishops? Was he ready to embrace the New Learning or was he merely using Cromwell to achieve his immediate ends? If he could be equally devious and ruthless with men as different as Tyndale and Aske, could anyone guess where his real convictions lay? Suddenly, a picture presented itself unbidden to my mind. A slender woman in grey staring at me intently, almost imploringly, before a blindfold was fastened round her eyes.
I was aware that I was shivering. The stone seat and the icy draughts penetrating the chapel had chilled me to the bone. I needed to move my stiffening joints. Leaving the chapel, I emerged into the main courtyard. Before I had walked more than a few paces, I met up with Augustine again.
‘Thomas, where have you been?’ he asked almost accusingly. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere. What did His Lordship say to you?’
‘Not very much,’ I replied. ‘We were interrupted.’
He pulled a face and it was not difficult to read his thoughts. He suspected that I was keeping things from him. The reason was easy enough to see: he was keeping things from me and he found it difficult to accept that I did not share his own secretive nature. It was time to challenge his frightened reticence; to prise from him secrets that, as I now believed, were the keys to the death of his brother and all the circumstances surrounding it.
‘Tell me about Robert’s dealings with Gabriel Donne,’ I demanded sharply.
‘Who? What?’ Augustine blustered but could not cover his shock at the question.
‘You know very well who I mean. The Donnes are old friends of your family.’ This was a guess but I saw from my companion’s reaction that it was correct. I pressed home my advantage. ‘Robert met up with Gabriel Donne in Louvain when he was on the trail of the hellhound Phillips. I imagine he must have been surprised to see a famil
iar face there. What more natural than that they should spend time together and exchange news? Your brother later made sure that he took the same ship back to London as Donne. The next time his Antwerp friends saw him, he was deep in melancholy and talking about having failed to save Tyndale. Now, by God’s body sacred, tell me, man, what did he and Donne spend their days together discussing and what undermined Robert’s spirit?’
Augustine banged his gauntleted gloves together noisily. ‘’Steeth, I’m perishing with this cold.’
‘Don’t avoid the subject!’ I protested.
