It happened quickly, like a sudden ice storm crashing down on us. Veering to the side the fast-moving gang knocked into Barnaby and Wilfrid, shoving them to the ground, so that our valuable linen-wrapped packages dropped and scattered over the cobbles. Several parcels burst open, disgorging precious gold threads, velvet ribbons, furs, and swatches of satin and silk. The band of youths stopped and laughed. My boys yelled curses up at them as they tried to scrabble for their broken packages.
Horrified, I stumbled forward, as Barnaby reached up and warned, ‘Mistress, stay back.’ Smith, who was trying to calm the rearing Midnight, swivelled about this way and that, tugging at the horse’s bridle. He shouted, ‘Get over by the wall, Mistress, lest the horse bolts.’ The horse was pulling at him rather than the other way round. Then Midnight leapt up with a huge roar! I screamed and ran for the wall.
The gang jumped about like demons, deliberately and viciously causing havoc. There were six of them. We were outnumbered. One lad, taking advantage of the chaos, reached down, grabbed for the contents of an opened parcel, and stuffed its rich pickings into his jerkin. Barnaby attempted to scramble to his feet but slipped back again. Wilfrid was already up and shouting at two of the attackers who, following the other’s lead, grabbed what trimmings they could shoved their gains into their clothing. All the while, they laughed wildly at my apprentices, jeering and provoking. ‘Come on,’ one taunted Wilfrid, raising his fists, prancing jerkily around my apprentice like a puppet disconnected from its cords. Wilfrid wielded a punch and brought the taunting lad down close to my feet.
I began to move forward, yelling for help.
Another apprentice appeared from the churchyard and flashed a knife in Wilfrid’s direction. He whipped past me. I froze on the spot. Smith desperately held onto Midnight and called out above the taunts and the horse’s neighing, ‘Watch your back, Wilfrid.’
Barnaby managed to get to his feet and knock Wilfrid out of the way of the knife’s thrust. It all happened as quickly as horsemen could gallop through a broken gateway after a siege.
The assailant raised the knife again. It glinted in the moonlight. I shouted, ‘Look out.’ But Barnaby fell back onto the ground with a thump, a steam of blood pouring from his head, having saved his friend only to be attacked himself. More knives were out, long sharp steel blades ready to do murder. Another assailant struck out, wounding Wilfrid in his hand. He began to dance around him, goading him to fight back, the raised knife teasing and taunting.
I screamed, ‘Murder,’ and, finding my legs could move, and my feet gain purchase on the slippery, muddy ground, I ran to Barnaby. One of the attackers knocked me to the ground. I crawled through the dirt and leaned back against the wall, winded. Clutching his damaged arm in his good hand, Wilfrid backed towards the cart where Smith was still unsuccessfully trying to control the horse. It reared up again with a great whinny, this time almost overturning the wagon.
Smith attempted to hold the horse’s rope firm, quieten Midnight, right the wagon and shout for help all at the same time. For a moment, my mouth closed and I looked on the scene as if it was a dream, bruised and frozen like an effigy in a church. I gathered my wits and rose to my feet. I tried to get to Barnaby again. I stumbled and fell again. Why had I worn such a cumbersome cloak? We were going to die in Northampton, in a lonely street behind the cloth hall. We needed our guards. Father was right. What had I been thinking of ordering them all to stay at the inn with Meg to guard the fabrics we had bought in the days before?
The attackers laughed at us. Four of them began to calmly gather up the spoils while the two others turning around, back to back, in a co-ordinated move, flashed their knives fearlessly at Smith, Midnight and Wilfrid in turn. Though the horse appeared momentarily calmer, Smith could not let him go.
The cloth hall’s back door swung open. A large cloaked figure exited. He raced along the cobbles, waving a long sword and shouting like a berserker from ancient times, One of the assailants spun round to face him but the cloaked person pricked him with his short sword, kicked him in the knees, and in a flowing movement brought him to the ground. He held him down, the point of his sword against the youth’s throat. I whispered thanks to the Virgin Mary whose blue-clad image rose out of the shadows on the wall by the church doorway. This dark-cloaked man was solid, tall and he was our rescuer.
‘Jacob,’ our saviour called over his shoulder as another tall figure emerged from the cloth hall, followed by a band of cloth men carrying short swords or cudgels. Outnumbered, the gang fled with ribbons and braid dropping in their wake. Racing past me, they flew along the cobbles into the churchyard, littering their way with my velvet trims as they raced around the squat church.
I found myself on the ground again, back leaning against the wall.
Our cloaked rescuer raced after them and caught one of them. His companions pursued the others around the church. He yanked the boy he held to his feet.
‘Jack, take this creature into the Cloth Hall,’ he shouted over to a large man dressed in a smith’s apron who was helping Smith to steady Midnight. ‘Send for the constable. He intended murder.’ The lad yelped and protested his innocence. ‘Shut your trap or I’ll shut it for you,’ the cloaked man clutched the lad with one hand and in a threatening manner lifted his sword with the other. The boy cowered.
‘Aye, and the others?’ said Jack.
‘They’ll be lucky to catch them.’ He shook the lad. ‘Take him inside and make him talk, Jack.’
As Jack dragged the yelping lad off, our rescuer hurried over the cobbles towards me. I looked up at him, tears streaming down my face. There was surprise and concern in his eyes.
‘Mistress Williams? Can it really be you?’ He pulled out a handkerchief from his cloak purse. He gently smoothed down my cloak and handed me the cloth. ‘Here, take it, Mistress Elizabeth. I’ll see to your boy. He is badly wounded.’
As he lifted me up, my legs began folding under me and I couldn’t speak. I was baffled. Thomas Cromwell was our rescuer, a saviour sent by God to us. He steadied me and walked me the few steps to a stone bench inside the church yard. ‘Sit. I’ll help your people. Those little bastards were very quick, a ruthless gang. An alley beyond the church leads out of the town by a small postern gate. The river bank is thick with reeds. They’ll be running through those down to a skiff and off before we can draw breath. With luck, the men who followed me out will catch them. They are armed. If those lads put up a fight, they are dead.’
I whispered, ‘Why, for a few ribbons?’
‘Even ribbons have a price. Now, take deep breaths.’
He hurried over to Barnaby who lay on his back, still and pale like a corpse. Wilfrid sank beside Barnaby, clutching his injured hand. I felt my breath become even again and rose to my feet again. I began to make my way towards them. Smith detached Midnight from the wagon and drew him up the street to the Cloth Hall, where he threw the rope around a hitching post beside the open door. Though Midnight continued to skitter about and whinny, he stopped rearing up.
‘Steady now, boy,’ Smith said softly, patting him. He left the horse and hurried to Barnaby’s side.
But it was Thomas Cromwell who took charge of the broken boy. He listened to his chest. Whipping off his cloak, he wrapped Barnaby in it. He looked up and said, ‘He’ll live, but only if I get him to the Hospital of St John the Baptist.’
Wilfred was now on his feet again, collecting up broken parcels with his good hand, blood seeping into the linen wrappings. ‘Leave them,’ I shouted. Wilfrid dropped the parcels and limped over to Smith.
‘I’ve seen you before.’ Smith said to Master Cromwell. He whistled through his teeth. ‘At Master’s funeral, and with the cloth we sold you. Will the boy live?’
Master Cromwell nodded. ‘We’ll see, Master Gerard. Take his head, cup your hands under it and hold it still as I lift him, very still. I’ll take him. I’ll bring him to the monks of St John. I have seen men die from a knock on the head such as this.’
Cromwell commanded Smith, ‘Guide your mistress and the other boy to the inn. Is it the Swan?’
‘Yes, it’s not far,’ Smith said.
‘Barnaby is my responsibility, I must come too.’ When Smith hesitated, I added firmly, ‘Master Gerard, gather what you can of my parcels and help Wilfrid back. Tell Meg to wash his hand. There is powder of willow bark in her satchel. Go.’
‘Hurry, Mistress Elizabeth,’ Thomas Cromwell was saying, urgency seeping into his voice. ‘We must, if we are to save him.’
I was sure that The Hospital of St John the Baptist was close because I had noticed its arched main entrance as we had entered the town several days earlier. Setting off along the lane in the direction we had come from earlier, we followed yet another narrow dark alley and walked as fast as was possible. Master Cromwell was burdened with Barnaby’s dead weight in his arms. He stopped at a small low door, half-opened onto the street, one of several mysterious, almost concealed entrances into the church of John the Baptist. ‘The hospital lies behind,’ he said.
I nodded. Barnaby never stirred.
We passed into the church’s nave and through a quiet chapel into an alms house. Inmates glided past us wearing plain undyed woollen robes with black crosses stitched on their breasts. They bowed their heads respectfully.
It was so hushed, I thought I dare not speak. When Thomas Cromwell asked a friar for the Master and for a cot for Barnaby, the friar nodded and pointed across the hall to an arched doorway that led to the infirmary. ‘Follow me,’ he said softly.
We entered a long room with cots on which bodies lay. I could not discern if they were male or female or both. Some slept. Others started and mumbled words at us as we passed. The friar led us to an unoccupied mattress at the end of this hall. Thomas laid Barnaby on top of the bed’s rough sheet and sent the friar for the master.
All around us were snores, moans, and groans. Now we had paused, I could smell excrement and the staleness of unwashed bodies. I did not want to leave Barnaby in this place and, once the friar had hurried away, I said, ‘We can’t leave him here. It is foul.’
‘I know, but the master surgeon here is known for his skill with medicine, especially broken bones.’
As we waited, a large candle clock at our end of the hall marked the hours. It burned down a half notch before we observed the hospital’s master apothecary, who was also a surgeon, enter the chamber. He approached us slowly, moving through the air as if he were an apparition and not a man. The atmosphere in the hall stilled as he appeared. He was a tall man in a white friar’s habit, on which was stitched a large black cross. My sharp eye for fabrics noticed that his habit, unlike those that clothed the attendant friars and servants, was of the finest wool. On reaching us, he bowed and spoke quietly to Thomas, who gesturing towards Barnaby, explained what had happened.
‘Mistress,’ the surgeon said to me, with calm authority, after Thomas’ exposition, ‘we shall do what we can. First, I must stop pressure gathering in the head.’
He bent over Barnaby’s prostrate form and lifted his eyelids, poked and prodded him. Barnaby breathed but never stirred. An assistant friar stood by with a reed basket that held various oddly shaped clay vessels. The surgeon selected several of these along with a cup. He placed them on the bench and gave the servant another instruction. Reaching into the basket again, the assistant selected a sharp instrument that looked like some sort of drill. When I realised what he was planning to do, I felt the blood drain from my face. Thomas caught me as I fell to the floor.
‘Elizabeth, the surgeon of St John the Baptist is skilled. He will save the boy’s life. Come away until it is done. There is a cloister outside that leads back into the chapel. We’ll wait there.’
The surgeon glanced up at me and called for another friar to take us back to the chapel.
‘The boy’s heart is strong. He will live,’ he said ‘Leave him with me and pray for his recovery.’
‘His name is Barnaby,’ I said. ‘Save him, Master Apothecary, and I promise you that I shall send your hospital a gift on this very day every year for the rest of my life.’
The master looked up at me. ‘I said I would save him and I shall. By the morrow he will be recovering well. St Cecilia will be watching over him, I promise. Now go and pray for Barnaby’s fast recovery.’
I realised as he referred to the saint which day the morrow was. It was St Cecilia’s Day, the day on which four years earlier I had married Tom Williams, only two days before my name day. How strange, I reflected, as we left the hospital and entered the church’s nave, that I was here, in this place, with Thomas Cromwell and my apprentice, on the eve of that anniversary.
I sank to my knees in the side chapel dedicated to the Virgin which the friar had led us to and prayed for Barnaby, counting the rosary beads that dangled from my waist. I repeated Pater Noster after Pater Noster and whispered prayers of my own. The gentle rhythm of counting calmed me. I paused, opened my eyes and glanced sideways, assuming that Thomas Cromwell was praying too, but he wasn’t. His soft, brown-rimmed grey eyes were resting on my face. He was studying me..
He touched my arm, a feather-light touch. ‘Forgive me, Mistress Elizabeth; excuse my boldness but your profile is one that the Antwerp artists would long to paint.’ He reached his hand up and gently turned my face towards his. ‘And, if I were a painter I would want to paint you as the Lady Mary up there.’ He glanced up at the statue above us. ‘At rest your face is perfectly serene, beautiful, and I had no idea of it before.’
I did not feel at all serene. ‘You hardly know me, Master Cromwell,’ I whispered. I held my breath and dropped my rosary. It clattered onto the tiles but I didn’t stoop to retrieve it. Words came tumbling from my mouth. ‘But, no one has ever called me beautiful before. Sir, you honour me. I do not deserve such.’
‘Not even your husband? Surely he considered you so.’ I glanced down at my hands and shook my head. He continued, ‘Your face belongs to an intelligent woman. You said your own prayer. I can only suppose it comes from your heart, as, indeed, a prayer ought.’
I inclined my head. ‘No, I should say the appropriate prayers from my book of the hours but I don’t have it with me.’
‘None the less, God will listen.’
At that, I stared up at him. In the candlelight his face was roguish and full of mischief. He reached out for my hand. I found myself slipping it into his. ‘Just as a crimson underskirt is forgivable,’ he whispered into my ear, ‘so is much else about you.’ He bent down, scooped up my rosary from the tiles and folded it into my hands. The jet beads gleamed in the candlelight.
The chapel door squeaked open. I peered over my shoulder. One of the pale-gowned friars was gliding towards us along the Nave, carrying a lamp. I released my hand and stood up, crossing myself. Thomas, following my lead, crossed himself decorously and stood by my side. As the friar came closer I saw that he was smiling.
‘Good news. The boy is weak but he shall recover in the prior’s house. It is pleasant. Come, I shall take you back.’
My face, I knew, showed my relief.
We entered a low thatched building close to the church and I saw that it resembled an old manor house, not unlike Father’s house in Putney. We sat on a bench beside the central hearth in the hall. There, we waited until the master surgeon slipped out from behind a screen at the end of the room.
‘You may see the boy now. He is sleeping but he will recover well. A fortnight here and your apprentice will be fit again.’
A fortnight was a long time to wait in Northampton.
As if he read my thoughts, Thomas laid his hand on my arm. ‘Do not worry, Mistress Elizabeth. Barnaby can travel back to London with Jack and myself. He will be well-cared for by my servants. I have legal work here for the Merchant Adventurers. I am lodgi
ng at the Guild Hall, where Barnaby will be comfortable until our return to London.’
I thanked Thomas Cromwell, saying, ‘I can never return your kindness.’
‘No need. Seeing that you are reassured is enough.’
After we were satisfied that Barnaby was comfortable, Thomas Cromwell escorted me back to The Swan, the kindly friar walking in front of us carrying his lantern. I felt shy because of his words in the church and some unspoken sense that the air around us had subtly shifted, so never spoke, and for the most part we walked quietly together, encircled by the night’s hush. When we reached the inn a torch was burning comfortingly in my chamber, directly above the street. I pointed up to it. ‘Meg has waited up for me.’
‘The best chamber, I see, Mistress Elizabeth.’
‘Yes, Master Thomas, Father organised it.’
‘He should, ‘Thomas said. ‘If he has a care for you.’ He glanced down as I placed my foot on the outside staircase that led up to my chamber. ‘No crimson petticoat today?’ he added, a mischievous smile playing about his mouth.
‘No, not today.’
He said softly, ‘Goodnight, Elizabeth.’ He lifted my gloved hand to his lips and lightly kissed it. I felt a tingle in my fingers as he released my hand. He moved back into the shadows to join the friar who waited to light his way home.
Meg had already opened the door from our chamber. I glanced over my shoulder. ‘Goodnight,’ I called to Thomas Cromwell’s retreating back. He raised his hand and moved off into the night.
Chapter Eleven
THE RETURN JOURNEY TO London was uneventful, three nights of clip-clopping along Watling Street, bedding down in monastery rooms as we had on the way, glad that the weather remained crisp and fine. In the morning frost ferns edged the glass in my chamber windows but the frost did not lie.
I did not miss the secret smiles between Meg and Smith. She had tended to Wilfrid’s wounds and, of course, he wanted to talk of his bravery and the attack to any who would listen. We were glad, at last, we trundled into the yard behind my house. The sad remnants of the small warehouse remained, since there was no money spare to rebuild it yet, so the cloth was all stored inside my house.
The Woman in the Shadows: Tudor England through the eyes of an influential woman Page 9
