by D. K. Wilson
Chapter 6
It was an uncomfortable journey. The rain clouds had blown over, at least for the time being, and a sickly sun glimmered dimly, veiled in high haze. But it was not the weather that depressed my spirits. My thoughts were dominated by the task I had accepted and the problems of approaching old friends and neighbours as a covert information-gatherer. Yet even my personal predicament did not fully account for my sombre mood. We seemed to be clattering through a broken land. Waterlogged fields skirted the road, covered with flattened, unharvested and unharvestable crops. In some better-drained places farmers were already ploughing the rotten wheat back into the soil. Listless villagers sat outside their cottages. In Chilham and Charing the stocks and pillories were fully occupied with men and women arrested for vagrancy. The bodies of thieves and other felons swung from most way-side gibbets. As we passed through Maidstone a group of young men – scarcely more than boys – threw stones at us and disappeared down a narrow alley where we could not give chase.
‘Why are they angry with us?’ I asked my escort captain.
‘They blame the archbishop and we wear the archbishop’s livery.’
‘Blame him for what?’
‘I doubt whether they know,’ he replied. ‘Their bellies are empty. Their shops lack customers. They have to blame someone.’
‘’Tis the preachers who put them up to it,’ another of the guardsmen said. ‘They tell the people his grace is leading the king deeper into heresy and God is punishing the land with plague and dearth. I’ve heard them myself.’
‘Then they should be arrested for treason.’
‘Who’s going to do that? Most of the magistrates are on their side. I tell you this, Master Treviot. Have a care for you and yours. The country all around is ready to break out in open rebellion.’
Such doom-laden prophecies seemed to be supported next day when I called on my neighbour, Sir James Dewey. His estate at Hadbourne was some five miles from Hemmings. Though he was a few years my senior, we had been friends ever since we had trapped conies on our fathers’ lands and gone fishing together in the local streams. I found him in his orchard supervising the collecting of the crop.
His welcome was warm. ‘Glad to see you, Thomas – glad and relieved. When your people came down from London without you I was worried that you’d fallen prey to the contagion. Things are obviously bad in the City. People have been flocking down here to escape.’ He linked his arm in mine and we walked together towards the house.
‘Has that made things difficult?’
‘Difficult? That is not the word I would choose.’Tis my ill fortune to be JP again this year. Scarce a day passes when I’m not called on to give judgement on vagrants, market thieves, cutpurses, dicemen and I know not what. This summer alone I’ve sent five villains to the quarter sessions for robbery on the highway or breaking into houses. And, of course, for every felon we catch there are a score who go on their evil way.’
‘Do you know of any gangs of hucksters selling their services to wealthy patrons?’
‘There are always desperate men who will do anything for instant coin.’ James looked at me quizzically. ‘But you, I hazard, have a particular reason for asking.’
I told him about the Aldgate murder.
By the time I finished we had reached the house. James ordered wine and led the way up to the first-floor solar. When we were settled in the window embrasure, overlooking the land towards Mereworth Woods, he said, ‘Thomas, I’m so sorry to hear your terrible tale. I wish I could say I am surprised to hear it. But these are evil times. Everything seems to be coming ... unstuck.’
‘Unstuck?’
‘’Tis the only word I can find. You know what I mean. If it was just foul weather spoiling the crops and putting the price of bread beyond many men’s purses, we could pray and tell each other things will be better next year. But much more is amiss. The king is sick to death – between us I can say what would be a Tower of London offence if uttered in public – and we shall have a child to rule us, governed by who knows who? For all the laws against vagrancy made by the parliament, jobless men wander the realm making themselves a nuisance wherever they go. And nowadays no one knows what the word “religion” means. Preachers stand in the pulpit and tell us whatever takes their fancy.’
‘As to that, I can tell you that the archbishop is determined to restore order. He has appointed me to a commission inquiring into what truths and untruths are being proclaimed throughout the diocese.’
‘Ah, yes, Cranmer’s famous commission. I, too, am a part of it.’ James frowned. ‘I am sorry to hear you are involved, Thomas.’
‘Why so?’
‘Because it is unpopular.’
‘I can understand that the clergy do not welcome it, but, surely ...’
‘I don’t mean the clergy.’Tis the landowners, the magistrates, the gentlemen. As if we had not enough to do in these troubled times, we must now turn theologians and weigh fine points of doctrine.’
‘I don’t think that’s what the archbishop has in mind. His concern is for religious unity.’
‘Well, there’s many would say his cure is worse than the ailment. I have no desire to examine preachers or encourage people hereabouts to turn informers.’
I did not tell James how much I agreed with his sentiment. I changed the subject. ‘You’ve no idea, then, where I might go in search of the murderers?’
‘I hardly think you will find them here, Thomas. Do you not think they are more likely to be hiding in London’s labyrinth?’
‘Unless, like so many others, they’ve quit the City for fear of the plague.’
‘I will keep on the alert for any information but I must say I think you are looking for a needle in a bottle of hay.’
James’s depressing words echoed around my mind as I rode home. He had starkly expressed the truth that I had been trying to hide from myself. The task I had taken on was an impossible one. The chance of my locating the real murderers was remote. I could not help Bart and my efforts to do so had merely sucked me into the dangerous world of high politics. As one of the archbishop’s spies I now risked becoming unpopular in the county. More than that, I could be placing myself at serious risk. Supposing Cranmer lost his ‘war’ with the Bishop of Winchester and his powerful colleagues? Would there not then be a purge of all those known to be associated with him? Marbeck’s tale was a vivid warning of the methods used to track down and exterminate supposed heretics. Years before I had spent several days incarcerated in the Bishop of London’s prison and had but narrowly escaped death as an enemy of the Church. Some of the powerful clergy I antagonised then had long memories. There could be little doubt they would grasp any opportunity for revenge eagerly. It was ironical that I had mentally censured Bart for blundering into a quarrel that was none of his concern and now I was doing exactly the same.
However, my dark mood lightened somewhat when I strode into the hall at Hemmings. In my absence, Raffy was sitting in my armed chair and playing host to a visitor. He and Ned Longbourne were seated at table, dining off pottage and manchet, and, judging from the laughter echoing from the rafters, enjoying a lively conversation. That was no surprise; my old friend was very good with children. I drew up a stool and joined them, happy to relax briefly. After the meal, when Raffy had been sent off to join his playfellows, I leaned across the table.
‘What news, Ned? Have you heard anything about the killers?’
For some moments, he stroked his grey beard in silence – a gesture I knew well. It meant, I am reluctant to speak; please don’t press me. At last he said, with as much caution as he could load on to the words, ‘There is a name. It may be quite wrong, but it comes from two, independent sources.’
‘Yes?’I urged.
‘You’re sure you want to pursue this, Thomas?’
‘By all the saints, Ned, you’ve not ridden all this way for nothing! Tell me the name!’
The answer came as a murmur, scarcely audible: ‘Henry Walden.
’ The old man looked at me closely, as though expecting a response. When I did not react, he continued, ‘You have not heard of him?’
‘I don’t think so. Should I have?’
‘He is more commonly known as “Black Harry”. There’s folk believe the name was bestowed by the devil in person who baptised him in hell-water.’
‘Then, I’m glad to say I have never come across him.’
‘You do well to be glad.’
‘So, who is he?’
Ned shrugged. ‘There are many stories about him – usually confused and often mutually contradictory. As far as I can piece together anything coherent, it goes something like this: once there was an honest sailor, one of a crew that traded across Biscay with Bordeaux and ports on the Castilian coast. One day they decided that piracy was a more profitable vocation. They became notorious as ruthless, pitiless cut-throats. At last justice caught up with them. They were captured, tried and sentenced in a Spanish court. But Harry persuaded his captors that he was more use to them alive than dead. The Inquisition is always on the lookout for unscrupulous men in its unending purge of society. When I was in the monastery two of the brothers made a pilgrimage to the shrine of St James at Compostela. They brought back horrific tales of outrages committed in the name of God. Crown and church sanction any action against people suspected of being secret Jews, Muslims or Lutherans. Holy Mary and all the saints will bear witness that I have no love for heretics but torture, rape, burning – I cannot make these agree ...’
‘Of course not.’ I tapped the table impatiently. ‘But what of this Black Harry?’
‘It appears that he went too far even for the fathers of the Holy Office. I do not have the details but it seems that, a couple of years ago, he and his merry band were obliged to leave Spain in a hurry. What would they do back in England? They only know one trade. They are now for hire by any patron determined enough or desperate enough to want their services.’
‘So, who are they working for?’
Ned sat back, holding up his hands. ‘I have told all I know. They and their employers obviously cloak their activities in secrecy.’
‘Then how can we find them?’
‘We cannot.’ Ned glared at me. ‘And we should not try. We are facing something truly diabolical. When someone who believes anything is justifiable in the service of his cause sanctions the activities of someone prepared to dp anything as long as the price is right, the result is inhuman acts of unrestrained horror.’
After the silence that followed, Ned leaned forward again. He spoke softly. ‘There’s one thing I should add about this band of devil-spawned copesmates; they have a good intelligence system. If you go looking for them they’ll know it before you set foot outside your house. You should not be concerned about how to find them; just pray they do not find you.’
‘If that is the case,’ I said, ‘poor Bart is as good as dead. The gang must know he is looking for them.’
Ned sighed. ‘Thomas, I may be wrong. Perhaps Black Harry is not the villain responsible for the death in Aldgate.’
‘And perhaps he is. So what should I do? Sit here in Kent and wait?’ I stood up and paced the hall, trying to force my thoughts and fears into a pattern that might suggest some course of action. I flung words out almost at random.
‘Bart is in danger. He may be able to hide from the magistrate. But from the criminals? What of Lizzie and the children? Won’t Black Harry seek them out in order to get to Bart? Where does Cranmer’s trouble fit into all this?’
‘Cranmer?’ Ned looked puzzled.
I gave him a brief account of my visit to Ford.
‘Mary and all the saints!’ Ned exclaimed. ‘What morass have you waded into now?’
‘Whatever it is we must make sure no one else gets trapped in it. Ned, we must keep everyone safe that we can. Please, go back to London. Bring Lizzie here. She won’t want to come but bring her – bound and gagged if necessary.’
‘I’ll try, but—’
‘No, don’t try; succeed! She can’t stay on her own in London. Here I can defend her and the children.’
‘Pray God you can. But what will you be doing the while?’
‘I don’t know. I must think. We have to assume, for now, at least, that our enemy is Black Harry. That means we have to act urgently. I don’t want to hustle you but could you set out straight away? I’ll send a couple of my men with you to bring you and Lizzie back safely.’
As soon as Ned had gone I took precautions for the safety of everyone at Hemmings, especially Adie and the children. I set up a twenty-four-hour guard rota so that the estate was patrolled constantly by armed servants. In order not to alarm everyone I told them the caution was necessary because of the disturbed state of the countryside. Since there were bands of hungry and desperate men abroad, breaking into houses and barns, I explained, all householders needed to take special measures. I urged everyone to be on the alert and report to me immediately they saw or heard anything suspicious.
The next thing I had to do was contact neighbouring landowners in order to carry out the archbishop’s commission. I sent messages informing the recipients that I intended to call upon them during the next week. In the event, I was forestalled by a letter which arrived two days later, on 16 September. It was from Sir Thomas Moyle, member of parliament for Kent, justice of the peace and probably the richest gentleman in the county. It summoned me to a meeting together with all the principal landowners of northern Kent on the forthcoming Saturday, the eighteenth, at Moyle’s house, Eastwell Court. I was curious to see the mansion that others referred to as one of the most splendid in the county. Although I was fairly well acquainted with the man, I had never visited him. His rise to wealth and influence had been rapid. As an associate of Thomas Cromwell in bringing down the abbeys, he had acquired several parcels of monastic land throughout southern England. The money with which to make this investment had come from his marriage to the daughter and heiress of Edward Jordeyne, one of the leading London goldsmiths. It was through this connection with the Worshipful Company that I got to know him. I was glad Cranmer spoke well of him and regarded him as an ally. This gave me some hope that he might bring his influence to bear in the search for my quarry.
I made an early start on Saturday but not before going round Hemmings and satisfying myself that all the walls, gates and buildings were secure and well-guarded. I and my men joined up with James Dewey’s party and we took the Dover road, avoiding the more direct route through the low-lying and sodden country to the south. We had just passed through Ghilham and were on the last leg of our journey when we came up with Edward Thwaites, whose home was nearby. He was one of the senior gentlemen of the shire and also one of the most conservative. He certainly did not seem pleased with his summons to the meeting.
‘You’d think Sir Thomas would know we have better things to do,’ Thwaites grumbled. ‘I’ve never known the country so unstable, not even at the time the monasteries were being pulled down. The more troublemakers I hang, the more are lining up to take their places.’
‘I believe the archbishop is hoping our commission will ensure that preachers stick to official doctrine. That ought to make our job easier.’
‘Hypocrite!’ Thwaites exploded in cynical laughter. ‘Cranmer’s the biggest heretic in England!’
‘That is foolish talk,’ James protested. ‘I’ve heard slackbrained ploughmen say that sort of thing after four jars of ale, but Cranmer speaks for the king and has the backing of parliament.’ .
‘For the moment,’ Thwaites muttered.
‘What do you mean by that?’ I asked.
‘No matter.’ Thwaites waved a hand. ‘All I know is that most of the pulpit pounders and Bible bashers round here claim to have Cranmer’s support. Let me tell you about the worst of the brood. He’s a snivelling little rabble rouser called Richard Turner, Vicar of Chartham, and he’s been rampaging around these parts for the last couple of years. He preaches inside the churches and out. He stirs yo
ung men to all sorts of vandalism. My grandfather left money – a lot of money – in his will for a statue of the Virgin for Chilham Church. Three months ago, one of Turner’s mobs hauled it down – sacrilegious, degenerate traitors! Don’t tell me his majesty sanctions that sort of behaviour!’ Thwaites’s face was red with fury.
‘You have the power to arrest such villains,’ James observed mildly.
‘Aye, and there’s the point of it. Twice I’ve had Turner clapped in jail and sent him up to the archbishop’s court. What happened? His grace says he “finds no fault” in the man. So Turner goes on his way, bolder than before. Well, this time I have him. He’s in irons waiting to go before the assize judges at Michaelmas. Cranmer won’t rescue him from the gallows this time.’
‘That was well done, Edward,’ I said. ‘I trust you are as hard on gangs who are paid by papistical bishops to go around maiming and killing folk not of their faith.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ the old man asked.
‘No matter,’ I replied, with a wave of my hand.
Eastwell Court was as impressive as popular rumour had led me to expect. The original courtyard had been extended westwards and a large workforce was occupied in erecting a balancing range of buildings to the east. Sir Thomas received us in his great hall where several guests were already assembled and were talking in small groups. Everything about Moyle impressed and was meant to impress. He wore a doublet of grey silk with a gold chain stretched across his ample stomach. He shook hands and shared a few words with each newcomer in turn. He clearly enjoyed holding court and was well practised at it. Having received his words of greeting, I moved towards the fire-place, before which a small group were engaged in debates.
