by D. K. Wilson
‘What a beautiful day.’
I had not heard Ralph Morice’s approach. Turning to shake his hand, I said, ‘Yes, and an excellent vantage point.’
‘This is his grace’s favourite house. He’s spent considerable sums on improvements over the years. Lambeth Palace is appallingly damp and Ford is too close to Canterbury for comfort. I gather you’ve just come from there.’
‘Yes, and was glad to be quit of the place.’
As we paced up and down the gallery, I recounted the events of the last few days.
Morice listened attentively, occasionally interrupting to ask a question.‘Poor Richard,’he said at last.
‘Can you do anything for him?’ I asked.
‘I hope so.’ He walked on a few paces, head forward, hands clasped behind his back. He stopped and turned. When he spoke it was with a new gravity and urgency. ‘Thomas, you are already a long way into this business. May I ask you to go even further?’
‘Will it help me keep my friend from the gallows?’
‘It may. His fate has become tangled with matters of greater import.’
‘Then, I will do whatever I can ...’
‘It will be dangerous – more dangerous than even I can guess. The people we’re up against are driven by forces that I don’t hesitate to call demonic. As soon as they know you’re probing their affairs ...’
‘Ralph, for God’s sake, will you tell me what all this is about? I’ve picked up bits and pieces, hints and suggestions, suspicions and accusations. I can’t fit them together. I don’t even know if they do fit together.’
‘Thomas, you are closer to the truth than you know.’ Morice breathed a long, shuddering sigh. ‘Come sit.’
We moved to two large panelled chairs by a window and Morice continued. ‘The pieces do not fit. If they did that would suggest that there is a scheme, a pattern, a plan, something governed by coherent principles. In England today no such intelligent arrangement of facts, ideas, policies exists. All is chaos.’
‘I don’t begin to understand.’
‘No, and it would be better, safer, for you to continue in ignorance. But, if you want to save your friend and, God willing, also the archbishop, you must open your mind to the unpleasant truth.’ He paused. ‘There is pain that is so intense it can drive a man out of his wits. Our king is a victim of such pain – in his legs.’
‘Are you saying his majesty is ...’
Morice put a finger to his lips. ‘We may think it but must never say it. He is not afflicted all the time. When his ulcerous sores are opened and drained, or when he has been bled, he has a measure of relief. Then, we get glimpses of the old Henry – affable, approachable, rational. At other times ... Well, I prefer to think ’tis the devil that possesses him. Then no one can guess what he will say, what he will do, what he will order to be done.’
‘If what you say is true, how is England governed?’
‘It isn’t. Not properly. Not this last three years,’
‘Since Cromwell’s fall?’
‘Aye. He was a political genius – and a man of God. He understood what ailed his majesty. He could ride the king’s moods, handle complex affairs of state, give England a political direction – and a spiritual one. He had a vision for the building of a godly commonwealth. He could speak plainly to the king. I’ve seen his majesty box Cromwell round the ears and Cromwell walk away smiling. He knew how far he could go; what he needed to do to keep the king’s trust.’
‘Until the day he lost it.’
‘Aye, and since then England has been like a ship adrift.’
‘But surely the Privy Council ...’
Morice snorted his contempt. ‘Worse than half-brewed ale! They’re frightened of the king and each one is concerned only for his own security. That is why they squabble among themselves.’
‘And it’s the Duke of Norfolk and Bishop Gardiner who are heading the attack on the archbishop?’
‘Foxy Gardiner is the one to watch. Old Norfolk is all oaths and bluster. He lacks the wit for conspiracy. I wonder he’s survived to three score years and ten. His influence is largely based on family ties and the power of the ancient nobility, especially in the remote areas away from London. Gardiner is canny and he has a large section of the Church behind him. He really does head a “party”, a “faction”, a far-reaching “web”. He has friends among all those who hanker after the old days of papal Antichrist, whether in parliament, among the parish clergy or the shire gentry. You’ve heard Marbeck’s story. You’ve seen for yourself the campaign against Turner. I could name a baker’s dozen of other good Christian souls who have been embroiled in Wily Winchester’s plots this last year alone.’
He stood up. ‘Let’s walk a little more. My legs become stiff with too much sitting.’
As we turned to pace the gallery again, the secretary resumed his tale. ‘This business in Canterbury is the most dangerous yet.’
‘Because it aims to unseat Cranmer from his position at the centre of the diocese?’
‘Yes, the real power there lies with the prebendaries, the senior clergy. Most of them have been in place several years and are reactionary to a man. In order to limit their influence, his grace established a new body, the Six Preachers, whose task it is to maintain regular Gospel preaching. Richard Turner is one of them.’
‘Really? I did not know that.’
‘The two groups and their supporters are locked in conflict and their quarrel extends into the parishes and the manor houses of Kent. This you know. What you probably do not know is that the prebendaries take their lead directly from the Bishop of Winchester. The link is Germain Gardiner, the bishop’s nephew and secretary. He travels constantly between the court and the cathedral.’
‘Why doesn’t his grace take strong action to deal with these subversive elements?’
Morice sighed and lifted his gaze heavenwards. ‘Because he disdains intrigue. Because he thinks he is not called to play worldly politics. Because he believes God will support him against the machinations of evil men. Because he is sure that truth will prevail. In short, because he is too much the saint and too little the archbishop. So I must play the Machiavel, make the deals, conceive the strategies, do the best I can with the cards his grace has been dealt.’
‘And what kind of hand is that?’
‘We are very strong in one suit. Please God, it may win us the game but we will have to use all our skill – and time is running out.’
‘Ralph, it would help if you spoke plain and not in preacher’s analogies.’
‘Very well. Who do you suppose controls the government of England under the king?’
‘The Council.’
‘No, the members of the Privy Chamber. If you want to know who it is helps his majesty to make up his mind on matters of state you should look to his doctors, to his intimate servants who change the bandages on his painful legs, to the companions who ease his sleepless nights by playing at cards or dice, his fool who can make him laugh, his musicians who remind him of earlier, happier days. And, of course, we must not forget the queen. Such people are with the king all the time, whether at Westminster or Greenwich or when he travels on summer progress. The Council, by contrast, is stuck at Whitehall. Our enemies are well represented on the Council but we have many friends in the Privy Chamber. Ironically, the plague has done us a great favour by extending the progress longer than usual but this advantage must end soon. When the court returns for the winter Gardiner and his associates will be able to pour all manner of evil counsels into the royal ear.’
‘What exactly is it you want me to do?’
‘Go to the court. Seek out those of our friends closest to the king. Give them your first-hand account of Moyle’s misbehaviour. Ask them to petition his majesty for a royal .pardon for Richard Turner. That would send a very strong signal to his grace’s enemies in Kent.’
‘I had already planned a visit to Master Anthony Denny in connection with my search for Holbein.’
&
nbsp; ‘Excellent! There is no man better. As Groom of the Stool, he is the king’s closest attendant and much trusted. I will give you letters to take to him and to Sir William Butts, his majesty’s physician. Gardiner’s agents are, of course, always on the watch for messengers from his grace but they will have no reason to suspect you.’
I gazed out over the gardens. The sun had retreated behind black clouds depriving the trees and hedges of their radiance. The first leaves of autumn drifted across the mown lawns and gravelled walks. ‘This, then, is how innocent men get drawn into intrigue,’ I said.
Morice had told me that the court was now to be found at Woodstock, beyond Oxford, and Walt and I set out early the next day, Saturday, hoping to reach our destination by Sunday evening. The journey was without note, save what transpired when we halted to hear mass in a village not far from Windsor.
As we rode along the straggling street, people – many people – were making their way towards the small, squat church at its northern end.
‘I see we’re in for a sermon.’ Walt pointed out some villagers who were carrying stools.
‘We can’t afford the time for that,’ I said. ‘We’ll stand at the back and leave before the pulpiting starts.’
There were a number of reasons why this did not happen. The church was well filled when we entered and several more members of the congregation pressed in to stand behind us. Pushing our way out was always going to be difficult. Then, just before the start of the service, a well-dressed lad of about twelve years wriggled through the throng and addressed me. ‘Good day to you, Sir. Father begs that you will be pleased to sit with us.’ He turned and led me to the front of the nave where three private pews stood. They were occupied by members of the most important local family. A tall fresh-faced man who was obviously lord of the manor greeted me warmly and introduced himself as Richard Greenham. ‘We can’t allow visitors of quality to stand with the commons,’ he said. I thanked him and cursed inwardly at the time his invitation was causing us to lose. I suspected that we would be very lucky to escape without being urged to stay for dinner. Provincial ‘grandees’, in my experience, usually grasped every opportunity to scrape up acquaintance with visiting social equals and superiors.
The liturgy followed its familiar pattern and was briskly completed, much to my relief. When the priest ascended the pulpit, my host whispered to me, ‘John Sturt, my chaplain, excellent man, Oxford.’ There was a sound of shuffling and, gazing round, I had the distinct impression that the congregation was settling to what they regarded as the main part of the proceedings.
The preacher was an unprepossessing man of about forty but there was nothing commonplace about his message or its delivery. From his first few sentences he had his listeners’ rapt attention.
‘“Not all they that say unto me, Master, Master, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven, but he who does my Father’s will, who is in heaven”. You have heard the words yourselves read from the Gospel of Saint Matthew; words that came from the very lips of our Lord. Hear again his solemn response to those who call upon him “Master, Master, have we not in your name prophesied, and in your name cast out devils, and in your name done many miracles?”: Then, will I say unto them, “I never knew you; depart from me you workers of iniquity.’”
Sturt made a long pause and glared round the congregation, his bushy eyebrows almost meeting. ‘Now, who was our Lord speaking about? He tells us in this same chapter. He warns us against false prophets; dissembling wolves who come among us in the guise of sheep. “See my godly works,” they say. “I can absolve sins; I can pray for souls in purgatory; I can make Christ on the altar.” Believe them not. Do not listen to their words; rather pay heed to their actions, for our Lord says, “You will recognise them by their fruits.” Do they take money from you to say masses for the dead? That is a bitter fruit. Are they more concerned for their tithes and fees than for the spiritual needs of their people? More bitter fruit. Do they make you bow down to carved and painted statues? That, too, is bitter fruit. Do they bum your body to ashes if you disagree with their devilish doctrine? Oh, what bitter fruit our dear friends in Windsor were made to taste on that evil day in July.’ The preacher’s words brought murmurs of agreement from the congregation and these became louder as he warmed to his subject.
Afterwards we hastened to be on our way. I managed to avoid the expected invitation and also to impress the Greenham family by telling them we had urgent business at the royal court. After a couple of miles I noticed my men, riding ahead, were arguing among themselves. When we stopped at a stream to water the horses, Dick, the youngest of them, edged close to me. ‘Master Thomas,’ he said as he washed mud from his mare’s legs, ‘do you think he was right?’
‘The preacher?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘He seems to have made Walt very angry. He says the clergy are God’s ministers and we should respect them.’
‘And you?’
‘I had a great falling out with our priest back home when my mother died. The priest talked my father into paying for several masses and making an offering at St Ippolyt’s shrine. He took everything the old man had – money that should have come to me and my brother.’
‘That was wrong of him.’
‘Aye, and when I told him so he got right angry. Said he’d heard I was a Bible-reading troublemaker and if I didn’t seek his absolution, he’d see me in the bishop’s court as a heretic.’
‘And that was why you left home and came to London?’
He nodded. ‘Now I daren’t go back for fear of what he might do. Walt says I should. He reckons God made priests and laymen, masters and servants, and we do well to give all honour to our betters. I say I want proof that a man is my better before I doff my cap to him. Like the preacher said, “by their fruits you shall know them”. Walt says we shouldn’t listen to such Bible-toting men because they undermine what he calls the “natural order”. Is he right, Master?’
I tried to weigh my response very carefully. ‘I think we live in troubled times and probably sermons like the one we’ve just heard don’t help.’
Dick frowned and I guessed my answer was not what he wanted to hear. To console him I added, ‘But change – reform – there must be, partly because there are parish priests like yours around. If God gave us priests, he also gave us the Bible, and I don’t see how the two can be in conflict.’
We all remounted and as we rode on I mused about the clashing authorities of magistrate, priest and Bible. I realised more clearly than before that these things which were the concerns of kings, councillors and archbishops also troubled the minds of ordinary people. Now, they were beginning to trouble me.
Chapter 16
It was almost possible to calculate how close we were to Woodstock from the prices charged for food, drink and lodging at the inns. The increased demand created by the large royal household and travellers having business with the king enabled local suppliers to double or even treble their normal charges. It was obvious we would have difficulty finding somewhere to stay, so I despatched two of my men to scour the countryside in search of accommodation while Dick and I rode to the imposing ancient palace set on rising ground above the town.
‘Shall we see the king?’ Dick asked eagerly as we approached the gatehouse.
‘I shouldn’t set your hopes on it,’ I said. ‘I understand his majesty seldom ventures outside the Privy apartments.’
So it proved. The central bastion housing the royal quarters was like a fortress within a fortress. Guards denied access to all except chamber staff and visitors who could present permits. Everyone else was obliged to wait in the main courtyard or adjacent chambers designated for hopeful suitors, I did manage to waylay a royal page and give him a quarter sovereign to carry a message to Anthony Denny but I did not know whether he faithfully carried out my commission.
But luck was with me. A little before noon on Monday I saw Denny emerge from the royal quarters, deep in
conversation with an older, white-haired man. When I approached Denny regarded me uncertainly. Then came recognition. ‘Master goldsmith, is it not? What brings you to court?’
I fell into step beside him as he and his companion walked briskly across the courtyard. ‘I come with messages from My Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.’
The two men stopped and exchanged brief glances. ‘From Cranmer? How fares his grace?’ Denny asked. His tone conveyed more than casual politeness.
‘In good health, ‘I responded, ‘though much careworn.’ I produced letters that had been entrusted to me by the archbishop and his secretary.
Denny introduced his companion. ‘This is Dr William Butts, his majesty’s senior physician. We would gladly hear more of the archbishop but cannot stay now. Perhaps you would care to join us later. His majesty will be spending the evening with the queen in her apartments. Come and sup with us in my quarters. I will inform the guard captain. Until later, Master Treviot.’ He nodded and he and Butts hurried on their way.
The chamber I entered that evening was narrow and high-ceilinged, like many in ancient buildings. Much of the bare stonework was covered by tapestries and other hangings. Torches set in sconces lit the space well and a good fire blazed on the hearth. Two servants were engaged in setting silver dishes close to the burning logs to keep warm. Other utensils and platters were set on a small buffet and reflected the flames. Denny and Butts were already seated at the table looking over the letters I had brought.
From my earlier commercial dealings with the courtier it did not surprise me that Denny insisted on getting straight down to business.
‘Ralph Morice has given a remarkable account of your recent activities, Master Treviot. He assures us you are a man to be trusted. As for us, you may speak freely here. My servants are well chosen for their discretion.’ He spoke in rapid sentences, his forked beard fluttering as his chin rose and fell. ‘Now, first of all, this business of Richard Turner. The man is somewhat troublesome. I have already obtained a pardon for him once.’
