D. Wilson - The First Horseman

‘How did you persuade her to come?’ I asked. ‘I really thought she hated me too much even to consider my proposal.’

Ned chuckled. ‘Ah, that was before I was able to offer her the bribe.’

‘Bribe?’

‘There are many women who would do almost anything for a fine set of fashionable clothes.’

‘Whatever caused her change of heart, I’m glad of it. I hope this may be a fresh start for her. I’d like to think she can put her past behind her.’

‘Would that salve your conscience?’ Ned asked.

I did not answer.

For the rest of the summer I divided my time between Hemmings and Goldsmith’s Row. The little female coterie in Kent was more than content to gossip and ogle my infant son. Lizzie was a great success with Raphael and when the wet nurse left, at the end of September, she slipped naturally into the role of his carer. The sweating sickness did, in fact, break out in high summer and there was no question of my family returning to town. London fell very quiet save for the frequent sound of the passing bell ringing from several steeples. One event that many had looked forward to — the coronation of the new queen — had to be repeatedly postponed because of the contagion and eventually the ceremony was not held.

Business was brisk that summer, thanks in no small measure to Thomas Cromwell’s assault on the smaller monasteries (Robert had been right to prophesy the minister’s dramatic rise). With thousands of acres of land coming on to the market, property speculation soared. Noblemen, gentlemen and yeomen ambitious to establish or extend country estates came to the City to sell or pawn their plate or jewels in order to raise capital.

In this atmosphere of bewildering change I came to rely heavily on Robert’s advice and enjoyed discussing with him the events of the day. We fell into the habit of attending Sunday mass together at the parish church of St Pancrate’s or the Mercers’ Chapel and dining at his house afterwards. For the most part Robert welcomed the revolution that was sweeping the land. He had little love for the monasteries and, as I thought of Ned and Jed, it seemed to me that many monks generously pensioned off might find themselves useful occupations outside the cloister. Yet I could not be blind to the mounting mood of resentment becoming almost tangible on the streets. For every gentleman or merchant looking to profit from the dissolution, there were a dozen or more ordinary folk who cursed Cromwell and (when they were sure no court eavesdroppers were listening) cursed his royal master. Those, like Robert, in close touch with affairs abroad had even more disturbing things to report. As he explained to me, England’s rebellion against the pope had so far succeeded because our neighbours, France and the Empire, were intermittently at war but, in August, these belligerents signed a treaty. Those in the know, Robert said, genuinely feared the possibility of a combined invasion.

The changing political situation made it necessary for Robert to cross the Channel in August for consultation with his business contacts in the Netherlands. I received occasional letters from him during late summer and early autumn and they only increased my sense of foreboding. He hinted at threats and even actual violence being offered to English merchants in Catholic lands. He wrote of secret emissaries being sent by Catholic activists to friends in England with the express purpose of promoting rebellion and promising money and troops to aid in overthrowing the anti-papal regime.

In the first days of October it seemed that their strategy was working. The long-feared storm broke in the distant northern counties. The first we heard of it in London, around 7 October, was that all Lincolnshire was up in arms, that the people were demanding the monasteries should be restored and Cromwell handed over to the leaders of the revolt. Wild rumours rampaged through the streets. A rebel army was marching on the capital. According to which story you believed, ten thousand, thirty thousand or fifty thousand angry Englishmen, led by gentlemen of the shire, were on the road south and picking up more malcontents as they came. The government firmly denied these rumours in leaflets hurriedly printed and distributed to every household. The rising, we were told, amounted to no more than a peasant rabble that had already been suppressed by the king’s generals. This reassurance was received with widespread cynicism. If peace had been so easily restored, people wanted to know, why had the king and court hastened to take refuge in Windsor Castle, the strongest royal fortress in the land?

In the midst of the general panic, I received another letter from Robert. It was brief and, to judge from its uncharacteristic scrawl, written in haste.

My hearty greetings to you and your mother. Here is much grave news. The King of France has sent troops against the English port of Calais. It is believed he intends to secure it as a base for an invasion fleet. Here in Antwerp several foreign merchants have been arrested and imprisoned with no charges put forth. I am so far safe, praised be to God, but obliged to go very warily about my business. Yet the worst news is that Master Tyndale, that great servant of God, is dead. He had escaped detection for some years but was recently discovered and betrayed to the authorities by a wretch sent over from England for the purpose. Three days ago he was brought to the stake near here and there strangled before his body was burned. Thus does Antichrist muster his forces. We must be vigilant. I have written nothing of this to my good lady wife and I pray you to say nothing that would alarm her. Should I be unlawfully detained here or should anything worse befall, you may receive no more letters from me. I shall write when and if I can and am in hope to return safely in about two weeks.

Your assured friend,

Robert Packington

It was a relief to know that my friend was safe but I was worried that he spoke of Tyndale in this way, almost as a personal friend. Two weeks passed with no more news. Then three. Then four. I called several times on Margaret Packington, hoping to discover that she had heard from her husband, while at the same time not wishing to let her see my own mounting anxiety.

Meanwhile, the atmosphere in the City was becoming almost unbearably tense. We heard that the trouble in Lincolnshire had been dealt with. The ringleaders had paid for their treason with their lives and the country was quiet once more. But we were allowed scarcely a breathing space. By the third week of October the contagion of rebellion, though no longer a threat to the nearest shires, had spread northwards. What we could gather from messengers and travellers suggested that the whole of England between the Humber and the Scottish border was in the hands of men who called themselves ‘pilgrims’ and who were intent on forcing Henry to reverse his policies. They commanded tens of thousands of followers — too many to be defeated in battle. The Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk had been sent north with all the troops they could muster but no one believed that the royal army was big enough to crush the revolt or that, if it came to a pitched battle, the king’s men would advance against their own countrymen. Many citizens who could do so were fleeing to the comparative safety of the countryside. I made sure that the members of my own household were safe. At the beginning of November I sent down to Hemmings as many of them as could be spared.

Then, in the midst of all this gloomy turmoil, there came a piece of good news. I had retired for the night on Sunday 12 November when one of my servants came to my chamber with a scribbled note: ‘Thomas, thanks be to God, I am returned safely and have much to tell you. Come with me to first mass in the Mercers’ Chapel. Robert Packington.’ The early office was performed at five o’clock so I extinguished the candle immediately and settled to sleep, happier than I had been in weeks.