D. Wilson - The First Horseman

‘Brought down Anne Boleyn! That cannot be!’ Lizzie exclaimed. ‘Were they not both of the New Learning? Surely they worked together to pull down the monasteries? That’s what everyone says.’

‘That’s just what the devious Cromwell wants everyone to say. Our contacts at court tell a different story,’ Ned replied.

I laughed. ‘Your contacts at court? Come now; what does St Swithun’s House know about great affairs of state?’

‘Don’t scoff, Thomas.’ I could see that Ned was quite serious. ‘Gossip at the king’s supper table is often common talk in the Stews by breakfast. As it happens, we’ve been finding out more about these “New Learners” at court. We had a pair of their friends to St Swithun’s one evening a few weeks back. Some draughts of our excellent ale — embellished with a certain powder from my chest of simples — and they bade farewell to discretion. What they had to say about their betters would have made the Devil blush.’

I laughed but Ned ignored my mockery.

‘You would be shocked to hear what goes on between the pious ladies of Queen Jane’s chamber, the king’s hunting companions and even the royal chaplains. But that’s not to the point. Basically, it seems, we must abandon any idea that the “New Learners” are a close fellowship of Bible students, united around an agreed core of fashionable, novel doctrines. Having severed the cables binding them to Mother Church, they are adrift on a sea of treacherous currents that carry them in several directions. His Majesty’s household is all asquirm with a myriad heretics. It is a cockpit where enemies of the truth unleash their talons against honest Christians. Some are hot to desecrate churches and pull down religious images but others distance themselves from such vandalism. Some proudly follow Luther’s heresy, insisting that faith is all and good works count for nothing. Others point out that this only leads to unbridled licence and the abandoning of Christian virtue. ’Tis no wonder the realm is in such a state when those at the centre are so divided.’

Ned was becoming increasingly agitated and loquacious. I tried to head off his verbal stampede. ‘Where stands Cromwell in all this?’ I asked.

‘Who knows,’ he replied. ‘As you say, His Lordship reveals little of his real thoughts. However, what our inebriated friends revealed was that Cromwell and the Boleyn whore had a fierce argument only days before her fall. It was about the monasteries.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Lizzie said with wrinkled brow. ‘Was the queen against their closure?’

‘No, she wanted to use the proceeds for schools, poor scholars, and such like.’

‘What makes you think Cromwell would oppose that?’ I demanded.

‘Because the only way that he had been able to get the king to agree to wholesale dissolution was by pandering to his greed.’ Ned lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. ‘All that was needed, he said, was a few Acts of parliament for all the Church’s gold and jewels and rents to be poured into the royal coffers and make Henry VIII the richest king in the world.’

‘And because the queen was trying to appeal to the king’s better nature, Cromwell plotted to destroy her! The hell-bred, viper-minded, double-tongued hypocrite.’ Lizzie glared at me. ‘That’s the sort of man you’re working for!’

It was clearly time to change the subject. ‘Enough of politics,’ I said. ‘Have you learned anything useful from these “court contacts” of yours?’

‘As a matter of fact, I have,’ Ned replied. ‘I had asked our Southwark friends to gather any information about the Seagraves. When Jed came up to town to deliver Lizzie’s letter, he called in at St Swithun’s House and picked up some interesting gossip. It seems they’ve been in touch with Doggett.’

‘Why for?’ I asked.

‘Don’t be so dim,’ Lizzie scoffed. ‘Doggett knows everything. If they want to find out who killed their sottish Jack Napes relative, Doggett would be the man to turn to.’

Ned nodded. ‘That’s right. And Doggett set his Dogs on to gathering information in their usual — very effective — manner. Unfortunately, in the course of their investigations, your name cropped up, Thomas.’

‘But they can’t still think I had anything to do with Nathaniel Seagrave’s murder,’ I gasped.

‘They need someone to blame if they are to assuage their grief,’ Ned replied sombrely. ‘However, that is the bad news. The good news is that the parties have fallen out. The Seagraves wanted Doggett to arrange your murder. He refused.’

‘The man does have a conscience, then,’ I said.

‘More like they fell out over money.’ Lizzie gave a cynical laugh.

‘Lizzie is probably right,’ Ned agreed. ‘Doggett’s assassins don’t come cheap.’

‘Perhaps, then, they will abandon their dreams of revenge?’

‘I think it likely they will seek other ways to destroy you, Thomas. You must stay on your guard.’ Ned went on: ‘Sir Harry Seagrave, Nathaniel’s father, is a member of the Privy Chamber and a friend of the king. He is a born schemer, who has worked his way from rural obscurity to the centre of power by a calculated programme of ingratiation and betrayal. My guess is that he will watch his moment very carefully and only act when it is safe to do so. His only surviving son, Hugh, is quite another matter — headstrong, proud, jealous of his family honour and not very intelligent. Sir Harry has him at court to keep an eye on him but the young man is virtually uncontrollable. It might even be him who took a shot at you at Hampstead.’

‘Will this nightmare ever end?’ I groaned.

By first light on Saturday we were all ready to set off. Horses were saddled, carts packed and my mother and son made comfortable in the koch, with Lizzie to cater to their needs. I hoped that the journey would last no more than two days because the weather had taken a very bitter turn. We were all heavily wrapped against the easterly wind which rattled the bare branches, snatched at our cloaks and carved the track into sharp ridges.

Progress was slow but our pace improved slightly once we had reached the Dover road near Wrotham. I rode part of the way with Ned for company. I wanted to press him further about what we had been discussing the previous day without alarming Lizzie.

‘Now that I have met Lord Cromwell,’ I began, ‘I find it hard to recognise the picture you paint of him. He spoke to me about creating a new and better England. Now, whether you think that’s a good thing or not, it’s difficult to see what he had to gain by bringing down the queen. She, too, was all for reform. I’ve met men who were close to her. They praise her for her boldness in appointing preachers and bishops of the new persuasion and campaigning for an English Bible. Getting rid of her could only set back Cromwell’s cause.’

Ned gave a cynical smile. ‘And has it? Six months ago most people assumed that Queen Anne’s disgrace and death would put an end to all this New Learning nonsense. They thought the king would make his peace with the pope, that the monasteries would be spared, that heresy would be rooted out, that Cromwell and his grovelling creature, Archbishop Cranmer, would be staked out as scapegoats to bear the punishment for unpopular policies. Has any of this happened?’

‘No.’

‘No. Cromwell is more secure than ever and hatching who knows what devilish plots to sink England deeper in the mire of heresy. The heroes who raised the North in defence of Christian truth certainly worried the king. They wanted to see the heads of Cromwell and Cranmer stuck up on poles but I fear the heretics are too firmly entrenched in royal favour.’