D. Wilson - The First Horseman

When my evening guests arrived I had supper served in the parlour. I had asked Lizzie to join us so that Sarah would not be the only woman present. I also hoped that her essentially sympathetic nature might help to dispel any awkwardness in the atmosphere. The three friends were a subdued trio and it was clear that there were tensions between them. Gone was the careless ebullience of youth. Ben and Bart bore the signs of young men pitchforked into responsibilities and experiences that had sapped their energies and troubled their minds. The transformation was most marked in Bart. The studious enthusiast who had spurred northwards to join in an uprising that would right the wrongs being perpetrated by the current regime had returned defeated and bearing the scars of battle. His left arm was missing below the elbow but that was not what immediately struck me as different about him. His thin face was scored with the lines that indicated strain. His clothes were shabby and his hair and beard unkempt. No longer was he ready with a jibe or a laugh. Ben and Sarah were equally reserved — two people divided by their love. Looks and gestures made it obvious that they had been arguing — and that they loathed themselves for arguing.

‘Sarah told me I had to come and apologise,’ Ben said, standing by the fire as the rest of us took our seats around the table.

‘Then she mistook my meaning,’ I replied. ‘I am overjoyed to see you and to know that you have not suffered as a result of your association with me. If anyone should apologise, it is I for putting your safety at risk. Sit down, Ben, and let us hear no more of recriminations.’

He took his place at the table rather grumpily and for several moments we sat in awkward silence. The sombre mood might have lasted all evening had it not been for the excellent — and obviously much needed — food. While my guests ate I regaled them with an edited account of my recent travels and some of the people I had met. By the time I introduced them to Sir Sebastian Humphrey they were smiling and my description of the impossible Mistress Flower produced laughter.

‘The ass from the North!’ Bart almost choked on his hippocras. ‘I know who she meant — Robert Aske. For sure the king has made an ass of him.’

‘Who is he?’ I demanded.

Bart sneered. ‘He was our chief captain,’ he said. ‘He is our chief betrayer.’

‘Can you give us a clear picture of what’s been happening?’ I asked. ‘We get only garbled reports here.’

‘I well believe it. All’s been confusion beyond Trent and Humber too — rumours, squabbles, purposed misinformation. All is at six and seven.’ He laughed. ‘Do you know there was even a story going round that the Duke of Norfolk, the king’s general, was really on our side. Some said that he and Cromwell had come to blows and that the duke had stabbed Cromwell and killed him. How’s that for an example of wishes giving birth to thoughts?’ He drained his beaker and held it out for a refill.

‘Speaking of killings,’ Ben said, turning to me, ‘has your quest for Master Packington’s assassin borne fruit?’

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘It has been a confusing labyrinth of wrong turnings and misleading paths but I have, I believe, reached the truth.’

‘And?’ Ben enquired eagerly, setting down his knife.

‘’Tis quite clear that the man behind it was John Incent, one of the clergy at St Paul’s; a Catholic zealot convinced that preservation of what he regards as truth justifies murder. He commissioned Il Ombra to gun down Robert and, when he thought I was getting too close to the facts, he hired some other villain — fortunately less efficient — to kill me. When that failed he had me hauled before the bishop. I suppose he reasoned that, even if I escaped conviction for heresy, I would be too frightened to pursue the matter of my friend’s death. He reckoned without the king’s Secretary.’

‘I hope Cromwell strings him up from the nearest gallows,’ Lizzie declared. ‘Him and that red-headed demon brother of his. Mother of God, I’d do it myself and ask no fee.’

The others laughed at this outburst and Sarah asked, ‘Who is this brother and what has he done?’

‘What has he not? Goes round all the villages poking his long nose into everyone’s business. “You must come to me for confession,” he tells folk, “I’ve got a special licence from the pope to release souls from purgatory.” Lying, power-crazed mammet! He thinks himself pope and cardinals all wrapped up in one. None of the parish clergy dare stand up to him. If anyone’s stupid enough to confess any trifle, he pesters them to sneak on their neighbours and puts the fear of hell into them if they don’t. He’s recruited a little gang of busybodies to go prying into other folks’ affairs. And all this prattle-prattle he writes up in a book. Ooh, how I’d like to get my hands on the hypocritical, canting rampallion!’

‘Well,’ I said. ‘Sir James Dewey has doused Hugh Incent’s flame for a while at least and I hope to bring his brother to account ’ere long. I’ll be seeing Lord Cromwell in the next few days. I’ll set the facts before him. It would be useless for me to take direct action against Incent but I’m sure Master Secretary will have cunning ways to obtain justice for Robert. But let’s not talk of my problems. I want to hear everything about the northern rebellion. What can you tell me, Bart?’

Setting down his drinking vessel, Bart said, ‘It was big. Thousands of us — all come together to show the king that he couldn’t make his people victims of a few “new” thinkers like Cromwell and Cranmer. Radical ideas may sound very simple in the royal court or the parliament house — get rid of idle monks, pull down their houses, strip the churches of idolatrous images — but out in the country, well, it’s like tearing the heart out of society.

‘I got to York just in time for the council that gathered there to hear the king’s response to the pilgrims’ demands. Hundreds crammed into the Minster. The rest of us waited outside in the rain to hear what our captains decided. Too many captains, that was the trouble. Some were men the pilgrims had elected to speak for us but there were also nobles and gentlemen. They all wanted different things. By all accounts it was a babel inside the church.’ Again Bart emptied his beaker at a gulp.

‘What exactly was being discussed?’ I asked.

‘The pilgrims had sent their demands to the king: restoring of the dissolved abbeys; sacking of the king’s evil councillors; a parliament to meet in York and an end to the making of all decisions in the South; free pardon for all the pilgrims…’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘we’ve seen the list. No one with any knowledge of His Majesty could imagine him being dictated to like that.’

Bart nodded several times — emphatically. It was obvious that the drink was affecting his movements. I left his beaker empty and kept the flagon well out of reach. ‘I know that,’ he said. ‘That’s why I went north. What’s clear here is not obvious to some of the folk up there. They really thought Henry would negotiate. Knot-pated fools! All he wanted to do was keep the pilgrims talking until the winter weather forced them to disperse. I told everyone I could think of, “Don’t trust this king; use the power you’ve got; you’ll never get another chance.” Some of the commons — most, perhaps — were of the same mind. We had an enormous host — thirty thousand at least; some say forty thousand — and more ready to join us from Northumberland and Cumberland. We could have smashed the puny army that was all the king could send against us. Well, His Majesty had sent his reply — a compromise, of course — and that’s what the captains were discussing. Those of us outside only got news by little and little but what became obvious was that most of the gentlemen and nobles wanted to disband the host and do a deal with the king. The size and mood of the pilgrim body frightened them. Huh!’ He sneered. ‘If we got what we wanted from the king, what would there be to stop us turning our attention to their exploitation of the people — enclosing common land, packing juries, maintaining gangs of armed ruffians?’