D. Wilson - The First Horseman

Behind all these questions stood the bulky figure of King Henry. He, too, had a vision of a new England but was it the same as Cromwell’s? It would be a kingdom without the pope, without many of the monasteries, a land in which the ancient powers of the clergy would be seriously curtailed. But would it be a realm from which corruption and exploitation would be banished? Would his subjects be free to read the Bible in defiance of the bishops? Was he ready to embrace the New Learning or was he merely using Cromwell to achieve his immediate ends? If he could be equally devious and ruthless with men as different as Tyndale and Aske, could anyone guess where his real convictions lay? Suddenly, a picture presented itself unbidden to my mind. A slender woman in grey staring at me intently, almost imploringly, before a blindfold was fastened round her eyes.

I was aware that I was shivering. The stone seat and the icy draughts penetrating the chapel had chilled me to the bone. I needed to move my stiffening joints. Leaving the chapel, I emerged into the main courtyard. Before I had walked more than a few paces, I met up with Augustine again.

‘Thomas, where have you been?’ he asked almost accusingly. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere. What did His Lordship say to you?’

‘Not very much,’ I replied. ‘We were interrupted.’

He pulled a face and it was not difficult to read his thoughts. He suspected that I was keeping things from him. The reason was easy enough to see: he was keeping things from me and he found it difficult to accept that I did not share his own secretive nature. It was time to challenge his frightened reticence; to prise from him secrets that, as I now believed, were the keys to the death of his brother and all the circumstances surrounding it.

‘Tell me about Robert’s dealings with Gabriel Donne,’ I demanded sharply.

‘Who? What?’ Augustine blustered but could not cover his shock at the question.

‘You know very well who I mean. The Donnes are old friends of your family.’ This was a guess but I saw from my companion’s reaction that it was correct. I pressed home my advantage. ‘Robert met up with Gabriel Donne in Louvain when he was on the trail of the hellhound Phillips. I imagine he must have been surprised to see a familiar face there. What more natural than that they should spend time together and exchange news? Your brother later made sure that he took the same ship back to London as Donne. The next time his Antwerp friends saw him, he was deep in melancholy and talking about having failed to save Tyndale. Now, by God’s body sacred, tell me, man, what did he and Donne spend their days together discussing and what undermined Robert’s spirit?’

Augustine banged his gauntleted gloves together noisily. ‘’Steeth, I’m perishing with this cold.’

‘Don’t avoid the subject!’ I protested.

‘Very well, but, in God’s name, let’s find a fire first.’

We passed through several chambers and eventually chanced upon a small unoccupied annexe close to the main guard room where a pile of logs smouldered unenthusiastically in the grate. Augustine crouched down and made a great show of stoking the fire and blowing on the embers.

‘So,’ I prompted, ‘Robert’s conversation with Donne.’

‘You’d better ask Donne,’ Augustine muttered, staring at the tiny flames twining reluctantly round the wood.

‘Donne is conveniently hidden deep in the West Country,’ I said.

He shrugged. ‘Anyway, who’s to say that whatever they talked about has any bearing on Robert’s death?’

I grabbed the hood of Augustine’s cloak and hauled him to his feet. Turning him around, I thrust my face close to his. ‘The only thing that convinces me that it does have a bearing is your reluctance to admit it.’

He shook his head and pushed me away.

‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Let me tell you what I think happened. Donne told Robert who was behind Tyndale’s persecution. Robert persuaded the monk to pass the information on to Cromwell, who, for some reason, declined to make full use of it. Robert believed he should have been more persuasive. That was why he blamed himself for Tyndale’s eventual fate.’

‘Truth is never that simple, Thomas.’ Augustine drew his cloak more tightly around him. ‘I must be about My Lord’s business. The only help I can offer you is to repeat the warning I gave you weeks ago: you are sailing in tempestuous seas; return to harbour while you still can. Leave politics to those who understand it.’ He grasped my hand in a brief, tight handshake, then turned and left the room.

I remained there for several minutes, nursing feelings of frustration, anger and despair. Somewhere among all the events and words I had encountered over the last few weeks there was a vital secret, like a vein of gold encased in obscuring layers of centuries-old rock. Robert had known that secret. Cromwell had ardently pursued it. Augustine had been a party to it or had guessed it. And, try as I might, it eluded me. I left to make my way back to Lord Cromwell’s quarters. As I approached the antechamber a young page in plain blue livery stepped into my path.

‘Master Thomas Treviot?’ the boy enquired.

I nodded.

‘My master would like to meet you and desires me to bring you to him. He would be honoured if you would join him for dinner.’

‘And who is your master?’ I asked.

‘Sir Harry Seagrave,’ he replied.

I hesitated. The Seagraves had no reason to wish me well but surely they would not attempt any mischief here, in the king’s palace.

The messenger had obviously been told to anticipate reluctance on my part, for he now added, ‘Sir Harry instructs me to tell you that he wishes only to extend to you the hand of friendship.’

With that assurance, I allowed myself to be led to the courtier’s chamber.

It was a smallish room overlooking an internal courtyard, its furnishings simple but of a good quality. Two men were seated by the fire but rose as I entered. The elder was a grey-haired man of about fifty, clad in sombre black but with a doublet chastely embroidered in gold. He stepped forward, smiling and holding out a hand.

‘Master Treviot, I am delighted and much relieved that you have accepted my invitation. I had hoped to make your acquaintance earlier but was informed that you were overseas.’

‘Yes, I was in the Netherlands, on business for Lord Cromwell.’

‘So I understand. You are, indeed, fortunate to enjoy His Lordship’s patronage.’

I listened carefully to see if there was an edge of sarcasm in the speaker’s voice but could detect none.

Sir Harry continued, ‘May I introduce my son, my only son, Hugh.’

Young Seagrave was something of a contrast to his father. He was, I estimated, about eighteen or nineteen years of age, tall, athletic of build and bonneted with the same straw-stalk hair as his brother. His court clothes — powder blue, heavily embroidered doublet over blue trunk hose slashed with yellow — suggested exuberance bordering on questionable taste.

‘Good day to you, Master Treviot.’ Hugh Seagrave’s smile was not exactly enthusiastic. He turned to his father. ‘I’ll have the servants fetch dinner.’ He left the room.

Sir Harry motioned me to a seat. ‘Pray forgive the boy’s manners, Master Treviot,’ he said. ‘He and Nathaniel were very close.’

‘And he blames me for his brother’s death?’

‘Things appear very simple to the young. ’Tis only with the passing of the years that we can see their complexity. Do you not agree?’

‘I think I’m beginning to understand that things are seldom what they seem,’ I said. ‘For example, your page intimated that your invitation was a gesture of friendship. Would I be altogether wise to accept that assurance?’