D. Wilson - The First Horseman

‘Oh, I know who he was working for.’ I took Ned through the process of deduction that had led me to the inescapable conclusion that John Incent was one of the prime movers of a campaign to stamp out supporters of Tyndale. ‘Robert had unearthed important information about this plot,’ I explained. ‘That was why he had to be silenced. Then, when I began to investigate Robert’s death, it became necessary to dispose of me too. Incent knew that his firebrand nephew Hugh Seagrave was also after my blood so it was easy for him to get that halfwit to lay in wait for me with his arquebus out on the heath.’

Ned listened carefully. ‘You may be right,’ he said. ‘Probably you are. But it’s all speculation, isn’t it? You have no proof; nothing that would persuade a magistrate to open proceedings against Incent and his co-conspirators.’

‘Very true. His Lordship made the same point. There are only two men who, I think, might be able to provide useful information. One is Doggett. The other is Gabriel Donne, abbot of a monastery in Devon. Lord Cromwell doesn’t want me to approach them. In fact, he has ordered me to abandon my enquiries.’

Ned shrugged. ‘Then that is what you must do, and I, for one, am not sorry for it.’

‘Poor Ned,’ I said. ‘I’ve caused you much anguish over the last few weeks. You gave me your support even when you thought I was quite mad. I’m truly grateful. You are right, of course. Now is the time to call off the chase and return horses and hounds to the stable. But…’

‘But?’

‘I just hate to see these fanatics go unchecked. To murder someone like Robert, simply for wanting to read a book…’

‘A book that might challenge the instigator’s authority and the authority of all priests.’

‘But how can the Bible and the priests be at enmity?’ I demanded. ‘And, if they are, which should we trust?’

‘Now you’re speaking like a Lutheran,’ Ned said solemnly.

‘I know very little about Luther but sometimes I wonder — ’

Ned interrupted firmly. ‘Then, I bid you keep your dangerous wonderings to yourself, Thomas.’

On 1 January I had a visit from Ben and Sarah. They looked radiantly happy and, though I could guess the reason, I allowed them to tell me how they had been reconciled to Sarah’s parents and had moved back to the family home in Candlewick Street. They brought Bart with them but he said little and after a few minutes asked if he might seek out Lizzie.

As the door closed behind him, Sarah giggled. ‘He’s talked about no one else since we were last here. He wanted to know where she comes from, whether she’s been married, all sorts of things. Now he’s come bearing a New Year gift.’

‘Does he know about her former life?’ I asked. ‘I wouldn’t want him to find out by accident.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Ben replied. ‘I made sure.’

Sarah added, ‘He must like her for what she is, not what she was.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘if anything comes of it, Lizzie might be very good for him. He needs someone with a firm hand and I can vouch for the fact that she certainly has that.’

At the Sign of the Swan we celebrated Twelfth Night in style. I owed it to the whole household to signal that we had put behind us the anxieties and troubles of recent weeks. We filled the house with families and friends. All the lamps were lit and the walls hung with branches of holly and bay. The scene was set for a night of riotous festivity. The tables were piled high with food, a hogshead was kept replenished with hot wassail and the kitchen produced the biggest king cake I have ever seen. The workshop benches were cleared to the sides of the room to make space for musicians, dancing and performances by mummers hired for the occasion.

It was customary that a gold half-crown should be concealed within the cake and that whoever found it would be leader of the revels. On this occasion I cheated and ensured that Lizzie discovered the coin. She was by now very popular in the household and her nomination as revel queen was enthusiastically received. Many were the suggestive shouts, whoops and whistles when she nominated Bart as her consort. Together they presided over the night’s events with bawdy good humour and the party ran on well into the early morning.

Three days later I called on Margaret Packington. A servant bade me wait below while his mistress was concluding a meeting with other members of her household. When I was shown up to her chamber, I saw a number of chairs circled round a table.

‘We were having our prayers,’ Margaret explained, as she rose to greet me. ‘Robert always conducted them when he was home. I do my poor best to keep up the tradition, though I’m not as learned as Robert. But then, everything we need is in here, isn’t it?’ She pointed to the open book on the table — Tyndale’s Testament.

‘Should you not be more cautious about reading that?’ I asked.

Margaret squared her shoulders and looked at me with unblinking eyes. I realised that something about her had changed. Her demeanour was more confident, even defiant. ‘When Robert was here,’ she said, ‘I did sometimes worry that Stokesley’s men might come a-raiding. But then I told myself that he and his crew would not dare make trouble for Robert. I see, now, that I was hiding behind my husband’s reputation. Well, no longer. We have just been reading what is written here in Second Timothy.’ She picked up the book and recited, ‘“I am not ashamed. For I know whom I have believed, and am sure that he is able to keep that which I have committed to his keeping.” If the bishop wants to send someone to shoot me or drag me off to one of his Smithfield bonfires, so be it. He will be doing me a great service to reunite me with dear Robert.’

I could not find an appropriate response and, after a brief silence, Margaret continued brightly, ‘So, Thomas, sit down and tell me what you have discovered. The last I heard was that you had been to Antwerp. Thomas Poyntz came to see me before Christmas — poor man — and told me that you had been busy over there.’

‘How is Master Poyntz?’ I asked. ‘I thought he was staying longer in Antwerp.’

‘He is in wretched case.’ Margaret seated herself opposite. ‘The Emperor’s people made so much trouble for him that he had to leave the English House in great haste. His wife and children remain over there and are safe but he is staying with his brother in Essex. He cannot continue his business and is like to be utterly ruined. Thus does ‘Stoker’ Stokesley make honest Englishmen fugitives in their own country. Oh, the wickedness of these papists!’

At that moment, a maid appeared bearing a tray on which stood a jug and two glasses. She placed it on the table and departed silently.

Margaret poured out a deep yellow liquid. ‘Escobar,’ she said. ‘My physician prescribes it as a remedy for melancholy and the damp humours. Unlike most of the concoctions he brings me, it is quite palatable.’

I sipped the sweet cordial. ‘Very pleasant — as is the news I bring. Robert’s murderer is dead.’ I reported Il Ombra’s detention and despatch, omitting any data that might be considered politically sensitive.

My hostess nodded solemnly. ‘And you have sufficient evidence against Stokesley as the instigator of the assassination?’

‘He was not the perpetrator,’ I explained. ‘The man who had a vendetta against Robert and, later, against me was John Incent, a member of the cathedral chapter.’

‘Hoh!’ Margaret uttered a scoffing laugh. ‘That haughty lewdster with hair the colour of hellfire! I know him well. He is a sworn enemy of Bible people. He came here once — it must have been six months since — complaining about a speech Robert made in the parliament house. He said Robert should have more respect for the clergy. It will be good to see him brought to book.’