D. Wilson: The First Horseman

I stood up. ‘I’m forgetting my manners, Robert. Let me pour you some wine.’ I stepped across to the livery cupboard and returned with a goblet of Canary. ‘I’m sorry about all the fuss and worry I’ve caused but I really did contact you as soon as I could.’

He waved a hand. ‘And I am sorry that you feel unable to take me into your full confidence. But, no matter, we’ve more important things to talk about. Solomon wrote, “A foolish son is grief to his father and bitterness to she who bore him.” If your father were here now he would, indeed, grieve to see how much you have let yourself be overwhelmed by the loss of Jane. As for your mother, she has had her own cross to bear these last months and you have seen how hard it is for her to bear it. You should have been here to comfort her instead of disappearing, day after day, to brood in private. And you must look to your standing within the Goldsmiths’ Company. Reputations are easier lost than gained.’

I stood by the window, staring out at the busy street. ‘No man can know how deeply the loss of a loved one will affect him.’

‘Do you suppose you’re the only man to lose a wife? I have buried two.’

I struggled to control the resentment boiling up within me. I turned to face my old friend. ‘Robert, you mean well and I am grateful but I have not come home after an unpleasant ordeal to be chided like a child.’

There was no irritated response. I do not recall ever having seen Robert give way to anger. It would have been easier for me if he had. As it was, I could only stand there regretting my outburst but unable to apologise for it. Robert stood, slowly drained his goblet and set it down carefully on the stool he had vacated. ‘Then it is time for the pedagogue to withdraw.’ He walked towards the door. Halfway across the room he stopped. He turned, stood for a moment as though in thought, then thrust his hand inside his doublet and drew something out. He walked back and placed it on the stool beside his cup. ‘You might find this a valued companion on your lonely wanderings. But don’t let anyone know you have it.’

From the oriel window I watched him emerge into West Cheap, turn right and stride purposefully through the throng towards his own home in nearby Sopers Lane. ‘Meddling fool,’ I muttered to myself and knew, even as I did so, that I did not mean it. After some minutes I picked up Robert’s parting gift.

It was a small book, bound in hide and designed for the purse or pocket. I turned to the title page and knew immediately why Robert had advised me to keep it clandestinely:

The New Testament, yet once again corrected by William Tyndale,

whereunto is added a calendar and a necessary table wherein easily

and lightly may be found any story contained in the four Evangelists

and in the Acts of the Apostles.

Printed in the year of our Lord God MDXXXIV

I dropped it on the table in sudden alarm, as though it had burst into flames. Flames indeed — this was the notorious book men were burned for reading. I was astonished, shocked even. William Tyndale was a renegade priest who had fled to some Lutheran enclave on the Continent from where he had been smuggling his heretical text into England. Now the bishops were busy seizing every copy they could find and making bonfires of them — and sometimes of the men and women who owned them. What was Robert doing with such a dangerous book? I knew a couple of young men who boasted about reading Tyndale’s Testament . They were Inns of Court students — bold anti-establishment fellows who liked to consider themselves ‘advanced’ thinkers. But Robert Packington? No one was more staid, conservative, respectable and orthodox than Robert. He was the very epitome of the correct and successful London merchant. He had grown rich from his trade in woollen cloth and risen to be Upper Warden of the Mercers’ Company, overseeing all its affairs. He was on the Common Council of the City and a member of parliament. Could such an establishment figure be a covert Lutheran? The idea of connecting him with the wild-eyed preachers who stood in the public pulpits ranting against the evils of Rome was absurd.

It was a puzzle — but one I did not tax my brain with. Religion was something I was content to leave to the bishops and the learned doctors. However, I had become the surprise recipient of a dangerous book and Robert had, wisely, warned me to keep it away from prying eyes. I slipped the little volume in my purse, carried it to my own chamber and locked it in a coffer, meaning to get rid of it at the earliest opportunity.

Until my shoulder healed and I had fully recovered the use of my left arm, I could not venture out on solitary expeditions, nor was the dismal winter weather conducive to them. Despite myself I was obliged to give more attention to matters at home and in the workshop. My son had been put to a wet nurse who was provided with quarters on the top floor of the house. As far as I knew his progress was satisfactory. I saw little of him but any neglect of mine was more than compensated for by the attention and adulation lavished upon him by my mother and the women of the household. Business matters were less easy to avoid.

The morning after my return, my deputy, John Fink, presented himself in my chamber carrying a ledger. He was a small, spare, saffron-haired young man who wore a permanent frown of concentration and who stood now almost apologetically in the middle of the room.

‘You’ll be wanting to check the accounts, Master,’ he suggested.

‘I’m sure they’re all in order, John,’ I replied. ‘You’ve been doing a splendid job these last weeks.’

He stood rooted to the spot. ‘I really would rather you took a look, Master.’

I sighed. ‘Very well.’ I cleared a space on my table and settled into my wainscot chair.

John set down the large leather-bound volume and unlocked the metal clasp. He drew up the joined stool and perched on it. The first thing I noticed as he turned to the most recent entries was that there were fewer of them on the later pages.

‘Business slackening off?’ I asked.

He nodded mournfully. ‘Some customers will only deal with you personally, Master. My Lord Basing’s man called several times but… well, Master… what with your affairs so often taking you from home… I believe His Lordship took his order to Master Leyland. Then there were the loans. I issued some for smaller amounts, as you can see.’ He turned the pages and pointed out four or five entries. ‘But anything over a hundred pounds I durst not sanction. Sir Arthur Talbot became… well… rather abusive when I tried to explain; though I think, Master, you would have turned him down yourself. As you know, he gambles heavily at court. He said he would make sure that it was well known how ill we used the king’s friends.’

‘Poor John.’ I smiled at him. ‘I have been preoccupied and I see what a burden that has laid on you. Don’t worry about Talbot. He’s angry because he knows how heavily he is already indebted to us. He’s in the process of mortgaging his family into penury. I have no plans to be absent in the next few weeks. Leave me a list of customers you have had to disappoint and I’ll contact them.’

Promises are easily offered.

I did make an effort. I spent more time in the workshop. I talked with the goldbeaters. I examined the gem-setters’ work. I discussed with the draughtsmen the designs they brought in for new jewellery. I despatched letters to our more important customers assuring them of my personal attention to their requirements. Yet my heart was not in it all. It was not just my yearning for Jane that frequently burst in upon my waking thoughts and kept sleep at bay; I could not get the St Swithun’s people out of my head.