D. Wilson: The First Horseman

I hitched up my gown and turned aside. ‘You must excuse me, Brother. I need a word with Under Warden Hayes.’

‘You will remember what I said,’ he called after me.

‘Indeed, Brother, when I feel inclined to cradle-snatching I will certainly let you know.’

I moved towards the upper part of the hall, through the thinning crowd and stood to one side to allow two servants to pass supporting between them a member who had taken more advantage of the pre-Lenten bounty than was wise. In doing so, I glanced back at Simon Leyland. He was standing where I had left him fixing upon me a glare of smouldering hatred.

Two weeks later I attended a celebration of a very different kind. It came about as the result of a chance encounter. I was still having trouble sleeping and would often wake from some hideous dream with sweat oozing from every pore. My mother pestered me to take some remedy. She herself was an ardent patroness of apothecaries and had in her chamber a cupboard containing numerous pots, jars and bottles for dealing with the various ailments from which she suffered or believed herself to suffer. Eventually I agreed and, thus, one bright spring morning, I walked the short distance along West Cheap as far as the Great Conduit and turned right along narrow Bucklersbury, the street where all the best grocers, perfumers and apothecaries did business. Smells from the bags of dried herbs and fruits and the onion strings hanging in open windows mingled with the acrid and sweet fragrances from open jars and simmering cauldrons. It all seemed particularly pungent that day in the mild, breezeless air. At the bottom end, at the Sign of the Boar, Stephanus Magnus plied his lucrative trade in a wide-fronted shop that, when the shutters were folded back, revealed a cavernous interior where several assistants were employed with pestles, mortars, measuring jugs and balances, while in the gloomy rear of the premises servants were bent over cauldrons on a stove. To one side, wrapped in a blue robe embroidered with mystic symbols and stained by his various concoctions, the proprietor was seated on a raised stool below a shelf of old vellum-bound books. He held a sheet of parchment and appeared to be reading it while, at the same time, keeping an eye on his underlings.

I approached and introduced myself.

He peered at me briefly before returning his attention to his manuscript. ‘See my man there. Give him your urine and your birth date and threepence consultation fee.’

‘I have not come for a horoscope. I need only a sleeping draft,’ I explained.

‘We will know what you need when we have completed your zodiac reading and assessed the balance of humours in your body.’ Master Magnus seemed to be addressing his remarks to his reading matter rather than me.

‘I really do not need…’

‘Threepence,’ he muttered and wafted a hand.

I did not know whether to shout angrily or laugh and contented myself with turning abruptly and striding out into Bucklersbury. I had gone no more than a few paces when I heard my name called. Walking towards me, carrying a basket, was Ned Longbourne.

‘Master Treviot, well met. The shoulder gives you no more trouble, I trust?’

‘No, indeed, it has mended excellent well. I am very grateful to you… and to Lizzie for her care.’

He chuckled. ‘I am sure she enjoyed playing nurse… not that she would ever admit it.’

‘No, she made it quite clear that she doesn’t approve of me.’

He smiled. ‘There is only one thing about you that she does not like.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You are a man.’

‘Yes, I suppose from her standpoint we are beneath contempt; creatures who deserve to be exploited because we are obsessed with fornication.’

‘Oh, it goes deeper than that. It was her own father who put her to the trade she now plies.’

An image of Simon Leyland flashed into my mind. Was there any difference, I wondered, between a poor man who sold his daughter into prostitution and a rich man who offered his niece for marriage in order to become even richer?

Ned broke in on my thoughts. ‘I am here to replenish my stock of herbs but what brings you to Bucklersbury? I do hope you haven’t been patronising that charlatan who calls himself Stephanus Magnus.’

‘I needed a sleeping draft and my mother suggested — ’

‘Pah! You need say no more.’ In our brief acquaintance I had not seen Ned look so angry. ‘Stephanus Magnus — Stephen the Great, as he likes to call himself — is a considerable success with the ladies. He impresses them with his potions and his magical fee-faw-fum. He poses as a scholar plumbing secrets far deeper than mere mortal men can understand. He calls himself an alchemist and apothecary. That’s an insult to men who follow those callings honestly. The man is a fraud, a dissembler, a shammer. He started out as pedlar of farthing cures, travelling from market to market. Then he discovered that showy play-acting was an easy way of impressing weak minds. Master Treviot, you should warn your mother to steer well clear of him.’

‘That won’t be easy but, yes, having had a brief taste of the man and his way of doing business, I’ll take your advice.’

‘Good, good. I’m sorry to hear about your sleeping problem. Sometimes pain or discomfort, caused by something like a broken bone, makes sleeping difficult and, even when the sensation has gone, we may find it hard to regain an untroubled night’s rest.’

‘’Tis not the shoulder that troubles me, Ned — unless there’s a demon sitting on it.’

He smiled. ‘A demon?’

‘Forgive me. Just a foolish fancy. Sometimes I feel an evil presence around me. I’ve learned to banish him from my daytime mind but at night he nips me sore.’

‘Then, young sir, your “demon” lodges not on your shoulder, but in your spleen. ’Tis from there those vapours rise that bring on the melancholic humour. I have seen it often in the convent. Novices smitten with doubt about their vocation, overscrupulous brothers tormented by their supposed sins. Seek a physician, Master Treviot, and, above all, avoid quacks like Stephanus. As for the sleep problem, with your permission I’ll have some dried valerian root prepared and delivered to you. I think you would find it calming and beneficial.’

Ned was as good as his word. A couple of days later a package of evil-smelling valerian root arrived, with careful instructions about dosage and the preparation of an infusion. It certainly worked. I began to enjoy better nights than I had experienced for months.

Lent passed, and Easter. I was proved wrong about the monasteries bill. Parliament did pass it and Secretary Cromwell wasted no time in sending out his agents to receive the surrender of small religious houses and pack up their treasures. There was no rebellion. Most people seemed stunned. Stunned and confused. Radical preachers (the ones Leyland had referred to as ‘New Learning’ men) were put up by the king’s council to applaud this new snub to the pope. It seemed that England was sliding into heresy; moving towards the kind of religion that had taken root in parts of Germany, some of the Swiss states and Denmark. But then, after another couple of weeks, all went topsy-turvy once more. King Henry had his new queen arrested and charged with adultery. Anne had, or so rumour had it, been lying with several men of the court, including her own brother. She and her lovers were tried, convicted and sentenced to death. Most Londoners were delighted. They had never liked the ‘concubine’. All their sympathies had lain with old Queen Catherine and her bastardised daughter, Mary.

I had no strong feelings one way or the other. However, I was not to be allowed to distance myself from the king’s affairs. One day in early May I received a summons from Under Warden John Hayes and dutifully walked along to Goldsmiths’ Hall. There were half a dozen brothers present. We were informed that the king required representatives from all the crafts to be present at the Tower on the nineteenth of the month to witness the execution of the ex-queen and that we had been selected to represent the Company. The news was received with mutterings of annoyance.