D. Wilson - The First Horseman

In this year, Robert Packington, mercer of London, a man of great substance, yet not so rich as discreet and honest, dwelled in Cheapside and used daily at five of the clock, winter and summer, to go to prayer at a church then called Saint Thomas of Acres, but now named Mercers’ Chapel. And one morning amongst all other, being a great misty morning such as hath seldom been seen, even as he was crossing the street from his house to the church, he was suddenly murdered with a gun, which of the neighbours was plainly heard and by a great number of labourers there standing at Sopers Lane end.

He was both seen [to] go forth of his house, and the clap of the gun was heard, but the deed doer was never espied nor known.

— John Foxe, Acts and Monuments of the Christian Religion, 1563

Friday 19 May, 1536

Someone was shaking me.

‘Master Thomas, Master Thomas, rouse yourself!’

Master Thomas had not the slightest intention of rousing himself.

‘Sod off, Will!’ I thrust my throbbing head deeper into the pillow.

I only half heard another voice. ‘Stand aside, Will. Give me that bowl.’

The wave of icy water that crashed over my head brought me, gasping and coughing, into the garish daylight. The shutters had been thrown open and Robert Packington’s thin, grave, disapproving countenance seemed etched on parchment. He bent over me.

‘Jesu, but you stink! Have you brought the Stews home with you? At least you were too drunk to undress. That will save us time.’

‘Leave me alone.’ I rolled over to face the undrawn curtain on the far side of the bed.

Robert grabbed me by the collar and yanked me into a sitting position. ‘You’ve an appointment at the Tower and I’m going to make sure you keep it — though the Lord knows why I bother.’

I struggled but there was little strength in my arms and legs. Aided by my servant, Robert had little difficulty getting me on my feet. As I swayed, half-conscious, he tackled my unfastened doublet, doing up the points. ‘Will, fetch his best livery gown,’ he ordered. ‘We have to cover up these disgusting stains.’

‘Why all the fuss?’ My tongue seemed swollen to twice its size in my dry mouth.

‘You know why — we’ve been nominated to be among those representing the City companies. Fortunately it’s been postponed to a later hour. That’s more luck than you deserve. Don’t press it any further.’

Slowly, grindingly, my memory’s clockwork whirred into action as the two of them wrapped my blue goldsmith’s gown around me. I recalled what ‘it’ was.

I scrabbled for an excuse. ‘The king won’t — ’

‘The king certainly won’t be there. But his eyes and ears will be. Your absence would be noted. There will be many who’d happily put their own interpretation on it in order to make trouble for you with your superiors. You’re already in bad odour in the Goldsmiths’ Company because of your recent behaviour. Any suggestion that Thomas Treviot was sympathetic to her — ’

‘That’s absurd,’ I protested.

‘We live in times when many absurd things happen,’ Robert muttered bitterly. He stepped back as Will fastened the clasp of my gown and set a cap on my head. ‘Jesu, what a sight. It’s a mercy your father isn’t here to see you thus. Come on.’

He half-steered, half-propelled me through the doorway and down the broad stairs to the shop, then out into Goldsmith’s Row. Our horses were waiting and with a shove from Will I scrambled aboard Dickon, my grey gelding. West Cheap was alive with its usual hubbub, the stalls already set out and people and horses moving along the paved thoroughfare. Despite the crowds, Robert insisted on leading the way at a bustling trot that jarred all my bones and rattled my still aching head. We must have completed the journey in a fast time, though it seemed to me as long as purgatory.

I was certainly unwilling to arrive at our destination. Anyone hungover, melancholy or otherwise out of sorts should keep away from the Tower of London. I suppose my nurse must have planted the seed of fear in me. The threat ‘I’ll take you to the Tower’ was her standard way of dealing with naughtiness and it was usually effective. It was all too easy to believe that anything could and did happen within the walls of this monstrous soaring pile that crouched like a malevolent stone beast, keeping watch on the capital.

My stomach churned as we emerged from Tower Street and jogged along the well-worn track across the green. We joined a file of other travellers on foot and horseback, most of whom attached themselves to a small crowd that surrounded the Bulwark Gate. I looked about as we pressed our way through. My bleary gaze passed over the mixed throng — a quiet, expectant blob of humanity. A hag thrust a grubby kerchief at me. ‘Fetch me some of the blood, Master,’ she screeched.

We paused at the gate to have our credentials checked and were waved on to cross the causeway. We were stopped again by guards at the Middle Tower and the Byward Gate and I swear that if my hands had not been trembling on the reins I would have turned Dickon’s head and fled from the ordeal. Never before had I come this far within the concentric cordons of the fortress. Occasionally business took me to the Royal Mint but that was situated within the outer wall. As we dismounted I inadvertently cringed away from the uprearing stonework. It seemed to sway, as if about to crumble on top of us. Robert grasped my arm and urged me briskly forward. We entered the inner ward through yet another gateway and followed a path beside the White Tower — its pallid complexion pockmarked where the paint was flaking. And so to the green, the theatre where the tragedy was to be performed.

An arena had been created in front of St Peter’s Chapel, Tiered staging arranged on three sides of the black-draped platform. The seats were already almost full. Prime positions were occupied by courtiers and government men. The upper levels were for prominent citizens, like ourselves. We clambered up and found two spaces at one end of the topmost bench. An elderly alderman grunted and grumbled as he made room for us. Clamped between him and Robert, my stomach still churning, I wanted it all to be over. Wanted to be back in the warm anonymity of my own bed.

‘Have you ever seen the new man, Cromwell?’ Robert asked, pointing to a thickset councillor seated next to the familiar figure of Lord Chancellor Audley.

‘No.’

‘Well, take a good look and remember what you see. Cromwell’s the future. He has more brains than all the rest of the king’s council put together. He’s climbing fast to the top. You’d do well to cultivate him.’

I was scarcely listening. ‘How long is it going to be? Much longer and I’ll throw up.’

But the waiting was over. The buzz of conversation stopped and all eyes turned towards a gateway beside the White Tower. It was a small procession: two pikemen, four female attendants, then the Constable, Sir William Kingston, and beside him a woman, small but walking very erect, in an ermine mantle over a grey gown, her face framed by a gable hood. Queen Anne of England, going to her death.

She was helped on to the platform and spent some minutes talking with her ladies, two of whom seemed on the point of collapse with grief. One was on her knees clutching the queen’s gown and had to be pulled aside by a guard. Anne turned away and came to the edge of the dais. Not a flicker of movement from her audience as she lifted her head to speak. I leaned forward, focused on the slight figure. My head seemed suddenly clear.