Minutes later Ned and I were riding away from the Red Lamb. The rain had stopped but the chill wind still rattled the leafless branches and shook droplets on us from the elms as we travelled back to the City.
Ned wiped his brow with his sleeve. ‘Thomas, your tongue will be the death of you — and possibly of me. Pray God we never see the inside of that place again.’
‘Amen,’ I muttered, occupied with my own thoughts. ‘Where do you think this Italian could find refuge?’
‘You heard what Doggett said,’ Ned replied. ‘The rogue has left the country and we are well rid of him.’
‘Doggett was lying.’
‘What do you mean?’ Ned twitched his rein nervously.
‘I know for a certainty that this Il Ombra, or whatever he calls himself, is still in England. All ships are laid up in harbour because of the weather. I have some friends who have been stuck at Dover this four days since, waiting for a crossing to Calais. Perhaps that’s where I should go — Dover, I mean.’
‘You cannot!’ Ned was now really alarmed. ‘You gave your word to Doggett that you’d let the matter drop.’
‘On the other hand,’ I was speaking my thoughts aloud, ‘suppose he’s not ready to leave yet. He’ll have to collect his blood money before he goes anywhere. There may be a good chance that he will have to stay in hiding not far away and now that we know what sort of a man we’re looking for — ’
‘You promised Doggett!’ Ned almost shouted.
‘I? I promised nothing, Ned.’ I urged Dickon into a fast trot.
Chapter 15
Back in Goldsmith’s Row I was met in the shop by John Fink, his young face, as ever, wrinkled by anxiety.
‘Saints be praised for your return, sir.’ He ran a hand through his thick yellow hair, which stood in untidy peaks on his head. ‘Everything here is at six and seven. I had to close early; the place was full of idlers and gossips come to gape and gaze. People want to see where we laid poor Master Packington. They’re full of questions: “Why was he brought here?” “Did we know the Dean of St Paul’s has praised his killer for ridding the world of a heretic?” “Is Master Treviot a heretic, too?” It was terrible, sir. We couldn’t get any work done. I had to turn everyone out and close the door.’
‘Don’t fret, John,’ I said. ‘You did the right thing. Everything will settle down in a day or two.’
He did not look convinced. ‘’Tis the dreadfullest thing to happen in anyone’s memory. To be shot in the common street — horrible! And Master Packington such a fine man. Why would anyone call him “heretic”, sir?’
I thought of the Tyndale Testament safely locked in one of my coffers. ‘Just malicious gossip, John. Pay no attention.’
‘Master Leyland was here again, sir, making trouble,’ John grumbled.
‘Oh, what was he doing?’
‘Just telling anyone who would listen that someone who got mixed up with murder and mayhem was not fit to belong to the respectable merchant community.’
‘Forget it, John. Leyland is just jealous of our success.’
‘Well, sir, as to that — ’
I cut him short. ‘Not now, John. I’ve spent a lot of time in the saddle these last three days. I’m somewhat tired.’
As I moved towards the stair, John said, ‘There were some messages left, sir.’ He handed me a bundle of papers.
I had lamps lit in my chamber and sat at the table to read.
The first item I picked up was a grubby piece of paper torn from the leaf of a printed book, folded and fixed with unsealed wax. The scrawled message was brief and in an uncouth hand: ‘Deth to heratiks’. I crushed the missive in my hand and tossed it into the fire.
There were three business letters. I made a mental note to go over them with John Fink.
That left a slim package wrapped tidily and addressed in an educated hand. Inside was a new pamphlet bearing the mark of the King’s printer, Thomas Berthelet, and the title, ‘A Sermon Made by M. Hugh Latimer, Bishop of Worcester, the Twenty-first Sunday after Trinity Sunday at Paul’s Cross.’ This interested me because Latimer’s recent appointment to the episcopate had raised many eyebrows. His thunderous sermons against the pope and his minions had always attracted large crowds. Urged by many friends (including Robert), I had for some time intended to see one of Latimer’s performances but this was just one of the many things that I had not got around to during the last troubled months. Latimer’s attacks on church dignitaries, both in Rome and England, had often got him into trouble but his new dignity strongly suggested a shift in policy towards the more radical religion laughingly referred to by its detractors as the ‘New Learning’. Intrigued, I moved my chair closer to the fire, placed my reading lamp on the wall sconce and settled to read the short text.
The sermon, delivered little more than a week before, was a ringing denunciation of the northern rebels and it was at once easy to see why this preacher was so popular. His words were couched in a homely vein and his illustrations were vivid and compelling, even in printed form. After announcing his text from the Epistle to the Ephesians — ‘Put on the armour of God so that you may stand against the crafty assaults of the Devil’ — he proceeded to develop the metaphor, showing that it was not the treasonous rabble in the North that his hearers should fear, but their general, the one who led their revolt — the Prince of Darkness. The preacher denounced the bishops and priests who resisted the truth set forth in the Bible as prime weapons from the Devil’s armoury. These were revolutionary yet hypnotising words. I read on. Latimer faced his critics. ‘You will say this is new learning but I tell you it is the old, the original Bible learning. You say it is old heresy, new scoured. Oh, no, it is old truth, long rusted with popish canker but now made bright and polished.’ Leaving aside the princes of the Church, he went on to identify other diabolical weapons employed against true believers. Then I came upon a passage that made me gasp:
The Devil has handguns and bows which do much hurt. They are the accusers and slanderers of God’s people. They are evil ordnance, indeed, these shrewd handguns and bows. They cause individuals great distress and often death follows when they shoot.
It was almost as though Latimer, preaching several days before the murderous attack on Robert, had spoken prophetically. Despite the heat from the fire, I found that I was shivering. The elegant — almost poetic — phrases of the sermon and the crude threat I had discarded had in common a passion that was frightening.
I had little time to brood on these missives for this was the evening designated for Robert’s wake. As darkness fell I made my way to Sopers Lane to join the family and friends sitting up with Robert’s body. I knew the short route as well as I knew the fingers of my hands and would normally not have given a second thought to walking it alone but now I took no chances. I had a servant go before me with a lamp and made sure that we were both well armed. At the house, Robert’s younger brothers, Augustine and Humphrey, were receiving guests at the door. Like Robert, they were both of the Mercers’ Company and I had met them quite often. Humphrey was similar to Robert in both appearance and bearing: on casual acquaintance anyone would have identified him as a grave and respectable citizen. Augustine, by contrast, was some ten years younger and still had about him vestiges of youthful brashness. His handshake was firm and warm as he led me into the hall.
The room was dimly lit by six candles on tall stands placed around the bier. Robert had been laid out in the robes of his livery and looked, despite his pallor, like one quietly sleeping. I joined the line of people filing past, some making the sign of the cross, others holding their hands together in prayer. With a sudden shock I realised that I did not know what to do, what petitions to offer. What did I believe? Should I seek an easing of Robert’s journey through purgatory? I suspected, from comments he had made from time to time, that he had abandoned belief in any such place. Peering through the crowd, I saw the florid features of Dr Edward Crome, appointed a year since to the rich living of St Mary Aldermary, by order of Queen Anne. He stood in a corner surrounded by a coterie of admirers. Robert, I knew, had held Crome in high regard and Crome had frequently found himself in trouble with the Bishop of London for his outspoken attacks on official doctrines — including purgatory. Yet, remove that stout buttress of the Church’s teaching and what would hold up the edifice? What would become of all the masses and trentals recited for the dead — including those I had commissioned for my father and my wife? Now, as I moved on towards the further end of the long hall, I observed that the throng held few clergy, certainly none that would be readily recognised as strong upholders of religious tradition. This wake was, I began to realise, a gathering of radicals. I knew most of the people present, at least by sight, and I could count fewer than five who would have stood up for the religion of England as it had existed before Henry had begun his divorce proceedings against pious, Catholic Queen Catherine. Robert Packington had been my friend as long as I could remember. Now that he was dead I realised, with a shock, that I had never really known him.