‘Then you must know who was behind Robert’s murder and this attack.’
‘Know?’ He shook his head. ‘The enemy is hydra-headed. At court there is the Duke of Norfolk, the new queen and her whole Seymour brood and, of course, old Wily Winchester Bishop Gardiner. None of them would scruple to hire an assassin. They are all in league with Chapuys, the Emperor’s ambassador. He is as slippery and twisted as an adder. He has spies everywhere and the gold to pay for all manner of mischief. Then there’s Stokesley and his priestly crew. They still have more loyalty to the pope than the king and some of them are fanatical enough to commit murder and believe they do it in the name of God.’
‘A gloomy catalogue,’ I observed. If Robert had such an array of powerful enemies what chance did I have of getting at the truth — assuming that I survived?
‘Aye, but all is not lost. There are many Gospel-lovers around the king and he has complete trust in Thomas Cromwell. Norfolk and Gardiner hate Cromwell with a primal passion but they cannot dislodge him and he is a favourer of the Gospel.’
‘Robert always spoke well of Cromwell.’
‘Aye, he was in Master Secretary’s confidence and often carried messages for him when he travelled abroad. So, young man,’ Locke concluded, ‘you see what a mire you have stumbled into.’
Indeed I did. Now I could understand why Augustine had tried to dissuade me from my quest. It may have been partly concern for my own safety but he and his friends also did not want people like me stirring up trouble and drawing attention to them and their plans.
Later, as I lay in Locke’s comfortable guest chamber, I thought over the day’s dramatic and revealing events. One thing was clear: I no longer had the luxury of deciding whether or not I would investigate Robert’s murder. My involvement was already known to his associates and to his enemies. The only conviction they all shared was that Thomas Treviot should keep his nose out of what did not concern him. But the only choice before me now was either to unmask the assassin or wait for him to make another attempt on my life.
The next morning I arrived back in Goldsmith’s Row to find the whole house in a state of great agitation. The servants rushed out to greet us as soon as we clattered into the yard. I had scarcely tethered the young bay Master Locke had generously lent me before John Fink stood before me, anxiety and relief chasing themselves around his youthful, fresh-complexioned face.
‘Master, Master,’ he gasped, ‘are you all right? When you failed to return, we…’
‘All’s well, John,’ I said reassuringly.
‘But, Master, what happened?’
‘Someone tried to waylay us on our way home.’ I walked briskly into the house.
The apprentice followed, close on my heels. ‘Was it the same villain who shot Master Packington?’
‘I don’t know, John. He disappeared in the dark. Now, I have to leave again within the hour. I’m needed at Hemmings and this incident has already made me late.’ I strode through the kitchen.
Fink was still close behind me. ‘What if he tries again, Master?’
‘Who?’
‘The assassin.’
‘Then we must make sure we’re ready for him.’
As soon as I and my two servants had refreshed ourselves and I had given such instructions as were necessary, we set out again. At St Swithun’s House Ned was with difficulty concealing his impatience. ‘I wondered whether you might have reconsidered,’ he said, with a hint of reproach.
‘A promise is a promise,’ I replied. ‘I was… unavoidably delayed. If you are ready let us be on our way.’
We travelled over frost-hardened ground on a crisp, brittle morning, the low sun etching long black shadows across the track. Wherever the ground was not too hard and treacherously deep-rutted we cantered the horses. Otherwise, we were constrained to proceed at an ambling gait. As we journeyed I gave my companions a censored version of the previous day’s events. They would hear about Il Ombra’s attempted ambush sooner or later and I would rather they received a version that was as bland as I could make it.
Ned received the news sombrely. ‘I suppose this terrible experience has left you quite unchastened,’ he said.
‘Well, you did warn me,’ I replied.
He shook his head. ‘That gives me no satisfaction. I can only hope that what Lizzie has to tell you will deflect you from your stubborn path.’
At Otford we fell in with a group of devout travellers on the old pilgrimage route to Canterbury. As we jogged between ploughed fields whose ridges were being broken down by the frost a lean priest on an even leaner horse bemoaned the changing times.
‘Belike this will be our last chance to pray at St Thomas’s shrine.’
‘Why so?’ I asked.
‘The king means to bring it down,’ he replied with a sage nod of the head. ‘I have that on the best authority.’
‘That is right enough.’ The speaker was a lady in a fur-trimmed hood, who travelled with her chaplain and three of her women. ‘My cousin attends His Majesty in his chamber. According to him, that wretch Cromwell is forever urging him to lay his hands on the devout offerings presented to the saints. He claims this would make him the richest king in Christendom.’
‘A curse on the Jostler! A curse on the unholy trinity!’ The thin priest raised his piping voice in an outraged cry.
I turned to Ned, a questioning look on my face.
It was Jed who explained, with a raucous laugh. ‘Surely you’ve heard of the unholy trinity, Thomas?’
‘No.’
‘Its members are the Jostler, the Ostler and the Whore.’
‘The Jostler, I take it, is Cromwell.’
‘Aye,’ the priest agreed. ‘He is a nobody; the son of a Putney brewer and violent lawbreaker, who has jostled his way into the king’s council and elbowed aside greater men like Thomas More.’
‘And now,’ Ned added bitterly, ‘he is jostling monks and nuns out of their homes and honest men on to the gallows.’
‘So much for the Jostler,’ I said, in an effort to lighten the conversation. ‘Who is the Ostler?’
The priest sneered. ‘Why, that is Cranmer, His Grace of Canterbury. “Disgrace” more like. He’s better fitted to a groom’s apron than an archbishop’s pall.’
‘But why do you call him the Ostler?’
‘Why, the hypocrite is a twice-married man and his first wife was the daughter of a Cambridge innkeeper. His second he brought over from heresy-land — Germany. They say he hides her away in his manor at Ford and when she must travel she does so in a locked chest.’
I laughed. ‘What lurid yarns enmity spins. I’ve heard the self-same story told of at least two abbots.’ I pointed ahead along the road. ‘Our ways part at the top of that hill.’
I was not to be allowed to divert them from their complaint. The lady spoke again.
‘And the whore, of course, refers to the Boleyn creature. If it had not been for her and her Frenchified wiles we should not be in this mess.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘she can do no more harm now, wherever she is.’
‘Oh, we know where she is,’ the lady replied with a fragile laugh bordering on the hysterical. ‘Burning in hell. Would that I were there to stoke the fire.’
‘Perhaps one day you will have that privilege.’ I spurred my horse and rode on ahead of the company.
Minutes later we said goodbye to our companions of the way and turned on to the narrow lane towards Ightham.
‘You were a little hard on them,’ Ned said as we rode side by side.