I groaned, head in hands. ‘I don’t know what I’ll be accused of, or by whom, or what evidence they have, or what false witnesses they’ve paid. I feel like a man setting out on a journey who knows that highwaymen have been primed to lay in wait for him but doesn’t know where the ambush will be laid.’
And that was when it struck me. Suddenly I recognised the missing link in the chain of events I had so carefully tried to record.
‘That’s it!’ I shouted. ‘Move along the bench, Ben. I need room to write.’
The sound of footsteps on the stone steps outside added urgency to my task. I grabbed pen and paper and scribbled a note.
The door opened and Young Harry came in. ‘Time’s up,’ he announced. ‘You’ve ’ad your pennyworth.’
I wafted the paper to dry the ink, folded it and handed it to my visitor. ‘There is something you can do, Ben. Take this, as fast as you can, to John Fink. I must see him. Urgently.’ Young Henry was quite puzzled at the speed with which I hustled Ben out of the cell.
That night I had much to think about: re-examining my notes, re-adjusting, re-evaluating, reconsidering my own behaviour. Most urgently of all, I had to decide what I would say to my long-serving journeyman apprentice. The man I now recognised as my betrayer.
Chapter 24
No less a person than Old Harry woke me. He rarely dragged his aged bones to the top of the tower, designating all routine duties to his more agile subordinates. The fact that he had come in person to rouse me suggested that it was a mission of some importance.
‘Up yer gets!’ he ordered, wheezing from the effort of the climb. ‘Bishop wants yer. Be sure to tell ’im ’ow well yer being looked after.’
A glance up at the window told me that it was yet scarcely day. I cursed inwardly. It was vital that I saw Fink before my examination began. ‘Look, I’m expecting an important visitor, someone vital to my case,’ I explained in some desperation. ‘Can this wait… just for a couple of hours?’
A sound somewhere between a laugh and cough exploded from the jailer’s mouth. ‘What? Keep ’Is Lordship waiting? More than my job’s worth. Get a move on… and remember you’ve been looked after right ’andsomely in the Lollards’ Tower.’
Outside, in Paul’s Yard, I was met by the same captain who had brought me to the prison but this time he was in charge of a small troop of mounted men. They had a horse for me and, as soon as I had climbed into the saddle, we set off.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked, as we passed through Ludgate.
‘Fulham Palace,’ the captain replied. ‘His Lordship will see you there.’
I had several other questions for my escort but they were either not disposed or had strict orders not to answer and we spent almost the whole journey in silence. With the untidy sprawl of royal Westminster behind us, we crossed open country to Chelsea beneath a scowling sky that threatened rain but did not deliver. Where the road narrowed through Parson’s Green hamlet we were held up by two women driving a gaggle of geese — until the troops rode through them and laughed to see the owners pursuing the frightened birds over hedges and ploughed fields. By the time we reached the river the sun was a smudge on the lightening clouds to our left. Then we entered the bishop’s park and so arrived in the courtyard of the palace, bustling with visitors and servants.
All the way from London we had attracted attention. Men stopped to stare at the prisoner and nod knowingly to each other. Women pointed me out to their children, doubtless warning them what happened to those who wandered from the warm embrace of Mother Church. But not until we arrived at our destination did we encounter real hostility. As I was led towards a side entrance a stout kitchen woman waddled forward and spat in my face. Another called out, ‘Heretic pig!’ A passing priest muttered, ‘Burning’s too good for your sort.’ The guard room, when we reached it, was a welcome haven. Here, amidst off-duty soldiers, relaxing with tankards of ale or cleaning their weapons, I waited for my summons to the episcopal presence. And waited. And waited, anxiety mounting with every slow minute.
It was gone noon when I was marched to the chapel and thence, by a narrow stair in the wall, to a first-floor landing. My guard knocked on the only door, opened it and all but pushed me inside. It was a smallish room, comfortable and well furnished. Shelves stacked with books lined two walls. A third was almost filled with a full-length oriel window and the remaining wall was taken up by a large chimney place, which bore the bishop’s coat of arms in vivid colours above the opening. Stokesley sat at a large table, placed close to the fire and I noticed that this old man obviously felt the cold, for his cap was drawn tight over his head and a furred cape was draped round his shoulders. He was a man of florid features with bushy brows over searching eyes.
Those eyes were fastened on me as I bowed respectfully. After some moments of scrutiny, he said in a gentle tone of voice, ‘I am sorry to discover a young man of your standing and obvious promise in such a parlous situation.’
‘What situation, Your Grace?’ I asked.
Stokesley dropped the urbane pose, his eyes flashing with sudden anger. ‘Do not pretend innocence with me. I have seen too many of your sort to be taken in by such hypocrisy.’
I did not know how to respond. Should I stoutly deny all and any heresy, which would only stoke his anger further, or maintain a silence that would appear to confirm my guilt?
‘I have no time to waste on you.’ The bishop tossed a book on the table. ‘Do you deny this is yours?’
I knew, of course, what the little volume was but I picked it up and made pretence of examining it.
‘Well?’ Stokesley snapped impatiently.
‘It looks like something that was lent me by a friend a few months ago, Your Grace.’
‘You know that it is against the law to read the works of the heretic, Tyndale.’
‘I haven’t read it.’
He jumped to his feet. ‘Do you take me for a fool? This was found in your chamber, locked away in a chest to keep it hidden. How can you deny reading it?’
My heart was racing but I tried to answer calmly. I glanced around the library shelves. ‘Your Grace has an impressive collection of books. Can it be that you have read every one of them?’
‘Mother of God! Is there no end to your impertinence?’ He was shouting now.
Strangely, the bishop’s agitation had a calming effect on me. The angrier he became, the clearer my thoughts presented themselves.
He grabbed up the New Testament and flung it into the fire. ‘Come here and watch it burn,’ he ordered. ‘See it consumed by the flames, just as its wretched author was. Do you want to share the same fate? Have you ever seen a heretic burn?’
‘Once, at Smithfield, four years ago. A lawyer.’
‘James Bainham?’
‘I think that was his name.’
The cover of Tyndale’s book curled, and the pages browned, blackened and flared up. Stokesley stabbed at it with a poker. ‘Bainham was not unlike yourself — an intelligent man; an honest man, as I think — but sorely deceived. I had him here for several days. Reasoned with him. Tried to save him, just as I am trying to save you. But Satan had so clouded his mind that he could not see the truth.’
The fire was now making hard work of the tightly bound inner pages. I said, almost to myself, ‘I will always remember what Bainham called out at the stake. “I feel no pain,” he shouted. “’Tis a miracle.”’
Stokesley turned to glare at me. ‘Oh, you will feel pain, I assure you. It will be a pain that does not end when your body is consumed. You will know that pain for ever — in hell — unless you avail yourself of the mercy of the Church.’
‘I would gladly do that,’ I said, and I certainly meant it.
‘Then repent of your heresies.’
‘What heresies, My Lord?’
‘Why must you prevaricate? Why do you people always wriggle and squirm? You know you have rejected the truth the Church teaches.’