‘Fink.’
‘Yes, before I set out that afternoon I told John where I was going.’
‘And he must have told someone else. But who, and why would Fink want to do you harm?’
‘I doubt whether he did. He was genuinely shocked when he heard about the attack.’
‘That didn’t stop him gossiping to whoever got you arrested. According to this’ — Ben brandished the letter — ‘he was “gulled by an evil man” into laying information against you.’
‘And I have a shrewd idea who that was.’
‘But what can he possibly have revealed to get you into this mess? You’re no Lollard or Lutheran.’
‘No, but if he listened at doors and noted some of the men who called to see me, he might well have drawn the wrong conclusions… and he obviously discovered my Tyndale New Testament.’
Ben’s eyes opened wide. ‘You had a copy? God’s blood, that’s a burning matter.’
‘Yes it is. Now do you see why you must put as much distance as possible between you and me? Tomorrow I shall be tried for heresy — and found guilty. My accusers will want to know all my supposedly schismatic contacts. The bishop will set his hounds on to flushing out anyone who has had dealings with me. I don’t want them coming after you. One man’s blood on my head is quite enough. Ben, get out of London — and start now.’
I went to the door and banged on it till a grumbling jailer came up the stairs to open it. Ben protested loudly but I almost pushed him out of the cell. I listened to his descending steps. Then I sat down on the bed. Alone. Very very alone.
Chapter 25
The next day I waited. And waited. And waited. I had not been given a time for my appearance before the bishop’s court. All I knew was that the hearing would take place in the cathedral’s chapterhouse. The morning passed. Sunlight began to slant in at the west-facing window. I wondered whether the delay was deliberate, intended to stretch my already taut nerves to snapping point. It was almost a relief to hear, at long last, the scrape of boots on the stone steps.
Young Harry opened the door. ‘’Ere’s a surprise, then,’ he said, before turning enigmatically and leading the way down the stairs. Outside were two mounted soldiers in royal livery leading another horse. ‘Master Treviot,’ one of them called out, ‘be so good as to come with us.’ I climbed into the saddle and, flanked by my escort, circuited the cathedral and rode out of the yard through Paul’s Gate.
Bewilderment, hope and apprehension jostled around my head. We passed Saddlers’ Hall and I wondered whether I was being escorted home. But we clattered on, leaving to our right the impressive row of goldsmiths’ premises with their gleaming paintwork and the gilded statues of mythical beasts. I stared longingly at the house with the sign of the swan. All its windows were shuttered and there was no sign of life. As we continued along Cheap a terrifying thought struck me. Were we bound for the Tower? Had Stokesley and his consortium decided that I needed to be confined more closely or, more alarmingly still, that I had information to reveal that could be dragged from me only by the repertoire of torturers who kept their array of instruments in the royal fortress.
I looked closely at my guardians. Was there any point in asking where they were taking me? Would they be just as uncommunicative as the bishop’s men who had conveyed me to Fulham Palace? While I was still wondering, the question burst unbidden from my lips. ‘Where are we bound?’
The trooper to my left turned with a smile. ‘Why, did the jailer not tell you? We are going to Lord Cromwell’s house. He has sent for you.’
‘Sent for me? But why?’
He laughed. ‘His Lordship does not confide in the likes of us.’
With that I had to be content. Yet now my mind was in a wilder ferment than before. What purpose could Cromwell, now generally acknowledged as the king’s most powerful councillor, the man who had come to displace all the nobles and bishops, possibly want with me? He would scarcely have snatched me from the bishop’s clutches to discuss a loan or place an order for a set of gold plate. The idea was almost comical. Not so humorous was the thought that, in exchanging incarceration by Bishop Stokesley for detention at Master Secretary’s pleasure, I might have leaped out of the cauldron into the fire.
Our passage along the City’s main thoroughfare aroused interest. Passers-by stopped to stare. Some, recognising me, waved. At the Stocks Market I thought I caught a glimpse of Ben Walling but when I looked again, his lithe figure (if, indeed, it was him) had disappeared among the crowds thronging the fishmongers’ stalls. We took the leftward of the three streets that debouche into the marketplace, jogged along Three Needle Street, and so to Broad Street, where the slender and graceful spire of the Austin Friars’ church beckons passers-by into the seclusion of the priory yard. The most impressive town house fronting that open space was the mansion Thomas Cromwell had been extending and improving for the last couple of years and more. There was still scaffolding clinging to the north-east corner, facing the monastery. As we drew up, a mob of beggars made way for us — not altogether willingly.
‘Idle wretches,’ one of the soldiers grumbled. ‘There are more of them every day turning up for the dole. His Lordship is too indulgent.’
We dismounted and I was led into the hall. The escort went to announce my arrival and I was left to look about me. It was immediately evident that this was the home of a man of wealth and taste. In keeping with the latest fashion, the ceiling of this long room had been lowered to allow for more chambers to be constructed in what had originally been the rafter space of the old hall. Large Flemish tapestries covered much of the panelled wall space and before them stood cupboards and presses, some richly carved and coloured in the Italian style. A page in Cromwell’s livery appeared with a tray — red wine in a ewer, with a silver goblet and a dish of ginger and cinnamon biscuits.
‘His Lordship is still at dinner,’ he said, setting the tray close to the fire. ‘Be so good as to wait for him.’
I waited. And wondered. What sort of man lay beyond that door? Robert had served Cromwell and held him in high regard. He had advised me to seek the minister’s favour. On the other hand, Ned — and probably most Englishmen — regarded the ‘upstart’ as the fount of all the evils now pouring across the land. Curious and apprehensive, I waited.
It was some half an hour later that the page reappeared. I had expected to be led to a private dining room where the master of the house would be taking food with friends or distinguished guests but we entered a small room overlooking the garden. The man who sat facing the window at a table covered in a Turkey rug was surrounded by papers and books in neat piles. An open coffer set beside his high-backed chair where he could reach it contained more documents. A trencher and silver dishes piled at one end of the table indicated that Cromwell had just completed a solitary repast. These items were being cleared away by servants.
The door closed behind them but Cromwell did not turn to me. He continued writing — at considerable speed, as though determined to give form to his thoughts before they escaped him. He wore a plain black gown over a doublet, some of whose points hung loose. His head was uncovered. The most striking feature of his broad, unlined face was the dark eyes, which seemed to peer out as though through holes cut in the flesh. My first impressions did nothing to cast light on the enigma.
This great man’s informality was disconcerting. This was a man who enjoyed the confidence of the king and spent his working days with councillors and ambassadors, yet he had admitted me into this private centre of his wide universe almost as one might admit a friend. I was loath to interrupt his thoughts but after standing for several moments in the centre of the room I felt I should make some comment.