‘I am grateful to Your Lordship for releasing me from the bishop’s prison.’
Cromwell nodded.
‘May I ask whether this is a temporary respite?’
‘We have better things to do than chase heretics.’ His comment was almost an aside as he finished his letter and added it to the pile of others waiting to be sealed. I could not think of a suitable response. Suddenly he looked up. ‘Have you ever seen an elephant?’
I shook my head.
‘The Duke of Ferrara had two when I was in Italy — along with scores of other remarkable creatures. He used to try to make them fight each other to amuse his guests. Interesting spectacle. They trumpeted and stamped their ponderous feet and flapped their enormous ears. But they did not charge with their massive tusks. They walked backwards. They made a great display of ferocity until, at last, one of them turned. Then, and only then, did his adversary give chase. Stokesley reminds me of an elephant. He makes a lot of noise. He issues threats. He has his clergy shout defiance from City pulpits. But he’ll never lock tusks. He’s waiting to see my arse.’ Cromwell chuckled. ‘He’s in for a long wait.’ He paused. Then, struck by a new idea, he said, ‘The King of Portugal does a good trade in elephants. I wonder if I can get one for His Majesty. We can call it Stokesley.’ Master Secretary took a sheet of paper and scribbled a note, then looked up smiling, inviting me to share the joke. All I could think of was one very simple question.
‘My Lord, am I free to go home and resume my business?’
He set down the pen and stared across the desk, no sign of drollery now in the eyes deep-set in his fleshy face. ‘Does your usual business include seeking out Master Packington’s killer?’
I considered my answer carefully. ‘When he was alive, My Lord, he cared for me almost as a father. Now he is dead there is only one thing I can do for him, as a dutiful son. Sadly, my efforts only seem to be making things worse. I’ve decided to follow the advice of my friends and abandon the quest.’
Cromwell nodded. ‘A good reply. Death does not cancel all debts. When the great cardinal was alive…’
‘Wolsey?’
‘Yes. When he was alive I was his closest confidant. When he died in disgrace, all those who had fawned on him and benefited from his bounty fell over themselves to curse his memory. Not me. I salvaged what I could from the wreck of his fortunes. Did my best to safeguard those projects that had been dearest to his heart. Friends feared that I would suffer for it. Enemies hoped that I would. But, as you see…’ Cromwell waved a hand, indicating the piled documents, ‘His Majesty recognises loyalty. He knows whom he can trust… and that is important for kings. They are surrounded by sycophants and time-servers, men who throng the court seeking only their own advantage. If you knew the number of petitions I have to deal with daily…’ He grabbed up a pile of unopened letters. ‘Suits for positions at court; requests for grants of land; appeals for intervention in legal cases — the list is endless. Few there be who serve the king out of unfeigned love. Loyalty is a rare flower and I cherish it. That is why I have rescued you from My Lord of London’s clutches.’
I faltered for an appropriate response. ‘I am more grateful than I can say… If I can serve Your Lordship in any way…’
For the first time he turned his attention full on me. I was even more conscious of those searching eyes. ‘Did you see Robert on his return from his last visit to the Low Countries?’
‘No, we were to meet on the morning of his death.’
‘Had he written to you… told you anything about his mission?’
‘He mentioned Master Tyndale’s execution but not in any detail. I had the impression that he might be in some danger… that he felt it unsafe to put things in writing. Do you think he was followed home by enemies? Was it they who organised his killing and not the Bishop of London?’
Cromwell drummed on the table with his fingers. He frowned. ‘Tell me what you know about Robert’s death.’
I reported what I had discovered. It was little enough: the confusion on that dark, misty morning two weeks ago; John Doggett’s acknowledgement that Il Ombra was the paid assassin; my efforts to track down the Italian gunman; the attempt on my life and the informers who had denounced me to the bishop (which might or might not be connected to my investigation).
Cromwell listened with every appearance of total concentration. Then he said, ‘These things go deeper than you know and involve issues more important than you can guess. You would have been wise to follow your friends’ counsel. Cicero tells us wisdom is the most valuable of human virtues.’ He paused as though recalling the words of some text read long ago. ‘However, he also says “nothing is more noble than loyalty”. In this business of our mutual friend’s killer you did have a choice between the prudence born of wisdom and the somewhat headstrong actions stirred up by loyalty. Now you no longer have that choice. You cannot wind back the clock and simply take up your life again.’
‘My Lord?’
‘You are too far into this business, Thomas Treviot. You are close enough to the fires of Smithfield to feel their heat and I am the only person who can deliver you. But my help comes at a price.’
I felt a sudden chill of apprehension.
Cromwell continued: ‘Robert Packington was a good servant of mine. He was employed in affairs that carried some danger.’
I grasped the opportunity to obtain, at last, an unequivocal answer to the question that had forced its way to the front of my mind. ‘Stokesley accused Robert of being a smuggler of banned books. Was he right?’
Cromwell scrutinised me silently for several seconds, stroking his chin with one hand. Suddenly he stood up. He stepped across to the window and beckoned me to join him. ‘I’m making a new garden,’ he said.
I looked out at a stretch of grass flanked by ancient mulberry trees whose bare, wide-spreading branches almost touched. Beyond were piles of earth and three workmen dismantling a stone wall.
‘That means, not just putting in more plants; I have to take into account what was there before. Some things have to be reshaped… and others removed. The same is true of the new England some of us are making. It will be a nation with a strong monarchy, supreme in state and church, secure from foreign interference, rich enough to be able to solve the problems that now trouble us — poverty, vagrancy, corruption in the courts, clergy who are above the law. Most importantly of all, it will be a nation guided by the word of God. But first we have to clear the ground; get rid of obstacles; deal with grumblers who can’t or won’t share our vision for a new garden.’
‘Like Stokesley?’
‘I was thinking more of the northern rabble that His Majesty is now bringing to heel, but, yes, Stokesley is certainly one of those who are more at home with the old garden, running to seed and overrun with weeds as it was. Tell me, Master Treviot, you have a son. Which England would you like him to grow up in — the old or the new?’
I was too surprised by the minister’s apparent knowledge of my family life to come up with an answer.
He did not wait for a response. ‘But I’m rambling. What is important at this moment is this: I can help you in your quest but only if you help me. First I must know whether your little adventure with Stokesley has taught you anything. I need you to step into Robert’s shoes. To do that you will need to temper your impetuosity.’
‘My Lord, I will gladly…’
He smiled. ‘As a lawyer, I must advise you never to sign a contract without reading it carefully. Listen to my terms. Robert was undertaking certain confidential work for me in Antwerp. He was killed before he could make a full report to me. I want you to go to Antwerp and find out what he had discovered.’
‘But why me, My Lord? I’m just a simple merchant.’