‘Take this straightway to Lord Cromwell at his house close by Austin Friars,’ I said, pointing to the sealed note that had ‘Urgent’ scrawled across it in large letters. ‘Don’t leave until you are sure he has received it. Then haste you back to Sussex with this message for Ned. Ask him to explain to the ladies. Tell them all that you find me well and out of danger. I shall be away two or three weeks. Persuade them all to be at Hemmings for my return.’
The young man looked doubtful as he placed the letters in his pouch.
‘Trust me, Jed,’ I said, with as much confidence as I could muster. ‘All will be well. Now make haste!’
When he had left I had my own London household to reassure — and to interrogate. I wanted to discover, while memories were still fresh, why John Fink had turned against me, what grievances he had harboured and, above all, who had encouraged his betrayal. Of course, I had my own thoughts on that matter; Simon Leyland headed my list of suspects but I found it difficult to believe that even he would go so far as to denounce a brother goldsmith as a heretic.
The image of my late journeyman that emerged from these interrogations was of a troubled young man whom, to my shame, I had failed to understand and who struggled to run Treviot’s single-handed. He had sometimes grumbled to other members of the household. When I asked whether John had shared his discontent with anyone outside the business, Leyland’s name certainly cropped up. It was apparent that he had visited several times when he knew that I was away and had spoken with John in private. John had hinted after one such meeting that he would soon be leaving to set up his own workshop. When I pressed for more specific information about Leyland’s comings and goings, the replies I received were much more vague. Had John spoken to the rival goldsmith the previous Monday — the day I was attacked on Hampstead Heath? My steward thought Leyland might have called that afternoon but he could not be sure. A young scullion, however, was certain that John had received a visitor that day.
‘I thought at the time ’twas a bit odd, Master,’ she said. ‘I was just on my way back from the conduit with the water buckets an’ I met this priest at the back gate. He said as how Master Fink ’ad asked him to come there. Then Master Fink came out and the two of ’em went to Master Fink’s room.’
‘Well remembered, Mary,’ I said. ‘Do you know who this priest was?’
‘I suppose he was Master Fink’s confessor, Master.’ She worried the edge of her apron with nervous fingers. ‘I think I’ve seen ’im once before — at some festival or other. I recognised him for his red hair. He’s not our parish priest — that I do know.’
‘Did you hear anything they said?’
Mary’s cheeks flushed. ‘Oh, I don’t listen to other people’s conversations, Master. That’s wrong, isn’t it?’
‘It certainly is, Mary, and I know you are a good girl. But sometimes we can’t help overhearing what someone says — even though we don’t really want to.’
She frowned and bit her lip, still, I guessed, wrestling with her conscience. ‘Well,’ she said at last. ‘It can’t do him no harm now, can it? Master Fink, I mean. He was definitely agitated. “Praise God, you’ve come, sir,” he said. “I am innocent, whatever men may say.” Then the door shut. That was why I guessed the priest had come to hear his confession.’
I recalled John’s great anxiety on the morning of my return from Hampstead. He had been full of questions about the attack. At the time I had imagined that he was simply shocked at the news. Now, I was not so sure. Could it be that he was desperate to find out what I knew about the failed attempt? If he had revealed my whereabouts to someone and only discovered afterwards that, by doing so, he had put my life in danger that could well explain his need to send for his confessor. Then, when he heard that I had survived, he might have fallen prey to a new fear — that I would discover his complicity.
These thoughts were still running around in my mind as I supervised the packing of my travelling chest, had it hoisted on to a wagon and despatched to the wharf. I delayed as long as I could over following it, hoping at any moment to receive a reply from Lord Cromwell. None came. I pictured him in his office with his pile of correspondence and wondered whether he would trouble himself with my desperate appeal. The afternoon was half spent when I rode out of the yard, turned into Bread Street and thence, via the broad thoroughfare of Candlewick Street and Thames Street, reached the crowded waterside between the bridge and the Tower. At Custom House Wharf I enquired for the Sweepstake and was pointed to a sleek two-masted craft at the furthermost end of the quay. Waiting beside the gangway, I recognised Cromwell’s page. He stood stamping his feet and blowing on his hands. As soon as he recognised me, he ran up, thrust a letter into my hands and hurried away.
I immediately broke the seal. The message was brief:
This is to signify that I have received your letter and have thought convenient to send men to the convent at Ladborough to convey my lady your mother, your boy and his nurse to your house in Kent and there to remain as long as necessary to guard them during your absence. I most heartily fare you well. Thomas Cromwell
Chapter 27
It is difficult not to be impressed with Antwerp. Standing on the Sweepstake’s foredeck as it rounded the last bends of the long Scheldt estuary, I beheld a city that seemed to explode from the wide flat expanse of meadowland and marsh in an upthrust of spires and windmills. The waterfront was thronged with the vessels of many nations, loading and unloading cargo, and our captain had to wait three hours for a vacant berth at the English Quay. I took advantage of the delay to send a message ashore to Stephen Vaughan, together with my letter of introduction. When I eventually disembarked I was met by a servant who conveyed me to the guest quarters in a nearby building.
The English House comprised a large group of warehouses, dwellings and business premises within a high, walled enclosure. I was conducted to a comfortable chamber overlooking the river and had just finished supervising the unpacking of my chest when I received a visitor. The man who almost bounced into the room was thick set, in his mid-thirties with an exuberant growth of beard. I say he seemed to ‘bounce’ because the overwhelming impression Stephen Vaughan conveyed to all who met him was one of enthusiasm. Having shaken my hand and expressed an effusive welcome, he seated himself on the bed.
‘Lord Cromwell speaks highly of you, Master Treviot, and that is sufficient recommendation for me. I’ll help you in any way I can.’
‘Have you known Cromwell long?’
‘Ever since he entered Wolsey’s service. That must be ten years or more since. He advanced me in the cardinal’s household and, because my mercantile activities brought me often abroad, I was able to prove useful to him.’
‘As a messenger?’
‘Messenger, diplomat, intelligencer — all those rolled into one.’ He laughed — a deep-throated, hearty laugh. ‘Is there a single word for it — “spy”, perhaps? But tell me about yourself. How come you to be in My Lord’s service?’
I briefly related the events of the last few weeks.
He listened carefully, almost ostentatious in sympathetic attentiveness. ‘I was devastated to hear of Robert’s martyrdom — we all were. He was much loved by the community here.’
‘And by all who knew him,’ I added. ‘You speak of “martyrdom”. Does that mean you know who was responsible for his death?’
‘Oh, aye, you know what Paul says in the sixth of Ephesians: “We wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against rule, against power, and against worldly rulers of the darkness of this world.” Robert was a man of the Gospel and Satan was determined to stop his activities.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ I muttered, ‘but do you know which particular human agent of Satan paid an Italian marksman to gun down our friend?’