‘Do you doubt that it was Stokesley or one of his papist crew? You have suffered personally at his hands. I know full well what that is like. In exactly the same way I fell foul of the bishop’s predecessor, Cuthbert Tunstall. He had me to his episcopal court. Were it not for Cromwell I would now be in glory, like Robert. And you and I are not alone; several of the people you will meet here in this haven of the English House have escaped overseas from the snapping jaws of papist pursuers. We praise the Lord for raising Cromwell to a position of power but that has made our enemies even more desperate. Since they cannot use their corrupt judicial system against us, they resort to other measures.’
Stephen Vaughan was obviously a man who enjoyed the sound of his own voice. As he rambled on I began to wonder whether I had made my long and uncomfortable journey in vain. If he and his colleagues could only trot out rumours wrapped in pious words, I would learn nothing useful about the activities that might have led to Robert’s death. ‘You believe the bishop and his ilk will not stop at assassination?’ I asked.
‘That and any violence and duplicity that will enable the pope and his acolytes to cling to worldly power. I recall being at dinner once with Cromwell when he was regaling the company with his wide reading on this very subject. “Exitus acta probat,” he said, quoting some ancient Greek philosopher or other — “Results validate deeds.” He went on to explain how this immoral, antichristian concept had recently been expounded by the Florentine politician Machiavelli, and taken up with enthusiasm in Rome. From that headquarters of Antichrist orders go out to the princes of Europe to exterminate all true Christians — by whatever means come to hand.’ Suddenly the scowl left his face and he laughed again. ‘Fortunately, here in Antwerp we are under the protection of Mammon.’
‘Does your trade wealth really buy you freedom from persecution?’
‘Our overlord, the Emperor, would dearly love to please the pope and allow the Inquisition free rein but with 70 per cent of the Netherlands’ commercial revenue passing through here, much of it in the hands of men he would call “heretics”, why he dare not. Without our taxes and duties he would be unable to keep up his war with France — and that is very dear to him.’
‘This I well believe and yet when Robert was here, only a few weeks ago, he seemed to think that he was in some danger.’
Vaughan looked up sharply. ‘Did he say what he feared?’
‘I had only a brief letter from him in October. He did not detail his anxieties yet I sensed they were very real. He said he had something to tell me as soon as he got back to London. Unfortunately… I can’t help wondering if he was killed to ensure his silence. I think Lord Cromwell has the same suspicion.’
‘And that is why you are here?’
‘Yes. Do you know anything that was worrying Robert while he was here — perhaps something connected with the death of Master Tyndale?’
Vaughan’s mood changed abruptly.
‘I believe you have a packet of letters for me,’ he said.
It was as though the mention of Tyndale had dammed the flow of his eloquence.
‘Yes, of course,’ I said, going across to my travelling chest. ‘Forgive me, I should have handed them over straightway. I fear I shall make a very poor intermediary.’ I passed him the package Cromwell had entrusted to me.
The loquacious factor now seemed in a hurry to leave. ‘I must go through these carefully. There are sure to be many matters His Lordship wants me to attend to. We can talk at more leisure tomorrow. Meanwhile, please feel free to eat with us in the common hall. The servants will show you around.’ With that Stephen Vaughan bounced from the room.
The following morning I received another visitor, a spare young man with thinning hair, who introduced himself as John Rogers, chaplain to the English community.
‘Stephen thought you might find it useful to have a brief tour of Antwerp,’ he said. ‘It’s a very compact city. Strangers can easily lose their way, particularly if they don’t speak the local language.’
I was pleased to put my mission briefly from my mind and explore this city, so different from my own. London was a higgledy-piggledy of ancient streets and alleys but much of Antwerp was new built with room made for open squares and spacious courtyards. I noticed very quickly that our tour included few churches. Rogers was disdainful of the ‘papist hovels’ and their ‘idolatrous shrines’. He did, however take me to the cathedral. It was not, I realised, as big as St Paul’s but its nave was of a prodigious width. I commented that its regular congregation must be very large to fill such a space. He nodded noncommittally. ‘We rarely come here. The authorities allow us to conduct our own worship. They don’t like it but it’s part of the sacrifice they have to make to the real god of Antwerp — money. Come, I’ll show you where he is worshipped.’
We passed through several streets and eventually turned under a large archway into an open square enclosed by colonnades, which had the appearance of an abbey cloister. It was, however, more spacious than any ecclesiastical enclosure that I had ever seen and it was obviously of new construction. It was all athrong with men, most of whom were standing in pairs or small groups, locked in earnest conversation.
‘Behold Antwerp’s real cathedral, the Bourse, opened about four years ago,’ Rogers declared, with an expansive wave of the hand. ‘This sacred area is dedicated to trade. Even as we watch, millions of Spanish dollars are changing hands. These people are buying and selling spices, broadcloth, silk, diamonds — any and every commodity that can be turned into profit.’
‘How useful having one commercial exchange building for all merchants,’ I said.
‘Yes, and in the offices behind the colonnade we have money changers, who keep a constant record of currency values — Spanish dollars into German thalers or Florentine florins or English sovereigns — and the market masters who set the specie values for the trade fairs. The more important merchants have their own premises here where they draw up bills of exchange, make contracts and arrange transport details.’
‘Very impressive,’ I said, and meant it.
‘You think so?’ Rogers questioned. ‘Well, now I will show you where we deal in something infinitely more valuable than Guinea gold or even Calicut pepper.’
There was, on the face of it, nothing unfamiliar about the place to which Rogers now introduced me. I had seen print shops in London and recognised instantly the stacks of paper, the typesetters’ frames and the heavy oak press. A dozen men were engrossed in their various tasks but the person in charge, who was now holding up a finished page to scrutiny, was a woman. Rogers approached her.
‘Françoise, good day. How is the work coming on?’
She laid aside the sheet and wiped her fingers on an ink-stained rag. ‘We have started the Second Book of Kings,’ she said. ‘You will have proofs next week, I think.’
‘Excellent,’ Rogers responded warmly. ‘Let me introduce a visitor from England. Master Thomas Treviot is an envoy from Lord Cromwell.. He turned to me. ‘Françoise de Keyser came here with her husband, Merten, some years ago. Sadly Merten died a few months since. Françoise now runs the business — and does so very well.’
‘If Master Treviot comes from His Lordship, then he is twofold welcome. None of this’ — she indicated a pile of printed sheets — ‘would be possible without the good lord’s support.’ Françoise spoke with a pronounced French accent. She was a small woman but muscular and her strong features suggested energy and determination. Her dark hair was covered by a simple kerchief, her sleeves were pulled up to the elbow and a large apron protected her gown.
‘Delighted to meet you, Mistress Merten,’ I replied politely. ‘What is it that you work on now?’
It was Rogers who replied with enthusiasm. ‘Nothing less than the complete Bible in English. William Tyndale translated the New Testament, as you know, and he was working on the Old Testament when he was arrested by the Procurer-General — ’