‘Cochon!’ Françoise spat.
‘Yes, indeed, a despicable little man who far exceeded his authority in his persecution of God’s flock. Well, as I was saying, he tried to seize all Tyndale’s papers but we were too quick for him. We saved our friend’s work on the Hebrew Scriptures — he had completed about a third of the Old Testament. That is what Françoise is printing now.’
‘That leaves a large portion of the Bible untranslated,’ I said.
Rogers nodded with a satisfied smile. ‘That, too, is in hand. We have other scholars sent here from England by Lord Cromwell. Even now there is a much-learned Hebraist by the name of Miles Coverdale working on the Psalms, and I, myself, have undertaken part of the work. Between us we will have the entire Holy Scriptures ready for despatch and distribution by the spring.’
‘More books for the bishops to burn?’ I asked.
‘They cannot destroy the truth. The more people read Scripture, the more they want. Do you know how many New Testaments have escaped the episcopal flames?’
‘Several hundred, I suppose.’
‘Nearer ten thousand,’ Rogers said in a tone of zealous triumph. ‘And that doesn’t include copies pirated by other printers. The demand is insatiable. This book will change society,’ he enthused. ‘When people can read God’s word for themselves there will be an end to popish error. More than that, we will be able to establish a godly commonwealth based on justice, fairness and care for the poor.’
I recalled Cromwell’s talk of a ‘new England’. It sounded very attractive but did he and his supporters really believe that it could be brought into being by a book?
As we left de Keyser’s atelier and made our way to the waterfront I took the opportunity to learn more about Robert’s participation in the book-smuggling business. Rogers was obviously proud of the operation and was not at all hesitant about explaining how it worked.
‘The organisation is complex and meticulously planned. The sheets go from here concealed in bales of cloth and other merchandise to be bound in English workshops. Robert was part of the small secret committee in London that oversees distribution. It is their task to keep one step ahead of the opposition. They know which harbours are safe for landing contraband and which must be avoided because the bishops are keeping watch. They carefully monitor the market. Most books go to the universities and the Inns of Court but we have some brilliant salesmen who travel the country selling testaments in towns and villages everywhere.’
‘I had no idea Robert was involved in something so intricate.’
Rogers smiled. ‘Intricate and secret. But, God willing, there will soon be no need for such subterfuge. We are in great hopes that Lord Cromwell will persuade the king to sanction the unrestricted issue of vernacular Bibles.’
‘What makes you think he will change his mind?’
‘Oh, you of little faith,’ Rogers chided. ‘This is a work of God. It will not be denied indefinitely. Besides, Henry knows that his church is backward in banning the Bible. It is available in the language of the people here in the Netherlands, in Germany, Denmark, France, Spain and even Italy. The bishops may throw up their hands in horror and cry “heresy!” but the Bible is freely read in royal and noble courts throughout Christendom. Our king will not want it thought that his realm is a cultural backwater.’
I was not convinced by this line of reasoning but had no desire to dampen the chaplain’s enthusiasm. I still could not see what was remarkable about this book so many men were crusading for but they seemed to be intelligent people and Robert had certainly been of their number. The next day I was to come a little closer to understanding them.
Chapter 28
It was a Sunday (3 December). I had been invited to join with the English community for the main mass of the day and to dine afterwards in Stephen Vaughan’s private quarters. The service was both familiar and strange. The chapel of the English House was traditional in layout, although there was no rood screen, which was certainly unusual. The coloured windows, painted walls and well-decked altars bore witness to the wealth and generosity of generations of merchants. The first object that thrust itself upon my attention was the pulpit. It was a large structure of carved oak with a canopy and was clearly of recent construction because it hid from sight part of a painting of St George and the Dragon on the north wall. It jutted out well into the nave and slightly restricted the view of the high altar. The church seemed to have two conflicting focal points and I found the visual dissonance slightly unnerving. Before the pulpit several rows of benches had been arranged. Opposite it, at the junction of nave and chancel, a small group of musicians were tuning their sackbuts, shawms and lutes. While servants and children stood in the rear part of the nave, some of the senior members of the community had already taken their places on the seats and Stephen Vaughan motioned me to join him at the front. I saw that he and his colleagues were holding what appeared to be printed pamphlets. I assumed that these were devotional manuals such as many devout literate people read to themselves while the priest performed his ritual acts on their behalf. This was a practice I had never adopted, preferring to tell my beads during the solemn moments of the mass, but I accepted the pamphlet handed to me by one of the servants.
The choir and clergy entered in procession and the liturgy began. The singing was beautiful and much enhanced by the contribution of the instrumentalists. It was some time before I realised that I was not hearing the mystic Latin, which had worked its way into my mind, without effort on my part, Sunday after Sunday, feast day after feast day ever since my earliest years — Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison… Gloria in excelsis Deo, et in terra pax hominibus bonae voluntatis. No, the mass was being sung in English! But if that was a shock, more was to come. When we arrived at the Credo the congregation stood and, reading from their pamphlets, declared, ‘I believe in God, the Father Almighty, maker of heaven and earth…’ Then, at the distribution, everyone received, not just the consecrated host, but also wine from a common cup. By this time my brain was reeling and I knew not what to expect next. When the mass was over, John Rogers, having laid aside his vestments, ascended the pulpit and preached a sermon. It lasted the better part of an hour but, even then, the ritual was not over. The musicians struck up once more. The congregation now joined with the choir in singing a hymn lustily. Once more the words appeared on the printed pamphlets. I have my copy still and whenever I read it I experience the frisson of that first hearing:
With you is naught but untold grace,
Evermore forgiving.
We cannot stand before your face,
Not by the best of living.
No man boasting may draw near.
All the living stand in fear.
Your grace alone can save them.
The group that assembled around Stephen Vaughan’s table for dinner was small. Our host excused the absence of his spouse, who was still recovering from the birth of their latest child. Rogers was there with his wife, a local woman who spoke little English. Also present was Thomas Poyntz, the stocky grocer I had last seen exiting hurriedly from Robert’s inquest. Apart from Mistress Poyntz, the only other person present was another visitor, a man of about my age, who was introduced as Thomas Theobald.
‘I am relieved to see you safe and well,’ I said to Poyntz, by way of opening conversation. ‘I heard that several people had been arrested in Stokesley’s latest purge and I feared you might be among them.’
Poyntz laughed and the others joined in.
‘Am I missing something?’ I asked.