‘He was too busy trying to save William. We all were,’ Vaughan explained. ‘He mentioned that he had learned something important from Donne. Cromwell was apparently so pleased with it that he gave Donne the rich abbey of Buckfast in Devon. But Robert never told me what the information was. In fact we hardly ever met. Robert spent most of his time in Brussels, talking with the imperial officials.’
‘We were all depressed but Robert seemed to be more deeply affected than any of us,’ Rogers added.
‘He was certainly greatly distressed when he wrote to me,’ I said. ‘Do you know why that was?’
Rogers pushed his trencher to one side, his meat only half consumed. He sighed. ‘All he would say was, “I should have done more.” That wasn’t true, of course. Winning Donne over was very important. It must have exposed Phillips’ network.’
Vaughan nodded. ‘He had certainly put an end to Phillips’ usefulness. That double-faced, hell-hated villain is good for nothing now but to crawl from town to town seeking in vain for anyone who will trust him.’
‘But none of you has any idea which of his backers might have wanted to be revenged on Robert?’ I pressed.
All round the table heads were gloomily shaken.
Rogers said, ‘I don’t believe his melancholy was caused by concern for his own safety.’ He glanced round at his colleagues. ‘At times he seemed almost bent on martyrdom. We all noticed it.’
The others muttered their assent.
I blustered my disbelief. ‘That is not the Robert I knew. You must be mistaken.’
‘You didn’t witness Tyndale’s end,’ Vaughan replied. ‘We all went to Vilvoorde, near Brussels, to give him what comfort we could. We watched William fastened to the stake. He was allowed to pray and he called out something to his friends at the front of the crowd. I didn’t hear it clearly but Robert did. He was straining against the cordon of soldiers and let out a howl of rage and grief when the executioner strangled William. When the fire was lit I believe Robert would have cast himself upon it if he could have broken through the guards.’
Still my mind would not accept what I was being told. The man they were describing was not the urbane, wise, impassive Robert Packington I had known for years.
‘His spirit was broken,’ Rogers added. ‘Only days before he had delivered a sealed letter from Cromwell to the authorities, an appeal for clemency. I suppose he believed that would gain William a reprieve. When his hopes were dashed…’
Vaughan said, ‘Nothing would solace him, right up to the time he left here. He seemed doom-laden. I saw him on to shipboard and when we parted he grasped my hand firmly and begged me, with tears in his eyes, not to think ill of him. His last words were, “Till we meet in heaven, dear friend.”’
‘Why should you think ill…’ I began, but broke off, realising that these people were as mystified as I was.
I stayed in Antwerp a few more days and eventually took ship on 7 December. I called on Vaughan before my departure and thanked him for his help and hospitality.
‘Have you found what you came here seeking?’ he asked.
‘I’m not sure,’ I replied. ‘I fear I have not discovered what Lord Cromwell sent me to find.’
‘Take my advice; give Master Secretary a very precise report of everything that has passed here. The details may not seem important to you but he has a genius for fitting together tiny scraps of information. He sees the big picture. We do not.’
I asked Vaughan to extend my greetings to his colleagues and asked, ‘What will happen to Thomas Poyntz?’
He sighed. ‘Poor Thomas. He is a marked man on both sides of the Channel. I think he plans to stay here until after Christmas, then return to England. He is still in hope to take his family with him but you have heard what Madge has to say on that score. She believes the children are safer here. We must pray that the times will change so that Christian families like theirs are not faced with such choices.’
The vessel I boarded was bound for London via Calais. I was now desperately anxious to be back in England, to make my report and then ride to Hemmings as quickly as I could. It was the weather that conspired to delay me and stoke my impatience. A sudden storm prevented us making landfall on the French coast and we were driven out into the German Sea. For four days we pitched about on moving mountains of water that cast the ship to and fro like a tennis ball. I could do nothing but lie in my berth groaning. I was certainly not able to martial my thoughts or consider what, if anything, I had learned. As I rolled from side to side, cold yet sweating, hearing only the thud of waves and the creaking complaint of the hull’s timbers, jumbled fragments of conversations banged around in my head — meaningless, yet persistent, as though they would tell me something, if only I could make sense of them: ‘more valuable than gold or pepper’; ‘exitus acta probat’, ‘results validate deeds’; ‘not by the best of living’; ‘wise as serpents and gentle as doves’; ‘reprieve’; ‘reprieve’; ‘reprieve’.
Chapter 29
By the time the tempest blew itself out we were well north of our planned route. As darkness fell on the evening of 12 December and the cloud veil lifted, we could see the lights of the English coast but the master did not dare take his vessel closer inshore and so anchored for the night. The following morning we came to harbour in the port of Harwich. I went ashore immediately and few travellers can ever have been more thankful to find unshifting ground beneath their feet. My next problem was reporting back to Cromwell with the minimum of delay. Our ship had sustained serious damage in the storm and the master told me that it would be several days before repairs could be completed and the voyage to London resumed. There was no alternative but to make my way overland. The decision was easy enough to take. Putting it into effect proved to be less so. I needed a reliable horse and a couple of sturdy countrymen to ensure my safety on the road. Enquiry at the hovel that called itself an inn proved fruitless as did my questioning of the taciturn fisherfolk and petty merchants. They seemed quite unimpressed when I told them that I was on government business and I had resigned myself to waiting for the ship to be ready when a well-dressed man on an impressive black mare rode up to the quayside. He introduced himself as steward to Sir Sebastian Humphrey, the leading gentleman of the area. News of my plight had obviously travelled swiftly and the name of Lord Cromwell had had an almost magical effect upon this rural squire, who insisted, via his agent, in offering me hospitality and seeing me safely on my way.
The later events of that day would have been quite amusing had I not been anxious to reach home and discover what had been happening in my absence. Sir Sebastian was of a good girth and his wife and two daughters scarcely less so. The ladies were eager for news of the latest fashions at court but the head of the household was more concerned about developments at the centre that might affect his own situation. Since I was an intimate of Mr Secretary Cromwell, he entreated, did I think His Lordship might be prevailed upon to intercede with His Grace, the Earl of Oxford. There was land in Dovercourt that bordered Humphrey’s estate and had belonged to the Benedictine priory of Earl’s Colne. On that house’s dissolution back in the summer it had been acquired by Lord Oxford. Sir Sebastian would gladly have it if Lord Oxford was disposed to sell. I tried to persuade him that my influence in court circles was limited (which, in itself, was certainly an exaggeration) but my host dismissed this as false modesty and when he renewed his pleading I promised to mention the matter to Lord Cromwell.
Humphrey was effusive in his gratitude and the dinner he set before me, consisting of a dozen or so dishes, was more than my still delicate stomach could do justice to. The best plate was laid out and Mistress Humphrey’s tongue lashed the servants whenever any of them displayed behaviour that might have appeared gauche to the ‘distinguished guest’. Over the meal her buxom daughters competed for my attention, giggling and simpering as they helped me to portions of food or replenished my goblet. As I took my last sip of sweet, warm hippocras Sir Sebastian casually asked whether I would care to look over his stable. He was, he said, rather proud of his horses. I rose thankfully from the table, more than ready for some crisp, fresh air to clear my head. It rapidly became apparent that Humphrey was extremely knowledgeable about horseflesh and he had some admirable beasts. As we toured the stalls he described the pedigree and merits of each incumbent in turn. He asked me which I liked best. My eye had been caught by a compact grey gelding of similar conformity to Dickon, though a couple of years younger.