When I pointed him out my host nodded his approval. ‘You are an excellent judge, Master Treviot. Golding is what I call a “stayer”. He will go all day and still have the spirit for a gallop when he smells home. Would you like to try him?’
Minutes later I was in Humphrey’s schooling paddock, putting Golding through his paces. My host called out flattering encouragements. ‘He goes well for you, young sir. You’ve won his approval.’ He strolled over and ran a hand caressingly down the horse’s neck. ‘He has a favourite trick he only performs for those he really likes. Lean forward, pull back on the rein, tap his flank lightly and whisper to him “Stand”.’
I did so and the next moment was almost unseated. The grey flicked his ears and reared on his hind legs, his front hooves pawing the air.
Humphrey roared with laughter. ‘Excellent! Stoutly done! You were made for each other.’
I dismounted and patted Golding. ‘Fine horse,’ I said. ‘He handles well.’
‘Just the mount you need to take you back to London.’ Humphrey smiled disarmingly but there was a glint in his eye — the look of a businessman sizing up a prospective customer. Somewhat belatedly I realised that the bluff, naive countryman pose was just that — a pose. Sir Sebastian Humphrey was, in reality, a cunning and professional horse coper.
‘You would hire him to me?’ I asked, matching his feigned innocence.
‘Oh, Golding is no hack for hire,’ he protested. ‘He is just the mount for a wealthy gold merchant.’ He emphasised the word ‘wealthy’.
There was no doubt in my mind that the grey’s name had been invented for my benefit. For some minutes seller and buyer performed the verbal galliard of haggling. Humphrey named an outrageous price. I recoiled in mock outrage. He enumerated the horse’s ‘outstanding’ qualities. I indicated that I might be interested at a much lower figure. The compromise we eventually reached was more in Humphrey’s favour than mine. He had the advantage. He knew that I needed a reliable horse if I was not to be left stranded in Harwich. So, I ended up paying dearly for Golding. As things turned out, I never made a better investment.
That afternoon I completed plans for my onward journey. I would leave early on the morrow accompanied by two of Humphrey’s outdoor servants as escort. My chest was consigned to the ship master, who — for an additional fee — agreed to have it delivered to Goldsmith’s Row when he reached London. It was early on Tuesday 13 December that I set out with my companions under a slate-coloured sky, our cloaks wrapped tightly round us against a cutting wind. We made good time across the flat, largely empty landscape and, as the last light faded, we were crossing the marshland bordering the Thames estuary. The smoke blown horizontally from Tilbury’s huddled houses was the only sign of occupation and we had to hammer on the inn door to rouse the proprietor. A wretched night followed in the most cramped and draughty guest chamber I have ever encountered. In the morning I located one of the ferrymen and, after the usual ritual of bargaining over his fee, he roused the oarsmen from neighbouring cottages and we boarded his broad, flat-bottomed craft for the crossing to Gravesend.
What I planned to do from this point was travel to Hemmings, which was only seventeen miles away, check that all was well there, send Humphrey’s men home, and continue on to London with some of my own servants. Alas for the vanity of human designs!
I could tell that something was wrong as soon as we entered the stable yard. Walt came running out to greet us.
‘Praise God you’re here, Master Thomas,’ he said, holding Golding’s head while I dismounted.
‘Why, what’s the matter, man? Is it my mother? Or my son?’
He shook his head. ‘No, master; they are safe and within doors.’
‘Mistress Garney, then?’
‘She is well.’
‘God’s blood, man, tell me plainly what troubles you!’ I shouted.
‘’Tis your other friends, Master Thomas. They… the magistrate…’ He struggled for words. ‘Best let Mistress Garney explain.’
I rushed into the house and found Lizzie in the hall, leading Raphael by one hand as he made tottering steps over the strewn rushes. The relief at seeing them both safe was almost overwhelming.
‘Thomas!’ she gasped and, for once, actually looked pleased to see me.
‘In God’s name, what’s been happening here?’ I demanded. ‘Where are Ned and Jed?’
She picked Raphael up and seated herself by the fire, with the child on her lap. She looked up. ‘Thomas, you have to help them. No one else can.’ I had never seen her more anguished, not even in the depths of her own problems.
‘That will be difficult if I do not know what has befallen them. I’ve had no news this last sixteen days. What has been happening?’
Lizzie took a deep breath. ‘Well, that’s easily told. Incent, that snivelling, ranting, villainous hypocrite, came marching in here to tell us you were taken by the bishop’s men and would be burned for a heretic.’
‘Yes, yes,’ I said impatiently. ‘Jed told me that Ned had taken you for safety to the nuns at Ladborough. As soon as I heard I arranged for you to be under Lord Cromwell’s personal protection.’
‘Aye, and that we were. Three of his own guards came down. After four days they said it was safe to return here. Everything was well as long as the soldiers stayed. Incent was furious at being baulked but he could do nothing while Cromwell’s men were here. But last Friday they were recalled by their master. Well, that hellfire-headed priest wasted no time. Three days ago, he came back, this time with the local magistrate… Whatsisname…’
‘Sir James Dewey.’
‘Yes, him. I was sitting here in this very chair, changing Raffy. “Slut!” he shouted. “Stand up in the presence of your betters. Go and fetch the buggers!”’
‘“And who would that be?” says I, staying put. That made his face go as red as his hair. “Strumpet!” he screamed. “Don’t play the innocent with me. We know you’re turning this house into a filthy bordello.” He raised his hand to strike me but Whatsisname stopped him. Then the magistrate explained that they’d come to arrest two men believed to have taken refuge here. “On what charge?” says I. “Why, buggery,” he says. “And since when has that been against the king’s law?” says I. “These three years since,” he replies. Lying puttock!’
‘No, he’s right.’ I said. ‘It was made a civil law offence so that the government could wield a stick over monasteries they wanted to close.’
‘Well, we haven’t got a monastery here, have we?’
‘No, but I know what the Incents are up to. They’re angry because I escaped their clutches. This is their way of hitting back. What’s happened to Ned and Jed?’
‘The magistrate brought armed men with him. They put our friends in irons and took them off to Ightham jail. Thomas, you’ve got to do something.’ She released a wriggling Raphael. Staring watchfully after him, she muttered, ‘You are bad luck to everyone who knows you, Thomas.’
‘That’s a just rebuke,’ I admitted, ‘but I’ll get them freed. God’s blood, the Incents are not going to get away with this!’
I hurried back out, had Golding re-saddled and set off for the magistrate’s house, some five miles off, at Hadbourne. Sir James Dewey was an old friend. His family and mine had been leaders of local society for a couple of generations. Many were the private gatherings we had enjoyed and the public events he and my father had organised together. I could not reconcile what Lizzie had told me with the man I knew. I had to talk with him face to face.