‘I got up a petition to the Common Council while you were away from London — again.’ Leyland glared at me and emphasised the word. ‘I asked them to appeal against the king’s order.’
‘Which they did,’ Will added. ‘But Cromwell produced an old statute that, it seems, gives the monarch the right to interfere in all our elections.’
When the great day arrived, I breakfasted early and allowed all my household to gather in my chamber where they would have a good view of the street, while I donned my livery robe and went to take my place with my brother goldsmiths on the platform erected for us over against St Michael’s Church. Even at that early hour the crowds had begun to gather, pressing against the cordon of troops who lined the route.
It was soon after ten o’clock that we heard the cheers from the direction of Fleet Street. Within minutes the procession emerged from the cathedral yard. First came the aldermen in their best liveries, then various officials of the court wearing rich furs against the cold and sporting jewelled bonnets. Then the escort of Gentlemen Pensioners marched past and we craned our necks to see the king and queen. It was then that I heard gasps from my neighbours. Leaning forward and turning to the right, I straightway saw what was surprising them. Immediately preceding the royal couple, in the position of honour, riding a richly caparisoned stallion, and carrying an ornate gilded mace, was Ralph (now ‘Sir Ralph’) Warren. ‘God’s blood,’ my neighbour muttered, ‘the king means to rub our noses in it!’
Whatever indignation may have been caused among the mercantile elite, there was no doubting that the royal show was a success. King Harry’s flawless instinct for simple ways of pleasing the people once again served him well. Fear of the Pilgrimage of Grace had stirred ancient prejudices about ‘uncouth’ northerners and, whatever religious divisions might exist among London’s citizens, there was unity when it came to their dislike of rebellion and their concern for the security of their property. Relief gilded their curiosity about Henry’s young queen, small and demure as she trotted past in the wake of her corpulent husband. Both royal horses were caparisoned in yellow, symbolising, I suppose, sun-like brilliance and warmth triumphing over winter darkness and rebellion. The entourage made its way past ranks of robed company men, mitred bishops and abbots, and priests swinging censers, and was cheered all the way to the bridge. It was on such occasions as this, when the City’s mercantile nobility were on display in their full livery, that I realised what a gap Robert Packington had left in the ceremonial and business life of London.
When Twelvetide arrived, I led the celebrations of my household on the first day. After mass in the morning we feasted and played various games over which the youngest scullion presided as our Lord of Misrule. The following days I gave permission for those who wished to depart and celebrate with families and friends to do so. I, of course, had much more serious matters on my mind, when, at dawn on 26 December, I had Golding saddled (I wanted to ease Dickon back into service) and set off for Greenwich and my meeting with Lord Cromwell.
Chapter 34
It was easy to see why the king favoured Greenwich Palace above his other residences close to the capital and spent most of his winters there. As I emerged from the deer park and began the gentle sweep down to the sprawl of red-brick buildings set amidst walled gardens, I was impressed by its sheer size and its location. On such a crisp, clear winter’s day the palace could be seen to its best advantage, its towers and turrets outlined against the green-blue of the Thames. Looking down from a southerly approach was almost like seeing a map of this old royal home. I could make out the Italian-style gardens, where plants and grass were disciplined, in obedience to the latest fashion, into geometrical shapes intersected with gravelled walks. The tiltyard, Henry’s own addition to the ensemble, was clearly visible. I could just see the craft moored beyond on the palace waterfront and upriver the tall masts of larger ships in Deptford dockyard. Placentia, or Pleasaunce, as it was sometimes called, seemed to have everything a cultured and fun-loving prince could want. I could only hope that this visit would ‘pleasure’ me; that Cromwell would receive my report and deal with Incent and his confederates. The prospect of seeing that red-haired head grimacing from the top of a pole at the end of London Bridge was one that I relished.
I left my two servants with the horses in the stable block and showed Cromwell’s letter to one of the guards, who arranged for me to be escorted into the depths of the palace. We passed across courtyards, up staircases and through several rooms until we arrived in a large and busy antechamber. I presented my credentials to a secretary sitting at a table and took my place among a score of petitioners and messengers standing in small groups and all waiting to be shown into the great man’s presence. I wandered across to a window embrasure commanding an excellent view of the river. I was peering idly at the marshland spur opposite held in, as it were, by the steep bend of the Thames when someone came up behind and quietly spoke my name. I turned and recognised the sombre face of Augustine Packington.
‘Thomas, what brings you here?’ he asked anxiously.
I explained briefly the commission that had taken me to Antwerp and that I had now come to deliver my report.
He plucked me by the sleeve and drew me into a quiet corner of the room where we could not be overheard. ‘What did you discover about Robert’s last mission to the Low Countries?’ he demanded.
‘That is confidential,’ I explained. ‘I am bound to report only to Lord Cromwell.’
‘But I am Robert’s brother,’ Augustine pleaded, in a tone of reproach. ‘Surely you can tell me.’
I considered carefully, then replied, ‘What I can say is that Robert’s friends told me he was in a state of very great distress over Tyndale’s death.’
‘I know that,’ Augustine responded, almost tetchily. ‘He said as much in his letters.’
‘Did he say why he took Tyndale’s execution so personally?’
Augustine shook his head and gave a mournful sigh. ‘He described the burning in some detail. Apparently Tyndale’s friends had paid for him to be strangled before the fire was lit. It was the last kindness they could do him. Robert was at the front of the crowd. He heard and saw everything.’ Augustine’s voice became muffled with emotion. ‘He said the martyr’s last prayer was, “Lord, open the King of England’s eyes.” Imagine that! Praying for the man who had done nothing to help him all those months in a damp, dark cell. Did they tell you in the English House that Tyndale’s appeals for warm clothes and books to read had been denied?’
‘Yes, but his friends were convinced that they had done all they could for him. Unfortunately, the severe restrictions governing his imprisonment severely limited their charity. Only Robert, it seems, carried a burden of guilt. He believed that he should have done more but I cannot see why he should have reproached himself.’
Augustine looked round the room, as though fearing that someone might have been listening or was suspicious of our private conversation. ‘Tyndale was doomed,’ he said at last. ‘There could have been no other end. Beyond the English House he was a marked man and he could never have returned here.’
‘Why so?’ I asked.
He dropped his voice, although there was certainly no one near enough to hear what he said. ‘He knew that his presence here would have played into the papists’ hands. They’d have had the king’s backing in hunting him down. And, if Tyndale had been burned at Smithfield instead of outside Vilvoorde Castle, do you think we would have had the remotest chance of seeing an English Bible in our lifetime? William was well aware of that. Rather than see his work come to nothing, he embraced perpetual exile.’