I had scarcely broken my fast the next morning when one of the inn servants came to my chamber to announce that a reverend gentleman was awaiting me below. When I entered what the proprietor of the Golden Fleece grandly called the ‘salon’ I discovered John Rogers sitting in a corner of the room.
‘My apologies for this early call,’ the chaplain said, as I took a seat opposite. ‘I wanted to be sure not to miss you.’
‘You are very welcome,’ I replied. ‘It must be a matter of some urgency that brings you here.’
Rogers’ lips compressed into what passed for a smile on his earnest visage. ‘Urgency, no, my friend. Let us say, rather, eager entreaty. My colleagues and I are in hope that you might delay your departure for a couple of days.’
Before I could respond, he went on. ‘It had quite slipped our minds that Miles Coverdale is expected back in Antwerp on Friday. His memories of Cromwell reach back some twenty years. We know you would not want to miss the opportunity of meeting him.’
‘Coverdale . . . Coverdale? The name is vaguely familiar, but—’
‘Above all men he is the one to whom I owe my very soul’s health. When we were both in Cambridge, nigh on twenty years ago, it was Miles who made me see that Luther’s cannonade had brought the entire papal citadel tumbling into dusty rubble. But that is not why we thought you would like to meet him. Miles was involved very early on with Cromwell in his determination to have the Bible Englished. ’Tis a tangled tale and many hands took up the work. We were all, perforce, obliged to labour far from our own land. Some of the translation and printing was done here, in Antwerp. Yet it was Cromwell at the royal court who, by secret encouragement, kept us all to our task. Miles can tell you more if you care to stay your departure.’
I was left no time to consider the proposition. The voluble chaplain hurried on. ‘Of course, you will be welcome to stay at the English House.’ He looked around the room in obvious disapproval. ‘Not as opulent as here but you will be saved the expense. What they charge travellers here is absolutely shameful.’ Rogers walked across to the door. ‘Have your things sent over and we will make arrangements for Friday as soon as Miles arrives from Strasbourg.’
The decision had obviously been taken.
My first impression of Miles Coverdale was of a fiftyish, bald, wispy-bearded man who cared little for his appearance. ‘Dishevelled’ would certainly be an understatement to describe him. His overgown was still dusty from travel and its hem was in some need of a seamstress. By careful questioning of Rogers and Vaughan, I had amplified my scant knowledge of this scholar who had devoted many years to the study of Greek and Hebrew texts in order to create a vernacular Bible to equal or better those already being used in German- and French-speaking lands.
He offered an affable greeting. ‘’Tis a pleasure to meet you, Master Bourbon. I have much enjoyed your poetry. Your Nugae has been a frequent companion on my travels. I trust Queen Marguerite keeps good health.’
‘She was well when last we met,’ I replied, ‘though much occupied with matters of state in these troubled times.’
He nodded vigorously. ‘I understand well. ’Tis the same wherever I travel in Europe: rulers who know not how to respond to the challenge of God’s truth. Your queen is one of the few who have the courage to embrace the Gospel.’
We were sitting in the common room at the English House. It was mid-afternoon and Coverdale was refreshing himself with Dutch beer after his journey. Rogers, who had made the introduction, was sitting with us, and the two Englishmen talked animatedly together, reminiscing on old times and discussing shared friendships.
‘It is certain, then, that Calvin will return to Geneva from Strasbourg?’ Rogers asked.
‘Yes. Church attendance has fallen sharply since the council expelled him. His recipe for a godly commonwealth was too strong for their stomachs but, God be praised, they have seen the error of their ways. Brother John will return, with his position much stronger than when he left. Would to God we could see the same turnaround in our homeland. What news from there?’
Rogers replied, ‘You must ask our friend here. He is just come from England, where he has been gathering information about our dear friend and patron, Thomas Cromwell. He is preparing a book about that great saint so that the world will know the truth.’
I opened my mouth to correct that inaccurate description of my mission, but before I could speak Coverdale set down his empty tankard on the table and rose to his feet. ‘That is good news, indeed. But now I must to the printshop. Françoise is preparing my collection of the Psalms.’
‘Then let us go together,’ Rogers hastened to respond. ‘I am sure Nicholas would like to see the press on which some of Tyndale’s books were printed. We can talk as we walk.’
To my surprise I found that, as Rogers had suggested, I was moved to see the machinery on which some of the most revolutionary pages of recent times had been printed. The outlines of the story were, of course, well known to me. After the storm of protest caused by his English New Testament, William Tyndale had found refuge among his fellow countrymen in the English House. During the course of what were obviously very busy years, this devoted scholar had set forth not only a new edition of his notorious Holy Scriptures, but also several Lutheran tracts that circulated uncontrollably in England in defiance of the king and the bishops. At the last he had been lured out of his sanctuary by someone pretending friendship and handed over to the authorities to be tried and burned.
As we walked and my companions reminisced about the doleful events of 1535–36, I was able to glean more details, particularly of Cromwell’s role in the tragedy. The minister’s loyalty had been stretched between service to his king and commitment to Tyndale, Coverdale and their common cause. Henry, who had conceived a rabid hatred of the translator, expected Cromwell to have his heretical subject taken back to England to face trial. Cromwell had dutifully passed on his royal master’s instructions while indicating (via emissaries carrying word-of-mouth messages) how those instructions might be frustrated. Rogers recalled how Cromwell had urged him to persuade Tyndale to go to Wittenberg or some other Lutheran town where he would be safer.
‘He would not countenance it,’ the lugubrious chaplain explained. ‘He was completely absorbed in his writing and would not be distracted.’
‘And so he fell prey to that Judas, Edward Phelips.’ Coverdale explained how that young man had come to the English House pretending to be a messenger from Cromwell and betrayed Tyndale to the ecclesiastical authorities. ‘Friends in London wrote to tell me how furious Cromwell was. He had been a good friend to the Phelips family and they had benefited much from his patronage. Yet Edward hesitated not a moment to take the thirty pieces of silver he was offered.’ Coverdale insisted that Cromwell had – cautiously yet firmly – brought pressure to bear through diplomatic channels to save Tyndale during the months that he was in prison, but all to no avail.
Thus it was that we arrived at the printworks in sombre mood. Such establishments all look much the same and there was nothing to distinguish de Keyser’s. In the centre of the long room stood two massive oak presses. Tables were piled with stacks of paper, some awaiting use and others already printed. Two typesetters pored over their frames, squinting closely as they arranged the tiny blocks. In a window embrasure a proofreader was hard at work. Nothing, in fact, out of the ordinary. And yet there was no avoiding the atmosphere in this place where world-changing events had occurred. Triumphs and tragedies.
I was introduced to Françoise de Keyser, who had run the business since her husband’s death some four years before.
‘You are welcome, Monsieur, as is anyone who was a friend to my Lord Cromwell.’ The proprietress, a small, muscular woman wearing a large apron over a plain brown gown, greeted me in her native French tongue.
‘’Tis a privilege to meet someone as courageous as yourself, Madame. You run many risks in setting forth God’s truth.’
She laughed – a deep-throated, almost masculine laugh. ‘Oh, we have many tricks to confound the inquisitors. They will snuff out no heresy here. But, I pray you, Monsieur, excuse me a while. Monsieur Coverdale wishes to look over our new printing of his book of psalms.’
Mistress de Keyser led Coverdale into an adjoining room and they were gone for more than half an hour. Rogers and I found seats beside one of the windows and engaged in a conversation that was inevitably disjointed. The creak and clatter of the heavy machinery, the thumping of the inked pads down on the plate and the trundling of trollies bearing stacks of paper were a distraction and we soon abandoned the effort to compete with it.
For my part I was not sorry to be left with my own thoughts. I was becoming irritated by Rogers and his arrogant certainties. It was not that I did not share the earnest chaplain’s core beliefs. I simply disliked his assuming of the ‘thus says the Lord’ mantle of a divine prophet; a certitude that precluded intelligent debate. Over the years I had known other ‘defenders of the Gospel’ who damaged the cause they claimed to uphold. It was not just Anabaptists, taking up the sword in the name of the Prince of Peace, who provoked unnecessary hostility. In the long term – or so I reasoned with myself – what was needed was men like Cromwell: careful, cautious, calculating politicians. Such thoughts only served to stir my irritating frustration. Who was the man I once thought I knew? The more I tried to grasp the real Thomas Cromwell, the more he slipped through my fingers like dry sand.
I watched the young artisan in charge of the nearer press as he pulled the ‘devil’s tail’, the lever that turned the screw, forcing the paper down on to the inked bed. Well might it be called a demonic device by bishops and kings whose power was sustained by the ignorance of the people. That ignorance was being banished by the books, pamphlets, broadsides and woodcut images pouring from such presses as these. But faith? The output from dozens of printshops – as I knew from my English friends – was being bought and read far faster than the bishops could track it down and burn it.
The press worked with a monotonous rhythm. Over came the sheet in its frame. Down creaked the screw. Up rose the screw, back and up slid the paper. In went another sheet . . .
Truth pressed down on men’s minds. Was it ever enough? People surely needed more. Different pressure. Changes enforced – as in Saxony, Geneva, Zurich . . . and Navarre. Men and women slid into the machine, virgin white . . . truth creaked down, down on unresistant parchment – not the devil’s tail, angel’s tail. Slide creak, creak slide, creak . . .
I was woken by someone gently shaking my shoulder. ‘My apologies for keeping you waiting. I did not think to have been so long.’
As I blinked my eyes, Miles Coverdale’s face came into focus. I stifled a yawn. ‘Have I been asleep long?’
‘Long enough,’ he replied with a smile. ‘’Twill soon be dark. We will return past the cathedral. ’Tis quicker. John has gone on ahead. He did not want to disturb you.’
‘You know the city well, I suppose?’ I asked as we headed down a street over which the cathedral’s tall spire loomed.
‘Aye, and many others. Too many. I have scarce been in England these ten years. I am too well known to the bishops – Gardiner, Stokesley of London and other popish snoopers.’
‘But were you not under the protection of Cromwell?’
‘Indeed, and it was Cromwell who protected me by paying for me to do my work abroad.’
We turned into a narrow street towards the river and could see the mast tops of docked ships.
‘How many years have you been working on Bible translation?’ I asked.
‘Oh, from the beginning.’
‘Beginning? What mean you—’
‘Forgive me. It is how I think of my life. I was already in my thirties back in fifteen twenty, yet for me that was when life truly started. I was an Augustinian monk at the order’s house in Cambridge.’
‘That would be about the time that another Augustinian, Martin Luther, challenged the authority of the Pope.’
‘Even so. He was the “wild boar” in Rome’s tidy vineyard. As you know, Leo excommunicated him and Luther defiantly burned the papal bull. The news ran like a river in flood through the whole order. We were instructed not to read the “heretical ravings” coming out of Wittenberg. So, of course, we were determined to lay our hands on all Luther’s books we could get. And there was also an eager market among the university students. That is why Cromwell was so popular there.’
‘Do you mean he was smuggling banned books?’
‘Oh yes. His business brought him here to Antwerp and other major markets, as you know. So he had excellent opportunities—’
‘But I do not know!’ I almost shouted. ‘The more people I talk to about Thomas Cromwell, the more I discover gaps and contradictions in the story.’
We stepped into a doorway to allow a woman driving six sheep up from the dock to pass by. As they went on their bleating way towards the butchers’ market I explained my inability to form a clear picture in my mind of Thomas Cromwell. ‘I know he was born in a village upriver from London, but his family are either unwilling or unable to talk much about his early life. He spent some years in Italy, but what he did there is a mystery. After this, as you say, he lived as a businessman travelling around Europe. He rose rapidly to power, first in the household of Cardinal Wolsey and then as King Henry’s close servant. At some point in all this he became passionately dedicated to the reform of the English church. But there are some who cast doubt even on that and claim that he was obsessed with power and wealth.’
Coverdale vigorously shook his head. ‘I can say quite firmly that his faith was sincere. Certainly he had to be cautious about expressing it. There were always enemies ready to pluck him down. But among trusted friends he spoke freely – and entertainingly. He was always welcome in Cambridge.’
‘He paid visits to the university? I have heard nothing of this. When was it?’
‘In the early twenties, soon after he entered Wolsey’s service. The cardinal was founding a new college in Oxford and he sent Cromwell as his agent – dissolving small religious houses and confiscating their assets, but also seeking the best teachers in the land. That was what brought him to Cambridge.’
‘Were there not enough good scholars in Oxford?’
‘In Oxford!’ Coverdale laughed. ‘Certainly not. They were – still are – cramped and bigoted Aristotelians. In Cambridge we were not afraid to explore new ideas.’
‘And to read banned books?’
‘Even that. We had some of the most independent-minded scholars in England. That was what attracted Cromwell. He wanted the cardinal’s college to be a beacon of advanced thinking, a centre of learning to rival any other in Europe.’
We had now arrived at the quay. Between the gentle-nodding masts of the moored ships we could see lights on the far bank of the Scheldt reflected in the water. We paused, breathing in the cool evening air drifting across the river.
My companion sighed. ‘Ah, those were brave days, exciting days, stimulating days.’
‘Tell me about them,’ I urged.
‘I will do the best I can and rely on your poet’s imagination to make up for my inadequacies.’ Coverdale pointed to some empty crates that were waiting to be cleared away. He took his seat on one and I occupied another. ‘They were happy days. We were a very daring band of modern progressive thinkers,’ he began, ‘mostly young men studying for their first degree, but some were senior university teachers and there were also several of my colleagues from the friary. We gathered often, but irregularly, in a tavern close by the river. It was called the White Horse. I think the authorities never quite realized how dangerous some of the books were that we were reading and discussing, or if they did, they turned a blind eye, not wanting to stifle our eager young minds. Let me try to paint the scene for you:
‘You are in a smallish room. By the time there are two score people there, it is on the verge of seeming crowded – the more so as the door and casements are fast shut against the damp, fenland air. It is late spring, so though the dinner hour is past, there is still sufficient light for us to dispense with the need for lamps.
‘Rows of benches and stools are arranged in circles, leaving a space at the centre for whoever is addressing the assembly. Today the main speaker is Robert Barnes, the prior of the local Augustinian house. No one in Cambridge – or perhaps in all England – has shown a greater interest in the renegade German monk who has recently been denounced not only by the Pope but also by the young Emperor, Charles V, and the imperial diet. Today, he has come to introduce the Wittenberg monk’s recently published diatribe against monastic vows. We all listen attentively as he presents Luther’s case that the life of the religious order is without the warrant of Holy Scripture.
‘After several minutes we are aware of a slight disturbance behind us. A late arrival has crept into the room and there is some shuffling of seats as space is made for him to sit. Prior Barnes breaks off his discourse to address the newcomer. “Ah, I see my lord cardinal’s emissary has found our little gathering. Welcome, Master Cromwell.” As all eyes turn to see him, Cromwell stands and bows, his lips set in that slightly cynical smile we came to know so well. “My apologies for my late arrival, Master Barnes. Pray continue.”
‘Our distinguished visitor makes no contribution to the questions and the debate that follows Barnes’s discourse. But he lingers and is still present when the company has dwindled to some ten or a dozen people. He thanks the prior warmly for his address. “You agree, then, with Luther that the monastic orders should be abolished?” someone inevitably asks. Cromwell’s reply is measured, like that of someone trained in the divinity schools. “As I read his argument, it is that God does not grade Christians, regarding some as spiritual nobility and the rest of us as mere peasants in the Church. I see no flaw in that argument. If we are allowed to make any distinctions it must surely be on the basis of holy living. Would you not agree?”
‘As the conversation moves on and inn servants enter with lamps something interesting happens. The seating arrangement changes. Without thinking, we move our stools and benches to make a smaller circle – and at the centre of it is Master Cromwell. The company listens enthralled as he talks about his travels – enthralled and amused.
‘“Rome has more priests and monks than any city in Europe,” he declares, and pauses while he looks round his audience. “And Rome has more whores than any other city in Europe. I wonder why that should be.” A young student from St John’s College takes the question seriously. “My father, who has travelled much, says that Italians have the loosest morals of all the nations of Europe.” “Then your father is a shrewd observer,” Cromwell replies. “All Italians owe a great debt to Rome and its clergy. Their example has liberated the nation from the restraints of true religion. You may take it as a rule that the nearer a nation comes to the Roman Curia the less religion it has.” “That is your honest opinion,” the young Johnian replies. Cromwell laughs. “No, that is the opinion of one of the more remarkable Florentines of the age, Niccolò Machiavelli. You may have heard of him.” “I know him for a scurrilous, amoral rogue,” an aged friar says indignantly. Cromwell nods sagely. “I see no flaw in that argument. The clergy are less priests of God than pimps of the devil.” The friar falls into the trap. “I suppose that is another of Machiavelli’s libellous taunts.” “No,” says Cromwell. “Those are the words of St Bridget, spoken nigh on two hundred years ago.” The retort brings a roar of laughter. It is in high spirits that the meeting breaks up and we all make our way back to our various lodgings.’
‘You bring the scene vividly to life, Master Coverdale,’ I said. ‘I certainly recognize that younger Cromwell as the man I knew all too briefly during my time at the English court five years ago. Did he come often to your meetings at the White Horse?’
‘No,’ my companion replied, as we resumed our walk. ‘He really came in search of teachers for Wolsey’s college, but he genuinely enjoyed the company of academics. He always lamented the lack of a university education – though he achieved more through self-tuition than many men who lecture in the schools. The Italian influence on him was very strong. He arrived there just at the right time. He was young, impressionable. In Florence he found himself in the company of a generation of brilliant artists, writers, poets and preachers. I envy him that.’
‘Do you know how he came by the works of Luther?’ I asked.
‘No. He was a voracious reader and could devour books – in Latin, English, Italian, French – at great speed. He once told me that he had read Erasmus’s rewriting of the New Testament while riding homeward from Rome – and consigned much of it to memory. It was he who urged me to take up the study of Hebrew in order to have the whole Bible Englished.’
‘This was, then, a long-term project of his?’
‘Oh yes, a cherished dream. He knew the king would never accept any translation that had Tyndale’s name attached to it, so from his early days at the royal court he gave his patronage to scholars who could complete Tyndale’s work.’
We had by now reached the English House. On entering the common room we found Stephen Vaughan and John Rogers deep in conversation. Vaughan looked up with a welcoming smile. ‘And here he is,’ he said.
‘That suggests you have been talking about me,’ I observed as Coverdale and I took our seats with them close by the hearth.
‘Indeed we have. We are still concerned about your journey back to Navarre,’ Rogers replied.
‘John is right,’ Vaughan said. ‘I would not recommend anyone to make such an overland journey unless he was part of a large and well-armed group.We understand your reluctance to make another sea voyage, but if you permit we would like to put one of our pinnaces at your disposal. We keep three swift vessels for carrying urgent messages. Their masters are ever ready to sail at short notice and they know well the coastal waters on this side of the Channel. One of them shall take you as far as Bordeaux and you may travel on from there either by river or by road. As well as being safer, this will take half the time of an overland voyage.’
The Master of the English House would brook no contradiction and it was soon arranged that I would depart on the next day’s afternoon tide aboard the Swallow, commanded by Edward Harries. Soon afterwards Rogers and Coverdale took their leave. I was about to do the same when Vaughan said, ‘There is one more thing I wanted to discuss with you. My offer of safe transport was not, I confess, made out of pure Christian charity. I have my own reasons for wanting you to come safe home to Nérac. I have delayed my own departure for Brussels because I wish you to undertake a commission. For the love you bore our mutual friend, I hope you will agree to it.’
‘Anything I can do—’
‘No, pray do not agree until you have heard what it is.’
‘This all sounds very serious.’
‘Indeed, indeed.’ After a long pause, he continued. ‘Thomas was a great man, as, please God, one day the world will know. We cannot save his life, but perhaps we can rescue his reputation.’
‘How so?’
‘Thomas always thought ahead. It was one of his many great gifts. He knew that his enemies might one day triumph and that, if they destroyed him, they would set themselves to destroying his work. They would raid his office, confiscate all his papers and use them to implicate others. Gardiner and Norfolk would stop at nothing in tracking down men committed, as was Thomas, to spreading God’s truth.’
‘I have certainly experienced something of their zeal.’
‘Then you know that there are others whose lives are in danger. But, as I say, Thomas out-thought his foes. He made sure they would not find any documents that could be used to put his friends and colleagues in danger. Copies of letters sent to those who shared his love of the Gospel he kept separate from all his other correspondence. They were locked in a special coffer kept by his most trusted servant. When his master was arrested, that servant made haste to bring the coffer here to Antwerp, to me. I want to entrust it to you.’