The day ended with an elaborate supper given by our hosts to the senior members of Chambers’ party. I was included among this select gathering, but Antonio had to be satisfied with a humbler repast set before the Cromwells’ less important guests. I was amused to discover that the man I was seated next to was the bustling cleric I had seen a short while before in the stable, taking possession of an urgent message for John Chambers. Amused and wary. He introduced himself as Francis Neville, the ex-abbot’s chaplain. What followed was a conversational ‘game’ that, under other circumstances, might have been amusing. My neighbour devoted considerable ingenuity to obtaining my opinion on several sensitive subjects and I, just as assiduously, parried his verbal thrusts.
‘Master Bourbon, you have become a legend in your own time. Your brush with the Inquisition in Italy—’
‘Has, beyond doubt, been much exaggerated. However, if it acts as a warning, the story may serve some purpose. You, in England, are much blessed with a king who will not countenance the exercise of sinister popish power.’
‘Oh, indeed, indeed. I gather matters are not so clear-cut in France. Even, it is said, that King Francis is at odds with his sister, Queen Marguerite, over matters of religion.’
I laughed. ‘How people love to gossip. ’Twas but the other day someone told me in all solemnity that King Henry is heavily fortifying the coast against an expected invasion from Spain to reimpose the Pope’s authority.’
‘Really? I fear we live in confused times when men will give credence to such absurd tales. I have heard that His Majesty abhors the English Bible foisted on the people by the late Lord Cromwell and intends to have all copies confiscated and destroyed.’
‘Best not repeat that tale,’ I suggested. ‘It might be thought you favoured the system when a popish clergy preserved their power by keeping the king’s subjects from the Bible.’
This time the barb almost lodged itself firmly. Neville responded sharply, ‘You would, then, have every man to interpret God’s word as he lists – to have as many doctrines as there are men in England?’
‘No.’ I made my reply sound as casual as possible. ‘I would have all doctrine in England defined by one man: the king. ’Tis the only way to unity.’
So we thrust and parried with our verbal rapiers, but it was never an equal contest. I was not manoeuvred into any comment that could be twisted into apparent sedition or heresy. The effort was, however, wearying and I was glad at last to retire to my chamber.
It was far into the night before I snuffed my candle. My mind was an arena where, one after another, opposed recollections and observations wrestled each other in sweating combat. As a result, I slept late and was, in fact, woken by Antonio. I washed and dressed hurriedly, all the while reporting on my experiences of the previous day. Hearing my friend’s reactions was very much like hearing my own responses repeated.
‘Why were the opinions of Lord and Lady Cromwell about this old abbot so completely opposed to each other?’ he asked.
‘More to the matter, why did Sir Richard Cromwell send his most trusted servant all the way here from London yesterday in great haste with an urgent message for Chambers – a message that had to be kept secret, even apparently from Lord and Lady Cromwell?’ I described what I had seen at the stable.
‘You are sure the messenger came from Sir Richard?’
‘Oh, yes. I have no doubt on that score. It was Simon, his page.’
‘And what, think you, was the message?’
‘At a guess, it was to do with hastening whatever is being plotted against us.’ I sat on the bed to pull on and fasten my breeches. ‘If Gregory speaks true – and I doubt he has the wit to dissemble – Chambers has cause to covet Sir Richard’s favour. If he is to be sure of gaining a bishop’s mitre he needs friends at court. He will be ready to do favours in return for patronage. If ’tis true that Sir Richard has scant respect for the ex-abbot, his price might well be a high one.’
‘Perjured evidence?’
‘Exactly. Evidence the courtier can take to the king as proof that the Cromwell family’s loyalty is now absolute; that no hint of Thomas’s treason lurks within them; that they are proving it by denouncing some interfering foreigner intent on keeping alive Thomas Cromwell’s heresies.’
‘We must act quickly, then.’
‘We certainly cannot wait for Chambers and his team to act. We must put our plan into operation today. Collect the horses this afternoon and take them to the place we found. Tonight, as soon as the house is asleep, we will leave. Before anyone misses us tomorrow, we will be many long miles away.’
Our ‘plan’, such as it was, was not so much simple as naive. The previous day, while the household had been busy with preparations for Chambers and his party, we had walked the two miles into the nearest village, Loddington, where we hoped to find someone with horses for sale. Our story was that we had been set upon by ruffians who had stolen our mounts and our baggage.
Luck was on our side. We were directed to a nearby farm, where the farmer also had a side business as a coper of cart and saddle horses. We found two serviceable animals, more sturdy than sleek, and arranged to return for them when the owner had had them groomed, tacked-up and fresh-shod. It only remained, then, to find somewhere to house the beasts until such time as we would need them. Walking back to Launde through the woods, we located a derelict cottage that suited our purpose admirably. It would then be a simple matter to return for them under cover of darkness. Since our own mounts were to be abandoned in Launde’s stables, anyone instigating a search would assume that they were looking for two fugitives on foot.
Our hurriedly arranged stratagem certainly did not deserve to succeed, but even Plato is not infallible and, on this occasion at least, his dictum of more haste, less speed was disproved. Nothing happened to threaten our vulnerable scheme.
I had steeled myself to suffer another thinly veiled interrogation, this one probably from Chambers in person, but he joined a hunting party arranged by Gregory and, even when blustering winds and snow flurries curtailed the sport around noon, the bishop-elect made no attempt to seek me out. Perhaps he needed time to rehearse his verbal strategy. I spent much of the day in the library. The monastery’s collection of books had not been seriously pillaged by Thomas Cromwell’s agents, perhaps because the abbey was under his personal protection, and I was delighted to find a volume of Petrarch’s sonnets written in the Florentine dialect. In the poet’s company I found a peace and stability that dispersed the fog of anxiety, doubt and incomprehension that pervaded everything at Launde Priory.
I cannot have enough books. In truth I already have more than I should. Gold, silver, jewels, marble houses, well-groomed estates, religious paintings, proudly caparisoned steeds, and other suchlike possessions offer us a transient, superficial pleasure. But books give us complete delight. They converse with us and are bound to us in a lively and witty intimacy. Nor do they merely insinuate themselves on their readers; they introduce us to others. Thus each awakes a desire for further books.
(Petrarch, The Letters)
It could not last. After dinner I returned to my haven and had scarcely resumed my reading when John Chambers came in.
‘A fine library,’ he muttered, almost to himself. ‘We are quite jealous of it at Peterborough.’ He peered over my shoulder. ‘What has taken your fancy today?’
I held up the book for his inspection.
‘Ah, Petrarch’s Triumphs – magnificent!’ Chambers enthused. ‘And I see you read him in the Tuscan tongue. I envy you.’ He seated himself opposite. ‘I gather you were in Florence recently, Master Bourbon. How is everything there? We hear so many conflicting stories.’
‘Doubtless they are all true,’ I replied. ‘’Tis a troubled country – but then, what land is not in these days?’
The door opened again and Chambers’ chaplain slipped in quietly. He briefly scanned the shelves, selected a small volume and sat at a table by the window to read and – ostensibly – to make notes on what he read. I recalled my ordeal in the Dominican priory at Florence: the hours spent on my feet while my interrogators plied their questions, the secretary assiduously recording my replies. The circumstances could scarcely have been more different. Yet I was in no doubt that what I was about to undergo was no less an inquisition. On this occasion, however, I too was at liberty to ask difficult questions.
‘Abandoning the time-honoured monastic way of life must have been hard for you and your brothers,’ I observed.
He sighed. ‘Sometimes ’tis good to re-examine old customs. A practice is not valuable merely because it has the sanction of ancient usage.’
‘You approve, then, of Cromwell’s attack on the religious life?’
‘I believe His Majesty, as head of the Church in this land, was right to carry out a purge of corrupt and immoral practices.’
‘I see. Cromwell, then, was merely his loyal agent?’
‘Er, yes.’ For the first time his voice faltered.
‘Not a heretic, then?’
Chambers was silent for several moments, pondering his reply carefully. ‘Heresy is a disease of the mind, the soul. It is not so much what a man does that matters as why he does it. In Cromwell’s case it was the worm of Lutheranism that had eaten its way into the core of his being. Do you not agree that he was motivated by damnable heresy?’
‘I could not say. I scarce knew the man. I only met him a few times, some years ago.’
‘Yet I understand you have come to England in an effort to keep his memory alive.’
I laughed, and hoped it did not sound forced. ‘What a strange idea. Does interest in someone assume agreement with him and a desire to spread his beliefs, however bizarre?’
‘Anyone condemned as a heretic should be consigned to obscurity!’ Chambers snapped.
‘And not exposed for all time so that later generations may not fall into the same pit?’
‘It is dangerous to dabble in devilish untruth.’
‘Then how is the Church to protect us from that untruth if it forbids scholars to examine it and show it for what it is?’
Chambers’ self-control now gave way completely. ‘You may leave that to us . . . er . . . to the bishops!’ he snapped.
‘I am certainly glad that it is their problem and not mine.’ I yawned. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, I think I will retire early.’
I rose and left the room. Outside, I counted to fifty, then put my hand to the latch and pushed the door open. The two men were now standing by the window and Chambers was examining his assistant’s notes. ‘That reply could be made to sound . . .’ The chaplain’s voice tailed away as he saw me.
‘Pardon my intrusion, gentlemen,’ I said as I crossed to the chair I had been sitting in. ‘I think I will read a little more poetry in bed.’ I picked up the book from where I had left it and once more made my exit.
In my chamber I filled a saddlebag with necessities, drew up a chair to the fire, sat down – and waited.
I do not recall how many times I had to get to my feet and walk around the room to prevent myself being overwhelmed by sleep. Three or four times I opened the door and listened carefully for any sounds of activity. When I had satisfied myself that all was quiet, and when, on looking from the window, I saw the half-moon drifting towards the horizon, I collected my luggage and went to Antonio’s chamber. His candle was still burning, but he was stretched, fully dressed, on the bed, fast asleep.
It took a good shaking to rouse him, but once roused he was fully alert and wasted no time in being ready. We felt our way down to the lower floor, feebly assisted by what moonlight entered through the windows. We located a side door, walked around the chapel and, rather than striding straight across the lawn, we skirted it, just in case anyone was watching from the house. Once in the trees we moved along the edge, seeking the track that would lead us through the wood to our improvised stable. That was when we realized the flaw in our plans.
There were several rides cut through the trees and we had omitted to mark the one that would take us close to the cottage. We both agreed that the first was not right, but when we came to the second Antonio was convinced that we should take it. ‘It lines up with that corner of the house,’ he said, turning to point to the priory.
We set out purposefully through the wood, but the pathway steadily narrowed until we found ourselves enmeshed in ferny undergrowth. Hurriedly we retraced our steps. When we came to the next track, Antonio said, ‘This must be the one.’
‘Before we try it,’ I said, ‘let us be clear how far we have to go. Otherwise we will merely blunder farther and farther into the wood.’
‘By my reckoning,’ he replied, ‘’tis about half a mile. Then we come to a cross-track and turn right.’
‘Half a mile? That means about eight hundred paces, nine hundred if the ground is rough. No more. If we have not found our cross-track by then, we must turn back.’
My companion protested. ‘What then? We cannot abandon our plan now.’
‘Better that than losing ourselves completely. We might have to wait till first light.’
‘There will be servants about by then, and anyway we will have lost the chance to put distance between us and Launde.’
‘Aye, that is true. Leaving our departure till later would reduce our advantage, but if we are found stumbling about the Leicestershire countryside – well, who knows what might happen?’
So we set off along track number two, counting our paces as we went. Antonio, taking longer strides, quickly moved ahead. Eventually I caught up with him.
He was leaning against a silver birch. ‘That is eight hundred,’ he said. ‘How many have you done?’
‘Eight hundred and forty-three,’ I gasped, ‘and I felt every one of them.’
‘You want us to go back, then?’
‘I do not want us to go back, but I know not what to do for the best. Let us give it fifty more paces.’
We resumed our march, peering anxiously ahead through the gloom, desperately hoping to see around each bend another track crossing our own. There was none. We found an oak stump and sat on it, back to back, too dispirited to speak.
After a couple of minutes I stood up. ‘We must lose no more time,’ I said.
Antonio did not move. ‘Wait.’ He held one hand to his ear. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘I heard nothing.’
‘Listen! There it is again.’
‘There what is?’
‘A horse whinnying.’
‘You are imagining things. If you heard anything it must have been an owl.’
‘No, I’m sure . . . over that way to the right.’ He jumped up and ran ahead along the track.
It twisted to the right, then to the left. Then to our great relief it crossed another. We turned on to the new path, stumbling and running.
‘’Tis not far,’ Antonio called out. Then, ‘There! Look!’
A solid, regular shape stood out from the irregular shadows. A building. A cottage. Our cottage.
Within minutes we had mounted, trotted the short distance to the Peterborough road and were pressing our horses while they were still fresh in order to make up for lost time. Eventually, the sky ahead lightened and we found ourselves riding into a new day. Dawn took on the nature of a metaphor for escape; we had left behind us the darkness of suspicion, intrigue and unspoken threat, and exchanged it for a sunlit landscape where we could see more clearly the country we were passing through.
‘Help me to get things straight,’ Antonio said, standing beside his mare and watching her drink. We had stopped in a village and were watering the horses at the local trough. He continued, ‘Do you believe that you have, all these months, been the victim of a plot by the Cromwell family?’
‘No. When I first met Sir Richard last summer and he encouraged my attempts to gather information about Thomas, I am sure he was motivated by real affection for his uncle. He felt he was quite secure in royal favour – even boasted of it. But by the time I returned to England things had changed. Politics and family loyalty made poor bedfellows.’ I thought of Queen Marguerite, struggling with her feelings for her daughter and the king, her brother. ‘I know not what malicious whispers and poisonous suspicions were creeping around the chambers and galleries of the royal court, but they were sufficient to alarm Sir Richard. He had seen Thomas raised to the pinnacle of power, wealth and kingly favour, only to be thrown down, within days, into the muddy pit of disgrace, imprisonment and ignominious death. He is a realist. He knows it could happen again. That means he must distance himself and his family from the poisonous legacy of Thomas. My reappearance was an opportunity too good to be missed.’
‘I see.’ Antonio remounted and gathered up his reins. ‘By the bye,’ he added with studied casualness, ‘We were right about Susan.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I asked her whether she was under instructions from her mistress to create a distraction if she was given a signal.’
‘And she confessed?’
‘In words, no, but her face betrayed her guilt.’
As we continued our eastward journey, Antonio asked, ‘Where are we going now?’
‘At Peterborough you can join the London road,’ I said. ‘Return to your circle of new friends in the capital. Make the most of your talents among rich burghers and courtiers.’
Antonio looked around sharply. ‘You are not coming?’ After a pause, he added, ‘Ah no, of course, your best plan is to make for the nearest port and take passage for France.’
I nodded. ‘Should anyone ever ask, tell them that is exactly what I have done.’
‘And where are you really going?’
‘’Tis better you know not. I have one more errand to perform before I can leave England.’
‘Not something more to do with Thomas Cromwell?’
I nodded.
‘Jesu Maria!’ he blurted out. ‘Has that man not caused you enough mischief already? Sometimes I see his shade hovering around you, beckoning, cajoling, leading you on to destruction. I think he will not be satisfied till he has lured you to the block or the fire.’
I laughed. ‘Aye, my friend. ’Tis a vision I share. Over the last months I have come to feel Thomas Cromwell as almost a tangible presence. But ’tis not he who spurs me on now.’
‘Who, then?’
‘All those who seek to stop me, to silence me. The harder they strive, the more stubbornly I must resist them. I am a poet. There was a time when I thought I knew what that meant. Over these last months I have come to realize that it means so much more; demands so much more. Aristotle taught us—’
‘Pah! Not philosophy again,’ Antonio protested.
‘If the word “philosophy” worries you,’ I said, ‘forget it. The great thinker merely put into words what would have been obvious to us if we had applied our minds in a disciplined way. For example, when you paint a portrait are you content to record the wrinkles, the flesh tones, the colour of the hair?’
‘No. There is more to it than that. I want to say something about the sitter as a person.’
‘Exactly. Now, Aristotle drew a distinction between reality and truth. Reality is what happens in the world. Truth is what lies beyond the appearance. It reveals why things happen, what they signify. As a poet, I too deal in truth, or try to.’
Antonio shrugged, unconvinced. ‘What has all this to do with Thomas Cromwell? He was no poet or philosopher – merely a politician.’
‘So I thought – once. Even after I met him a few years ago and realized how well read he was, how much he had learned from his travels in Italy and elsewhere, how deeply he had meditated on God’s word, I saw him as a clever manipulator of men and events; a master in the realm of reality. Now that I have met people who knew him well and were greatly influenced by him, I realize he was a man who saw through reality to truth. While there is still a chance to learn more about him, I have to take it.’
There are some relationships that, though brief, send down deep roots. My young Florentine friend and I had been through so much in our brief but dramatic months together that parting was always going to be difficult. It happened in a modest inn close by the abbey where, soon after noon, we shared a simple meal.
‘You will find the road good all the way to London,’ I said. ‘The local authorities have to keep it clear.’ I was conscious that I was speaking only in order to avoid an embarrassing silence. ’Twas something Plato had warned about when he said that a wise man speaks because he has something to say; a fool speaks because he has to say something.
Antonio grimaced. ‘I wish you well in your quest, but I still think you are mad.’
‘You are probably right, though I prefer to think of it as divine folly. It would certainly be better for you to make no mention of our travels and doings. I hope England is kind to you and that one day you will visit Navarre as a famous painter come to work in the royal court.’
The level of ale in our flagon lowered. Antonio offered to order a refill, but I declined. ‘You should make a start,’ I said. ‘Get as far as you can before nightfall.’
In the inn yard we embraced quickly. Through moist eyes I watched my companion mount and steer his horse out on to the road without a backward glance.
I collected my own horse and swung myself into the saddle. Then I set off in search of Richard Bisley.