‘Speaking of killings,’ Ben said, turning to me, ‘has your quest for Master Packington’s assassin borne fruit?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘It has been a confusing labyrinth of wrong turnings and misleading paths but I have, I believe, reached the truth.’
‘And?’ Ben enquired eagerly, setting down his knife.
‘’Tis quite clear that the man behind it was John Incent, one of the clergy at St Paul’s; a Catholic zealot convinced that preservation of what he regards as truth justifies murder. He commissioned Il Ombra to gun down Robert and, when he thought I was getting too close to the facts, he hired some other villain — fortunately less efficient — to kill me. When that failed he had me hauled before the bishop. I suppose he reasoned that, even if I escaped conviction for heresy, I would be too frightened to pursue the matter of my friend’s death. He reckoned without the king’s Secretary.’
‘I hope Cromwell strings him up from the nearest gallows,’ Lizzie declared. ‘Him and that red-headed demon brother of his. Mother of God, I’d do it myself and ask no fee.’
The others laughed at this outburst and Sarah asked, ‘Who is this brother and what has he done?’
‘What has he not? Goes round all the villages poking his long nose into everyone’s business. “You must come to me for confession,” he tells folk, “I’ve got a special licence from the pope to release souls from purgatory.” Lying, power-crazed mammet! He thinks himself pope and cardinals all wrapped up in one. None of the parish clergy dare stand up to him. If anyone’s stupid enough to confess any trifle, he pesters them to sneak on their neighbours and puts the fear of hell into them if they don’t. He’s recruited a little gang of busybodies to go prying into other folks’ affairs. And all this prattle-prattle he writes up in a book. Ooh, how I’d like to get my hands on the hypocritical, canting rampallion!’
‘Well,’ I said. ‘Sir James Dewey has doused Hugh Incent’s flame for a while at least and I hope to bring his brother to account ’ere long. I’ll be seeing Lord Cromwell in the next few days. I’ll set the facts before him. It would be useless for me to take direct action against Incent but I’m sure Master Secretary will have cunning ways to obtain justice for Robert. But let’s not talk of my problems. I want to hear everything about the northern rebellion. What can you tell me, Bart?’
Setting down his drinking vessel, Bart said, ‘It was big. Thousands of us — all come together to show the king that he couldn’t make his people victims of a few “new” thinkers like Cromwell and Cranmer. Radical ideas may sound very simple in the royal court or the parliament house — get rid of idle monks, pull down their houses, strip the churches of idolatrous images — but out in the country, well, it’s like tearing the heart out of society.
‘I got to York just in time for the council that gathered there to hear the king’s response to the pilgrims’ demands. Hundreds crammed into the Minster. The rest of us waited outside in the rain to hear what our captains decided. Too many captains, that was the trouble. Some were men the pilgrims had elected to speak for us but there were also nobles and gentlemen. They all wanted different things. By all accounts it was a babel inside the church.’ Again Bart emptied his beaker at a gulp.
‘What exactly was being discussed?’ I asked.
‘The pilgrims had sent their demands to the king: restoring of the dissolved abbeys; sacking of the king’s evil councillors; a parliament to meet in York and an end to the making of all decisions in the South; free pardon for all the pilgrims…’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘we’ve seen the list. No one with any knowledge of His Majesty could imagine him being dictated to like that.’
Bart nodded several times — emphatically. It was obvious that the drink was affecting his movements. I left his beaker empty and kept the flagon well out of reach. ‘I know that,’ he said. ‘That’s why I went north. What’s clear here is not obvious to some of the folk up there. They really thought Henry would negotiate. Knot-pated fools! All he wanted to do was keep the pilgrims talking until the winter weather forced them to disperse. I told everyone I could think of, “Don’t trust this king; use the power you’ve got; you’ll never get another chance.” Some of the commons — most, perhaps — were of the same mind. We had an enormous host — thirty thousand at least; some say forty thousand — and more ready to join us from Northumberland and Cumberland. We could have smashed the puny army that was all the king could send against us. Well, His Majesty had sent his reply — a compromise, of course — and that’s what the captains were discussing. Those of us outside only got news by little and little but what became obvious was that most of the gentlemen and nobles wanted to disband the host and do a deal with the king. The size and mood of the pilgrim body frightened them. Huh!’ He sneered. ‘If we got what we wanted from the king, what would there be to stop us turning our attention to their exploitation of the people — enclosing common land, packing juries, maintaining gangs of armed ruffians?’
All this was putting flesh on the bones of what I had already heard about the northern rising and it seemed that Ned’s assessment of royal policy was close to the truth.
‘Tell Master Treviot about that Aske fellow,’ Ben prompted.
‘Aske? He’s a gentleman, a one-eyed lawyer from Selby; clever. But for all his birth and learning he was one of us — or so we thought. At the beginning he had captured Pontefract Castle, taken Lord Darcy and the Archbishop of York prisoners and rallied the host to march south. But then he started listening to the other captains, the well-bred fainthearts, and he changed his tune. So all that came out of the York council was agreement for the captains to meet with the Duke of Norfolk at Pontefract. Another council. More talking… talking… talking.’ Bart’s head began to droop.
Ben nudged him. ‘Tell Master Treviot about the ship at Hull.’
‘Ship… Hull… Yes.’ Bart shook his head and rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘Pontefract was a dis… dis… traction. Many pilgrims rode to Pontefract but we got news that a king’s ship had arrived in Hull. It was loaded with ordnance for Norfolk and the army. Sir Robert Constable called for volunteers… Never volunteer… Never… Never.’ Bart slumped on to the table.
Ben hauled him upright and slapped his face but his friend only groaned and his head fell forward again, until it was resting on his arm on the table. Ben shrugged. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Bart’s not fit for company. He’s been through a great ordeal.’
‘Let him be,’ I said. ‘What happened at Hull?’
‘Bart and his “pilgrims” boarded the ship. There was a fight. That was when he lost his arm. Luckily someone got him to a surgeon, who did a proper amputation. He’s still in pain but he refuses to give in to it. Meanwhile, the Duke of Norfolk had promised the rebels a complete pardon and agreed to all their terms. Aske disbanded the host and accepted an invitation to come south for personal talks with the king.’
‘So it really is all over,’ I suggested.
Ben frowned. ‘I wonder. Bart doesn’t think so. He’s convinced that the rebels were tricked into going home. Norfolk was simply driving a wedge between the commons and their betters. Aske isn’t the only one of the captains coming to London. They’re all flocking here, eager to demonstrate their loyalty. Bart reckons there will be no pardon. As soon as the pilgrims are dispersed, the army will be sent in to exact the king’s revenge.’
‘Exitus acta probat,’ I murmured, half to myself.
To my surprise, Ben responded. ‘Oh yes, there’s no morality in politics now. Perhaps there never has been.’
‘Why has Bart come back?’ I asked.
‘He seems to think he has some sort of mission. As soon as he was able, he got on a horse and rushed to London. He aims to seek out the turncoats and confront them. You can see why we have to keep an eye on him.’