‘I believe he did his best. He befriended Phillips’ confidant, Gabriel Donne, and won him over to our side. But, of course, Your Lordship will have heard all this from Donne himself.’
Cromwell looked thoughtful as he returned to the table. ‘Indeed. Then it appears we shall never know what troubled Robert so deeply.’ The remark was made casually but I had the faint impression that something lay behind it.
‘I think it must have been the horror of Tyndale’s execution. I’ve witnessed one burning and never wish to see another.’
‘Only one?’ Cromwell gave me a faint smile. ‘How fortunate you are. I have seen things… in the Italian wars… that turned my stomach. But do you know what the worst of it is?’
I shook my head.
‘I got used to them.’
There was a knock at the door and Cromwell’s secretary entered. ‘My Lord, forgive the intrusion.’
‘What is it, Robin?’ Cromwell asked.
‘His Majesty has sent for you, My Lord.’
‘Very well, I will be down directly.’ Cromwell turned to me. ‘I regret we must postpone this conversation till later. Stay in the palace and I will summon you as soon as I can.’
I bowed and turned towards the door.
Cromwell called out, ‘One more thing, Thomas.’
‘My Lord?’
‘Everything that passes between us within these four walls stays within these four walls.’
I walked back through the anteroom in something of a daze. I had arrived with my thoughts well assembled and intelligently linked together. Now I found them disconnected, bumping into each other as they rattled uncontrollably around in my head along with other strange and unwelcome newcomers. I wandered aimlessly through the palace amidst hundreds of servants, guards and courtiers in their extravagant silks and velvets. Occasionally I was greeted by someone I recognised as a customer. I had to pause and exchange pleasantries but all I really wanted to do was find somewhere quiet where I could think. Until now I had been laboriously peeling layers from the onion of my problem. I had thought that I had reached the central truth. Now I saw that there were other, deeper strata still waiting to be uncovered. I was now convinced that the truth about the murder of my friend and all its implications was neatly filed away in the mind of the king’s chief minister. Would he reveal it to me? Probably not. Yet if I could ask the right questions… if I could be mentally ready for my next interview with Cromwell… Eventually I found myself in the royal chapel. A priest was at the altar saying a mass assisted by two acolytes. I discovered some stone benches along a wall and sat down close to the west door where I would be least distracted by the murmured liturgy. I set myself to look with fresh eyes on the shifting cloudscape of political calculation, dissimulation and deceit.
Exitus acta probat — that was the justification everyone was using for their deeds. England must be saved from heresy, so the bishops could claim to be pursuing a holy cause when they sent desperate rogues like Henry Phillips to lure Tyndale to his death by lies and subterfuge. The translator’s ‘detestable heresies’ must be prevented from circulating throughout the realm, so John Incent could excuse hiring a foreign assassin to gun down Robert Packington. Since the reputation of the ecclesiastical hierarchy must not be sullied, this unlawful action must be covered up. Therefore, Incent felt fully justified in having me silenced. When that failed, who could doubt that it was a pious stratagem to have me discredited by laying false information to the bishop or having brother Hugh make trouble for my friends and servants in Kent?
But what of Cromwell and his political allies? Their commitment was equally self-evident. They were striving to create a new England, one in which private and public life would be governed by the teaching of the Bible. Would they be as unscrupulous as their enemies in pursuing their ‘holy’ ends? Was Cromwell seeking to manipulate the king? His meteoric rise and the power he now wielded had taken everyone by surprise. Was he using his unassailable position to achieve his vision of the kingdom — by any means? Why had the minister saved me from Stokesley’s clutches? Only because he thought I could be useful to him. To do what? The more I pondered that question, the more obvious it seemed that something had happened in Antwerp that Robert had been prevented from reporting back; something that might spoil his master’s plans.
Then there were the Christian Brothers. They were no less committed to their cause. They claimed to be honest and pure-hearted believers in the written word of God. They risked their money in buying and distributing English Bibles, so that their countrymen could have easy access to the salvation plan set forth in them. Some were prepared to sacrifice their lives in this holy crusade. And yet they flagrantly broke the king’s law. They defied the appointed leaders of the Church. They funded and encouraged firebrand preachers who disturbed the peace of the realm. Would they, no less than their enemies, stop at nothing in order to achieve their ends?
Behind all these questions stood the bulky figure of King Henry. He, too, had a vision of a new England but was it the same as Cromwell’s? It would be a kingdom without the pope, without many of the monasteries, a land in which the ancient powers of the clergy would be seriously curtailed. But would it be a realm from which corruption and exploitation would be banished? Would his subjects be free to read the Bible in defiance of the bishops? Was he ready to embrace the New Learning or was he merely using Cromwell to achieve his immediate ends? If he could be equally devious and ruthless with men as different as Tyndale and Aske, could anyone guess where his real convictions lay? Suddenly, a picture presented itself unbidden to my mind. A slender woman in grey staring at me intently, almost imploringly, before a blindfold was fastened round her eyes.
I was aware that I was shivering. The stone seat and the icy draughts penetrating the chapel had chilled me to the bone. I needed to move my stiffening joints. Leaving the chapel, I emerged into the main courtyard. Before I had walked more than a few paces, I met up with Augustine again.
‘Thomas, where have you been?’ he asked almost accusingly. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere. What did His Lordship say to you?’
‘Not very much,’ I replied. ‘We were interrupted.’
He pulled a face and it was not difficult to read his thoughts. He suspected that I was keeping things from him. The reason was easy enough to see: he was keeping things from me and he found it difficult to accept that I did not share his own secretive nature. It was time to challenge his frightened reticence; to prise from him secrets that, as I now believed, were the keys to the death of his brother and all the circumstances surrounding it.
‘Tell me about Robert’s dealings with Gabriel Donne,’ I demanded sharply.
‘Who? What?’ Augustine blustered but could not cover his shock at the question.
‘You know very well who I mean. The Donnes are old friends of your family.’ This was a guess but I saw from my companion’s reaction that it was correct. I pressed home my advantage. ‘Robert met up with Gabriel Donne in Louvain when he was on the trail of the hellhound Phillips. I imagine he must have been surprised to see a familiar face there. What more natural than that they should spend time together and exchange news? Your brother later made sure that he took the same ship back to London as Donne. The next time his Antwerp friends saw him, he was deep in melancholy and talking about having failed to save Tyndale. Now, by God’s body sacred, tell me, man, what did he and Donne spend their days together discussing and what undermined Robert’s spirit?’
Augustine banged his gauntleted gloves together noisily. ‘’Steeth, I’m perishing with this cold.’
‘Don’t avoid the subject!’ I protested.
‘Very well, but, in God’s name, let’s find a fire first.’