We passed through several chambers and eventually chanced upon a small unoccupied annexe close to the main guard room where a pile of logs smouldered unenthusiastically in the grate. Augustine crouched down and made a great show of stoking the fire and blowing on the embers.
‘So,’ I prompted, ‘Robert’s conversation with Donne.’
‘You’d better ask Donne,’ Augustine muttered, staring at the tiny flames twining reluctantly round the wood.
‘Donne is conveniently hidden deep in the West Country,’ I said.
He shrugged. ‘Anyway, who’s to say that whatever they talked about has any bearing on Robert’s death?’
I grabbed the hood of Augustine’s cloak and hauled him to his feet. Turning him around, I thrust my face close to his. ‘The only thing that convinces me that it does have a bearing is your reluctance to admit it.’
He shook his head and pushed me away.
‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Let me tell you what I think happened. Donne told Robert who was behind Tyndale’s persecution. Robert persuaded the monk to pass the information on to Cromwell, who, for some reason, declined to make full use of it. Robert believed he should have been more persuasive. That was why he blamed himself for Tyndale’s eventual fate.’
‘Truth is never that simple, Thomas.’ Augustine drew his cloak more tightly around him. ‘I must be about My Lord’s business. The only help I can offer you is to repeat the warning I gave you weeks ago: you are sailing in tempestuous seas; return to harbour while you still can. Leave politics to those who understand it.’ He grasped my hand in a brief, tight handshake, then turned and left the room.
I remained there for several minutes, nursing feelings of frustration, anger and despair. Somewhere among all the events and words I had encountered over the last few weeks there was a vital secret, like a vein of gold encased in obscuring layers of centuries-old rock. Robert had known that secret. Cromwell had ardently pursued it. Augustine had been a party to it or had guessed it. And, try as I might, it eluded me. I left to make my way back to Lord Cromwell’s quarters. As I approached the antechamber a young page in plain blue livery stepped into my path.
‘Master Thomas Treviot?’ the boy enquired.
I nodded.
‘My master would like to meet you and desires me to bring you to him. He would be honoured if you would join him for dinner.’
‘And who is your master?’ I asked.
‘Sir Harry Seagrave,’ he replied.
Chapter 35
I hesitated. The Seagraves had no reason to wish me well but surely they would not attempt any mischief here, in the king’s palace.
The messenger had obviously been told to anticipate reluctance on my part, for he now added, ‘Sir Harry instructs me to tell you that he wishes only to extend to you the hand of friendship.’
With that assurance, I allowed myself to be led to the courtier’s chamber.
It was a smallish room overlooking an internal courtyard, its furnishings simple but of a good quality. Two men were seated by the fire but rose as I entered. The elder was a grey-haired man of about fifty, clad in sombre black but with a doublet chastely embroidered in gold. He stepped forward, smiling and holding out a hand.
‘Master Treviot, I am delighted and much relieved that you have accepted my invitation. I had hoped to make your acquaintance earlier but was informed that you were overseas.’
‘Yes, I was in the Netherlands, on business for Lord Cromwell.’
‘So I understand. You are, indeed, fortunate to enjoy His Lordship’s patronage.’
I listened carefully to see if there was an edge of sarcasm in the speaker’s voice but could detect none.
Sir Harry continued, ‘May I introduce my son, my only son, Hugh.’
Young Seagrave was something of a contrast to his father. He was, I estimated, about eighteen or nineteen years of age, tall, athletic of build and bonneted with the same straw-stalk hair as his brother. His court clothes — powder blue, heavily embroidered doublet over blue trunk hose slashed with yellow — suggested exuberance bordering on questionable taste.
‘Good day to you, Master Treviot.’ Hugh Seagrave’s smile was not exactly enthusiastic. He turned to his father. ‘I’ll have the servants fetch dinner.’ He left the room.
Sir Harry motioned me to a seat. ‘Pray forgive the boy’s manners, Master Treviot,’ he said. ‘He and Nathaniel were very close.’
‘And he blames me for his brother’s death?’
‘Things appear very simple to the young. ’Tis only with the passing of the years that we can see their complexity. Do you not agree?’
‘I think I’m beginning to understand that things are seldom what they seem,’ I said. ‘For example, your page intimated that your invitation was a gesture of friendship. Would I be altogether wise to accept that assurance?’
Seagrave gave the slightest of smiles. ‘I doubt whether I would in your position. That means that I must try all the harder to convince you. My reasons for wanting to talk with you are not entirely altruistic.’ He sat back in his padded chair and closed his eyes. ’Tis seven months and eleven days since they dragged Nathaniel’s body from the river. Fathers should never have to bury their sons — ’tis against nature. I pray you never have that doleful duty, Master Treviot.’
‘I am sincerely sorry for your loss,’ I said, ‘but Nathaniel’s death was none of my doing.’
He waved a hand, as though brushing away a fly. ‘What’s done is done. Yet my grief, my family’s grief, would be easier if we knew why it was done. Nathaniel set out one fine spring evening for an assignation with some woman or other — as young men do. Then, he simply disappeared. We had no news of him’ — Seagrave dabbed his eyes with a kerchief — ‘’til some boatmen… found him five hundred yards below the bridge. Why, Master Treviot, why? Was he so great a sinner that he deserved to appear before God unshriven?’ He stared at me appealingly with red-rimmed eyes. ‘He sometimes fell in with bad company. That we know. Possibly I had indulged him too much. Perhaps if I had kept him on a tighter rein… Master Treviot, can you help us to understand? We don’t want to know who killed our son. We don’t seek revenge. We just want to understand.’
At this point servants bearing silver dishes of food from the palace kitchen appeared and set them out on Seagrave’s table. As an attendant on the king, Sir Harry enjoyed bouge of court, the provision of all his meals. Hugh Seagrave rejoined us as we sat to table.
‘Master Treviot was about to tell us what he knows of Nathaniel’s death,’ Sir Harry explained to his son.
‘In truth it is very little,’ I said. ‘I met your son only once… at a party.’
‘In a Southwark bordel,’ Hugh sneered.
‘Yes. He had drunk more than was wise. Probably I had, too. If our wits had not been befuddled, we wouldn’t have fallen into an argument. It was foolish but it was no more than a brief flare-up. Friends separated us.’ I shrugged. ‘That’s all there was to it. I never saw Nathaniel again.’
‘We have been told that you were defending a foul-mouthed, treason-spouting harlot,’ Hugh said, glaring across the table.
‘If you are so well informed you have no need of my testimony.’ I tried to remain calm.
Sir Harry was quick to intervene. ‘We have, of course, made enquiries elsewhere. There are different accounts of what passed that evening. We are merely trying to tease out the truth.’
‘And I have no desire to conceal or distort it,’ I said. ‘Certainly there was a woman involved and certainly, in the heat of the moment, she made statements that were… ill-advised. We all know that women’s tongues are apt to get the better of them. A wise man makes allowance for such foolishness. Sadly, on that evening, wisdom had temporarily deserted your son. He reacted violently. His discourtesy annoyed me.’
‘And you threatened to kill him!’ Hugh shouted.
His father’s response was equally abrupt. ‘Guard your tongue, sir! Master Treviot is our guest.’