“He asked after that horse groom that you dismissed, my lady. The Lutheran that would have converted half the stable yard? And he asked after your chaplain, John Helyar, and if he ever visits your son Reginald in Rome or wherever he is. And he asks what your son Reginald is doing, staying away from England for so long.”
There is always gossip in a small village. There is always gossip about the big house. But I feel a sense of unease that this is gossip about the castle, about the hospital, about our faith, just as we have come unscathed through the pilgrimage, and just as our princess has found some safety where she belongs.
“I think you had better tell this man to mind his manners towards his hosts,” I say to the steward. “And tell Mr. Eyre the surgeon that I don’t need my opinions shared with half the country.”
The steward grins. “No harm done,” he says. “There’s nothing to know. But I’ll have a quiet word.”
I think little more of this until I am in my presence chamber, dealing with the business of the estate, Montague at my side, when Geoffrey comes in with Richard Eyre the surgeon, and Hugh Holland, his friend the grain merchant. At the sight of him I find myself sharply alert, like a deer freezing at the snap of a twig. I wonder why Geoffrey has brought these men to me.
“Lady Mother, I would speak with you,” Geoffrey says, kneeling for my blessing.
I know my smile is strained. “Is there trouble?” I ask him.
“I don’t think so. But the surgeon here says that a patient at the hospital—”
“Gervase Tyndale,” the surgeon interrupts with a bow.
“A patient at the hospital wanted to set up a school here for the new learning, and someone told him that there was no call for that here, and that you would not allow it. Now he’s gone off full of ill will, telling everyone that we don’t allow the books that the king has licensed, and that Hugh Holland here, my friend, comes and goes between us and Reginald.”
“There’s nothing wrong with this,” I say cautiously, glancing at Montague. “It’s gossip that we could do without, but there’s no evidence.”
“No, but it can be made to sound wrong,” Geoffrey points out.
“And this is the merchant that went to Reginald with my warning,” Montague says quietly in my ear. “And he shipped your chaplain overseas for us. So there is a little fire under this smoke.” Aloud he turns to the surgeon. “And where is this Mr. Tyndale now?”
“I sent him away as soon as he was well,” the surgeon says promptly. “My lady’s steward told me that she didn’t like gossip.”
“You can be sure that I don’t,” I say sharply to him. “I pay you to heal the poor, not to chatter about me.”
“Nobody knows where he is,” Geoffrey says nervously. “Or if he has been watching us for a while. Do you think he might have gone to Thomas Cromwell?”
Montague smiles without amusement. “It’s a certainty.”
“How are you so sure?”
“Because anyone with any information always goes to Cromwell.”
“What should we do?” Geoffrey looks from me to his older brother.
“You’d better go to Cromwell yourself. Tell him about this little disagreement, and that this bunch of old women are gossiping about nothing.” I glare at the surgeon. “Assure him of our loyalty. Remind him that the king himself restored our priory at Bisham and say that we have a Bible in English at the church that anyone may read. Tell him that we teach the new learning in the little school from books that His Majesty licenses. Tell him that the schoolmaster is teaching the children to read so that they may study their prayers in English. And let these good men explain what is said against them, and that we are all loyal servants to the king.”
Geoffrey looks anxious. “Will you come with me?” he asks Montague very quietly.
“No,” Montague says firmly. “This is nothing. There is nothing to fear. Better that just one of us goes to tell Cromwell that there is nothing to interest him here, not here at the castle, not at the manor. Tell him that Mr. Holland took a message of family news to Reginald, months ago, nothing more. But go today, and tell him everything. He probably knows everything already. But if you go and tell him, then you have the appearance of openness.”
“Can’t you come?”
Geoffrey asks so pitifully that I turn to Montague and say: “Son, won’t you go with him? You can talk more easily with Thomas Cromwell than Geoffrey can.”
Montague laughs shortly and shakes his head. “You don’t know how Cromwell thinks,” he says. “If we both go, it looks as if we are worried. You go, Geoffrey, and tell him everything. We’ve got nothing to hide, and he knows that. But go today, so that you can get our side of the story told before this Tyndale gets there and puts his report in to his master.”
“And take some money,” I say very quietly.
“You know I don’t have a penny in the world!” Geoffrey says irritably.
“Montague will give you something from the treasure room,” I say. “Give Thomas Cromwell a gift and my good wishes.”
“How will I know what to give him?” Geoffrey exclaims. “He knows I have a pocket full of debt.”
“He will know this comes from me as a pledge of our friendship,” I say smoothly. I take my great keys and lead the way to our treasure room.
The door opens with two locks. Geoffrey pauses on the threshold and looks around with a sigh of longing. There are shelves of chalices for use in the chapel, there are boxes of coin, copper for the woodcutters and the day laborers, silver for the quarterly wages, and locked chests of gold bolted to the floor. I take a beautifully worked cup of silver gilt from its wool cover. “This is perfect for him.”
“Silver gilt?” Geoffrey asks doubtfully. “Wouldn’t you send something in gold?”
I smile. “It’s flashy, it’s new made, it sparkles more than it shines. It’s Cromwell to the life. Take that to him.”
Geoffrey comes back from London, filled with pride at his own cleverness. He tells me how he spoke to Thomas Cromwell—“not as if I was anxious or anything, but man to man, easily, as one great man to another”—and that Cromwell had understood at once this was the gossip of jealous village people about their betters. He told the Lord Chancellor that of course we wrote to Reginald about family matters, and that Hugh Holland had carried messages from us, but that we had never stopped blaming Reginald for his terrible letter to the king, and indeed, had begged him to make sure that it was never published, and that he had promised us that it would be suppressed.
“I told him it was bad theology and badly written!” Geoffrey tells me gleefully. “I reminded him that you wrote to Reginald and sent a message through Cromwell himself.”
Geoffrey succeeds so well with Thomas Cromwell that Hugh Holland’s goods which had been seized on the quayside are returned in full to him, and the three men, Holland, my son, and the surgeon, are at liberty to come and go as they please.
Geoffrey and I ride down to Buckinghamshire together to take the good news to Montague, who is at his house at Bockmer. We have half a dozen outriders and my granddaughters Katherine and Winifred come with me to their family home.
We ride towards the familiar fields and trees of Montague’s lands and then I see, coming towards us, the rippling royal standard at the head of a guard, riding fast. The captain of my guard shouts: “Halt!” and “Stand by!” as we give way to the king’s men on the highway, as all good subjects must do.
There are a dozen of them, dressed for riding but wearing breastplates and carrying swords and lances. The rider at the front has the royal standard of the three fleurs-de-lys and the three lions, which he dips in salute to my standard as he sees us waiting for him to pass. They are traveling fast, at a punishing sitting trot, and at the center of the cavalcade is a prisoner, a man, bare-headed with his jerkin torn at the shoulder, a bruise darkening his cheekbone, his hands tied behind him and his feet lashed under the horse’s belly.