At that moment, a bell sounded and we were called to dinner. This had been laid out on a long table in the upper part of the hall. As the company took their seats, I had the distinct impression that they were dividing into two sections. St Leger, Thwaites and others of a similar disposition seemed to be settling around the right end of the table. Those who might be considered to be well disposed to Cranmer occupied the other end. Moyle, of course, took his place in the centre, facing down the hall. He was backed by a huge tapestry of some allegorical scene. On his right was a man wearing a clerk’s gown. I was careful to fill one of the gaps almost opposite our host. If he wanted to gauge my allegiance I would not make it easy for him.
The dinner was impressive – at least seven messes – and Moyle seemed in no hurry to conclude it and bring us to our business. When at length he did so, he spoke in the confident tones of a man well versed in chairing meetings.
‘Gentlemen, I thank you for coming. As you know, we are gathered to consider the best ways we can assist the archbishop in putting an end to religious discord. I have asked his grace’s secretary, Ralph Morice’ – he indicated his neighbour – ‘to be present in order to report on our deliberations to the archbishop in person.’
‘This is a religious matter,’ someone to my right said. ‘Surely the clergy should be dealing with it.’
‘By your leave, Sir Thomas, I’ll answer that.’ Morice, a fair-complexioned man of middle years, directed his gaze up and down the table. ‘This body carries his majesty’s commission as head of the Church. Doctrine, as defined by the king in council with his bishops and parliament, is now enshrined in statute law. The king – and the archbishop – simply require that you enforce the law.’
There were murmurings to my right and left but no one spoke. Moyle resumed control. ‘His majesty has set forth true Christian doctrine in the manual published last May and commonly called the King’s Book.’
‘Are we supposed to commit it all to memory and examine our parish priests on every detail?’ another man wanted to know.
‘Certainly not,’ Moyle assured him. ‘We simply have to make sure the clergy swear to teach from it and from nothing else. If we hear that anyone is preaching something unauthorised, we are to take testimonies and send them with the offenders to the quarter sessions. Once example has been made of a few disobedient clergy, I’ll warrant we shall have little more trouble.’
I don’t think anyone was convinced by Moyle’s assurances but, in the presence of the archbishop’s representative, no one was prepared to give voice to criticism. We spent another half-hour or so exchanging information on possible troublemakers and dividing the county into smaller regional units for more effective united action. In mid-afternoon the meeting was formally closed and members drifted away. Through the windows high in the old walls we could all see the grey-black clouds crawling across the sky and we were anxious to start for home. However, I wanted to have a word in private with our host and lingered by the outer doorway, waiting for an opportunity. It was then that Ralph Morice came across and, taking me by the arm, steered me outside.
As we stood on the broad steps leading up to the entrance, watching members of the party mount their horses, assemble their servants and ride off towards the gateway, Morice said, ‘So, Thomas, which of these men can be trusted?’
‘I’d be loath to speak ill of any of them,’ I replied evasively.
‘A charitable answer, but not a wise one. We both know that some of our neighbours are set in their old-fashioned ways. Some are protecting clergy who long to refill their churches with popish paraphernalia. Some have friends in high places and will be hastening to report to them on today’s meeting. Some are ready to distribute arms to their tenants and lead them in what they would call a war against heresy. So, I ask again, who can the king and the archbishop rely on and who must we watch carefully?’
‘Well, I have no evidence of rebellious intent but, if you press me for my suspicions …’ I mentioned half a dozen names, including those of Thwaites and St Leger. Then I saw Moyle come out of the house. ‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘I need to have a quick word with our host.’
‘Very well,’ Morice replied quietly, ‘but don’t forget your oath to report anything suspicious.’
As I approached the elegant figure standing proprietorially before the massive oak door of his splendid house I heard a murmur of distant thunder.
‘I fear you may be in for a wet ride, young Treviot,’ Sir Thomas said as he shook my hand.
‘Indeed, Sir Thomas. I must not delay my departure, but I wanted to have a quick word in confidence.’
He nodded gravely. ‘Then let us go back inside.’
When we were standing in the hall once more, close by the outer door, he said, ‘Please, speak freely.’
‘I have heard of a group of men – desperate men – who are in the pay of the archbishop’s enemies and are intent on his ruin. They will stop at nothing – including murder.’
Moyle frowned. ‘That is a very serious thing to say. Is it any more than country rumour?’
‘Two weeks ago a young man was stabbed to death in Aldgate.’
‘At Master Holbein’s house? Yes, I heard something about it, but what has that to do with the archbishop?’
‘I discussed it with his grace and we are both convinced the assassins were trying to prevent him receiving from Master Holbein information of a plot against him.’
‘If that is true, these men must be found.’
‘Exactly, Sir Thomas, that is why I thought you might be able to help. You have wide interests in and around London. I beg you to tell me if you have heard anything about this gang.’
‘Can you describe them?’
‘We believe their leader is a savage hellhound by the name of Henry Walden, though he prefers to be called Black Harry. I’ve been obliged to offer protection to Holbein’s children. They are safe in one of my cottages at Hemmings.’
‘I’ll certainly make enquiries. Be sure to let me know if you hear any more. We must rid the realm …’
‘Good even, Sir Thomas. I’m taking my leave now.’ The speaker, emerging from the shadows beside the door, was Edward Thwaites. ‘Will you ride with us?’ He smiled at me. ‘I think your friend and neighbour, James Dewey, is already fetching your horses from the stable yard.’
Within minutes we had collected our party together and were on our way northwards. The sky was growing steadily darker and, before we had travelled more than five miles, the storm crashed violently all around us. Lightning jagged the sky. The rain was more like a waterfall.
Thwaites pointed to a cluster of buildings close to the roadside and we spurred our horses towards the only visible shelter. Our refuge was three cottages and a tiled barn. Thwaites took instant command. He sent the servants into the barn for shelter with the horses, then ran towards the nearest cottage, with James and I following, our cloaks held tight around us. Thwaites kicked the door open and we tumbled into the dim interior. A young woman sat spinning by the light of a small lamp. Two small children sat close to her on the rushes and looked up frightened as we burst in.
Thwaites removed his cloak and shook it vigorously, showering water all over the floor. ‘Good day, Mistress. Seats for me and my friends and set our clothes by the fire to dry.’
Wordlessly, the woman vacated her stool and indicated a bench close to the wall. She took our sodden garments and busied herself arranging them on hooks by the hearth. The infants retreated to a corner where they sat huddled together, staring at us with wide eyes.