‘And what kind of hand is that?’
‘We are very strong in one suit. Please God, it may win us the game but we will have to use all our skill – and time is running out.’
‘Ralph, it would help if you spoke plain and not in preacher’s analogies.’
‘Very well. Who do you suppose controls the government of England under the king?’
‘The Council.’
‘No, the members of the Privy Chamber. If you want to know who it is helps his majesty to make up his mind on matters of state you should look to his doctors, to his intimate servants who change the bandages on his painful legs, to the companions who ease his sleepless nights by playing at cards or dice, his fool who can make him laugh, his musicians who remind him of earlier, happier days. And, of course, we must not forget the queen. Such people are with the king all the time, whether at Westminster or Greenwich or when he travels on summer progress. The Council, by contrast, is stuck at Whitehall. Our enemies are well represented on the Council but we have many friends in the Privy Chamber. Ironically, the plague has done us a great favour by extending the progress longer than usual but this advantage must end soon. When the court returns for the winter Gardiner and his associates will be able to pour all manner of evil counsels into the royal ear.’
‘What exactly is it you want me to do?’
‘Go to the court. Seek out those of our friends closest to the king. Give them your first-hand account of Moyle’s misbehaviour. Ask them to petition his majesty for a royal .pardon for Richard Turner. That would send a very strong signal to his grace’s enemies in Kent.’
‘I had already planned a visit to Master Anthony Denny in connection with my search for Holbein.’
‘Excellent! There is no man better. As Groom of the Stool, he is the king’s closest attendant and much trusted. I will give you letters to take to him and to Sir William Butts, his majesty’s physician. Gardiner’s agents are, of course, always on the watch for messengers from his grace but they will have no reason to suspect you.’
I gazed out over the gardens. The sun had retreated behind black clouds depriving the trees and hedges of their radiance. The first leaves of autumn drifted across the mown lawns and gravelled walks. ‘This, then, is how innocent men get drawn into intrigue,’ I said.
Morice had told me that the court was now to be found at Woodstock, beyond Oxford, and Walt and I set out early the next day, Saturday, hoping to reach our destination by Sunday evening. The journey was without note, save what transpired when we halted to hear mass in a village not far from Windsor.
As we rode along the straggling street, people – many people – were making their way towards the small, squat church at its northern end.
‘I see we’re in for a sermon.’ Walt pointed out some villagers who were carrying stools.
‘We can’t afford the time for that,’ I said. ‘We’ll stand at the back and leave before the pulpiting starts.’
There were a number of reasons why this did not happen. The church was well filled when we entered and several more members of the congregation pressed in to stand behind us. Pushing our way out was always going to be difficult. Then, just before the start of the service, a well-dressed lad of about twelve years wriggled through the throng and addressed me. ‘Good day to you, Sir. Father begs that you will be pleased to sit with us.’ He turned and led me to the front of the nave where three private pews stood. They were occupied by members of the most important local family. A tall fresh-faced man who was obviously lord of the manor greeted me warmly and introduced himself as Richard Greenham. ‘We can’t allow visitors of quality to stand with the commons,’ he said. I thanked him and cursed inwardly at the time his invitation was causing us to lose. I suspected that we would be very lucky to escape without being urged to stay for dinner. Provincial ‘grandees’, in my experience, usually grasped every opportunity to scrape up acquaintance with visiting social equals and superiors.
The liturgy followed its familiar pattern and was briskly completed, much to my relief. When the priest ascended the pulpit, my host whispered to me, ‘John Sturt, my chaplain, excellent man, Oxford.’ There was a sound of shuffling and, gazing round, I had the distinct impression that the congregation was settling to what they regarded as the main part of the proceedings.
The preacher was an unprepossessing man of about forty but there was nothing commonplace about his message or its delivery. From his first few sentences he had his listeners’ rapt attention.
‘“Not all they that say unto me, Master, Master, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven, but he who does my Father’s will, who is in heaven”. You have heard the words yourselves read from the Gospel of Saint Matthew; words that came from the very lips of our Lord. Hear again his solemn response to those who call upon him “Master, Master, have we not in your name prophesied, and in your name cast out devils, and in your name done many miracles?”: Then, will I say unto them, “I never knew you; depart from me you workers of iniquity.’”
Sturt made a long pause and glared round the congregation, his bushy eyebrows almost meeting. ‘Now, who was our Lord speaking about? He tells us in this same chapter. He warns us against false prophets; dissembling wolves who come among us in the guise of sheep. “See my godly works,” they say. “I can absolve sins; I can pray for souls in purgatory; I can make Christ on the altar.” Believe them not. Do not listen to their words; rather pay heed to their actions, for our Lord says, “You will recognise them by their fruits.” Do they take money from you to say masses for the dead? That is a bitter fruit. Are they more concerned for their tithes and fees than for the spiritual needs of their people? More bitter fruit. Do they make you bow down to carved and painted statues? That, too, is bitter fruit. Do they bum your body to ashes if you disagree with their devilish doctrine? Oh, what bitter fruit our dear friends in Windsor were made to taste on that evil day in July.’ The preacher’s words brought murmurs of agreement from the congregation and these became louder as he warmed to his subject.
Afterwards we hastened to be on our way. I managed to avoid the expected invitation and also to impress the Greenham family by telling them we had urgent business at the royal court. After a couple of miles I noticed my men, riding ahead, were arguing among themselves. When we stopped at a stream to water the horses, Dick, the youngest of them, edged close to me. ‘Master Thomas,’ he said as he washed mud from his mare’s legs, ‘do you think he was right?’
‘The preacher?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘He seems to have made Walt very angry. He says the clergy are God’s ministers and we should respect them.’
‘And you?’
‘I had a great falling out with our priest back home when my mother died. The priest talked my father into paying for several masses and making an offering at St Ippolyt’s shrine. He took everything the old man had – money that should have come to me and my brother.’
‘That was wrong of him.’
‘Aye, and when I told him so he got right angry. Said he’d heard I was a Bible-reading troublemaker and if I didn’t seek his absolution, he’d see me in the bishop’s court as a heretic.’
‘And that was why you left home and came to London?’
He nodded. ‘Now I daren’t go back for fear of what he might do. Walt says I should. He reckons God made priests and laymen, masters and servants, and we do well to give all honour to our betters. I say I want proof that a man is my better before I doff my cap to him. Like the preacher said, “by their fruits you shall know them”. Walt says we shouldn’t listen to such Bible-toting men because they undermine what he calls the “natural order”. Is he right, Master?’
I tried to weigh my response very carefully. ‘I think we live in troubled times and probably sermons like the one we’ve just heard don’t help.’