King's Fool (21 page)

I recalled perfectly how Wolsey had failed to pay for the silk, and how I had ridiculed him into doing so. Probably Cromwell himself had seen the entries in the York House ledgers. If he hoped that I would enlarge upon the Fermors’ growing profits from spices as glowingly as Master John had done, I did not rise to the bait. “The Fermors’ main export is wool—to Flanders,” I said non-committally. And then realised that as the Vicar-General of England had begun life in the wool trade he was probably able to assess the value of the Fermor exports quite as well as I. My mind went back to a day when he had leaned with me on the harbour wall at Calais watching the loading of Fermor bales into Fermor ships, and telling me that as a young man he had owned a fuller’s mill on Putney Heath.

The man knew too much about everything. For the first time I looked at him with real dislike. At his pudgy, expressionless face, his capable hands and the black jowl that always looked as if it needed shaving. I did not know how soon and how thoroughly I, too, was to hate him. Nor do I know to this day what half-understood warning made me take my afternoon stroll in the direction of the wharves that day. To watch this clever painter Holbein painting one of his Hanseatic merchant friends at the steelyard, I probably told myself. But I meant to see Bart Festing, too. To repeat to him that oddly disturbing conversation perhaps. To assure myself that all was well.

I had barely turned into Thames Street when I saw him, riding head down against the wind towards me. Clattering like a madman along the narrow cart-obstructed street. Had I not shouted out his name he would have passed me, blindly. As it was, to my astonishment he slid from his saddle and grasped me by the arm, almost pinning me against the steelyard wall. “God be praised, Will, what sent you? Just
now
when I had to see you,” he gasped almost incoherently.

“What is it?” I asked, seeing the pallor of his face and trying to steady him.

“Old Jordan has just ridden down from Northamptonshire,” he gasped. “They’ve arrested Master Fermor.”

“
Arrested
him?” I repeated stupidly.

“This Praemunire thing—”

“Praemunire! But he is one of the King’s most loyal subjects. You know how careful he has always been to conform, and how he never discusses religious matters except among his closest friends.”

“I know,” agreed Bart Festing. “But last week he rode into Buckingham to visit poor Father Thayne in gaol. He’d heard the old man was sick with the damp and cold, and took him a couple of his own warm shirts and some money for better food. He has done it before, often. As you probably know, he used to be a sheriff of Buckingham himself, and the present sheriff, like a good friend, has always turned a blind eye. So who can have made trouble? Who could have seen, right away there in Buckinghamshire?”

“One of Thomas Cromwell’s spies,” I said, and my voice rasped with harshness. I walked back with him in silence to his familiar work-room on the busy, sun-lit wharf near Dowgate. I was piecing things together. These same bales and ships all those years ago in Calais harbour, John Fermor’s bragging tongue, all those apparently casual enquiries.

Faithful, irascible old Jordan was awaiting us, head in hands, worn out by his anxious, unaccustomed journey. “They are bringing him to London for his trial,” he told me, as we came in.

“And Mistress Joanna?” The question shot from my lips like ball from cannon.

“She wanted to follow him.”

“Alone?”

“Mistress Emotte is too sick with a bout of fever to accompany her. So the Master bade her stay and await the result of the trial at home. What do you suppose the verdict will be?”

Bailiff Jordan had many a time set me in my place in the old days, but we were all in this together and he was looking to me for help. I laid a comforting hand on his bowed shoulder. “There is only one kind of verdict when Cromwell’s agents prosecute,”I said.

He clutched at my hand and slewed round towards me. “Could you not speak to the King, Will?” he entreated. And I saw that the more sophisticated Festing’s eyes were entreating me, too, albeit more doubtfully.

I shook my head sadly. “There are two things no one dares importune the Tudor about these days—his treasury and his supremacy of the Church.”

“But what has riding a dozen miles or so to do an act of Christian kindness got to do with denying the supremacy of the King?” burst out Festing, slumping down before a desk piled with bills of lading.

“Nothing, my good Bart,” I agreed bitterly. “Except that it acknowledges the supremacy of Christ. But it is the sort of pretext being used daily to scoop a successful man’s money into the Treasury.”

“And what will happen to all this?” he asked. His gaze wandered wretchedly over his samples and ledgers and beyond them to the busy porters, all unaware of disaster, still bringing merchandise ashore from hold to warehouse. It was his commercial life, and I should have been full of compassion for him. But my heart was torn for Richard Fermor, my mind already making wild plans for the protection of his unmarried daughter.

IF I COULD NOT go to the King about Richard Fermor’s unjust fate, I went to Cromwell—which I hated doing far more. But one might as well have looked for mercy in a stone wall. Particularly at a time when he dared not relax his efforts to fill the royal coffers. Edward Seymour, recently created Earl of Hertford, was proving himself a sober and exceptionally able young man. Not just another modish, jumped-up poet courtier, but someone with a mind almost as astute as Cromwell’s own though linked with a finer conscience towards humanity. A man, who, with the King’s favour, might one day prove a serious rival.

“Set your mind at rest, my dear Somers, if you formed some attachment while you were at Neston,” he told me, probably without any intention to insult. “Everything will be done decently and in order. When a landowner is arrested my men always have strict orders not to molest the womenfolk or disturb the household in any way until after the trial.”

“And you are always quite certain which way the verdict will go?”

“And as for the servants,” he went on, ignoring the sarcasm of my question, “those of good character will no doubt be taken on by whoever the property passes to.”

“How pleasant for them!” I said, wishing for once that I had my fool’s bladder to blow a rude noise on.

But there was no perturbing Master Cromwell, and at least I learned from him the time and place fixed for Richard Fermor’s trial.

Plagued by rheumatics as he was, old Jordan had hurried back to Neston to try to calm the frightened farmhands and household, but Festing and I sat through the brief travesty of a trial in London. We heard our master—obviously still unable to believe that his whole life’s work and all he owned could be jeopardised by so small a charge—speaking out bravely in his own defence. He scorned to deny his errand of mercy to a sick and beloved priest who had offended against the King’s Act of Supremacy, but maintained his own loyalty, giving the names of influential friends who would testify to his orderly private life and offering the court opportunity to inspect his books in proof that he had always made his money honestly and paid all taxes except those personally remitted to him by the King himself. I was on my feet, hoping to be allowed to bear witness to this. But when Cromwell prosecuted for the Crown, no defence was of any avail. The prosecution called witnesses to prove that the accused had taken money and clothing to a proscribed priest, and that was enough. The judge pronounced a verdict of imprisonment and confiscation to the Crown of all possessions and estates under the Act of Praemunire. And that honest and good-living man, Richard Fermor, was hustled out of court like a criminal. And taken under guard to the Marshalsea prison. We had not even been allowed to speak to him.

“I would not give a thieving scullion such short shrift! It was scarce worth the pain of coming!” muttered Festing furiously, as the court began to clear.

“At least he saw us and knew how much we cared,” I said, still staring at the empty place where the condemned man had stood.

Festing kicked at a stool on which one of Cromwell’s lawyers had sat. “You were fortunate to change to the King’s service before this black day came,” he said.

“Perhaps,” I answered, realising that at least I would not suddenly find myself out of good employment as he would. “Why do you not sail to Calais, Bart? As things are here Master John would be a fool to come back, and you could help him to salvage and consolidate what remains of the business over there.”

“Calais is but another part of England,” he demurred.

“True. But although the Fermors’ is a family business, I doubt if Cromwell will pursue the matter beyond these shores.”

“I think you are right, Will,” he agreed, after a moment’s consideration. “I will warn my wife and try to sell or rent my house. At least,” he added, with a bitter laugh, “I shall have no difficulty in getting passage aboard any of a dozen good ships whose masters are well known to me.”

“But will not your house be confiscated along with the other Fermor property in Thames Street?” I asked, knowing that it stood alongside.

“That they cannot do. Master Fermor gave it to me for a wedding gift, and the deeds are in my money chest.”

It was for his ability to make quick decisions that Master Fermor had particularly valued him, but before leaving the almost deserted court-room I laid an urgent hand on his arm. “But first, as you are my good friend, will you do something for me?” I entreated.

“You know I will. With all my heart,” he promised, surprised.“It is so seldom that
you
ask anything. What is it, Will?”

“Ride to Neston—now—to-night. I have to entertain at this banquet for the envoy returning from Cleves and cannot get away. Break the evil news to them and bring Mistress Joanna back with you.”

“Here—to London—though she surely will not be allowed to see her father once he is in prison? Will she come?”

“She will come if you tell her that I ask it.”

He gave me a long look. Perhaps on his business visits to Neston he had gleaned from Emotte how it was with us. Like a good friend he nodded assent, and asked no further questions.

“Take her to Master John Brown’s house in Aldermanbury. Tell her I will come to her there.”

We came out into the street, where people were still standing about discussing the trial in shocked voices. “I must fetch my horse from Thames Street and will at the same time tell Gerda to begin packing up our possessions,” he said.

“Give her my humble duty,” I said, remembering her as a kindly, comely Dutch woman whom he had married when on some business journey to Bruges. “And, Bart, if Mistress Emotte is still unfit to travel, I pray you make sure before leaving Neston that she is safely housed with some of their good friends.” I felt as if I were playing the role of one of Richard Fermor’s absent sons. But I had to hurry back to Whitehall. To be funny at dinner. To help Thurgood prepare a masque mounted in the Flemish style, since everyone was talking of the possibility of a royal union with Cleves. To think up some fresh means of entertaining Dr. Nicholas Wotton, the returning envoy, after supper, together with all the distinguished guests who were agog to hear his news. The King’s revelry must go on. And, oddly enough, judging by the bursts of laughter, I must have been at the top of my form. Or perhaps it is easy to be funny about brides. Or, again, it may just have been that Henry was delighted with the miniature which Hans Holbein had been sent to paint of the Duke of Cleves’s sister, and was in merry mood at the prospect of marrying again.

It was past midnight before I got away to the small room which was all the privacy I could call my own when at Whitehall. Wearily I flung myself on my bed, with mind at liberty again to go over the morning’s devastating events. I wondered how much Richard Fermor would sleep in the Marshalsea. And how I could manage to get entry there. I had heard that it was strictly controlled by the King’s Marshal, and that, because most of the prisoners were political, visiting was seldom permitted. And there seemed to be something else which I had heard about this grim prison over on the south bank, but it eluded me. For the first time I tried to realise what the full repercussions of this blow would be to Richard Fermor himself and to so many people whom I knew and had affection for.

A ship’s bell clanged dismally as she nosed her way by lantern light down-river into the Pool. Presently the tramp of martial feet crossed the outer courtyard. The guard had changed and all was quiet again when I found myself sitting up, gripping the sides of my wool-stuffed mattress with excitement and staring wide awake into the darkness. Some train of thought about the Marshalsea began to stir. Back over all the scenes and people, the pageants and the executions, to the time when I was new at Court. When Henry was younger and less autocratic. Something to do with a woman—a ragged woman carrying—incongruously enough—a richly embroidered cushion. I had been resting on a stile by the river…. Gradually it all came back to me. That woman whose pirate son was condemned to death, and who had been so insistent that I should do something to save him. And afterwards the man himself, a great muscular fellow standing among the daily crowd of hungry beggars, come to the gates of Greenwich to thank me. Had he not told me that a merciful or short-staffed head gaoler had given him work at the Marshalsea, of all places? And had he not muttered that usual formula of gratitude, “If ever there should be anything that I can do for you—”? Well, there was certainly something which he could do for me now. If he were still there. And if only I remembered his name. But so many years had passed, and a King’s jester meets so many strangers. Strain my memory as I would I could not recall the name.

At the palace all the talk was of preparations for this marriage with Anne of Cleves. Neither Cromwell nor anyone else had time to discuss an extra prisoner in the Marshalsea. Cromwell was Chancellor of the Exchequer now and all manner of other titles had been heaped on him, such as Earl of Essex, Great Chamberlain of England and Governor of the Isle of Wight. And had he confined himself to refilling the Exchequer from Church lands and private estates here at home he would have remained the invaluable King’s whipping boy which he was. Men hated
him
for acts from which a pleasant, smiling King benefited, and the King could never have found anyone so well trained to replace him. But foreign policy was, I submit, beyond his money-making mind. Lest France and Spain should combine against England, he persuaded his master into a Lutheran alliance with insignificant Cleves. Religious parties were all one to Cromwell, but he stood as the man behind the marriage and, as I should have thought he might have learned from Wolsey’s fall, it is dangerous work meddling with Henry Tudor’s private life where women are concerned.

But what could I care for these things when any hour now I should be seeing the woman I loved? And she must have set out from Neston as soon as she had my message, because Festing, hurrying back to Thames Street to see to his own affairs, sent word that he had left Joanna at the Browns’ house in Aldermanbury. Master Brown and her aunt were away, but the servants were taking good care of her and she was awaiting my coming.

What could eager lover want for more?

I rewarded Festing’s messenger extravagantly, called for my horse and clattered through the palace gate and along the frozen mud of the Strand towards the City. A keen north wind nearly caught my cloak from me at street corners, and I thought, “Heaven help that poor Cleves woman if she has to cross the Channel in this gale!” In Cheapside shopkeepers and ’prentices were already decorating their wares with holly, but I scarcely noticed them. Nor anything in the world till I stood in the pleasant room where I had last parted from Joanna, and saw her again. She looked pale and weary, but rose eagerly from her aunt’s chair to welcome me.

“That we should meet again only when your world is smashed!”I stammered almost incoherently.

“Yet our meeting is the one thing that can bring me comfort,” she said. “Oh, Will, Will! How could they do such a terrible thing to my father, who was respected and loved by everyone and who cared for all the people he employed?”

“All of them will suffer as well as you and Emotte and I.”

“If only I could see him!”

“I will try to find a way, sweetheart.”

“Everyone comes to you when they are in trouble, expecting you to perform miracles, do they not, Will?” she asked, with a small, brave attempt at laughter.

But I, the professional fool, was far from laughter. The decision for our future was firm in my mind. I came close to her and lifted her face to mine. “This time I want you to do something for me,” I said.

She had regained some of her usual poise. She even smiled, with heart-warming sweetness. “You know that I will do anything, Will. But what can I do for anyone—now?”

“Marry me.”

The two words hung momentarily in the quiet room. Her whole mind had been wrapped in bewilderment and grief.She looked up at me with surprise and a kind of searching uncertainty. Save in moments of levity, she was a mature and thoughtful woman now. “You were always kind. You are asking me because I am homeless and penniless. Because, without a dowry, any other marriage arranged for me will almost certainly have—melted away.” She tried to free herself from me. “No, no. You are a coming man whose name is in the mouths of all. Everyone says so. And a man whose future depends upon the King is not helped in his career by this sort of entanglement with a family that has given offence. Do not be anxious for me, my dear. There will always be a home for me with the Browns—or with one of my married sisters,” she added, with a shade less certainty.

I took her by the shoulders and shook her gently. “And live like Emotte—the invaluable prop of some other woman’s home? No, my sweet, you will marry me and live in your own home, though it be a very poor one for a successful stapler’s daughter. In most of the palaces I have but small bachelor lodgings appointed me, and to those, with Cromwell’s spying, over-shadowing presence, I cannot take you. So you see what sacrifice I am asking of you. But if you love me….”