The Devil's Chalice Read online

  The Devil’s Chalice

  Copyright © 2016 Derek Wilson

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  The right of Derek Wilson to be identified as the author has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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  ‘You shall enquire whether you know of any that use charms, sorcery, enchantments, witchcraft, soothsaying, or any like craft, invented by the Devil.’

  - Archbishop Cranmer’s charge to diocesan bishops, 1549

  Two of the prisoners in the Tower of London in 1549 were described in these words: ‘Robert Allen for calking [making astrological calculations] and prophesying … William West, gent. Intended to poison Lord De La Warr’.

  Prologue

  The man with no name was taken in a covered wagon. It was dusk before the wagon arrived at its destination - the destination with no name. The flaps were unlaced. The man stretched as the wagoner helped him down. It had been a long journey.

  Looking round, he was confronted by a massive stone wall, decayed and blotched with creeping ivy. Mounds of weed-robed rubble lay everywhere. From one, a horned devil glared stonily. A damp mist filtered through the elms bordering the track. The man shivered.

  ‘This way.’ His guide steered him along the wall to a heavy oak door – substantial yet seeming too small for the massive masonry in which it was set. Within seconds of the wagoner’s heavy knock the door opened inwards. A whispered conversation and then the man was ushered inside.

  The first thing he noticed was the smell – acrid, smoky, yet mingled with an aromatic fragrance he could not identify. The chamber was small and seemed even smaller because of the cluttered objects strewn and piled everywhere. The only light came from two candles set on iron pricket sticks standing on a trestle table in the centre of the room. The flames were reflected in bottles, jars and a large glass alembic which had pride of place among the scattered tools, books, papers and potted plants cramming the oaken surface.

  As the door closed behind him the man peered into the surrounding gloom. To this moment, he had felt no anxiety about his self-imposed mission. Now his heart raced with sudden panic. This alien space clamped him like a carpenter’s hand-vice. He started as something brushed against his leg. Glancing down, he saw a hooded crow hopping across the floor, trailing a silver chain. He stood motionless, left hand on his sword pommel, ears straining for any sound. None came save the sputtering of the cheap candles. What creatures might lurk in those tomb-dark corners or the blackened rafters above? Had he, perhaps, been lured into a trap? Was this scholar, supposedly skilled in arcane studies, in reality a cut-throat with a novel way of luring victims into this choking hellhole?

  ‘Hello,’ he called and the word sounded like a croak.

  ‘Have you brought the money?’ The voice came from behind him.

  The man spun round.

  The magus was standing by the door, his features partially obscured by the man’s own shadow thrown by the candles. The man could make out a thin face; below it an unkempt dark beard; above it a square cap such as clergy wore. All else was only a faint outline The long, black robe merged with the shadows as though its wearer had appeared from the darkness and might melt back into it at any moment.

  ‘Have you brought the money?’ The repetition was calm, emotionless.

  ‘Er … yes …’ The visitor fumbled in his purse and held out gold coins.

  ‘Take the money to the table.’

  The man turned – and let out a strangled cry. There on the other side of the table stood the magus. Not a breath before he had been by the door. There had been no movement in the room – or so his senses told him, and yet …’

  ‘Come, man, the money. We have not all night!’

  Trembling the man advanced and let fall his fee upon the table.

  ‘Good. There is your potion.’ The magus pointed with a short wand to a phial of violet liquid.

  The man stared at it. ‘You’re sure it will work?’

  ‘It worked for the Bishop of Trier and the Elector of Brunswick. Why should it lose its potency for a mere English gentleman.’

  ‘Oh, I … I did not mean to suggest …’

  ‘But you must employ it properly. The potion must be administered when the moon is in cancer. That will be three and four days hence. Be sure that the elixir is served in a silver chalice and swallowed at one draught. Once administered you must say the Lord’s Prayer and the Creed three times daily for seven days.’

  ‘I see … your … yes … Thank you.’ The man reached for the phial.

  Swiftly, the magus covered it with his left hand. ‘One more thing is needful to conclude our business.’ He pressed the sharp point of his wand against the flesh between the man’s thumb and forefinger. A swift jab drew blood.

  The man yelped and held the wound to his lips. ‘What in the name …?’

  ‘A simple precaution.’ The magus held out a clean kerchief. ‘Wipe your hand with this.’

  The man made no move to comply. ‘There is trickery here. Poison on the cloth or some such devilry.’

  The magus smiled. ‘Devilry? No ‘tis to avoid devilry that I need this safeguard. Wipe your hand. You will come to no harm.’

  Cautiously the man dabbed the cut. The magus took the stained kerchief. ‘Now I have your blood. I will know from it the moment you tell anyone of this meeting or in any way betray me.’

  ‘Why should I do any such thing?’

  ‘There are many who are enemies of the ancient ways. Someone might try to reach me through you. I have to protect myself in every way possible. If you should be persuaded to reveal to anyone what has passed between us today … Well, let me just say that I would not want to send spirits to set a permanent lock upon your tongue.’

  He held out the phial. ‘Now, you will be anxious to return to London. I wish you safe journey.’

  The man pouched his potion and turned towards the door, which was once more open. On the threshold, he thought of one question he had forgotten to ask. When he looked round there was no sign of the magus.

  Chapter 1

  ‘I fear ’tis urgent.’

  I looked at the address on the letter: ‘Master Thomas Treviot at the Sign of the Swan in Goldsmiths’ Row, London.’

  ‘Messages from his grace usually are urgent, particularly when they are written in his own hand,’ I said, as I broke the familiar seal.

  ‘He values your discreet and efficient services very highly. He remembers very clearly …’

  ‘I sometimes wish the archbishop’s memory was rather less clear.’

  Ralph Morice laughed. ‘Even after five years or more he is scarce likely to forget a man who saved his life.’

  ‘And nearly lost his own in the process,’ I muttered.*

  It was high summer 1549 and we were seated in the first-floor parlour over the premises of my family business at the cathedral end of Cheapside. My guest, Ralph Morice, secretary to the Archbishop of Canterbury. A lean figure in a cleric’s gown, he looked younger than his fifty or so years. Despite his deeply creased brow, his eyes were bright and a smile was seldom absent from his lips. I read the few lines written in Cranmer’s somewhat florid hand.

  Master Treviot, my hearty commendations. This is to request you to accompany Master Secretary Morice to Lambeth Palace where I will acquaint you of an urgent commission in need to be undertaken with that sound judgement and closeness with which our Blessed Lord has well endowed you.

  T. Cantuar

  ‘So, Ralph.’ I looked across the table at my visitor. ‘What is this about?’

  ‘I’ll explain as we go. The barge is at Blackfriars’ Stairs.’

  ‘Must we leave immediately? I have several …’

  ‘His grace is away straight after dinner to attend on the king at Hampton Court. We must not delay him.’

  As soon as I had left instructions with my assistant, Bart Miller, we began our brisk walk down to the river. We strode around the east end of the cathedral to avoid the noise and the clouds of dust which filled the air on the building’s north side.

  ‘’Tis taking a long time to pull down the cloister,’ Morice remarked.

  ‘Aye, long work and very unpopular. The Duke of Somerset, the Lord Protector cares not what people think. He must have his fine new palace, no matter where the stone comes from.’

  Morice stepped aside to avoid a ball being kicked around by a group of boys. He sighed. ‘Aye, his grace did his best to persuade him but Somerset now listens to no one.’

  ‘He is patterning himself on the old king,’ I suggested.

  ‘I fear you are right but the Good Duke, as some people call him, is no Henry. He is only young King Edward’s uncle, permitted to rule by the royal council. He cannot afford to continue on his reckless way making enemies.’


  ‘I trust this has nothing to do with my summons by the archbishop.’

  Morice uttered his high-pitched, rather girlish laugh. ‘Oh, certainly not.’ He paused. ‘Well, not really.’

  The hesitation brought me to a sudden standstill. ‘Not really? Just what does that mean? If ’tis a matter of high politics, much as I respect his grace …’

  ‘No, no, no! Nothing like that.’ Morice linked his arm through mine and we resumed our walk. ‘His grace simply wants you to have a talk with someone.’

  ‘With whom?’

  ‘He is called William West.’

  ‘Not a name I recognise.’

  ‘Nor should you. He is a man of no importance – not really.’

  ‘And just where do I find this man who is not really of any importance and who is not really connected with politics?’

  Morice quickened his step as we turned into Carter Lane. ‘In the Tower.’

  •

  Twenty minutes later we arrived at Lambeth Palace. During our brief crossing of the Thames, I had elicited no further information from Morice other than: ‘His grace will explain everything’. In the Archbishop of Canterbury’s audience chamber, I took one of the chairs at a long table running down the centre of the room. Morice had passed into the private quarters beyond and I was left to my own thoughts. It was not altogether unusual to be commanded to Cranmer’s presence. Since the business with the painter Holbein back in ’43 the archbishop had called a few times on my services during the last years of the old king. Usually, he sought information about mercantile affairs. It was important for the royal council to gauge the mood of the City regarding current policies and Cranmer, like the other members of that body, had his sources of information. Of course, the relationship worked in both directions. Even though our church had been purged of ornaments and costly furnishings since the new regime of Protector Somerset had taken over, it was still a major patron and Treviots had certainly benefited from the patronage of the Primate of All England. However, I hoped that whatever errand I was being sent on this time would not take long. I was keen to get away from the heat and stench of high-summer London and spend some time at my house in Kent. Servants came and went. Every time a door opened I looked up hopefully but it must have been an ample half-hour before Morice re-appeared to take me into the archbishop’s parlour.

  ‘Welcome, Thomas. I trust you are well.’ Cranmer held out his hand for me to kiss the ring.

  I had not seen the archbishop at close quarters since a feast the Goldsmiths’ Company had given in his honour a year or so before. I noticed that his beard had become long and wispy but that his eyes still had that penetrating, enquiring stare I knew of old.

  ‘Very well, I thank God.’

  ‘Good, good, and your growing family?’

  ‘My wife’s first child did not long survive but we have a new little daughter who gives us much pleasure.’

  ‘That is good news. You must allow me to make the little one a small gift.’ He nodded to Morice who opened a casket on a side table and from it handed me a gold half-crown of the new minting.

  ‘Now, to business.’ Cranmer waved aside my profuse thanks. He seated himself in a window embrasure and motioned me to a heavily carved backstool.

  ‘You appreciate, I am sure, how blessed we are in our young sovereign.’

  ‘Indeed. All men speak well of King Edward.’

  Cranmer’s beard fluttered like a flag as he nodded vigorously. ‘Wise beyond his years, a keen student and devout.’

  I made no response, wondering where these affirmations of loyalty were leading.

  ‘Yet he is young.’

  ‘Some three months short of his twelfth birthday by my reckoning, Your Grace.’

  ‘Even so. As a father, you will know how important the next few years are. Your own son is near his majesty’s age, is he not?’

  ‘Raphael will be fourteen in the autumn and is just away to the university.’

  ‘Excellent. I doubt not he will be a great credit to you.’

  I thought of Raffy, my eldest, an excitable, unstable, bubbling cauldron of resentments. ‘I hope so, Your Grace. But I think this is little to the point regarding the small service you wish me to perform.’

  Cranmer smiled. ‘Ah, there speaks my merchant – business above all, like the tale of the mercer and the elephant.’

  ‘Your Grace?’

  ‘You know not the old story? ’Tis said that when the first elephant arrived in England as a gift for King Henry III, a bishop, and a mercer were admiring the beast. The bishop went into ecstasies about the wondrous works of God. “Does this great creature not fill you with awe?” he asked his friend. “Only one thing amazes me more,” the mercer replied, “and that is what it will cost to feed him”. Well, then, as you say, “to the point”. As his majesty’s godfather, I have a responsibility to him and to the country to safeguard his well-being until he reaches his majority.’

  I sensed anxiety in the archbishop’s tone. ‘Is his majesty’s health …’

  ‘The king is excellent well!’ Cranmer responded sharply. ‘If you hear anything to the contrary give it no credence. Better yet, report to me anyone spreading false rumours. These are difficult times, Thomas, uncertain times. There is scarcely a shire in England where the peace is not disturbed by agitators stirring the common people and preachers who urge galloping change. If only his late majesty could have been spared a few years longer, until Edward …’ He left the uncompleted sentence with a sigh.

  After a long moment’s silence, I said, ‘Master Morice mentioned someone called William West. Is he one of the troublemakers you speak of?’

  Cranmer shook his head and again the beard danced. ‘Poor West? No, he is a victim rather than an instigator of discord – at least, so I believe. It is on that score that I need your opinion. He stands accused of a heinous crime yet refuses to speak a word in his own defence. You must talk with him and report to me on how you see the truth of the matter.’

  ‘Why me, Your Grace?’

  ‘Because I respect your judgement and because anyone interesting himself in Master West’s fate will not connect you with me. He is allowed some visitors and you will pose as just a friend come to offer succour and comfort.’

  ‘What crime is laid to this man’s charge?’

  ‘Attempted murder.’ The archbishop stood up. ‘I must say no more at this stage. I would not colour your judgement in advance. Bring me your honest opinion and God grant you wisdom.’ The interview was over.

  As Morice walked with me to the privy stairs I challenged him. ‘There is more to this than his grace has told me, is there not? I feel as though I have been introduced to a new song and only been given the refrain.’

  ‘No, Thomas, ’tis really a simple affair. We wish to be assured that West is innocent of the charge laid again him.’

  ‘And what exactly is the charge? What crime am I supposed to be probing? It would be useful to know.’ I tried – not very hard – to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

  The secretary shook his head and grimaced. ‘Thomas, you must not press me to go beyond what his grace has already told you. This is merely a matter of attempted murder. No one has died and, for sure, the whole story is a patchwork of lies and perjured evidence. By my troth, there is no more to the business than that. Now, we must hurry. The boatmen are waiting.’

  My response was to come to an abrupt halt. ‘I would fain continue in his grace’s favour but unless you tell me the whole story you can go back in there and tell him that, on this occasion, Master Treviot is unable to oblige him.’

  ‘Thomas, I have my orders.’ Morice gave a long sigh. ‘By Jesu, I know that stubborn frown. The facts are few and simply stated. West is the nephew and heir of Baron De La Warr who has no children of his own.’

  ‘Old De La Warr?’

  ‘Aye, old is the point. Long years are keeping Master West from entering his inheritance. The baron claims that his nephew has resorted to poison and black magic to speed up that happy day. He has had West arrested and means to try him by parliamentary attainder. There, Thomas, now you know all.’

  I shook my head. ‘You must do better than that, Ralph. Why should the archbishop take an interest in West’s fate one way or the other?’

  ‘His grace is concerned for justice. As you know, attainder means a simple vote in both houses and the accused has no way to defend himself. His grace feels he must do what he can to save an innocent man from the gallows. Now are you satisfied?’