The Traitor’s Mark

by D. K. Wilson

  ‘Well, I hope they are. I can’t wait all afternoon. May I see my man, now? I gather he’s been injured.’

  The guard gave a deferential nod. ‘Certainly, Sir, if you’ll step this way. You’ll see he’s taken quite a beating but I shouldn’t worry yourself too much on his account. I’ve seen many a broken head in this job. His looks worse than it is.’

  I was glad of the warning. The sight that met me when the inner door was unlocked and I stepped through into the narrow cell would otherwise have shaken me badly. A truckle bed stood against one wall. Bart was half-lying on the bed, his upper body propped up in the corner. A grimy rag was tied round his head and his face was streaked with dirt and dried blood. The right side of his face was badly swollen and the eye almost completely closed. He squinted at me and winced as he eased himself off the bed. ‘Master Thomas! Thank God!’.

  ‘I came as fast as I could. What in the name of Mary and all the saints ...’

  ‘I’m sorry, Master Thomas. I didn’t want to trouble you but it honestly wasn’t my fault.’

  ‘So I gather. The girl you sent with the message told me something about it but I’d like to hear an account from your lips.’

  Bart grimaced and sank back on to the bed, rubbing his hand gingerly over his ribs. ‘Jesus, but that hurts! I came to the painter’s house, like you said, and asked for Master Johannes. There was only this young lad there and he said his master was away. Well, I was obviously not the only one looking for him. Three men came in and started ...’

  ‘Three men?’

  ‘Well, actually there were four. One stood in the doorway as a lookout.’

  ‘Can you describe them?’

  Before Bart could reply there were noises in the outer guard room..

  I turned to see the small space filling with people. Walt had arrived with the girl. As they stood in the outer doorway another man pushed past them and strode into the cell. He was a burly fellow in a greasy jerkin and red cap set at an angle atop untidy dark hair. He went straight to Bart, grabbed him by his open doublet and yanked him to his feet. Bart yelped with pain.

  ‘Shut your snout, hedge pig! You’ve to come with me back to the scene of your crime. The crowner wants to hear what you’ve got to say. Can’t think why. The truth’s as plain to see as a strumpet’s tits.’

  I placed myself between the bully and the door. ‘Just a moment,’ I said, as calmly as I could. ‘I take it you’re the ward constable.’

  ‘That I am.’ He glared as though inviting contradiction. ‘And you, I take it, are this rogue’s master.’

  I was in no mood to bear with the arrogance of this minor official. ‘Is this how you behave to your betters?’ I demanded.

  ‘Only when they try to get between me and my duty to protect my neighbours!’ He pushed past, dragging a shuffling Bart behind him.

  It was only a few yards to Master Johannes’ house. The three of us followed the constable. There were four or five people standing round the door. Doubtless there would have been more if the street’s throbbing heat had not smothered their curiosity and sent them in search of shade.

  We went inside and found a room furnished with a table, benches and stools. The fireplace had been cleaned out, An open cupboard to one side held pots, pans and pewter plates – all tidily arranged. Everything suggested a well-ordered household. The scene that faced us when we went through into the inner room was very different. The first thing I was aware of was the noise, the buzzing of a myriad of flies. The second impression was of vivid colours. Reds, greens, yellows – they were everywhere – splashed on the walls, streaking the floor rushes, leaking from broken dishes. The artist’s canvases had, similarly, been thrown about the room. A large easel lay face-down beside the window. The few items of furniture were overturned. Poor Johannes’ studio had been wrecked, either deliberately or in the course of a very violent fight. In the middle of the room, sprawled on its back, was the body of a young man, lying in a pool of his own blood, on which the flies were hungrily feasting. Sudden anger welled up in me – anger and anxiety for my friend.

  The only living occupant of the room was a small, spare man in a lawyer’s black gown. He turned as we entered. ‘Nothing to be gained here!’ He held a pomander to his nose and motioned us back into the outer room.

  We stood in a circle. No one seemed to want to speak. No one, that is, except Constable Pett. ‘As requested, Your Honour, I’ve brought the culprit. And this’ – he gave the slightest disdainful nod towards Adie – ‘is the person as found the body. Or so she says.’

  The coroner nodded and turned to me. ‘This citizen I recognise. We have met before, I’m sure. Where was it, now – Gray’s Inn revels, last Christmas?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I remember. My name is Thomas Treviot.’

  ‘An honoured name in the City. I am James Corridge. What brings you to this sorry scene, Master Treviot?’

  ‘My assistant, Bartholomew Miller, has been mistakenly detained by the constable. I’m come to explain his presence here. He was on a matter of business for me and became the unfortunate witness of this appalling crime. He was certainly not its perpetrator.’

  ‘So he says!’ The constable, who was keeping a tight hold of Bart, took a step forward, almost thrusting himself between the coroner and me.

  ‘’Tis God’s truth!’ Bart pleaded. ‘I had no hand in that man’s death.’

  Pett gave a snort of laughter. ‘You don’t want to trust what this villain says, Your Worship. Why, you’ve only got to look at the man—’

  ‘Thank you, Constable. I will decide who is best believed and who not.’ Corridge wafted the pomander beneath his nose and edged away from the man, who reeked of sweat, stale ale and onions. ‘What other witnesses do we have?’

  ‘None,’ the constable replied promptly. ‘Very convenient for the murderer. He obviously knew when best to strike – when his victim would be alone.’

  ‘Witnesses?’ Bart’s angry response was more a frightened whine than a shout. ‘Oh, aye, there were witnesses – four of ’em. They were the bloody knaves who did this thing.’

  ‘Well, that should be easy to determine, Constable. I take it you’ve made enquiry about these men. You’ve asked all the neighbours.’

  ‘I’d as soon spend my time searching for hobgoblins. There were no four men, Your Worship. This is just a tale to confuse the issue. Here’s your murderer!’ He thrust Bart forward. ‘Just give me an hour with him and I’ll get him to confess the truth.’

  ‘I have told the truth, Your Honour,’ Bart shouted, his face creasing with pain at the effort. ‘This fellow only wants to beat a confession out of me because he’s too lazy to do his job properly.’

  With a roar, Pett swung his right fist at Bart’s face and caught him a glancing blow.

  ‘That will do, Constable!’ Corridge asserted himself, not before time. ‘We will conduct this investigation in the proper manner. There will be a full inquest in seven days’ time. And I will expect you to present there anyone who may have seen or heard anything that might be relevant. Until then, keep this man in custody – and make sure he has a physician to tend his wounds. If I hear that he has been ill-treated in your care ...’ He left the sentence unfinished as Pett, muttering under his breath, pushed his prisoner towards the street door.

  Corridge looked distinctly relieved. ‘There’s little more to be done here, Master Treviot,’ he said. ‘I must await the doctor to examine the body – though there can be no doubt how the poor fellow met his end.’

  ‘Well, I can assure you that my man had nothing to do with it. By all the saints, Master Corridge, you’ve seen him. Could a one-armed man really have been responsible for the violent chaos of that room? The girl here will tell you she heard several men shouting and arguing.’ I turned to Adie. ‘Is that not so?’

  The coroner allowed himself a wistful smile. ‘Constable Pett is, perhaps, a mite over-zealous.’

  I thought, That is not how I would describe him. I said
, ‘If you will release Bart into my care, I will answer for his appearance at the inquest. I give you my word—’

  At that moment the street door burst open. Peter Pett stumbled in, his face red with fury.

  ‘Gone, Your Honour! Fled!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Corridge responded. ‘Calm yourself. Explain ...’

  ‘’Tis the prisoner. We were at the gate. I took my eyes off the knave for no more than a moment. He loosed Master Treviot’s horse. Before I could grab him he was in the saddle and off down Fenchurch Street at the gallop. Did I not say he wasn’t to be trusted?’

  Chapter 2

  We had scarcely begun our return journey when the threat-ened storm broke. Heavy rain cascaded upon us. The donkey cart was crowded. I could not leave Adie and the two small boys in the house of violence or entrust them to the ‘protection’ of Constable Pett so I had decided to take them back to Goldsmith’s Row. Quite what arrangements I would make for them there I could not think. Deciding that would have to wait, I had a more pressing problem to solve. Walt whipped the donkey into a fast trot while the rest of us huddled together against the .downpour. By the time I jumped down at the corner of Milk Street, I was soaked to the skin and ready to tell Bart exactly what I thought of his irresponsible behaviour. Any sympathy I felt was – temporarily, at least – obliterated by the humiliation his sudden departure had caused me. I ordered Walt to get the others back to my home as quickly as possible and show them where they could dry their clothes and await my arrival. I ran the few yards along Milk Street to the narrow house where Bart and Lizzie lived. It was a timber structure wedged in-between two substantial merchants’ residences.

  I hammered on the door and stood back to avoid the water gushing down from the eaves. There was no immediate answer. Though the rain had eased, I had no desire to be kept waiting in the street. I knocked again and began to wonder whether Bart had collected his family and taken them into hiding with him. Then the door opened and Lizzie stood there with little Annie, her two-year-old, in her arms.

  ‘Jesu Mary! Thomas, you do look a sight! Come in the dry.’

  There was an intimacy between Bart’s wife and me that onlookers found strange. The adventures we had been through together six years before had removed any formalities that differences of social status would otherwise have demanded. Lizzie was handsome, rather than pretty. A stiffened band of white linen bordered in scarlet, covered the crown of her head and her dark hair was drawn back and hung down to her shoulders. Her figure was still slim, despite her two pregnancies. She stood aside for me to pass, a faintly mocking smile about her lips, her brown eyes smiling but appraising.

  ‘Get that wet doublet off,’ she ordered. ‘I’ll put it by the fire.’

  As soon as she set Annie down, the child toddled straight to me, arms upraised. I took hold of her hand, smiling despite myself. ‘Not now, Annie. I’m all wet.’

  When Lizzie returned from the inner room, she handed me a cloth to dry my head and face. Then she scooped up her daughter. ‘Is she being a nuisance? You’ve only yourself to blame. You spoil her. Wait till you marry again and have little brothers and sisters for Raffy; you’ll soon realise ...’

  ‘Still determined to find me a wife?’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, you don’t deserve a wife but Raffy needs a mother.’

  ‘Lizzie, enough of this nonsense. I must see Bart. It’s serious.’ I stood in the middle of the small living room, feeling slightly less bedraggled. ‘Where is he?’ I demanded.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Bart, of course. Is he here?’

  ‘Well, I suppose he might be.’ She giggled. ‘We’d better look. You search downstairs and I’ll go through the upper chambers. Oh!’ She put a hand to her mouth as though she had been struck by a sudden thought. ‘Perhaps he’s hiding in the coffer over there by the stairs.’

  ‘This is no laughing matter, Lizzie,’ I said sharply. ‘I must find him urgently.’

  She frowned, suddenly serious. ‘Isn’t he at the shop?’

  ‘No, he’s—’

  ‘Then, where in the name of all the saints is he? If you don’t know he must have had an accident.’

  ‘Not exactly,’ I said. ‘I’m afraid he managed to get himself into a fight.’

  ‘He’s hurt!’ she said quickly, sitting on a stool and setting Annie on the rushes beside her.

  ‘Not badly.’ I tried to sound reassuring. ‘But I do need to speak with him.’

  ‘I don’t understand. If you know he’s been in a fight, why don’t you know where he is?’

  I had long since learned that it was impossible to conceal anything from this clever young woman. I pulled another stool to the table and sat facing her. Then I gave her a brief account of the events at Aldgate, leaving out as many as possible of the more vivid details.

  Many young wives would have gone into tearful panic at the news. Not Lizzie. She had grown up in a hard school in which survival meant relying on her wits and not letting practicality get stifled by sentiment. ‘Well, if he’s decided to disappear you’ll not find him. He obviously thinks he’s got to go huggering to escape the law.’

  ‘But he’s wrong!’ I almost shouted. ‘He can only make things worse for himself by running away.’

  ‘Oh, Thomas, Thomas, are you still so innocent?’ Lizzie looked at me with a grim smile. ‘If this poxy constable has marked my Bart for the gallows he’ll be hell-set on making him swing. I know his sort. There were many of that scelerous, lying breed always sniffing round the brothel when I was there. They passed themselves off as public servants, keeping the streets fit for respectable citizens, but they only wanted one thing – and they wanted it free.’

  ‘But ...’

  ‘There are ho buts, Thomas. Suppose you found Bart and took him back to face the coroner’s court, do you think any of the jurymen would turn down their local constable’s version of events? Those who weren’t scared of him would support him out of loyalty. No, Bart’s done the right thing.’

  ‘That’s nonsense! He’s committed no crime. Why should he become a penniless runagate, leaving you and the children ... and me ... Anyway, I think you’re wrong about the law and its officers. There may have been a time when poor men could get no justice, but this is 1543. There are ways to establish an accused man’s innocence. If not in the magistrate’s court, then at King’s Bench. If he found himself in want of a good barrister—’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Lizzie interrupted. ‘You’d pay for any help he needed. No, Annie, not through there!’ She jumped up to collect the little girl, who was pushing open the door to the inner room. She held the child’s hand, led her back towards the table and gave her a wooden spoon and pewter plate to play with. The rest of our conversation was accompanied by a rhythmic, metallic banging.

  ‘I know my Bart,’ Lizzie continued. ‘At this moment he’ll be thinking about me and the children; trying to work out what to do next. When he can’t work out an answer to that question he’ll find some way to get a message to me.’

  ‘When he does, be sure to tell me,’ I insisted. I stood up. ‘Now I must go and sort things out at home.’

  The storm had passed over and as soon as my clothes were reasonably dry I made my way back to Goldsmith’s Row.

  It was not difficult to find a chamber to lodge Adie and the two young boys in her charge, especially as the household numbers had been reduced by the evacuation of several servants to Hemmings, my estate in Kent. I told the girl that she was welcome to stay as long as necessary and suggested that she would be wise to remain beneath my roof until we had located Holbein.

  Finding the artist was now urgent – for Bart’s sake and in the interests of my own business. During my absence that afternoon a message had been delivered, sealed with the impressive arms of the City. It was brief and to the point.

  Master Treviot, this to advise you that I still await the initial designs for a parcel-gilt cup and cover which you undertook to supply in March of this year. As I
explained, this is an exceedingly important commission. I intend to present the cup to his majesty to mark my tenure of office. You are aware that my successor will be appointed at Michaelmas and that, by then, the work must be in hand. If I have not the designs for my consideration within the next seven days I shall place the order elsewhere and think not to do further business with Treviots.

  John Cotes,

  Lord Mayor

  Building a reputation is a long and arduous process. Losing it may be achieved in the space of a few days or even hours. Thanks to the industry and skill of my forebears, the Treviots have prospered. We make fine jewellery and table-ware for an exclusive clientele. We buy precious items from customers in need of ready cash. We smelt gold and silver and either refashion it or sell it to the royal treasurer for minting into coin. An increasing part of our business in recent years has been lending against security to trusted clients. My father had a saying, ‘Kings come and go but gold is always sovereign’. It was he who acquired the prestigious property at the sign of the Swan in Goldsmith’s Row, West Cheapside, which accommodated both the workshop and spacious living accommodation. I took over the business – unprepared and unwilling – at the age of twenty-three. Unwilling, not because I disliked my trade, but because I only acquired it by my father’s death. Then within months I lost my wife in childbirth. These calamities drove me to the pit. How I drew back and regained my wits is a long story. With the aid of friends and a loyal workforce I took control of myself and of Treviots. Once more the business was one of the most successful in the City. I could not, would not, risk damaging Treviots’ good name.

  I sent for Adie and questioned her further.

  ‘We must find your master urgently,’ I said. ‘Do you know any of his friends who might have some idea where he has gone?’

  She looked thoughtful. ‘There was always foreigners coming to the house.’

  ‘Foreigners?’

  ‘Yes, Sir, you know ... men that spoke Master Johannes’ language ... from the German House.’