The Traitor’s Mark

by D. K. Wilson

  ‘German House? Do you mean the Steelyard?’

  ‘That’s right, Sir.’ Her face brightened. ‘The Steelyard, down by Cosin Lane.’

  ‘Thank you, Adie. That’s very helpful.’ I realised I should have thought of it myself. It was only natural that Master Johannes would have friends among his own compatriots in the German merchant community. The Steelyard was their staple, their centre of operations. There they stored their goods for import and export and had their offices. ‘Is there anyone special he knows there?’ I asked.

  Again the girl’s face donned a frown of concentration. ‘There is one who comes more often ... a merry little man, full of jokes. He likes to play with the children. He always brings them sweetmeats and toys.’

  ‘His name?’I prompted.

  ‘Well, ’tis the same as the master’s – Johannes.’

  ‘Just Johannes? ’Tis a common enough name among the Germans. You know no more about him?’

  She shrugged. ‘’Tis hard to understand all they say. They speak funny, don’t they? Master did talk about him sometimes. Now what was it he called him ... Johannes ... Fonant ... something like that? Sorry, that’s not much help, is it?’

  ‘Well, ’tis a start,’ I said. ‘I’ll go down to the German wharf tomorrow and see if I can find out any more. There must be several men there who know your master.’

  ‘Do you think anything’s happened to him, Master Treviot? I can’t stop thinking about poor George. Those men were looking for Master Johannes. If they find him ...’

  ‘You must not think the worst, Adie. Whoever these murderous rakehells are, they haven’t found your master. We must pray they don’t.’

  ‘Do you think he knows about them?’ Her dark eyes searched mine, seeking reassurance. ‘Perhaps that’s why he went away – hiding. Oh, Jesus Mary, what am I to tell the boys?’

  ‘That their father is away on business – which is probably the truth,’ I said firmly. ‘What you must not do is think the worst. They would soon sense that something was wrong. You go on looking after them as usual and leave me to discover what I can about their father.’

  *

  It was mid-morning of the following day that I rode along Thames Street past the imposing walls bounding the premises of the Hanseatic League’s headquarters. ‘Heretics’, ‘Lutheran pigs’ – these and other daubed slogans spattered the stonework. Much as the City authorities tried to stop Catholic sloganeers defacing this building, the protests continued, encouraged by the more conservative clergy. The massive wooden gate stood half-open, permitting pedestrians and horsemen to enter in order to state their business at the porters’ lodge. I went through and dismounted. There were a dozen or so visitors waiting for admission and I soon realised that we were being divided into three categories: those who were known to the official on duty or who could produce suitable credentials were waved through an inner barrier; those who did not survive scrutiny were turned away; the remainder were asked to wait while enquiries were made about them. When my turn arrived I gave my name and explained that I was looking for Herr Johannes Holbein.

  The guard – a man whose sombre habit was strangely in contrast to an enormously exuberant beard – was a person of few words. ‘Ja, we know him. He is not here.’

  ‘Perhaps there might be some friend of Master Johannes with whom I might speak?’

  He did not think so.

  Would it be possible for some enquiry to be made – it was important that I should locate Master Johannes urgently.

  The guardian of the gate looked at the queue forming behind me. He shook his head. I must be good enough to leave. If I wished I might come back another day.

  I raised my voice to protest. The guard remained unimpressed and the people behind became restless. Someone called out to me to move on and there was a murmur of support. I was about to turn when another man appeared from the gatehouse. He was obviously superior to the official who stood in my way, with whom he entered in a brief conversation in his own language. He turned his attention to me.

  ‘You are looking for Herr Holbein?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘May I enquire why?’

  ‘Certainly. I believe his life is in danger.’

  ‘You have good reasons for this suspicion?’

  ‘His assistant was murdered yesterday by men looking for his master.’

  He frowned.‘You are sure of this?’

  ‘Very. I saw the poor young man’s body. He was beaten and stabbed.’

  We had now become the centre of a circle of curious onlookers – not a state of affairs welcomed by the Hanse official, whose demeanour changed dramatically.

  ‘Well, Sir, Master Holbein is not of our company but he is well known to us and much respected. We would certainly not want any evil to befall him. Perhaps you would care to tether your horse over there and wait in the wine house opposite. I’ll see if I can find someone who might be able to help you.’

  I did as he suggested and entered a large room furnished with several rows of tables and benches. At this hour there were few customers and I soon had a corner and a jug of Rhenish all to myself. I looked around at the early drinkers. There was never any mistaking these wealthy merchants from North Europe, with their wide hats or bonnets with tumed-up brims, their short fur-lined capes and their bushy beards. Here in the Steelyard, where they had long been welcomed to live by a government that needed the trade they brought, they had created their own little Germany. This mercantile citadel, protected by high walls and vigilant officials, was, of course, regarded with mixed feelings by the good burghers of London: some loved to hate the Baltic merchants; others hated to love them. Some made no secret of their opposition and justified it on religious grounds. These Germans were all tarred with the Lutheran brush and the conservative clergy feared – not without reason – that the Steelyard was a breeding ground for English heresy. They made no secret of their desire to see the mercantile ghetto closed down and the Hanse trading privileges revoked, but here the Germans had been for longer than anyone could remember and here they would undoubtedly stay.

  It was after I had been waiting about half an hour that a rotund little man with a ruddy, clean-shaven face entered by a corner door and made his way to my table.

  ‘Master Treviot? Good day. My name is Andreas Meyer, pastor to the community here. It is a privilege to meet someone whose name is held in such esteem among those of the true faith.’

  ‘I did not think I was so ...’

  ‘Oh, but you are. That terrible business of Master Packington.’ Meyer spoke in excited short bursts that came in rapid succession. ‘He had many friends here. Many friends. Merchants involved in spreading the truth in those evil days when Bibles had to be smuggled into England. Evil days. And you tracked down Master Packington’s killer.’

  ‘Well, I ...’

  ‘No need for modesty. You were tenacious in your quest. Tenacious. And were hounded for it by the Catholic curs. We of the Steelyard would have helped but ’tis difficult for us. Politics. You understand.’

  ‘It was a long time ago,’I muttered.

  ‘An important time. Lord Cromwell’s time. Without him there would be no official English Bible. We would still be smuggling them in our bales of cloth and barrels of wine. He was truly a Christian martyr. Done to death by the enemies of the Gospel. A great loss. A great loss.’ He paused for breath – but only briefly. ‘Now how can we help you? Our guard captain said you were enquiring about Johannes Holbein.’

  ‘That’s correct. I understand ...’

  ‘Holbein! Why do you seek him here?’

  ‘I understand he has friends here who might know his whereabouts.’ ,

  Meyer eyed me cautiously. ‘He visits us from time to time.’

  ‘Please,’ I said, with all the urgency I could muster, ‘if you know anything of his whereabouts tell me. I must speak with him urgently.’

  ‘In that case, Master Treviot, you had best call at his house in Aldgate.’
r />   ‘Have you heard nothing about the murder at Holbein’s house? The news is all over town by now.’

  Meyer looked startled. ‘Murder? No. Our walls are stout. It takes London gossip a long time to penetrate. What happened?’

  ‘Violent men looking for our friend killed his assistant. Now you can see why I must find Holbein.’

  Meyer shrugged. ‘I really wish I could help you, but ...’

  I tried another approach. ‘Can you remember when you last saw Master Johannes?’

  Meyer pondered the question. ‘It must be two or three weeks since. Strange that, now I come to think of it. The Steelyard is his second home. He’s usually here several times a week.’

  ‘Tell me, Master Meyer, if he wanted – for any reason – to hide ...’

  ‘Would we help him? Certainly. He would be safe from prying eyes here. We could even get him on to a ship and out of the country.’

  ‘And you’re sure this hasn’t already happened?’

  He stood abruptly. ‘Come, let me show you something.’

  We left the wine house by the door through which Meyer had entered, crossed a narrow alley and entered what was obviously the merchants’ guildhall, a lofty building whose panelled walls reached upwards to an elaborate arrangement of rafters. Light entered through large windows opposite the entrance but much of the remaining wall space was occupied with portraits of Hanseatic merchants past and present.

  ‘You want to see how close we of the Hanse are to Master Holbein?’ Meyer waved a hand to right and left.

  Two long frescoes faced each other. Each represented a procession of numerous figures in vivid, glowing colours. Men, women, horses, wagons and chariots paraded from right to left. The paintings were amazingly detailed and lifelike.

  ‘Magnificent,’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Indeed, indeed.’ Meyer, anxious to show off the treasures of his community, waxed eloquent. ‘On the right you see an allegory of riches. On the left, poverty. They remind us of the vanity of earthly wealth. It illustrates the motto you can see over the doorway behind us.’

  I turned and gazed up at a long Latin inscription.

  Meyer, obviously very familiar with the role of guide, translated. ‘He who is rich fears the inconstant turning of Fate’s wheel. He who is poor fears nothing, but lives in joyful hope.’

  ‘A noble sentiment,’ I muttered – and wondered how much ‘joyful hope’ was felt by the beggars squatting in alleyways outside the walls close to where we stood.

  Meyer was now in full flood, pointing out details in the paintings – the industry and honest toil of the smiling, contented workers, contrasted with the frenetic pursuit of gain pictured on the opposite wall. Most of his eulogy passed me by; I was captivated with the exuberance and sheer scale of the two cavalcades. It was difficult to believe that this was the work of the same man who produced for my workshop intricate designs for table salts, chains of office, medallions and other items of jewellery. ‘Truly a genius,’ I observed, rather tamely.

  ‘Indeed! Indeed! We’re very proud of Master Holbein’s work. He has also made portraits of some of our recent masters.’ My guide led the way along the hall, pointing out the depictions of solemn-looking merchants holding the tools of their trade – scales, money boxes, bills and seals.

  ‘So,’ Meyer said, as we completed the tour, ‘you can see we are much indebted to Herr Holbein. If ever he was in trouble he could come to us. We would not fait him.’

  ‘But he has not recently come to you for succour?’

  The little pastor shook his head.

  ‘And yet,’ I ventured, ‘if he had you would probably not tell me.’

  For once Meyer had no words. He simply smiled.

  We returned to the wine house. By the outer door the pastor extended his hand. ‘I fear I have been of little help. I most sincerely hope that your anxieties are groundless. God grant you success in your quest.’

  ‘Thank you. If you see Master Holbein perhaps you would be kind enough to let him know I am looking for him.’

  I stepped out into the passageway as Meyer held the door for me. Then, turning, I said, ‘One more question if I may. I understand Master Holbein has a particular German friend called Johannes Fonant ... or something like that. Am I right?’

  Meyer’s rubicund face creased in a frown. ‘Fonant? No, it is not a German name.’

  I thanked him again and stepped across to where my horse was tethered. I mounted my bay mare and turned her head towards the gate. I was just passing under the arch into Thames Street when I heard my name called. Meyer came bustling up to me.

  ‘Could the man you mention possibly be Johannes von Antwerp? He is not German but he is often here. And he is a friend of Herr Holbein. You may know him.’

  Johannes von Antwerp. John of Antwerp as he was known to members of the Goldsmiths’ Company. Did I know him? Oh, yes and heartily wished I did not. As I threaded my way along the busy street I pictured the burly Flemish scoundrel. If he was, indeed, the friend whose name Adie had imperfectly remembered, I could expect little help from him.

  I was reflecting gloomily on my wasted morning as I turned into the yard of my house in Goldsmith’s Row. The first thing that I lighted upon was my missing horse.

  Chapter 3

  Golding stood contentedly in a corner of the yard having his mane brushed by Walt. I dropped from my saddle and hurried across.

  ‘When did he come back?’ I demanded. ‘Is Bart here?’

  The groom shook his head. ‘Lizzie brought the horse, Master. She’s inside.’

  Bart’s wife was in the kitchen, talking with Jane, my cook, who was plying Annie with tid-bits from the larder. Her baby son, Jack, well swaddled, lay on the wide kitchen table, close to where Lizzie sat. She stood as I strode in.

  ‘Come to the parlour,’ I said brusquely, crossing to the inner door. ‘The children will be happy here for a few minutes.’

  As soon as the door was closed behind us, I turned. ‘What is he up to?’ I demanded.

  ‘This will tell you.’ Lizzie handed me a folded sheet of paper.

  I sat to read it and motioned Lizzie to a chair across the table. The note was carefully composed and written in Bart’s surprisingly neat hand.

  My duty to Your Worship remembered, I heartily thank you for speaking for me to the magistrate. Marvel not, I pray you, good Master, that I chose sudden flight above your protection. I dared not trust Constable Pett. The man is known for a double-tongued ruffian, as runs with the hare as well as the hounds. He will not seek out the murderous villains who killed Master Johannes’ man. I am the only one as can do that. I have seen them. By Mary and all the saints, I mean to find them. When I do I will come back. Until then I beg that you will not try to find me.

  Your Worship’s assured servant,

  Bart Miller

  I threw the note down on the table and leaned back in my chair. ‘Jesu! Where was that husband of yours when the good Lord handed out brains?’

  Lizzie pouted. ‘What else can he do? We’ve discussed the matter hours without end. This is the only way he can stay safe.’

  ‘The way he can stay safe? And what of you and the children? Do you think the villains will not come a-visiting when they learn that Bart is on their trail?’

  She tossed her head in defiance, sudden colour in her cheeks. ‘We can shift for ourselves.’

  ‘That you cannot!’ I thumped the table. ‘Mother of God, I thought you had enough wit for both of you. Now I see you’re as addle-pated as Bart.’

  ‘A woman must stand by her husband,’ she said stubbornly.

  ‘Even at the cost of her infants’ lives? Think for a moment, Lizzie. These men Bart has got tangled with are vicious murderers. Probably well-paid experts sent to take or kill Master Johannes. God in heaven knows what that poor artist has done to warrant it but, sure as hellfire’s for sinners, someone means him harm and will do anything to lay hands on him. When word’s out that Bart is at liberty and going about asking
questions, where will be the first place they come?’

  Lizzie was sullenly silent for several moments. From beyond the casement there came the sound of Paul’s clock striking ten.

  ‘I’m trying to find Master Johannes,’ I said. ‘That must be the best way to identify his enemies. But ’twill take me some time. Meanwhile we must make sure that you and the children are safe.’

  She glanced up, scowling. ‘And why should you take that on yourself?’

  ‘I’m sorry you ask that question. I’ll pretend I didn’t hear it.’ I stood abruptly. ‘Wait here. There’s someone I want you to meet.’

  I hurried from the room. When I returned minutes later, Lizzie was standing at the window, looking out into West Cheap. ‘The pestilence is getting worse,’ she said. ‘Two houses in our street are shut up now, by order of the council.’

  ‘All the more reason not to stay. Come to Kent with us.’

  She shook her head firmly. ‘I must be where Bart can find me when he needs me.’

  ‘But there’s no need for Annie and Jack to be exposed.’

  She turned suddenly, anger and frustration in her voice. ‘Thomas, do you suppose I haven’t thought of that? What am I to do?’

  There was a soft knock at the door. I opened it and ushered in Adie, accompanied by her two young charges. They were remarkably different. Carl, who I supposed to be about seven, was dark-haired, already tall and constantly looking around him with enquiring eyes. Henry, younger by some two years, was squat, with reddish hair and seemed less self-assured. He was clinging tightly to his nurse’s apron.

  ‘Thank you for coming down, Adie. I want you to meet someone.’ I made the introductions. ‘And now I’m going to leave you to get to know each other.’ I went out into the yard to check that Golding was no worse for his little adventure. I hoped that, in my absence, what in women passes for reason might prevail.

  When I returned some half an hour later, I saw that Lizzie’s children had joined the party. Even my own eight-year-old, Raphael (known to everyone as ‘Raffy’), had come to cast an appraising eye over our visitors. The boys seemed to be playing some form of hide-and-go-seek with Annie, and Adie. was cradling the baby. ‘They’re enjoying themselves,’ I said, pointing to the older children. I hoped they were forming a bridge between the women.