The Traitor’s Mark

by D. K. Wilson

  ‘Well ...’ I hesitated, watching the bees hovering round the hive at the end of the garden. ‘You know Lizzie ... Who’d have thought seven years ago that she and Bart could have made a good life for themselves.’

  Ned nodded. ‘Indeed. I still thank God for them in my prayers.’

  ‘And now they have the two bearns ... To see all that thrown away just because Bart found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time ...’

  ‘But you must not blame yourself for that, Thomas.’ Ned fixed me with that earnest gaze I always found disconcerting.

  ‘Oh, I don’t. Of course not.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Well ... I could have thought more before sending Bart to Aldgate. It was so out of character for Holbein to keep me waiting for his drawings. I might have guessed that something was wrong. I should have gone myself. What happened was ...’

  I briefly explained the sequence of events.

  Ned listened attentively, nodding occasionally. At last he said, ‘Back in the monastery one of the biggest problems we faced was false sins. Some of the brothers were so intent on pursuing holiness that they invented sins to confess. They punished themselves for things God had no intention of punishing them for.’

  ‘And you think I’m doing the same?’

  ‘You could not possibly have foreseen what would befall Bart in Aldgate.’

  ‘So you’re suggesting I should shrug my shoulders, say, “It’s not my fault”, and leave him to his fate?’

  Ned sighed deeply. ‘No, we must, of course, do all we can.’

  ‘We?’ I smiled.

  ‘Is that not why you have come – to enlist my help?’

  ‘You did say you knew at least half a dozen gangs of ruffians who might have committed this crime.’

  He nodded wearily. ‘I will make some enquiries – very, very discreetly. It is not wise to appear too inquisitive.’

  The Kent Road was inches deep in mud and very busy, Twice we were obliged to stop and help other travellers ease their mired vehicles on to firmer ground. We made slow progress and had to stay the night in one of the better inns. I hoped that the rest of my household had not fared so badly, and was relieved to find everyone safely installed at Hemmings when we arrived late the following morning.

  There was, as always, much to be done in and around the estate – steward’s accounts to be checked, tenants’ complaints to be heard, building repairs to be assessed and, where necessary, set in hand. I never forgot about Bart and Lizzie’s plight. Every day I hoped that I might hear some positive news: that Master Johannes had come out of hiding to save my friends; that Ned had identified the real assassins; that someone from the alien community might offer a clue about the artist’s enemies. I even allowed myself to imagine that John of Antwerp might experience a twinge of conscience and break his oath of secrecy to a friend in the interests of wider justice. But these thoughts were pushed to the back of my mind by my many responsibilities as a landowner.

  And by my concern for the children. As I watched Carl, Henry and Annie explore their new surroundings, I was amazed by their remarkable resilience. Adie was extremely good with the tiny ones. By the time I arrived she had already found a wet nurse for little Jack and she knew many games and stratagems to keep his older sister occupied. After a couple of days, little Annie stopped crying for her mother. The boys were enjoying exploring the woods and parkland. Cheerfully accepting Raffy’s leadership, they were always off on some new adventure. It was something of a revelation to watch my son at play with other children. As an only child he was accustomed to entertaining himself – and to having his own way. He was spoiled by the servants and, as I realised if I was honest, also by me. Now, in play with Carl and Henry, he expected to be deferred to. I must be firmer with him, I told myself – a decision confirmed by an event that occurred one Saturday morning. On the first Friday of our stay several of us went to the fair in Ightham. Raffy had been boasting to the Holbein brothers of his prowess as an archer and when they saw a bowyer’s stall with several weapons suitable for various ages they clamoured for their own bows. The next morning the boys dragged me – not unwillingly – to Long Meadow, where I and others of the household practised archery. Our visitors had not drawn a bow before and I spent some time showing them how to handle their new weapons. I was somewhat rusty myself and glad of the practice. We chose a row of tree stumps as targets and I gave a brief demonstration. Fortunately, I managed to quit myself reasonably well. Then we moved forward to shorten the range. Raffy was determined to show his prowess. With five arrows he managed to hit two of the stumps. Carl was the next to try. I had noticed that he was not only tall but broad of shoulder. It was not a surprise that he quitted himself very well. His first shaft overshot but he intelligently adjusted his aim and three of his remaining four arrows struck home. Raffy was not pleased. ‘You’ve got a better bow,’ he shouted, and made a grab for it. Carl put out a hand to fend him off and, quite unintentionally, struck Raffy on the nose. That was the end of our practice. Instantly the two boys were rolling on the ground, pummelling each other. With some difficulty, I separated them and was on the point of delivering a couple of blows of my own when I heard my name called. I turned and saw two men in helmets, breastplates and blue livery striding across the meadow.

  ‘Master Treviot, we’re here to deliver a warrant from his grace of Canterbury,’ one of them said, holding out a sealed letter.

  I read the message. It was very brief. The archbishop required my presence in his palace at Ford.

  I was stunned. I sat on a tree stump and read the secretary’s neat lines two or three times. What could Cranmer possibly want with me? All I could think of immediately was to try to gain time to give the summons further thought.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Please present my respects to his grace and tell him I will be delighted to call upon him tomorrow.’

  The retainer shook his head. ‘We are instructed to take you with us now.’

  ‘Now?’ I protested. ‘What is the urgency? Is this an arrest? I’ve done nothing to displease his grace.’

  The man was impassive. ‘He doesn’t explain his actions to us. He just gives us orders and our orders are to return with you immediately.’

  I was about to argue but then I looked at the boys. They were standing in a line, eyes wide with fear. Raffy broke ranks and ran across to put his arms round me. He glared at the soldiers. ‘Go away,’ he shouted. ‘My father’s a good man.’

  I hugged him briefly. ‘It’s all right, Raffy,’ I said as calmly as I could. ‘Just some goldsmith’s matters I have to discuss with the archbishop. I won’t be gone long. Take your friends indoors and tell Will that I’ve been called away on urgent business.’

  Within half an hour I was mounted and on the road to the archbishop’s summer residence, flanked by two of his guard. Our fifty-mile journey was fast and uncomfortable. My escort rode their horses hard, spattering through puddles, scattering other travellers who were in our way, drawing shouts of protest from villagers as we raced through their streets, careless of the inhabitants, their children and their animals. I had little chance to question the guards about my arrest but it was clear that they either knew nothing or would say nothing. At least the speed of our progress allowed me little time to worry about my predicament; I was too busy keeping up with the guards and avoiding obstacles. Only as we crossed the moat of the archbishop’s ancient fortified manor house and passed under the gatehouse arch did real anxiety grip me. The walls were high and strong. The windows overlooking the courtyard were old and narrow. On one side there were two pairs of stocks. Both were empty. Was one of them being kept for me? Was I about to find myself in some cramped, lightless cell being interrogated about some supposed offence I had given his lordship? How long would it be before I might be able to leave this formidable building?

  The courtyard was busy with servants and visitors going about their business. No one paid us any attention. When we had dismounted and
handed our horses to the stable staff, I was taken into the main range of the house. When I had been to the garderobe and also done my best to remove mud from my boots I was shown to an anteroom. I did not have to wait long before the door half-opened and a small priest – presumably the archbishop’s clerk or chaplain – sidled in. He beckoned and, in quiet, reverential tones, indicated that his grace was ready to receive me.

  I entered a large room with panelled and tapestried walls, not knowing what to expect. Before that day I had only seen Thomas Cranmer at a distance, officiating in the cathedral or carrying out visitations in neighbouring parishes – an austere figure, separated from ordinary mortals by social status and the holy theatricality of his office. Any knowledge I had of him beyond that was a mixture of gossip and partisan rumour. Some regarded him as a brilliant theologian and religious politician who had shown King Henry that the pope had no legal jurisdiction in England and was now, boldly and bravely, purifying the teaching and practices of our church. Others despised him as the mere tool whom Henry had used to prise himself loose from ‘good Queen Catherine’. Then there were the ale-house prattlers who told scandalous stories about the archbishop. He was secretly married, they confidently asserted, and carried his wife about concealed in a coffer. Only one thing was beyond dispute: like him or loathe him, since the fall of Lord Cromwell, the fate of the English church lay entirely in the hands of Thomas Cranmer. For my own part, I preferred to leave as much distance as possible between myself and powerful men. As the door was closed quietly and discreetly behind me, I braced myself for confrontation. It was, therefore, disconcerting to look around the chamber and to discover that it was empty.

  That, at least, was my first impression. Late evening light still entered through tall windows and the lamps had not yet been lit. The room had its shadows and dim corners, into which I peered. It was some moments before I became aware of shuffling sounds coming from behind a large table on which stood a stack of books. Drawing closer, I came upon the Primate of all England on all fours beside a coffer and unloading more volumes which he added to the pile.

  After some moments he looked up. ‘Ah, Master Treviot, my apologies. I’m looking for my copy of Jerome’s Dialogus contra Pelagianos. My roguish servants at Lambeth Palace never pack my books properly. Every time I move it takes hours to locate everything I need.’ He stood up and held out his hand across the desk. I stooped to kiss his ring.

  ‘Thank you for coming so promptly,’ Cranmer continued.

  I thought but did not say, I had no option. Instead, I responded, ‘I am anxious to know the reason for Your Grace’s urgent summons.’

  ‘Grave matters. Grave matters.’ He shook his head. He took his seat behind the desk and for some moments seemed distracted by solemn thoughts.

  His brow was care-lined, his eyes searching and cautious. Then, with a sudden change of mood, he smiled. ‘You have come from Ightham, have you not? Who’s the vicar there? Ah, yes, Stimson, isn’t it. The man’s an idiot. Now, let me see, have you eaten?’

  ‘Not since breakfast, Your Grace.’

  ‘Then we must attend to that first.’ He rang a handbell. The obsequious little cleric entered immediately. ‘Take Master Treviot to the hall and see him properly fed,’ Cranmer ordered. To me he said, ‘One should never discuss matters of state on an empty stomach.’

  When I returned to the archbishop’s study an hour or so later, replete with venison, carp, marchpane cake and muscadel, I was no less confused or anxious than when I first arrived. Apparently I was not to be accused of some unwitting offence and detained at his grace’s pleasure but his talk of grave affairs of state was unnerving. By now the candles had been lit and a good fire blazed on the hearth. The archbishop sat to one side of the chimney in a high-backed chair and bade me be seated opposite. Between us was a low table on which were letters and other documents.

  Cranmer gazed at the burning logs. ‘Would you go to the fire for your faith, Master Treviot?’

  I knew not how to answer such an unexpected question and eventually made some sort of protest about believing what the Church said and not being guilty of any heresy for which I needed to fear being sent to the stake.

  He looked up with a smile that somehow was not a smile. ‘There are men who would like to bum the Archbishop of Canterbury.’

  ‘Merely a few unrepentant papist traitors who would have the king bow his neck again under the pope’s authority,’ I suggested.

  Cranmer shook his head. ‘Not few and, by no means, only those who owe secret allegiance to the Bishop of Rome.’

  There was a long silence before the archbishop spoke again. He seemed uncertain about how to proceed, like someone outside a house looking for the entrance. At last he sat back and said, ‘You are familiar, I believe, with Master Johannes Holbein, his majesty’s painter.’

  I replied cautiously. ‘He has done design work for me – jewellery, tableware, altar furnishings – that sort of thing.’

  ‘To be sure, he is a fine craftsman.’

  ‘Beyond doubt,’ I agreed. ‘In my opinion there is none better.’

  There was another long silence.

  ‘Would you go so far as to call Johannes Holbein a friend?’

  My reply was carefully considered. ‘I think I would, Your Grace.’

  ‘Then you will know that he is in some danger,’ Cranmer said, watching closely for my reaction.

  My hopes rose. Perhaps from this unexpected source I might be able to learn who the painter’s enemies were or gain some other information that would help Bart. ‘I thought as much,’ I said. ‘I haven’t been able to make contact with him recently and, a few days ago—’

  ‘You are about to tell me about the unpleasant incident at Holbein’s house.’

  ‘Do you know who was responsible for it, Your Grace? Is that why you have summoned me here? I shall be most grateful for any information—’

  He held up a hand to interrupt me. ‘What I am about to tell you must not go beyond these walls. Will you swear to keep silence?’

  I nodded. Cranmer went to his desk and returned with a large, heavily bound book. It was easily recognisable as the English Bible, the one commonly known as ‘Cromwell’s Bible’. He set it on the table between us. ‘Place your hand on it and make your solemn oath.’

  It was with a feeling of rising apprehension that I did as the archbishop insisted.

  ‘Good. God keep you true to your word.’ Cranmer resumed his seat. ‘You do not need me to remind you what happened, three years ago, to Lord Cromwell. There was a plot against him and he was brought down by men opposed to what they sneeringly called the “New Learning”. A foolish expression. What he ... what we ... stood for was a new commonwealth, a godly commonwealth. And we had begun to see the realisation of our dream. We had got rid of the pope and replaced his authority with that of the word of God.’ He tapped a finger on the Bible. ‘Old learning, Master Treviot. We closed down the abbeys, those bastions of papal error, and began the assault on superstition. Para kurion egeneto aute: “This was the Lord’s doing and it was marvellous in our eyes”.’

  Cranmer’s caution had fallen away from him; he was speaking with a preacher’s fervour. ‘Of course, there were those who could not or would not share our vision. They spun a web of lies. They produced paid informers. They managed to persuade his majesty to abandon the most faithful minister he had ever had, or was ever likely to have. They had him shut up in the Tower and, once there ...’ Cranmer shrugged. ‘Perhaps I should have stood by him; urged the king to clemency.’ He sighed. ‘But I fear to say that l am not the stuff of which martyrs are made. Of course, I visited my friend in prison. He urged me to continue the work and he gave me this – in strict secrecy.’ The archbishop indicated a folded sheet of paper.

  ‘What is it, Your Grace?’

  ‘A list of men Lord Cromwell knew to be faithful to our cause; men who, in various ways, had served him and served the Gospel. One name on that list is “Johannes Holbein”.�
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  ‘Even so, Your Grace? Holbein? I know he has Lutheran friends and tends in that direction but he is a mere painter. How could he have been of service to Lord Cromwell?’

  Cranmer smiled wistfully. ‘A mere painter? Yes, that is the point. Think for a moment. Everyone wants to be portrayed by him. He is in fashion ... though, perhaps, not as much as he was. Anyway, the point is that he was welcomed into the houses of the greatest in the land. He made some charcoal sketches or set up his easel in a corner and worked away silently. All the time his keen eyes took in every detail of his surroundings. He went to the kitchen and had meals with the servants. They talked in friendly style of this and that. No man guarded his tongue strictly. After all, this gruff little German was only a painter.’

  ‘I see. And he passed any useful information on to Lord Cromwell. He was, in a word, a spy.’

  ‘Let us say, rather, that he was a trained observer. He certainly gathered much useful information. He discovered what Lord Cromwell’s enemies were planning. Unfortunately, he was too late in conveying this intelligence to his lordship.’

  ‘Even so? Then I begin to see why Your Grace is concerned for his safety. You fear that this “spy”, or whatever you wish to call him, has been unmasked by people intent on taking their revenge.’

  ‘No, we are not dealing with petty-minded men whose eyes are fixed on the past. Those who wish to silence our mutual friend are very much concerned with the future. You see, Master Treviot, the struggle – or, rather, let us call it the war, for in very truth that is what it is – the war continues. Many men – powerful in the Church and in the royal court – will stop at nothing to extinguish the light of the Gospel and return us all to popish darkness.’

  ‘Surely, Your Grace,’ I protested, ‘things are quieting down now. For the last couple of years there have been fewer public protests by partisans of different religious camps, fewer angry sermons denouncing “papists” and “heretics”. Most people want nothing but to be allowed to get on with their lives in peace.’