The Traitor’s Mark

by D. K. Wilson

  ‘What most people want, Master Treviot, is of little consequence. Decisions are made by King Henry. Therefore, the only people who matter are those who influence the king. Now, his majesty – whom God long preserve – is a sick man. For those of us who knew him in his prime it is sad to see him as he is now. Just to move from one room to another he needs to be supported by two strong servants. As to stairs ... well, I need not go into details. The important point is that he sees fewer people now and relies increasingly on the members of his Privy Chamber and a handful of others – like myself – whom he trusts. That is where the war is being fought now – in the king’s inner circle. Those who wish to suppress the truth know they must remove us – just as they removed Lord Cromwell.’

  ‘Who are these men and how are they working against Your Grace?’

  ‘That is precisely what I, aided by such as Master Holbein, intend to discover. Our friend continues to work for me. That is why his life is in danger.’

  I was at a loss to know where this conversation was headed. I said, ‘Thank you for explaining this, Your Grace. You may be sure I will redouble my prayers for his majesty and for yourself. I wish it was in my power to do more.’

  ‘It is, Master Treviot. It is.’ Cranmer unfolded the sheet of paper. ‘Lord Cromwell’s list has been very helpful to me. His assessment of potential agents is incisive. He was a fine judge of character. This is how he describes one young man: “He is tenacious, intelligent but not quick-witted, transparently honest and, above all, fiercely loyal”.’ The archbishop stared at me intently. ‘That is the kind of man I need now. The kind his majesty needs. The kind England needs.’

  Chapter 5

  I was without words. Almost without breath, as though I had been punched in the stomach. When I did find my voice I could only mutter and mumble. What I tried to impress upon the archbishop was that, while I had briefly been employed on confidential business for Lord Cromwell, that had been several years before. I protested that I had no training as a spy. ‘And to be honest, Your Grace, I have no taste for it,’ I said.

  ‘Then we are alike in that, you and I,’ Cranmer replied. ‘I am a simple scholar at heart and frequently wish I had remained so. It was his majesty who summoned me out of the university and set me to the game of intrigue. I had no option but to learn its devious rules and follow them as best I could. It is easier to be a Spectator but the game must be played and sometimes reluctant participants have to give up the luxury of merely looking on. Believe me, Master Treviot, there are things that need doing and only you can do them.’

  ‘Your Grace, I beg you to excuse me. I am not the man for—’

  ‘You are if I say you are!’ For the first time this gentle-spoken cleric raised his voice. Then, as suddenly, his tone returned to its usual volume. ‘You have yet to hear what I require of you. As I explained, the future of our godly commonwealth rests, in large measure, with his majesty’s more trusted companions.’

  ‘I’m sure he leans heavily on Your Grace’s advice.’

  ‘I thank God that he does.’ Cranmer paused. Then, watching closely for my reaction, he said, ‘There was a time when his majesty leaned heavily on Lord Cromwell’s advice.’

  ‘And you think ...’

  ‘I do not think, Master Treviot. I know. I am the major obstacle in the enemy’s path. The only way I can be removed is by convincing his majesty that I am a heretic – as they did with Cromwell. That is why I need to be kept informed of their plans – by faithful friends like Master Holbein and yourself.’

  ‘But I do not move in court circles,’ I protested.

  ‘No, but you are a leading member of society here in Kent.’

  ‘Yes, but ...’

  Cranmer ignored the interruption. ‘The conspiracy against me is like ripples on a pond. It spreads out from the centre to lap against the distant banks.’

  At that moment there was a tap at the door and the obsequious little priest appeared again. He coughed apologetically.

  ‘Time for mass already, Martin?’ Cranmer stood up. ‘Master Treviot, it seems we must continue our discussion later. Martin take our guest to the chapel. Have a chamber prepared for him. He will be staying tonight. Master Treviot, be so good as to return here after supper.’

  Once again the priest preluded his words with a discreet cough. ‘Your Grace has letters which Your Grace might consider urgent – including two from his majesty.’

  Cranmer sighed deeply. ‘You see why I yearn for the scholar’s life, Master Treviot. Very well, Martin, I will dictate letters after supper. In the morning I wish to be left alone with our guest directly after early mass. Nothing is to disturb us. Do you understand – nothing.’

  I took my leave of the archbishop and accompanied my guide to the chapel. It was laid out collegiate-style – stalls facing each other, north and south, across a narrow chancel. The choir and clergy occupied the seats closest to the altar. As I took my place, my mind was still on the unfinished conversation. At least I would not be distracted by the worship. As a mere layman I would only be expected to observe the clergy performing their ritual, aided by the singing men and boys of the archbishop’s fine choir. Or so I thought. I was, therefore, surprised to be handed a card on which parts of the mass were printed – in English – and to discover that the whole congregation was expected to recite them with the priests. If this was an example of the kind of innovation Cranmer wanted to introduce in the Church as a whole, I could see why those wedded to the old ways might consider such novelties heretical. I noticed that even here, in his grace’s own domain, not a few clergy and lay people kept their mouths tight shut during the recitation of the English passages.

  Afterwards, at supper in the great hall, I sat at one of the long tables among members of the household. Some were curious to know my business with the archbishop but, remembering Cranmer’s admonition and my own vow, I returned only vague answers. I was aware of – or thought I could detect – an atmosphere of divided loyalties or fractured trust. I told myself at the time that I imagined it; that the fragments of backstairs gossip and differences over domestic trivia were no more than one might encounter in the entourage of any great lord, whether spiritual or temporal. Yet it was difficult wholly to avoid the impression that cautious glances were being exchanged across the board and tongues carefully guarded.

  The sombre-faced man sitting opposite, though friendly, seemed more reticent than his companions, so I was slightly surprised when, at the end of the meal, he suggested we might loosen our limbs with a walk around the cloister. I had recognised him immediately as one of the archbishop’s singing men and he had introduced himself as John Marbeck, He was, I guessed, in his mid-thirties, though his face bore the lines of a man somewhat older. As we strolled slowly round the cloister, torches in the walls threw across the flower beds long shadows of the columns supporting the roof of the square walkway. The evening was not cold but, after a few paces, Marbeck drew up his hood. I had the distinct impression that there was more to this gesture than a desire to protect his head from chill air. This was confirmed when, after a few inconsequential pleasantries, he became suddenly serious.

  ‘May I ask what brings you to Ford?’

  ‘I have been summoned here on confidential business.’

  ‘You are, then, a close friend of the archbishop?’

  ‘No, but his grace has indicated that he trusts me.’

  ‘He needs men he can trust,’ Marbeck muttered gloomily.

  He fell silent for several moments. I could not see his face but his whole demeanour – the slumped shoulders and shuffling footsteps – was that of a deeply troubled man. I felt awkward and after another half-circuit I said, ‘If you’ll excuse me, Master Marbeck, I’ve had a tiring day and am more than ready for bed. Tomorrow I will be in conference with the archbishop. He will expect me to be well-rested and have my wits about me.’

  Marbeck clutched my arm. ‘Then you must speak to his grace for me, for I cannot gain audience. You must war
n him!’ The light from a flaring torch accentuated the sharp lines on his anguished features.

  ‘In God’s name, what ails you man?’ I gasped.

  ‘I must tell you my story. I shall go mad if I can make no one listen. When I’ve done, you must decide what to say to his grace.’

  I groaned inwardly but did not have the heart to refuse. Marbeck launched into his alarming tale.

  ‘I was born in Windsor. Spent all my life in the shadow of the castle. Married there. Three children. I got a position as singing man and sub-organist in the royal chapel and thought myself the luckiest man in the world. I taught the choristers, played for worship, wrote some music myself. Never wanted anything else. No ambition, you see, no ambition. Some men dream of making their mark in the world. Not me. Not till Cromwell had the new book put in all the churches.’

  ‘The English Bible?’

  ‘Yes. It was a revelation to me. I read it from cover to cover. It was wonderfully exciting – actually to have God’s word in my own hands. Then – Lord forgive my presumption – I thought how useful it would be if readers could have a concordance – a list of Bible words with all their references. The more I thought about it, the more I thought, I could do that. So I set to work.’

  ‘Was that not rather a dreary task?’

  The musician’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh no! It was a joy. My friends encouraged me and so did some of the king’s courtiers. They even lent me books and gave me money to buy more. I’d never been happier. Then, one night last March ...’ He broke off and wiped the back of a hand across his eyes.

  I tried to grasp the opportunity to disengage myself. ‘This is obviously distressing for you. Perhaps we should talk more tomorrow ...’

  ‘No, no, Master Treviot, in Jesu’s name hear me out, I beg you! It was the middle of the night. Black as soot. No moon. There comes a hammering on the door. My wife went to open it and was pushed aside by three of the king’s guard. They rampaged from room to room, grabbing up all my papers and books. They ignored my protests and the children’s cries. When they’d done, they bound my arms and marched me off to the town jail.’

  ‘They took you for a heretic? But why?’

  ‘It seems that some of the books I’d been lent were banned. I swear I did not know it. They were just commentaries written by foreign scholars about various books of the Bible. Well, I soon discovered I wasn’t alone. The guards threw me into a cell with Robert Testwood – my friend and a fellow choirman. And there were two others, Robert Bennett, a local lawyer, and Henry Filmer, who kept a tailor’s shop in Peascod Street. The door was locked and there we stayed for a couple of days.’

  ‘Were these other men heretics?’

  ‘No more than I, I’m sure. But that’s little to the point. Once you’re marked for the fire nothing can save you. They go pestering friends and neighbours, looking for people who will testify against you.’

  ‘And who are “they”?’I asked.

  ‘The Bishop of Winchester’s men, as I later discovered.’

  ‘You’re sure.’

  ‘Oh, yes. He had us taken to the Marshalsea prison in Southwark, close to his palace so that he could interrogate us in person. He kept me there for four months. Twice he had me to his own house, shouting insults and threats at me.’

  The Marshalsea! An image of that stinking, vermin-infested, overcrowded hovel came into my mind. As a prison it was, by some people, feared more than the Tower. The lees of the criminal world were habitually swilled into it. Highway robbers, murderers, rebels and other desperate men were shut up there to await trial (often indefinitely) and were known to beg for their appointment with the hangman, in preference to spending another day in the Marshalsea. The thought of this gentle musician having been incarcerated there was an affront to reason and certainly an affront to justice.

  ‘How appalling!’ I said.

  ‘I wouldn’t wish it on any human soul – Christian or heathen. Everything was done there to make me confess my supposed heresies and provide the names of others. Terrible things. They still haunt my dreams. By the time I was released my wife was hard put to recognise me. My body was black from the beatings. I could scarcely hobble because the irons had chafed my ankles.’

  ‘I’m so sorry for your ordeal,’ I said. ‘But one thing puzzles me – why was Bishop Gardiner personally interested in the opinions of a humble singing man?’

  ‘Exactly!’ Marbeck stopped in his tracks to emphasise the point. ‘A thousand times and more I asked myself the question, “Why me?”. Then I realised that they cared not a farthing for what I believed. I could roast in hell as an unrepentant heretic for all they cared. What they wanted from me was names.’

  ‘Names?’

  ‘Aye. “Who aided you in your pernicious studies? Who seduced you with heretical books? You are no scholar; you could not have undertaken your wretched concordance unaided. You were set to it by your betters; men of the royal court. Who were they? Give us their names and we may yet save you from the fire.’”

  ‘And did you tell them what they wanted to know?’

  ‘Never. Though I thank God they didn’t put me to the torture. What I might have falsely confessed if they had racked me ...’

  ‘But if you didn’t do their bidding how did you escape burning as an unrepentant heretic?’

  Marbeck halted again and this time sank on to a stone bench. He shook his head and sighed deeply. ‘Oh, Master Treviot, it isn’t over! It isn’t over!’ The torchlight glistened on tears creeping down his cheeks. ‘I wish to God that it might be over; that I could go back to my family and bolt our door firmly against them. They’re too powerful, too clever, too relentless.’ He brushed a hand across his face.

  I sat beside him. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand ...’

  Marbeck grabbed my wrist, his grip almost painful. ‘The twenty-eighth of July was wet ... but not wet enough. They burned Filmer and a local priest and Robbie Testwood in Windsor marketplace. Robbie was scarce more than a boy, a merry lad, always joking.’ Marbeck’s frame was now shaking. The tears flowed freely. Unchecked. ‘We were all of us guilty – according to the trial. Trial? Ptah!’ He spat violently. ‘The bishop’s man told the jury what verdict to bring. And we were all found guilty, all of us! The others burned. But, not Bennett and not me. Why?’ Marbeck turned his anguished face towards me. And now he was gabbling, words pouring out like rain from a waterspout. ‘Do you know what Gardiner said? He petitioned the king for a pardon because it would be a pity his majesty should lose “such a fine musician”. Lying, double-tongued hypocrite. He did it to buy me. To buy me! I must now be one of his ears around the court, listening for murmurs against the king’s laws and whispers of heresy. If I fail fresh charges will be brought against me. That is why I am sent here to his grace of Canterbury’s house. Officially I come with messages from Windsor, from the odious dean, Dr London. He’s thick with Winchester. They mean to destroy any of the king’s friends not of their party. Especially the archbishop. My real mission here is to learn all I can about him and those around him. I beg you, Master Treviot, if you are in his grace’s favour, warn him. He must have a care. He must guard himself against traitors. He must be sparing with his trust. He must not trust me!’

  Marbeck stood abruptly and stumbled off along the cloister.

  Comfortable as my allotted quarters were, I slept little that night. The hideous images Marbeck had conjured up recurred unbidden every time I tried to rid my mind of them. And the personal implications of his story for me were frightening. What was I being dragged into? Part of me was shouting, ‘Get yourself out of this.’ But there was another – a whisper, though insistent – which said, ‘You must do what you can to stop such villainy.’

  When Cranmer summoned me back to his study the following morning I reported my conversation with the distracted choirman.

  ‘Poor John,’ Cranmer said. ‘I must see him and try to offer some comfort. At least his testimony seems to have been more persuasive than mine. I
think you understand more clearly now the situation in which I am placed.’

  ‘Surely, Your Grace, if you were to report the Bishop of Winchester and his associates to the king, he would soon put a stop to their schemes.’

  ‘It is not so simple. His majesty will require proof. Just as Stephen Gardiner goes about to prove me a heretic, so I need to gain evidence of his stratagems. As I remarked yesterday, I have no alternative but to play the game of intrigue by the rules. The good bishop has a network of agents, as you have heard from the unfortunate John Marbeck. Master Holbein has been gathering information about this organisation and was on the point of discovering something vital. If he has been unmasked and forced into hiding, that is deeply worrying. Gardiner’s people are not only in Windsor. They are located throughout the land – in the royal court, in London, here in Canterbury, in many shires and certainly in Kent. There are leading men in this county who are against me – parish clergy, magistrates, townsmen, landowners. I, too, must have local people working for me. That is why I want you to discover all you can about your Kentish colleagues.’

  ‘You wish me to spy on my friends and neighbours?’

  ‘In a word, “yes”. I understand your reluctance. It does you credit. But reflect on this: any information you can gather about the plot against me may bring you closer to unmasking the villains who killed Master Holbein’s assistant.’

  ‘You think they were working for Bishop Gardiner?’

  Cranmer frowned. ‘Stephen would never condone such an appalling crime. Of that I am sure. But is he able to control all those who work for him? That is a more open question. Now to practicalities. I have appointed a commission – on his majesty’s authority – to inquire into preaching throughout the diocese. It is headed by Sir Thomas Moyle, whom I’m sure you know.’

  ‘Yes, he’s one of the parliament members for the shire.’

  ‘That’s right. A good man. Thoroughly reliable. One of Lord Cromwell’s protégés. I’ll instruct him to add your name to the commission. That way you’ll be able to go round asking questions without raising suspicion. But, of course, you will report anything of interest directly to me.’ He drew a ring from his finger. ‘This will always ensure direct access to me, any time, anywhere. As far as possible you should report to me in person. If you need to put anything in writing do so under heavy seal and have it delivered directly to me or to my secretary, Ralph Morice.’ The archbishop rose from his chair. ‘For the moment there’s nothing more to discuss. You will find my guards ready to escort you back to Hemmings. Now kneel and I’ll give you my blessing.’