The Traitor’s Mark

by D. K. Wilson

  ‘His grace told me he was involved in a war but I did not think ...’

  ‘A war indeed, and on several fronts. Did you know that the Duke of Norfolk gives a sumptuous banquet every 28 July to celebrate the execution of Lord Cromwell? That is to remind all his important guests of the supposed heresies the country has been delivered from. And, of course, he and Bishop Gardiner have set up their own commission, under Dr London, to seek out Bible men in the capital and elsewhere. Our satanic foe is like the Hydra, many-headed and deadly. We have to be constantly on the watch to see where he will strike next – and there is so much at stake. Only the archbishop stands between the devil’s henchmen and the collapse of all we have gained since his majesty expelled the pope. He does, indeed, carry a erushingly heavy burden.’

  By the time we finished talking, the day was late and I gratefully accepted an invitation to spend another night at Ford. Morice was very busy organising groups of the archbishop’s guard to set off in search of Black Harry. His energy and efficiency were admirable. He prepared written instructions for each captain, as well as letters to be delivered to the gentlemen and senior townsmen through whose territory they passed. I watched as he addressed his little army, for all the world like a general launching a military campaign. If anyone could locate Black Harry and have him brought back in chains, I thought, that man would be Ralph Morice. But the difficulties of the operation were formidable. His men had a large area to cover and I had seen for myself how unwelcome the archbishop’s men were in many places. In the morning the secretary had another brief word with me before I set off with one troop who were to accompany me most of the way to Hemmings. Once again he exhorted me to keep alert to any news that could be useful to the archbishop and to make frequent reports.

  It was a relief to arrive back at my own home and an even bigger relief to observe the members of the household, outwardly at least, going about their lives as if nothing untoward had recently shattered the peace of Hemmings. On enquiry I discovered that our three guests had slept long and late. My steward had called in a local physician to examine them and apply salve to their various cuts and bruises. He reported that the Holbein boys were more subdued than usual but seemed otherwise none the worse for their ordeal. Adie, he said, spent all her time by the kitchen fire and was only relaxed in the company of other women. I wanted to find her and see for myself how she was but realised that the sight of me might bring back painful memories. Instead, I busied myself for a couple of hours with some of the outside workers, discussing estate matters and then retired to my chamber. There was a small pile of letters on the table, most of them routine. One, however, was addressed in a hand I did not recognise. I broke the seal and read it by the light of a lamp.

  Master Treviot, I greet you and trust that my messenger will find you in Kent, having received directions from your servants in West Cheap. I write with urgent news of Master Holbein, who came to me in Chiswick this day. I told him that you had called to see him to bring the sad news that his sons were captured by the men seeking his own life. He was much distressed to hear it and prayed I would assure you he desired above all things the safety of his children. The reason he was not at Bridewell when you visited was that he had departed secretly for the Steelyard, having purposed to obtain passage for himself and his family on a Hanse trading vessel. Having agreed with a captain from Bremen, he was anxious I should make enquiry for the whereabouts of the boys. He was greatly distressed to learn that he was too late and his sons were captured. His anguish, Master Treviot, was distressing to behold and his resolve now quite changed. He declares that he wishes to surrender himself to his enemies in exchange for the children and begs me to ask, if you know how to reach the abductors, that you will convey his wishes to them. Master Holbein also says that he would like to meet you in order to give into your hands certain information he is desirous you should pass to a third party. Thus, Master Treviot, it is with a heavy heart that I do the office of a friend and beseech that you will come to Bridewell at your earliest opportunity.

  From Chiswick, this 22nd day of September

  Your worshipful brother,

  Jan van der Goes

  The twenty-second! That was three days ago! It seemed more like three weeks, so much had happened. And here was news of a distracted father planning to give himself up to a gang of murderers in exchange for his sons, not knowing that those sons were now safe. I had no choice about what I should do. I would have to hurry back to London without delay.

  But what would I find? The Fleming would be concerned not to have received an answer to his letter. Every day that passed without my responding to his urgent summons would be like dagger blows of despair to the agonised Holbein. What might distraction not move him to? I tried to imagine what I would be driven to if evil befell young Ralph and I believed I was the cause of it? I thought of the draughty, drab warehouse where the painter was forced to live – and of the swift Thames running past it.

  I would have to take to the road yet again first thing in the morning. I prayed earnestly that I would not be too late.

  Chapter 13

  The news of my imminent departure was received with disquiet by most of my people at Hemmings. Their routines had been repeatedly upset of late and they had had enough excitement to last them for at least another year. Word rapidly spread – and grew in the spreading – that the master was about to plunge headlong into fresh dangers. If recent events were any indication of what might befall me in the plague-ridden City, they had reason to be anxious. Walt took it on himself to mention the household’s misgivings the next morning, as we set out once again on the London road, the dawn shadows stretching before us on the furrowed highway. I had chosen him to be one of my three companions, because he was both strong and level-headed. He had given long service to me and to my father before me and, of all my servants, he was the one who came closest to being a confidant.

  ‘I hear there’s no sign of the pestilence abating in London,’ he said. ‘A pedlar who came past a couple of days since says it’s quiet as the tomb there. Not even a stray animal to be seen; all slaughtered for fear of contagion.’

  ‘’Tis only in the City, Walt,’ I said. ‘My information is that it’s not spread far. Even Southwark seems to have missed the worst of it. We’ll spend the night at Master Longbourne’s.’

  But Walt would not be denied his gloom. ‘They say most of the churches are closed and mass graves are being dug out at Moor Fields. It must be a terrible thing to die unshriven and nothing to mark the spot.’

  ‘I daresay much of this talk is exaggerated, Walt.’

  ‘Well, I know for a fact that the vicar of St Michael at Queme has fled. He was already gone when we were there a-Tuesday. You’d think the priests would be the last ones to leave, wouldn’t you, Master, being shepherds of the flock and all that? No one I’ve spoken to can remember anything like this plague.’

  ‘As I say, Walt, we should not be too worried. It’s keeping itself within the walls. My meeting is at Bridewell but I shan’t need you and the others. You can wait for me at Ned Longbourne’s if you wish.’

  Walt was determined to fend off reassurance. ‘What I want to know is, why London? There must be a curse on the City.’

  ‘And what do you think London has done to deserve it?’

  ‘God alone knows, Master Thomas.’

  ‘Exactly! And we do best not to try to fathom his thoughts.’

  The groom was silent for the next couple of miles, though I could tell he was struggling with his thoughts. At last he gave voice to what was really worrying him. ‘Heaven forbid that anything bad should happen to you, Master Thomas, but these men we’re dealing with ...’

  ‘Yes, Walt?’

  ‘Well, if anything were to go wrong ... if this Black Harry found you .. . Well, he has a score to settle, hasn’t he?’

  ‘What you mean is, he might kill me.’

  ‘Well, yes ... and then there’s the plague.’

  ‘What you�
�re trying to say is that I’m needlessly endangering my life and you’re worried about what would happen to you if I got killed.’

  ‘It’s not just me, Master. There’s everyone in the household and the workshop to think about. And now we seem to have taken on responsibility for Mistress Adie and the two young lads. If you had to leave everything to Master Raffy, and he only a boy, what would become of the business?’

  Walt’s concern was obviously something shared by his colleagues and, doubtless, had been much discussed by them in recent days. They were fully justified in worrying about their futures, which I had put at risk. I did my best to offer reassurance. But was I really trying to convince myself and banish my own guilt?

  ‘As to the boys and their nurse, I hope to see them reunited with Master Holbein. That’s why we’re going to look for him now. I rather think he will take them back to his own people in Germany. If anything happened to me, Raffy would be looked after by the Goldsmiths’ Company. They would see to his training in the craft until he was able to take over the business. But, Walt, try not to worry about what could go wrong. Nothing is certain in this world. We might ride round that bend up yonder, be set on by highway robbers and all left for dead. What I can tell you is that I’ve no intention of getting myself killed but that, if the worst should happen, Treviots will stay in business. Now, the ground seems firmer here; let’s give the horses a canter.’

  If you had to leave everything to Master Raffy, and he only a boy, what would become of the business? The words echoed around in my head throughout the rest of the journey. But not in relation to my own situation. This was the question in very many minds as they thought about England and its future. We had a king who was sick and ageing rapidly. Some said it was only the unbending oak of his stubborn will that defied the angel of death and kept him at bay. I had vivid memories of royal Henry as I had seen him in my youth. Word would spread that his majesty was to ride through the City, or that he had organised a Whitehall tournament or a river pageant. My friends and I would rush to find a vantage point where we could get a glimpse of our sovereign. And the sight never disappointed. Massive, regal, splendid in silks and jewels, he paraded before his subjects, the very embodiment of kingship. It was impossible for us not to feel a surge of pride. But now he seldom ventured beyond the walls of his palaces and when he did so even his sumptuous wardrobe could not conceal the over-fleshed body or the occasional winces of pain he failed to suppress. And this ailing, failing monarch only had a child to succeed him, a son two years younger than Raffy. There was, of course, no question of either of the two princesses assuming their father’s crown. Women were not made by God to rule kingdoms. What then would become of the ‘business’ of England?

  This was the concern that underlay all the political manoeuvring in which Cranmer, Gardiner, Norfolk and all our leaders of church and state were involved. They were fighting for the future of England. Rather, they were fighting to control the future of England and the destinies of all Englishmen. Shaping our religion was only a part of the conflict the archbishop spoke of. Foreign alliances, war and peace, taxes and the use to which they were put – all matters of state would be in the hands of the men who would exercise the real power when Prince Edward became our king. Of course, they could not say so. Even to speak of his majesty’s death was treason, punishable by hanging, drawing and quartering. But power, total power, ultimate power was the prize for which they were all contending. And it was this struggle in which I had become embroiled.

  Holbein also was a player in this dangerous political tourney in which any fall was fatal. The difference between us was that he had chosen his role and I had not. He possessed information that could destroy Cranmer’s enemies and he was intent on passing it to me. What use the archbishop would put it to I could only guess but whatever its importance to his feud, it was unlikely to solve my own problem, that of rescuing Bart from the gallows. There was still only one way to achieve that. As we drew closer to London and what I hoped would be my meeting with Holbein, I knew I had to do two things: become the courier of highly dangerous information and make sure that Black Harry was captured. On reflection, Walt was probably right to be worried.

  It was mid-afternoon when we reached Ned’s house in Southwark. He refreshed us with one of his celebrated cordials and wanted to hear all our news.

  ‘God and the saints be praised!’ he exclaimed, when I related the rescue of Adie and the boys. ‘I fear the news here is as bad as yours is good. Matters are grown much worse since your last visit only a few days ago. People are streaming over the bridge to escape the plague. The authorities have placed guards at both ends in an effort to stop poor, infected souls from leaving. Sufferers are ordered to stay within doors. If they have to venture abroad they must carry a white stick so that others can avoid them. Of course, many choose not to do so, but mingle with the fleeing crowds. That increases the spread of the disease and also panic. That’s why the soldiers are there to examine everyone. It does little good; plague victims simply leave the City by boat. The Michaelmas law sittings at Westminster have been postponed to stop plaintiffs and defendants carrying the pestilence upriver and thronging the hall. Not very good for lawyers’ business.’

  ‘No,’ Walt said gloomily, ‘and it will reduce the number of cases to be heard when the courts do reopen.’

  ‘How so?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, think of all the prisoners who will die in the stinking overcrowded jails.’

  ‘What brings you back?’ Ned asked. ‘You would do well to stay away until a change in the weather clears the hot and moist humours.’

  ‘I shan’t venture inside the City,’ I explained. ‘I will take a boat to Bridewell Quay in the hope of seeing Master Holbein and giving him the good news about his sons.’

  I explained about the letter I had received from John of Antwerp.

  ‘What a sad muddle,’ Ned said. ‘The poor man must be distracted with grief.’

  ‘Indeed. That’s why I must get to him as soon as possible. By your leave, Ned, I will go now and, I hope, be back in an hour or so.’

  ‘God’s speed,’ the old man said. ‘I pray you will be able to bring that poor fugitive some cheer.’

  Sadly, Ned’s supplication was not answered. When I reached Bridewell I found Holbein’s door open. His room was deserted and in chaos. Everything lay strewn about the floor – bedding, food, dishes, papers, canvases, brushes, all littered in confusion. Vivid paints were spread everywhere, as though they had been deliberately poured over the debris. I found a stool, wiped it over with a tom sheet, sat down and tried to work out what could possibly have happened. Clearly, I was too late. Black Harry must have received from Moyle the details of Holbein’s hiding place that I had foolishly revealed. There was something astonishing about the man’s persistent vigour. Ned would have called it diabolical. He would probably have been right.

  I stood and wandered around the room, picking up items, turning over others, in the vain hope of finding some clue to what might have happened to the painter. I set the easel squarely on its feet and picked up the last painting he had been working on. I saw now that it was a self-portrait. I gazed at the familiar features – the fringe of dark beard in the German fashion, the serious, almost severe set of the mouth, the penetrating eyes that appeared more searching of me than I of them. Not for the first time, I marvelled at the skill of this remarkable craftsman, who could capture a likeness with such awesome precision. It struck me that I was looking at his last piece of work. Johannes Holbein must, by now, surely be dead. I could not imagine that Black Harry and his ruffians would have wasted any time before killing him. I tried to picture the horror this place must have recently witnessed. I imagined the sadistic attackers inflicting as much pain as possible upon the victim before removing his body, perhaps in a sack to be disposed of later or slipped unobtrusively into the refuse-laden river.

  After a last look round, I let myself out. As I turned the key in the door, something sudden
ly struck me as odd: why had I found the room locked when I arrived? If the gang found Holbein here and took him away – dead or alive – why would they waste more time getting the key off him and locking the door behind them?

  ‘What will you do now?’ Ned asked when I returned to Southwark.

  ‘I must send word to Cranmer. Then I’ll go to Chiswick to call once more on the Fleming. I must tell him about his friend, if he does not already know. But these things will have to wait until tomorrow. I’m weary now – to the very depths of my soul.’

  The following morning – Monday 27 September – I despatched one of my men to the archbishop with my report. That done, I hired a boatman to row me up to Chiswick. If my discovery at Bridewell had been a shock, what met me at the elegant house of van der Goes was almost as disturbing. Two burly men with heavy clubs guarded the door and demanded my business. Only when this information had been relayed within was I admitted. The sombre atmosphere inside was immediately apparent. I was shown into a small anteroom, where the goldsmith’s English wife sat attended by two female attendants. She had obviously been crying and she still clutched a kerchief in trembling fingers.’

  ‘Whatever has happened?’I demanded.

  ‘Oh, Master Treviot,’ she wailed. ‘Do you know aught of this business? My John has done nothing to deserve what those men did to him. Who are they? I thought they would kill him.’

  I was gripped by terrible foreboding. ‘Was the leader a tall man with black hair?’

  ‘Yes, yes! In heaven’s name, who is he? Why did he force his way in here at first light? What grievance can he possibly have had with John?’