The Traitor’s Mark

by D. K. Wilson

  ‘Mistress, I am deeply sorry for your distress but ’tis vital I see your husband. May I go to him?’

  She looked doubtful. ‘He is very weak ... but if it will help to catch these wretches.’ She motioned to one of her companions who silently led me up the stairs to the main bed chamber.

  The curtains of an impressive bed were drawn back. Van der Goes lay partially propped on the pillows. His head was bound with a cloth which bore traces of blood and his face was bruised and swollen. I seated myself on the bed. ‘Dear God, what have they done?’ I muttered as much to myself as to the recumbent merchant.

  He partially opened his lids and, with evident difficulty, focused on me. ‘Brother Treviot, is that you?’

  ‘Yes, what has happened here?’

  ‘It was those enemies of Johannes Holbein. They came looking for him.’

  ‘Today?’ I was confused. Or, more likely, it was van der Goes whose mind was fuddled.

  The sick man nodded and winced with the pain. ‘Very early. I had scarcely risen.’

  I pictured Holbein’s lair as I had last seen it with its broken and scattered furniture. ‘But the ruffians were at Bridewell yesterday. I was sure they must have found Holbein.’

  ‘No. Their leader – a tall brute – said they spotted Johannes and followed him to Bridewell but he escaped them.’

  ‘How could he do that? There’s only one way in and out.’

  ‘He has a key to a small store room next door and it has a trapdoor to the floor below. That was one of the reasons Johannes chose the place for his secret studio.’ Van der Goes closed his eyes again and I feared he was lapsing into unconsciousness.

  ‘Why did they come here?’ I asked. ‘Why did they do this to you?’

  Van der Goes moaned. ‘They were angry – very, very angry about losing Johannes again.’

  ‘But why come to you?’

  ‘They discovered that I own the warehouse and let out the space. They thought I’d know where Johannes has gone.’

  ‘But you don’t?’

  ‘If Johannes is not at Bridewell, I know not where he is,’ the injured man said, with great difficulty.

  ‘You don’t suppose ...’I could hardly bring myself to mention the fearful question that occurred to me. ‘He must have been terribly distressed to know that his sons had fallen into Black Harry’s clutches. Is it possible he might have been overwhelmed with remorse. Could he have ...’

  ‘Taken his own life? I don’t like to think it ... Yet ... He was very broken when he heard about the children ... Poor Johannes! Is there anything to be done?’

  ‘I can try the Steelyard. Someone there might know something.’

  ‘Yes,’ van der Goes said, ‘that is our only chance. Pray God you find him there or hear news of him.’ His head fell back against the pillow.

  I stood up. ‘I must let you rest. Take care of yourself. You have been a good friend to Holbein. I would not want to see you suffer more for him than you already have.’

  ‘Thank you,’ van der Goes muttered weakly. ‘You, too, have tried to help him, Brother Treviot. Perhaps if I had trusted you more at the beginning.’

  ‘Please, do not think like that. We have both made mistakes. I pray God grants us wit and time to put them right.’ I crossed to the door. ‘I promise to send you any news I have.’

  As I was rowed back downriver I tried to make sense of the latest turn of events. Holbein must have had enough warning of the gang’s approach to slip into the neighbouring room and make his escape. But where to? I went straight to the Hanse wharf. I climbed the stair in the shadow of the great crane which was busily hoisting bales of wool on to the quay. I asked the guard for Andreas Meyer and he sent a boy in search of the Steelyard’s pastor. A chill autumnal wind was now blowing across the river and I began to get cold waiting on the open wharf. It was some minutes before the rotund figure appeared but when he did come bustling through the archway from the residential area, he was all affability.

  ‘Master Treviot, how good to see you again, though I imagine your errand is not of the happiest.’

  He led me through the complex of buildings to All Saints Church, the Hanse community’s chapel. We passed through the building with its austere interior of white walls bereft of statues and pictures. A door close by the large pulpit led to Meyer’s house and we were soon seated in his small study overlooking Thames Street. He called for beer and the taste of this beverage, still frowned on by many of my own countrymen, brought back memories of my visit to Antwerp some years before.

  ‘Once again I come to you in search of Johannes Holbein,’ I said.

  ‘And once again I have to tell you that he is not here,’ the pastor replied.

  ‘But he has been here since I called.’

  ‘Oh, yes. In fact, you have only missed him by a few hours.’ ‘He is still alive, then.’

  Meyer nodded gravely. ‘Alive, yes, but deeply troubled. I have spent much time counselling him. As you know too well, his two boys have been abducted by the desperate men who have been pursuing him.’

  ‘Yes, I’m anxious to find him to tell him that his sons have been found and are safe.’

  Meyer’s face lit up in a broad smile. ‘Oh, I’m so glad to hear that. I’ve been praying constantly for them. Oh, that is good news.’

  ‘So where can I find Holbein to tell him?’

  ‘I do not know, Master Treviot. I genuinely do not know. Perhaps it would be best if I explain to you from the beginning how I came to be involved in Johannes’ complicated and troubled life.’ He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes in an effort of memory. ‘It is very difficult because he has only ever told me what he thinks it necessary for me to know. Whenever I press him for detail he replies that my safety lies in ignorance. I have no idea what he is involved in. I’ve only pieced together his story from scraps of things that he has said.’

  ‘Perhaps you could tell me – briefly – what you do know, so that I may continue my search.’

  ‘Of course. Well, it all began almost a month ago. I recall it was the first day of September. That was when the plague really began to affect us. We always have a feast on St Augustine’s Day – that’s the twenty-eighth – but we had decided to cancel it—’

  ‘Yes, yes, Pastor Meyer,’ I interrupted. ‘If you could just give me the facts. Every minute might be vital.’

  He nodded, but continued with his leisurely narrative. ‘Indeed, indeed. Well, Johannes arrived all hot and begrimed. He looked terrible. He said he’d been waylaid on the road back to London from the royal court, somewhere east of the City. I assumed he had been attacked by highway robbers but from other things he let slip I realised there was more to it than that. He wanted asylum for a few days and, of course, we were happy to help. He was very agitated. He believed enemies were close on his trail.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I know all this. Did he name his pursuers?’

  ‘No. He was more concerned for the safety of his children and their nurse. He begged me to give them shelter also. Of course, I went immediately to his house – in person ...’

  ‘You were presumably too late.’

  ‘Indeed, the neighbours told me about the horrible crime and ...’

  ‘So you told Holbein,’ I prompted.

  ‘Poor Johannes. He was distraught at the news. He was convinced evil men must have taken his boys. He shut himself away here and would see no one. I had no chance till later to tell him that people had come here looking for him.’

  ‘People ? I was not the only one, then?’

  ‘No, another came that very afternoon.’

  ‘A tall man with black hair?’

  ‘Oh, no. This man was of average build, a gentleman ... very well dressed ... some might say overdressed.’

  ‘Did he give his name?’

  Meyer frowned. ‘He did not. He was a haughty fellow ... thought I should be impressed by his talk of coming from the royal court. Popinjay! I made certain to tell him no more than he told me.�
��

  ‘So when I called on 2 September, Holbein was here?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid I was a little less than wholly honest with you. But he did leave again that very night. He said to stay here would put his friends’ lives in danger.’

  I sat back with a sigh of exasperation. ‘If only you had let me see him so much tragedy might have been avoided.’

  Meyer was crestfallen. ‘I’m sorry. I really am but you can see why I was cautious, can you not? I didn’t know who was looking for poor Johannes; only that he was very afraid of them. The only thing I could do was feign complete ignorance. However, I did, as you will recall, direct you to Master van der Goes, who is Johannes’ closest friend. Was he not able to help you?’

  ‘So you’ve really no idea where Holbein went after leaving here?’

  ‘No. Later I worked out from odd things he said that he had two or three secret refuges but he would not tell me where they were. He had a powerful obsession about being hunted. If he was here in this room now, he would be repeatedly going to the window and peering down into the street. Once he snatched the door open in the middle of our conversation, convinced there was an eavesdropper outside. I tell you, Master Treviot, our friend lives in a very strange world; a world of secrecy, subterfuge and violence.’

  ‘Master van der Goes told me that Holbein has been here again more recently.’

  The pastor smiled. ‘Simple people in my country believe in the wichtel, a fairy creature who comes and goes, appears and disappears at will. Johannes has something of the wichtel about him. We never know when to expect him. He was here ... it must have been two weeks ago. He said he’d found his boys and was looking for a shipmaster to carry the three of them secretly across the German Sea. That was not easy to arrange. Hanse merchants are very wary of getting into trouble with your government. If they are caught carrying the king’s enemies out of England, they have their vessels and cargoes confiscated. However, a deal was struck. But then, last Wednesday, he was back again to say that he would not need a passage after all.’

  ‘And that was not the last time you saw him?’

  ‘No, he was here, just for a few minutes this morning. He was in a terrible state; almost out of his wits. He came to make his confession. You will understand I cannot go into detail about our discussion. Let me, instead, pose a theological question – hypothetical, of course. If a man surrenders himself to an enemy in the certain knowledge that that enemy will kill him, is he, thereby, guilty of the sin of suicide?’

  ‘Hmm, I see.’

  ‘I’m sure you do. I pray for him and I beg that you will do so too.’

  ‘Of course. And if he “appears” again, in God’s name tell him that his boys are safe with me and that I must talk with him. Urgently!’

  Chapter 14

  That evening Ned and I sat until late examining from every angle a situation that was becoming more complex by the day. I reported my conversation with Meyer.

  ‘He had little to say, then?’Ned asked.

  ‘Oh, he had a great deal to say but very little to tell. Heaven grant I never have to listen to one of his sermons. He did, however, make clear his great anxiety for Holbein. He fears our friend may rush headlong into some desperate deal. That’s a concern I share.’

  Ned was replacing one of the guttering candles. ‘One thing that has occurred to me,’ he said ‘is the hurry everyone is in – or perhaps panic would be a better word. When I lived in the cloister, everything was regulated. Prayer, worship, work, silent meditation – all things had their allotted places. Life followed a measured, calm routine. That was the beauty of it. When I came out into your world my first impression was one of mad, headlong rush. It took me several weeks to realise that it was an illusion. Very few people, in fact, move faster than they need to move. The seasons come and go, so do feast days and fast days, market days, wash days, baking days. Folk love the unhurried pattern. They avoid frenzy. So when I see people madly rushing to and fro, it makes me wonder why.’

  ‘You mean like Black Harry?’

  ‘Him, certainly. He is in London, then he’s here, then in Essex, then back to London. But he’s not the only one. Your Johannes Holbein moves rapidly to and fro across the City, never resting more than a day or two anywhere. And now, here you are, caught up in the same delirious rampaging around the country.’

  ‘Not of my own free will, I can assure you.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Ned said with a tone of triumph. ‘Now, if not your will, whose?’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow.’

  ‘Then let me catechise you. What turns a trickling stream into a raging torrent?’

  ‘A greater volume of water coming from upriver.’

  ‘And what causes the greater volume of water?’

  ‘Well, storms, unusually heavy rain.’

  ‘So what is the storm that is turning so many lives into a tumbling, raging fury?’

  When I hesitated to reply, Ned answered his own question: ‘Fear. Black Harry provokes fear in Holbein but only because he is afraid of someone behind him – upriver, to continue our analogy. Now who can strike fear into the heart of this Godless fiend?’

  ‘His paymasters.’

  ‘Yes, he is well protected by powerful men and, presumably, well paid also. But what if he fails to satisfy them?’

  ‘No more protection and no more gold.’

  ‘Exactly. His patrons will not hesitate to abandon him if he does not give them what they want. And then?’

  ‘The great Black Harry becomes just another desperate outlaw, heading almost inexorably for the gallows. That’s all very interesting, Ned, but I don’t see how it helps us.’

  ‘It always helps to know your enemy, especially his weaknesses. Just bear in mind that yours is vulnerable, One day that knowledge may come in useful. I also counsel you to cultivate the art of reflection.’

  I laughed. ‘Would you have me become a recluse, a holy hermit?’

  But Ned was quite serious. ‘I would have you stay alive, my friend, and you are more likely to do that if you can stand back from your problems. Rush and hurry begin in the mind – or the soul – and may gallop us unheeding to the precipice. One of the mystics tells us, “The man who lives in contemplation will not err in his worldly affairs”.’

  ‘Easily said if you live in a monastery,’ I said. ‘Now, talking of fear, I’m very worried about Bart and Lizzie. They and the children ought not to be in the City while the plague is raging.’

  ‘I agree, and—’

  ‘Then there’s Bart’s impetuousness. As long as he plays the lone hunter, trying to corner a beast like Black Harry, he’s in constant danger.’

  ‘Yes, that’s why—’

  ‘We must try to find some safe refuge where we can keep a check on their activities.’

  Now it was Ned’s turn to laugh. ‘You prove my point most eloquently, Thomas. While you’ve been rushing from anxiety to anxiety, I have made the necessary arrangements. A friend of mine – ex-abbess of a Poor Clare convent – has her own house not far away. She will be delighted to take in Lizzie and the children. I’ve also persuaded Lizzie to let Bart stay here with me. If he has to go out we can arrange a suitable disguise, as we did the other day, and I may just possibly be able to exert a calming influence.’

  I muttered something to cover my embarrassment.

  ‘And you,’ Ned continued, ‘what are your plans?’

  ‘I’ll leave messages for Master Johannes with his friends in the hope of arranging a meeting. For the next few days I shall be busy in Kent on the archbishop’s commission.’

  ‘Have you thought of trying, to work your way back upstream?’

  ‘Upstream?’

  Ned chuckled. ‘Forgive me. I was carried away by my own metaphor. What I mean is, since all these misfortunes have their origins in the royal court, do you have any contacts there who might be able to help with information or advice?’

  ‘I have done work for some members of the Privy Chamber.
In fact, only a few months ago my workshop made a magnificent astronomical clock for Anthony Denny, his majesty’s Groom of the Stool. A gift for the king. It was designed by Holbein – a most elaborate piece: clock, hourglass, sundial and compass all in one. It stretched my workmen to the limit. Master Anthony was delighted with it.’

  ‘Could you not have, a word with him? Perhaps there might be a way to dam the flood upriver or divert its channel.’

  ‘He will be with the court. I believe they’re all out in Berkshire somewhere.’

  ‘No more than a short day’s ride.’

  ‘I thought you disapproved of my galloping round the country.’

  Ned turned on me his familiar deceptive smile which gave the impression he was a rather simple old man, and concealed his guileful wisdom. ‘It seems to me there is much difference between following a trail and laying one.’

  As I took my candle and hauled myself wearily up to Ned’s guest chamber my head whirled. All this talk of rivers and trails! Would I ever again find an even and well-signposted road beneath my feet?

  Any thought of taking Ned’s advice was put from my mind when I arrived back at Hemmings. Among the messages waiting for me was one from James Dewey, my friend and Kentish neighbour, suggesting an itinerary for our investigation of local clergy. However, more urgent was the summons to serve on the jury at the Canterbury quarter sessions. There was also a letter from Ralph Morice in response to my reports to the archbishop. The cumulative effect of these documents was worrying in the extreme. I sat in my chamber with them spread before me, looking from one to the other, trying to form a coherent impression of the situation that was developing in the county.

  The summons stressed the importance of the forthcoming judicial proceedings:

  There is much more business than usual. The postponement of the Michaelmas sittings at Westminster has led to some cases being referred to the quarter sessions. More pressing is the growing unrest in the county. Jails are full with offenders awaiting trial. Until these are dealt with and space made to detain other malefactors, magistrates will find it difficult to place in custody the noisome preachers and popular agitators who are everywhere disturbing his majesty’s peace ...