The Traitor’s Mark

by D. K. Wilson

  The notice instructed jurors to make provision for spending several days in Canterbury to deal with the crisis.

  James’s letter listed seven churches that, in his opinion, warranted our urgent attention.

  ... Information has been laid against the Vicar of Bremley, that he is sluggardly in setting forth the king’s supremacy, utters saucy words against his grace, the archbishop, and has removed the Bible from his church. At St Margaret’s, Settringham, there has been much stirring caused by the parson, Edmund Styles. People complain of statues defaced by his order and of his preaching in the marketplace. He seems to have built up a large popular following of hot-brained young men who talk of using force to – as they say – rid the realm of popery ...

  The letter from Ralph Morice was longer and slightly rambling, which was strange, coming from someone who had an orderly mind.

  His grace thanks you for your endeavours and regrets that they have yet to bear fruit ...

  No mention of Holbein’s name. Perhaps Morice feared his letter might be intercepted.

  ... The information is more important than ever ... His grace’s enemies among the cathedral clergy and shire gentry have met in secret, as they suppose, to plan their campaign. Their immediate target is Richard Turner, vicar at Chartham, a true Bible man and a zealous preacher. They have arrested him and purpose to bring him before the sessions. The reason is, not so much his godly teaching – though that they abhor – but that he stands high in his grace’s favour. If they can once indict Turner for preaching against official doctrine and have him brought to trial, they hope to tear from him recantation of the truth and words they can twist and use against his grace and sundry of our friends who stand by the king’s supremacy and the reformed religion. His grace dares do nothing for the poor man’s delivery save that he sanctions me to approach our friends at court to inform his majesty of the wicked deviousness of these papists ... His grace is in his manor at Croydon and waits to receive any new information you have ...

  New information? Heartily did I wish that I had any information – anything that made sense to me, any facts that were firm beneath my feet, instead of the shifting sands of feuding factions, clashing religious convictions, personal rivalries and violence which knew no limit. It was now the end of September and I was no closer to finding Holbein, saving Bart from the gallows or obtaining justice for a poor young man butchered in Aldgate than I had been the first day of the month, when my involvement in this wretched business started. Nor, I realised, would I find my way to solid ground while I was embroiled in the rivalries and hatreds of Kent’s political life. Ned was right; I would achieve nothing as long as I continued to let events propel me along a twisting lane leading I knew not where. It was time to do some of the pushing myself. But not yet. For now I was caught up in the cumbersome machinery of the English legal system.

  These thoughts occupied my mind for much of the next day’s journey to Canterbury. James and I travelled together with our own escort and spoke little.

  ‘Do you know anything about this Turner troublemaker we have to deal with at the sessions?’ I asked the question as we sat in the inn at Lenham, where we had stopped for dinner.

  James carved himself another slice of cheese. ‘This is very good,’ he said. ‘Turner? I only know what Thwaites and others say. They’ve been trying to silence him for a couple of years. Every time they send him up to the archbishop’s court he comes back with his grace’s blessing.’ He grinned. ‘Frustrating for them. Personally, anything that upsets Thwaites is sweet music to me.’

  ‘Has the archbishop appointed Turner to. speed up the pace of reform?’

  ‘Not so much Cranmer; more his secretary, Ralph Morice. It was Morice who instituted Turner to the living at Chartham. I don’t think even Morice can save him this time.’

  ‘Because he’s being brought to the secular court?’

  James nodded. ‘Violation of Statute of Six Articles, 31 Henry VIII number 14.’

  I laughed. ‘I didn’t know you were a lawyer. Do you have all the laws of the realm at your finger ends?’

  ‘Not many,’ he replied with his mouth full, ‘but this one’s particularly useful.’ He swallowed, cleared his throat and recited: “‘In the most blessed sacrament of the altar, by the strength and efficacy of Christ’s mighty word, it being spoken by the priest, is present really under the form of bread and wine, the natural body and blood of our Saviour Jesu Christ, conceived of the Virgin Mary, and that after the consecration there remains no substance of bread or wine.’”

  ‘So, you are a theologian as well as a lawyer.’

  ‘No, I don’t understand all the stuff about “substance” and “real presence”. The beauty of this statute is that I don’t have to. All we magistrates are called on to do is recite the words and ask the prisoner, “Do you believe it?” If he says no, he burns. Of course, very few do say no. I’ve only ever sent one man up to a higher court for the death sentence.’

  ‘I think that would worry me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sending someone to the stake for what he believes.’

  He shrugged. ‘Life was easier for magistrates when we didn’t have‘’ to get involved in such cases but since his majesty has extended the scope of common law we have no choice. You’ve no idea how much the burden of our work has increased in the last few years. Anyway, most of these heretics recant under pressure and then lose credibility among their own followers.’

  ‘So when I cast my vote in the jury hearing Turner’s case I will be expected to find him guilty so that he’ll be persuaded to recant?’

  James frowned at me over the rim of his tankard. ‘You know your duty, Thomas.’

  ‘I know nothing. I just need to understand what will be expected of me as a juryman.’

  ‘Turner will be indicted for preaching against the Six Articles. You have to decide if he’s guilty.’ James pushed his trencher to one Side. ‘Now we should be getting back on the road.’

  I did not move. ‘And if he’s pronounced guilty the archbishop’s enemies will accuse him of supporting heretics.’

  He stood and set his cap on his head. ‘I really don’t know ...’

  ‘James, we’ve been friends for too long. I can tell when you’re trying to hide something from me.’

  ‘There are things it would be better if you did not know.’

  ‘Then let me guess. Magistrates are under pressure to uncover any information that can be used against Cranmer.’

  James hesitated for several moments, then said, ‘All I can tell you is that certain men – powerful men – feel the archbishop is trying to force change too quickly and that it encourages rebellious spirits.’

  ‘By “certain men” you mean Sir Thomas Moyle and his friends.’

  But James was already walking to the door.

  As we rode our horses out of the inn yard and turned along the short village street, James pointed to a group of men and women emerging from one of the larger houses. ‘In my opinion, the law would be better occupied keeping an eye on them.’

  ‘Why? Who are they? They look peaceable enough.’

  ‘Cloth workers. There’s a tribe of them in this area. Aliens mostly. They work for lower wages than their neighbours. You can imagine what feelings that stirs. More importantly, they bring their own religious ideas with them.’

  ‘Lutherans?’

  ‘Aye, and others. There’s all sorts of foreigners who’ve left the pope’s church to follow I don’t know what weird opinions. The trouble is, they spread their ideas to others.’

  ‘What sort of ideas?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ve got tired of arguing with the simpletons. You and I know, don’t we, that religion is priests’ business. So if the Church says, “This bread and wine is now flesh and blood because the priest has said some words over it”, we believe it. Not these people. “It still looks like bread and wine, so it is bread and wine,” they say. Well, what’s the point of trying to reaso
n with that sort of simple-minded nonsense?’

  I thought, but did not say, ’Tis not clear to me exactly who is being simple-minded.

  The Shire Hall was a scene of constant movement. People were coming and going all the time. Witnesses and other interested parties arrived early, not knowing when their cases would be called. Thus, while some of the throng in the body of the hall were involved in the proceedings and pressed forward to the bar to follow what the lawyers and court officials were saying, others were waiting and talking among themselves. Frequently the Clerk of the Peace had to call for silence. Magistrates, who took turns to preside over the quarter sessions, hurried the day’s business forward as quickly as they could. More than once an impatient chairman glowered at the jury and demanded to know why we were taking so long to reach our verdict.

  The jury occupied a bench to one side of the upper hall. Most members served for at least a day, though twice someone from among the casual observers had to be sworn to make up numbers. My colleagues were yeomen farmers or tenants of the area’s major landowners. When a verdict was called for we huddled together in the nearest corner, each man stating his opinion while very aware of the court officers’ impatience to press on to the next case. Thus we made short work of a succession of men and women charged with theft, highway robbery, fraud and treasonous words.

  It was mid-afternoon when Richard Turner was brought in. I studied him carefully as he stood, manacled, beside a constable. Thin, pale, straggle-haired and with wisps of straw from the prison floor stuck to his overgown, he did not look an imposing figure. It was when he spoke, answering questions without hesitation and declaring in a forthright manner what he believed, that I came swiftly to the conclusion that here was a man not come hither to recant.

  Sir Thomas Moyle had been elected, as senior magistrate, to take the chair for this case and he called for the indictment to be read. Clearly, Cranmer had, as yet, taken no action against him.

  ‘You are charged that, on Passion Sunday last past, you did preach in Chartham Church against the doctrine of the Church, as defined in the Statute of Six Articles. What say you to the charge?’

  ‘That I am not guilty,’ Turner replied so quietly that I had to lean forward to hear his words.

  ‘Well,’ said Moyle, ‘we shall see. Here are witnesses who will declare otherwise. Master Sanders and Master Brown, stand forth to be sworn.’

  Two men in the dress of simple husbandmen shuffled into the area beneath the raised platform on which the chairman sat. They took their oaths.

  ‘As good Christian men, you attended mass in your parish church upon Passion Sunday, did you not?’

  ‘Yes, Master,’ the witnesses replied in unison.

  ‘And was the vicar, Richard Turner, preaching upon that day?’

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  ‘And, to the best of your recollection, what did he say in his sermon?’

  There was laughter in the court as both men tried to answer at once. Moyle tetchily told Sanders to give his evidence first.

  ‘He said that the mass was nothing worth; that Our Lord did give his body and blood on the cross and that no living person, be he priest or layman, can add to that sacrifice.’

  ‘That seems clear enough,’ said Moyle. ‘Master Brown, is your recollection in agreement with that?’

  Brown nodded, seeming suddenly tongue-tied.

  Moyle turned to the prisoner. ‘What say you to that?’

  ‘I say it is not in contradiction of the Act,’ Turner replied. ‘That Christ’s sacrifice is sufficient for all men at all times no Christian would disagree. I do not debate how that sacrifice is represented in the mass.’

  At that moment a young man in a lawyer’s gown stood and approached the bench, ‘May it please, Your Honour, my name is Ralph Symons of Gray’s Inn. I have been engaged to represent the prisoner.’

  ‘Engaged? Who by?’ Moyle did not look pleased.

  ‘By Master Morice, on behalf of his grace of Canterbury. With your permission I would like to ask one or two questions of the witnesses.’

  The chairman nodded.

  So, I thought, Cranmer is taking a hand in this affair? Would Moyle, I wondered, take note and modify his hostility towards the accused?

  Symons smiled at the two Chartham men, who appeared bewildered and had obviously not expected this development. ‘Good day to you, Masters. How do you fare? These are hard times for honest husbandmen. I know not how you manage to produce sufficient yield to feed your families.’

  ‘’Tis indeed a struggle, Sir,’ Sanders replied.

  ‘I presume you go to market every day possible to sell your surplus.’

  The witnesses readily signified their agreement, presumably relieved that they were not facing a difficult interrogation,

  ‘Were you at Wye Fair this year?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘You always make a point of attending this major event.’

  ‘Yes, Sir, never miss,’ Brown agreed.

  ‘That takes place upon St Gregory’s Eve, I believe.’ Symons picked up a book and opened it. ‘Now, the feast of St Gregory is 12 March, is it not? So the eve is n March. Well, here’s something interesting in my almanac. It seems that Passion Sunday this year fell upon 11 March. Now, Masters, answer me truthfully, do you practise witchcraft?’

  The witnesses were dumbfounded. They muttered and spluttered their denials.

  ‘We are all relieved to hear it. That being the case, I assume you have not mastered the diabolical art of being in two places at the same time. If you spent the day at Wye Fair, you could not have heard Master Turner preach in Chartham.’

  Moyle now intervened angrily. ‘This is nothing to the point, Master Symons. We are here to decide whether the prisoner teaches dangerous heresy.’

  ‘Your Honour, the indictment is very specific. It charges the prisoner with uttering words against the Six Articles Act on Passion Sunday of this year. No witnesses have yet been brought forward who can help the jury decide the matter.’

  Moyle was now red-faced with fury. ‘Mere technicality!’ he shouted. ‘I’ll have no more of this nonsense!’ He glowered at my colleagues and me. ‘Men of the jury, consider your verdict – and make haste.’

  Chapter 15

  We quickly shuffled into our jurors’ huddle.

  ‘Guilty?’ our foreman enquired and there was a general murmur of assent.

  ‘Surely not,’ I protested. ‘The lawyer’s point was a strong one. Turner has not defied the law as stated in the indictment.’

  ‘But Sir Thomas says that is a mere technicality,’ a burly man – and one of Moyle’s tenants – said.

  ‘We have heard no evidence about Turner’s preaching,’ I urged. ‘The witnesses were not in church on Passion Sunday.’

  ‘They know what they heard,’ the foreman insisted. ‘The date hardly matters.’

  ‘Aye,’ said another, ‘we all know the stirs made by the likes of this fellow.’

  ‘And for that you would bum him, without evidence?’ By now I was shouting and people were staring.

  ‘Master foreman, what’s to do?’ Moyle bellowed. ‘Are we to have your decision today?’

  ‘Indeed, Your Honour. I beg Your Honour’s pardon for the delay. We find the accused guilty.’

  I jumped to my feet. ‘I do not!’ I glowered at my colleagues. ‘As for you, perjure yourselves if you will to please whoever is paying you.’

  Now there was commotion in the court. The clerk’s demand for order could scarcely be heard.

  Only Moyle’s voice carried over the hubbub. He was on his feet and shouting. ‘Master Treviot, you will behave yourself in my court or I will have you arrested.’

  ‘Your court, Sir Thomas? I had thought it was the king’s court and, by God, his majesty shall hear how you abuse his justice. I want no more of your court.’ I turned and strode down the hall.

  ‘Arrest that man! Guard! God flay you; where are you? Arrest him, I say!’

  But
no one laid a hand on me as I elbowed my way through the crowd.

  I went straight to my inn, collected my bag and my escort and rode out of Canterbury. Not until we were jogging along the London road did I think about where we were going. A fresh westerly breeze did something to calm my temper and make me reflect on my actions. Was it just Moyle’s high-handedness that enraged me or was I beginning to take sides in the religious war that was starting to divide the country so bitterly? Whatever my motive, I had done something very foolish. In my hot-headedness, I had threatened to complain to the king – a threat I was in no position to carry out. Yet, if I did nothing, I would have made a powerful enemy for no good reason. Moyle was not the sort of man to overlook my behaviour. How would he go about exacting his revenge? Clap me in jail for aiding a heretic? Put me on trial in his sham court? Or, perhaps, set Black Harry on my trail? If I was to escape his wrath I would have to act first – and quickly.

  Walt brought his horse alongside mine. ‘That was well spoken back there, Master. I don’t like troublemakers but that Turner was poorly treated.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have let my anger get the better of me.’

  ‘You’ve shown there’s at least one honourable man in Kent. Where to now, Master? Back to Hemmings?’

  ‘Not yet,’ I replied. ‘We have a call to make in Croydon.’

  The early sunshine softened the austere outline of the archbishop’s venerable palace. The large building, partly of stone and partly of brick, was certainly impressive but the gentle eastern light gave it a warm, almost welcoming appearance. We had arrived in Croydon on Thursday evening and obtained lodging in a pleasant inn. The following morning I rose early in the hope of meeting Ralph Morice before he became embroiled in the day’s affairs. When my presence had been announced, I was led through several rooms and up a staircase to a first-floor long gallery. I had heard of this architectural fashion for a special space where the residents could take indoor exercise but had not before encountered one. As I waited, I slowly paced the length of the room, pausing occasionally to admire the view through its many south-facing windows. These overlooked extensive gardens and offered an excellent prospect of wooded upland beyond.