by D. K. Wilson
‘I think there’s one here ...’ The words were followed by a large crash and an oath.
‘Are you all right?’I called.
‘Yes, I think I’ve knocked his painting over. Ah, here we are. I’ve got a lamp.’
‘Can you get your tinderbox out?’
‘Yes.’
Sparks flashed out as he struck the iron. Then a small flame appeared in the darkness. Moments later he had a lamp wick flaring.
I picked up the stool I had fallen over and sat down.
‘They’ve got him,’ Dick gasped. ‘Must have recognised us and come back. Did he tell you what you wanted to know?’
‘No,’ I groaned. ‘No, no, no, not a word. Nothing we did not know before we came in. That’s it – our last chance gone.’
‘Will they kill him?’
‘Sure to. Though, it seems, he’ll not mind that. He just wanted to complete his task first. And he came so close to doing it. A couple more minutes and he’d have told me everything. Now, whatever he knew he’ll take with him to the grave – assuming Norfolk’s men permit him the luxury of a grave.’
After a while I got to my feet. I picked up the painting and set it back on the easel. ‘At least he left us something to remember him by. I’ll keep this.’
I peered at the portrait. There was a vermilion streak running from one corner of the mouth. The paint Holbein had applied only minutes before had been smudged when the canvas was knocked over. It made Holbein’s smile look more like a sneer.
Smile! Could it be?
‘Dick,’ I said quietly. ‘Bring that lamp closer.’
Chapter 19
I picked up a cloth from the table and began to wipe it over the wet paint.
‘What are you doing, Master?’ Dick stared at me as though I had lost my senses.
‘Did you hear the last thing Master Johannes said?’
‘Not clearly.’
‘I think he said “smile”.’ I gradually applied more pressure to the paint surface. ‘When I was here last the expression on this portrait was quite serious. Now, as you can see, it wears a smile. The artist has changed it recently. The paint in this lower section is fresher. It’s not yet fully dry. Just possibly ...’ There was a jar of oil that Holbein had used to mix his pigments. I dipped the rag in it and went back to work, cautiously clearing away part of the area around the mouth. ‘Pray God I’m not wrong.’
Slowly one side of the lips and the adjacent beard disappeared. ‘More light,’ I demanded. ‘If this reveals only the paint base or the canvas then I’m ... Look!’
We both peered intently at the damaged portrait. What was emerging was a patch of brilliant yellow.
‘That’s not under-paint,’ I said with relief. ‘It’s part of something else.’
‘Perhaps Master Johannes has re-used an old canvas,’ Dick said. ‘I’ve heard that poor artists often do that.’
‘Yes, that’s possible. We’ll have to take it away and complete the job more carefully. See if you can find something to wrap the picture in.’
‘Here’s his riding cloak,’ Dick said moments later, picking up the heavy garment from the floor. ‘He went without it.’
I spread it on the floor, laid the canvas on it and gently folded the cloth across it. Then I rolled it over to make a tight, bulky bundle. That done, I carried it very carefully to the door while Dick extinguished the lamps.
The occupants of Ned’s house had little sleep that night. Bart, Ned, Dick and I stood round the table on which we had laid the portrait. The others watched intently as I continued to work on the paint surface. More of the plain yellow was becoming visible when I was forced to stop. The cloth had become dry and clogged with congealed paint and score marks were appearing on the surface.
I looked up, frustrated. ‘We should have brought the oil, Dick. We need more solvent.’
‘I think I can help,’ Ned said. He went to the shelves where all his jars and bottles were stored and came back with a squat glass container holding a yellowish fluid. ‘Walnut oil,’ he said. ‘I use it in lotions for dressing skin wounds. It speeds up the healing process.’
‘Will it work as a solvent?’ I asked. ‘Might it damage the paint?’
Ned shook his head. ‘One of the brothers in the monastery who made our icons used it all the time for mixing his pigments. Though I always felt it tended to make the colours darker, it was certainly effective. But please use it sparingly, Thomas.’Tis very expensive.’
I returned to the work. What emerged was a heraldic shield. My heart leaped the moment I recognised it. On a yellow ground there was a red chevron and three black moles. ‘There,’ I said exultantly, ‘Moyle’s shield.’
Only Ned failed to share the general excitement. ‘It seems that our fine painter has never seen a mole,’ he said, laughing.
‘For that matter, nor have I,’ I said.
‘They were a plague at the monastery,’ Ned replied. ‘Always getting into the herb garden. One of the novices used to trap them.’
‘We must carry on and see what else is in Master Johannes’ hidden message.’ Steadily I worked away at the canvas. What emerged was a panel covering the bottom third of the picture. Beside the shield was a white scroll with black lettering – in German.
‘That appears to be all,’ I said, standing up thankfully, my back aching from hours of bending.
We all stared at the revealed message.
Bart grinned. ‘If that describes Moyle’s meetings with the Duke of Norfolk we’ve got them!’
‘I think so,’ I said. ‘We’ll get our friend at the Steelyard to translate for us. Then we’ll make copies for Sir Anthony and the archbishop. They’ll have to decide how to use the information.’
‘By all the saints, I hope they make the traitors pay. I want to see Black Harry’s face grinning down from a spike on London Bridge and his paymasters swinging on a gallows’ tree,’Bart said.
‘We owe nothing less to Master Johannes,’ I agreed.
It was with thoughts of the painter’s sacrifice in my mind that I eventually lay down on my bed in the early hours of Friday morning.
‘What time is it?’ I asked as I stumbled, yawning, down the stairs later that day.
‘Gone nine,’ Ned replied. ‘I didn’t wake you. You needed the sleep. Come and eat.’
Thankfully, I attacked the food he set before me. ‘I don’t want to waste any more time,’ I said, ‘now that we’ve finally found what we wanted.’
‘I doubt a couple of hours will make any difference,’ he replied. ‘It will be too late to start for Woodstock by the time you’ve concluded your business with your Lutheran friend.’ Ned Longbourne was the kindest and most open-minded of men – except when he was speaking of German ‘heretics’.
‘I’ve decided to go straight to Croydon. I can reach the archbishop today and leave him to send fast messengers to Sir Anthony.’
‘And then you’ll go on to Hemmings?’
‘That depends on his grace. He might need my help if he decides to proceed against Moyle immediately. However, the first job is to see exactly what Master Johannes’ message says.’
‘I think, perhaps, I will come with you, at least part of the way. I might be of some use at Hemmings. Like Lizzie, I’m concerned about Adie and the boys. Someone will have to break the news to them about Master Holbein’s death.’
I thought I detected a hint of criticism. ‘Of course ... I should have ...’
Ned shook his head. ‘No need to reproach yourself, Thomas. I will explain things delicately. You are too far into this business to turn aside for personal reasons.’
I took the portrait, now wrapped in cloth, and had myself rowed across to the Steelyard wharf. When I went in search of Meyer I was told that he was busy. I waited for him in the chapel until almost noon and spent part of the time in prayer for Johannes Holbein. I implored heaven for his safety but whether that might be secured in this world or the next I had to leave in higher hands. The pastor eventu
ally appeared and led me to his office, where I described the events of the previous evening.
Meyer sighed deeply. ‘I suppose he always knew that there could only be one end to this affair.’
‘We must hope for good news until we know for certain what has happened to him. Meanwhile, the best we can do for him is to complete what he began.’ I unwrapped the painting and laid it on the pastor’s desk. ‘This is the message he left for me to pass on. What does it mean?’
Meyer stared at the canvas. ‘What an extraordinary ...’
‘Please, can you translate?’ I urged. ‘I’m in a hurry to pass the message on.’
‘Yes, of course. Exquisite handwriting. So much talent. What a waste.’
‘The translation?’ I tried not to shout.
He took a sheaf of paper from a shelf and handed it to me. ‘There’s pen and ink beside you,’ he said. ‘If I read perhaps you would like to write.’
The words pastor Meyer dictated were as follows:
Visits of this man to the Duke of Norfolk
15 December, 1541, Kenninghall. Visitor says we are delaying our plans. You must beg forgiveness of his majesty and avoid being arrested like others of your family. We cannot proceed without you
20 May, 1543, Whitehall. Visitor says you must draw his majesty’s attention to the Windsor heretics ... Our friends in Canterbury are ready to spring the trap
20 August, 1543, Whitehall. Visitor says everything is ready for the purge in Essex and Kent. My agents need more money. The pope will grant absolution ...
‘That is the end’, Meyer said. ‘Who is this-man who gives orders to your duke?’
‘Someone who conceals his power extremely well,’ I replied.
At Ned’s house all was ready for our departure, including a simple meal packed by our host that we could eat as we travelled. The only task we had to perform was to make copies of Holbein’s notes and his painting of the heraldic device. As I worked, Ned sat opposite me at the table.
‘Strange to think of the Duke of Norfolk taking orders from a social inferior,’ he said. ‘Such a proud man.’
‘They are both in the service of Emperor Charles and the pope. That, I suppose, levels out lesser distinctions of rank. As covert Catholics, I imagine they enjoy your sympathy, Ned.’
‘That’s an unjust taunt, my friend.’
‘I mean no insult by it. I’m intrigued to know what you really think of a man like Thomas Moyle.’
‘I have never been able to understand how violence, militancy and treason can be squared with the Christian profession,’ he said. ‘By all accounts this Moyle has always been a duplicitous creature. In time past he was one of the most virulent enemies of the religious life. He was a chief commissioner in the campaign to close the monasteries.’
‘Aye, and a zealous supporter of Cromwell. It was only after Cromwell’s fall that he showed his true colours. He knew all about the ex-minister’s network and was in a position to sell his information to Eustace Chapuys, the imperial ambassador.’
‘So it seems we should not think of him as a good Catholic; just an ambitious, self-serving scoundrel who believes in nothing but his own advancement.’
I laid aside the quill. ‘Do you have a sharper pen, Ned? This one is beginning to blotch badly. If Moyle believes in nothing but Moyle, his religion has served him well. He’s made a rich marriage with the daughter of one of the leading goldsmiths and his control of the Court of Augmentations must bring him in hundreds by the year.’
Ned signed. ‘I have often noticed one characteristic of successful men: however much they have, it is seldom sufficient.’
‘Well, this time he has reached for one prize too many. This’ – I collected together my notes – ‘will bring about his downfall. Let us be on our way to lay the evidence before Archbishop Cranmer.’
Bart begged to be allowed to accompany us and there seemed no good reason to deny him. We rode into the main courtyard at Croydon Palace just as the last sunlight was drenching the tiled roofs. The household was at supper in the great hall and we were bidden to join them. Afterwards I was escorted to Ralph Morice’s office.
The secretary listened with mounting excitement as I recounted my meetings at Woodstock and Bridewell.
‘Johannes has sacrificed himself in a great cause,’ he commented. ‘The archbishop will include him in his prayers. He is a lesson to us all in dedication to God’s truth.’ He laid out my notes on his standing desk and studied them carefully.
‘I had no dyes to represent the heraldic shield fully,’ I explained, ‘but I have written in the colours.’
‘Have you brought the painting with you? I’d like to see it.’
I sent a message to Dick and within minutes he came with the wrapped canvas. I unpacked it and set it on a stool placed against the wall.
‘There is much sadness in those eyes,’ Morice said quietly. Then, more briskly, ‘His grace will want to see this. He reads German very well – not that I doubt that this translation is excellent. It will be good to have the shield copied in colour. We have someone here who can do it in water-paint. Let me see if I can recall how the heralds would describe it ... “On a ground or, a chevron jules, between three moles sable”. I think that’s right. Personally, I dislike such gaudy, self-glorifying display.’ He picked up the portrait and strode to the door. ‘His grace should have finished supper now. I’ll go and report to him. Please wait here; I know he’ll want to talk to you himself.’
He was gone a long time. The last twenty-four hours had been tiring. The lamplight was soft. The fire gave off a comforting heat. My head drooped.
‘So, if you’re ready, Thomas ...’
I woke with a start.
‘His grace will see you now. He’s in the library. Bring the painting.’
Morice led the way to a long chamber with several book presses standing against the walls. Cranmer was sitting in a high-backed chair at one of the tables. I made my obeisance. The archbishop received it with a nod and a wistful smile. He looked weary and there were shadows around his eyes. He motioned me to a bench opposite.
‘It is good to see you again, Thomas, and may I say how relieved I am that you are safe and well. Ralph has kept me informed of your activities. I appreciate what you have been doing.’
I made some self-deprecating response but the archbishop was now staring at my notes and seemed not to be listening.
‘This is very, very sad,’ he said.
‘I wonder if “sad” is the right word, Your Grace.’
‘You believe I should be angry, indignant, personally offended?’
‘I’m sure I would be.’
‘Perhaps you won’t object if I remind you that Jesus enjoins us to love our enemies.’
I must have looked crestfallen, for his smile broadened and he added, ‘Fortunately, our Lord said nothing about loving other people’s enemies.’ After a pause, he continued, ‘I have looked at the painting. Its message is clear: treason. These people wish to overthrow Church and state, as established by his gracious majesty. That we cannot permit. Yet, it dismays me to see a man of Sir Thomas’s talent and long years of service to the Crown becoming the agent of a foreign power.’
Morice said, ‘He’s obviously been concealing his real allegiance for many years.’
Cranmer nodded. ‘So it would seem. We have always known that he has a hankering after the old ways but his behaviour up till now has been correct. I was appalled to hear of his treatment of poor Richard.’
‘Your Grace, a royal messenger arrived this afternoon with a letter from Anthony Denny. He is drawing up Turner’s pardon for the king’s signature.’
‘Good, good. Perhaps we should arrange for Richard to rest for a while. It makes little sense to aggravate discord.’
Morice tugged at his beard and gave a discreet cough. ‘With respect, Your Grace, may I suggest that it might be interpreted as a sign of weakness. Thanks to Master Holbein’s endeavours, we can now take the offensive a
gainst all this subtle and secretive plotting. With the evidence we have, we can arrest Moyle. Denny also reports that Thomas Legh will be with us by tomorrow evening at the latest. With him leading your commission, all the enemies of Church and state will rapidly be brought to heel. The Duke of Norfolk has laid his last plot. When his majesty sees Master Holbein’s notes nothing can save him.’
Cranmer frowned. ‘Ralph, be careful. If you play the political game you may yet find yourself outmanoeuvred. If the king wished to be rid of his lordship, he has had many opportunities in the past to do so. Norfolk is a survivor, and if we fail to dislodge him ...’
‘Then, Your Grace, at least the king may have his eyes opened to the subversive activities of the imperial ambassador. That could mean an end to this talk of a joint war with the Emperor against France.’
‘That would certainly be a great prize,’ Cranmer agreed.
‘Then shall I proceed with the warrant for Sir Thomas’s arrest?’
‘The archbishop sighed deeply. ‘Yes,’ he said.
The following morning, Ned and Dick made ready to depart for Hemmings. We stood in the great courtyard watching Morice assemble a large troop of mounted guards to ride to Ashford. He strolled across to us.
‘His grace has decided that I should go with them,’ he said. ‘Would you like to keep me company?’
‘I must admit it would give me some pleasure to witness Sir Thomas’s humiliation.’
He grinned. ‘That’s a reward you have richly deserved. We’ll leave as soon as you are ready. And here is the colour copy of the shield.’ He handed me a folded paper.
As we journeyed towards Moyle’s mansion at Eastwell we were both in ebullient mood and talked of many things. I asked how long Morice had been in the archbishop’s service.
‘Since before he was archbishop,’ Morice said. ‘I joined him fifteen years ago, soon after leaving university. We were both at Cambridge, though he was a fellow at Jesus when I was a mere undergraduate. Brave days! Brave days!’
