The Traitor’s Mark

by D. K. Wilson

  It seemed an age before anyone came in to tell me what was happening. Eventually, one of the archbishop’s guards entered – a no-nonsense, authoritative man in his forties.

  ‘Let’s have a good look at your wound,’ he said brusquely.

  ‘First tell me what’s going on. In God’s name, how came we to be adrift?’

  ‘The rogues we put in the boat.’ He brought the lamp closer to examine the wound. ‘They cut the mooring ropes.’

  ‘Ropes?’ I was puzzled. ‘Were we not anchored?’

  ‘Sit still!’ he snapped. ‘I can’t untie these rags if you’re wriggling. No, the anchor was already inboard. The ship was ready for a quick getaway, only held by fore and aft ropes.’

  ‘How are things now?’ I demanded. ‘Is the ship well in hand? We must make a landfall somewhere on our own coast. Make sure the captain steers us into a good haven. Can you get him to understand that?’

  ‘At the moment he’s understanding what he chooses to understand.’

  ‘Don’t let him try to take us out to sea.’

  ‘We won’t. Right now he’s more worried about steering us through the shallows. This is a treacherous bit of coast. He’s got a linesman out there taking readings every couple of minutes.’

  He removed the pad of soaked rags. ‘Hmm, we need more cloth – lots of it.’

  ‘Try that.’ I pointed to a low locker fixed to one of the walls, which served as both a seat and storage space.

  He opened it. ‘Very nice,’ he muttered, pulling out various garments. ‘Master Brooke’s costly finery. Well, he won’t be needing it now.’ From the pile of highly coloured silks and velvets, he extracted some cambric shirts and began tearing them into strips. He sent one of his colleagues in search of water and, when a bucket had arrived, he gently washed down the skin around the hole in my body. ‘What we have to do,’ he said, ‘is close this up as much as we can, then bind it as tight as you can bear.’

  ‘You seem very expert.’

  ‘I’ve watched many field surgeons at work.’

  ‘Is it very bad? Am I likely to ...’

  ‘Die? That you’ll have to ask a priest.’

  Strong fingers pinched the edges of the wound. Fresh padding was applied.

  ‘Hold that, while I bind it,’ my ‘doctor’ ordered. He wound long strips of cloth round my stomach so firmly that I could take only shallow breaths.

  ‘I suppose Black Harry and his companions will get clean away,’ I muttered disconsolately.

  ‘I don’t fancy their chances in the dark – not in all this mud and marsh.’ He helped me into a clean shirt.

  ‘Pray God you’re right,’ I said. ‘ If that murderous hellhound slips through our fingers after all we’ve been through ... Our men must be feeling very dejected.’

  ‘I’ve seen troops with better morale. No one likes losing friends in battle but when you can’t see the point of the battle ... When you’re just obeying orders because they’re orders ...’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve led you all into a real mess and we’ve nothing to show for it.’

  ‘No one blames you, Master Treviot. Most of us know you were caught up in this against your will. Please God, you’ll live to laugh at this fiasco. Right, that’s you patched up. Keep as still as you can. Don’t waste whatever strength you’ve got. You’ll need it when we get ashore – if we get ashore.’ With those comforting words he departed.

  The next few hours seemed like days. I had nothing to do but try to keep my mind off the pain. I thought back over the events of the last two months. Should I have done anything different? Every single event had been like a link in a chain pulling me inevitably towards the situation in which I found myself now. Could I have broken any of those links or was I the victim of inexorable fate? Strange that a respectable London merchant should end his days on a foreign ship wallowing through turgid waters off the east coast of England. I thought of my prim brothers of the Worshipful Goldsmiths’ Company. My unconventional passing would make a fine topic of conversation in our hall on Foster Lane. I imagined the solemn, nodding heads and the wiseacres who would claim they had always known young Treviot would come to a bad end. I laughed. That was a mistake: I yelped loudly as arrows of pain pierced my torso.

  It may have been the very weirdness of my plight that prompted me to be almost detached from it. 1 was like an observer at some inns of court play, intrigued by the action, yet aware that at the end of the performance I would return to humdrum reality. But this time I was not in the audience. When the last line had been spoken, my drama would be ended. That made me think of those I was leaving behind. I was glad that there was only Raffy to be concerned about. I hoped Adie would stay as long as she was needed. As for the future of Treviots, the Goldsmiths’ Company would take care of everything, either winding the business up or ensuring that Raffy was trained to take over eventually. It would be sad not to see him grow up. I prayed he would have the strength to survive the loss of his only parent – his only relative, in fact. My friends would, I knew, do all they could to help him. Bart, Lizzie, Ned – they would each have their unique stores of wisdom to share – if Raffy was humble enough to listen. I pictured their faces; tried to remain focused on them; tried to stop them being engulfed in the ocean of throbbing, unending pain. It was a losing battle. The only reality was the agony. My only desire was for it to stop.

  My gaze went frequently to the window’s night-blackened glass. The dark seemed like the pain – unending, unyielding. I longed for the light that would reveal where we were.

  Suddenly, my little world erupted into chaos. It lurched sideways. Things were thrown off the table. My chair shot forward with such force that I was almost thrown out. I heard shouts and running feet on deck. With an immense effort, I got to my feet and hobbled to the door.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I shouted to the men who were rushing to and fro.

  I had to repeat the question a couple of times before someone answered, ‘We’ve run aground!’

  I made my way to the rail and peered into the darkness. A stretch of estuarial water lay between wide banks but slowly I was able to make out the shapes of sand bars. We had obviously fallen foul of one of these obstructions. The ship was leaning at a slight angle. Its stern was still in the water but the bow was held firmly. On the upper deck a furious captain was screaming abuse at his crew, some of whom were aloft, furling sails. My men could only stand around and watch the confusion.

  One of them pointed to the captain. ‘He’s one of those leaders who blame everyone else when things go wrong. I reckon he’d have slit the helmsman’s throat if we hadn’t taken his weapons off him.’

  Someone else said, ‘He’s angry because the boat’s gone. He could have used it to tow us out into the channel. Now he’s got to wait until the tide floats us off.’

  ‘How long will that be?’ I asked.

  ‘’Twill be on the turn shortly but I reckon it’ll be a good couple of hours before there’s enough depth.’

  The ship gave a sudden lurch. I fell hard against the rail and screamed in pain. A couple of troopers grabbed me and supported me back to the cabin. They stayed to keep me company. The men’s chatter was a welcome distraction. After a while someone brought food – salt fish and apples. I could not face it, but did drink a little ale. Occasionally, one of my companions went outside to check on the state of the tide. Another found an hourglass and the guards fell to gambling on how soon we would be afloat. They asked me to mind the money and turn the glass. It was good of them; they only did it to distract me from my sufferings. Eventually the familiar motion of the ship signalled that we were afloat again. It was now daylight. The captain ordered more sail and we were soon making good progress before an offshore wind. But the day’s excitements were not over.

  The next development began with excited shouting on deck: ‘A sail! A sail!’

  One of my companions hurried in to report. ‘A king’s ship about a mile away. We’re trying to hail her.’
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  ‘Let me see,’ I said.

  He helped me from the cabin and steadied me against the barque’s motion. Out to seaward stood a low-lying, four-masted craft. She carried little sail but was being propelled towards us at some speed by oarsmen.

  ‘A galleass,’ I said. ‘Master Morice told me he had such a craft patrolling this water. Can this be it?’

  ‘More like ’tis inward bound for the Gillingham dockyard,’ my companion replied.

  ‘Well, she seems interested in us. She’s closing rapidly.’

  At that moment we saw a puff of smoke issue from the ship’s bow. It was followed by a splash and huge plume of water not far off our port beam.

  ‘She means to intercept,’ I said. ‘Have the captain haul in all sail. We don’t want to attract more cannon fire.’

  I allowed myself to be led back to the cabin.

  A while later I heard the bump of a boat against our hull and the sound of men scrambling up the boarding net. An English voice shouted a string of orders. Shortly afterwards the owner of that voice entered the cabin.

  ‘Charles Benson, Master of his majesty’s ship, Anne Gallant,’ he announced.

  I saw a tall, beardless, ruddy-faced officer with a friendly smile.

  ‘Thomas Treviot of the Worshipful Company of Goldsmiths,’ I replied.

  He laughed. ‘Well, Master Treviot, you appear to have taken a Spanish prize. I’ll warrant that’s a first in the history of your guild.’Tis certainly a first in my naval experience.’

  ‘It all happened by accident,’I said.

  He laughed again. ‘That is a story I cannot wait to hear. But they tell me you are badly wounded.’

  ‘Fatally, I suspect.’

  ‘We can’t let our heroes die that easy, Master Treviot. We’ve a barber surgeon aboard. Good man. He’s brought many “fatally” wounded sailors back to life. We’ll get you across to the Anne and let him have a look at you.’

  He went off to give the necessary orders and, shortly afterwards, I was taken out on deck and laid on a plank. To this I was securely lashed. Then four sailors hoisted me up. The galleass had, by now, been grappled to our ship, so that my bearers were able to pass me across the short gap. Directed by the attentive Benson, the sailors were as gentle as they could be but the movements of the two ships in the water and against each other inevitably caused jarring. Every jolt was a fresh torment and each stung worse than the last. Before the manoeuvre was completed my world went black.

  When I drifted into consciousness I was lying, stripped naked, on a table with a gaunt, bald man bending over me. He was working at my wound with various instruments and his probing sent spasms of pain through my body. I wanted to writhe and twist in response but could not move. At first I believed I was still strapped down. Then I realised I was being held by four muscular sailors. When I wanted to cry out I was thwarted by something pressing on my tongue. Only later did I realise that a cloth wedge had been securely fixed between my teeth. Never in my life have I felt more panic than at that moment. I was in pain, totally immobile, with a stranger doing things to my body that I could not see.

  I know not how long I lay there. There must have been periods when I lapsed back into unconsciousness. Eventually, I was aware that the surgeon was no longer tending me, that my limbs were not restrained and that I could speak. Now a sheet covered my body. The surgeon was cleaning his implements.

  ‘How bad is it?’ I asked weakly.

  He looked down at me, unsmiling, businesslike. ‘’Tis bad, but you might live. You will know in four or five days.’

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ I asked.

  ‘Gillingham Water.’ He closed his chest and set it on the floor. He removed his bloodstained apron and brushed himself down with his hands. He turned towards the door and it seemed that he was about to leave me ignorant of my immediate prospects. Then he seemed to think better of his reticence.

  ‘They’ll finish you off ashore, in the sailors’ hospital,’ he said. ‘I’ve cleaned the wound but not closed it.’Tis not the cutting of tissue that kills, but foreign matter lodged in the wound. I’ve poulticed you with turpentine and oil of roses bound with egg. That will protect the wound and give you some relief. The surgeon at Gillingham will re-examine the wound. Please God, it won’t be festering, in which case he will close it up.’

  With the help of a sailor, I got back into my clothes. The small cabin where the ship’s doctor operated reeked of many unpleasant odours and I was glad to stagger on deck. Someone found me a chair and, seated in a corner out of the way of those working the ship, I was able to watch as the Anne Gallant crossed the estuary to the Kent shore, heading towards the dockyard.

  After a while Charles Benson strode up. ‘How are you feeling now?’he asked.

  ‘Terrible. Unfortunately, your surgeon says there’s a risk that I might live.’

  The ship’s master gave another of his ready laughs. ‘Billy Bonesaw ain’t the cheerfulest of souls but he’s one of the best barber surgeons in the navy. Now’ – he lounged against the rail – ‘tell me what you’ve been up to this last couple of days. I’ve gathered bits and pieces from some of the archbishop’s men but I’m sure you can give me a clearer picture.’

  I described everything that had happened since we left Gravesend.

  Benson listened intently. ‘That is the most amazing story I’ve ever heard,’ he declared, when I had finished.

  ‘What happens now?’I asked.

  ‘We’re taking the prize into Gillingham. She’s a trim craft. I reckon the navy will make good use of her. We’ll deliver you to the hospital.’

  ‘What about my guards?’

  ‘I guess they’ll report back to the archbishop. He and the politicians can take it from there. Saints be praised, that’s not my job.’

  ‘Nor mine,’ I said, and profoundly hoped that my involvement was, indeed, over.

  Chapter 33

  Later that day, Saturday 30 October, we docked in Gillingham Water and I was conveyed ashore to the sailors’ hospital. For the first time in three days I was able to lie down in a bed. It was only a narrow truckle bed but to my exhausted body it felt luxurious. For twenty-four hours I drifted between sleep and waking. Billy Bonesaw’s ministrations eased the throbbing in my abdomen but the respite was of short duration. The next day the chief naval surgeon decided that the wound could be closed. That meant more probing, a final cleaning with vinegar and then the application of needle and silk thread. There being nothing more the medical men could do for me, they were eager to send me home. I despatched a message to Hemmings and on Wednesday Walt brought my coach to Gillingham. He had removed the seats and arranged a mattress on the floor so that I might be as comfortable as possible for the short journey. By evening I was in my own bed and actually beginning to believe that I might recover.

  Everyone wanted to welcome me back and hear an account of my ‘adventure’ but Ned placed himself in charge of the patient and ensured my rest was not disturbed. I felt as weak as a newborn baby and the soreness in my belly abated almost imperceptibly slowly. Ned brought me regular nourishing broths but, apart from his visits, I spent most of the next couple of days in a state between waking and sleeping.

  Sometime late on Friday morning I was dragged from slumber by lashing rain rattling the casement. At least that was my first impression. Suddenly I realised the window was open. Worse than that, a figure was climbing in. The man’s jerkin was wet from the rain and his riding boots were thickly caked in mud. He jumped with a feline movement and landed softly. He walked to the foot of the bed. As his face came into the light I gasped in alarm. Black Harry!

  I tried to cry out but words would not come.

  I felt his weight as he sat on the edge of the bed.

  He turned on me that appalling smile that revealed arrogance, contempt and cruelty. ‘Master Treviot, I’ll wager you thought never to see me again. Yet here we are having our final meeting.’

  ‘So I’m to be added to yo
ur long list of cowardly murders.’

  ‘Cowardly?’

  ‘Aye, you specialise in women and children. Now you add a sick man to your score.’

  ‘I don’t choose the people who stand in my path, who try to obstruct my mission.’

  ‘Oh, let us have no rich-embroidered nonsense about “missions” and “sacred causes”. You’re a blood-soaked ribald, who kills for the love of it. If you really think you are serving some higher cause, you deceive no one but yourself.’

  He drew his poignard and tested its edge against the palm of his left hand. ‘You’re not a religious man, Master Treviot, or you could not make such ignorant comments. If you knew anything of the just God I follow, you would weep for the thousands of souls condemned to hell for embracing false religion.’

  ‘I like not the sound of that god.’

  He ignored my comment. ‘I wish you could have seen some of the cringing wretches in the cells of Valladolid: Mohammedans and Jews who pretended conversion to the Catholic faith; misbegotten Lutherans who brazenly defied ancient truth. When we brought them to the edge of death, when they looked beyond it and saw the lurid flames of the pit, why, they shed tears of gratitude because we had revealed these things to them. You do not see into that other world. You do not know what endless torment awaits you. That is why men like me are needed. Men who are not obsessed with the things of this world. Men who have the courage to force the wilfully blind to see reality.’

  ‘I’ve heard enough of your twisted religiosity. Do what you came here to do. Then we will see which one of us ends up in hell.’

  But there was no stopping him. ‘If only you could witness the souls being led to perdition by that Satan-hound, Archbishop Cranmer, you would know that he must be stopped.’

  ‘You won’t achieve that. There are good men determined to foil you.’

  ‘The archbishop’s time will come, I assure you. And now yours has come.’ He pulled back the bedclothes and placed the point of his dagger against my stomach. I felt its sharpness even through the thick dressing covering my wound.