The Traitor’s Mark (6 page)

Fortunately, Sir John was at home. He was not altogether pleased to see me but he was relieved to discover that his gift to the king would, after all, be the creation of the royal painter. This and his approval of Holbein's drawings was sufficient for him to forgive the inconvenience he had been caused. We spent some time discussing the finer points of
the design and it was mid-morning before I was able to return to Goldsmith's Row and set out for Hemmings.

At last there was nothing to keep me in London. I had been able to satisfy my customer. I also knew that Master Johannes was safe – or, at least, alive. What was disturbing was that he was still in hiding. If I could not find him I would have no means of helping Bart in his quest for the murderers and his innocence. There was one other source of information I could try. One other person whose contacts among the lower levels of society were extensive and who just might have heard something. As my little group made its way along Cheapside, Lombard Street and so, down Fish Street Hill, to the bridge, I decided to risk another delay. I would stop in Southwark and seek out my old friend, Ned Longbourne.

Chapter 4

Calling on Ned did not take us much out of our way. He lived in the shadow of the great abbey church of St Mary Overie where he plied the trade of an apothecary. Ned's grizzled pate covered a storehouse of wisdom – wisdom born of varied experience and much suffering. He had spent most of his life as a monk. Then, King Henry closed the monasteries and, like his brethren, he had been forced to earn a living in the world of ordinary mortals. He had fetched up in another, rather unlikely, ‘convent', the bawdy house at the old St Swithun's inn in Southwark. Here he had ministered to the medical needs of the whores, pimps, lorrels and ribalds who congregated within its walls. But two years previously he had been rendered homeless again. In one of the government's occasional
purges St Swithun's had been closed down. Of course, this did not stop harlotry; it simply dispersed the brothel's inmates. Ned had had to find his own lodgings. But that was not his only misfortune. He had a ‘companion'; a well-favoured, athletic young man called Jed. Just at the time that Ned needed his support, Jed had formed another attachment and left. It was quite shocking to see how much this desertion aged my friend. Fortunately, his skills and his amiable disposition had won him the affection of many Southwark dwellers and he had little difficulty in finding new accommodation. Now he occupied his time ministering to the needs of the local community among whom he enjoyed a considerable reputation. I was in no doubt that he could have amassed a considerable fortune – or, at least, managed to live very comfortably – through the sale of potions and simples and the performance of minor surgical operations. Heaven knows there are mountebanks a-plenty who gull huge fees out of people with evil-smelling hell broths, incantations and pretended knowledge of astral motions. By contrast, I suspected that Ned all too often provided his services free of charge to those who were too poor to pay (or who feigned poverty).

He welcomed me with his usual effusiveness and I stooped to enter the room that served as living space, shop and work area. He led the way through to the small garden which was his particular delight. Here, sheltered on one
side by the wall of the old abbey and on the other by neighbouring houses, Ned cultivated the herbs, flowers and plants from which he concocted his nostrums. He settled me on a bench and brought out two horn beakers containing an amber liquid.

‘'Tis a tincture of honey, rose buds and
aqua vitae
,' he explained. ‘Most of my customers prefer it to hippocras and it is excellent good for expelling the damp humours.'

I sipped it appreciatively. ‘Ned,' I said, ‘I must not tarry long. I'm on my way to Hemmings. I wanted to have a word with you about—'

‘About our unfortunate friend Bart Miller?'

I could not suppress a chuckle. ‘They say, “bad news rides a fast horse”, but I had not thought you would have heard so soon.'

‘An evil business. Poor young man.' Ned stroked his long grey beard.

‘You know that he's gone into hiding; become an outlaw; a suspected murderer on the run?'

Ned nodded.

‘He seems to think he can only clear his name by discovering the real criminals.'

‘That could prove more arduous than the Grail quest. The kingdom is over full of desperate men. Without taxing my old brain too hard, I could name you half a dozen boot-baler gangs who have sold their immortal souls for a handful of transient silver.'

‘You think we are looking for hired hacksters, rather than the regular retainers of some great man?'

Ned looked up sharply. ‘You said “we”, Thomas. I hope that does not mean you intend to plunge yourself into the cesspit of villainy again. Did you not see enough of that world back in thirty-six?'

‘A just rebuke, old friend. No, I was young and headstrong then – as you told me often enough. Now, even if I had the time, there would be little I could do to extricate Bart from his predicament, but ...'

‘I feared there would be a “but”.'

‘Well ...' I hesitated, watching the bees hovering round the hive at the end of the garden. ‘You know Lizzie ... Who'd have thought seven years ago that she and Bart could have made a good life for themselves.'

Ned nodded. ‘Indeed. I still thank God for them in my prayers.'

‘And now they have the two bearns ... To see all that thrown away just because Bart found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time ...'

‘But you must not blame yourself for that, Thomas.' Ned fixed me with that earnest gaze I always found disconcerting.

‘Oh, I don't. Of course not.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Well ... I could have thought more before sending Bart to Aldgate. It was so out of character for Holbein to keep me waiting for his drawings. I might have guessed that
something was wrong. I should have gone myself. What happened was ...'

I briefly explained the sequence of events.

Ned listened attentively, nodding occasionally. At last he said, ‘Back in the monastery one of the biggest problems we faced was false sins. Some of the brothers were so intent on pursuing holiness that they invented sins to confess. They punished themselves for things God had no intention of punishing them for.'

‘And you think I'm doing the same?'

‘You could not possibly have foreseen what would befall Bart in Aldgate.'

‘So you're suggesting I should shrug my shoulders, say, “It's not my fault”, and leave him to his fate?'

Ned sighed deeply. ‘No, we must, of course, do all we can.'

‘We?' I smiled.

‘Is that not why you have come – to enlist my help?'

‘You did say you knew at least half a dozen gangs of ruffians who might have committed this crime.'

He nodded wearily. ‘I will make some enquiries – very, very discreetly. It is not wise to appear too inquisitive.'

The Kent Road was inches deep in mud and very busy, Twice we were obliged to stop and help other travellers ease their mired vehicles on to firmer ground. We made slow progress and had to stay the night in one of the better inns. I hoped that the rest of my household had not fared so badly,
and was relieved to find everyone safely installed at Hemmings when we arrived late the following morning.

There was, as always, much to be done in and around the estate – steward's accounts to be checked, tenants' complaints to be heard, building repairs to be assessed and, where necessary, set in hand. I never forgot about Bart and Lizzie's plight. Every day I hoped that I might hear some positive news: that Master Johannes had come out of hiding to save my friends; that Ned had identified the real assassins; that someone from the alien community might offer a clue about the artist's enemies. I even allowed myself to imagine that John of Antwerp might experience a twinge of conscience and break his oath of secrecy to a friend in the interests of wider justice. But these thoughts were pushed to the back of my mind by my many responsibilities as a landowner.

And by my concern for the children. As I watched Carl, Henry and Annie explore their new surroundings, I was amazed by their remarkable resilience. Adie was extremely good with the tiny ones. By the time I arrived she had already found a wet nurse for little Jack and she knew many games and stratagems to keep his older sister occupied. After a couple of days, little Annie stopped crying for her mother. The boys were enjoying exploring the woods and parkland. Cheerfully accepting Raffy's leadership, they were always off on some new adventure. It was something of a revelation to watch my son at play with other children. As an only child
he was accustomed to entertaining himself – and to having his own way. He was spoiled by the servants and, as I realised if I was honest, also by me. Now, in play with Carl and Henry, he expected to be deferred to. I must be firmer with him, I told myself – a decision confirmed by an event that occurred one Saturday morning. On the first Friday of our stay several of us went to the fair in Ightham. Raffy had been boasting to the Holbein brothers of his prowess as an archer and when they saw a bowyer's stall with several weapons suitable for various ages they clamoured for their own bows. The next morning the boys dragged me – not unwillingly – to Long Meadow, where I and others of the household practised archery. Our visitors had not drawn a bow before and I spent some time showing them how to handle their new weapons. I was somewhat rusty myself and glad of the practice. We chose a row of tree stumps as targets and I gave a brief demonstration. Fortunately, I managed to quit myself reasonably well. Then we moved forward to shorten the range. Raffy was determined to show his prowess. With five arrows he managed to hit two of the stumps. Carl was the next to try. I had noticed that he was not only tall but broad of shoulder. It was not a surprise that he quitted himself very well. His first shaft overshot but he intelligently adjusted his aim and three of his remaining four arrows struck home. Raffy was not pleased. ‘You've got a better bow,' he shouted, and made a grab for it. Carl put out a hand to fend him off and, quite unintentionally, struck
Raffy on the nose. That was the end of our practice. Instantly the two boys were rolling on the ground, pummelling each other. With some difficulty, I separated them and was on the point of delivering a couple of blows of my own when I heard my name called. I turned and saw two men in helmets, breastplates and blue livery striding across the meadow.

‘Master Treviot, we're here to deliver a warrant from his grace of Canterbury,' one of them said, holding out a sealed letter.

I read the message. It was very brief. The archbishop required my presence in his palace at Ford.

I was stunned. I sat on a tree stump and read the secretary's neat lines two or three times. What could Cranmer possibly want with me? All I could think of immediately was to try to gain time to give the summons further thought.

‘Thank you,' I said. ‘Please present my respects to his grace and tell him I will be delighted to call upon him tomorrow.'

The retainer shook his head. ‘We are instructed to take you with us now.'

‘Now?' I protested. ‘What is the urgency? Is this an arrest? I've done nothing to displease his grace.'

The man was impassive. ‘He doesn't explain his actions to us. He just gives us orders and our orders are to return with you immediately.'

I was about to argue but then I looked at the boys. They
were standing in a line, eyes wide with fear. Raffy broke ranks and ran across to put his arms round me. He glared at the soldiers. ‘Go away,' he shouted. ‘My father's a good man.'

I hugged him briefly. ‘It's all right, Raffy,' I said as calmly as I could. ‘Just some goldsmith's matters I have to discuss with the archbishop. I won't be gone long. Take your friends indoors and tell Will that I've been called away on urgent business.'

Within half an hour I was mounted and on the road to the archbishop's summer residence, flanked by two of his guard. Our fifty-mile journey was fast and uncomfortable. My escort rode their horses hard, spattering through puddles, scattering other travellers who were in our way, drawing shouts of protest from villagers as we raced through their streets, careless of the inhabitants, their children and their animals. I had little chance to question the guards about my arrest but it was clear that they either knew nothing or would say nothing. At least the speed of our progress allowed me little time to worry about my predicament; I was too busy keeping up with the guards and avoiding obstacles. Only as we crossed the moat of the archbishop's ancient fortified manor house and passed under the gatehouse arch did real anxiety grip me. The walls were high and strong. The windows overlooking the courtyard were old and narrow. On one side there were two pairs of stocks. Both were empty. Was one of them being kept for me? Was I about to find myself in some cramped, lightless
cell being interrogated about some supposed offence I had given his lordship? How long would it be before I might be able to leave this formidable building?

The courtyard was busy with servants and visitors going about their business. No one paid us any attention. When we had dismounted and handed our horses to the stable staff, I was taken into the main range of the house. When I had been to the garderobe and also done my best to remove mud from my boots I was shown to an anteroom. I did not have to wait long before the door half-opened and a small priest – presumably the archbishop's clerk or chaplain – sidled in. He beckoned and, in quiet, reverential tones, indicated that his grace was ready to receive me.

I entered a large room with panelled and tapestried walls, not knowing what to expect. Before that day I had only seen Thomas Cranmer at a distance, officiating in the cathedral or carrying out visitations in neighbouring parishes – an austere figure, separated from ordinary mortals by social status and the holy theatricality of his office. Any knowledge I had of him beyond that was a mixture of gossip and partisan rumour. Some regarded him as a brilliant theologian and religious politician who had shown King Henry that the pope had no legal jurisdiction in England and was now, boldly and bravely, purifying the teaching and practices of our church. Others despised him as the mere tool whom Henry had used to prise himself loose from ‘good Queen Catherine'. Then there were the
ale-house prattlers who told scandalous stories about the archbishop. He was secretly married, they confidently asserted, and carried his wife about concealed in a coffer. Only one thing was beyond dispute: like him or loathe him, since the fall of Lord Cromwell, the fate of the English church lay entirely in the hands of Thomas Cranmer. For my own part, I preferred to leave as much distance as possible between myself and powerful men. As the door was closed quietly and discreetly behind me, I braced myself for confrontation. It was, therefore, disconcerting to look around the chamber and to discover that it was empty.