The Traitor’s Mark

by D. K. Wilson

  The

  Traitor’s Mark

  D. K. WILSON

  PEGASUS CRIME

  NEW YORK LONDON

  ... in the last days shall come parlous times. For the men shall be lovers of their own selves, covetous, boasters, proud, cursed speakers, disobedient to father and mother, unthankful, unholy, unkind, truce-breakers, stubborn, false accusers, rioters, fierce despisers of them which are good, traitors, heady, high-minded, greedy upon voluptuousness more than the lovers of God, having a similitude of godly living, but have denied the power thereof ...

  –The Second Epistle of St Paul to Timothy, in the 1534 translation by William Tyndale

  ... certain of the council ... by the enticement and provocation of his ancient enemy the bishop of Winchester, and others of the same sect, attempted the king against him, declaring plainly, that the realm was so infected with heresies and heretics, that it was dangerous for his highness further to permit it unreformed ... the enormity whereof they could not impute to any so much, as to the archbishop of Canterbury, who by his own preaching, and his chaplains, had filled the whole realm full of divers pernicious heresies.

  –John Foxe, Acts and Monuments of the Christian Religion, 1563

  Prologue

  10 June 1540

  He ran up the steps – a man in a hurry. Thomas Cromwell, Earl of Essex, Lord Great Chamberlain, Vicegerent in Spirituals, the most powerful person in England under the king, mounted the long flight of stairs to the Whitehall Council Chamber two at a time. He was late for the meeting and, though he was not troubled by the thought of keeping his fellow councillors waiting, tardiness, in itself, was a thing he abhorred. It was a mark of disorganised, inefficient or blatantly lazy minds and Cromwell prided himself on not being prey to any of these vices.

  There was good reason for his delay on this occasion. He had spent the six hours since dawn organising the carefully accumulated evidence that would strike down his enemies, led by Stephen Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, and Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk. For months he had been galled by the open hostility and covert intrigues of the men trying to undermine King Henry’s confidence in him. These conservative elements, these dullards, these visionless men had set themselves to stop England’s development towards a truly Christian commonwealth, independent of Rome, purged of clerical corruption and illumined by the newly Englished word of God. The need to defend himself and organise his counter-attack had taken up valuable time – time that could more profitably have been employed in continuing the legislative programme revolutionising the kingdom. But now he had all the evidence he needed. Lord Lisle, Governor of Calais, was, at last, in the Tower and revealing to his interrogators the antics of the brood of papist vipers causing havoc in the English port under his command. With Bishop Sampson of Chichester and the royal chaplain, Dr Wilson, also under investigation for illicit communication with Rome, the long, secret campaign was over. He could now strike at his conciliar enemies before they were ready to strike at him. Cromwell bustled through the anteroom and its throng of petitioners. At his approach, the door to the Council chamber was hastily thrown open.

  As soon as he crossed the threshold he knew something was wrong. His colleagues were not seated around the long table, awaiting his arrival in order to commence the day’s business. They stood around the room in groups of two and three. At one side, by the oriel window, stood the captain of the guard and three of his men. Cromwell took in the situation at a glance. Scarcely pausing, he strode purposefully towards his chair at the head of the table.

  Norfolk blocked his path. ‘You are no longer a member of this board!’ His eyes glared the hatred he had only rarely troubled to conceal.

  Cromwell scowled. ‘Stand aside, My Lord.’

  ‘A Howard does not yield place to an upstart.’ The duke raised his hand to Cromwell’s chest and pushed.

  Cromwell struggled to retain his self-control. ‘So now we see you clearly for the arrogant papist you are. Guard, arrest this man. I have evidence here of his treasons.’ He held up the sheaf of papers he was carrying.

  The captain looked anxiously from one to the other. It was Bishop Gardiner who turned to him and ordered sharply. ‘Why do you wait, man? You know your duty. You have your warrant. Execute it.’

  The captain walked around the table and stopped two paces from Cromwell.

  ‘My Lord of Essex, I am here with his gracious majesty’s warrant to arrest you and take you into custody on charges of high treason.’

  ‘I? High treason? Who dares to charge me, the king’s most devoted subject ...’ Cromwell was trembling with rage and fear. ‘It is not I who have betrayed the king’s trust.’ He brandished his evidence.

  Norfolk snatched the papers from him. ‘Too late,’ he sneered. ‘His majesty has been fully informed of your disloyalty.’

  ‘He knows how you have been usurping royal power these last years.’ The speaker was Sir Thomas Wriothesley, one of the king’s secretaries.

  Cromwell frowned. ‘So, they have corrupted you, have they, Thomas? How soon you have forgotten who raised you to your present position.’

  Gardiner added his taunt. ‘His majesty now knows who is the biggest heretic in England.’

  Cromwell watched as all the others gathered round in a circle. He was politically astute enough to know that his enemies had grasped the initiative. The neutrals on the Council would now fall into line behind them. He could only stand trembling with impotent rage, as the captain seized him by the arm.

  ‘Wait,’ Norfolk ordered. With a leering smile of triumph, he stretched out a hand to grab the gold chain of office round Cromwell’s neck. Cromwell’s fingers fastened round his wrist. For a long moment the two rivals glowered at each other. In that moment the fate of England was decided. Norfolk broke free, seized the symbol of Cromwell’s authority and tugged with such force that one of the links snapped. Wriothesley – if there was treachery in the room it was, surely, his – was instantly on his knees unfastening the Garter insignia from Cromwell’s leg.

  ‘Take the heretic!’ Gardiner ordered.

  Rough hands grasped the Earl of Essex’s arms. He was marched from the room. For ten years Thomas Cromwell had virtually ruled England. His destruction had taken fewer than three minutes.

  Chapter 1

  In God’s name, Master Thomas, come and get me out of this hell-hole. The woman will tell all.

  Your servant,

  Bart Miller

  The words were scrawled in what appeared to be charcoal on a crumpled scrap of paper, roughly folded. I looked up at the messenger who stood before me in my parlour. She was, I guessed, about eighteen, simply but tidily dressed, her clean apron covering a brown woollen kirtle. But her clothes were awry. Strands of dark hair had escaped from her plain linen coif. Her brown eyes were reddened with crying and she kept dabbing them with a kerchief. She had also been running, for she was sorely out of breath.

  ‘Please sit down,’ I said as calmly as possible. ‘What’s your name?’

  She lowered herself on to a joint stool. ‘Adriana, an’t please you, Master, but people call me Adie.’

  ‘Well, Adie.’ I gave what I hope was a reassuring smile. ‘What is all this about? What has befallen my servant?’

  ‘Oh, the poor man! It was terrible. I thought at first he was dead, like George.’ Her voice tailed away into a sob.

  Bart close to death! Now I shared the anxiety of this unexpected visitor to my house in Goldsmith’s Row. I poured a little ale into my own beaker and handed it to her. ‘Drink this,’ I said. ‘Take your time.’

  As she sipped, I prompted. ‘I sent Bart out this forenoon with a message to a house in Aldgate, close by the Saracen’s Head.’

  The woman nodded. ‘Aye,
for Master Johannes.’

  ‘He arrived safely, then?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose so.’

  ‘You don’t seem very sure.’

  ‘I was upstairs with the children. When all the noise started, I shut the door. I was frightened.’

  ‘What noise?’

  ‘Shouting, banging – like several men arguing, fighting.’ She was on the verge of tears again. I had to wait while she took some deep breaths and regained control.

  ‘And this happened in the house?’ I asked.

  She nodded. ‘Yes, in the inner room, close by the stairs. That’s why it sounded so loud. Perhaps I should have gone down.’ She sniffed and rubbed a hand across her nose. ‘But I was scared for the children.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sure you did the right thing ... And then?’

  ‘Well, Master, I waited a long time ... till everything was quiet. Then I went down the stairs ... very carefully ... and looked. It was terrible. Blood everywhere ... I didn’t know ...’

  ‘Whose blood?’ I demanded quickly, before the girl could be overwhelmed by fresh weeping. ‘Has Bart ...’

  ‘Oh no, Master. It was young George ... Master Johannes’ prentice ... or assistant ... or pupil. I don’t know what you’d call him. Master Johannes found him at one of the printers what works outside the City. He said the boy had talent ... Oh, poor George! Lying on the floor, he was ... all acrumpled ... blood on his tunic. I didn’t know what to think ... or do. I turned to go back upstairs ... fetch the children ... get them away. Then the other man – your man – called out to me. Slumped against the wall, he was. Groaning. Holding his head. “Help me,” he said. “For the love of God, help!” But I daren’t move. Well, I didn’t know what to think. If he’d had a fight with George and ... done that to him ...’

  ‘Bart wouldn’t harm anyone,’ I said.

  Adie took a long gulp of ale, followed by a deep, sighing breath. ‘Yes, Master. He tried to explain what happened. Said he and George had been attacked by four strangers. Said they’d beaten George all over ... then stabbed him because he wouldn’t tell them where Master Johannes was.’

  This time I let the tears gush. I brooded about Bart Miller. If there was one man in London sure to discover trouble wherever it was lurking, that man was my business assistant. I could not call him my apprentice because he had not joined my household to learn the goldsmith’s craft, but he had a quick head for figures, was diligent in keeping the books tidily and was very reliable – when he was not getting himself into unnecessary scrapes.

  ‘What happened next?’ I asked, when the sobs and sniffs had subsided. ‘Where is Bart now?’

  ‘Locked up in Aldgate gatehouse, thanks to our stupid constable!’

  ‘Then we must get back there quickly. You can tell me the rest of the story as we go.’ I pushed aside the papers I had been working on, went to the door and called for my man, Will. It was mid-July – plague time. The house was quieter than usual because I had sent most of the staff down to my estate in Kent, where I intended to follow as soon as Bart and I had concluded most of my outstanding business. When Will hurried in from the kitchen I told him to have one of my horses saddled and the donkey cart harnessed.

  While we stood in the courtyard waiting for all to be made ready, I pressed the girl for more details. ‘What were you saying about the Aldgate constable?’

  Adie scowled, the flush on her cheek now one of anger. ‘I’d just helped your Bart to his feet. “We must get the constable ... raise the hue and cry,” he said. Only there wasn’t no need. A crowd had gathered outside and someone had already sent for Peter Pett.’

  ‘Your ward constable?’

  ‘Yes, but to hear him you’d think he was lord mayor. He’s a braggart and a bully. “Peter Pest” people call him. He stood there asking stupid questions and making ... suggestions.’

  ‘What sort of suggestions?’

  Adie lowered her head. ‘About me and your man,’ she muttered. ‘He said that since we was the only ones there, we must have been up to something. Then, George must have found us and we’d all had a fight and your Bart must have pulled a knife ... Oh, the man’s a flap-mouthed jolthead. He wouldn’t listen to me and he wouldn’t call the hue and cry. Just said he was going to put both of us in irons till the magistrate came. He would have, too, if some of our neighbours hadn’t spoken for me. It was Goodwife Mays, next door, who made him see that I’m nurse to Master Johannes’ children. Then your man said he was servant to, an important merchant and there’d be trouble if they harmed him. Well, that made the Pest think. He wouldn’t let Bart go but he did say I could bring you a note. We found a stick of Master Johannes’ charcoal and a bit of old drawing paper. Bart wrote the note and I left the children with Goodwife Mays. Then I ran all the way here as fast as I could.’

  When Walt, my ostler, had the cart ready, he hauled himself into the driving seat and held out a hand to hoist the girl up beside him. ‘Where to, Master Thomas?’ he asked, waving a hand at the crowd of flies that buzzed around the donkey’s hindquarters.

  ‘Aldgate,’ I replied. ‘The gatehouse. It seems that our Bart has managed to get himself locked up there. You’ll have to bring him back.’

  His face creased into a black-toothed grin. ‘He’ll be right enough, Master Thomas. He’s used to taking rough knocks – thrives on ’em.’

  ‘Well, we must see what he’s walked into this time.’ Golding, my grey, was led out of the stable and I climbed into the saddle. ‘I’ll go on ahead and see you there.’

  I turned out of the yard and set off along West Cheap, eager to get the journey over, yet anxious about what I would discover at its end. What Walt said about Bart Miller was true. When he had come to work for me six years before he was a hothead of less than twenty, always on the lookout for a cause to uphold and ready to use whatever means came to hand. He had lost an arm fighting with the northern rebels in 1536. Marriage had somewhat sobered him. His wife, Lizzie, was a strong-minded woman, tough enough to curb his enthusiasms and clever enough not to let him know that he was being ‘handled’. Even so, Bart still saw himself as an adventurer. Like the knights we hear of in the tales of King Arthur, he could not help looking for dragons to slay. Anyone with a story to tell of injustice or cruelty or exploitation found in Bart Miller a ready listener.

  When I sent him out that morning with a message for the German artist, it never occurred to me that he could get involved in a murderous brawl. I simply wanted to know why my old friend Johannes Holbein was keeping me waiting for some tableware designs. I needed them urgently and it was unlike him not to have them ready on time. It was all very aggravating. The work was for an important – and wealthy – client. If I could not show him some designs within days he would, most assuredly, take his business elsewhere. Much as I was concerned about Bart, I was also bothered by what the girl had told me about her master. Could it be that the artist had deliberately ‘disappeared’ – gone into hiding from enemies who would not stop at murder? But who would want to kill a foreign artist who enjoyed the king’s favour and was patronised by most of the fashionable elite?

  It was mid-afternoon – hot and humid, warning of a storm to come. The City was quiet, many people seeking the shade – if they had not already escaped the plague-haunted streets to pass high summer in the country, something I was impatient to do. It was annoying having to waste more time trying to locate Holbein or extricate Bart from whatever he had got into. In the West Cheap narrows by the Conduit a large wagon was being loaded causing some congestion. I waited for the donkey cart to catch up in order to ask Adie more questions.

  ‘Do you know where your master has gone?’

  She fussed with wisps of hair, tucking them back under the cap. ‘He’s often away days at a time. Doing what he calls “sittings”.’

  ‘Making portraits of fine lords and ladies?’

  ‘Oh, yes, he’s much in demand. Everyone wants a likeness by Master Johannes, what with him being the king’s painter and
all.’ For the first time she showed a slight wistful smile. ‘He did a picture of me and the children – a year ago, before the little ones died. It wasn’t a painting, of course, just a drawing. He’s ever so quick. There was I trying to make the two boys sit still. Little Henry’s a great wriggler. But it didn’t matter. Master Johannes was so quick.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea where your master has gone this time?’

  Adie shook her head. ‘He went off first thing Tuesday, as he often does, with all his gear on a packhorse.’

  ‘Is there no way you can get a message to him – a warning?’

  Again the doleful, almost resigned, shake of the head.

  ‘What about you and the children – and their mother?’

  Adie scowled. ‘Oh, she’s been up and away long since. Packed her bags and left Master Johannes with four bearns, and one not yet weaned. Said she was tired of his comings and goings. Said she was for better things than bearing babies and looking after them. Slattern!’ She spat out the word.

  I rode on and was soon at the City wall.

  There was only a trickle of humanity passing to and fro through Aldgate. A few people stood beneath the rusted prongs of the raised portcullis, finding some coolness in the shade, where a half-hearted breeze shifted through the archway. I tethered Golding to an iron ring in the wall and announced myself to the duty guard. He was seated at the toll table just inside the open door of the guardhouse. He appraised me with an expert eye.

  ‘Good day, Master Treviot. We was expecting you.’

  ‘Good. Then I can take my man off your hands?’

  ‘Ah well, now, Sir.’ He stood up – a tall fellow in a leather jerkin who had the courteous demeanour of an official who knows that politeness is not a weakness when backed by authority. ‘I’m afraid I have my orders. The prisoner is to stay here until the coroner arrives to question him.’

  ‘And when will that be?’

  ‘Constable Pett has gone to fetch him. They should be back soon.’