The Traitor’s Mark

by D. K. Wilson

  Lizzie treated me to a wry smile. ‘Not as much as you enjoy organising other people’s lives.’ She turned to Adie. ‘You’ll find he’s very good at that.’

  ‘I simply think it makes sense for you all to come to Hemmings till the plague has passed and this other business is sorted out.’

  Lizzie turned back to the window. ‘I can’t be that far away from Bart. I must be where he can find me easily.’

  ‘Very well, but at least let the children come. Adie is bringing the boys down. She has the sense to realise that they can’t go back to Aldgate until Master Johannes returns. She’d be happy to take care of your bearns, too. Isn’t that so, Adie?’

  The girl gave a shy smile by way of acknowledgement.

  Lizzie made no further argument. It was arranged that I would set off into Kent three days later with my augmented household. While the servants completed the work of closing up the house and workshop and loading on to wagons the furniture and other goods which had to be taken into the country, I tidied up my business affairs.

  I also had a visit to make.

  I rode out next morning, Friday 4 September, through Ludgate and over the Fleet Bridge. Turning left into narrow Bride Lane, I had only a few yards to go before dismounting in the shadow of the high walls bordering the precinct of old Bridewell Palace. A row of quite substantial houses clustered by the boundary, as though enjoying royal protection. Three of them belonged to alien goldsmiths, a little nest of foreigners who could stare out from their casements at the City wall, mere yards away, and disregard the Guild rules binding honest London craftsmen. They could take on and train their own apprentices (usually of their own ilk), attract their own customers and charge their own prices. Theoretically the Worshipful Company exercised control over the quality of the interlopers’ merchandise. All gold items had to pass through our assay office, which authenticated the purity of the precious metal. But many of the foreigners (and there were more than a hundred of them working in and around London) ignored the regulations. In practice, we were powerless to prevent them stealing our markets. We were obliged to compete with them for quality – and some of them were hellishly good. This was bad enough but at least the distinction between us and them was clear. There were, however, a few who deliberately blurred that distinction; who had cunningly worked themselves into a position of being able to enjoy the advantages of life on both sides of the wall. One such was John of Antwerp.

  He had run this workshop on Bride Street longer than anyone could remember. He was a fine craftsman – of that there was no doubt. He attracted custom from the highest in the land and he had prospered – really prospered. He married an Englishwoman. He reared a family. But he remained staunchly a Netherlander. He had another home in Antwerp and spent months there every year. That, of course, was his privilege. But a few years ago he had sought to be made a freeman of the Goldsmiths’ Company. That led to fierce arguments among the members. It split us into rival factions. But John of Antwerp had friends. Rich friends. Powerful friends. He secured his election. Well, he might have won the right to sit at our board, to worship in our chapel (despite his Lutheran opinions), to vote at our assemblies, but few of us could accept him as one of us. His presence in our midst remained an irritant.

  A notice was pinned to the door of the largest of the three houses. It informed callers that Master Jan van der Goes (he did not even accept the Englishing of his name) had closed his workshop until the plague abated but that prospective clients could find him most mornings between ten and noon at the sign of the Red Hand in Fleet Street. I turned Golding’s head and a few minutes later tethered him outside the prestigious inn frequented by barristers of the inns of court, visitors with business at Whitehall Palace and gentlemen attendant on the great men whose nearby fine houses on The Strand overlooked the river.

  There were not many people in the fashionable inn. August and September were always quiet in this locality. The royal household was on progress and the law courts were not in session until Michaelmas. Students and teachers at the law schools usually took the opportunity to go into the country between terms. Even so, it was unusual to see most of the tables in the Red Hand’s large hall empty. However, even had the room been all a-bustle and crowded with customers, it would have been easy to locate John of Antwerp. His booming voice could always be heard at a distance and he was seldom to be seen without a throng of sycophantic admirers. Today his attendants had been reduced to three in number. They sat at a table by an open casement, taking advantage of the slight breeze that whiffled through the room.

  ‘Brother Treviot,’ the Fleming bellowed as I approached. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure. Simon, fetch a flagon for our distinguished guest.’ This instruction was given to an apprentice who immediately rose and hurried about his errand. John was a heavily built man in his fifties who affected the manners and dress of someone twenty years his junior. Today he sported a yellow doublet and a shirt open at the neck. His cap was pushed back on his bush of brown hair and his thick beard completely encircled his ruddy features. He waved me to a seat on the bench opposite and introduced his companions. They were Reynold, a slim young man in royal livery, and Sir Tobias Harriday, a priest from Worcester.

  ‘Reynold is a messenger come hot-paced from court,’ John explained. ‘And Sir Tobias is here to order a new set of altar plate.’

  ‘For our Prince Arthur chantry chapel,’ the fresh-featured cleric added.

  ‘Chantry chapel, Brother John?’ I said, unable to resist the taunt, ‘I thought you did not approve of prayers for the dead and what you call “popish superstition”.’

  The Fleming was unfazed. ‘His majesty wishes to honour his late brother’s memory with a magnificent gift of gold plate for the tomb chapel. I’m honoured to help this pious and charitable act. But tell me, Brother, what brings you to the Red Hand? I thought you had left the City.’

  ‘I’m only here briefly. I have to collect some designs from Master Holbein.’

  ‘Will that be for the Cotes Cup?’

  I nodded and just managed a smile. The foreigner seemed damnably well informed about my affairs.

  ‘Johannes told me he was working on it,’ he explained.

  ‘Do you happen to know his whereabouts at the moment?’ I asked. ‘He seems to be from home.’

  Simon returned and set a full tankard before me. I raised it to my lips, watching John over the brim.

  He took his time over the reply, obviously thinking carefully what to say. ‘I heard there was some trouble at his house recently.’ His tone was nonchalant.

  ‘Yes, Wednesday. Some ruffians broke in and killed his assistant.’

  ‘What? Young George? How terrible.’ His pretence of shock and surprise was not convincing. He obviously knew more than he wanted to admit. I began to think I was wasting my time with the fellow.

  ‘Indeed. It was fortunate Master Johannes was not there. You have no idea where I might find him now?’

  ‘When I saw him last, a few days ago, he was on his way to court. He was talking about some commission he had for the new queen. I suppose he is still there.’

  ‘Perhaps Master Reynold, here, may have seen him.’ I turned to the messenger. ‘Where is his majesty keeping court now? Do you know if our artist friend is there?’

  The young man was glad to air his knowledge. ‘The court’s at Ampthill Castle, near Bedford. It’s small for the whole court but his majesty vows he’ll not come a mile nearer London as long as the plague lasts.’

  ‘Ampthill – was that not where Queen Catherine was kept?’the priest asked.

  ‘Aye, that she was,’Reynold replied.

  ‘God keep her!’ Harriday crossed himself. ‘The kingdom has gone from bad to—’

  ‘So,’ I interrupted impatiently. ‘Is Master Holbein there?’

  ‘Was,’ the messenger replied. ‘Her majesty commanded him there to paint likenesses of the king’s children. The princesses are travelling with the court but Prince Edward lives
nearby at Ashridge.’

  ‘So, the artist is no longer there?’ I prompted.

  I think he left at the beginning of the week.’

  ‘To come back to London?’

  Reynold shrugged.‘I suppose.’

  I looked at the Fleming. ‘And he has not been in touch with you since then?’

  John shook his head.

  ‘Then it seems he never reached the City.’

  ‘Perhaps he was headed somewhere else,’ John suggested. ‘Another customer. Another commission.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea where I might seek him?’

  ‘Johannes is a quite solitary man – secretive even. I do not think he confides his movements to other people. Certainly not to me.’

  ‘A pity,’ I said. ‘I have important news for him about his children. They are safe and in my care. Should you ever stumble across Master Holbein,’ I said sarcastically, ‘perhaps you would be kind enough to let him know where to find his family.’

  Soon afterwards I bade the company farewell. As I rode back to West Cheap I reflected grimly on my wasted morning. Yet, perhaps not totally wasted. Was it just because I disliked the man that I felt convinced John of Antwerp was determined to stop me making contact with his friend?

  Over the next couple of days the work of closing up the house continued. I sent Adie and the children on ahead in my coach with the loaded wagons and most of the remaining staff. Because the roads were in such a sorry state due to the heavy rain, it was obvious that the journey would take them at least a couple of days. My plan was to leave twenty-four hours later with three mounted and armed servants and arrive at about the same time. Before I could go I had to reply to the Lord Mayor’s letter. All I could say was that I had failed to contact Holbein and, thus, must regretfully decline the commission. It was the bare truth. It made both me and my friend appear incompetent but I could not add to it. That would only have encouraged speculation about Holbein’s disappearance and set tongues wagging around the City. For the hundredth time I racked my brains to think what could have happened to him. I had been farming out design work to him for some three years and had never had cause for complaint. He always produced his drawings promptly and they were always of the highest quality. Holbein had a knack of divining exactly what the customer wanted and his invention was breathtaking in its originality. He also understood the techniques of metalworking and gem-setting, which meant that he never posed problems impossible for my craftsmen to solve. I remember him telling me once that he had actually practised as a goldsmith in Basel, where he lived before coming to England. Holbein was more than a good craftsman; he was a pleasant man to deal with – inclined to be solemn, even morose, but always agreeable company. If he was in trouble, I would like to be in a position to help him. The fact that his friends were keeping his whereabouts secret from me could only mean that he was in grave danger.

  My concern was, if anything, heightened by what happened on Monday morning. After breakfasting simply and early, I assembled my little group of riders in the yard, ready for our departure. We were about to mount when a ragged, bootless boy ran in from the street. He came up and touched his cap. ‘You Master Treviot, the goldsmith?’

  ‘I am.’

  He thrust a small package at me. ‘The man said you’d give me a penny.’

  ‘What man?’

  ‘Man what gave it me.’ He smirked at his own cleverness.

  I took the flat parcel and fished a coin out of my purse. ‘Stay here while I see if there’s a reply,’ I said.

  But the boy shook his head. ‘He said I wasn’t to wait.’ Pausing only to scrutinise the penny, he turned and darted out of the yard.

  The offering seemed to be wrapped in several layers of thick paper. Scrawled across the front was my name and the legend, ‘Haste. Haste.’ I took it into the kitchen and unfastened it on the table. With a gasp I instantly recognised Master Johannes’ impeccable draughtsmanship. On five crisp sheets were the cup and cover designs I had been waiting for. The artist had supplied two complete drawings and some detailed studies of the more intricate elements. The two designs were almost identical but the variations offered the client a choice. I was sure that either would delight the Lord Mayor. The cup was magnificent. A stern of two female figures supported a bowl chased with twined foliage and above it the motto FIDES ET INTEGRITAS (‘Loyalty and Trustworthiness’). The fifth sheet had obviously been included by mistake. Although it was also a design for a cup and cover, it was simply carved with a coat of arms and was nothing like the object ordered by Sir John Cotes. I stuffed it into my purse, folded the others carefully and placed them into Golding’s saddle bag. He was all ready for our departure but that departure would now have to be delayed. I sprang into the saddle, told, the others to await my return and set off briskly for the Lord Mayor’s house on Walbrook.

  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 th
e 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”.’