The Traitor’s Mark

by D. K. Wilson

  It was in a very sombre mood that the party sat down to supper.

  The next morning I put Walt in charge of arranging Lizzie’s journey to Hemmings. I was about to set out with Bart on a tour of Holbein’s hiding places, when one of my men arrived from Goldsmith’s Row. He handed me a letter. ‘Delivered about three days ago,’ he said.

  There was no name on the outside but as soon as I opened it out, I recognised – with huge relief – Holbein’s meticulous writing.

  Master Treviot, I greet you well.

  Pastor Meyer has told me of your recent conversation. Most heartily I thank you for your care of my sons, who are my only joy in this world. I beg you will continue to keep them in your charge until I am free to relieve you of that burden. For now they can only be safe at distance from their father. I must remain in hiding from those who seek me with untiring diligence. They know I have information that will destroy them and for that reason they will not forbear until either they achieve their ends or they are apprehended. If you will meet me at the place shown you by our Flemish friend on Tuesday evening after seven I will pass on to you what I have discovered, confident that you will know where to deliver it.

  Your assured friend,

  Johannes Holbein

  I handed the letter to Ned. ‘Tuesday! He wants a meeting on Tuesday! And now ’tis Thursday! Mother of God, must we be always missing each other?’

  ‘What will you do?’ Ned asked.

  ‘I must go straight to Bridewell and wait.’

  ‘Is that wise? The warehouse is being watched.’

  ‘That’s true, but we can’t miss our chance again.’

  ‘Black Harry’s men are sure to recognise you as soon as you arrive in Bridewell Lane.’

  Bart said brightly, ‘You’ll have to go in disguise.’

  ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘One lot of disguisings is quite enough.’

  Ned looked thoughtful. ‘I wonder why Master Johannes suggested meeting at Bridewell. He will know it’s being watched.’

  I reread the letter. ‘He is very specific about the time of meeting: “Tuesday evening after seven”,’ I pointed out.

  ‘For some reason that time is safe,’ Bart said. ‘Why, what happens at seven after noon on Tuesday?’

  ‘Or on any day,’ I said.

  Ned nodded. ‘I see what you mean.’

  ‘Well, I don’t,’ Bart protested.

  Ned explained. ‘Holbein has had plenty of time to observe the routine of Black Harry’s men – watching the watchers. He has discovered that they do not keep vigil round the clock.’

  ‘But why not?’

  ‘They would soon arouse the suspicion of the constable’s watch.’

  ‘It may also be that our master fiend does not have enough men for arduous surveillance, all night long,’ I added. ‘Whatever the cause, it may be safe there once ’tis fully dark. We must try tonight and hope Holbein comes.’

  I busied myself with the arrangements for Lizzie’s journey to Hemmings and saw her on her way around midday, in the capable hands of Walt and two of my other servants. After that all I had to do was wait – wait and worry. This should be, could be, might be, the day the last, vital piece of evidence fell into place. If Black Harry’s men were not there to intervene; if Holbein came to the rendezvous; if his information was as important as he believed; then we could complete the chain linking Moyle and the villains he hired to the Duke of Norfolk and the imperial ambassador. Then I could leave Anthony Denny, Archbishop Cranmer and their friends at court to do whatever they had to do to uncover the whole network of traitors. In the process, Bart would be freed from suspicion. All this hung upon one meeting. But would that meeting take place? What would I do if it did not? Try again the next day? And the next? And the next? I did not want to think about the result of failure. I watched the sky darken over Southwark as rain clouds heralded an early dusk. Ned had prepared a tempting supper but I had little appetite and before six o’clock I saddled the horses myself and, with Dick for company, set out to cross the bridge.

  Traffic was light and there was nothing to impede our progress the whole length of Thames Street. We were at Ludgate well before seven o’clock. Rather than arrive too early and risk an encounter with Black Harry’s minions, we turned into St Paul’s Yard and ambled round the cathedral until the clock struck. I left Dick at the north end of Bridewell Lane and cautiously made my way past the houses and the high walls of the palace. As I approached the quay two horsemen approached from the other direction. I reined in to let them pass, keeping my hood well over my face.

  ‘Good even to you,’ one of them called out, slowing his mount.

  ‘And to you,’I responded lightly.

  ‘Are you going to the quay?’ he asked and I was conscious of being carefully scrutinised.

  ‘Yes, are there still boatmen for hire?’

  ‘One, I think,’ he replied. ‘You’d best hurry.’

  ‘Thank you, friend.’ I legged my horse into a trot. I had not recognised either of the men but I felt sure they were members of the gang. Had I satisfied them?

  I waited several minutes on the deserted quay before turning and retracing my steps.

  ‘Did you see two men come up the lane?’ I asked Dick when I reached him.

  ‘Yes, Master. They turned right, towards the gate. Were they Black Harry’s men?’

  ‘I think so. I hope so. Anyway all’s quiet now. We’ll leave our horses over there at the Red Hand inn and go on foot.’

  Minutes later we walked back down the deserted lane. I led the way through the alley and up the stairs, unlocked the door and entered Holbein’s lair. With the aid of the last of the light through the high windows we found lamps and lit them. I looked around the large room.

  The scene that met my gaze was very different from the one I had left ten days earlier. The place had been tidied up. The floor timbers still bore multi-hued smudges of paint, but the few pieces of furniture were now in place. The bed was covered. Stools stood upright. At the far end Holbein’s self-portrait stood on its easel. Brushes and pots of pigment set on a table beside it indicated that the artist was still working on it. And he had obviously been using a polished tin mirror nailed to one of the wall bearns.

  We seated ourselves on two of the stools. Now there was nothing to do but wait.

  I do not know how long it was before we heard footsteps on the stair – probably not as long as it seemed. We jumped up and stepped across to the door. We stood either side of it. My hand went to the pommel of my poniard. The steps stopped outside and we heard the key turn in the lock. The door opened and swung inwards. The figure that entered was well covered in a hooded riding cape. He took a pace into the room, looked around cautiously and closed the door behind him. He threw back the hood.

  ‘Good even to you, Thomas Treviot,’ said Johannes Holbein.

  Chapter 18

  We embraced warmly. ‘You cannot know how overjoyed I am to see you, Johannes,’I said.

  I stood back and stared at him. My first impression of the artist was that he had aged noticeably since we had last met. Though not yet fifty, his features were lined and his eyes lacked sparkle. He dropped his cloak to the floor and, with a sound between a sigh and a grunt, lowered himself on to a stool. His doublet was unbuttoned and his shirt crumpled.

  ‘Master Treviot, I fear I have put you to much trouble,’ he said.

  ‘’Tis you who have been in great trouble. I hope I can help you put an end to it.’ I turned to Dick. ‘Better go outside and stand guard in the lane. We don’t want any surprise visitors.’

  ‘The villains won’t return till first light,’ Holbein said, ‘but ’tis as well to be cautious.’

  ‘I believe we saw two of them going off duty. I do not think they recognised me, but ...’

  ‘Pastor Meyer has told me of some of the difficulties you’ve faced on my behalf. And you have also taken care of my sons.’ Holbein smiled. ‘That is a great burden lifted from me. How are they?�
�

  I recalled Lizzie’s words on the subject and checked myself from offering a glib answer. ‘They have been touched by this business but they are safe now. I think no lasting damage has been done.’

  Holbein smiled. ‘They are bright boys. Alas, I have seen too little of them.’

  ‘You will have plenty of time to spend with them as soon as this present problem is over.’

  ‘Well, well, we shall see.’ He was silent for several moments. Then he said, ‘’Tis time, I think, for them to be put to a tutor. Do you know someone suitable?’

  ‘My own son is privately taught,’ I said. ‘Francis Sturn-good is an excellent scholar and wields his birch well, though not too often. I’ll arrange for you to meet him, if you wish.’

  He raised his eyes towards the rafters, avoiding my gaze. ‘We must do the best for them. I have made a will. It is with John of Antwerp, as you call him. There is provision for the boys and their nurse.’

  ‘’Tis not time yet to talk of wills,’ I protested. ‘We will bring your enemies to justice and you can take up your life again.’

  He shook his head. ‘Does it not alarm you, Master Treviot, how much hatred there is in the world?’

  ‘Indeed it does. Wherever I go – in the City, in villages, in churches, in court rooms, in great men’s palaces – people are at odds with their neighbours, friends fall out, the king’s subjects seek to destroy one another.’

  ‘Everywhere,’ he said wearily. ‘’Tis the same everywhere.’ He paused. ‘You know I’m a citizen of Basel – officially. When I settled there, years ago, it was like a haven of peace and common sense. I had many friends. Some called themselves “Catholic”; some had forsaken the old church, but all, I think, were men of generous spirit. Young, of course, and enthusiastic for our own beliefs. We could – often did – argue the night away. But seldom with rancour. Then I came to England, never intending to stay. I made more friends. I was introduced to the king’s court. I prospered.’

  ‘You well deserve your success,’ I said. ‘There is no finer limner in England, perhaps in Europe.’

  ‘They were good years.’ Holbein continued with his reminiscence, as though talking to himself. ‘Then I returned to Basel. Everything had changed. It wasn’t enough, any more, to know what you believed; you had to make everyone else believe the same. That led to mob warfare on the streets. Gangs attacked churches. Pulled down statues. Slashed paintings. The city council gave way. All religious art was banned. No one needed painters any more. So I came back here. Do you know what I found?’

  ‘That things were much the same in England?’

  ‘Yes, like the plague, religious fervour had crossed the water. Even my old patron, Sir Thomas More, had taken to locking men up and having them tortured.’

  ‘Yet you stayed and established a brilliant career.’

  He stood and walked over to his easel. Taking up a brush, he began dabbing at the canvas. ‘What an artist feels, he must try to bring out of himself; put it into his work. Your great men and women wanted portraits. I made them; tried to show them not just what they looked like, but what they were. I don’t know if any of them ever realised that the “Oh so fashionable German, Master Holbein” was looking into their souls.’

  ‘You must take much satisfaction from your success.’

  ‘Looking into their souls,’ Holbein continued, as though he had not heard. ‘But my soul? What happened to that? The success, the acclaim, the money – they took over. But the soul? I think it shrivelled. I had a wife and children but we drifted apart. I didn’t want to go to Basel. They didn’t want to come to England. I thought I had found happiness with an English woman. Soon I had a new family. Then my two little girls died. My woman left. All I had was my work, my fame, my clamouring patrons.’

  ‘That would be enough for many craftsmen.’

  ‘Patrons. So generous. So loud in their praise. But they always want more than they give. Even the greatest man in England. Especially him.’

  ‘Lord Cromwell?’

  ‘Yes. I miss him. He was brilliant. I could always talk to him. He understood. And I understood him. He made me see that the troubles England was going through were just birthing pains for the godly commonwealth he was bringing into the world. So, when he asked more of me than just painting, I was ready ...’

  ‘He wanted you to spy for him?’

  ‘He called it “keeping him informed” about potential enemies.’ Holbein laid down the brush and turned to me. ‘Do you know I could have saved him?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I discovered what Lord Norfolk – that haughty, misbom, foul-tempered proudster – was planning. But I did not get the message to Cromwell in time. That will always haunt me.’

  ‘Is that why you are so anxious to have your information passed to Archbishop Cranmer, now?’

  ‘He is a good man and Norfolk is up to his usual foul tricks. But now he is part of something much bigger. We cannot let him and his fellow conspirators succeed this time.’

  ‘This information you have – will it really stop him?’

  ‘Oh yes, if it is correctly used. His grace will know how to use it, if you pass it on to him.’

  ‘But you can give it to him yourself. We’ll get you to him safely.’

  ‘No, that won’t work. Norfolk and his associates must not know that their plans have been discovered. If they do they will simply disband and wait for another opportunity. They are diabolically persistent. They will go to absolutely any lengths.’

  ‘So I’ve discovered. They killed your assistant, they left van der Goes half-dead and they’d have let the children starve.’

  ‘The only way to avenge these wrongs is to close down the whole organisation. You will be able to do that, but only if they believe that I have failed in my mission.’

  ‘ But that would mean letting them capture you.’

  The painter smiled and nodded. Suddenly I recalled Meyer’s words about Holbein nursing the idea of suicide. ‘You can’t do that!’ I protested.

  ‘It is the only way, Thomas. I have had plenty of time to think about it. I must admit when I heard what had happened to poor George my instinct was to run away, get on a Hanse ship and escape. But where to? Basel has no charms for me now. My family there are provided for. They’re perfectly happy without me. At my age I can’t start building a career somewhere else. In any case, I’m too old-fashioned. The demand now is for a debased, exaggerated, “showy” art. I hate it. So my time is over and I am content.’

  ‘My dear friend, this is foolish talk. Your talent is unequalled. You are painter to the King of England.’

  He gave a cynical laugh. ‘To a king who has no more commissions for me.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No, Thomas, you waste your breath seeking to dissuade me. I count myself very fortunate. It is not, I think, given to many men to know when their time in this world is spent. I have played my little role and I leave the stage willingly. The play continues, but my part in it will soon be forgotten. There’s one important thing left for me to do and, with your help, I can do it.’

  ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Give me the information and I’ll leave you – but only with a very heavy heart.’

  To my surprise, Holbein laughed. ‘I’ve already sent it to you – or part of it, but you must have missed it.’

  ‘The engraved coat of arms on the chalice design?’

  ‘Ah, so you did notice it. It was a very faint chance but the only way I could think of at the time. When I heard you had become involved I tried to think of something that might catch your attention. I recalled our frequent discussions of cyphers and concealed meanings. You know I have a weakness for that sort of thing. That heraldic device will identify the man whose twisted mind lies behind the attack on the archbishop and so much more devilry.’

  ‘Yes, I have discovered him and warned the archbishop.’

  ‘Excellent! Then most of the work is done. But there is more information – times and d
ates – that will complete the picture. This man – I never knew his name ...’

  ‘Thomas Moyle,’ I said.

  ‘Really? Well, he is the organiser. He has links with important men here and abroad. He came two or three times to see the Duke of Norfolk. The first was when I was at his house in Kenninghall working on a new portrait. The duke was out of favour following the fall of his niece, Queen Catherine Howard, and seething with fury about those who had exposed her and brought him close to ruin. Then, more recently, this man – Moyle, you say? – visited his lordship again in his chambers at Whitehall Palace. They always talked in secret but I managed to overhear a few snatches of conversation – enough to realise their treachery. I memorised the heraldic badge worn by the man’s servants. Unfortunately, I was not quite discreet enough. The conspirators were suspicious. They could do nothing immediately because I was with the royal court – a small commission for the new queen. When I left, they sent their pet assassins to waylay me. As you know, I escaped and have been in hiding ever since, trying to think how I could convey what I know to the archbishop or some trusted friend. Thank God, I can now do that. In the morning I’ll allow myself to be captured. Now, Thomas, listen carefully. The traitor’s visits to Norfolk—’

  Suddenly, we were disturbed by the sound of hurried footsteps on the stair. Dick rushed in. ‘Someone’s coming!’ he called out softly.

  ‘Quick,’ Holbein said, ‘douse the lamps! Stay in the corner!’

  In the darkness I heard him move towards the door. He whispered something that sounded like ‘Smile’. Then he was gone.

  Moments later there was a commotion on the staircase – shouts, grunts, thuds, a scream. Then laughter and the thump, thump, thump of something being dragged down the stair.

  I waited several minutes to see if the ruffians would come back, perhaps to search the room. When the silence remained unbroken, I stumbled around trying to find a lamp. I tripped over a stool and just stopped myself falling headlong. ‘Dick,’ I called, ‘where did we put the lamps?’