The Traitor’s Mark

by D. K. Wilson

  Strangely, I felt no fear. If I closed my eyes it was not to escape the reality of death. It was simply that I did not want my assassin’s leering face to be the last thing I saw in this world.

  ‘Why, Thomas, whatever have you been doing, throwing the bedding about like this?’ Ned set down his tray of nostrums beside the bed.

  ‘Have a care, Ned!’ I cried. ‘He’s in here somewhere and he’s armed.’

  ‘Who’s here?’ He glanced round the room.

  ‘Black Harry! He came in through the window.’

  Ned walked across the room. ‘Well, he was considerate enough to close it behind him.’

  ‘But I saw him – quite clearly, I heard him. I felt him.’

  ‘You dreamed him, Thomas. That’s quite common in people recovering from the kind of shock that your body has had. When I was in the monastery—’

  ‘No, Ned! He was here. Really. He must still be in the house.’

  ‘I’ll tell the servants to make a thorough search,’ Ned said. ‘But now, let’s have a look at your dressing. It will need changing, I expect.’

  I sat up to help him remove the cloth bindings. He stooped to peer at the wound. He stroked his beard. ‘This is very good,’ he said. ‘Remarkably good.’ He gently fingered the wound. ‘How does this feel today?’

  ‘Much less painful than yesterday,’ I replied.

  ‘Excellent. Excellent. Well, we’ll bind it again, just for a few days more.’

  The following morning I had another visitation. The first I knew of it was when Adie and Lizzie burst in. They seemed flustered. Lizzie bustled around the room, tidying and straightening things, while Adie helped me into a sitting position and smoothed the covers.

  ‘Why all the fuss?’ I demanded.

  ‘Important visitor!’ Lizzie muttered, moving my heavy chair from the table to the bedside. ‘Ned’s delaying him as best he can, but he’ll be up directly.’

  ‘Who?’ I shouted – and the result was an immediate stab of pain in my abdomen.

  ‘The archbishop,’ Adie whispered in my ear. ‘In person.’

  No sooner had she said the word than the door opened and Thomas Cranmer entered with his usual solemn gait. He was closely followed by Ralph Morice, who carried his left arm in a sling. The women made curtsies and withdrew silently.

  The archbishop took the seat provided for him. He reached out to the coverlet and laid his hand on mine. ‘Master Treviot, it is so good to see you. We have been very concerned about you. It was an immense relief when news came from Gillingham of your safe arrival there. As soon as we heard that you were returned to your home, we decided to come to thank you in person for all your help.’

  ‘Your Grace does me great honour,’ I replied, ‘but I fear you have nothing to thank me for. I was supposed to help you apprehend Ferdinand Brooke. All I did was get him killed.’

  Morice, standing behind the archbishop, said, ‘It would have been better to bring the traitor to justice – publicly, in the king’s law court – but we found several papers among his belongings on the ship that make his appalling crimes quite clear.’

  Cranmer said, ‘I am on my way to Westminster for Council business. It will be my duty to lay this information before my colleagues. I could not pass by the opportunity to make this diversion to satisfy myself that you were recovering from your ordeal. I feel responsible for all you have suffered.’

  ‘It was an honour to be of service to Your—’

  Cranmer raised a hand to silence me. ‘Thomas Treviot, you are not a courtier and you are, therefore, spared the necessity for flattery.’

  ‘Is this wretched business really over?’ I asked.

  ‘Almost, please God,’ Morice said. ‘Our enemies are, as we hear, thrown into some confusion. Yesterday another of Bishop Gardiner’s messengers was arrested in Canterbury. The letters we confiscated carried instructions to cease their harrying of his grace.’

  Cranmer smiled. ‘My Lord of Winchester is confident that he can, himself, do all the necessary harrying. Now, we dare not stay long; his majesty is returning briefly to Whitehall from Ampthill in order to consult me before the Council meeting. It would be most useful to hear everything you learned about Master Brooke and his plans aboard his ship.’

  I gave a detailed account of all that had taken place a week before. As I spoke, it was as though I were describing the strange adventures of some other man at some other, long-distant time.

  When I finished, I said, ‘Your Grace, I’m equally anxious to hear what happened to the men you sent into Essex. May I ask Master Morice what happened after we left him and his companions on the shore?’

  ‘An uncomfortable night is the short answer,’ Ralph said ruefully. ‘We heard your attack on the barque and expected the boat to return. We waited for news and were startled to realise that the ship was under sail. By then it was too late for our return journey, so we camped among the trees. At first light we put our dead and wounded on the wagon. Our prisoners were trussed up and tied across the spare horses. Thus we made our slow progress back to Tilbury.’

  ‘I’m so sorry my stupidity enabled Black Harry to escape,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, but he didn’t,’ Morice replied. ‘Before we left, the guard captain ordered a last search of the area to make sure none of the Spaniards were skulking in the vicinity. One of our more sharp-eyed men spotted the boat, beached higher up the creek. We sent a group of horsemen to investigate and they came upon Black Harry and his friends, soaked through, and shivering with cold. That meant more prisoners to be watched and slowed us down further but we managed to get all of them back to Gravesend, where we packed them into the jail.’

  ‘How did Black Harry escape again?’ I asked.

  ‘Black Harry? Escape? Not he. We had had more than enough of his tricks and prevarications. A special court was summoned. That evil scoundrel was tried and straightway executed.’

  ‘Executed?’ I gasped. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I went to witness it myself. Like you, I was well aware of Master Walden’s capacity for getting out of tight corners. He was quite unrepentant to the very end. In fact he screamed abuse and railed like a madman. He even had the gall to threaten his grace from the scaffold.’

  ‘The archbishop’s time will come,’I muttered.

  ‘Aye, those were his very words.’ Morice looked puzzled. ‘Has someone else already reported the hanging to you?’

  ‘No matter,’I said.‘When was the execution?’

  ‘Noon, yesterday. Thomas, are you all right? Is the pain worse? You look suddenly ... Shall I fetch your apothecary?’

  My heart was thumping and my head had fallen back against the cushions. ‘Don’t be alarmed,’ I said, recovering quickly. ‘Just a twinge in the wound. It happens from time to time.’

  ‘Then we must not tire you further,’ the archbishop said, rising. ‘I bid you farewell and assure you of my prayers for a complete recovery.’

  Morice stayed momentarily after Cranmer had left the room. ‘You might remember his grace in your prayers,’ he said. ‘We are not completely in the clear yet. Gardiner and Norfolk may be desperate enough to try anything.’

  A short while afterwards Lizzie, Bart, Ned and Adie crowded into the room.

  ‘Well,’ Lizzie demanded, ‘what did your distinguished visitor have to say?’

  ‘He enquired after my health.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He thanked me for my help.’

  Lizzie treated me to her familiar pout. ‘I should think so too. If he really knew what you ... what all of us have been through ...’

  ‘Ralph Morice told me Black Harry is dead.’

  All four of them cheered, though Ned crossed himself.

  ‘It really is over, then,’ Bart said.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Well, there’s a couple of months none of us will ever want to see again,’ Ned said. ‘I think I’ll away to the kitchen and brew something special to celebrate.’ He sidled out of the r
oom.

  Bart sat down on the bed. ‘We can really start thinking about business again. There’s several customers we need to make contact with. They’ll want to know when we plan to reopen the shop.’

  ‘Bart, let the poor man rest,’ Lizzie said.

  ‘We have to start—’

  ‘Bart!’ Lizzie threw him a knowing glance from the other side of the bed.

  ‘Oh ... er ... yes. Well. I suppose that can wait a bit.’

  He stood up and his wife almost pushed him out of the room.

  Adie turned to leave also but, from the doorway, Lizzie said, ‘Keep the patient company for a while.’

  I patted the bed and Adie sat demurely.

  ‘You’re looking much better,’ she said. ‘You had us really worried. We were afraid you might ...’

  ‘Die?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There was a time when I thought I was going to die.’

  ‘Were you afraid?’

  ‘Strangely, no. Just annoyed that I wouldn’t be able to do things I very much wanted to do.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  I put a hand behind her neck and pulled her face down to mine. Hurriedly, hungrily, clumsily, I kissed her.

  She drew back, gazing at me with wide eyes. She looked as surprised as I felt. For a long moment I stared at her, cursing my impulsiveness, hoping I had not upset her, regretting – yet not regretting. Then Adie smiled and, very gently, she kissed me back.

  Epilogue

  November 1543

  (The exact date is unknown)

  The Archbishop of Canterbury and his secretary sat facing each other in the canopied area of the archiepiscopal barge. Even on a morning such as this when the river, swollen with autumn rain, was running swiftly and the oarsmen had to dig deep to counteract the pull towards the City, it took no more than five minutes to cross from Lambeth Palace to Whitehall. Neither man spoke during the brief journey. Each was fully occupied with his own thoughts.

  Ralph Morice tried to imagine exactly what would happen when they reached the Council chamber. Who would be present? Who would take charge? What – exactly – would they say? He looked at Cranmer, resting placidly against the cushions, eyes closed. Trying to radiate a calm he did not feel? Praying? Knowing his master as he did, Morice could well believe that the archbishop was interceding for his enemies.

  The six rowers lifted their oars and the barge gently nudged the staging of Whitehall Stairs. Attendants reached out to pull the boat sideways on to the landing stage and make fast the mooring ropes.

  With a scarcely perceptible sigh, Cranmer stood, stepped forward and accepted a hand to help him on to the stairs. He climbed the few steps. Morice followed. They made their way between the sprawl of buildings that flanked the river, crossed the Sermon Court, where preachers approved by the king pronounced official doctrine, and so reached the broad stone stairs leading to the Council antechamber.

  A motley collection of some twenty or so men occupied this isparsely furnished room – lawyers, liveried retainers of great men, merchants, clergy and any others with petitions or appeals to present to the Privy Council and prepared to wait hours, or, if necessary, days for their lordships to grant them a hearing. They relieved their boredom in various ways. Some gossiped in small groups. Some lounged against the wall reading books or checking through papers, rehearsing the evidence they intended to present when their names were called. Two men sat in a window embrasure playing at dice.

  At the far end was the large arched doorway to the Council chamber. Before it stood a royal guardsman, halberd in hand and beside him, at a small table, the petitioners’ clerk. Cranmer walked steadily forward. What should have happened; what always happened was that the guard tapped on the door, which was opened from within by an attendant who, recognising the archbishop, stood aside to allow him to join his conciliar colleagues.

  This time the guard did not move. When Cranmer stepped closer, he brought his halberd to a horizontal position, silently barring the portal. Morice turned angrily to the clerk.

  ‘What means this?’ he demanded. ‘Have his grace admitted immediately.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Master Morice.’ The clerk’s embarrassment was obvious. ‘We have orders. His grace is.not to be received till sent for.’ Scowling, Morice turned back to the archbishop.

  ‘This, then, is to be the way of it,’ Cranmer sighed. ‘Condemned unheard.’

  ‘We’ll see about that!’ Without waiting for the archbishop’s consent, Morice strode from the room.

  Cranmer calmly walked across to the fireplace and engaged in conversation with the group of men warming themselves there.

  Within half an hour the secretary was back. After a brief word with the archbishop, he went across to the clerk’s desk and, without comment, handed over a slip of paper. The official jumped to his feet, tapped on the door beside him and passed the note to someone inside. After a brief pause the door opened. The attendant approached Cranmer and bowed. ‘If Your Grace will be good enough, the Council will see you now.’ At the door Morice said, ‘God save Your Grace.’ Cranmer smiled and entered the chamber.

  The tense atmosphere was immediately apparent. At the head of the table the portly figure of Lord Chancellor Thomas Audley was in the presidential chair. Beside him Bishop Gardiner sat, his hand resting on a pile of papers. Opposite him was the Duke of Norfolk. Among others present Cranmer scrutinised Sir Thomas Wriothesley who, as royal secretary, enjoyed something of the power once held by Cromwell; the Venerable Lord Russell, whose one good eye was fixed on the newcomer; and Edward Seymour. These were the men who counted. The others, Cranmer knew, would follow their lead.

  What had they decided? From glances being exchanged across the table it was clear that discussion had been tense and not unanimous. Cranmer tried to gauge who had taken the initiative. Who was looking confident? Who had gained control?

  He stepped forward. ‘My apologies, My Lords.’ He smiled. ‘I was somewhat delayed.’ He moved towards one of the empty seats.

  Gardiner leaned across for a quiet word with the president. Audley nodded and said, ‘Your Grace, before you take your place you should hear something we have agreed earlier.’

  Cranmer inclined his head, still smiling. ‘As Your Lordship wishes.’

  All eyes were fixed on the archbishop. Some showed anger. Others nervousness. Audley glanced to his left. ‘My Lord Bishop, since you have presented your case so eloquently perhaps you will declare the Council’s will.’

  Gardiner looked far from pleased. He shuffled his papers. He cleared his throat. ‘Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury,’ he announced solemnly, ‘it has come to the attention of his gracious majesty’s Council that you and others – encouraged, supported and set on by you – have infected the whole realm with heresy.’

  ‘Tell me what erroneous doctrine I am guilty of spreading,’ Cranmer said quietly.

  Gardiner extracted a sheet from his pile. ‘Here is evidence that you said of the mass—’

  ‘We are not here to argue doctrine,’ Norfolk interrupted. ‘We’ll not listen to your damnable, foreign ideas. You’ll not spread your Lutheran poison here. You will be handed over to the Captain of the Guard. He will convey you to the Tower of London. It is there that you will be examined – and condemned.’

  Several heads nodded. Other councillors, including Gardiner, looked displeased at the outburst.

  Cranmer moved to the bottom of the table which was untenanted. ‘My Lords, I am truly sorry that you compel me to appeal directly to the king’s majesty.’

  ‘Too late for that!’ Norfolk snapped. ‘Your evil influence over him has come to an end.’ He stood and began to saunter down the room, his eyes gleaming with triumph and hatred.‘You are under arrest.’

  Cranmer stood his ground. He opened the palm of his right hand and held its contents for all to see. ‘I think you all know this ring,’ he said calmly. ‘It is his gracious majesty’s token. Last evening he summoned me to his
presence and entrusted it to me. “If my councillors lay anything to your charge,” he said, “show them this ring. Inform them that I have taken the matter into my own hands and tell them to meddle with it no further”.’

  After a moment of stunned silence pandemonium broke out.

  ‘’Sblood! I warned you this would happen!’ Russell bellowed.

  ‘This was your doing, Norfolk,’ Wriothesley whimpered. ‘You know I wanted none of it.’

  ‘Who’s for the Tower now?’ Seymour wagged a finger at Gardiner.

  Audley banged the table, demanding silence. ‘We must to his majesty straight and seek pardon for our presumption.’

  Everyone rushed for the door.

  The last man to leave the chamber was Cranmer. He placed the ring back in his purse, with a long sigh and a short prayer: ‘Father, forgive them. They know not what they do.’

  The failure to destroy the Primate of All England had taken fewer than three minutes.

  Historical Note

  Readers of historical fiction have a right to know where the history ends and the fiction begins. The Traitor’s Mark is closely based on real events. At the heart of the story there are two mysteries, two events that have never been fully explained. In the autumn of 1543, the greatest portrait painter of the age, Hans Holbein, died. Where, when and how are questions that have never been answered. Karel van Mander, the Belgian poet and painter, asserted that Holbein fell victim to plague, but he was writing sixty years after the event and was not even born when Holbein disappeared. His explanation certainly cannot be accepted without question. The other happening was the Prebendaries Plot, a sinister attempt to have Archbishop Thomas Cranmer, England’s leading churchman, indicted for heresy and burned at the stake (or, at the very least, unfrocked). Had it succeeded, it would have stopped the English Reformation in its tracks. Who were the conspirators and how close did they come to drastically changing the nation’s history?

  These were the major ‘headline-grabbing’ events of that appalling autumn of 1543, when ungathered crops lay rotting in the sodden fields, plague flourished in the humid air and closed London down, gangs of desperate men, wandered the country and, , to cap it all, religious conflict split communities into rival camps.