The Traitor’s Mark (3 page)

Corridge looked distinctly relieved. ‘There's little more to be done here, Master Treviot,' he said. ‘I must await the
doctor to examine the body – though there can be no doubt how the poor fellow met his end.'

‘Well, I can assure you that my man had nothing to do with it. By all the saints, Master Corridge, you've seen him. Could a one-armed man really have been responsible for the violent chaos of that room? The girl here will tell you she heard several men shouting and arguing.' I turned to Adie. ‘Is that not so?'

The coroner allowed himself a wistful smile. ‘Constable Pett is, perhaps, a mite over-zealous.'

I thought, That is not how I would describe him. I said, ‘If you will release Bart into my care, I will answer for his appearance at the inquest. I give you my word—'

At that moment the street door burst open. Peter Pett stumbled in, his face red with fury.

‘Gone, Your Honour! Fled!'

‘What do you mean?' Corridge responded. ‘Calm yourself. Explain ...'

‘'Tis the prisoner. We were at the gate. I took my eyes off the knave for no more than a moment. He loosed Master Treviot's horse. Before I could grab him he was in the saddle and off down Fenchurch Street at the gallop. Did I not say he wasn't to be trusted?'

Chapter 2

We had scarcely begun our return journey when the threat-ened storm broke. Heavy rain cascaded upon us. The donkey cart was crowded. I could not leave Adie and the two small boys in the house of violence or entrust them to the ‘protection' of Constable Pett so I had decided to take them back to Goldsmith's Row. Quite what arrangements I would make for them there I could not think. Deciding that would have to wait, I had a more pressing problem to solve. Walt whipped the donkey into a fast trot while the rest of us huddled together against the .downpour. By the time I jumped down at the corner of Milk Street, I was soaked to the skin and ready to tell Bart exactly what I thought of his irresponsible behaviour. Any sympathy I felt was – temporarily, at least – obliterated by the humiliation his sudden
departure had caused me. I ordered Walt to get the others back to my home as quickly as possible and show them where they could dry their clothes and await my arrival. I ran the few yards along Milk Street to the narrow house where Bart and Lizzie lived. It was a timber structure wedged in-between two substantial merchants' residences.

I hammered on the door and stood back to avoid the water gushing down from the eaves. There was no immediate answer. Though the rain had eased, I had no desire to be kept waiting in the street. I knocked again and began to wonder whether Bart had collected his family and taken them into hiding with him. Then the door opened and Lizzie stood there with little Annie, her two-year-old, in her arms.

‘Jesu Mary! Thomas, you do look a sight! Come in the dry.'

There was an intimacy between Bart's wife and me that onlookers found strange. The adventures we had been through together six years before had removed any formalities that differences of social status would otherwise have demanded. Lizzie was handsome, rather than pretty. A stiffened band of white linen bordered in scarlet, covered the crown of her head and her dark hair was drawn back and hung down to her shoulders. Her figure was still slim, despite her two pregnancies. She stood aside for me to pass, a faintly mocking smile about her lips, her brown eyes smiling but appraising.

‘Get that wet doublet off,' she ordered. ‘I'll put it by the fire.'

As soon as she set Annie down, the child toddled straight to me, arms upraised. I took hold of her hand, smiling despite myself. ‘Not now, Annie. I'm all wet.'

When Lizzie returned from the inner room, she handed me a cloth to dry my head and face. Then she scooped up her daughter. ‘Is she being a nuisance? You've only yourself to blame. You spoil her. Wait till you marry again and have little brothers and sisters for Raffy; you'll soon realise ...'

‘Still determined to find me a wife?'

She laughed. ‘Oh, you don't deserve a wife but Raffy needs a mother.'

‘Lizzie, enough of this nonsense. I must see Bart. It's serious.' I stood in the middle of the small living room, feeling slightly less bedraggled. ‘Where is he?' I demanded.

‘Who?'

‘Bart, of course. Is he here?'

‘Well, I suppose he might be.' She giggled. ‘We'd better look. You search downstairs and I'll go through the upper chambers. Oh!' She put a hand to her mouth as though she had been struck by a sudden thought. ‘Perhaps he's hiding in the coffer over there by the stairs.'

‘This is no laughing matter, Lizzie,' I said sharply. ‘I must find him urgently.'

She frowned, suddenly serious. ‘Isn't he at the shop?'

‘No, he's—'

‘Then, where in the name of all the saints is he? If you don't know he must have had an accident.'

‘Not exactly,' I said. ‘I'm afraid he managed to get himself into a fight.'

‘He's hurt!' she said quickly, sitting on a stool and setting Annie on the rushes beside her.

‘Not badly.' I tried to sound reassuring. ‘But I do need to speak with him.'

‘I don't understand. If you know he's been in a fight, why don't you know where he is?'

I had long since learned that it was impossible to conceal anything from this clever young woman. I pulled another stool to the table and sat facing her. Then I gave her a brief account of the events at Aldgate, leaving out as many as possible of the more vivid details.

Many young wives would have gone into tearful panic at the news. Not Lizzie. She had grown up in a hard school in which survival meant relying on her wits and not letting practicality get stifled by sentiment. ‘Well, if he's decided to disappear you'll not find him. He obviously thinks he's got to go huggering to escape the law.'

‘But he's wrong!' I almost shouted. ‘He can only make things worse for himself by running away.'

‘Oh, Thomas, Thomas, are you still so innocent?' Lizzie looked at me with a grim smile. ‘If this poxy constable has marked my Bart for the gallows he'll be hell-set on making him swing. I know his sort. There were many of that scelerous,
lying breed always sniffing round the brothel when I was there. They passed themselves off as public servants, keeping the streets fit for respectable citizens, but they only wanted one thing – and they wanted it free.'

‘But ...'

‘There are ho buts, Thomas. Suppose you found Bart and took him back to face the coroner's court, do you think any of the jurymen would turn down their local constable's version of events? Those who weren't scared of him would support him out of loyalty. No, Bart's done the right thing.'

‘That's nonsense! He's committed no crime. Why should he become a penniless runagate, leaving you and the children ... and me ... Anyway, I think you're wrong about the law and its officers. There may have been a time when poor men could get no justice, but this is 1543. There are ways to establish an accused man's innocence. If not in the magistrate's court, then at King's Bench. If he found himself in want of a good barrister—'

‘I know, I know,' Lizzie interrupted. ‘You'd pay for any help he needed. No, Annie, not through there!' She jumped up to collect the little girl, who was pushing open the door to the inner room. She held the child's hand, led her back towards the table and gave her a wooden spoon and pewter plate to play with. The rest of our conversation was accompanied by a rhythmic, metallic banging.

‘I know my Bart,' Lizzie continued. ‘At this moment he'll be thinking about me and the children; trying to
work out what to do next. When he can't work out an answer to that question he'll find some way to get a message to me.'

‘When he does, be sure to tell me,' I insisted. I stood up. ‘Now I must go and sort things out at home.'

The storm had passed over and as soon as my clothes were reasonably dry I made my way back to Goldsmith's Row.

It was not difficult to find a chamber to lodge Adie and the two young boys in her charge, especially as the household numbers had been reduced by the evacuation of several servants to Hemmings, my estate in Kent. I told the girl that she was welcome to stay as long as necessary and suggested that she would be wise to remain beneath my roof until we had located Holbein.

Finding the artist was now urgent – for Bart's sake and in the interests of my own business. During my absence that afternoon a message had been delivered, sealed with the impressive arms of the City. It was brief and to the point.

Master Treviot, this to advise you that I still await the initial designs for a parcel-gilt cup and cover which you undertook to supply in March of this year. As I explained, this is an exceedingly important commission. I intend to present the cup to his majesty to mark my tenure of office. You are aware that my successor will be appointed at Michaelmas and that,
by then, the work must be in hand. If I have not the designs for my consideration within the next seven days I shall place the order elsewhere and think not to do further business with Treviots.

John Cotes,

Lord Mayor

Building a reputation is a long and arduous process. Losing it may be achieved in the space of a few days or even hours. Thanks to the industry and skill of my forebears, the Treviots have prospered. We make fine jewellery and table-ware for an exclusive clientele. We buy precious items from customers in need of ready cash. We smelt gold and silver and either refashion it or sell it to the royal treasurer for minting into coin. An increasing part of our business in recent years has been lending against security to trusted clients. My father had a saying, ‘Kings come and go but gold is always sovereign'. It was he who acquired the prestigious property at the sign of the Swan in Goldsmith's Row, West Cheapside, which accommodated both the workshop and spacious living accommodation. I took over the business – unprepared and unwilling – at the age of twenty-three. Unwilling, not because I disliked my trade, but because I only acquired it by my father's death. Then within months I lost my wife in childbirth. These calamities drove me to the pit. How I drew back and regained my wits is a long story. With the aid of friends and a loyal workforce I took
control of myself and of Treviots. Once more the business was one of the most successful in the City. I could not, would not, risk damaging Treviots' good name.

I sent for Adie and questioned her further.

‘We must find your master urgently,' I said. ‘Do you know any of his friends who might have some idea where he has gone?'

She looked thoughtful. ‘There was always foreigners coming to the house.'

‘Foreigners?'

‘Yes, Sir, you know ... men that spoke Master Johannes' language ... from the German House.'

‘German House? Do you mean the Steelyard?'

‘That's right, Sir.' Her face brightened. ‘The Steelyard, down by Cosin Lane.'

‘Thank you, Adie. That's very helpful.' I realised I should have thought of it myself. It was only natural that Master Johannes would have friends among his own compatriots in the German merchant community. The Steelyard was their staple, their centre of operations. There they stored their goods for import and export and had their offices. ‘Is there anyone special he knows there?' I asked.

Again the girl's face donned a frown of concentration. ‘There is one who comes more often ... a merry little man, full of jokes. He likes to play with the children. He always brings them sweetmeats and toys.'

‘His name?'I prompted.

‘Well, 'tis the same as the master's – Johannes.'

‘Just Johannes? 'Tis a common enough name among the Germans. You know no more about him?'

She shrugged. ‘'Tis hard to understand all they say. They speak funny, don't they? Master did talk about him sometimes. Now what was it he called him ... Johannes ... Fonant ... something like that? Sorry, that's not much help, is it?'

‘Well, 'tis a start,' I said. ‘I'll go down to the German wharf tomorrow and see if I can find out any more. There must be several men there who know your master.'

‘Do you think anything's happened to him, Master Treviot? I can't stop thinking about poor George. Those men were looking for Master Johannes. If they find him ...'

‘You must not think the worst, Adie. Whoever these murderous rakehells are, they haven't found your master. We must pray they don't.'

‘Do you think he knows about them?' Her dark eyes searched mine, seeking reassurance. ‘Perhaps that's why he went away – hiding. Oh, Jesus Mary, what am I to tell the boys?'

‘That their father is away on business – which is probably the truth,' I said firmly. ‘What you must not do is think the worst. They would soon sense that something was wrong. You go on looking after them as usual and leave me to discover what I can about their father.'

*

It was mid-morning of the following day that I rode along Thames Street past the imposing walls bounding the premises of the Hanseatic League's headquarters. ‘Heretics', ‘Lutheran pigs' – these and other daubed slogans spattered the stonework. Much as the City authorities tried to stop Catholic sloganeers defacing this building, the protests continued, encouraged by the more conservative clergy. The massive wooden gate stood half-open, permitting pedestrians and horsemen to enter in order to state their business at the porters' lodge. I went through and dismounted. There were a dozen or so visitors waiting for admission and I soon realised that we were being divided into three categories: those who were known to the official on duty or who could produce suitable credentials were waved through an inner barrier; those who did not survive scrutiny were turned away; the remainder were asked to wait while enquiries were made about them. When my turn arrived I gave my name and explained that I was looking for Herr Johannes Holbein.