D. Wilson - The Traitor’s Mark

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 the 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”.’

‘Well …’ I hesitated, watching the bees hovering round the hive at the end of the garden. ‘You know Lizzie … Who’d have thought seven years ago that she and Bart could have made a good life for themselves.’

Ned nodded. ‘Indeed. I still thank God for them in my prayers.’

‘And now they have the two bearns … To see all that thrown away just because Bart found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time …’

‘But you must not blame yourself for that, Thomas.’ Ned fixed me with that earnest gaze I always found disconcerting.

‘Oh, I don’t. Of course not.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Well … I could have thought more before sending Bart to Aldgate. It was so out of character for Holbein to keep me waiting for his drawings. I might have guessed that something was wrong. I should have gone myself. What happened was …’

I briefly explained the sequence of events.

Ned listened attentively, nodding occasionally. At last he said, ‘Back in the monastery one of the biggest problems we faced was false sins. Some of the brothers were so intent on pursuing holiness that they invented sins to confess. They punished themselves for things God had no intention of punishing them for.’

‘And you think I’m doing the same?’

‘You could not possibly have foreseen what would befall Bart in Aldgate.’

‘So you’re suggesting I should shrug my shoulders, say, “It’s not my fault”, and leave him to his fate?’

Ned sighed deeply. ‘No, we must, of course, do all we can.’

‘We?’ I smiled.

‘Is that not why you have come – to enlist my help?’

‘You did say you knew at least half a dozen gangs of ruffians who might have committed this crime.’

He nodded wearily. ‘I will make some enquiries – very, very discreetly. It is not wise to appear too inquisitive.’

The Kent Road was inches deep in mud and very busy, Twice we were obliged to stop and help other travellers ease their mired vehicles on to firmer ground. We made slow progress and had to stay the night in one of the better inns. I hoped that the rest of my household had not fared so badly, and was relieved to find everyone safely installed at Hemmings when we arrived late the following morning.

There was, as always, much to be done in and around the estate – steward’s accounts to be checked, tenants’ complaints to be heard, building repairs to be assessed and, where necessary, set in hand. I never forgot about Bart and Lizzie’s plight. Every day I hoped that I might hear some positive news: that Master Johannes had come out of hiding to save my friends; that Ned had identified the real assassins; that someone from the alien community might offer a clue about the artist’s enemies. I even allowed myself to imagine that John of Antwerp might experience a twinge of conscience and break his oath of secrecy to a friend in the interests of wider justice. But these thoughts were pushed to the back of my mind by my many responsibilities as a landowner.

And by my concern for the children. As I watched Carl, Henry and Annie explore their new surroundings, I was amazed by their remarkable resilience. Adie was extremely good with the tiny ones. By the time I arrived she had already found a wet nurse for little Jack and she knew many games and stratagems to keep his older sister occupied. After a couple of days, little Annie stopped crying for her mother. The boys were enjoying exploring the woods and parkland. Cheerfully accepting Raffy’s leadership, they were always off on some new adventure. It was something of a revelation to watch my son at play with other children. As an only child he was accustomed to entertaining himself – and to having his own way. He was spoiled by the servants and, as I realised if I was honest, also by me. Now, in play with Carl and Henry, he expected to be deferred to. I must be firmer with him, I told myself – a decision confirmed by an event that occurred one Saturday morning. On the first Friday of our stay several of us went to the fair in Ightham. Raffy had been boasting to the Holbein brothers of his prowess as an archer and when they saw a bowyer’s stall with several weapons suitable for various ages they clamoured for their own bows. The next morning the boys dragged me – not unwillingly – to Long Meadow, where I and others of the household practised archery. Our visitors had not drawn a bow before and I spent some time showing them how to handle their new weapons. I was somewhat rusty myself and glad of the practice. We chose a row of tree stumps as targets and I gave a brief demonstration. Fortunately, I managed to quit myself reasonably well. Then we moved forward to shorten the range. Raffy was determined to show his prowess. With five arrows he managed to hit two of the stumps. Carl was the next to try. I had noticed that he was not only tall but broad of shoulder. It was not a surprise that he quitted himself very well. His first shaft overshot but he intelligently adjusted his aim and three of his remaining four arrows struck home. Raffy was not pleased. ‘You’ve got a better bow,’ he shouted, and made a grab for it. Carl put out a hand to fend him off and, quite unintentionally, struck Raffy on the nose. That was the end of our practice. Instantly the two boys were rolling on the ground, pummelling each other. With some difficulty, I separated them and was on the point of delivering a couple of blows of my own when I heard my name called. I turned and saw two men in helmets, breastplates and blue livery striding across the meadow.

‘Master Treviot, we’re here to deliver a warrant from his grace of Canterbury,’ one of them said, holding out a sealed letter.

I read the message. It was very brief. The archbishop required my presence in his palace at Ford.