D. Wilson - The Traitor’s Mark

I was stunned. I sat on a tree stump and read the secretary’s neat lines two or three times. What could Cranmer possibly want with me? All I could think of immediately was to try to gain time to give the summons further thought.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Please present my respects to his grace and tell him I will be delighted to call upon him tomorrow.’

The retainer shook his head. ‘We are instructed to take you with us now.’

‘Now?’ I protested. ‘What is the urgency? Is this an arrest? I’ve done nothing to displease his grace.’

The man was impassive. ‘He doesn’t explain his actions to us. He just gives us orders and our orders are to return with you immediately.’

I was about to argue but then I looked at the boys. They were standing in a line, eyes wide with fear. Raffy broke ranks and ran across to put his arms round me. He glared at the soldiers. ‘Go away,’ he shouted. ‘My father’s a good man.’

I hugged him briefly. ‘It’s all right, Raffy,’ I said as calmly as I could. ‘Just some goldsmith’s matters I have to discuss with the archbishop. I won’t be gone long. Take your friends indoors and tell Will that I’ve been called away on urgent business.’

Within half an hour I was mounted and on the road to the archbishop’s summer residence, flanked by two of his guard. Our fifty-mile journey was fast and uncomfortable. My escort rode their horses hard, spattering through puddles, scattering other travellers who were in our way, drawing shouts of protest from villagers as we raced through their streets, careless of the inhabitants, their children and their animals. I had little chance to question the guards about my arrest but it was clear that they either knew nothing or would say nothing. At least the speed of our progress allowed me little time to worry about my predicament; I was too busy keeping up with the guards and avoiding obstacles. Only as we crossed the moat of the archbishop’s ancient fortified manor house and passed under the gatehouse arch did real anxiety grip me. The walls were high and strong. The windows overlooking the courtyard were old and narrow. On one side there were two pairs of stocks. Both were empty. Was one of them being kept for me? Was I about to find myself in some cramped, lightless cell being interrogated about some supposed offence I had given his lordship? How long would it be before I might be able to leave this formidable building?

The courtyard was busy with servants and visitors going about their business. No one paid us any attention. When we had dismounted and handed our horses to the stable staff, I was taken into the main range of the house. When I had been to the garderobe and also done my best to remove mud from my boots I was shown to an anteroom. I did not have to wait long before the door half-opened and a small priest – presumably the archbishop’s clerk or chaplain – sidled in. He beckoned and, in quiet, reverential tones, indicated that his grace was ready to receive me.

I entered a large room with panelled and tapestried walls, not knowing what to expect. Before that day I had only seen Thomas Cranmer at a distance, officiating in the cathedral or carrying out visitations in neighbouring parishes – an austere figure, separated from ordinary mortals by social status and the holy theatricality of his office. Any knowledge I had of him beyond that was a mixture of gossip and partisan rumour. Some regarded him as a brilliant theologian and religious politician who had shown King Henry that the pope had no legal jurisdiction in England and was now, boldly and bravely, purifying the teaching and practices of our church. Others despised him as the mere tool whom Henry had used to prise himself loose from ‘good Queen Catherine’. Then there were the ale-house prattlers who told scandalous stories about the archbishop. He was secretly married, they confidently asserted, and carried his wife about concealed in a coffer. Only one thing was beyond dispute: like him or loathe him, since the fall of Lord Cromwell, the fate of the English church lay entirely in the hands of Thomas Cranmer. For my own part, I preferred to leave as much distance as possible between myself and powerful men. As the door was closed quietly and discreetly behind me, I braced myself for confrontation. It was, therefore, disconcerting to look around the chamber and to discover that it was empty.

That, at least, was my first impression. Late evening light still entered through tall windows and the lamps had not yet been lit. The room had its shadows and dim corners, into which I peered. It was some moments before I became aware of shuffling sounds coming from behind a large table on which stood a stack of books. Drawing closer, I came upon the Primate of all England on all fours beside a coffer and unloading more volumes which he added to the pile.

After some moments he looked up. ‘Ah, Master Treviot, my apologies. I’m looking for my copy of Jerome’s Dialogus contra Pelagianos . My roguish servants at Lambeth Palace never pack my books properly. Every time I move it takes hours to locate everything I need.’ He stood up and held out his hand across the desk. I stooped to kiss his ring.

‘Thank you for coming so promptly,’ Cranmer continued.

I thought but did not say, I had no option. Instead, I responded, ‘I am anxious to know the reason for Your Grace’s urgent summons.’

‘Grave matters. Grave matters.’ He shook his head. He took his seat behind the desk and for some moments seemed distracted by solemn thoughts.

His brow was care-lined, his eyes searching and cautious. Then, with a sudden change of mood, he smiled. ‘You have come from Ightham, have you not? Who’s the vicar there? Ah, yes, Stimson, isn’t it. The man’s an idiot. Now, let me see, have you eaten?’

‘Not since breakfast, Your Grace.’

‘Then we must attend to that first.’ He rang a handbell. The obsequious little cleric entered immediately. ‘Take Master Treviot to the hall and see him properly fed,’ Cranmer ordered. To me he said, ‘One should never discuss matters of state on an empty stomach.’

When I returned to the archbishop’s study an hour or so later, replete with venison, carp, marchpane cake and muscadel, I was no less confused or anxious than when I first arrived. Apparently I was not to be accused of some unwitting offence and detained at his grace’s pleasure but his talk of grave affairs of state was unnerving. By now the candles had been lit and a good fire blazed on the hearth. The archbishop sat to one side of the chimney in a high-backed chair and bade me be seated opposite. Between us was a low table on which were letters and other documents.

Cranmer gazed at the burning logs. ‘Would you go to the fire for your faith, Master Treviot?’

I knew not how to answer such an unexpected question and eventually made some sort of protest about believing what the Church said and not being guilty of any heresy for which I needed to fear being sent to the stake.

He looked up with a smile that somehow was not a smile. ‘There are men who would like to bum the Archbishop of Canterbury.’

‘Merely a few unrepentant papist traitors who would have the king bow his neck again under the pope’s authority,’ I suggested.

Cranmer shook his head. ‘Not few and, by no means, only those who owe secret allegiance to the Bishop of Rome.’

There was a long silence before the archbishop spoke again. He seemed uncertain about how to proceed, like someone outside a house looking for the entrance. At last he sat back and said, ‘You are familiar, I believe, with Master Johannes Holbein, his majesty’s painter.’

I replied cautiously. ‘He has done design work for me – jewellery, tableware, altar furnishings – that sort of thing.’