D. Wilson - The Traitor’s Mark

‘Your Grace, I beg you to excuse me. I am not the man for-’

‘You are if I say you are!’ For the first time this gentle-spoken cleric raised his voice. Then, as suddenly, his tone returned to its usual volume. ‘You have yet to hear what I require of you. As I explained, the future of our godly commonwealth rests, in large measure, with his majesty’s more trusted companions.’

‘I’m sure he leans heavily on Your Grace’s advice.’

‘I thank God that he does.’ Cranmer paused. Then, watching closely for my reaction, he said, ‘There was a time when his majesty leaned heavily on Lord Cromwell’s advice.’

‘And you think …’

‘I do not think, Master Treviot. I know. I am the major obstacle in the enemy’s path. The only way I can be removed is by convincing his majesty that I am a heretic – as they did with Cromwell. That is why I need to be kept informed of their plans – by faithful friends like Master Holbein and yourself.’

‘But I do not move in court circles,’ I protested.

‘No, but you are a leading member of society here in Kent.’

‘Yes, but …’

Cranmer ignored the interruption. ‘The conspiracy against me is like ripples on a pond. It spreads out from the centre to lap against the distant banks.’

At that moment there was a tap at the door and the obsequious little priest appeared again. He coughed apologetically.

‘Time for mass already, Martin?’ Cranmer stood up. ‘Master Treviot, it seems we must continue our discussion later. Martin take our guest to the chapel. Have a chamber prepared for him. He will be staying tonight. Master Treviot, be so good as to return here after supper.’

Once again the priest preluded his words with a discreet cough. ‘Your Grace has letters which Your Grace might consider urgent – including two from his majesty.’

Cranmer sighed deeply. ‘You see why I yearn for the scholar’s life, Master Treviot. Very well, Martin, I will dictate letters after supper. In the morning I wish to be left alone with our guest directly after early mass. Nothing is to disturb us. Do you understand – nothing.’

I took my leave of the archbishop and accompanied my guide to the chapel. It was laid out collegiate-style – stalls facing each other, north and south, across a narrow chancel. The choir and clergy occupied the seats closest to the altar. As I took my place, my mind was still on the unfinished conversation. At least I would not be distracted by the worship. As a mere layman I would only be expected to observe the clergy performing their ritual, aided by the singing men and boys of the archbishop’s fine choir. Or so I thought. I was, therefore, surprised to be handed a card on which parts of the mass were printed – in English – and to discover that the whole congregation was expected to recite them with the priests. If this was an example of the kind of innovation Cranmer wanted to introduce in the Church as a whole, I could see why those wedded to the old ways might consider such novelties heretical. I noticed that even here, in his grace’s own domain, not a few clergy and lay people kept their mouths tight shut during the recitation of the English passages.

Afterwards, at supper in the great hall, I sat at one of the long tables among members of the household. Some were curious to know my business with the archbishop but, remembering Cranmer’s admonition and my own vow, I returned only vague answers. I was aware of – or thought I could detect – an atmosphere of divided loyalties or fractured trust. I told myself at the time that I imagined it; that the fragments of backstairs gossip and differences over domestic trivia were no more than one might encounter in the entourage of any great lord, whether spiritual or temporal. Yet it was difficult wholly to avoid the impression that cautious glances were being exchanged across the board and tongues carefully guarded.

The sombre-faced man sitting opposite, though friendly, seemed more reticent than his companions, so I was slightly surprised when, at the end of the meal, he suggested we might loosen our limbs with a walk around the cloister. I had recognised him immediately as one of the archbishop’s singing men and he had introduced himself as John Marbeck, He was, I guessed, in his mid-thirties, though his face bore the lines of a man somewhat older. As we strolled slowly round the cloister, torches in the walls threw across the flower beds long shadows of the columns supporting the roof of the square walkway. The evening was not cold but, after a few paces, Marbeck drew up his hood. I had the distinct impression that there was more to this gesture than a desire to protect his head from chill air. This was confirmed when, after a few inconsequential pleasantries, he became suddenly serious.

‘May I ask what brings you to Ford?’

‘I have been summoned here on confidential business.’

‘You are, then, a close friend of the archbishop?’

‘No, but his grace has indicated that he trusts me.’

‘He needs men he can trust,’ Marbeck muttered gloomily.

He fell silent for several moments. I could not see his face but his whole demeanour – the slumped shoulders and shuffling footsteps – was that of a deeply troubled man. I felt awkward and after another half-circuit I said, ‘If you’ll excuse me, Master Marbeck, I’ve had a tiring day and am more than ready for bed. Tomorrow I will be in conference with the archbishop. He will expect me to be well-rested and have my wits about me.’

Marbeck clutched my arm. ‘Then you must speak to his grace for me, for I cannot gain audience. You must warn him!’ The light from a flaring torch accentuated the sharp lines on his anguished features.

‘In God’s name, what ails you man?’ I gasped.

‘I must tell you my story. I shall go mad if I can make no one listen. When I’ve done, you must decide what to say to his grace.’

I groaned inwardly but did not have the heart to refuse. Marbeck launched into his alarming tale.

‘I was born in Windsor. Spent all my life in the shadow of the castle. Married there. Three children. I got a position as singing man and sub-organist in the royal chapel and thought myself the luckiest man in the world. I taught the choristers, played for worship, wrote some music myself. Never wanted anything else. No ambition, you see, no ambition. Some men dream of making their mark in the world. Not me. Not till Cromwell had the new book put in all the churches.’

‘The English Bible?’

‘Yes. It was a revelation to me. I read it from cover to cover. It was wonderfully exciting – actually to have God’s word in my own hands. Then – Lord forgive my presumption – I thought how useful it would be if readers could have a concordance – a list of Bible words with all their references. The more I thought about it, the more I thought, I could do that. So I set to work.’

‘Was that not rather a dreary task?’

The musician’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh no! It was a joy. My friends encouraged me and so did some of the king’s courtiers. They even lent me books and gave me money to buy more. I’d never been happier. Then, one night last March …’ He broke off and wiped the back of a hand across his eyes.

I tried to grasp the opportunity to disengage myself. ‘This is obviously distressing for you. Perhaps we should talk more tomorrow …’

‘No, no, Master Treviot, in Jesu’s name hear me out, I beg you! It was the middle of the night. Black as soot. No moon. There comes a hammering on the door. My wife went to open it and was pushed aside by three of the king’s guard. They rampaged from room to room, grabbing up all my papers and books. They ignored my protests and the children’s cries. When they’d done, they bound my arms and marched me off to the town jail.’