D. Wilson - The Traitor’s Mark

‘Yes, he’s one of the parliament members for the shire.’

‘That’s right. A good man. Thoroughly reliable. One of Lord Cromwell’s proteges. I’ll instruct him to add your name to the commission. That way you’ll be able to go round asking questions without raising suspicion. But, of course, you will report anything of interest directly to me.’ He drew a ring from his finger. ‘This will always ensure direct access to me, any time, anywhere. As far as possible you should report to me in person. If you need to put anything in writing do so under heavy seal and have it delivered directly to me or to my secretary, Ralph Morice.’ The archbishop rose from his chair. ‘For the moment there’s nothing more to discuss. You will find my guards ready to escort you back to Hemmings. Now kneel and I’ll give you my blessing.’

It was an uncomfortable journey. The rain clouds had blown over, at least for the time being, and a sickly sun glimmered dimly, veiled in high haze. But it was not the weather that depressed my spirits. My thoughts were dominated by the task I had accepted and the problems of approaching old friends and neighbours as a covert information-gatherer. Yet even my personal predicament did not fully account for my sombre mood. We seemed to be clattering through a broken land. Waterlogged fields skirted the road, covered with flattened, unharvested and unharvestable crops. In some better-drained places farmers were already ploughing the rotten wheat back into the soil. Listless villagers sat outside their cottages. In Chilham and Charing the stocks and pillories were fully occupied with men and women arrested for vagrancy. The bodies of thieves and other felons swung from most way-side gibbets. As we passed through Maidstone a group of young men – scarcely more than boys – threw stones at us and disappeared down a narrow alley where we could not give chase.

‘Why are they angry with us?’ I asked my escort captain.

‘They blame the archbishop and we wear the archbishop’s livery.’

‘Blame him for what?’

‘I doubt whether they know,’ he replied. ‘Their bellies are empty. Their shops lack customers. They have to blame someone.’

‘’Tis the preachers who put them up to it,’ another of the guardsmen said. ‘They tell the people his grace is leading the king deeper into heresy and God is punishing the land with plague and dearth. I’ve heard them myself.’

‘Then they should be arrested for treason.’

‘Who’s going to do that? Most of the magistrates are on their side. I tell you this, Master Treviot. Have a care for you and yours. The country all around is ready to break out in open rebellion.’

Such doom-laden prophecies seemed to be supported next day when I called on my neighbour, Sir James Dewey. His estate at Hadbourne was some five miles from Hemmings. Though he was a few years my senior, we had been friends ever since we had trapped conies on our fathers’ lands and gone fishing together in the local streams. I found him in his orchard supervising the collecting of the crop.

His welcome was warm. ‘Glad to see you, Thomas – glad and relieved. When your people came down from London without you I was worried that you’d fallen prey to the contagion. Things are obviously bad in the City. People have been flocking down here to escape.’ He linked his arm in mine and we walked together towards the house.

‘Has that made things difficult?’

‘Difficult? That is not the word I would choose.’Tis my ill fortune to be JP again this year. Scarce a day passes when I’m not called on to give judgement on vagrants, market thieves, cutpurses, dicemen and I know not what. This summer alone I’ve sent five villains to the quarter sessions for robbery on the highway or breaking into houses. And, of course, for every felon we catch there are a score who go on their evil way.’

‘Do you know of any gangs of hucksters selling their services to wealthy patrons?’

‘There are always desperate men who will do anything for instant coin.’ James looked at me quizzically. ‘But you, I hazard, have a particular reason for asking.’

I told him about the Aldgate murder.

By the time I finished we had reached the house. James ordered wine and led the way up to the first-floor solar. When we were settled in the window embrasure, overlooking the land towards Mereworth Woods, he said, ‘Thomas, I’m so sorry to hear your terrible tale. I wish I could say I am surprised to hear it. But these are evil times. Everything seems to be coming … unstuck.’

‘Unstuck?’

‘’Tis the only word I can find. You know what I mean. If it was just foul weather spoiling the crops and putting the price of bread beyond many men’s purses, we could pray and tell each other things will be better next year. But much more is amiss. The king is sick to death – between us I can say what would be a Tower of London offence if uttered in public – and we shall have a child to rule us, governed by who knows who? For all the laws against vagrancy made by the parliament, jobless men wander the realm making themselves a nuisance wherever they go. And nowadays no one knows what the word “religion” means. Preachers stand in the pulpit and tell us whatever takes their fancy.’

‘As to that, I can tell you that the archbishop is determined to restore order. He has appointed me to a commission inquiring into what truths and untruths are being proclaimed throughout the diocese.’

‘Ah, yes, Cranmer’s famous commission. I, too, am a part of it.’ James frowned. ‘I am sorry to hear you are involved, Thomas.’

‘Why so?’

‘Because it is unpopular.’

‘I can understand that the clergy do not welcome it, but, surely …’

‘I don’t mean the clergy.’Tis the landowners, the magistrates, the gentlemen. As if we had not enough to do in these troubled times, we must now turn theologians and weigh fine points of doctrine.’

‘I don’t think that’s what the archbishop has in mind. His concern is for religious unity.’

‘Well, there’s many would say his cure is worse than the ailment. I have no desire to examine preachers or encourage people hereabouts to turn informers.’

I did not tell James how much I agreed with his sentiment. I changed the subject. ‘You’ve no idea, then, where I might go in search of the murderers?’

‘I hardly think you will find them here, Thomas. Do you not think they are more likely to be hiding in London’s labyrinth?’

‘Unless, like so many others, they’ve quit the City for fear of the plague.’

‘I will keep on the alert for any information but I must say I think you are looking for a needle in a bottle of hay.’

James’s depressing words echoed around my mind as I rode home. He had starkly expressed the truth that I had been trying to hide from myself. The task I had taken on was an impossible one. The chance of my locating the real murderers was remote. I could not help Bart and my efforts to do so had merely sucked me into the dangerous world of high politics. As one of the archbishop’s spies I now risked becoming unpopular in the county. More than that, I could be placing myself at serious risk. Supposing Cranmer lost his ‘war’ with the Bishop of Winchester and his powerful colleagues? Would there not then be a purge of all those known to be associated with him? Marbeck’s tale was a vivid warning of the methods used to track down and exterminate supposed heretics. Years before I had spent several days incarcerated in the Bishop of London’s prison and had but narrowly escaped death as an enemy of the Church. Some of the powerful clergy I antagonised then had long memories. There could be little doubt they would grasp any opportunity for revenge eagerly. It was ironical that I had mentally censured Bart for blundering into a quarrel that was none of his concern and now I was doing exactly the same.