D. Wilson - The Traitor’s Mark

‘Well, now it’s time to pool our knowledge. Any scraps of information could prove helpful.’

When we parted company outside St Olave’s Church in Southwark in the deepening dusk of that September day it was in the knowledge that the morrow would bring events that would change our lives and, whichever way things went, would probably result in death for someone.

It was still dark on Tuesday when Ned roused me after a night of very heavy sleep.

‘There’s cheese and ale downstairs and two visitors,’ he said.

I dressed quickly, refreshed myself with cold water and descended the narrow stair. In the room below, Lizzie was seated at the table with Ned. Between them, to my immense relief, was Bart. He jumped up as I entered.

‘Master, I’m so sorry. Everything’s going wrong and ’tis all my fault.’

I grasped his hand warmly. ‘We’ll have no more of that talk. I’m so pleased to see you safe.’

I looked at Bart closely. He was a sorry sight. There was little sign of the boisterous, carefree man I had known so long. His clothes were crumpled. His chin wore several days stubble and his red-rimmed eyes suggested that he had been crying.

‘Safe? Aye. Would I were not. I’d give anything to have little Annie standing here instead of me. Oh, God in heaven, what have I done to put her in such danger. We will save her, won’t we, Master?’ He drew a hand across his cheek where fresh tears were flowing. ‘When Lizzie told me …’

‘Come and. sit again, Poppet.’ Lizzie put an arm round him and led him back to his stool. ‘Such talk doesn’t help. We’ve plans to make.’

‘She’s right, Bart,’ I said. ‘We have to find Master Johannes and persuade him to come with us to London Bridge tomorrow. We don’t have a moment to waste on blaming ourselves or bewailing the past. Has Lizzie explained everything to you?’

‘Yes,’ he muttered. ‘It seems such a complicated mess.’

‘Yes, it is rather. That’s why we need cool heads to untangle everything.’ I spoke with a confidence well above anything I felt. Trying to boost Bart’s morale gave the impression that I was optimistic of the outcome of the day’s activities. ‘Now, first, have you anything to tell us? What have you been doing this last three weeks? Have you discovered anything about the murderers?’

‘It’s been difficult. With the magistrate’s men looking for me and, probably, the gang as well, I haven’t been able to move about much. The watchmen are on the lookout for a one-armed man. Difficult to disguise this.’ He patted his empty sleeve. ‘I go about mostly at night. I’ve visited just about all the more disreputable ale houses, especially the ones down by the river. Can’t ask too many questions. Folk are very quick to get suspicious.’

‘So, have you found out anything?’ I asked.

‘Well, ’tis the Black Harry gang that butchered that poor lad, as you’ve already worked out. There’s many a tale told about them. They’re … well, if half the things folk say are true London’s never seen anything like them. They’re not just violent; they’re … evil.’

‘What does that mean; that they love violence for its own sake? They don’t kill and maim in order to get power or vengeance or money?’

‘Oh, they like money well enough but that’s not what drives them.’

‘I can tell you what motivates them,’ Ned said. ‘It is hatred – and hatred of the worst kind.’

‘What’s that?’ Lizzie asked.

‘Fanatical hatred, spiritual hatred, if you like. Satanic hatred.’

‘You’ve heard the stories about Black Harry, then?’ Bart asked. ‘Children murdered in front of their mothers; men slowly roasted …’

‘No. I don’t need to.’ Ned scowled. ‘I know enough of his career to recognise a phenomenon any student of theology is familiar with – evil of the most concentrated kind … the very essence of evil. You see my alembic over there by the fire. If I could nicely measure out portions of the seven great sins, put them in my apparatus and set it to the fire, what would be distilled would be unadulterated, terrifying, irredeemable evil. All the great saints have encountered it in their conflict with the forces of hell. I, thank God, have only met it once. Then, I saw the devil looking out at me through human eyes and knew the soul within lived for nothing but dissolution, decay and destruction of every good, merciful, generous, holy impulse. The creature before me was possessed of a blind, obsessive malice which was oblivious not only to the good of others but even to its own good. I fear that is what we are facing here.’

We listened motionless, scarcely breathing, to Ned’s impassioned, yet calm and measured words.

Bart said, ‘Well, that certainly explains things I have heard about Black Harry. Folk say he doesn’t just enjoy cruelty; he lives for it; feeds on it.’

‘Yes,’ Ned agreed. ‘And that means we must be absolutely on our guard in our dealings with him. We must not make the mistake of thinking that we can reason with him, trust him, believe anything he says. We must be on the watch for any deceit, any lies, any treachery that he may fancy serves his purpose.’

Lizzie stared aghast. ‘Do you mean that he might promise to hand over the children, then kill them anyway?’

‘I think that’s exactly the kind of thing he might do unless we set up the exchange in such a way that prevents any such trickery.’

I turned to Bart. ‘Have you managed to find out who this monster is working for.’

‘Surely,’ Lizzie protested, ‘no decent man would pay such a creature to do his bidding.’

Ned said, ‘As I’ve already explained to Master Thomas, Black Harry worked for the Inquisition in Spain and carried out some of their worst atrocities.’

‘But that sort of thing doesn’t happen in England,’ she said.

‘Three men were sent to the stake in Windsor a mere few weeks ago because they believed the wrong things,’ I said.

‘That’s not the same thing at all,’ Ned observed. ‘I deplore the burning of heretics. It’s bad theology and it doesn’t work. It only creates martyrs. But, at least when the Church hands unrepentant, misguided people over to the magistrates for execution there has been an open process of law. What powerful patrons use Black Harry for is work done in secret: removing obstacles from their path, silencing noisy opponents, disposing of critics.’

‘Yes,’ Bart agreed, ‘that’s exactly what people say Black Harry does. Dr Banfry, the vicar at St Thomas-in-the-East, was fished out of the Thames just after Easter. He had preached mightily against religious images and attracted large crowds. The bishop couldn’t drag him into his court because he had preached before the king and his majesty liked his style.’

‘So was it the bishop behind the Aldgate murder?’ I asked.

‘Possibly. There are various rumours but no one really knows. There’s one person I’ve heard talk of, but I only remember him because of his name – Dr London.’

‘London,’ I exclaimed. ‘Yes, I’ve heard of him. He was behind the Windsor burnings, though he’s only a tool in the hands of more powerful men. But all this high politics is not to the point. We’re here to save Adie and the children from someone who is a complete stranger to morality and human decency. Bart, is there anything else you know about Black Harry; any information that will arm us against him?’

Bart’s brow wrinkled in concentration. ‘Folk say his gang is small – men who’ve been with him a long time. He doesn’t trust newcomers. There’s scapegraces as would like to join him, but he’ll have none of them. Apart from that I don’t know … Oh, yes, one other thing: his base is somewhere in Essex.’