D. Wilson - The Traitor’s Mark

My eyes probed every corner of the space. ‘Where is he, then?’ I demanded.

For of Johannes Holbein there was no trace.

‘I don’t understand,’ the Fleming said. ‘We agreed that he would not leave here until we knew it was safe for him to do so. He and I have the only keys. I come every couple of days to bring food and remove night soil. It is not a comfortable refuge, as you can see, but Johannes felt safe here and had no desire to move. As long as he could paint and draw, he was reasonably content.’

I stared at him and he read my thoughts. ‘You think I warned him of your coming and he has run away. I give you my word that this is exactly how I found the room.’

Ned was examining the doors. ‘No one has forced an entry here,’ he said. ‘Master Holbein must have let himself out.’

Van der Goes shook his head. ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t have gone anywhere without letting me know.’

‘Have you looked for a note?’ I asked.

‘Yes. There’s nothing.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘Yesterday.. It’s been difficult since one of my people caught the plague and I had to move everyone out of my house along the street, but I have kept up my visits.’

Ned sank wearily on to the stool. ‘What do we do now?’

‘We wait,’ I said. ‘If this really is his only refuge he must come back to sleep.’

‘And if he doesn’t?’

‘Then all is lost.’

The painter did not return. We waited until late in the evening, our depression deepening with every passing minute. At last we abandoned our vigil and returned to Southwark.

Bart went into a frenzy of despair when we reported the day’s events. ‘Then Annie and the others are as good as dead!’ he wailed.

Ned was busy preparing a kettle of pottage. ‘They certainly are if we give way to the evil humours,’ he said, setting bowls on the table.

Bart and I said we were not hungry but the old man glared at us. ‘Good wits need feeding and if ever we needed good wits it is now. So eat,’ he ordered.

‘What can we do?’ Bart asked. ‘Black Harry will not release his hostages until he has his hands on Master Holbein.’

‘We’ll return to Bridewell Dock at first light,’ Ned said, ‘and just pray that the artist has come back.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘but we must have a reserve plan in case he has not.’

‘How is the exchange supposed to be made?’ Ned asked.

‘Black Harry’s note didn’t say. We were just ordered to be at the bridge with Master Holbein. No time was mentioned, nor any other details.’

‘He’s sure to have men watching. He’ll know the moment Holbein appears.’

‘That’s true, Ned. He’s met Holbein. He knows what he looks like. He’ll have to wait until the painter comes.’

‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Holbein is the only one he’ll recognise. He doesn’t know us, just as we don’t know him.’

‘I know him,’ Bart said, ‘and his copesmates. I’d recognise that evil crew anywhere.’

‘Of course. For once we have a slight advantage. If Bart comes with us – suitably disguised, of course – we’ll be able to spot Black Harry and his men before they have any idea who we are.’

‘Just how does that help?’Bart asked.

‘I don’t know. Let’s think it through. The gang will come to the bridge with their hostages.’

‘Perhaps. They may well play us false.’ Ned emphasised the point'with his spoon.

‘True, but the bridge will be crowded. If the villains tried to grab Holbein and make off with him with us in pursuit, they’d stand little chance of getting away. I think they’ll have to produce at least one of their hostages to convince us the deal is on.’

‘How will they get Adie and the children there?’ Bart asked.

Ned and I replied in unison. ‘Wagon.’

‘Of course,’ Bart said. ‘There’ll be plenty of covered vehicles going to and fro.’ His doubtful frown returned. ‘But I still don’t see …’

‘Nor do I – yet. We’ve got to take it step by step. So Black Harry comes to the bridge. He walks around looking for Holbein. He’ll have to have his wagon with the captives at one end or the other. There’s too much traffic for him to leave it standing in the middle of the roadway.’

‘And that would attract attention,’ Ned commented.

‘Now, while he’s looking for us, we’re looking for him. As soon as Bart recognises him I introduce myself and ask him where Adie and the children are.’

‘And he’ll say, “Where’s the artist?”.’

‘That’s right, Bart. Then I say we have him in a nearby house.’

Ned frowned. ‘Do you mean here?’

I nodded.

‘No,’ the old man said, ‘he is far too wary for that. He’ll suspect a trap. He won’t go anywhere without his men.’

‘And we’ll have ours. I can bring half a dozen of my people here to be waiting for them.’

Ned still looked doubtful. ‘If I were in his position, I’d want the exchange done out in the open where there was no risk.’Tis hard to trick a trickster.’

‘That’s a valid point,’ I agreed. ‘Let’s see if we can think of a way round it.’

After several moments of silence it was Bart who said, ‘Why don’t we have a wagon, too? We say, “The artist’s inside. You bring your vehicle next to ours and we can make the swap right here in the open street.” Only, our wagon’s full of our men.’

Like many of Bart’s ideas, this one revealed more enthusiasm than wisdom but, however much we discussed its detail, we could not arrive at anything better.

‘’Tis a risky plan – for all concerned,’ Ned said. ‘I can think of a dozen things that could go wrong. We could end up with a bloody brawl and nothing gained. Let us pray that we find Master Holbein and don’t have to put it to the test.’

The following morning I was at Bridewell Dock before dawn. A river mist swirled around me as I let myself into the warehouse and, holding a lantern, climbed the stairs. Holbein’s lair was exactly as we had left it. I sat shivering in the large room as light slowly filled it. Sometimes I paced to and fro to warm myself. I strained my ears listening for a footfall on the stairs. With mounting impatience I waited until nine o’clock. I waited in vain. The former occupant did not return. The conclusion seemed inescapable that he had decided to disappear, telling no one, including the friend who had succoured him. I could not help feeling, as I locked the door behind me, that Holbein now fully deserved whatever fate befell him. He had left me without a bargaining counter. I would have to carry through what would now be an extremely precarious bluff. There was a heavy weight of apprehension in my stomach. As Ned had rightly observed, it was hard to trick a trickster. I rode to Goldsmith’s Row and discussed the proposed events of the day with my servants. There was only one covered wagon fit for the brief journey we had planned. It was old and much repaired, which was why we had not taken it to Hemmings. Walt harnessed one of the horses to it and put in place a much-patched canvas cover. At least, we agreed, its rickety appearance would attract no attention among the hundreds of vehicles passing to and fro across the bridge. We managed to pack six men inside, well-armed with a variety of clubs and cudgels. Then Walt climbed on to the box and cracked his whip.

I rode on ahead and joined my friends at Ned’s house. Bart was unrecognisable. He was wearing an old grey habit, a relic saved from Ned’s monastic days. This made him indistinguishable from the scores of poor people who wandered the streets clad in items salvaged from the abbeys by dealers in old clothes. Wisps of straggled hair had been applied to his chin, culled, I soon realised, from Ned’s now-shortened beard. We set out on foot. Ned lingered by the drawbridge, occasionally passing the time of day with friends and customers, while Bart and I threaded our way through the slow-moving pedestrians, horses and vehicles crammed into the twelve-foot-wide carriageway.