D. Wilson - The Traitor’s Mark

Suddenly, we were disturbed by the sound of hurried footsteps on the stair. Dick rushed in. ‘Someone’s coming!’ he called out softly.

‘Quick,’ Holbein said, ‘douse the lamps! Stay in the corner!’

In the darkness I heard him move towards the door. He whispered something that sounded like ‘Smile’. Then he was gone.

Moments later there was a commotion on the staircase – shouts, grunts, thuds, a scream. Then laughter and the thump, thump, thump of something being dragged down the stair.

I waited several minutes to see if the ruffians would come back, perhaps to search the room. When the silence remained unbroken, I stumbled around trying to find a lamp. I tripped over a stool and just stopped myself falling headlong. ‘Dick,’ I called, ‘where did we put the lamps?’

‘I think there’s one here …’ The words were followed by a large crash and an oath.

‘Are you all right?’I called.

‘Yes, I think I’ve knocked his painting over. Ah, here we are. I’ve got a lamp.’

‘Can you get your tinderbox out?’

‘Yes.’

Sparks flashed out as he struck the iron. Then a small flame appeared in the darkness. Moments later he had a lamp wick flaring.

I picked up the stool I had fallen over and sat down.

‘They’ve got him,’ Dick gasped. ‘Must have recognised us and come back. Did he tell you what you wanted to know?’

‘No,’ I groaned. ‘No, no, no, not a word. Nothing we did not know before we came in. That’s it – our last chance gone.’

‘Will they kill him?’

‘Sure to. Though, it seems, he’ll not mind that. He just wanted to complete his task first. And he came so close to doing it. A couple more minutes and he’d have told me everything. Now, whatever he knew he’ll take with him to the grave – assuming Norfolk’s men permit him the luxury of a grave.’

After a while I got to my feet. I picked up the painting and set it back on the easel. ‘At least he left us something to remember him by. I’ll keep this.’

I peered at the portrait. There was a vermilion streak running from one corner of the mouth. The paint Holbein had applied only minutes before had been smudged when the canvas was knocked over. It made Holbein’s smile look more like a sneer.

Smile! Could it be?

‘Dick,’ I said quietly. ‘Bring that lamp closer.’

I picked up a cloth from the table and began to wipe it over the wet paint.

‘What are you doing, Master?’ Dick stared at me as though I had lost my senses.

‘Did you hear the last thing Master Johannes said?’

‘Not clearly.’

‘I think he said “smile”.’ I gradually applied more pressure to the paint surface. ‘When I was here last the expression on this portrait was quite serious. Now, as you can see, it wears a smile. The artist has changed it recently. The paint in this lower section is fresher. It’s not yet fully dry. Just possibly …’ There was a jar of oil that Holbein had used to mix his pigments. I dipped the rag in it and went back to work, cautiously clearing away part of the area around the mouth. ‘Pray God I’m not wrong.’

Slowly one side of the lips and the adjacent beard disappeared. ‘More light,’ I demanded. ‘If this reveals only the paint base or the canvas then I’m … Look!’

We both peered intently at the damaged portrait. What was emerging was a patch of brilliant yellow.

‘That’s not under-paint,’ I said with relief. ‘It’s part of something else.’

‘Perhaps Master Johannes has re-used an old canvas,’ Dick said. ‘I’ve heard that poor artists often do that.’

‘Yes, that’s possible. We’ll have to take it away and complete the job more carefully. See if you can find something to wrap the picture in.’

‘Here’s his riding cloak,’ Dick said moments later, picking up the heavy garment from the floor. ‘He went without it.’

I spread it on the floor, laid the canvas on it and gently folded the cloth across it. Then I rolled it over to make a tight, bulky bundle. That done, I carried it very carefully to the door while Dick extinguished the lamps.

The occupants of Ned’s house had little sleep that night. Bart, Ned, Dick and I stood round the table on which we had laid the portrait. The others watched intently as I continued to work on the paint surface. More of the plain yellow was becoming visible when I was forced to stop. The cloth had become dry and clogged with congealed paint and score marks were appearing on the surface.

I looked up, frustrated. ‘We should have brought the oil, Dick. We need more solvent.’

‘I think I can help,’ Ned said. He went to the shelves where all his jars and bottles were stored and came back with a squat glass container holding a yellowish fluid. ‘Walnut oil,’ he said. ‘I use it in lotions for dressing skin wounds. It speeds up the healing process.’

‘Will it work as a solvent?’ I asked. ‘Might it damage the paint?’

Ned shook his head. ‘One of the brothers in the monastery who made our icons used it all the time for mixing his pigments. Though I always felt it tended to make the colours darker, it was certainly effective. But please use it sparingly, Thomas.’Tis very expensive.’

I returned to the work. What emerged was a heraldic shield. My heart leaped the moment I recognised it. On a yellow ground there was a red chevron and three black moles. ‘There,’ I said exultantly, ‘Moyle’s shield.’

Only Ned failed to share the general excitement. ‘It seems that our fine painter has never seen a mole,’ he said, laughing.

‘For that matter, nor have I,’ I said.

‘They were a plague at the monastery,’ Ned replied. ‘Always getting into the herb garden. One of the novices used to trap them.’

‘We must carry on and see what else is in Master Johannes’ hidden message.’ Steadily I worked away at the canvas. What emerged was a panel covering the bottom third of the picture. Beside the shield was a white scroll with black lettering – in German.

‘That appears to be all,’ I said, standing up thankfully, my back aching from hours of bending.

We all stared at the revealed message.

Bart grinned. ‘If that describes Moyle’s meetings with the Duke of Norfolk we’ve got them!’

‘I think so,’ I said. ‘We’ll get our friend at the Steelyard to translate for us. Then we’ll make copies for Sir Anthony and the archbishop. They’ll have to decide how to use the information.’

‘By all the saints, I hope they make the traitors pay. I want to see Black Harry’s face grinning down from a spike on London Bridge and his paymasters swinging on a gallows’ tree,’Bart said.

‘We owe nothing less to Master Johannes,’ I agreed.

It was with thoughts of the painter’s sacrifice in my mind that I eventually lay down on my bed in the early hours of Friday morning.

‘What time is it?’ I asked as I stumbled, yawning, down the stairs later that day.

‘Gone nine,’ Ned replied. ‘I didn’t wake you. You needed the sleep. Come and eat.’

Thankfully, I attacked the food he set before me. ‘I don’t want to waste any more time,’ I said, ‘now that we’ve finally found what we wanted.’

‘I doubt a couple of hours will make any difference,’ he replied. ‘It will be too late to start for Woodstock by the time you’ve concluded your business with your Lutheran friend.’ Ned Longbourne was the kindest and most open-minded of men – except when he was speaking of German ‘heretics’.

‘I’ve decided to go straight to Croydon. I can reach the archbishop today and leave him to send fast messengers to Sir Anthony.’

‘And then you’ll go on to Hemmings?’