D. Wilson - The Traitor’s Mark

‘Well, we must do what we can,’ I said, and went in search of breakfast.

The next couple of days were an interval of calm. The tone seemed set by the yellowing leaves that drifted down from the trees. Stubbornly, they had clung to the elms which lined the drive and the beeches bordering the nearer fields when blustering tempests did their best to shake them free. Now, of their own volition, they yielded to the changing season. I, too, felt buffeted by the recent days of hectic activity and welcomed the freedom to reflect on the situation of the little society at Hemmings and make my own plans. I rode around the estate, often taking the boys with me, to attend to routine matters. I dealt with correspondence forwarded from Goldsmith’s Row by the small staff I had left there. I sent to London for Raffy’s tutor. My son had already had an overlong holiday from his books because I had been too distracted to attend to his schooling. Now that it seemed further time would elapse before it would be safe to return to the capital, it was time to establish a routine for Raffy and his new classmates. I also tried my clumsy best to help Adie.

I came upon her one evening after the children were abed, sitting in a corner of the kitchen, sewing a patch on a garment.

‘I’m sorry about your master,’ I said, drawing up a stool facing her. ‘I expect you will miss him.’

She nodded, keeping her eyes on her needlework.

‘How long had you been with him?’

‘Three years.’

‘And he had been good to you?’

‘Yes, Master.’

‘Have you heard from your brother recently? Would you like to go and see him?’

‘I think he is too busy.’

‘He serves Lord Graves, does he not?’

‘Yes, Master.’

‘In Leicestershire?’

‘Yes, Master.’

‘Tell me about him.’

She shrugged. ‘He’s tall … fair … He works hard. He’s very good with animals.’

‘Older than you?’I prompted.

‘By two years.’

‘And you have no other family?’

‘No.’

‘Did your father make any provision for you? A dowry?’

She shook her head. ‘There was no money. He was falconer to Lord Graves. His lordship allowed Ignatius to take over from him. He found me a position with Master Holbein. He said that was all he could do for me.’

‘I think we should go and see your brother. Would you like that?’

‘If it please you, Master.’

‘No, Adie,’ I said, trying not to raise my voice. ‘If it please you .’

Again, the emotionless shrug.

‘Well, shall I tell you what really would please me ? That would be to see a smile on your face. So, as soon as we can arrange it, we’ll make a journey into Leicestershire to visit Ignatius.’

Now she did look up. ‘You want to be rid of me!’ She dropped her sewing and rushed from the room.

A little later I told Ned about the encounter. ‘What did I do wrong?’ I asked.

‘When a person’s humours are so far out of alignment it is hard for anyone to help them. Adie is in a deep melancholy. If I was at home I would be able to put her on a regime of remedies that might restore the balance. Hellebore is good but the treatment is a long process. In the cloister we sometimes had brothers whose melancholy lasted months, even years. There is borage in the kitchen garden here. I will make up a mild purgative with it. I will also prescribe a diet for her – warm, moist foods. That might help. Otherwise the best we can do for now is keep a close watch on her.’

‘You mean …’

‘Melancholy can drive sufferers to desperate measures.’

These and other concerns kept us preoccupied. For a time Hemmings was its own closed little world, in which our problems absorbed us totally. For a time. Not long enough. The rumours – soon to be verified – began to insinuate themselves halfway through the following week: a fire at the priest’s house in Radlow had claimed the lives of everyone inside. The vicar at Stepton had disappeared, as had a curate recently installed in Branfield Abbots.OnThursday morning I rode over to Hadbourne to discover what James Dewey knew of these events.

‘I like it not,’ my old friend said as we sat in his parlour.

‘You think these things are connected?’

‘There can be no doubt. There have been several accounts of a group of riders seen in the location of every incident.’

‘Black Harry’s gang?’

‘I’d wager a purse of sovereigns on it. And that is not the only thing linking them. All the victims were proteges of the archbishop.’

‘I suspected as much.’

‘The curate at Branfield was one of Granmer’s chaplains and had recently returned from a year as his representative to various Lutheran scholars in Germany. John Padman at Radlow I’ve known for many years. To the best of my knowledge no one has ever complained about him preaching novel doctrine but he was widely rumoured to have a wife.’

‘Some people say the same of the archbishop. You must have heard the story about him conveying her between his various residences in a specially made chest.’

‘That’s common gossip. I wonder if the murder of Padman and his household isn’t intended to be some kind of warning to his grace: “This is what happens to priests who break their vow of celibacy.’”

I laughed. ‘And how many clergy do we know who keep their vow of celibacy?’

‘True enough.’ James’s reply was serious. ‘But ’tis not the fornication that bothers Rome-faced churchmen. They care not how many priests visit whores or keep concubines but if a man in orders does the right thing by his paramour and marries her, then he is seen to be openly flouting the Church’s rules – and that is an unforgivable sin.’

‘James,’ I said, ‘I do believe you’re turning heretic.’

‘Not I. I leave all that theological stuff to those who can make sense of it. But I find myself getting increasingly angry with clerical hypocrisy. “Do as I say, not as I do” seems to be their only guiding principle. You know, of course, that they have their own law which keeps them out of my court.’

‘You mean benefit of clergy?’

‘That’s right. A man comes before me for a felony worthy of the gallows and, before I can even hear the evidence, he “claims his clergy” and the matter is taken to the bishop’s court. You know what happens there.’

‘The bishop says, “Oh, you malapert rogue, go and pay ten pence to St Noddy’s shrine, and don’t sin again.”’

James laughed ‘Quite right.’

‘What about the other case?’ I asked. ‘What happened at Stepton?’

‘Men claiming to have been sent by the archbishop ransacked the vicarage and went off with Stephen Garrow and a sackful of his books.’

‘Do you think he and the vicar of Branfield have been murdered, too?’

‘I suspect not. In both cases the rogues have been seen riding off with their victims bound and tied to a packhorse. If they intended to kill them, why not do it straight away?’

‘Interrogation, then?’

‘That would be my guess. Interrogation and torture. God’s body, Thomas, the Inquisition’s come among us! Well, I won’t allow it – not in my jurisdiction. We have laws and a system. They may not be perfect but they’re all we have. We don’t need holy armies and secret tribunals.’

‘We know now the organisation behind this illegal activity.’ I explained what Holbein had discovered about the leading figures in the Catholic conspiracy. ‘In the meantime, how can we stop Black Harry, if that’s who it is?’

‘I’ sent messages to all the leading landowners and townsmen asking them to pass on any information they have. That way I hope we can plot the gang’s movements. That may help us to discover their base.’