D. Wilson - The Traitor’s Mark

‘And ’tis good to hear you laughing,’ I said. ‘How are you now?’

Immediately, the old pensive look returned. ‘I thank you, Master Thomas. I think I am as well as I can be.’

‘A strange answer. Come walk with me and explain it more fully.’

We linked arms and I led her out on to the lawn.

‘I should not loiter long,’ she said. ‘The boys will be back from their lessons soon.’

‘Then they will have to wait. I want to assure myself that you are fully recovered and that we shall have no more jumping into streams.’

She lowered her head. ‘I’ve caused everyone a lot of trouble.’

‘No trouble that we have not gladly accepted.’

‘You are all so good to me. I haven’t known such care since …’

‘Since your parents died?’

She nodded.

‘We’ve all known loss – mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, wives, close friends. Why, even Ned – or perhaps I should say, especially Ned – has known heartbreak.’ I told her briefly about Ned and Jed and their close relationship. ‘The poor man lost, first of all, his secure and meaningful life in the abbey, then the one person who meant everything to him. But, when you look at him, do you see a picture of brooding sadness?’

‘No.’

‘No. That’s because he looks forward. He once told me that life is like a book with many chapters. As one closes, another opens. We are, of course, free to simply turn back the pages, trying to relive the earlier chapters, but the new ones have their own delights and fascinations and we should start on them fearlessly.’

We were approaching the bridge. Adie’s steps became slower but I urged her forward. ‘I found that a very hard lesson to learn. When my Jane died I had no interest in turning the pages of my life. I could not think that I would find anything written there that could be of interest to me. For over a year I cared not whether I lived or died.’

‘What happened to change you?’

‘Someone else turned the page for me. But that’s a long story.’

We had reached the bridge and I deliberately stopped. As we leaned against the parapet, I said, ‘This is solemn talk. Tell me what you and Lizzie were laughing about when Bart and I arrived.’

‘I was asking her about her earlier life.’

‘In the brothel?’

‘Yes. She has so many funny stories to tell about it. I imagined it must have been a terrible time but she didn’t let it affect her. She’s an amazing woman.’

‘Life in the Stews was hard. It still is for women locked into that existence. Fortunately for Lizzie, Bart came along and she found …’

‘A new chapter?’

‘Yes.’ '

‘They are very much in love,’ she said wistfully. ‘I asked her how that could be.’

‘I don’t see what you mean.’

Adie stared down into the water. ‘Well, letting lots of men do things to her that she didn’t want. How could she ever find pleasure in those things with Bart?’

‘Only she can answer that but I suppose … Well, have you heard men speak of the philosophers’ stone?’

‘No, what is it?’

‘’Tis something that can change any other metal – copper, lead, iron, or anything else – into gold.’

She looked up with wide eyes.

‘I’d like some of that.’

I laughed. ‘Oh, ’tis only a legend – at least, I hope so. If anyone ever found this amazing mineral, I would be out of business. Would you buy gold if you could make your own? Well, I sometimes think that perhaps love is a kind of philosophers’ stone. It can transform bad experience into something beautiful and precious.’

She looked down again into the swirling water and sighed deeply. ‘I think love must be just as rare as this miraculous stone.’

‘Perhaps it is not as good an example as I thought. People do find it – people like Lizzie.’

There was a long silence and I wondered whether I should mention what was in my mind. At last I said, ‘Ignatius told me about your mother and father. It was a wretched thing to happen to you – and you little more than a child.’

She made no answer.

‘But ’tis an old chapter. Let it float away on the stream.’ I took hold of her shoulders and gently turned her round. ‘Turn your back on tragedy. Just as Lizzie turned her back on the whorehouse and Ned turned his back on the monastery and I turned my back on wedded life.’

‘Have you found your philosophers’ stone?’ she asked.

‘No, but the important thing is that I believe in it. So I go on looking.’

She smiled at me. ‘Then I hope you find it, Master Treviot.’

‘And I hope you find it, Mistress Imray.’

We both laughed.

That was the moment a servant came running across the lawn. ‘Master Thomas, Master Thomas, there’s a messenger come from the archbishop! He says ’tis urgent!’

The expected summons was brief and to the point. I was to present myself as early as possible at the ferry stage at Gravesend on Thursday 28 October, two days hence, with whatever hand weapons I could muster. There I would place myself under the authority of the captain of the archiepiscopal guard.

It would be an exaggeration to record that the message filled me with foreboding. But I certainly had a strong sense of dread. The policy that Cranmer and his friends had adopted was, in my opinion, dangerously faulty. I did not believe for a moment that Black Harry could be trusted. And I did not Want to be personally involved in any kind of military confrontation. Warfare was for the sons of noblemen and gentlemen, who seriously believed that there was honour in it, and for poor wretches unable to avoid being forcibly drafted into an army. The injunction to arm myself was alarming. It was one thing to be inveigled into this expedition because of my ‘close dealings’ with Walden. To be expected to fight was quite another.

I took a bunch of keys from my chamber coffer and went to the room at the top of the house where we stored damaged furniture and other items that were temporarily out of use but which we did not want to throw away. In a corner stood an old chest that had lain undisturbed since my father’s day. I unlocked it and the scent of lavender assailed my nostrils as I lifted the lid. I rummaged among old clothes, fragments of tapestry, bent candlesticks and broken rushlight holders. What I sought lay at the bottom wrapped in cloth.

I carried it back to my chamber and removed the coverings. The rapier, I saw, was in good condition. The blade bore no hint of rust and gleamed in the light from the window. I had acquired it some ten years before from a customer who was having difficulty paying a debt. I was then a young man indulging glamorous dreams of military prowess and hoping to impress girls with my skill in fencing. My father was furious at such foolish extravagance. Honest merchants had better things to do, he scolded, than ape their betters by swaggering around with swords. As I looked at it now I realised I had forgotten what a fine piece of workmanship it was. The blade was Toledo steel and the foundry mark showed up clearly. The hilt had been fitted by one of the best London armourers in Coleman Street. I weighed it in my hand. The balance was perfect. But the thought of using it in anger was abhorrent.

The concern was shared by other members of the household. When I was observed harnessing the rapier to my belt, questions were asked. Questions. I could not answer. Bart said if I was going to a fight he wanted to come, too. Walt and one or two others asked if I wanted their support. I turned down such offers. It was bad enough that I had to set out on this foolhardy venture. There was no reason to involve anyone else. Yet, much as I made light of it, there was no ignoring the real anxiety that permeated Hemmings.