D. Wilson - The Traitor’s Mark

‘The archbishop’s time will come,’I muttered.

‘Aye, those were his very words.’ Morice looked puzzled. ‘Has someone else already reported the hanging to you?’

‘No matter,’I said.‘When was the execution?’

‘Noon, yesterday. Thomas, are you all right? Is the pain worse? You look suddenly … Shall I fetch your apothecary?’

My heart was thumping and my head had fallen back against the cushions. ‘Don’t be alarmed,’ I said, recovering quickly. ‘Just a twinge in the wound. It happens from time to time.’

‘Then we must not tire you further,’ the archbishop said, rising. ‘I bid you farewell and assure you of my prayers for a complete recovery.’

Morice stayed momentarily after Cranmer had left the room. ‘You might remember his grace in your prayers,’ he said. ‘We are not completely in the clear yet. Gardiner and Norfolk may be desperate enough to try anything.’

A short while afterwards Lizzie, Bart, Ned and Adie crowded into the room.

‘Well,’ Lizzie demanded, ‘what did your distinguished visitor have to say?’

‘He enquired after my health.’

‘And?’

‘He thanked me for my help.’

Lizzie treated me to her familiar pout. ‘I should think so too. If he really knew what you … what all of us have been through …’

‘Ralph Morice told me Black Harry is dead.’

All four of them cheered, though Ned crossed himself.

‘It really is over, then,’ Bart said.

‘I think so.’

‘Well, there’s a couple of months none of us will ever want to see again,’ Ned said. ‘I think I’ll away to the kitchen and brew something special to celebrate.’ He sidled out of the room.

Bart sat down on the bed. ‘We can really start thinking about business again. There’s several customers we need to make contact with. They’ll want to know when we plan to reopen the shop.’

‘Bart, let the poor man rest,’ Lizzie said.

‘We have to start-’

‘Bart!’ Lizzie threw him a knowing glance from the other side of the bed.

‘Oh … er … yes. Well. I suppose that can wait a bit.’

He stood up and his wife almost pushed him out of the room.

Adie turned to leave also but, from the doorway, Lizzie said, ‘Keep the patient company for a while.’

I patted the bed and Adie sat demurely.

‘You’re looking much better,’ she said. ‘You had us really worried. We were afraid you might …’

‘Die?’

‘Yes.’

‘There was a time when I thought I was going to die.’

‘Were you afraid?’

‘Strangely, no. Just annoyed that I wouldn’t be able to do things I very much wanted to do.’

‘What sort of things?’

I put a hand behind her neck and pulled her face down to mine. Hurriedly, hungrily, clumsily, I kissed her.

She drew back, gazing at me with wide eyes. She looked as surprised as I felt. For a long moment I stared at her, cursing my impulsiveness, hoping I had not upset her, regretting – yet not regretting. Then Adie smiled and, very gently, she kissed me back.

November 1543

(The exact date is unknown)

The Archbishop of Canterbury and his secretary sat facing each other in the canopied area of the archiepiscopal barge. Even on a morning such as this when the river, swollen with autumn rain, was running swiftly and the oarsmen had to dig deep to counteract the pull towards the City, it took no more than five minutes to cross from Lambeth Palace to Whitehall. Neither man spoke during the brief journey. Each was fully occupied with his own thoughts.

Ralph Morice tried to imagine exactly what would happen when they reached the Council chamber. Who would be present? Who would take charge? What – exactly – would they say? He looked at Cranmer, resting placidly against the cushions, eyes closed. Trying to radiate a calm he did not feel? Praying? Knowing his master as he did, Morice could well believe that the archbishop was interceding for his enemies.

The six rowers lifted their oars and the barge gently nudged the staging of Whitehall Stairs. Attendants reached out to pull the boat sideways on to the landing stage and make fast the mooring ropes.

With a scarcely perceptible sigh, Cranmer stood, stepped forward and accepted a hand to help him on to the stairs. He climbed the few steps. Morice followed. They made their way between the sprawl of buildings that flanked the river, crossed the Sermon Court, where preachers approved by the king pronounced official doctrine, and so reached the broad stone stairs leading to the Council antechamber.

A motley collection of some twenty or so men occupied this isparsely furnished room – lawyers, liveried retainers of great men, merchants, clergy and any others with petitions or appeals to present to the Privy Council and prepared to wait hours, or, if necessary, days for their lordships to grant them a hearing. They relieved their boredom in various ways. Some gossiped in small groups. Some lounged against the wall reading books or checking through papers, rehearsing the evidence they intended to present when their names were called. Two men sat in a window embrasure playing at dice.

At the far end was the large arched doorway to the Council chamber. Before it stood a royal guardsman, halberd in hand and beside him, at a small table, the petitioners’ clerk. Cranmer walked steadily forward. What should have happened; what always happened was that the guard tapped on the door, which was opened from within by an attendant who, recognising the archbishop, stood aside to allow him to join his conciliar colleagues.

This time the guard did not move. When Cranmer stepped closer, he brought his halberd to a horizontal position, silently barring the portal. Morice turned angrily to the clerk.

‘What means this?’ he demanded. ‘Have his grace admitted immediately.’

‘I’m sorry, Master Morice.’ The clerk’s embarrassment was obvious. ‘We have orders. His grace is.not to be received till sent for.’ Scowling, Morice turned back to the archbishop.

‘This, then, is to be the way of it,’ Cranmer sighed. ‘Condemned unheard.’

‘We’ll see about that!’ Without waiting for the archbishop’s consent, Morice strode from the room.

Cranmer calmly walked across to the fireplace and engaged in conversation with the group of men warming themselves there.

Within half an hour the secretary was back. After a brief word with the archbishop, he went across to the clerk’s desk and, without comment, handed over a slip of paper. The official jumped to his feet, tapped on the door beside him and passed the note to someone inside. After a brief pause the door opened. The attendant approached Cranmer and bowed. ‘If Your Grace will be good enough, the Council will see you now.’ At the door Morice said, ‘God save Your Grace.’ Cranmer smiled and entered the chamber.

The tense atmosphere was immediately apparent. At the head of the table the portly figure of Lord Chancellor Thomas Audley was in the presidential chair. Beside him Bishop Gardiner sat, his hand resting on a pile of papers. Opposite him was the Duke of Norfolk. Among others present Cranmer scrutinised Sir Thomas Wriothesley who, as royal secretary, enjoyed something of the power once held by Cromwell; the Venerable Lord Russell, whose one good eye was fixed on the newcomer; and Edward Seymour. These were the men who counted. The others, Cranmer knew, would follow their lead.

What had they decided? From glances being exchanged across the table it was clear that discussion had been tense and not unanimous. Cranmer tried to gauge who had taken the initiative. Who was looking confident? Who had gained control?

He stepped forward. ‘My apologies, My Lords.’ He smiled. ‘I was somewhat delayed.’ He moved towards one of the empty seats.