The Traitor’s Mark (25 page)

‘You will have plenty of time to spend with them as soon as this present problem is over.'

‘Well, well, we shall see.' He was silent for several moments. Then he said, ‘'Tis time, I think, for them to be put to a tutor. Do you know someone suitable?'

‘My own son is privately taught,' I said. ‘Francis Sturn-good is an excellent scholar and wields his birch well, though not too often. I'll arrange for you to meet him, if you wish.'

He raised his eyes towards the rafters, avoiding my gaze. ‘We must do the best for them. I have made a will. It is with John of Antwerp, as you call him. There is provision for the boys and their nurse.'

‘'Tis not time yet to talk of wills,' I protested. ‘We will bring your enemies to justice and you can take up your life again.'

He shook his head. ‘Does it not alarm you, Master Treviot, how much hatred there is in the world?'

‘Indeed it does. Wherever I go – in the City, in villages, in churches, in court rooms, in great men's palaces – people are at odds with their neighbours, friends fall out, the king's subjects seek to destroy one another.'

‘Everywhere,' he said wearily. ‘'Tis the same everywhere.' He paused. ‘You know I'm a citizen of Basel – officially. When I settled there, years ago, it was like a haven of peace and common sense. I had many friends. Some called themselves “Catholic”; some had forsaken the old church, but all, I think, were men of generous spirit. Young, of course, and enthusiastic for our own beliefs. We could – often did – argue the night away. But seldom with rancour. Then I came to England, never intending to stay. I made more friends. I was introduced to the king's court. I prospered.'

‘You well deserve your success,' I said. ‘There is no finer limner in England, perhaps in Europe.'

‘They were good years.' Holbein continued with his reminiscence, as though talking to himself. ‘Then I returned to Basel. Everything had changed. It wasn't enough, any more, to know what you believed; you had to make everyone else believe the same. That led to mob warfare on the streets.
Gangs attacked churches. Pulled down statues. Slashed paintings. The city council gave way. All religious art was banned. No one needed painters any more. So I came back here. Do you know what I found?'

‘That things were much the same in England?'

‘Yes, like the plague, religious fervour had crossed the water. Even my old patron, Sir Thomas More, had taken to locking men up and having them tortured.'

‘Yet you stayed and established a brilliant career.'

He stood and walked over to his easel. Taking up a brush, he began dabbing at the canvas. ‘What an artist feels, he must try to bring out of himself; put it into his work. Your great men and women wanted portraits. I made them; tried to show them not just what they looked like, but what they
were
. I don't know if any of them ever realised that the “Oh so
fashionable
German, Master Holbein” was looking into their souls.'

‘You must take much satisfaction from your success.'

‘Looking into their souls,' Holbein continued, as though he had not heard. ‘But
my
soul? What happened to that? The success, the acclaim, the money – they took over. But the soul? I think it shrivelled. I had a wife and children but we drifted apart. I didn't want to go to Basel. They didn't want to come to England. I thought I had found happiness with an English woman. Soon I had a new family. Then my two little girls died. My woman left. All I had was my work, my fame, my clamouring patrons.'

‘That would be enough for many craftsmen.'

‘Patrons. So generous. So loud in their praise. But they always want more than they give. Even the greatest man in England. Especially him.'

‘Lord Cromwell?'

‘Yes. I miss him. He was brilliant. I could always talk to him. He understood. And I understood him. He made me see that the troubles England was going through were just birthing pains for the godly commonwealth he was bringing into the world. So, when he asked more of me than just painting, I was ready ...'

‘He wanted you to spy for him?'

‘He called it “keeping him informed” about potential enemies.' Holbein laid down the brush and turned to me. ‘Do you know I could have saved him?'

‘How?'

‘I discovered what Lord Norfolk – that haughty, misbom, foul-tempered proudster – was planning. But I did not get the message to Cromwell in time. That will always haunt me.'

‘Is that why you are so anxious to have your information passed to Archbishop Cranmer, now?'

‘He is a good man and Norfolk is up to his usual foul tricks. But now he is part of something much bigger. We cannot let him and his fellow conspirators succeed this time.'

‘This information you have – will it really stop him?'

‘Oh yes, if it is correctly used. His grace will know how to use it, if you pass it on to him.'

‘But you can give it to him yourself. We'll get you to him safely.'

‘No, that won't work. Norfolk and his associates must not know that their plans have been discovered. If they do they will simply disband and wait for another opportunity. They are diabolically persistent. They will go to absolutely any lengths.'

‘So I've discovered. They killed your assistant, they left van der Goes half-dead and they'd have let the children starve.'

‘The only way to avenge these wrongs is to close down the whole organisation. You will be able to do that, but only if they believe that I have failed in my mission.'

‘ But that would mean letting them capture you.'

The painter smiled and nodded. Suddenly I recalled Meyer's words about Holbein nursing the idea of suicide. ‘You can't do that!' I protested.

‘It is the only way, Thomas. I have had plenty of time to think about it. I must admit when I heard what had happened to poor George my instinct was to run away, get on a Hanse ship and escape. But where to? Basel has no charms for me now. My family there are provided for. They're perfectly happy without me. At my age I can't start building a career somewhere else. In any case, I'm too old-fashioned. The demand now is for a debased,
exaggerated, “showy” art. I hate it. So my time is over and I am content.'

‘My dear friend, this is foolish talk. Your talent is unequalled. You are painter to the King of England.'

He gave a cynical laugh. ‘To a king who has no more commissions for me.'

‘But—'

‘No, Thomas, you waste your breath seeking to dissuade me. I count myself very fortunate. It is not, I think, given to many men to know when their time in this world is spent. I have played my little role and I leave the stage willingly. The play continues, but my part in it will soon be forgotten. There's one important thing left for me to do and, with your help, I can do it.'

‘Very well,' I said. ‘Give me the information and I'll leave you – but only with a very heavy heart.'

To my surprise, Holbein laughed. ‘I've already sent it to you – or part of it, but you must have missed it.'

‘The engraved coat of arms on the chalice design?'

‘Ah, so you did notice it. It was a very faint chance but the only way I could think of at the time. When I heard you had become involved I tried to think of something that might catch your attention. I recalled our frequent discussions of cyphers and concealed meanings. You know I have a weakness for that sort of thing. That heraldic device will identify the man whose twisted mind lies behind the attack on the archbishop and so much more devilry.'

‘Yes, I have discovered him and warned the archbishop.'

‘Excellent! Then most of the work is done. But there is more information – times and dates – that will complete the picture. This man – I never knew his name ...'

‘Thomas Moyle,' I said.

‘Really? Well, he is the organiser. He has links with important men here and abroad. He came two or three times to see the Duke of Norfolk. The first was when I was at his house in Kenninghall working on a new portrait. The duke was out of favour following the fall of his niece, Queen Catherine Howard, and seething with fury about those who had exposed her and brought him close to ruin. Then, more recently, this man – Moyle, you say? – visited his lordship again in his chambers at Whitehall Palace. They always talked in secret but I managed to overhear a few snatches of conversation – enough to realise their treachery. I memorised the heraldic badge worn by the man's servants. Unfortunately, I was not quite discreet enough. The conspirators were suspicious. They could do nothing immediately because I was with the royal court – a small commission for the new queen. When I left, they sent their pet assassins to waylay me. As you know, I escaped and have been in hiding ever since, trying to think how I could convey what I know to the archbishop or some trusted friend. Thank God, I can now do that. In the morning I'll allow myself to be captured. Now, Thomas, listen carefully. The traitor's visits to Norfolk—'

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.'

Chapter 19

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?'