The Traitor’s Mark (7 page)

That, at least, was my first impression. Late evening light still entered through tall windows and the lamps had not yet been lit. The room had its shadows and dim corners, into which I peered. It was some moments before I became aware of shuffling sounds coming from behind a large table on which stood a stack of books. Drawing closer, I came upon the Primate of all England on all fours beside a coffer and unloading more volumes which he added to the pile.

After some moments he looked up. ‘Ah, Master Treviot, my apologies. I'm looking for my copy of Jerome's
Dialogus contra Pelagianos
. My roguish servants at Lambeth Palace never pack my books properly. Every time I move it takes hours to locate everything I need.' He stood up and held out his hand across the desk. I stooped to kiss his ring.

‘Thank you for coming so promptly,' Cranmer continued.

I thought but did not say, I had no option. Instead, I responded, ‘I am anxious to know the reason for Your Grace's urgent summons.'

‘Grave matters. Grave matters.' He shook his head. He took his seat behind the desk and for some moments seemed distracted by solemn thoughts.

His brow was care-lined, his eyes searching and cautious. Then, with a sudden change of mood, he smiled. ‘You have come from Ightham, have you not? Who's the vicar there? Ah, yes, Stimson, isn't it. The man's an idiot. Now, let me see, have you eaten?'

‘Not since breakfast, Your Grace.'

‘Then we must attend to that first.' He rang a handbell. The obsequious little cleric entered immediately. ‘Take Master Treviot to the hall and see him properly fed,' Cranmer ordered. To me he said, ‘One should never discuss matters of state on an empty stomach.'

When I returned to the archbishop's study an hour or so later, replete with venison, carp, marchpane cake and muscadel, I was no less confused or anxious than when I first arrived. Apparently I was not to be accused of some unwitting offence and detained at his grace's pleasure but his talk of grave affairs of state was unnerving. By now the candles had been lit and a good fire blazed on the hearth. The archbishop sat to one side of the chimney in a high-backed chair and bade me be seated opposite. Between us was a low table on which were letters and other documents.

Cranmer gazed at the burning logs. ‘Would you go to the fire for your faith, Master Treviot?'

I knew not how to answer such an unexpected question and eventually made some sort of protest about believing what the Church said and not being guilty of any heresy for which I needed to fear being sent to the stake.

He looked up with a smile that somehow was not a smile. ‘There are men who would like to bum the Archbishop of Canterbury.'

‘Merely a few unrepentant papist traitors who would have the king bow his neck again under the pope's authority,' I suggested.

Cranmer shook his head. ‘Not few and, by no means, only those who owe secret allegiance to the Bishop of Rome.'

There was a long silence before the archbishop spoke again. He seemed uncertain about how to proceed, like someone outside a house looking for the entrance. At last he sat back and said, ‘You are familiar, I believe, with Master Johannes Holbein, his majesty's painter.'

I replied cautiously. ‘He has done design work for me – jewellery, tableware, altar furnishings – that sort of thing.'

‘To be sure, he is a fine craftsman.'

‘Beyond doubt,' I agreed. ‘In my opinion there is none better.'

There was another long silence.

‘Would you go so far as to call Johannes Holbein a friend?'

My reply was carefully considered. ‘I think I would, Your Grace.'

‘Then you will know that he is in some danger,' Cranmer said, watching closely for my reaction.

My hopes rose. Perhaps from this unexpected source I might be able to learn who the painter's enemies were or gain some other information that would help Bart. ‘I thought as much,' I said. ‘I haven't been able to make contact with him recently and, a few days ago—'

‘You are about to tell me about the unpleasant incident at Holbein's house.'

‘Do you know who was responsible for it, Your Grace? Is that why you have summoned me here? I shall be most grateful for any information—'

He held up a hand to interrupt me. ‘What I am about to tell you must not go beyond these walls. Will you swear to keep silence?'

I nodded. Cranmer went to his desk and returned with a large, heavily bound book. It was easily recognisable as the English Bible, the one commonly known as ‘Cromwell's Bible'. He set it on the table between us. ‘Place your hand on it and make your solemn oath.'

It was with a feeling of rising apprehension that I did as the archbishop insisted.

‘Good. God keep you true to your word.' Cranmer resumed his seat. ‘You do not need me to remind you what happened, three years ago, to Lord Cromwell. There was a
plot against him and he was brought down by men opposed to what they sneeringly called the “New Learning”. A foolish expression. What he ... what we ... stood for was a new commonwealth, a godly commonwealth. And we had begun to see the realisation of our dream. We had got rid of the pope and replaced his authority with that of the word of God.' He tapped a finger on the Bible. ‘Old learning, Master Treviot. We closed down the abbeys, those bastions of papal error, and began the assault on superstition.
Para kurion egeneto aute
: “This was the Lord's doing and it was marvellous in our eyes”.'

Cranmer's caution had fallen away from him; he was speaking with a preacher's fervour. ‘Of course, there were those who could not or would not share our vision. They spun a web of lies. They produced paid informers. They managed to persuade his majesty to abandon the most faithful minister he had ever had, or was ever likely to have. They had him shut up in the Tower and, once there ...' Cranmer shrugged. ‘Perhaps I should have stood by him; urged the king to clemency.' He sighed. ‘But I fear to say that l am not the stuff of which martyrs are made. Of course, I visited my friend in prison. He urged me to continue the work and he gave me this – in strict secrecy.' The archbishop indicated a folded sheet of paper.

‘What is it, Your Grace?'

‘A list of men Lord Cromwell knew to be faithful to our cause; men who, in various ways, had served him and
served the Gospel. One name on that list is “Johannes Holbein”.'

‘Even so, Your Grace? Holbein? I know he has Lutheran friends and tends in that direction but he is a mere painter. How could he have been of service to Lord Cromwell?'

Cranmer smiled wistfully. ‘A mere painter? Yes, that is the point. Think for a moment. Everyone wants to be portrayed by him. He is in fashion ... though, perhaps, not as much as he was. Anyway, the point is that he was welcomed into the houses of the greatest in the land. He made some charcoal sketches or set up his easel in a corner and worked away silently. All the time his keen eyes took in every detail of his surroundings. He went to the kitchen and had meals with the servants. They talked in friendly style of this and that. No man guarded his tongue strictly. After all, this gruff little German was only a painter.'

‘I see. And he passed any useful information on to Lord Cromwell. He was, in a word, a spy.'

‘Let us say, rather, that he was a trained observer. He certainly gathered much useful information. He discovered what Lord Cromwell's enemies were planning. Unfortunately, he was too late in conveying this intelligence to his lordship.'

‘Even so? Then I begin to see why Your Grace is concerned for his safety. You fear that this “spy”, or whatever you wish to call him, has been unmasked by people intent on taking their revenge.'

‘No, we are not dealing with petty-minded men whose
eyes are fixed on the past. Those who wish to silence our mutual friend are very much concerned with the future. You see, Master Treviot, the struggle – or, rather, let us call it the war, for in very truth that is what it is – the war continues. Many men – powerful in the Church and in the royal court – will stop at nothing to extinguish the light of the Gospel and return us all to popish darkness.'

‘Surely, Your Grace,' I protested, ‘things are quieting down now. For the last couple of years there have been fewer public protests by partisans of different religious camps, fewer angry sermons denouncing “papists” and “heretics”. Most people want nothing but to be allowed to get on with their lives in peace.'

‘What most people want, Master Treviot, is of little consequence. Decisions are made by King Henry. Therefore, the only people who matter are those who influence the king. Now, his majesty – whom God long preserve – is a sick man. For those of us who knew him in his prime it is sad to see him as he is now. Just to move from one room to another he needs to be supported by two strong servants. As to stairs ... well, I need not go into details. The important point is that he sees fewer people now and relies increasingly on the members of his Privy Chamber and a handful of others – like myself – whom he trusts. That is where the war is being fought now – in the king's inner circle. Those who wish to suppress the truth know they must remove us – just as they removed Lord Cromwell.'

‘Who are these men and how are they working against Your Grace?'

‘That is precisely what I, aided by such as Master Holbein, intend to discover. Our friend continues to work for me. That is why his life is in danger.'

I was at a loss to know where this conversation was headed. I said, ‘Thank you for explaining this, Your Grace. You may be sure I will redouble my prayers for his majesty and for yourself. I wish it was in my power to do more.'

‘It is, Master Treviot. It is.' Cranmer unfolded the sheet of paper. ‘Lord Cromwell's list has been very helpful to me. His assessment of potential agents is incisive. He was a fine judge of character. This is how he describes one young man: “He is tenacious, intelligent but not quick-witted, transparently honest and, above all, fiercely loyal”.' The archbishop stared at me intently. ‘That is the kind of man I need now. The kind his majesty needs. The kind England needs.'

Chapter 5

I was without words. Almost without breath, as though I had been punched in the stomach. When I did find my voice I could only mutter and mumble. What I tried to impress upon the archbishop was that, while I had briefly been employed on confidential business for Lord Cromwell, that had been several years before. I protested that I had no training as a spy. ‘And to be honest, Your Grace, I have no taste for it,' I said.

‘Then we are alike in that, you and I,' Cranmer replied. ‘I am a simple scholar at heart and frequently wish I had remained so. It was his majesty who summoned me out of the university and set me to the game of intrigue. I had no option but to learn its devious rules and follow them as best I could. It is easier to be a Spectator but the game must be
played and sometimes reluctant participants have to give up the luxury of merely looking on. Believe me, Master Treviot, there are things that need doing and only you can do them.'

‘Your Grace, I beg you to excuse me. I am not the man for—'

‘You are if I say you are!' For the first time this gentle-spoken cleric raised his voice. Then, as suddenly, his tone returned to its usual volume. ‘You have yet to hear what I require of you. As I explained, the future of our godly commonwealth rests, in large measure, with his majesty's more trusted companions.'

‘I'm sure he leans heavily on Your Grace's advice.'

‘I thank God that he does.' Cranmer paused. Then, watching closely for my reaction, he said, ‘There was a time when his majesty leaned heavily on Lord Cromwell's advice.'

‘And you think ...'

‘I do not think, Master Treviot. I know. I am the major obstacle in the enemy's path. The only way I can be removed is by convincing his majesty that I am a heretic – as they did with Cromwell. That is why I need to be kept informed of their plans – by faithful friends like Master Holbein and yourself.'

‘But I do not move in court circles,' I protested.

‘No, but you are a leading member of society here in Kent.'

‘Yes, but ...'

Cranmer ignored the interruption. ‘The conspiracy against me is like ripples on a pond. It spreads out from the centre to lap against the distant banks.'

At that moment there was a tap at the door and the obsequious little priest appeared again. He coughed apologetically.

‘Time for mass already, Martin?' Cranmer stood up. ‘Master Treviot, it seems we must continue our discussion later. Martin take our guest to the chapel. Have a chamber prepared for him. He will be staying tonight. Master Treviot, be so good as to return here after supper.'

Once again the priest preluded his words with a discreet cough. ‘Your Grace has letters which Your Grace might consider urgent – including two from his majesty.'

Cranmer sighed deeply. ‘You see why I yearn for the scholar's life, Master Treviot. Very well, Martin, I will dictate letters after supper. In the morning I wish to be left alone with our guest directly after early mass. Nothing is to disturb us. Do you understand – nothing.'

I took my leave of the archbishop and accompanied my guide to the chapel. It was laid out collegiate-style – stalls facing each other, north and south, across a narrow chancel. The choir and clergy occupied the seats closest to the altar. As I took my place, my mind was still on the unfinished conversation. At least I would not be distracted by the worship. As a mere layman I would only be expected to observe the clergy performing their ritual, aided by the singing men
and boys of the archbishop's fine choir. Or so I thought. I was, therefore, surprised to be handed a card on which parts of the mass were printed – in English – and to discover that the whole congregation was expected to recite them with the priests. If this was an example of the kind of innovation Cranmer wanted to introduce in the Church as a whole, I could see why those wedded to the old ways might consider such novelties heretical. I noticed that even here, in his grace's own domain, not a few clergy and lay people kept their mouths tight shut during the recitation of the English passages.