‘Bart wouldn’t harm anyone,’ I said.
Adie took a long gulp of ale, followed by a deep, sighing breath. ‘Yes, Master. He tried to explain what happened. Said he and George had been attacked by four strangers. Said they’d beaten George all over … then stabbed him because he wouldn’t tell them where Master Johannes was.’
This time I let the tears gush. I brooded about Bart Miller. If there was one man in London sure to discover trouble wherever it was lurking, that man was my business assistant. I could not call him my apprentice because he had not joined my household to learn the goldsmith’s craft, but he had a quick head for figures, was diligent in keeping the books tidily and was very reliable – when he was not getting himself into unnecessary scrapes.
‘What happened next?’ I asked, when the sobs and sniffs had subsided. ‘Where is Bart now?’
‘Locked up in Aldgate gatehouse, thanks to our stupid constable!’
‘Then we must get back there quickly. You can tell me the rest of the story as we go.’ I pushed aside the papers I had been working on, went to the door and called for my man, Will. It was mid-July – plague time. The house was quieter than usual because I had sent most of the staff down to my estate in Kent, where I intended to follow as soon as Bart and I had concluded most of my outstanding business. When Will hurried in from the kitchen I told him to have one of my horses saddled and the donkey cart harnessed.
While we stood in the courtyard waiting for all to be made ready, I pressed the girl for more details. ‘What were you saying about the Aldgate constable?’
Adie scowled, the flush on her cheek now one of anger. ‘I’d just helped your Bart to his feet. “We must get the constable … raise the hue and cry,” he said. Only there wasn’t no need. A crowd had gathered outside and someone had already sent for Peter Pett.’
‘Your ward constable?’
‘Yes, but to hear him you’d think he was lord mayor. He’s a braggart and a bully. “Peter Pest” people call him. He stood there asking stupid questions and making … suggestions.’
‘What sort of suggestions?’
Adie lowered her head. ‘About me and your man,’ she muttered. ‘He said that since we was the only ones there, we must have been up to something. Then, George must have found us and we’d all had a fight and your Bart must have pulled a knife … Oh, the man’s a flap-mouthed jolthead. He wouldn’t listen to me and he wouldn’t call the hue and cry. Just said he was going to put both of us in irons till the magistrate came. He would have, too, if some of our neighbours hadn’t spoken for me. It was Goodwife Mays, next door, who made him see that I’m nurse to Master Johannes’ children. Then your man said he was servant to, an important merchant and there’d be trouble if they harmed him. Well, that made the Pest think. He wouldn’t let Bart go but he did say I could bring you a note. We found a stick of Master Johannes’ charcoal and a bit of old drawing paper. Bart wrote the note and I left the children with Goodwife Mays. Then I ran all the way here as fast as I could.’
When Walt, my ostler, had the cart ready, he hauled himself into the driving seat and held out a hand to hoist the girl up beside him. ‘Where to, Master Thomas?’ he asked, waving a hand at the crowd of flies that buzzed around the donkey’s hindquarters.
‘Aldgate,’ I replied. ‘The gatehouse. It seems that our Bart has managed to get himself locked up there. You’ll have to bring him back.’
His face creased into a black-toothed grin. ‘He’ll be right enough, Master Thomas. He’s used to taking rough knocks – thrives on ’em.’
‘Well, we must see what he’s walked into this time.’ Golding, my grey, was led out of the stable and I climbed into the saddle. ‘I’ll go on ahead and see you there.’
I turned out of the yard and set off along West Cheap, eager to get the journey over, yet anxious about what I would discover at its end. What Walt said about Bart Miller was true. When he had come to work for me six years before he was a hothead of less than twenty, always on the lookout for a cause to uphold and ready to use whatever means came to hand. He had lost an arm fighting with the northern rebels in 1536. Marriage had somewhat sobered him. His wife, Lizzie, was a strong-minded woman, tough enough to curb his enthusiasms and clever enough not to let him know that he was being ‘handled’. Even so, Bart still saw himself as an adventurer. Like the knights we hear of in the tales of King Arthur, he could not help looking for dragons to slay. Anyone with a story to tell of injustice or cruelty or exploitation found in Bart Miller a ready listener.
When I sent him out that morning with a message for the German artist, it never occurred to me that he could get involved in a murderous brawl. I simply wanted to know why my old friend Johannes Holbein was keeping me waiting for some tableware designs. I needed them urgently and it was unlike him not to have them ready on time. It was all very aggravating. The work was for an important – and wealthy – client. If I could not show him some designs within days he would, most assuredly, take his business elsewhere. Much as I was concerned about Bart, I was also bothered by what the girl had told me about her master. Could it be that the artist had deliberately ‘disappeared’ – gone into hiding from enemies who would not stop at murder? But who would want to kill a foreign artist who enjoyed the king’s favour and was patronised by most of the fashionable elite?
It was mid-afternoon – hot and humid, warning of a storm to come. The City was quiet, many people seeking the shade – if they had not already escaped the plague-haunted streets to pass high summer in the country, something I was impatient to do. It was annoying having to waste more time trying to locate Holbein or extricate Bart from whatever he had got into. In the West Cheap narrows by the Conduit a large wagon was being loaded causing some congestion. I waited for the donkey cart to catch up in order to ask Adie more questions.
‘Do you know where your master has gone?’
She fussed with wisps of hair, tucking them back under the cap. ‘He’s often away days at a time. Doing what he calls “sittings”.’
‘Making portraits of fine lords and ladies?’
‘Oh, yes, he’s much in demand. Everyone wants a likeness by Master Johannes, what with him being the king’s painter and all.’ For the first time she showed a slight wistful smile. ‘He did a picture of me and the children – a year ago, before the little ones died. It wasn’t a painting, of course, just a drawing. He’s ever so quick. There was I trying to make the two boys sit still. Little Henry’s a great wriggler. But it didn’t matter. Master Johannes was so quick.’
‘And you’ve no idea where your master has gone this time?’
Adie shook her head. ‘He went off first thing Tuesday, as he often does, with all his gear on a packhorse.’
‘Is there no way you can get a message to him – a warning?’
Again the doleful, almost resigned, shake of the head.
‘What about you and the children – and their mother?’
Adie scowled. ‘Oh, she’s been up and away long since. Packed her bags and left Master Johannes with four bearns, and one not yet weaned. Said she was tired of his comings and goings. Said she was for better things than bearing babies and looking after them. Slattern!’ She spat out the word.
I rode on and was soon at the City wall.
There was only a trickle of humanity passing to and fro through Aldgate. A few people stood beneath the rusted prongs of the raised portcullis, finding some coolness in the shade, where a half-hearted breeze shifted through the archway. I tethered Golding to an iron ring in the wall and announced myself to the duty guard. He was seated at the toll table just inside the open door of the guardhouse. He appraised me with an expert eye.