By now I felt very uncomfortable – hemmed in as much by events as I was by the walls of the closet-like office. Like a press-ganged soldier I was involved against my will in this war Morice was describing – and I was not acquitting myself well.
‘Would that I had known all this ere today,’ I muttered, avoiding Morice’s eye.
‘Why say you so?’
‘This morning, before I suspected anything of Sir Thomas’s link to Black Harry, I gave him a-full account of my own activities and discoveries.’
‘Devil take it!’ Morice thumped the desk with his fist.
‘I’m sorry, I …’
‘’Tis not your fault. As you say, you did not know then. Unfortunately, this has given Moyle a head start. No doubt his messengers are already on the road to warn Black Harry. The best we can do is circulate a description of the gang as widely as possible. I’ll attend to that straight away. At least we can now neutralise Sir Thomas. I’ll have him taken off the commission – along with anyone else we have reason to suspect. Now, then, what else can be done?’ Morice closed his eyes in concentration and tapped his forehead.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ I offered tamely.
He made no reply, wrapped in his own thoughts. ‘We need some big artillery. I’ll send to our friends in the Privy Chamber and have them obtain a warrant to send Thomas Legh to us.’
‘“Lank” Legh?’
‘Yes, you know him?’
‘Who doesn’t? He’s one of the most notorious men in England. Folk say he bullied the abbots into resigning their houses and those he couldn’t bully he tricked.’ I conjured up an image of the fat lawyer whose mocking nickname referred to his enormous bulk.
‘Indeed. Not the handsomest or most likeable man his majesty has ever employed. The archbishop certainly has no love for him. But he is the man for a crisis. He’s an advocate in Chancery and one of the finest legal brains in the realm. I’ve watched him question strong men in court and reduce them to whimpering mice. We will have him replace Moyle. That will give us proper control of the commission.’
‘Might it not make the archbishop unpopular?’
Morice stared at me, once more the stern schoolmaster. ‘Shall I tell you some of the things our enemies have done in their efforts to undermine his grace? Twice I have caught cathedral clergy in his study, going through his papers. I have collected up and destroyed a libellous pamphlet accusing the archbishop’s sister of bigamy. Two months ago I had a man and his wife stood in the pillory for spreading a rumour that his grace committed acts of buggery with one of his kitchen boys. The hatred of our foes knows no bounds. In May we laid to rest the body of Dr Champion, one of the archbishop’s most long-standing friends. As the coffin was being lowered one of the cathedral staff jumped down and scattered hot coals over it from his incense thurifer, screaming, “Bum in hell, heretic!” Now, Master Treviot, what say you? Should we not use whatever weapons we have against such people and those who set them on?’
‘His grace told me he was involved in a war but I did not think …’
‘A war indeed, and on several fronts. Did you know that the Duke of Norfolk gives a sumptuous banquet every 28 July to celebrate the execution of Lord Cromwell? That is to remind all his important guests of the supposed heresies the country has been delivered from. And, of course, he and Bishop Gardiner have set up their own commission, under Dr London, to seek out Bible men in the capital and elsewhere. Our satanic foe is like the Hydra, many-headed and deadly. We have to be constantly on the watch to see where he will strike next – and there is so much at stake. Only the archbishop stands between the devil’s henchmen and the collapse of all we have gained since his majesty expelled the pope. He does, indeed, carry a erushingly heavy burden.’
By the time we finished talking, the day was late and I gratefully accepted an invitation to spend another night at Ford. Morice was very busy organising groups of the archbishop’s guard to set off in search of Black Harry. His energy and efficiency were admirable. He prepared written instructions for each captain, as well as letters to be delivered to the gentlemen and senior townsmen through whose territory they passed. I watched as he addressed his little army, for all the world like a general launching a military campaign. If anyone could locate Black Harry and have him brought back in chains, I thought, that man would be Ralph Morice. But the difficulties of the operation were formidable. His men had a large area to cover and I had seen for myself how unwelcome the archbishop’s men were in many places. In the morning the secretary had another brief word with me before I set off with one troop who were to accompany me most of the way to Hemmings. Once again he exhorted me to keep alert to any news that could be useful to the archbishop and to make frequent reports.
It was a relief to arrive back at my own home and an even bigger relief to observe the members of the household, outwardly at least, going about their lives as if nothing untoward had recently shattered the peace of Hemmings. On enquiry I discovered that our three guests had slept long and late. My steward had called in a local physician to examine them and apply salve to their various cuts and bruises. He reported that the Holbein boys were more subdued than usual but seemed otherwise none the worse for their ordeal. Adie, he said, spent all her time by the kitchen fire and was only relaxed in the company of other women. I wanted to find her and see for myself how she was but realised that the sight of me might bring back painful memories. Instead, I busied myself for a couple of hours with some of the outside workers, discussing estate matters and then retired to my chamber. There was a small pile of letters on the table, most of them routine. One, however, was addressed in a hand I did not recognise. I broke the seal and read it by the light of a lamp.
Master Treviot, I greet you and trust that my messenger will find you in Kent, having received directions from your servants in West Cheap. I write with urgent news of Master Holbein, who came to me in Chiswick this day. I told him that you had called to see him to bring the sad news that his sons were captured by the men seeking his own life. He was much distressed to hear it and prayed I would assure you he desired above all things the safety of his children. The reason he was not at Bridewell when you visited was that he had departed secretly for the Steelyard, having purposed to obtain passage for himself and his family on a Hanse trading vessel. Having agreed with a captain from Bremen, he was anxious I should make enquiry for the whereabouts of the boys. He was greatly distressed to learn that he was too late and his sons were captured. His anguish, Master Treviot, was distressing to behold and his resolve now quite changed. He declares that he wishes to surrender himself to his enemies in exchange for the children and begs me to ask, if you know how to reach the abductors, that you will convey his wishes to them. Master Holbein also says that he would like to meet you in order to give into your hands certain information he is desirous you should pass to a third party. Thus, Master Treviot, it is with a heavy heart that I do the office of a friend and beseech that you will come to Bridewell at your earliest opportunity.
From Chiswick, this 22nd day of September
Your worshipful brother,
Jan van der Goes
The twenty-second! That was three days ago! It seemed more like three weeks, so much had happened. And here was news of a distracted father planning to give himself up to a gang of murderers in exchange for his sons, not knowing that those sons were now safe. I had no choice about what I should do. I would have to hurry back to London without delay.
But what would I find? The Fleming would be concerned not to have received an answer to his letter. Every day that passed without my responding to his urgent summons would be like dagger blows of despair to the agonised Holbein. What might distraction not move him to? I tried to imagine what I would be driven to if evil befell young Ralph and I believed I was the cause of it? I thought of the draughty, drab warehouse where the painter was forced to live – and of the swift Thames running past it.