A notice was pinned to the door of the largest of the three houses. It informed callers that Master Jan van der Goes (he did not even accept the Englishing of his name) had closed his workshop until the plague abated but that prospective clients could find him most mornings between ten and noon at the sign of the Red Hand in Fleet Street. I turned Golding’s head and a few minutes later tethered him outside the prestigious inn frequented by barristers of the inns of court, visitors with business at Whitehall Palace and gentlemen attendant on the great men whose nearby fine houses on The Strand overlooked the river.
There were not many people in the fashionable inn. August and September were always quiet in this locality. The royal household was on progress and the law courts were not in session until Michaelmas. Students and teachers at the law schools usually took the opportunity to go into the country between terms. Even so, it was unusual to see most of the tables in the Red Hand’s large hall empty. However, even had the room been all a-bustle and crowded with customers, it would have been easy to locate John of Antwerp. His booming voice could always be heard at a distance and he was seldom to be seen without a throng of sycophantic admirers. Today his attendants had been reduced to three in number. They sat at a table by an open casement, taking advantage of the slight breeze that whiffled through the room.
‘Brother Treviot,’ the Fleming bellowed as I approached. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure. Simon, fetch a flagon for our distinguished guest.’ This instruction was given to an apprentice who immediately rose and hurried about his errand. John was a heavily built man in his fifties who affected the manners and dress of someone twenty years his junior. Today he sported a yellow doublet and a shirt open at the neck. His cap was pushed back on his bush of brown hair and his thick beard completely encircled his ruddy features. He waved me to a seat on the bench opposite and introduced his companions. They were Reynold, a slim young man in royal livery, and Sir Tobias Harriday, a priest from Worcester.
‘Reynold is a messenger come hot-paced from court,’ John explained. ‘And Sir Tobias is here to order a new set of altar plate.’
‘For our Prince Arthur chantry chapel,’ the fresh-featured cleric added.
‘Chantry chapel, Brother John?’ I said, unable to resist the taunt, ‘I thought you did not approve of prayers for the dead and what you call “popish superstition”.’
The Fleming was unfazed. ‘His majesty wishes to honour his late brother’s memory with a magnificent gift of gold plate for the tomb chapel. I’m honoured to help this pious and charitable act. But tell me, Brother, what brings you to the Red Hand? I thought you had left the City.’
‘I’m only here briefly. I have to collect some designs from Master Holbein.’
‘Will that be for the Cotes Cup?’
I nodded and just managed a smile. The foreigner seemed damnably well informed about my affairs.
‘Johannes told me he was working on it,’ he explained.
‘Do you happen to know his whereabouts at the moment?’ I asked. ‘He seems to be from home.’
Simon returned and set a full tankard before me. I raised it to my lips, watching John over the brim.
He took his time over the reply, obviously thinking carefully what to say. ‘I heard there was some trouble at his house recently.’ His tone was nonchalant.
‘Yes, Wednesday. Some ruffians broke in and killed his assistant.’
‘What? Young George? How terrible.’ His pretence of shock and surprise was not convincing. He obviously knew more than he wanted to admit. I began to think I was wasting my time with the fellow.
‘Indeed. It was fortunate Master Johannes was not there. You have no idea where I might find him now?’
‘When I saw him last, a few days ago, he was on his way to court. He was talking about some commission he had for the new queen. I suppose he is still there.’
‘Perhaps Master Reynold, here, may have seen him.’ I turned to the messenger. ‘Where is his majesty keeping court now? Do you know if our artist friend is there?’
The young man was glad to air his knowledge. ‘The court’s at Ampthill Castle, near Bedford. It’s small for the whole court but his majesty vows he’ll not come a mile nearer London as long as the plague lasts.’
‘Ampthill – was that not where Queen Catherine was kept?’the priest asked.
‘Aye, that she was,’Reynold replied.
‘God keep her!’ Harriday crossed himself. ‘The kingdom has gone from bad to-’
‘So,’ I interrupted impatiently. ‘Is Master Holbein there?’
‘Was,’ the messenger replied. ‘Her majesty commanded him there to paint likenesses of the king’s children. The princesses are travelling with the court but Prince Edward lives nearby at Ashridge.’
‘So, the artist is no longer there?’ I prompted.
I think he left at the beginning of the week.’
‘To come back to London?’
Reynold shrugged.‘I suppose.’
I looked at the Fleming. ‘And he has not been in touch with you since then?’
John shook his head.
‘Then it seems he never reached the City.’
‘Perhaps he was headed somewhere else,’ John suggested. ‘Another customer. Another commission.’
‘And you’ve no idea where I might seek him?’
‘Johannes is a quite solitary man – secretive even. I do not think he confides his movements to other people. Certainly not to me.’
‘A pity,’ I said. ‘I have important news for him about his children. They are safe and in my care. Should you ever stumble across Master Holbein,’ I said sarcastically, ‘perhaps you would be kind enough to let him know where to find his family.’
Soon afterwards I bade the company farewell. As I rode back to West Cheap I reflected grimly on my wasted morning. Yet, perhaps not totally wasted. Was it just because I disliked the man that I felt convinced John of Antwerp was determined to stop me making contact with his friend?
Over the next couple of days the work of closing up the house continued. I sent Adie and the children on ahead in my coach with the loaded wagons and most of the remaining staff. Because the roads were in such a sorry state due to the heavy rain, it was obvious that the journey would take them at least a couple of days. My plan was to leave twenty-four hours later with three mounted and armed servants and arrive at about the same time. Before I could go I had to reply to the Lord Mayor’s letter. All I could say was that I had failed to contact Holbein and, thus, must regretfully decline the commission. It was the bare truth. It made both me and my friend appear incompetent but I could not add to it. That would only have encouraged speculation about Holbein’s disappearance and set tongues wagging around the City. For the hundredth time I racked my brains to think what could have happened to him. I had been farming out design work to him for some three years and had never had cause for complaint. He always produced his drawings promptly and they were always of the highest quality. Holbein had a knack of divining exactly what the customer wanted and his invention was breathtaking in its originality. He also understood the techniques of metalworking and gem-setting, which meant that he never posed problems impossible for my craftsmen to solve. I remember him telling me once that he had actually practised as a goldsmith in Basel, where he lived before coming to England. Holbein was more than a good craftsman; he was a pleasant man to deal with – inclined to be solemn, even morose, but always agreeable company. If he was in trouble, I would like to be in a position to help him. The fact that his friends were keeping his whereabouts secret from me could only mean that he was in grave danger.