Free The Traitor’s Mark by D. K. Wilson

circles,’ I protested.
    â€˜No, but you are a leading member of society here in Kent.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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 menand 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.
    Afterwards, at supper in the great hall, I sat at one of the long tables among members of the household. Some were curious to know my business with the archbishop but, remembering Cranmer’s admonition and my own vow, I returned only vague answers. I was aware of – or thought I could detect – an atmosphere of divided loyalties or fractured trust. I told myself at the time that I imagined it; that the fragments of backstairs gossip and differences over domestic trivia were no more than one might encounter in the entourage of any great lord, whether spiritual or temporal. Yet it was difficult wholly to avoid the impression that cautious glances were being exchanged across the board and tongues carefully guarded.
    The sombre-faced man sitting opposite, though friendly, seemed more reticent than his companions, so I was slightly surprised when, at the end of the meal, he suggested wemight loosen our limbs with a walk around the cloister. I had recognised him immediately as one of the archbishop’s singing men and he had introduced himself as John Marbeck, He was, I guessed, in his mid-thirties, though his face bore the lines of a man somewhat older. As we strolled slowly round the cloister, torches in the walls threw across the flower beds long shadows of the columns supporting the roof of the square walkway. The evening was not cold but, after a few paces, Marbeck drew up his hood. I had the distinct impression that there was more to this gesture than a desire to protect his head from chill air. This was confirmed when, after a few inconsequential pleasantries, he became suddenly serious.
    â€˜May I ask what brings you to Ford?’
    â€˜I have been summoned here on