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

confidential business.’
    â€˜You are, then, a close friend of the archbishop?’
    â€˜No, but his grace has indicated that he trusts me.’
    â€˜He needs men he can trust,’ Marbeck muttered gloomily.
    He fell silent for several moments. I could not see his face but his whole demeanour – the slumped shoulders and shuffling footsteps – was that of a deeply troubled man. I felt awkward and after another half-circuit I said, ‘If you’ll excuse me, Master Marbeck, I’ve had a tiring day and am more than ready for bed. Tomorrow I will be in conference with the archbishop. He will expect me to be well-rested and have my wits about me.’
    Marbeck clutched my arm. ‘Then you must speak to hisgrace for me, for I cannot gain audience. You must warn him!’ The light from a flaring torch accentuated the sharp lines on his anguished features.
    â€˜In God’s name, what ails you man?’ I gasped.
    â€˜I must tell you my story. I shall go mad if I can make no one listen. When I’ve done, you must decide what to say to his grace.’
    I groaned inwardly but did not have the heart to refuse. Marbeck launched into his alarming tale.
    â€˜I was born in Windsor. Spent all my life in the shadow of the castle. Married there. Three children. I got a position as singing man and sub-organist in the royal chapel and thought myself the luckiest man in the world. I taught the choristers, played for worship, wrote some music myself. Never wanted anything else. No ambition, you see, no ambition. Some men dream of making their mark in the world. Not me. Not till Cromwell had the new book put in all the churches.’
    â€˜The English Bible?’
    â€˜Yes. It was a revelation to me. I read it from cover to cover. It was wonderfully exciting – actually to have God’s word in my own hands. Then – Lord forgive my presumption – I thought how useful it would be if readers could have a concordance – a list of Bible words with all their references. The more I thought about it, the more I thought, I could do that. So I set to work.’
    â€˜Was that not rather a dreary task?’
    The musician’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh no! It was a joy. My friends encouraged me and so did some of the king’s courtiers. They even lent me books and gave me money to buy more. I’d never been happier. Then, one night last March ...’ He broke off and wiped the back of a hand across his eyes.
    I tried to grasp the opportunity to disengage myself. ‘This is obviously distressing for you. Perhaps we should talk more tomorrow ...’
    â€˜No, no, Master Treviot, in Jesu’s name hear me out, I beg you! It was the middle of the night. Black as soot. No moon. There comes a hammering on the door. My wife went to open it and was pushed aside by three of the king’s guard. They rampaged from room to room, grabbing up all my papers and books. They ignored my protests and the children’s cries. When they’d done, they bound my arms and marched me off to the town jail.’
    â€˜They took you for a heretic? But why?’
    â€˜It seems that some of the books I’d been lent were banned. I swear I did not know it. They were just commentaries written by foreign scholars about various books of the Bible. Well, I soon discovered I wasn’t alone. The guards threw me into a cell with Robert Testwood – my friend and a fellow choirman. And there were two others, Robert Bennett, a local lawyer, and Henry Filmer, who kept a tailor’s shop in Peascod Street. The door was locked and there we stayed for a couple of days.’
    â€˜Were these other men heretics?’
    â€˜No more than I, I’m sure. But that’s little to the point. Once you’re marked for the fire nothing can save you. They go pestering friends and neighbours, looking for people who will testify against you.’
    â€˜And who are “they”?’I