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

asked.
    â€˜The Bishop of Winchester’s men, as I later discovered.’
    â€˜You’re sure.’
    â€˜Oh, yes. He had us taken to the Marshalsea prison in Southwark, close to his palace so that he could interrogate us in person. He kept me there for four months. Twice he had me to his own house, shouting insults and threats at me.’
    The Marshalsea! An image of that stinking, vermin-infested, overcrowded hovel came into my mind. As a prison it was, by some people, feared more than the Tower. The lees of the criminal world were habitually swilled into it. Highway robbers, murderers, rebels and other desperate men were shut up there to await trial (often indefinitely) and were known to beg for their appointment with the hangman, in preference to spending another day in the Marshalsea. The thought of this gentle musician having been incarcerated there was an affront to reason and certainly an affront to justice.
    â€˜How appalling!’ I said.
    â€˜I wouldn’t wish it on any human soul – Christian or heathen. Everything was done there to make me confess mysupposed heresies and provide the names of others. Terrible things. They still haunt my dreams. By the time I was released my wife was hard put to recognise me. My body was black from the beatings. I could scarcely hobble because the irons had chafed my ankles.’
    â€˜I’m so sorry for your ordeal,’ I said. ‘But one thing puzzles me – why was Bishop Gardiner personally interested in the opinions of a humble singing man?’
    â€˜Exactly!’ Marbeck stopped in his tracks to emphasise the point. ‘A thousand times and more I asked myself the question, “Why me?”. Then I realised that they cared not a farthing for what I believed. I could roast in hell as an unrepentant heretic for all they cared. What they wanted from me was names.’
    â€˜Names?’
    â€˜Aye. “Who aided you in your pernicious studies? Who seduced you with heretical books? You are no scholar; you could not have undertaken your wretched concordance unaided. You were set to it by your betters; men of the royal court. Who were they? Give us their names and we may yet save you from the fire.’”
    â€˜And did you tell them what they wanted to know?’
    â€˜Never. Though I thank God they didn’t put me to the torture. What I might have falsely confessed if they had racked me ...’
    â€˜But if you didn’t do their bidding how did you escape burning as an unrepentant heretic?’
    Marbeck halted again and this time sank on to a stone bench. He shook his head and sighed deeply. ‘Oh, Master Treviot, it isn’t over! It isn’t over!’ The torchlight glistened on tears creeping down his cheeks. ‘I wish to God that it might be over; that I could go back to my family and bolt our door firmly against them. They’re too powerful, too clever, too relentless.’ He brushed a hand across his face.
    I sat beside him. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand ...’
    Marbeck grabbed my wrist, his grip almost painful. ‘The twenty-eighth of July was wet ... but not wet enough. They burned Filmer and a local priest and Robbie Testwood in Windsor marketplace. Robbie was scarce more than a boy, a merry lad, always joking.’ Marbeck’s frame was now shaking. The tears flowed freely. Unchecked. ‘We were all of us guilty – according to the trial. Trial? Ptah!’ He spat violently. ‘The bishop’s man told the jury what verdict to bring. And we were all found guilty, all of us! The others burned. But, not Bennett and not me. Why?’ Marbeck turned his anguished face towards me. And now he was gabbling, words pouring out like rain from a waterspout. ‘Do you know what Gardiner said? He petitioned the king for a pardon because it would be a pity his majesty should lose “such a fine musician”. Lying, double-tongued hypocrite. He did it to