The Traitor’s Mark Read Online Free PDF Page A

headquarters. ‘Heretics’, ‘Lutheran pigs’ – these and other daubed slogans spattered the stonework. Much as the City authorities tried to stop Catholic sloganeers defacing this building, the protests continued, encouraged by the more conservative clergy. The massive wooden gate stood half-open, permitting pedestrians and horsemen to enter in order to state their business at the porters’ lodge. I went through and dismounted. There were a dozen or so visitors waiting for admission and I soon realised that we were being divided into three categories: those who were known to the official on duty or who could produce suitable credentials were waved through an inner barrier; those who did not survive scrutiny were turned away; the remainder were asked to wait while enquiries were made about them. When my turn arrived I gave my name and explained that I was looking for Herr Johannes Holbein.
    The guard – a man whose sombre habit was strangely in contrast to an enormously exuberant beard – was a person of few words. ‘Ja , we know him. He is not here.’
    â€˜Perhaps there might be some friend of Master Johannes with whom I might speak?’
    He did not think so.
    Would it be possible for some enquiry to be made – it was important that I should locate Master Johannes urgently.
    The guardian of the gate looked at the queue forming behind me. He shook his head. I must be good enough to leave. If I wished I might come back another day.
    I raised my voice to protest. The guard remained unimpressed and the people behind became restless. Someone called out to me to move on and there was a murmur of support. I was about to turn when another man appeared from the gatehouse. He was obviously superior to the official who stood in my way, with whom he entered in a brief conversation in his own language. He turned his attention to me.
    â€˜You are looking for Herr Holbein?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜May I enquire why?’
    â€˜Certainly. I believe his life is in danger.’
    â€˜You have good reasons for this suspicion?’
    â€˜His assistant was murdered yesterday by men looking for his master.’
    He frowned.‘You are sure of this?’
    â€˜Very. I saw the poor young man’s body. He was beaten and stabbed.’
    We had now become the centre of a circle of curious onlookers – not a state of affairs welcomed by the Hanse official, whose demeanour changed dramatically.
    â€˜Well, Sir, Master Holbein is not of our company but he is well known to us and much respected. We would certainly not want any evil to befall him. Perhaps you would care totether your horse over there and wait in the wine house opposite. I’ll see if I can find someone who might be able to help you.’
    I did as he suggested and entered a large room furnished with several rows of tables and benches. At this hour there were few customers and I soon had a corner and a jug of Rhenish all to myself. I looked around at the early drinkers. There was never any mistaking these wealthy merchants from North Europe, with their wide hats or bonnets with tumed-up brims, their short fur-lined capes and their bushy beards. Here in the Steelyard, where they had long been welcomed to live by a government that needed the trade they brought, they had created their own little Germany. This mercantile citadel, protected by high walls and vigilant officials, was, of course, regarded with mixed feelings by the good burghers of London: some loved to hate the Baltic merchants; others hated to love them. Some made no secret of their opposition and justified it on religious grounds. These Germans were all tarred with the Lutheran brush and the conservative clergy feared – not without reason – that the Steelyard was a breeding ground for English heresy. They made no secret of their desire to see the mercantile ghetto closed down and the Hanse trading privileges revoked, but here the Germans had