The Traitor’s Mark Read Online Free PDF Page B

anxious to show off the treasures of his community, waxed eloquent. ‘On the right you see an allegory of riches. On the left, poverty. They remind us of the vanity of earthly wealth. It illustrates the motto you can see over the doorway behind us.’
    I turned and gazed up at a long Latin inscription.
    Meyer, obviously very familiar with the role of guide, translated. ‘He who is rich fears the inconstant turning ofFate’s wheel. He who is poor fears nothing, but lives in joyful hope.’
    â€˜A noble sentiment,’ I muttered – and wondered how much ‘joyful hope’ was felt by the beggars squatting in alleyways outside the walls close to where we stood.
    Meyer was now in full flood, pointing out details in the paintings – the industry and honest toil of the smiling, contented workers, contrasted with the frenetic pursuit of gain pictured on the opposite wall. Most of his eulogy passed me by; I was captivated with the exuberance and sheer scale of the two cavalcades. It was difficult to believe that this was the work of the same man who produced for my workshop intricate designs for table salts, chains of office, medallions and other items of jewellery. ‘Truly a genius,’ I observed, rather tamely.
    â€˜Indeed! Indeed! We’re very proud of Master Holbein’s work. He has also made portraits of some of our recent masters.’ My guide led the way along the hall, pointing out the depictions of solemn-looking merchants holding the tools of their trade – scales, money boxes, bills and seals.
    â€˜So,’ Meyer said, as we completed the tour, ‘you can see we are much indebted to Herr Holbein. If ever he was in trouble he could come to us. We would not fait him.’
    â€˜But he has not recently come to you for succour?’
    The little pastor shook his head.
    â€˜And yet,’ I ventured, ‘if he had you would probably not tell me.’
    For once Meyer had no words. He simply smiled.
    We returned to the wine house. By the outer door the pastor extended his hand. ‘I fear I have been of little help. I most sincerely hope that your anxieties are groundless. God grant you success in your quest.’
    â€˜Thank you. If you see Master Holbein perhaps you would be kind enough to let him know I am looking for him.’
    I stepped out into the passageway as Meyer held the door for me. Then, turning, I said, ‘One more question if I may. I understand Master Holbein has a particular German friend called Johannes Fonant ... or something like that. Am I right?’
    Meyer’s rubicund face creased in a frown. ‘Fonant? No, it is not a German name.’
    I thanked him again and stepped across to where my horse was tethered. I mounted my bay mare and turned her head towards the gate. I was just passing under the arch into Thames Street when I heard my name called. Meyer came bustling up to me.
    â€˜Could the man you mention possibly be Johannes von Antwerp? He is not German but he is often here. And he is a friend of Herr Holbein. You may know him.’
    Johannes von Antwerp. John of Antwerp as he was known to members of the Goldsmiths’ Company. Did I know him? Oh, yes and heartily wished I did not. As I threaded my way along the busy street I pictured the burly Flemish scoundrel. If he was, indeed, the friend whose nameAdie had imperfectly remembered, I could expect little help from him.
    I was reflecting gloomily on my wasted morning as I turned into the yard of my house in Goldsmith’s Row. The first thing that I lighted upon was my missing horse.

Chapter 3
    Golding stood contentedly in a corner of the yard having his mane brushed by Walt. I dropped from my saddle and hurried across.
    â€˜When did he come back?’ I demanded. ‘Is Bart here?’
    The groom shook his head. ‘Lizzie brought the horse, Master. She’s inside.’
    Bart’s wife was in the kitchen, talking with Jane, my cook, who was