It was not difficult to find a chamber to lodge Adie and the two young boys in her charge, especially as the household numbers had been reduced by the evacuation of several servants to Hemmings, my estate in Kent. I told the girl that she was welcome to stay as long as necessary and suggested that she would be wise to remain beneath my roof until we had located Holbein.
Finding the artist was now urgent – for Bart’s sake and in the interests of my own business. During my absence that afternoon a message had been delivered, sealed with the impressive arms of the City. It was brief and to the point.
Master Treviot, this to advise you that I still await the initial designs for a parcel-gilt cup and cover which you undertook to supply in March of this year. As I explained, this is an exceedingly important commission. I intend to present the cup to his majesty to mark my tenure of office. You are aware that my successor will be appointed at Michaelmas and that, by then, the work must be in hand. If I have not the designs for my consideration within the next seven days I shall place the order elsewhere and think not to do further business with Treviots.
John Cotes,
Lord Mayor
Building a reputation is a long and arduous process. Losing it may be achieved in the space of a few days or even hours. Thanks to the industry and skill of my forebears, the Treviots have prospered. We make fine jewellery and table-ware for an exclusive clientele. We buy precious items from customers in need of ready cash. We smelt gold and silver and either refashion it or sell it to the royal treasurer for minting into coin. An increasing part of our business in recent years has been lending against security to trusted clients. My father had a saying, ‘Kings come and go but gold is always sovereign’. It was he who acquired the prestigious property at the sign of the Swan in Goldsmith’s Row, West Cheapside, which accommodated both the workshop and spacious living accommodation. I took over the business – unprepared and unwilling – at the age of twenty-three. Unwilling, not because I disliked my trade, but because I only acquired it by my father’s death. Then within months I lost my wife in childbirth. These calamities drove me to the pit. How I drew back and regained my wits is a long story. With the aid of friends and a loyal workforce I took control of myself and of Treviots. Once more the business was one of the most successful in the City. I could not, would not, risk damaging Treviots’ good name.
I sent for Adie and questioned her further.
‘We must find your master urgently,’ I said. ‘Do you know any of his friends who might have some idea where he has gone?’
She looked thoughtful. ‘There was always foreigners coming to the house.’
‘Foreigners?’
‘Yes, Sir, you know … men that spoke Master Johannes’ language … from the German House.’
‘German House? Do you mean the Steelyard?’
‘That’s right, Sir.’ Her face brightened. ‘The Steelyard, down by Cosin Lane.’
‘Thank you, Adie. That’s very helpful.’ I realised I should have thought of it myself. It was only natural that Master Johannes would have friends among his own compatriots in the German merchant community. The Steelyard was their staple, their centre of operations. There they stored their goods for import and export and had their offices. ‘Is there anyone special he knows there?’ I asked.
Again the girl’s face donned a frown of concentration. ‘There is one who comes more often … a merry little man, full of jokes. He likes to play with the children. He always brings them sweetmeats and toys.’
‘His name?’I prompted.
‘Well, ’tis the same as the master’s – Johannes.’
‘Just Johannes? ’Tis a common enough name among the Germans. You know no more about him?’
She shrugged. ‘’Tis hard to understand all they say. They speak funny, don’t they? Master did talk about him sometimes. Now what was it he called him … Johannes … Fonant … something like that? Sorry, that’s not much help, is it?’
‘Well, ’tis a start,’ I said. ‘I’ll go down to the German wharf tomorrow and see if I can find out any more. There must be several men there who know your master.’
‘Do you think anything’s happened to him, Master Treviot? I can’t stop thinking about poor George. Those men were looking for Master Johannes. If they find him …’
‘You must not think the worst, Adie. Whoever these murderous rakehells are, they haven’t found your master. We must pray they don’t.’
‘Do you think he knows about them?’ Her dark eyes searched mine, seeking reassurance. ‘Perhaps that’s why he went away – hiding. Oh, Jesus Mary, what am I to tell the boys?’
‘That their father is away on business – which is probably the truth,’ I said firmly. ‘What you must not do is think the worst. They would soon sense that something was wrong. You go on looking after them as usual and leave me to discover what I can about their father.’
*
It was mid-morning of the following day that I rode along Thames Street past the imposing walls bounding the premises of the Hanseatic League’s 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.’
‘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.
‘You are looking for Herr Holbein?’
‘Yes.’
‘May I enquire why?’
‘Certainly. I believe his life is in danger.’
‘You have good reasons for this suspicion?’
‘His assistant was murdered yesterday by men looking for his master.’
He frowned.‘You are sure of this?’
‘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.
‘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 to tether 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 been for longer than anyone could remember and here they would undoubtedly stay.