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summons.’
    â€˜Grave matters. Grave matters.’ He shook his head. He took his seat behind the desk and for some moments seemed distracted by solemn thoughts.
    His brow was care-lined, his eyes searching and cautious. Then, with a sudden change of mood, he smiled. ‘You have come from Ightham, have you not? Who’s the vicar there? Ah, yes, Stimson, isn’t it. The man’s an idiot. Now, let me see, have you eaten?’
    â€˜Not since breakfast, Your Grace.’
    â€˜Then we must attend to that first.’ He rang a handbell. The obsequious little cleric entered immediately. ‘Take Master Treviot to the hall and see him properly fed,’ Cranmer ordered. To me he said, ‘One should never discuss matters of state on an empty stomach.’
    When I returned to the archbishop’s study an hour or so later, replete with venison, carp, marchpane cake and muscadel, I was no less confused or anxious than when I first arrived. Apparently I was not to be accused of some unwitting offence and detained at his grace’s pleasure but his talk of grave affairs of state was unnerving. By now the candles had been lit and a good fire blazed on the hearth. The archbishop sat to one side of the chimney in a high-backed chair and bade me be seated opposite. Between us was a low table on which were letters and other documents.
    Cranmer gazed at the burning logs. ‘Would you go to the fire for your faith, Master Treviot?’
    I knew not how to answer such an unexpected question and eventually made some sort of protest about believing what the Church said and not being guilty of any heresy for which I needed to fear being sent to the stake.
    He looked up with a smile that somehow was not a smile. ‘There are men who would like to bum the Archbishop of Canterbury.’
    â€˜Merely a few unrepentant papist traitors who would have the king bow his neck again under the pope’s authority,’ I suggested.
    Cranmer shook his head. ‘Not few and, by no means, only those who owe secret allegiance to the Bishop of Rome.’
    There was a long silence before the archbishop spoke again. He seemed uncertain about how to proceed, like someone outside a house looking for the entrance. At last he sat back and said, ‘You are familiar, I believe, with Master Johannes Holbein, his majesty’s painter.’
    I replied cautiously. ‘He has done design work for me – jewellery, tableware, altar furnishings – that sort of thing.’
    â€˜To be sure, he is a fine craftsman.’
    â€˜Beyond doubt,’ I agreed. ‘In my opinion there is none better.’
    There was another long silence.
    â€˜Would you go so far as to call Johannes Holbein a friend?’
    My reply was carefully considered. ‘I think I would, Your Grace.’
    â€˜Then you will know that he is in some danger,’ Cranmer said, watching closely for my reaction.
    My hopes rose. Perhaps from this unexpected source I might be able to learn who the painter’s enemies were or gain some other information that would help Bart. ‘I thought as much,’ I said. ‘I haven’t been able to make contact with him recently and, a few days ago—’
    â€˜You are about to tell me about the unpleasant incident at Holbein’s house.’
    â€˜Do you know who was responsible for it, Your Grace? Is that why you have summoned me here? I shall be most grateful for any information—’
    He held up a hand to interrupt me. ‘What I am about to tell you must not go beyond these walls. Will you swear to keep silence?’
    I nodded. Cranmer went to his desk and returned with a large, heavily bound book. It was easily recognisable as the English Bible, the one commonly known as ‘Cromwell’s Bible’. He set it on the table between us. ‘Place your hand on it and make your solemn oath.’
    It was with a feeling of rising apprehension that I did as the