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in Antwerp and spent months there every year. That, of course, was his privilege. But a few years ago he had sought to be made a freeman of the Goldsmiths’ Company. That led to fierce arguments among the members. It split us into rival factions. But John of Antwerp had friends. Rich friends. Powerful friends. He secured his election. Well, he might have won the right to sit at our board, to worship in our chapel (despite his Lutheran opinions), to vote at our assemblies, but few of us could accept him as one of us. His presence in our midst remained an irritant.
    A notice was pinned to the door of the largest of the three houses. It informed callers that Master Jan van der Goes (he did not even accept the Englishing of his name) had closed his workshop until the plague abated but that prospective clients could find him most mornings between ten and noon at the sign of the Red Hand in Fleet Street. I turned Golding’s head and a few minutes later tethered him outside the prestigious inn frequented by barristers of the inns of court, visitors with business at WhitehallPalace and gentlemen attendant on the great men whose nearby fine houses on The Strand overlooked the river.
    There were not many people in the fashionable inn. August and September were always quiet in this locality. The royal household was on progress and the law courts were not in session until Michaelmas. Students and teachers at the law schools usually took the opportunity to go into the country between terms. Even so, it was unusual to see most of the tables in the Red Hand’s large hall empty. However, even had the room been all a-bustle and crowded with customers, it would have been easy to locate John of Antwerp. His booming voice could always be heard at a distance and he was seldom to be seen without a throng of sycophantic admirers. Today his attendants had been reduced to three in number. They sat at a table by an open casement, taking advantage of the slight breeze that whiffled through the room.
    â€˜Brother Treviot,’ the Fleming bellowed as I approached. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure. Simon, fetch a flagon for our distinguished guest.’ This instruction was given to an apprentice who immediately rose and hurried about his errand. John was a heavily built man in his fifties who affected the manners and dress of someone twenty years his junior. Today he sported a yellow doublet and a shirt open at the neck. His cap was pushed back on his bush of brown hair and his thick beard completely encircled his ruddy features. He waved me to a seat on the bench opposite and introduced his companions. They were Reynold,a slim young man in royal livery, and Sir Tobias Harriday, a priest from Worcester.
    â€˜Reynold is a messenger come hot-paced from court,’ John explained. ‘And Sir Tobias is here to order a new set of altar plate.’
    â€˜For our Prince Arthur chantry chapel,’ the fresh-featured cleric added.
    â€˜Chantry chapel, Brother John?’ I said, unable to resist the taunt, ‘I thought you did not approve of prayers for the dead and what you call “popish superstition”.’
    The Fleming was unfazed. ‘His majesty wishes to honour his late brother’s memory with a magnificent gift of gold plate for the tomb chapel. I’m honoured to help this pious and charitable act. But tell me, Brother, what brings you to the Red Hand? I thought you had left the City.’
    â€˜I’m only here briefly. I have to collect some designs from Master Holbein.’
    â€˜Will that be for the Cotes Cup?’
    I nodded and just managed a smile. The foreigner seemed damnably well informed about my affairs.
    â€˜Johannes told me he was working on it,’ he explained.
    â€˜Do you happen to know his whereabouts at the moment?’ I asked. ‘He seems to be from home.’
    Simon returned and set a full tankard before me. I raised it to my lips, watching John over the brim.
    He