"The man who painted Henry VIII portrait has disappeared and an innocent man has been arrested."
Reviewed by Shellie Surles
Posted December 7, 2015
Historical | Fiction
Hans Holbein the famed artist has disappeared and an
man has been arrested for it. Thomas Treviot feels he must
help his friend and find Holbein. Holbein has a design he
was supposed to
deliver, and Trevoit has a deadline. As Trevoit's search
begins he is
drawn deeper and deeper into the political and religious
turmoil of the times. His search for the truth could cost
much more than a missed deadline.
THE TRAITOR'S MARK is historical fiction based on the true
disappearance of Hans Holbein. It's a trip back to the
days when a comment to the wrong person could get a person
or worse, killed. A man or woman never wanted to fall out
of the King's
grace, and Treviot has tried his hardest to stay out of the
It is always fascinating to read history from the first
person point of view and
written by an author who can help you travel back to that
and make make you feel the history. D.K. Wilson does a good
job of taking you to the time of the Tudors, and you will
enjoy reading THE
Based on the true story of the unsolved disappearance
Hans Holbein—famed portrait-painter of Henry VIII—this
atmospheric historical novel plunges into an underworld
Tudor politics and intrigue.
The Real Crime: Hans Holbein, King Henry VIII's
painter, died in the autumn of 1543. A century later a
chronicler reported that the artist had succumbed to
yet there is no contemporary evidence to support this.
Suspicions have been raised over the centuries, but the
mystery of what actually happened remains unsolved to
Our Story: Young London goldsmith Thomas Treviot
a design for a very important jewelry commission from
Holbein. When the design fails to turn up, Thomas sends a
servant to track Holbein down, only to discover that the
painter has disappeared. In his hunt for Holbein and the
lost design, Thomas is led into a morass of dangerous
political intrigue, Spanish spies and courtiers that is
treacherous than he could ever have anticipated . . .
ExcerptHe sent one of his colleagues in search of water and,
when a bucket arrived, he gently washed down the skin
around the hole in my body. ‘What we have to do,’ he
said, ‘is close this up as much as we can, then bind it
as tight as you can bear.’
‘You seem very expert.’
I’ve watched many field surgeons at work.’
‘Is it very bad? Am I likely to …’
‘Die? That you’ll have to ask a priest.’
Strong fingers pinched the edge of the wound. Fresh
padding was applied.
‘Hold that while I bind it,’ my ‘doctor’ ordered. He
wound long strips of cloth round my stomach so firmly
that I could take only shallow breaths.
‘I suppose Black Harry and his companions will get clean
away,’ I muttered disconsolately.
‘I don’t fancy their chances in the dark – not in all
this mud and marsh.’ He helped me into a clean shirt.
‘Pray God you’re right,’ I said. ‘If that murderous hell-
hound slips through our fingers after all we’ve been
through … Our men must be feeling very dejected.’
‘I’ve seen troops with better morale. No one likes losing
friends in battle but when you can’t see the point of the
battle … When you’re just obeying orders because they’re
‘I’m afraid I’ve led you all into a real mess and we’ve
nothing to show for it.’
‘No one blames you, Master Treviot. Most of us know you
were caught up in this against your will. Please God,
you’ll live to laugh at this fiasco. Right, that’s
patched you up. Keep as still as you can. Don’t waste
whatever strength you’ve got. You’ll need it when we get
ashore – if we get ashore.’ With those comforting words
The next few hours seemed like days. I had nothing to do
but try to keep my mind off the pain. I thought back over
the events of the last two months. Should I have done
anything different? Every single event had been like a
link in a chain pulling me inevitably towards the
situation in which I found myself now. Could I have
broken any of those links or was I the victim of
inexorable fate. Strange that a respected London merchant
should end his days on a foreign ship wallowing through
turgid waters of the east coast of England. I thought of
my prim brothers of the Worshipful Goldsmiths’ Company.
My unconventional passing would make a fine topic of
conversation in our hall on Foster Lane. I imagined the
solemn, nodding heads and the wiseacres who would claim
they had always known young Treviot would come to a bad
end. I laughed. That was a mistake. I yelped loudly as
arrows of pain pierced my torso.
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