The Cardinal's Court

by Cora Harrison

  He frowned slightly. ‘It depends on the credibility of the person who presented the confession. Who would witness this confession?’

  ‘Who would Your Grace consider to be an excellent and impartial witness?’

  ‘A lawyer, of course,’ he said decisively. ‘And, of course, a judge would be even better, would he not? I presume that the signature at the end of the confession could be verified?’

  Despite the seriousness of the matter, I smiled. ‘Your Grace, in your drive for efficiency and accountability, has ensured that we are all signing pieces of paper all day long. Yes, this signature can be verified.’

  And then there was a sharp rap on the door. The cardinal went across, turned the key noiselessly in its well-oiled lock, returned to his desk and took his seat behind it, tucking his long white hands into the flowing sleeves of his scarlet cloak. I returned to my position opposite to him, feeling as I often felt in the presence of the cardinal, as though I were taking part in some pageant.

  ‘Come in,’ called the cardinal. He dipped pen into inkpot and held it while the jet-black ink fell drop by drop back down again.

  ‘Yes, George,’ he said tranquilly. And then, ‘What, no food for my guest!’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Your Grace, and yours, Hugh. I felt that you might want to know immediately what has happened. I was told about it when I was on my way to the kitchen. It’s very bad news, I’m afraid, Hugh.’

  ‘What?’ Had James been taken, been placed in prison? I stared at him, numb with terror. All the terrible events that would follow this arrest flashed through my mind.

  ‘It’s your servant, Hugh,’ said George. ‘I’m very, very sorry to have to tell you this. He’s been found. His body was in the water, by the edge of the pier. The boatmen were clearing the ice away with long poles and one of them prodded something. They’ve taken him out now.’

  I got to my feet without a word, pushing past George and running down the stairs and was out of the door well ahead of him.

  I had seen many dead bodies during the years when I had worked as a lawyer, first for my father and then on my account. And during my life time there had numerous battles and skirmishes. Ireland was never at peace and cousin fought cousin in bloody battles. And yet, somehow, this sight of the body of my poor Colm was almost unbearable. Barely sixteen years old. I remembered how he had sung on the ride down to Wexford, how excited he had been on his first sea voyage, how awestruck by the magnificence of Hampton Court, ten times the size of Kilkenny Castle, how cheerful a companion. I thought of the pride he had in speaking English and tears stung my eyes.

  And then I blinked them away. The body was naked. His clothing had been stripped from him. There were marks on the body, dark stripes across the torso and the legs. A livid streak across the face, deep marks on his wrists. Colm had been tortured. He had been hung by the wrists, interrogated, no doubt, not believed when he said he knew nothing. For a moment, I almost wished that he had known something. James could have defended himself better. Poor Colm was always so deferential to the gentlemen, so impressed by their fine clothes, by their authoritative manners. My anger surged.

  I turned to one of the yeomen standing looking down at the body. ‘Go to the lodgings of Master James Butler in the Clock Court,’ I ordered. ‘See whether his servant is there. Send him to me. If he is not there, bring me word immediately.’

  Sir George St Leger had joined the crowd now. Very pale, he looked, this morning. I tried to keep an eye on him unobtrusively. He had two servants with him. I had seen them on the barge from Westminster. Big, strong-looking fellows, speaking Cornish in low tones to each other. I remembered thinking idly that the cardinal, who was always on the lookout for fine yeoman, might offer a sum to Sir George to secure these Cornishmen for his palatial residence.

  They had not looked at poor Colm. And that was strange. Every eye of those gathered around, men from the wood yard, clerks from the green court, bakers, even kitchen boys sent out to get fresh air and exercise by a vigorous sweeping of the narrow passageways, all of those eyes went immediately to naked body and only withdrew when the sight became unbearable. But not the two Cornishmen. Each of these men had their attention fixed on their master: Sir George. And so had I.

  But why not me? If anyone knew the truth of James’s whereabouts I did. Why just lock me into the tennis balls’ chest and leave me there while they tried to flog from poor Colm a knowledge that he did not have? I clenched my teeth. Why had they not interrogated me, but I knew the answer to that. I was a favourite of the cardinal’s, a man who had conversed with the queen. And I was a tough man, powerfully built, as good with my fists as with a sword. They might have been able to kill me, but they were unlikely to get me to betray James.

  Poor Colm was gentle, peaceful, easily impressed. And his disappearance would have caused little disturbance. If it were not for the accident of the overnight frost, his body would have been swept away on the tide and it might have been assumed that he had gone back to Ireland, or perhaps gone to join James, or just run away as servants often did. Even I would not have been sure.

  ‘Does the cardinal know about this?’ I asked the question, not to George who would have been flustered and unsure but of the serjeant himself.

  ‘I’ll make a report of His Grace as soon as I get the facts. I’ve sent for Dr Augustine.’

  ‘To certify that the man is dead, I suppose,’ I said curtly. ‘I don’t suppose that he will be of much more use than that, and I can save you that trouble. He’s dead. He’s been hung by the wrists, tortured and then a knife was stuck in him so that he could not identify the man who tried to get the information from him.’

  I saw his eyes look away from me and go in the direction of Sir George.

  ‘Did you see anyone in the yard when you came out of the tennis play yesterday?’ I asked abruptly.

  ‘Just Tom Seymour and Francis Bigod collecting snow.’ He did not enquire why I had asked and he left me abruptly, going towards the distant figure of Dr Augustine.

  And then the men I had sent on the errand were back, bringing Padraig with them. I saw them come through under the arch of the gatehouse and I went hastily to meet him. He was older than Colm, older and wiser. I didn’t see him allowing some strange men into the lodgings in the absence of his master. And, of course, if my suspicions of Sir George were correct, then the existence of Padraig, still faithfully waiting for his master might not have been known.

  ‘Give me half an hour with the fellas that did that,’ he said.

  And then when I looked at him hopelessly, he nodded. ‘There’ll be no justice for him, I suppose. Well, I’ll move in with you; should have done that before. Perhaps the poor lad would still be alive if I had done that,’ he added.

  I made up my mind. Everything was beginning to come clear to me. I would get Padraig out of the way.

  ‘We’re going to bring poor Colm back to Ireland. His mother would want him to be buried in Ireland in the grave with his father before him.’ I said the words loudly and clearly. Sir George St Leger was approaching me, no doubt with condolences about the death of my servant. ‘We’ll bring him back to Ireland, the pair of us, Padraig,’ I said even more loudly, just in case Sir George had not heard my first remark. I turned around and beckoned to the king’s serjeant. He took a leisurely few minutes to make his way over.

  ‘When the doctor has examined the body then I want it put into a good box, placed on a cart and tomorrow Padraig and I will take it back to Ireland. I’ll have a word with the cardinal. He won’t mind me borrowing a cart and some men to get to Bristol. They can return once we reach the boat.’

  He looked at me through narrowed eyes. ‘But what about the investigation into the murder?’

  ‘Which murder?’ I asked the question with an air of innocence and he looked annoyed.

  ‘I have only one in hand at the moment.’ He gesticulated towards the boathouse. One of the posters with James’s name and description had been hammered to the d
oor with four nails. I pretended not to see and kept my eyes fixed on the body of my poor Colm.

  ‘Well, I’m sure you will solve it without this body once Dr Augustine has given you the benefit of his excellent advice. You don’t need me here. I must take my servant’s remains back to Ireland. It’s a sacred matter with us,’ I said solemnly.

  ‘And so you are leaving us?’ There was a hint of relief in his eyes.

  ‘Yes. I must make my farewells. Come, Padraig, we’ll go to the carpenter’s yard together. Master Cavendish,’ I called, ‘will you come with us?’ Just as well to get his authority to commission the carpenter and, of course, one could always count on George to spread the news through the whole of Hampton Court.

  ‘I would like to see the poor lad safely under his native soil,’ I explained as we walked across towards the carpenter’s yard with the bitter wind blowing in our faces. I pulled my hood up over my head. It would be a hard ride to Bristol, but that wind was coming from the east now and a journey to the west would not be too difficult if the cart set off first thing in the morning. I looked quickly at George. His face was an easy one to read and it wore a puzzled expression.

  ‘I’ve decided that I should get James’s father, Piers Rua, over to London,’ I confided in a low voice, placing my mouth quite close to his ear. ‘The earl, well, he is always known as ‘the earl’ over in our part of the world, the earl is a very forceful man. He knows the king distrusts Kildare and Desmond, so there’s just him and his people to fall back on him. I think his arguments might be more forceful than mine, what do you think, George? But, of course, don’t tell anyone about that, will you?’

  The air of puzzlement vanished from George’s face. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘You’re quite right, Hugh. That will be the best thing to do. His Grace will be so pleased. No, I won’t tell anyone, just say that you are determined to bring the body of your servant back to his family. I won’t say anything about the other matter.’ George knew very little about political affairs but he was eager to learn, and so I fed him a lot of facts about the dangerous political situation in Ireland, bewildering him with a multiplicity of unpronounceable Gaelic names. And he was helpful and authoritative in the carpenter’s yard, deciding immediately that the coffin should be made from elm, picking out a large trunk already hollowed to serve as a water conduit and getting a promise from the clerk of the carpenters’ yard that the work would be started instantly and finished before nightfall.

  ‘It won’t be a perfect job by any means.’ The chief carpenter had a worried look about him.

  ‘A few rough edges and splinters won’t hurt,’ I said reassuringly. ‘Just make the lid thick. We have a four-day journey ahead of us.’

  ‘Master Carpenter will do his very best for you,’ said George and the man looked pleased.

  ‘Just a plain coffin.’

  ‘That’s right. Nothing fancy,’ I said. ‘No hinges, no brass plates, nothing. When it’s made, send a lad for me.’

  ‘We’ll load it onto a cart and then it will be ready for the body.’

  ‘Good,’ I said, resolving to get the body onto that cart as soon as possible. It would be important that the little procession would move off early in the morning before many people were astir.

  ‘Thank you, George,’ I said as we walked away. ‘You’re a great man to manage people. Now perhaps you might go and tell the cardinal all about it. I’ll stay here. I don’t think that I should desert the poor man at this stage.’ I sent him off, beaming happily, to spread the news that I was leaving Hampton Court and to hint at secret reasons for my decision. I waited until he vanished and then went across to the group around the body beside the ferry pier. The king’s serjeant had taken himself off and so had most of the other bystanders, including Sir George. Tom Seymour and Francis Bigod were hanging around near to the boathouse and I walked across to meet them.

  ‘I’ve never thanked you properly for rescuing me, Tom,’ I remarked. I placed a coin in his hand and looked at him speculatively. ‘What made you come in this morning? You were by yourself, you weren’t going to play tennis, were you?’

  ‘Just wanted a ball,’ said Tom in his insouciant manner. ‘Edward gave me the idea. I thought it would give someone a bit of surprise if they were hit by a snowball and there was one of those hard tennis balls inside it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ I said. ‘I’ve heard of a tennis ball killing someone. You’re already in the serjeant’s bad books. You don’t want to be accused of murder, do you?’ Boys of his age could be hanged under English law, I knew, and the thought of a hanging made an icy shudder run down my back. I hoped that I could convince the cardinal. I was taking a huge responsibility on my shoulders. Nevertheless, it had to be done. If only I could have convinced James, I would have mounted my horse and disappeared back to Ireland. But I knew that James had made his decision. ‘Stick to snow,’ I advised Tom. ‘I don’t want to see your head roll, or your ankles dance on the end of a rope. Now, you two better be off and get yourself ready for dinner.’ Francis was glad to go. It had probably been Tom’s idea to watch what might be happening to the dead body, now lying on a large loading slab with the elderly doctor bending over it.

  There was a question that I needed to put to Dr Augustine. I wished that poor Ramirez were still here. Still, it was not a very difficult question. I probably knew the answer to it already. I stood silently behind him for a moment as he gazed down at the body, with its gaping knife-hole. He did not do any of the things that Dr Ramirez did, but said in a self-important fashion, ‘Yes, death would have been instant after that knife wound.’

  ‘Could it be self-inflicted?’ The serjeant cast an uneasy look at me.

  ‘Possibly.’ The doctor didn’t sound too interested.

  ‘And so he killed himself and then walked over to the river and threw himself in,’ I said in a sarcastic manner. ‘You know very well that he was murdered. I would say that you know why.’ And probably know who, I added silently, but aloud said: ‘Why has the body not stiffened, could you tell me that, doctor?’

  Dr Augustine drew himself up and looked pleased. ‘Ah, well that is one of the secrets of our trade,’ he said pompously, ‘but perhaps I can enlighten you. For some reason, intense cold stops decay, just as when we put food in cold storage. The river water froze last night. Once the body is taken into the warmth then rigor mortis will set in.’

  ‘And the opposite,’ I asked carelessly.

  This puzzled him for a moment, but then he understood.

  ‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘A body left in intense heat will stiffen fast.’

  I turned to Padraig. ‘You’ll stay around, won’t you? They won’t take long in the carpenter’s yard. See that the coffin is nailed down and left on the cart. And then pack your belongings and mine. We’ll both be off first thing in the morning. But I have to see the cardinal, now.’

  16

  The first trumpet giving everyone half an hour to get ready for supper was blown at the time that I left Susannah. I decided I had to visit the cardinal, but would leave it until just before the meal. The cardinal, who suffered from a bad stomach, would rush through last-minute urgent correspondence before appearing exquisitely groomed and dressed to sit in calm and solemn meditation for ten minutes before the meal, as his physician had advised. In the meantime, I had things to do. I sorted out my belongings, put some useful things in a bag, and then went through the money that I had got from Sir Richard Gresham, dividing it up into neat piles. This would be the sixth time for this journey from Wexford to Bristol and I had a fair idea of how much the journey would cost for two men. And then, of course, there was the cost of transporting the coffin. Extra had to be allowed for that. No need now for elaborate preparations of hardened bread, no need to sneak out surreptitiously. The kitchen, would, as always provide provisions and use could be made of wayside inns. Padraig had made the journey even more times than I, and he would know every inn on the route. And
as I dressed in my best and beautifully embroidered shirt and doublet, and covered it with a sleeveless jerkin in glossy black marten fur, I was turning over in my mind what to say to the cardinal. One matter, at least, I could try to put in train on this very night. I owed it to poor Colm, my faithful servant, now lying cold and dead on a cart.

  But first of all I went through, once again, my instructions to Padraig. I did not want to burden him with any knowledge that could endanger him but it was essential that he understood the importance of carrying out all of my instructions with absolute accuracy.

  ‘And for tonight, once I leave for supper, bar the door behind me, and the window. Open for no one and under no pretence, until you hear my voice,’ I warned him. ‘If necessary move that table in front of the door also, and keep your knife handy. Make a lot of noise, too. Hampton Court is a law-abiding household. The cardinal would not countenance any violence. So if you are attacked, shout for help, immediately. There are enough carpenters and woodcutters only a hundred yards away. Shout the place down!’

  I left him with that advice. I wasn’t unduly worried, though; he was a careful, experienced man.

  I tapped on the cardinal’s door five minutes before the second gong sounded and entered without waiting for a summons. He was completely ready, and the pile of letters that his secretary was placing in a bag had all been signed and sealed.

  ‘Ah, Hugh,’ he said with a nod. ‘I thought that I might be seeing you.’ He had a quick glance at the clock.

  ‘Brian,’ he said. ‘Would you please tell George Cavendish to place Hugh beside me and Her Grace at table, tonight: we may not have time to finish our conversation, is that right, Hugh?’

  ‘I’ll be brief,’ I said, the anger still bubbling within me, but waiting until the door closed behind Brian before saying, ‘Your Grace, my servant has been tortured and murdered, and I want the man responsible for it to be publicly named and restitution to be given.’