by C. J. Sansom
As I dismounted and tied Genesis to the rail outside his house, I reflected that, apart from Guy, all my friends and contacts now were either reformers or people who preferred to keep out of the religious struggles. But I knew there were plenty in London, and many more in the countryside, who would welcome a return to the Catholic church.
Francis Sybrant, the plump, grey-haired man of sixty who served as Guy’s general assistant these days, answered my knock. I liked Francis; he had worked for a neighbouring apothecary and when the man’s business failed last year had come to work for Guy. He was grateful to have found a new berth at his age. A cheerful fellow, he was a good counter to Guy’s habitual melancholy.
‘Master Shardlake.’ He bowed.
‘God give you good evening, Francis. Is Master Guy at home?’
‘In his study. Working with his books as usual of an evening.’ He led me down the narrow hall, knocking gently on the door of Guy’s study. Guy was sitting at his desk, reading his copy of Vesalius, with its gruesome anatomical diagrams, using the light of a candle to compare what was on the page with a human thigh bone he held up. He put it down carefully and stood. ‘Matthew. This is a surprise.’
‘I hope I am not interrupting you.’
‘No. My eyes are getting tired.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Francis says I should get spectacles, but I cannot face the thought somehow.’
‘I am sorry I had to leave you so suddenly on Friday. After we – ’ I hesitated – ‘disagreed.’
He smiled sadly. ‘That argument resounds all over England, does it not?’
‘I was not myself that day.’
‘I understand. You still look tired. A glass of hippocras?’
‘That would be welcome. I have been working hard.’
Guy called to Francis, who fetched two mugs of warm spiced wine. I sat looking into mine then said, ‘My old foe Stephen Bealknap is dead. A growth in his guts.’
Guy crossed himself. ‘God pardon him.’
I smiled sadly. ‘He did not want God’s pardon. I was with him near the end, he said he had no faith. He has left all his money to build a great memorial to himself in Lincoln’s Inn chapel.’
‘Had he no family?’
‘Nor friends. Nor God.’
‘That is sad.’
‘Yes.’ I looked into my wine again, then pulled myself together. ‘Guy, there is a piece of information I seek. About a foreign name. I have only my Latin and poor French, and with your experience of languages I hope you may be able to help me.’
‘If I can.’
‘In strict confidence.’
‘Of course.’
‘It has come up in the context of something I am working on. Reported second-hand. The name sounds foreign, and may be mispronounced, but I wondered if you could guess its origin.’
‘What is the name?’
‘Jurony Bertano. Could it be Spanish?’
He smiled. ‘No. That is an Italian name. The first name is Gurone, spelt G-U-R-O-N-E.’
‘Close enough then.’
‘One of the Italian merchant community in London, perhaps?’ ‘Possibly.’ I gave him a serious look. ‘But I cannot discuss the matter.’
‘I understand. The rules of confidentiality.’
I nodded unhappily. We were silent for a moment. Then I said, ‘You know, on the way here I was thinking how few Catholic or traditionalist friends I have now. These last years most people have withdrawn into one circle or the other, have they not? Often without even thinking about it?’
‘For safety, yes, sadly they have. I have few patients among the radicals or reformers. My practice began with people from – dare I say my side, and they refer their friends to me, and so it goes on. It is probably much the same with you.’
‘It is. Though, by the way, I have recommended you to someone else with back troubles. An embroiderer from the Queen’s court.’
He smiled. ‘A reformist sympathizer, then.’
‘I have no idea.’ I looked up at him. ‘Do you ever doubt, Guy, that your view of God is the right one?’
‘I have been prey to doubt all my life,’ he said seriously. ‘For a time, as once I told you, I doubted God’s very existence. But I believe that if faith and doubt battle together within a human soul, that soul becomes the stronger and more honest for it.’
‘Perhaps. Though I have far more doubt than faith these days.’ I hesitated. ‘You know, I have always considered that people who were unshakeable in their faith, on either side, to be the most dangerous sort of men. But just recently I wonder whether that is wrong, and rather it is those, like some of the highest at court – Wriothesley, or Rich – who shift from one side to the other to further their ambitions, who are truly the worst men.’
‘What are you involved in now, Matthew?’ Guy asked quietly.
I answered with sudden passion, ‘Something I must protect my friends from knowing about.’
He sat silent for a moment before saying, ‘If I can help, at any time – ’
‘You are a true friend.’ Yet one whose conscience placed him on the other side of the divide from Catherine Parr, I thought. To change the subject, I said, ‘Tell me what you are trying to learn from that old bone. Something far more useful to humanity than anything lawyers or Privy Councillors do, I’ll warrant.’
NEXT MORNING, I left home early to visit chambers before going on to Whitehall Palace. Everyone – Barak, Nicholas and Skelly – was already there and working. I felt grateful to them. John Skelly had always been a hard and loyal worker, and Nicholas, given a little trust, was responding well, while Barak was relishing being in charge. As I came in he was giving Nicholas a heap of case papers to be filed on the shelves. ‘And don’t lose any conveyances this time,’ he said cheerfully.
I thanked them all for being in early. ‘Nicholas,’ I said, ‘there is a particular job I would have you do for me.’ I gave him the list the embroiderer Gullym had prepared the day before, together with the piece of silk, carefully wrapped in paper. I added some shillings from my purse, the copper already shining through the silver on the King’s nose. ‘I want you to visit the embroiderers on this list and see whether any of them can identify this work. It was likely made by one of them. Say that I have consulted with Master Gullym, who is one of the most important members of the Embroiderers’ Guild. Do not reveal what it is about. Can you do that? Use your gentlemanly charm?’
Barak gave a snort of laughter. ‘Charm? From that long lad?’
Nicholas ignored him. ‘Certainly, Master Shardlake.’
‘This morning, if you would.’
‘At once.’ Nicholas took the pile of work from his desk and dumped it back on Barak’s. ‘Afraid I’ll have to leave you with these,’ he said with a cheery smile.
THIS TIME, I CAUGHT a wherry upriver to the Whitehall Palace Common Stairs, donning my robe with the Queen’s badge as we approached. At the Common Stairs, watermen unloading goods for the palace mingled with servants and visitors. A guard checked my name as usual and directed me to the King’s Guard Chamber. I walked along a corridor adjoining the Great Kitchens. Through open doors I glimpsed cooks and scullions preparing meals for the several hundred people entitled to dine in the Great Hall and lodgings. They wore no badges of office, only cheap linen clothes, and in the July heat some worked stripped to the waist. I passed on, through the Great Hall with its magnificent hammer-beam roof, and out into the courtyard.
It was dole day, and officials from the almonry stood at the main gate handing packets of food to a crowd of beggars, who were being closely watched by the guards. The remains of each palace meal, which consisted of far more than any one man could eat, were usually distributed daily to hospitals and charitable organizations, but twice a week the ‘broken meats’ were given out at the gate, a sign of the King’s generosity.
Though most in the courtyard ignored the scene, going about their business as usual, I saw that two men were watching. I recognized both from the burni
ng four days ago. One, in silken cassock and brown fur stole, was Bishop Stephen Gardiner. Close to, his dour countenance was truly formidable: heavy, frowning brows, bulbous nose and wide, broad-lipped mouth. Standing with him was the King’s Secretary, William Paget. As usual, he wore a brown robe and cap; the robe had a long collar of miniver, thick snow-white fur with black spots. He ran the fingers of one square hand over it softly, as though stroking a pet.
I heard Gardiner say, ‘Look at that woman, shamelessly pushing her way past the men, thrusting out her claws at the food. Did this city not have sufficient demonstration at Smithfield that women must keep their place?’
Paget said, ‘We can show them again if need be.’ They made no attempt to lower their voices, quite happy to be overheard. Gardiner continued frowning at the beggar crowd; that glowering disposition seemed to be how this man of God turned his face to the world. Paget, though, seemed only half-interested in the scene. As I passed them I heard him say, ‘Thomas Seymour is back from the wars.’
‘That man of proud conceit,’ Gardiner replied contemptuously.
Paget smiled, a thin line of white teeth in his thick beard. ‘He will get himself in trouble before he’s done.’
I walked on. I remembered the ladies talking about Thomas Seymour in the Queen’s Privy Chamber. Brother of the leading reformist councillor, Edward Seymour, now Lord Hertford, Catherine Parr would have married him after her second husband died, had not the King intervened. I knew the Queen and Seymour had been carefully kept apart since, with Seymour often sent on naval or diplomatic missions. I had had dealings with him before, not pleasant ones. Paget was right, he was a foolish and dangerous man, a drag on his ambitious brother. I wondered what the Queen would be feeling about his return.
Again I passed into the King’s Guard Chamber, up the stairs, and through to the Presence Chamber. The magnificence everywhere still astounded me whenever I paused to let it. The intricacy, colour and variety of the decoration struck me afresh; the eye would rest for a moment on some design on a pillar, drawn to the intricate detail of the vine leaves painted on it, only to be at once distracted by a tapestry of a classical scene hung on a nearby wall, a riot of colour. My gaze was drawn again to the portrait of the King and his family; there was Mary, and behind her Jane Fool. I passed through, attracting no notice; a hunchback lawyer from the Queen’s Learned Council, come no doubt to discuss a matter connected with her lands.
The guard checked me through into the Queen’s Privy Chamber. Again a group of ladies sat sewing in the window. Once more Edward Seymour’s wife, Lady Hertford, gave me a haughty look. The Duchess of Suffolk’s spaniel saw me and gave a little bark. The Duchess scolded it. ‘Quiet, foolish Gardiner! ’Tis only the strange-looking lawyer come again.’
The inner door opened, and Lord Parr beckoned me in.
LORD PARR WENT to stand beside the Queen. She sat in her chair cushioned with crimson velvet, under her cloth of estate. Today she wore a dress in royal purple, with a low-cut bodice, the forepart decorated with hundreds of tiny Tudor roses. She was laughing at the antics of the third person in the room: dressed all in white, Jane Fool was executing a clumsy dance in front of her, waving a white wand. I exchanged a quick glance with Lord Parr. Jane ignored us, continuing with her steps, kicking up her legs. It amazed me that intelligent adults, let alone the highest in the land, could laugh at such a scene, but then it struck me that amid the formality of the court, with the endless careful watching of words and gestures, the antics of a fool could provide a welcome relief.
The Queen glanced at us and nodded to Jane. ‘Enough for now, my dear. I have business with my uncle and this gentleman.’
‘This gentleman,’ Jane mimicked, giving me an exaggerated bow. ‘This hunchback gentleman frightened me, he would have had Ducky taken away.’
I said nothing; I knew licence to insult and mock was part of a fool’s role. Nonetheless the Queen frowned. ‘That is enough, Jane.’
‘May I not finish my dance?’ The little woman pouted. ‘One minute more, I beg your majesty.’
‘Very well, but just a minute,’ the Queen replied impatiently. Jane Fool continued the dance and then, with a skilled athleticism I would not have expected, bent over and performed a handstand, her dress falling down to reveal a linen undergarment and fat little legs. I frowned. Surely this was going too far.
I became conscious that someone else had entered the room through an inner door. I turned and found myself looking at the magnificently dressed figure of the Lady Elizabeth, the King’s second daughter. Lord Parr bowed deeply to her and I followed suit. I had met Elizabeth the year before, in the company of the Queen, to whom she was close. She had grown since then; almost thirteen, she was tall and the outline of budding breasts could be seen under the bodice of her dress. It was a splendid concoction; crimson, decorated with flowers, the forepart and under-sleeves gold and white. A jewelled French hood was set on her light auburn hair.
Elizabeth’s long, clever face had matured, too; despite her pale colouring I saw in her features a resemblance to her disgraced, long-dead mother, Anne Boleyn. She had acquired, too, an adult’s poise, no longer displaying the gawkishness of a girl. She stood looking at Jane’s antics with haughty disapproval.
The Queen seemed surprised to see her. ‘My dear. I thought you were still with Master Scrots.’
Elizabeth turned to her stepmother. ‘I have been standing still for hours on end,’ she answered petulantly. ‘I insisted upon a rest. Will the painting of this picture never end? Kat Ashley that is attending me fell asleep!’
‘It is important you have your own portrait, child,’ the Queen said gently. ‘It helps establish your position, as we have discussed.’
Jane Fool sat down on the floor, pouting, clearly annoyed at the Lady Elizabeth for taking the attention of her audience. Elizabeth glanced at her, then turned to the Queen. ‘Can you ask Jane Fool to go? She is unseemly, waving her great bottom in the air like that.’
Jane, quick as a flash, appealed to the Queen in a tone of injured innocence. ‘Your majesty, will you let the Lady speak to me so, I that seek only to entertain you?’
Elizabeth’s face darkened. ‘God’s death,’ she snapped in sudden temper, ‘you do not entertain me! Get out!’
‘Leave now, Jane.’ The Queen spoke hastily. Jane looked alarmed for a moment, then picked up her wand and left without another word.
The anger left the Lady Elizabeth’s face, and she smiled at Lord Parr. ‘My good Lord, it is a pleasure to see you.’ She looked at me. I bowed deeply. When I rose, her dark eyes were puzzled for a moment but then her face cleared. ‘This gentleman, too, I know. Yes, Master Shardlake, you and I once had an agreeable discussion about the law. I thought long on it.’
‘I am greatly pleased it interested you, my Lady, though I am surprised you remember.’
‘God has blessed me with a good memory.’ Elizabeth smiled complacently. If she was half a woman in body now, she was more than half in mind and demeanour. Yet her remarkably long fingers fiddled nervously with the rope of pearls at her waist.
She said, ‘You told me that lawyers acting even for wicked clients have a duty to find what justice there is in their case and bring it to court.’
‘I did.’
‘And that it is a virtuous undertaking.’
‘Yes, my Lady.’ I thought suddenly of the Slanning case. The inspection of the wall painting was due to take place tomorrow. Was fighting that case virtuous?
‘But it seems to me,’ Lady Elizabeth continued, ‘for that to be so, there must be at least some virtue in the case.’
‘Yes, my Lady, you are right.’ And in the Slanning case, I realized there was no virtue on either side, only hatred. Young though she was, Elizabeth had nailed a central point.
‘Elizabeth,’ the Queen said gently, ‘will you not go back to Master Scrots? You know the portrait is almost done. And there is business I must conduct here. Come back in an hour, perhaps.’
We bowed again as she left by the inner door. The Queen closed her eyes for a second. ‘I am sorry for that scene. It appears I cannot even control the people in my own privy quarters.’ I noticed the strain and tension writ large on her face.
Lord Parr addressed her. ‘I told you what Master Shardlake said about Jane Fool. About her having been in your chambers that night, about her closeness to the Lady Mary.’
The Queen shook her head firmly. ‘No. Jane Fool knew nothing of my book, and would not have had the wit to steal it.’
‘Perhaps the Lady Mary would.’
‘Never. Mary is my friend.’ She frowned sadly, then said, ‘Or at least not my enemy. The trouble over her mother, Catherine of Aragon, is long over.’
‘Well, we may have some answers soon.’ Lord Parr smiled at me, rubbing his thin hands together. ‘The Captain of the Guard spoke to the man who was on duty guarding the Queen’s lodgings on the night the book was stolen. And mark this, it was not Zachary Gawger, whose odd behaviour Mary Odell reported. It was another man entirely, called Michael Leeman. It seems there was a substitution. The captain has had Gawger placed in custody, though on my instructions has asked no questions of him yet. And Leeman was to be taken when he came on duty this morning. That was at six; he will have him under guard now. I ordered both to be held for you to question, Master Shardlake.’ He smiled triumphantly at the Queen. ‘I think we are about to find the answer.’
