Lamentation

by C. J. Sansom

  Dyrick was staring again at the painting. Perhaps he saw the prospect of endless fees from this case trickling away like the plaster dust still falling from the ruined wall. ‘Who did this?’

  ‘Isabel, I fear.’

  ‘Christ’s wounds!’ Dyrick looked down at his client. Isabel was still hunched over, so ashamed she could not meet our eyes. ‘See her condition – ’ He pointed at me. ‘I cannot be held responsible for anything she has done! It was she who insisted on sending a copy of that complaint to the Privy Council. I tried to dissuade her!’

  ‘I know. And I may tell you, since Isabel is your client and you must keep it confidential, that Edward and Isabel conspired to murder their stepfather the best part of half a century ago. Edward has killed himself, and Isabel might have done the same had we not come in time.’ I looked again at the painting. ‘This is a tragedy, Dyrick. One made worse by the tangles of litigation, as their mother intended. My efforts with Brother Coleswyn to find a settlement only uncovered a horror,’ I added sadly.

  I stepped wearily to the door. Dyrick looked down at Isabel.

  ‘Wait!’ he said, turning. ‘You cannot leave me alone with her, in this state – ’

  ‘Vowell will help you bind her wound. Then, if you will take my honest advice, you should send for her priest. Make sure it is him, she is of the old religion and it matters to her. He may be able to help her, I do not know.’ I turned to Nicholas. He was looking at the face of Isabel’s father, still staring out from the wreckage with his benevolent, confident, patrician air. ‘Come, lad,’ I said. We walked past Dyrick, past old Vowell, out into the street.

  There, in the August sunshine, I turned to Nicholas. ‘You saved her.’

  ‘She came to this, even with a good and loving father,’ he said quietly. And I realized with a chill that his parents’ letter had brought thoughts of suicide to Nicholas as well. But he had rejected them, and that was why he had been so passionate with Isabel. ‘What will happen to her?’ he asked.

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘Perhaps it is too late for that poor woman now.’ Nicholas took a deep breath and stared at me, his green eyes hard and serious. ‘But not for me.’

  EARLY THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON I stood at the front of a great concourse outside the church of St Michael le Querne, which gave onto the open space at the west end of Cheapside. More crowds lined the length of Cheapside, along which Admiral d’Annebault would shortly progress. Mayor Bowes, whom I had last seen at Anne Askew’s burning, stood alone on a little platform. I waited in a line with the aldermen and other leading citizens of London, all wearing our gold chains. As at the burnings, a white-robed cleric stood at a makeshift lectern, but on this occasion he was to deliver an oration in French, welcoming the admiral to the city. There was a steady murmur of voices, while water tinkled in the conduit by the church.

  The admiral had come by boat from Greenwich to the Tower that morning, all his galleys following. The previous evening I had taken Nicholas with me to visit Barak and Tamasin, and had spent a quiet night playing cards. I had not told them what had happened to Isabel – it was no thing for Tamasin to hear in her condition. Then I had gone home and slept late, to be woken by the crash of guns from the Tower welcoming the admiral. Even out at Chancery Lane the noise rattled the windows. From the Tower d’Annebault would progress through the city, finishing at St Michael’s Church, accompanied by the Queen’s brother, William Parr, the other great men of the realm following.

  Martin helped dress me in my very best. I put on the gold chain which I had set him to cleaning last night. Neither of us said a word. Then I walked down to the church. As I left I saw Timothy peering through the half-open door of the stable, looking disconsolate. I knew I must speak to him about Martin’s betrayal; but for now Lord Parr had sworn me to secrecy and I gave the boy only a severe look. Too severe, perhaps, but I was still sore troubled by what he had done, and by my experiences of recent days.

  A royal official lined us up, peremptorily ordering the mayor and aldermen into position like children. The sun beat down, making our heads hot under our caps and coifs. The golden links of our chains sparkled. Streamers and poles bearing the English flag beside the fleur-de-lys of France fluttered in the breeze, and bright cloths, too, had been hung from the upper windows of houses and shops. I remembered how only a year before I had seen dummies wearing the fleur-de-lys used in target practice by new recruits to the army – hundreds of men who had marched to Portsmouth from London to resist the threatened invasion.

  Next to me Serjeant Blower of the Inner Temple stood proudly, his fat belly sucked in and his chest thrust out. He was in his fifties, with a short, neatly trimmed beard. I knew him slightly; he was too full of himself for my taste. It was said that Wriothesley was considering appointing him a judge. ‘We have a fine day to greet the admiral,’ he said. ‘I cannot remember such ceremonial since Anne Boleyn’s coronation.’

  I raised my eyebrows, remembering how that much-acclaimed marriage had ended.

  ‘Are you going to be present when Prince Edward meets the admiral tomorrow?’ Blower asked. ‘And at the Hampton Court celebrations?’

  ‘Yes, representing Lincoln’s Inn.’

  ‘I too,’ he said proudly. He looked askance at my chain. ‘Have you had that long? By the smell of vinegar you have just had it cleaned.’

  ‘I only wear it on the most special occasions.’

  ‘Really? It looks somewhat scratched.’ Blower glanced proudly down at the broad, bright links of his own chain. Then he leaned closer and said quietly, ‘Could you not find time to shave, brother? We were instructed to. It is a pity your hair is dark, your stubble shows.’

  ‘No, Brother Blower. I fear I have been very busy.’

  ‘In the vacation?’

  ‘I have had some hard cases.’

  ‘Ah.’ He nodded, then quoted the old legal saying, ‘Hard cases make bad law.’

  ‘They do indeed.’

  He gave me a sidelong look. I wondered if news of my appearance before the council had filtered out. Servants would speak to servants at Whitehall, the city and the Inns of Court. A rousing cheer sounded from Cheapside. People had been told to cry a welcome as d’Annebault passed. Blower pulled his fat stomach in further. ‘Here he comes,’ he said eagerly, and shouted a loud ‘Hurrah!’

  Chapter Forty-six

  AFTER THE CEREMONY I went home. I was exhausted, and with another one to face on Monday, and a third the day after. For all his poor conduct at the Battle of the Solent last year, Admiral Claude d’Annebault had cut an impressive figure riding up to St Michael’s: a large, handsome man of fifty, on a magnificent charger, the Earl of Essex riding beside him. I was glad to see the Queen’s brother so prominent; another sign the Parr family was secure.

  After the welcoming address the mayor had presented the admiral with great silver flagons of hippocras, and marchpane and wafers to refresh him after his journey. My back hurt from standing so long, and I slipped away as soon as possible, wanting only to spend the remainder of the day quietly by myself. I walked home. As I entered the house I heard Josephine and Agnes talking cheerfully in the kitchen about the wedding, fixed now for January. I thought, poor Agnes, she knows nothing of what her husband has done. Soon she will be leaving with him.

  Martin came out of the dining room, a letter in his hand, his manner deferential as usual. ‘This came while you were out, sir.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I recognized Hugh Curteys’s handwriting. Martin said quietly, ‘Sir, is there any more news concerning – that matter? About my going to that house?’ Though his face remained expressionless, I saw the signs of strain about his narrowed mouth and eyes.

  ‘No, Martin,’ I replied coldly. ‘I will let you know as soon as I have instructions.’

  ‘Will it be soon?’

  ‘I hope so. I do not know. I will tell you as soon as I do. You brought this on yourself,’ I added.

  IN MY ROOM I read Hugh’s letter. Apparently
Emperor Charles had decided to curb the independence of the Flanders cities: ‘There have been arrests of many reformist citizens here, and in other places in Flanders, and there are like to be imprisonments and burnings. Certain English and other foreigners have crossed into Germany.’ I wondered if Bale was among them, Anne Askew’s book hidden in his luggage. Probably; he must have become used to moving quickly since he fled England after the fall of his patron Cromwell. This would surely delay the publication of Anne Askew’s writings now.

  The letter continued: ‘Many in the English merchant community are worried, and I fear if the atmosphere in the city changes for the worse I, too, may consider going to Germany.’

  I sighed; I thought my ward had found a safe haven, but it seemed not. I remembered that it was over Hugh’s wardship case that I had first crossed swords with Vincent Dyrick. Thoughts of Dyrick led me to Isabel; what would happen to her, now that the whole weight of what she had done – and Edward’s death – lay upon her? I remembered her frantic, deranged slashing at the painting she had fought for so single-mindedly. On an impulse, I sat down, took up quill and ink, and wrote a note to Guy:

  I have not seen you since I visited that poor man at St Bartholomew’s, but you have been in my thoughts. There is a woman I represented in a case – a sad family matter – who is now in great travail of soul. She is of the old faith, and I asked her lawyer to arrange for her priest to see her, but I am anxious how she fares. If you have time, perhaps you might visit her. I think perhaps you could comfort her.

  I added Isabel’s name and address, signed the note ‘your loving friend’, and sanded and sealed it. There, I thought, he will see I do not cavil at religious counselling being offered to one of the old beliefs, and he might even be able to do something for Isabel, though I feared her mind was broken now.

  ON THE MORNING of Monday 23rd I dressed in my finery again and went down to the stables. Today’s ceremony was to welcome d’Annebault to Hampton Court. It was to take place three miles from the palace, beside the river, and the admiral was to be greeted by little Prince Edward. It was the boy’s first public occasion. Those of us coming from the city had to ride out there, but it was some consolation to me that during the occasion we would remain on horseback. I had gone to be shaved yesterday and my cheeks were smooth: Blower would not be able to make remarks at my stubble today.

  I had asked Martin to tell Timothy to ensure Genesis was well rubbed down, and his mane tied in plaits. When I entered the stable I was pleased to see the boy had done a good job. He did not look me in the eye as he placed the mounting block beside the horse. As I slid my feet into the stirrups, though, he looked up and smiled nervously, showing the gap where his two front teeth had been punched out when he was still an orphaned urchin, before I took him in.

  ‘Master,’ he said nervously. ‘You said you would talk to me again about – about the burned books.’

  ‘Yes, Timothy. But not now. I am due at an important occasion.’

  He grasped the reins. ‘Only – sir, it must have been Martin who told people about the books; I wouldn’t have, yet Martin is still in his place, and he was sharp as ever with me last night.’ He reddened and his voice rose a little. ‘Sir, it isn’t fair, I meant no harm.’

  I took a deep breath, then said, ‘I have kept Martin on for my own private reasons.’ Then I burst out, ‘And what he did pains me less than your spying. I trusted you, Timothy, and you let me down.’ Tears filled the boy’s eyes and I spoke more calmly. ‘I will speak to you tomorrow, Timothy. Tomorrow.’

  A BROAD HEATH by the river had been chosen as the site for the ceremony. When I arrived almost everyone was there. Near a thousand yeomen had been commandeered for the day, dressed in brand new livery with the King’s colours. City officials and we representatives from the Inns were again shepherded to places in the front rank, facing the roadway. A little way off, with a guard of soldiers, the great men of the realm waited on their horses. All those I had seen at the Privy Council were present: Gardiner, his solid frame settled on a broad-backed horse; Rich and Wriothesley side by side; Paget stroking his long forked beard, a little colour in those flat cheeks today, surveying those around him with his usual cool eye. The Earl of Hertford looked stern and solemn, while beside him Thomas Seymour, with his coppery beard combed and no doubt perfumed, wore a happy smile on his handsome face. Others too: Lord Lisle, who had proved a better commander than d’Annebault at Portsmouth last year, and other lords in their finery, the feathers in their caps stirring in the river breeze. The water was blue and sparkling, reflecting the bright sky.

  And at their head, on a smaller horse, sat the boy, not yet nine, who was King Henry’s heir, the control of whom after the King died was the focus of all the plotting by the men behind him. In a broad-shouldered crimson doublet with slashed sleeves, a black cap set with diamonds on his head, Prince Edward was a tiny figure beside the adults. He sat firmly upright on his horse, though. He was tall for his age, his thin little face stiffly composed. His serious expression and small chin reminded me of his long-dead mother, Jane Seymour, whose likeness I had seen in the great wall painting at Whitehall. I pitied him for the weight that must soon fall on him. Then I thought of Timothy: I had been too hard with him; one should not hold a grudge against children. I would speak to him when I returned.

  Once again my allotted place was next to Blower. The big Serjeant nodded to me but said little; he kept leaning forward, looking towards the party behind Prince Edward, trying to catch the eye of Lord Chancellor Wriothesley, who might give him his coveted judgeship. Wriothesley did see him, but in answer to his nod and smile gave only a little frown as though to say, ‘Not here.’ I remembered the old saying, big fleas have little fleas to bite them.

  At length we saw d’Annebault’s party approach slowly along the riverbank. There must have been three hundred of them; I knew d’Annebault had brought two hundred men over from France. From the English party heralds stepped forward, blowing trumpets. The admiral, accompanied again by the Earl of Essex, rode up to Prince Edward and bowed to the little boy from the saddle. The Prince began delivering, in a high childish voice, an address of welcome; he spoke without pause, in perfect French. At the end the admiral’s horse was led forward and he and Prince Edward embraced.

  THE ADDRESS OVER, the French party and the bulk of the English lords rode away to Hampton Court, the Prince and the admiral leading the way, a tall soldier holding the reins of Prince Edward’s horse. Those of us left behind, as usual on such occasions, relaxed immediately, everyone swinging their shoulders and drawing deep breaths, pausing to talk with friends before riding back to London. I supposed that for civility’s sake I would have to ride back with the disgruntled-looking Blower, but as I was about to speak to him I felt a touch at my arm. I turned to see Lord Parr standing at my elbow, accompanied by two serving men, one holding his horse.

  ‘My Lord,’ I said. ‘I did not see you with the Prince’s party.’

  ‘No, the Queen’s household is not involved in this. But I came, and would speak with you.’

  ‘Of course.’ I looked at the old man; in his note he had said he had been ill, and indeed he looked frail, leaning hard on his stick. He nodded to his men and one helped me dismount while the other took Genesis’s reins. Blower looked at Lord Parr with surprise, not knowing that I had acquaintance with such a senior figure. He bowed to Lord Parr and rode off, looking more put out than ever.

  Lord Parr led me away a little, to stand beside the river. ‘You had my letter?’

  ‘I did. I have spoken to my steward Brocket and he stands ready, though very reluctantly.’

  ‘I am still trying to discover who put that item on the council agenda. But I make no progress, and Paget is as close-mouthed as any man can be.’

  ‘He was fair at the council,’ I observed. ‘He seemed genuinely concerned to find the truth or otherwise of the allegations.’

  ‘Ay, perhaps.’ Lord Parr sighed deeply. ‘I am getting too tir
ed for all this. After the admiral leaves next week the King and Queen are going on a short Progress to Guildford, so I must move these old bones yet again.’ He looked out over the river for a moment, then spoke quietly. ‘The King is taking none of the traditionalist councillors with him, not Gardiner, nor Wriothesley, nor Norfolk. Lord Hertford and Lord Lisle, though, will be accompanying him.’ He looked at me, a keenness now in his bloodshot eyes. ‘The tide is shifting fast in our favour. The King has not seen Bertano again; he is cooling his heels somewhere in London. Rumours are beginning to spread of a papal emissary here. And if I can prove that Rich has been playing some double game, perhaps seeking to damage the Queen through you, it will anger the King, and help the Queen. And the Parr family,’ he added. ‘But before I do anything with that man Stice, I must know more. No sign of those others, I take it, the men who killed Greening?’

  ‘Daniels and Cardmaker? No, the printer Okedene saw them about the town, but I have not.’

  ‘Who did they take the Queen’s book for? Not Rich, I am sure, he would have used the Lamentation at once.’

  ‘Could its release still harm the Queen?’

  ‘I think so.’ He paused, then made a fist with his bony hand. He shook his head. ‘It is her hiding the book from him that would anger him most, I know.’

  ‘The disloyalty, rather than the Lamentation’s theology?’

  ‘Exactly. Though her stress on salvation by faith alone would hardly help. And the King’s illness makes him all the more unpredictable. One never knows how he may turn, or in what direction.’ For a second Lord Parr seemed to sway, and I put out a hand. But he righted himself, taking a deep breath. ‘Give me a few days, Master Shardlake, to try and worm out some more information. And I will have a watch set on that house where Stice meets your steward.’ He turned, and we walked back to our horses.