by C. J. Sansom
And with that, the Queen’s Chamberlain turned away, back to the Great Gate.
I STEPPED BACK, feeling as though I had been punched in the stomach. So Rich was finally turning his coat. And, I thought wearily, Lord Parr was right; these were the necessities of politics. Why should it matter to any of them what Rich had done to me? I looked across to where he stood talking to Wriothesley; Wriothesley’s face was red, they were arguing. The alliance between them, which had led to the torture of Anne Askew, was over now.
A trumpet blew, then another. The guards at the Great Gate stood to attention and everyone ceased talking and looked towards it in silence. Then the King appeared in the gateway, Admiral d’Annebault at his side. The King was dressed more magnificently than I had ever seen before, in a yellow coat with padded shoulders and fur collar, a cream-coloured doublet set with jewels, and a broad white feathered cap on his head. He was smiling broadly. One arm rested on his jewelled stick, the other round the shoulder of Archbishop Cranmer. No doubt he needed Cranmer to hold him up. Fortunately it was but a short walk to the banqueting houses. On d’Annebault’s other side, her arm through the admiral’s, was the Queen. She wore a dress in Tudor green and white, her auburn hair bright under a green cap, a light smile on her face. She looked radiant: knowing her inner turmoil, I marvelled again at her composure.
The royal party was followed by the men from the King’s household, and women from the Queen’s ladies in their bright new livery, led by Lord Parr. The crowd in the Great Court parted to let them walk through to the larger of the two banqueting houses. I joined the others in raising my cup. There were claps and shouts of ‘God save the King!’
Now the junior members of the households halted and turned towards the second, smaller banqueting house. Guards opened the doors of both and I glimpsed cloth-covered tables on which candles in gold sconces were already lit against the coming dusk. The leading men of the realm – Norfolk and Gardiner and Paget, the Seymour brothers and others – left the crowd and followed the King, Queen and d’Annebault into the larger banqueting house. From within I heard lutes starting to play.
The Lady Mary had now appeared through the gateway, followed by her own retinue. Jane Fool was there, and began dancing and frolicking round Mary, who laughed and bade her cease. They, too, passed into the royal banqueting house.
The crowd outside relaxed, as a fresh column of servants came through the Great Gate carrying large trays of food from the Hampton Court kitchens. They were followed by a group of guards bearing torches, which they slotted into brackets set into the walls of the Great Court and on the trunks of trees. As the servants handed round cold meats and more wine, I saw some people were getting drunk; in Serjeant Blower’s party, one or two were swaying slightly. Son of a drunkard myself, the sight revolted me.
I looked over all these rich men and women and thought of Timothy, somewhere alone out on the streets. The notion came to me that perhaps the Anabaptists had something after all: a world where the gulf between the few rich and the many poor did not exist, a world where preening peacocks like Thomas Seymour and Serjeant Blower wore wadmol and cheap leather, might not be so bad a place after all.
I waved away a waiter carrying plates in one hand and a silver dish of swan’s meat in the other. I was shocked by what Lord Parr had said. It was dusk and the breeze felt suddenly cold. My back hurt. My mission was over. I should go and tell Barak and Nicolas they would not be needed.
I saw that Rich and Wriothesley were still engrossed in their argument, whatever it was. They would be in trouble if they did not soon make their way to their appointed places in the royal banqueting hall. Then I saw somebody else I recognized. Stice. I stepped back into the deepening shadows of the tree. He wore an expensive grey doublet, with ‘RR’ embossed on the chest, and as he passed at a little distance a torch picked out the shiny scar tissue of his damaged ear. The way he was moving puzzled me; he walked stealthily as he moved towards the royal banqueting house, constantly seeking cover, slipping behind those who stood between him and his master. There could be no doubt, I realized suddenly: Stice was avoiding Rich, not seeking him. Rich and Wriothesley were still arguing fiercely; Rich waved a waiter aside so violently that the man dropped a tray filled with goblets of wine. People laughed as the waiter bent to pick them up, Rich berating him angrily as though it were the waiter’s fault. Stice took the opportunity to move swiftly to the guards at the doors of the banqueting house. A steel-helmeted soldier put out a hand to stop him.
Stice pulled something from the purse at his belt and showed it to the guard. I could not make it out but it looked like a seal, that of one of the great men of the realm, no doubt. Not Rich, who still stood with Wriothesley, glowering at the unfortunate waiter, for Stice would have pointed to him. As the guard examined the seal, Stice cast a quick glance over his shoulder at Rich. Then the soldier nodded to him, and Stice entered the tent.
I stood there, my heart thudding. For I realized now that Stice, like Curdy the spy, had more than one loyalty. A man in Richard Rich’s employment had outmanoeuvred his master. Stice had used that seal to get himself into the royal banquet, and his purpose in hurrying there now must be to tell his other master, whoever that was, about the note retrieved from the tavern where Brocket had left it, the note mentioning the ‘Italian gentleman’. But who, among those leading men, was Stice’s other master? Whoever it was, he had ordered Stice to spy on me, for many months. Rich had been telling the truth, after all. I stared intently at the open doors, but I could only vaguely make out the bright-clad courtiers moving to take their seats.
Rich and Wriothesley realized they were late. They began walking towards the banqueting house with long strides, not speaking. The guards let them through. Would Rich see Stice now?
No. For a moment later Stice walked briskly along the outside wall of the banqueting house, ducking as he passed a window; he must have left through a rear entrance. Keeping close to the tree, I watched as he stepped rapidly away to the river steps, and disappeared.
A group of minstrels walked into the centre of the Great Court, strumming their instruments for the crowd. People cheered, and as I watched a space was cleared. Men and women began dancing, robes and skirts whirling. I thought for a moment, Lord Parr should be told about Stice, especially if Rich was on his side now. But he was inside the main banqueting house. I had seen how difficult it had been for Stice to gain entrance; and I no longer had the Queen’s seal to show anyone, for I had returned it along with the robe with her badge on it.
Stice must already be on his way back to London by boat, to go to what he thought was a rendezvous with Brocket. I clenched my fists. Obstinacy and anger rose in me. Well, it would be me and Barak and Nicholas whom Stice would be meeting. Three of us against one, we would take him easily, and we would finally have some answers.
Chapter Fifty
BARAK AND NICHOLAS WERE waiting for me at home, drinking beer in the kitchen. I had hailed a boat quickly at the Hampton Court stairs; a long line of wherrymen was waiting to bring people back to London once the festivities ended, and I was leaving early. I asked the boatman whether I was the first to depart; he replied that one of his fellows had picked up another customer a few minutes before. As we pulled downriver I saw another boat a little ahead of us, a man in grey doublet and cap sitting in the stern. I told the boatman to slow a little so I might enjoy the cool airs of evening; in fact it was to let Stice get out of view. It was peaceful out there on the river, the boatman’s oars making ripples that glinted in the setting sun, insects buzzing over the water. I asked myself: is this right, what I am doing? And I answered yes, for surely Stice’s true master was the one who had ordered the murder of the Anabaptists and taken the Lamentation. There might be a chance of recovering the Queen’s book after all.
BACK HOME, there was no news of Timothy. Barak, who had remained at the house all afternoon, had had several visitors who said they knew where the boy was but wanted the reward first. Barak had
dealt with them bluntly. Nicholas had also returned. I thanked them for their efforts, telling myself that for the next few hours I must put Timothy’s fate from my mind.
Looking at Barak and Nicholas, I considered again whether what I was doing was right. This was for the Queen and the murdered men, but I knew also for myself, because I wanted answers. Barak and Nicholas had come equipped for danger; Nicholas’s sword was at his belt and Barak had one, too. Both knew well how to use them.
I told them about seeing Stice at Hampton Court, and what Lord Parr had said. When I had finished I asked them once more, ‘Are you sure you wish to do this?’
‘All the more, now,’ Barak said. ‘With Brocket gone it’s our last chance.’
‘What did you tell Tamasin?’
He looked uncomfortable. ‘That we were going to continue searching for Timothy this evening.’
‘I’m glad of the chance to get back at that churl who kidnapped me,’ Nicholas said. ‘But sir, if we catch him, what do we do with him? We can’t take him back to my lodgings as we did with Leeman, my fellow students are there.’
‘I’ve thought of that. We’ll keep him in that house until morning; question him ourselves, then take him to Lord Parr.’
‘I’ll get answers out of him.’ Barak spoke coldly. ‘He wouldn’t be the first.’ I thought, no, there are things you did when you worked for Cromwell that we have always drawn a veil over. I did not dissent.
‘Can we be sure Stice will be alone?’ Nicholas asked.
‘I got Brocket to ask him to come alone as always. And Lord Parr’s man who is watching the house says Stice only came there once, and by himself.’
Barak said, ‘I got one of the men helping me on the search for Timothy to walk up and down that street this afternoon and report back to me. I didn’t want to go myself as Stice knows me. It’s a lane of small, newly built houses, much better places than on Needlepin Lane. Most of the houses have porches, quite deep. We could hide in one and watch until just before nine. We might even see Stice arrive.’
‘Very well.’ I looked out of the window. It was quite dark now. I thought, at Hampton Court they would be dancing by torchlight in the courtyard, sounds of loud revelry coming from the King’s banqueting house. Several more banquets, as well as hunts, were planned for the next few days. The Queen would be at all of them. Then I thought of Timothy, alone on the dangerous streets for a second night. I collected myself. ‘Let us go now,’ I said. ‘But remember, Stice is a man who will stop at nothing.’
‘Fortune favours those with justice and honour on their side,’ Nicholas said.
Barak responded, ‘If only.’
THE STREETS WERE QUIET as we walked up to Smithfield. Fortunately it was not a market day and the big open space was silent and deserted. We went down Little Britain Street, following the wall of St Bartholomew’s Hospital, then turned into a broad lane, a reputable row of newly built two-storey houses, most with glass windows rather than shutters, and little porches, too. Candles flickered behind most of the windows but at a house that was in darkness Barak waved us into the porch. I hoped the owner would not return expectedly; he would think himself about to be robbed.
Barak pointed to a house on the opposite side of the lane, a little further down. ‘That’s the one. There’s a big Tudor rose on the arch above the porch, as Brocket mentioned. You can just see it.’
I followed his gaze. The house’s shutters were drawn and all was silent.
We stood, waiting and watching. A serving woman came out of a nearby house with a bucket of dirty water and poured it into the channel in the centre of the road. We tensed as the light of a torch appeared at the top of the lane, and voices sounded. It was, however, only a link-boy, leading the way for a small family party who were chattering happily, returning from some visit. They disappeared into one of the houses further down the lane.
‘What time is it?’ Nicholas asked quietly. ‘It must be near nine.’
‘I think it is,’ Barak said. ‘But it doesn’t look like Stice is here yet.’
‘He could already be inside,’ I whispered. ‘At the rear of the house, perhaps.’
Barak’s eyes narrowed. ‘All right, let’s wait till the clocks chime. Stice wouldn’t be late for this one, not if he’s been all the way to Hampton Court and back to consult his master.’
We waited. When the bells rang out the hour, Barak took a deep breath. ‘Let’s go,’ he breathed. ‘Rush him as soon as the door opens.’
WE HALF-RAN ACROSS THE STREET. I glanced up at the Tudor rose on the lintel of the porch, as Barak hammered on the door. He and Nicholas both had their hands on their sword hilts, and I grasped my knife.
I heard quick footsteps, sounding indeed as though they were coming from the rear of the house. There was the glimmer of a candle between the shutters. As soon as we heard the handle turn on the inner side of the door Barak put his shoulder to it, and crashed inside. The interior was dim, just a couple of candles in a holder on the table. By their light I saw Charles Stice stagger back, hand reaching to the sword at his waist. But Barak and Nicholas already had their blades pointed at his body.
‘Got you,’ Nicholas said triumphantly.
Then, at the edge of my vision, I saw rapid movement as the men who had been waiting on either side of the door stepped quickly out. Two more swords flashed. Barak and Nicholas turned rapidly as two well-built young men ran at them from behind. I recognized them by the candlelight: one fair with a wart on his brow, the other almost bald. Greening’s killers, Daniels and Cardmaker.
Barak and Nicholas were both quick, managing to parry the blows. Meanwhile, drawing my knife, I lunged forward, ready to plunge it into the neck of the bald man, but he was faster than me. Though still fighting against Nicholas, he managed to half-turn and elbow me in the face with his free arm. I staggered back against the wall. The distraction, however, was enough to allow Nicholas to gain the advantage, and begin to force him back.
Barak, meanwhile, was facing not only the other man in front but Stice behind. And before he could turn, step aside and face both of them, Stice raised his newly drawn sword and slashed at Barak’s sword-arm. To my horror the razor-sharp weapon, with the full force of Stice’s arm behind it, slashed down into Barak’s wrist just above his sword. Into it and through it, and I cried out at a sight I shall never forget: Barak’s severed hand, still holding his sword, flying through the air and hitting the ground.
He screamed, turned and grasped his arm, which was spraying blood. Then Stice stabbed him in the back with his sword. Barak looked at me. His face was a mask of astonishment, his eyes somehow questioning, as though he wanted me to explain what had just happened. Then his legs gave way and he crashed to the floor. He lay on his face, unmoving, blood pumping from the stump of his wrist.
In a fury, I flew at Stice, knife raised. My move was unexpected and he did not have time to block my path with his sword. I aimed for his throat but he ducked and the knife slashed his face instead, from mouth to ear. He cried out but did not drop his sword, instead raising it to my throat and forcing me backwards, pinning me against the wall.
‘Stop now!’ he shouted. ‘You can’t win!’
Glancing to the side, I saw the other two had Nicholas. The bald man shouted, ‘Drop the sword, boy!’ Nicholas gritted his teeth, but obeyed. His weapon clattered to the floor. He looked in horror at Barak, face down on the floor. Stice withdrew his sword from my throat. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief to staunch the blood welling from his cheek. I caught a glimpse of white bone.
Barak made a sound, a little moan. He was still alive, just. He tried to raise his head but it dropped back to the floor with a crack and he lay unmoving again. Blood still poured from his wrist, and more from the wound in his back, making a dark patch on his shirt.
‘He’s still alive,’ the bald man said with professional interest.
‘Not for long,’ Stice replied. ‘He’ll bleed out soon if nothing else.’ Blo
od dripped down the hand holding the kerchief to his face. ‘He was once known as a fighter,’ he added, with sudden pride.
I looked at Stice, and spoke savagely, through bruised lips. ‘At least you’ll have a scar on your face to match that ear.’
He looked at me coldly, then laughed. ‘So, you caught Brocket out, did you?’
‘It was me who sent the message.’
Stice smiled. ‘Brocket seemed to have found out something big. I thought it time to bring him in person to my master, so I arranged help to secure him.’
‘So all of you were working together, all the time?’
‘That’s right. All part of the same merry band, working for the same master.’
The fair-haired man, his sword still pointed at Nicholas’s throat, said, ‘He’ll be pleased then? We’ve caught a big fish, as well as this long minnow?’
Stice sat on the edge of the table. ‘Yes. He’ll be keen to find out why he mentioned an Italian.’ He winced at the pain from his face. ‘God’s wounds, I’ll have to get this stitched. But we must take Shardlake to him first. The boy as well. Bind their hands; we’ll ride. I’ll get treatment at Whitehall. He’s waiting there.’
Whitehall? I thought. But the royal family and high councillors had all moved to Hampton Court.
‘It’s past curfew,’ the fair-haired man said. ‘What if the constables see us?’
‘With my seal, they won’t challenge us. Not when they see who we are taking them to.’
There was a sudden bang on the wall separating the house from its neighbour. A man’s voice shouted, ‘What’s going on?’ The voice was cultured and angry, but frightened too. ‘What’s all this noise?’
