by C. J. Sansom
‘Yet I feel that Cantrell was connected to the blast of wild, brutal fanaticism that is sweeping through the land; so that England devours its own children. It gave him, at least, an excuse for what he wanted to do.’
Guy nodded sadly. ‘We are in the middle of a bitter conflict between two religions. It has driven men to extremes, to the impious arrogance of believing they alone can comprehend the vast mysteries of Scripture, let alone the mind of God. Such people are incapable of understanding even their own minds, for they confuse their own needs, for certainty or power, with God’s voice speaking to them. I am only surprised that more are not driven to stark madness. I try in my poor way to follow the much harder path of humility. Facing squarely the terrible mysteries of suffering and cruelty in God’s world, doubting whether through prayer you have understood God’s will or his voice or even his presence. Yes, I believe humility is the greatest human virtue.’
I shook my head. ‘I think I am beyond belief. I have had to read the Book of Revelation over and over in this last month. It appals me. I read its cruel barbarous message and I despair.’
‘No,’ Guy said firmly. ‘Do not despair, Matthew. Do not let Revelation curse your life too. And now, let me have a look at your poor back.’
I LEFT Guy’s with a sense of peace, a fragile contentment, but peace nonetheless. Guy had rubbed fresh oils into my burns, and my back, too, was easier. And so I rode back to Lincoln’s Inn, where I had an invitation to visit Dorothy. To her also I had sent a note from my sick bed, saying Charles Cantrell was dead. She had replied asking if she could come and visit me, but I did not want her to see me ill in bed so requested that I might visit her when I was better.
Margaret opened the door and welcomed me in. ‘Your guest has finally gone,’ I said with a smile, for in her note Dorothy had said Bealknap had left.
‘Yes, the afternoon you came, in a great hurry. He barely stopped to thank the mistress.’
‘For Bealknap to give thanks to anyone would for him be like having teeth pulled. Do you know if he has sent any money across?’
‘Not him.’
‘I did not think he would. I must do something about that.’
Dorothy was in the parlour. The first thing I noticed was that the wooden frieze was gone, the wall bare. Dorothy had abandoned mourning and wore a high-collared grey dress with pretty red piping on the collar and sleeves. She smiled at me, then came and took my hands. ‘Matthew,’ she said. ‘I have been worried. You look tired, but thank God, not ill as I had feared.’
‘No, I am tougher than people think. You got rid of the frieze?’
‘I had it burned in the kitchen yard. I watched while the flames took it. The cook boys thought I was mad but I did not care. That creature touched it, but for it he would never have come here, would never have chosen Roger as a victim.’
‘No. It was a terrible mischance.’
‘What made him kill all those innocent people?’
‘I have just been discussing that with Guy. It is a mystery to us both. Perhaps it is better left so; it is no good thing to dwell on for too long.’
‘Were you there when he was caught?’ she asked.
‘Yes. But do not ask more, Dorothy. The matter is to be kept secret.’
‘I will thank you to the end of my days for what you did,’ she said. ‘I wanted Roger’s murderer caught and punished and you have done that for me, and for him, at great cost.’ She released my hands and stepped away, then clasped them together in front of her. I guessed she had something important to say.
‘Matthew.’ She spoke quietly. ‘I told you a while ago that I did not know what my future would be. I am still uncertain. But I have decided to go and stay with Samuel in Bristol, for a month or two at least. Roger’s affairs are pretty well settled, and now his murderer is dead I need some time for reflection, some peace. I leave on Tuesday.’
‘I shall miss you.’
‘It will be only for a while,’ she said. ‘I will come again in June, to visit, and by then I will have decided whether to stay in Bristol or come back here and rent a small house in London. I know now I will be able to afford that. Bristol is full of merchants, Samuel will become one himself before long, and I confess a fear that, worthy people as they doubtless are, I may find myself a little - bored.’
I smiled. ‘They do not have the sword-sharp wit and questing intelligence of lawyers. That is well known.’
‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘And here I have good and interesting friends. And now, Matthew, stay to dinner and let us talk of pleasant things, the old days before the world went mad.’
‘I would like nothing better,’ I said.
Epilogue
July 1543 - THREE MONTHS LATER
The King and Catherine Parr were to be married that day, and in the larger London streets bonfires were being erected, together with spits for the roasting pigs which would be distributed later from the royal kitchens at Whitehall. As Barak and I rode along Cheapside I tried to block out a memory of Yarington burning in his church. Small boys were running up and down, bringing wood for the fires and hallooing excitedly at the prospect of the feast to come, their faces red on the hot summer day. The beggars had gone from round Cheapside Cross, moved on by the constables that they should not spoil the celebrations.
A month before, Lady Catherine had summoned me to the house in Charterhouse Square. She received me in a parlour hung with gorgeous tapestries, two ladies-in-waiting sewing by the window. She looked very different from the last time I had seen her. She was dressed now in the richest finery, a dress of brown silk embossed with designs of flowers on its wide crimson sleeves, a necklace of rubies at her throat and a French hood set with pearls covering her auburn hair. She was tall, and her mouth and chin were too small to be pretty, yet she had tremendous presence; a welcoming presence despite the rich formal clothes. I bowed deeply. ‘My congratulations on your betrothal, my lady,’ I said.
She nodded slightly in acknowledgement and I saw the stillness in her, the stillness of one who has placed herself under firm control, who must stay controlled now to fulfil the role she had accepted on that great, terrible stage, the royal court.
‘I know you saved my life, Master Shardlake,’ she said in her rich voice. ‘And suffered great risk and privation in the process.’
‘I was glad to, my lady.’ I wondered whether Cantrell, had he seen her close to, would have realized how different she was from his frantic imaginings. But no, I thought, he would not, he could not.
She smiled, a smile of gentle warmth. ‘I know Lord Hertford has been to visit you, to ask you to return to the world of politics. He has told me of your reluctance. Well, that is something I can understand. I want you to know, Master Shardlake, that I will never make demands on you, but if ever you need a friend, or a favour, or anything that it will soon be in my power to grant, you have only to ask.’
In all my years of involvement on the fringes of the court no one before had ever offered a favour without demanding something in return. ‘Thank you, my lady,’ I said. ‘You are very kind. I shall remember your words with gladness in my heart.’
She smiled again, though her slim, richly draped body remained still and tense. ‘I shall be watching you from a distance, Master Shardlake, not to demand service but to present aid if it is ever needed.’ She extended a delicate hand heavy with rings, and I bent and kissed it.
‘SIX Wives the King’s had now.’ Barak’s words dragged me from my reverie. ‘We can’t even get one between us.’
‘Do not give up on Tamasin, ‘I said. ‘I believe there is still hope there.’
‘Don’t see it.’ Barak shook his head. ‘But I’ll keep trying.’
He had been several times to the kitchens at Whitehall Palace, to ask Tamasin to come back, begging her forgiveness. She had given it, but she would not come back to him, not yet at least, though she promised she would remain loyal to her marriage vows, no matter how many servants and courtiers showed an interest
in her. I wondered whether she was making Barak realize that she was that rare if troublous thing, a woman determined that any relationship she had should be one of equals.
As for me, the nature of my own disappointment was different though it still bit deep. Dorothy had not returned to London. A few weeks ago, she had sent me a letter explaining that she had bought a small house in Bristol, near her son and his fiancée. Her letter ended:As for us, I realize what you have felt for me, the old feelings that perhaps were always there but which returned after Roger died. You behaved honourably, Matthew, being yourself you could do no other and I believe your determination in hunting down Roger’s killer was done for him as well as for me.
Yet I know now that I will never marry again; nor should I: the twenty years that Roger and I had together before that evil creature took him were, I know, blessed with a happiness that is rare among married couples. Any other marriage could only be a pale shadow, and that would be fair on nobody.
Forgive me, and come to visit us.
I had not actually asked her to marry me, yet I would have, she had divined that. I would not go to Bristol, not for a time at least; that would be too hard.
We passed the top of Bucklersbury, and I thought of Guy down at his shop. Our friendship was restored, though I felt a new reserve in him sometimes, and wondered if he would ever trust me fully again.
‘Any more subscriptions for the hospital?’ Barak asked me.
‘A few. I wish I had more encouragement from Treasurer Rowland. He has never forgiven me for being curt with him when he stopped you catching Cantrell that time. It is a problem. If he would send a circular encouraging the Fellows to give, they would put their hands in their pockets, each to show himself more generous than his brothers.’
Barak shook his head. ‘So the poor continue to suffer, because a puffed-up old arsehole resents being spoken to roughly. Well, it was ever thus.’
‘I am afraid you are right.’
‘One day the poor will take things into their own hands,’ he said darkly; then smiled sardonically. ‘Have you tried asking Bealknap for money?’
We both laughed then. Since my return to Lincoln’s Inn Bealknap had studiously avoided me; he would vanish through doors or round corners at my approach. He was fully restored to health, and back to all his old ways. He had of course sent Dorothy no money, nor had he paid Guy’s fees for the treatment that had saved his sorry life. Yet embarrassment, perhaps even a sense of guilt, led him to go to these lengths to avoid me. It was becoming a running joke round Lincoln’s Inn that Bealknap was terrified of Brother Shardlake. He could have solved the problem in an instant by coming to me with some money for Dorothy and for Guy’s fee, but Bealknap would suffer any humiliation, look any sort of fool, rather than part with any of the gold he kept sitting uselessly in his chambers. Now, indeed, I pitied him.
We passed under Bishopsgate Bridge. ‘Well, here we are,’ Barak said dubiously. ‘I don’t know how you think a visit here is going to cheer us up.’
‘Wait and see,’ I said as we rode under the Bedlam gate, into the precinct of the hospital. We tied up the horses and I knocked at the door. Barak looked along the length of the building, anxiously, as though some lunatic might lean from the windows and shriek at him, rattling his chains. But the house seemed quiet today. The big keeper Gebons opened the door, bowing to me. Since my confrontation with Shawms over his locking out of Ellen, Gebons seemed to have developed a respect for me.
‘Are Goodman Kite and his wife here yet?’ I asked.
‘Ay, sir, they are. They are all in the parlour, with Ellen.’
‘Come, then, Barak. This is what I wanted you to see.’
I led the way into the parlour. The scene there today could have come from any peaceful domestic home. Adam and his father sat at the table playing chess. Sitting watching him, Minnie Kite had a look of happy repose that I would not have believed possible four months ago. Beside her, Ellen sat knitting, a look of pride on her long, sensitive face. The old woman Cissy sat next to Ellen, also knitting, though sometimes stopping and staring into space with a look of desperate sadness, seeing something not here in the room.
‘Well done, Adam.’ Minnie laughed and clapped her hands as her son reached out and checkmated her husband.
As we entered, the company rose to greet us, but I bade them sit again. ‘I have brought my assistant to see you, Adam,’ I said. ‘You may remember him from the court hearings. Master Barak. He helped me prepare your case.’ Barak bowed to the company.
‘I have beaten my father at chess for the third time running,’ Adam said. Then he fell silent for a second. ‘Is it the sin of pride to take such pleasure in it?’ He looked at Ellen.
‘No, no, Adam. How many times have we told you, it is no sin to take pleasure in the little diversions God has given us in this hard world.’
Adam nodded. He was still much troubled by fears of sin, but accepted - most of the time - that whether one was saved or damned was ultimately knowable only to God. His parents feared what would happen when he left the Bedlam and learned of Yarington’s terrible fate, which the congregation had been encouraged to blame on Catholic fanatics. But Guy believed that Adam ought to leave soon, return to the world, face up to the things it contained. His parents remained as radical as ever in their religious views, but because they loved their son they had agreed with Guy that his fragile mental state meant the subject of religion must be treated gently. Bishop Bonner had unintentionally done the family a favour with his persecution of radicals in the spring; Reverend Meaphon had taken a living in Norwich, far from the tumults of the capital, and had gone in May. A new vicar had been appointed; a time-server with no deep belief, a harmless man.
Daniel Kite rose from the table. ‘Come, son, shall we take a walk around the yard? I thought we might take ourselves as far as the Bishopsgate today.’
‘Yes, all right.’ Adam got up. His mother too rose and slipped her arm through his. I stepped away from the table. Adam turned to me with a nervous smile. ‘Master Shardlake, when we come back, will you tell me more about life in the law?’
‘I will, with pleasure.’ On my last couple of visits Adam had shown some interest in his legal position, even expressing indignation when I told him he could not be freed without the agreement of the Privy Council. It was a world away from the days when nothing was real to him save his desperate struggle with God.
Adam glanced past me to Barak, and reddened slightly. ‘I remember seeing you at court, sir,’ he said.
‘Ay, that’s right.’
‘I was in a bad way then,’ the boy said quietly.
‘That you were.’ Barak smiled, though he still looked uneasy with Adam, and with this place.
We watched from the open front door as father and mother and son walked slowly across the yard, talking quietly; Ellen stood a little behind us, afraid as ever to step too close to the world outside.
‘Adam’s parents care for him,’ she said. ‘They are not like those families that abandon their troublesome relatives here.’ There was a note of bitterness in her voice; I looked at her and she forced a smile. I wished I knew the details of her story but beyond what Shawms had told me of the attack on her when she was a girl I knew nothing; she would not say, and I would not pry.
‘This sudden interest of Adam’s in the law is a new thing,’ I said. ‘He’s a bright lad.’
‘Who knows, one day he may make a lawyer?’
‘Ay. I will give him Barak’s place, and train him up. He will come cheaper.’ Ellen laughed.
‘Exploiting the mad, I call it,’ Barak said. Then he turned to me. ‘He certainly looks different from the last time I saw him. But there is still something . . .’
‘Fragile?’ Ellen asked. ‘He has a long journey to make yet. But I believe he will complete it. One day.’
‘So there you are, Barak,’ I said. ‘Madness is an illness, and sometimes, like other illnesses, it may be treated.’ I thought, but did not say, t
hat he had been so damaged he might well slip back at times, though I hoped never to the terrible state in which I first found him. Could he ever fully recover? I did not know.
Barak stepped outside and bowed to Ellen. ‘I ought to get over to the Old Barge. I have things to pack. And some of Tamasin’s things to sort out. She said I could take them over to her new lodgings. Better make sure I’ve got everything.’
‘I will see you at Lincoln’s Inn tomorrow morning.’
‘Ay. Couple of tricky cases coming up.’
I sensed he was glad of the excuse to leave. He untied Sukey and rode away, raising his cap to the Kites as he passed them at the gate.
‘Your assistant is moving house?’ Ellen asked.
‘Yes, he and his wife have separated. It is sad, he could not bear to stay in their old lodgings. He has taken a room near Lincoln’s Inn. They may get back together in time, there is still a great bond between them. I hope so.’
‘The papers requesting Adam’s release go to the Court of Requests this week?’ Ellen asked.
‘Yes, on Thursday. If the judge agrees to the request it will be forwarded to the Privy Council. I believe they will grant it.’ I knew they would, for Cranmer had written to me, promising he would see the matter through.
‘Is he ready?’ Ellen asked. ‘There are still times when I go into his room and find him sitting, or worse kneeling, on the floor. Still times when he fears his damnation.’
‘Guy believes it is time for him to leave, to engage with the world as he puts it. Under continual care from his parents, of course, and Guy will visit him frequently. He cannot be certain Adam will not relapse, but he believes he will continue to make progress. And that the time when he might make some mad display is past. I hope he is right,’ I added quietly.
‘I shall never see him again,’ Ellen said bleakly. I turned to look at her. She had retreated a couple of steps away from the open door.
