Sovereign

by C. J. Sansom

  ‘My time in the Tower is not generally known about yet. Richard Rich told you, no doubt. He had me put there.’

  ‘Your face is swollen, Master Shardlake,’ Bealknap said with fake concern. I had a sudden memory of the torture chamber, the crack as the tooth was broken off, the terror. I blinked, then glared at my opponent. His eyes slid away from meeting mine.

  ‘You know the Guildhall have settled your case,’ he said with that gentle smile of his. ‘Each side pays their own costs. Doubtless you will have a large bill for the Guildhall. Mine is being defrayed by the Court of Augmentations.’

  ‘By Rich.’

  ‘By the court. Because of their interest in the case. Well, it has been an interesting result.’ He removed his cap, made a mocking, exaggerated bow and walked on.

  ‘Next time it will be a fair fight,’ I shouted after him. ‘And I will beat you! I will best you yet, Bealknap!’ He did not turn.

  I WALKED UP Chancery Lane to Gray’s Inn, just the other side of Holborn. The rain still held off although the sky was grey and heavy. I asked for Garden Court at the porter’s lodge and was directed to a building on the other side of the courtyard. As I walked across, looking at the barristers going to and fro, I thought that Bernard Locke’s contact, the one he was to give the papers to, could be here – unless he had been taken. I went through the door and found myself in an outer office, where a plump little clerk looked up from his desk.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ I said. ‘Matthew Shardlake, from Lincoln’s Inn. I am seeking a brother who works in Garden Chambers. Martin Dakin.’

  The clerk sat upright. ‘Oh,’ he said. He looked surprised, then flustered.

  ‘You know the name?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but . . .’ He got up slowly, his eyes still on my face. ‘If you would wait a moment, perhaps you should speak to Brother Philips. Excuse me.’

  He went across to a door, knocked and went in. I stood waiting. Anxiety clawed at me. The clerk had looked startled, concerned. Has Dakin been taken in for questioning, I wondered. I looked around the room, its tables piled with papers tied up in pink ribbon. This was where Bernard Locke had practised too. I remembered that last sight of him in the Tower, his broken limbs and burned face, and shivered.

  The clerk reappeared in the doorway. ‘Brother Philips would like a word, sir.’ He stood aside to let me enter, looking relieved to be passing me on.

  Inside a room very like my own, a plump middle-aged barrister had risen from behind a desk. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes. He bowed, then looked at me with an expression of concern.

  ‘Brother Ralph Philips,’ he said. His accent revealed him as a man of the north.

  ‘Brother Matthew Shardlake, of Lincoln’s Inn.’

  ‘You are seeking Brother Martin Dakin?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do not think me impertinent, sir, but – might I ask your connection?’

  ‘I am a friend of his uncle, Brother Giles Wrenne of York. He fell out with his nephew years ago, and has come to London to put things right. I have been with the Progress in York. Brother Wrenne came back with me, he is at my house in Chancery Lane.’ I paused. ‘He is aged, and not well.’

  ‘Ah.’ Brother Philips sighed heavily.

  ‘What has happened?’ I asked, more sharply than I should. ‘Has he been taken for questioning about the northern conspiracy? I know there have been enquiries among the lawyers.’

  He gave me a keen look. ‘Yes, they have been here. We have all been questioned.’ He sighed again. ‘But no one has anything to hide, and certainly not Brother Dakin.’ He smiled, a strange sad smile.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Martin Dakin is dead, sir. He died the winter before last, from a congestion of the lungs.’

  ‘Oh no,’ I breathed. ‘Oh no, that is too hard.’ All Giles’s efforts, all his hopes, the journey that had taken such a toll on him. All for nothing.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’ Brother Philips came round his desk, looking concerned.

  ‘Yes. Forgive me. It was a shock. I had not expected . . .’ So that was what Locke had meant, in the Tower. Martin Dakin was safe because he was dead. And he had been using the past tense to refer to Dakin, not himself. I stifled a groan. Then a ray of hope struck me. ‘Had he a wife, any children?’

  ‘I fear not.’ Brother Philips shook his head. ‘He had no relatives I knew of, and I never heard mention of an uncle.’

  ‘They had fallen out.’ I looked at him. ‘So he had no one.’

  ‘Not that I know of. The Inn Treasurer took charge of his belongings when he died.’ He hesitated. ‘I should say, sir, Brother Dakin and I were not close.’

  ‘No.’

  Brother Philips hesitated. ‘He was a very strong reformer, brother, and not many in these chambers are.’

  ‘But I thought he was an arch-conservative.’

  ‘He was once. But he was won over by the evangelical preaching at a local church.’ Brother Philips smiled sadly again. ‘Many who were hot for one side have turned and became equally hot for the other. It has happened much these last few years.’

  ‘Yes, it has.’

  ‘But Brother Dakin was a good lawyer, and an honest man.’

  I nodded dumbly.

  ‘The Inn Treasurer would have made enquiries, seen to the disposition of his estate. If you enquire there . . .’

  ‘Yes. Yes, perhaps I should.’

  ‘Can I offer you some wine before you go, brother?’ He still looked concerned. ‘I see you have had a shock, perhaps you should sit down.’

  ‘No. No, I will go to the Treasurer. Thank you, brother, thank you for your help.’ I bowed and took my leave.

  What an irony, I thought. A reformer, the last person to want any connections to the northern conspiracy.

  THERE WAS A BENCH under a tree nearby. The wood was wet but I sat there nonetheless. Poor Wrenne, this would be a dreadful blow for him. I was glad, though, that I had come to Gray’s Inn; at least I could break the news gently to him, at home. I looked up as a big man in a lawyer’s robe passed by. Black beard, black hair. Surely it was Maleverer. Then the man’s features settled into those of a different, older man. He gave me a puzzled look and hurried inside.

  A drop of water landing on my hand brought me back to myself. The rain again. I got up. The wretched manacle was chafing at my wrist still. I rubbed it and checked to make sure the thing was out of sight, then enquired of a passing clerk where the Treasurer’s rooms might be found. I made my way across to them, doused yet again by pelting rain.

  The Treasurer was a tall, stooped man, suspicious of a barrister from another chambers come making enquiries. When I explained my mission, though, he became sympathetic and invited me into his comfortable rooms.

  ‘I am wary of all enquiries about members of the Inn these days,’ he told me.

  ‘Ah yes. The enquiries about the conspirators.’

  ‘Many barristers have been questioned in recent days. Robert Aske practised here, you know. God rot him and all these malcontents. Inns are for practising law, not conspiring against the King.’

  He led me through into an office where an elderly man sat working through papers. ‘Brother Gibbs would have dealt with the matter. He is retired from practice, but helps me out.’

  The old fellow rose and bowed, peering at me from behind thick-lensed spectacles. He looked almost as ancient as Brother Swann from Hull.

  ‘Brother Shardlake here is trying to trace relatives of a Brother Martin Dakin,’ the Treasurer told him. ‘He died the winter before last. He had no wife or children.’

  The old man nodded sagely. ‘Ah yes, I remember. The Inn administered the estate. Yes, it is sad when a brother dies without family. But he did have a relative, as I recall.’

  ‘He did?’ I said eagerly. I thought, even some bastard child would be better than nothing.

  The old man put a finger to his chin. ‘Yes, yes he had. I think so.’

  I controlled my impat
ience as Brother Gibbs began ferreting through a pile of papers on a shelf.

  ‘I will leave you, sir,’ the Treasurer said.

  ‘Yes, yes, thank you. I am obliged.’

  I turned to find Brother Gibbs holding up a packet of papers and smiling. ‘Here it is.’ He pulled out a will. ‘Martin Dakin, died the tenth of January 1540. At his request all his possessions were sold, and the proceeds, together with his savings – a goodly sum, I see –’ he scanned the will – ‘yes, he left fifty pounds to St Giles’ church in Cripplegate.’ He looked at me over his spectacles, disapproval on his face. ‘A very reforming church. Some say heretical.’

  ‘Yes, yes. And the rest?’

  ‘All to a single legatee.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘See for yourself, sir.’

  The old man handed me the will. I read the name of the legatee. My mouth fell open with shock.

  ‘This legatee claimed the property?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ The old man frowned. ‘All was done properly.’

  ‘I am sure it was.’

  And now I knew, I knew it all. Who had knocked me out at St Mary’s, who had helped Broderick to die. And the identity of the one who now held the documents that could topple the throne.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  THE RAIN WAS lashing down harder than ever, and I had to bend my head to stop the water running from my cap into my eyes as I walked back up Chancery Lane. When I left the Treasurer’s office I had returned to Lincoln’s Inn and gone to the library. I had sat there for hours, thinking, puzzling, while the short November afternoon deepened to dusk and lamps were lit along the tables. In the end I believed I had worked it all out. And then there was nothing left but to go home.

  It was quite dark as I walked down Chancery Lane with a heavy heart. Flickering squares of candlelight from house windows were reflected in puddles whose surfaces danced with raindrops. I pulled my coat tight about me, the wretched manacle digging into the raw wet skin of my wrist.

  I stumbled through my front door, dripping onto the rush matting. Joan was crossing the hall; she turned to look at me, shading her lamp. ‘Master Shardlake! You are soaked, sir! What rain, I fear what may be happening out in that orchard. Let me find you some clean clothes —’

  ‘No,’ I said, pulling off my sodden cap. I leaned against the door for a moment, breathing hard. ‘I am all right. Are Jack and Mistress Reedbourne in?’

  ‘Not yet, sir.’ She sniffed. ‘They said they would be back before dark, but I’ll warrant she’s made him find some warm tavern to cuddle in.’

  ‘Oh.’ I was taken aback; I had assumed they would have returned by now, that they would be here. I had been preparing what I would say.

  ‘Master Wrenne came down a little while ago,’ Joan said. ‘He asked for some food. I’ve taken him a pottage in the parlour.’

  I hesitated. The sensible thing to do would be to go upstairs and change. Then I shivered, suddenly and violently.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Joan asked, her face full of concern.

  ‘Just – tired.’

  ‘There is a good fire lit in the parlour.’

  ‘I can dry myself there.’ I forced a smile. ‘And I am hungry. ‘Thank you, Joan.’

  She looked at me doubtfully a moment longer, then went upstairs. I locked the front door; Barak had his own key and could let himself back in. I crossed to the parlour. I paused there, overcome with a weariness that seemed to drain what little energy I had left. Then I took a deep breath and opened the door.

  Giles was sitting at the table, supping Joan’s good pottage. A large bowl steamed on the table. In the candlelight his face looked tired, seamed with deeper lines as his face grew slowly thinner. He looked up at me with concern.

  ‘Matthew! You look half drowned. You will catch an ague.’

  ‘The rain has come on heavy again.’

  ‘I know. Will it never end?’ He gestured to the black squares of the window, against which we could hear it pattering. ‘I think Barak and young Tamasin are still out in it.’

  I went and stood with my back to the roaring fire, feeling it warm my legs.

  ‘Did you speak to them at Lincoln’s Inn?’ he asked. ‘Will they dig the trench?’

  ‘Yes, it took some argument but they promised.’

  ‘There is steam rising from your clothes. You should change. You look exhausted, you will catch a fever.’

  ‘I must eat before I do anything else.’

  ‘Here, have some pottage.’

  I took a plate from the buffet, filled it from the bowl and sat opposite him. But after all I did not feel like eating. ‘Are you feeling better?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’ He smiled, that sad heavy smile. ‘It comes and goes, just as with my father. For now I feel almost my old self, except for . . .’ He patted the place where his lump grew, and grimaced. I nodded. ‘Is there any more news about the Queen?’ he asked.

  ‘She is taken.’

  He shook his big head sadly. I looked at him. I needed Barak and Tamasin back, Barak at least, before I spoke. Yet somehow I could not hold back. ‘I took it on myself to walk to Gray’s Inn, Giles. I wanted to seek out Martin Dakin.’

  Giles stopped with the spoon halfway to his mouth. ‘You should not have done that,’ he said slowly. ‘Without my permission.’

  ‘It was to help you.’

  ‘Did you find him?’

  ‘I found he died near two years ago.’

  He laid down his spoon. ‘Dead?’ he whispered. He sat back in his chair. His shoulders slumped and his face sagged. ‘Martin is dead?’

  And then I said quietly, ‘I think you know he is. I think you knew before I came to York. I remember you saying once a good lawyer needs to be a good actor. I think you have been acting since the day we met.’

  He frowned, then looked outraged. ‘How can you say such a thing, Matthew? How —’

  ‘I will tell you. I went to Dakin’s old chambers. They told me he died from an illness two winters ago. Wifeless and childless. They said I should go to the Treasurer, who dealt with his estate. So I did, and found he had left everything to you. His money was sent to you in York, and you signed a receipt for it in March of 1540, eighteen months ago. I saw it.’

  ‘Some imposter —’

  ‘No. I saw the signature. It was yours; I saw it enough times when we were dealing with the petitions. Come, Giles,’ I added impatiently. ‘I have been a lawyer near twenty years. Do you think I would not know a forged hand?’

  He stared at me, a fierce look in his eyes I had never seen before. ‘Matthew,’ he said, a tremor in his voice, ‘you are my good friend but you wound me. It is the strain of your time in the Tower. This is some imposter, someone got hold of the Inns’ letter and pretended to be me. I remember, I had a clerk then I had to dismiss for dishonesty. From a distance of two hundred miles it is easy to pretend to be someone you are not.’

  ‘To hide your true identity. Yes, you would know.’

  He did not reply then, only sat very still, looking at me intently. He started to play with the big emerald ring on his finger. A drop of water ran down my neck, making me shiver. He was right, I risked a fever. The crackling of the fire and the hissing of the rain against the window seemed unnaturally loud. I thought I heard the outside door open, but it was only a creak somewhere in the house. Where were Barak and Tamasin?

  ‘I went from the Treasurer’s office to the Lincoln’s Inn library,’ I continued. ‘I have been there hours. Working it out.’

  Still he did not speak.

  ‘You invented the story of wishing to reconcile with Martin Dakin to get me to help you to London. Was there ever a quarrel between you? There must have been,’ I answered myself, ‘for old Madge knew of it, though not that Martin had died and left you his estate.’

  ‘We were never reconciled,’ he said quietly then. ‘What I told you about our quarrel was true. Despite it he left me everything when he died. I was his only living relative, you see. Fam
ily. How important it is.’ He sighed, a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his big frame. ‘I did not tell Madge that Martin had died and left me everything, nor anyone else in York. I was too ashamed.’ He looked at me. ‘And yet that served me well; I could tell you he was still alive, no one else knew otherwise.’

  I said, still speaking slowly and quietly, ‘The question puzzling me was, why did you want to come to London, now when you knew you were dying? It had to be something very important. Then I remembered when it was you first mentioned coming here. It was after I was knocked out at King’s Manor. It was you who knocked me out, was it not? You took the papers. To bring to your fellow conspirators in London.’

  Still he said nothing, only continued staring at me. I had had a strange notion that when I confronted him Giles’s face would change, take on some monstrous aspect, but it was still my friend’s lined strong old face that looked back at me; only more watchful and somehow more vulnerable than I had ever seen it before.

  ‘That day you rescued Barak and me from the mob outside Oldroyd’s house, had you come to fetch the box?’ I laughed bitterly. ‘It must have been a shock when it fell out from under my robe. You hid that well, as you have hidden so much since.’

  He spoke then. ‘I did rescue you. Do not forget that as you judge me.’

  ‘And meanwhile, Mistress Jennet Marlin was on a mission of her own, from Bernard Locke, that you had not known about. So when you found that out at Howlme beacon, you killed her before she could reveal that it was not she who had taken the papers.’

  ‘I saved you from her too.’

  ‘For your own ends. You always had the papers she sought, no doubt you have them still. In my house.’

  Giles sighed then, a sigh that seemed to shake his big body from head to toe. ‘I always saw you as a friend, Matthew,’ he said quietly. ‘It grieved me to lie to you and I would never have hurt you. I never intended to kill you at King’s Manor, only knock you out, and I never harmed you afterwards, though I could have, many times. I took a gamble that you spoke true when you said you had not read the papers. I – it wasn’t —’