by C. J. Sansom
'Thank you, my lord, but all I want is a peaceful life. My work at the Court of Requests. Trying to organize a hospital for the poor subscribed by the Lincoln's Inn lawyers.'
'My brother Thomas is shortly to leave England, to take up his position as ambassador to the Spanish Netherlands. I know he was cruel to you. I am sorry. You would not have to see him again.'
'I can take jibes. I have taken enough in my life. That does not matter.'
He inclined his head in acknowledgement. 'I too am keenly interested in bettering the lot of the poor. It has been harsh indeed in these last years. I may be able to help you with your plans. My patronage could be useful to you in many ways, as your skills could be to me.'
'I am sorry, my lord, but I'm not fitted for a public life, for the harsh decisions people feel they must make.'
He gave me a long, hard look, then nodded.
'Well,' he said quietly. 'You been through much of late. You need time to recuperate. But think of what I have said.'
'Coroner Harsnet would have drowned me,' I said. 'I thought he might visit me, but he has not.'
'I am sure he did not decide lightly to open those gates.'
'I am sure he decided it was God's will. Were the houses in the square flooded?'
'Some were, yes.'
'How was Harsnet so sure we were down there?' I asked curiously.
'The bolt in the hatch leading to the sewer had not been closed properly, though Cantrell thought it had. We could see someone had gone down there. But Master Shardlake, if Harsnet and his men had come down there after you, Cantrell would surely have killed you before they reached him.'
'There was a chance of that, yes. But Harsnet must have known that letting that great flood go would kill both of us. It was sheer chance I managed to press myself into an alcove, and that the water level fell before I drowned.'
'The coroner felt it was necessary.'
'My lord, it is these necessary things which those who work at Whitehall do, that mean I will remain a lawyer.'
He got up, defeated for now. I wondered if he would be back. He was an ambitious man; he was building up a network of people under his patronage. A principled man, too, as Cromwell had been. But Lord Hertford, capable as he was, would never be another Cromwell, for he indulged weaknesses, like his affection for his brother.
'How is your man Barak?'
'He is all right. He was struck a nasty blow, but his head is thick.'
'I would like to see him before I go. To thank him, from the Archbishop too.'
I called Joan to fetch Barak. He arrived looking pale, hollow- eyed. He bowed deeply to Lord Hertford, who thanked him for all his efforts. 'I have been trying to persuade your master to work for me,' he said. 'There would be a place for you, too, as his assistant. I could promise you an exciting life. See if you can persuade him.' Lord Hertford rose, bowed deeply to both of us and left the room. As his footsteps faded down the stairs, Barak turned to me. 'Persuade you my arse,' he said. 'I've lost enough myself this time.'
'I know,' I said sympathetically.
We had returned from the Charterhouse to find Tamasin's things gone, a note for Barak. The old friend she had gone to when she left had been employed in the late Queen Catherine Howard's privy kitchen. Tamasin had been working with her, helping to prepare the sweetmeats Queen Catherine loved, when Barak and I met her in York two years before. Barak had refused to show me her note, but had told me Tamasin had been offered her old job; now the King was to marry Catherine Parr a new Queen's Household was to be established and the chamberlain was looking for experienced servants. Tamasin had taken the post, and the accommodation at Whitehall that went with it. She said she felt she and Barak needed time apart, and asked him not to contact her. He had been struck to the heart, and it had taken much persuasion to prevent him from going down to Whitehall. He had agreed to wait a little before contacting her, though now she was gone he realized he wanted her with him more than anything.
'Can we get back to work soon; he asked. 'I need something to occupy my mind.'
'In a few days, Jack. First there are two people I must go and see.'
BY THE END OF the week I was up and about again, albeit still stiff and sore. I sent Barak to inform the Court of Requests that I could return to work the following Monday, and he returned with a sheaf of new cases. It was a pleasure to read them, to feel my old life returning. But on the Sunday before I went back to work I saddled up Genesis and rode into town.
It was to Guy's that I went first. It was the twenty-second of April, four weeks to the day since Roger died and the horrors began. I rode through London on a quiet, peaceful spring Sunday. Even the grimy city felt clean and bright, the greys and browns of the streets relieved by patches of green from the trees in the churchyards, for the mixture of warm weather and rain we had had recently had brought fast growth everywhere.
I had guessed Guy would be home on Sunday afternoon, after going to church in the morning, perhaps studying. I had heard nothing from him in ten days, though I had sent him a note from my bed saying the killer had been discovered and was dead.
As I tied Genesis to the rail outside Guy's shop, my heart was full of trepidation. What if he rejected me, told me our long friendship was over; I stepped to the door of the shop, and was surprised to find it was ajar. I heard voices coming from the back room, voices I recognized. I entered the shop quietly, treading carefully towards the half-open inner door. I saw Guy's copy of Vesalius lying shut on the table.
Piers' voice from the inner room was low, but sharp as a file. 'You old black bastard, if that lawyer reports me for theft I could fucking hang—'
'He won't—'
'How do you know; And now I'm reduced to being a beggar, living among the lowest dregs, running at the sight of a constable—'
'No one is hunting you, Piers.' Guy's voice sounded unutterably weary. Then he added, 'Why did you steal from me;'
'Why not; Apprentices get paid a pittance and I worked my balls off for you.'
'You could have asked for more.'
'I wasn't going to stay with you, anyway. I was going to find another position and the money would come in useful.' He laughed, cruelly. 'I was sick of your pathetic whining about how I should have more sympathy for people.'
I stepped silently to the inner door, wishing Barak was with me.
'I tried to teach you some moral sense,' I heard Guy say, his voice near breaking. 'To be a good man.'
'While I did your dirty work, cleaning up the mess left when you opened up stinking bodies. And I knew you would like to open up my body, my arse anyway—'
'Never . . .' There was distress in Guy's voice now.
'I want money. I want all you have. Then you will write me a reference, I am going north to find a new place.'
'I will give you money, Piers. But a reference, never.' Guy's answer was firm.
'Then I'll cut your heart open, see if your blood is brown like your face—'
I drew my dagger from its sheath and pushed the door wide open. 'No, Piers,' I said quietly. 'That you will not do.'
I saw that Guy was sitting on a stool, his back against the wall. Piers held a long knife to his chest. The boy's face, so often mild and expressionless, was red and twisted with anger. It was also smeared with the dirt of the streets; the handsome well-dressed apprentice looked very different now. His eyes widened with fear as I entered, then narrowed again as he saw I was alone.
'Not got your bodyguard with you today, hunchback:' he asked. 'I'll do for you as well, and it will be a pleasure.'
'No. If you strike at Guy, I swear to God you will not leave here alive. Guy is right, you are under no threat. He took back the silver you stole and which I found; there is no evidence against you. Go now, get out of here and never come back. I promise you that is the best offer you will get this side of the grave.'
I felt utterly focused, full of cold anger. Having faced Cantrell, this nasty little creature seemed like nothing. My tone and t
he way I stared firmly into his stony, lifeless eyes must have made an impression, for Piers lowered his knife.
'Step away from the door, then,' he said.
'Throw the knife down first.'
He hesitated, then laid it on Guy's workbench. I stood away from the door and he walked past me, into the shop. There he bent quickly, lifted the copy of Vesalius and ran out of the door. His footsteps disappeared up the street. Guy took a long, shuddering breath.
'Thank you,' he said. 'I am not sure that he would have killed me, I do not think he had the courage for that. But I am glad it was not put to the test. Thank you.' 'He has your Vesalius.'
'Yes, he will get a good price for it. Well, I shall put the money he stole and you returned towards buying another.'
'I was not sure if it was wise to come,' I said. 'I am very glad I did.'
He nodded. I saw his brown hands, lying in his lap, were shaking. 'Piers knocked at the door an hour ago,' he said slowly. 'When I answered he pushed his way in, then drew his knife and brought me in here. Always when he worked for me he would smile, be quiet and deferential. But his face and voice today — the coldness, the anger.' He shook his head. 'I am sorry I did not contact you, Matthew, but I was still angry. You should have come to me first. I would have agreed to his being questioned, you know.'
'I am sorry.'
Guy smiled faintly. 'Well, I think today you have more than made up for it.' He lifted a hand. 'Take that stool there,' he said. 'I do not feel quite able to get up yet.'
When I had seated myself he looked at me silently for a long moment. Then he asked, 'Cantrell is dead?'
'Yes.'
'Tell me what happened, how it ended. If you feel able to.'
He sat listening as I told him about the siege of Goddard's house, my realization that Cantrell was the killer; the desperate hours in the sewers underneath Catherine Parr's house.
'I had not realized you had been tested so terribly,' he said quietly when I had finished. 'And you must let me look at your back before you leave.'
'I would be grateful. It still pains me. What was Cantrell, Guy? He killed seven people to fulfil the prophecy of the vials of wrath, two more along the way and, perhaps, his own father too. I think of him at Roger and Dorothy's lodgings, repairing that frieze, perhaps alone with her. Managing to seem like a normal human being. It chills my blood. I have been lying in bed, thinking and thinking, and I cannot fathom why he did those things. At the end he seemed confused, deranged, wild - not the calculating creature I expected. But he was not possessed, he genuinely believed he was doing God's work.'
'I do not know what he was,' Guy said quietly. 'I wish I did. No more than I know who Gilles de Rais truly was, or Strodyr. Some wild disturbance happened in their minds, made them less like humans than ravening beasts. Perhaps one day study will enable us to understand those darkest corners of the human mind which they inhabited. Perhaps not.'
'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 begga
rs 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.'
