C. Sansom - Lamentation

Lord Parr raised his hands. ‘The pieces all fit.’

Cranmer smiled, more warmly this time. ‘Those left behind did not look pleased to hear the news at the council table. I think Bertano’s mission has failed at the start.’ There was satisfaction in his voice, relief too.

I said, ‘But there remains the Lamentation .’

‘There is nothing more to be done about that,’ Lord Parr said bluntly. ‘Except hope that whoever stole it realizes they have squandered their chance, that the Catholic cause is lost, and — forgive me, Kate — that they dispose of it.’ He added, ‘The King will not turn his policy again.’

Cranmer shook his head emphatically. ‘With the King, that can never be ruled out. But I agree, the trail on the book is quite cold.’

I looked at the Queen. ‘Believe me, your majesty, I wish I had been able to recover it. I am sorry.’

‘God’s wounds,’ Lord Parr said abruptly. ‘You did your best, even if it wasn’t good enough. And now, all that remains is for you to keep quiet.’

‘I swear I will, my Lord.’

Cranmer said, ‘Your efforts to serve her majesty will not be forgotten.’

It was a dismissal. I adjusted my posture a little, so I could bow to them without pain, for I was still suffering from when Nicholas had thrown me to the ground, to save me from the man with the gun. But the Queen rose from her chair. ‘Matthew, before you go I would talk a little with you again. Come, you have seen my Privy Gallery, but not by daylight. Let us walk there. Mary Odell can accompany us.’ She nodded to Cranmer and Lord Parr, who bowed low. I followed the Queen as she walked to the door, silk skirts rustling.

With daylight coming in through the high windows, showing the gorgeous colours to full effect, the Queen’s Privy Gallery was magnificent. The little birds in their cages hopped and sang. The Queen walked slowly along; I kept a respectful pace or two away, while Mary Odell, summoned from the gallery, brought up the rear. The expression on her plump face was neutral, but her eyes were watchful, I saw, as I glanced back.

The Queen halted before an alcove in which a jewelled box was set atop a marble pillar. Within were coins of gold and silver, showing portraits of long-dead kings and emperors. Some were worn almost smooth, others bright as though new-minted. She stirred them with a long finger. ‘Ancient coins have always interested me. They remind us we are but specks of dust amid the ages.’ Carefully, she picked up a gold coin. ‘The Emperor Constantine, who brought Christianity to the Roman Empire. It was found near Bristol some years ago.’ She lifted her head and looked out of the window; it gave on to the Thames bank below the palace, exposed now as the tide ebbed. I followed her gaze, my eye drawn to a heap of rubbish from the palace that had been thrown onto the mud: discarded vegetable leaves, bones, a pig’s head. Gulls swooped over it, pecking and screaming. The Queen turned away. ‘Let us try the view on the other side,’ she said.

We crossed the gallery. The opposite window looked down on another of the small lawned courtyards between the buildings. Two men I recognized were walking and talking there. One was Bishop Gardiner, solidly built, red-faced, dressed again in a white silk cassock. The other, younger man was sturdy, dark-bearded, saturnine: John Dudley, Lord Lisle, who had commanded the King’s naval forces at Portsmouth last year. His defensive strategy had done much to ward off invasion. So the other senior councillor who favoured the radicals was back from his mission abroad. All the chess pieces were in place now. Gardiner, I saw, was talking animatedly, his heavy face for once wearing a civil expression. Something in their postures suggested Gardiner was on the defensive. Lord Lisle inclined his head. This, I thought, was how the real power-play went: conversations in corners and gardens, nods, shrugs, inclinations of the head. But nothing in writing.

The Queen joined me. An expression of distaste and fear, quickly suppressed, crossed her face at the sight of Gardiner.

‘Lord Lisle is back,’ I observed.

‘Yes. Another ally. I wonder what they are discussing.’ She sighed and stepped away from the window, then looked at me and spoke seriously. ‘I wanted you to know, Matthew, the depth of my gratitude for the help you have given. I sense it has cost you much. And my uncle can be — less than appreciative. But all he does is for my interest.’

‘I know.’

‘It looks as though my book will never be found. It saddens me to think it may be on some rubbish tip, for all it may be safer there. It was my confession of faith, you see, my acknowledgement that I am a sinner, like everyone, but through prayer in the Bible I found my way to Christ.’ She sighed. ‘Though even my faith has not protected me from terrible fear these last months.’ She bit her lip, hesitated, then said, ‘Perhaps you thought me disloyal, earlier, for repeating words spoken to me by the King. But — we needed to know what this visit from abroad signifies.’

I ventured a smile. ‘Mayhap a turn in fortune for you, your majesty, if the meeting went badly.’

‘Perhaps.’ She was silent again, then said with sudden intensity, ‘The King — you do not know how he suffers. He is in constant pain, sometimes he near swoons with it, yet always, always, he must keep up the facade.’

I dared to say, ‘As must you, your majesty.’

‘Yes. Despite my fear.’ She swallowed nervously.

I remembered what Lord Parr had said about how the King might react to disloyalty. For all that the Queen revered her husband, her fear of him over these last months must have been an unimaginable burden. I felt a clutch at my heart that she so valued me as to unburden herself thus. I said, ‘I can only imagine how hard it must have been for you, your majesty.’

She frowned. ‘And always, always there are people ready to whisper poison in the King’s ear — ’

Mary Odell, perhaps concerned the Queen was saying too much, approached us. ‘Your majesty,’ she said. ‘You asked me to remind you to take these to the King when you see him. They were found down the side of a chair in his Privy Chamber.’ She had produced a pair of wood-framed spectacles from the folds of her dress, and held them out to the Queen.

‘Ah yes,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Mary.’ The Queen turned to me. ‘The King needs glasses now to read. He is always losing them.’ She tucked the spectacles away, then began walking down the gallery again. ‘The court will be moving from Whitehall next week,’ she said, more brightly. ‘The French admiral is to be received first at Greenwich and then at Hampton Court, so everything is to be moved.’ She waved a hand. ‘All this packed up, transported by boat, set out again in a new place. The Privy Council meeting in a new chamber. With Lisle and Hertford both present,’ she added with a note of satisfaction.

I ventured, ‘I saw Lord Hertford with his brother Sir Thomas Seymour at the palace last time I came.’

‘Yes. Thomas is back, too.’ She looked me in the eye. ‘You do not like him, I know.’

‘I fear his impulsiveness, your majesty.’

She waved a dismissive hand. ‘He is not impulsive, just a man of strong feeling.’

I did not reply. There was a brief, awkward silence, then she changed the subject. ‘You have knowledge of portraiture, Matthew. What was your opinion of the picture of my stepdaughter?’

‘Very fine. It shows the coming substance of her character.’

She nodded. ‘Yes. Prince Edward, too, is a child, well advanced for his years. There are those in my family who hope that one day I may be appointed Regent when he comes to the throne, as I was when the King went to France two years ago. If so, I would try to do well by all.’