C. Sansom - Lamentation

I let him in. On that score at least I had nothing to fear; I had burned all my newly forbidden books and there was nothing concerning the hunt for the Lamentation in the house. He sent one of his men upstairs with me to watch me as I dressed; my fingers trembled as I secured buttons and aiglets. I tried to calm myself and think. Who had done this, and why? Was this part of some new plot against Queen Catherine? When I had been imprisoned in the Tower of London five years before, on treason charges manufactured by Richard Rich, Archbishop Cranmer had rescued me; could the Queen save me now? I put on my summer robe, laid out as usual last night by Martin, and stepped to the door.

My servants were still standing in the hall, Josephine with her arm round a weeping Timothy. It was to her, not my steward, that I instinctively turned. I grasped her hand and said urgently, ‘Go at once to Jack Barak’s house and tell him what has happened. You remember where it is? You have taken messages there.’

Though her own hands were shaking she composed herself. ‘I will, sir, at once.’

‘Thank you.’ I turned to the constable, trying to muster a shred of dignity. ‘Then let us start, fellow. I take it we are to walk.’

‘Yes.’ Leach spoke severely, as though I were already convicted.

Martin Brocket spoke up then, in reproving tones. ‘Master Shardlake should be allowed to ride. A gentleman should not be led through the streets of London like a common fellow. It is not fitting.’ He seemed far more concerned by the breach of etiquette than the arrest itself.

‘Our instructions are to bring him on foot.’

‘There is no help for it, Martin,’ I said mildly. I turned to Leach. ‘Let us go.’

We walked through the streets; thankfully few people were out and about yet, though a few stared fearfully at us as we passed, Leach in his constable’s uniform in front, a bulky armed fellow each side of me. The arrest of a gentleman, a senior lawyer, was a rare thing; it did no harm for it to be seen in public, a reminder that everyone, regardless of rank and status, was subservient to the King.

We entered the Tower by the main gate. The constable left me with a pair of red-uniformed Tower guards, the edges of their halberds honed to razor sharpness, the rising sun glinting on the polished steel of their helmets. I remembered the twist of fear I had felt when I entered here a few weeks ago with Lord Parr, to see Walsingham. Now the fate dreaded by all, being brought here a prisoner, had befallen me again. The ground seemed to sway under my feet as they led me across the manicured lawn of the inner courtyard towards the White Tower. Far off I heard a roaring and yelping from the Tower menagerie; the animals were being fed.

I pulled myself together and turned to the nearest guard, an enormously tall, well-built young fellow with fair hair under his steel helmet. ‘What is to happen now?’ I asked.

‘Sir Edmund wishes to see you.’

I felt a little hope. Walsingham was a friend of Lord Parr; perhaps I could get a message to him.’

I was marched through the Great Hall, then upstairs. Sir Edmund was engaged and I had to wait nearly an hour in a locked anteroom overlooking the summer lawn, sitting on a hard bench trying to gather my scattered wits. Then another guard appeared, saying brusquely that Sir Edmund was ready.

The elderly Constable of the Tower sat behind his desk. He looked at me sternly, fingering the ends of his white beard.

‘I am sorry to see you again in such circumstances, Master Shardlake,’ he said.

‘Sir Edmund,’ I answered, ‘I am no heretic. I do not know what is happening, but I must inform Lord Parr that I am here.’

He spoke impatiently. ‘Lord Parr cannot interfere in this, nor anyone else. You are brought by the authority of the King’s Privy Council, to answer questions from them. Lord Parr is not a member of the council.’

I said desperately, ‘The Queen’s brother, the Earl of Essex, is. And I was with the Queen but four days ago. I am innocent of all wrongdoing.’

Sir Edmund sighed and shook his head. ‘I had you brought here to me first as a matter of courtesy, to tell you where you will be spending today and tonight, not to listen to your pleas. Leave those for the council. My authority comes from them, under the seal of Secretary Paget.’

I shut my eyes for a second. Walsingham added, in gentler tones, ‘Best to compose yourself, prepare for the council’s questions tomorrow. As for tonight, you will be held in a comfortable cell, together with the others who will answer accusations with you.’

I looked at him blankly. ‘What others? Who?’

He glanced at the paper on his desk. ‘Philip Coleswyn, lawyer, and Edward Cotterstoke, merchant.’

So, I thought, this is Isabel’s doing. But her harebrained ravings were surely not enough to have us brought before the council. Then I remembered Philip’s fears that he was already under suspicion, and that Edward Cotterstoke was also a radical. Walsingham continued, ‘You may have food and drink brought. Is there anyone you wish to send for?’

‘I have already sent word to my assistant that I am — taken.’

‘Very well,’ he said neutrally. ‘I hope for your sake that you acquit yourself satisfactorily tomorrow.’ He nodded to the guard and made a note on his paper, and I was led away.

They took me back through the Great Hall, then again downstairs, to those dank underground chambers. The same loud clink of heavy keys, the same heavily barred door creaking open, and I was led by the arm into the central vestibule, where Howitson, the big man with the untidy straggling beard, sat behind his overlarge desk. The guards gave him my name and left me in his care. He looked at me, raising his eyebrows in puzzlement for a moment at the sight of a recent visitor returned as a prisoner, before quickly adopting the blank mask of authority again. I thought of the guard Myldmore, who from what Lord Parr had said would soon be smuggled out of the country. I wondered what Howitson made of his employee’s disappearance.

He called for a couple of guards and two more men appeared from the direction of the cells. ‘Master Shardlake, to be kept till tomorrow, to go before the council. Put him with the others in the special cell for prisoners of rank.’

I knew who had occupied that cell recently; Myldmore had told me. Anne Askew.

I was led down a short, stone-flagged corridor. One of the guards opened the barred door of the cell, the other led me inside. The cell was as Myldmore had described it, with a table and two chairs, but this time there were three decent beds with woollen coverlets, not one — they must have put in the other two when they heard three were to be brought in. The chamber, though, held the clammy, damp stink of the dungeons, and was lit only by a high barred window. I looked at the bare flagstones and thought how Mistress Askew had lain there in agony after her torture.

Two men lay silent on the beds. Philip Coleswyn got up at once. He was in his robe; the shirt collar above his doublet untied, his normally neat brown hair and beard untidy. Edward Cotterstoke turned to look at me but did not rise. At the inspection of the painting I had marked his resemblance to his sister, not only physically but in his haughty, angry manner. Today, though, he looked frightened, and more than that, haunted. He was dressed only in his shirt and hose. From those protuberant blue eyes, so like Isabel’s, he regarded me with a lost, hopeless stare. Behind me the door slammed shut and a key turned.

Philip said, ‘Dear Heaven, Matthew! I heard you were being brought in. Isabel Slanning must have done this — ’

‘What have they told you?’

‘Only that we are to appear before the Privy Council tomorrow, on heresy charges. I was taken by the constable at dawn, as was Master Cotterstoke.’