C. Sansom - Lamentation

‘There is a surfeit of secrets in this world,’ I said, angrily now. ‘And stable-boys spying on their masters can cause grave trouble. Had you heard of the King’s proclamation?’

He looked frightened. ‘What proclamation, sir? I know only that all must obey his commands.’

‘He recently made a proclamation forbidding ownership of certain books. I had some, and that was what I burned. In the garden, that day.’

‘I–I didn’t know they were forbidden, sir.’

Standing there, the boy looked pathetic. And the thought came to me, he is but thirteen, and thirteen-year-olds are nosy. I asked, very quietly, ‘Who did you tell, Timothy?’

He hung his head. ‘Nobody, sir, nobody. Only when Master and Mistress Brocket came back, Mistress Brocket said something had been burned in her vegetable garden, it looked like papers. Master Brocket went and stirred them round, brought back a few unburned pieces. I was in the kitchen. I saw him. He knew I had been alone here that afternoon, sir, and he asked who had been burning papers. He said he would strike me if I lied, so I told him it was you.’

‘Martin,’ I said heavily. So, Josephine had been right about him all along. And he was not just a thief, he meant to do me harm. ‘You let me down, Timothy,’ I said sternly. ‘I shall talk with you again. But first,’ I added grimly, ‘I must speak to Martin.’

He called after me, ‘I didn’t mean for anything to happen to you, sir, I swear. If I had known you might be arrested — ’ His voice rose to a howl behind me as I walked away to the house.

Martin Brocket was in the dining room, polishing the silver, running a cloth round a large dish which had belonged to my father. He regarded me, as usual, with cold eyes and a humble smile. ‘God give you good afternoon, sir.’ Evidently he had decided, with deferential tact, not to refer to my arrest at all.

‘Put that down, Martin,’ I said coldly. The shadow of an emotion, perhaps fear, crossed his face as he laid the silver dish back on the table. ‘I have been talking to Timothy. Apparently the boy told you he saw me burning books in the garden.’

I discerned only the slightest hesitation, then Martin answered smoothly, ‘Yes, sir. Agnes saw the burned papers and I asked Timothy about it. I thought he might have been up to mischief.’

‘Somebody has,’ I answered flatly. ‘I was questioned about those burned books at the Privy Council this morning.’

He stood stock-still, the cloth still in his hands. I continued, ‘Nobody knew what I had done, save the friend who was questioned with me.’ Still Martin stood like a statue. He had no answer. ‘Who did you tell?’ I asked sharply. ‘Who did you betray me to? And why?’

He laid the cloth on the buffet with a hand that had suddenly begun to tremble. His face had paled. He asked, ‘May I sit down?’

‘Yes,’ I answered curtly.

‘I have always been a faithful servant to my employers,’ he said quietly. ‘Stewardship is an honourable calling. But my son — ’ his face worked for a moment — ‘he is in gaol.’

‘I know that. I found Agnes crying one day.’ He frowned at that, but I pressed him. ‘What has that to do with what you did?’

He took a deep breath. ‘Rogue though I know my son John is, I feared he might die for lack of food and care in that gaol if I did not send him money, and I could only get him out of it by paying off his debtors.’ His eyes were suddenly bright with anguish and fear.

‘Go on.’

‘It was in early April, not very long after Agnes and I came to work for you. John had had a fever of the lungs in that vile place last winter, and nearly died. We were at our wits’ end.’

‘You could have come to me.’

‘It is for me to care for Agnes and John — me!’ Martin’s voice rose unexpectedly, on a note of angry pride. ‘I would not go running to you, my master, soft though I saw you were with Josephine and the boy.’ There was a note of contempt in his voice now. There, I thought, that was why he disliked me. He had an iron view of the place and responsibilities of servants and masters. It had led him to betray me rather than ask for help.

He pulled himself together, lowering his voice again. ‘I had arranged to have what money I could scrape together delivered to John in prison by a merchant of Leicester who travels between there and London, and who knew my story.’ He took a long breath. ‘One day, as I was leaving his London office, a man accosted me. A gentleman, a fair-haired young fellow wearing expensive clothes.’

I stared at him. ‘Was he missing half an ear by chance?’

Martin looked startled. ‘You know him?’

‘Unfortunately I do. What name did he give?’

‘Crabtree.’

‘That is not his real name. What did he say?’

‘That he was an acquaintance of the merchant, had heard of my son’s trouble and might be in a position to help. I was puzzled. I know there are many tricksters in the city, but he was well-dressed and well-spoken, a gentleman. He took me to a tavern. Then he said he represented someone who would pay well for information about you.’

‘Go on.’ Martin closed his eyes, and I shouted, ‘Tell me!’

‘He wanted me to report your movements generally, but especially if you had any contact with the Queen’s household. Or any radical reformers.’ He bowed his head.

I persisted. ‘And this was in April?’

‘Yes. I remember the day well,’ he added bitterly. For the first time he looked ashamed.

I ran my hands through my hair. Stice, the servant of Richard Rich who I had reluctantly worked with, had been spying on me since the spring. But as I thought it through, it began to make sense. April was when the hunt for heretics linked to the Queen was getting going. Rich knew I had worked for her; if he was able to link me to religious radicals, he might be able to incriminate her by association. This could have been a small part of his and Gardiner’s campaign to destroy her. But of course he would have found nothing. Then, after the campaign against the Queen failed in July, and Rich found me hunting for Greening’s murderers — and, as he thought, Anne Askew’s book — he could easily have switched from spying on me to using me.

Yet it did not add up: I had not burned my books till the end of July, when Stice and I were already working together, and if it was actually Rich who brought that matter to the Privy Council, then why had he helped me today, when it was likely to bring him into bad odour with Gardiner? But the paths Rich followed were so sinuous, it could all still be part of some larger plan. I had thought him sincere this morning, but Rich could never, ever be trusted. I had to talk this through with Barak.

Martin was looking at me now, a twitch at the corner of his mouth. ‘Crabtree gave me the money I needed to start to pay down the debts. But only little by little, and all the while the interest was mounting. Agnes, she was at the end of her tether.’

‘I know.’

‘And Crabtree kept demanding information.’ Brocket looked at me in a sort of desperate appeal. ‘I was bound to him, he could expose what I had done, if he chose.’

‘That is the problem with being a spy. Where did you meet?’

‘In a house, a poor place, barely furnished. I think it was used for business.’

‘In Needlepin Lane?’

He shook his head. ‘No, sir, it was at Smithfield, hard by St Bartholomew’s Hospital.’

‘Exactly where?’

‘In a little lane off Griffin Street. Third house down, with a blue door and a Tudor rose above the porch.’

It did not surprise me that Rich kept more than one place for secret meetings. He owned half the houses round St Bartholomew’s.

‘I suppose Agnes and I must go now, sir,’ Martin said quietly.