C. Sansom - Lamentation

‘I look only to rent one, for a week.’

The man stared. ‘Rent?’ He shook his head. ‘People are expected to wear their own chains on such an occasion, of a size in accordance with their status. To rent one — ’ he shook his head sadly — ‘that might be thought shameful among your colleagues, if it got out.’

‘So it would,’ I agreed. ‘That is why I asked my clerk here to find a goldsmith who rented chains discreetly.’

‘Best look one out and save time,’ Barak told the goldsmith cheerfully. ‘I know you rent them for a good price.’

That got the goldsmith moving: he went into the back room and returned with a heavy chain with large, solid links. It was a little dirty, but gold is easily cleaned. I wrote a note confirming receipt, paid over a half-sovereign as deposit, and asked Barak to put the chain in his knapsack.

‘Don’t you want to wear it?’ he asked mockingly.

‘Not till I have to.’

I had agreed to go down to Greenwich with Barak, Tamasin and Nicholas on Friday, to watch Admiral d’Annebault’s arrival. He would be welcomed by the King and stay the night at Greenwich Palace before his procession through London on Saturday. Going to see this would help me get used to it all, before playing my, mercifully small, part later.

The four of us met at Temple Stairs. There were many people waiting for wherries and tilt-boats to take them downriver; mostly family groups in their best clothes, for the day had been declared a public holiday. One young man stood alone, his expression grave; he had only one leg and stood on crutches. I wondered if he had been a soldier in the war.

Our turn came and a tilt-boat, with a white canopy to shield us from the sun, took us down the busy river. Even the boatman was dressed cheerfully, a garland of flowers in his cap. Tamasin sat under the canopy with Barak, Nicholas and me on the bench opposite, Nicholas wearing a broad hat against the sun. I had on my robe, but no chain.

Tamasin looked cheerfully out over the brown water. ‘I wonder if we shall get close enough to see the King. They distributed a leaflet giving the details. He will be on the royal barge just below Greenwich, and the admiral’s barge will pull up beside it for the King to welcome him aboard.’

I looked at her. Her time of sickness was over and she was blooming. She wore the dress she had worn at George’s birthday, yellow with a bonnet, a little ruby brooch at her breast. She met my gaze and leaned over, putting her hand on mine. ‘I know this will be hard for you, sir, after last year. Forgive my enthusiasm, but I do not see much spectacle.’

‘While I see too much. But no, Tamasin, enjoy the day.’

The river turned south, past the Isle of Dogs. The path winding around it was filled with people of the poorer classes, walking down to watch the admiral’s arrival. Beyond the muddy path was marshy woodland dotted with vegetable gardens that cottagers had set up, their shacks in the middle. Guard dogs tied to posts barked furiously at all the passers-by.

Greenwich Palace, built by the King’s father as a symbol of the new Tudor dynasty, came into view, with its splendid facade and pointed towers. Boats were pulling into the bank on both sides of the river, passengers disembarking and walking on to get as close as possible to the palace. Our boat pulled in to the left-hand bank. Beside the palace I saw a great barge at anchor, brightly painted in Tudor green and white, an enormous English flag flying from the prow. A dozen liveried oarsmen sat on each side, now and then sculling with their oars to keep the craft steady. The barge had a long cabin gilded with gold and silver. Purple curtains had been pulled back to show those within, but they were too far away to make out. Tamasin leaned over the edge of the crowded path to see better, risking a fall into the mud below, and Barak pulled her back. ‘Control yourself, woman.’

For a while nothing happened. We stood amid the watching, murmuring crowd. Beyond the barge a long row of mighty warships was moored along the south shore. The King’s great ships, which I had seen last year at Portsmouth. Streamers in many colours, some a hundred feet long, were hung from the masts and swung gently in the light river breeze. The ships themselves I remembered: enormous, magnificent, their upper decks brightly painted. One, though, was absent: the King’s favourite warship, the Mary Rose , now sunk at the bottom of the Solent.

There was a crash as gunports opened along the sides of the ships. Cannon appeared and fired volleys; no actual cannonballs, of course, but emitting thick clouds of smoke and making enough noise to shake the pathway. People shouted and cheered. Nicholas joined in enthusiastically, waving his hat in the air. Some women whooped at the noise, though Tamasin glanced at me with a sombre face.

Then they appeared, coming fast upriver; first a French warship, guns firing on both sides, then over a dozen French galleys, long and narrow: sleek, fast vessels of war. They were brightly painted, each in a different colour, and their cannon, set in the prows, fired off blasts in reply to ours. The largest galley, covered from prow to stern in a white canopy decorated in gold fleur-de-lys, pulled alongside the King’s barge.

It was too much for me. The sight of those galleys, which I had last seen firing at the Mary Rose ; the smoke; the gunfire that shook the ground. I touched Barak on the shoulder. ‘I have to go.’

He looked at me with concern. ‘God’s blood, you look sick. You shouldn’t go alone. Nick, get a boat.’

‘No!’ I answered stubbornly. ‘I’ll be all right, you stay here.’

Nicholas and Tamasin were also staring. Tamasin took my hand. ‘Are you sure? I could see you were troubled earlier.’

‘I will be all right.’ I felt ashamed of my weakness.

‘Nick,’ Barak said peremptorily, ‘go back with him.’

The boy stepped forward. I opened my mouth to protest, then shrugged.

‘Call on us later,’ Tamasin said.

I nodded. ‘I will.’

I walked away, fast as I could through the crowds, Nicholas for once having to lengthen his long stride to keep up with me. The endless crash of cannon suddenly ceased; the admiral must have boarded the King’s barge at last.

‘Watch out there!’ a man called out as I nearly fell into him. Nicholas grasped my arm.

‘He’s drunk, sodden old hunchback,’ another man observed. And in truth it was as though I were drunk, the ground like a ship’s deck, seeming to shift and slide beneath my feet.

We got a boat to the Steelyard stairs. When we stepped off I felt strange, light-headed. Nicholas said, ‘Shall I walk you home?’ He was embarrassed, and had hardly spoken during the journey.

‘No. We’ll walk to chambers.’

Today being a holiday and so many people down at Greenwich, the city was quiet, as though it were a Sunday. I was walking steadily again now, but thought with renewed grief of my friends who had died on the Mary Rose . Their faces came before me. And then I found myself saying an inward goodbye to them all, and something lifted in my heart.

‘Did you say something, sir?’ Nicholas asked.

I must have murmured aloud. ‘No. No, nothing.’ Looking round, I realized we were at Lothbury. ‘We are close to the Cotterstoke house,’ I said. ‘Where that painting is.’

‘What will happen to it now?’

‘Edward’s half of his mother’s estate will go to his family. In these circumstances I imagine his wife will want to get rid of the house as soon as possible, painting or no painting.’

‘Then Mistress Slanning may get her way.’

‘Yes. I suppose she may.’

He hesitated, then asked, ‘Will Master Coleswyn tell Edward Cotterstoke’s wife why her husband took his life? That old murder?’