C. Sansom - Lamentation

Barak and Nicholas were waiting for me at home, drinking beer in the kitchen. I had hailed a boat quickly at the Hampton Court stairs; a long line of wherrymen was waiting to bring people back to London once the festivities ended, and I was leaving early. I asked the boatman whether I was the first to depart; he replied that one of his fellows had picked up another customer a few minutes before. As we pulled downriver I saw another boat a little ahead of us, a man in grey doublet and cap sitting in the stern. I told the boatman to slow a little so I might enjoy the cool airs of evening; in fact it was to let Stice get out of view. It was peaceful out there on the river, the boatman’s oars making ripples that glinted in the setting sun, insects buzzing over the water. I asked myself: is this right, what I am doing? And I answered yes, for surely Stice’s true master was the one who had ordered the murder of the Anabaptists and taken the Lamentation . There might be a chance of recovering the Queen’s book after all.

Back home, there was no news of Timothy. Barak, who had remained at the house all afternoon, had had several visitors who said they knew where the boy was but wanted the reward first. Barak had dealt with them bluntly. Nicholas had also returned. I thanked them for their efforts, telling myself that for the next few hours I must put Timothy’s fate from my mind.

Looking at Barak and Nicholas, I considered again whether what I was doing was right. This was for the Queen and the murdered men, but I knew also for myself, because I wanted answers. Barak and Nicholas had come equipped for danger; Nicholas’s sword was at his belt and Barak had one, too. Both knew well how to use them.

I told them about seeing Stice at Hampton Court, and what Lord Parr had said. When I had finished I asked them once more, ‘Are you sure you wish to do this?’

‘All the more, now,’ Barak said. ‘With Brocket gone it’s our last chance.’

‘What did you tell Tamasin?’

He looked uncomfortable. ‘That we were going to continue searching for Timothy this evening.’

‘I’m glad of the chance to get back at that churl who kidnapped me,’ Nicholas said. ‘But sir, if we catch him, what do we do with him? We can’t take him back to my lodgings as we did with Leeman, my fellow students are there.’

‘I’ve thought of that. We’ll keep him in that house until morning; question him ourselves, then take him to Lord Parr.’

‘I’ll get answers out of him.’ Barak spoke coldly. ‘He wouldn’t be the first.’ I thought, no, there are things you did when you worked for Cromwell that we have always drawn a veil over. I did not dissent.

‘Can we be sure Stice will be alone?’ Nicholas asked.

‘I got Brocket to ask him to come alone as always. And Lord Parr’s man who is watching the house says Stice only came there once, and by himself.’

Barak said, ‘I got one of the men helping me on the search for Timothy to walk up and down that street this afternoon and report back to me. I didn’t want to go myself as Stice knows me. It’s a lane of small, newly built houses, much better places than on Needlepin Lane. Most of the houses have porches, quite deep. We could hide in one and watch until just before nine. We might even see Stice arrive.’

‘Very well.’ I looked out of the window. It was quite dark now. I thought, at Hampton Court they would be dancing by torchlight in the courtyard, sounds of loud revelry coming from the King’s banqueting house. Several more banquets, as well as hunts, were planned for the next few days. The Queen would be at all of them. Then I thought of Timothy, alone on the dangerous streets for a second night. I collected myself. ‘Let us go now,’ I said. ‘But remember, Stice is a man who will stop at nothing.’

‘Fortune favours those with justice and honour on their side,’ Nicholas said.

Barak responded, ‘If only.’

The streets were quiet as we walked up to Smithfield. Fortunately it was not a market day and the big open space was silent and deserted. We went down Little Britain Street, following the wall of St Bartholomew’s Hospital, then turned into a broad lane, a reputable row of newly built two-storey houses, most with glass windows rather than shutters, and little porches, too. Candles flickered behind most of the windows but at a house that was in darkness Barak waved us into the porch. I hoped the owner would not return expectedly; he would think himself about to be robbed.

Barak pointed to a house on the opposite side of the lane, a little further down. ‘That’s the one. There’s a big Tudor rose on the arch above the porch, as Brocket mentioned. You can just see it.’

I followed his gaze. The house’s shutters were drawn and all was silent.

We stood, waiting and watching. A serving woman came out of a nearby house with a bucket of dirty water and poured it into the channel in the centre of the road. We tensed as the light of a torch appeared at the top of the lane, and voices sounded. It was, however, only a link-boy, leading the way for a small family party who were chattering happily, returning from some visit. They disappeared into one of the houses further down the lane.

‘What time is it?’ Nicholas asked quietly. ‘It must be near nine.’

‘I think it is,’ Barak said. ‘But it doesn’t look like Stice is here yet.’

‘He could already be inside,’ I whispered. ‘At the rear of the house, perhaps.’

Barak’s eyes narrowed. ‘All right, let’s wait till the clocks chime. Stice wouldn’t be late for this one, not if he’s been all the way to Hampton Court and back to consult his master.’

We waited. When the bells rang out the hour, Barak took a deep breath. ‘Let’s go,’ he breathed. ‘Rush him as soon as the door opens.’

We half-ran across the street. I glanced up at the Tudor rose on the lintel of the porch, as Barak hammered on the door. He and Nicholas both had their hands on their sword hilts, and I grasped my knife.

I heard quick footsteps, sounding indeed as though they were coming from the rear of the house. There was the glimmer of a candle between the shutters. As soon as we heard the handle turn on the inner side of the door Barak put his shoulder to it, and crashed inside. The interior was dim, just a couple of candles in a holder on the table. By their light I saw Charles Stice stagger back, hand reaching to the sword at his waist. But Barak and Nicholas already had their blades pointed at his body.

‘Got you,’ Nicholas said triumphantly.

Then, at the edge of my vision, I saw rapid movement as the men who had been waiting on either side of the door stepped quickly out. Two more swords flashed. Barak and Nicholas turned rapidly as two well-built young men ran at them from behind. I recognized them by the candlelight: one fair with a wart on his brow, the other almost bald. Greening’s killers, Daniels and Cardmaker.

Barak and Nicholas were both quick, managing to parry the blows. Meanwhile, drawing my knife, I lunged forward, ready to plunge it into the neck of the bald man, but he was faster than me. Though still fighting against Nicholas, he managed to half-turn and elbow me in the face with his free arm. I staggered back against the wall. The distraction, however, was enough to allow Nicholas to gain the advantage, and begin to force him back.

Barak, meanwhile, was facing not only the other man in front but Stice behind. And before he could turn, step aside and face both of them, Stice raised his newly drawn sword and slashed at Barak’s sword-arm. To my horror the razor-sharp weapon, with the full force of Stice’s arm behind it, slashed down into Barak’s wrist just above his sword. Into it and through it, and I cried out at a sight I shall never forget: Barak’s severed hand, still holding his sword, flying through the air and hitting the ground.