C. Sansom - Lamentation

‘I will do all I can, put all other work aside. I swear.’

She smiled. ‘Thank you. I knew you would succour me.’

Lord Parr inclined his head, indicating I should rise. I bowed to the Queen, who essayed another sad smile, and to Cranmer, who nodded. Lord Parr led me out, back to the window from which we had watched the King in the courtyard. The yard was empty now. I realized the window was in an angle of the corridor from which we could not be seen from either direction; ideal for private conversation. He said, ‘Thank you, sir. Believe me, we do not underestimate the difficulties, or the dangers. Come with me now and I will give you more particulars of Greening, and the power of attorney from his parents.’ He looked out over the courtyard, hesitated, then leaned closer. ‘You saw the physical state of the King. But as you will have realized from what we told you, his mind is still, mostly, sharp and clear. And it has always been full of anger and suspicion.’

It was with a sense of relief that I rode out under the gate of the palace again. I made my way slowly towards Charing Cross. Genesis sneezed and shook his head at the dust from the Scotland Yard brickworks, which endlessly laboured to produce materials to embellish and improve Whitehall. The day was hot and the street stank. I decided I would take Nicholas with me to the printers’ quarter. It would do no harm to have someone young and sizeable beside me.

At the steps of the great Charing Cross, dozens of beggars sat as usual. More and more of them these last two years, with the polling and nipping of poor men’s wages caused by the collapsing value of the coinage. There were those who said that beggars were leeches, licking the sweat from hard-working labourers’ brows, but most of the beggars had once been working men themselves. I glanced at them, men and women and children, wearing ancient dirty rags, faces red and harsh from constant exposure to the sun, some displaying their sores and weeping scabs to invoke pity from the passers-by. One man who sat with the stump of one leg exposed wore the tatters of a soldier’s uniform; no doubt he had left his leg in Scotland or France during the last two years of war. But I averted my eyes, for it was well known that to catch the eye of one could bring a whole horde descending on you; and I had much to think on.

I was involved in a matter potentially more deadly than anything in my prior experience. It reached right into the heart of the royal court, at a time when the manoeuvring of various factions had never been more vicious. Recalling that spectacle of the King in the courtyard, I realized now that everything which had happened since the beginning of the year was part of a struggle to decide who would control the realm when Henry died and his throne passed to a child. In whose hands would the King leave the realm? Norfolk? Edward Seymour? Paget? The Queen?

I had let myself in for long days of fear and anxiety, as a harbourer of dangerous secrets which I did not want to possess. But a wise man knows he is a fool, and I was aware, of course, of my true motives. It was because I had long cast a fantasy of love around the Queen. It was an ageing man’s hopeless foolishness, but that morning I realized how deeply I still felt.

And yet I knew I must see Queen Catherine clearly: her religious radicalism had led that most careful and diplomatic of women to risk all. She had called it her vanity but it was more like a loss of judgement. I wondered uneasily if she were verging towards fanaticism, like so many in these days. No, I thought, she had tried to draw back by submitting to the King and by asking for Cranmer’s approval of the Lamentation ; and yet her refusal to dispose of the book had led to potentially disastrous consequences.

The thought came to me, why not let the factions fight it out to the death? Why was the radical side any better than the conservative? But then I thought, the Queen would harm no man willingly. Nor, I believed, would Cranmer. I wondered, though, about Lord Parr. He was old and looked ill; but I had seen his devotion to his niece and sensed a ruthlessness about him, too — I was useful to him, but probably dispensable as well.

Lord Parr had handed me the power of attorney from Greening’s parents. I would go to the streets around St Paul’s to talk to the constable, then to Greening’s neighbour Okedene, and finally the dead man’s apprentice, who had witnessed the earlier break-in. And I should try and find out who Greening’s friends were.

Lord Parr wanted me back at the palace by seven. I was likely to be heavily involved with this for many days. Fortunately it was out of law term and the courts were not in session. I would have to ask Barak to do some extra preparation work on cases I had in hand, and supervise Nicholas and Skelly. Uncomfortably I realized that I would have to lie to Barak and Nicholas; I could tell them I was involved in investigating the printer’s murder, but only on behalf of his family, and I must say nothing about the hunt for the Queen’s missing book. I hated the thought of lying to Barak especially, but there was no obvious alternative I could see.

On impulse, I turned north, heading for the street of little houses where Barak lived with his wife, Tamasin. He would be at work but she would likely be at home this time of day. Like Barak, Tamasin was an old friend; the three of us had been through much together, and I had an urge to talk with someone ordinary, commonsensical, with no taste for intrigue; and to see my little godson. I wanted a moment of normality, perhaps the last I would be allowed for some time.

I tied Genesis to the post outside their house and knocked on the door. It was answered by their servant, Goodwife Marris, a formidable widow of middle age. She curtsied. ‘Master Shardlake, we were not expecting you.’

‘I was nearby, I came on impulse. Is Mistress Barak in?’

‘Ay, and the master, too. He came home for lunch. I was about to clear the plates away.’ I realized I had had nothing to eat. Goodwife Marris showed me into the little parlour overlooking Tamasin’s small, immaculately kept garden. The shutters were open and the room was filled with the scent of summer flowers. Barak was sitting at the table with Tamasin, empty plates and mugs of beer before them. Jane began clearing the plates away. Tamasin looked well, her pretty face contented and happy. ‘This is a welcome surprise, sir,’ she said. ‘But you have missed lunch.’

‘I forgot about it.’

She clicked her tongue. ‘That is not good for you.’

Barak looked at me. ‘I came home to eat. I thought Skelly could keep an eye on young Nick for that long.’

‘That is all right.’ I smiled as a little figure in a white robe and a woollen cap tied in a bow came crawling out from under the table to see what was happening. He looked at me with Barak’s brown eyes, smiled and said, ‘Man!’

‘’Tis his new word,’ Tamasin said proudly. ‘See, he begins to speak.’

‘He is well out of his swaddling clouts now,’ I said, admiring George’s progress as he crawled over to his father and then, furrowing his little brow with concentration, managed to stand for a moment before clutching at his father’s hose. Smiling at his achievement, he lifted a foot and kicked at his father’s ankle.

Barak lifted him up. ‘Do you kick, sirrah?’ he said with mock seriousness. ‘In the presence of your godfather, too? Shameless imp.’ George chuckled happily. I reached down and patted his head. A few curls, blond like Tamasin’s and fine as silk, escaped from under his cap.

‘He grows by the day,’ I said wonderingly. ‘Though I still cannot see whom he most resembles.’

‘Impossible to say with that fat chubby face,’ Barak said, tapping his son on his button nose.