C. Sansom - Lamentation

‘If I can.’

‘In strict confidence.’

‘Of course.’

‘It has come up in the context of something I am working on. Reported second-hand. The name sounds foreign, and may be mispronounced, but I wondered if you could guess its origin.’

‘What is the name?’

‘Jurony Bertano. Could it be Spanish?’

He smiled. ‘No. That is an Italian name. The first name is Gurone, spelt G-U-R-O-N-E.’

‘Close enough then.’

‘One of the Italian merchant community in London, perhaps?’ ‘Possibly.’ I gave him a serious look. ‘But I cannot discuss the matter.’

‘I understand. The rules of confidentiality.’

I nodded unhappily. We were silent for a moment. Then I said, ‘You know, on the way here I was thinking how few Catholic or traditionalist friends I have now. These last years most people have withdrawn into one circle or the other, have they not? Often without even thinking about it?’

‘For safety, yes, sadly they have. I have few patients among the radicals or reformers. My practice began with people from — dare I say my side, and they refer their friends to me, and so it goes on. It is probably much the same with you.’

‘It is. Though, by the way, I have recommended you to someone else with back troubles. An embroiderer from the Queen’s court.’

He smiled. ‘A reformist sympathizer, then.’

‘I have no idea.’ I looked up at him. ‘Do you ever doubt, Guy, that your view of God is the right one?’

‘I have been prey to doubt all my life,’ he said seriously. ‘For a time, as once I told you, I doubted God’s very existence. But I believe that if faith and doubt battle together within a human soul, that soul becomes the stronger and more honest for it.’

‘Perhaps. Though I have far more doubt than faith these days.’ I hesitated. ‘You know, I have always considered that people who were unshakeable in their faith, on either side, to be the most dangerous sort of men. But just recently I wonder whether that is wrong, and rather it is those, like some of the highest at court — Wriothesley, or Rich — who shift from one side to the other to further their ambitions, who are truly the worst men.’

‘What are you involved in now, Matthew?’ Guy asked quietly.

I answered with sudden passion, ‘Something I must protect my friends from knowing about.’

He sat silent for a moment before saying, ‘If I can help, at any time — ’

‘You are a true friend.’ Yet one whose conscience placed him on the other side of the divide from Catherine Parr, I thought. To change the subject, I said, ‘Tell me what you are trying to learn from that old bone. Something far more useful to humanity than anything lawyers or Privy Councillors do, I’ll warrant.’

Next morning, I left home early to visit chambers before going on to Whitehall Palace. Everyone — Barak, Nicholas and Skelly — was already there and working. I felt grateful to them. John Skelly had always been a hard and loyal worker, and Nicholas, given a little trust, was responding well, while Barak was relishing being in charge. As I came in he was giving Nicholas a heap of case papers to be filed on the shelves. ‘And don’t lose any conveyances this time,’ he said cheerfully.

I thanked them all for being in early. ‘Nicholas,’ I said, ‘there is a particular job I would have you do for me.’ I gave him the list the embroiderer Gullym had prepared the day before, together with the piece of silk, carefully wrapped in paper. I added some shillings from my purse, the copper already shining through the silver on the King’s nose. ‘I want you to visit the embroiderers on this list and see whether any of them can identify this work. It was likely made by one of them. Say that I have consulted with Master Gullym, who is one of the most important members of the Embroiderers’ Guild. Do not reveal what it is about. Can you do that? Use your gentlemanly charm?’

Barak gave a snort of laughter. ‘Charm? From that long lad?’

Nicholas ignored him. ‘Certainly, Master Shardlake.’

‘This morning, if you would.’

‘At once.’ Nicholas took the pile of work from his desk and dumped it back on Barak’s. ‘Afraid I’ll have to leave you with these,’ he said with a cheery smile.

This time, I caught a wherry upriver to the Whitehall Palace Common Stairs, donning my robe with the Queen’s badge as we approached. At the Common Stairs, watermen unloading goods for the palace mingled with servants and visitors. A guard checked my name as usual and directed me to the King’s Guard Chamber. I walked along a corridor adjoining the Great Kitchens. Through open doors I glimpsed cooks and scullions preparing meals for the several hundred people entitled to dine in the Great Hall and lodgings. They wore no badges of office, only cheap linen clothes, and in the July heat some worked stripped to the waist. I passed on, through the Great Hall with its magnificent hammer-beam roof, and out into the courtyard.

It was dole day, and officials from the almonry stood at the main gate handing packets of food to a crowd of beggars, who were being closely watched by the guards. The remains of each palace meal, which consisted of far more than any one man could eat, were usually distributed daily to hospitals and charitable organizations, but twice a week the ‘broken meats’ were given out at the gate, a sign of the King’s generosity.

Though most in the courtyard ignored the scene, going about their business as usual, I saw that two men were watching. I recognized both from the burning four days ago. One, in silken cassock and brown fur stole, was Bishop Stephen Gardiner. Close to, his dour countenance was truly formidable: heavy, frowning brows, bulbous nose and wide, broad-lipped mouth. Standing with him was the King’s Secretary, William Paget. As usual, he wore a brown robe and cap; the robe had a long collar of miniver, thick snow-white fur with black spots. He ran the fingers of one square hand over it softly, as though stroking a pet.

I heard Gardiner say, ‘Look at that woman, shamelessly pushing her way past the men, thrusting out her claws at the food. Did this city not have sufficient demonstration at Smithfield that women must keep their place?’

Paget said, ‘We can show them again if need be.’ They made no attempt to lower their voices, quite happy to be overheard. Gardiner continued frowning at the beggar crowd; that glowering disposition seemed to be how this man of God turned his face to the world. Paget, though, seemed only half-interested in the scene. As I passed them I heard him say, ‘Thomas Seymour is back from the wars.’

‘That man of proud conceit,’ Gardiner replied contemptuously.

Paget smiled, a thin line of white teeth in his thick beard. ‘He will get himself in trouble before he’s done.’

I walked on. I remembered the ladies talking about Thomas Seymour in the Queen’s Privy Chamber. Brother of the leading reformist councillor, Edward Seymour, now Lord Hertford, Catherine Parr would have married him after her second husband died, had not the King intervened. I knew the Queen and Seymour had been carefully kept apart since, with Seymour often sent on naval or diplomatic missions. I had had dealings with him before, not pleasant ones. Paget was right, he was a foolish and dangerous man, a drag on his ambitious brother. I wondered what the Queen would be feeling about his return.

Again I passed into the King’s Guard Chamber, up the stairs, and through to the Presence Chamber. The magnificence everywhere still astounded me whenever I paused to let it. The intricacy, colour and variety of the decoration struck me afresh; the eye would rest for a moment on some design on a pillar, drawn to the intricate detail of the vine leaves painted on it, only to be at once distracted by a tapestry of a classical scene hung on a nearby wall, a riot of colour. My gaze was drawn again to the portrait of the King and his family; there was Mary, and behind her Jane Fool. I passed through, attracting no notice; a hunchback lawyer from the Queen’s Learned Council, come no doubt to discuss a matter connected with her lands.