C. Sansom - Lamentation

We entered the white tower. A guard took us through the Great Hall, where as ever soldiers stood or sat talking and playing cards. At the far end, I recognized the door leading down to the dungeons.

We were led upstairs, along a corridor with rush matting that deadened the sound of our footsteps. We entered a spacious room where a man a little younger than Lord Parr, with white hair and a lined face ending in a long pointed beard, rose to receive us. There was another man standing by the desk, slightly younger, with grizzled hair and beard and a soldierly air. I bowed low to them, while Lord Parr shook hands.

‘Sir Edmund,’ Lord Parr said lightly. ‘I have not seen you for months. And Sir Anthony Knevet, Master Lieutenant of the Tower, God give you good morrow.’

‘And you, my Lord. If you will excuse me — ’ the soldierly man tapped a folder of papers under his arm — ‘I am due to present a report to Master Secretary Paget at Whitehall.’

‘Then we will not detain you.’ There was a note of annoyance in Walsingham’s voice. The other man bowed and left.

Walsingham gestured for us to sit. Taking a chair, Lord Parr said, ‘There are a couple of small matters from your time in charge of the Queen’s household which I need to ask you about; I would have written, but thought to take the opportunity to visit you, now the Court is at Whitehall.’

‘I am glad you have. This has been a busy few months at the Tower.’ Walsingham raised his eyebrows knowingly.

‘Does not Sir Anthony Knevet do most of the day-to-day work?’

‘Yes, but the ultimate responsibility remains mine. And Sir Anthony has been sticking his nose into one or two places he should not have — ’ Sir Edmund broke off, waved a hand dismissively, then changed the subject. ‘How go things in her majesty’s household?’

‘Easier recently,’ Lord Parr answered carefully. ‘How is your family? Your clever nephew Francis?’

‘He is at Cambridge now. Growing up fast,’ Walsingham added sadly. ‘Reminds me I grow old. I have felt my age these last months.’

‘I too,’ Lord Parr said feelingly. ‘In time of age the humours alter and slow, do they not?’ He continued casually, ‘Sir Edmund, I crave a small favour. Serjeant Shardlake here is a barrister to the Court of Requests, who has also acted for my wife; he has a case coming on at Michaelmas where the Tower records may shed light on something.’

Walsingham looked at me. ‘Oh?’

Lord Parr recounted the story of the fictional witness. Sir Edmund looked at me, his gaze keen from small tired eyes. ‘Between June the twentieth and July the fifth, you say?’ He grunted, looking at me. ‘You know who was here then?’

I paused a moment, as though trying to remember. ‘Anne Askew?’

‘Just so. Not so many others, the heat was dying down by then.’ He grimaced. ‘Though not for her.’ He looked at Lord Parr. ‘You vouch for him?’

‘I do.’

Walsingham turned back to me. ‘Who was this witness?’

I spoke the first name that came to me. ‘Cotterstoke. Edward Cotterstoke.’

Sir Edmund shook his head. ‘I don’t remember that name. But you can go down to the cells and look at the records, seeing as Lord Parr vouches for you.’ He laughed abruptly. ‘Don’t look like that, master lawyer. I won’t detain you down there.’

Lord Parr laughed too. ‘Sir Edmund is doing you a favour, Matthew,’ he said chidingly. ‘Officially those documents are not for the public to see.’

‘I am sorry, Sir Edmund. I am grateful.’

The Constable laughed scoffingly. ‘Well, it shows the mere name of the Tower dungeons puts people in fear, which is partly what they’re for.’ He scribbled a quick note, then rang a bell on his desk. As a guard appeared, Sir Edmund said, ‘Take this lawyer to the cells to see the record of prisoners between June the twentieth and July the fifth. See he writes nothing down.’ He gave me a look of amused contempt. ‘And bring him safely back here afterwards.’

The guard led me downstairs again, across the main hall. He was a big fellow in his thirties, with a heavy limp. Like Sir Edmund he seemed to take my apprehensive stare at the door as commonplace. ‘Looking for a name, are you, sir?’ he asked.

‘Yes, a witness in a case who says he was questioned in the Tower. I think he is lying.’

‘A strange lie.’

‘He probably thought I would be unable to make a check here.’

The guard winced. ‘May I stop just a moment, sir? My leg pains me.’

‘Of course.’

‘A Frenchie soldier ran it through with a half-pike in Boulogne last year.’

‘I am sorry. I know it was a fierce campaign.’

‘They gave me this job afterwards. I won’t be going soldiering again. I’m all right to go on now, sir, thank you.’

The door was opened by a guard and we walked down that dreadful stone staircase, slick with green algae once we passed under the level of the river. The light came now from torches, stinking with smoke. At the bottom was a barred door which I remembered. My escort called out and a hard, unshaven face appeared behind the bars.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘This gentleman has permission to look at the log.’ Sir Edmund’s note was passed through the bars. The man on the other side looked at it, then closely at me, before turning back to my escort.

‘You’re to wait and take him back?’

‘Yes.’

There was a clank of keys, and the heavy door opened. I went through, into a stink of damp, and entered a long vestibule with bare ancient stone walls, a row of cells with barred windows along its length. It was cold down here, even in high summer. I observed — strange the things one notices at such times — that the layout of the central vestibule had been changed: the desk which was its only furniture was larger than the one that had stood there five years ago, and had been positioned against the wall to allow more space for people to pass. It was covered in papers and a man sat behind it. I saw a large open ledger.

The guard who had let me in looked me up and down. ‘Your purpose, sir?’ he asked in a voice which was quiet but not respectful.

‘Matthew Shardlake, Serjeant at Law.’ I told him the story of the dubious witness. Lying was not easy under his hard, watchful eyes.

‘Well, if Sir Edmund agrees,’ he said reluctantly. ‘But you’re to write nothing down, only look through quickly for the name you seek.’

‘I understand.’

‘My name is Ardengast. I am in charge here.’

Without further comment he led me to the desk. The man sitting behind it was a big, middle-aged fellow in a leather jacket, with an untidy straggling beard. He sat up straight as we approached. Ardengast said, ‘This man is to see the logs from June the twentieth to July the fifth, Howitson. Looking for a witness in a case.’

The man in the leather jacket frowned. ‘It’s not to do with-?’

‘No. Some law matter.’ Ardengast waved dismissively. He glanced again at Walsingham’s note. ‘The name is Edward Cotterstoke. I don’t remember him.’

‘Nor I.’

‘That is the point,’ I said. ‘I think he was lying about being here.’

Ardengast turned to me. ‘I’ll leave you with Howitson, I’ve got business.’ He walked away, unlocked a door at the far end of the chamber, and passed through. From somewhere beyond I thought I heard a distant scream. I looked through the dark barred windows on the doors of the cells. They seemed empty, but who knew what pitiful souls and broken bodies lay within? I thought of Anne Askew alone and terrified in this place.

Howitson pulled the big ledger over to him. I saw there were two columns. One gave the times that prisoners arrived and left and their names, while the other, smaller column was for the signatures of the officers on duty. The writing was poor, scrawled, and I could not read it upside down. Howitson turned over several pages, pausing occasionally to lick his black-stained thumb. Then he leaned back in his chair.