C. Sansom - Lamentation

‘The Parr-Seymour alliance in action,’ Cecil whispered, with the keen interest of a connoisseur of politics. ‘The two main reformist families meet.’

‘Is not Sir Thomas too headstrong for a senior position?’

‘Yes indeed. But for now his brother Lord Hertford is abroad, and Sir Thomas keeps the flag flying. Lord Hertford returns very soon, though. I have contacts in his household.’ Cecil looked at me with a quick, vain little smile, then bowed. ‘I will leave you now, sir. You will be summoned when there is further news. Thank you again.’

I watched him walk away down the corridor, with his quick, confident steps. That smile made me think: Cecil, too, would one day make a politician; already he had his foot on the first rung of the ladder. I wondered about the alliance between the Parrs and the Seymours. For now, they were united against the religious conservatives. But when the King died both families would have separate claims to govern the realm in the name of the boy Edward: the Parrs as the family of his stepmother, the Seymours as that of his dead true mother. And how long, then, would the alliance last?

As I walked back along the corridor towards the gilded public chambers, I heard a strange sound. A creaking, clanking noise from behind the wall, and what sounded like the rattle of chains. I looked around, and saw a door in the corridor I had not noticed previously. Unlike the others it did not have a magnificently decorated surround but was set flush to the wall, with the same linenfold panelling as the walls on either side. There was a small keyhole, but no handle. Overcome with curiosity, I pushed at it gently and to my surprise it opened easily on oiled hinges.

Within was a wide, square platform, lit with torches bracketed to the walls. The platform surrounded a staircase leading down to the ground floor. To my astonishment, in one corner of the platform, four men in the dark uniform of the King’s Gentlemen Pensioners were straining to turn the handles of a large winch, hauling something up the stairwell from the ground floor. I heard a wheezy shout from beneath, ‘Careful, you dolts, keep me steady!’ Then, as the men pulled harder on the ropes, an immense figure rose into view, seated on a heavy wheeled chair, secured by a leather belt round his immense waist. I glimpsed a near-bald head, an immense, red, round face, folds of thin-bearded flesh wobbling above the collar of a caftan. The King’s huge cheeks twitched in pain.

Another guard saw me and rushed over; a big, bearded fellow. He clapped a hand over my mouth and pushed me through the door, back into the corridor. He shut the door quietly, then grabbed the lapels of my robe. ‘Who are you?’ he spat with quiet fierceness. ‘How did you get in there?’

‘I–I heard strange noises behind the door. I pushed it and it opened easily — ’

‘God’s death, it should always be locked from inside — I’ll have Hardy’s balls for this.’ His expression suddenly changed, from anger to contempt. ‘Who are you, crookback?’ He glanced at my robe. ‘I see you wear the Queen’s badge.’

‘I am new appointed to her majesty’s Learned Council.’

He released me. ‘Then learn, and quickly, that in Whitehall you go only — where — you — are — allowed .’ He punctuated the last words with painful jabs to my chest with his finger, then glanced nervously over his shoulder. A heavy clunk from behind the door indicated the chair had been pulled in. He spoke hurriedly, ‘Now go, and thank your stars he did not see you. You think his majesty likes to be watched like this, being winched upstairs? Be gone, now!’ He turned and went back through the door. I scurried away as fast as possible. I knew the King could scarcely walk, but it had never occurred to me to wonder how he got to the Royal Apartments on the first floor. His immobility alone must be humiliating enough for that once famous athlete, but to be seen like that — I shuddered at my narrow escape. If he had glanced up momentarily and recognized me. .

Again, there was a period of silence from Whitehall. I heard nothing for a day or so. I returned to work, but found it harder this time to settle or rest.

On Saturday morning, the 24th of July, I arrived at chambers late in the morning to find Nicholas absent.

‘Perhaps he has had a late night in the taverns,’ Skelly observed disapprovingly.

‘He said yesterday his chest was hurting,’ Barak observed. ‘I’ll go to his place at lunchtime if he hasn’t come in, check he’s all right.’

I nodded.

Skelly added reproachfully. ‘That witness in that Common Pleas case called, as arranged, to have you take his deposition, and I had to say you had been called away on urgent business. Since I did not know where you were, sir,’ he added pointedly.

‘I am sorry,’ I said, annoyed at having forgotten; things could not go on like this.

‘And these notes were delivered for you.’ Skelly handed me some papers.

‘Thank you.’

I took them into my room and worked alone for the next few hours. Most were routine matters, but one was an official notification from Treasurer Rowland that a complaint had been made against me by my former client, Isabel Slanning. He asked me to call on him on Monday. I sighed. Well, that was not unexpected. There was nothing to it, but no doubt Rowland would enjoy trying to discomfit me.

I was a little worried about Nicholas. Barak had said he would visit him at lunchtime if he did not arrive at chambers. What if he found him ill, his wound infected perhaps, and needed to take him to Guy? But I knew Barak: if it was anything I should know, he would have sent a message. He might have gone home, as I had told him he could if he wished while Tamasin was expecting. I turned my attention back to the work that was still upon my desk.

Shortly after, there was a knock at the door. I hoped it might be Barak returned, but Skelly came in. ‘Master Dyrick has called to see you, sir, regarding the Slanning case.’

‘Show him in.’ I put down my quill, frowning. He must have come to collect the Slanning papers. They were on the table next to my desk. I would have expected him to send a clerk, though. We had had a passage of arms a year before, and I knew things about Vincent Dyrick that gave him an interest in not pushing me too far. Nonetheless, he was a man who loved a fight. I could imagine Isabel looking for the most aggressive barrister available. Someone who did not mind acting for difficult clients with hopeless cases, so long as they paid well. That fitted Dyrick exactly. I knew from experience that he would be relentless in trying to make something of the case; probably even persuade himself that her cause was just.

Dyrick came in with his confident, athletic step, his green eyes sharp as ever in his thin, handsome face, strands of red hair showing under his coif. He bowed briefly and gave me his sardonic smile.

‘God give you good morning, Brother Shardlake.’

‘And you, Brother Dyrick. Please sit.’

He did so, folding his hands in his lap.

I continued, civil but unsmiling, ‘So, you have taken Mistress Slanning’s case? I have the papers ready.’

‘Good. It is an interesting matter.’

‘Hopeless, I think. But profitable.’

‘Indeed, yes.’ He smiled again. ‘Brother Shardlake, I know that you and I have reason to keep apart, but — well — sometimes by chance we will find ourselves on opposing sides in a case.’

‘My involvement in this one is over. Was it you who prompted her to complain to the Inn authorities?’ I asked abruptly. ‘The complaint is nonsense.’

He met my gaze. ‘Actually, since you ask, no. I told her she should concentrate on the case. But she was insistent.’