C. Sansom - Lamentation

Lord Parr smiled reassuringly. ‘I doubt the King even knows of your presence on the Queen’s Learned Council, nor your hunt for this elusive jewel. And I have made sure that within the Queen’s Court it is known only as a minor matter.’ He, too, glanced towards the three-storey Privy Gallery, the black-and-white chequerwork facade easily a hundred yards long. It ended at the Holbein Gate, which was twice as high as the gallery itself and spanned the public road, connecting the King’s quarters with the recreational wing of the palace on the western side. In earlier years the King would have crossed through the gate to play tennis, or joust, but that was long over now. ‘Besides,’ Lord Parr added, ‘I heard his majesty was working in his study in the Holbein Gate this morning. He likes looking down on his subjects passing along the street as he works.’

‘I did not know he did that.’ That, too, gave me an uneasy feeling.

‘As for the real issues, while we may be seen here, we have the advantage that we cannot be heard.’

He stopped at a corner under a pillar painted in stripes of Tudor green and white. A golden lion on top held an English flag, fluttering in the river breeze that also played with Lord Parr’s white beard. He leaned heavily on his stick. In the morning light his thin face was pale, dark bags visible under the eyes. He had been wakened by Cecil, who had arrived at the palace near midnight. Since my own arrival with Leeman’s body, at three o’clock, he had been busy. After I had told him all that had happened he arranged a room for me in the lodgings again to snatch a few hours’ sleep, though hard thoughts kept me awake. Four more men killed last night, including one of Lord Parr’s own servants, and a new threat to the Queen divulged, if the story about Bertano were true. At nine in the morning Lord Parr had sent for me and suggested a walk in the Great Garden.

He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of the herbs planted alongside the path. ‘I could lie down and fall asleep here right now,’ he said quietly. ‘As could you, from your looks.’

I winced at a spasm in my back. I had pulled a muscle when Nicholas pushed me to the ground last night, but his act had saved my life. Lord Parr continued, ‘It is a great pity Leeman was killed.’ He raised a hand. ‘No, sir, I do not blame you. But I would have liked to question the villain myself.’ He clutched the silver handle of his stick hard. ‘An Anabaptist, those pestilent scum.’

‘They were a small group. In Europe too, I understand, there are but few left.’

‘They are like rats, a few in the sewers of the common streets may breed and at a time of hardship or discontent become thousands. They can bring fire and death to us all.’ He waved his free hand in a gesture of anger. ‘They should be extirpated.’

‘Have you told her majesty what Leeman said?’ I asked.

‘Yes. I wakened the Queen early to tell her the latest news. I thought it best. She wept and trembled, she is much afraid. She is worried that the book remains unfound, and now even more about Bertano. But — ’ he paused to look me in the eye — ‘she is brave, and well-practised in assuming a composed and regal manner, whatever she feels inside.’

He fell silent as a couple of black-robed officials wearing the King’s badge passed. They bowed to us. I had sent for my robe after arriving at Whitehall; Timothy had brought it round and I wore it now. Such things mattered greatly here. The two walked on, stopping briefly to admire a peacock with its huge multicoloured tail as it crossed the lawn. ‘I have one servant less,’ Lord Parr continued soberly. ‘Poor Dunmore, who died last night, was a good and useful man.’

‘I never even learned his name.’

‘Who is it?’ Lord Parr banged the white gravel with his stick. ‘Who masterminded the theft of her book, employed those two men of whom we can find no trace — to kill everyone in that Anabaptist group? I do not believe the theory that whoever took the book from Greening would intend to wait until Bertano was about to arrive before revealing it. Not if they know the King. They would show it to him immediately, let his anger against the Queen and the reformers burst out at once, make him more receptive to whatever proposals this wretched emissary of the Pope brings.’

‘Would it be so bad as that?’

He spoke quietly. ‘The King still loves the Queen, of that I am sure. But that would only make him even angrier at her disloyalty. And hurt. And when he feels hurt — ’ Lord Parr shook his head. ‘The existence of the book itself is a lesser matter; Cranmer says it is not heretical, though it sails close to the wind.’

I did not reply. I had never heard Lord Parr talk so openly of the King before. ‘His majesty has always been suggestible, vain. He listens to the endless whispers in his ear, especially when they concern the loyalty of someone important to him. And once he has made his mind up he has been betrayed, then — ’

‘How is his health?’ I asked.

‘A little worse each week.’ He fell silent for a moment, perhaps reflecting that he had said more than was wise, then burst out angrily, ‘Why keep it for near a month, Shardlake? I cannot work it out, and nor can Cecil.’

‘I cannot either, my Lord. You know far more of the court than I.’

‘We have to find that Scotchman, God rot him-’

I placed a hand on the arm of his silk robe to quiet him. He frowned at my presumption, but I had seen what his aged eyes had not: two slim figures with long beards approaching us. Edward Seymour, Lord Hertford, Prince Edward’s uncle and a leading figure among the reformers on the Privy Council; and his younger brother, Sir Thomas, who had been the Queen’s suitor before her marriage to the King. So, I thought, Lord Hertford is back in England.

The brothers halted before us. They had been arguing with quiet intensity as they approached, but now Sir Thomas’s large brown eyes fastened on mine. We had crossed swords in the past.

I had seen them together years before, and reflected anew how alike they were, yet how different. Above his light brown beard Lord Hertford’s oval face was pale, and not handsome, with slightly knitted brows that gave him an air of half-suppressed impatient anger. He exuded power, but not authority, or not enough. As a politician he was formidable, but they said he was henpecked and embarrassed by his wife. He wore a long brown robe with a fur collar, and a splendid gold chain round his neck befitting his status as a senior Privy Councillor. Sir Thomas Seymour was more sturdily built, his face another oval, but with regular features and compelling brown eyes above that long coppery beard. While Lord Hertford wore a plain robe, Sir Thomas sported a green doublet of finest silk, slashed at the shoulders and sleeves to show a rich orange lining. He too wore a gold chain, though a smaller one.

The two men removed their jewelled caps and bowed, the links of their chains clinking. We bowed in turn.

‘Master Shardlake,’ Sir Thomas said, a mocking note in his rich deep voice. ‘I hear you are sworn to her majesty’s Learned Council now.’

‘I am, sir.’

Lord Hertford cut across him, addressing Lord Parr. ‘I trust the Queen is in good health, my Lord.’

‘Indeed. She is viewing the Lady Elizabeth’s new portrait this morning, before it is shown to the King. Master Scrots has painted a good likeness.’

‘Excellent. Lady Elizabeth should have a portrait, it is fitting for her high estate.’ He inclined his head meaningfully to where Mary’s new quarters were being built. ‘I am sure the portrait will be a pleasure to his majesty.’

‘Indeed. He loves both his daughters, of course, but now Elizabeth is growing, she needs more — exposure.’