C.J. Sansom: Revelation

'Ay, ay.' The boy's father nodded eagerly, relieved to find some common ground.

I thought hard a moment, then spoke quietly. 'There are two problems with this case. One is jurisdiction. Anyone who cannot afford a lawyer may bring his case before the Court of Requests, but the judge may say the matter is one of state, and should go back before the Privy Council. However, if you cannot afford the fees they charge in the Bedlam, the court may ask the Council to pay. And the court may intervene to stop poor treatment. But the matter of releasing Adam is much more difficult.' I took a deep breath. 'And what if he were released; If he were to escape again, if there were a repeat of what happened at St Paul's, he might find himself accused of heresy after all. If we could get his conditions improved, in all honesty the Bedlam may be the safest place for him, unless he can be brought to his right mind. To tangle with the Privy Council could be very dangerous.' I had not mentioned poor John Collins, but I could tell from their faces that they remembered the horror of what had happened to him.

'He must be released from that place,' Meaphon said. 'The only cure is for Adam to understand that God has sent him this trial, and he must not doubt His grace. Whether a devil has entered into him or his mind is stricken from some other cause, only I can help him, with aid from fellow ministers.' The minister looked at Adam's parents. Daniel Kite said 'Amen,' but Minnie looked down at her lap.

'His release will not happen unless the Council become convinced that he is sane,' I said. 'But there is one thing we can do. I know a physician, a clever man, who would be able to assess Adam, might even be able to help him.'

Daniel Kite shook his head firmly. 'Physicians are godless men.'

'This physician is most godly.' I thought it better not to tell them my friend Guy was a former monk, still at heart a Catholic.

Kite still looked dubious, but Minnie grasped eagerly at the straw. 'Bring him in, sir, we will try anything. But we have no money to pay him . . .'

'I am sure some arrangement can be made.'

She looked at her husband. He hesitated, looked at Meaphon and said, 'It can do no harm, sir, surely.' Meaphon looked as though he was about to disagree, and I jumped in. 'I have no doubt that is the sensible thing to do, from the point of view of Adam's interests. And in the meantime I will apply to have Adam's care monitored, and the fees remitted. There are so many cases in Requests just now that the judge is sitting out of term to clear the backlog. With luck an urgent application might be heard in a week or so.'

'Thank you, sir,' Minnie said.

'But I would not even like to try and list the matter of release without some change in Adam to report.' I looked at Meaphon. 'Such a request would simply fail.'

'Then it seems we must wait and see what the doctor says.' He spoke quietly, but his eyes were hostile.

And I think I ought to visit the Bedlam, perhaps put some fear into this keeper. And see Adam.'

The Kites exchanged uncomfortable glances. 'That would be good of you, sir,' Daniel Kite said. 'But I must tell you, my poor boy's dismal frenzy is a terrible thing to behold.'

'I have seen many sad things in my career,' I said, though in truth I quailed at the thought of this visit.

'We are going to see Adam tomorrow, at nine, sir,' Minnie said. 'Could you come then?'

'Yes, I will have time before court.'

'Do you know how to get there? Go through the Bishopsgate, sir, then look for the Bedlam gates.'

'I will be there.' I smiled at her and stood up. 'I will do what I can. But this is a most difficult matter.'

I showed them out. Meaphon hung back in the doorway after the Kites passed into the outer office. 'I do not think this doctor will have success,' he said quietly. 'God moves in strange and marvellous ways, and for all their trials and persecutions in this world, He will lead true Christians into his peace at last. Including Adam.' The grey eyes burned beneath his shaggy brows; yet it struck me that there was something oddly actorish about him, as though he were playing Virtue in a play whose audience was all London.

'Indeed,' I answered. 'I pray the poor boy may find peace.'

'We are going to our church service now,' he said. 'We shall pray hard for him.'

After they had gone I returned to my desk, looked again at the papers. Then I went and stared out at the rain-drenched court. The Kites passed the window, holding on to their caps as they bent their heads against the driving rain. 'He is not one of us,' I heard Meaphon say. 'He will not be saved at the end-time.'

I watched them as they crossed to the gate. One thing I was certain of in my own mind. Adam Kite was my responsibility now. I had to judge what was in his best interests, and I doubted very much whether an early release from the Bedlam would serve those, whatever Meaphon might say. Minnie Kite, I felt sure, would put her son's interests first and listen to me.

I went back to the outer office. Barak was sitting at the table, looking into the fire, a serious expression on his face. He jumped when I called his name.

'You look thoughtful,' I said.

'I was just wondering whether to go for a shave now or see if the rain stops. That vicar gave me a nasty look as he went by.'

'Recognized you for a godless fellow, no doubt. I overheard him kindly condemning me to eternal fire as they passed my window.' I sighed. 'Apparently he stuck Adam Kite in a room and prayed with him for two days. Made the boy fast as well, though he was already skin and bone. I almost wonder if Bonner purging the lot of them might not be a good thing. All right,' I added, as Barak looked at me in surprise. 'I didn't mean that.' I sighed. 'But I begin to wonder whether these people are the future, whether they are what religious reform is turning into. And that thought frightens me.'

'But you're taking the case?'

'I must. But I shall be very careful, do not worry about that. I want Guy to see the boy. But first I must visit him myself 'At the Bedlam?' I sighed. 'Yes, tomorrow.'

'Can I come?'

'No. I should go alone. But thank you.'

'Pity,' Barak said. 'I'd like to see if it's true the groans and shrieks can be heard across the streets, making folk scurry by.'

LATER THAT MORNING the rain eased off. The sun came out and the weather grew clear and cold again. My meeting with the Kites had given me much food for thought and I decided to go for a walk. Everything seemed sharper in the clear air; the naked branches of the trees were outlined against a blue sky, patches of snow were still visible in the corners of the bare brown fields behind the houses. I walked through the nearby suburbs, along Holborn and down Shoe Lane. The Palm Sunday services were under way now, and I noted as I passed how some churches had garlands on the lychgates and church doors, and greenery spread in the street outside, while others presented only their normal aspect. In one churchyard an outdoor service was taking place, a choir of white-surpliced boys singing a hymn before a garlanded cross, where three men stood dressed as prophets in long robes, with false white beards and brightly decorated headgear. I was reminded of yesterday's play.

I remembered the guest at Roger's table talking of apprentices disrupting a palm-laying ceremony. There were many stories of the religious divisions in London's forest of tiny parishes: a radical vicar in one church whitewashing over ancient wall paintings and replacing them with texts from the Bible, a conservative in another insisting on the full Latin Mass. I had recently heard of radical congregants in one church talking loudly while the sacring bell sounded, causing the traditionalist priest to lose his temper and shriek 'Heretics! Faggots! Fire!' at them. Was it any wonder that many, like myself, stayed away from church these days? Next weekend it would be Easter, when everyone was supposed by law to take confession. In London those who failed to attend were reported to Bishop Bonner, but illness or urgent pressure of business were accepted as excuses, and I decided I would argue the latter. I could not bear the thought of confessing my sins to my parish priest, a time-server whose only principle in the doctrinal struggle was to follow the wind and preserve his position. And if I were to confess, I knew that one of my sins was a long' growing, half-buried doubt whether God existed at all. That was the paradox - the vicious struggle between papists and sacramentaries was driving many away from faith altogether. Christ said, by their fruits shall you know them, and the fruits of the faithful of both sides looked more rotten each year.