C. Sansom - Dark Fire

'A Christian commonwealth? Is such a thing even possible in this fallen world? Surely the annals of the last thousand years show it is not. That is why many like me chose to escape to the cloister before that was forbidden.'

'Yes, the old Church always believed the sinful world was heading towards a final cataclysm; nothing man did could make any difference. And that excused much oppression.'

'You would need fierce measures to make a perfect commonwealth. If you were to end poverty and beggary you'd need to squeeze their wealth from the rich, for example.'

'Sometimes I think that would be a good thing.'

'Now you sound like an Anabaptist.'

I laughed. 'No, just a puzzled old lawyer.'

He looked at me seriously. 'But ending social injustice is not Cromwell's first priority, you know that. What matters to him is the Protestant faith and he would use Greek Fire to cut a terrible swathe to achieve that if he could.'

I nodded sadly. 'Yes, you are right. He cannot be trusted with it. No one can.'

Guy looked relieved. 'Thank Christ you see that.' He looked at the pewter pot, then carefully put it in his pocket. 'I will let you know as soon as I have something to tell you.'

'Thank you. Tomorrow if you can – there are only five days now till the demonstration before the king.' I sighed. 'On the day Elizabeth goes back to court.'

As though in response to her name Elizabeth stirred, her legs moving beneath the blanket. We turned to her. 'Sarah,' she muttered again, then, 'that evil boy. The evil boy.' And then her eyes fluttered open and she looked at us uncomprehendingly.

Guy leant over her. 'Miss Wentworth, you are in a clean room in the prison. You have a fever. I am Guy Malton, an apothecary. Your good uncle and Master Shardlake had you brought here.'

I leant over her. Her eyes were heavy with fever but she seemed fully conscious. Knowing this was a chance that might never come again, I said slowly, 'We are still trying to find the truth, Elizabeth. We are trying to save you. I know there is something in the well at your uncle's house-'

She seemed to shrink back. 'The death of God,' she whispered. 'The death of God.'

'What?' I asked, but her eyes closed again. I made to shake her but Guy held my arm.

'Do not distress her further.'

'But – what did she mean? The death of God? God's death is a common curse, but-'

He looked at me seriously. 'The death of God is despair. When I was a monk sometimes one of my brethren would lose his faith, succumb to despair. Usually they came back to faith, but until they did-' he shook his head – 'it felt as though God was dead.'

'The well,' Elizabeth muttered. 'The well.' And then she fell back to her pillows, sinking once more into unconsciousness.

I LEFT SOON AFTER. I was so exhausted that the short ride home through the darkness felt as though it lasted for ever, and once I had to pinch myself to stop myself from falling asleep in the saddle. I wondered whether Guy would be able to fathom how Greek Fire was made up. So many had died to keep that secret.

When I arrived home it was past two in the morning and Barak had already gone to his room. I hauled myself upstairs and fell fully clothed onto the bed. I fell asleep at once, but found myself troubled by a nightmare. I dreamed I was back in Forbizer's court, sitting watching as the judge coldly sentenced a succession of prisoners to death. Yet their faces were those of people already dead: Sepultus and Michael Gristwood, Bathsheba and her brother, the watchman and a strange man in a leather apron whom I knew must be the founder. All their faces were sad, yet whole, not shattered and bloodied as I had seen them. In my dream I took the pewter jar of Greek Fire from my robe, lifted it and let it fall on the floor. At once a roaring tide of flame shot from it, engulfing everyone: prisoners, spectators, judge. I saw Forbizer raise his arms with a scream as his beard flared and crackled. I sat in the centre of the flames, untouched for a moment, but then the fire seemed to gather itself and rushed at me, engulfing me. I felt its searing heat on my face and screamed, then jolted awake to the bright light of morning, the sun hot on my face and the bells of London's hundred churches clamouring in the distance, calling the City to prayer. It was Sunday, the sixth of June.

I was stiff and aching, and as I dressed slowly I told myself that when this matter was done I would leave London. It seemed my clients had had enough of me, and I had just enough money for a quiet life in the countryside if I was careful. Still frightened by my dream, I stumbled downstairs to find Barak sitting at the parlour table, staring gloomily at a letter.

'From Cromwell?' I asked, taking a seat.

'Ay. It's from Hampton Court, he must be there on some business for the king. You might as well see it.' He tossed the sheet of paper over to me. It was in Cromwell's own hand.

I have spoken to Rich. You have both been worrying at the wrong hare, his schemes with that churl Bealknap have nothing to do with Greek Fire. Continue your investigations, for what they are worth, and I will see you at Whitehall tomorrow, when I return to London.

I laid the letter on the table. 'He's not pleased with us.'

'No. What in God's name were Bealknap and Rich up to?'

'Jesu knows. We will find out tomorrow. Today there is Marchamount to deal with.'

'We'd better get on. I left you to sleep, or I thought you'd be fit for nothing, but half the morning's gone. We've only four days left.'

'D'you think I've forgotten that?' I snapped, then raised a hand. 'We do no good sniping at each other, I've told you before.'

'No.' He scratched his stubbly head. 'The tone of that letter worries me, that's all.'

I ate a hasty breakfast and then we walked along the dusty lane to the Inn. Looking at the cloudless sky, I thought of Joseph and his ruined crops. Wheat would be scarce and there would be hunger by autumn.

'Elizabeth had a moment of consciousness last night,' I said. 'I mentioned the well again and she said, "Death of God". Guy said it means she's in despair. And she said something about the girl and "that evil boy".'

'Her young cousin or the mad girl's brother?'

'I don't know.' I looked at him. 'But we must go to the well again tonight. We must delay no more.'

He nodded. 'I want to see the truth of this too. That poor creature reminds me of when I was in the gutter, consumed with fury at my mother for marrying that confederate of Bealknap's.' He laughed bitterly. 'I may end up back in the gutter if I lose the earl's favour.'

'There's still time,' I said.

I hoped Marchamount would be in. I hoped desperately that, whatever secret Lady Honor was still keeping, it was not incriminating. As we entered the courtyard I saw the service had ended in the chapel and the lawyers were filing out. I saw Marchamount among the throng, walking back to his chambers, his robe billowing around his portly form.

'All right if I come with you?' Barak asked.

I hesitated. What if Marchamount told me something that led the way to the Gristwoods' stock of Greek Fire? But I could not exclude Barak again. I nodded, wondering whether Guy was even now examining that dreadful stuff.

We caught up with Marchamount at the door to his chambers. He looked round in surprise.

'Brother Shardlake, this is an unexpected meeting.' He smiled, that little flash of white teeth. 'What happened to you on Friday? Had you no stomach for the bear-baiting?'

'Lady Honor did not feel like attending,' I said briskly. 'I went for a walk with her.'

He stared at Barak. 'Who is this?'

'An agent of Lord Cromwell's. He is helping me on the Greek Fire matter.'

Barak took off his cap and made a little bow. Marchamount's eyes widened at his bald head, then he frowned in exasperation. 'I have told you all I know. How many times