C. Sansom - Dark Fire

We stabled the animals and passed through the gate into St Paul's churchyard. I expected to see a great crowd round St Paul's Cross, where the preachers always stood, but the cobbled yard was deserted save for a few people waiting at the staircase leading to the roof. A couple of flower sellers stood by the door, doing a good trade in nosegays. They at least had done well out of the hot weather.

'Are we too early?' I asked Barak.

'No, it's nearly twelve.'

I accosted a passer-by. 'Pardon me sir, is the archbishop not preaching here this lunchtime?'

The man shook his head. 'He's preaching inside. On account of the hanging this morning.' He nodded to the wall behind me. I turned and saw a temporary gallows had been erected; sometimes people whose crimes had particularly sinful implications were hanged in the churchyard. 'A dirty sodomite,' the man said. 'The archbishop shouldn't be polluted by his presence.' He went to join the queue for the roof. I glanced at the figure hanging from the rope, then quickly looked away again. A young man in a cheap jerkin: no one had come to pull on his legs and he had strangled slowly, his face purple and hideous. He had died in terror. For a moment I felt surrounded by death. I took a deep breath and followed Barak, who was already at the cathedral door.

St Paul's Walk, the huge central nave with its vaulted stone ceilings, was the greatest marvel in London and normally visitors from the country would have been walking to and fro, gazing up in wonder while the cutpurses and bawdy women circled around the pillars waiting for their chance. But today the nave was almost empty. Further up the cathedral, though, a large crowd stood around the pulpit. There, under the brightly coloured painting of the Last Judgement showing death leading the estates of the realm to heaven and hell, which Cromwell had not yet removed, a man in a white cleric's robe and black stole stood preaching. Barak took a chair and stood on it, peering over the heads of the crowd and drawing disapproving glances from those nearest him.

'Can you see Rich?' I asked.

'No, there's too many folk. He's likely near the front. Come on.' He began jostling his way through the crowd, ignoring murmurs of protest, and I followed in his wake. There were several hundred people come to see the great archbishop, who together with his friend Cromwell had supervised all the religious changes since the break with Rome.

We reached the front, where robed merchants and courtiers stood with their heads lifted to the speaker. Even Barak dared not barge his way in among these people. He stood on tiptoe, looking out for Rich. I studied Cranmer, for I had never seen him before. He was surprisingly unimpressive, short and stocky with a long oval face and large brown eyes that seemed fuller of sadness than authority. A copy of the English Bible lay before him on the lectern. He touched the edges lovingly as he preached.

'God's Word,' he proclaimed in a ringing voice. 'All one needs to understand it is to be able to read and write, nay, even to listen may be enough. And thus one has access to the word of God himself direct, with no priest, no Latin mummery, to stand between. As it is said in Proverbs, chapter thirty: "Every word of God is pure, he is a shield to them that trust him-

It was strong reformist stuff; if the conservative Bishop Sampson had been preaching this week as planned, the emphasis would have been on obedience and tradition. Sampson, like Cranmer, would have had a stock of quotes culled from the vastness of the Bible to back his own position; I had heard some printers were even producing indexes of quotations for use in argument. I thought of Elizabeth's patient study, which had turned into fanatic rage against God, and turned away. Where is my own faith? I thought. Where did it go? How did it slip away?

'There he is,' Barak whispered in my ear. He began weaving through the crowd again, excusing himself politely. So he can be polite when he wants, I thought, as I followed him. At the very front, a small group of retainers round them, stood two richly robed figures; Richard Rich and Thomas Audley, the lord chancellor. Rich's handsome face was composed into a bland expression; it was impossible to tell if he approved of the sermon or not. He would be hedging his bets, for if Cromwell fell Cranmer would go too, probably to the fire. I saw Audley lean close and make a comment to Rich, smiling sarcastically, but Rich only nodded expressionlessly.

Barak took the earl's seal from his pocket and handed it to me. 'Here, you take this. It'll get you past those retainers.' I nodded. My heart was beating fast and I took a moment to compose myself before going over to the two privy councillors. One of the retainers turned, alert, as I approached, his hand going to his sword hilt. I showed him the seal.

'I need to speak to Sir Richard urgently. On Lord Cromwell's business.'

Rich had seen me. A frown crossed his face for a moment, then he smiled sardonically and stepped towards me.

'Well, Brother Shardlake again. God's death, you follow me everywhere. I thought I had settled our business when I spoke to the earl.'

'This is another matter, Sir Richard. Another matter of the earl's I need to discuss with you.'

He looked at me curiously. 'Well?'

'May we go somewhere a little quieter?'

He gathered his robe around him. With a sign to his retainers to stay where they were, he waved an arm to indicate I should lead the way through the crowd. I led him across to the far wall, out of earshot of the preaching. Barak followed, keeping at a little distance.

'Well?' Rich asked again.

I took the list from my robe. 'I need to know, Sir Richard, which of these cases are the ones you persuaded my clients to take away from me.'

He eyed me sharply. Those cold grey eyes were as empty of feeling as the sea. 'What has that to do with the earl?'

'I can only tell you he has an interest in one of the matters.'

'Which?' he asked sharply.

'I may not say.'

He tightened his hard mouth. 'One day, Shardlake…' he said quietly. He snatched the list and ran his eyes down it. 'The first, second, fourth and fifth,' he said. 'Not the third, sixth or seventh.'

The third was the warehouse. I studied his face intently, but could read nothing. Surely he would have paused, or blinked, if he had recognized Salt Wharf.

He thrust the list back at me. 'Well, is that alb'

'It is. Thank you, Sir Richard.'

'God's death,' he said with a mocking laugh, 'how you stare at one. And now, if I may, I shall return to the archbishop's sermon.' He turned away without a bow, shoving his way back through the crowd. Barak appeared at my side.

'What did he say?'

'He said the warehouse wasn't one of the ones he'd had taken.'

'D'you believe him?'

'He didn't pause for a second as he read the list. But he's so clever.' I was seized by uncertainty. 'I don't know. I don't know.'

But Barak did not reply. He was looking down the hall. Then he turned slowly and said to me quietly, 'Wright's here, I saw him. He's dodged behind that pillar. I don't think he saw me looking. He's watching us.'

Instinctively I backed against the wall. 'What's he doing here?'

'I don't know. Maybe he's after us again.'

'Maybe he's here with Rich. Can you see Toky?'

'No.' Barak's face set. 'This is our chance to catch him. Have you your dagger?'

I put a hand to my belt. 'These days, always.'

'Then will you help me?'

I nodded, though my heart raced at the thought of facing that monstrous creature again. It was only hours ago that he had struck Marchamount down. I tried not to look at the pillars. 'Is he armed?'

'He's a sword at his belt. Even he wouldn't bring an axe into St Paul's.' Barak spoke quickly and quietly, a casual smile on his face. 'We'll walk down the nave as though nothing is the matter. When we reach that pillar I'll rush round to one side. You go the other way and cut him off.' He looked at me intently. 'Can you do it?'