К Сэнсом - Dissolution

Tears come to my eyes as I write these words. They came to me that first night at Scarnsea, too. I let them fall silently, keeping myself from sobbing lest I waken Mark to an embarrassing scene. They cleansed me, and I slept.

BUT THE NIGHTMARE returned that night. I had not dreamed of Queen Anne’s killing for months, but seeing Singleton’s body brought all back. Again I stood on Tower Green on a bright spring morning, one of the huge crowd standing round the straw-covered scaffold. I was at the front of the crowd; Lord Cromwell had ordered all those under his patronage to attend and identify themselves with the queen’s fall. He himself stood nearby, at the front of the crowd. He had risen as one of Anne Boleyn’s party; now he had prepared the indictment for adultery that brought her down. He stood frowning sternly, the embodiment of angry justice.

Straw was laid thickly around the block, and the executioner brought from France stood in his sinister black hood, arms folded. I looked for the sword he had brought to ensure a merciful end, at the queen’s own request, but could not see it. I stood with my head deferentially lowered, for some of the greatest men in the land were there: Lord Chancellor Audley, Sir Richard Rich, the Earl of Suffolk.

We stood like statues, no one talking at the front, though there was a buzz of conversation from the crowd behind. There is an apple tree on Tower Green. It was in full blossom and a blackbird sat singing on a high branch, careless of the crowd. I watched it, envying the creature its freedom.

There was a stirring, and the queen appeared. She was flanked by ladies-in-waiting, a surpliced chaplain and the red-coated guards. She looked thin and haggard, bony shoulders hunched inside her white cloak, her hair tied up in a coif. As she approached the block she kept looking back, as though a messenger might arrive with a reprieve from the king. After nine years at the heart of the court she should have known better; this great orchestrated spectacle would not be stopped. As she came close, huge brown eyes surrounded by dark rings darted wildly round the scaffold and I think, like me, she was looking for the sword.

In my dream there are none of the long preliminaries; no long prayers, no speech from the scaffold by Queen Anne beseeching all to pray for the life of the king. In my dream she kneels down at once, facing the crowd, and starts to pray. I hear again her thin harsh cries, over and over, ‘Jesu, receive my soul! Lord God, have pity on my soul!’ Then the executioner bends and produces the great sword from where it had lain hidden in the straw. ‘So that’s where it was,’ I think, then flinch and cry out as it swings through the air faster than the eye can follow and the queen’s head flies up and outwards in a great spray of blood. Again I feel a rush of nausea and close my eyes as a great murmur comes from the crowd, broken by the odd ‘hurrah’. I open them again at the prescribed words, ‘So perish all the king’s enemies,’ barely intelligible in the executioner’s French accent. The straw and his clothes are drenched with the blood that still pumps from the corpse, and he holds up the queen’s dripping head.

The papists say that at that moment the candles in Dover church lit spontaneously, and there were other such silly legends around the country, but I can attest for myself that the eyes in the queen’s severed head did move, roving madly round the crowd, the lips working as though trying to speak. Someone shrieked in the crowd behind me and I heard a susurration as the crowd, all in their best puffed-sleeved clothing, crossed themselves. In truth it was less than thirty seconds, not the half an hour people said later, before the movement stopped. But in my nightmare I relived each of those seconds, praying for those ghastly eyes to be still. Then the executioner tossed the head into an arrow box, which served as coffin, and as it landed with a thud I woke with a cry to the sound of someone knocking at the door.

I lay breathing heavily, my sweat congealing in the bitter cold. The knocking came again, then Alice’s voice called urgently, ‘Master Shardlake! Commissioner!’

It was dead of night, the fire burned low and the room was icy. Mark groaned and stirred in his pallet.

‘What is it?’ I called, my heart still pounding after the nightmare, my voice shaky.

‘Brother Guy asks you to come, sir.’

‘Wait a moment!’ I heaved myself out of bed and lit a candle from the embers of the fire. Mark rose too, blinking and tousle-haired.

‘What’s happening?’

‘I don’t know. Stay here.’ I threw on my hose and opened the door. The girl stood outside, a white apron over her dress.

‘I beg your pardon, sir, but Simon Whelplay is very sick and must speak to you. Brother Guy said I should wake you.’

‘Very well.’ I followed her down the freezing corridor. A little way along a door stood open. I heard voices: Brother Guy’s and another that whimpered in distress. Looking in, I saw the novice lying on a truckle bed. His face shone with sweat and he muttered feverishly, his breath wheezing and rasping. Brother Guy sat by the bed, mopping his brow with a cloth that he dipped in a bowl.

‘What ails him?’ I could not keep the nervousness from my voice, for the sweating sickness made people writhe and gasp so.

The infirmarian looked at me, his face serious. ‘It is a congestion of the lungs. No wonder, standing about in the cold with no food. He has a dangerous temperature. But he keeps asking to speak with you. He will not rest till he has done so.’

I approached the bed, reluctant to go too close lest he breathe the humours of his fever on me. The boy fixed red-rimmed eyes on me. ‘Commissioner, sir,’ he croaked. ‘You are sent here to do justice?’

‘Yes, I am here to investigate Commissioner Singleton’s death.’

‘He is not the first to be killed,’ he gasped. ‘Not the first. I know.’

‘What do you mean? Who else has died?’

A series of racking coughs shook his thin frame, phlegm gurgling in his chest. He lay back, exhausted. His eyes fell on Alice.

‘Poor, good girl. I warned her of the danger here …’ He began to cry, retching sobs turning into another fit of coughing that looked ready to shake his thin frame apart. I turned to Alice.

‘What does he mean?’ I asked sharply. ‘What has he warned you of?’

Her face was clouded with puzzlement. ‘I don’t understand, sir. He has never warned me of anything. I have barely spoken to him before today.’

I looked at Brother Guy. He seemed equally puzzled. He studied the boy anxiously.

‘He is very ill, Commissioner. He should be left to rest now.’

‘No, Brother, I must question him some more. Have you any idea what he meant there?’

‘No, sir. I know no more than Alice.’

I moved closer to the bed and bent over the boy.

‘Master Whelplay, tell me what you mean. Alice says you have given her no warning –’

‘Alice is good,’ he croaked. ‘Dulce and gentle. She must be warned –’ He began coughing again, and Brother Guy stepped firmly between us.

‘I must ask you to leave him now, Commissioner. I thought talking to you might ease him, but he is delirious. I must give him a potion to make him sleep.’

‘Please, sir,’ Alice added, ‘for charity. You can see how ill he is.’

I drew away from the boy, who seemed to have collapsed into an exhausted stupor. ‘How ill is he?’ I asked.

The infirmarian set his lips. ‘Either the fever will break soon, or it will kill him. He should not have been treated so,’ he added angrily. ‘I have made a complaint to the abbot; he will be coming to see the lad in the morning. Prior Mortimus has gone too far this time.’