К Сэнсом - Lamentation

It was full dark now. Who could be calling at such an hour? Through the hall window I could see two link-boys, young fellows carrying torches to illuminate the way, who must have accompanied my visitor. There was another with them, a servant in dark clothes with a sword at his waist. Someone of status, then.

I opened the door to my study. To my astonishment I saw, standing within, the young man who had been watching me at the burning, still dressed soberly in his long robe. Though he was not handsome – his cheeks disfigured with moles – his face had a strength about it, despite his youth, and the protuberant grey eyes were keen and probing. He bowed to me. ‘Serjeant Shardlake. God give you good evening. I apologize for disturbing you at dinner, but I fear the matter is most urgent.’

‘What is it? One of my cases?’

‘No, sir.’ He coughed, a sudden sign of nervousness. ‘I come from Whitehall Palace, from her majesty the Queen. She begs you to see her.’

‘Begs?’ I answered in surprise. Queens do not beg.

‘Yes, sir. Her message is that she is in sore trouble, and pleads your help. She asked me to come; she did not wish to put her request in writing. I serve in a junior way on her majesty’s Learned Council. My name is William Cecil. She needs you, sir.’

I HAD TO SIT DOWN. I went to the chair behind my desk, motioning Cecil to a seat in front. I had brought in a candle, and I set it on the table between us. It illuminated the young man’s face, the shadows emphasizing the line of three little moles on his right cheek.

I took a deep breath. ‘I see you are a barrister.’

‘Yes, of Gray’s Inn.’

‘Do you work with Warner, the Queen’s solicitor?’

‘Sometimes. But Master Warner was one of those questioned about heretical talk. He is – shall we say – keeping his head low. I am trusted by the Queen; she herself asked me to be her emissary.’

I spread my hands. ‘I am nothing more than a lawyer practising in the courts. How can the Queen be in urgent need of my help?’

Cecil smiled, a little sadly I thought. ‘I think we both know, Serjeant Shardlake, that your skills run further than that. But I am sorry; I may give you no more particulars tonight. If you consent to come, the Queen will see you at Whitehall Palace tomorrow at nine; there she can tell you more.’

I thought again, Queens do not beg or ask a subject to visit them; they order. Before her marriage to the King, Catherine Parr had promised that while she would pass legal cases my way she would never involve me in matters of politics. This, clearly, was something big, something dangerous, and in wording her message thus she was offering me a way out. I could, if I wished, say no to young Cecil.

‘You can tell me nothing now?’ I pressed.

‘No, sir. I only ask, whether you choose to come or no, that you keep my visit entirely to yourself.’

Almost everything in me wanted to refuse. I remembered what I had witnessed that morning, the flames, the screams, the blood. And then I thought of Queen Catherine, her courage, her nobility, her gentleness and humour. The finest and most noble lady I had ever met, who had done me nothing but good. I took a deep, deep breath. ‘I will come,’ I said. I told myself, like a fool, that I could see the Queen and then, if I chose, still decline her request.

Cecil nodded. I got the sense he was not greatly impressed with me. Probably he saw a middle-aged hunchback lawyer deeply troubled by the possibility of being thrown into danger. If so, he was right.

He said, ‘Come by road to the main gate of the palace at nine. I will be waiting there. I will take you inside, and then you will be conducted to the Queen’s chambers. Wear your lawyer’s robe but not your serjeant’s coif. Better you attract as little notice as possible at this stage.’ He stroked his wispy beard as he regarded me, thinking perhaps that, as a hunchback, I might attract some anyway.

I stood. ‘Till nine tomorrow, then, Brother Cecil.’

He bowed. ‘Till nine, Serjeant Shardlake. I must return now to the Queen. I know she will be glad to have your reply.’

I SHOWED HIM OUT. Martin appeared from the dining room bearing another candle, opened the door for Cecil and bowed, always there to perform every last detail of a steward’s duty. Cecil stepped onto the gravel drive, where his servant waited beside the link-boys with their torches to light him home, wherever that was. Martin closed the door.

‘I took the liberty of serving the marchpane to Dr Malton,’ he said.

‘Thank you. Tell him I will be with him in a moment. But first send Timothy to my study.’

I went back into my room. My little refuge, my haven, where I kept my own small collection of law books, diaries and years of notes. I wondered, what would Barak think if he knew of this? He would say bluntly that I should cast aside my sentimental fantasy for the Queen and invent an urgent appointment tomorrow in Northumberland.

Timothy arrived and I scribbled a note for him to take round and leave at chambers, asking Barak to prepare a summary of one of my more important cases which I had intended to do tomorrow. ‘No, pest on it! Barak has to chase up those papers at the Six Clerks’ office …’ I amended the note to ask Nicholas to do the job. Even if the boy came up with a jumble, it would be a starting point.

Timothy looked at me, his dark eyes serious. ‘Are you all right, Master?’ he asked.

‘Yes, yes,’ I replied irritably. ‘Just harried by business. There is no peace under the sun.’ Regretting my snappishness, I gave him a half-groat on his way out, before returning to the dining chamber, where Guy was picking at Agnes’s fine marchpane.

‘I am sorry, Guy, some urgent business.’

He smiled. ‘I, too, have had my meals interrupted when a crisis overtakes some poor patient.’

‘And I am sorry if I spoke roughly before. But what I saw this morning unmanned me.’

‘I understand. But if you think all those who oppose reform – or those of us who, yes, would have England back in the bosom of the Roman family – support such things you do us great injustice.’

‘All I know is that I hear thunder rolling all around the throne,’ I said, paraphrasing Wyatt’s poem. I then remembered again Philip Coleswyn’s words at the burning and shuddered. Any of us may come to this now.

EARLY NEXT MORNING Timothy saddled Genesis and I rode down to Chancery Lane. My horse was getting older; round in body, his head growing bony. It was another pleasant July day; hot but with a gentle cooling breeze stirring the green branches. I passed the Lincoln’s Inn gatehouse and rode on to Fleet Street, moving to the side of the road as a flock of sheep was driven into London for slaughter at the Shambles.

Already the city was busy, the shops open and the owners’ apprentices standing in doorways calling their wares. Peddlers with their trays thronged the dusty way, a rat-catcher in a wadmol smock walked nearby, stooped under the weight of two cages hung from a pole carried across his shoulders, each one full of sleek black rats. A woman with a basket on her head called out, ‘Hot pudding pies!’ I saw a sheet of paper pasted to a wall printed with the long list of books forbidden under the King’s recent proclamation, which must be surrendered by the 9th of August. Someone had scrawled ‘The word of God is the glory of Christ’ across it.

As I reached the Strand the road became quieter. The way bent south towards Westminster, following the curve of the river. To the left stood the grand three- and four-storeyed houses of the wealthy; the facades brightly painted and decorated, liveried guards at the doorways. I passed the great stone Charing Cross, then turned down into the broad street of Whitehall. Already I could see the tall buildings of the palace ahead, turreted and battlemented, every pinnacle topped with lions and unicorns and the royal arms, gilded so they flashed in the sun like hundreds of mirrors, the brightness making me blink.