К Сэнсом - Lamentation

‘Who has seen the book, your majesty?’ I asked quietly.

‘Only my Lord Archbishop. I finished it in February, but then in March the trouble with Gardiner began. And so I hid it in my private coffer, telling nobody.’ She added bitterly, ‘You see, Matthew, I can still be sensible sometimes.’ I saw that she was torn between conflicting emotions: her desire to spread her beliefs amongst the people, her acute awareness of the political dangers of doing so, and her fear for her own life. ‘The book stayed locked in my coffer until last month, when I resolved to ask the Archbishop for his opinion. He came to me, here, and read it one evening with me.’ She looked at Cranmer, smiling wistfully. ‘We have spoken much on matters of faith, these last three years. Few know how much.’

The Archbishop looked uneasy for a moment, then said, his voice composed, ‘That was on the ninth of June. A little over a month ago. And I advised her majesty that on no account should the book be circulated. It said nothing about the Mass, but the condemnation of dumb Roman ceremonies, the argument that prayer and the Bible are the only ways to salvation – those could be read, by our enemies, as Lutheran.’

‘Where is the manuscript now?’ I asked.

‘That is our problem,’ Lord Parr said heavily. ‘It has been stolen.’

The Queen looked me in the eye. ‘And if it finds its way to the King’s hands, then likely I am dead and others, too.’

‘But if it does not deny the Mass –’

‘It is too radical for the King,’ the Queen said. ‘And that I should be its author, and have kept it secret from him …’ Her voice faltered.

Cranmer spoke quietly. ‘He would see that as disloyalty. And that is the most dangerous thing of all.’

‘I can understand that,’ the Queen said sadly. ‘He would feel – wounded.’

My head reeled. I clasped my hands together in my lap to force my mind to focus, realizing the others were waiting for me to respond. ‘How many copies are there?’ I asked.

The Queen answered, ‘Only one, in my own hand. I wrote it in my bedchamber, secretly, with my door locked.’

‘How long is it?’

‘Fifty pages of small writing. I kept it secure, in the strong chest in my bedchamber. I alone have the key and I keep it round my neck. Even when I sleep.’ She put her hand to her bodice and lifted out a small key. Like the teardrop pearl, it was on the end of a fine chain.

Cranmer said bluntly, ‘I advised her majesty to destroy the book. Its very existence was a danger.’

‘And that was on the ninth of June?’ I asked.

The Queen answered, ‘Yes. I could not, of course, meet with the Archbishop in my bedchamber, so I brought it to this room. It was the only time it has left my bedchamber. I asked all the ladies and servants to leave so our discussion could be private.’

‘And you told nobody about your meeting?’

‘I did not.’

They were all looking at me now. I had slipped into the question-and-answer mode of the investigating lawyer. There was no pulling back from this. But I thought, if this goes wrong, it could be the fire for me as well as for them.

The Queen continued. ‘My Lord Archbishop told me the book must be destroyed. And yet – I believed, and still believe, that such a work, written by a Queen of England, could bring people to right faith.’ She looked at me pleadingly, as though to say: see, this is my soul, this is the truth I have learned, and you must listen. I was moved, but lowered my gaze. The Queen clasped her hands together, then looked between the three of us, her voice quietly sombre now. ‘Very well. I know. I was wrong.’ She added wearily, ‘Such faith in my own powers is itself a token of vanity.’

I asked, ‘Did you return the manuscript directly to your chest?’

‘Yes. Almost every day I would look at it. For a full month. Many times I nearly called you, Uncle.’

‘Would that you had,’ Lord Parr said feelingly.

‘Had it not been summer, had there been fires lit in the grate, once, twice, I would have burned it. But I hesitated, and days lengthened into weeks. And then, eleven days ago, the day after that scene with Wriothesley, I opened the chest and the book was gone. It was gone.’ She shook her head. I realized what a shock that moment must have been to her.

‘When had you last seen it?’ I asked gently.

‘That afternoon I looked over the manuscript again, wondering whether there were changes I might make that would render it safe to publish. Then, in the early evening, the King called me to his private chamber, and I was with him, talking and playing cards, till near ten. His legs were paining him; he needed distraction. Then, when I came to bed, I went to take it out, to look at it, to guide my prayers, and it was gone.’

‘Was there any sign the lock had been tampered with?’

‘No,’ she answered. ‘None at all.’

‘What else was in the chest, your majesty?’

‘Some of my jewels. Legacies from my second husband, and his daughter, dear Margaret Neville, who died this spring.’ A spasm of sadness crossed her face.

Lord Parr said, ‘All those jewels were of considerable value. But nothing apart from the manuscript was removed.’

I considered. ‘And this was the day following the incident with Wriothesley?’

‘Yes. The sixth of July. I have cause to remember recent days very well.’

Lord Parr said, ‘My niece contacted me at once. I was horrified to learn of the existence of the book, and what had happened to it.’

I looked at the old man. ‘I imagine the nature of the theft would make enquiries within the household – difficult.’

He shook his head. ‘We dare tell nobody. But I checked with the guards who had been in and out of the Queen’s bedchamber during those crucial hours. Nothing unusual: two pages to clean, a maid-in-waiting to prepare the Queen’s bed. And Jane her fool, wandering in to see if the Queen was about. Jane Fool is allowed to go everywhere,’ he added crossly. ‘But she has not the wit to steal an apple.’

‘Finding out who was seen to enter the chamber during those hours is important,’ I said. ‘But someone could have found out about the book earlier, and chosen the hours when her majesty was with the King to make the theft.’

‘How could anyone have known,’ the Queen asked, ‘when I wrote it in secret, told no one, and kept it locked away?’

Lord Parr nodded agreement. ‘We cannot see how this has been done – we have not known what to do. We have felt – paralysed.’

The Queen closed her eyes, clutching the pearl round her neck hard. We all watched her with concern. Finally she unclenched her hand. ‘I am all right.’

‘Are you sure?’ Lord Parr asked.

‘Yes. Yes. But you continue the story, Uncle.’

Lord Parr looked at me. ‘It was then,’ he said, ‘that we heard of the murder by St Paul’s.’

‘Murder?’ I asked sharply.

‘Yes, there is murder in this, too. The book was stolen from the coffer sometime on the evening of the sixth of July. At dusk last Saturday, the tenth, a printer in a small way of business in Bowyer Road, hard by St Paul’s, was murdered in his shop. You know how these little places have multiplied round the cathedral these last few years. Printers, booksellers, often just tiny businesses in ramshackle sheds.’

‘I do, my Lord.’ I knew, too, that many printers and booksellers were radicals, and that several had had their premises raided in recent months.

‘The printer was a man called Armistead Greening,’ Lord Parr continued. ‘His shop was one of those little sheds, with only a single printing press. He had been in trouble before for publishing radical literature; he was investigated in the spring but nothing was found against him. Recently he had been printing schoolbooks. Last Saturday evening he was working in his shop. Several of the local printers were at work nearby; they toil away until the last of the light, to make the most use of their presses. Greening had an apprentice, who left at nine.’