C Sansom - Sovereign

‘What am I supposed to have done?’ My lips felt thick, bruised, my heart was jumping wildly.

‘You’ll be told in the Tower.’

‘No!’ Barak thrust himself forward, grabbing at Leacon’s arm. ‘This is all wrong, it’s a mistake. Archbishop Cranmer-’

A soldier reached out and grabbed his arm. Barak lost his balance and toppled over with a cry on the muddy cobbles. I was manhandled away.

‘Find out what is happening, Jack!’ I called out.

Tamasin was helping him to his feet. ‘We will!’ she called after me. Wrenne was standing watching, his face aghast. A little distance away I saw the courtiers watching me. Maleverer caught my eye. He inclined his head, raised his eyebrows and smiled. He had known.

THEY TOOK US TO a big rowing boat a little further down the dock. Sergeant Leacon did not accompany us, and oddly it affected me greatly that I was left entirely in strange hands. The soldiers made me climb down steps encrusted with green slime and I slipped; if one of them had not grasped me I would have fallen into the filthy Thames.

They sat me beside Radwinter and rowed out into the broad river. Looking back at the wharf I saw three receding figures watching, still as stones. Barak and Tamasin and Giles; helpless.

Other craft on the river pulled aside at the sight of the boat full of red uniforms. We passed close to a wherry; its passenger, a plump alderman, gave Radwinter and me a look in which fear was mixed with sympathy. I could imagine his thoughts. Taken to the Tower. That could be me. It was the fear that lurked in the back of every mind. And now, out of the blue, it had happened to me. Yet, I thought with terror, perhaps I should not be surprised. My head was full of forbidden knowledge, of Blaybourne and the King’s legitimacy. Not that I had ever wanted any of it, but now they would have that knowledge out of my head, one way or another. Who was it that had informed against me? I furrowed my brow. Surely the old man Swann in Hull could not have done so. And other than him, only Barak knew the full extent of what I had discovered about Blaybourne. But he would have told Tamasin. Surely it could not be her? I swallowed; my throat was dry as paper. Beside me, Radwinter sat staring bleakly ahead, still no sign of the frantic madness Barak had described. It began to rain.

It was a short journey; suddenly the walls of the Tower were above us, wet with slime where they met the water for the tide was low. My heart began thumping frantically. We stopped at a portcullis gate that gave on to the river. The Watergate. I thought, Anne Boleyn came in here, Anne Boleyn, Anne Boleyn… I found myself repeating the name over and over in my mind. It was to stop my thoughts moving on to the end of that story, for I had been made by Cromwell to attend the Queen’s execution, seen her head fly out from the block on Tower Green, that fine spring day five years before.

‘Out!’ The boat had bumped against stone stairs. The soldiers took our arms and hauled us up. I looked through a stone archway at the top of the steps and saw Tower Green where ravens pecked, the great square bulk of the White Tower beyond. The rain grew heavier.

‘Let me go!’ Beside me Radwinter had come to life. ‘I’ve done nothing. I’m innocent.’ He tried to struggle but the soldiers held him fast. They did not bother to reply. Innocent, I thought. So was Anne Boleyn, so was Margaret of Salisbury they had killed here last spring. Being innocent was no help in this place.

‘Up you go!’ The soldiers spoke to us only in clipped phrases. They led us up the steps and I almost slipped again for I had still not fully found my land legs.

‘Wait here!’

We stood on a path. The soldiers surrounded us, pikes held straight, water bouncing off their breastplates and helmets. An official came along, head bent against the rain. He looked at us as he passed; a look of mild interest, as though thinking, who is it now? Here they would be used to it. I felt a terrible shame to have come to this; for a moment the shame was stronger than my fear. What if my father could see this from heaven?

A man walked towards us from the White Tower. He wore a fur robe and a wide cap and he came slowly, heedless of the rain. The soldiers saluted as he halted before us. He was in his late thirties, tall and thin with a neat sandy beard. A soldier handed him a couple of papers, the warrants no doubt. He studied Radwinter and me. His eyes were keen, calculating.

‘Which is which?’ he asked quietly.

The soldier inclined his head at me. ‘This one is Shardlake, Sir Jacob. The other is Radwinter.’

Sir Jacob nodded. ‘Bring them both.’ He turned away. The soldiers surrounded us and we followed Sir Jacob across the green to the Tower. The ravens hopped away.

We were led up the main stairs of the White Tower, through the high vaulted inner hall where the men of the garrison sat playing cards and talking. They stopped to stare as we passed. Many of them would be newly returned from the Progress, perhaps some had even seen me at Fulford.

I had visited the Tower before, on official business, and my heart sank into my belly, with a lurch that made me feel sick, as I realized we were being led to the dungeons. Down a spiral staircase lit with torches, down and down, the walls glistening with damp as we passed below river level, to a door with a barred window at the bottom. I had come this way four years previously, on a mission to get information from a gaoler. I had had a glimpse then of what went on down here, yet had given it little attention for my mind had been on my mission. Sir Jacob banged on the door. There was a chink of keys, the door opened and we were led through. The door slammed behind us. Now I felt more helpless than ever, utterly cut off from the world above.

We were in a dimly lit space, stone walls and stone flags on the floor. It was cold and very damp. Heavy barred doors were set in the stone walls. In the centre of the floor, oddly domestic, was a desk with a fat beeswax candle on it, casting its yellow light over a strew of papers. The turnkey who had let us in, a fat man with short greasy hair, came and stood beside us. Sir Jacob took up a paper, studied it and nodded. ‘Ah, he’s ready, I see. Put Radwinter in number nine,’ he said quietly. ‘Chain him, then come back. Is Caffrey up there?’

‘Yes, Sir Jacob.’

‘Bring him back with you.’ He nodded at the soldiers. ‘You can go.’

They left, boots clattering noisily as they mounted the stairs. The turnkey let them out, then returned, took Radwin-ter’s arm and led him away. He was unresisting, he seemed utterly shocked. They disappeared round a corner at the far end, the keys at the fat man’s belt jingling. The official looked at me.

‘I am Sir Jacob Rawling, deputy warden of the Tower. In charge of this side of things.’ He gave a wintry smile as he waved his hand around.

‘Yes, sir.’ I shivered. The cold was eating through my soaked clothes into my bones.

‘It is sad when someone of your rank comes to this.’ There was something oddly schoolmasterly in the way he shook his head, as though I were a pupil about to be punished for some serious misdemeanour.

‘I do not know why I am arrested, sir,’ I ventured.

He studied me, pursing his lips, then said, ‘The matter touches the Queen.’ I blinked in surprise. So it was not about Blaybourne at all. But if so, why had I been taken, not Barak or Tamasin? I thought with horror, she’s been discovered. They will say I have concealed evidence of her adultery with Culpeper. Maleverer must have known all along.

‘Had you not enough to trouble you on the Progress?’ Sir Jacob gave me another schoolmasterly smile, as though reluctantly amused by something in a pupil’s misbehaviour, perhaps his stupidity in thinking he could get away with it. He studied me with interest. ‘Your name has been heard in this place before, only a little time ago. When we racked Bernard Locke. They wanted to find out his role in attempts on your life.’