C Sansom - Sovereign

‘The Archbishop offered me the legal position first. I was only given this second mission once I had agreed.’

Radwinter laughed softly. ‘Yes, he can be a fox. But it will pay well.’

‘Well enough,’ I said stiffly.

‘Enough to buy a new robe, I hope, especially if you are to see the King. The one you wear is torn. I only mention it in case you had not seen.’

‘I have another. This one was torn this morning. On a glazier’s cart.’

‘Really? A strange mishap.’

‘Yes.’ I told him the story of finding Oldroyd’s body, though only the parts that were public knowledge. The gaoler smiled again. ‘It seems a lawyer’s work is never done,’ he said. He put down his goblet. ‘Well, I expect you would like to see Sir Edward.’

‘Please.’

Once again I followed as he ascended with his quick, light steps. I thought about what he had said about Lambert’s trial and burning, and remembered Cranmer’s description of Radwinter as a man of true and honest faith. That meant following the orthodoxy that the last word on religious matters belonged to the King, as Supreme Head. Such a man might well approve of burning a heretic, but his light and jesting tone had repelled me. Were his professions of faith merely a cover for enjoyment of cruelty? I stared at his back as he turned the key in the door to Broderick’s cell.

Sir Edward was lying on his dirty pallet. Fresh rushes had been laid on the floor as I had ordered, though, and the cell stank less. I saw his shirt was open, a poultice strapped to his chest. He was emaciated, all his ribs visible under dead white skin. He stared at me coldly again.

‘Well, Sir Edward,’ I asked, ‘how are you today?’

‘They’ve poulticed my burn. It stings.’

‘That can be a sign it is having effect.’ I turned to the gaoler. ‘He is very thin, Master Radwinter. What does he have to eat?’

‘Pottage from the castle kitchens, the same the guards get. Not too much, certainly. A weakened man is less likely to make trouble. You saw yesterday how he can spring at one.’

‘And how well he is chained. And he has been ill; a sick man may waste away without food.’

Radwinter’s eye glinted. ‘Would you like me to order thrushes in a pie from the King’s kitchen, then, perhaps a plate of marchpanes?’

‘No,’ I answered, ‘but I would like him put on the same rations as the guards.’ Radwinter set his lips. ‘See to it, please,’ I said quietly.

Broderick laughed hoarsely. ‘Does it not occur to you, sir, I would rather be weak when I get to London? So weak the torturers’ first attentions kill me.’

‘They would take care not to do that, Master Broderick,’ Radwinter said softly. ‘When you are brought to them they will study you carefully. They know how to bring each man to a degree of pain that will make him talk, yet keep him conscious and alive. But certainly a weaker man is likely to be able to endure less, to talk more quickly.’ He smiled at me. ‘So you see, the better you treat him, the more pain he will endure.’

‘No,’ I said sharply. ‘He is to be fed properly.’

‘And I will eat, for I am hungry. Even though I know what awaits me.’ Broderick gave me a look full of pain as well as anger. ‘How we hold on to life, eh, lawyer? We struggle to survive, even when there is no sense in it.’ He looked towards the window. ‘I came to see poor Robert every day while he hung out there, so he might see a friendly face. Each day I hoped to find him dead, yet each day he moved still, trying to ease his pains as he dangled, making weak groans. Yes, how we hold on to life.’

‘Only the innocent deserve a quick death,’ Radwinter said. ‘Well, Master Shardlake, I will arrange for the extra rations for Sir Edward. Is there anything else?’

I looked at Broderick; he was staring at the ceiling again. There was a moment’s silence, the only sound the patter of rain at the window. ‘Not for now. I will come again, tomorrow probably.’

Once again Radwinter led me outside, locking the heavy door. I could tell by the set of his shoulders that he was angry, yet I was surprised by the ferocity of his look when he turned to me. His face was red, he almost scowled. Now I saw he nourished fire under that ice. In a way it was a relief.

‘You undermine me before that treacherous, filthy rogue, sir.’ His voice was thick with anger. ‘If you wanted to change his rations, could you not have waited till we were outside to tell me?’

I looked at him steadily. ‘I want him to see that I am in charge of his welfare.’

‘I told you before, you do not know what manner of man you are dealing with. You may regret this softness.’

‘I will obey my orders.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I think your judgement is clouded, sir. Not by zeal as the Archbishop told me, but by delight in cruelty.’ The look he gave me was chilling, but anger drove me on. ‘But you will not indulge yourself at the expense of the Archbishop’s orders. He will hear what manner of man you are.’

To my surprise Radwinter laughed in my face, a mocking laugh that echoed round the dank corridor.

‘You think the Archbishop does not know me? He knows me well, sir, and knows that England needs such as me to keep it safe from heretics!’ He stepped closer to me. ‘And we all serve a just and angry God. You should not forget it.’

WE HEADED BACK TO the Minster, walking quickly for we were very late for Master Wrenne.

‘Perhaps I should take a message to Maleverer at St Mary’s now,’ Barak suggested. ‘About the boy looking at the spot on the wall.’

I hesitated. ‘No, I need you to help with the petitions, the summaries must be ready for tomorrow morning. We will leave as soon as we can, go straight back to St Mary’s. Besides, they’ve probably scared whatever he knows out of that unfortunate boy.’

Arriving at the Minster, I showed my papers again at the gate and we passed inside once more.

Just then a shaft of sunlight pierced the clouds that were gathering, shining on the huge windows of the great church and making a riot of colour.

‘Why is York Minster allowed to keep its stained glass,’ Barak asked, ‘while the monasteries have it all torn out as idolatrous?’

‘There are reformers who would pull the coloured glass from all churches, have only plain windows. But the King’s limited himself to the monasteries. For now.’

‘It makes no sense.’

‘It’s part of the compromise with the traditional party. You can’t expect politics to make sense.’

‘You’re right there.’

The old housekeeper answered Wrenne’s door, her look as cheerless as ever. The old man sat reading in the candlelit hall, where a good fire blazed in the central hearth. I saw an effort at cleaning had been made since the day before, for the books had been tidied and the green and yellow floor-tiles shone. The peregrine falcon still stood on its perch by the fire; the bell on its leg tinkled as it turned to stare at us. A fine cloth with a design of white roses had been put on the table, where three large stacks of paper stood. Master Wrenne rose slowly to his feet, laying down his book.

‘Brother Shardlake. And young Barak, good.’

‘I am sorry we are late,’ I said. ‘You had my note?’

‘Yes. Some urgent business, you said?’

Again I told the story of the glazier falling into his cart, leaving out the subsequent events. Wrenne frowned thoughtfully.

‘Peter Oldroyd. Yes, I knew him; I have done legal work for the glaziers’ guild, he was chairman one year. A quiet, respectable fellow; lost his family in the plague in ’38. It is sad.’ Wrenne was silent for a long moment, then said, ‘You catch me at my books. Sir Thomas More, his history of Richard III. A man of rare invective, was he not?’