Dark Fire (11 page)

‘Any sign of the formula up there?’

‘Not that I can see. If it was in that chest they took it.’

He turned to Jane Gristwood. ‘Do you know anything about a paper your husband and his brother had, a formula they were working on?’

She shook her head wearily. ‘No. They told me nothing of what they did. Only that they were engaged on some work for Lord Cromwell. I didn’t want to know.’

‘These men are going to have to search your house from top to bottom,’ he said. ‘It’s important we find that paper. Afterwards two of them will stay here with
you.’

She looked at him narrowly. ‘Are we prisoners, then?’

‘They are for your protection, madam. You may still not be safe.’

She removed her coif and ran her fingers though her grey hair, then gave Barak a hard stare. ‘What about my front door? Anyone could get in.’

‘It will be repaired.’ He spoke to one of the retainers, a hard-looking fellow. ‘See to that, Smith.’

‘Yes, Master Barak.’

He turned back to me. ‘Lord Cromwell wants a meeting now. He’s gone to his house in Stepney.’

I hesitated. Barak stepped closer. ‘That’s an order,’ he said quietly. ‘I have told my master the news. He is not a happy man.’

R
IDING THROUGH
the City again after being in that silent house of death, I felt strangely disconnected from the jostling,
noisy crowds. We had a long way to go, for Lord Cromwell’s house at Stepney was far beyond the City wall. We paused only to allow a procession past – a cleric in white robes leading a
man dressed in sackcloth, ashes strewn over his face and carrying a faggot, the church congregation following behind. Someone whose reformist opinions had been deemed heretical but who had
repented, the ashes and the faggot reminders of the burning that awaited him if he relapsed. The man was weeping – perhaps it had been a reluctant recantation – but if he sinned again
his body would be weeping blood as the fire shrivelled it.

I glanced at Barak, who was eyeing the scene with distaste. I wondered what his religious opinions were. It had been quite a feat for him to reach Cromwell, collect these men and get back to
Queenhithe so quickly. Yet he did not look tired, though I felt exhausted. The procession shuffled past and we moved on. Thankfully the afternoon shadows were lengthening, the overhanging houses
bringing a welcome shade to the streets.

‘What’s that in your pocket?’ Barak asked as we rode up Bishopsgate.

I put my hand to my robe and realized that I had slipped Sepultus’s book there without thinking.

‘It’s a book on alchemy.’ I looked at him fixedly. ‘How you watch me. You thought the formula might have been with those papers I gave to Goodwife Gristwood?’

He shrugged. ‘Can’t trust anyone these days, not if you’re in the earl’s service. Besides,’ he added with an insolent smile, ‘you’re a lawyer and
everyone knows you have to keep an eye on lawyers. Not to do so would be
crassa neglegentia
, as you people say.’

‘Gross negligence. You have some Latin then?’

‘Oh yes. I have Latin, and know men of law. Many lawyers are great reformers, are they not?’

‘Ay,’ I replied cautiously.

‘Is it not amusing, then, now that the monks and friars have gone, how the lawyers are the only ones to walk around in black robes, calling each other brother and trying to part people
from their money?’

‘There have been jokes against lawyers time out of mind,’ I said shortly. ‘They become tiring.’

‘And they take oaths of obedience, though not of chastity or poverty.’ Barak smiled mockingly again. His mare wove quickly through the crowds and I had to spur poor Chancery to keep
up. We passed under the Bishopsgate and soon the chimneys of Cromwell’s impressive three-storey house came into view.

The last time I had been there, on a bitter winter’s day three years before, a crowd of people had been waiting at the side gate. Another crowd was there this hot afternoon. The outcasts
of London, shoeless and in rags. Some supported themselves on makeshift crutches, others had the pits and marks of disease on their faces. The number of workless poor in London was growing beyond
control; the dissolution had cast hundreds of servants from the London monasteries, and the unhappy patients from the hospitals and infirmaries too, out onto the streets. And pitiful as the doles
given by the Church had been, now even those were gone. There was talk of charitable schools and hospitals, and schemes for state works, but nothing had been done yet. Cromwell, meanwhile, had
adopted the wealthy landowner’s custom of distributing his own doles; it strengthened his standing in London.

We rode past the beggars and through the main gate. At the front door a servant met us. He asked us to wait in the hallway, then a few minutes later John Blitheman, Lord Cromwell’s
steward, appeared.

‘Master Shardlake,’ he said, ‘welcome. It has been a long time. Does the law keep you busy?’

‘Busy enough.’

Barak, who had untied his sword and handed it with his cap to a servant boy, came over.

‘He’s waiting for us, Blitheman.’ The steward smiled at me apologetically and led us into the house. A minute later we were outside Cromwell’s study. Blitheman knocked
softly and his master called, ‘Enter,’ in a snapping tone.

The chief minister’s study was as I remembered, full of tables covered with reports and drafts of bills, a forbidding place despite the sunlight streaming in. Cromwell sat behind his desk.
His manner was different from what it had been that morning; he sat crouched in his chair, head sunk between his shoulders, and gave us a look so baleful it made me shiver.

‘So,’ he said without preliminaries, ‘you found them murdered.’ His voice was cold, intense.

I took a deep breath. ‘Yes, my lord. Most brutally.’

‘I’ve got men searching for the formula,’ Barak said. ‘They’ll take the place apart if need be.’

‘And the women?’

‘They’ll be kept there. They’re both scared out of their wits. They know nothing. I’ve told the men to ask round the neighbouring houses to see if anyone saw the attack,
but Wolf’s Lane looks like a place where people take care to mind their own business.’

‘Who betrayed me?’ Cromwell whispered intently. ‘Which of them?’ He stared at me fixedly. ‘Well, Matthew, what did you make of what you saw?’

‘I think there were two men involved and that they broke in with axes. They killed the brothers at once in the alchemist’s workshop, where they were working, then went to a chest
that was kept there and smashed it in. There was a bag of gold inside, but they left it untouched.’ I hesitated. ‘My guess is that the formula was there and they knew it.’

There was a grey tinge to Cromwell’s face. He set his thin lips.

‘You can’t be sure,’ Barak interjected.

‘I’m not sure of anything,’ I replied with sudden heat. I made my voice calm. ‘But no search was made of the rest of the room. The books on the shelves were undisturbed
and would they not have been an obvious place to look for a hidden paper? Also, I believe some bottles were taken from the shelves. I think the people who murdered those poor men knew exactly what
they were looking for.’

‘So there will be no physical traces left of their experiments,’ Cromwell said.

‘That would be my guess, my lord.’ I looked anxiously at him, but he only nodded reflectively.

‘See, Jack,’ he said suddenly, nodding at me. ‘Learn from a master of observation.’ He turned bleak eyes on me again. ‘Matthew, you must help me solve
this.’

‘But, my lord—’

‘I can’t tell anyone else,’ he said with sudden passion. ‘I daren’t. If it got to the king—’ He sighed, a shuddering sound. It was the first time I had
seen Thomas Cromwell afraid.

‘You must solve this,’ he repeated. ‘You can have any authority, any resources.’

I stood on the fine carpet, my heart thudding. Once before he had sent me to investigate a killing, pitching me into horrors beyond imagining. Not again, I thought. Not again.

He seemed to read my mind and sudden anger flashed in his eyes. ‘Christ’s wounds, man,’ he snapped. ‘I’ve saved that girl’s life for you. Or at least
I’ll save it if you help me; Forbizer can be made to change his mind again if need be. My own life could be at stake here as well as everything you once believed in.’ I had a momentary
vision of Elizabeth, lying blank-eyed in her cell. And I knew that at a word from Cromwell I could be flung in gaol too, for knowing too much.

‘I will help, my lord,’ I said quietly.

He looked at me for a long moment, then gestured to Barak. ‘Jack, the Bible. Before I tell you more, Matthew, I must have your oath to keep this matter secret.’

Barak laid a luxury edition of the new Great Bible, which had been ordered to be set in every church, upon the desk. I looked at the brightly coloured title page: King Henry on his throne,
handing copies of God’s Word to Cromwell on one side, Archbishop Cranmer on the other, who in turn passed them down to the people. I swallowed and touched the book.

‘I swear I will keep the matter of Greek Fire privy,’ Cromwell said. I repeated the words, feeling I was turning a key in a set of fetters that bound me to him again.

‘And help me to the best of your ability.’

‘To the best of my ability.’

Cromwell gave a satisfied nod, though he still sat hunched over his desk like some great beast at bay. He picked something up and turned it over in his big hands: it was the miniature portrait
he had had at the Domus.

‘The reformist cause is tottering, Matthew.’ He spoke quietly. ‘It’s even worse than the rumours say. The king’s afraid and grows more afraid every day as Norfolk
and Bishop Gardiner tip their poison in his ear. Afraid of common people reading the Bible, fearing they’ll end by overthrowing the social order in bloody chaos like the Anabaptists at
Münster. Radical reformers stand in danger of the fire – you know Robert Barnes is under arrest?’

‘I had heard.’ I took a deep breath; I did not want to hear this.

‘The Act of Six Articles the king forced through last year takes us halfway back to Rome and now he wants the lower classes forbidden from reading the Bible. And he’s afraid of
invasion.’

‘Our defences—’

‘Could never withstand a combined onslaught by France and Spain. King Francis and Emperor Charles have quarrelled and the threat’s over for now, but things could change again.’
He took the miniature and laid it on top of the Bible. ‘Do you still paint, Matthew, for a pastime?’

I looked at him, puzzled by his change of tack. ‘Not for some time, my lord.’

‘Give me your opinion of this portrait.’

I studied it. The woman was young, with attractive if vacuous features. The image was so clear you could imagine you were looking through a window at her. From the jewels set in her elaborate
hood and in the collar of her high-cut dress she was someone of wealth.

‘This is beautiful,’ I said. ‘It could almost be by Holbein.’

‘It
is
by Holbein. It is the Lady Anne of Cleves, now our queen. I kept it when the king threw it in my face.’ He shook his head. ‘I thought I could shore up our
defences and our reformed faith at the same time by marrying the king to the daughter of a German duke.’ He gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘I spent two years after Queen Jane died trying
to find a foreign princess for him. It wasn’t easy. He has a certain reputation.’

He was interrupted by a gentle cough. Barak was looking at his master anxiously.

‘Jack warns me I am going too far. But you’ve given your oath, haven’t you, Matthew, to keep your mouth
tight shut
?’ His hard brown eyes bored into mine as he
emphasized the words.

‘Yes, my lord.’ I felt sweat forming on my brow.

‘Eventually the Duke of Cleves agreed we could have one of his daughters. The king wanted to see the Lady Anne before agreeing to marry her, but the Germans took that as an affront. So I
sent Master Holbein to make a picture. After all, his genius is to make exact representations, is it not?’

‘No one in Europe does that better.’ I hesitated. ‘And yet—’

‘Yet what is an
exact
representation, eh, Matthew? We all look different in different lights, can never be caught completely in one glance. I told Holbein to paint her in the best
light. And he did. That was another mistake. Can you see?’

I thought a moment. ‘It is full face—’

‘Not till you see her in profile do you realize how long her nose is. Nor does it show her high body odour, nor how she didn’t speak a word of English.’ His shoulders slumped.
‘When she landed at Rochester in January the king disliked her on sight. And now the Duke of Norfolk’s dangled his niece before the king, schooled her to catch his fancy. Catherine
Howard is pretty, not yet seventeen, and he’s caught. He drools over her like an old dog over a fine joint of meat and blames me for saddling him with the Cleves mare. But if he marries
Norfolk’s niece, the Howards will have me dead and England back under Rome.’

‘Then all that’s happened these ten years,’ I said slowly, ‘all the suffering and death, it would have been for nothing.’

‘Worse than nothing, there’ll be a cull of reformers that would make Thomas More’s inquisitions seem mild.’ He clenched his big fists, then got up and walked over to the
window, staring out over the lawn. ‘I’m doing all I can to discredit them, find papist plots. I’ve had Lord Lisle arrested, and Bishop Sampson; he’s in the Tower, I had him
shown the rack. But I can find nothing – nothing.’ He turned and faced me. ‘Then I told the king about Greek Fire. He can’t wait for the demonstration; he loves weapons of
war, and warships above all. He sees us making England’s navy the greatest on the seas, clearing the French from the south coast. He’s my friend again.’ Cromwell clenched his
fists. ‘A foreign power would pay much for that formula. I’m setting extra spies in the ambassadors’ houses, all the ports are being watched. Matthew, I must have that formula
back safe before the demonstration. Today is the twenty-ninth of May. We have only twelve full days.’

Then, to my surprise, I felt an alien emotion towards Thomas Cromwell: I felt sorry for him. But I reminded myself that a creature at bay is at its most dangerous.