Lamentation (The Shardlake Series Book 6) (3 page)

I no longer had sympathies with either side in the religious quarrel, and sometimes doubted God’s very existence, but I had a history of association with reformers, and like most people this year I had kept my head down and my mouth shut.

I set out at eleven from my house, just up Chancery Lane from Lincoln’s Inn. Timothy had brought my good horse Genesis round to the front door and set out the mounting block. Timothy was thirteen now, growing taller, thin and gawky. I had sent my former servant boy, Simon, to be an apprentice in the spring, to give him a chance in life, and planned to do the same for Timothy when he reached fourteen.

‘Good morning, sir.’ He smiled his shy, gap-toothed grin, pushing a tangle of black hair from his forehead.

‘Good morning, lad. How goes it with you?’

‘Well, sir.’

‘You must be missing Simon.’

‘Yes, sir.’ He looked down, stirring a pebble with his foot. ‘But I manage.’

‘You manage well,’ I answered encouragingly. ‘But perhaps we should begin to think of an apprenticeship for you. Have you thought what you might wish to do in life?’

He stared at me, sudden alarm in his brown eyes. ‘No, sir – I – I thought I would stay here.’ He looked around, out at the roadway. He had always been a quiet boy, with none of Simon’s confidence, and I realized the thought of going out into the world scared him.

‘Well,’ I said soothingly, ‘there is no hurry.’ He looked relieved. ‘And now I must away – ’ I sighed – ‘to business.’

I
RODE UNDER
Temple Bar then turned up Gifford Street, which led to the open space of Smithfield. Many people were travelling in the same direction along the dusty way, some on horseback, most on foot, rich and poor, men, women and even a few children. Some, especially those in the dark clothes favoured by religious radicals, looked serious, others’ faces were blank, while some even wore the eager expression of people looking forward to a good entertainment. I had put on my white serjeant’s coif under my black cap, and began to sweat in the heat. I remembered with irritation that in the afternoon I had an appointment with my most difficult client, Isabel Slanning, whose case – a dispute with her brother over their mother’s Will – was among the silliest and costliest I had ever encountered.

I passed two young apprentices in their blue doublets and caps. ‘Why must they have it at midday?’ I overheard one grumble. ‘There won’t be any shade.’

‘Don’t know. Some rule, I suppose. The hotter for good Mistress Askew. She’ll have a warm arse before the day’s done, eh?’

S
MITHFIELD WAS
crowded already. The open space where the twice-weekly cattle market was held was full of people, all facing a railed-off central area guarded by soldiers wearing metal helmets and white coats bearing the cross of St George. They carried halberds, their expressions stern. If there were any protests these would be dealt with sharply. I looked at the men sadly; whenever I saw soldiers now I thought of my friends who had died, as I nearly had myself, when the great ship
Mary Rose
foundered during the repelling of the attempted French invasion. A year, I thought, almost to the day. Last month news had come that the war was almost over, a settlement negotiated but for a few details, with France and Scotland, too. I remembered the soldiers’ fresh young faces, the bodies crashing into the water, and closed my eyes. Peace had come too late for them.

Mounted on my horse I had a better view than most, better than I would have wished for, and close by the railings, for the crowd pressed those on horseback forward. In the centre of the railed-off area three oaken poles, seven feet tall, had been secured in the dusty earth. Each had metal hoops in the side through which London constables were sliding iron chains. They inserted padlocks in the links and checked the keys worked. Their air was calm and businesslike. A little way off more constables stood around an enormous pile of faggots – thick bunches of small branches. I was glad the weather had been dry; I had heard that if the wood was wet it took longer to burn, and the victims’ suffering was horribly prolonged. Facing the stakes was a tall wooden lectern, painted white. Here, before the burning, there would be a preaching, a last appeal to the heretics to repent. The preacher was to be Nicholas Shaxton, the former Bishop of Salisbury, a radical reformer who had been sentenced to burn with the others but who had recanted to save his own life.

On the eastern side of the square I saw, behind a row of fine, brightly painted new houses, the high old tower of St Bartholomew’s Church. When the monastery was dissolved seven years before, its lands had passed to the Privy Councillor, Sir Richard Rich, who had built these new houses. Their windows were crowded with people. A high wooden stage covered with a canopy in the royal colours of green and white had been erected in front of the old monastic gatehouse. A long bench was scattered with thick, brightly coloured cushions. This would be where the Lord Mayor and Privy Councillors would watch the burning. Among those on horseback in the crowd I recognized many city officials; I nodded to those I knew. A little way off a small group of middle-aged men stood together, looking solemn and disturbed. I heard a few words in a foreign tongue, identifying them as Flemish merchants.

There was a babble of voices all round me, as well as the sharp stink of a London crowd in summer.

‘They say she was racked till the strings of her arms and legs perished – ’

‘They couldn’t torture her legally after she was convicted – ’

‘And John Lassells is to be burned too. He was the one who told the King of Catherine Howard’s dalliances – ’

‘They say Catherine Parr’s in trouble as well. He could have a seventh wife before this is done – ’

‘Will they let them off if they recant?’

‘Too late for that – ’

There was a stir by the canopy, and heads turned as a group of men in silk robes and caps, many wearing thick gold chains around their necks, appeared from the gatehouse accompanied by soldiers. They slowly mounted the steps to the stage, the soldiers taking places in front of them, and sat in a long row, adjusting their caps and chains, staring over the crowd with set, stern expressions. I recognized many of them: Mayor Bowes of London in his red robes; the Duke of Norfolk, older and thinner than when I had encountered him six years before, an expression of contemptuous arrogance on his haughty, severe face. To Norfolk’s side sat a cleric in a white silk cassock with a black alb over it, whom I did not recognize but I guessed must be Bishop Gardiner. He was around sixty, stocky and swarthy, with a proud beak of a nose and large, dark eyes that swivelled over the crowd. He leaned across and murmured to Norfolk, who nodded and smiled sardonically. These two, many said, would have England back under Rome if they could.

Next to them three men sat together. Each had risen under Thomas Cromwell but shifted towards the conservative faction on the Privy Council when Cromwell fell, bending and twisting before the wind, ever with two faces under one hood. First I saw William Paget, the King’s Secretary, who had sent the letter to Rowland. He had a wide, hard slab of a face above a bushy brown beard, his thin-lipped mouth turned down sharply at one corner, making a narrow slash. It was said Paget was closer to the King than anyone now; his nickname was ‘The Master of Practices’.

Beside Paget sat Lord Chancellor Thomas Wriothesley, head of the legal profession, tall and thin with a jutting little russet beard. Finally Sir Richard Rich completed the trio, still a senior Privy Councillor despite accusations of corruption two years before, his name associated with all the nastiest pieces of business these last fifteen years, a murderer to my certain knowledge, and my old enemy. I was safe from him only because of the things I knew about him, and because I still had the Queen’s protection – whatever, I wondered uneasily, that might be worth now. I looked at Rich. Despite the heat, he was wearing a green robe with a fur collar. To my surprise I read anxiety on his thin, neat features. The long hair under his jewelled cap was quite grey now. He fiddled with his gold chain. Then, looking over the crowd, he met my gaze. His face flushed and his lips set. He stared back at me a moment, then turned away as Wriothesley bent to speak to him. I shuddered. My anxiety communicated itself to Genesis, who stirred uneasily. I steadied him with a pat.

Near to me a soldier passed, carefully carrying a basket. ‘Make way, make way! ’Tis the gunpowder!’

I was glad to hear the words. At least there would be some mercy. The sentence for heresy was burning to death, but sometimes the authorities allowed a packet of gunpowder to be placed around each victim’s neck so that when the flames reached it, the packet would explode, bringing instantaneous death.

‘Should let them burn to the end,’ someone protested.

‘Ay,’ another agreed. ‘The kiss of fire, so light and agonizing.’ A horrible giggle.

I looked round as another horseman, dressed like me in a lawyer’s silken summer robe and dark cap, made his way through the crowd and came to a halt beside me. He was a few years my junior, with a handsome though slightly stern face, a short dark beard and blue eyes that were penetratingly honest and direct.

‘Good day, Serjeant Shardlake.’

‘And to you, Brother Coleswyn.’

Philip Coleswyn was a barrister of Gray’s Inn, and my opponent in the wretched case of the Slanning Will. He represented my client’s brother, who was as cantankerous and difficult as his sister, but though, as their lawyers, we had had to cross swords I had found Coleswyn himself civil and honest, not one of those lawyers who will enthusiastically argue the worst of cases for enough silver. I guessed he found his client as irritating as I did mine. I had heard he was a reformer – gossip these days was usually about people’s religion – though for myself I did not care a fig.

‘Are you here to represent Lincoln’s Inn?’ Coleswyn asked.

‘Ay. Have you been chosen for Gray’s Inn?’

‘I have. Not willingly.’

‘Nor I.’

‘It is a cruel business.’ He looked at me directly.

‘It is. Cruel and horrible.’

‘Soon they will make it illegal to worship God.’ He spoke with a slight tremor in his voice.

I replied, my words noncommittal but my tone sardonic, ‘It is our duty to worship as King Henry decrees.’

‘And here is his decree,’ Coleswyn answered quietly. He shook his head, then said, ‘I am sorry, Brother, I should watch my words.’

‘Yes. In these days we must.’

The soldier had laid the basket of gunpowder down carefully in a corner of the railed-off area. He stepped over the rail and now stood with the other soldiers facing outwards at the crowd, quite close to us. Then I saw Wriothesley lean forwards and beckon the man with a finger. He ran across to the canopied stage and I saw Wriothesley gesture at the gunpowder basket. The soldier answered him and Wriothesley sat back, apparently satisfied. The man returned to his position.

‘What was that about?’ I heard the soldier next to him say.

‘He asked how much gunpowder there was. He was frightened that when it blew up it might send burning faggots flying towards the stage. I told him it’ll be round their necks, well above the faggots.’

His fellow laughed. ‘The radicals would love it if Gardiner and half the Privy Council ended up burning, too. John Bale could write one of his plays about it.’

I felt eyes on me. I saw, a little to my left, a black-robed lawyer standing with two young gentlemen in doublets bright with expensive dye, pearls in their caps. The lawyer was young, in his twenties, a short thin fellow with a narrow, clever face, protuberant eyes and a wispy beard. He had been staring at me hard. He met my gaze then looked away.

I turned to Coleswyn. ‘Do you know that lawyer, standing with the two young popinjays?’

He shook his head. ‘I think I’ve seen him round the courts once or twice, but I don’t know him.’

‘No matter.’

There was a fresh ripple of excitement through the crowd as a procession approached from Little Britain Street. More soldiers, surrounding three men dressed in long white shifts, one young and two middle-aged. All had set faces but wild, fearful eyes. And behind them, carried on a chair by two soldiers, an attractive, fair-haired young woman in her twenties. As the chair swayed slightly she gripped the sides, her face twitching with pain. So this was Anne Askew, who had left her husband in Lincolnshire to come and preach in London, and said the consecrated wafer was no more than a piece of bread, which would go mouldy like any other if left in a box.