Lamentation (The Shardlake Series Book 6) (62 page)

‘Thank you, Nicholas.’ Now I was embarrassed, too. Such words from pupil to barrister could have been sycophantic, but Nicholas had none of that sort of guile in him. I said gruffly, ‘Let’s see if these villains are at home.’

S
TICE OPENED THE DOOR
. He wore a bandage round his forehead. ‘You.’ He looked at us with displeasure. ‘Come to discuss the mess you made last night?’

‘We all failed.’

‘My master’s here.’ He lowered his voice. ‘He’s not pleased.’

‘How is Gower?’

‘Like to die.’

‘I am sorry.’

‘My shitten arse you are.’

He led the way upstairs. Sir Richard Rich was sitting behind his desk. The shutters were drawn, making the room stifling. No doubt he did not want people in the street to see him here. He glowered at us. ‘Bowels of Judas! You made a fine butcher’s shambles of last night’s business!’

‘They were good fighters. We could not stop Vandersteyn getting away.’

‘We did our best, sir,’ Stice added. ‘Everyone did.’

‘Shut your mouth, mangehound! You were all as much use as a rabble of women! And the physician says I will have to deal with Gower’s poxy corpse soon!’ He glared at Stice. ‘God’s death, it would have been better if you had lost your whole head in that duel, rather than half an ear.’ He pointed at Stice’s disfigurement. ‘A fine ornament for a gentleman.’ Stice’s mouth set hard, but he did not reply.

Rich turned his baleful gaze on me. ‘I expect you’ve been to Whitehall, to tell the Queen’s minions that Askew’s book is gone. Halfway across the North Sea by now, I imagine.’ His little grey eyes bored into mine. ‘Well, I can expect the lies Askew told about me to surface in due course.’ He spoke with self-pity, though he could hardly imagine I would care.

‘The Scotchman remains out there,’ I said.

‘That canting Anabaptist madman. I hope he gets caught and burned.’ Rich gave a long, angry sigh. ‘Our alliance is over, Shardlake. How could I have ever thought a hunchbacked scratching clerk could be of use to me?’ He waved a slim, beringed hand. ‘Begone!’

I looked at him. I had told Lord Parr that if Rich showed no interest in McKendrick it would be an indication that he had been concerned only with Anne Askew’s book. Yet there was a blustering, half-theatrical quality to his fury that made me wonder. Then again, perhaps it was just anger and fear that what he had done would soon be exposed. He could still pursue McKendrick on his own, of course. Bluff and counter-bluff, everywhere.

‘Will you keep this house on?’ I asked.

‘Mind your own business!’ His face darkened. ‘Go, or I’ll have Stice give that boy some new bruises, and you a few as well.’ He banged his fist on the desk. ‘Get out! Never let me see you again!’

Chapter Thirty-seven

L
ATER THAT DAY
I
REPORTED
back to Lord Parr. Cecil was with him in his study. The young lawyer looked strained, and there were large bags under his eyes. He could not have experienced anything like that battle at the wharf before. I told them what had happened with Rich, and that while I doubted he knew of the
Lamentation
’s existence I could not be sure. Lord Parr told me he was arranging for people from his household to look for McKendrick around the London streets. By now he might be reduced to begging, but equally he could have fled the city entirely. Where the Bertano story was concerned, Lord Parr had learned only that members of the King’s own guard had been posted outside a house near the Charing Cross, which was kept for diplomatic visitors. An ominous sign, but there was nothing to do now but wait.

A
WEEK PASSED
. . . July turned to August, with two days of rain before the hot weather returned, and the first week of the month went by with no further news from Whitehall. I feared every day to hear that some new arrangement with the Pope had been struck, and the Queen and her radical associates arrested. However, I forced myself to give attention to my work. Nicholas’s bruises faded; he seemed a little restless but nonetheless set himself to work well enough. He spoke with pleasurable anticipation of the forthcoming ceremonies to welcome the French admiral; apparently additional cannon were being brought to the Tower for a great welcoming cannonade when d’Annebault arrived. I had told Nicholas I would be involved; he envied me, though I told him I would gladly have avoided the task. Meanwhile Barak’s hand had healed completely and he, I sensed, was not sorry to return to a normal life.

At home I kept a continued eye on Brocket, but he did not put a foot wrong and Josephine had nothing further to report to me. Brocket and Agnes seemed more cheerful and I wondered whether there had been better news from their son, though I did not ask. Josephine also seemed happy; she was seeing her young man regularly and had a new confidence about her; sometimes I even heard her singing around the house. I smiled at the sound; it was good to reflect, among my troubles, that I had given Josephine a home and a future. Timothy, though, seemed to avoid conversation with me, perhaps afraid I would raise the subject of his apprenticeship again.

I made sure I had all the appropriate finery ready for the admiral’s visit, buying a new black doublet and a shirt with elaborate embroidery at the wrists and collar. I would not, however, go to the expense of a gold chain; my purse had suffered enough from the taxes required to pay for the war.

On the 5th of August, I had a letter from Hugh. For the most part it contained only the usual news of business and entertainment in Antwerp. Hugh did mention, though, that a small cargo ship was recently arrived from England, and a certain Englishman had been at the wharf to welcome the owner, a merchant of Antwerp. I checked the date: the ship, I was sure, was the
Antwerpen
, with Vandersteyn on board; and the Englishman who had met it John Bale. So he would have Anne Askew’s writings now, for printing. Well, so much the worse for Rich.

O
N
F
RIDAY THE
6
TH
I had been busy with paperwork all morning – I had almost caught up at last – and after lunching by myself in a refectory almost deserted in the heart of the summer vacation, I decided to take some much-needed air. I had a case coming on in the next law term involving the boundaries of some properties in Gloucestershire: the barrister representing the other side, a member of Gray’s Inn, had the coloured map which always accompanied the deeds, delineating the boundaries. In accordance with convention I was allowed to make a copy. Normally that was clerks’ work, but while neither Barak nor Nicholas had a good hand for drawing, I did, and took pleasure in it. I decided I would do the job myself, though I could only charge a clerk’s rate for it.

Thinking of Gray’s Inn reminded me of Philip Coleswyn. I had not seen him since warning him about Isabel’s complaint – about which I had heard no more from Treasurer Rowland. I walked the short distance to my house and fetched Genesis, reflecting that he, too, needed some air. Young Timothy was with him in the stable, reading something, which at my entry he shoved hastily up his shirt, turning bright red. I had insisted Timothy go to school to learn to write, so he knew his letters at least. Some pamphlet of lewd rhymes, no doubt; what wonders the printed word had brought to the world, I thought sardonically, as I set the boy to saddling the horse.

It was peaceful riding up the lanes, between the hedges where bees droned, the cattle fat and sleek in the fields. It was one of those hot August days when the countryside can seem almost drugged with heat, cattle and sheep grazing lazily, a faint shimmer rising from the dusty highway. I looked forward to my map-work; earlier, while sorting through the little bottles of coloured ink I would need, I remembered the days when I used to paint. Why had I allowed that gentle pastime to slip from me?

I left Genesis with the Gray’s Inn porter and crossed the central square. The trees had a dusty look. I was still thinking about my painting days when, turning a corner, I walked straight into the last two people I wished to see: Vincent Dyrick, in robe and cap, his handsome aquiline face a little red from the sun; and Isabel Slanning, in a dark blue summer dress and gable hood, her thin features gaunt, her expression sour as always. Dyrick was frowning and I wondered whether, experienced though he was with difficult clients, perhaps Isabel was too much even for him.

We all stood still a moment, taken aback. Then I removed my cap and bowed. ‘God give you good afternoon, Brother Dyrick. Mistress Slanning.’

Dyrick bowed in return and spoke with unexpected civility. ‘And you, Master Shardlake.’ I moved to pass them, but Isabel, standing rigidly in front of me, fixed me with her steely gaze.

‘Master Shardlake, have you been visiting Master Coleswyn to discuss my complaint, or perhaps to conspire with him against another honest believer who cleaves to the miracle of the Mass?’ Her voice was loud and shrill, reminding me of the night she had confronted me outside Coleswyn’s house.

To my surprise Dyrick took her by the arm. ‘Come, mistress,’ he said quietly. ‘Let me accompany you to the gate.’

She shook off his arm, still fixing me with that steely look, and pointed a skinny finger at me. ‘Remember, Master Shardlake, I know all about the conspiracy: you, and my brother, and that Coleswyn. You will all pay the highest price. Just wait.’ She bared her teeth – good teeth for a woman of her age – in a smile of undiluted malice. ‘Master Dyrick would spare you, but I will not,’ she ended triumphantly, nodding at Dyrick, who looked uncomfortable.

With that, she turned, allowing Dyrick to lead her round the corner. I stared after them. Isabel’s behaviour had been absurd, almost unbalanced. But Dyrick had seemed worried, and I could not help but wonder anxiously what she had meant.

I
SPENT AN HOUR
making a copy of the map in the chambers of my opponent on the case. I found it hard to concentrate, though, for the bizarre encounter with Isabel still preyed on my mind. I decided to see if Coleswyn was in his chambers.

His clerk said he was, and once more I entered his neat, tidy office. He held out a welcoming hand. He was more at ease than I had ever seen him, relaxed and welcoming. ‘Matthew, how go things with you?’