Lamentation (The Shardlake Series Book 6) (79 page)

‘Ah.’ He nodded, then quoted the old legal saying, ‘Hard cases make bad law.’

‘They do indeed.’

He gave me a sidelong look. I wondered if news of my appearance before the council had filtered out. Servants would speak to servants at Whitehall, the city and the Inns of Court. A rousing cheer sounded from Cheapside. People had been told to cry a welcome as d’Annebault passed. Blower pulled his fat stomach in further. ‘Here he comes,’ he said eagerly, and shouted a loud ‘Hurrah!’

Chapter Forty-six

A
FTER THE CEREMONY
I went home. I was exhausted, and with another one to face on Monday, and a third the day after. For all his poor conduct at the Battle of the Solent last year, Admiral Claude d’Annebault had cut an impressive figure riding up to St Michael’s: a large, handsome man of fifty, on a magnificent charger, the Earl of Essex riding beside him. I was glad to see the Queen’s brother so prominent; another sign the Parr family was secure.

After the welcoming address the mayor had presented the admiral with great silver flagons of hippocras, and marchpane and wafers to refresh him after his journey. My back hurt from standing so long, and I slipped away as soon as possible, wanting only to spend the remainder of the day quietly by myself. I walked home. As I entered the house I heard Josephine and Agnes talking cheerfully in the kitchen about the wedding, fixed now for January. I thought, poor Agnes, she knows nothing of what her husband has done. Soon she will be leaving with him.

Martin came out of the dining room, a letter in his hand, his manner deferential as usual. ‘This came while you were out, sir.’

‘Thank you.’ I recognized Hugh Curteys’s handwriting. Martin said quietly, ‘Sir, is there any more news concerning – that matter? About my going to that house?’ Though his face remained expressionless, I saw the signs of strain about his narrowed mouth and eyes.

‘No, Martin,’ I replied coldly. ‘I will let you know as soon as I have instructions.’

‘Will it be soon?’

‘I hope so. I do not know. I will tell you as soon as I do. You brought this on yourself,’ I added.

I
N MY ROOM
I read Hugh’s letter. Apparently Emperor Charles had decided to curb the independence of the Flanders cities: ‘
There have been arrests of many reformist citizens here, and in other places in Flanders, and there are like to be imprisonments and burnings. Certain English and other foreigners have crossed into Germany.
’ I wondered if Bale was among them, Anne Askew’s book hidden in his luggage. Probably; he must have become used to moving quickly since he fled England after the fall of his patron Cromwell. This would surely delay the publication of Anne Askew’s writings now.

The letter continued: ‘
Many in the English merchant community are worried, and I fear if the atmosphere in the city changes for the worse I, too, may consider going to Germany.
’

I sighed; I thought my ward had found a safe haven, but it seemed not. I remembered that it was over Hugh’s wardship case that I had first crossed swords with Vincent Dyrick. Thoughts of Dyrick led me to Isabel; what would happen to her, now that the whole weight of what she had done – and Edward’s death – lay upon her? I remembered her frantic, deranged slashing at the painting she had fought for so single-mindedly. On an impulse, I sat down, took up quill and ink, and wrote a note to Guy:

I have not seen you since I visited that poor man at St Bartholomew’s, but you have been in my thoughts. There is a woman I represented in a case – a sad family matter – who is now in great travail of soul. She is of the old faith, and I asked her lawyer to arrange for her priest to see her, but I am anxious how she fares. If you have time, perhaps you might visit her. I think perhaps you could comfort her.

I added Isabel’s name and address, signed the note ‘your loving friend’, and sanded and sealed it. There, I thought, he will see I do not cavil at religious counselling being offered to one of the old beliefs, and he might even be able to do something for Isabel, though I feared her mind was broken now.

O
N THE MORNING
of Monday 23rd I dressed in my finery again and went down to the stables. Today’s ceremony was to welcome d’Annebault to Hampton Court. It was to take place three miles from the palace, beside the river, and the admiral was to be greeted by little Prince Edward. It was the boy’s first public occasion. Those of us coming from the city had to ride out there, but it was some consolation to me that during the occasion we would remain on horseback. I had gone to be shaved yesterday and my cheeks were smooth: Blower would not be able to make remarks at my stubble today.

I had asked Martin to tell Timothy to ensure Genesis was well rubbed down, and his mane tied in plaits. When I entered the stable I was pleased to see the boy had done a good job. He did not look me in the eye as he placed the mounting block beside the horse. As I slid my feet into the stirrups, though, he looked up and smiled nervously, showing the gap where his two front teeth had been punched out when he was still an orphaned urchin, before I took him in.

‘Master,’ he said nervously. ‘You said you would talk to me again about – about the burned books.’

‘Yes, Timothy. But not now. I am due at an important occasion.’

He grasped the reins. ‘Only – sir, it must have been Martin who told people about the books; I wouldn’t have, yet Martin is still in his place, and he was sharp as ever with me last night.’ He reddened and his voice rose a little. ‘Sir, it isn’t fair, I meant no harm.’

I took a deep breath, then said, ‘I have kept Martin on for my own private reasons.’ Then I burst out, ‘And what he did pains me less than your spying. I trusted you, Timothy, and you let me down.’ Tears filled the boy’s eyes and I spoke more calmly. ‘I will speak to you tomorrow, Timothy. Tomorrow.’

A
BROAD HEATH
by the river had been chosen as the site for the ceremony. When I arrived almost everyone was there. Near a thousand yeomen had been commandeered for the day, dressed in brand new livery with the King’s colours. City officials and we representatives from the Inns were again shepherded to places in the front rank, facing the roadway. A little way off, with a guard of soldiers, the great men of the realm waited on their horses. All those I had seen at the Privy Council were present: Gardiner, his solid frame settled on a broad-backed horse; Rich and Wriothesley side by side; Paget stroking his long forked beard, a little colour in those flat cheeks today, surveying those around him with his usual cool eye. The Earl of Hertford looked stern and solemn, while beside him Thomas Seymour, with his coppery beard combed and no doubt perfumed, wore a happy smile on his handsome face. Others too: Lord Lisle, who had proved a better commander than d’Annebault at Portsmouth last year, and other lords in their finery, the feathers in their caps stirring in the river breeze. The water was blue and sparkling, reflecting the bright sky.

And at their head, on a smaller horse, sat the boy, not yet nine, who was King Henry’s heir, the control of whom after the King died was the focus of all the plotting by the men behind him. In a broad-shouldered crimson doublet with slashed sleeves, a black cap set with diamonds on his head, Prince Edward was a tiny figure beside the adults. He sat firmly upright on his horse, though. He was tall for his age, his thin little face stiffly composed. His serious expression and small chin reminded me of his long-dead mother, Jane Seymour, whose likeness I had seen in the great wall painting at Whitehall. I pitied him for the weight that must soon fall on him. Then I thought of Timothy: I had been too hard with him; one should not hold a grudge against children. I would speak to him when I returned.

Once again my allotted place was next to Blower. The big Serjeant nodded to me but said little; he kept leaning forward, looking towards the party behind Prince Edward, trying to catch the eye of Lord Chancellor Wriothesley, who might give him his coveted judgeship. Wriothesley did see him, but in answer to his nod and smile gave only a little frown as though to say, ‘Not here.’ I remembered the old saying, big fleas have little fleas to bite them.

At length we saw d’Annebault’s party approach slowly along the riverbank. There must have been three hundred of them; I knew d’Annebault had brought two hundred men over from France. From the English party heralds stepped forward, blowing trumpets. The admiral, accompanied again by the Earl of Essex, rode up to Prince Edward and bowed to the little boy from the saddle. The Prince began delivering, in a high childish voice, an address of welcome; he spoke without pause, in perfect French. At the end the admiral’s horse was led forward and he and Prince Edward embraced.

T
HE ADDRESS OVER
, the French party and the bulk of the English lords rode away to Hampton Court, the Prince and the admiral leading the way, a tall soldier holding the reins of Prince Edward’s horse. Those of us left behind, as usual on such occasions, relaxed immediately, everyone swinging their shoulders and drawing deep breaths, pausing to talk with friends before riding back to London. I supposed that for civility’s sake I would have to ride back with the disgruntled-looking Blower, but as I was about to speak to him I felt a touch at my arm. I turned to see Lord Parr standing at my elbow, accompanied by two serving men, one holding his horse.

‘My Lord,’ I said. ‘I did not see you with the Prince’s party.’

‘No, the Queen’s household is not involved in this. But I came, and would speak with you.’

‘Of course.’ I looked at the old man; in his note he had said he had been ill, and indeed he looked frail, leaning hard on his stick. He nodded to his men and one helped me dismount while the other took Genesis’s reins. Blower looked at Lord Parr with surprise, not knowing that I had acquaintance with such a senior figure. He bowed to Lord Parr and rode off, looking more put out than ever.

Lord Parr led me away a little, to stand beside the river. ‘You had my letter?’

‘I did. I have spoken to my steward Brocket and he stands ready, though very reluctantly.’