by C. J. Sansom
‘They say he is to be hanged alive in chains at York,’ Mark had said.
‘He was a rebel against the king.’
‘But he was given safe conduct; why, he was entertained at court for Christmas.’
‘“Circa regna tonat.”’ I quoted Wyatt’s lines at him. ‘Around thrones the thunder rolls.’
The boat lurched; the tide was turning. The boatman steered into the middle of the river and soon the great spire of St Paul’s, and the huddle of ten thousand white-covered roofs, came into view.
I HAD LEFT Chancery stabled in Scarnsea and when I disembarked I walked home as the sun began to set. The sword from the pond knocked uncomfortably at my leg; I had put it in Mark’s scabbard, which was too small for it, and I was unused to wearing a weapon.
This time it was a relief to be back in the London throng; just one more anonymous gentleman, instead of the focus of all that fear and hate. The sight of my house uplifted my sore heart, as did the welcome I had from Joan. My return was unexpected and she had only a poor fowl, an old boiled crone, for my supper, but I was happy to sit again at my own table. Afterwards I went to bed, for I had only one full day in London and much to do.
I LEFT THE HOUSE early, before the winter sunrise, on an old ambling nag we kept. Cromwell’s office at Westminster was already a hive of candlelit activity by the time I arrived. I told Chief Clerk Grey I needed an urgent appointment. He pursed his lips and glanced towards Cromwell’s sanctum.
‘He has the Duke of Norfolk with him.’
I raised my eyebrows. The duke was the leader of the anti-reformist faction at court, Cromwell’s arch-enemy and a haughty aristocrat; I marvelled at him deigning to visit him at his office.
‘Nonetheless, it is urgent. If you could take a message, saying I need to see him today.’
The clerk eyed me curiously. ‘Are you well, Master Shardlake? You look very tired.’
‘I am well enough. But I do need to see Lord Cromwell. Tell him I will wait on him whenever he wishes.’
Grey knew I would not interrupt his master without reason. He knocked nervously at the door and went in, reappearing a few minutes later to tell me Lord Cromwell would see me at eleven at his house in Stepney. I would have liked to have gone over to the courts, to see what news there was among the lawyers and soothe myself with familiar scenes, but other matters needed attention. I adjusted the sword and rode away through the pink icy dawn to the Tower of London.
I HAD ORIGINALLY thought of visiting the swordmakers’ guild, but all the guilds lived among mountains of paper whose contents they guarded with jealous secrecy and it could take all day to prise information from them. I had met the Tower armourer, a man named Oldknoll, at a function some months before, and remembered that he was said to know more about weaponry than anyone in England. He was, too, Cromwell’s man. My letter of appointment as commissioner gained me entrance to the Tower, and I found myself passing through the gate under the looming mass of London Wall. I crossed the bridge over the frozen moat into the great fortress, the bulk of the White Tower dwarfing the lesser buildings around it. I never liked the Tower; I always thought of those who had come across that moat and never left alive.
The lions in the Royal Menagerie were howling and roaring for their breakfasts and I watched as a pair of wardens in their scarlet and gold coats scurried across the snow-covered Tower Green bearing great pails of offal for them. I shivered, remembering my encounter with the dogs. Leaving the nag in the stables, I climbed the steps to the White Tower. Inside the Great Hall soldiers and officials milled about, and I saw two guards leading a crazed-looking old man in a torn shirt roughly towards the steps leading down to the dungeons. I showed my commission to a sergeant, who led me to Oldknoll’s room.
The armourer was a gruff, hard-faced soldier. He looked up from a sheaf of paper he was studying gloomily, and bade me sit.
‘God’s wounds, Master Shardlake, the paperwork we have these days. I hope you have not brought me more.’
‘No, Master Oldknoll, I have come to pick your brains if I may. I am on a mission for Lord Cromwell.’
He gave me his attention. ‘Then I will do all I can to aid you. You seem under strain, sir, if I may say so.’
‘Yes, everyone is saying so. And they are right. I need to know who made this.’ I unsheathed the sword, handing it to him carefully. He bent to study the maker’s mark, gave me a startled glance, then looked more closely.
‘Where did you get this?’
‘In a monastery fish pond.’
He crossed to the door and closed it carefully, before laying the sword on the desk.
‘You know who made it?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes.’
‘Is he alive?’
Oldkoll shook his head. ‘Dead these eighteen months.’
‘I need to know everything you can tell me about that sword. What those letters and symbols signify, to start with.’
He took a deep breath. ‘You see the little castle stamped there? That indicates the maker was trained at Toledo in Spain.’
My eyes widened. ‘So the owner would be a Spaniard?’
He shook his head. ‘Not necessarily. Many foreigners go to learn weaponry at Toledo.’
‘Including Englishmen?’
‘Until the religious changes. Englishmen are not welcome in Spain now. But before, yes. Those who have studied at Toledo usually take the Moorish fortress, the Alcazar, as their mark on the sword they submit on applying to the guild for admission. That is what this man did. Those are his initials.’
‘JS.’
‘Yes.’ He gave me a long look. ‘John Smeaton.’
‘God’s flesh! A relative of Mark Smeaton, Queen Anne’s lover?’
‘His father. I knew him slightly. This sword would be the one he made to gain entry to the guild. Fifteen hundred and seven, that would be about the right date.’
‘I did not know Smeaton’s father was a sword-maker.’
‘He started out as one. A good one, too. But he had an accident some years ago, lost parts of two fingers. He didn’t have the strength in his hand afterwards for sword-making, so he turned to carpentry. He had a small works over at Whitechapel.’
‘And he is dead?’
‘He had a seizure two days after his son’s execution. I remember it being spoken of, he had no one to leave the business to. I think it was closed down.’
‘But he must have had relatives. This sword is valuable; it would have been part of his estate.’
‘Aye, it would.’
I took a deep breath. ‘So Singleton’s death was connected with Mark Smeaton. Of course, Jerome knew that somehow. That’s why he told me the story.’
‘I don’t follow you, sir.’
‘I must find out who this sword passed to after John Smeaton died.’
‘You could go to his house. He lived above his shop like most craftsmen. The new owners would have bought it from the executors.’
‘Thank you, Master Oldknoll, you have been a great help.’ I took the sword and buckled it on. ‘I must go, I am due at Lord Cromwell’s house.’
‘I am glad to have assisted. And Master Shardlake, if you are going to see Lord Cromwell—’
I raised my eyebrows. It was always the same, if people knew you were visiting Cromwell there would be some favour to ask.
‘It’s only - if you get the chance, could you ask him if he could send me less paperwork? Every night this week I’ve had to sit up making returns on the weaponry, and I know they have the information already.’
I smiled. ‘I will see what I can do. It is the temper of the times, though; it is hard to go against the tide.’
‘This tide of paper will end by drowning us,’ he said sorrowfully.
LORD CROMWELL’S house in Stepney was an imposing red-brick mansion he had had built a few years before. It housed not just his wife and son but a dozen young sons of clients, whom he had taken into his household for their education. I had visited it before; th
e house was like a miniature court with its servants and teachers, clerks and constant visitors. As I approached I saw a crowd of ragged people waiting outside. An old blind man, shoeless in the snow, stood with his hand out, calling, ‘Alms, alms by your mercy.’ I had heard that Cromwell got his servants to distribute doles from the side gate in an effort to gain popularity among the London poor. It was a scene uncomfortably reminiscent of the monastery dole day.
I stabled my horse and was led indoors by Blitheman the steward, an amiable fellow. Lord Cromwell would be a little late, he said, and offered me some wine.
‘That would be welcome.’
‘Tell me, sir, would you care to see Lord Cromwell’s leopard? He likes it to be shown to visitors. It’s in a cage at the back.’
‘I heard he had recently acquired such a beast. Thank you.’
Blitheman led me through the busy house to a yard at the back. I had never seen a leopard, though I had heard of those fabulous spotted creatures, which could run faster than the wind. He led me out, smiling proprietorially. My nostrils were assailed with a great stink, and I found myself looking through the bars of a metal cage perhaps twenty feet square. The stone floor was dotted with gobbets of meat, and a great cat prowled up and down. Its fur was golden with black spots, and everything in its lean, muscled frame spoke of savage power. As we entered the yard it turned and snarled, showing huge yellow fangs.
‘A fearsome beast,’ I said.
‘Fifteen pounds it cost my lord.’
The leopard sat down and stared at us, occasionally lifting its lips in a snarl.
‘What is its name?’ I asked.
‘Oh, it has no name, it would not be godly to give a Christian’s name to such a monster.’
‘Poor creature, it must be cold.’
A boy in livery appeared at the door and muttered to Blitheman.
‘Lord Cromwell is returned,’ Blitheman said. ‘Come, he is in his study.’ With a last glance at the snarling leopard, I followed him inside. I reflected that my master, too, had a savage reputation and wondered whether he was sending a deliberate message by possessing such a creature.
LORD CROMWELL’S study was a smaller version of his Westminster office, packed with paper-strewn tables. Normally it was gloomy, but today the sunlight reflected from the snow in the garden sent a penetrating white light across the heavy creases and folds of his face as he sat behind his desk. His look at me when I was shown in was hostile, his mouth set tight and his chin projecting angrily. He did not bid me sit.
‘I had expected to hear from you sooner,’ he said coldly. ‘Nine days. And the business isn’t settled yet, I can tell by your look.’ He noticed my sword. ‘God’s blood, do you wear a weapon in my presence?’
‘No, my lord,’ I said, hastily unbuckling it. ‘It is a piece of evidence, I had to bring it.’ I laid it on a table where an illustrated copy of the English Bible lay open at a picture of Sodom and Gomorrah consumed by flames. I told him all that had happened: the deaths of Simon and Gabriel and the discovery of Orphan Stonegarden’s body, the abbot’s offer of surrender, my suspicions about the land sales, and finally Jerome’s letter, which I passed to him. Except when he was reading it he glared at me throughout with that unblinking gaze of his. When I had finished he let out a snort.
‘God’s holy wounds, it’s a chaos worse than Bedlam. I hope when you get back that boy of yours is still alive,’ he added brutally. ‘I’ve spent time cozening Rich into taking him back; it’d better not be wasted.’
‘I thought I should report to you, my lord. Especially when I found that letter.’
He grunted. ‘They should have reminded me that the Carthusian was there, Grey will hear about that. Brother Jerome will be dealt with. But I’m not concerned with letters to Edward Seymour. All the Seymour family look to my favour now the queen’s dead.’ He leaned forward. ‘But these deaths unsolved do worry me. They must not come out now, I don’t want my other negotiations upset. Lewes Priory is about to surrender.’
‘They are giving in?’
‘I had word yesterday; the surrender will be signed this week. That’s what I was seeing Norfolk about, we’re going to divide their lands between us. The king’s agreed in principle.’
‘It must be a goodly parcel.’
‘It is. Their Sussex estates will go to me and those in Norfolk to the duke. The prospect of lands soon brings old enemies to the negotiating table.’ He gave a bark of laughter. ‘I’m going to set my son Gregory up in the abbot’s fine house, make a landowner of him.’ He paused and the steely look returned. ‘You seek to distract me, Matthew, put me in a better mood.’
‘No, sir. I know this has gone slowly but it is the hardest and most dangerous puzzle I have known—’
‘What’s the importance of that sword?’
I told him of its discovery and my talk with Oldknoll earlier. He furrowed his brows. ‘Mark Smeaton. I didn’t think he was one to cause trouble from beyond the grave.’ Lord Cromwell came round his desk and picked up the sword. ‘It’s a fine weapon all right, I wish I’d had it when I was soldiering in Italy in my youth.’
‘There must be a connection between the killings and Smeaton.’
‘I can see one,’ he said. ‘A connection to Singleton’s death, anyway. Revenge.’
He thought a moment, then turned and gave me a hard look. ‘This is not to be repeated to anyone.’
‘On my honour.’
He put down the sword and began pacing up and down, hands folded behind him. His black robe billowed around his knees.
‘When the king turned against Anne Boleyn last year, I had to act quickly. I’d been associated with her from the beginning, and the papist faction would have worked my fall with hers; the king was starting to listen to them. So it had to be me that rid the king of her. Do you see?’
‘Yes. Yes, I see.’
‘I persuaded him she was adulterous and that meant she could be executed for treason, without her religion coming into it. But there would have to be evidence and a public trial.’
I stood looking at him silently.
‘I took some of my most trusted men and assigned to each a friend of hers whom I had chosen - Norris, Weston, Brereton, her brother Rochford - and Smeaton. Their task was to get either a confession, or something that could be made to look like evidence that they had lain with her. Singleton was the man I assigned to deal with Mark Smeaton.’
‘He made up a case against him?’
‘Smeaton looked to be the easiest one to force into a confession; he was just a boy. So it proved, he confessed to adultery after a session on the Tower rack. The same one I used on that Carthusian, who must indeed have met him because all he reported Smeaton saying was true.’ His tone as he went on was reflective, matter of fact.
‘And one of the visitors the Carthusian saw coming to the cell that night would have been Singleton himself. I sent him to make sure that in his speech from the scaffold - there’s a tradition that should be done away with - the boy did not retract his confession. He was reminded that, if he said anything amiss, his father would suffer.’
I stared at my lord. ‘So what people said was true? Queen Anne and those accused with her were innocent?’
He turned to me. The harsh light caught his face and seemed to leach his eyes of expression as he frowned at me.
‘Of course they were innocent. No one may say so, but the whole world knows it, the juries at the trial knew. Even the king half-knew though he couldn’t admit it to himself and irk his fine conscience. God’s death, Matthew, you’re innocent for a lawyer. You’ve the innocence of a reformist believer without the fire. Better to have the fire without the innocence, like me.’
‘I believed the charges were true. So many times I have said so.’
‘Best to do what most people did on that subject and keep a closed mouth.’
‘Perhaps I did know, deep down,’ I said quietly. ‘In some part of me God has not reached.’
Cromwel
l looked at me impatiently, irritation in his face.
‘So Singleton was killed for revenge,’ I said at length. ‘Someone killed him in the same manner Anne Boleyn was executed. But who?’ A thought came to me. ‘Who was Smeaton’s second visitor? Jerome mentioned the priest come to shrive him and two others.’
‘I’ll have Singleton’s case papers looked out, see what they say about Smeaton’s family. I’ll have them at your house within two hours. Meanwhile go to old Smeaton’s place, that’s a good notion. You return to Scarnsea tomorrow?’