Lamentation

by C. J. Sansom

  ‘That can have its disadvantages.’

  ‘Those names are all on one side of the religious divide,’ he said hesitantly.

  ‘I was once myself on that side, and as the realm has divided so my contacts have remained there. But my religious loyalties – ’ I shrugged – ‘they are gone.’

  ‘Surely it is enough just to believe.’

  I looked at him. ‘Do you believe, Nicholas?’

  He laughed uneasily. ‘Just about. I know that at heart I want to save life, not destroy it. Yours was a life I am glad to have saved,’ he added, his face reddening.

  ‘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.’

  STICE 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

  LATER 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.

  ON FRIDAY THE 6TH 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?’

  ‘A busy summer. And you, Philip?’

  ‘My wife and I feel happier now the heresy hunt is over.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I took some books in yesterday, under the amnesty, good books written by men of true faith, but now forbidden. I have delayed doing it, for I was much attached to them, but the amnesty expires on Monday.’

  ‘I had some, too. I burned them, as I preferred not to have my name appear on a list.’

  ‘The amnesty is public, and many people have brought in books. Perhaps even some from Whitehall.’ He laughed uneasily. ‘If they prosecuted those who took advantage of the amnesty, that would be a great breach of faith, and illegal.’ He smiled sadly, looking out of the window at the quadrangle. ‘My books are a big loss to me, but our vicar says we must wait, for better times may be coming.’

  I was glad he did not know about Bertano. I said, ‘I am visiting Gray’s Inn on other business this afternoon, but I have just had a strange encounter with Isabel Slanning and Brother Dyrick. I thought I should tell you.’

  His face became serious. ‘What now? Dyrick has been pestering and bothering me about the depositions and other aspects of the case, trying to bully me in his usual manner. But he has not mentioned this nonsense about conspiracy again. I had hoped he was discouraging Isabel from going down that path. I would, if I were him. The courts will not welcome it.’

  ‘I think he may be trying to. When I ran into them just now, Dyrick was civil enough for once, and tried to hustle Isabel away. But she told me again she knew all about you, me and her brother conspiring together, and that we would pay, as she put it, the highest price.’

  ‘Dyrick did not back her up?’

  ‘Far from it, which is unusual for him. I begin to think Isabel is seriously unhinged. But Dyrick looked worried, and I cannot but wonder what she may have planned.’

  Philip’s cheerful manner was gone. ‘Is there further word concerning her complaint about you to Lincoln’s Inn?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘None. But Treasurer Rowland was going to write her a sharp letter. I should have expected a copy but I have heard nothing yet. I will call on him.’

  Coleswyn considered a moment, then said, ‘I have discovered something else.’ He took a deep breath. ‘A few days ago, I was dining in hall when I saw a friend of mine from another chambers, who knows I have the Cotterstoke case – Dyrick’s cases are always a source of gossip round Gray’s Inn. He introduced me to a retired barrister, now over seventy, but of good memory. When he was young – this is over forty years ago – he acted for Edward and Isabel’s mother.’

  I looked up with interest. ‘Oh?’

  He hesitated. ‘Strictly, even though old Deborah Cotterstoke is dead, his duty of confidentiality remains. But you know how old fellows like to gossip. And I cannot help but be interested in anything concerning that family.’ He frowned. ‘I should not tell you, I suppose.’

  I smiled gently. Coleswyn’s integrity was one of the things I admired in him. ‘I no longer represent Isabel. And I promise it will go no further.’ I inclined my head. ‘And if a former client threatens a barrister, as Isabel did this afternoon, I think he is entitled to seek out anything which might throw light on the circumstances. I take it the old man’s story does that, Philip?’

  He grunted acknowledgement. ‘Not directly. But you and I have both wondered whence came the mutual hatred, and perhaps fear, in which Edward Cotterstoke and Isabel Slanning hold each other.’

  ‘Yes. It is surely something out of the ordinary.’

  ‘We know from the old merchant I spoke to before that Edward and Isabel’s father died young, their mother married again, but her second husband also died. And the merchant said that ever after she and both children seemed at odds with each other.’ Coleswyn leaned forward in his chair. ‘This old barrister I spoke to was consulted in 1507, back in the old King’s time. By Mrs Deborah Johnson, as she then was. At the time she was an attractive widow in her thirties with two children.’

  ‘Edward and Isabel.’

  ‘Yes. Deborah’s first husband, Master Johnson, had just died. Of the sweating sickness, you remember, which was raging in the city that summer.’

  I remembered the confident-looking young father in the painting, with his tall hat, and the pretty wife and two little children. How easily even a rising man could be suddenly cut down.

  ‘Isabel and Edward’s mother had inherited his business. She was quite rich. There had recently been a case in Chancery over whether a woman could inherit and run a business and be a member of a Guild. The old barrister was able to reassure her that she could. He remembered her as a formidable woman.’

  ‘I recall her face in the painting. Pretty, but with a sharpness, a hardness to it. Like her daughter’s.’

  ‘Yes. A year later, Mistress Johnson consulted him once more. She was minded to marry again, a man in the same trade as her, Peter Cotterstoke, but she was concerned her rights in the business would pass to her new husband on marriage.’

  ‘As they would. Automatically.’

  Philip nodded. ‘And so she was advised. She said her son and daughter, who were around eleven and twelve then, were worried they would lose their inheritance. But she was set on marrying Master Cotterstoke. And she did. But Cotterstoke proved an honourable man. Deborah Cotterstoke, as she now was, came back to the lawyer a third time, some months later, together with her new husband, and Master Cotterstoke made a Will stating that if he should die before Deborah, t
he combined business – his own and the late Master Johnson’s – would pass to her. He sealed the matter by formally adopting Edward and Isabel; therefore even if Deborah were to die first they would still inherit their share. Deborah, apparently, was visibly pregnant at the time, and the couple thought it best to formalize arrangements.’

  I scratched my cheek. ‘So Cotterstoke was a good stepfather to the children. And they kept his name, which they surely would not have done if they disliked him. Did this old fellow know anything of a quarrel within the family?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Coleswyn replied. ‘Only that shortly after, poor Master Cotterstoke drowned. That we knew, but I decided to look out for the coroner’s report.’ I sat up. ‘Apparently one Sunday, shortly after the children were adopted and the Will made, Master Cotterstoke walked from their home just beyond Aldgate, through the city and down to the docks, where a ship had just come in with some goods he had purchased abroad. He took the two children with him, and he also had two servants in attendance, a normal thing for a gentleman walking out. One was Patrick Vowell, which is the name of the old man who is taking care of the house now.’

  ‘Indeed?’ I asked, my interest growing.

  ‘Both servants testified that Master Cotterstoke seemed perfectly happy that day, as did the two children. He was looking forward to the arrival of his new child. The servants left him at the customs house; Master Cotterstoke said he did not know how long he would be and they should wait outside. The children went on to the docks with him.

  ‘It was quiet at the docks, being Sunday. A little time later, a labourer heard shouting and crying from the water. He thought it was gulls at first but it came again and he realized it was a human cry. He ran to the water and saw a man floating there. The tide was full and anyone who fell off the wharfside would plunge into deep water. He called for some of his colleagues to help him get the body ashore but it was too late. It was Master Cotterstoke, and his lungs were found to be full of water; he certainly drowned. And apparently it was a misty day in autumn; someone walking near the edge could easily make a misstep.’