by C. J. Sansom
‘No.’
Brother Philips hesitated. ‘He was a very strong reformer, brother, and not many in these chambers are.’
‘But I thought he was an arch-conservative.’
‘He was once. But he was won over by the evangelical preaching at a local church.’ Brother Philips smiled sadly again. ‘Many who were hot for one side have turned and became equally hot for the other. It has happened much these last few years.’
‘Yes, it has.’
‘But Brother Dakin was a good lawyer, and an honest man.’
I nodded dumbly.
‘The Inn Treasurer would have made enquiries, seen to the disposition of his estate. If you enquire there…’
‘Yes. Yes, perhaps I should.’
‘Can I offer you some wine before you go, brother?’ He still looked concerned. ‘I see you have had a shock, perhaps you should sit down.’
‘No. No, I will go to the Treasurer. Thank you, brother, thank you for your help.’ I bowed and took my leave.
What an irony, I thought. A reformer, the last person to want any connections to the northern conspiracy.
THERE WAS A BENCH under a tree nearby. The wood was wet but I sat there nonetheless. Poor Wrenne, this would be a dreadful blow for him. I was glad, though, that I had come to Gray’s Inn; at least I could break the news gently to him, at home. I looked up as a big man in a lawyer’s robe passed by. Black beard, black hair. Surely it was Maleverer. Then the man’s features settled into those of a different, older man. He gave me a puzzled look and hurried inside.
A drop of water landing on my hand brought me back to myself. The rain again. I got up. The wretched manacle was chafing at my wrist still. I rubbed it and checked to make sure the thing was out of sight, then enquired of a passing clerk where the Treasurer’s rooms might be found. I made my way across to them, doused yet again by pelting rain.
The Treasurer was a tall, stooped man, suspicious of a barrister from another chambers come making enquiries. When I explained my mission, though, he became sympathetic and invited me into his comfortable rooms.
‘I am wary of all enquiries about members of the Inn these days,’ he told me.
‘Ah yes. The enquiries about the conspirators.’
‘Many barristers have been questioned in recent days. Robert Aske practised here, you know. God rot him and all these malcontents. Inns are for practising law, not conspiring against the King.’
He led me through into an office where an elderly man sat working through papers. ‘Brother Gibbs would have dealt with the matter. He is retired from practice, but helps me out.’
The old fellow rose and bowed, peering at me from behind thick-lensed spectacles. He looked almost as ancient as Brother Swann from Hull.
‘Brother Shardlake here is trying to trace relatives of a Brother Martin Dakin,’ the Treasurer told him. ‘He died the winter before last. He had no wife or children.’
The old man nodded sagely. ‘Ah yes, I remember. The Inn administered the estate. Yes, it is sad when a brother dies without family. But he did have a relative, as I recall.’
‘He did?’ I said eagerly. I thought, even some bastard child would be better than nothing.
The old man put a finger to his chin. ‘Yes, yes he had. I think so.’
I controlled my impatience as Brother Gibbs began ferreting through a pile of papers on a shelf.
‘I will leave you, sir,’ the Treasurer said.
‘Yes, yes, thank you. I am obliged.’
I turned to find Brother Gibbs holding up a packet of papers and smiling. ‘Here it is.’ He pulled out a will. ‘Martin Dakin, died the tenth of January 1540. At his request all his possessions were sold, and the proceeds, together with his savings – a goodly sum, I see -’ he scanned the will – ‘yes, he left fifty pounds to St Giles’ church in Cripplegate.’ He looked at me over his spectacles, disapproval on his face. ‘A very reforming church. Some say heretical.’
‘Yes, yes. And the rest?’
‘All to a single legatee.’
‘Who?’
‘See for yourself, sir.’
The old man handed me the will. I read the name of the legatee. My mouth fell open with shock.
‘This legatee claimed the property?’
‘Oh yes.’ The old man frowned. ‘All was done properly.’
‘I am sure it was.’
And now I knew, I knew it all. Who had knocked me out at St Mary’s, who had helped Broderick to die. And the identity of the one who now held the documents that could topple the throne.
Chapter Forty-seven
THE RAIN WAS lashing down harder than ever, and I had to bend my head to stop the water running from my cap into my eyes as I walked back up Chancery Lane. When I left the Treasurer’s office I had returned to Lincoln’s Inn and gone to the library. I had sat there for hours, thinking, puzzling, while the short November afternoon deepened to dusk and lamps were lit along the tables. In the end I believed I had worked it all out. And then there was nothing left but to go home.
It was quite dark as I walked down Chancery Lane with a heavy heart. Flickering squares of candlelight from house windows were reflected in puddles whose surfaces danced with raindrops. I pulled my coat tight about me, the wretched manacle digging into the raw wet skin of my wrist.
I stumbled through my front door, dripping onto the rush matting. Joan was crossing the hall; she turned to look at me, shading her lamp. ‘Master Shardlake! You are soaked, sir! What rain, I fear what may be happening out in that orchard. Let me find you some clean clothes -’
‘No,’ I said, pulling off my sodden cap. I leaned against the door for a moment, breathing hard. ‘I am all right. Are Jack and Mistress Reedbourne in?’
‘Not yet, sir.’ She sniffed. ‘They said they would be back before dark, but I’ll warrant she’s made him find some warm tavern to cuddle in.’
‘Oh.’ I was taken aback; I had assumed they would have returned by now, that they would be here. I had been preparing what I would say.
‘Master Wrenne came down a little while ago,’ Joan said. ‘He asked for some food. I’ve taken him a pottage in the parlour.’
I hesitated. The sensible thing to do would be to go upstairs and change. Then I shivered, suddenly and violently.
‘Are you all right?’ Joan asked, her face full of concern.
‘Just – tired.’
‘There is a good fire lit in the parlour.’
‘I can dry myself there.’ I forced a smile. ‘And I am hungry. ‘Thank you, Joan.’
She looked at me doubtfully a moment longer, then went upstairs. I locked the front door; Barak had his own key and could let himself back in. I crossed to the parlour. I paused there, overcome with a weariness that seemed to drain what little energy I had left. Then I took a deep breath and opened the door.
Giles was sitting at the table, supping Joan’s good pottage. A large bowl steamed on the table. In the candlelight his face looked tired, seamed with deeper lines as his face grew slowly thinner. He looked up at me with concern.
‘Matthew! You look half drowned. You will catch an ague.’
‘The rain has come on heavy again.’
‘I know. Will it never end?’ He gestured to the black squares of the window, against which we could hear it pattering. ‘I think Barak and young Tamasin are still out in it.’
I went and stood with my back to the roaring fire, feeling it warm my legs.
‘Did you speak to them at Lincoln’s Inn?’ he asked. ‘Will they dig the trench?’
‘Yes, it took some argument but they promised.’
‘There is steam rising from your clothes. You should change. You look exhausted, you will catch a fever.’
‘I must eat before I do anything else.’
‘Here, have some pottage.’
I took a plate from the buffet, filled it from the bowl and sat opposite him. But after all I did not feel like eating. ‘Are you feeling better?’ I asked.
&nb
sp; ‘Yes.’ He smiled, that sad heavy smile. ‘It comes and goes, just as with my father. For now I feel almost my old self, except for…’ He patted the place where his lump grew, and grimaced. I nodded. ‘Is there any more news about the Queen?’ he asked.
‘She is taken.’
He shook his big head sadly. I looked at him. I needed Barak and Tamasin back, Barak at least, before I spoke. Yet somehow I could not hold back. ‘I took it on myself to walk to Gray’s Inn, Giles. I wanted to seek out Martin Dakin.’
Giles stopped with the spoon halfway to his mouth. ‘You should not have done that,’ he said slowly. ‘Without my permission.’
‘It was to help you.’
‘Did you find him?’
‘I found he died near two years ago.’
He laid down his spoon. ‘Dead?’ he whispered. He sat back in his chair. His shoulders slumped and his face sagged. ‘Martin is dead?’
And then I said quietly, ‘I think you know he is. I think you knew before I came to York. I remember you saying once a good lawyer needs to be a good actor. I think you have been acting since the day we met.’
He frowned, then looked outraged. ‘How can you say such a thing, Matthew? How -’
‘I will tell you. I went to Dakin’s old chambers. They told me he died from an illness two winters ago. Wifeless and childless. They said I should go to the Treasurer, who dealt with his estate. So I did, and found he had left everything to you. His money was sent to you in York, and you signed a receipt for it in March of 1540, eighteen months ago. I saw it.’
‘Some imposter -’
‘No. I saw the signature. It was yours; I saw it enough times when we were dealing with the petitions. Come, Giles,’ I added impatiently. ‘I have been a lawyer near twenty years. Do you think I would not know a forged hand?’
He stared at me, a fierce look in his eyes I had never seen before. ‘Matthew,’ he said, a tremor in his voice, ‘you are my good friend but you wound me. It is the strain of your time in the Tower. This is some imposter, someone got hold of the Inns’ letter and pretended to be me. I remember, I had a clerk then I had to dismiss for dishonesty. From a distance of two hundred miles it is easy to pretend to be someone you are not.’
‘To hide your true identity. Yes, you would know.’
He did not reply then, only sat very still, looking at me intently. He started to play with the big emerald ring on his finger. A drop of water ran down my neck, making me shiver. He was right, I risked a fever. The crackling of the fire and the hissing of the rain against the window seemed unnaturally loud. I thought I heard the outside door open, but it was only a creak somewhere in the house. Where were Barak and Tamasin?
‘I went from the Treasurer’s office to the Lincoln’s Inn library,’ I continued. ‘I have been there hours. Working it out.’
Still he did not speak.
‘You invented the story of wishing to reconcile with Martin Dakin to get me to help you to London. Was there ever a quarrel between you? There must have been,’ I answered myself, ‘for old Madge knew of it, though not that Martin had died and left you his estate.’
‘We were never reconciled,’ he said quietly then. ‘What I told you about our quarrel was true. Despite it he left me everything when he died. I was his only living relative, you see. Family. How important it is.’ He sighed, a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his big frame. ‘I did not tell Madge that Martin had died and left me everything, nor anyone else in York. I was too ashamed.’ He looked at me. ‘And yet that served me well; I could tell you he was still alive, no one else knew otherwise.’
I said, still speaking slowly and quietly, ‘The question puzzling me was, why did you want to come to London, now when you knew you were dying? It had to be something very important. Then I remembered when it was you first mentioned coming here. It was after I was knocked out at King’s Manor. It was you who knocked me out, was it not? You took the papers. To bring to your fellow conspirators in London.’
Still he said nothing, only continued staring at me. I had had a strange notion that when I confronted him Giles’s face would change, take on some monstrous aspect, but it was still my friend’s lined strong old face that looked back at me; only more watchful and somehow more vulnerable than I had ever seen it before.
‘That day you rescued Barak and me from the mob outside Oldroyd’s house, had you come to fetch the box?’ I laughed bitterly. ‘It must have been a shock when it fell out from under my robe. You hid that well, as you have hidden so much since.’
He spoke then. ‘I did rescue you. Do not forget that as you judge me.’
‘And meanwhile, Mistress Jennet Marlin was on a mission of her own, from Bernard Locke, that you had not known about. So when you found that out at Howlme beacon, you killed her before she could reveal that it was not she who had taken the papers.’
‘I saved you from her too.’
‘For your own ends. You always had the papers she sought, no doubt you have them still. In my house.’
Giles sighed then, a sigh that seemed to shake his big body from head to toe. ‘I always saw you as a friend, Matthew,’ he said quietly. ‘It grieved me to lie to you and I would never have hurt you. I never intended to kill you at King’s Manor, only knock you out, and I never harmed you afterwards, though I could have, many times. I took a gamble that you spoke true when you said you had not read the papers. I – it wasn’t -’
‘It wasn’t personal, is that it? The using me, all the lies. Not personal, just political, as you said the King’s mockery of me was?’
‘I have hated it all, I hated killing that woman.’ He shuddered slightly. ‘I spoke true when I said I never killed anyone in my life.’
‘And Broderick, what about him?’
‘I helped Sir Edward Broderick kill himself because he wanted to die. He would have died a far worse death in the Tower, as we both know. No, that I do not regret. I knew him from the conspiracy, of which I was an important part. Do you remember when he was led out to the wharf in Hull, in chains? He looked towards us and nodded. You thought he was nodding at you, but it was me he recognized. That nod was enough. I knew he had tried to kill himself at York and I decided then I would help him. I waited night after night for an opportunity on that ship, and when it came I took it. I knocked Radwinter out, took his keys and helped Broderick hang himself. It was a terrible thing to do, but he was resolute.’ He straightened his shoulders. ‘He was a fine man, a brave man.’
‘Yes, he was,’ I said, then frowned. ‘But you were ill on the boat, all the time.’
He smiled sadly. ‘You know my condition comes and goes. I pretended to appear frailer than I actually felt on the journey.’
‘Jesu, how you have deceived me,’ I said quietly.
‘I owed Sir Edward my help. He held out under terrible torture, to keep secret certain matters that affected me.’
‘So he knew all along.’ I paused. ‘The secret of your true identity.’
There was silence for a long moment. The rain drove violently against the window. Come on, Barak, I thought.
‘So what do you know about me, Matthew?’ Giles asked at length.
‘What I managed to work out this afternoon, as I tried to puzzle out what made you lie to me, assault me and betray me. The key to everything has always been Edward Blaybourne’s confession. Did you meet old Brother Swann, in the library in Hull? He told me of the old legend that Blaybourne was the real father of King Edward IV.’
His eyes widened. ‘I thought all who remembered the old rumours must be dead by now.’
‘He was very old indeed. I did not tell you, for I feared it would be dangerous for you to know.’ I laughed bitterly. ‘But of course you knew already, better than anyone.’
Giles sat up, and now I saw something fierce spark in his blue eyes. ‘The truth is dangerous for you to know, Matthew. Believe me, and ask no more questions. Stop while you can. Let me walk out of your house, now. You will never see me again.’
‘It is too late for that.’
He sat back, his mouth tightening as I went on.
‘I remembered Howlme, your parents’ grave. I am blessed with a good memory, Giles, blessed or cursed. The name of your father, whom you told me you resemble, was Edward. Born in 1421, from his gravestone. Near fifty when you were born, you said you were the child of his old age. He would have been old enough to sire a son in 1442, when King Edward IV was born. I think Edward Blaybourne was your father.’
Giles answered simply. ‘Yes, he was. King Edward IV was my much older half-brother. Henry VIII is my great-nephew. When I saw him at Fulford, saw the evil in his face, smelt his foul smell, I knew he was the Mouldwarp and it made me sick to think that creature was of my blood. This false King, whose grandsire was the son of an archer.’
‘When did you first know?’
‘I will tell you, Matthew.’ He still spoke quietly, though his eyes burned. ‘Perhaps then you will understand and forgive my abuse of your friendship. Understand that what I have done was right.’
‘Tell me, then.’ My voice came cold and sharp.
‘My childhood was happy, as I told you that evening by Howlme church. I knew my father had come to the district many years before I was born. I imagine then he was a man much like young Leacon. Tall and strong, fair and comely. He would never say where he came from, only that it was far beyond Yorkshire. I never gave thought to the possibility that our name, Wrenne, might have been assumed.’
‘That is easy to do, take a new name in a new place.’
‘Shortly after he came to Howlme and bought the farm, my father married a local woman. They were childless and when they were in their forties she died of consumption. There is much of it in those marshes. A year later he married my mother. I was their only child.’ He took a bread roll and began kneading it between his big fingers. ‘When I was sixteen I went to London to study law. At Christmas of the following year I came home to visit. That was in 1485. Four months previously the future father of King Henry VIII had beaten Richard III at Bosworth and taken the throne as Henry VII.