Lamentation (The Shardlake Series Book 6)

by C. J. Sansom

  I answered quietly, ‘Suicide is a terrible disgrace, but less than murder. His family will not see him hang, nor will his goods be distrained to the King.’

  ‘There could have been some other way; we could have talked about it, talked with our vicar. This is – is not – sane.’

  ‘After what had just happened to him, anyone might lose their reason. Perhaps God will take account of that.’

  A REPLY FROM Hampton Court arrived just as I was going to bed. Martin brought it up, his expression a deferential mask as usual. I examined the Queen’s seal carefully in the privacy of my room, to ensure it was unbroken, before opening it. The letter was from Lord Parr:

  Matthew,

  Forgive my not replying to your earlier messages: there has been much to do, with the move to Hampton Court and the arrangements for the admiral’s coming, and also I have been ill. Furthermore, Jane Fool told the guard your first message was not urgent; out of spite against you, I think. I have seen that she is well punished for it, despite the Queen and the Lady Mary’s softness towards her.

  Neither I nor the Queen knew you were to appear before the Privy Council; Paget kept that to himself, though the Queen’s brother told me afterwards. We do not know who pressed to have the matter brought there; thank heaven the Slanning woman made a fool of herself, and Rich had motive to speak on your behalf.

  Regarding your faithless steward, yes, keep him on for now. But other than that, do nothing. I will have the house you mentioned watched.

  I will write further, and we may see each other at the ceremonies.

  By the way, your boy, the messenger, did well. He was gentlemanly and polite, which is not always true of your other man.

  I felt relieved as I laid down the letter. Lord Parr’s tone was friendly; the observation about Barak made me smile. The Queen and her uncle had not, after all, abandoned me. The story about Jane Fool rang true. I wondered, not for the first time, whether she was a fool of any sort at all, or merely a woman who had found a profitable role in pretending it.

  NEXT DAY WAS the 17th, only three days before the admiral’s arrival at Greenwich, and I still needed a gold chain. I went to a shop in the goldsmith’s quarter, one of the smaller ones, guarded outside by a large man ostentatiously bearing a club. Barak accompanied me. Asking around on my behalf, he had discovered the service this shop provided.

  Inside, another man was posted beside an inner door. The owner, a stout elderly fellow, came over and gave me a deep bow. ‘God give you good morrow, sir.’

  ‘And to you. I require a gold chain; I have to be at the ceremony welcoming the French admiral on Saturday.’

  ‘Ah yes, his progress through the city. It has brought some good business.’ He looked me over professionally. ‘A lawyer, sir? Is that a serjeant’s coif you wear?’

  ‘Well observed.’

  ‘It is the nature of my business, to judge who people are. You should buy a good long chain, with thick links.’ He smiled unctuously.

  ‘I look only to rent one, for a week.’

  The man stared. ‘Rent?’ He shook his head. ‘People are expected to wear their own chains on such an occasion, of a size in accordance with their status. To rent one – ’ he shook his head sadly – ‘that might be thought shameful among your colleagues, if it got out.’

  ‘So it would,’ I agreed. ‘That is why I asked my clerk here to find a goldsmith who rented chains discreetly.’

  ‘Best look one out and save time,’ Barak told the goldsmith cheerfully. ‘I know you rent them for a good price.’

  That got the goldsmith moving: he went into the back room and returned with a heavy chain with large, solid links. It was a little dirty, but gold is easily cleaned. I wrote a note confirming receipt, paid over a half-sovereign as deposit, and asked Barak to put the chain in his knapsack.

  ‘Don’t you want to wear it?’ he asked mockingly.

  ‘Not till I have to.’

  I HAD AGREED to go down to Greenwich with Barak, Tamasin and Nicholas on Friday, to watch Admiral d’Annebault’s arrival. He would be welcomed by the King and stay the night at Greenwich Palace before his procession through London on Saturday. Going to see this would help me get used to it all, before playing my, mercifully small, part later.

  The four of us met at Temple Stairs. There were many people waiting for wherries and tilt-boats to take them downriver; mostly family groups in their best clothes, for the day had been declared a public holiday. One young man stood alone, his expression grave; he had only one leg and stood on crutches. I wondered if he had been a soldier in the war.

  Our turn came and a tilt-boat, with a white canopy to shield us from the sun, took us down the busy river. Even the boatman was dressed cheerfully, a garland of flowers in his cap. Tamasin sat under the canopy with Barak, Nicholas and me on the bench opposite, Nicholas wearing a broad hat against the sun. I had on my robe, but no chain.

  Tamasin looked cheerfully out over the brown water. ‘I wonder if we shall get close enough to see the King. They distributed a leaflet giving the details. He will be on the royal barge just below Greenwich, and the admiral’s barge will pull up beside it for the King to welcome him aboard.’

  I looked at her. Her time of sickness was over and she was blooming. She wore the dress she had worn at George’s birthday, yellow with a bonnet, a little ruby brooch at her breast. She met my gaze and leaned over, putting her hand on mine. ‘I know this will be hard for you, sir, after last year. Forgive my enthusiasm, but I do not see much spectacle.’

  ‘While I see too much. But no, Tamasin, enjoy the day.’

  The river turned south, past the Isle of Dogs. The path winding around it was filled with people of the poorer classes, walking down to watch the admiral’s arrival. Beyond the muddy path was marshy woodland dotted with vegetable gardens that cottagers had set up, their shacks in the middle. Guard dogs tied to posts barked furiously at all the passers-by.

  Greenwich Palace, built by the King’s father as a symbol of the new Tudor dynasty, came into view, with its splendid facade and pointed towers. Boats were pulling into the bank on both sides of the river, passengers disembarking and walking on to get as close as possible to the palace. Our boat pulled in to the left-hand bank. Beside the palace I saw a great barge at anchor, brightly painted in Tudor green and white, an enormous English flag flying from the prow. A dozen liveried oarsmen sat on each side, now and then sculling with their oars to keep the craft steady. The barge had a long cabin gilded with gold and silver. Purple curtains had been pulled back to show those within, but they were too far away to make out. Tamasin leaned over the edge of the crowded path to see better, risking a fall into the mud below, and Barak pulled her back. ‘Control yourself, woman.’

  For a while nothing happened. We stood amid the watching, murmuring crowd. Beyond the barge a long row of mighty warships was moored along the south shore. The King’s great ships, which I had seen last year at Portsmouth. Streamers in many colours, some a hundred feet long, were hung from the masts and swung gently in the light river breeze. The ships themselves I remembered: enormous, magnificent, their upper decks brightly painted. One, though, was absent: the King’s favourite warship, the Mary Rose, now sunk at the bottom of the Solent.

  There was a crash as gunports opened along the sides of the ships. Cannon appeared and fired volleys; no actual cannonballs, of course, but emitting thick clouds of smoke and making enough noise to shake the pathway. People shouted and cheered. Nicholas joined in enthusiastically, waving his hat in the air. Some women whooped at the noise, though Tamasin glanced at me with a sombre face.

  Then they appeared, coming fast upriver; first a French warship, guns firing on both sides, then over a dozen French galleys, long and narrow: sleek, fast vessels of war. They were brightly painted, each in a different colour, and their cannon, set in the prows, fired off blasts in reply to ours. The largest galley, covered from prow to stern in a white canopy decorated in gold fleur-de-lys, pulled alongside the
King’s barge.

  It was too much for me. The sight of those galleys, which I had last seen firing at the Mary Rose; the smoke; the gunfire that shook the ground. I touched Barak on the shoulder. ‘I have to go.’

  He looked at me with concern. ‘God’s blood, you look sick. You shouldn’t go alone. Nick, get a boat.’

  ‘No!’ I answered stubbornly. ‘I’ll be all right, you stay here.’

  Nicholas and Tamasin were also staring. Tamasin took my hand. ‘Are you sure? I could see you were troubled earlier.’

  ‘I will be all right.’ I felt ashamed of my weakness.

  ‘Nick,’ Barak said peremptorily, ‘go back with him.’

  The boy stepped forward. I opened my mouth to protest, then shrugged.

  ‘Call on us later,’ Tamasin said.

  I nodded. ‘I will.’

  I walked away, fast as I could through the crowds, Nicholas for once having to lengthen his long stride to keep up with me. The endless crash of cannon suddenly ceased; the admiral must have boarded the King’s barge at last.

  ‘Watch out there!’ a man called out as I nearly fell into him. Nicholas grasped my arm.

  ‘He’s drunk, sodden old hunchback,’ another man observed. And in truth it was as though I were drunk, the ground like a ship’s deck, seeming to shift and slide beneath my feet.

  WE GOT A BOAT TO the Steelyard stairs. When we stepped off I felt strange, light-headed. Nicholas said, ‘Shall I walk you home?’ He was embarrassed, and had hardly spoken during the journey.

  ‘No. We’ll walk to chambers.’

  Today being a holiday and so many people down at Greenwich, the city was quiet, as though it were a Sunday. I was walking steadily again now, but thought with renewed grief of my friends who had died on the Mary Rose. Their faces came before me. And then I found myself saying an inward goodbye to them all, and something lifted in my heart.

  ‘Did you say something, sir?’ Nicholas asked.

  I must have murmured aloud. ‘No. No, nothing.’ Looking round, I realized we were at Lothbury. ‘We are close to the Cotterstoke house,’ I said. ‘Where that painting is.’

  ‘What will happen to it now?’

  ‘Edward’s half of his mother’s estate will go to his family. In these circumstances I imagine his wife will want to get rid of the house as soon as possible, painting or no painting.’

  ‘Then Mistress Slanning may get her way.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose she may.’

  He hesitated, then asked, ‘Will Master Coleswyn tell Edward Cotterstoke’s wife why her husband took his life? That old murder?’

  ‘No. I am sure not.’

  I realized the old servant, Vowell, would know nothing of Edward’s death. Perhaps I should tell him, and make sure he kept his mouth shut.

  THE OLD HOUSE was quiet as ever. Nearby a barber had opened his shop, but there was little custom and he stood leaning disconsolately against a wall under his striped pole. I remembered Rowland saying I needed to shave before taking my place for d’Annebault’s progress through London tomorrow; I would do so after visiting Vowell. I knocked at the door.

  He opened it at once. He looked agitated, his eyes wide. He stared at us in surprise, then leaned forward and spoke quietly, his voice shaking. ‘Oh, sir, it is you. I sent for Master Dyrick.’ He frowned. ‘I didn’t think he would send you in his place. Sir, it may not be safe for you.’ I lowered my voice in turn. ‘What do you mean, fellow? I have not come from Dyrick.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I came to tell you poor Edward Cotterstoke is dead.’

  Vowell wrung his hands. ‘I know, and by his own hand. One of his servants told someone who knows me. Wretched gossiping women, everybody knows already. Mistress Slanning—’

  ‘Isabel knows?’

  ‘Knows, sir, and is here.’ He cast a backward glance at the gloomy hall. ‘In such a state as I have never seen anyone. She insisted I let her in. She has a knife, sir, a big knife she took from the kitchen. I fear she may do as her brother did—’

  I raised a hand; the frightened old man’s voice was rising. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In the parlour, sir. She just stands looking at the painting – she will not move, nor answer me – holding that knife.’

  I looked at Nicholas. ‘Will you come with me?’ I whispered.

  ‘Yes.’

  We stepped inside, past Vowell. The door to the parlour was open. I walked in quietly, Nicholas just behind. There, with her back to me, stood Isabel. She wore one of her fine satin dresses, light brown today, but had cast her hood on the floor. It left her head bare, long silvery-grey tresses cascading down her shoulders. She was staring at the wall painting, quite motionless, and as Vowell had said, a broad, long-bladed knife was clutched in her right hand, so tightly that each bony white knuckle stood out. The image of her mother and father, of little Edward and her own young self, stared back at her, appearing more real than ever to me at that terrifying moment.

  She did not even seem to be aware that we had come in. Vowell stayed outside; I heard him breathing hard in the corridor.

  Nicholas stepped quietly forward, but I put up a hand to restrain him. I said softly, ‘Mistress Slanning.’ Strange, even in that extremity, I could not allow myself the presumption of calling her by her first name.

  I would not have thought her body could have tensed any further but it did, becoming quite rigid. Then, slowly, she turned her head to look at me. Those blue eyes, so like her brother’s, were wild and staring. Her brows drew together in a frown.

  ‘Master Shardlake?’ she said in a quiet, puzzled voice. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I came to speak to Vowell. To tell him your brother is dead.’ I moved my right hand a little. ‘Mistress Slanning, please let me have that knife.’ She did not reply; her breath came in short pants, as though she were trying to hold it in, to stop breathing. ‘Please,’ I implored. ‘I wish only to help you.’

  ‘Why would you help me? I tried to destroy you, and Edward and that lawyer Coleswyn. I called you heretics. As you are.’ Her grip on the knife tightened, and she lifted the blade slightly.

  ‘I think you were not yourself. Please, mistress, give me the knife.’ I took half a step forward, stretching out my hand.

  She slowly lifted the knife towards her throat.

  ‘No!’ Nicholas cried out, with such force and passion that Isabel paused, the blade almost at her neck, where the arteries pulsed under the wrinkled white skin.

  ‘It’s not worth it!’ he said passionately. ‘Whatever you did, madam, whatever your family did, it’s not worth that!’

  She stared at him for a moment. Then she lowered the knife, but held it pointing outwards. I raised my arm to protect myself, fearing she would attack: Isabel was a thin, ageing woman, but desperation gives strength to the weakest. But it was not us she attacked; instead she turned round again and thrust the knife into her beloved picture, stabbing at it with long, powerful slashes, so hard that a piece of plaster broke off beside the crack in the wall that the experts had noticed. She went on and on, making desperate grunting sounds, as more of the paint and plaster crumbled. Then her hand slipped and the knife gashed her other arm, blood spurting through the fabric of her dress. She winced at the unexpected pain and dropped the knife. Clutching her arm, Isabel crumpled in a heap on the floor, and began to cry. She lay there, sobbing desperately with the grief and guilt of a lifetime.

  Nicholas stepped forward quickly, picked up the knife and took it outside to Vowell. The old servant stared at Isabel in horror through the doorway. The painting was now scored with innumerable slashes, spaces where pieces of plaster had fallen revealing the lath behind. A tiny stream of plaster dust trickled down. I saw that the section of the painting she had attacked most fiercely, now almost entirely obliterated, was her mother’s face.

  I looked at Nicholas, who was pale and breathing hard. Then I knelt beside Isabel. ‘Mistress Slanning?’ I touched her shoulder lightly. She flinched, huddling further away from me, a
s though she would squeeze herself into the floor, clutching at her injured arm.

  ‘Mistress Slanning,’ I said gently. ‘You have cut yourself, your arm needs binding.’

  The sobbing ceased and she turned her head to look at her arm. Her expression was bereft, her hair wild. She looked utterly pitiful. Lifting her eyes, she met mine briefly before shuddering and turning her face away. ‘Do not look at me, please.’ She spoke in an imploring whisper. ‘No one should look at me now.’ She took a deep, sobbing breath. ‘He was innocent, our stepfather, a good man. But we did not see it, Edward and I, till it was too late. Our mother was cruel, she left that Will so we would quarrel, I understand it now. It was because both Edward and I loved the painting so. Mother never wanted us to visit her, but I would come sometimes, to see the painting. To see our father again.’

  I looked at their mother’s empty chair, facing what was left of the painting, the embroidery still lying on the seat.

  ‘He died so suddenly, our father. Why did he leave us? Why?’ She wept again, the tears of a lost child. ‘Oh, Edward! I drove him to that unclean act. All these years I could have confessed; the old faith allows that if you repent and confess your sins it is enough, you are forgiven. His faith did not allow even that. But I – ’ her voice fell to a whisper – ‘my hardened heart would not allow me to confess. But it was both of us together did that thing, both of us!’

  I jumped at the sound of a sharp knock at the door. I heard Vowell and another voice, and then Vincent Dyrick strode into the room, gown billowing theatrically behind him, his lean hawk face furious. He looked at Nicholas and me, at Isabel weeping on the floor, then gaped at the wrecked painting.

  ‘Shardlake! What have you done? Why is my client in this state?’

  I rose slowly to my feet, my knees cracking and my back protesting in pain. Isabel was looking at Dyrick; it was the same puzzled, otherworldly look Edward had worn in the Tower, as though she barely understood who he was.