by C. J. Sansom
‘Why?’
Harsnet gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Sir Thomas loves adventure. And he has a household full of young men of like mind.’
‘That sounds possible, from what I’ve heard of him,’ Barak agreed.
‘He is a detestable rogue. But we must take help where we can. The Archbishop and Lord Hertford are so close to the royal court that something happening in their households would be noticed. But no one will notice, still less care about, a lot of comings and goings at Sir Thomas Seymour’s.’
‘Can he be trusted?’ I asked dubiously.
‘He has reason to keep his mouth shut. This matter should have gone before the King, he is already implicated in the secret. I think he is safe.’
‘Well, sir, you know far more about matters relating to the royal court than I. I will trust your judgement.’
Harsnet bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘Thank you.’ He hesitated. ‘Whatever our differences in matters of belief, I am sure we can work together well.’
‘Indeed, I hope so, sir,’ I said, a little embarrassed.
‘Perhaps you would come and dine with my wife and me one evening,’ he added. ‘We could get to know one another better.’ The coroner reddened, and I realized he was actually a shy man.
‘I should be pleased.’
‘Good.’ He stood up. ‘And now, let us take a look at the chapterhouse. I expect it will be full of papist imagery.’
WE ASKED a passing clerk where the chapterhouse was located. He pointed us to a heavy oak door some distance off. It stood ajar. We passed inside down a short passage into one of the most extraordinary rooms I have ever seen. It was enormous, octagonal, and lit by huge stained-glass windows. The floor was beautifully tiled. Brightly coloured, beautifully crafted statues of the Virgin and St Peter stood at the entrance, as though guarding the way in.
But what transfixed all three of us, so that we stood staring with open mouths, was that beneath the windows each wall was divided into panels, on each of which was painted, in bright colours and embossed with gold leaf, a scene from Revelation. There were scores of them, the whole story, in unsparing, vivid colour: St John, Christ in Judgement, the flaming pit of Hell, the beast with seven heads and ten horns, and the seven angels, pouring their vials of wrath upon a world red with torment.
Chapter Nineteen
WE STOOD IN SILENCE, turning on our heels to survey the great panorama of destruction. The unfolding story of the panels was interrupted, on one wall, by a Doom Painting showing the righteous ascending to Heaven while below the pale naked sinners were thrown into Hell. But even that image lacked the sharp colours and vivid scenes of the Revelation story. For the first time I felt its full power.
Barak went up to the panels to take a closer look, his footsteps echoing on the tiles. He stopped before a portrayal of a great beast with seven snake-like necks issuing from its powerful shoulders, at the end of each a snarling head crowned with either one or two horns. Before it, his head framed by a gold-leaf halo, stood the figure of St John, the witness of what was to come, his expression full of fear. I joined him.
‘So that’s what the beast with seven heads and ten horns looked like,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t imagine it, somehow.’
The style of the paintings was that of two hundred years ago, the figures lacking the realistic fluidity we had achieved in these latter days. But it was vivid and terrifying nonetheless.
‘The Westminster monks saw this,’ I said quietly. ‘Goddard, Lockley, Cantrell. Every day, in chapter. Yes, this could eat into a man’s soul.’
‘Lockley the lay brother wouldn’t have come to chapter, would he?’ Barak asked.
‘A lot of other business would be done in the chapterhouse. He’d have seen the panels often.’ Harsnet joined us. ‘The papists say we have given the Bible to people who cannot understand its message, who are driven to wild interpretations. But see, Master Shardlake, pictures may have the same effect. If this room had been slubbered over with whitewash like a good Reformed church, Goddard might never have had his mind turned. I think the devil came to him through these pictures.’
‘If it is Goddard.’
‘Yes, if. But he seems the most likely.’
I looked at him. ‘Is this what the dean was hiding from us? Did he remember this panorama, perhaps the effect it had on someone?’
Harsnet set his lips. ‘That we shall discover. Serjeant Shardlake, I will see the dean again tomorrow. Can you talk to those other two ex-monks, see what they know? Let us build up our knowledge before we confront Benson again.’
‘I will,’ I said. ‘After court today, if I may.’
He nodded agreement. ‘And I will send word to the Common Council of London, someone there may know of Goddard’s family.’
‘I should like to take a look at what is left of the infirmary buildings before we go.’
‘Yes. We should do that.’ Harsnet cast a last look of distaste round the chamber, then led the way out. I paused at a panel showing a grim-faced angel, winged and clad in white, pouring liquid on to an earth that was turned to fire. Agonized white faces pierced the flames.
‘The fourth vial,’ I murmured to Barak. ‘Dear God, I hope we catch him before he butchers someone else.’
OUTSIDE in the cloister we asked another clerk where the old infirmary buildings were. He told us the monks’ infirmary was demolished now, but that the lay infirmary which had cared for the poor of the parish lay a little distance off, through the old monks’ graveyard. The rain ceased as we left the cloister and crossed a path through a grassy square dotted with headstones, some going back centuries. As with all the dissolved monasteries, the stones would soon be dug out, the coffins disinterred and the bones thrown into a communal pit.
The infirmary was a long, low building, apart from the main complex to safeguard against plague. The heavy wooden door was unlocked. Inside was a bare chamber, dimly lit by high dusty windows, nothing left but rags of cloth in the corners, marks on the walls where pictures and a large cross had hung, and an empty fire-grate with mouse droppings scattered around.
‘Where do the Westminster patients go now?’ I asked quietly, thinking of Roger’s hospital plans. His face seemed to appear again before me, smiling cheerfully and nodding.
‘They have nowhere,’ Harsnet answered sadly.
We all turned quickly as the door creaked. Someone was trying to open it, slowly and stealthily. Barak put his hand to his sword as an extraordinary figure crept into the room. An old man, with a thatch of untidy fair hair like a bird’s nest, thin and ragged, his cheeks fallen in. He had not seen us, and as we watched he took a long twig he had found somewhere and began poking at the rubbish in one of the corners.
‘What are you doing here?’ Harsnet’s clear voice echoing round the chamber made the intruder start violently. He dropped his twig, clutched his hands together in front of his chest and stared at us in fear. ‘Well?’ Harsnet asked.
He cowered away. ‘I - I washn’t doing any harm, shir.’ His voice was slurred, unintelligible, and at first I thought he was drunk. But then I realized that he was toothless. I also saw that he was actually a younger man, his sunken cheeks making him look older.
‘You came here for a reason,’ Harsnet went on. ‘You’re in the middle of the abbey precinct, you didn’t just wander in.’
‘I wash looking for my teeth,’ he said, wringing his hands and backing away. ‘I keep hoping I’ll find them, in a corner. Shomewhere I haven’t looked. Shomewhere at Westminster.’ There was a look of baffled helplessness in his wide blue eyes, and I wondered if the fellow was an idiot.
‘All right, but leave us,’ Harsnet said more gently, evidently coming to the same conclusion. The man scurried out and closed the door behind him with the same slow, creaking motion, as though afraid of disturbing us further with the noise.
‘What in Jesu’s name was all that about?’ Barak asked.
‘Some poor beggar out of his wits,’ Harsnet said. ‘They a
re everywhere at Westminster, evidently they can even find their way in here. The guards should be told.’ He frowned at Barak. ‘And I would be grateful if you did not take the Lord’s name in vain.’
Barak’s eyes glinted. Far away, I heard the clock tower strike ten. ‘I have to be at court,’ I said. ‘Barak, come quickly. I am sorry, master coroner, but we must go. I will report to you, once I have seen those two ex-monks.’
WE WALKED BACK with Harsnet to the main gate and out into the busy precinct. It had come to life now, the shops busy, people milling around. Seeing us, a couple of pedlars hurried over. One carried a tray full of old jars, the stink of their contents reaching us from yards away. ‘Oil from the great fish, masters,’ he called. ‘Full of magical properties!’ Barak waved him away. A skinny hand clutched at my robe, and I half turned to see a ragged woman holding a pale, skinny baby. ‘Feed my child,’ she said. I turned away before she could meet my eye, remembering the stories that beggar-women would keep their babies hungry to arouse pity. Or was that just another story we told ourselves, to salve our consciences as we made these people invisible?
As we headed into the gate leading into Thieving Lane, I saw there was a melee outside one of the shops. A middle-aged man and his wife, both looking frightened, stood outside between two parish constables. Two more constables were heaving battered chests from inside the shop, while another rummaged through a third chest, set on the muddy ground. It seemed to contain a variety of outlandish costumes. The crowd that had gathered looked sour and hostile, and I noted the blue coats of several apprentices. A little gang of beggars had made for the crowd, scabby and scurvy, some breechless and wearing skirts of cloth. Among them were a couple of women, young perhaps but with leathery, weatherbeaten faces, passing a leather bottle between them and laughing.
‘No books yet,’ the constable searching through the chest said.
‘We’ve no forbidden books,’ the shopkeeper pleaded. ‘All we do is supply costumes for plays. It’s our livelihood. Please—’
‘Ay,’ the constable beside them said. ‘For companies that perform John Bale’s plays, and other heretical rubbish.’ There was an angry murmur from the crowd. His colleague lifted sets of false whiskers from the chest, making one of the drunken women laugh wildly.
‘They’re bringing the purge to Westminster too,’ Harsnet muttered angrily. ‘That was what Bonner was doing down here.’
‘I must get to court,’ I said. I did not want to get involved in what could turn into a nasty scene. ‘Let me past,’ I said, trying to push my way through. But the growing crowd only pressed closer together as they shoved and pushed to get a better view of the scene, blocking the way to the gate.
Barak stood in front of me and began shoving a way through. On the outer fringes of the hurly-burly more beggars had gathered, working the mob with outstretched hands. A ragged youth stepped in front of me. ‘Get out of my way!’ I said irritably, shoving past him to the edge of the crowd.
‘Yah! Hunchbacked crow!’ he shouted.
Just as we pushed through the edge of the crowd I felt a sharp pain on my upper left arm. At the same moment, I heard my name spoken, faintly, a whisper. ‘Shardlake.’ I cried out and put my other hand to my arm. It came away covered with blood. Harsnet and Barak turned as I cried out. I lifted the sleeve of my robe, which was torn, to reveal a long rip in my doublet. Blood was seeping through it.
‘I’ve been stabbed,’ I said, feeling suddenly faint.
‘Take off your robe,’ Barak said briskly. His eyes darted over the crowd, but it was impossible to see who had done this in the melee.
I did as I was bid. Passers-by looked on curiously as Barak opened the rip in my upper hose wide, then whistled.
‘That’s some cut. Lucky he missed the artery.’ He took his dagger and cut my ruined robe into strips. Then he wrapped the strips round my upper arm, making a tourniquet. The blood gushed faster for a moment, then slowed.
‘That needs stitching,’ Harsnet said. His face was pale.
‘I’ll take him to the courthouse, then send for Dr Malton,’ Barak said. ‘Can you help me?’
‘It was him,’ I breathed. ‘I heard - my name spoken - just as he struck me.’ I felt faint.
We staggered across New Palace Yard into Westminster Hall. My arm throbbed with pain, my clothes were red with blood. Harsnet spoke to the guard and I was helped into a little side-room where I sat on a bench, my arm held up on Barak’s instructions.
‘I’ll go and fetch the old Moor,’ he said.
‘Go first to the Clerk of Requests,’ I said. ‘Tell him I have been injured, ask for today’s cases to be adjourned. Then go to Guy. It’s all right, the bleeding’s much less,’ I added as he looked at me dubiously. ‘Hurry, now.’
‘I will stay with him,’ Harsnet said. Barak nodded and left.
‘Did you see who it was?’ I asked Harsnet urgently.
He shook his head. ‘No. The crowd was so thick, it could have been any one of those wretched men come to watch those poor shopkeepers.’
‘It was him.’ I clenched my teeth at a sharp stab of pain from my arm. ‘He went for Tamasin, and now he has gone for me. He sliced my left arm open. This is another warning.’
‘But how could he know where you would be today? No one did surely, save me and Barak?’
‘You did not tell Cranmer you were meeting me? Or the Seymours?’
‘No. There was not time last night.’ He looked suddenly frightened. ‘Dear God, what powers has the devil lent this creature?’
My tired brain could see no rational way to answer him, to account for this man’s ability to hound us unseen, to know where we were at every move. Suddenly I felt giddy. I closed my eyes, and I must have fainted for the next thing I knew someone touched my shoulder and I opened my eyes to find the boy Piers standing over me, staring into my face with a look of professional interest. Guy and Barak were beside him, Barak looking seriously worried.
‘You passed out,’ Guy said. ‘It was the shock. You have been unconscious half an hour.’
I realized I still was lying on the bench in the little room; through the closed door I could hear the bustle and chatter of the courts; from a distance someone called for the parties in a case to come into court.
‘You will be sick of the sight of me, Guy.’
‘Nonsense. Let’s have a look at you.’ He undid the tourniquet. A deep gash, three inches long, ran below my shoulder. The red wound, standing out against flesh that was white from being held in the bandage, reminded me horribly of Roger’s body, and my head swam again. ‘Lie back,’ Guy said gently, as his fingers probed the wound. ‘I am going to put an unguent on it that hinders infection, ’ he said. ‘Then we must stitch you up. It will be painful, I am afraid.’
‘Do what is needed,’ I answered, though my stomach churned.
‘Barak, have you been to the court?’
‘I told the office you were taken ill. The clerks went to the judge and he’s agreed to stand your cases over.’ Barak hesitated, then continued. ‘Harsnet says perhaps you should stand out all of your cases till this business is done. Cranmer or Lord Hertford can smooth the path.’
‘It might be a good idea. Some of them at least. Although I must attend Adam Kite’s hearing on the fourth. That is too delicate a matter to hand to someone else.’
Guy was applying a thick paste to my arm. It stung. ‘Let us get it properly clean before we stitch it. You will be in pain for a while,’ he said. ‘You will be tired too, as your body works to mend itself.’
He patted my arm. ‘Let’s stitch you up. Piers will do it. Do not worry, he has done it many times now. I will supervise.’ The boy approached, delved in his bundle and brought out a thin, sharp needle to which black thread was already attached. ‘Now remember,’ Guy told him, ‘slowly and carefully.’ The boy put down his bundle and knelt beside me. He smiled. ‘I will be gentle, sir,’ he said quietly, then brought the needle down to pierce my flesh.
&nbs
p; TWO HOURS LATER I was back home, lying on cushions in my parlour. Barak came in.
‘Is it arranged?’ I asked.
‘Yes. The other Requests barrister will take some of the cases. But the clerks were sniffy about it. I think a message from Cranmer or Lord Hertford to the judge would do no harm.’
‘I’ll write a note to Harsnet. It was good of him to help you carry me over to Westminster Hall, not many coroners would have done that.’
‘He’s too full of his own rightness in religion for my liking. He really does seem to think the killer is possessed.’ He shook his head. ‘I almost begin to wonder if he could be right.’
‘You, Jack, afraid of devils?’
‘I know. But I can’t account for this game of hoodman blind the bastard’s playing with us. Attacking Tamasin, and now you, vanishing each time like some spirit of the air. And how does he follow us around without being seen?’
‘I have been thinking on that, sitting here.’ I sat up, wincing at a stab from my arm. ‘The killer first murdered the cottar, and my guess is he thought there would be a mighty hue and cry when he was discovered. But everyone blamed the Welsh whore.’
‘Yes.’
‘Next he murdered Dr Gurney and left him in that pool. A dramatic killing of a prominent man, likely to cause widespread public horror. Perhaps, too, he thought someone would make the link to Revelation from the way Dr Gurney was killed. But Cranmer hushed it up.’
‘So he hadn’t made the stir he wanted.’
‘No. So then he kills Roger. In a more public manner still. Then he waited for us on the marsh.’
‘He would need to be as crafty and calculating as a fox. And patient as a cat.’
‘And utterly committed to what he is doing. Remember how he hid out in the marsh when we chased him? But by then he had seen us, marked us. He follows you to your home and me to mine.’