Lamentation (The Shardlake Series Book 6) (86 page)

I closed my eyes for a moment. Then, having nothing left to lose, I said, ‘No doubt you took it to further your own ends in the power struggle. Have you been waiting, like Rich, to see which way the wind will blow, whether the Queen would fall and Bertano’s mission succeed, keeping the
Lamentation
in reserve? Be careful, Master Secretary, that the King does not find you have kept it from him.’

I was speaking recklessly, dangerously. ‘Mind your words with me, master lawyer,’ Paget snapped. ‘Remember who I am and where you are.’ I stared back at him, breathing heavily. He inclined his head. ‘You are right that the King was gracious enough to receive an emissary from the Bishop of Rome, but it seems that as a condition of peace His Holiness, as he styles himself, demands that the King surrender the Headship of the Church in England – the Headship to which God has appointed him. Bertano is still here, but I think it is time now he took himself back to his master. How did you know of his presence?’ he asked sharply.

‘The Anabaptists were overheard,’ I said quietly. ‘You rogue, that cut such a swathe of murder through ordinary folk to serve your ambition.’

‘My ambition, eh?’ Paget asked coldly.

‘Yes.’

And then, to my surprise, he laughed grimly, and stood up. ‘I think it is time for you to see what you never guessed, master clever lawyer. Even Stice did not know anything of this.’ He picked up the sconce of candles and walked past me to the door. ‘Follow me,’ he said with an imperious sweep of the arm, throwing the door open wide.

I got up slowly. He said to the guard outside, ‘Accompany us.’

The guard took a position beside me as Paget opened a door opposite. I found myself in a darkened gallery filled with beautiful scents, like the Queen’s gallery, though wider and twice the length. As we walked along, our footsteps silent on the rush matting, the sconce of candles in Paget’s hand showed glimpses of tapestries and paintings more magnificent than any I had seen elsewhere in the palace, before we passed marble columns and platforms on which rested gigantic vases, beautiful models of ships, jewelled chests with who knew what within. I realized this must be the King’s Privy Gallery, and wondered why the contents had not been taken to Hampton Court. We passed an enormous military standard, the flag decorated with fleur-de-lys; no doubt a French standard seized when Henry took Boulogne. It was covered in dark spots. Blood, I realized, and remembered again Barak’s severed hand flying through the air. I jumped at something small running along the wainscoting. A rat. Paget frowned and barked at the guard. ‘Get that seen to! Bring one of the ratcatchers back from Hampton Court!’

At length we reached the end of the gallery, where two further guards stood beside a large double door. Glancing through a nearby window I saw we were directly above the palace wall, on the other side of which I could see the broad way of King Street. A group of young gentlemen were walking past, link-boys with torches lighting their way.

‘Master Secretary.’ One of the guards at the door bowed to Paget, and opened it. I blinked at the brightness of the light on the other side, then followed Paget in.

It was a wide chamber, beautifully furnished, and brightly lit by a host of fat buttermilk candles in silver sconces. The walls were lined with shelves of beautiful and ancient books. In the spaces between the shelves, splendid paintings hung, mostly depicting classical scenes. A window looked out directly over the street. I realized we must be inside the Holbein Gate. Under the window was a wide desk littered with papers and a dish of comfits beside a golden flagon of wine. A pair of spectacles lay atop the papers, glinting in the candlelight.

The King’s fool, little hunchbacked Will Somers, stood beside the desk, his monkey perched on the shoulder of his particoloured doublet. And sitting beside him, in an enormous chair, staring at me with blue eyes as hard and savage as those in Holbein’s portrait, for all that they were now tiny slits in a pale face thick with fat, was the King.

Chapter Fifty-two

I
NSTANTLY
, I
BOWED AS LOW AS
I
COULD
. After what had happened to Barak I had given Paget none of the deference due to him, but faced with the King I abased myself instinctively. I had time to take in only that he wore a long caftan, as on the day Lord Parr showed him to me from the window, and that his head with its grey wispy hair was bare.

There was a moment’s silence. The blood rushed to my head and I thought I might faint. But no one was permitted to rise and look the King in the face until he addressed them. I heard him laugh. It was a laboured, creaking sound, oddly reminiscent of Treasurer Rowland. Then he spoke, in that same unexpectedly high voice I remembered from my brief encounter with him at York, though underlain with a new, throaty creakiness. ‘So, Paget, my Master of Practices, he found you out. Someone has punched him in the face.’ That creaky laugh again.

‘There was a fight, I believe, your majesty, before Stice took him,’ Paget said.

‘Have you told him anything?’

‘Nothing, your majesty. You said you wished to do that.’

The King continued in the same quiet voice, though I discerned a threatening edge to it now. ‘Very well, Serjeant Matthew Shardlake, stand.’

I did so, my bruised face throbbing, and looked slowly up at the King. The pale bloated face was lined, full of pain and weariness. His grey beard, like his hair, was thin and wispy. His huge bulk strained against the satin arms of his chair, and his legs stuck out, swathed in thick bandages. But grotesque and even pitiable as he now was, Henry’s gaze remained terrifying. In the portrait outside it was the eyes which seemed most chilling, but in the living man it was the tight little mouth, straight and hard as a blade between the great jowls; angry, merciless. Looking at him my head swam for a second; it was as though none of this were real, and I was in some nightmare. I felt oddly disconnected, dizzy, and again I thought I might faint. Then in my mind’s eye I saw Barak’s hand fly through the air in a spray of blood, and I jerked convulsively.

The King held my gaze another moment, then turned and waved at Somers and the guard. ‘Will, top up my goblet, then take the guard and begone. One crookback at a time is enough.’

Somers poured wine from the flagon, the monkey clinging to his shoulder with practised ease. The King lifted the goblet to his mouth and I caught a glimpse of grey teeth. ‘God’s death,’ he murmured, ‘this endless thirst.’

Somers and the guard went out, closing the door quietly behind them. I gave Paget a quick glance; he looked back with that flat, empty gaze of his. The King, his eyes locking on mine again, spoke in a voice full of quiet menace. ‘So, Master Shardlake, I hear you have been spending time with my wife.’

‘No, your majesty, no!’ I heard the edge of panic in my own voice as I answered. ‘I have merely been helping her to search for, for – ’

‘For this?’ With difficulty the King reached behind him to the desk, his surprisingly delicate fingers clutching at a sheaf of papers. He heaved himself round again, holding it up. I saw the Queen’s writing, the first page torn in half where Greening had grasped it as he died. The
Lamentation of a Sinner
.

I felt the ground shift beneath me, again I almost fainted. I took deep breaths. The King stared at me, waiting for an answer, the little mouth tightening. Then, from beside me, Paget said, ‘Naturally, Master Shardlake, when I learned from my spy in that Anabaptist group that they had stolen a book written by the Queen, I told his majesty at once. He ordered the book brought to him, and the sect extirpated. It has been in his possession all this time.’

I stared foolishly at the manuscript. All this – all the weeks of anxiety and fear, the terrible thing that had happened to Barak tonight – and the
Lamentation
had been in the King’s possession all along. I should have been furious, but in the King’s presence there was no room for any emotion but fear. He pointed a finger at me, his voice rasping with anger. ‘Last year, Master Shardlake, when the Queen and I were at Portsmouth, I saw you at the front of the crowd as I entered the city.’ I looked up in surprise. ‘Yes, and I remembered you, as I do all those I have had cause to look on unfavourably. You failed once before to discover a stolen manuscript. At York, five years ago. Did you not?’

I swallowed hard. The King had insulted me in public, then. Yet he would have done far worse had he known that I had succeeded in discovering that particular cache of papers and had destroyed them on account of their incendiary contents. I looked back at him, fearing irrationally that those probing eyes could see into my very mind, that they could see what I had truly done at York, and even my treacherous thoughts this very afternoon about the Anabaptists’ creed.

The angry edge in the King’s voice deepened. ‘God’s blood, churl, answer your King!’

‘I – I was sorry to have displeased you, your majesty.’ It sounded craven, pathetic.

‘So you should have been. And when I saw you last year at Portsmouth, when you had no reason to be there, I had Paget make enquiry, and learned you had visited my wife at Portchester Castle. And that you did lawyer’s work for her. I allowed that, Master Shardlake, for I know that once, before our marriage, you saved her life.’ He nodded slowly. ‘Oh yes, Cranmer told me about that, later.’ His voice had softened momentarily, and I saw that, indeed, he still loved Catherine Parr. And yet he had used her as a tool in his political machinations all these months, had allowed her to go in fear of her life.

His voice hardened again. ‘I do not like my wife receiving visitors unsanctioned by me, so when I returned from Portsmouth I arranged to have you watched.’ He laughed wheezily. ‘Not that I would suspect my Kate of dalliance with an ugly brokebacked thing like you, but these days I watch all those who might take too great an interest in those I love. I have been betrayed by women before,’ he added bitterly. ‘My wife does not know that I watch certain of her male associates. Paget is good at employing discreet men to observe and spy. Eh, Sir William?’ The King half-turned and gave Paget a blow on the arm which made him stagger slightly; he blinked but did not flinch. The movement meanwhile set the King’s whole vast body, uncorseted under the caftan, wobbling and juddering.

I swallowed hard. ‘Your majesty, I hold the Queen in great esteem, but only as her employee, and as a subject admiring of her kindness, her learning—’

‘Her religion?’ the King asked, suddenly and sharply.

I took a deep breath. ‘It is not a matter her majesty and I have discussed at length.’ But I remembered those conversations in the gallery. I was lying, plain and simple, because terrifying as the King was, to reveal the truth might still endanger the Queen. My heart thumped in my chest, and it was hard to keep my voice from shaking as I continued. ‘And when I spoke with her, in London and at Portsmouth – someone was always present, one of the ladies, Mary Odell or another – ’ I was almost stammering, my words tumbling over each other.

Paget looked at me contemptuously and said, ‘Stice’s spies, the lawyer Bealknap and afterwards the steward Brocket, reported no dealings between you and the Queen or her court for a year. But then last month, out of the blue, you were sworn to the Queen’s Learned Council. With the mission, people were told, of finding a missing jewel. But as the steward Brocket overheard you saying to Lord Parr’s man Cecil, it was actually the
Lamentation of a Sinner
you sought. A search that led you to join Richard Rich in his hunt for Anne Askew’s ravings.’

I remembered when Cecil had visited me after Elias was murdered. The
Lamentation
had been mentioned then. That rogue Brocket must have been listening at the door. If they know all this, I thought, there is no point telling lies about a stolen jewel. With horror, I realized the depth of the trouble I was in, and felt my bruised face twitch.

The King spoke again, in a strangely quiet voice. ‘Anne Askew. I did not mean her to be tortured. I only gave Wriothesley permission to use strong measures.’ He wriggled slightly in his chair, but then added sternly, ‘That is his fault, and Rich’s. Let them suffer if her writings are published.’ Then the King looked at me again, and spoke with biting coldness. ‘But the Queen should have told
me
this manuscript existed, and that it was stolen, not set forth a search under cover of lies about a missing jewel. What say you to that, lawyer?’

I swallowed hard. And I decided that whatever I said must be calculated to protect the Queen, to deflect any possible charge of disloyalty from her. Otherwise, truly, it would all have been for nothing. I took a deep breath. ‘When Lord Parr consulted me, just after the book was stolen, the Queen was quite distracted, frightened, too, after – recent events.’ I knew that with what I planned to say next I could be signing my own death warrant: ‘It was I who asked her to let me try and find the book secretly, using the story of the stolen jewel.’

‘I will be questioning Lord Parr tomorrow,’ Paget said quietly.

I felt relief at that. I knew the Queen’s uncle, whatever his faults, would also do his best to deflect responsibility from the Queen to himself. And to make sure our stories tallied I said, ‘Lord Parr did agree that we should try to find the book secretly.’

‘Who else knew?’ the King asked sharply.

‘Only Archbishop Cranmer. The Queen knew the book might be considered too radical, after she wrote it. She sought his opinion, and he said the manuscript should not be published. But before it could be destroyed, it disappeared. Stolen by that guard,’ I dared to say. ‘So she did not deceive you, your majesty, she intended to destroy the book at once lest it anger you.’

The King was silent, his brow puckered. He shifted his legs, wincing. When he looked at me again the expression in his eyes had changed. ‘The Queen was afraid?’ he asked quietly.

‘Yes, your majesty. When she discovered its disappearance she was astonished, confused – ’