Dark Fire

Chapter Six

BARAK LED ME at a brisk pace to the courthouse stables. My heart still banged against my ribs and the skin on my face had a tight, drawn feeling. I knew Lord Cromwell was not above bullying judges, but he always liked to observe the legal niceties and would not have done this lightly. And Barak was a strange person to use to confront a judge. But though he had risen to be chief minister, Cromwell was the son of a Putney alehouse keeper and was happy to work with men of low birth so long as they were intelligent and ruthless enough. But what in Christ's name did Cromwell want from me? His last mission had plunged me into a hell of murder and violence I still shuddered to recall.

Barak's horse was a beautiful black mare, its coat shining with health. He cantered out while I was still saddling Chancery, pausing in the stable doorway to look back impatiently. 'Ready?' he asked. 'His lordship wants to see you this morning, you know.'

I studied him again as I climbed on the vaulting block and eased myself onto Chancery's back. A hard eye and a fighter's build, as I had observed before. A heavy sword at his hip and a dagger too at his belt. But there was intelligence in his eyes and in the wide, sensual mouth, whose upturned corners seemed made for mockery.

'Wait a moment,' I said, seeing Joseph running across the yard to us, his plump face bright, clutching his cap in his hand. When he had returned from the jakes I told him Forbizer had changed his mind: I said I did not know why. 'Your advocacy, sir,' he had said. 'Your words moved his conscience.' Joseph was ever a naive man.

Now he laid a hand on Chancery's side, beaming up at me. 'I have to go with this gentleman, Joseph,' I said. 'There is another urgent case I must attend to.'

'Some other poor wretch to save from injustice, eh? But you will be back soon?'

I glanced at Barak; he gave a brief nod.

'Soon, Joseph. I will contact you. Listen, now we have some time to investigate Ralph's murder there is something I would have you do for me, if you can. It will be difficult –'

'Anything, sir, anything.'

'I want you to go to your brother Edwin and ask if he will see me at his house. Say I am unsure of Elizabeth's guilt and wish to hear his side of things.'

A shadow came over his face. 'I need to meet the family, Joseph,' I told him gently. 'And see the house and garden. It is important.'

He bit his lip, then nodded slowly. 'I will do what I can.'

I patted his arm. 'Good man. And now I must go.'

'I shall tell Elizabeth!' he called after me as we rode out into the road. 'I shall tell her, thanks to you, she is spared the press!' Barak looked at me, raising an eyebrow cynically.

WE RODE DOWN Old Bailey Street. The Rolls House was not far, directly opposite Lincoln's Inn in fact. A sprawling complex of buildings, it had once been the Domus Conversorum, where Jews who wished to convert to Christianity were instructed. Since the expulsion of all Jews from England centuries before, the building had been used to house the Court of Chancery Rolls, though one or two foreign Jews, who had washed up in England somehow and agreed to convert to Christianity, were still housed there from time to time. The Six Clerks' Office, which administered the Court of Chancery, was located there too. The office of Keeper of the Domus was still combined with the Mastership of the Rolls.

'I thought Lord Cromwell had given up the mastership,' I said to Barak.

'He still keeps an office in the Rolls House. Works there sometimes when he wants to be undisturbed.'

'Can you tell me what this is about?'

He shook his head. 'My master is to tell you himself.'

We rode up Ludgate Hill. It was another hot day; the women bringing produce into town were wearing cloths over their faces to protect them from the dust thrown up by passing carts. I looked down over the red-tiled rooftops of London, and the broad shining band of the river. The tide was out and the Thames mud, stained yellow and green with the refuse that poured every day from the northern shore, lay exposed like a great stain. People said that recently will o'the wisps of flame had been seen at night dancing over the rubbish and wondered uneasily what it portended.

I made another attempt to get information. 'This must be important to your master. Forbizer's not intimidated lightly.'

'He's a care for his skin like all men of the law.' There was an edge of contempt in Barak's voice.

'This sore puzzles me.' I paused, then added, 'Am I in trouble?'

He turned. 'No, not if you do as you're told. It's as I said, my master has a commission for you. Now come: time is important.'

We entered Fleet Street. The dust hung over the Whitefriars' monastic buildings in a pall, for the great friary was in the course of demolition. The gatehouse was covered in scaffolding, men hacking away at the decoration with chisels. A workman stepped into our path, raising a dusty hand.

'Halt your horses, please, sirs,' he called out.

Barak frowned. 'We're on Lord Cromwell's business. Piss off.'

The man wiped his hand on his grubby smock. 'I'm sorry, sir. I only wished to warn you, they're about to blow up the Whiteys' chapter house, the noise could startle the horses –'

'Look –' Barak broke off suddenly. A flash of red light appeared over the wall, followed by a tremendous explosion, louder than a clap of thunder. A heavy crash of falling stone, accompanied by cheers, sounded as a surging cloud of dust rolled over us. Hot-blooded as it looked, Barak's mare only neighed and jerked aside, but Chancery let out a scream and reared up on his hind legs, nearly unseating me. Barak reached across and grabbed the reins.

'Down, matey, down,' he said firmly. Chancery calmed at once, dropping to his feet again. He stood trembling; I was shaking too.

'All right?' Barak asked.

'Yes.' I gulped. 'Yes. Thank you.'

'God's death, the dust.' The powdery cloud, filled with the acrid tang of gunpowder, swirled round us and in a moment my robe and Barak's doublet were spotted with grey. 'Come on, let's get out of this.'

'I'm sorry, sirs,' the workman called after us anxiously.

'So you should be! Arsehole!' Barak called over his shoulder.

We turned up Chancery Lane, the horses still nervous and troubled by the heat and flies. I was perspiring freely but Barak seemed quite cool. I was reluctantly grateful to him; but for his quick action I could have had a bad fall.

I looked longingly for a moment at the familiar Lincoln's Inn gatehouse as Barak led the way through the gate of the Rolls House directly opposite. At the centre of a complex of houses stood a large, solidly built church. A guard in the yellow and blue quarters of Cromwell's livery stood outside the door with a pike. Barak nodded to him and the man bowed and snapped his fingers for a boy to lead our horses away.

Barak pushed open the heavy door of the church and we stepped in. Rolls of parchment bound in red tape lay everywhere, stacked against the walls with their faded paintings of biblical scenes and piled up along the pews. Here and there a black-robed law clerk stood picking among them, seeking precedents. More clerks waited in a queue beside the door to the Six Clerks' Office, seeking writs or dates for hearings.

I had never visited the office, for on the rare occasions I did have a case on in Chancery I would send a clerk to deal with the notoriously lengthy paperwork. I stared at the endless rolls. Barak followed my gaze.

'The ghosts of the old Jews have poor reading,' he said. 'Come on, through here.' He led me towards a walled-off side chapel; another guard in bright livery stood outside the door. Did Cromwell take armed guards everywhere nowadays? I wondered. Barak knocked softly and entered. I took a deep breath as I followed him, for my heart was thumping powerfully against my ribs.

The wall paintings of the side chapel had been white-washed over, for Thomas Cromwell hated idolatrous decoration. The chapel had been converted into a large office, with cupboards against the walls and chairs drawn up before an imposing desk lit incongruously by a stained-glass window above. There was no one behind it; Cromwell was not there. In a corner, behind a smaller desk, sat a short, black-robed figure I knew: Edwin Grey, Lord Cromwell's secretary. He had been at Cromwell's side for fifteen years, since the time the earl had worked for Wolsey. When I was in favour I had had much legal business through him. Grey rose and bowed to us. His round, pink face under the thinning grey hair was anxious.

He shook my hand; the fingers of his own were black from years of ink. He nodded at Barak; I caught distaste in his look.

'Master Shardlake. How do you fare, sir? It has been a long time.'

'Well enough, Master Grey. And you?'

'Well enough, given the times. The earl had to deal with a message, he will be back in a moment.'

'How is he?' I ventured.

Grey hesitated. 'You will see.' He turned abruptly as the door was thrown open and Thomas Cromwell strode into the room. My old master's heavy features were frowning, but at the sight of me he smiled broadly. I bowed low.

'Matthew, Matthew!' Cromwell said enthusiastically. He shook my hand with his powerful grip, then went and sat behind his desk. I studied him. He was dressed soberly in a black gown, though the Order of the Garter awarded to him by the king swung from his dark blue doublet. Looking at his face, I was shocked by the change in his appearance since I last saw him three years before. His hair was far greyer, and his strong, coarse features seemed pulled tight with strain and anxiety.

'Well, Matthew,' he said, 'how are you? Your practice prospers?'

I hesitated, thinking of my lost cases. 'Well enough, thank you, my lord.'

'What's that on your robe? It's on your doublet too, Jack.'

'Dust, my lord,' Barak replied. 'They're bringing down the Whiteys' chapter house and nearly brought us down with it.'

Cromwell laughed, then gave Barak a sharp look. 'Is it done?'

'Ay, my lord. Forbizer gave no trouble.'

'I knew he wouldn't.' Cromwell turned back to me. 'I was interested to learn of your involvement in the Wentworth case, Matthew. It occurred to me then we might be of help to each other for old times' sake.' He smiled again. I wondered uneasily how he had heard; but he had eyes and ears everywhere and certainly at Lincoln's Inn.

'I am most grateful, my lord,' I said carefully.

He smiled wryly. 'These little crusades of yours, Matthew. The girl's life matters to you?'

'Ay, it does.' I realized that these past days I had thought of little but Elizabeth's case. I wondered why for a moment. It was something to do with her wounded helplessness, lying there in that filthy Newgate straw. If Cromwell wished to use her life as a rope to bind me to him, he had chosen well.

'I believe she is innocent, my lord.'

He waved a beringed hand. 'I'm not concerned with that,' he said bluntly. He fixed me with a serious look; once again I felt the power of those dark eyes. 'I need your help, Matthew. It's an important matter, and secret. The bargain is I'll keep the girl alive for twelve days. We have only that for my task. Less than a fortnight.' He nodded abruptly. 'Sit down.'

I did as bidden. Barak went and stood against the wall, folding his hands across a large gold-coloured codpiece. Glancing at Cromwell's desk, I saw among the papers a miniature painting in a tiny silver frame, an exquisite portrait of the head and shoulders of a woman. Following my gaze, Cromwell frowned and turned it over. He nodded to Barak.

'Jack's a trusted servant. He's one of only eight that know this story, including myself and Grey here and his majesty the king.' My eyes widened at that name. I still held my cap, which I had removed on entering the church, and involuntarily began twisting it in my hands.

'One of the other five is an old acquaintance of yours.' Cromwell smiled again, cynically. 'It's not a matter to irk your conscience this time – you needn't crush your cap into a rag.' He leaned back and shook his head indulgently. 'I was impatient with you over Scarnsea, Matthew. I saw that later. None of us could have known how complex that affair would turn out. I have always admired your mind, your skills at teasing out the truth in men's affairs. Ever since the old days when we were all young reformers. Do you remember?' He smiled, but then a shadow crossed his face. 'Days with more hope and less care.' He sat silent for a moment and I thought of the rumours of his troubles over the Cleves marriage.

'May I ask who this old acquaintance is, my lord?' I ventured.

He nodded. 'You remember Michael Gristwood?'

Lincoln's Inn is a small world. 'Gristwood the attorney, who used to work for Stephen Bealknap?'

'The same.'

I remembered a small, scurrying fellow, with bright sharp eyes. Gristwood had once been friendly with Bealknap and, like him, forever on the lookout for new money-making schemes. But he had none of Bealknap's calculating coldness and his schemes never came to anything. I remembered he had once come to me for help in a property case he had taken on. A mere unqualified solicitor, he had got hopelessly out of his depth. The case was in a dreadful tangle, and he had been fulsomely grateful for my help. He had bought me a dinner in hall, where I had listened, half-amused, as he offered to involve me in a number of hare-brained schemes by way of thanks.

'He had a falling out of some sort with Bealknap,' I said. 'He hasn't been around Lincoln's Inn a long time. Didn't he go to work for the Court of Augmentations?'

Cromwell nodded. 'He did. To help Richard Rich pull in the proceeds of the dissolution.' He made a steeple of his fingers and looked at me over them.

'Last year, when St Bartholomew's priory in Smithfield surrendered to the king, Gristwood was sent to supervise the taking of the inventory of chattels to go to the king.'

I nodded. The hospital priory had been a large monastic house. I recalled the prior had been in league with Cromwell and Rich, and as a reward had been granted most of the priory lands. So much for vows of poverty. Yet they said Prior Fuller was dying, of a wasting disease God had laid on him for closing the hospital. Others said that Richard Rich, who had moved into the prior's fine house himself, was slowly poisoning him.

'Gristwood took some Augmentations men with him,' Cromwell continued, 'to quantify the furniture, the plate to be melted down and so on. He took the monastery librarian to show him what books might be worth keeping. The Augmentations men are thorough: they poke into nooks and crannies the monks themselves have often forgotten.'

'I know.'

'And in the crypt under the church, in a cobwebby corner, they found something.' He leaned forward, the hard dark eyes seeming to bore into mine. 'Something that was lost to man centuries ago, something that has become little more than a legend and a diversion for alchemists.'

I stared at him in astonishment. I had not expected this. He laughed uneasily. 'Sounds like a mummers' tale, eh? Tell me, Matthew, have you ever heard of Greek Fire?'

'I'm not sure.' I frowned. 'The name is vaguely familiar.'

'I knew nothing of it myself until a few weeks ago. Greek Fire was an unknown liquid that the Byzantine emperors used in warfare against the infidel eight hundred years ago. They fired it at enemy ships and it would set them ablaze from end to end, a rushing inextinguishable fire. It could burn even on water. The formula for its creation was kept a close secret, passed down from one Byzantine emperor to another till in the end it was lost. The alchemists have been after it for hundreds of years but they've never fathomed it. Here, Grey.' He snapped his fingers and the clerk rose from his desk and put a piece of parchment in his master's hands. 'Handle it carefully, Matthew,' Cromwell murmured. 'It is very old.'

I took the parchment from him. It was frayed at the edges and torn at the top. Above some words in Greek was a richly painted picture without perspective, such as the old monks used to illustrate their books. Two oared ships of ancient design faced each other across a stretch of water. At the front of one ship a golden pipe was belching red tongues of fire, engulfing the other.

'This looks like a monkish thing,' I said.

He nodded. 'So it is.' He paused, collecting his thoughts. I glanced at Barak. His face was sober, nothing mocking in it now. Grey stood beside me, looking at the parchment, his hands folded.

Cromwell spoke again, quietly though there were only the three of us to hear. 'Friend Gristwood was at St Bartholomew's one day last autumn when he was called to the church by one of the Augmentations clerks. Among the old lumber in the crypt they had found a large barrel, which, when they opened it, proved to be full of a thick, dark liquid with a terrible smell, like the stench of Lucifer's privy Gristwood said. Michael Gristwood had never seen anything remotely like it before and he was curious. There was a plaque on the barrel, with a name, Alan St John. And some Latin words. Lupus est homo homini.'

'Man is wolf to man.'

'Those monks could never use plain English. Well, friend Gristwood thought to set the librarian to search for the name St John in the library. They found it in the catalogue and it led them to an ancient box of manuscripts about Greek Fire, deposited there by one Captain St John, who died in St Bartholomew's hospital a century ago. He was old soldier, a mercenary who was at Constantinople when it fell to the Turks. He left a memoir.' Cromwell raised his eyebrows. 'He told how a Byzantine librarian fleeing with him to the boats gave him the barrel, which he claimed contained the last of Greek Fire, together with the formula to make the substance. The librarian had found it when clearing out the emperor's library and gave it to St John so that at the last a Christian should have the secret, not the heathen Turks. You see the page is torn?'

'Yes.'

'Gristwood tore off the formula that was written in Greek above that picture, together with instructions for constructing the throwing apparatus used to project it. Of course, he should have brought it to me – it was monastic property and it belongs to the king now – but he didn't.' Cromwell frowned and his heavy jaw set. There was a moment's silence, and I realized I was twisting at my cap again. He went on in the same quiet voice.

'Michael Gristwood has an older brother. Samuel. Also known as Sepultus Gristwood the alchemist.'

'Sepultus,' I repeated. 'Latin for buried.'

'As in the buried knowledge only alchemists can divine. Yes, like most of those rogues he gave himself a fancy Latin name. But when Sepultus heard Michael's story, he realized the formula could be worth a fortune.'

I swallowed hard. I realized now how great this matter was.

'If it's genuine,' I said. 'Alchemists' formulae for the creation of wonders are ten a penny.'

'Oh, it's genuine,' he said. 'I've seen it used.'

Godless gesture though it was, I felt a sudden urge to cross myself.

'The Gristwoods must have spent some time making more of the stuff, for it was March this year before Michael Gristwood came to me. Not directly, of course, someone of his standing couldn't do that, but through intermediaries. One of whom brought me that parchment and the other documents from the convent. Everything but the formula. With a message from the Gristwood brothers that they had made Greek Fire, they were offering a demonstration and if I decided I wanted the formula they'd give it to me. In return for a licence on its development, so they'd have the exclusive right of manufacture.'

I looked at the parchment. 'But it didn't belong to him. As you said, as it was monastic property it is now the king's.'

He nodded. 'Yes. And I could have had the brothers brought to the Tower and the information forced out of them. That was my first reaction. But what if they fled before they could be arrested? What if they sold the formula to the French or the Spaniards? They're a tricky pair. I decided to play along at least until I'd seen what they could do; once I'd found out if there was anything in it I could promise them a licence, then have them arrested for theft when they were least expecting it.' He set his thin lips. 'That was my mistake.' He looked at Grey, still hovering beside me. 'Sit down, master clerk,' he snapped. 'You make me uneasy hovering there. Matthew can keep the parchment.'

Grey bowed and returned to his desk, where he sat expressionless. He must be used to bearing the brunt of Cromwell's temper. I saw Barak's eyes on his master, a look of almost filial concern in them. Cromwell leaned back again.

'England has lit a fire across Europe, Matthew, the first large state to break from Rome. The pope wants the French and Spanish to combine and overthrow us. They won't trade with us, there's undeclared war with the French in the Channel and we're having to plough half the revenues from the monasteries into defence. If you knew how much we've spent it would make your hair curl. The new forts along the coast, the building of ships and guns and cannon –'

'I know, my lord. Everyone is frightened of invasion.'

'Those who are loyal to reform, at least. You haven't turned papist since last we met, have you?' His stare took on a terrible intensity.

I squeezed the cap tightly. 'No, my lord.'

He nodded slowly. 'No, that's what I've been told. You've lost the fire for our cause but you've not turned enemy, which is more than can be said for some. So a new weapon, something that could make our ships invincible, you can see how important that could be.'

'Yes, but –' I hesitated.

'Go on.'

'My lord, sometimes in desperate times we clutch at desperate remedies. The alchemists have promised us wonders for hundreds of years, but precious few have actually appeared.'

He nodded approvingly. 'Good, Matthew, you could ever put your finger on a weak point in an argument. But, remember, I've seen it. I met the Gristwoods here and told them I'd arrange for an old crayer to be floated up to an abandoned jetty at Deptford early one morning and, if they could destroy it with Greek Fire in front of me, I'd make a deal with them. Jack arranged it all, and only he and I and they were present early one morning at the start of the month. And they did it.' He spread his arms wide and shook his head. I could see that he was still amazed by what he had seen.

'They brought some strange device of steel they'd made with them, with a pipe on a pivot. They operated a pump on the device – and then a great sheet of liquid flame shot out and consumed the old boat in minutes. When I saw it I nearly fell in the water. It wasn't an explosion, like gunpowder, just' – he shook his head again – 'an inextinguishable fire, more fast and furious than any fire I've seen. Like a dragon's breath. And with no incantations, Matthew, no magic words. This is no trick, it's something new; or, rather, something ancient rediscovered. I had a second demonstration a week later; they did it again. So now I've told the king.'

I glanced at Grey, who nodded at me seriously. Cromwell took a deep breath.

'He was more enthusiastic than I'd dared to hope. You should have seen his eyes light up. He clapped me on the shoulder, and he's not done that in a long while. He asked for a demonstration before him. There's an old warship, the Grace of God, in Deptford for breaking up. I've arranged for it to be there on the tenth of June, in twelve days' time.' The tenth of June, I thought, the day Elizabeth's period of grace expires.

'I've been caught unawares,' he went on. 'I didn't think the king would jump at it so quickly. I can't fence with the Gristwoods any more. I must have that formula in my hands, and the Greek Fire they've made, before the king sees that demonstration. I want you to get it from them.'

I breathed heavily. 'I see.'

'It's only a matter of persuasion, Matthew. Michael Gristwood knows you and respects you. If you remind him the formula is legally the king's and tell him the king is personally involved, I think you can make him believe you, and give you the formula. I want it done then and there. Jack has a hundred pounds in gold angels about him that Gristwood is to have as a reward. And you can warn him that if he doesn't cooperate I can call the Tower's rack to my aid.'

I looked up at him. My head swam at the thought of becoming involved in a matter that concerned the king himself, but Cromwell had Elizabeth's life in his hands. I took a deep breath.

'Where does Gristwood live?'

'Sepultus and Michael live with Michael's wife in a big old house in Wolf's Lane, in the parish of Allhallows the Less in Queenhithe. Sepultus works from there. I want you to go there today. Jack will accompany you.'

'I beg this may be all. I live quietly these days, that is all I wish to do.'

I expected harsh words for my weakness, but Cromwell only smiled wryly. 'Yes, Matthew, after this you may go back to your quiet.' He looked at me fixedly. 'Be grateful you have the chance.'

'Thank you, my lord.'

He stood up. 'Then go now, ride to Queenhithe. If the Gristwoods are not there, find them. Jack, I want you back here by the end of the day.'

'Yes, my lord.'

I rose and bowed. Barak rose and opened the door. Before I followed him I turned back to my old master.

'May I ask, my lord: why did you choose me for this?' From the corner of my eye, I saw Grey give me a slight shake of the head.

Cromwell inclined his head. 'Because Gristwood knows you for an honest man and will trust you. As I do because I know you are one of the few who would not seek to make advantage for themselves from this. You are too honest.'

'Thank you,' I said quietly.

His face hardened. 'And because you care too much for the fate of the Wentworth girl and, finally, you are too afraid of me to dare cross me.'