Lamentation

Chapter Four

I had to sit down. I went to the chair behind my desk, motioning Cecil to a seat in front. I had brought in a candle, and I set it on the table between us. It illuminated the young man’s face, the shadows emphasizing the line of three little moles on his right cheek.

I took a deep breath. ‘I see you are a barrister.’

‘Yes, of Gray’s Inn.’

‘Do you work with Warner, the Queen’s solicitor?’

‘Sometimes. But Master Warner was one of those questioned about heretical talk. He is — shall we say — keeping his head low. I am trusted by the Queen; she herself asked me to be her emissary.’

I spread my hands. ‘I am nothing more than a lawyer practising in the courts. How can the Queen be in urgent need of my help?’

Cecil smiled, a little sadly I thought. ‘I think we both know, Serjeant Shardlake, that your skills run further than that. But I am sorry; I may give you no more particulars tonight. If you consent to come, the Queen will see you at Whitehall Palace tomorrow at nine; there she can tell you more.’

I thought again, Queens do not beg or ask a subject to visit them; they order. Before her marriage to the King, Catherine Parr had promised that while she would pass legal cases my way she would never involve me in matters of politics. This, clearly, was something big, something dangerous, and in wording her message thus she was offering me a way out. I could, if I wished, say no to young Cecil.

‘You can tell me nothing now?’ I pressed.

‘No, sir. I only ask, whether you choose to come or no, that you keep my visit entirely to yourself.’

Almost everything in me wanted to refuse. I remembered what I had witnessed that morning, the flames, the screams, the blood. And then I thought of Queen Catherine, her courage, her nobility, her gentleness and humour. The finest and most noble lady I had ever met, who had done me nothing but good. I took a deep, deep breath. ‘I will come,’ I said. I told myself, like a fool, that I could see the Queen and then, if I chose, still decline her request.

Cecil nodded. I got the sense he was not greatly impressed with me. Probably he saw a middle-aged hunchback lawyer deeply troubled by the possibility of being thrown into danger. If so, he was right.

He said, ‘Come by road to the main gate of the palace at nine. I will be waiting there. I will take you inside, and then you will be conducted to the Queen’s chambers. Wear your lawyer’s robe but not your serjeant’s coif. Better you attract as little notice as possible at this stage.’ He stroked his wispy beard as he regarded me, thinking perhaps that, as a hunchback, I might attract some anyway.

I stood. ‘Till nine tomorrow, then, Brother Cecil.’

He bowed. ‘Till nine, Serjeant Shardlake. I must return now to the Queen. I know she will be glad to have your reply.’

I SHOWED HIM OUT. Martin appeared from the dining room bearing another candle, opened the door for Cecil and bowed, always there to perform every last detail of a steward’s duty. Cecil stepped onto the gravel drive, where his servant waited beside the link-boys with their torches to light him home, wherever that was. Martin closed the door.

‘I took the liberty of serving the marchpane to Dr Malton,’ he said.

‘Thank you. Tell him I will be with him in a moment. But first send Timothy to my study.’

I went back into my room. My little refuge, my haven, where I kept my own small collection of law books, diaries and years of notes. I wondered, what would Barak think if he knew of this? He would say bluntly that I should cast aside my sentimental fantasy for the Queen and invent an urgent appointment tomorrow in Northumberland.

Timothy arrived and I scribbled a note for him to take round and leave at chambers, asking Barak to prepare a summary of one of my more important cases which I had intended to do tomorrow. ‘No, pest on it! Barak has to chase up those papers at the Six Clerks’ office...’ I amended the note to ask Nicholas to do the job. Even if the boy came up with a jumble, it would be a starting point.

Timothy looked at me, his dark eyes serious. ‘Are you all right, Master?’ he asked.

‘Yes, yes,’ I replied irritably. ‘Just harried by business. There is no peace under the sun.’ Regretting my snappishness, I gave him a half-groat on his way out, before returning to the dining chamber, where Guy was picking at Agnes’s fine marchpane.

‘I am sorry, Guy, some urgent business.’

He smiled. ‘I, too, have had my meals interrupted when a crisis overtakes some poor patient.’

‘And I am sorry if I spoke roughly before. But what I saw this morning unmanned me.’

‘I understand. But if you think all those who oppose reform — or those of us who, yes, would have England back in the bosom of the Roman family — support such things you do us great injustice.’

‘All I know is that I hear thunder rolling all around the throne,’ I said, paraphrasing Wyatt’s poem. I then remembered again Philip Coleswyn’s words at the burning and shuddered. Any of us may come to this now.

Early next morning Timothy saddled Genesis and I rode down to Chancery Lane. My horse was getting older; round in body, his head growing bony. It was another pleasant July day; hot but with a gentle cooling breeze stirring the green branches. I passed the Lincoln’s Inn gatehouse and rode on to Fleet Street, moving to the side of the road as a flock of sheep was driven into London for slaughter at the Shambles.

Already the city was busy, the shops open and the owners’ apprentices standing in doorways calling their wares. Peddlers with their trays thronged the dusty way, a rat-catcher in a wadmol smock walked nearby, stooped under the weight of two cages hung from a pole carried across his shoulders, each one full of sleek black rats. A woman with a basket on her head called out, ‘Hot pudding pies!’ I saw a sheet of paper pasted to a wall printed with the long list of books forbidden under the King’s recent proclamation, which must be surrendered by the 9th of August. Someone had scrawled ‘The word of God is the glory of Christ’ across it.

As I reached the Strand the road became quieter. The way bent south towards Westminster, following the curve of the river. To the left stood the grand three- and four-storeyed houses of the wealthy; the facades brightly painted and decorated, liveried guards at the doorways. I passed the great stone Charing Cross, then turned down into the broad street of Whitehall. Already I could see the tall buildings of the palace ahead, turreted and battlemented, every pinnacle topped with lions and unicorns and the royal arms, gilded so they flashed in the sun like hundreds of mirrors, the brightness making me blink.

Whitehall Palace had originally been Cardinal Wolsey’s London residence, York Place, and when he fell the King had taken it into his possession. He had steadily expanded it over the last fifteen years; it was said he wished it to be the most lavish and impressive palace in Europe. To the left of the broad Whitehall Road stood the main buildings, while to the right were the pleasure buildings, the tennis courts where the King had once disported, the great circular cockpit and the hunting ground of St James’s Park. Spanning the street, beyond which became King Street, and connecting the two parts of the palace was the Great Gate designed by Holbein, an immense towered gatehouse four storeys high. Like the walls of the palace itself, it was tiled with black-and-white chequer-work, and decorated with great terracotta roundels depicting Roman emperors. The gateway at the bottom was dwarfed by the size of this edifice, yet wide enough to enable the biggest carts to pass two abreast.

A little before the Great Gate, the line of the palace walls was broken by a gatehouse, smaller, though still magnificent, which led to the palace buildings. Guards in green-and-white livery stood on duty there. I joined a short queue waiting to go in: behind me, a long cart pulled by four horses drew up. It was piled with scaffolding poles, no doubt for the new lodgings being constructed for the King’s elder daughter, Lady Mary, by the riverside. Another cart, just being checked in, was laden with geese for the kitchens, while in front of me three young men sat on horses with richly decorated saddles, accompanied by a small group of servants. The young gentlemen wore doublets puffed and slashed at the shoulders to show a violet silk lining, caps with peacock feathers, and short cloaks slung across one shoulder in the new Spanish fashion. I heard one say, ‘I’m not sure Wriothesley’s even here today, let alone that he’s read Marmaduke’s petition.’

‘But Marmaduke’s man has got us on the list; that’ll get us as far as the Presence Chamber. We can have a game of primero and who knows who might pass by once we’re in.’

I realized these young men were aspiring courtiers, gentry most likely, with some peripheral connection to one of Sir Thomas Wriothesley’s staff, some of the endless hangers-on who haunted the court in the hope of being granted some position, some sinecure. They had probably spent half a year’s income on those clothes, hoping to catch the eye or ear of some great man — or even his manservant. I remembered the collective noun used for those who came here: a threat of courtiers.

My turn came. The guard had a list in his hand and a little stylus to prick off the names. I was about to give mine when, from an alcove within the gatehouse, young Cecil appeared. He spoke briefly to the guard, who marked his paper and waved me forward. As I rode under the gatehouse arch I heard the young men arguing with the guard. Apparently they were not on the list after all.

I dismounted beyond the gatehouse near some stables; Cecil spoke to an ostler, who took Genesis’s reins. His voice businesslike, he said, ‘I will escort you into the Guard Chamber. Someone is waiting there who will take you to see the Queen.’ Cecil wore another lawyer’s robe today, a badge sewn onto the chest showing the head and shoulders of a young woman crowned: the Queen’s personal badge of St Catherine.

I nodded assent, looking round the cobbled outer courtyard. I had been there briefly before, in Lord Cromwell’s time. To the right was the wall of the loggia surrounding the King’s Privy Garden. The buildings on the other three sides were magnificent, the walls either chequered in black and white, or painted with fantastic beasts and plants in black relief to stand out more against white walls. Beyond the Privy Garden, to the south, I could see a long range of three-storey buildings reaching along to the Great Gate, which I remembered were the King’s private apartments. Ahead of us was a building fronted with ornately decorated pillars. More guards stood at the door, which was ornamented with the royal arms. Behind soared the high roof of the chapel.

The courtyard was crowded, mostly with young men. Some were as richly dressed as the three at the gate, wearing slashed and brightly decorated doublets and hose in all colours, and huge exaggerated codpieces. Others wore the dark robes of senior officials, gold chains of office round their necks, attended by clerks carrying papers. Servants in the King’s livery of green and white, HR embroidered on their doublets, mingled with the throng, while servants in workaday clothes from the kitchens or stables darted between them. A young woman accompanied by a group of female servants passed by. She wore a fashionable farthingale dress; the conical skirt, stitched with designs of flowers, was wide at the bottom but narrowed to an almost impossibly small waist. One or two of the would-be courtiers doffed their hats to her, seeking notice, but she ignored them. She looked preoccupied.

‘That is Lady Maud Lane,’ Cecil said. ‘The Queen’s cousin and chief gentlewoman.’

‘She does not seem happy.’

‘She has had much to preoccupy her of late,’ he said sadly. Cecil looked at the courtiers. ‘Place-hunters,’ he said. ‘Office-seekers, opportunists, even confidence tricksters.’ He smiled wryly. ‘But when I first qualified I, too, sought out high contacts. My father was a Yeoman of the Robes, so I started with connections, as one needs to.’

‘You also seek to rise?’ I asked him.

‘Only on certain terms, certain principles.’ His eyes locked with mine. ‘Certain loyalties.’ He was silent a moment, then said, ‘Look. Master Secretary Paget.’ I saw the man with heavy, slab-like features, brown beard and slit of a downturned mouth, who had been at the burning, traverse the courtyard. He was attended by several black-robed servants, one of whom read a paper to him as they walked, bending close to his ear.

‘Mark him, Serjeant Shardlake,’ Cecil said. ‘He is closer to the King than anyone now.’

‘I thought that was Bishop Gardiner.’

He smiled thinly. ‘Gardiner whispers in his ear. But William Paget makes sure the administration works, discusses policy with the King, controls patronage.’

I looked at him. ‘You make him sound like Cromwell.’

Cecil shook his head. ‘Oh, no. Paget discusses policy with the King, but goes only so far as the King wishes, no further. He never tries to rule him. That was Cromwell’s mistake, and Anne Boleyn’s. It killed them both. The great ones of the realm have learned better now.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Or should have.’

He led me across the cobbles. Two burly men in the King’s livery, each with a ragged boy in his grasp, passed us, went to the gate, and threw them outside with blows about the head. Cecil said disapprovingly, ‘Such ragamuffins are always getting in, claiming to be the servant of a servant of some junior courtier. There aren’t enough porters to throw them all out.’

‘There’s no security?’ I asked in surprise.

‘In the outer court, very little. But inside — that, you will see, is a different matter.’

He led me across to the door bearing the King’s arms. Two Yeomen of the Guard carrying long sharp halberds stood there in their distinctive red doublets decorated with golden Tudor roses. Cecil approached one and said, ‘Master Cecil and lawyer for Lord Parr.’ The yeoman marked his list, and we passed inside.

We entered a large hall. Several men stood there on guard. Their clothes were even more magnificent than those of the yeomen; black silk gowns, and caps with large black feathers, their brims embroidered with gold. Round their necks each wore a large golden badge on a chain. All were tall, and powerfully built. They carried sharp poleaxes. This must be the King’s personal guard, the Gentlemen Pensioners.

The walls were decorated with bright tapestries, painted wooden chests standing by the walls. And then I saw, covering the whole of one wall, a picture I had heard of, painted last year by one of the late Master Holbein’s disciples: The King and His Family. It showed an inner room of the palace; in the centre, the King, solid, red-bearded and stern, sat on a throne under a richly patterned cloth of estate, wearing a broad-shouldered doublet in gold and black. He rested one hand on the shoulder of a little boy, Prince Edward, his only son. On his other side Edward’s mother, Henry’s long-dead third wife Jane Seymour, sat with hands folded demurely in her lap. Standing one on each side of the royal couple were a young lady and an adolescent girl: Lady Mary, Catherine of Aragon’s daughter, and Lady Elizabeth, daughter of Anne Boleyn, both restored to the succession two years before. Behind each of the young women was an open doorway giving onto a garden. In the doorway behind Mary, a little woman with a vacant expression on her face was visible, while behind Elizabeth stood a short man with a hunched back, a monkey in doublet and cap on his shoulder. I stood for a second, enraptured by the magnificence of the painting, then Cecil touched my arm and I turned to follow him.

The next chamber, too, contained a fair number of richly dressed young men, standing around or sitting on chests. There seemed no end of them. One was arguing with a guard who stood before the only inner door. ‘There will be trouble, sir,’ he said hotly, ‘if I do not get to see Lord Lisle’s steward today. He wishes to see me.’

The guard looked back impassively. ‘If he does, we’ll be told. Till then, you can stop cluttering up the King’s Guard Chamber.’

We approached. The guard turned to us with relief. Cecil spoke quietly: ‘Lord Parr awaits us within.’

‘I’ve been told.’ The guard studied me briefly. ‘No weapons?’ he asked. ‘No dagger?’

‘Certainly not,’ I replied. I often carried a dagger, but I knew weapons were forbidden within the royal palaces. Without another word, the big man opened the door just wide enough for us to pass through.

Ahead of us was a broad flight of stairs, covered with thick rush matting that deadened the sound of our footsteps as we ascended. I marvelled at the decorations on the walls; everything a riot of colour and intricate detail. There were brightly painted shields displaying the Tudor arms and heraldic beasts, intertwined leaves of plants painted on the walls between, and areas of linenfold panelling — wood intricately carved to resemble folded cloth — painted in various colours. More Gentlemen Pensioners stood guard at intervals on the stairs, staring impassively ahead. I knew we were approaching the Royal Apartments on the first floor. We had passed out of the ordinary world.

At the top of the stairs a man stood waiting for us, alone. He was elderly, broad-shouldered, and carried a staff. He wore a black robe bearing the Queen’s badge and there was a gold chain of unusual magnificence round his neck. The hair beneath his jewelled cap was white, as was his little beard. His face was pale and lined. Cecil bowed deeply and I followed. Cecil introduced us. ‘Serjeant Shardlake: the Queen’s Lord Chancellor, her uncle Lord Parr of Horton.’

Lord Parr nodded to Cecil. ‘Thank you, William.’ Despite his age, his voice was deep and clear. Cecil bowed again and walked back down the stairs, a trim little figure amidst all the magnificence. A servant passed us, hurrying silently down the steps after him.

Lord Parr looked at me with sharp blue eyes. I knew that when the Queen’s father died young, this man, his brother, had been a mainstay of support to his bereaved wife and children; he had been an associate of the King in his young days and had helped advance the Parr family at court. He must be near seventy now.

‘Well,’ he said at length. ‘So you are the lawyer my niece praises so highly.’

‘Her majesty is kind.’

‘I know the great service you did her before she became Queen.’ He looked at me seriously. ‘Now she asks another,’ he added. ‘Has she your complete and unquestioning loyalty?’

‘Total and entire,’ I said.

‘I warn you now, this is a dirty, secret and dangerous matter.’ Lord Parr took a deep breath. ‘You will learn things it is potentially fatal to know. The Queen has told me you prefer life as a private man, so let us have that out in the open now.’ He looked at me for a long moment. ‘Knowing that, will you still help her?’

My answer came immediately, without thought or hesitation. ‘I will.’

‘Why?’ he asked. ‘I know you are no man of religion, though you were once.’ His voice became stern. ‘You are, like so many in these days, a Laodicean, one who dissembles on matters of faith to keep quiet and safe.’

I took a deep breath. ‘I will aid the Queen because she is the most good and honourable lady I have ever met, and has done naught but good to all.’

‘Has she?’ Lord Parr, unexpectedly, gave a sardonic smile. He looked at me for a long moment, then nodded decisively. ‘Then let us go on, to the Queen’s apartments.’

He led me down a narrow corridor, past a magnificent Venetian vase on a table covered with a red turkey-cloth. ‘We must pass through the King’s Presence Chamber, then the Queen’s. There will be more young courtiers waiting to see the great ones of the realm,’ he added wearily. Then, suddenly, he paused and raised a hand. We were by a small, narrow mullioned window, open against the heat of the day. Lord Parr looked quickly round to see if anyone was in the offing, then laid a hand on my arm and spoke, quietly and urgently. ‘Now, quick, while we have the chance. You should see this, if you are to understand all that has happened. Look through the window from the side, he does not care to be seen thus. Quick now!’

I looked out and saw a little courtyard covered with flagstones. Two of the sturdy, black-robed Gentlemen Pensioners were helping an immense figure, clad in a billowing yellow silk caftan with a collar of light fur, to walk along, supporting him under the arms. I saw with a shock that it was the King. I had seen him close to twice before — during his Great Progress to York in 1541, when he had been a magnificent-looking figure; and again on his entry to Portsmouth last year. I had been shocked then at his deterioration; he had become hugely fat, and had looked worn with pain. But the man I saw now was the very wreck of a human being. His huge legs, made larger still by swathes of bandages, were splayed out like a gigantic child’s as he took each slow and painful step. Every movement sent his immense body wobbling and juddering beneath the caftan. His face was a great mass of fat, the little mouth and tiny eyes almost hidden in its folds, the once beaky nose full and fleshy. He was bare-headed and, I saw, almost bald; his remaining hair, like his sparse beard, was quite grey. His face, though, was brick-red and sweating from the effort of walking round the little courtyard. As I watched, the King suddenly thrust up his arms in an impatient gesture, making me jump back instinctively. Lord Parr frowned and put a finger to his lips. I glanced out again as the King spoke, in that strangely squeaky voice I remembered from York: ‘Let me go! I can make my own way to the door, God rot you!’ The guards stepped aside and the King took a few clumsy steps. Then he stopped, exclaiming, ‘My leg! My ulcer! Hold me, you clods!’ His face had gone ashen with pain. He gasped with relief as the men once again took him under the arms, supporting him.

Lord Parr stepped aside, gesturing me to follow. Quietly, in a strangely toneless voice, he said, ‘There he is. The great Henry. I never thought the day would come when I would pity him.’

‘Cannot he walk unaided at all?’ I whispered.

‘A mere few paces. A little more on a good day. His legs are a mass of ulcers and swollen veins. He rots as he goes. He has to be carried round the palace in a wheeled chair sometimes.’

‘What do his doctors say?’ I spoke nervously, remembering it was treason to foretell the death of the King.

‘He was very ill in March, the doctors thought he would die, and yet, somehow, he survived. But they say another fever, or the closing of his large ulcer —’ Lord Parr looked round. ‘The King is dying. His doctors know it. So does everyone at court. And so does he. Though of course he will not admit it.’

‘Dear God.’

‘He is in near-constant pain, his eyes are bad, and he will not moderate his appetite; he says he is always hungry. Eating is the only pleasure he has left.’ He gave me a direct look. ‘The only pleasure,’ he repeated. ‘It has been for some time. Apart from a little riding, and that grows more difficult.’ Still speaking softly, and watching lest someone come, he said, ‘And Prince Edward is not yet nine. The council think of only one thing — who will have the rule when the time comes? The kites are circling, Serjeant Shardlake. That you should know. Now come, before someone sees us by this window.’

He led me on, round a little bend to another guarded door. A low hubbub of voices could be heard from within. From behind, through that open window, I heard a little cry of pain.