Lamentation

Chapter Forty-one

Next day I went again to ask Treasurer Rowland for a copy of his letter to Isabel Slanning, and to see whether she had replied. I had done much thinking about what old Vowell had told Philip and me. It seemed all too possible that, forty years before, Isabel or Edward, or both, had killed their stepfather. Again I remembered Isabel’s words to me, weeks ago, about her brother: If you knew the terrible things my brother has done. But what could be achieved by confronting them now, without new evidence? I knew Philip would be seeing Edward, perhaps had done so already. I had an uneasy feeling that the consequences of that old tragedy might ripple out anew.

My uneasiness was not assuaged when Rowland’s clerk told me the Treasurer would not be available for appointments until Monday. It struck me that there was something a little furtive in the clerk’s manner. I made an appointment for that day; it was three days hence, but it was at least a firm commitment.

LATER THAT MORNING I was working in chambers, researching a precedent in a yearbook so that when the new term started next month I should have everything prepared. There was a knock at the door and John Skelly entered. His eyes behind his thick spectacles had a reproachful look, as often this last month. Not only had I frequently been out of the office, leaving the work to fall behind, but I knew he was conscious that Barak and Nicholas and I shared some secret he knew nothing about. It was better he did not, and safer for him, a married man with three children. But I knew he must feel excluded. I must talk to him, thank him for the extra work he had done for me, give him a bonus.

I smiled. ‘What is it, John?’

‘There is a visitor for you, sir. Master Okedene. The printer who came before.’

I laid down my book. ‘What does he want?’ I asked a little apprehensively, remembering how his last visit had led us to the tavern and the fight with Daniels and Cardmaker.

‘He says he has come to say goodbye.’

I told him to show Okedene in. He looked older, thinner, as though his strong solid frame was being eaten away by worry. I invited him to sit.

‘My clerk says you are come to bid me farewell.’

He looked at me sadly. ‘Yes, sir. I have sold the business and we are moving in with my brother, at his farm in East Anglia.’

‘That will be a great change in your life.’

‘It will. But my family have never been at ease since Armistead Greening’s murder and Elias’s disappearance. I hear Elias has never been found, nor those others who used to meet with Master Greening.’

I hesitated before replying, ‘No.’

He looked at me sharply, guessing I knew more than I was saying. I wondered what rumours were circulating among the radicals. Okedene sat, rubbing his brow with a strong square hand, before speaking again. ‘I have not told my family of our encounter with Armistead’s killers in that tavern, but knowing those people are still out there only makes me feel more strongly than ever that we are not safe. We must think of our children. Every time I see the ruin of Master Greening’s workshop it reminds me, as it does my wife.’

‘Ruin? What do you mean?’ I sat up.

‘You do not know, sir? The print-shop took fire, two weeks ago, in the night. A young couple, workless beggars, had got in there, and one of them knocked over a candle. You remember the building was all wooden; it burned quickly. Poor Armistead’s press, the only thing of value he had, destroyed; his trays of type no more than a lumps of useless lead. If we and the other neighbours had not rushed out with water to quench the flames, it could easily have spread to my house. And others.’

Okedene had spoken before of the printers’ fear of fire. I knew how quickly it could spread in the city in summer. Londoners were careful of candles in a hot dry season such as this.

Okedene added, ‘And those two killers are still in London. The fair one and the dark.’

I sat up. ‘Daniels and Cardmaker? You have seen them?’

‘Yes. I hoped they might have left the city, but I saw them both, in a tavern out near Cripplegate last week. I was passing; it was market day and very busy, they did not see me. But I would never forget those faces. I thought of coming to you then, but after what happened last time I felt myself best out of the business.’

‘I understand. I have heard nothing more of them since the day of the fight.’ I thought again of the feeling I had had of being followed at the wharf, the chink of a footstep on stone.

‘All is settled,’ Okedene said firmly. ‘We go next week. We have sold the works to another printer. But I thought I would come to tell you I had seen those men. And to ask whether there has been any progress in finding who was responsible for killing Armistead Greening? Those two thugs were employed by someone else, were they not?’ His eyes fixed on mine. ‘Someone important? Someone who, perhaps, is still protecting them, for they still dare to show their faces in the taverns.’

I bit my lip. I had learned much since first meeting Okedene: who Bertano was, how the Queen’s book had been stolen, what had happened to the others in Greening’s group. But not the answer to the most important question, the one he had just asked. Who was behind it all?

‘I think you are right,’ I answered. ‘I think Daniels and Cardmaker were employed by someone important, but whoever it was has covered his tracks utterly.’

His eyes fixed on mine. ‘And that book? The one called Lamentation of a Sinner?’

‘It has not been found, though —’ I hesitated — ‘at least it has not been used to damage the Queen.’

Okedene shook his head. ‘It is all terrible, terrible.’ I felt a stab of guilt, for I had scarcely thought of him recently. An ordinary man whose life had been turned upside down by all this. ‘I fear more troubled times may be coming,’ he added, ‘for all the heresy hunt has ended. People say the King may not last long, and who knows what will happen then?’

I smiled wryly. ‘One must be careful what one says about that. Forecasting the King’s death is treason.’

‘What is not treason these days?’ Okedene spoke with sudden fierce anger. ‘No, my family is better out in the country. The profit we will make on our crops may be little, with the coinage worth less every month, but at least we can feed ourselves.’

‘I am sorry my enquiries brought such trouble to you,’ I said quietly.

Okedene shook his head. ‘No, the fault lies with those who killed my poor friend.’ He stood up and bowed. ‘Thank you, sir, and goodbye.’ He went to the doorway, then turned back and said, ‘I thought I might have had some word, perhaps some thanks, from Lord Parr, for going to tell him privately what had happened that night.’

‘He is not best known for gratitude,’ I said sadly.

Later that morning my work was disturbed again, unexpectedly. From the outer office I heard Nicholas’s voice call out, ‘No!’ followed by a tinkling sound.

I hurried out. I found Barak and Skelly staring in astonishment at him. He stood red-faced, his long body trembling, staring at a letter in his hand. On the floor at my feet I saw a golden coin, a half-sovereign: others were scattered around the room.

‘What has happened?’ I asked.

‘He has just had a letter delivered,’ Skelly said.

Nicholas stared at me then swallowed, crumpling the letter in his hand. Skelly stepped out from behind his desk and began going round the room, picking up the scattered coins.

Nicholas spoke coldly. ‘Leave them, please, John. Or put them in the Inn chapel poor-box. I will not take them.’

‘Nicholas,’ I said, ‘come into my office.’

He hesitated, but followed me in slowly, his movements strange and stiff. I gestured him to a chair and he sat down. I took my place on the other side of my desk. He looked at me with unseeing eyes. His face, which had been red, turned slowly white. The boy had suffered a shock. ‘What has happened?’

He slowly focused on me, then said, ‘It is over. They have disinherited me.’ He looked at the letter, which he still held. His face worked, and I thought he might break down, but he took a deep breath and set his features stiff, hard. I reached out a tentative hand to the letter, but he clutched it all the tighter. I said again, ‘What has happened? Why did you throw those coins away?’

He answered coldly, ‘I am sorry for my outburst. It will not happen again.’

‘Nicholas,’ I said, ‘do not treat me like this. You know I will help you if I can.’

His face worked again for a moment. ‘Yes. I am sorry.’ He fell silent, staring out of the window at the quadrangle, then, his head still turned away, said, ‘I told you my parents had threatened to disinherit me in favour of my cousin, because I would not marry a woman I did not love.’

‘That is a hard thing to do.’

‘My mother and father are hard people. They — they could not bend me to their will, so they found someone more amenable.’ He gave a sad half-smile. ‘The duel was the last straw; I did not tell you about that.’ He turned and looked me in the face, his expression half-fierce, half-desperate.

‘What duel?’

He gave a harsh little laugh. ‘When my father was trying to get me to marry this poor girl against both our wishes, I made the mistake of confiding in a friend who lived nearby. Or friend I thought he was; certainly a gentleman.’ He spoke the word, which signified so much to him, with sudden bitterness. ‘But he had been overspending and his family had put him on short commons. He said if I did not give him two sovereigns he would tell my father that I did not intend to marry her. ’

‘What did you do?’

Nicholas spoke with a sort of bleak pride. ‘Challenged the churl to a duel, of course. We fought with swords, and I cut him in the arm.’ He clutched the letter again. ‘Wish I’d taken half his ear off, like that rogue Stice. His parents saw he had been injured and came complaining to mine. When they confronted me I told them why we had fought, and that I would not marry.’ He took a deep breath, and ran a hand down his face. ‘It was then they decided to send me to law, and threatened to disinherit me. I did not think they would go through with it, but they have.’

‘What does the letter say? May I see it?’

‘No,’ he answered quietly. ‘I shall keep it, though, as a reminder of what parents can be. My father calls me undutiful, uncontrollable. The duel and my refusal to accept their choice of wife have undermined their position locally, my father says. Neither he nor my mother want to see me again. He sent this letter by special messenger, with five pounds. He says he will send me the same sum every year.’ He fell silent again, then said, very definitely, ‘I think it cruel, and wrong.’ A fierce look came onto his face. ‘Who do you think, sir, has done the greater wrong here?’

‘They have.’ I answered without hesitation. ‘When you first told me about the girl I, too, thought that perhaps they would get over their anger. But it seems not.’

I knew that Nicholas would have liked to rage and shout, but he kept himself under control. He took more deep breaths, and I was glad to see colour returning to his face. ‘I already have in my possession barely enough to pay for my pupillage with you, sir,’ he said, his voice sad. ‘I think I must leave.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘You have learned almost enough now to earn your keep.’ He looked at me and I could see he knew that was not true: he was still learning, and for a while at least I would spend as much time teaching and correcting him as benefiting from his labours. ‘Or at least you will soon, if you continue to work hard, as you have during these last difficult weeks.’ I smiled. ‘And you have helped me in much more important ways.’

‘I will not be a burden,’ he burst out angrily. ‘I will fend for myself from now on.’

I smiled sadly. ‘The Bible tells us, Nicholas, that pride goes before a fall, and a haughty spirit before destruction. Do not leave me — us — because of pride, do not make that mistake.’

He looked down at the crumpled letter. I had an uneasy feeling that if he did follow his pride and anger he would end badly, for there was a self-destructive element to his nature. There was silence for several seconds. Then a knock, and the door opened. Barak entered, not with a flourish but quietly. He, too, held something in his hand. He came up to the desk and laid a neat little stack of half-sovereigns on the desk. Nicholas looked at him.

‘Done it, then, have they?’ Barak asked roughly. ‘Your parents?’

Nicholas answered thickly, with a dark look, ‘Yes.’

‘I feared they might. They — can do bad things, parents.’ Nicholas did not answer. Barak said, ‘I know all about it. But I know another thing, too. Money is money, wherever it’s from. There’s as much here as five poor men would earn in a year. Take it, spend it, put two fingers up to them.’

Nicholas met his gaze. Then slowly he nodded and reached out his hand to the money.

I said, ‘You will stay?’

‘For now, sir, while I think.’

Barak clapped him on the shoulder. ‘That’s a good lad. Come on then, work to do.’ He gave Nicholas a weary, worldly grin, which, after a moment, the boy returned.

On Saturday, I had the first good news in some time, though even that was not unmixed. I was sitting in the parlour, pondering whether to invite Guy for dinner the following week. I had been heartened by the small steps towards reconciliation we had taken at the hospital, but still worried that he might refuse. There was a knock at the door and Agnes Brocket entered. She seemed full of suppressed excitement. I wondered if there had been better news of her son. But she said, ‘Sir, Goodman Brown, Josephine’s young man, has called. He asked if he might talk to you.’

I laid down my pen. ‘Do you know about what?’

She took a step closer, clasping her hands. ‘Sir, perhaps I should not say, but I always think it well for people not to be taken by surprise in important things. So — in confidence — he wishes to ask your approval to marry Josephine.’

I stared at her. I liked Brown; I was glad Josephine had found a swain, it had made her happier and more confident. But this was unexpected. I said, ‘This is sudden. Josephine is not—’

She flushed with embarrassment. ‘Oh no, sir, no, it is nothing like that.’

‘But they have not been seeing each other long, have they?’

‘Nearly four months now, sir.’

‘Is it so long? I had forgot.’

‘They have no plans for a hasty marriage,’ Agnes said, a trifle reproachfully. ‘But I believe they are truly in love, and wish to be betrothed.’

I smiled. ‘Then show Master Brown in.’

The young man was nervous, but reassured me that he intended a six months’ engagement. He said that his master would be glad to take Josephine into his home; currently he had no female servant. But then he added, ‘He is retiring at the end of the year, sir. Moving his household to his family property in Norwich. He would like us to go with them.’

‘I see.’ So after Christmas I would probably not see Josephine again. I would miss her. I took a deep breath, then said, ‘You have always struck me, Brown, as a sober young man. I know Josephine is very fond of you.’

‘As I am of her.’

I looked at him seriously. ‘You know her history?’

He returned my look. ‘Yes, when I asked if she would marry me she told me all. I knew her father was a bullying brute, but not that he had stolen her from her family during one of the King’s invasions of France.’

‘He was a hard, brutal man.’

‘She is very grateful to you for ridding her of him, and giving her a home.’

‘Josephine needs gentleness, Master Brown, above all. I think she always will.’

‘That I know, sir. And as you have been a kind master to her this last year, so I shall be a kind husband.’ His face was full of sincerity.

‘Yes, I think you will.’ I stood and extended my hand. ‘I give my consent, Goodman Brown.’ As he shook my hand I felt a mixture of pleasure that Josephine’s future was thus assured, coupled with sadness at the thought that she would be leaving. I remembered how her clumsiness and nervousness had irritated me when first she had come to my household. But I had seen that she was troubled, recognized her essential good nature, and determined to be kind.

Young Brown’s face flushed with pleasure. ‘May I go and tell her, sir? She is waiting in the kitchen.’

‘Yes, give her the good news now.’

Later I joined the two of them in the kitchen, together with the Brockets and Timothy, to drink their health. Timothy looked astonished, and also distressed. How that boy hated change. It worried me. Agnes acted as hostess, dispensing wine which I had asked her to bring up from the cellar for the occasion. Even Martin unbent so far as to kiss Josephine on the cheek, though I think he noticed, as I did, her tiny flinch, and while the rest of us made merry conversation he stood a little apart. Josephine wept, and young Brown drew her to him. She wiped her eyes and smiled. ‘I will try not to be one of those wives who weep at every excitement.’

‘I know you will be the best and most obedient of wives,’ her fiancé said quietly. ‘And I shall try to be the best of husbands.’

I smiled; I knew Josephine was no Tamasin, whose strong nature demanded a relationship of equality with her husband, sometimes to the disapproval of others. Josephine had been brought up only to obey, and I suspected sadly that she would find anything other than a subordinate role in life frightening. I had a sense, though, that she would be a good mother, and that that might give her strength. I raised my glass. ‘May your union be happy, and blessed with children.’

As the others raised their glasses to toast the couple. Josephine gave me a look of happiness and gratitude. I decided that I would, after all, write to Guy.

They came for me at dawn, as they often do. I was still abed, but wakened by a mighty crashing at the door. I got up and, still in my nightshirt, went out. I was not frightened but angry: how dare anyone bang so loudly on the door at this hour? As I came out onto the landing I saw Martin was already at the door, like me still in his nightclothes, pulling back the bolts. ‘I’m coming,’ he shouted irritably. ‘Stop that banging, you’ll wake the house—’

He broke off as, opening the door, he saw Henry Leach, the local constable, a solidly built fellow in his forties. Two assistants with clubs stood at his side, silhouetted against the summer dawn. As I walked downstairs my anger turned to fear, and my legs began to tremble. The constable held a paper in his hand. Leach had always been properly deferential before, bowing when I passed him on the street, but now he frowned solemnly as he held the paper up for me to see. It bore a bright red seal, but not the Queen’s. This time it was the King’s.

‘Master Matthew Shardlake,’ Leach intoned gravely, as though I were a stranger.

‘What is it?’ I was vaguely aware of Agnes and Josephine behind me, likewise roused from bed, and then Timothy ran round the side of the house into view; he must have been up attending the horses. He skidded to a halt when one of the constable’s men gave him a threatening look. I took a deep breath of air, the clean fresh air of a bright summer morning.

Leach said, ‘I am ordered by the Privy Council to arrest you on a charge of heresy. You are to appear before them tomorrow, and until then to be lodged in the Tower.’