Revelation

Chapter Three

LATER THAT MORNING the rain eased off. The sun came out and the weather grew clear and cold again. My meeting with the Kites had given me much food for thought and I decided to go for a walk. Everything seemed sharper in the clear air; the naked branches of the trees were outlined against a blue sky, patches of snow were still visible in the corners of the bare brown fields behind the houses. I walked through the nearby suburbs, along Holborn and down Shoe Lane. The Palm Sunday services were under way now, and I noted as I passed how some churches had garlands on the lychgates and church doors, and greenery spread in the street outside, while others presented only their normal aspect. In one churchyard an outdoor service was taking place, a choir of white-surpliced boys singing a hymn before a garlanded cross, where three men stood dressed as prophets in long robes, with false white beards and brightly decorated headgear. I was reminded of yesterday's play.

I remembered the guest at Roger's table talking of apprentices disrupting a palm-laying ceremony. There were many stories of the religious divisions in London's forest of tiny parishes: a radical vicar in one church whitewashing over ancient wall paintings and replacing them with texts from the Bible, a conservative in another insisting on the full Latin Mass. I had recently heard of radical congregants in one church talking loudly while the sacring bell sounded, causing the traditionalist priest to lose his temper and shriek 'Heretics! Faggots! Fire!' at them. Was it any wonder that many, like myself, stayed away from church these days? Next weekend it would be Easter, when everyone was supposed by law to take confession. In London those who failed to attend were reported to Bishop Bonner, but illness or urgent pressure of business were accepted as excuses, and I decided I would argue the latter. I could not bear the thought of confessing my sins to my parish priest, a time-server whose only principle in the doctrinal struggle was to follow the wind and preserve his position. And if I were to confess, I knew that one of my sins was a long' growing, half-buried doubt whether God existed at all. That was the paradox — the vicious struggle between papists and sacramentaries was driving many away from faith altogether. Christ said, by their fruits shall you know them, and the fruits of the faithful of both sides looked more rotten each year.

As I walked down Shoe Lane, one set of decorated church doors opened and the congregation stepped out, the service over. These were very different people from those I had seen in the churchyard, the women in dark dresses, the men's doublets and coats all sober black, their manner severely reverent. Meaphon's church would be like this, the congregation a tight-knit group of radicals, for some people would up sticks and move house to find a parish where the vicar agreed with their views. If Bishop Bonner were to try to enforce all the old practices on these churches there would be serious trouble, rioting even. But he was tightening his net; a new index of prohibited books had recently been published, unlicensed preachers were being arrested. And if harsh measures were successfully enforced, I thought, what then? The radicals would only go underground; already groups of them held illegal meetings in people's houses to discuss the Bible and bolster their radical beliefs.

I was tired when I arrived back at my house in Chancery Lane, a little way up from Lincoln's Inn. The smell of broiling fish from the kitchen where my housekeeper Joan was preparing lunch was welcome, although I looked forward to the end of Lent next week when it would be legal to eat meat again. I went into my parlour and sat down by the fire, but even my welcoming hearth could not dispel the tension I felt, not just because the case of Adam Kite had drawn me into the threatening doctrinal currents washing through the city, but because they made it hard for me to avoid awareness of my own deepening unbelief.

EARLY NEXT MORNING I set out for the Bedlam. Under my coat I wore my best robe, and I also put on my Serjeant's coif. It would do no harm to impress the warden. I confess that I was nervous at the thought of going to the asylum. I knew next to nothing of madness; I was fortunate enough never to have encountered it among my family or friends. I knew only the doctors divided the brain-sick between those suffering from mania, who often engaged in wild and frenzied behaviour, and the melancholies who withdrew from the world into sadness. Melancholy was more common, and usually less serious; I knew I had a melancholic turn of mind myself. And Adam Kite, I thought. Which is he? What is he?

The inconstant weather had turned bitter again; during the night there had been another dusting of snow, which glittered in the cold sunlight. I rode out on my good horse Genesis. I was sorry to take him from his stable but the streets were too slippery to make for easy walking and the Bedlam was on the other side of the city.

I passed under London Wall at Newgate and rode along Newgate Street to the market. Traders were setting up their stalls under the looming bulk of the abandoned church of the dissolved St Martin's friary, a few white-coifed goodwives already looking over the produce as it was laid out. As I rode past the market I heard someone shouting. On the corner where Newgate Market met the Shambles, a man in a dark doublet, coatless despite the cold, stood on an empty box waving a large black Testament at the passers-by, who mostly averted their eyes. This must be the ranter old Ryprose had mentioned at the dinner. I looked at the man? a young fellow, his face red with passion.

The butchers in the slaughterhouses behind the Shambles had already started work. Lent would be over on Thursday and already they were killing sheep and cattle. Trails of blood were trickling from the yards to the sewer channel in the centre of the frosty street. The preacher pointed to them with his Bible. 'So it will be for mankind in the last days of the world!' he shouted in a deep voice. 'Their eyeballs will melt, the skin will drop from their bones, all that will be left is their blood, deep as a horse's bridle for two hundred miles! So it is foretold in Revelation!' As I rode off down the Shambles I heard him cry, 'Only turn to God, and you will know the sweet joy of his salvation!' If the constables took him he would be in serious trouble for preaching without a licence.

Along Cheapside the blue-coated apprentices were setting up their masters' shops for the day's trade, erecting brightly coloured awnings, their breath steaming in the cold. Some were ordering away the beggars who had sought shelter in the doorways overnight, with kicks and blows if they did not move fast enough. A host of destitute men and women had already limped over to the Great Conduit to beg from those who came for water, huddling against each other on the steps that surrounded it like a flock of starveling crows. As I passed I looked into their pinched, chapped faces. One, an old man with a shock of grey hair, drooling and trembling, caught my eye. He held out a hand and called, 'Help an old monk of Glastonbury, sir. They hanged my master the abbot!' I threw a sixpence to him, and he dived for it with a sudden turn of speed, before others could.

So many homeless in the streets now. To live in London since the monasteries were dissolved was to be inured to pitiful scenes everywhere. Most people simply looked away, made the sufferers invisible. Many beggars were former monastic servants, others poor folk who had come in from the countryside where much land was being enclosed to pasture sheep, their villages demolished. And the sick who had once been able to find at least temporary shelter at the monastic hospitals now lay in the streets, and often died there. I thought, I will help Roger with his hospital scheme; I shall at least do something.

I passed under the city wall again and rode up the Bishopsgate Street. The hospital was beyond the city walls, where new houses encroached more every year. I had gone back to Lincoln's Inn the previous afternoon, and read what I could find about the Bedlam in the library. It had been a monastic foundation, but had survived the Dissolution since some of its patients came from families of means and it was therefore a potential source of profit. The King appointed the warden, currently a courtier named Metwys, who in turn appointed a full-time keeper. The man, his parents believed, who hoped that Adam Kite would die.

NEAR BISHOPSGATE I was held up. A rich man's funeral train was passing, black horses, black carriages and poor men dressed in black following behind, singing psalms. A dignified-looking old man walked at the head of the procession carrying a white stick — the steward of the dead man's household carrying the symbolic staff of office he would break and cast into the grave. From its great size I guessed this must be the funeral of Lord Latimer, whose wife the King apparently coveted. I took off my cap. A large carriage passed; the shutters were open. A woman looked out, her face framed by a jet-black hood. She was about thirty; a receding chin and small mouth made a face that otherwise would have been pretty, merely striking. She stared at the crowd with wide, unseeing eyes as she was borne along. It seemed to me that there was fear in them.

The carriage rumbled past, and the Lady Catherine Parr disappeared from view.

AT BISHOPSGATE I passed under London Wall. A little beyond I came to a pair of large wooden gates in a high wall. They were open, and riding through I found myself in a wide, earthen courtyard, stippled with snow, a chapel at its centre. The backs of houses formed three sides of the yard; a long, two-storied building of grey stone, which looked very old, made up the fourth. Some of the unpainted wooden shutters on the windows were open. People were passing to and fro across the yard, and I saw a couple of narrow lanes running between the houses. The Bedlam was not, then, a closed prison. And I heard no shrieks or rattling of chains.

I rode to a large door at one end. My knock was answered by a thickset man with a hard, sardonic face, who wore a dirty grey smock. A big key-ring dangled from his greasy leather belt.

'I am Master Shardlake,' I said. 'I have an appointment to see Adam Kite.'

The man studied my robe. 'Lawyer, sir?'

'Yes. Are you Keeper Shawms?'

'No, sir. He's out, though he's due back soon. I'm another of the keepers, Hob Gebons.'

'Are young Kite's parents here?'

'No.'

'I will wait.'

He stood aside to let me enter. 'Welcome to the chamber of the mad,' he said as he closed the door. 'You think you can get Adam Kite released?'

'I hope so.'

'We'd be glad to see him go, he makes the other lunatics nervous. We keep him shut away. Some think him possessed,' he added in a low voice.

'What do you think, Gebons?'

He shrugged. 'Not for me to think.' The man leaned close. 'If you've a bit of time, sir, I could show you some of our prize specimens. King Commode and the Chained Scholar. For a shilling.'

I hesitated, then handed over the coin. The more I knew about what went on here, the better.

GEBONS LED ME along a whitewashed corridor running the length of the building, windows on one side and a row of green-painted wooden doors on the other. It was cold and there was a faint smell of ordure.

'How many patients do you have?'

'Thirty, sir. They're a mixed lot.'

I saw that viewing-hatches had been cut in the green doors, at eye height. Another grey-smocked attendant stood in an open doorway, looking in.

'Is that my washing water, Stephen?' I heard a woman's voice call. 'Ay, Alice. Shall I take your pisspot?'

The scene appeared civilized enough, almost domestic. Gebons smiled at me. 'Alice is sane enough most of the time. But she has the falling sickness bad, she can be on the floor foaming and spitting in the wink of an eye.'

I looked at Gebons, thinking of Roger.

'She's allowed to come and go. Unlike this fellow.' The warder had stopped at a closed door with a heavy bolt on it. He grinned at me, showing broken grey teeth. 'Behold His Majesty.'

He opened the viewing hatch, and stood aside to let me look. I saw a square cell, the windows shuttered, a candle guttering in an old bottle on the floor. The sight within made me gasp and step back. An old man, large and enormously fat, sat on a commode that had been painted white. He had a short beard cut in the same way that the King's was depicted on the coins. An extraordinary, muldv coloured robe, made of odds and ends of cloth patched together, swathed his heavy form. He was holding a walking stick with a wooden ball jammed on the end to resemble a sceptre. On his bald head was a paper crown, painted yellow.

'How are you today, Your Majesty?' Hob asked.

'Well enough, fellow. You may bring my subject in, I will receive him.'

'Maybe later, sire. I have to clean the jakes first!'

'You insolent fellow—'

Gebons closed the hatch, cutting him off. He turned to me, laughing hoarsely.

'He's convinced he's the king. He used to be a schoolteacher. Not a good one, his charges used to mock him, play football in his classes. Then he decided he was the king and his mind flew away from all his troubles.'

'Mocking the King,' I said. 'That's dangerous.'

Gebons nodded. 'That's why his family put him here, out of the way. Many lunatics proclaim many dangerous things, being loobies they forget you must be careful what you say these days. Now,' he grinned again and raised his eyebrows. 'Come and see our Chained Scholar. He's two doors down. A fine educated fellow.' He looked at my robe, mockery in his smile. 'A doctor of common law from Cambridge. Failed to get a post there that he wanted, and attacked his college principal, half killed him. He's all right with the likes of me, but hates seeing anyone educated. You should see his rage then. If you went into his room he'd leap at you and scratch your face off. He's one we keep locked up carefully. But I could open the hatch up for you to have a look.'

'No, thank you.'

'He loves drawing maps and plans, he's redesigning the sewers for us. You'll note there's a stink in here.'

'Indeed, a bad one.'

I heard voices nearby, and recognized Daniel Kite's, raised in anger. 'Where is he?' I asked.

'The parlour. They must have come in the back way. Sure you don't want to see the scholar?' he added, the mockery now clear in his voice.

'No,' I answered curtly. 'Take me to the Kites.'

Gebons led me into a small room with cheap stools set around, a scuffed table and a fire lit in the grate. The walls were bare. Minnie Kite sat on a stool, looking utterly dejected, while her husband argued with a plump, surly-faced man in a black jerkin.

'You could try to make him eat!' Daniel was shouting.

'Oh, ay. Get one of my keepers to force him to his feet then another to force the food into his mouth. They haven't the time, and they don't like doing it, he frightens them. And by Mary he's frightening enough the way he lays there gobbling and muttering and calling God's name, no wonder half my keepers say he's possessed! The food's put in there and he can eat it or no as he wills.'

'Is there a problem?' I asked quietly. 'You must be Keeper Shawms,' I added as the fat man turned. 'I am Master Shardlake, the Kites' lawyer.'

Shawms looked between me and the Kites. 'How come you can afford a lawyer, when you say you can't afford my fees?' he asked them in a bullying voice.

'I have been appointed by the Court of Requests,' I said.

'Oh,' he sneered. 'Poor man's lawyer, then, for all your fancy rig.'

'Who can apply to the court to have your fees waived, and any question of mistreatment considered,' I replied sharply. 'Tomorrow, if I am unsatisfied with what I see today.'

Shawms looked at me from deep-set piggy eyes. 'That boy's hard to take care of. . .'

'He only needs feeding,' Minnie said. 'And someone to put a blanket round his shoulders when it slips off.' She turned to me. 'It's so cold in there, and this wretch won't lay a fire—'

'Fires cost money!'

I turned back to the Kites. 'Perhaps I could see Adam.'

'We were about to go in.'

'See him if you want to,' Shawms said. 'You'll get no sense from him.' He glared at me. I realized that for him Adam was a troublesome nuisance; he would not be sorry if he died. Nor would the Council; for them it would be a problem solved.

'And afterwards, Master Shawms,' I said, 'I would like a word.'

'All right. Come on then. I've no time to waste.'

WE WERE LED to another of the green doors. It was locked; Shawms unlocked it and glanced in. 'He's all yours,' he said, and walked away.

I followed Daniel Kite into the room. It was light, whitewashed, the shutters partly open. As Minnie had said, it was bitterly cold. There was a dreadful stench, a mixture of ordure and unwashed skin. The place was furnished only with a truckle bed and a stool.

A tall teenage boy with filthy black hair knelt in a corner, his face to the wall, whispering to himself, the words coming so fast they were hard to follow. 'I repent my sins I repent please listen please listen in Jesu's name . . .'

He was dressed in a food-stained shirt and leather jerkin. A large dark stain on his hose showed he had soiled himself. There was a fetter round his ankle, a chain running from there to an iron ring in the floor. Minnie approached and knelt by her son, putting an arm round his shoulders. He took no notice at all.

'The chain's to stop him running out to the churchyards,' Daniel Kite said quietly. He did not approach Adam, merely stood beside him with his head bowed.

I took a deep breath and went over to the boy, noticing he was a broad-shouldered lad, though reduced now to skin and bone. I bent to look at Adam's face. It was a pitiful sight. The boy might once have been handsome, but now his features showed such misery as I had never seen. His brows were contorted into an agonized frown, his wide terrified eyes stared unseeingly at the wall, and his mouth worked frantically, strings of spittle dripping on his chin. 'Tell me I am saved,' he went on. 'Let me feel Your grace.' He stopped for a moment, as though listening for something, then went on, more desperately than ever. 'Jesu! Please!'

'Adam,' his mother said in a pleading voice. 'You are dirty. I have brought you new clothes.' She tried to pull him to his feet, but he resisted, squeezing himself into the corner. 'Leave me!' he said, not even looking at her. 'I must pray!'

'Is he like this all the time?' I asked Minnie.

'Always, now.' She relinquished her hold, and we both stood up. 'He never wants to rise. His sighs of despair when he is forced to stand are piteous.'

'I will get my physician friend to call,' I said quietly. 'Though in truth, while he is like this, if I can make sure he is cared for he may be better off here.'

'He must be cared for,' she said. 'Or he will die.'

'I can see that. I will talk to Keeper Shawms.'

'If you would leave us, sir, I will try and clean him a little. Come, Daniel, help me lift him.'

Her husband moved to join her.

'I will speak to the keeper now,' I said. 'I will meet you in the parlour when you are finished.'

'Thank you, sir,' Minnie gave me a trembling smile. Her husband was still avoiding my eye. I left them and went in search of Shawms, full of anger at the way Adam had been left to wallow in his own shit. The horror of what his broken mind was experiencing was beyond my understanding, but lazy, venal officials I could deal with.

SHAWMS WAS in a little room of his own, sitting drinking beer and looking into a large fire. He stared at me truculently.

'I want that boy fed,' I snapped. 'By force if need be. His mother is changing his clothes and I want to see he is kept clean. I shall be applying to the court for an order that his welfare is properly attended to, and that the Council be responsible for his fees.'

'And till then who's to pay for all this work my keepers will be put to with him, to say nothing of calming the patients who fear they have a possessed man in their midst?'

'The Bedlam's own funds. By the way, do you have a doctor in attendance?'

'Ay. Dr Frith comes once a fortnight. He's a great one for his own potions, but they do no good. There was a herb-woman used to call, some of the patients liked her but Dr Frith sent her away. I don't appoint the doctors, that's for Warden Metwys.'

'Does a priest come?'

'The post is vacant since the old priest died. The warden hasn't got round to dealing with it.'

I looked into his fat red face, angry at the thought of the helpless mad being left to such as he and the lazy warden.

'I want a fire made up in that room,' I said.

'You go too far now, sir.' Shawms protested. 'Fires are extra, I won't pay for those out of the Bedlam funds. Warden Metwys would have my job.'

'Then I'll apply for the fees to be waived, not for the Council to pay them.'

Shawms glowered at me. 'You take liberties, crouchback.'

'Fewer than you. Well?'

'I'll order a fire set.'

'See you do.' I turned and left him without another word.

I RETURNED to the parlour, and sat there, deep in thought. Adam Kite had shaken me; whatever ailed him so terribly, there was no question of applying to the court for a declaration he was compos mentis. My only hope was that Guy could help him in some way.

I looked up as the door opened. A white-haired woman was led in by a younger woman in a keeper's grey smock. I was surprised to see a woman keeper, but guessed they would be needed if the female patients were to preserve any modesty. The white-haired woman's head was cast down, and she walked with a leaden tread as the keeper guided her to a chair by the window. She slumped there, heavy and lifeless as a sack of cabbages. Seeing me, the woman keeper curtsied. She had an arresting face, too long-featured to be pretty but full of character and with keen, dark blue eyes. The hair round the sides of her white coif was dark brown. She looked to be somewhere in her thirties.

'I would like Cissy to sit here for a while, sir,' she said.

'Of course.'

'She's very mopish today and I want her out of her room. I've brought you some sewing, Cissy, you like making the smocks whole again.' It was strange to see her speak to the much older woman as though she were a child. Cissy raised dull eyes as the keeper took a sewing bag and a torn smock she had been carrying in the crook of her elbow. She laid the smock on Cissy's knees and placed a threaded needle in her plump hand. 'Come on, Cissy, you're a wonderful needlewoman. Show me what you can do.' Reluctantly, Cissy took the needle.

'She won't be any trouble.' The woman curtsied and left me with Cissy, who began sewing, never looking up at me. So not all the keepers are brutes, I thought. Shortly after, the Kites returned. I rose and told them of my conversation with Shawms.

'So Adam must stay here?' Minnie asked.

'This is the safest place for him, until he can be brought to his right mind.'

'Perhaps this is meant,' Daniel Kite said. He looked at me with sudden defiance. 'Sometimes God visits the most terrible trials on those he loves most, like Job, Reverend Meaphon says.'

'This may be a warning, to remind folk the end-time is coming, that they must give up their sinful ways. Perhaps that is why Adam frightens folk, he reminds them that they too should pray for salvation.'

'No!' Minnie rounded on her husband. 'God would not try a poor believer so.'

'Who are you to say what God may do in His wisdom?' he snapped. 'If this is not God's work, it is Satan's, and he is possessed as some people say.'

They were both at breaking point, I saw. 'He is ill,' I said gently.

'You would say so,' Daniel Kite replied. 'You are not a right believer!' He looked between his wife and me, then turned and went out.

'Do not be angry with him, sir,' Minnie said. 'He casts around in desperation for answers. He loves our boy.'

'I understand, mistress. I promise I will do all I can. Adam will be looked after now and I will see what can be done for his poor mind. I will be in touch again very soon. And tell me at once if his care does not improve.'

'I will. We visit every day.' She curtsied, and went out after her husband. I turned to see Cissy looking at me, a spark of curiosity in her dull eyes, but when I met her gaze she dropped her head to her sewing. I heard footsteps, and the woman keeper came in, looking concerned.

'I heard raised voices,' she said. 'Is Cissy all right?'

'Yes.' I smiled ruefully. 'It was only my clients.'

She went and looked at Cissy's sewing. 'This is good work, t'will be as good as new.' She was rewarded by a fleeting smile from the old woman. She turned to me again.

'You have been visiting Adam Kite, sir?'

'Ay.'

'His poor parents.' She hesitated, glancing at the open door. Then she said quietly, 'Many here are afraid of Adam, fear he is possessed. And Keeper Shawms hopes that without care he will waste away and die.' She frowned. 'He is a bad man.'

'I have just given Keeper Shawms a warning. He will find himself in trouble with the courts if he does not give Adam proper care. Thank you for your information.' I smiled at her. 'What is your name?'

'Ellen Fettiplace, sir.' She hesitated, then added, 'What ails poor young Adam, sir? I have never heard of a case like his.'

'Nor I. I am having a doctor come to look at him. A good man.'

'Dr Frith is no use.'

'I am glad to see at least one keeper here cares for her patients.'

She blushed. 'You are kind, sir.'

'How did you come to work here, Ellen?' She looked at me, then smiled sadly. 'I used to be a patient.'

'Oh,' I said, taken aback. She had seemed the sanest person I had met there today.

'They offered me a position as an under-keeper when I was — was better.'

'You did not want to leave?'

The sad smile again. 'I can never leave here, sir,' she said. 'I have not been outside in ten years. I will die in the Bedlam.'