Dark Fire (40 page)

‘When you are in a bad humour you become oafish,’ I said sternly. ‘But we’ll do no good sniping at each other and I am too tired for it. Come on.’

We said little on the journey. I felt a growing nervousness as the wherry drew in at Westminster Stairs. We disembarked and walked past Westminster Hall, heading for Whitehall Palace just
beyond. As we approached the huge Holbein Gate, colourful with its coats of arms and terracotta roundels of Roman emperors, Barak turned to me.

‘Perhaps we should have taken Leman to confront Bealknap this morning.’

‘It was just as important to see Lady Honor.’

He gave me one of his keen looks. ‘You’ll threaten to expose Bealknap, won’t you, unless he gives us full answers? No lawyers sticking together?’

‘Yes. Though if Bealknap is hauled up before the secretary, my name will stink in Lincoln’s Inn. Lawyers aren’t supposed to report each other. But yes, I’ll do it.’
I gave him a steady look. ‘What have you said about me, by the way, in your reports to the earl? Come, you must have said something?’

‘That’s private,’ he said uneasily.

‘I want to know what to expect.’

‘I’ve done nothing but report what we’ve done,’ Barak replied matter of factly. ‘I’ve given no bad opinion of you, if you must know. But that will cut no ice
– what he needs is progress.’

He walked ahead under the great gate, which gave us a few moments of welcome shadow. Building was going on everywhere, half-built tennis courts and accommodation blocks rising from the earth,
scaffolding and dust everywhere. They said the king meant Whitehall Palace to be the finest in Europe. We turned into the new Privy Gallery building, where Lord Cromwell had offices; Barak
exchanged a word with the guard and we passed inside.

A long hall stretched away from us, richly decorated with tapestries, large windows giving onto an enormous garden. I knew the king often received visitors here. I caught my breath as I saw,
guarded by a halberdier, Holbein’s great mural of the Tudor dynasty. The giant painting was as magnificent as I had heard. The king’s dead parents, Henry VII, whom Lady Honor’s
family had fought against at Bosworth, and his wife, Elizabeth of York, stood on either side of a stone bier. Below them stood Jane Seymour, the only one of Henry’s wives he cared to
remember, unexpectedly plain. Opposite her, the king stood with his hands on his hips. He was painted wearing a richly decorated gown with enormous shoulders, a shirt encrusted with jewels and a
prominent codpiece. He stared, it seemed, directly at me. His expression was one of cold authority mixed with something else. Weariness? Anger? I shuddered at the thought that behind Cromwell, if
Greek Fire were not found, lay the fury of the king himself.

‘The earl is waiting,’ Barak whispered urgently at my elbow.

‘Of course, I’m sorry.’

Barak seemed to know his way through the echoing corridors. Courtiers and black-robed officials walked past quietly and sedately lest the king might be in residence. I looked out at the
magnificent garden, which was dominated by a fountain that, despite the drought, still pumped a good head of water. Barak stopped outside a door guarded by another halberdier, and we were admitted
to an outer office where Grey, ubiquitous as ever, sat behind a desk. He rose and greeted us. As on the previous occasion there was a nervous look on his round scholarly face.

‘Master Shardlake, is there any more news? I have seen Barak’s messages. There is so little time left—’

‘Our news is for the earl,’ Barak told him sharply.

Grey looked at him and inclined his head. ‘All right, Barak, but I just wanted to warn you he’s in no good frame of mind. And he has the Duke of Norfolk with him – he’s
been there two hours.’

‘Really?’ I said. ‘I saw the duke earlier, at Smithfield. He was with Richard Rich then.’

Grey shook his head sorrowfully. ‘All the earl’s old friends are plotting against him. It is cruel.’ He shook his head, stared nervously at the inner door, then bent his head
towards me. ‘I heard shouting a little while ago.’ He bit his lip anxiously, reminding me for a moment of Joseph.

‘Should we wait?’ Barak asked.

‘Yes, yes. He wants to see you. ’

Grey broke off as the inner door burst open. The duke strode out. He flung the door casually shut behind him, a breach of manners I could scarcely believe, then turned to us with a wolfish smile
on his long face. I bowed deeply.

Norfolk laughed harshly. ‘You again! You seem determined to impress yourself on my mind.’ His penetrating eyes were full of malice, the politeness he had shown when I met him with
Rich gone. He nodded. ‘The friend of the heretic. Don’t worry, Master Shardlake, I have you well marked.’ He turned to Barak. ‘You as well, my young friend with the Jewish
name. Did you know that some Spanish traders have been exposed as secret Jews here in the City? The Spanish ambassador wants them back to burn. God’s death, there are heretics
everywhere.’ He turned to Grey. ‘You too, I have you all marked.’ He gave us a triumphant nod then walked out, slamming the office door behind him.

Barak blew out his cheeks. ‘Shit.’

Grey swallowed. ‘He’s crowing, crowing like he’s cock of the roost already.’ He stared at the closed inner door a moment, then got up, knocked nervously and went in. A
few moments later he reappeared.

‘Lord Cromwell will see you.’ We walked to the door, my heart sinking with dread at the thought of the mood he would be in now.

Cromwell sat in a large office whose walls were lined with shelves and drawers, behind a desk covered with a clutter of papers. I saw he had a magnificent globe, showing the New World with its
indented coastlines and empty interior where monsters roamed. He sat very still, his square heavy face strangely expressionless, eyes fixed thoughtfully on us as we bowed low.

‘Well, Matthew,’ he said quietly. ‘Jack.’

‘My lord.’

He wore a plain brown robe today, his gold chain of office the only colour in his costume. He fiddled with the chain a moment, then reached for a quill, a pretty green peacock’s feather
with swirling colours that made the shape of an eye. He toyed with it, looking at the eye, seemingly lost in thought. Then he smiled bleakly and nodded at the door.

‘Grey says the duke made an exhibition of himself out there.’

I could not think how to reply. Cromwell went on in the same reasonable, quiet voice. ‘He came to demand I release Bishop Sampson from the Tower. I shall have to, he couldn’t be got
to confess to any plots even when they showed him the rack.’ He looked again at the eye in the feather, then began pulling it to pieces. ‘The papists are craftier than the most cunning
fox, they keep their conspiracies so close I’ve nothing for the king that would turn him against Norfolk’s party. Not even murmurings.’ He shook his head, then said mildly,
‘Jack here tells me you have been busy on a case against the Bealknap man. You were visiting a property of his when you were attacked.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

His tone stayed quiet, but when he spoke again his eyes were full of anger. ‘You waste time on trifles while the one thing I have to keep me in the king’s favour, Greek Fire, remains
lost and the thieves slaughter all those who know of it under your very nose.’

‘We managed to get to Goodwife Gristwood and her son, and the ex-monk—’ I said.

‘And little they had to tell.’

‘We’ve been working hard, my lord,’ Barak ventured.

Cromwell ignored him. He leaned forward, pointing the mutilated quill at me. ‘One week only until that demonstration is due. The king’s insisting on a divorce from Queen Anne now and
I’m the one who must find the way. Then he’ll marry that little whore Catherine Howard and Norfolk will never be out of his presence, telling him he should have my head for tying him to
that German drab. Greek Fire’s the only leverage I have now – if I can give him that he’ll keep me in his service. Perhaps then I can turn the tide before the Howards have us back
under Rome.’ He laid down the remains of the quill and leaned back. ‘Perhaps, then, I will be allowed to
live
.’ His heavy frame seemed to quiver slightly as he uttered the
last word. ‘The king does know gratitude,’ he muttered softly, as though to himself. ‘He does.’ I realized with a sinking heart that he was almost at the end of his
resources. He blinked, then stared at me again.

‘Well? Is there any more news? Have you achieved anything apart from landing me with that menagerie of scared fools?’

‘I needed to discover what they knew, my lord.’

‘You didn’t believe in Greek Fire, did you?’ he asked bluntly.

I shifted my feet nervously. ‘I needed to trace the matter back to its source—’

‘Do you believe in it now?’

I hesitated. ‘Yes.’

‘So what of the suspects, the people who matter?’

‘They all say they know nothing. Lady Honor I have questioned closely.’ I repeated all she had had told me.

He grunted. ‘She’s a fine woman. Pretty.’ His hard eyes bored into mine. I wondered if Barak had told him I liked her. I remembered Cromwell was a widower now; his only son
Gregory was said to be, like Henry Vaughan, a poor sort of fellow.

‘I intend to check her story with Marchamount.’

‘Another one who still maintains he knows nothing. Bealknap makes a third.’

‘Bealknap has questions to answer. I have found a way of bringing pressure on him, by threatening to expose some of his ill dealings. I shall see him this afternoon.’

‘Expose him? To the Inn authorities?’

‘Yes.’

He nodded approvingly. ‘You do mean business then.’

‘I will question him on his involvement with Richard Rich.’

Cromwell’s face clouded at that name. ‘Yes, you have added him to our list of possible suspects, Barak tells me. Him and Norfolk.’ He gave a sudden furious glance at the closed
door. I shuddered at the thought of what he would do to the duke if he had him in his power.

‘Bealknap and Marchamount are under their respective patronage.’ I hesitated. ‘I saw them together this morning, at Barty’s. I wondered whether they might be plotting
something together.’

‘Everyone is plotting. All my protégés are falling away, becoming spies and enemies, making shift to protect their places on the council if the tide turns against me.’
He looked at me again. ‘If Bealknap told Rich about Greek Fire, Rich could have told Norfolk.’

‘It is all guesswork, my lord.’

‘Yes, it is.’ He nodded grimly.

‘I learned they are digging up the graves of the monks at Barty’s,’ I said, ‘and planning to start on the graves from the hospital. It struck me that the old soldier
might have had Greek Fire buried with him. It would be a way for us to get hold of some. I thought I might speak with Kytchyn.’

He nodded. ‘It’s worth a try, I suppose. If I had
some
, at least I could tell the king we might be able to make more. Do it, but don’t let Rich know what you’re
about. Ask Grey for the address of the house where I’ve put Kytchyn and Mother Gristwood. Grey’s the only one who knows it. Almost the only one who’s safe now. And see Bealknap
soon. Solve this, Matthew,’ he said with sudden passion. ‘Solve this.’

‘We will, my lord,’ Barak said.

Cromwell was thoughtful a moment. ‘Did you see the Holbein mural on your way in?’ he asked me.

I nodded.

‘I thought that would catch your eye. Realistic, is it not? The figures seem as though they could walk out into the hall.’ He picked up the quill and tore at the remaining vanes.
‘The king magnificent, calves thick and strong as a carthorse. You should see him now, his ulcerated leg so bad that sometimes they have to wheel him round the palace in a little
cart.’

‘My lord,’ Barak said quickly, ‘it is dangerous to speak thus—’

Cromwell waved a hand. ‘It relieves me to talk, so you’ll listen. It’s my belief there’ll be no more little princes – he’s so ill I don’t think
he’s capable. I think that’s why he was so shocked when he saw Anne of Cleves – he realized he couldn’t raise his member for her. He hopes he may with pretty little
Catherine, I’m sure, but I wonder.’ He pulled the last of the vanes from the quill and threw down the bare stalk. ‘And if he can’t, then in a year or less the fault will be
Catherine’s as now it is Queen Anne’s. And then Norfolk may find himself out of favour once more. I want to survive till then.’

I felt cold, despite the warmth of the room, at the coldly calculating way he spoke of the king. And to say the king was incapable of fathering more children was bordering on treason. Cromwell
looked up, his face grim.

‘There, that’s unsettled you, hasn’t it?’ He looked from one to the other of us. ‘If you fail and that demonstration doesn’t take place you can expect harsh
deserts. So don’t fail.’ He sighed deeply. ‘Now leave me.’

I opened my mouth, but Barak touched my arm and shook his head quickly. Bowing again, we left. Barak closed the door behind us very gently.

Grey looked at us anxiously. ‘Are there any instructions?’ he asked.

‘No.’ I paused. ‘Only to give me the address where Master Kytchyn is kept.’

‘I have it here.’ He delved in a drawer, wrote it down and handed it to me. ‘He and the Gristwoods make strange housemates,’ he said with an attempt at a smile.

‘Thank you. Take care, Master Grey,’ I added softly.

B
ARAK AND
I
SAT IN
a corner of the Barbary Turk. The tavern where Barak had arranged to meet the
sailor from the Baltic was a gloomy, cavernous place, smelling equally of stale beer and salt water, for it was right on the river front. Through the small window I could see Vintry Wharf, crowded
with warehouses. I was reminded that the warehouse whose conveyancing I had lost was nearby, at Salt Wharf.

It was early evening and there were few other customers as yet. In the middle of the room a huge thigh bone, thrice the size of a man’s, hung in chains from the high rafters. When we had
arrived, Barak went to fetch some beer and I looked at the plaque fixed to it:
The leg of a giant of old times, dug from the Thames silt, anno 1518.
The year I came to London. I touched the
thing lightly, causing it to swing gently in the embrace of its chains. It felt cold, like stone. I wondered whether it could indeed be from some gigantic man. Certainly humankind took some
troubling forms. I thought of my own bent back and the king’s diseased leg, which perhaps was the cause of all his marital troubles. A touch at my arm made me jump, as though someone had
divined my dangerous thoughts. But it was only Barak pointing me to the gloomy corner.