Dark Fire (49 page)

‘He’s probably been well trained in Lord Cromwell’s stables, sir, but I think he was used to larger quarters there.’ Simon flushed as he mentioned the earl’s name;
it was a source of wonder to the boy that I was associated with so great a man.

‘Maybe.’

‘Master Barak told me he had his hair burned off last night in a fire.’ The boy’s eyes were wide with curiosity. ‘Is he a soldier, sir? I sometimes think he looks like
one.’

‘No. Just a minor servant of the earl, like me.’

‘I would like to be a soldier one day.’

‘Would you, Simon?’

‘When I’m older I shall train for the muster. Fight the king’s enemies, who would invade our realm.’

From his words I guessed someone had been reading an official proclamation to him. I smiled sadly as I stroked Genesis’s neck. ‘Soldiering is a bloody trade.’

‘But one has to fight the papists, sir. Oh, yes, I’d like to be a soldier or a sailor one day.’

I prepared to argue, but turned at the sound of hooves. Barak, looking tired and dusty, had come to a halt outside the stable. Simon ran out and took the reins.

‘What news?’ I asked.

‘Let’s go inside.’

I followed him back to the parlour. He ran a hand over his stubbly head, wrinkling the skin on his pate, then blew out his cheeks. ‘The earl was fierce with me,’ he said bluntly.
‘Told me he’d had to waste half the morning persuading the coroner to keep the bodies they found at Queenhithe quiet for a few days. He was furious to hear your efforts to make Bealknap
talk had sent him off to Rich.’

‘I wasn’t to know Rich could be a shield against Cromwell.’

‘He can’t. The earl was outraged at the very idea. He thinks Rich has been exaggerating his powers to Bealknap and Bealknap believed him. He’s sending men out now to find Rich,
find out what Bealknap meant. He says if Rich knows about Greek Fire he’ll sweat it out of him one way or another. I don’t envy friend Bealknap afterwards.’

I frowned. ‘That doesn’t sound right. Bealknap’s every sort of rogue, but he’s no fool where his own interests are concerned. He wouldn’t have said what he did
unless he knew he was safe. There’s something we’re not seeing.’

‘Another thing the earl said: he knows how you like to find all the facts and lay them flat on the table before coming to a conclusion. He says there isn’t time for that,
you’ll have to cut corners.’

I laughed bitterly. ‘In dealing with an enemy as clever as ours and in a matter as complex and secret as this? Does he think I’m a miracle worker?’

‘Maybe you’d like to ask him that. He was prowling around his office at Whitehall like a bear in the pit, ready to lash out. And he’s scared. He says to go to Barty’s
now, today. It’s a good time, with Rich taken in to be questioned. He wants that coffin opened.’ Barak slumped down on the cushions. His face had a grey tinge under his tan; the events
of last night were catching up with even his powerful constitution.

‘How is your shoulder?’ I asked.

‘Sore. But better than it was. What about your arm?’

‘The same. Bearable.’ I pondered a moment. If I was to go to St Bartholomew’s I wanted to go alone; if there
was
Greek Fire buried with the soldier, I would take it to
Guy. Barak, I knew, would take it straight to Cromwell.

‘I’ll go over to Barty’s on my own,’ I said, my heart suddenly pounding fast. ‘You’re tired, you stay here.’

He looked at me in surprise. ‘You look worse than I do.’

‘I’ve had a chance to rest upstairs,’ I lied, ‘while you’ve been facing the earl in a bad temper. Let me go alone.’

‘What if Toky’s about?’

‘I’ll be all right.’

He hesitated, but to my relief relaxed deeper into the cushions. ‘All right. Jesu, I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired. The earl says Madam Neller will suffer for her
betrayal once this matter is over.’

‘Good. I’ll get Simon to bring you in some beer. I’ll be back before dark.’

‘All right.’ He laughed. ‘I think the boy believes I’m a soldier of fortune. He’s always asking me what I do for Lord Cromwell, whether he sends me to
battles.’

‘He’s sent us both to one this time. Don’t let Simon bother you.’

‘He’s no trouble.’ He looked at me. ‘Good luck.’

I left the room and stood in the corridor. I felt relieved at Barak’s ready acquiescence, but also guilty. Evidently he trusted me now; I doubted he would have let me go alone on such a
mission a week before. I shuddered at the thought that in deceiving Barak, I was deceiving Cromwell too.

T
HE STREETS WERE
quiet in the late afternoon heat as I rode up to Smithfield. As I turned into the open area a cart passed, driven by an old man with a
rag covering his face. I saw that it was full of ancient bones, ribcages and sharp pelvises and limb bones piled together in an unholy jumble, skulls peering out with their mocking grins. Rotten
scraps of ancient winding sheets trailed through the bones and as the cart passed I caught the damp, sickly smell of the tomb. I knew many skeletons from the monastic graveyards were driven out to
the Lambeth marshes and quietly dumped; these must be from Barty’s. I hoped that I would be in time; Rich had said it would be a few days before they got to the hospital graveyard. As I
spurred Genesis on across Smith-field, feeling a welcome breeze in my face, I noticed that though the Anabaptists might have recanted the stake stood already planted in the ground, the iron fetters
hanging from it a grim reminder of its purpose.

A new watchman from Augmentations stood by the priory gatehouse, a keen young fellow who demanded to know my business. I cursed when I remembered Barak had Cromwell’s seal, but my
lawyer’s robe and mention of the earl’s name were enough to gain me entrance. I enquired after progress in excavating the graveyards. Looking surprised, the man said the work on the
hospital graveyard had just begun. He called to another watchman, a lantern-jawed old fellow with a limp, to escort me there.

The old man led me through a maze of buildings, some destroyed and others awaiting conversion to residences, across Little Britain Street to the grounds behind the priory hospital. The high
crenellated City wall loomed in the distance.

‘Is the work far advanced?’ I asked.

‘They started yesterday,’ he grunted. ‘There’s hundreds of graves to dig up. Filthy business – it’s a known fact corpse odours can bring plague.’

‘I saw a cart full of bones on my way.’

‘The labourers have no respect for the dead. Reminds me of my time fighting in France, corpses everywhere given no proper burial.’ He crossed himself.

I smiled sadly. ‘My stable boy wants to be a soldier.’

‘More fool him.’ The old man lowered his voice as we turned a corner. ‘It’s round here. Watch these men, sir. They’re a rough lot.’

The spectacle that met our eyes was like something from an old painting of the Last Judgement. A wide graveyard, sewn thickly with tombstones, was being dug up. The sun was starting to set
behind the hospital, casting a fiery ochre light over the scene. The work was organized methodically: as each coffin was dug up two men carried it to a trestle table, where an Augmentations
official in a long robe sat with a clerk. I watched as a coffin was opened under the clerk’s eye; he rose and delved inside, then nodded. The workmen began removing the bones and piling them
onto a waiting cart; the clerk took a small object and laid it before the official.

A little way off a meal break was in progress; a group of labourers were playing football with a skull, kicking it to and fro. As we watched a long kick sent it crashing against a gravestone,
where it shattered into a hundred pieces. The labourers laughed. The old man shook his head and led me across to the official, who looked me over with a cold glance. He was a small, plump fellow
with a pursed mouth and small sharp eyes, the very embodiment of an Augmentations man.

‘Can I assist you, master lawyer?’ he asked.

‘I am on Lord Cromwell’s business, sir. Have you charge of these proceedings?’

He hesitated. ‘Yes, I am Paul Hoskyn of Augmentations.’ He nodded at the old man. ‘That will do, Hogge.’

‘Matthew Shardlake, of Lincoln’s Inn,’ I said as the old man hobbled away, leaving me feeling strangely exposed. ‘I am looking for a grave which I have reason to believe
may contain something of interest to my master.’

Hoskyn’s eyes narrowed. ‘Everything of value is kept for Sir Richard to examine.’

‘Yes, I know.’ I bent to look at the items on the table. Gold rings and badges, little daggers and silver boxes, giving off that sickly whiff of death. ‘It is not an item of
value. Of interest only.’

He eyed me shrewdly. ‘It must be important, for the earl to send you here. Does Sir Richard know?’

‘No. The earl has sent for him on another matter. He is probably there now. In truth, it is only of antiquarian interest.’

‘I never heard the earl had any interest in such things.’

‘He does. And I am an antiquarian,’ I added, adopting an earnest manner. I had thought this story up on the way. ‘I recently found some stones set in the Ludgate that had
Hebrew markings. They came from an old synagogue, you know. All ancient things interest me.’

The official grunted, his face still full of suspicion.

‘We think this man buried here may have been a foreign Jew,’ I went on eagerly, ‘and had Jewish artefacts buried with him. Hebrew studies are of interest now the Old Testament
is so widely read.’

‘Have you any authority from the earl you can show me?’

‘Only his name,’ I replied, looking the fellow in the eye. He pursed his little mouth, then rose and led me across the brown grass of the graveyard. I looked at the gravestones; they
were small, of cheap sandstone, the older ones indecipherable.

‘I am looking for a gravestone from the middle of the last century. The name is St John.’

‘That would be over by the wall. I don’t want to go digging over there yet,’ he added pettishly. ‘It’ll throw my work plan out of joint.’

‘The earl wishes it.’

He looked among the gravestones, then stopped and pointed. ‘Is that it?’

My heart thumped with excitement as I read the simple inscription. ‘
Alan St John, Soldier against the Turk, 1423–54.
’ Only thirty-one when he died. I had not realized he
had been so young.

‘This is it,’ I said quietly. ‘Can I have two of your men?’

Hoskyn frowned. ‘A Jew would not have been buried in consecrated ground. Nor have a Christian’s name.’

‘He would if he was a convert. There are records that this man was in the Domus.’

He shook his head, then crossed to the men who had been playing football. They gave me unfriendly looks. I knew those who laboured for Augmentations had an easy time of it, they would not like
outsiders barging in with extra duties. Two of the men returned with Hoskyn, carrying shovels. He pointed at St John’s grave.

‘He wants that one opened up. Call me as soon as it’s uncovered.’ With that, Hoskyn went back to his table, where three more coffins were laid out.

The two labourers, large young fellows in stained smocks, began digging at the hard dry earth. ‘What’re we digging for?’ one asked. ‘A box of gold?’

‘Nothing of value.’

‘We’re supposed to stop work at dusk.’ He glanced at the blood-red sky. ‘That’s our contract.’

‘Just the one grave,’ I said, mollifying him. He grunted and bent to his task.

S
T
J
OHN HAD BEEN
buried deep, the light was failing and redder than ever before the shovel struck wood. The men dug out the earth
around the coffin, then stood beside it. It was a cheap thing of some dark wood. I was aware several other labourers had come over and were standing watching.

‘Come, Samuel,’ one said. ‘It’s past time to go. It’s nearly dark.’

‘There’s no need to take the coffin out,’ I said. ‘Just open it there, if you’ll help me down.’

The other labourer helped me into the grave, then clambered out himself and called to Hoskyn that they were done. I watched as the man Samuel worked at the coffin lid with his spade. It came
open with a crack. He slid it off, then stepped back with a gasp. ‘God’s wounds, what’s that stink?’