Lamentation (The Shardlake Series Book 6) (11 page)

‘Then the next evening I was to call on him in his chamber, and, in front of his gentlemen, apologize for going too far in discussing religion.’ She closed her eyes. ‘I was to say I knew a woman’s duty is to be instructed by her husband, and that I was only seeking to distract him from the pain in his legs. I did as he asked, playing my part in the performance.’ I discerned a note of bitterness, quickly suppressed, in her voice.

‘The next day, I was to walk in the garden with him and my ladies. By prearrangement with the King, Wriothesley was to come and arrest me with fifty of the guard. Wriothesley thought he had won, but when he arrived the King tore the warrant from his hand, called him a beast and a knave in front of the men of the guard and my ladies, and ordered him from his presence.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Since then his majesty has been loving and attentive to me in front of all. I am to have new jewels; he knows I love bright jewels. I have ever had good measure of the sin of covetousness, as well as vanity.’ She lowered her head.

‘Then – then the crisis is over?’ I said. ‘That dreadful burning and the new proclamation on forbidden books – that was the last act? Wriothesley and the conservatives have been humiliated?’

‘Would that it were the last act!’ the Queen cried out. ‘I have one book missing, the most dangerous of all, and it is my fault!’

Lord Parr put his hand over hers again. ‘Calm, Kate, stay calm. You are doing well.’

Cranmer stood, walking to a window which looked out over a garden to the river, blue in the summer sunshine, dotted with the white sails of wherries and tilt-boats. Another world. There was a distant hammering from where the Lady Mary’s new chambers were being built. The Archbishop said, ‘I spoke of Bishop Gardiner negotiating a new treaty with the Empire. And Paget has succeeded in making peace with the French. Lord Lisle and the Earl of Hertford played their parts, too; both are abroad just now, but they will return next month, with feathers in their own caps, and the balance on the Privy Council will change in favour of the reformers. That, and the King’s annoyance with Gardiner’s faction, will help us. But something else is going on, Master Shardlake.’ Cranmer turned and I felt the full force of those penetrating eyes. ‘We do not know what it is, but we see the senior councillors in the conservative faction – Norfolk, Gardiner, and others like Paget – still smiling and talking in corners, when after their setback they should be cringing like whipped dogs. The other day, after the council, I heard Paget muttering to Norfolk about a visitor from abroad; they fell silent as I approached. Something else, something secret, is going on. They have another card still to play.’

‘And I have given them a second,’ the Queen said bleakly. ‘Placed myself and all those I care for in jeopardy.’

This time neither her uncle nor the Archbishop sought to reassure her. The Queen smiled, not the gently humorous smile that in happier times was ever ready to appear on her face, but a sad, angry grimace. She said, ‘It is time for you to know what I have done.’

Chapter Six

W
E ALL LOOKED AT HER.
She spoke quietly. ‘Last winter, it seemed the King was moving in the direction of reform. He had made Parliament pass the bill that gave him control of the chantries; another bastion of popish ceremony had fallen. I had published my
Prayers and Meditations
that summer, and felt the time was safe for me to write another book, a declaration to the world of my beliefs, as Marguerite of Navarre has done. And so I wrote my little volume. I knew it might be – controversial – so I composed it in secret, in my bedroom. A confession – of my life; my sins, my salvation, my beliefs.’ She looked at me intently; the light of conviction shone in her eyes now. ‘It is called the
Lamentation of a Sinner
. I speak in it of how, when I was young, I was mired in superstition, full of vanity for the things of this world; of how God spoke to me but I denied His voice, until eventually I accepted His saving grace.’ Her voice had risen with passion; she looked at Lord Parr and the Archbishop, but they had cast their eyes down. She continued, more quietly. ‘It was God who brought me to realize it was my destiny to marry the King.’ She cast her own head down, and I wondered if she was thinking of her old love for Thomas Seymour. ‘In my
Lamentation
I speak in the most plain terms of my belief that salvation comes through faith and study of the Bible, not vain ceremonies.’ I closed my eyes. I knew of books like this, confessions by radical Protestants of their sinfulness and salvation. Some had been seized by the authorities. The Queen had been foolish to write such a thing in these faction-ridden times, even in secret. She must have known it; but for once her emotions had overridden her political sense. And her hope that the times were shifting in favour of reform had again proved disastrously wrong.

‘Who has seen the book, your majesty?’ I asked quietly.

‘Only my Lord Archbishop. I finished it in February, but then in March the trouble with Gardiner began. And so I hid it in my private coffer, telling nobody.’ She added bitterly, ‘You see, Matthew, I can still be sensible sometimes.’ I saw that she was torn between conflicting emotions: her desire to spread her beliefs amongst the people, her acute awareness of the political dangers of doing so, and her fear for her own life. ‘The book stayed locked in my coffer until last month, when I resolved to ask the Archbishop for his opinion. He came to me, here, and read it one evening with me.’ She looked at Cranmer, smiling wistfully. ‘We have spoken much on matters of faith, these last three years. Few know how much.’

The Archbishop looked uneasy for a moment, then said, his voice composed, ‘That was on the ninth of June. A little over a month ago. And I advised her majesty that on no account should the book be circulated. It said nothing about the Mass, but the condemnation of dumb Roman ceremonies, the argument that prayer and the Bible are the only ways to salvation – those could be read, by our enemies, as Lutheran.’

‘Where is the manuscript now?’ I asked.

‘That is our problem,’ Lord Parr said heavily. ‘It has been stolen.’

The Queen looked me in the eye. ‘And if it finds its way to the King’s hands, then likely I am dead and others, too.’

‘But if it does not deny the Mass—’

‘It is too radical for the King,’ the Queen said. ‘And that I should be its author, and have kept it secret from him . . .’ Her voice faltered.

Cranmer spoke quietly. ‘He would see that as disloyalty. And that is the most dangerous thing of all.’

‘I can understand that,’ the Queen said sadly. ‘He would feel – wounded.’

My head reeled. I clasped my hands together in my lap to force my mind to focus, realizing the others were waiting for me to respond. ‘How many copies are there?’ I asked.

The Queen answered, ‘Only one, in my own hand. I wrote it in my bedchamber, secretly, with my door locked.’

‘How long is it?’

‘Fifty pages of small writing. I kept it secure, in the strong chest in my bedchamber. I alone have the key and I keep it round my neck. Even when I sleep.’ She put her hand to her bodice and lifted out a small key. Like the teardrop pearl, it was on the end of a fine chain.

Cranmer said bluntly, ‘I advised her majesty to destroy the book. Its very existence was a danger.’

‘And that was on the ninth of June?’ I asked.

The Queen answered, ‘Yes. I could not, of course, meet with the Archbishop in my bedchamber, so I brought it to this room. It was the only time it has left my bedchamber. I asked all the ladies and servants to leave so our discussion could be private.’

‘And you told nobody about your meeting?’

‘I did not.’

They were all looking at me now. I had slipped into the question-and-answer mode of the investigating lawyer. There was no pulling back from this. But I thought, if this goes wrong, it could be the fire for me as well as for them.

The Queen continued. ‘My Lord Archbishop told me the book must be destroyed. And yet – I believed, and still believe, that such a work, written by a Queen of England, could bring people to right faith.’ She looked at me pleadingly, as though to say: see, this is my soul, this is the truth I have learned, and you must listen. I was moved, but lowered my gaze. The Queen clasped her hands together, then looked between the three of us, her voice quietly sombre now. ‘Very well. I know. I was wrong.’ She added wearily, ‘Such faith in my own powers is itself a token of vanity.’

I asked, ‘Did you return the manuscript directly to your chest?’

‘Yes. Almost every day I would look at it. For a full month. Many times I nearly called you, Uncle.’

‘Would that you had,’ Lord Parr said feelingly.

‘Had it not been summer, had there been fires lit in the grate, once, twice, I would have burned it. But I hesitated, and days lengthened into weeks. And then, eleven days ago, the day after that scene with Wriothesley, I opened the chest and the book was gone. It was gone.’ She shook her head. I realized what a shock that moment must have been to her.

‘When had you last seen it?’ I asked gently.

‘That afternoon I looked over the manuscript again, wondering whether there were changes I might make that would render it safe to publish. Then, in the early evening, the King called me to his private chamber, and I was with him, talking and playing cards, till near ten. His legs were paining him; he needed distraction. Then, when I came to bed, I went to take it out, to look at it, to guide my prayers, and it was gone.’

‘Was there any sign the lock had been tampered with?’

‘No,’ she answered. ‘None at all.’

‘What else was in the chest, your majesty?’

‘Some of my jewels. Legacies from my second husband, and his daughter, dear Margaret Neville, who died this spring.’ A spasm of sadness crossed her face.

Lord Parr said, ‘All those jewels were of considerable value. But nothing apart from the manuscript was removed.’

I considered. ‘And this was the day following the incident with Wriothesley?’

‘Yes. The sixth of July. I have cause to remember recent days very well.’

Lord Parr said, ‘My niece contacted me at once. I was horrified to learn of the existence of the book, and what had happened to it.’

I looked at the old man. ‘I imagine the nature of the theft would make enquiries within the household – difficult.’

He shook his head. ‘We dare tell nobody. But I checked with the guards who had been in and out of the Queen’s bedchamber during those crucial hours. Nothing unusual: two pages to clean, a maid-in-waiting to prepare the Queen’s bed. And Jane her fool, wandering in to see if the Queen was about. Jane Fool is allowed to go everywhere,’ he added crossly. ‘But she has not the wit to steal an apple.’

‘Finding out who was seen to enter the chamber during those hours is important,’ I said. ‘But someone could have found out about the book earlier, and chosen the hours when her majesty was with the King to make the theft.’

‘How could anyone have known,’ the Queen asked, ‘when I wrote it in secret, told no one, and kept it locked away?’

Lord Parr nodded agreement. ‘We cannot see how this has been done – we have not known what to do. We have felt – paralysed.’

The Queen closed her eyes, clutching the pearl round her neck hard. We all watched her with concern. Finally she unclenched her hand. ‘I am all right.’

‘Are you sure?’ Lord Parr asked.

‘Yes. Yes. But you continue the story, Uncle.’

Lord Parr looked at me. ‘It was then,’ he said, ‘that we heard of the murder by St Paul’s.’

‘Murder?’ I asked sharply.

‘Yes, there is murder in this, too. The book was stolen from the coffer sometime on the evening of the sixth of July. At dusk last Saturday, the tenth, a printer in a small way of business in Bowyer Road, hard by St Paul’s, was murdered in his shop. You know how these little places have multiplied round the cathedral these last few years. Printers, booksellers, often just tiny businesses in ramshackle sheds.’

‘I do, my Lord.’ I knew, too, that many printers and booksellers were radicals, and that several had had their premises raided in recent months.

‘The printer was a man called Armistead Greening,’ Lord Parr continued. ‘His shop was one of those little sheds, with only a single printing press. He had been in trouble before for publishing radical literature; he was investigated in the spring but nothing was found against him. Recently he had been printing schoolbooks. Last Saturday evening he was working in his shop. Several of the local printers were at work nearby; they toil away until the last of the light, to make the most use of their presses. Greening had an apprentice, who left at nine.’

‘How do you know these details?’

‘From the apprentice, but mainly from his neighbour, who owns a larger print-shop next door. Geoffrey Okedene. At around nine, Master Okedene was closing down his shop when he heard a great commotion, shouts and cries for help, from Greening’s shed. He was a friend of Greening’s and went to investigate. The door was locked, but it was a flimsy thing; he put his shoulder to it and broke it open. He caught a glimpse of two men running through the other door, at the side – these print-shops get so hot, and full of vile smells from the ink and other concoctions they use, that even small ones have two doors. Master Okedene did not pursue them, for an attempt had been made to set Greening’s print-shop on fire. His stock of paper had been strewn around and set light to. Okedene was able to stamp it out – you may imagine that if such a place caught it would burn like a torch.’

‘Yes.’ I had seen these poorly erected wooden sheds that were built against the cathedral walls or in vacant plots nearby, and heard the loud rhythmic thumping that constantly resounded from them.

‘Only when he had put out the fire did Okedene see poor Greening lying on the earthen floor, his head beaten in. And, clutched in Greening’s hand, this . . .’ Lord Parr reached into a pocket in his robe and carefully extracted a small strip of expensive paper covered in neat writing and dotted with the brown stains of dried blood. He passed it to me. I read: