Lamentation (The Shardlake Series Book 6) (70 page)

‘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.

O
N
S
ATURDAY
, 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.’

L
ATER
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.

T
HEY 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.’

Chapter Forty-two

L
EACH TOLD ME TO GO AND DRESS
. ‘I have been asked to search your house for forbidden books. I have a warrant,’ he added and held up a second document.

‘I have none.’

‘It has been ordered.’

His assistant had grasped Timothy by the collar and, quite unexpectedly, the boy slipped out of his grip and ran at the constable, grabbing at the warrant. ‘No! No! It is false! My master is a good man!’

Leach held the paper above his head, easily beyond Timothy’s reach, while his assistant took the boy by the collar again, lifting him up in the air. He made a choking sound. The man set him on the ground, keeping a firm hold on his arm. ‘Don’t try anything like that again, lad, or I’ll throttle you!’

I glanced at my other servants. Agnes and Josephine stood wide-eyed, clutching each other. ‘I thought this hunting people out of their homes was over,’ Agnes whispered. Martin looked on impassively.

Leach said to me, ‘I will conduct the search while you dress.’ His tone remained level, official, disapproving, though I sensed he was enjoying the opportunity to humble someone of my status. He did not meet my eye.

I let him in. On that score at least I had nothing to fear; I had burned all my newly forbidden books and there was nothing concerning the hunt for the
Lamentation
in the house. He sent one of his men upstairs with me to watch me as I dressed; my fingers trembled as I secured buttons and aiglets. I tried to calm myself and think. Who had done this, and why? Was this part of some new plot against Queen Catherine? When I had been imprisoned in the Tower of London five years before, on treason charges manufactured by Richard Rich, Archbishop Cranmer had rescued me; could the Queen save me now? I put on my summer robe, laid out as usual last night by Martin, and stepped to the door.

My servants were still standing in the hall, Josephine with her arm round a weeping Timothy. It was to her, not my steward, that I instinctively turned. I grasped her hand and said urgently, ‘Go at once to Jack Barak’s house and tell him what has happened. You remember where it is? You have taken messages there.’

Though her own hands were shaking she composed herself. ‘I will, sir, at once.’

‘Thank you.’ I turned to the constable, trying to muster a shred of dignity. ‘Then let us start, fellow. I take it we are to walk.’

‘Yes.’ Leach spoke severely, as though I were already convicted.

Martin Brocket spoke up then, in reproving tones. ‘Master Shardlake should be allowed to ride. A gentleman should not be led through the streets of London like a common fellow. It is not fitting.’ He seemed far more concerned by the breach of etiquette than the arrest itself.

‘Our instructions are to bring him on foot.’

‘There is no help for it, Martin,’ I said mildly. I turned to Leach. ‘Let us go.’

We walked through the streets; thankfully few people were out and about yet, though a few stared fearfully at us as we passed, Leach in his constable’s uniform in front, a bulky armed fellow each side of me. The arrest of a gentleman, a senior lawyer, was a rare thing; it did no harm for it to be seen in public, a reminder that everyone, regardless of rank and status, was subservient to the King.