Lamentation

‘There was certainly enough in the chest to pay for this mausoleum. However, many of the benchers have objected. Bealknap was not, after all, a great credit to the Inn, and this thing is hardly in the chapel style. They are refusing point-blank to sanction it. As I suspected they would, at the time I made the bargain with Bealknap. He can lie under a marble slab in the chapel like a reasonable man.’ Rowland gave that cynical smile of his, world-weary but also cruel; proud of his outwitting of a dying man.

I said, ‘But if it is in his Will — ’

Rowland spread his arms, black silk robe rustling. ‘If the benchers will not agree, the legacy becomes impossible of execution.’

‘Who is his executor?’

‘Sir Richard Rich.’ I looked at him sharply. ‘It is an old Will. I know for a fact he hasn’t worked cases for Rich for over a year. Rich stopped using him when he began to get ill.’ I wondered, was that why Bealknap had come cosying up to me at the end of last year, in the hope that I could get him some work? I remember him saying he was not getting as much work from one of his clients. It must have been Rich. Rowland inclined his head. ‘I keep an eye on which of the great ones of the realm give work to Lincoln’s Inn barristers. As the Queen used to do with you. I have been in touch with Rich’s secretary, and he said Sir Richard couldn’t care less about the mausoleum.’ He shrugged. ‘And the Will specifically excludes members of his family from having a say. So, this thing will not be built, and all Bealknap’s gold will be bona vacantia. So in the absence of anyone else, his fortune will go to —?’ He paused on a questioning note, as though I were a law student.

‘The Crown,’ I said.

‘Exactly!’ He gave his creaky laugh. ‘Rich will be able to boast that he has garnered another few hundred pounds for the King to spend.’ Now I really could not help feeling sorry for Bealknap. ‘Talking of the King and spending,’ Rowland continued cheerfully, ‘you remember you promised to undertake more duties for the Inn? Well, there is another big occasion coming up next month.’ My face must have fallen, for he continued hurriedly, ‘It is nothing like the burning. On the contrary, it will be the grandest celebration in London for years, some say since Anne Boleyn’s coronation.’

‘A celebration of what?’ I asked, puzzled.

‘The peace with France. A great chivalric display. I have had another letter from Secretary Paget. Apparently the very admiral who led the invasion fleet last year will bring a retinue of French ships up the Thames, including some that sailed against us. There will be a whole round of celebrations at the Tower and also at Hampton Court. Thousands will be present, royalty and nobility and representatives of the City Guilds and Inns of Court. They want a serjeant from Lincoln’s Inn made available for the celebrations and I thought of you. As a sort of reward for that — less enjoyable occasion last week.’

I looked at him levelly. Rowland knew, of course, that I disliked ceremonial; again he was asserting his power. ‘The King and Queen will be at many of the ceremonies,’ he added, ‘and I believe little Prince Edward is to be involved for the first time.’

I spoke quietly. ‘There was a time, Master Treasurer, when the King was displeased with me. Perhaps it would be impolitic for me to attend.’

‘Oh, the York business.’ Rowland waved a dismissive hand. ‘That was years ago. And all you’ll be required to do is stand among many others in your best clothes and cheer when you’re told to.’

I thought, cheer Admiral d’Annebault, who led the invasion fleet in the very battle during which the Mary Rose foundered. Chivalry, I thought, is a strange thing.

‘I do not know the exact dates you will be required,’ Rowland continued. ‘But it will be during the last ten days in August, a month from now. I will keep you informed.’

There was no point in arguing. And I had other things to worry about. ‘Very well, Treasurer,’ I said quietly.

‘The Lord alone knows how much it will all cost.’ He laughed. ‘Well, the King will have Bealknap’s money to put towards it now.’

I stepped out into the quadrangle. It had turned cloudy, that low, light summer cloud that seems to trap and thicken the heat. As I walked back to chambers I noticed a man loitering hesitantly nearby; young, well dressed in a dark doublet and wide green cap. I looked at him, then stared. It was a face I had seen only the day before, by the torchlight of the Tower dungeons. The gaoler Myldmore, who had appeared to be in trouble with his superior. He saw me and walked hesitantly across. His eyes were wide and frightened, as they had been at the Tower. ‘Master Shardlake,’ he said, a tremble in his voice, ‘I must speak with you, in confidence. About — about a certain manuscript.’

Chapter Twenty-four