Lamentation

‘I’m hungry,’ Nicholas said. ‘I have some pork dripping and bread. I think the dripping’s still all right.’ Under the fading bruises his face was pale. Barak, too, looked tired and grim. We were all exhausted. I studied Leeman, lying prone on the bed. He was young, tall and strongly built, with dark hair, a neatly trimmed beard and a handsome face with a proud Roman nose. He wore a jerkin of ordinary fustian, a far cry from the finery of the Queen’s court. I felt gently round the back of his head; there was a large swelling there.

Barak and Nicholas had sat down at the table, and were hungrily devouring the bread and dripping which Nicholas had brought from a cupboard. ‘Here,’ Barak said to me. ‘Have some food. We could be here a while.’

I joined them, but continued to check on Leeman. I had some time, at least, to question him before Lord Parr’s men arrived. I sensed that, like Myldmore, this man might be willing to speak if we could convince him that we were working for the reformist side. It was worth a try. I remembered what I had said to Nicholas that time Elias had fled. Never prick a stirring horse more than he needs. I was desperate to find out what Leeman knew but a soft touch might work here. I remembered Cecil’s remark that he would talk in the end, and had a momentary vision of fists thudding in a darkened room.

After a while, Leeman groaned and began to stir. Barak took some water from a bucket and squeezed a cloth over his face. Leeman coughed, then sat up, clutching his head. Grimacing with pain, he looked down at his bound arm.

‘I did that,’ Nicholas said. ‘’Tis but a flesh wound.’

Leeman’s pale face darkened suddenly. ‘Where am I?’ he asked. He sounded angry but I detected an undertone of fear there, too.

I stood up. ‘You are held, Master Leeman, if not by friends then not by the enemies you may think, either.’

Leeman looked round the room, gradually taking in the student messiness. ‘This is not a prison,’ he stuttered, confusion on his face.

‘No,’ I replied gently. ‘You are not under arrest, not yet. Though others will be coming here for you in a while. I am Matthew Shardlake, a lawyer. It would certainly be better for you to talk to me first. I may be able to do something to help you, if you help us.’

Leeman only glared at me. ‘You are the agents of Bertano, emissary of the Antichrist.’

‘That name again,’ Nicholas said.

I pulled a stool over to the bed and sat face to face with Leeman. ‘We have heard that name many times recently, Master Leeman,’ I said. ‘But I swear to you I do not know who Bertano is. Perhaps you could tell me.’ I considered a moment. ‘By the Antichrist I take it you mean the Pope.’

‘The Beast of Rome,’ Leeman confirmed, watching carefully for our reaction.

I smiled. ‘Nobody here is a friend of the Pope, I assure you.’

‘Then who do you work for?’

I took out the Queen’s seal which I had been given on the day of my appointment and held it up for him to see. ‘For her majesty. Privately. I am trying to find out what happened to a certain book.’

Leeman frowned, then said, ‘Lawyer or courtier, ’tis all the same. You all steal bread from the mouths of the poor.’

‘Actually I am an advocate at the Court of Requests, and most of my work is done on behalf of the poor.’ His look in response was contemptuous; no doubt he despised the charitable doings of the rich. But I persisted. ‘Tonight we were looking for a manuscript which we believe you and your friends were trying to smuggle abroad. I also seek, by the way, the murderers of Armistead Greening.’

‘Who is now safe in heaven,’ Leeman said, looking at me defiantly.

‘There is another manuscript, also missing, by the late Mistress Askew, who was cruelly burned at Smithfield.’

‘It is gone.’ There was a note of triumph in Leeman’s voice now. ‘Vandersteyn had it with him.’ He paused. His face paled. ‘Curdy — your people killed him. Good McKendrick, I saw him run. Did you catch and kill him, too?’

‘He escaped. And it was not us who killed Curdy, but some others we have been forced to work with. They are concerned with finding Anne Askew’s writings, but we are not.’ I spoke slowly and carefully: I saw I had his attention. ‘I am interested only in the other manuscript, which they do not know about. The one stolen from the Queen.’ I leaned forward. ‘A book which, if published, could do great damage to the Reformist cause. Just when her majesty’s troubles appeared to be over, and the tide beginning to swing against Bishop Gardiner, you steal it. Why, Master Leeman?’

He did not reply, but looked at me through narrowed eyes, calculating. A slight blush appeared on his pale cheeks and I wondered if he was remembering his oath to the Queen, which he had broken. I continued quietly. ‘I traced you through the guard Gawger, whom you bribed, and the carpenter who gave you the substitute key for the Queen’s chest.’

‘You have learned much.’

‘Not enough. Where is the book now?’

‘I do not know. Greening had it. Whoever killed him took it.’