Lamentation

‘Who is it?’ Lord Parr banged the white gravel with his stick. ‘Who masterminded the theft of her book, employed those two men of whom we can find no trace — to kill everyone in that Anabaptist group? I do not believe the theory that whoever took the book from Greening would intend to wait until Bertano was about to arrive before revealing it. Not if they know the King. They would show it to him immediately, let his anger against the Queen and the reformers burst out at once, make him more receptive to whatever proposals this wretched emissary of the Pope brings.’

‘Would it be so bad as that?’

He spoke quietly. ‘The King still loves the Queen, of that I am sure. But that would only make him even angrier at her disloyalty. And hurt. And when he feels hurt — ’ Lord Parr shook his head. ‘The existence of the book itself is a lesser matter; Cranmer says it is not heretical, though it sails close to the wind.’

I did not reply. I had never heard Lord Parr talk so openly of the King before. ‘His majesty has always been suggestible, vain. He listens to the endless whispers in his ear, especially when they concern the loyalty of someone important to him. And once he has made his mind up he has been betrayed, then — ’

‘How is his health?’ I asked.

‘A little worse each week.’ He fell silent for a moment, perhaps reflecting that he had said more than was wise, then burst out angrily, ‘Why keep it for near a month, Shardlake? I cannot work it out, and nor can Cecil.’

‘I cannot either, my Lord. You know far more of the court than I.’

‘We have to find that Scotchman, God rot him-’

I placed a hand on the arm of his silk robe to quiet him. He frowned at my presumption, but I had seen what his aged eyes had not: two slim figures with long beards approaching us. Edward Seymour, Lord Hertford, Prince Edward’s uncle and a leading figure among the reformers on the Privy Council; and his younger brother, Sir Thomas, who had been the Queen’s suitor before her marriage to the King. So, I thought, Lord Hertford is back in England.

The brothers halted before us. They had been arguing with quiet intensity as they approached, but now Sir Thomas’s large brown eyes fastened on mine. We had crossed swords in the past.

I had seen them together years before, and reflected anew how alike they were, yet how different. Above his light brown beard Lord Hertford’s oval face was pale, and not handsome, with slightly knitted brows that gave him an air of half-suppressed impatient anger. He exuded power, but not authority, or not enough. As a politician he was formidable, but they said he was henpecked and embarrassed by his wife. He wore a long brown robe with a fur collar, and a splendid gold chain round his neck befitting his status as a senior Privy Councillor. Sir Thomas Seymour was more sturdily built, his face another oval, but with regular features and compelling brown eyes above that long coppery beard. While Lord Hertford wore a plain robe, Sir Thomas sported a green doublet of finest silk, slashed at the shoulders and sleeves to show a rich orange lining. He too wore a gold chain, though a smaller one.

The two men removed their jewelled caps and bowed, the links of their chains clinking. We bowed in turn.

‘Master Shardlake,’ Sir Thomas said, a mocking note in his rich deep voice. ‘I hear you are sworn to her majesty’s Learned Council now.’

‘I am, sir.’

Lord Hertford cut across him, addressing Lord Parr. ‘I trust the Queen is in good health, my Lord.’

‘Indeed. She is viewing the Lady Elizabeth’s new portrait this morning, before it is shown to the King. Master Scrots has painted a good likeness.’

‘Excellent. Lady Elizabeth should have a portrait, it is fitting for her high estate.’ He inclined his head meaningfully to where Mary’s new quarters were being built. ‘I am sure the portrait will be a pleasure to his majesty.’

‘Indeed. He loves both his daughters, of course, but now Elizabeth is growing, she needs more — exposure.’

I recognized the coded exchange for what it was. Lord Parr and Lord Hertford were both on the reforming side, and Elizabeth, her father’s least favourite child, was being brought up a reformer, unlike the traditionalist Mary, who had been raised a Catholic before the break with Rome.

Sir Thomas looked bored. He turned to me again. ‘I see, Shardlake, you are on the list of those attending on Admiral d’Annebault.’

‘Indeed, Sir Thomas.’

‘I have a large role on the committee organizing the ceremonies,’ he said self-importantly. ‘There is much to be done. The admiral is bringing a thousand men with him.’ He smiled. ‘It will be a magnificent chivalric celebration of reconciliation after honest combat between soldiers.’

I did not reply. I thought again of my soldier friends who had gone down with the Mary Rose and all the others killed in that failed, unnecessary war.