Lamentation

The Queen’s face immediately assumed an expression of regal composure; still, quiet, a little superior. She said, ‘This is Serjeant Shardlake, of my Learned Council.’

Wriothesley’s stare intensified again. Paget’s large brown eyes held mine with a forceful, unblinking look. Then, turning to the Queen, he lowered his eyes and spoke smoothly. ‘Ah yes, the man appointed to help you seek your stolen jewel.’

‘You have heard of that incident, Master Secretary?’

‘Indeed. I was grieved to hear of its loss. A present from your late stepdaughter Margaret Neville, I believe, God save her.’

‘It was.’

‘I see Serjeant Shardlake’s name has been added to the list of those on your Learned Council. And I see young William Cecil has moved to Lord Hertford’s service. He will be a loss, your majesty, he is marked down as a young man of ability.’ I thought, yes, Paget would know of all the changes in the royal household; he would inspect all the lists and ensure nothing of interest passed him by. He would have learned that trick from Thomas Cromwell, his old master and mine.

The Queen said, ‘Serjeant Shardlake is also leaving my council. My jewel has not been discovered, despite his best efforts. There seems little chance of finding it now.’

Paget looked at me again, that stony unblinking stare, and ran a hand down his long forked beard. ‘A great pity the thief could not be caught, and hanged,’ he said, a note of reproof in his voice. He patted his thick leather folder. ‘If you would excuse us, your majesty, the King has just signed some important letters, and they should be immediately dispatched.’

‘Of course.’ She waved a hand in dismissal. Wriothesley and Paget bowed low, then passed through a small door leading into the labyrinthine depths of the palace. The Queen, Mary Odell and I were left standing with the impassive-faced guards. In their presence the Queen’s face remained regally expressionless, giving away nothing of how she had felt at thus encountering Wriothesley and Paget. She knew that Wriothesley, at least, would have had her in the fire.

With a formal smile she said, ‘Farewell, then, Matthew. I thank you again.’

I bowed low, touched her hand briefly with my lips; a scent of violets. In accordance with the rules of etiquette I remained bowed until she and Mary Odell had walked back into her quarters and the doors closed behind her. Then, painfully, I straightened up.

I left my robe bearing the Queen’s badge with one of the guards before I quitted Whitehall, my relief tinged with sadness.

Chapter Forty

Early next morning I sat at breakfast, morosely studying a printed circular from Paget’s office, which had been sent to me by Rowland’s clerk. It detailed the duties of those who were to wait in the streets to welcome Admiral d’Annebault’s party when it paraded through London. Representatives of the Inns of Court were to take positions with the city dignitaries beside St Paul’s Cathedral, and cheer as the French party passed. We would be present again at the reception of the admiral given by Prince Edward near Hampton Court Palace two days later, and at the great banquet fixed for the day after. I was not looking forward to any of it, and was still in a sad humour after leaving the Queen, my mission unfulfilled. I had been terse with Martin as he served me that morning, snapping because the butter was on the turn. As usual he reacted with a deferential lack of emotion, apologized, and went to fetch some more.

He returned, laying a fresh dish on the table. I said, ‘I am sorry I spoke roughly just now, Martin.’

‘You were right, sir,’ he answered smoothly. ‘I should have checked the butter. Although Josephine set it out.’ I frowned; he could not resist the chance to criticize her. ‘A visitor has called to see you,’ he said then. ‘Master Coleswyn, of Gray’s Inn.’

‘Philip? Ask him to wait. I will be with him in a moment.’

Martin bowed and left. I wondered if this meant Philip had reconsidered investigating the story of Isabel and Edward’s stepfather. I wiped my lips with my napkin and went through to the parlour. Philip, his handsome features thoughtful, was looking through the window at the garden, bright in the August sunshine. He turned and bowed.

‘Matthew, forgive this early visit. God give you good morrow.’

‘And you. I am glad to see you.’

‘You have a beautiful garden.’

‘Yes, my steward’s wife has done much to improve it. How is your family?’

‘They are well. Much relieved that matters of state have — settled down.’

I invited him to sit. He placed his palms together, then spoke seriously. ‘Since our talk last week, I have struggled mightily with my conscience over what to do about Edward Cotterstoke. Considered my duty to God.’

‘Yes?’ I said encouragingly.