Lamentation

I put down my pen, and stared over the garden, almost completely in shadow now. I thought of the Queen. That evangelism of hers, that desire to share her faith, had caused her to forget her habitual caution and common sense. She regretted it now, was full of guilt. The Lamentation itself might not be strictly heretical, but she had shown disloyalty to Henry by writing it in secret. That would not be easily forgiven. The King had not allowed her to be prosecuted without evidence, when Gardiner was after her, but if that manuscript were to be given to him — or, worse still, printed in public. . I shook my head at the thought of what her fate might be then.

Chapter Sixteen

The next morning, Monday, Barak called at the house early. Like Genesis, his black mare, Sukey, was getting older, I noticed, as we rode out along Fleet Street, under the city wall. The sky had taken on that white milky colour that can portend summer rain.

‘Bealknap died yesterday,’ I said.

‘There’s one gone straight down to hell.’

‘He told me he did not believe in an afterlife. And he was unpleasant to the last.’

‘Told you so.’

‘Yes, you did.’

‘And this business. This chest. What’s behind it?’

I saw Barak’s curiosity had got the better of him. I hesitated, but realized I would have to give him something to satisfy that curiosity. ‘A ring was stolen from it. Best you do not know more.’

We had just passed under London Bridge, and the horses shied at a rattle of pots and pans. A middle-aged woman, dressed only in a shift, was seated backwards on a horse, facing the animal’s tail and wearing a pointed cap with the letter S on it. Her head was bowed and she was crying. A man, his expression stern, led the horse along, while a little band of children ran alongside, banging sticks on pots and pans; several adults too.

‘A scold being led to the stocks,’ Barak said.

‘Ay, Bishop Bonner’s courts do not like women overstepping themselves.’

‘No,’ said Barak. ‘And those folk will be her neighbours. How little excuse people need to turn on each other.’

We rode down to Thames Street, where Baynard’s Castle stood by the river. It was an old building, renovated and expanded, like all the royal properties, by Henry. I had seen it from the river many times; its tall four-storey turrets rose straight from the Thames. Since Catherine of Aragon’s time it had been the Queen’s official residence, doubling as the Wardrobe, where her clothes and those of all her household were looked after and repaired. Catherine Parr’s sister, Anne, resided there now with her husband, Sir William Herbert, a senior officer in the King’s household. All the Parrs had found advancement in these last years; the Queen’s brother, named William like his uncle, was on the Privy Council.

Baynard’s Castle was reached from the street by a large gate, well guarded by men in the Queen’s livery, for there was much of value inside. We dismounted, our names were checked off on the usual list, and our horses taken to the stables. The courtyard of Baynard’s Castle seemed even more a place of business than Whitehall; two merchants were arguing loudly over a bolt of cloth they held between them, while several men unloaded heavy chests from a cart.

Those in the yard fell silent as a group on horseback clattered under the gate; two richly dressed men and a woman, accompanied by half a dozen mounted retainers. They rode towards an archway leading to an inner courtyard. I saw that the woman bore a strong resemblance to the Queen, and I realized it was Anne Herbert. The man riding beside her, in his forties, black-bearded with a military air, must be Sir William. The other man accompanying them was tall and slim, with a thin, hollow-cheeked face and a short auburn beard. His own resemblance to the Queen allowed me to recognize him as William Parr, Earl of Essex. They looked down at the people in the courtyard with haughty expressions — we had all doffed our caps as they passed. Yet all three were known as radicals, who would certainly fall if the Queen did.

A door in the main courtyard opened and Lord Parr stepped out. He wore his dark silk robe and cap, and his thick gold chain of office. Anne Herbert waved and hailed him from her horse. The little retinue halted as Lord Parr walked slowly over to them. He was leaning on a stick today. His nephew and niece greeted him and they exchanged a few words; I took the opportunity to open my satchel and take out my robe bearing the Queen’s badge. Barak whistled quietly. ‘So you’re sworn to her household now?’

‘Only while this investigation lasts.’

Lord Parr left his relatives, who rode on to the inner courtyard, and approached us.

‘He doesn’t look too well,’ Barak whispered.

‘No. He’s near seventy and feeling the strain of the job, I think.’

‘All over this stolen whatever-it-is,’ Barak replied sceptically. I did not answer. We bowed deeply to Lord Parr.