Synopsis:

The year is 1540. Shardlake has been pulled, against his better judgement, into defending Elizabeth Wentworth, charged with murdering her cousin. He is powerless to help the girl, yet she is suddenly given a reprieve — courtesy of Cromwell. The cost of the reprieve to Shardlake is two weeks once again in his service.

 

About the Author:

C.J. SANSOM was educated at Birmingham University, where he took a BA and then a Ph.D. in history. After working in a variety of jobs, he retrained as a solicitor and practised in Sussex, until becoming a full-time writer. Following on from his remarkable debut, Dissolution, Dark Fire is the second novel in his Shardlake series. He has recently completed working on a novel set in post Civil War Spain, Winter in Madrid, and is now writing the third crime novel to feature Shardlake, entitled Sovereign. He lives in Sussex.

 

C.J. SANSOM

Dark Fire

The second book in the Shardlake series

Version 1.0

Copyright © C.J. Sansom 2004

ISBN 0330411977

 

Chapter One

I HAD LEFT MY HOUSE in Chancery Lane early, to go to the Guildhall to discuss a case in which I was acting for the City Council. Although the far more serious matter I would have to deal with on my return weighed on my mind, as I rode down a quiet Fleet Street I was able to take a little pleasure in the soft airs of early morning. The weather was very hot for late May, the sun already a fiery ball in the clear blue sky, and I wore only a light doublet under my black lawyer's robe. As my old horse Chancery ambled along, the sight of the trees in full leaf made me think again of my ambition to retire from practice, to escape the noisome crowds of London. In two years' time I would be forty, in which year the old man's age begins; if business was good enough I might do it then. I passed over Fleet Bridge with its statues of the ancient kings Gog and Magog. The City wall loomed ahead, and I braced myself for the stink and din of London.

At the Guildhall I met with Mayor Hollyes and the Common Council serjeant. The council had brought an action in the Assize of Nuisance against one of the rapacious land speculators buying up the dissolved monasteries, the last of which had gone down in this spring of 1540. This particular speculator, to my shame, was a fellow barrister of Lincoln's Inn, a false and greedy rogue named Bealknap. He had got hold of a small London friary, and rather than bringing down the church, had convened it into a hotch-potch of unsavoury tenements. He had excavated a common cesspit for his tenants, but it was a botched job and the tenants of the neighbouring houses, which the council owned, were suffering grievously from the penetration of filth into their cellars.

The assize had ordered Bealknap to make proper provision but the wretch had served a writ of error in King's Bench, alleging the friary's original charter excluded it from the City's jurisdiction and that he was not obliged to do anything. The matter was listed for hearing before the judges in a week's time. I advised the mayor that Bealknap's chances were slim, pointing out that he was one of those maddening rogues whom lawyers encounter, who take perverse pleasure in spending time and money on uncertain cases rather than admitting defeat and making proper remedy like civilized men.

===OO=OOO=OO===

I PLANNED TO RETURN home the way I had come, via Cheapside, but when I reached the junction with Lad Lane I found Wood Street blocked by an overturned cart full of lead and roof tiles from the demolition of St Bartholomew's Priory. A heap of mossy tiles had spilled out, filling the roadway. The cart was big, pulled by two great shire horses, and though the driver had freed one, the other lay helpless on its side between the shafts. Its huge hooves kicked out wildly, smashing tiles and raising clouds of dust. It neighed in terror, eyes rolling at the gathering crowd. I heard someone say more carts were backed up almost to Cripplegate.

It was not the first such scene in the City of late. Everywhere there was a crashing of stone as the old buildings fell: so much land had become vacant that even in over-crowded London the courtiers and other greedy men of spoil into whose hands it had fallen scarce knew how to handle it all.

I turned Chancery round and made my way through the maze of narrow lanes that led to Cheapside, in places scarce wide enough for a horse and rider to pass under the overhanging eaves of the houses. Although it was still early, the workshops were open and people crowded the lanes, slowing my passage, journeymen and street traders and water carriers labouring under their huge conical baskets. It had hardly rained in a month, the butts were dry and they were doing good business. I thought again of the meeting to come; I had been dreading it and now I would be late.

I wrinkled my nose at the mighty stink the hot weather drew from the sewer channel, then cursed roundly as a rooting pig, its snout smeared with some nameless rubbish, ran squealing across Chancery's path and made him jerk aside. A couple of apprentices in their blue doublets, returning puffy-faced from some late revel, glanced round at my oath and one of them, a stocky, rough-featured young fellow, gave me a contemptuous grin. I set my lips and spurred Chancery on. I saw myself as he must have, a whey-faced hunchback lawyer in black robe and cap, a pencase and dagger at my waist instead of a sword.

It was a relief to arrive at the broad paved way of Cheapside. Crowds milled round the stalls of Cheap Market; under their bright awnings the peddlers called 'What d'ye lack?' or argued with white-coifed goodwives. The occasional lady of wealth wandered around the stalls with her armed servants, face masked with a cloth vizard to protect her white complexion from the sun.

Then, as I turned past the great bulk of St Paul's, I heard the loud cry of a pamphlet seller. A scrawny fellow in a stained black doublet, a pile of papers under his arm, he was howling at the crowd. 'Child murderess of Walbrook taken to Newgate!' I paused and leaned down to pass him a farthing. He licked his finger, peeled off a sheet and handed it up to me, then went on bawling at the crowd. 'The most terrible crime of the year!'

I stopped to read the thing in the shadow cast by the great bulk of St Paul's. As usual the cathedral precincts were full of beggars — adults and children leaning against the walls, thin and ragged, displaying their sores and deformities in the hope of charity. I averted my eyes from their pleading looks and turned to the pamphlet. Beneath a woodcut of a woman's face — it could have been anybody, it was just a sketch of a face beneath disordered hair — I read:

 

Terrible Crime in Walbrook;

Child Murdered by His Jealous Cousin

 

On the evening of May 16th last, a Sabbath Day, at the fair house of Sir Edwin Wentworth of Walbrook, a member of the Mercers' Company, his only son, a boy of twelve, was found at the bottom of the garden well with his neck broken. Sir Edwin's fair daughters, girls of fifteen and sixteen, told how the boy had been attacked by their cousin, Elizabeth Wentworth, an orphan whom Sir Edwin had taken into his house from charity on the death of her father, and had been pushed by her into the deep well. She is taken to Newgate, where she is to go before the Justices the 29th May next. She refuses to plead, and so is likely to be pressed, or if she pleads to be found guilty and to go to Tyburn next hanging day.

The thing was badly printed on cheap paper and left inky smears on my fingers as I thrust it into my pocket and turned down Paternoster Row. So the case was public knowledge, another halfpenny sensation. Innocent or guilty, how could the girl get a fair trial from a London jury now? The spread of printing had brought us the English Bible, ordered the year before to be set in every church; but it had also brought pamphlets like this, making money for back-street printers and fodder for the hangman. Truly, as the ancients taught us, there is nothing under the moon, however fine, that is not subject to corruption.

===OO=OOO=OO===

IT WAS NEARLY NOON when I reined Chancery in before my front door. The sun was at its zenith and when I untied the ribbon of my cap it left a line of sweat under my chin. Joan, my housekeeper, opened the door as I dismounted, a worried expression on her plump face.

'He is here,' she whispered, glancing behind her. 'That girl's uncle—'

'I know.' Joseph would have ridden through London. Perhaps he too had seen the pamphlet. 'What case is he in?'

'Sombre, sir. He is in the parlour. I gave him a glass of small beer.'

'Thank you.' I passed the reins to Simon, the boy Joan had recently employed to help her about the house, and who now scampered up, a stick-thin, yellow-haired urchin. Chancery was not yet used to him and pawed at the gravel, nearly stepping on one of the boy's bare feet. Simon spoke soothingly to him, then gave me a hasty bow and led the horse round to the stable.

'That boy should have shoes,' I said.

Joan shook her head. 'He won't, sir. Says they chafe his feet. I told him he should wear shoes in a gentleman's house.'

'Tell him he shall have sixpence if he wears them a week,' I said. I took a deep breath. 'And now I had better see Joseph.'

===OO=OOO=OO===

JOSEPH WENTWORTH was a plump, ruddy-cheeked man in his early fifties, uncomfortable in his best doublet of sober brown. It was wool, too hot for this weather, and he was perspiring. He looked like what he was; a working farmer, owner of some poor lands out in Essex. His two younger brothers had sought their fortunes in London, but Joseph had remained on the farm. I had first acted for him two years before, defending his farm against a claim by a large landowner who wanted it to put to sheep. I liked Joseph, but my heart had sunk when I received his letter a few days before. I had been tempted to reply, truthfully, that I doubted I could help him, but his tone had been desperate.

His face brightened as he saw me, and he came over and shook my hand eagerly. 'Master Shardlake! Good day, good day. You had my letter?'

'I did. You are staying in London?'

'At an inn down by Queenhithe,' he said. 'My brother has forbidden me his house for my championing of our niece.' There was a desperate look in his hazel eyes. 'You must help me, sir, please. You must help Elizabeth.'

I decided no good would be done by beating round the bushes. I took the pamphlet from my pocket and handed it to him.

'Have you seen this, Joseph?'

'Yes.' He ran a hand through his curly black hair. 'Are they allowed to say these things? Is she not innocent till proven guilty?'

'That's the technical position. It doesn't help much in practice.'

He took a delicately embroidered handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. 'I visited Elizabeth in New gate this morning,' he said. 'God's mercy, it's a terrible place. But she still won't talk.' He ran his hand over his plump, badly shaven cheeks. 'Why won't she talk, why? It's her only hope of saving herself.' He looked across at me pleadingly, as though I had the answer. I raised a hand.

'Come, Joseph, sit down. Let us start at the beginning. I know only what you told me in your letter, which is little more than is in this foul pamphlet.'

He took a chair, looking apologetic. 'I'm sorry; I've no good hand at writing.'

'Now, one of your two brothers is the father of the boy who died — is that right? — and the other was father to Elizabeth?'

Joseph nodded, making a visible effort to pull himself together.

'My brother Peter was Elizabeth's father. He took himself to London as a boy and got himself apprenticed as a dyer. He did moderately well, but since the French embargo — well, trade has gone right down these last few years.'

I nodded. Since England's break with Rome the French had banned the export of alum, which was essential for the dyeing trade. It was said even the king wore black hose now.

'Peter's wife died two years ago.' Joseph went on. 'When the bloody flux took Peter last autumn there was barely enough left to pay for his funeral and nothing for Elizabeth.'

'She was their only child?'

'Yes. She wanted to come and live with me, but I thought she'd be better off with Edwin. I've never married, after all. And he's the one with the money and the knighthood.' A note of bitterness entered his voice.

'And he is the mercer the pamphlet mentions?'

Joseph nodded. 'Edwin has a good business head. When he followed Peter to London as a boy he went straight into the cloth trade. He knew where the best profits could be made: he has a fine house by the Walbrook now. To be fair, Edwin offered to take Elizabeth in. He's already given a home to our mother — she moved from the farm when she lost her sight through the smallpox ten years ago. He was always her favourite son.' He looked up with a wry smile. 'Since Edwin's wife died five years ago, Mother has run his household with a rod of iron, although she's seventy-four and blind.' I saw he was twisting the handkerchief in one hand; the embroidery was becoming torn.

'So Edwin is also a widower?'

'Yes. With three children. Sabine, Avice and — and Ralph.'

'The pamphlet said the girls are in their teens, older than the boy.'

Joseph nodded. 'Yes. Pretty, fair-haired and soft-skinned like their mother.' He smiled sadly. 'All their talk's of fashions and young men from the Mercers' dances, pleasant girlish things. Or was till last week.'

'And the boy? Ralph? What was he like?'

Joseph twisted the handkerchief again. 'He was the apple of his father's eye; Edwin always wanted a boy to succeed him in his business. His wife Mary had three boys before Sabine, but none lived past the cradle. Then two girls before a boy who lived, at last. Poor Edwin's grief shot. Perhaps he spared the rod too much—' He paused.

'Why do you say that?'

'Ralph was an imp, it must be said. Always full of tricks. His poor mother could never control him.' Joseph bit his lip. 'Yet he had a merry laugh, I brought him a chess set last year and he loved it, learned quickly and soon beat me.' In his sad smile I sensed the loneliness Joseph's rupture with his family would bring him. He had not done this lightly.

'How did you hear of Ralph's death?' I asked quietly.

'A letter from Edwin, sent by fast rider the day after it happened. He asked me to come to London and attend the inquest. He had to view Ralph's body and couldn't bear doing it alone.'

'So you came to London, what, a week ago?'

'Yes. I made the formal identification with him. That was a terrible thing. Poor Ralph laid on that dirty table in his little doublet, his face so white. Poor Edwin broke down sobbing, I've never seen him cry before. He wept on my shoulder, said, "My boykin, my boykin. The evil witch," over and over.'

'Meaning Elizabeth.'

Joseph nodded. 'Then we went to the court and heard the evidence before the coroner. The hearing didn't take long, I was surprised it was so short.'

I nodded. 'Yes. Greenway rushes things. Who gave evidence?'

'Sabine and Avice first of all. It was odd seeing them standing in that dock together, so still: I believe they were rigid from fear, poor girls. They said that the afternoon it happened they had been doing tapestry work indoors. Elizabeth had been sitting in the garden, reading under a tree by the well. They could see her through the parlour window. They saw Ralph go across and start talking to her. Then they heard a scream, a dreadful hollow sound. They looked up from their work and saw that Ralph was gone.'

'Gone?'

'Disappeared. They ran outside. Elizabeth was standing by the well, an angry expression on her face. They were afraid to approach her, but Sabine asked her what had happened. Elizabeth wouldn't reply and, sir, she has not spoken since. Sabine said they looked down the well, but it's deep. They couldn't see to the bottom.'

'Is the well in use?'

'No, the groundwater down at Walbrook's been foul with sewage for years. Edwin got a founder to make a pipe to carry water underground from the conduit to the house not long after he bought it. The year the king married Nan Bullen.'

'That would have been expensive.'

'Edwin is rich. But they should have capped off that well.' He shook his head again. 'They should have capped it.'

I had a sudden picture of a fall into darkness, a scream echoing off dank brick walls. I shivered despite the heat of the day.

'What did the girls say happened next?'

'Avice ran for the house steward, Needler. He got a rope and climbed down. Ralph was at the bottom with his neck broken, his poor little body still warm. Needler brought him out.'

'Did the steward gave evidence at the inquest?'

'Oh, yes. David Needler was there.' Joseph frowned. I looked at him sharply.

'You don't like him?'

'He's an impertinent fellow. Used to give me sneering looks when I visited from the country.'

'So, according to their testimony, neither girl actually saw what happened?'

'No, they only looked up when they heard the shout. Elizabeth often sat out in the garden alone. Her — well, her relations with the rest of the family were — difficult. She seemed to have taken a particular dislike to Ralph.'

'I see.' I looked him in the eye. 'And what is Elizabeth like?'

He leaned back, laying the crumpled handkerchief in his lap. 'She was like Ralph in some ways. They both had the dark hair and eyes of our side of the family. She was another that liked her own way. Her poor parents indulged her, being their only one. She could be malapert, coming forward with opinions in an unmaidenly way, and she preferred book-learning to ladies' concerns. But she played the virginal well, and enjoyed embroidering. She's young, sir, young. And she has a kind nature — she was always rescuing cats and dogs from the street.'

'I see.'

'But she changed after Peter died, I have to admit that. Not surprising, her mother gone then her father and then their house sold. She withdrew into herself, sir, stopped being the eager, talkative girl I knew. I remember after Peter's funeral, when I said it would be better for her future to go to Edwin rather than back to the country with me, she gave me such a look, such anger in it, then turned away without a word.' I saw tears come to the corner of his eyes at the memory. He blinked them away.

'And things did not go well when she moved to Sir Edwin's?'

'No. After her father died I visited them several times. I was concerned for Elizabeth. Each time Edwin and my mother said she was becoming more difficult, impossible.'

'In what ways?'

'Refusing to talk to the family, keeping to her room, missing meals. Not even taking proper care of her clothes. If anyone tried to chide her she'd either say nothing or else fly into a screaming rage, calling on them all to leave her alone.'

'And she was on bad terms with all three of her cousins?'

'I think Sabine and Avice were confused by her. They told the coroner they had tried to interest her in womanly things but Elizabeth just told them to go away. She is eighteen, a little older than them, but they should have been all girls together. And Edwin's children moved in higher social circles, they could have taught Elizabeth much.' He bit his lip again. 'I had hoped for her advancement. And it has led to this.'

'And why do you think she disliked Ralph so much?'

'That I understood least of all. Edwin told me that lately, if Ralph came near Elizabeth, she would give him such looks of hate it was frightening to see. I saw it myself one evening in February. I was at dinner with the family, all of them were there. It was an uneasy meal, sir. We were eating beefsteak, my brother enjoys it very rare and I do not think Elizabeth liked it — she sat toying with her food. My mother chid her but she wouldn't reply. Then Ralph asked her, quite politely, if she was enjoying her nice red meat. She went quite pale, put down her knife and gave him such a savage look I wondered—'

'Yes.'

He whispered, 'I wondered if she were ill in her mind.'

'Elizabeth has no cause to hate the family that you know of?'

'No. Edwin is mystified, he has been mystified by her since she came to them.'

I wondered what had gone on at Sir Edwin's house, whether there were things Joseph knew but would not say, as is common enough in family matters, though he seemed frank enough. He went on, 'After they found the body, David Needler locked Elizabeth in her room and sent a message to Edwin at the Mercers' Hall. He rode home and when she wouldn't answer his questions he called the constable.' He spread his hands. 'What else could he do? He feared for the safety of his daughters and our old mother.'

'And at the inquest? Elizabeth said nothing then? Nothing at all?'

'No. The coroner told her this was her chance to speak in her defence, but she just sat looking at him with this cold, blank look. It made him angry, and the jury too.' Joseph sighed. 'The jury found Ralph had been murdered by Elizabeth Wentworth and the coroner ordered her taken to Newgate to face a murder charge at the assize. He ordered her to be kept in the Hole for her impertinence in court. And then—'

'Yes?'

'Then Elizabeth turned and looked at me. Just for a second. There was such misery in that look, sir, no anger any more, just misery.' Joseph bit his lip again. 'In the old days when she was small she was fond of me, she used to come and stay on the farm. Both my brothers saw me as a bit of a country clod, but Elizabeth loved the farm, always rushing off to see the animals as soon as she arrived.' He gave a sad smile. 'When she was little she'd try and get the sheep and pigs to play with her like her pet dog or cat and cry when they wouldn't.' He smoothed out the torn, creased handkerchief. 'She embroidered a set of these for me, you know, two years ago. What a mess I have made of it. Yet when I visit her in that awful place she is now, she just lies there, filthy, as though waiting only for death. I beg and plead with her to speak, but she stares through me as though I was not there. And she is up for trial on Saturday, in only five days' time.' His voice fell to a whisper again. 'Sometimes I fear she is possessed.'

'Come, Joseph, there is no point in thinking like that.'

He looked at me imploringly. 'Can you help her, Master Shardlake? Can you save her? You are my last hope.'

I was silent a moment, choosing my words carefully.

'The evidence against her is strong, it would be enough for a jury unless she has something to say in her defence.' I paused, then asked, 'You are sure she is not guilty?'

'Yes,' he said at once. He banged a fist on his chest. 'I feel it here. She was always kind at heart, sir, kind. She is the only one of my family I have known real kindness from. Even if she is ill in her mind, and by God's son she may be, I cannot believe she could kill a little boy.'

I took a deep breath. 'When she is brought into court she will be asked to plead guilty or not guilty. If she refuses then under the law she cannot be tried by a jury. But the alternative is worse.'

Joseph nodded. 'I know.'

'Peine forte et dure. Sharp and hard pains. She will be taken to a cell in Newgate and laid in chains on the floor. They will put a big, sharp stone under her back and a board on top of her. They will put weights on the board.'

'If only she would speak.' Joseph groaned and put his head in his hands. But I went on, I had to; he must know what she faced.

'They will allow her the barest rations of food and water. Each day more weights will be added to the board until she talks or dies of suffocation from the press of the weights. When the weights are heavy enough, because of the pressure of the stone placed underneath her back, her spine will break.' I paused. 'Some brave souls refuse to plead and allow themselves to be pressed to death because if there is no actual finding of guilt one's property is not forfeit to the State. Has Elizabeth any property?'

'Nothing in the world. The sale of their house barely covered Peter's debts. Only a few marks were left at the end and they went on the funeral.'

'Perhaps she did do this terrible thing, Joseph, in a moment of madness, and feels so guilty she wants to die, alone in the dark. Have you thought of that?'

He shook his head. 'No. I cannot believe it. I cannot believe it.'

'You know that criminal accused are not allowed representation in court?'

He nodded glumly.

'The reason the law gives is that the evidence needed to convict in a criminal trial must be so clear no counsel is needed. That is all nonsense, I'm afraid; the cases are run through quickly and the jury usually decide merely by preferring one man's word against another's. Often they favour the accused because most juries don't like sending people to hang, but in this case' — I looked at the wretched pamphlet on the table — 'a child killing, their sympathies will be the other way. Her only hope is to agree to plead and tell me her story. And if she did act in a fit of madness, I could plead insanity. It might save her life. She'd go to the Bedlam, but we could try for a pardon from the king.' That would cost more money than Joseph had, I thought.

He looked up and for the first time I saw hope in his eyes. I realized I had said, 'I could plead,' without thinking. I had committed myself.

'But if she won't speak,' I went on, 'no one can save her.'

He leaned forward and clutched my hand between damp palms. 'Oh, thank you, Master Shardlake, thank you, I knew you'd save her—'

'I'm not at all sure I can,' I said sharply, but then added, 'I'll try.'

'I'll pay, sir. I've little enough but I'll pay.'

'I had better go to Newgate and see her. Five days — I need to see her as soon as possible, but I have business at Lincoln's Inn that will keep me all afternoon. I can meet you at the Pope's Head tavern next to Newgate first thing tomorrow morning. Say at nine?'

'Yes, yes.' He stood up, putting the handkerchief back in his pocket, and grasped my hand. 'You are a good man, sir, a godly man.'

A soft-headed man, more like, I thought. But I was touched by the compliment. Joseph and his family were all strong reformers, as I had once been, and did not say such things lightly.

'My mother and brother think her guilty, they were furious when I said I might help her. But I must find the truth. There was such a strange thing at the inquest, it affected me and Edwin too—'

'What was that?'

'When we viewed the body it was two days after poor Ralph died. It has been hot this spring but there is an underground cellar where they store bodies for the coroner to view, which keeps them cool. And poor Ralph was clothed. And yet the body stank, sir, stank like a cow's head left out in the Shambles in summer. It made me feel sick, the coroner too. I thought Edwin would pass out. What does that mean, sir! I have been trying to puzzle it out. What does it signify?'

I shook my head. 'My friend, we do not know what half the things in the world signify. And sometimes they signify nothing.'

Joseph shook his head. 'But God wants us to find the true meaning of things. He gives us clues. And, sir, if this matter is not resolved and Elizabeth dies, the real murderer goes free, whoever he is.'

Chapter Two

EARLY NEXT MORNING I RODE into the City again. It was another hot day; the sunlight reflecting from the diamond panes of the Cheapside buildings made me blink.

In the pillory by the Standard a middle-aged man stood with a paper cap on his head and a loaf of bread hung round his neck. A placard identified him as a baker who had sold short weight. A few rotten fruits were spattered over his robe but the passers-by paid him little attention. The humiliation would be the worst of his punishment, I thought, looking up at where he sat, then I saw his face contort with pain as he shifted his position. With his head and arms pinioned and his neck bent forward, it was a painful position for one no longer young; I shuddered to think of the pain my back would have given me were I put in his place. And yet it gave me far less trouble these days, thanks to Guy.

Guy's was one of a row of apothecaries' shops in a narrow alley just past the Old Barge. The Barge was a huge, ancient house, once grand but now let out as cheap apartments. Rooks' nests were banked up against the crumbling battlements and ivy ran riot over the brickwork. I turned into the alley, welcoming the shade.

As I pulled to a halt in front of Guy's shop, I had the uneasy sensation of being watched. The lane was quiet, most of the shops not yet open for business. I dismounted slowly and tied Chancery to the rail, trying to look unconcerned but listening out for any movement behind me. Then I turned swiftly and looked up the lane.

I caught a movement at an upper storey of the Old Barge. I looked up, but had only the briefest glimpse of a shadowy figure at a window before the worm-eaten shutters were pulled closed. I stared for a moment, filled with a sudden uneasiness, then turned to Guy's shop.

It had only his name, 'Guy Malton', on the sign above the door. The window displayed neatly labelled flasks, rather than the stuffed alligators and other monsters most apothecaries favour. I knocked and went in. As usual the shop was clean and tidy, herbs and spices in jars lining the shelves. The room's musky, spicy smell brought Guy's consulting room at Scarnsea monastery back to my mind. Indeed the long apothecary's robe he wore was so dark a shade of green that in the dim light it looked almost black and could have been mistaken for a monk's robe. He was seated at his table, a frown of concentration on his thin, dark features as he applied a poultice from a bowl to an ugly burn on the arm of a thickset young man. I caught a whiff of lavender. Guy looked up and smiled, a sudden flash of white teeth.

'A minute more, Matthew,' he said in his lisping accent.

'I am sorry, I am earlier than I said I would be.'

'No matter, I am nearly done.'

I nodded and sat down on a chair. I looked at a chart on the wall, showing a naked man at the centre of a series of concentric circles, Man joined to his creator by the chains of nature. It reminded me of somebody pinned to an archery target. Underneath, a diagram of the four elements and the four types of human nature to which they correspond: earth for melancholic, water for phlegmatic, air for cheerful and fire for choleric.

The young man let out a sigh and looked up at Guy.

'By God's son, sir, that eases me already.'

'Good. Lavender is full of cold and wet properties, it draws the dry heat from your arm. I will give you a flask of this and you must apply it four times a day.'

The young man looked curiously at Guy's brown face. 'I have never heard of such a remedy. Is it used in the land you come from, sir? Perhaps there everyone is burned by the sun.'

'Oh, yes, Master Pettit,' Guy said seriously. 'If we did not wear lavender there we should all burn and shrivel up. We coat the palm trees with it too.' His patient gave him a keen look, perhaps scenting mockery. I noticed that his big square hands were spotted with pale scars. Guy rose and passed him a flask with a smile, raising a long finger. 'Four times a day, mind. And apply some to the wound on your leg made by that foolish physician.'

'Yes, sir.' The young man rose. 'I feel the burning going already, it has been an agony even to have my sleeve brush against it this last week. Thank you.' He took his purse from his belt and passed the apothecary a silver groat. As he left the shop Guy turned to me and laughed softly.

'When people made remarks like that at first I would correct them, tell them we have snow in Granada, which we do. But now I just agree with them. They are never sure if I joke or not. Still, it keeps me in their minds. Perhaps he will tell his friends in Lothbury.'

'He is a founder?'

'Ay, Master Pettit has just finished his apprenticeship. A serious young fellow. He spilt hot lead on his arm, but hopefully that old remedy will ease him.'

I smiled. 'You are learning the ways of business. Turning your differences to advantage.'

Apothecary Guy Malton, once Brother Guy of Malton, had fled Spain with his Moorish parents as a boy after the fall of Granada. He had trained as a physician at Louvain. He had become my friend on my mission to Scarnsea three years before, helped me during that terrible time, and when the monastery was dissolved I had hoped to set him up as a physician in London. But the College would not have him, with his brown face and papist past. With a little bribery, however, I had got him into the Apothecaries' Guild and he had managed to build up a good trade.

'Master Pettit went to a physician first.' Guy shook his head. 'He stitched a clyster thread into his leg to draw the pain down from his arm, and when the wound became inflamed insisted that showed the clyster was working.' He pulled off his apothecary's cap, revealing a head of curly hair that had once been black but now was mostly white. It still seemed odd to see him without his tonsure. He studied me closely with his keen brown eyes.

'And how have you been this last month, Matthew?'

'Still better. I do my exercises twice a day like a good patient. My back troubles me little unless I have to lift something heavy, like the great bundles of legal papers that mount in my room at Lincoln's Inn.'

'You should get your clerk to do that.'

'He gets them out of order. You've never seen such a noddle as Master Skelly.'

He smiled. 'Well, I will have a look at it if I may.'

He rose, lit a sweet-smelling candle, then closed the shutters as I removed my doublet and shirt. Guy was the only one I allowed to see my twisted back. He got me to stand, move my shoulders and arms, then stood behind me and gently probed my back muscles. 'Good,' he said. 'There is little stiffness. You may get dressed. Keep on with your exercises. It is good to have a conscientious patient.'

'I would not like to go back to the old days, fearing ever-worsening pain.'

He gave me another of his keen looks. 'And you are still melancholy? I see it in your face.'

'I have a melancholy nature, Guy. It is settled in me.' I looked at the chart on the wall. 'Everything in the world is made of a mixture of the four elements, and I have too much of earth. The imbalance is fixed in me.'

He inclined his dark head. 'There is nothing under the moon that is not subject to change.'

I shook my head. 'I seem to take less and less interest in the stirs of politics and the law, though once they were the heart of my life. It has been so since Scarnsea.'

'That was a terrible time. You do not miss being close to the centre of power?' He hesitated. 'To Lord Cromwell?'

I shook my head. 'No, I dream of a quiet life in the country somewhere, perhaps near my father's farm. Maybe then I will feel like taking up painting again.'

'Yet I wonder if that is the life for you, my friend. Would you not become bored without cases to sharpen your wits on, problems to solve?'

'Once I might have. But London now—' I shook my head— 'fuller of fanatics and cozeners every year. And my profession has enough of both.'

He nodded. 'Ay, in matters of religion opinions get more extreme. I tell people nothing of my past, as you may imagine. Dun's the mouse as the proverb has it; colourlessness and stillness keep one safe.'

'I have no patience with any of it these days. Sometimes I think all that matters is faith in Christ and all else is no more than a jangle of words.'

He smiled wryly. 'That is not what you would have said once.'

'No. Yet sometimes even that essential faith eludes me, and I can believe only that man is a fallen creature.' I laughed sadly. 'That I can believe.' I pulled the crumpled pamphlet from my pocket and laid it on the table. 'See there, the girl's uncle is an old client of mine. He wants me to help her. Her trial is on Saturday. That is why I have come early, I am meeting him at Newgate at nine.' I told him of my meeting with Joseph the day before. Strictly it was breaching a confidence, but I
 knew Guy would say nothing.

'She refuses to speak at all?' he asked when I had finished, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

'Not one word. You'd think she'd be startled out of that when she learned she'd be pressed, but she hasn't been. It makes me think her wits must be affected.' I looked at him seriously. 'Her uncle begins to fear possession.'

He inclined his head. 'It is easy to cry "possession". I have sometimes wondered if the man from whom Our Lord cast out a devil was not merely a poor lunatic'

I gave him a sidelong look. 'The Bible is quite clear he was possessed.'

'And today we must believe all that is said in the Bible and only that. Master Coverdale's translation of it, that is.' Guy smiled wryly. Then his face became thoughtful and he began pacing the room, the hem of his robe brushing the clean rushes on the floor.

'You can't assume she is mad,' he said. 'Not yet. People have many reasons for silence. Because there are things one is too ashamed or frightened to reveal. Or to protect someone else.'

'Or because one has ceased to care what happens to one.'

'Yes. That is a terrible state, near to suicide.'

'Whatever her reasons, I'll have to persuade the girl out of it if I'm to save her life. The press is a horrible death.' I stood up. 'Oh, Guy, why did I let myself get drawn into this? Most lawyers don't touch criminal cases, the accused not being allowed representation. I've advised one or two before their trials, but I don't enjoy it. And I hate the stink of death around the assizes, knowing in a few days the carts will roll to Tyburn.'

'But the cans go to Tyburn whether you see them or no. If you can make an empty space in one of those carts—'

I smiled wryly. 'You still have a monk's faith in salvation through good works.'

'Should not we all believe in the righteousness of charity?'

'Yes, if we have the energy for it.' I stood up. 'Well, I am due at Newgate.'

'I have a potion,' he said, 'that can sometimes lift a man's spirits. Reduce the black bile in his stomach.'

I raised a hand. 'No, Guy, I thank you but so long as my wits are not dulled, I will stay in the state God has called me to.'

'As you wish.' He extended a hand. 'I will say a prayer for you.'

'Beneath that big old Spanish cross of yours? You still have it in your bedroom?'

'It was my family's.'

'Beware the constable. Just because evangelicals are being arrested now it doesn't mean the government's any easier on Catholics.'

'The constable's a friend. Last month he drank some water he bought from a carrier and an hour later staggered into my shop clutching his stomach in agony.'

'He drank water? Unboiled? Everyone knows it is full of deadly humours.'

'He was very thirsty; you know how hot the weather has been. He was badly poisoned — I made him swallow a spoonful of mustard to make him sick.'

I shuddered. 'I thought salted beer was the best emetic.'

'Mustard is better, it works at once. He recovered and now he stumps merrily around the ward calling my praises.' His face became serious. 'Just as well: with all this talk of invasion foreigners are not popular these days. I get insults called after me in the streets more frequently; I always cross the street if there is a gang of apprentices around.'

'I am sorry. The times get no easier.'

'The City is full of rumours the king is unhappy with his new marriage,' he said. 'That Anne of Cleves may fall and Cromwell with her.'

'Are there not always new rumours, new fears?' I laid a hand on his shoulder. 'Keep courage. And come to dinner next week.'

'I shall.' He led me to the door. I turned back to him. 'Don't forget that prayer.'

'I won't.'

I unhitched Chancery and rode up the lane. As I passed the Old Barge I looked up at the window where I had seen the figure. It was still shuttered. But as I turned back into Bucklersbury I had the feeling of being watched again. I turned my head abruptly. The streets were getting busy, but I saw a man in a doublet of lusty-gallant red leaning against a wall with his arms folded, staring straight at me. He was in his late twenties, with a strong-featured face, comely but hard, under untidy brown hair. He had a fighter's build, broad shoulders and a narrow waist. As he met my gaze his wide mouth twisted into a mocking grin. Then he turned away and walked with a quick, light step towards the Barge, disappearing into the crowds.

Chapter Three

AS I RODE BACK TO Newgate I reflected anxiously on my watcher. Could the man have some connection with the Wentworth case? I had mentioned the case at Lincoln's Inn the afternoon before and gossip travels faster among lawyers than among the washerwomen in Moorgate fields. Or was he some agent of the State, investigating my dealings with the dark-skinned ex-monk? Yet these days I had no connections with politics.

Chancery stirred uneasily and neighed, sensing my worry or perhaps made uneasy by the dreadful smells that assailed us as we passed the Shambles, a foul trail of blood and fluids seeping down the channel from Bladder Street. The stink here was always bad, however much the City might try to regulate the butchers, but on a hot day like this it was unbearable. If this weather went on I should have to buy a nosegay, I thought, noticing that many of the richer-looking passers-by held posies of spring flowers before their faces.

I passed into Newgate Market, still overshadowed by the great monastic church of Greyfriars, behind whose stained-glass windows the king now stored booty taken from the French at sea. Beyond stood the high City wall and, built into it, the chequered towers of Newgate. London's principal gaol is a fine, ancient building, yet it holds more misery than anywhere in London, many of its inhabitants leaving it only for their execution.

I entered the Pope's Head tavern. It was open all hours and did a good trade from visitors to the gaol. Joseph sat at a table overlooking the dusty rear garden, nursing a cup of small beer, the weak beer drunk to quench thirst. A posy of flowers lay beside him. He was looking uneasily at a well-dressed young man who was leaning over him, smiling affably.

'Come, Brother, a game of cards will cheer you up. I am due to meet some friends at an inn nearby. Good company.' He was one of the coneycatchers who infest the City, looking for country people in their dull clothes who were new to town to fleece them of their money.

'Excuse us,' I said sharply, easing myself into a chair. 'This gentleman and I are due to have conference. I am his lawyer.'

The young man raised his eyebrows at Joseph. 'Then you'll lose all your money anyway, sir,' he said. 'Justice is a fat fee.' As he passed me he leaned close. 'Crook-backed bloodsucker,' he murmured softly.

Joseph did not hear. 'I've been to the gaol again,' he said gloomily. 'I told the gaoler I was bringing a lawyer. Another sixpence he charged, to allow the visit. What's more he had a copy of that filthy pamphlet. He told me he's been letting people in to look at Elizabeth for a penny. They call out through the spyhole and insult her. He laughed about it. It's cruel — surely they're not allowed to do that?'

'The gaolers are allowed anything for their own profit. He would have told you in hope of a bribe to keep her free of such pestering.'

He ran a hand through his hair. 'I have had to pay for food for her, water, everything. I can't afford more, sir.' He shook his head. 'These gaolers must be the wickedest men on earth.'

'Ay. But clever enough at turning a profit.' I looked at him seriously. 'I went to Lincoln's Inn yesterday afternoon, Joseph. I learned the judge sitting at Saturday's assize is Forbizer. That is no good news. He's a strong Bible man and incorruptible—'

'But that's good, surely, a Bible man—'

I shook my head. 'Incorruptible, but hard as stone.'

'No sympathy for a young orphan girl half out of her wits?'

'Not for any living creature. I've appeared before him in civil matters.' I leaned forward. 'Joseph, we must get Elizabeth to talk or she's as good as dead.'

He bit his lip in that characteristic gesture of his. 'When I took her some food yesterday she just lay there and looked at it. Not a word of thanks, not even a nod. I think she's hardly eaten for days. I've bought her these flowers but I don't know if she'll look at them.'

'Well, let us see what I can do.'

He nodded gratefully. As we got up I said, 'By the way, does Sir Edwin know you have retained me?'

Joseph shook his head. 'I haven't spoken with Edwin in a week, since I suggested that Elizabeth might not be guilty and he ordered me from his house.' A flash of anger crossed his face. 'He thinks that if I do not want Elizabeth to die, I must be against him and his.'

'Nonetheless,' I said thoughtfully, 'he might have heard.'

'What makes you think so, sir?'

'Oh, nothing. Never mind.'

===OO=OOO=OO===

JOSEPH'S WHOLE BODY seemed to slump as we approached the gaol. We passed the begging grille in the wall through which poor prisoners thrust clutching hands, calling to passers-by for charity for God's love. Those without money got little or no food and it was said some prisoners starved to death. I placed a penny in a grubby, frantic hand, then knocked loudly at the stout wooden door. A spy flap opened and a hard face looked out from under a greasy cap, eyes flicking over my black lawyer's robe.

'Lawyer for Elizabeth Wentworth,' I said, 'with her uncle. He's paid for the visit.' The flap slammed shut and the door opened. The gaoler, dressed in a dirty smock and with a heavy stick at his belt, looked at me curiously as we passed through. Despite the heat of the day the prison with its thick stone walls was cold, a dank chill seeming to emanate from the very stones. The gaoler called out, 'Wilhams!' and a fat turnkey in a leather jerkin appeared, jangling a large ring of keys in one hand.

'Lawyer for the child murderess.' The gaoler smiled evilly at me. 'Seen the pamphlet?'

'Yes,' I answered shortly.

He shook his head. 'She still won't talk; it'll be the press for her. Did you know, lawyer, there's an old rule prisoners should be naked when they're laid out chained for the weights to be put on 'em. Shame to get a view of a nice pair of bubbies, then have to squash 'em flat.'

Joseph's face puckered with distress.

'There is no such rule that I know of,' I said coldly.

The gaoler spat on the floor. 'I know the rules for my own gaol, whatever pen gents may say.' He nodded to the turnkey. 'Take 'em down to the Women's Hole.'

We were led down a wide corridor with wards on either side. Through the barred windows in the doors men were visible sitting or lying on straw pallets, their legs fixed to the walls by long chains. The smell of urine was so strong it stung the nostrils. The turnkey waddled along, keys rattling. Unlocking a heavy door, he led us down a flight of steps into semi-darkness. At the bottom another door faced us. The turnkey pulled aside a flap and peered in before turning to us.

'Still lying just where she was yesterday afternoon when I brought those people down to look at her through the hatch. Silent as a stone she was, hiding herself while they called witch and child killer through the door.' He shook his head.

'May we go in?'

He shrugged and opened the door. As soon as we had passed through he shut it quickly behind us, the key rasping in the lock.

The Hole, the deepest and darkest part of the prison, had a men's and a women's dungeon. The Women's Hole was a small, square chamber, lit dimly by a barred window high up near the ceiling, through which I could see the shoes and skirts of passers-by. It was as chill as the rest of the prison, with a miasma of damp that penetrated even the stink of ordure. The floor was covered with foul straw, stained and matted with all manner of filth. Huddled in one corner was a fat old woman in a stained wadmol dress, fast asleep. I stared round, puzzled, for at first I could see no one else, but then I saw that in the furthest corner the straw had been pulled into a pile around a human figure, hiding it save for a face begrimed with dirt and framed by tangled hair as dark and curly as Joseph's. The face stared at us vacantly with large eyes, dark green like his. It was such a strange sight a shiver ran through me.

Joseph walked across to her. 'Lizzy,' he said chidingly, 'why have you piled the straw round yourself like that? It's filthy. Are you cold?'

The girl did not answer. Her eyes were unfocused; she could or would not look at us directly. I saw that under the dirt her face was pretty, delicate, with high cheekbones. A grubby hand was half visible through the straw. Joseph reached for it, but the girl drew it sharply away without altering her gaze. I went and stood directly in front of her as Joseph laid the posy at her side.

'I've brought you some flowers, Lizzy,' he said. She glanced at the posy and then she did return Joseph's gaze and to my surprise her look was full of anger. I saw a plate of bread and stockfish lying on the straw with a flagon of beer. It must be the food Joseph had brought. It was untouched, fat blackbeetles nosing over the dried fish. Elizabeth looked away again.

'Elizabeth—' there was a tremble in her uncle's voice — 'this is Master Shardlake. He's a lawyer, he has the best mind in London. He can help you. But you must talk to him.'

I squatted on my haunches so I could look into her face without sitting on that disgusting straw. 'Miss Wentworth,' I said gently, 'can you hear me? Why will you not speak? Are you protecting a secret — yours, or perhaps another's?' I paused. She looked right through me, not even stirring. In the silence I heard the tapping of feet from the street above. I felt suddenly angry.

'You know what will happen if you refuse to plead?' I said. 'You will be pressed. The judge you will come before on Saturday is a hard man and that will be his sentence without a doubt. They've told you what pressing means?' Still no response. 'A dreadful slow death that can last many days.'

At these words her eyes came to life and fixed mine, but only for a second. I shivered at the pit of misery I saw in them.

'If you speak, I may be able to save you. There are possible ways, whatever happened that day at the well.' I paused. 'What did happen, Elizabeth? I'm your lawyer, I won't tell anyone else. We could ask your uncle to leave if you would rather speak to me alone.'

'Yes,' Joseph agreed. 'Yes, if you wish.'

But still she was silent. She began picking at the straw with one hand.

'Oh, Lizzy,' Joseph burst out, 'you should be reading and playing music as you were a year ago, not lying in this terrible place.' He put a fist to his face, biting his knuckles. I shifted my position and looked the girl directly in the eyes. Something had struck me.

'Elizabeth, I know people have come down here to look at you, to taunt. Yet though you hide your body you show your face. Oh, I know that straw is vile but you could hide your head, it would be a way of preventing people from seeing you, the turnkey would not be permitted to let them in. It is almost as though you wanted them to see you.'

A shudder ran through her and for a moment I thought she would break down, but she set her jaw hard; I saw the muscles clench. I paused a moment, then got painfully to my feet. As I did so, there was a rustle from the straw on the other side of the cell and I turned to see the old woman raising herself slowly on her elbows. She shook her head solemnly.

'She won't speak, gentlemen,' she said in a cracked voice. 'I've been here three days and she's said nothing.'

'What are you here for?' I asked her.

'They say my son and I stole a horse. We're for trial on Saturday too.' She sighed and ran her tongue over her cracked lips. 'Have you any drink, sir? Even the most watery beer.'

'No, I'm sorry.'

She looked over at Elizabeth. 'They say she has a demon inside her, that one, a demon that holds her fast.' She laughed bitterly. 'But demon or no, it's all one to the hangman.'

I turned to Joseph. 'I don't think there's any more I can do here now. Come, let us go.' I led him gently to the door and knocked. It opened at once: the gaoler must have been outside listening. I glanced back; Elizabeth still lay quite still, unmoving.

'The old beldame's right,' the turnkey said as he locked the door behind us. 'She has a devil inside her.'

'Then have a care when you bring people down to goggle at her through that spy hatch,' I snapped. 'She might turn herself into a crow and fly at their faces.' I led Joseph away. A minute later we were outside again, blinking in the bright sunlight. We returned to the tavern and I set a beer in front of him.

'How many times have you visited since she was taken?' I asked.

'Today's the fourth. And each time she sits there like a stone.'

'Well, I can't move her. Not at all. I confess I've never seen anything like it.'

'You did your best, sir,' he said disappointedly.

I tapped my fingers on the table. 'Even if she were found guilty, there may just be ways of stopping her from being hanged. The jury might be persuaded she was mad, she could even claim she was pregnant, then she couldn't be hanged till the baby was born. It would buy us time.'

'Time for what, sir?'

'What? Time to investigate, find what really happened.'

He leaned forward eagerly, nearly knocking over his tankard. 'Then you believe she is innocent?'

I gave him a direct look. 'You do. Though her treatment of you, in all honesty, is cruel.'

'I believe her because I know her. And because, when I see her there, I see—' He struggled for words.

'A woman whose air is of one who has been done a great wrong, rather than one who has committed a great crime?'

'Yes,' he said eagerly. 'Yes. That is it exactly. You feel it too?'

'Ay, I do.' I looked at him evenly. 'But what you or I feel is not evidence, Joseph. And we may be wrong. It is not good for a lawyer to base his work on instinct. He needs detachment, reason. I speak from experience.'

'What can we do, sir?'

'You must go and see her every day between now and Saturday. I don't think she can be persuaded to speak, but it will show her she is not forgotten and I feel that is important, for all that she ignores us. If she says anything, if her manner changes at all, tell me and I will come again.'

'I'll do it, sir,' he said.

'And if she still does not speak, I will appear in court on Saturday. I don't know if Forbizer will even hear me, but I'll try and argue that her mind is disturbed—'

'God knows, it must be. She has no reason to treat me so. Unless — ' he hesitated — 'unless the old woman is right.'

'There's no profit in thinking that way, Joseph. I'll try to argue that the issue of her sanity should be remitted to a jury. I am sure there are precedents, though Forbizer doesn't have to follow them. Again, that would buy us time.' I looked at him seriously. 'But I am not optimistic. You must prepare your mind for the worst, Joseph.'

'No, sir,' he said. 'While you are working for us, I have hope.'

'Prepare for the worst,' I repeated. It was all very well for Guy to talk of the merit of good works. He did not have to come before Judge Forbizer on gaol-delivery day.

Chapter Four

I RODE FROM NEWGATE TO my chambers at Lincoln's Inn, just up the road from my house in Chancery Lane. When King Edward III ordered that no lawyers should be allowed to practise within the precincts of London, necessitating our removal outside its walls, he did us great service for the Inn was semi-rural, with wide orchards and the space of Lincoln's Inn Fields beyond.

I passed under the high square towers of the Great Gate, left Chancery at the stables and walked to my chambers across Gatehouse Court. The sun shone brightly on the red-brick buildings. There was a pleasant breeze; we were too far from the City walls here for London smells to penetrate.

Barristers were striding purposefully around the precincts; the Trinity law term began the following week and there were cases to set in order. Among the black robes and caps there were also, of course, the usual young gentlemen in bright doublets and exaggerated codpieces strutting around, sons of gentry who joined the Inns only to learn London manners and make social contacts. A pair of them walking by had evidently been rabbiting in Coney Garth, for a pair of hounds frisked at their heels, their eyes on the furry bodies dripping blood from poles slung over their masters' shoulders.

Then, ambling down the path from Lincoln's Inn Hall with his customary amiable smile on his beaky features, I saw the tall, thin figure of Stephen Bealknap, against whom I would be pleading in King's Bench in a few days. He halted in front of me and bowed. The courtesies require that barristers, even when opponents in the bitterest of cases, must observe the civilities, but Bealknap's friendly manner always had something mocking in it. It was as though he said: you know I am a great scamp, but still you must be pleasant to me.

'Brother Shardlake!' he declaimed. 'Another hot day. The wells will be drying up at this rate.'

Normally I would have made a curt acknowledgement and moved on, but it struck me there was a piece of information he could help me with. 'So they will,' I said. 'It has been a dry spring.'

At my unaccustomed civility, a smile appeared on Bealknap's face. It seemed quite pleasant until you came close and saw the meanness in the mouth, and realized the pale-blue eyes would never quite meet yours no matter how you tried to fix them. Beneath his cap a few curls of wiry-looking blond hair strayed.

'Well, our case is on next week,' he said. 'June the first.'

'Ay. It has come on very quick. It was only in March you lodged your writ. I am still surprised, Brother Bealknap, that you have taken this up to King's Bench.'

'They have a proper respect for the rights of property law there. I shall show them the case of Friars Preachers v. the Prior of Okeham.'

I laughed lightly. 'I see you have been ferreting in the Assize of Nuisance Rolls, Brother. That case is on a different point and it is two hundred years old.'

He smiled back, his eyes darting around. 'It is still relevant. The prior pleaded that matters of nuisance such as his faulty gutter were beyond the council's jurisdiction.'

'Because his priory came directly under the king's authority. But St Michael's priory comes under yours now. You are the freeholder and you are responsible for the nuisance your priory causes. I hope you have better authority than that to hand.'

He would not be drawn, bending to examine the sleeve of his robe. 'Well, Brother,' I said lightly, 'we shall see. But now we are met, I would ask a question on another matter. Will you be at the gaol delivery on Saturday?' I knew that running compurgators in the bishop's court was one of Bealknap's disreputable sidelines, and he often lurked around the Old Bailey justice hall looking for clients. He flicked a curious glance at me.

'Perhaps.'

'Judge Forbizer is on, I believe. How quickly does he deal with the cases?'

Bealknap shrugged. 'Fast as he can. You know the King's Bench judges; they think dealing with common thieves and murderers beneath them.'

'But Forbizer has good knowledge of the law for all his hardness. I wondered how open he would be to legal argument for the accused.'

Bealknap's face lit up with interest and his eyes, bright with curiosity, actually met mine for a moment. 'Ah, I had heard you were retained for the Walbrook murderess. I said I didn't believe it, you're a property man.'

'The alleged murderess,' I replied flatly. 'She comes up before Forbizer on Saturday.'

'You won't get far with him,' Bealknap said cheerfully. 'He has a Bible man's contempt for the sinful, wants to hasten them to their just deserts. She'll have little mercy from Forbizer. He'll want a plea or a kill.' His eyes narrowed and I guessed he was thinking whether he might turn this to his advantage. But there was no way, or I should not have asked him.

'So I thought. But thank you,' I added, as lightly as I could. 'Good morning!'

'I shall look out for you on Saturday, Brother,' he called after me. 'Good luck: you will need it!'

===OO=OOO=OO===

IT WAS IN NO GOOD temper that I entered the small set of ground-floor rooms I shared with my friend Godfrey Wheelwright. In the outer office my clerk, John Skelly, was studying a conveyance he had just drawn up, a lugubrious expression on his thin face. He was a small, weazened fellow with long rats' tails of brown hair. Although not yet twenty he was married with a child and I had taken him on last winter partly from pity at his obvious poverty. He was an old pupil of St Paul's cathedral school and had good Latin, but he was a hopeless fellow, a poor copier and forever losing papers as I had told Guy. He looked up at me guiltily.

'I have just finished the Beckman conveyance, sir,' he mumbled. 'I'm sorry it is late.'

I took it from him. 'This should have been done two days ago. Is there any correspondence?'

'It is on your counting table, sir.'

'Very well.'

I passed into my room. It was dim and stuffy; dust motes danced in the beam of light from the little window giving onto the courtyard. I removed my robe and cap and sat at my table, breaking the seals on my letters with my dagger. I was surprised and disappointed to find I had lost another case. I had been acting on the purchase of a warehouse down at Salt Wharf, but now my client wrote curtly to say the seller had withdrawn and he no longer required my services. I studied the letter. The purchase was a curious one: my client was an attorney from the Temple and the warehouse was to be conveyed into his name, which meant the purchaser must want his own name kept secret. This was the third case in two months where the client had suddenly withdrawn his instructions without reason.

Frowning, I put the letter aside and turned to the conveyance. It was clumsily written and there was a smudge at the bottom of the page. Did Skelly think such a mess would pass? He would have to do it again, with more time wasted that I was paying for. I tossed it aside and, sharpening a new quill, took up my commonplace book, which held years of notes from moots and readings. I looked at my old notes on criminal law, but they were scanty and I could find nothing about peine forte et dure.

There was a knock at the door and Godfrey came in. He was of an age with me. Twenty years before we had been scholars and ardent young reformers together, and unlike me he had retained his zealous belief that following the break with Rome a new Christian commonwealth might dawn in England. I saw that his narrow, delicate-featured face was troubled.

'Have you heard the rumours?' he asked.

'What now?'

'Yesterday evening the king rowed down the Thames to dinner at the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk's house with Catherine Howard beside him under the canopy. In the royal barge, for all London to see. It's the talk of the City. He meant to be seen — it's a sign the Cleves marriage is over. And a Howard marriage means a return to Rome.'

I shook my head. 'But Queen Anne was beside him at the May Day jousts. Just because the king has his eye on a Howard wench doesn't mean he'll put the queen aside. God's wounds, he's had four wives in eight years. He can't want a fifth.'

'Can't he? Imagine the Duke of Norfolk in Lord Cromwell's place.'

'Cromwell can be cruel enough.'

'Only when it is necessary. And the duke would be far harsher.' He sat down heavily opposite me.

'I know,' I said quietly. 'None of the privy councillors has a crueller reputation.'

'He is a lunch guest of the benchers here on Sunday, is he not?'

'Yes.' I made a face. 'I shall see him for myself for the first time. I do not greatly look forward to it. But, Godfrey, the king would never turn the clock back. We have the Bible in English and Cromwell's just got an earldom.'

He shook his head. 'I sense trouble coming.'

'When has there not been trouble these last ten years? Well, if London has a new topic that may take the heat from Elizabeth Wentworth.' I had told him yesterday that I had taken on the case. 'I've been to see her in Newgate. She won't say a word.'

He shook his head. 'Then she'll be pressed, Matthew.'

'Listen, Godfrey, I need a precedent to say someone who won't speak because they're mad can't be pressed.'

He stared at me with his large blue-grey eyes, strangely innocent for a lawyer's. 'Is she mad?'

'She may be. There's a precedent somewhere in the yearbooks, I'm sure.' I looked at him; Godfrey had an excellent memory for cases.

'Yes,' he said. 'I think you're right.'

'I thought I might try the library.'

'When's gaol delivery — Saturday? You've little time. I'll help you look.'

'Thank you.' I smiled gratefully; it was like Godfrey to forget his own worries and come to my aid. His fears, I knew, were real enough; he knew some of the evangelicals in the circle of Robert Barnes, who had recently been put in the Tower for making sermons with too Lutheran a flavour.

I walked with him to the library and we spent two hours among the great stacks of case law, where we found two or three cases which might be helpful.

'I'll send Skelly over to copy these,' I said.

He smiled. 'And now you can buy me lunch as a reward for my help.'

'Gladly.'

We went outside into the hot afternoon. I sighed. As ever, among the law books in the magnificent library I had felt a momentary sense of security, of order and reason; but out in the harsh light of day I recalled that a judge could ignore precedent and remembered Bealknap's words.

'Courage, my friend,' Godfrey said. 'If she is innocent, God will not allow her to suffer.'

'The innocent suffer whilst rogues prosper, Godfrey, as we both know. They say that churl Bealknap has a thousand gold angels in the famous chest in his rooms. Come, I'm hungry.'

As we crossed the courtyard to the dining hall I saw a fine litter with damask curtains standing outside a nearby set of chambers, carried by four bearers in Mercers' Company livery. Two attendant ladies, carrying posies, stood at a respectful distance while a tall woman in a high-collared gown of blue velvet stood talking to Gabriel Marchamount, one of the serjeants. Marchamount's tall, plump figure was encased in a fine silk robe, and a cap with a swan's feather was perched on his head. I remembered Bealknap had been under his patronage once until he tired of Bealknap's endless crookery; Marchamount liked his reputation as an honest man.

I studied the woman, noting the jewelled pomander that hung at her bosom from a gold chain, and as I did so she turned and met my eye. She murmured something to Marchamount and he raised his arm, bidding me to halt. He gave the woman his arm and led her across the courtyard to us. Her attendants followed, their skirts making a whispering noise on the stone flags.

Marchamount's companion was strikingly attractive, in her thirties, with a direct, open gaze. She wore a round French hood about her hair, which was blonde and very fine; little wisps slipped out, stirring in the breeze. I saw the hood was faced with pearls.

'Master Shardlake,' Marchamount said in his deep, booming voice, a smile on his rubicund face, 'may I introduce my client and good friend, Lady Honor Bryanston? Brother Matthew Shardlake.'

She extended a hand. I took the long white fingers gently and bowed. 'Delighted, madam.'

'Forgive my intrusion on your business,' she said. Her voice was a clear contralto with a husky undertone, the accent aristocratic. Her full-lipped mouth made girlish dimples in her cheeks as she smiled.

'Not at all, madam.' I was going to introduce Godfrey but she continued, ignoring his presence. 'I have been in conference with Master Marchamount. I recognized you from a description the Earl of Essex gave when we dined last. He was singing your praises as one of the best lawyers in London.'

The Earl of Essex. Cromwell. I had thought, and hoped, that he had forgotten me. And I realized she would have been told to look out for a hunchback.

'I am most grateful,' I said cautiously.

'Yes, he was quite effusive,' Marchamount said. His tone was light, but his prominent brown eyes studied me keenly. I recalled he was known as an opponent of reform and wondered what he had been doing dining with Cromwell.

'I am ever on the lookout for fine minds to strike their wits against each other around my dining table,' Lady Honor continued. 'Lord Cromwell suggested you as a candidate.'

I raised a hand. 'You compliment me too highly. I am a mere jobbing lawyer.'

She smiled again and raised a hand. 'No, sir, I hear you are more than that. A bencher, who may be a serjeant one day. I shall send you an invitation to one of my sugar banquets. You live further down Chancery Lane, I believe.'

'You are well informed, madam.'

She laughed. 'I try to be. New information and new friends stave off a widow's boredom.' She looked round the quadrangle, studying the scene with interest. 'How marvellous it must be to live beyond the foul airs of the City.'

'Brother Shardlake has a fine house, I hear.' There was a slight edge to Marchamount's voice, a glint in his dark brown, protuberant eyes. He laughed, showing a full set of white teeth. 'Such are the profits of land law, eh, Brother?'

'Justly earned, I am sure,' Lady Honor said. 'But now you must excuse me, I have an appointment at the Mercers' Hall.' She turned away, raising a hand. 'Expect to hear from me shortly, Master Shardlake.'

Marchamount bowed to us, then led Lady Honor back to her litter, making a great fuss of helping her inside before walking back to his chambers, stately as a full-rigged ship. We watched as the litter made its swaying way to the gate, her ladies walking sedately behind.

'Forgive me Godfrey,' I said. 'I was going to introduce you, but she gave me no chance. That was a little rude of her.'

'I would not have welcomed the introduction,' he said primly. 'Do you know who she is?'

I shook my head. London society did not interest me.

'Widow to Sir Harcourt Bryanston. He was the biggest mercer in London when he died three years ago. He was far older than her,' he added disapprovingly. 'They had sixty four poor men in attendance at his funeral, one for every year of his age.'

'Well, what's so wrong with that?'

'She's a Vaughan, an aristocrat fallen on hard times. She married Bryanston for his money, and since his death she's set herself up as the greatest hostess in London. Trying to build up her family name again, which was trampled down in the wars between Lancaster and York.'

'One of the old families, eh?'

'Ay. She specializes in setting reformers against papists over her dinner table, takes a perverse pleasure in it.' He looked at me earnestly. 'She's invited Bishops Gardiner and Ridley and started a conversation about transubstantiation before now. Matters of religious truth are not to be toyed with like that.' A sudden hardness entered his voice. 'They are for hard reflection, on which the fate of our eternal souls depend. As you used to say yourself,' he added.

'Ay, I did.' I sighed, for I knew my loss of religious enthusiasm these last few years troubled my friend. 'So she's in with both factions then?'

'She has both Cromwell and Norfolk at her table, but she's no loyalty to either side. Don't go, Matthew.'

I hesitated. There was strength, a sophistication about Lady Honor that stirred something in me that had been quiet a long time. And yet being in the middle of such arguments as Godfrey described would not be comfortable, and for all he might have kind words for me I had no wish to see Cromwell again. 'I'll see,' I said.

Godfrey looked over to Marchamount's chambers. 'I'll wager the good serjeant would give much to have a lineage like hers. I hear he is still pestering the College of Arms for a shield, though his father was but a fishmonger.'

I laughed. 'Ay, he likes mixing with those of breeding.' The unexpected meeting had lifted me from the concerns of work, but they returned as we entered the dining hall. Under the great vaulted beams I saw Bealknap sitting alone at one end of a long table. He was shovelling food into his mouth with his spoon while reading a large casebook. Friars Preachers v. the Prior of Okeham, no doubt, to quote against me at Westminster Hall in a week's time.

Chapter Five

THE OLD BAILEY COURT is a small, cramped building set against the outer side of the City wall opposite Newgate. There is nothing of the panoply of the civil courts in Westminster Hall, although judgements here deal not with money and property, but maiming and death.

On Saturday morning I arrived in good time. The court did not usually sit on Saturdays, but with the civil-law term starting the following week the judges would be heavily occupied and the London assize had been brought forward to get the criminal business out of the way. I passed inside the courtroom, clutching my file of precedents, and bowed to the bench.

Judge Forbizer sat on his dais working on papers, his scarlet robes a slash of colour among the dull clothes of the rabble crowding the benches, for the assize was ever a popular spectacle and the Wentworth case had aroused much interest. I looked for Joseph and saw him sitting at the end of a bench, squashed against a window by the press of people, biting his lip anxiously. He raised a hand in greeting and I smiled, trying to show a confidence I did not feel. He had visited Elizabeth every day since Tuesday, but she had still not uttered a word. I had met him the evening before and told him I would try for a plea of madness, which was all that was left to us.

Some distance away I saw a man who looked so like Joseph it could only be his brother Edwin. He wore a fine green robe with a fur trim; his face was drawn with care. He met my look and glared, pulling his robe closer around him. So he knew who I was.

And then, in the row in front of Edwin Wentworth, I saw the young man who had been watching me near Guy's shop. Today he wore a sober doublet of dark green. He sat resting his chin on an elbow placed insolently on the rail separating the spectators' benches from the court. He stared at me speculatively, large dark eyes keen with interest. I frowned and he smiled briefly, settling himself more comfortably. So I was right, I thought, they've set this ruffian to watch me, try to put me off my stride. Well, that will not work. I hitched my gown and stepped away to the lawyers' bench. As this was a criminal trial it was empty, but as I sat down I noticed Bealknap in a doorway. He was talking with an official in clerical dress, the bishop's ordinary.

At that time there was still much corrupt use of benefit of clergy. If a man was found guilty of a crime, then by claiming he was a clerk in holy orders he had the right to be handed over to the bishop for punishment. All one had to do to claim benefit was to prove one was literate by reading aloud the opening verse of psalm 51. King Henry had restricted the use of benefit to non-capital crimes but the rule still stood. Those who satisfied the test were taken to Bishop Bonner's gaol until he decided they had repented; a repentance verified by twelve compurgators, men of good standing who attested to the convict's truthfulness. Bealknap had a ring of compurgators who for a fee would happily vouch for anyone. His sideline was well known throughout Lincoln's Inn, but no barrister would ever inform against another member of the profession.

As I took my place, Forbizer stared at me. It was impossible to gauge his mood; his thin, choleric face always wore the same expression of cold disgust at human sinfulness. He had a long, tidily clipped grey beard and hard coal-black eyes that stared at me coldly. A barrister appearing at a criminal trial meant troublesome legal interruptions.

'What do you want?' he asked.

I bowed. 'I am here to represent Mistress Wentworth, your honour.'

'Are you now? We'll see.' He lowered his head to his papers again.

There was a stir and everyone turned as the jury, twelve well-fed London merchants, were escorted into the jury box. Then the door from the cells opened and the tipstaff led in a dozen ragged prisoners. The more serious cases were heard first, the ones that carried the death penalty; murder, burglary and thefts valued at more than a shilling. The accused were manacled together at the ankles and their chains made a clanking noise as they were led to the dock. They brought a mighty stink with them and some spectators produced nosegays, though the smell did not seem to trouble Forbizer. Elizabeth was at the end of the line next to the fat woman, the alleged horse thief. The woman was tightly grasping the hand of a ragged young man who was trembling and fighting back tears, her son no doubt. I had only seen Elizabeth's face before; now I saw she had a comely figure. She wore a grey indoor dress, crumpled and filthy through being worn over a week at Newgate. I tried to catch her eye but she kept her head bowed. There was a murmur among the spectators, and I saw the sharp-faced young man studying her with interest.

The prisoners shuffled into the dock. Most had frightened, drawn expressions and the young horse thief was shaking like a leaf now. Forbizer gave him a hard look. The clerk stood and asked the prisoners, one by one, how they pleaded. Each replied, 'Not guilty.' Elizabeth was last.

'Elizabeth Wentworth,' the clerk asked solemnly, 'you are charged with the foul murder of Ralph Wentworth on May sixteenth last. How say you — guilty or not guilty?'

I felt the courtroom tense. I did not rise yet, I must wait and see whether she took this final chance to speak, but I looked at her beseechingly. She bowed her head, the long tangled hair falling forward and hiding her face. Forbizer leaned across his desk.

'You are being asked to plead, Mistress,' he said coldly and evenly. 'You had better.'

She lifted her head and looked at him, but it was the same look she had given me in her cell: unfocused, blank, as though looking through him. Forbizer reddened slightly.

'Mistress, you stand accused of one of the foulest crimes imaginable against God and man. Do you or do you not accept trial by a jury of your peers?'

Still she did not speak or move.

'Very well, we will address this at the end of the session.' He looked at her narrowly a moment more, then said, 'Bring on the first case.'

I took a deep breath. Elizabeth stood motionless as the clerk read the first indictment. She stood thus all through the next two hours, only occasionally moving her weight from one hip to the other.

I had not attended a criminal trial for years and was surprised anew at the careless speed of the proceedings. After each accusation was read witnesses were brought on and put under oath. The prisoners were allowed to question their accusers or bring on their own witnesses and several matters descended to exchanges of abuse, which Forbizer silenced in a clear, rasping voice. The horse thieves were accused by a stout innkeeper; the fat woman insisted over and again she had never been there, although the innkeeper had two witnesses; her son only sobbed and shook. At length the jury were sent out; they would be kept in the jury room without meat or drink until they reached their verdicts and would not be long. The prisoners shuffled their feet anxiously, chains clanking, and a buzz of conversation rose from the spectators.

Everyone had been penned in the hot room all morning and the stench by now was dreadful. A shaft of sunlight from the window had settled on my back and I felt myself begin to perspire. I cursed; judges never like a sweating advocate. I looked around. Joseph sat with his head in his hands, while his brother studied Elizabeth's still, frozen form through half-closed eyes, his mouth set hard. My watcher leaned back on his bench, arms folded.

The jury returned. The clerk handed Forbizer the sheaf of informations annotated with their verdicts. I felt the tension in the box as the prisoners stared at the strips of paper holding their fates; even Elizabeth glanced up briefly.

Five men were found innocent of theft and seven guilty, including the old woman and her son, whose name was Pullen. As the verdict on them was read out the old woman called out for the judge to be merciful and to spare her son, who was but nineteen.

'Goodwife Pullen— ' Forbizer's lower lip curled slightly, red amid his neat beard, his habitual gesture of contempt — 'You took the horse together, you have both been found guilty of larceny and so there will be a-pullen at both your necks.' Someone among the spectators laughed and Forbizer glared at them; he did not like levity in court, even at his own jokes. The old woman gripped her son's arm as he began to weep again.

The constable released those found innocent from their shackles and they scurried off. The condemned were led back to Newgate and the clattering of their chains faded away. Now Elizabeth alone remained in the dock.

'Well, Miss Wentworth,' Forbizer rasped, 'will you plead now?'

No reply. There was a murmuring in court: Forbizer silenced it with a look. I rose, but he waved me to sit down again.

'Wait, Brother. Now, Mistress. Guilty or not guilty, it takes little effort to say.' Still she stood like a stone. Forbizer set his lips. 'Very well, the law is clear in these cases. You will suffer peine forte et dure, crushing beneath weights until you plead or die.'

I rose again. 'Your honour—'

He turned to me coldly. 'This is a criminal trial, Brother Shardlake. Counsel may not be heard. Do you know so little law?' There was a titter along the benches; these people wanted Elizabeth dead.

I took a deep breath. 'Your honour, I wish to address you not on the murder but regarding my client's capacity. I believe she does not plead because her wits are gone, she is insane. She should not therefore suffer the press. I ask for her to be examined—'

'The jury can consider her mental state when she is tried,' Forbizer said shortly, 'if she condescends to plead.' I glanced at Elizabeth. She was looking at me now, but still with that dead, dull stare.

'Your honour,' I said determinedly, 'I would like to cite the precedent of Anon in the Court of King's Bench in 1505, when it was held that an accused who refuses to plead and whose sanity is put in question should be examined by a jury.' I produced a copy. 'I have the case—'

Forbizer shook his head. 'I know that case. And the contrary case of Beddloe, King's Bench, 1498, which says only the trial jury may decide on sanity.'

'But in deciding between the cases, your honour, I submit consideration must be given to my client's weaker sex, and the fact she is below the age of majority—'

Forbizer's lip curled again, a moist fleshy thing against his grey beard. 'And so a jury has to be empanelled now to determine her sanity, and you buy more time for your client. No, Brother Shardlake, no.'

'Your honour, the truth of this matter can never be determined if my client dies under the press. The evidence is circumstantial, justice calls for a fuller investigation.'

'You are addressing me now on the matter itself, sir. I will not allow—'

'She may be pregnant,' I said desperately. 'We do not know, as she will say nothing. We should wait to see if that may be so. The press would kill an unborn child!'

There was more muttering among the spectators. Elizabeth's expression had changed; she was looking at me with angry outrage now.

'Do you wish to plead your belly, madam?' Forbizer asked. She shook her head slowly, then lowered it, hiding her face in her hair once more.

'You understand English then,' Forbizer said to her. He turned back to me. 'You are clutching at any excuse for delay, Brother Shardlake. I will not allow that.' He hunched his shoulders and addressed Elizabeth again. 'You may be below the age of majority, Mistress, but you are above that of responsibility. You know what is right and wrong before God, yet you stand accused of this hideous crime and refuse to plead. I order you to peine forte et dure, the weights to be pressed on you this very afternoon.'

I jumped up again. 'Your honour—'

'God's death, man, be quiet!' Forbizer snapped, banging a fist on his desk. He waved at the constable. 'Take her down! Bring up the petty misdemeanours.' The man stepped into the dock and led Elizabeth away, her head still bowed. 'The press is slower than the noose,' I heard one woman say to another. 'Serve her right.' The door closed behind them.

I sat with my head bowed. There was a babble of conversation and a rustling of clothes as the spectators rose. Many had come only to see Elizabeth; the petty thefts worth under a shilling were of little interest, those guilty would just be branded or lose their ears. Only Bealknap, still lurking in the doorway, looked interested, for those convicted of lesser crimes could claim benefit of clergy. Edwin Wentworth went with the rest; I saw the back of his robe as he walked out. Joseph remained alone on his bench, looking disconsolately after his brother. The sharp-faced young man had already gone, with Sir Edwin perhaps. I went over to Joseph.

'I am sorry,' I said.

He clutched my hand. 'Sir, come with me, come now to Newgate. When they show her the weights, the stone to go beneath her back, it may frighten her into speech. That could save her, could it not?'

'Yes, she'd be brought back for trial. But she won't do it, Joseph.'

'Try, sir, please — one last try. Come with me.'

I closed my eyes for a moment, 'Very well.'

As we walked into the vestibule of the court, Joseph gave a gasp and clutched his stomach. 'Agh, my guts,' he said. 'This worry has put them out of order. Is there a jakes here?'

'Round the back. I'll wait for you. Hurry. They'll take her to the press straight away.'

He shouldered a way through the departing crowd. Left alone in the hall, I sat down on a bench. Then I heard a rapid patter of footsteps from the court. The door was flung open and Forbizer's clerk, a round little man, ran up to me, his face red, robes billowing around him. 'Brother Shardlake,' he puffed. 'Thank goodness. I thought you had gone.'

'What is it?'

He handed me a paper. 'Judge Forbizer has reconsidered, sir. He asked me to give you this.'

'What?'

'He has reconsidered. You are to have another two weeks to persuade Mistress Wentworth to plead.'

I stared at him uncomprehendingly. No one could have looked less like reconsidering than Forbizer. There was something shifty, uneasy, in the clerk's face. 'A copy of this has gone to Newgate already.' He thrust the paper at me and vanished back into the courtroom.

I looked at it. A brief order above Forbizer's spiky signature, stating Elizabeth Wentworth was to be detained in the Newgate Hole for another twelve days, until the tenth of June, to reconsider her plea. I sat staring around the hall, trying to work it out. It was an extraordinary thing for any judge to do, let alone Forbizer.

There was a touch on my arm. I looked up to find the sharp-faced young man at my elbow. I frowned and he smiled again, a cynical smile that turned up one corner of his mouth, showing white even teeth.

'Master Shardlake,' he said, 'I see you have the order.' His voice was as sharp as his face, with the burr of a London commoner.

'What do you mean? Who are you?'

He gave a small bow. 'Jack Barak, sir, at your service. It was I persuaded Judge Forbizer to grant the order just now. You did not see me slip behind the bench?'

'No. But — what is this?'

His smile vanished and again I saw the hardness in his face. 'I serve Lord Cromwell. It was in his name I persuaded the judge to give you more time. He didn't want to, stiff-necked old arsehole, but my master is not refused. You know that.'

'Cromwell? Why?'

'He would see you, sir. He is nearby, at the Rolls House. He asks me to take you there.'

My heart began pounding with apprehension. 'Why? What does he want? I haven't seen him in close on three years.'

'He has a commission for you, sir.' Barak raised his eyebrows and stared at me insolently with those large brown eyes. 'Two weeks' more life for the girl is your fee, paid in advance.'

Chapter Six

BARAK LED ME at a brisk pace to the courthouse stables. My heart still banged against my ribs and the skin on my face had a tight, drawn feeling. I knew Lord Cromwell was not above bullying judges, but he always liked to observe the legal niceties and would not have done this lightly. And Barak was a strange person to use to confront a judge. But though he had risen to be chief minister, Cromwell was the son of a Putney alehouse keeper and was happy to work with men of low birth so long as they were intelligent and ruthless enough. But what in Christ's name did Cromwell want from me? His last mission had plunged me into a hell of murder and violence I still shuddered to recall.

Barak's horse was a beautiful black mare, its coat shining with health. He cantered out while I was still saddling Chancery, pausing in the stable doorway to look back impatiently. 'Ready?' he asked. 'His lordship wants to see you this morning, you know.'

I studied him again as I climbed on the vaulting block and eased myself onto Chancery's back. A hard eye and a fighter's build, as I had observed before. A heavy sword at his hip and a dagger too at his belt. But there was intelligence in his eyes and in the wide, sensual mouth, whose upturned corners seemed made for mockery.

'Wait a moment,' I said, seeing Joseph running across the yard to us, his plump face bright, clutching his cap in his hand. When he had returned from the jakes I told him Forbizer had changed his mind: I said I did not know why. 'Your advocacy, sir,' he had said. 'Your words moved his conscience.' Joseph was ever a naive man.

Now he laid a hand on Chancery's side, beaming up at me. 'I have to go with this gentleman, Joseph,' I said. 'There is another urgent case I must attend to.'

'Some other poor wretch to save from injustice, eh? But you will be back soon?'

I glanced at Barak; he gave a brief nod.

'Soon, Joseph. I will contact you. Listen, now we have some time to investigate Ralph's murder there is something I would have you do for me, if you can. It will be difficult—'

'Anything, sir, anything.'

'I want you to go to your brother Edwin and ask if he will see me at his house. Say I am unsure of Elizabeth's guilt and wish to hear his side of things.'

A shadow came over his face. 'I need to meet the family, Joseph,' I told him gently. 'And see the house and garden. It is important.'

He bit his lip, then nodded slowly. 'I will do what I can.'

I patted his arm. 'Good man. And now I must go.'

'I shall tell Elizabeth!' he called after me as we rode out into the road. 'I shall tell her, thanks to you, she is spared the press!' Barak looked at me, raising an eyebrow cynically.

===OO=OOO=OO===

WE RODE DOWN Old Bailey Street. The Rolls House was not far, directly opposite Lincoln's Inn in fact. A sprawling complex of buildings, it had once been the Domus Conversorum, where Jews who wished to convert to Christianity were instructed. Since the expulsion of all Jews from England centuries before, the building had been used to house the Court of Chancery Rolls, though one or two foreign Jews, who had washed up in England somehow and agreed to convert to Christianity, were still housed there from time to time. The Six Clerks' Office, which administered the Court of Chancery, was located there too. The office of Keeper of the Domus was still combined with the Mastership of the Rolls.

'I thought Lord Cromwell had given up the mastership,' I said to Barak.

'He still keeps an office in the Rolls House. Works there sometimes when he wants to be undisturbed.'

'Can you tell me what this is about?'

He shook his head. 'My master is to tell you himself.'

We rode up Ludgate Hill. It was another hot day; the women bringing produce into town were wearing cloths over their faces to protect them from the dust thrown up by passing carts. I looked down over the red-tiled rooftops of London, and the broad shining band of the river. The tide was out and the Thames mud, stained yellow and green with the refuse that poured every day from the northern shore, lay exposed like a great stain. People said that recently will o'the wisps of flame had been seen at night dancing over the rubbish and wondered uneasily what it portended.

I made another attempt to get information. 'This must be important to your master. Forbizer's not intimidated lightly.'

'He's a care for his skin like all men of the law.' There was an edge of contempt in Barak's voice.

'This sore puzzles me.' I paused, then added, 'Am I in trouble?'

He turned. 'No, not if you do as you're told. It's as I said, my master has a commission for you. Now come: time is important.'

We entered Fleet Street. The dust hung over the Whitefriars' monastic buildings in a pall, for the great friary was in the course of demolition. The gatehouse was covered in scaffolding, men hacking away at the decoration with chisels. A workman stepped into our path, raising a dusty hand.

'Halt your horses, please, sirs,' he called out.

Barak frowned. 'We're on Lord Cromwell's business. Piss off.'

The man wiped his hand on his grubby smock. 'I'm sorry, sir. I only wished to warn you, they're about to blow up the Whiteys' chapter house, the noise could startle the horses—'

'Look—' Barak broke off suddenly. A flash of red light appeared over the wall, followed by a tremendous explosion, louder than a clap of thunder. A heavy crash of falling stone, accompanied by cheers, sounded as a surging cloud of dust rolled over us. Hot-blooded as it looked, Barak's mare only neighed and jerked aside, but Chancery let out a scream and reared up on his hind legs, nearly unseating me. Barak reached across and grabbed the reins.

'Down, matey, down,' he said firmly. Chancery calmed at once, dropping to his feet again. He stood trembling; I was shaking too.

'All right?' Barak asked.

'Yes.' I gulped. 'Yes. Thank you.'

'God's death, the dust.' The powdery cloud, filled with the acrid tang of gunpowder, swirled round us and in a moment my robe and Barak's doublet were spotted with grey. 'Come on, let's get out of this.'

'I'm sorry, sirs,' the workman called after us anxiously.

'So you should be! Arsehole!' Barak called over his shoulder.

We turned up Chancery Lane, the horses still nervous and troubled by the heat and flies. I was perspiring freely but Barak seemed quite cool. I was reluctantly grateful to him; but for his quick action I could have had a bad fall.

I looked longingly for a moment at the familiar Lincoln's Inn gatehouse as Barak led the way through the gate of the Rolls House directly opposite. At the centre of a complex of houses stood a large, solidly built church. A guard in the yellow and blue quarters of Cromwell's livery stood outside the door with a pike. Barak nodded to him and the man bowed and snapped his fingers for a boy to lead our horses away.

Barak pushed open the heavy door of the church and we stepped in. Rolls of parchment bound in red tape lay everywhere, stacked against the walls with their faded paintings of biblical scenes and piled up along the pews. Here and there a black-robed law clerk stood picking among them, seeking precedents. More clerks waited in a queue beside the door to the Six Clerks' Office, seeking writs or dates for hearings.

I had never visited the office, for on the rare occasions I did have a case on in Chancery I would send a clerk to deal with the notoriously lengthy paperwork. I stared at the endless rolls. Barak followed my gaze.

'The ghosts of the old Jews have poor reading,' he said. 'Come on, through here.' He led me towards a walled-off side chapel; another guard in bright livery stood outside the door. Did Cromwell take armed guards everywhere nowadays? I wondered. Barak knocked softly and entered. I took a deep breath as I followed him, for my heart was thumping powerfully against my ribs.

The wall paintings of the side chapel had been white-washed over, for Thomas Cromwell hated idolatrous decoration. The chapel had been converted into a large office, with cupboards against the walls and chairs drawn up before an imposing desk lit incongruously by a stained-glass window above. There was no one behind it; Cromwell was not there. In a corner, behind a smaller desk, sat a short, black-robed figure I knew: Edwin Grey, Lord Cromwell's secretary. He had been at Cromwell's side for fifteen years, since the time the earl had worked for Wolsey. When I was in favour I had had much legal business through him. Grey rose and bowed to us. His round, pink face under the thinning grey hair was anxious.

He shook my hand; the fingers of his own were black from years of ink. He nodded at Barak; I caught distaste in his look.

'Master Shardlake. How do you fare, sir? It has been a long time.'

'Well enough, Master Grey. And you?'

'Well enough, given the times. The earl had to deal with a message, he will be back in a moment.'

'How is he?' I ventured.

Grey hesitated. 'You will see.' He turned abruptly as the door was thrown open and Thomas Cromwell strode into the room. My old master's heavy features were frowning, but at the sight of me he smiled broadly. I bowed low.

'Matthew, Matthew!' Cromwell said enthusiastically. He shook my hand with his powerful grip, then went and sat behind his desk. I studied him. He was dressed soberly in a black gown, though the Order of the Garter awarded to him by the king swung from his dark blue doublet. Looking at his face, I was shocked by the change in his appearance since I last saw him three years before. His hair was far greyer, and his strong, coarse features seemed pulled tight with strain and anxiety.

'Well, Matthew,' he said, 'how are you? Your practice prospers?'

I hesitated, thinking of my lost cases. 'Well enough, thank you, my lord.'

'What's that on your robe? It's on your doublet too, Jack.'

'Dust, my lord,' Barak replied. 'They're bringing down the Whiteys' chapter house and nearly brought us down with it.'

Cromwell laughed, then gave Barak a sharp look. 'Is it done?'

'Ay, my lord. Forbizer gave no trouble.'

'I knew he wouldn't.' Cromwell turned back to me. 'I was interested to learn of your involvement in the Wentworth case, Matthew. It occurred to me then we might be of help to each other for old times' sake.' He smiled again. I wondered uneasily how he had heard; but he had eyes and ears everywhere and certainly at Lincoln's Inn.

'I am most grateful, my lord,' I said carefully.

He smiled wryly. 'These little crusades of yours, Matthew. The girl's life matters to you?'

'Ay, it does.' I realized that these past days I had thought of little but Elizabeth's case. I wondered why for a moment. It was something to do with her wounded helplessness, lying there in that filthy Newgate straw. If Cromwell wished to use her life as a rope to bind me to him, he had chosen well.

'I believe she is innocent, my lord.'

He waved a beringed hand. 'I'm not concerned with that,' he said bluntly. He fixed me with a serious look; once again I felt the power of those dark eyes. 'I need your help, Matthew. It's an important matter, and secret. The bargain is I'll keep the girl alive for twelve days. We have only that for my task. Less than a fortnight.' He nodded abruptly. 'Sit down.'

I did as bidden. Barak went and stood against the wall, folding his hands across a large gold-coloured codpiece. Glancing at Cromwell's desk, I saw among the papers a miniature painting in a tiny silver frame, an exquisite portrait of the head and shoulders of a woman. Following my gaze, Cromwell frowned and turned it over. He nodded to Barak.

'Jack's a trusted servant. He's one of only eight that know this story, including myself and Grey here and his majesty the king.' My eyes widened at that name. I still held my cap, which I had removed on entering the church, and involuntarily began twisting it in my hands.

'One of the other five is an old acquaintance of yours.' Cromwell smiled again, cynically. 'It's not a matter to irk your conscience this time — you needn't crush your cap into a rag.' He leaned back and shook his head indulgently. 'I was impatient with you over Scarnsea, Matthew. I saw that later. None of us could have known how complex that affair would turn out. I have always admired your mind, your skills at teasing out the truth in men's affairs. Ever since the old days when we were all young reformers. Do you remember?' He smiled, but then a shadow crossed his face. 'Days with more hope and less care.' He sat silent for a moment and I thought of the rumours of his troubles over the Cleves marriage.

'May I ask who this old acquaintance is, my lord?' I ventured.

He nodded. 'You remember Michael Gristwood?'

Lincoln's Inn is a small world. 'Gristwood the attorney, who used to work for Stephen Bealknap?'

'The same.'

I remembered a small, scurrying fellow, with bright sharp eyes. Gristwood had once been friendly with Bealknap and, like him, forever on the lookout for new money-making schemes. But he had none of Bealknap's calculating coldness and his schemes never came to anything. I remembered he had once come to me for help in a property case he had taken on. A mere unqualified solicitor, he had got hopelessly out of his depth. The case was in a dreadful tangle, and he had been fulsomely grateful for my help. He had bought me a dinner in hall, where I had listened, half-amused, as he offered to involve me in a number of hare-brained schemes by way of thanks.

'He had a falling out of some sort with Bealknap,' I said. 'He hasn't been around Lincoln's Inn a long time. Didn't he go to work for the Court of Augmentations?'

Cromwell nodded. 'He did. To help Richard Rich pull in the proceeds of the dissolution.' He made a steeple of his fingers and looked at me over them.

'Last year, when St Bartholomew's priory in Smithfield surrendered to the king, Gristwood was sent to supervise the taking of the inventory of chattels to go to the king.'

I nodded. The hospital priory had been a large monastic house. I recalled the prior had been in league with Cromwell and Rich, and as a reward had been granted most of the priory lands. So much for vows of poverty. Yet they said Prior Fuller was dying, of a wasting disease God had laid on him for closing the hospital. Others said that Richard Rich, who had moved into the prior's fine house himself, was slowly poisoning him.

'Gristwood took some Augmentations men with him,' Cromwell continued, 'to quantify the furniture, the plate to be melted down and so on. He took the monastery librarian to show him what books might be worth keeping. The Augmentations men are thorough: they poke into nooks and crannies the monks themselves have often forgotten.'

'I know.'

'And in the crypt under the church, in a cobwebby comer, they found something.' He leaned forward, the hard dark eyes seeming to bore into mine. 'Something that was lost to man centuries ago, something that has become little more than a legend and a diversion for alchemists.'

I stared at him in astonishment. I had not expected this. He laughed uneasily. 'Sounds like a mummers' tale, eh? Tell me, Matthew, have you ever heard of Greek Fire?'

'I'm not sure.' I frowned. 'The name is vaguely familiar.'

'I knew nothing of it myself until a few weeks ago. Greek Fire was an unknown liquid that the Byzantine emperors used in warfare against the infidel eight hundred years ago. They fired it at enemy ships and it would set them ablaze from end to end, a rushing inextinguishable fire. It could burn even on water. The formula for its creation was kept a close secret, passed down from one Byzantine emperor to another till in the end it was lost. The alchemists have been after it for hundreds of years but they've never fathomed it. Here, Grey.' He snapped his fingers and the clerk rose from his desk and put a piece of parchment in his master's hands. 'Handle it carefully, Matthew,' Cromwell murmured. 'It is very old.'

I took the parchment from him. It was frayed at the edges and torn at the top. Above some words in Greek was a richly painted picture without perspective, such as the old monks used to illustrate their books. Two oared ships of ancient design faced each other across a stretch of water. At the front of one ship a golden pipe was belching red tongues of fire, engulfing the other.

'This looks like a monkish thing,' I said.

He nodded. 'So it is.' He paused, collecting his thoughts. I glanced at Barak. His face was sober, nothing mocking in it now. Grey stood beside me, looking at the parchment, his hands folded.

Cromwell spoke again, quietly though there were only the three of us to hear. 'Friend Gristwood was at St Bartholomew's one day last autumn when he was called to the church by one of the Augmentations clerks. Among the old lumber in the crypt they had found a large barrel, which, when they opened it, proved to be full of a thick, dark liquid with a terrible smell, like the stench of Lucifer's privy Gristwood said. Michael Gristwood had never seen anything remotely like it before and he was curious. There was a plaque on the barrel, with a name, Alan St John. And some Latin words. Lupus est homo homini.'

'Man is wolf to man.'

'Those monks could never use plain English. Well, friend Gristwood thought to set the librarian to search for the name St John in the library. They found it in the catalogue and it led them to an ancient box of manuscripts about Greek Fire, deposited there by one Captain St John, who died in St Bartholomew's hospital a century ago. He was old soldier, a mercenary who was at Constantinople when it fell to the Turks. He left a memoir.' Cromwell raised his eyebrows. 'He told how a Byzantine librarian fleeing with him to the boats gave him the barrel, which he claimed contained the last of Greek Fire, together with the formula to make the substance. The librarian had found it when clearing out the emperor's library and gave it to St John so that at the last a Christian should have the secret, not the heathen Turks. You see the page is torn?'

'Yes.'

'Gristwood tore off the formula that was written in Greek above that picture, together with instructions for constructing the throwing apparatus used to project it. Of course, he should have brought it to me — it was monastic property and it belongs to the king now — but he didn't.' Cromwell frowned and his heavy jaw set. There was a moment's silence, and I realized I was twisting at my cap again. He went on in the same quiet voice.

'Michael Gristwood has an older brother. Samuel. Also known as Sepultus Gristwood the alchemist.'

'Sepultus,' I repeated. 'Latin for buried.'

'As in the buried knowledge only alchemists can divine. Yes, like most of those rogues he gave himself a fancy Latin name. But when Sepultus heard Michael's story, he realized the formula could be worth a fortune.'

I swallowed hard. I realized now how great this matter was.

'If it's genuine,' I said. 'Alchemists' formulae for the creation of wonders are ten a penny.'

'Oh, it's genuine,' he said. 'I've seen it used.'

Godless gesture though it was, I felt a sudden urge to cross myself.

'The Gristwoods must have spent some time making more of the stuff, for it was March this year before Michael Gristwood came to me. Not directly, of course, someone of his standing couldn't do that, but through intermediaries. One of whom brought me that parchment and the other documents from the convent. Everything but the formula. With a message from the Gristwood brothers that they had made Greek Fire, they were offering a demonstration and if I decided I wanted the formula they'd give it to me. In return for a licence on its development, so they'd have the exclusive right of manufacture.'

I looked at the parchment. 'But it didn't belong to him. As you said, as it was monastic property it is now the king's.'

He nodded. 'Yes. And I could have had the brothers brought to the Tower and the information forced out of them. That was my first reaction. But what if they fled before they could be arrested? What if they sold the formula to the French or the Spaniards? They're a tricky pair. I decided to play along at least until I'd seen what they could do; once I'd found out if there was anything in it I could promise them a licence, then have them arrested for theft when they were least expecting it.' He set his thin lips. 'That was my mistake.' He looked at Grey, still hovering beside me. 'Sit down, master clerk,' he snapped. 'You make me uneasy hovering there. Matthew can keep the parchment.'

Grey bowed and returned to his desk, where he sat expressionless. He must be used to bearing the brunt of Cromwell's temper. I saw Barak's eyes on his master, a look of almost filial concern in them. Cromwell leaned back again.

'England has lit a fire across Europe, Matthew, the first large state to break from Rome. The pope wants the French and Spanish to combine and overthrow us. They won't trade with us, there's undeclared war with the French in the Channel and we're having to plough half the revenues from the monasteries into defence. If you knew how much we've spent it would make your hair curl. The new forts along the coast, the building of ships and guns and cannon—'

'I know, my lord. Everyone is frightened of invasion.'

'Those who are loyal to reform, at least. You haven't turned papist since last we met, have you?' His stare took on a terrible intensity.

I squeezed the cap tightly. 'No, my lord.'

He nodded slowly. 'No, that's what I've been told. You've lost the fire for our cause but you've not turned enemy, which is more than can be said for some. So a new weapon, something that could make our ships invincible, you can see how important that could be.'

'Yes, but—' I hesitated.

'Go on.'

'My lord, sometimes in desperate times we clutch at desperate remedies. The alchemists have promised us wonders for hundreds of years, but precious few have actually appeared.'

He nodded approvingly. 'Good, Matthew, you could ever put your finger on a weak point in an argument. But, remember, I've seen it. I met the Gristwoods here and told them I'd arrange for an old crayer to be floated up to an abandoned jetty at Deptford early one morning and, if they could destroy it with Greek Fire in front of me, I'd make a deal with them. Jack arranged it all, and only he and I and they were present early one morning at the start of the month. And they did it.' He spread his arms wide and shook his head. I could see that he was still amazed by what he had seen.

'They brought some strange device of steel they'd made with them, with a pipe on a pivot. They operated a pump on the device — and then a great sheet of liquid flame shot out and consumed the old boat in minutes. When I saw it I nearly fell in the water. It wasn't an explosion, like gunpowder, just' — he shook his head again — 'an inextinguishable fire, more fast and furious than any fire I've seen. Like a dragon's breath. And with no incantations, Matthew, no magic words. This is no trick, it's something new; or, rather, something ancient rediscovered. I had a second demonstration a week later; they did it again. So now I've told the king.'

I glanced at Grey, who nodded at me seriously. Cromwell took a deep breath.

'He was more enthusiastic than I'd dared to hope. You should have seen his eyes light up. He clapped me on the shoulder, and he's not done that in a long while. He asked for a demonstration before him. There's an old warship, the Grace of God, in Deptford for breaking up. I've arranged for it to be there on the tenth of June, in twelve days' time.' The tenth of June, I thought, the day Elizabeth's period of grace expires.

'I've been caught unawares,' he went on. 'I didn't think the king would jump at it so quickly. I can't fence with the Gristwoods any more. I must have that formula in my hands, and the Greek Fire they've made, before the king sees that demonstration. I want you to get it from them.'

I breathed heavily. 'I see.'

'It's only a matter of persuasion, Matthew. Michael Gristwood knows you and respects you. If you remind him the formula is legally the king's and tell him the king is personally involved, I think you can make him believe you, and give you the formula. I want it done then and there. Jack has a hundred pounds in gold angels about him that Gristwood is to have as a reward. And you can warn him that if he doesn't cooperate I can call the Tower's rack to my aid.'

I looked up at him. My head swam at the thought of becoming involved in a matter that concerned the king himself, but Cromwell had Elizabeth's life in his hands. I took a deep breath.

'Where does Gristwood live?'

'Sepultus and Michael live with Michael's wife in a big old house in Wolf's Lane, in the parish of Allhallows the Less in Queenhithe. Sepultus works from there. I want you to go there today. Jack will accompany you.'

'I beg this may be all. I live quietly these days, that is all I wish to do.'

I expected harsh words for my weakness, but Cromwell only smiled wryly. 'Yes, Matthew, after this you may go back to your quiet.' He looked at me fixedly. 'Be grateful you have the chance.'

'Thank you, my lord.'

He stood up. 'Then go now, ride to Queenhithe. If the Gristwoods are not there, find them. Jack, I want you back here by the end of the day.'

'Yes, my lord.'

I rose and bowed. Barak rose and opened the door. Before I followed him I turned back to my old master.

'May I ask, my lord: why did you choose me for this?' From the corner of my eye, I saw Grey give me a slight shake of the head.

Cromwell inclined his head. 'Because Gristwood knows you for an honest man and will trust you. As I do because I know you are one of the few who would not seek to make advantage for themselves from this. You are too honest.'

'Thank you,' I said quietly.

His face hardened. 'And because you care too much for the fate of the Wentworth girl and, finally, you are too afraid of me to dare cross me.'

Chapter Seven

OUTSIDE, BARAK TOLD ME brusquely to wait while he fetched the horses. I stood on the steps of the Domus, looking out across Chancery Lane. For a second time Cromwell had casually dropped me into an affair with dangerous ramifications. But there was nothing I could do; even if I had dared defy him, there remained Elizabeth.

Barak reappeared, riding his black mare and leading Chancery. I mounted and we rode to the gate. His expression was closed, serious. Barak, I thought, what sort of a name was that? It wasn't English, though he seemed English enough.

We had to pause in the gateway as a long procession of sulky looking apprentices wearing the blue and red badges of the Leathersellers' Company marched past. Longbows were slung over their shoulders, and a few carried long matchlock guns. Because of the invasion threat, all young men now had to undertake compulsory military practice. They passed up towards Holborn Fields.

We rode downhill to the City. 'So you were at the scene of this demonstration of Greek Fire, Barak?' I said, adopting a deliberately haughty tone; I had decided I was not going to be intimidated by this rude young fellow.

'Keep your voice down.' He gave me a frowning look. 'We don't want that name bandied abroad. Yes, I was there. And it was as the earl said. I would not have believed it had I not seen it.'

'Many wonderful tricks may be performed with gunpowder. At the last mayor's procession there was a dragon that spat balls of exploding fire—'

'D'you think I don't know a gunpowder trick when I see one? What happened at Deptford was different. It wasn't gunpowder: it was like nothing that's been seen before, in England, anyway.' He turned away, steering his horse through the crowds going through the Ludgate.

We rode along Thames Street, our progress slow through the lunchtime crowds. It was the hottest time of the day and Chancery was sweating and uncomfortable. I felt sunburn prickling on my cheeks and coughed as a swirl of dust went into my mouth.

'Not far now,' Barak said. 'We turn down to the river soon.'

I voiced a thought which had occurred to me. 'I wonder why Gristwood did not approach Lord Cromwell through Sir Richard Rich. He's Chancellor of Augmentations.'

'He wouldn't trust Rich. Everyone knows what a rogue he is. Rich would have kept the formula and bargained with it himself, and probably dismissed Gristwood into the bargain.'

I nodded. Sir Richard was a brilliant lawyer and administrator, but he was said to be the most cruel and unscrupulous man in England.

We entered the maze of narrow streets leading down to the Thames. I glimpsed the river, its brown waters alive with wherries and white-sailed tilt boats, but the breeze that came from it was tainted; the tide was still out, the filth-strewn mud stewing in the sun.

Wolf's Lane was a long narrow street full of old houses, decayed-looking cheap shops and lodging places. Outside one of the larger houses I saw a brightly painted sign which showed Adam and Eve standing on either side of the philosopher's egg, the legendary sealed vase in which base metal could be turned to gold, an alchemist's sign. The place was in dire need of repair, plaster was peeling from the walls and the overhanging roof lacked several tiles. Like many houses built on Thames mud, it had a pronounced tilt to one side.

The front door was open, and I saw to my surprise that a woman in a plain servant's dress was hanging onto the jamb with both hands, as though afraid of falling.

'What's this?' Barak asked. 'Drunk at one in the afternoon?'

'I don't think it's that.' I had a sudden feeling of dread. Then, seeing us, the woman let out a screeching wail.

'Help! For Jesu's sake, help me! Murder!'

Barak jumped down and ran towards her. I threw the horses' reins quickly over a rail, and ran over. Barak had the woman by the arms; she was staring wildly at him, sobbing loudly.

'Come on, girl,' he said with surprising gentleness. 'What ails you?'

She made an effort to calm herself. She was young and plump-cheeked, a country girl by the look of her.

'The master,' she said. 'Oh, God, the master—'

I saw that the wood of the doorframe was splintered and broken. The door, which hung from one hinge, had been battered in. I looked past her and down a long dim corridor hung with a faded tapestry showing the three kings bearing gifts to the infant Jesus. Then I gripped Barak's arm. The rushes on the wooden floor were criss-crossed with footprints. They were dark red.

'What has happened here?' I whispered.

Barak shook the girl gently. 'We're here to help. Come on now, what's your name?'

Whoever smashed their way in could still be here. I gripped the dagger at my waist.

'I'm Susan, sir, the servant,' the girl said tremulously. 'I'd been shopping in Cheapside with my mistress, we — we came back and found the door like this. And upstairs my master and his brother—' She gulped and looked within. 'Oh, God, sir—'

'Where is your mistress?'

'In the kitchen.' She took a deep, whooping breath. 'She went stiff as a board when she saw them, she couldn't move. I sat her down and said I'd go for help, but when I got to the door I felt faint, I couldn't go another step.' She clung to Barak.

'You're a brave girl, Susan,' he said. 'Now, can you take us to your mistress?'

The girl let go of the door. She shuddered at the sight of the bloody footsteps inside, then swallowed and, clutching Barak's hand tightly, led the way down the corridor.

'Two people, by the look of those prints,' I said. 'A big man and a smaller one.'

'I think we're in the shit here.' Barak murmured.

We followed Susan into a large kitchen with a view onto a stone-flagged yard. The room was dingy, the fireplace black with dirt and stains of rats' piss on the whitewashed ceiling. It struck me that Gristwood's schemings had brought him little profit. A woman sat at a big table worn with years of use. She was small and thin, older than I would had expected, wearing a white apron over a cheap dress. Straggles of grey hair were visible under her white coif. She sat rigidly, her hands clutching the table edge, her head trembling.

'She's shocked out of her wits, poor soul,' I whispered.

The servant crossed to her. 'Madam,' she said hesitantly. 'Some men have come. To help us.'

The woman jerked and stared at us wildly. I raised a soothing hand. 'Goodwife Gristwood?'

'Who are you?' she asked. Something sharp and watchful came into her face.

'We came on some business with your husband and his brother. Susan said you came home and found the place broken into—'

'They're upstairs,' Goodwife Gristwood whispered. 'Upstairs.' She clutched her bony hands together so hard the knuckles whitened.

I took a deep breath. 'May we see?'

She closed her eyes. 'If you can bear it.'

'Susan, stay here and look after your mistress. Barak?'

He nodded. If he was feeling the same shock and fear as I, he gave no sign. As we turned to the door, Susan sat down and hesitantly took her mistress's hand.

We passed the tapestry, which I saw from the style was very ancient, and mounted a narrow wooden staircase to the first floor. The house's lopsidedness was noticeable here, some of the stairs were warped and a large crack ran down the wall. There were more bloody footsteps, wet and glinting — this blood had been shed very recently.

At the top of the stairs a number of doors gave off the hallway. They were closed except for the one straight ahead of us. Like the front door it hung off one hinge, the lock smashed in. I took a deep breath and stepped inside.

The chamber was large and well lit, running the whole length of the house. There was an odd, sulphurous smell in the air. I saw the ceiling's large beams were painted with Latin texts. 'Aureo hamo piscari,' I read. To fish with a golden hook.

No one would fish here again. A man in a stained alchemist's robe lay sprawled on his back over an upturned bench amid a chaos of broken glass pipes and retorts. His face had been completely smashed in; one blue eyeball glared at me from the hideous pulpy mess. I felt my stomach heave and turned quickly to study the rest of the room.

The whole workshop was in chaos, more overturned benches, broken glass everywhere. Next to a large fireplace lay the remains of a large iron-bound chest. It was little more than a heap of broken spars now, the metal bands smashed right through. Whoever had wielded the axe here — and everything pointed to an axe — must have had unusual strength.

Beside the chest Michael Gristwood lay on his back, his body half-covered by a blood-soaked chart of the astral planes that had fallen from the wall. His head was almost severed from his neck; a great spray of arterial blood had stained the floor and even the walls. I blenched again.

'That the lawyer?' Barak asked.

'Ay.' Michael's eyes and mouth were wide open in a last scream of astonished terror.

'Well, he won't be needing Lord Cromwell's bag of gold,' Barak said. I frowned. He shrugged. 'Well, he won't, will he? Come on, let's go back downstairs.'

With a last glance at the butchered remains, I followed him down to the kitchen. Susan seemed to have recovered herself somewhat and was boiling a pan of water on the filthy range. Goodwife Gristwood still sat with her hands clenched.

'Anyone else live here, Susan?' Barak asked.

'No, sir.'

'Is there anyone that could come and sit with you?' I asked Goodwife Gristwood. 'Any other relatives?' Again a momentary sharpness came into her face, then she answered, 'No.'

'Right,' Barak said bluntly. 'I'm going to the earl. He must say what's to be done here.'

'The constable should be told—'

'Pox on the constable. I'm going to the earl now.' He pointed at the women. 'Stay here with them, make sure they don't leave.'

Susan looked up anxiously. 'Do you mean Lord Cromwell, sir? But, sir — but we've done nothing.' Her voice rose in fear.

'Do not worry, Susan,' I said gently. 'He must be told. He—' I hesitated.

Goodwife Gristwood spoke, her voice cold and hard. 'My husband and Sepultus were working for him, Susan. I know that much, I told them they were fools, that he's dangerous. But Michael would never listen to me.' She fixed us with pale blue eyes that were suddenly full of anger. 'Now see what's become of him and Sepultus. The fools.'

'God's bones, woman,' Barak burst out. 'Your husband's lying slain in his gore upstairs. Is that all you have to say about him?' I looked at him in surprise, then realized that under his bravado he too was shocked by what we had seen. Goodwife Gristwood merely smiled bitterly and turned her head away.

'Stay here,' Barak told me again. 'I'll be back soon.' He turned and left the kitchen. Susan gave me a scared look; Goodwife Gristwood had retreated into herself.

'It's all right, Susan,' I said with an attempt at a smile. 'You're not in any trouble. There may be a few questions for you, that's all.' She still looked frightened: that was the effect Cromwell's name had on most people. I set my teeth. What in God's name had I got involved in? And who was Barak to give me orders?

I crossed to the window and looked out at the yard, surprised to see that both the flagstones and the high walls were stained black. 'Has there been a fire here?' I asked Susan.

'Master Sepultus did experiments out there sometimes, sir. Terrible bangs and hissings there were.' She crossed herself. 'I was glad he wouldn't let me see.'

Goodwife Gristwood spoke again. 'Yes, we were kept out of our own kitchen when he and my husband were at their foolery.'

I looked again at the scorch marks. 'Did they go out there often?'

'Only recently, sir,' Susan said. She turned to her mistress. 'I'll make an infusion, madam, it might ease us. Would you like some, sir? I have some marigolds—'

'No, thank you.'

We sat together in silence for a while. My mind was racing. It struck me that the formula might still be in the workshop, perhaps even with some samples of this Greek Fire. Now was a chance to look before the room was disturbed further, though I shrank from returning there. I bade the women stay in the kitchen and mounted the stairs again.

I stood in the doorway for a moment, steeling myself to look again at those terrible carcasses. Poor Michael had been in his mid-thirties, I recalled, younger than me. The afternoon sun was shining into the room, a sunbeam illuminating his dead face. I remembered that dinner in Lincoln's Inn Hall, how I had thought he had the questing, nosy look of an amiable rodent. I turned away from his look of terror.

There was a terrible casualness about the way the two men had been smashed down. It seemed the killers had simply staved in the doors and then felled the brothers like animals, with an axe blow each. They had probably been watching the house, waiting for the women to leave. I wondered if Michael and Sepultus, hearing the front door broken in, had locked themselves in the workshop in a vain attempt to save themselves.

I noticed Michael was wearing a rough smock over his shirt. Perhaps he had been helping his brother. But with what? I looked around. I had never been in an alchemist's workshop — I gave such people a wide berth, for they were known as great frauds — but I had seen pictures of their laboratories and something was missing. Frowning, I walked over to a wall lined with shelves, my feet crunching on broken glass. One shelf was full of books but the others were empty. From round marks in the dust I guessed jars and bottles had been stored there. That was what I had seen in the pictures, alchemists' chambers full of bottles of liquids and powders. There was nothing like that here. In the pictures there had also been benches with oddly shaped retorts for distillation — that would explain all the broken glass on the floor. 'They took his potions,' I murmured.

I took one of the books from the shelves, Epitome Corpus Hermeticum, and flicked through it. A marked passage read: 'Distillation is the elevation of the essence of a dry thing, by fire, thus by fire we come to the essence of things, even while all else be consumed.' I shook my head and put it down, turning to the remains of the chest. I saw that the fireplace and the wall behind it were fire-blackened like the yard.

The contents of the chest lay scattered all over the floor — letters and documents, one or two with bloody thumb prints on them. So the killers had searched through the contents. There was a document dated three years ago, conveying the house to Sepultus and Michael Gristwood, and a marriage contract between Michael Gristwood and Jane Storey drawn up ten years earlier. Under it Jane's father contracted to leave all his property to his son-in-law on his death, an unusually generous provision.

Something else on the floor caught my eye. I bent down and picked up a gold angel; it had fallen from a leather bag nearby that contained twenty more. The brothers' money had been left behind. Well, I thought, that was not what the killers were after. I rose, pocketing the coin. Another smell was beginning to overlay the sulphurous stink in the room, the sweet, rich smell of decay. I stepped on something that crunched under my heel and, looking down, saw I had broken a delicate set of scales. Sepultus's alchemist's balance. Well, he would not be needing it now. With a last glance at the bloody remains, I left the room.

===OO=OOO=OO===

JANE GRISTWOOD sat where I had left her, Susan beside her sipping something from a wooden cup. Susan looked up nervously as I came in. I took the gold coin and laid it in front of her mistress. She looked up at me.

'What's this?'

'I found it upstairs, in the remains of your husband's chest. There is a whole purse of angels there, together with the deeds to the house and other papers. You should keep them safe.'

She nodded. 'The deeds to the house. I suppose it's mine now. Great broken-down place; I never wanted it.'

'Yes, it will come to you now unless Michael had sons.'

'He had no sons.' She spoke with sudden bitterness, then looked up at me. 'You know the law then. You know about inheritance.'

'I am a barrister, madam.' I spoke sharply, for her coldness was beginning to repel me as it had Barak. 'You may care to fetch the gold and those papers; there will be others poking around this house soon.'

She stared at me for a moment. 'I can't go up there,' she whispered. Then her eyes widened and her voice rose to a shriek. 'Don't make me go up there; for pity's sake, don't make me see them again!' She began sobbing, a desperate howling like an animal caught in a trap. The girl took her hand again.

'I will fetch them,' I said, ashamed of my earlier curtness. I went back upstairs and drew the papers and the gold purse together. In the hot afternoon the smell of death was growing stronger. As I stood up I nearly slipped. I looked down, fearing I had slithered in the blood, but saw there was a patch of something else by the fireplace; a little pool of viscous, colourless liquid that had spilled from a small glass bottle that lay on its side on the floor. I bent down and dipped my finger in it. I rubbed my fingers together, it had a slippery feel. I sniffed. The stuff was odourless, like water. I righted the bottle and replaced the stopper that had fallen off in the struggle and lay nearby. There was no label to identify the thick, clear liquid inside. Hesitantly, I touched the tip of my tongue to it, then jerked back as a stinging, bitter taste filled my mouth, making me gasp and cough.

I heard footsteps outside and crossed to the window, dabbing at my burning mouth. Barak was outside with half a dozen men in Cromwell's livery carrying swords. I hastened downstairs as they marched in, their feet clumping heavily on the boards as they hurried to the kitchen. As I ran downstairs I heard Susan give a little scream. The men had crowded in; Goodwife Gristwood was frowning at them. Barak saw the little pile of papers I carried. 'What are those?' he asked sharply.

'Family papers and some gold. They were in the chest upstairs. I fetched them for Goodwife Gristwood.'

'Let me see.'

I frowned as he grabbed the papers. At least, I thought, the churl can read. He opened the bag of gold and examined the contents. Satisfied, he laid the gold and papers before Goodwife Gristwood. She clutched them to her. Barak looked at me.

'Any sign of the formula up there?'

'Not that I can see. If it was in that chest they took it.'

He turned to Jane Gristwood. 'Do you know anything about a paper your husband and his brother had, a formula they were working on?'

She shook her head wearily. 'No. They told me nothing of what they did. Only that they were engaged on some work for Lord Cromwell. I didn't want to know.'

'These men are going to have to search your house from top to bottom,' he said. 'It's important we find that paper. Afterwards two of them will stay here with you.'

She looked at him narrowly. 'Are we prisoners, then?'

'They are for your protection, madam. You may still not be safe.'

She removed her coif and ran her fingers though her grey hair, then gave Barak a hard stare. 'What about my front door? Anyone could get in.'

'It will be repaired.' He spoke to one of the retainers, a hard-looking fellow. 'See to that, Smith.'

'Yes, Master Barak.'

He turned back to me. 'Lord Cromwell wants a meeting now. He's gone to his house in Stepney.'

I hesitated. Barak stepped closer. 'That's an order,' he said quietly. 'I have told my master the news. He is not a happy man.'

Chapter Eight

RIDING THROUGH the City again after being in that silent house of death, I felt strangely disconnected from the jostling, noisy crowds. We had a long way to go, for Lord Cromwell's house at Stepney was far beyond the City wall. We paused only to allow a procession past — a cleric in white robes leading a man dressed in sackcloth, ashes strewn over his face and carrying a faggot, the church congregation following behind. Someone whose reformist opinions had been deemed heretical but who had repented, the ashes and the faggot reminders of the burning that awaited him if he relapsed. The man was weeping — perhaps it had been a reluctant recantation — but if he sinned again his body would be weeping blood as the fire shrivelled it.

I glanced at Barak, who was eyeing the scene with distaste. I wondered what his religious opinions were. It had been quite a feat for him to reach Cromwell, collect these men and get back to Queenhithe so quickly. Yet he did not look tired, though I felt exhausted. The procession shuffled past and we moved on. Thankfully the afternoon shadows were lengthening, the overhanging houses bringing a welcome shade to the streets.

'What's that in your pocket?' Barak asked as we rode up Bishopsgate.

I put my hand to my robe and realized that I had slipped Sepultus's book there without thinking.

'It's a book on alchemy.' I looked at him fixedly. 'How you watch me. You thought the formula might have been with those papers I gave to Goodwife Gristwood?'

He shrugged. 'Can't trust anyone these days, not if you're in the earl's service. Besides,' he added with an insolent smile, 'you're a lawyer and everyone knows you have to keep an eye on lawyers. Not to do so would be crassa neglegentia, as you people say.'

'Gross negligence. You have some Latin then?'

'Oh yes. I have Latin, and know men of law. Many lawyers are great reformers, are they not?'

'Ay,' I replied cautiously.

'Is it not amusing, then, now that the monks and friars have gone, how the lawyers are the only ones to walk around in black robes, calling each other brother and trying to part people from their money?'

'There have been jokes against lawyers time out of mind,' I said shortly. 'They become tiring.'

'And they take oaths of obedience, though not of chastity or poverty.' Barak smiled mockingly again. His mare wove quickly through the crowds and I had to spur poor Chancery to keep up. We passed under the Bishopsgate and soon the chimneys of Cromwell's impressive three-storey house came into view.

The last time I had been there, on a bitter winter's day three years before, a crowd of people had been waiting at the side gate. Another crowd was there this hot afternoon. The outcasts of London, shoeless and in rags. Some supported themselves on makeshift crutches, others had the pits and marks of disease on their faces. The number of workless poor in London was growing beyond control; the dissolution had cast hundreds of servants from the London monasteries, and the unhappy patients from the hospitals and infirmaries too, out onto the streets. And pitiful as the doles given by the Church had been, now even those were gone. There was talk of charitable schools and hospitals, and schemes for state works, but nothing had been done yet. Cromwell, meanwhile, had adopted the wealthy landowner's custom of distributing his own doles; it strengthened his standing in London.

We rode past the beggars and through the main gate. At the front door a servant met us. He asked us to wait in the hallway, then a few minutes later John Blitheman, Lord Cromwell's steward, appeared.

'Master Shardlake,' he said, 'welcome. It has been a long time. Does the law keep you busy?'

'Busy enough.'

Barak, who had untied his sword and handed it with his cap to a servant boy, came over.

'He's waiting for us, Blitheman.' The steward smiled at me apologetically and led us into the house. A minute later we were outside Cromwell's study. Blitheman knocked softly and his master called, 'Enter,' in a snapping tone.

The chief minister's study was as I remembered, full of tables covered with reports and drafts of bills, a forbidding place despite the sunlight streaming in. Cromwell sat behind his desk. His manner was different from what it had been that morning; he sat crouched in his chair, head sunk between his shoulders, and gave us a look so baleful it made me shiver.

'So,' he said without preliminaries, 'you found them murdered.' His voice was cold, intense.

I took a deep breath. 'Yes, my lord. Most brutally.'

'I've got men searching for the formula,' Barak said. 'They'll take the place apart if need be.'

'And the women?'

'They'll be kept there. They're both scared out of their wits. They know nothing. I've told the men to ask round the neighbouring houses to see if anyone saw the attack, but Wolf's Lane looks like a place where people take care to mind their own business.'

'Who betrayed me?' Cromwell whispered intently. 'Which of them?' He stared at me fixedly. 'Well, Matthew, what did you make of what you saw?'

'I think there were two men involved and that they broke in with axes. They killed the brothers at once in the alchemist's workshop, where they were working, then went to a chest that was kept there and smashed it in. There was a bag of gold inside, but they left it untouched.' I hesitated. 'My guess is that the formula was there and they knew it.'

There was a grey tinge to Cromwell's face. He set his thin lips.

'You can't be sure,' Barak interjected.

'I'm not sure of anything,' I replied with sudden heat. I made my voice calm. 'But no search was made of the rest of the room. The books on the shelves were undisturbed and would they not have been an obvious place to look for a hidden paper? Also, I believe some bottles were taken from the shelves. I think the people who murdered those poor men knew exactly what they were looking for.'

'So there will be no physical traces left of their experiments,' Cromwell said.

'That would be my guess, my lord.' I looked anxiously at him, but he only nodded reflectively.

'See, Jack,' he said suddenly, nodding at me. 'Learn from a master of observation.' He turned bleak eyes on me again. 'Matthew, you must help me solve this.'

'But, my lord—'

'I can't tell anyone else,' he said with sudden passion. 'I daren't. If it got to the king—' He sighed, a shuddering sound. It was the first time I had seen Thomas Cromwell afraid.

'You must solve this,' he repeated. 'You can have any authority, any resources.'

I stood on the fine carpet, my heart thudding. Once before he had sent me to investigate a killing, pitching me into horrors beyond imagining. Not again, I thought. Not again.

He seemed to read my mind and sudden anger flashed in his eyes. 'Christ's wounds, man,' he snapped. 'I've saved that girl's life for you. Or at least I'll save it if you help me; Forbizer can be made to change his mind again if need be. My own life could be at stake here as well as everything you once believed in.' I had a momentary vision of Elizabeth, lying blank-eyed in her cell. And I knew that at a word from Cromwell I could be flung in gaol too, for knowing too much.

'I will help, my lord,' I said quietly.

He looked at me for a long moment, then gestured to Barak. 'Jack, the Bible. Before I tell you more, Matthew, I must have your oath to keep this matter secret.'

Barak laid a luxury edition of the new Great Bible, which had been ordered to be set in every church, upon the desk. I looked at the brightly coloured title page: King Henry on his throne, handing copies of God's Word to Cromwell on one side, Archbishop Cranmer on the other, who in turn passed them down to the people. I swallowed and touched the book.

'I swear I will keep the matter of Greek Fire privy,' Cromwell said. I repeated the words, feeling I was turning a key in a set of fetters that bound me to him again.

'And help me to the best of your ability.'

'To the best of my ability.'

Cromwell gave a satisfied nod, though he still sat hunched over his desk like some great beast at bay. He picked something up and turned it over in his big hands: it was the miniature portrait he had had at the Domus.

'The reformist cause is tottering, Matthew.' He spoke quietly. 'It's even worse than the rumours say. The king's afraid and grows more afraid every day as Norfolk and Bishop Gardiner tip their poison in his ear. Afraid of common people reading the Bible, fearing they'll end by overthrowing the social order in bloody chaos like the Anabaptists at Münster. Radical reformers stand in danger of the fire — you know Robert Barnes is under arrest?'

'I had heard.' I took a deep breath; I did not want to hear this.

'The Act of Six Articles the king forced through last year takes us halfway back to Rome and now he wants the lower classes forbidden from reading the Bible. And he's afraid of invasion.'

'Our defences—'

'Could never withstand a combined onslaught by France and Spain. King Francis and Emperor Charles have quarrelled and the threat's over for now, but things could change again.' He took the miniature and laid it on top of the Bible. 'Do you still paint, Matthew, for a pastime?'

I looked at him, puzzled by his change of tack. 'Not for some time, my lord.'

'Give me your opinion of this portrait.'

I studied it. The woman was young, with attractive if vacuous features. The image was so clear you could imagine you were looking through a window at her. From the jewels set in her elaborate hood and in the collar of her high-cut dress she was someone of wealth.

'This is beautiful,' I said. 'It could almost be by Holbein.'

'It is by Holbein. It is the Lady Anne of Cleves, now our queen. I kept it when the king threw it in my face.' He shook his head. 'I thought I could shore up our defences and our reformed faith at the same time by marrying the king to the daughter of a German duke.' He gave a short, bitter laugh. 'I spent two years after Queen Jane died trying to find a foreign princess for him. It wasn't easy. He has a certain reputation.'

He was interrupted by a gentle cough. Barak was looking at his master anxiously.

'Jack warns me I am going too far. But you've given your oath, haven't you, Matthew, to keep your mouth tight shut?' His hard brown eyes bored into mine as he emphasized the words.

'Yes, my lord.' I felt sweat forming on my brow.

'Eventually the Duke of Cleves agreed we could have one of his daughters. The king wanted to see the Lady Anne before agreeing to marry her, but the Germans took that as an affront. So I sent Master Holbein to make a picture. After all, his genius is to make exact representations, is it not?'

'No one in Europe does that better.' I hesitated. 'And yet—'

'Yet what is an exact representation, eh, Matthew? We all look different in different lights, can never be caught completely in one glance. I told Holbein to paint her in the best light. And he did. That was another mistake. Can you see?'

I thought a moment. 'It is full face—'

'Not till you see her in profile do you realize how long her nose is. Nor does it show her high body odour, nor how she didn't speak a word of English.' His shoulders slumped. 'When she landed at Rochester in January the king disliked her on sight. And now the Duke of Norfolk's dangled his niece before the king, schooled her to catch his fancy. Catherine Howard is pretty, not yet seventeen, and he's caught. He drools over her like an old dog over a fine joint of meat and blames me for saddling him with the Cleves mare. But if he marries Norfolk's niece, the Howards will have me dead and England back under Rome.'

'Then all that's happened these ten years,' I said slowly, 'all the suffering and death, it would have been for nothing.'

'Worse than nothing, there'll be a cull of reformers that would make Thomas More's inquisitions seem mild.' He clenched his big fists, then got up and walked over to the window, staring out over the lawn. 'I'm doing all I can to discredit them, find papist plots. I've had Lord Lisle arrested, and Bishop Sampson; he's in the Tower, I had him shown the rack. But I can find nothing — nothing.' He turned and faced me. 'Then I told the king about Greek Fire. He can't wait for the demonstration; he loves weapons of war, and warships above all. He sees us making England's navy the greatest on the seas, clearing the French from the south coast. He's my friend again.' Cromwell clenched his fists. 'A foreign power would pay much for that formula. I'm setting extra spies in the ambassadors' houses, all the ports are being watched. Matthew, I must have that formula back safe before the demonstration. Today is the twenty-ninth of May. We have only twelve full days.'

Then, to my surprise, I felt an alien emotion towards Thomas Cromwell: I felt sorry for him. But I reminded myself that a creature at bay is at its most dangerous.

He sat up, slipping the miniature into the pocket of his robe. 'Michael Gristwood had to use three intermediaries to get to me. They are the only others who know about Greek Fire. Two of them are lawyers, men of Lincoln's Inn that you know. The first was Stephen Bealknap—'

'Not Bealknap. Dear God, he's the last one any man should trust. And they'd had a falling out.'

'So I hear. They must have mended it.'

'I've a case on against Bealknap.'

Cromwell nodded. 'Will you win?'

'Ay, if there's any justice.'

He grunted. 'Talk to him, find if he told anyone else. I doubt he did, for I told Gristwood to order him from me to sew up his mouth.'

'Bealknap has a care for his safety. But he's a greedy rogue.'

'Find out.' He paused. 'When Gristwood told Bealknap about Greek Fire, he gave thought as to who might have access to me. He went to Gabriel Marchamount.'

'Did he? They had some dealings in the past, I know, but Bealknap was too shady for Marchamount's liking.'

'Marchamount moves in semi-papist circles. That worries me. Question him too. Threaten him or flatter him or offer him gold, I don't care so long as you loosen his tongue.'

'I'll try, my lord. And the third—'

'Marchamount took the story to a mutual acquaintance of ours. Lady Bryanston.'

My eyes widened in surprise. 'I met her only a few days ago. She invited me to dinner.'

'Yes, I dropped your name at her table last week, when I was thinking of employing you to get the formula from Gristwood. That is good, you must go. Talk to her too.'

I reflected a moment. 'I shall, my lord. But if I am to get to the root of this matter—'

'Yes?'

'I need to know more about Greek Fire. Retrace the steps from its discovery to the demonstrations you held.'

'If you think fit. But remember, time presses. Barak here can tell you all about the demonstrations, he can take you out to Deptford to see where they took place.'

'And I could talk to the monastery librarian. Perhaps visit St Bartholomew's to see where the stuff was found.'

He smiled coldly. 'You don't believe in Greek Fire yet, do you? You will. As for Bernard Kytchyn, Brother Bernard the librarian as he used to be, I've been trying to trace him since Lady Honor first came to me. To make sure he kept his mouth shut too. But like half these ex-monks he's disappeared without trace.'

'Perhaps I could try the Court of Augmentations; he must have arrangements to collect his pension.'

Cromwell nodded. 'That's Richard Rich's territory. But you could say it was in connection with a case.' He looked at me sharply. 'I don't want Rich getting a whiff of this. I raised him to the king's council, but he knows about the plots against me and will change sides in a moment to protect himself. If he went to the king and said I'd lost Greek Fire—' He raised his eyebrows.

'I would like to talk to Goodwife Gristwood again,' I said. 'I had a feeling she was keeping something back.'

'Good, good.'

'And finally, there is a man of learning I would like to consult. An apothecary.'

He frowned. 'Not that black monk from Scarnsea?'

'He is a learned man. I would only like to ask him, if need be, for advice about alchemy. I would not wish to involve him further than necessary.'

'So long as he is not told of Greek Fire. There were rumours of its rediscovery three hundred years ago and the Lateran Council banned its use. They said it was too dangerous. An ex-monk might feel himself bound by that. Or might want to give it to France or Spain, where the monkish brethren still flourish.'

'He would not do that. But I do not wish to place him in danger.'

Cromwell smiled suddenly. 'I see this matter intrigues you, Matthew.'

'I will bend my mind to it.'

He nodded. 'Come to me if you need anything. But time is all. You must move fast. You'll have Jack to help you. I'm setting him to work with you.'

I stared at Barak. What I felt must have shown in my face, for he smiled sarcastically.

'I work alone these days,' I said.

'You need help with this. Jack will lodge with you. You'll get used to his rough ways.'

I had already learned Barak did not trust me. It occurred to me that perhaps Cromwell did not either, not wholly, and was setting Barak to keep an eye on me.

I hesitated. 'My lord,' I ventured, 'I must also give some time to Mistress Wentworth's case.'

He shrugged. 'Very well. And Jack will help you with that. But this business comes first.' He fixed me with those hard brown eyes. 'If you fail, all those associated with me will be at risk. Your lives could be at stake too.'

He rang a little bell and Grey stepped in from an inner room. He looked worried.

'Grey's been told. Keep me informed of progress every day. Any news, anything you want, send it via Grey. No one else.'

I nodded.

'I can't trust anyone now,' he growled. 'Not the people I raised to the council, not even my own staff, whom Norfolk pays to spy on me. But Grey's been with me since I was a nobody, haven't you, Edwin?'

'Ay, my lord.' He hesitated. 'Is Master Barak to be involved in this too?'

'He is.'

Grey pursed his lips. Cromwell looked at him.

'Matthew can do anything that requires diplomacy.'

'That — er — might be best.'

'Jack can deal with anything that requires a strong hand, eh?'

I glanced at Barak. He was studying his master's face. One again I caught that look of concern, and I realized that he feared deeply for Cromwell. And perhaps for his own fate too.