There was a moment of silence, then Cecil rubbed his slim hands together. ‘Will you go and call Parry’s servants? Rich sent them out, they will be huddling in the inner hall. It is cold in here. We should get them to light a fire if we are to go through Master Parry’s papers.’
IT WAS A STRANGE, uncomfortable thing to go through my employer’s documents. Master Parry and I were not friends, but I respected him. To my relief, we found nothing. Afterwards, as we donned our coats to leave, Cecil paused thoughtfully and glanced towards the window. Dust motes, stirred by our searching, whirled in a ray of winter sunlight. ‘Master Shardlake,’ he said quietly, ‘I do not think the Lady Elizabeth is in any real danger, but she has never been in great favour with the Protector, and this scandal will only make him more suspicious of her. His is not –’ he paused, and sighed – ‘a trusting nature, and his own brother’s treason will make it even less so. When you see Master Parry, tell him to warn the Lady Elizabeth to be careful no breath of scandal touches her again.’
‘Thank you, Master Cecil. I will.’ Then I added, curiously, ‘Why would you help her?’
He inclined his head, then raised both palms and held them up in perfect balance. ‘The King has two sisters. Mary an enemy of true religion, Elizabeth a friend. For now, political reasons mean the Lady Mary has the Protector’s favour. But perhaps, when she is older, Elizabeth may be used to redress the balance.’
Part One
LONDON
Chapter One
It rained throughout our journey to Hatfield Palace; hard, heavy rain that dripped from our caps and made our horses’ reins slippery and slick. Occasionally, a gust of cold wind drove it at us slantwise; as though even now, in early June, the chill of the hard winter and cold spring was reluctant to let go of the land.
There were six of us in the party that set out from London in the grey morning; myself, my young assistant Nicholas and four sturdy men in the service of Master Comptroller Parry, swords and knives at their waists. Their leader, a taciturn middle-aged man named Fowberry, had arrived at Lincoln’s Inn the previous morning, bearing a letter from his master requiring me to attend the Lady Elizabeth at Hatfield on a case of urgency and delicacy. I was to return there with him, stay the night at an inn outside the town, and meet with Parry and the Lady Elizabeth the following morning. The letter added that he was sending Fowberry and his men to accompany us back as a precaution, given the unsettled state of the country after the risings in May. It was unlike Parry, a naturally verbose man, to be so brief, and I wondered what it augured. The purchase and sale of lands, the business I had conducted for him on behalf of the Lady Elizabeth these last two years, occasionally involved delicacy, but seldom urgency.
We spoke little on the journey; the weather did not encourage conversation. Nicholas rode beside me, his long slim body bent over his horse, Fowberry on his other side and his three men behind. The traffic was mainly in the opposite direction, carts bringing supplies to London and a few lone travellers. Once though, a fast post-rider brightly arrayed in the King’s livery and accompanied by a pair of armed servants rode up behind us, sounding a trumpet and waving at us to move to the side of the road. The party overtook us, spattering us with mud from the highway. Nicholas looked at me, rats’ tails of red hair on his brow dripping water into his eyes and making him blink. ‘I wonder what that was,’ he said. ‘Another proclamation from Protector Somerset?’
‘Perhaps. I wonder what about this time?’
‘Perhaps he decrees that blind men shall see, or fishes fly through the air.’
I laughed, but Fowberry, on my other side, looked at him askance.
EVENING CAME ON, the grey sky darkening. I turned to Fowberry. ‘We must be at the inn soon, I think.’
‘Ay, it can’t be far now, sir,’ he replied in his deep, lilting voice. Like Parry, and many others in Elizabeth’s service, he was Welsh. He sat solid astride his horse, ignoring the weather; a soldierly bearing. Perhaps, like many of his countrymen, he had fought in the French wars.
I ventured a smile. ‘A good idea of your master, that we should spend tonight at this inn. Otherwise I should be presenting myself to the Lady Elizabeth as soaked as a drowned rat, and bespattered with mud.’
‘No, sir, that wouldn’t be right at all.’ His face remained expressionless. I had hoped to coax him into revealing something of what our summons portended, but if he knew anything, he was not saying.
Nicholas drew his horse to a halt, pointing over to the right of the road. At a little distance, across a field of growing barley, a light was visible. ‘Master Fowberry,’ he said. ‘Look over there. Could that be the inn?’
Fowberry halted, signalling his men to do the same. Wiping the rain from his eyes, he peered into the deepening gloom. ‘That’s not it. We’ve another mile to go.’ He leaned forward, screwing up his eyes. ‘And that’s an open fire, it’s not coming from a window. I think it’s in that copse of trees behind the field.’
One of his men put a hand to his sword. ‘Not another camp of rebel peasants?’ he asked.
‘I’ve heard there’s been more trouble in Hampshire and Sussex,’ Fowberry replied quietly.
I shook my head. ‘That’s a small fire. Probably just another crew of masterless men wandering the countryside.’
‘They could be watching for lone riders to rob.’ Fowberry spat on the ground. ‘The Protector should have these rascal knaves branded and made bond slaves under the new law Parliament passed.’ He nodded. ‘We’ll warn the innkeeper, he can alert the constable and send the town watch out.’ He turned to me. ‘You agree, Master Shardlake?’
I hesitated. Nicholas gave me a warning look. He knew my views on the current unrest, but this was no time or place for an argument. ‘As you think best, Master Fowberry. Though whoever is over there may be about some honest business.’
‘Best to be safe, in these dangerous times. Besides, Hatfield Palace is close, and we would not wish trouble near the Lady.’
I nodded briefly in acknowledgement. We jerked at our tired horses’ reins, and rode slowly on. Whoever was setting a campfire in this weather, I thought, would have a sorry night of it.
THE INN, JUST outside the little town of Hatfield, was a fine, comfortable-looking place. We dismounted in the yard and a couple of ostlers led our horses away. Fowberry’s men followed them, leaving him with Nicholas and me. I was stiff and sore; bone-tired after the journey. My back hurt, as it did more and more these days on long rides. But an ageing hunchback of forty-seven could expect no less. A servant came out of the inn and shouldered our packs, leading us into the large old building. The interior was bright with candlelight, for it was now full dark. A stone-flagged hall gave on to a large taproom from which some fellow-guests, traders of the better sort from the look of them, regarded us curiously. A plump, bald man with an apron over his doublet left a conversation with one of them and bustled over.
‘Master Fowberry,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We were told to expect you.’ He bowed. ‘And you must be the legal gentleman come to consult with Master Parry.’ Sharp, nosy little eyes studied us.
I said, ‘I am Serjeant Matthew Shardlake, of Lincoln’s Inn. My assistant, Master Overton.’
The innkeeper nodded cheerfully, then turned back to Fowberry. ‘I am pleased to see you, sir.’ He leaned closer and spoke quietly. ‘I would be obliged, sir, if Master Parry could pay your guests’ charges in gold coin. The silver coinage is so debased –’ He shook his head.