Dark Fire

'And the earl has told nobody but Grey. He's been with the earl longer than Joan has with you. And he's as reformist as they come.'

I nodded. 'Then perhaps I am imagining it after all.' I wiped my brow; the air was distinctly clammy. I turned to Barak. 'I must visit the Wentworths' home today, confront the family with what we found. Will you come with me? I scent danger.'

He nodded. 'Ay. I'll come, if time allows.'

I felt a surge of relief. 'Thank you, Barak,' I said. He nodded gruffly, awkward as ever with praise. 'If we find Rich,' he said, 'you shouldn't let him know you're concerned particularly with the warehouse. He could have added it to his list to keep you clear of the place.'

'I know. That's why I got Skelly to add the names of a couple of cases that haven't been taken away. I'm going to ask Rich which ones he took away and observe how he reacts.'

'He may lie.'

'I know. He's good at dissembling, no lawyer does it better. And he's brutal enough to strike down anyone who gets in his way like a fly.' I bit my lip. It would take boldness to confront Richard Rich, privy councillor and, still, possible murderer.

'And if he satisfies you it wasn't him that took the warehouse out of your hands?'

'Then it was someone else. Either way, we go there today.' And if we found Greek Fire and Barak wanted to take it for Cromwell, I thought, what then? We were directly under the cathedral now, its great bulk shutting out the sky. 'Come,' I said, 'we can leave the horses at that inn.'

We stabled the animals and passed through the gate into St Paul's churchyard. I expected to see a great crowd round St Paul's Cross, where the preachers always stood, but the cobbled yard was deserted save for a few people waiting at the staircase leading to the roof. A couple of flower sellers stood by the door, doing a good trade in nosegays. They at least had done well out of the hot weather.

'Are we too early?' I asked Barak.

'No, it's nearly twelve.'

I accosted a passer-by. 'Pardon me sir, is the archbishop not preaching here this lunchtime?'

The man shook his head. 'He's preaching inside. On account of the hanging this morning.' He nodded to the wall behind me. I turned and saw a temporary gallows had been erected; sometimes people whose crimes had particularly sinful implications were hanged in the churchyard. 'A dirty sodomite,' the man said. 'The archbishop shouldn't be polluted by his presence.' He went to join the queue for the roof. I glanced at the figure hanging from the rope, then quickly looked away again. A young man in a cheap jerkin: no one had come to pull on his legs and he had strangled slowly, his face purple and hideous. He had died in terror. For a moment I felt surrounded by death. I took a deep breath and followed Barak, who was already at the cathedral door.

St Paul's Walk, the huge central nave with its vaulted stone ceilings, was the greatest marvel in London and normally visitors from the country would have been walking to and fro, gazing up in wonder while the cutpurses and bawdy women circled around the pillars waiting for their chance. But today the nave was almost empty. Further up the cathedral, though, a large crowd stood around the pulpit. There, under the brightly coloured painting of the Last Judgement showing death leading the estates of the realm to heaven and hell, which Cromwell had not yet removed, a man in a white cleric's robe and black stole stood preaching. Barak took a chair and stood on it, peering over the heads of the crowd and drawing disapproving glances from those nearest him.

'Can you see Rich?' I asked.

'No, there's too many folk. He's likely near the front. Come on.' He began jostling his way through the crowd, ignoring murmurs of protest, and I followed in his wake. There were several hundred people come to see the great archbishop, who together with his friend Cromwell had supervised all the religious changes since the break with Rome.

We reached the front, where robed merchants and courtiers stood with their heads lifted to the speaker. Even Barak dared not barge his way in among these people. He stood on tiptoe, looking out for Rich. I studied Cranmer, for I had never seen him before. He was surprisingly unimpressive, short and stocky with a long oval face and large brown eyes that seemed fuller of sadness than authority. A copy of the English Bible lay before him on the lectern. He touched the edges lovingly as he preached.

'God's Word,' he proclaimed in a ringing voice. 'All one needs to understand it is to be able to read and write, nay, even to listen may be enough. And thus one has access to the word of God himself direct, with no priest, no Latin mummery, to stand between. As it is said in Proverbs, chapter thirty: "Every word of God is pure, he is a shield to them that trust him-