Lamentation

‘Indeed they do not. I hate the cruelties both sides have carried out as much as you. I wish I could see an end to it. But I cannot. That is what I meant when I said some quarrels go so deep they are impossible to mend.’ He looked me in the eye. ‘But I do not regret that the King has taken us halfway back to Rome and upholds the Mass. I wish he would take us all the way.’ He continued, eagerly now. ‘And the old abuses of the Catholic Church are being resolved; this Council of Trent which Pope Paul III has called will reform many things. There are those in the Vatican who would reach out to the Protestants, bring them back into the fold.’ He sighed. ‘And everyone says the King grows sick. Prince Edward is not yet nine. I believe it wrong that a monarch should make himself head of a Christian church and declare that he instead of the Pope is the voice of God in making church policy. But how can a little boy exercise that headship? Better that England take the opportunity to return to the Holy Church.’

‘To the Church that burns people, in France, in Spain under the Inquisition? Many more than here. And besides, the Holy Roman Emperor Charles is making fresh war on his Protestant subjects.’

Guy said, ‘You have turned radical again?’

‘No!’ My own voice rose. ‘Once I hoped a new faith based on the Bible would clearly show God’s Word to the people. I hate the babble of divisions that has followed; radicals using passages from the Bible like black-headed nails, as insistent they alone are right as any papist. But when I see a young woman taken to the stake, carried in a chair because she has been tortured, then burned alive in front of the great men of the realm, believe me I look with no longing for the old ways either. I remember Thomas More, that indomitable papist, the people he burned for heresy.’

‘If only we could all find the essence of true godliness, which is piety, charity, unity,’ Guy said sadly.

‘As well wish for the moon,’ I answered. ‘Well, then, on one thing we agree: such divisions have been made in this country that I cannot see ever mending until one side bludgeons the other into defeat. And it made me sick this afternoon seeing men whom Thomas Cromwell raised up, believing they would further reform, now twisting back to further their ambition instead: Paget, Wriothesley, Richard Rich. Bishop Gardiner was there as well; he has a mighty thunderous look.’ I laughed bitterly. ‘I hear the radicals call him the Puffed-up Porkling of the Pope.’

‘Perhaps we should not discuss these matters any more,’ Guy said quietly.

‘Perhaps. After all, it is not safe these days to speak freely, any more than to read freely.’

There was a quiet knock at the door. Martin would be bringing the marchpane. I had no appetite for it now. I hoped he had not heard our argument. ‘Come in,’ I said.

It was Martin, but he was not carrying a dish. His face, always so expressionless, looked a little perturbed. ‘Master Shardlake, there is a visitor for you. A lawyer. He said he must speak with you urgently. I told him you were at dinner, but he insisted.’

‘What is his name?’

‘I am sorry, sir, he would not give it. He said he must speak with you alone. I left him in your study.’

I looked at Guy. He still seemed unhappy at our argument, picking at his plate, but he smiled and said, ‘You should see this gentleman, Matthew. I can wait.’

‘Very well. Thank you.’ I rose from the table and went out. At least the interruption would allow my temper to cool.

It was full dark now. Who could be calling at such an hour? Through the hall window I could see two link-boys, young fellows carrying torches to illuminate the way, who must have accompanied my visitor. There was another with them, a servant in dark clothes with a sword at his waist. Someone of status, then.

I opened the door to my study. To my astonishment I saw, standing within, the young man who had been watching me at the burning, still dressed soberly in his long robe. Though he was not handsome — his cheeks disfigured with moles — his face had a strength about it, despite his youth, and the protuberant grey eyes were keen and probing. He bowed to me. ‘Serjeant Shardlake. God give you good evening. I apologize for disturbing you at dinner, but I fear the matter is most urgent.’

‘What is it? One of my cases?’

‘No, sir.’ He coughed, a sudden sign of nervousness. ‘I come from Whitehall Palace, from her majesty the Queen. She begs you to see her.’

‘Begs?’ I answered in surprise. Queens do not beg.

‘Yes, sir. Her message is that she is in sore trouble, and pleads your help. She asked me to come; she did not wish to put her request in writing. I serve in a junior way on her majesty’s Learned Council. My name is William Cecil. She needs you, sir.’

Chapter Four