Revelation

The sound of jangling harnesses approached from the direction of the Strand. A crowd of over a dozen men, all wearing swords, rode quietly up to me. The moon cast a pale light over them. A tall man in his thirties was in the lead, Harsnet and Barak beside him. The men accompanying them were all young, strong-looking, some with an air of suppressed excitement about them. All were dressed in sober, dark clothes. I realized Sir Thomas was not there. 'Ready?' Harsnet asked. 'Yes.'

He nodded to the tall man. 'This is Edgar Russell, Sir Thomas' steward.'

I nodded at the man, who bowed briefly in the saddle. I was glad to see that he had a serious, authoritative look about him.

Barak looked at the blank windows of my house. 'Everyone asleep?' he asked.

'Ay. I've left a note. I said you were sorry you wouldn't see Tamasin until tomorrow.'

'Thanks.'

'Where is Sir Thomas?'

Barak smiled. 'He's gone to fetch Dean Benson out of his bed and bring him up to Hertfordshire. He'll join us there.'

'Why?'

'So he can identify Goddard for certain, if we find him.' Barak's horse Sukey pawed at the ground. Barak looked at me, full of suppressed excitement. 'Ready?'

‘Ay.'

'All right, girl,' Barak said to the horse, then turned to the steward. 'Come on then, let's go and catch this arsehole.'

'There is no need to swear,' Harsnet told him reprovingly.

'Arsehole isn't swearing. Swearing is taking the name of God in vain.'

Some of the men in the entourage laughed. Russell turned in his saddle. 'Quiet, there,' he hissed, and the noise subsided. I was glad to see the steward seemed to have these men under control. 'We must go on now if we are to get there before dawn,' he said to me.

I nodded. We rode up Chancery Lane, the horses' hooves and the jingling of their harnesses sounding loud in the still night.

'What happens when we arrive at Kinesworth?' I asked Harsnet.

'There is an inn just outside the village we will use as a base. The innkeeper is a godly man, and a friend of Master Goodridge, the magistrate. We will set men in the woods that surround Goddard's house before dawn, and go in and take him when the sun comes up.' He leaned in closer. 'The steward Russell is a good man. He has these men under close authority. He was in Hungary with Sir Thomas, he knows warfare. It was he insisted all the men wore dark clothes to attract less attention.'

We rode on through the dark and silent roads, no sound but disturbed birds, the cattle dim shapes in the meadows. It was monotonous and once I almost dozed off in the saddle. It was still dark when Russell raised a hand for us to halt. We had come to a small country inn set back from the road. Lights were burning inside. We dismounted quietly.

'Magistrate Goodridge is inside,' Russell said. 'Coroner, Master Shardlake, come inside. Someone will take your horses. You too, Barak,' he added with a smile. 'We need all the practical minds we can get.'

Inside was a long low room set with tables, which no doubt functioned as a tavern in the evenings. It made me think of Lockley and poor Mistress Bunce. A fire burned in a hearth set in the centre of the room in the old way. Its warmth was welcome after the long cold ride.

A man of around sixty was sitting at one of the tables, a hand-drawn map before him. He rose to greet us. He had a tanned, swarthy complexion and sad penetrating eyes. An experienced and competent country magistrate, I guessed. He introduced himself as William Goodridge.

'What is the plan?' Harsnet asked.

He bade us sit and, indicating the map, said, 'That shows the house. It's a mile out of the village. There is lawn on all four sides, the grass is long and unkempt. Beyond that, the house is surrounded by woods.'

'An ideal layout to set watchers,' Russell said appreciatively.

'The house looks big,' I said. 'How many rooms are there?'

'About a dozen, as I recall. Old Neville Goddard was a hospitable man, I remember going to feasts and celebrations there when I was younger. But he could not control his drinking. His wife handled him badly too, she was a shrew.'

'Do you remember young Goddard?' I asked him.

He nodded. A surly, sulky young man. Clever but something — I don't know — effete about him. He had a great air of superiority for someone whose father drank himself into debt. I'm not surprised he went for a monk after Neville Goddard died, rather than stay with that termagant of a mother. All their lands were gone by then, to creditors. When the old woman died and Lancelot Goddard appeared again we hoped he might do something with the house, which she had left to fall to rack and ruin. But he comes and goes, talking to nobody.'

'And he arrived when yesterday?'

'I'm not sure, but there was smoke coming from a chimney when Master Russell and I went to look last night.'

'He never comes to the village? What about church services?'

'No. We are mostly reformers here, perhaps he does not find our ceremonies papist enough. There's a lot of gossip about him, as you may imagine, but people here are nervous of him.'