Tombland

AS I READIED FOR BED , I remembered that frightening day in January again. Elizabeth had escaped the accusations against her, as had her servants; Parry had been allowed to return to Elizabeth’s service, though Kat Ashley was still kept away. Thomas Seymour had died by the axe in March; the execution of his own brother for treason had caused much gossip, and weakened the Protector. I had not seen Rich since. My office had indeed been searched by his men, probably more to make a nuisance than anything else. I had had to tell Nicholas and Skelly, who had been present when the searchers arrived, what had happened. I had seen fear in Nicholas’s face then, and had understood it; he was remembering the last time I had been involved in the savage world of court politics, during the plot against Catherine Parr three years before. Through me he had been drawn into its coils, though he was only a lad just up from the countryside. We had seen terrible things.

I saw myself reflected in the window; the candle picked out the deepening lines on my face, the growing stoop of my hunched back, my hair still thick but completely white. I seldom prayed these days but that night I knelt and asked God’s help for my sick friend Guy, for Josephine in her unknown troubles, for the Lady Elizabeth, and for those unknown men out in the countryside on whom Fowberry had set the Hatfield Watch.

Chapter Two

Next morning, we rose early and, after breakfasting, rode the short distance to Hatfield Palace with Fowberry and his men. The weather had turned warmer, with a light wind and fleecy clouds high in the sky. Nicholas wore his short black robe, and I wore my hood, white serjeant’s coif, and dark silk summer gown, the breeze stirring the fur collar. My horse, Genesis, had been reluctant to set out that morning, and I realized he was getting too old for such long journeys.

Hatfield Palace was modern and commodious, built in bright red brick around a central courtyard, with a park beyond enclosed by high walls. It was Elizabeth’s main residence now, containing her household of some hundred and fifty people. Standing in the main doorway to meet us was a middle-aged woman with a round face, keen eyes and an air of confident severity. She wore a black dress and old-fashioned gable hood. A large bunch of keys hung at her waist. I had met Blanche apHarry before; Welsh, like Thomas Parry, she had served Elizabeth since babyhood and controlled the running of the house and access to her mistress. We dismounted and bowed to her. With a nod and a wave of her hand she dismissed Fowberry and his men, who led our horses to the stables. She looked hard at Nicholas, who carried a folder containing paper for making notes, then turned to me with a brief smile.

‘God give you good morrow, Serjeant Shardlake. I fear you will have had a wet journey yesterday.’

‘We did, mistress, but made it safely.’

She nodded. ‘Good. Master Parry awaits you. The Lady Elizabeth will receive you later.’

She led us into the building. It was decorated with tapestries and good furniture, but in a sober style very different from the colourful, rather overblown decoration the old king had favoured in his palaces. The servants, too, were dressed in blacks and browns; a Protestant style for a Protestant mistress.

We came to a corridor I recognized, and stopped outside Master Parry’s office. Turning to us, Mistress Blanche spoke quietly. ‘As Master Parry will tell you, I know about the matter on which he wishes to instruct you. Nobody else in the house does, and nothing –’ she looked sharply at Nicholas again – ‘nothing is to be said outside Master Parry’s office.’ Nicholas bowed his head in acknowledgement. Mistress Blanche knocked at the door. Within, Parry’s deep voice called us to enter. Mistress Blanche drew the door shut behind us, and I heard the chink of the keys at her waist fade as she walked away.

Thomas Parry was a tall man in his early forties, a once-powerful body now running to fat. His rubicund face was dominated by a large nose and small, penetrating blue eyes, his black hair cut fashionably short. Elizabeth’s Comptroller, her man of business. Like many in official positions he had cut his teeth working for Thomas Cromwell, helping him intimidate the monasteries into surrender the decade before. He came over to us, his manner bluff and cheerful as usual.

‘Matthew. Good morrow. I am sorry to bring you out here at such short notice. Good thinking to bring a change of clothes with that pissing rain. God knows what the harvest will be like, the barley is weeks behind.’

‘I was thinking the same yesterday, Master Parry.’

‘Fowberry tells me you spotted some men camping not far from here. Turned out to be a crew of masterless men. Northampton shoe workers whose trade had gone under, making for London, according to their tale of woe. They had clubs and knives about them though, so I wonder. Anyway, the Hatfield Constable and Watch kicked their arses out of the parish.’

‘I see.’