Dissolution

'I fancy the Thames may freeze again, like last winter.'

'You may be right.'

'I remember last year, sir, when the king and the court rode across the frozen Thames. Did you see it?'

'No, I was in court. I am a lawyer.'

I remembered Mark's description of it, though. He had been working in Augmentations when word came that the king was to ride across the ice from Whitehall to the Christmas celebrations at Greenwich Palace, with all the court, and he wanted the Westminster clerks to follow too. It was all political, of course; a truce had been called with the northern rebels and their leader, Robert Aske, was in London to parley with the king under a safe conduct. The king wanted to provide a spectacle to show Londoners that rebellion would not interfere with his celebrations. Mark never tired of telling how all the clerks were sent out with their papers to the riverside, forcing their reluctant horses onto the ice.

His own horse nearly threw him as the king himself rode past, a massive figure on a huge warhorse, Queen Jane on her palfrey tiny at his side, and behind them all the ladies and gentlemen of the court, then the household servants. Finally Mark and the other clerks and officials joined the end of the great train that went hallooing and shouting across the ice, horses and carts slipping and slithering, watched from their windows by half London. The clerks were there only to contribute to the spectacle; they were sent back across London Bridge again that night, clutching their papers and ledgers. I remember discussing it with Mark months later, after Aske's arrest for treason.

'They say he is to be hanged alive in chains at York,' Mark had said.

'He was a rebel against the king.'

'But he was given safe conduct; why, he was entertained at court for Christmas.'

'"Circa regna tonat."' I quoted Wyatt's lines at him. 'Around thrones the thunder rolls.'

The boat lurched; the tide was turning. The boatman steered into the middle of the river and soon the great spire of St Paul's, and the huddle of ten thousand white-covered roofs, came into view.

* * *

I had left Chancery stabled in Scarnsea and when I disembarked I walked home as the sun began to set. The sword from the pond knocked uncomfortably at my leg; I had put it in Mark's scabbard, which was too small for it, and I was unused to wearing a weapon.

This time it was a relief to be back in the London throng; just one more anonymous gentleman, instead of the focus of all that fear and hate. The sight of my house uplifted my sore heart, as did the welcome I had from Joan. My return was unexpected and she had only a poor fowl, an old boiled crone, for my supper, but I was happy to sit again at my own table. Afterwards I went to bed, for I had only one full day in London and much to do.

* * *

I left the house early, before the winter sunrise, on an old ambling nag we kept. Cromwell's office at Westminster was already a hive of candlelit activity by the time I arrived. I told Chief Clerk Grey I needed an urgent appointment. He pursed his lips and glanced towards Cromwell's sanctum. 'He has the Duke of Norfolk with him.' I raised my eyebrows. The duke was the leader of the anti-reformist faction at court, Cromwell's arch-enemy and a haughty aristocrat; I marvelled at him deigning to visit him at his office.

'Nonetheless, it is urgent. If you could take a message, saying I need to see him today.'

The clerk eyed me curiously. 'Are you well, Master Shardlake? You look very tired.'

'I am well enough. But I do need to see Lord Cromwell. Tell him I will wait on him whenever he wishes.'

Grey knew I would not interrupt his master without reason. He knocked nervously at the door and went in, reappearing a few minutes later to tell me Lord Cromwell would see me at eleven at his house in Stepney. I would have liked to have gone over to the courts, to see what news there was among the lawyers and soothe myself with familiar scenes, but other matters needed attention. I adjusted the sword and rode away through the pink icy dawn to the Tower of London.

* * *

I had originally thought of visiting the swordmakers' guild, but all the guilds lived among mountains of paper whose contents they guarded with jealous secrecy and it could take all day to prise information from them. I had met the Tower armourer, a man named Oldknoll, at a function some months before, and remembered that he was said to know more about weaponry than anyone in England. He was, too, Cromwell's man. My letter of appointment as commissioner gained me entrance to the Tower, and I found myself passing through the gate under the looming mass of London Wall. I crossed the bridge over the frozen moat into the great fortress, the bulk of the White Tower dwarfing the lesser buildings around it. I never liked the Tower; I always thought of those who had come across that moat and never left alive.

The lions in the Royal Menagerie were howling and roaring for their breakfasts and I watched as a pair of wardens in their scarlet and gold coats scurried across the snow-covered Tower Green bearing great pails of offal for them. I shivered, remembering my encounter with the dogs. Leaving the nag in the stables, I climbed the steps to the White Tower. Inside the Great Hall soldiers and officials milled about, and I saw two guards leading a crazed-looking old man in a torn shirt roughly towards the steps leading down to the dungeons. I showed my commission to a sergeant, who led me to Oldknoll's room.

The armourer was a gruff, hard-faced soldier. He looked up from a sheaf of paper he was studying gloomily, and bade me sit.

'God's wounds, Master Shardlake, the paperwork we have these days. I hope you have not brought me more.'

'No, Master Oldknoll, I have come to pick your brains if I may. I am on a mission for Lord Cromwell.'

He gave me his attention. 'Then I will do all I can to aid you. You seem under strain, sir, if I may say so.'

'Yes, everyone is saying so. And they are right. I need to know who made this.' I unsheathed the sword, handing it to him carefully. He bent to study the maker's mark, gave me a startled glance, then looked more closely.

'Where did you get this?'

'In a monastery fish pond.'

He crossed to the door and closed it carefully, before laying the sword on the desk.

'You know who made it?' I asked.

'Oh yes.'

'Is he alive?'

Oldknoll shook his head. 'Dead these eighteen months.'

'I need to know everything you can tell me about that sword. What those letters and symbols signify, to start with.'

He took a deep breath. 'You see the little castle stamped there? That indicates the maker was trained at Toledo in Spain.'

My eyes widened. 'So the owner would be a Spaniard?'

He shook his head. 'Not necessarily. Many foreigners go to learn weaponry at Toledo.'

'Including Englishmen?'

'Until the religious changes. Englishmen are not welcome in Spain now. But before, yes. Those who have studied at Toledo usually take the Moorish fortress, the Alcazar, as their mark on the sword they submit on applying to the guild for admission. That is what this man did. Those are his initials.'

'JS.'

'Yes.' He gave me a long look. 'John Smeaton.'

'God's flesh! A relative of Mark Smeaton, Queen Anne's lover?'

'His father. I knew him slightly. This sword would be the one he made to gain entry to the guild. Fifteen hundred and seven, that would be about the right date.'

'I did not know Smeaton's father was a sword-maker.'

'He started out as one. A good one, too. But he had an accident some years ago, lost parts of two fingers. He didn't have the strength in his hand afterwards for sword-making, so he turned to carpentry. He had a small works over at Whitechapel.'