Chapter Nine
Next day was Whitsunday, the ninth of June. From that morning all church services were to be from the new Prayer Book. I dressed in my robe and serjeant’s cap, took my copy of the Prayer Book, and set out for St Paul’s. I was alone; Nicholas avoided church services so far as possible, and though I had asked John Goodcole if he and his family wished to attend with me, he’d replied apologetically that he and his wife would be attending their own church. I did not press them. For myself, I wanted to see a historic occasion.
As I passed under Temple Bar I considered whether my thoughts about Beatrice Kenzy had been unfair. I hardly knew the girl, and it was not really my business to approve or disapprove Nicholas’s choice. However, if the opportunity came while we were in Norfolk, I would raise the matter with him gently.
I passed under the Ludgate, the great spire of St Paul’s Cathedral looming ahead. Around the gates were the usual group of beggars, children holding out stick-like arms, men with missing limbs calling out that they had been injured in the wars. Remembering my discussion with Edward Kenzy the evening before, I reached for my purse and gave a shilling to an emaciated little girl. As I walked on I heard others call, ‘Sir, spare something for us, we starve!’ I quickened my step, fearing they might follow, and aware I was alone.
I WAS EARLY for the service, but the great cathedral was already crowded. I noticed that members of the King’s Yeomen of the Guard lined the walls at intervals. All the great men of the city were there – Lord Mayor Amcoates and the London aldermen resplendent in red, the heads of the trade guilds in their colourful coats, and many of the Royal Council in furred robes and bright gold chains – Richard Rich was there in his Lord Chancellor’s robes, a severe expression on his thin features, William Paget, recently ennobled, with his hard, square face and long forked beard, looking plumper now, Catherine Parr’s brother, the Marquess of Northampton, a thin-faced man in his thirties with an auburn beard. Parr was glancing idly through the pages of his Prayer Book. I thought how unlike his late sister he was. His reputation was of a man of polished manners but little ability, his rise to the Council table a consequence of his relationship to the late queen. Then I saw William Cecil, his narrow face alert, protuberant eyes roving over the crowds. He caught my eye and nodded briefly. I nodded back, remembering that cold and frightening day in January. I saw Philip Coleswyn and his family, but he was on the far side of the nave, a crowd of people between us.
Heads turned as a procession of clerics entered at the main door and processed up the nave. At their head was Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, with his long white beard and large, keen blue eyes, his sallow face set in an expression of calm authority, the Prayer Book in his hands.
He mounted the lectern and went through the Whitsunday service, every word declaimed in English in his loud, clear voice. In the new service there was no invocation of saints. People looked stealthily around, wondering whether someone might shout out in favour of the old Latin, but there were no disturbances, only a sense of growing tension as Cranmer approached the climax of the service – ‘the supper of the Lord, and the holy Communion, commonly called the Mass’, as the new Prayer Book worded it cautiously. During the preparatory prayers there were none of the old ceremonies associated with preparation for the Mass – the washing of hands, crossings, blessings. The archbishop lifted the bread and wine and chanted, not in Latin but in clear English: ‘Grant us therefore, gracious Lord, so to eat the flesh of thy dear son Jesus Christ, and to drink his blood in these holy Mysteries, that we may continually dwell in him, and he in us.’
And so it proceeded, every word in English through to the end of the service. I saw many look almost numinously happy, some sad and frowning, but as Cranmer spoke, in that great space a pin could have been heard to drop. When the service ended and Cranmer stepped down, there was a chorus of sighs and rustling clothing, everyone looking around to gauge their neighbours’ reactions. I kept my face expressionless as I moved away with the crowd.
I saw two men moving towards me, both dressed like me in lawyers’ robes and coifs. The smaller was Cecil, and behind him was a tall, stocky man in his mid-forties, clean-shaven, with a face whose handsomeness was marred by the haughty expression in its heavy-lidded brown eyes and downturned mouth. The tall man had the trick of looking down at you as though you were a supplicant who had wronged him, and had been brought in for correction.
Cecil, however, smiled as he wished me good morrow. There was colour in the cheeks above the young secretary’s wispy beard, enthusiasm in his eyes. ‘Well, Serjeant Shardlake, how did you find our new service?’
‘A great change,’ I answered noncommittally. Cecil’s companion frowned slightly, and I guessed he was not an enthusiast. Cecil, his manner turned brisk and businesslike, introduced us. ‘Serjeant Shardlake, this is Sir Richard Southwell. He is associated with the Council, and works for the Lady Mary in her duties as feodary of Norfolk. As I believe you are going there tomorrow, I thought you might welcome an introduction.’
I bowed to Southwell, who gave me the briefest nod in return. And I remembered Parry saying that he had spoken to Cecil. Cecil must have some purpose in making this introduction.
Southwell spoke, his voice as haughty as his expression, ‘I gather you are retained on this business of John Boleyn. You may have a wasted journey; the word is he will almost certainly be hanged.’ I saw he clasped a pair of gloves in his large, meaty hands.
‘I know little as yet, Sir Richard.’ I hesitated, then added, ‘I understand you yourself own some land adjoining Boleyn’s.’
‘I think so.’ Southwell waved the gloves dismissively. ‘But I have over thirty manors in Norfolk, I can’t keep track of them all.’
I smiled graciously before replying, ‘I believe some of your officials have already visited his wife.’
Southwell frowned, looking down on me with cold appraisal through those half-closed eyelids. ‘Those are standing instructions where lands may be forfeit through a landowner’s execution. And whatever else the woman living at his house may be, she is not his legal wife. His whore, I think, would be more exact.’ He laughed harshly, showing bad teeth.
Cecil said, ‘The discovery of Edith Boleyn’s body certainly raises legal complications.’ He turned to Southwell. ‘I am sure Brother Shardlake understands that. His enquiries are intended only to ensure justice is done as it should be.’
‘That’s what juries are for, Master Cecil. And now I need some fresh air, gentlemen. Perhaps we shall meet in Norfolk, Master Shardlake.’ His tone was slightly threatening. He turned on his heel and walked away.
Cecil raised his eyebrows and smiled briefly as we joined the crowds heading for the door. He spoke quietly, ‘I apologize for Southwell’s manners, but that is what he is like. I thought you should know.’
‘I know Comptroller Parry’s lawyer, Copuldyke, is afraid of him.’
Cecil lowered his voice. ‘Southwell is one of the most wealthy and powerful people in Norfolk, he runs around fifteen thousand sheep on his lands. For a long time he was a client of the Duke of Norfolk, but three years ago when the old king wanted the family gone, Southwell gave perjured evidence against them. His reward was a place as assistant executor of the old king’s will, and an alternate member of the Council should another member die. Now that the Lady Mary has bought the Duke’s land, and has the position of feodary, she has become Southwell’s patron. All in all, he is a very powerful man.’