Lamentation

  Stice called out, ‘Lower your swords. You’re outnumbered. You are under arrest for the attempted export of seditious literature!’

  The fair-haired man shouted something in Dutch to the men at the ship’s rail. One of Stice’s men lunged at him with his sword but he parried immediately, just as the three men from the boat jumped nimbly over the ship’s rail onto the wharf, each carrying a sword. My heart sank; the number of fighting men was almost even now.

  One of Cecil’s men turned and raised his weapon, but in doing so he turned his back on the blond Dutchman, who thrust his own sword swiftly through his body. The man cried out, his sword clattering onto the cobbles. Then Vandersteyn turned to face the rest of us and, with his three compatriots, began retreating slowly to the boat. I looked at the fallen man; there was no doubt now that we were not dealing with some amateurish group of fanatics but with serious, dangerous people.

  ‘Cut them off!’ Stice yelled. A moment later there was a melee of swordplay, blades flashing in the light of the lamp. I stepped forward, but felt Cecil’s hand restraining my arm. ‘No! We must stay alive; we have to get hold of the book.’

  There was a battle royal now going on beside the ship, blades flashing noisily. Watchmen came out to the rails of nearby ships and stood gawping. Curdy, the weakest of the fugitives, lunged clumsily at Gower, who, ignoring our agreement to take these men alive if possible, sliced at his neck with his sword, nearly severing his head. Curdy thumped down on the cobbles, dead, in a spray of blood.

  From what I could see of the melee, the surviving fugitives were effectively parrying blows from our side, backing slowly and deliberately towards the Antwerpen. We must not let these people get aboard. I stepped closer, though in the feeble lamplight I could see little more than rapidly moving shapes, white faces and the quick flash of metal. Stice received a glancing blow to his forehead but carried on, blood streaming down his face, felling one of the sailors with a thrust to the stomach. I stepped forward, but again Cecil pulled me back. ‘We’d only be in the way!’ I looked at him; his face was still coldly set, but the rigidity of his stance told me he was frightened. He looked at Lord Parr’s dead servant, face down on the cobbles, blood pooling around him.

  Nicholas and Barak had their hands full with the guard Leeman, who was indeed a fierce fighter. He was trying to edge them away from the centre of the fight, towards the little lane we had come down.

  ‘At least I can get this!’ I said, darting over to Vandersteyn’s bag, which lay disregarded on the ground. I picked it up, thrusting it into Cecil’s arms. ‘Here! Look after this!’ And with that I pulled out my dagger and ran to where Leeman, wielding his sword with great skill, continued to lead Barak and Nicholas back towards the alley, thrusting mightily and parrying their every blow, years of training making it look easy. His aim was clearly to separate them from the others, to allow McKendrick and Vandersteyn to get on board the ship. Beside the Antwerpen the fighting continued, steel ringing on steel.

  I raised my dagger to plunge it into Leeman’s shoulder from behind. He heard me coming and half-turned; Nicholas brought his sword down on his forearm in a glancing blow as Barak reversed his sword and gave him a heavy blow to the back of the head. He went down like a sack of turnips in the entrance to the lane. Barak and Nicholas ran back to the main fight.

  It was now seven against five – Vandersteyn and McKendrick and the three surviving Dutch sailors. I hoped the other members of the crew were all in the taverns getting drunk. But suddenly one of the sailors managed to jump back on board the ship. He held out an arm and Vandersteyn, despite having been wounded in the leg, jumped after him, leaving only one sailor and the Scotchman behind.

  On deck, Vandersteyn and the crewman used their swords to sever the ropes securing the ship to the wharf. The sailor snatched up a long pole and pushed off. The Antwerpen moved clumsily away from the wharf, instantly caught in the current. Vandersteyn shouted to the two men left behind, ‘I’m sorry, brothers! Trust in God!’

  ‘Stop them!’ Stice yelled. But it was too late, the Antwerpen was out on the river. The current carried her rapidly downstream, bobbing wildly, the two men on board struggling to control her, almost overturning a wherry which just managed to row out of the way in time. A stream of curses sounded across the water as the boat headed for the middle of the river. I saw a sail unfurl.

  The remaining Dutchman and McKendrick had their backs to the river now. Realizing it was hopeless, they lowered their swords. ‘Drop them on the ground!’ Stice shouted. They obeyed, metal ringing on the cobbles, and Stice waved his men to lower their own weapons. I looked at the four prone bodies on the wharf: the Dutch sailor, Curdy, Cecil’s man and, a little distance away, Leeman, lying on his front in the entrance to the alley. ‘He’s dead,’ Barak said loudly.

  On neighbouring boats watchmen still stood staring, talking animatedly in foreign tongues, but Barak had been right; they had not wanted to get mixed up in a sword fight involving a dozen men. One man shouted something at us in Spanish, but we ignored him. More men, though, might appear from the taverns. I looked at the Dutchman and McKendrick. Returning my look, the Dutchman spoke in heavily accented English. ‘Citizen of Flanders. Not subject to your laws. You must let us go.’

  ‘Pox on that!’ Stice shouted. ‘Your bodies will go in the river tonight!’ His head and shoulders were covered with blood from his wound; in the light of the lamp he looked like some demon from a mystery play.

  The Dutch sailor seemed shaken, but McKendrick spoke boldly, in the ringing tones of a preacher, his Scotch accent strong: ‘Ye’ve lost! We know Mynheer Vandersteyn had a book, by Anne Askew. Carried on his person, not in that bag. That’s why we got him aboard. Ye’ve lost!’ he repeated triumphantly.

  Stice turned wildly to Cecil. ‘We have to get that boat intercepted!’

  ‘On what grounds?’ Cecil said, his voice sharp and authoritative now. ‘Exporting heretical literature? The book would be public knowledge in a day. And intercepting a foreign trading vessel could cause diplomatic trouble; that’s the last thing we need just now.’

  Stice wiped his face with a bloody sleeve, then looked at the bag which Cecil still held. ‘Maybe they’re lying! Maybe it’s in there!’ He grasped it from Cecil’s arms and upturned it on the ground, dragging the lantern across to examine the contents. I helped him go through them; nothing but spare clothing, a Dutch bible and a purse of coins. He threw the purse down and stood cursing.

  ‘Search those men!’ he shouted, pointing to McKendrick and the Dutchman. Two of Stice’s men grabbed them and searched them roughly, watched carefully by Cecil and me, then turned back to their master, holding out a couple of purses. ‘Nothing but these!’

  ‘Examine them!’

  The two men opened the drawstrings and bent to look inside. Seizing his moment, the Scotchman suddenly jumped forward and grabbed his sword. Gower was next to him. Taking the big man by surprise, McKendrick lunged at him, thrusting his sword deep into his stomach. With a cry, Gower staggered back into the man next to him, unbalancing him, and the Scot, with an astounding turn of speed for such a big man, ran for the lane, jumping over Leeman’s prone body. Stice’s men ran after him, disappearing into the darkness.

  ‘By God’s body sacred!’ Cecil shouted out. It was the first outbreak of temper I had seen from him. ‘We’ve lost them all!’ He approached the Dutchman and, to my surprise, addressed him in Flemish. A brief exchange followed before Cecil turned away. ‘He knows nothing,’ he said fiercely. ‘They all belonged to some heretic congregation in Antwerp, came over knowing their friend Vandersteyn had an important book to bring back. This one says there are two more crewmen who will be back from the tavern soon. And we can’t have a diplomatic incident over this.’ He spoke desperately, looking at the four bodies and at Gower, who had fallen to his knees and was gasping as he clutched the wound in his stomach, blood trickling down between his fingers.

  The two who had run after McKendrick returned em
pty-handed. ‘He got away from us, those lanes are pitch-black. The devil knows where he is now.’

  ‘No!’ We all turned to the Dutchman, who spoke in heavily accented English. ‘God knows where he is. He is God’s servant, unlike you shavelings of the Pope.’ Stice and his men looked at him threateningly; they would have given him a beating, but Cecil called them off sharply. ‘Let him go,’ he said. He looked at the sailor. ‘Run, you, while you can!’

  The Dutchman disappeared into the lanes. ‘Search Leeman and Curdy’s bodies,’ Cecil said. ‘Quick, there’s little time.’

  ‘What for?’ Stice asked. He had taken out a handkerchief and was dabbing at his face.

  Cecil nodded at the direction in which the Dutchman had fled. ‘In case he’s lying and one of them has the book on his person.’

  Barak and Nicholas went over and searched Leeman’s body, while one of Stice’s men searched Curdy’s, Cecil and I standing over him in case a manuscript should be found. But there was nothing on either man, save more purses full of coins for the men’s new life on the Continent. I sighed. Gower had collapsed to the ground now, coughing; Stice went over and knelt beside him. ‘We’ll get you seen to,’ he said in a surprisingly gentle tone.

  I turned to the body of Cecil’s man. ‘Had he family?’ I asked.

  Cecil shook his head. ‘I don’t know. The poor fellow was in Lord Parr’s household.’ He turned to the other man who had come with him. ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘Only slightly, sir. But he had a wife.’

  ‘What do we do with the bodies?’ Nicholas asked quietly.

  ‘Put them in the river,’ Stice answered, standing up. ‘There’s nothing to identify them, and with luck they’ll be carried far downstream before they surface. When the crew return they’ll find the ship gone and they’ll learn about the fight from the one we let go, who’ll be running to them now. But they’ll say nothing, their business was illegal and there’s nothing to lead anyone to us. Get them in the water, now.’

  ‘Not my man,’ Cecil answered firmly. ‘You heard, he had a wife. My other man and I will have him taken back to Whitehall in a wherry. We owe him that. We can say he was robbed.’

  Stice took a deep breath. ‘We’ve got to get Gower to a doctor. He’ll take some carrying to the cart.’

  On the next ship the sailor was calling to us in Spanish again – asking questions, by the tone of his voice. Stice turned and shouted, ‘Fuck off!’

  ‘All right, Stice,’ Barak said briskly. ‘We’ll dispose of these other two; you’re right, if they’re left lying here there’ll be questions.’

  Stice nodded agreement. He turned to me, braced his shoulders and said, ‘We have failed, Master Shardlake. Sir Richard Rich will want an accounting for this.’

  ‘He is not the only one,’ Cecil said.

  Stice left his two remaining men carrying the wounded Gower between them. Barak shook his head. ‘Stomach wound like that, doubt he’ll make it.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Well done, Nicholas, for battling with Leeman. He was a powerful fighter.’

  Barak smiled. ‘Not was. Is. Come and look. Bring the lamp.’

  Puzzled, Cecil and Nicholas and I followed him over to where Leeman lay prone. Nicholas turned him over. The wound on his arm had stopped bleeding. Barak put a hand to the man’s nostrils. ‘There, he’s breathing. I only knocked him out.’ He looked between me and Cecil and smiled.

  Nicholas said, ‘You told me he was dead!’

  ‘There’s an art to where you hit a man on the head. I thought it a good idea to pretend he was dead. Now that Stice has gone we can take him in to question him alone.’ He allowed himself a smile. ‘I was scared he might come to and moan, but he’s still out cold.’

  Nicholas looked at Barak with a new respect. Cecil bent over Leeman dubiously. ‘Are you sure he’s all right?’

  ‘Pretty sure. He’ll come round soon.’

  I looked at the young guard’s still face. ‘It seems Anne Askew’s writings have gone, but as for the Lamentation, if anyone knows what’s happened to it, it’s him.’

  Cecil smiled with relief. ‘Yes. You did well, Barak.’

  ‘He may not want to talk,’ Nicholas muttered.

  Cecil looked at the boy, his large eyes set hard now. ‘One way or another, he will.’ He looked round. People were still watching us from the boats, but nobody had come yet from the taverns. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Get those bodies in the river. Quick!’

  Chapter Thirty-four

  I QUICKLY BOUND LEEMAN’S injured arm with my handkerchief. Fortunately the blow Nicholas had struck him, though a long gash, was not deep. Cecil and Lord Parr’s surviving man stood watching. Meanwhile Barak and Nicholas rolled the bodies of Curdy and the Dutch sailor into the Thames, watched in horror by the Spaniard on the neighbouring boat. I cringed when I heard the splashes. Beside me, Leeman remained unconscious. I feared Barak had hit him too hard and that the business of the Queen’s book would bring yet another death after all. Lamentation indeed, I thought bitterly as Barak and Nicholas walked back to us, Barak looking grimly determined and Nicholas slightly shocked. In the water I saw a body rolling over as the current carried it rapidly downriver – Curdy’s, I thought, from its round shape.

  Barak knelt and examined Leeman. ‘We have to get him away somewhere, question him when he comes round.’

  ‘Where?’ I asked.

  ‘We cannot take him to Whitehall.’ Cecil spoke firmly.

  ‘My lodgings are not far,’ Nicholas said. ‘And I know my fellow students are out. A friend’s birthday celebration. It’ll go on till very late, they may not be back at all tonight.’

  ‘You left the party to join us?’ Barak said. ‘We’re honoured.’

  ‘Yes, we are,’ I said seriously. ‘Your help was important. And that was a grim task.’

  Nicholas gave a strange, halting laugh. ‘I have never seen anyone killed before.’

  When Cecil spoke his voice was cool but his large eyes held a shocked look: ‘Take Leeman to the boy’s place.’

  ‘We could carry him between us,’ Barak said, ‘pretend he’s a drunk friend that’s passed out, if we’re asked.’

  Cecil looked down at the body of Lord Parr’s man. ‘And we will take this poor fellow straight on to Whitehall and rouse Lord Parr. What is your address, boy? We will send some men there later, to pick up Leeman. It may take a few hours, though. Keep him safe.’

  ‘We must be careful,’ I said. ‘I had a sense we were followed here. I’m sure I heard someone accidentally kick a stone in that alley.’

  ‘I thought so, too,’ Barak said. ‘Watch out for us. Nick boy, keep your hand near your sword.’

  Barak and Nicholas heaved Leeman up, putting his limp arms over their shoulders. Cecil looked on, his eyes wide. Barak gave him a grim smile. ‘Don’t worry, he’ll come round in a while.’ Cecil shook his head, as though wondering whether all this could actually have happened, then motioned Lord Parr’s second man to help him lift the dead man’s body.

  WE REACHED Nicholas’s lodgings without incident, taking the conspirators’ discarded lamp to light our way. I kept a keen ear out for anyone following us through the dark streets, but heard nothing. Leeman was still unconscious when we reached Nicholas’s lodgings. Barak and Nicholas laid him on the bed, which needed a change of sheets. I coughed at the dust in the room. ‘Don’t you have someone in to clean?’ I asked.

  ‘We had a woman, but Stephen next door tried it on with her once too often. We haven’t found anyone else yet.’

  I looked at Nicholas’s bookshelf, noting that along with some legal tomes and a New Testament which seemed suspiciously pristine, there were a couple of volumes on gentlemanly conduct and the Book of the Hunt.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ Nicholas said. ‘I have some pork dripping and bread. I think the dripping’s still all right.’ Under the fading bruises his face was pale. Barak, too, looked tired and grim. We were all exhausted. I studied Leeman, lying prone on the
bed. He was young, tall and strongly built, with dark hair, a neatly trimmed beard and a handsome face with a proud Roman nose. He wore a jerkin of ordinary fustian, a far cry from the finery of the Queen’s court. I felt gently round the back of his head; there was a large swelling there.

  Barak and Nicholas had sat down at the table, and were hungrily devouring the bread and dripping which Nicholas had brought from a cupboard. ‘Here,’ Barak said to me. ‘Have some food. We could be here a while.’

  I joined them, but continued to check on Leeman. I had some time, at least, to question him before Lord Parr’s men arrived. I sensed that, like Myldmore, this man might be willing to speak if we could convince him that we were working for the reformist side. It was worth a try. I remembered what I had said to Nicholas that time Elias had fled. Never prick a stirring horse more than he needs. I was desperate to find out what Leeman knew but a soft touch might work here. I remembered Cecil’s remark that he would talk in the end, and had a momentary vision of fists thudding in a darkened room.

  After a while, Leeman groaned and began to stir. Barak took some water from a bucket and squeezed a cloth over his face. Leeman coughed, then sat up, clutching his head. Grimacing with pain, he looked down at his bound arm.

  ‘I did that,’ Nicholas said. ‘’Tis but a flesh wound.’

  Leeman’s pale face darkened suddenly. ‘Where am I?’ he asked. He sounded angry but I detected an undertone of fear there, too.

  I stood up. ‘You are held, Master Leeman, if not by friends then not by the enemies you may think, either.’

  Leeman looked round the room, gradually taking in the student messiness. ‘This is not a prison,’ he stuttered, confusion on his face.