Dark Fire

  ‘But one has to fight the papists, sir. Oh, yes, I’d like to be a soldier or a sailor one day.’

  I prepared to argue, but turned at the sound of hooves. Barak, looking tired and dusty, had come to a halt outside the stable. Simon ran out and took the reins.

  ‘What news?’ I asked.

  ‘Let’s go inside.’

  I followed him back to the parlour. He ran a hand over his stubbly head, wrinkling the skin on his pate, then blew out his cheeks. ‘The earl was fierce with me,’ he said bluntly. ‘Told me he’d had to waste half the morning persuading the coroner to keep the bodies they found at Queenhithe quiet for a few days. He was furious to hear your efforts to make Bealknap talk had sent him off to Rich.’

  ‘I wasn’t to know Rich could be a shield against Cromwell.’

  ‘He can’t. The earl was outraged at the very idea. He thinks Rich has been exaggerating his powers to Bealknap and Bealknap believed him. He’s sending men out now to find Rich, find out what Bealknap meant. He says if Rich knows about Greek Fire he’ll sweat it out of him one way or another. I don’t envy friend Bealknap afterwards.’

  I frowned. ‘That doesn’t sound right. Bealknap’s every sort of rogue, but he’s no fool where his own interests are concerned. He wouldn’t have said what he did unless he knew he was safe. There’s something we’re not seeing.’

  ‘Another thing the earl said: he knows how you like to find all the facts and lay them flat on the table before coming to a conclusion. He says there isn’t time for that, you’ll have to cut corners.’

  I laughed bitterly. ‘In dealing with an enemy as clever as ours and in a matter as complex and secret as this? Does he think I’m a miracle worker?’

  ‘Maybe you’d like to ask him that. He was prowling around his office at Whitehall like a bear in the pit, ready to lash out. And he’s scared. He says to go to Barty’s now, today. It’s a good time, with Rich taken in to be questioned. He wants that coffin opened.’ Barak slumped down on the cushions. His face had a grey tinge under his tan; the events of last night were catching up with even his powerful constitution.

  ‘How is your shoulder?’ I asked.

  ‘Sore. But better than it was. What about your arm?’

  ‘The same. Bearable.’ I pondered a moment. If I was to go to St Bartholomew’s I wanted to go alone; if there was Greek Fire buried with the soldier, I would take it to Guy. Barak, I knew, would take it straight to Cromwell.

  ‘I’ll go over to Barty’s on my own,’ I said, my heart suddenly pounding fast. ‘You’re tired, you stay here.’

  He looked at me in surprise. ‘You look worse than I do.’

  ‘I’ve had a chance to rest upstairs,’ I lied, ‘while you’ve been facing the earl in a bad temper. Let me go alone.’

  ‘What if Toky’s about?’

  ‘I’ll be all right.’

  He hesitated, but to my relief relaxed deeper into the cushions. ‘All right. Jesu, I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired. The earl says Madam Neller will suffer for her betrayal once this matter is over.’

  ‘Good. I’ll get Simon to bring you in some beer. I’ll be back before dark.’

  ‘All right.’ He laughed. ‘I think the boy believes I’m a soldier of fortune. He’s always asking me what I do for Lord Cromwell, whether he sends me to battles.’

  ‘He’s sent us both to one this time. Don’t let Simon bother you.’

  ‘He’s no trouble.’ He looked at me. ‘Good luck.’

  I left the room and stood in the corridor. I felt relieved at Barak’s ready acquiescence, but also guilty. Evidently he trusted me now; I doubted he would have let me go alone on such a mission a week before. I shuddered at the thought that in deceiving Barak, I was deceiving Cromwell too.

  THE STREETS WERE quiet in the late afternoon heat as I rode up to Smithfield. As I turned into the open area a cart passed, driven by an old man with a rag covering his face. I saw that it was full of ancient bones, ribcages and sharp pelvises and limb bones piled together in an unholy jumble, skulls peering out with their mocking grins. Rotten scraps of ancient winding sheets trailed through the bones and as the cart passed I caught the damp, sickly smell of the tomb. I knew many skeletons from the monastic graveyards were driven out to the Lambeth marshes and quietly dumped; these must be from Barty’s. I hoped that I would be in time; Rich had said it would be a few days before they got to the hospital graveyard. As I spurred Genesis on across Smithfield, feeling a welcome breeze in my face, I noticed that though the Anabaptists might have recanted the stake stood already planted in the ground, the iron fetters hanging from it a grim reminder of its purpose.

  A new watchman from Augmentations stood by the priory gatehouse, a keen young fellow who demanded to know my business. I cursed when I remembered Barak had Cromwell’s seal, but my lawyer’s robe and mention of the earl’s name were enough to gain me entrance. I enquired after progress in excavating the graveyards. Looking surprised, the man said the work on the hospital graveyard had just begun. He called to another watchman, a lantern-jawed old fellow with a limp, to escort me there.

  The old man led me through a maze of buildings, some destroyed and others awaiting conversion to residences; across Little Britain Street to the grounds behind the priory hospital. The high crenellated City wall loomed in the distance.

  ‘Is the work far advanced?’ I asked.

  ‘They started yesterday,’ he grunted. ‘There’s hundreds of graves to dig up. Filthy business - it’s a known fact corpse odours can bring plague.’

  ‘I saw a cart full of bones on my way.’

  ‘The labourers have no respect for the dead. Reminds me of my time fighting in France, corpses everywhere given no proper burial.’ He crossed himself.

  I smiled sadly. ‘My stable boy wants to be a soldier.’

  ‘More fool him.’ The old man lowered his voice as we turned a corner. ‘It’s round here. Watch these men, sir. They’re a rough lot.’

  The spectacle that met our eyes was like something from an old painting of the Last Judgement. A wide graveyard, sewn thickly with tombstones, was being dug up. The sun was starting to set behind the hospital, casting a fiery ochre light over the scene. The work was organized methodically: as each coffin was dug up two men carried it to a trestle table, where an Augmentations official in a long robe sat with a clerk. I watched as a coffin was opened under the clerk’s eye; he rose and delved inside, then nodded. The workmen began removing the bones and piling them onto a waiting cart; the clerk took a small object and laid it before the official.

  A little way off a meal break was in progress; a group of labourers were playing football with a skull, kicking it to and fro. As we watched a long kick sent it crashing against a gravestone, where it shattered into a hundred pieces. The labourers laughed. The old man shook his head and led me across to the official, who looked me over with a cold glance. He was a small, plump fellow with a pursed mouth and small sharp eyes, the very embodiment of an Augmentations man.

  ‘Can I assist you, master lawyer?’ he asked.

  ‘I am on Lord Cromwell’s business, sir. Have you charge of these proceedings?’

  He hesitated. ‘Yes, I am Paul Hoskyn of Augmentations.’ He nodded at the old man. ‘That will do, Hogge.’

  ‘Matthew Shardlake, of Lincoln’s Inn,’ I said as the old man hobbled away, leaving me feeling strangely exposed. ‘I am looking for a grave which I have reason to believe may contain something of interest to my master.’

  Hoskyn’s eyes narrowed. ‘Everything of value is kept for Sir Richard to examine.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ I bent to look at the items on the table. Gold rings and badges, little daggers and silver boxes, giving off that sickly whiff of death. ‘It is not an item of value. Of interest only.’

  He eyed me shrewdly. ‘It must be important, for the earl to send you here. Does Sir Richard know?’

  ‘No. The earl has sent for him on another matter. He is probably there now. In truth, it is
only of antiquarian interest.’

  ‘I never heard the earl had any interest in such things.’

  ‘He does. And I am an antiquarian,’ I added, adopting an earnest manner. I had thought this story up on the way. ‘I recently found some stones set in the Ludgate that had Hebrew markings. They came from an old synagogue, you know. All ancient things interest me.’

  The official grunted, his face still full of suspicion.

  ‘We think this man buried here may have been a foreign Jew,’ I went on eagerly, ‘and had Jewish artefacts buried with him. Hebrew studies are of interest now the Old Testament is so widely read.’

  ‘Have you any authority from the earl you can show me?’

  ‘Only his name,’ I replied, looking the fellow in the eye. He pursed his little mouth, then rose and led me across the brown grass of the graveyard. I looked at the gravestones; they were small, of cheap sandstone, the older ones indecipherable.

  ‘I am looking for a gravestone from the middle of the last century. The name is St John.’

  ‘That would be over by the wall. I don’t want to go digging over there yet,’ he added pettishly. ‘It’ll throw my work plan out of joint.’

  ‘The earl wishes it.’

  He looked among the gravestones, then stopped and pointed. ‘Is that it?’

  My heart thumped with excitement as I read the simple inscription. ‘Alan St John, Soldier against the Turk, 1423—54.’ Only thirty-one when he died. I had not realized he had been so young.

  ‘This is it,’ I said quietly. ‘Can I have two of your men?’ Hoskyn frowned. ‘A Jew would not have been buried in consecrated ground. Nor have a Christian’s name.’

  ‘He would if he was a convert. There are records that this man was in the Domus.’

  He shook his head, then crossed to the men who had been playing football. They gave me unfriendly looks. I knew those who laboured for Augmentations had an easy time of it, they would not like outsiders barging in with extra duties. Two of the men returned with Hoskyn, carrying shovels. He pointed at St John’s grave.

  ‘He wants that one opened up. Call me as soon as it’s uncovered.’ With that, Hoskyn went back to his table, where three more coffins were laid out.

  The two labourers, large young fellows in stained smocks, began digging at the hard dry earth. ‘What’re we digging for?’ one asked. ‘A box of gold?’

  ‘Nothing of value.’

  ‘We’re supposed to stop work at dusk.’ He glanced at the blood-red sky. ‘That’s our contract.’

  ‘Just the one grave,’ I said, mollifying him. He grunted and bent to his task.

  ST JOHN HAD BEEN buried deep, the light was failing and redder than ever before the shovel struck wood. The men dug out the earth around the coffin, then stood beside it. It was a cheap thing of some dark wood. I was aware several other labourers had come over and were standing watching.

  ‘Come, Samuel,’ one said. ‘It’s past time to go. It’s nearly dark.’

  ‘There’s no need to take the coffin out,’ I said. ‘Just open it there, if you’ll help me down.’

  The other labourer helped me into the grave, then clambered out himself and called to Hoskyn that they were done. I watched as the man Samuel worked at the coffin lid with his spade. It came open with a crack. He slid it off, then stepped back with a gasp. ‘God’s wounds, what’s that stink?’

  I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck. It was the same harsh smell that had wafted up the stairs of Madam Gristwood’s house the night before.

  I bent slowly and looked into the coffin. In the red light of sunset St John’s remains looked strangely peaceful. His skeleton lay on its back, arms crossed. His skull was turned to one side, as though sleeping, the jaws closed rather than grinning open, a few brown hairs still clinging to it. The winding sheet had rotted away, there were only a few mouldy scraps of cloth in the bottom of the coffin. And among them, a little pewter jar, the size of a man’s hand. There was a crack at the top, but when I bent and lifted it gently I could feel it was almost full. I was right, I thought. I have found it.

  ‘What’s that?’ Samuel asked. He sounded disappointed, no doubt he had been hoping for the glint of gold after all. ‘Here,’ he called to his fellows. ‘Bring a torch. We can hardly see here!’

  I turned to see a man brandishing a flaming torch at the edge of the grave, about to hand it down. ‘No!’ I shouted. ‘No fire, whatever you do!’

  ‘Why not?’ Samuel asked, frowning.

  ‘It’s witchcraft,’ someone else said. ‘That’s some Christ-killing Jew down there.’ Samuel crossed himself and there was a murmur among the crowd. I clambered back out, holding the jar carefully. No one leant over to help me and I had to balance on the coffin and heave myself up with one hand. I stood on the edge of the grave, breathing heavily. I looked for Hoskyn, but he had left his table and was nowhere to be seen. About ten labourers stood around me, their faces hostile and frightened, a couple carrying torches. ‘Damned hunchback,’ someone muttered.

  Then everyone turned at the sound of footsteps, and the men bowed and fell back like wheat before a gale as the frowning figure of Sir Richard Rich, in feathered cap and a yellow silk robe, stepped into the centre of the group, Hoskyn at his elbow.

  ‘You men,’ he called sharply, ‘leave now. All of you.’ The labourers melted away like smoke, Samuel clambering rapidly out of the grave and following them. Left alone with Rich and Hoskyn, I slid the hand with the little jar behind my back. Rich looked into the grave. His cold eyes passed over St John’s remains, then he turned back to me.

  ‘Jesu, what a stink. Christ’s blood, Master Shardlake, it seems you cannot stay away from Barty’s. First you’re in my garden among the washing and now you’re digging up graves looking for trinkets.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘I am here on Lord Cromwell’s authority—’

  He waved a hand dismissively. ‘Hoskyn told me. Sounds like a cock-and-bull story to me. The earl doesn’t collect monastic relics, he burns them.’

  ‘It was not a relic I was seeking, sir. I - I thought Lord Cromwell had asked you to attend him—’

  ‘I’ve heard nothing of it, I’ve been out on audit all day.’ Rich frowned. ‘You are a hard man to get rid of, Shardlake.’ He nodded at the grave. ‘If I find this is some frolic of your own, I’ll put you in there to add to the smell.’ He turned, frowning, as a servant ran up to him. Rich looked at him irritably.

  ‘Sir Richard,’ the man gasped, ‘an urgent message. From Lord Cromwell. His man has been trying to find you all day. He wishes to see you at once at Whitehall.’

  Rich gave me a startled look. He set his lips, then nodded to the steward. ‘Make my horse ready.’ He turned back to me. ‘You are becoming a nuisance, Shardlake,’ he said. His voice was low, but furious. ‘A serious nuisance. I do not tolerate nuisances. Be warned.’ With that he turned and stalked away, Hoskyn waddling after him. I clutched the jar hard. Then, my legs shaking like jelly, I walked quickly out of the graveyard.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  I SAT IN MY BEDROOM, staring down at the jar of Greek Fire on my table. I had brought a plate from the kitchen and poured a little onto it; the brownish-black viscous liquid lay there, glistening like a toad’s skin. I pulled the table over to the open window to dispel the acrid tang of the stuff. I left the candle on the other side of the room for safety, though that meant there was insufficient light to examine it further. In truth, I was afraid of it. Tomorrow, I had decided, I would take it to Guy.

  A knock at the door made me jump. Wincing at a spasm from my back, I hastily covered the jar and plate with a cloth, calling, ‘Wait a moment!’

  ‘It’s me,’ Barak replied through the door. ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘I - I’m getting dressed. Wait in your room, I’ll come to you.’ To my relief I heard retreating footsteps. I sniffed the air, but the smell was faint and could not have reached him through the door. Leaving the window open, I slipped out of the room,
locking it behind me.

  Barak had been asleep when I had returned from St Bartholomew’s half an hour before and I had left him. As I knocked at his door I recalled that in the conflicts that had raged around reformers over which of apparently conflicting biblical passages one should follow, I had ever preferred, ‘Obey God rather than man,’ over ‘Let every man be subject to the governing authorities.’ I knew I would have to lie to Barak now, and did not relish it, but I felt in my heart that taking the Greek Fire to Guy was the right course. I shuddered at the thought that if the servant had not arrived when he did, Rich might have had it. Although he might have plenty already, for all I knew.

  Barak was sitting on the bed in his shirt, mournfully examining a pair of dusty netherstocks. He put his finger through a hole. ‘Hard riding’s done for these,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sure Lord Cromwell will pay for more.’ The room was a mess, dirty clothes and greasy plates strewn over the floor and the table. I remembered my former assistant Mark, who had once had this room, how tidy he had kept it.

  Barak crumpled the torn stocks into a ball and threw them into a corner.

  ‘Any luck at Barty’s!’

  ‘No. We dug up the grave but there was nothing in it, only St John’s skeleton. Rich was there. He came up and demanded to know my business.’

  ‘Shit. What did you tell the arsehole?’

  ‘I thought there might be trouble, but the summons from Cromwell arrived just then and he went off in a hurry.’

  Barak sighed. ‘Another trail gone cold. We must see what the earl gets out of Rich. He’ll send a message once he’s talked to him.’

  ‘And Marchamount is back tomorrow. I’ll go into chambers and see him.’

  Barak nodded, then looked up at me. ‘Are you up to trying the well again tonight? There won’t be a message from the earl for hours, perhaps not till tomorrow morning. My shoulder’s much better.’

  I was far from up to it, I ached with tiredness from head to toe and my arm hurt. But I had promised, and after all it was for Elizabeth that I had agreed to do everything else in the first place. I nodded wearily. ‘Let me just get some food, then we will go.’