Lamentation (The Shardlake Series Book 6) Read Free

apprentice in the spring, to give him a chance in life, and planned to do the same for Timothy when he reached fourteen.
    ‘Good morning, sir.’ He smiled his shy, gap-toothed grin, pushing a tangle of black hair from his forehead.
    ‘Good morning, lad. How goes it with you?’
    ‘Well, sir.’
    ‘You must be missing Simon.’
    ‘Yes, sir.’ He looked down, stirring a pebble with his foot. ‘But I manage.’
    ‘You manage well,’ I answered encouragingly. ‘But perhaps we should begin to think of an apprenticeship for you. Have you thought what you might wish to do in life?’
    He stared at me, sudden alarm in his brown eyes. ‘No, sir – I – I thought I would stay here.’ He looked around, out at the roadway. He had always been a quiet boy, with none of Simon’s confidence, and I realized the thought of going out into the world scared him.
    ‘Well,’ I said soothingly, ‘there is no hurry.’ He looked relieved. ‘And now I must away – ’ I sighed – ‘to business.’

     
    I RODE UNDER Temple Bar then turned up Gifford Street, which led to the open space of Smithfield. Many people were travelling in the same direction along the dusty way, some on horseback, most on foot, rich and poor, men, women and even a few children. Some, especially those in the dark clothes favoured by religious radicals, looked serious, others’ faces were blank, while some even wore the eager expression of people looking forward to a good entertainment. I had put on my white serjeant’s coif under my black cap, and began to sweat in the heat. I remembered with irritation that in the afternoon I had an appointment with my most difficult client, Isabel Slanning, whose case – a dispute with her brother over their mother’s Will – was among the silliest and costliest I had ever encountered.
    I passed two young apprentices in their blue doublets and caps. ‘Why must they have it at midday?’ I overheard one grumble. ‘There won’t be any shade.’
    ‘Don’t know. Some rule, I suppose. The hotter for good Mistress Askew. She’ll have a warm arse before the day’s done, eh?’

     
    S MITHFIELD WAS crowded already. The open space where the twice-weekly cattle market was held was full of people, all facing a railed-off central area guarded by soldiers wearing metal helmets and white coats bearing the cross of St George. They carried halberds, their expressions stern. If there were any protests these would be dealt with sharply. I looked at the men sadly; whenever I saw soldiers now I thought of my friends who had died, as I nearly had myself, when the great ship Mary Rose foundered during the repelling of the attempted French invasion. A year, I thought, almost to the day. Last month news had come that the war was almost over, a settlement negotiated but for a few details, with France and Scotland, too. I remembered the soldiers’ fresh young faces, the bodies crashing into the water, and closed my eyes. Peace had come too late for them.
    Mounted on my horse I had a better view than most, better than I would have wished for, and close by the railings, for the crowd pressed those on horseback forward. In the centre of the railed-off area three oaken poles, seven feet tall, had been secured in the dusty earth. Each had metal hoops in the side through which London constables were sliding iron chains. They inserted padlocks in the links and checked the keys worked. Their air was calm and businesslike. A little way off more constables stood around an enormous pile of faggots – thick bunches of small branches. I was glad the weather had been dry; I had heard that if the wood was wet it took longer to burn, and the victims’ suffering was horribly prolonged. Facing the stakes was a tall wooden lectern, painted white. Here, before the burning, there would be a preaching, a last appeal to the heretics to repent. The preacher was to be Nicholas Shaxton, the former Bishop of Salisbury, a radical reformer who had been