Lamentation (The Shardlake Series Book 6) Read Free Page B

flushed and his lips set. He stared back at me a moment, then turned away as Wriothesley bent to speak to him. I shuddered. My anxiety communicated itself to Genesis, who stirred uneasily. I steadied him with a pat.
    Near to me a soldier passed, carefully carrying a basket. ‘Make way, make way! ’Tis the gunpowder!’
    I was glad to hear the words. At least there would be some mercy. The sentence for heresy was burning to death, but sometimes the authorities allowed a packet of gunpowder to be placed around each victim’s neck so that when the flames reached it, the packet would explode, bringing instantaneous death.
    ‘Should let them burn to the end,’ someone protested.
    ‘Ay,’ another agreed. ‘The kiss of fire, so light and agonizing.’ A horrible giggle.
    I looked round as another horseman, dressed like me in a lawyer’s silken summer robe and dark cap, made his way through the crowd and came to a halt beside me. He was a few years my junior, with a handsome though slightly stern face, a short dark beard and blue eyes that were penetratingly honest and direct.
    ‘Good day, Serjeant Shardlake.’
    ‘And to you, Brother Coleswyn.’
    Philip Coleswyn was a barrister of Gray’s Inn, and my opponent in the wretched case of the Slanning Will. He represented my client’s brother, who was as cantankerous and difficult as his sister, but though, as their lawyers, we had had to cross swords I had found Coleswyn himself civil and honest, not one of those lawyers who will enthusiastically argue the worst of cases for enough silver. I guessed he found his client as irritating as I did mine. I had heard he was a reformer – gossip these days was usually about people’s religion – though for myself I did not care a fig.
    ‘Are you here to represent Lincoln’s Inn?’ Coleswyn asked.
    ‘Ay. Have you been chosen for Gray’s Inn?’
    ‘I have. Not willingly.’
    ‘Nor I.’
    ‘It is a cruel business.’ He looked at me directly.
    ‘It is. Cruel and horrible.’
    ‘Soon they will make it illegal to worship God.’ He spoke with a slight tremor in his voice.
    I replied, my words noncommittal but my tone sardonic, ‘It is our duty to worship as King Henry decrees.’
    ‘And here is his decree,’ Coleswyn answered quietly. He shook his head, then said, ‘I am sorry, Brother, I should watch my words.’
    ‘Yes. In these days we must.’
    The soldier had laid the basket of gunpowder down carefully in a corner of the railed-off area. He stepped over the rail and now stood with the other soldiers facing outwards at the crowd, quite close to us. Then I saw Wriothesley lean forwards and beckon the man with a finger. He ran across to the canopied stage and I saw Wriothesley gesture at the gunpowder basket. The soldier answered him and Wriothesley sat back, apparently satisfied. The man returned to his position.
    ‘What was that about?’ I heard the soldier next to him say.
    ‘He asked how much gunpowder there was. He was frightened that when it blew up it might send burning faggots flying towards the stage. I told him it’ll be round their necks, well above the faggots.’
    His fellow laughed. ‘The radicals would love it if Gardiner and half the Privy Council ended up burning, too. John Bale could write one of his plays about it.’
    I felt eyes on me. I saw, a little to my left, a black-robed lawyer standing with two young gentlemen in doublets bright with expensive dye, pearls in their caps. The lawyer was young, in his twenties, a short thin fellow with a narrow, clever face, protuberant eyes and a wispy beard. He had been staring at me hard. He met my gaze then looked away.
    I turned to Coleswyn. ‘Do you know that lawyer, standing with the two young popinjays?’
    He shook his head. ‘I think I’ve seen him round the courts once or twice, but I don’t know him.’
    ‘No matter.’
    There was a fresh ripple of excitement through the crowd as a procession approached from Little Britain Street. More