‘It’s come, then,’ Fletcher said.
‘Ay,’ Toky agreed. ‘God’s bones, it is dark. We’ll have that candle lit after all, but keep it on the far side of the table.’ Fletcher set the candle on a plate, there was a struggle with a tinderbox and a yellow glow spread over the room. Our captors sat back, waiting.
‘Listen,’ Barak said. ‘You know we work for Lord Cromwell. If we’re killed there’ll be a hunt up for you like you’ve never seen.’
Toky smiled sardonically. ‘Piss the tavern keeper’s son. He’s finished.’
‘If you let us go you’ll be richly rewarded.’
‘Too late for any of that, matey.’ Toky sat looking at Barak, his eyes twin glinting points in the candlelight. ‘I don’t like the way you’ve led me such a dance,’ he said.
‘More of a dance than you think,’ Barak said. ‘Your mate Wright was killed this morning. Took a dive off the roof of St Paul’s.’
‘Whate’ Toky leaned forward.
‘Join us, bully, before you join him.’
‘You’ve killed Sam?’ Toky’s voice was a horrified croak. ‘You’ve killed Sam!’ Fletcher looked at him uneasily. Barak had made a bad mistake. Toky half-rose, then sat down again.
‘By God,’ he said, ‘I’ll see you two die slowly for this. You’ll learn the tricks I know with my knife—’ The look in his eyes chilled me.
Barak leaned back, brushing against me as he did so. He still stared at Toky, but I felt fingers brushing against my belt and realized he was trying to reach my dagger with his bound hands. They had not thought I might be carrying a weapon too. Taking care not to look at Barak, I edged slightly towards him. I felt the dagger withdrawn. Toky had put his head in his hands, Wright’s death had affected him badly. Fletcher was still watching him anxiously.
Barak began sawing at my bonds, then lay still again as Fletcher rose and opened the door. Through the hatchway I could see rain sheeting down from the dark sky, a million tiny waterspouts dancing on the brown river. He closed the door again and returned to the table. Toky sat up. His face was paler than ever, a white oval, the candlelight making tiny pinpoint shadows in the pits of his face.
‘Any sign of them?’ His voice was composed, but I could sense the pain and fury behind it.
‘No. It’ll be a hard ride in this weather.’
Toky nodded, then sat looking down at his hands. He seemed not to want to look at us now. Barak recommenced sawing my bonds, slowly and carefully so that his movements should not attract attention. I bit back a cry as the sharp dagger sliced into my skin, then felt the rope fall away. It was hard not to follow the instinct to pull my chafed hands apart. I flexed my fingers carefully, then palmed the dagger from Barak and began sawing at his ropes in turn, all the while watching our captors. Toky was still absorbed in his thoughts, and Fletcher passed us only an occasional glance. He was restless, jumpy.
Then I heard feet on the stairs. Fletcher got up. I stopped sawing at Barak’s bonds - surely I was almost through now? I risked a glance at him, but Barak kept his face impassive as Fletcher opened the door.
Serjeant Marchamount came in, shaking the water from a heavy coat. He looked down at us. There was a cold brutality I had never seen before in his face, the urbane mask quite fallen away.
‘You did get out of your depth, didn’t you?’
We stared at him open-mouthed. Barak was the first to recover his wits. ‘You’re supposed to be dead,’ he said.
Marchamount smiled. ‘You were getting too close, so I decided I’d better disappear. Just as well we’d kept that founder alive here. Toky and Wright took him to Lincoln’s Inn orchard and hacked the life out of the fool. Then they put my ring on his finger and took the body away on a cart. That hatch is useful for throwing things into the Thames. You’ll be leaving that way.’
‘Wright’s dead,’ Toky said with a grim look at me. ‘They threw him off the roof of St Paul’s. I want my revenge with them.’
‘So it’s him they’re all talking about all over the City,’ Marchamount answered casually. He took off his coat, revealing a fine doublet embroidered with little diamonds. ‘People were talking of some plot to kill Cranmer.’ He looked at Toky. ‘All right,’ he said quietly. ‘Do what you like with them later. I’ve sent Jackson on, by the way. We’ll have to wait a little for a full house: this rain is turning the streets into rivers.’ He sat on the edge of the table, folding his plump hands together. He looked thoughtful. ‘So. Cromwell knows we haven’t been able to make any more Dark Fire, does he? But not our names?’
‘No,’ I said. There was no point in denying that now.
‘Was the alchemy too hard for you?’ Barak asked scoffingly.
For answer Marchamount crossed and struck him savagely across the face. ‘I’m a serjeant, churl, you’ll take a respectful tone when you talk to me.’
Barak stared boldly back at him. ‘That didn’t stop you conjuring up a common fraud. That’s all this is.’
‘No, it is not,’ an aristocratic voice said from the doorway.
Chapter Forty-four
MARCHAMOUNT AND THE two villains bowed deeply as the Duke of Norfolk entered, rain falling from his fur-lined coat, young Jackson following him. I realized he must have been at the banquet as Norfolk’s servant, not Lady Honor’s, and felt relief as well as horror as I understood just how high the plot reached.
Norfolk threw his coat to Fletcher, then stared at me with that cold haughty look of his. There would be no mercy from him, I knew. He walked over to the bale of cloth. Fletcher hastily rose to allow him to sit down.
‘Well, Master Shardlake,’ he said, ‘I’ve had a wet trip across the river in the pissing rain thanks to you.’ He smiled coldly. ‘Yet you did well, considering the forces against you.’ He laughed. ‘More forces than you guessed. I wouldn’t have minded a man like you on my side. But you’ve different loyalties, eh? Now, what does Cromwell know?’
‘He knows by now that the Gristwoods were unable to make Greek Fire,’ I lied.
‘And how did you discover that?’ His tone was conversational.
‘By going back to how it began.’
‘Ah yes, the monk Kytchyn. I expect he’s squirrelled away in one of Cromwell’s safe houses by now?’
‘Yes, he’s safe. Then I delved into the old sources. I realized there was a missing element that’s needed to make Greek Fire, something that can’t be found in England. But perhaps you have travelled the same path. Is that why Marchamount took the books from Lincoln’s Inn?’
Marchamount nodded. ‘Ay. And threatened the librarian with the duke’s retribution if he asked any questions. It seems we have been following the same path, Shardlake. I have driven my mind to aching with those books. But I know we shall never be able to make Greek Fire in England.’
Norfolk nodded. ‘But you didn’t know I was behind the plot, or that Marchamount here was my man?’
‘No, they didn’t.’ Toky said.
‘Let the crookback answer.’
‘No.’
Norfolk nodded slowly. ‘Did you guess what our first plan was?’
‘I think you planned to give Greek Fire to the king yourself, but when Sepultus Gristwood failed to make it you decided to turn it into a fraud to get Cromwell into worse odour with the king.’
Norfolk gave a bark of laughter. ‘Why’s the crookback not a serjeant, eh, Gabriel? He could outwit you in court any day.’ Marchamount scowled.
‘By God,’ the duke continued, ‘Sepultus Gristwood and his brother angered me. Going to Gabriel and promising they could make Greek Fire, him running to me saying we had the last nail for Cromwell’s coffin. Then every week they said it would take a little longer, said there was another element they needed to find—it was months before they finally confessed they’d failed. It was Gabriel’s idea to turn it against Cromwell, he’s a clever fellow after all. And to make sure we dealt through intermediaries to give the story credence. He’ll have his knighthood when Cromwell’s
gone, eh?’ He clapped the serjeant on the shoulder; Marchamount reddened with embarrassment.
‘So, no Greek Fire for the king. You should see him when he is in a rage. It is - spectacular!’ Norfolk threw back his head and gave a bark of laughter. Marchamount and Fletcher joined in sycophantically, though Toky sat glaring at us, fingering the dagger he had pulled from his belt’.
‘Cromwell is tottering,’ the duke said more quietly. ‘This failure will bring him down. Then, when I step into his shoes, after a few months Greek Fire will be mysteriously found again. His alchemists shall have this vase and I shall be celebrated as the one who rediscovered it.’
‘You can’t make more,’ I said.
‘No? You have the formula safe, Marchamount?’
The serjeant patted his doublet. ‘Yes, your grace. It never leaves my person now.’
The duke nodded, then turned back to me. ‘We shall find the stuff the formula calls naphtha, Master Shardlake. We will make a voyage to where some can be found.’
‘All those places are under the Turks.’
‘Are they? Well, I am not short of gold.’ Norfolk narrowed his eyes. ‘This will be my triumph. The king tires of reform, he sees now the chaos it brings. In the end he will be persuaded back to Rome and, who knows, perhaps Catherine will give him another son. A Howard heir, in case anything should happen to the little Seymour prince.’ He smiled again and raised his eyebrows.
‘And you killed all those people to make it so.’
He nodded seriously. ‘Yes. Does that offend your legal sensibilities, lawyer? They were common churls. Rogues and a whore, a common founder. They were nothing, chaff before the wind. I seek to change the future of England, save three million souls from the heresy of the reformists.’ The duke stood up, walked over and kicked me, casually but painfully, on the shin. Then he nodded at Toky. ‘I’ll leave you to deal with them. Have what sport you wish, but before the lawyer’s dead I want all the details of what Shardlake found in those old books. The bodies can go out of the hatchway afterwards. Marchamount, stay and help question him. Note what he says.’
The serjeant wrinkled his nose. ‘Is that really necessary? It will be an unedifying spectacle—’
‘Yes, it is,’ the duke answered shortly. ‘You’re a bookish lawyer like the crookback. These fellows will know no more of old Roman writers than I do.’
Marchamount sighed. ‘Very well.’
‘And now I am going back to Bishop Gardiner’s house to dine with Catherine. Inform me when it’s done.’ The duke inclined his head to me. ‘You’ll find there are more painful things than burning, lawyer, if I know Master Toky.’ He snapped his fingers at young Jackson and the boy helped him back into his coat, then opened the door to the outer room. Through the hatchway I saw the sheeting rain and the river surging by, the tide nearly high now. Fletcher and Toky bowed as the duke swept through the doorway, followed by Jackson.
There was silence for a moment, save for the hissing of the rain and their footsteps descending the stairs. Toky pulled out a long, sharp dagger. He smiled. ‘Each cut will be for Sam Wright.’ He stood up. ‘Here we go, crookback, we’ll start with your ears—’
Marchamount gave me an apologetic smile. ‘This will be an unusual type of discourse for lawyers, I am afraid.’
I felt Barak tense beside me. His hands, untied, shot down to the floor. Balancing on them, he launched a high kick at Fletcher. It was brilliantly done. He caught him in the stomach and sent him crashing back against the wall. His head hit it with a bang that shook the whole room and he slid down the wall, unconscious.
Barak leaped to his feet and lunged for the corner where his sword had been thrown. I hauled myself up, almost screaming at the pain ,from my back and my cut wrist, as Toky dropped his knife and pulled out his sword. Barak reached his weapon, but half-stumbled as he rose. Toky would have stuck him had I not grabbed my dagger and stabbed him in the thigh. As he let out a bellow of pain and fury Barak slashed at his hand, half severing it. Toky’s sword clanged to the floor.
Marchamount reached to his belt and produced a dagger of his own. Breathing heavily, he lunged at me, but Barak kicked out again and knocked the big man’s legs from under him. He landed on the floor with a thump. I winced as Barak lunged with his sword, burying it in Toky’s heart. Toky looked down, stared round at us with those savage eyes, unbelieving, then their strange light seemed to go out and he crumpled slowly to the floor. Barak and I stood for a second, scarcely able to believe the savage force which had dogged our steps these last weeks was gone.
‘There’s a new face in hell,’ Barak said.
There was a moan from the corner as Fletcher came to. Marchamount hauled himself up with the aid of the table, dusty and red in the face. Barak turned and held the sword at his throat. ‘Now, you big old toad, you’re going to come with us and croak to the earl.’
Marchamount swayed. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Listen. The duke will pay—’
Barak laughed. ‘Not us, he won’t. You’ll have to do better than that, you fat toad. Whose ancestors were all fishmongers and serfs,’ he added with pleasure.
Marchamount hung his head. I almost felt sorry for him. Fletcher was struggling to his feet. He stood groggily against the wall for a moment, taking in Toky’s body and Marchamount pinned against the table. Then he jumped to the door, threw it open and ran. I made to follow but Barak held me back.
‘Let him go. We’ve got our prize.’
‘Please,’ Marchamount groaned, ‘let me sit. I feel faint.’
Barak gestured to the bale of wool. ‘Go on, then, you great bag of guts.’ He watched contemptuously as Marchamount half-fell onto it, then turned to me. ‘Get that vase.’
‘What?’
‘We’re taking that to the earl as well.’
I picked up the vase. At least it was in my hands. It was very heavy, almost full. ‘I am not sure about this, Barak,’ I said. ‘We have Marchamount, we know about the duke. That’s enough to save Cromwell and damn the Howards.’
He looked at me seriously. ‘I must have that vase,’ he said quietly.
‘But Jack, you know what it can do—’
‘I must have it. I—’
Barak broke off with a yell. Marchamount, moving faster than I would have thought possible, had bent and grabbed at Toky’s sword, then jumped up and thrust at Barak’s neck. Barak twisted just in time to deflect the blow, but it caught his sword arm. He grabbed at his bicep, blood welling between his fingers. He dropped the sword, his arm useless. Marchamount hefted Barak’s sword and glanced at me standing with the vase. He gave me a triumphant look as he drew back his sword arm to give Barak a killing blow.
I threw the contents of the vase at him. A great spout of thick black liquid shot out, its stink filling the room as it drenched Marchamount. He howled, staggered back, and slipped in some of the stuff that had fallen to the floor. He overbalanced, falling back against the table. The candle overturned. The flame touched his sleeve and before my unbelieving eyes Marchamount’s whole body erupted into a pillar of fire. I jumped back in horror as he screamed, a mass of flame from head to toe. He beat his hands against his sides, frantically, uselessly. Already there was an awful smell of burning flesh. I saw the table was burning too, and the floor where some of the stuff had fallen.
Marchamount ran for the open door, his legs swirling with flames, and staggered into the other room. I followed. I shall never forget the sight of him howling and writhing, a living torch of red and yellow flame, his white teeth bared in agony, his face already blackening, his hair on fire. He made a howling animal noise as he stumbled across to the hatchway, pieces of burning clothing falling from his body. An awful sizzling sound was coming from him. He leapt through the hatchway, still howling as he fell, a pillar of fire, into the river. He hit the water with a tremendous splash and disappeared. The horrible inhuman roaring was cut off and then nothing was left of him, only rags of his serjeants’s robe still burning on the floor.
/> I heard Barak shout and turned back. The other room was an inferno, the vase that had held Greek Fire lying smashed in the centre of the flames, fire licking over the projection apparatus. Barak made a step towards it, bleeding copiously though he was. I grasped his shoulder.
‘It’s too late now. Come, or we’ll go up with the warehouse.’
He gave me an angry, anguished look, but followed me as I ran for the stairs. We ran down into the body of the warehouse; looking up, we saw flames already licking round the walls of the offlce. Barak paused, blinked, collected himself.
‘We must get to the earl,’ he said. ‘We must leave the fire to burn.’
I nodded. We ran outside into the rain. I gasped at the cold water lashing into my face. The ships were still being unloaded; the dock-hands, heads bowed, had not yet noticed the smoke that was starting to pour from the hatchway over the river. I looked down at the water; I thought I saw something black surface for a moment before it was swept upriver on the tide; it might have been a log of wood, or the remains of Marchamount, Greek Fire’s last victim.
Chapter Forty-five
WE WALKED SLOWLY BACK along Cheapside, then down to the river, through lanes that the train had already turned into trails of filthy, clinging mud. There can be something pitiless about rain when it pounds, hard, on exhausted heads, as though cast from heaven by an angry hand. This was a real storm, no half-hour cloudburst as before. Everywhere drenched Londoners, their thin summer clothes clinging to them, ran to get out of the rain.
Barak paused and leaned against a wall. He clasped his wounded arm and I saw a trickle of blood welling between his fingers.
‘You need that seen to,’ I said. ‘We can walk to Guy’s, it’s not far.’
He shook his head. ‘We must get to Whitehall. I’ll be all right.’ He looked at my wrist. ‘How’s your hand?’