He took me through a large door where two more guards stood, and I found myself in a long, narrow hall, brightly lit with candles. Once it had been a banqueting hall, but now it was filled from end to end with rows of desks at which black-clad clerks sat sifting mountains of correspondence. A senior clerk, a short plump man with fingers black from years of ink, bustled across to me.
'Master Shardlake? You are early.' I wondered how he knew me and then realized he would have been told to expect a hunchback.
'The weather was kind — until just now.' I looked down at my soaked hose.
'The vicar general told me to bring you in as soon as you arrived.'
He led me on down the hall, past the rustling clerks, the wind created by our passage making their candles flicker. I realized just how extensive was the web of control that my master had created. The church commissioners and the local magistracy, each with their own network of informers, were under orders to report all rumours of discontent or treason; each was investigated with the full rigour of the law, its penalties harsher every year. There had already been one rebellion against the religious changes; another might topple the realm.
The clerk halted before a large door at the end of the hall. He bade me stop, then knocked and entered, bowing low.
'Master Shardlake, my lord.'
===OO=OOO=OO===
In contrast to the antechamber, Lord Cromwell's room was gloomy, only one small sconce of candles by the desk lit against the dark afternoon. While most men in high office would have had their walls adorned with the richest tapestries, his were lined from floor to ceiling with cupboards divided into hundreds of drawers. Tables and chests stood everywhere, covered with reports and lists. A great log fire roared in a wide grate.
At first I could not see him. Then I made out his stocky form, standing by a table at the far end of the room. He was holding up a casket and studying the contents with a contemptuous frown, his wide, narrow-lipped mouth downturned above his lantern chin. His jaw held thus made me think of a great trap that at any moment might open and swallow one whole with a casual gulp. He glanced round at me and, with one of those mercurial changes of expression that came so easily to him, smiled affably and raised a hand in welcome. I bowed as low as I could, wincing, for I was stiff after my long ride.
'Matthew, come over here.' The deep, harsh voice was welcoming. 'You did well at Croydon; I am glad that Black Grange tangle is resolved.'
'Thank you, my lord.' As I approached, I noticed the shirt beneath his fur-trimmed robe was black. He caught my glance.
'You've heard the queen is dead?'
'Yes, my lord. I am sorry.' I knew that after Anne Boleyn's execution Lord Cromwell had hitched his fortunes to those of Jane Seymour's family.
He grunted. 'The king is distracted.'
I looked down at the table. To my surprise it was piled high with caskets of various sizes. All seemed to be of gold and silver; many were studded with jewels. Through ancient spotted glass I could see pieces of cloth and bone lying on velvet cushions. I looked at the casket he still held, and saw it contained a child's skull. He held it up in both hands and shook it, so that some teeth that had come loose rattled inside. The vicar general smiled grimly.
'These will interest you. Relics brought specially to my attention.' He set the casket on the table and pointed to a Latin inscription on the front. 'Look at that.'
'Barbara sanctissima,' I read. I peered at the skull. A few hairs still clung to the pate.
'The skull of St Barbara,' Cromwell said, slapping the casket with his palm. 'A young virgin murdered by her pagan father in Roman times. From the Cluniac Priory of Leeds. A most holy relic.' He bent and picked up a silver casket set with what looked like opals. 'And here — the skull of St Barbara, from Boxgrove nunnery in Lancashire.' He gave a harsh laugh. 'They say there are two-headed dragons in the Indies. Well, we have two-headed saints.'