‘I know. I saw that the day we met there. It is a desecration.’
‘I am told there was an old custom there that people buried in the precincts would have something personal buried with them, something that related to their lives on earth. The friars, and the patients in the hospital too.’
‘That is true. Many times I have been at vigil for a dead brother. Before they laid him in his coffin they laid a symbol of his life on the body, carefully, reverently.’ Tears appeared in the corners of his eyes.
‘I wondered if the old soldier, St John, might have had some of the Greek Fire buried with him.’
Kytchyn stood up, looking interested now. ‘It is possible. Yes, I suppose if the monks knew of anything that defined his life it would be that. And they would not know Richard Rich would come and desecrate the graves,’ he added bitterly.
I nodded. ‘Then I think I should find it before Rich goes digging there. I hope there is time. He has ordered the things they find in the graves be brought to him.’
Kytchyn looked at me. ‘Ah yes. Some will be gold or silver.’
‘Yes.’ I returned his gaze. ‘Master Kytchyn, something has troubled me. The monks hid that barrel, and the formula. They knew what Greek Fire could do.’
Kytchyn nodded seriously. ‘Ay, they did. That motto.’
“‘Lupus est homo homini.” Man is wolf to man. But, if they knew that, why did they keep the damned stuff? Why not destroy it? If they had, none of this trouble would have come on any of us.’
A sad flicker of a smile crossed Kytchyn’s face. ‘Struggles between Church and State did not begin with the king’s lust for the Bullen whore, sir. There have often been - differences.’
‘That is true.’
‘St John was at Barty’s in the days of the wars between York and Lancaster. Unstable, warlike times. I imagine the monks kept Greek Fire in case they should find themselves under threat and could use it as a bargaining tool. We had to be politicians, sir. Monks always were. Then, when the Tudors restored stability to the land, Greek Fire was forgotten. Perhaps deliberately.’
‘Because the Tudors made England safe.’ I smiled sadly. ‘There’s an irony.’
I FELT ENCOURAGED as I rode down to the river bank to meet Lady Honor. Here was some possible progress at last: I would go to Barty’s again tomorrow. I would have to invent some story for being there. I turned possibilities over in my mind as I left Genesis at an inn stables and walked down a crowded lane to Three Cranes Wharf. The big cranes which gave the place its name came into view over the rooftops, outlined against a sky where white clouds were scudding along. They gave no promise of rain, but provided welcome moments of shade as they passed beneath the sun. Flower sellers were doing a brisk trade at the bottom of Three Cranes Lane, where Marchamount’s party was to meet. I had left off my robe for the occasion, donning a bright green doublet that I seldom wore and my best hose.
The Thames was alive with wherries and barges. Innumerable tilt boats passed up and down, some of the passengers playing lutes and pipes under the canopies, a merry sound across the water. All London seemed to have come to the river to savour the breeze. A raucous crowd was waiting at the wharf for boats to take them across to the bear-baiting, and I saw Lady Honor standing with Marchamount at the centre of a group by the river steps. Today she wore a black hood and a wide yellow farthingale. She smiled at some remark of Marchamount’s, making those engaging dimples round her mouth. How well she can disguise her feelings when she needs to, I thought: one would think him her best friend.
I recognized some of the other guests as mercers who had attended the banquet; a couple had brought their wives. Lady Honor’s two attendant ladies and a pair of servants stood beside her, together with young Henry, who was looking nervously around at the crowds. Armed men kept the throng waiting to cross to the bear ring at a distance, watchful for cutpurses.
Lady Honor saw me and called out, ‘Master Shardlake! Quick! The boat is here!’
I hurried across and bowed. ‘I am sorry, I hope I have not kept you waiting.’
‘Only a few minutes.’ Her smile was warm.
Marchamount bowed briefly to me, then began ushering people officiously towards the river steps. ‘Come along, everyone, before the tide turns.’
A large tilt boat with four oarsmen was waiting, its bright blue sail flapping gently in the breeze. The party was in good spirits, all chattering merrily as they stepped aboard. ‘Tired of your robe, Shardlake?’ Marchamount asked as I settled myself opposite him. He was wearing his serjeant’s robe, and sweating mightily.
‘A concession to the heat.’
‘I’ve never seen you dressed so brightly.’ He smiled. ‘It looks quite extraordinary.’