‘Then it was someone else. Either way, we go there today.’ And if we found Greek Fire and Barak wanted to take it for Cromwell, I thought, what then? We were directly under the cathedral now, its great bulk shutting out the sky. ‘Come,’ I said, ‘we can leave the horses at that inn.’
We stabled the animals and passed through the gate into St Paul’s churchyard. I expected to see a great crowd round St Paul’s Cross, where the preachers always stood, but the cobbled yard was deserted save for a few people waiting at the staircase leading to the roof. A couple of flower sellers stood by the door, doing a good trade in nosegays. They at least had done well out of the hot weather.
‘Are we too early?’ I asked Barak.
‘No, it’s nearly twelve.’
I accosted a passer-by. ‘Pardon me, sir, is the archbishop not preaching here this lunchtime?’
The man shook his head. ‘He’s preaching inside. On account of the hanging this morning.’ He nodded to the wall behind me. I turned and saw a temporary gallows had been erected; sometimes people whose crimes had particularly sinful implications were hanged in the churchyard. ‘A dirty sodomite,’ the man said. ‘The archbishop shouldn’t be polluted by his presence.’ He went to join the queue for the roof. I glanced at the figure hanging from the rope, then quickly looked away again. A young man in a cheap jerkin: no one had come to pull on his legs and he had strangled slowly, his face purple and hideous. He had died in terror. For a moment I felt surrounded by death. I took a deep breath and followed Barak, who was already at the cathedral door.
St Paul’s Walk, the huge central nave with its vaulted stone ceilings, was the greatest marvel in London and normally visitors from the country would have been walking to and fro, gazing up in wonder while the cutpurses and bawdy women circled around the pillars waiting for their chance. But today the nave was almost empty. Further up the cathedral, though, a large crowd stood around the pulpit. There, under the brightly coloured painting of the Last Judgement showing death leading the estates of the realm to heaven and hell, which Cromwell had not yet removed, a man in a white cleric’s robe and black stole stood preaching. Barak took a chair and stood on it, peering over the heads of the crowd and drawing disapproving glances from those nearest him.
‘Can you see Rich?’ I asked.
‘No, there’s too many folk. He’s likely near the front. Come on.’ He began jostling his way through the crowd, ignoring murmurs of protest, and I followed in his wake. There were several hundred people come to see the great archbishop, who together with his friend Cromwell had supervised all the religious changes since the break with Rome.
We reached the front, where robed merchants and courtiers stood with their heads lifted to the speaker. Even Barak dared not barge his way in among these people. He stood on tiptoe, looking out for Rich. I studied Cranmer, for I had never seen him before. He was surprisingly unimpressive, short and stocky with a long oval face and large brown eyes that seemed fuller of sadness than authority. A copy of the English Bible lay before him on the lectern. He touched the edges lovingly as he preached.
‘God’s Word,’ he proclaimed in a ringing voice. ‘All one needs to understand it is to be able to read and write, nay, even to listen may be enough. And thus one has access to the word of God himself direct, with no priest, no Latin mummery, to stand between. As it is said in Proverbs, chapter thirty: “Every word of God is pure, he is a shield to them that trust him—’”
It was strong reformist stuff; if the conservative Bishop Sampson had been preaching this week as planned, the emphasis would have been on obedience and tradition. Sampson, like Cranmer, would have had a stock of quotes culled from the vastness of the Bible to back his own position; I had heard some printers were even producing indexes of quotations for use in argument. I thought of Elizabeth’s patient study, which had turned into fanatic rage against God, and turned away. Where is my own faith? I thought. Where did it go? How did it slip away?
‘There he is,’ Barak whispered in my ear. He began weaving through the crowd again, excusing himself politely. So he can be polite when he wants, I thought, as I followed him. At the very front, a small group of retainers round them, stood two richly robed figures; Richard Rich and Thomas Audley, the lord chancellor. Rich’s handsome face was composed into a bland expression; it was impossible to tell if he approved of the sermon or not. He would be hedging his bets, for if Cromwell fell Cranmer would go too, probably to the fire. I saw Audley lean close and make a comment to Rich, smiling sarcastically, but Rich only nodded expressionlessly.
Barak took the earl’s seal from his pocket and handed it to me. ‘Here, you take this. It’ll get you past those retainers.’ I nodded. My heart was beating fast and I took a moment to compose myself before going over to the two privy councillors. One of the retainers turned, alert, as I approached, his hand going to his sword hilt. I showed him the seal.