I patted his arm. ‘Good man. And now I must go.’
‘I shall tell Elizabeth!’ he called after me as we rode out into the road. ‘I shall tell her, thanks to you, she is spared the press!’ Barak looked at me, raising an eyebrow cynically.
WE RODE DOWN Old Bailey Street. The Rolls House was not far, directly opposite Lincoln’s Inn in fact. A sprawling complex of buildings, it had once been the Domus Conversorum, where Jews who wished to convert to Christianity were instructed. Since the expulsion of all Jews from England centuries before, the building had been used to house the Court of Chancery Rolls, though one or two foreign Jews, who had washed up in England somehow and agreed to convert to Christianity, were still housed there from time to time. The Six Clerks’ Office, which administered the Court of Chancery, was located there too. The office of Keeper of the Domus was still combined with the Mastership of the Rolls.
‘I thought Lord Cromwell had given up the mastership,’ I said to Barak.
‘He still keeps an office in the Rolls House. Works there sometimes when he wants to be undisturbed.’
‘Can you tell me what this is about?’
He shook his head. ‘My master is to tell you himself.’
We rode up Ludgate Hill. It was another hot day; the women bringing produce into town were wearing cloths over their faces to protect them from the dust thrown up by passing carts. I looked down over the red-tiled rooftops of London, and the broad shining band of the river. The tide was out and the Thames mud, stained yellow and green with the refuse that poured every day from the northern shore, lay exposed like a great stain. People said that recently will o’the wisps of flame had been seen at night dancing over the rubbish and wondered uneasily what it portended.
I made another attempt to get information. ‘This must be important to your master. Forbizer’s not intimidated lightly.’
‘He’s a care for his skin like all men of the law.’ There was an edge of contempt in Barak’s voice.
‘This sore puzzles me.’ I paused, then added, ‘Am I in trouble?’
He turned. ‘No, not if you do as you’re told. It’s as I said, my master has a commission for you. Now come: time is important.’
We entered Fleet Street. The dust hung over the Whitefriars’ monastic buildings in a pall, for the great friary was in the course of demolition. The gatehouse was covered in scaffolding, men hacking away at the decoration with chisels. A workman stepped into our path, raising a dusty hand.
‘Halt your horses, please, sirs,’ he called out.
Barak frowned. ‘We’re on Lord Cromwell’s business. Piss off.’
The man wiped his hand on his grubby smock. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I only wished to warn you, they’re about to blow up the Whiteys’ chapter house, the noise could startle the horses—’
‘Look—’ Barak broke off suddenly. A flash of red light appeared over the wall, followed by a tremendous explosion, louder than a clap of thunder. A heavy crash of falling stone, accompanied by cheers, sounded as a surging cloud of dust rolled over us. Hot-blooded as it looked, Barak’s mare only neighed and jerked aside, but Chancery let out a scream and reared up on his hind legs, nearly unseating me. Barak reached across and grabbed the reins.
‘Down, matey, down,’ he said firmly. Chancery calmed at once, dropping to his feet again. He stood trembling; I was shaking too.
‘All right?’ Barak asked.
‘Yes.’ I gulped. ‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘God’s death, the dust.’ The powdery cloud, filled with the acrid tang of gunpowder, swirled round us and in a moment my robe and Barak’s doublet were spotted with grey. ‘Come on, let’s get out of this.’
‘I’m sorry, sirs,’ the workman called after us anxiously.
‘So you should be! Arsehole!’ Barak called over his shoulder.
We turned up Chancery Lane, the horses still nervous and troubled by the heat and flies. I was perspiring freely but Barak seemed quite cool. I was reluctantly grateful to him; but for his quick action I could have had a bad fall.
I looked longingly for a moment at the familiar Lincoln’s Inn gatehouse as Barak led the way through the gate of the Rolls House directly opposite. At the centre of a complex of houses stood a large, solidly built church. A guard in the yellow and blue quarters of Cromwell’s livery stood outside the door with a pike. Barak nodded to him and the man bowed and snapped his fingers for a boy to lead our horses away.