I had originally thought of visiting the swordmakers' guild, but all the guilds lived among mountains of paper whose contents they guarded with jealous secrecy and it could take all day to prise information from them. I had met the Tower armourer, a man named Oldknoll, at a function some months before, and remembered that he was said to know more about weaponry than anyone in England. He was, too, Cromwell's man. My letter of appointment as commissioner gained me entrance to the Tower, and I found myself passing through the gate under the looming mass of London Wall. I crossed the bridge over the frozen moat into the great fortress, the bulk of the White Tower dwarfing the lesser buildings around it. I never liked the Tower; I always thought of those who had come across that moat and never left alive.
The lions in the Royal Menagerie were howling and roaring for their breakfasts and I watched as a pair of wardens in their scarlet and gold coats scurried across the snow-covered Tower Green bearing great pails of offal for them. I shivered, remembering my encounter with the dogs. Leaving the nag in the stables, I climbed the steps to the White Tower. Inside the Great Hall soldiers and officials milled about, and I saw two guards leading a crazed-looking old man in a torn shirt roughly towards the steps leading down to the dungeons. I showed my commission to a sergeant, who led me to Oldknoll's room.
The armourer was a gruff, hard-faced soldier. He looked up from a sheaf of paper he was studying gloomily, and bade me sit.
'God's wounds, Master Shardlake, the paperwork we have these days. I hope you have not brought me more.'
'No, Master Oldknoll, I have come to pick your brains if I may. I am on a mission for Lord Cromwell.'
He gave me his attention. 'Then I will do all I can to aid you. You seem under strain, sir, if I may say so.'
'Yes, everyone is saying so. And they are right. I need to know who made this.' I unsheathed the sword, handing it to him carefully. He bent to study the maker's mark, gave me a startled glance, then looked more closely.
'Where did you get this?'
'In a monastery fish pond.'
He crossed to the door and closed it carefully, before laying the sword on the desk.
'You know who made it?' I asked.
'Oh yes.'
'Is he alive?'
Oldknoll shook his head. 'Dead these eighteen months.'
'I need to know everything you can tell me about that sword. What those letters and symbols signify, to start with.'
He took a deep breath. 'You see the little castle stamped there? That indicates the maker was trained at Toledo in Spain.'
My eyes widened. 'So the owner would be a Spaniard?'
He shook his head. 'Not necessarily. Many foreigners go to learn weaponry at Toledo.'
'Including Englishmen?'
'Until the religious changes. Englishmen are not welcome in Spain now. But before, yes. Those who have studied at Toledo usually take the Moorish fortress, the Alcazar, as their mark on the sword they submit on applying to the guild for admission. That is what this man did. Those are his initials.'
'JS.'
'Yes.' He gave me a long look. 'John Smeaton.'
'God's flesh! A relative of Mark Smeaton, Queen Anne's lover?'
'His father. I knew him slightly. This sword would be the one he made to gain entry to the guild. Fifteen hundred and seven, that would be about the right date.'
'I did not know Smeaton's father was a sword-maker.'
'He started out as one. A good one, too. But he had an accident some years ago, lost parts of two fingers. He didn't have the strength in his hand afterwards for sword-making, so he turned to carpentry. He had a small works over at Whitechapel.'
'And he is dead?'
'He had a seizure two days after his son's execution. I remember it being spoken of, he had no one to leave the business to. I think it was closed down.'
'But he must have had relatives. This sword is valuable; it would have been part of his estate.'
'Aye, it would.'
I took a deep breath. 'So Singleton's death was connected with Mark Smeaton. Of course, Jerome knew that somehow. That's why he told me the story.'
'I don't follow you, sir.'
'I must find out who this sword passed to after John Smeaton died.'
'You could go to his house. He lived above his shop like most craftsmen. The new owners would have bought it from the executors.'
'Thank you, Master Oldknoll, you have been a great help.' I took the sword and buckled it on. 'I must go, I am due at Lord Cromwell's house.'
'I am glad to have assisted. And Master Shardlake, if you are going to see Lord Cromwell—'
I raised my eyebrows. It was always the same, if people knew you were visiting Cromwell there would be some favour to ask.