‘You’re not going, not with Tamasin about to give birth. A gentleman might take a steward on such a journey, but I’d rather join the army myself than take Coldiron. I’ll arrange something with Warner.’ I shook my head. ‘Wardship. Do you know what the motto of the Court of Wards is? Emblazoned above the door. “Pupillis Orphanis et Viduis Adiutor.” ’
‘You know I’m no hand at Latin.’
‘It means, a helper to wards, orphans and widows. There’s a verbal reference to Maccabees, about the aftermath of a war: “when they had given part of the spoils to the maimed, and the widows, and orphans.” ’
‘Now you’re showing off.’
‘It just struck me that whoever invented that had a dark sense of humour.’
Barak was quiet a moment, then said, ‘I can think of a candidate.’
‘Who?’
‘I remember Lord Cromwell telling me he had been given an idea that could bring great revenue to the King. By granting out the lands of the monasteries on terms of knight service, bringing all the buyers within the scope of wardship.’ He looked at me steadily. ‘The man who gave him the idea was the head of the Court of Augmentations, which dealt with the monastic properties.’
‘Richard Rich.’
‘He was in charge of liveries in the old Office of Wards too. He put the two ideas together.’
‘I’d forgotten Rich used to deal with wardships.’
‘That rat has had a finger in every dirty pie. He betrayed my master that gave him office. Turned on him and condemned him when he lost the King’s favour.’ Barak clenched his fist, hard.
‘You still remember Cromwell with affection.’
‘Yes.’ There was defiance in his tone. ‘He was like a father to me. He took me off the streets when I was a lad. How could I not remember him well?’
‘He was the hardest of men. Promoted many of the hard men we have over us now. Like Sir William Paulet.’
Barak shifted in his seat. ‘I didn’t like a lot of the things he got me to do,’ he said quietly. ‘Organizing spies and informers, occasionally frightening someone he thought needed it. But the people against him at court were no better, they hated him for his lowly origins as much as his radical religion. I sometimes still think of those days, my old work. Sometimes it used to make me feel alive.’
‘Doesn’t Tamasin make you feel alive? And the prospect of the child?’
He looked at me as seriously as he ever had. ‘Yes. More than anything. But it’s a different sort of alive. I know I can’t have both.’ He was silent a moment, then stood. ‘Come, I’d best get back or I’ll be in more trouble.’
Beyond the partition the shouting and singing continued. As I walked past, I turned my head to avoid Coldiron’s eye. One of the students was sprawled across the table now, dead drunk. Coldiron’s voice sounded out again, slurred now.
‘Twenty years I was a soldier. I’ve served in Carlisle, Boulogne, even in the Tower. All in the King’s service.’ His voice rose. ‘I killed the Scottish King. At Flodden, that great and mighty battle. The Scottish pikemen ran down the hill at us, their cannons firing behind, but we did not flinch.’
‘Englishmen never flinch!’ one of the students shouted, and the group slapped their hands loudly on the table.
‘Did you never want to settle down, Master Coldiron?’ one of the apprentices asked.
‘With this face? Never. Besides, who wants a woman bossing them around? Ever heard the saying, “There is but one shrew in the world and every man has her for a wife!” ’
Laughter from the table followed us as we went out. And I thought, if you never married, then who is Josephine?
Chapter Seven
NEXT MORNING I set out for the Guildhall towards ten. I had sent Timothy round to Alderman Carver’s house the previous night with a message, and he had returned saying Carver could not see me earlier. It was a nuisance, for I had much to do. I had then sent a note to Barak’s house saying I would meet him outside St Evelyn’s church at eleven.
After breakfast I again put on my best robe, coif and cap to impress Alderman Carver. I went into the parlour, where Guy, having breakfasted early as usual, was sitting at the table, reading his treasured copy of Vesalius’s De Humani Corporis Fabrica. His first copy had been stolen two years before by his former apprentice, and it had taken him much cost and trouble to find another. He was running a finger down one of the beautiful but gruesome illustrations, a flayed arm.
‘Studying again, I see, Guy.’
‘The intelligence of this book never ceases to astonish me.’ He smiled sadly. ‘Coldiron saw me reading it the other day and was very interested. Favoured me with stories of how much he saw of men’s insides at Flodden.’
‘He would. Guy, what do you think of Josephine?’
He leaned back, considering. ‘She is shy. Not happy, I think. But that is hardly surprising with Coldiron for a father. She too saw me reading Vesalius the other day. She turned away and looked quite sick.’
‘I don’t blame her. She doesn’t have a young man, does she?’
‘No. A pity, for she is good-natured and could be pretty enough if she cared anything for her appearance.’