I looked at him. ‘So you were behind it all,’ I said quietly. My voice sounded thick and muffled, my face swelling now where I had been struck.
His expression did not change. ‘All what?’
Recklessly, far beyond deference now, I answered, ‘The murder of those Anabaptists. The theft of the – the manuscript. Spying on me for the last year, I know not why. Nor care.’ I gulped a breath, my voice breaking as a picture came into my head once more of Barak dumped on that rubbish heap.
Paget stared back at me. He had the gift of sitting still, focused, like a cat watching its prey. ‘Murder?’ His tone was admonitory, accusing. ‘Those men were heretics, and traitors too, who would gladly have killed me, or the King, or you for that matter, to advance their perverted notions. They had easier deaths than they deserved, they should have been burned. They were stupid, though. When my spies among the radicals warned me of a nest of Anabaptists in London, my man Curdy infiltrated it with ease. Now there was a loyal servant, and he was murdered.’ Paget drew his heavy eyebrows together in a frown.
‘He was killed in a fight.’
‘Yes. By one of Richard Rich’s men.’ He waved a hand contemptuously. ‘Rich was after what Anne Askew wrote before she was burned, I know that. I believe John Bale has it now.’ For the first time Paget laughed, a flash of surprisingly white teeth amid the coarse brown of his beard. ‘That may come back to haunt Sir Richard yet.’
‘You suborned Rich’s servant,’ I said.
Paget shifted a little, settling more comfortably in his chair. ‘I keep my eye on those who work for the great men of the realm, and sometimes I find men among them of such ambition they can be persuaded to work for me and earn two incomes. Though organizing a watch to be kept on you, Shardlake, that was a nuisance, a waste of Stice’s talents, I thought. And there was nothing to find. Until – ’ he leaned forward, frowning now, his voice threatening – ‘until last month.’ He paused, then spoke slowly and deliberately. ‘A moment ago you mentioned a manuscript.’
I did not reply. I should not have spoken of it. I must keep my control. I waited for Paget to question me further, but he only smiled cynically. ‘The Lamentation of a Sinner,’ he said, ‘by her majesty, the Queen Catherine.’
My mouth fell open. ‘Yes, Master Shardlake,’ he went on, ‘it was me who arranged for that book to be taken from the heretic printer Greening, as soon as Curdy told me it had been brought to his group by that wretched guard.’
I closed my eyes for a moment. Then, having nothing left to lose, I said, ‘No doubt you took it to further your own ends in the power struggle. Have you been waiting, like Rich, to see which way the wind will blow, whether the Queen would fall and Bertano’s mission succeed, keeping the Lamentation in reserve? Be careful, Master Secretary, that the King does not find you have kept it from him.’
I was speaking recklessly, dangerously. ‘Mind your words with me, master lawyer,’ Paget snapped. ‘Remember who I am and where you are.’ I stared back at him, breathing heavily. He inclined his head. ‘You are right that the King was gracious enough to receive an emissary from the Bishop of Rome, but it seems that as a condition of peace His Holiness, as he styles himself, demands that the King surrender the Headship of the Church in England – the Headship to which God has appointed him. Bertano is still here, but I think it is time now he took himself back to his master. How did you know of his presence?’ he asked sharply.
‘The Anabaptists were overheard,’ I said quietly. ‘You rogue, that cut such a swathe of murder through ordinary folk to serve your ambition.’
‘My ambition, eh?’ Paget asked coldly.
‘Yes.’
And then, to my surprise, he laughed grimly, and stood up. ‘I think it is time for you to see what you never guessed, master clever lawyer. Even Stice did not know anything of this.’ He picked up the sconce of candles and walked past me to the door. ‘Follow me,’ he said with an imperious sweep of the arm, throwing the door open wide.