'She told me Marchamount is after her hand and she has refused him; that was what they have been talking about. And the Duke of Norfolk is trying to get some lands from her in exchange for introducing her nephew at court. She says she's told no one else she opened those papers.'
'Do you believe her?'
'She swore it on the Great Bible.' I sighed. 'She's invited me to the bear-baiting tomorrow. I thought I'd go. Marchamount will be there as well. It will be a chance to check her story.'
'Looks like that lead's closed off. You'll be glad to see her in the clear, eh?'
'I admit I like her, but I would not let liking for a woman cloud my judgement.'
'Never knew it not to.'
I gave him a look; he was worried by the coming interview, I could tell, and diverting himself at my expense.
'I found something else too.' I told him about my encounter with Norfolk and Rich, the possibility something might have been buried with the old soldier.
'It's a long shot,' he said.
'I know. But what could be more characteristic of that old soldier than Greek Fire? And the monks weren't to know a day would come when hallowed monastic ground would be casually dug up. I think I'll have another word with Kytchyn. The earl will know where he is.'
'All right. Don't say anything about desecrating monastic ground, though.'
'I know better than that.' I got up. 'Well, we had better go. We'll take the wherry.'
'How's the new horse?'
'Quiet enough,' I said, then added, 'he's no personality.'
Barak laughed. 'I'm sorry, I should have asked at the royal stables if they'd a horse that could talk.'
'When you are in a bad humour you become oafish,' I said sternly. 'But we'll do no good sniping at each other and I am too tired for it. Come on.'
We said little on the journey. I felt a growing nervousness as the wherry drew in at Westminster Stairs. We disembarked and walked past Westminster Hall, heading for Whitehall Palace just beyond. As we approached the huge Holbein Gate, colourful with its coats of arms and terracotta roundels of Roman emperors, Barak turned to me.
'Perhaps we should have taken Leman to confront Bealknap this morning.'
'It was just as important to see Lady Honor.'
He gave me one of his keen looks. 'You'll threaten to expose Bealknap, won't you, unless he gives us full answers? No lawyers sticking together?'
'Yes. Though if Bealknap is hauled up before the secretary, my name will stink in Lincoln's Inn. Lawyers aren't supposed to report each other. But yes, I'll do it.' I gave him a steady look. 'What have you said about me, by the way, in your reports to the earl? Come, you must have said something?'
'That's private,' he said uneasily.
'I want to know what to expect.'
'I've done nothing but report what we've done,' Barak replied matter of factly. 'I've given no bad opinion of you, if you must know. But that will cut no ice – what he needs is progress.'
He walked ahead under the great gate, which gave us a few moments of welcome shadow. Building was going on everywhere, half-built tennis courts and accommodation blocks rising from the earth, scaffolding and dust everywhere. They said the king meant Whitehall Palace to be the finest in Europe. We turned into the new Privy Gallery building, where Lord Cromwell had offices; Barak exchanged a word with the guard and we passed inside.
A long hall stretched away from us, richly decorated with tapestries, large windows giving onto an enormous garden. I knew the king often received visitors here. I caught my breath as I saw, guarded by a halberdier, Holbein's great mural of the Tudor dynasty. The giant painting was as magnificent as I had heard. The king's dead parents, Henry VII, whom Lady Honor's family had fought against at Bosworth, and his wife, Elizabeth of York, stood on either side of a stone bier. Below them stood Jane Seymour, the only one of Henry's wives he cared to remember, unexpectedly plain. Opposite her, the king stood with his hands on his hips. He was painted wearing a richly decorated gown with enormous shoulders, a shirt encrusted with jewels and a prominent codpiece. He stared, it seemed, directly at me. His expression was one of cold authority mixed with something else. Weariness? Anger? I shuddered at the thought that behind Cromwell, if Greek Fire were not found, lay the fury of the king himself.
'The earl is waiting,' Barak whispered urgently at my elbow.
'Of course, I'm sorry.'
Barak seemed to know his way through the echoing corridors. Courtiers and black-robed officials walked past quietly and sedately lest the king might be in residence. I looked out at the magnificent garden, which was dominated by a fountain that, despite the drought, still pumped a good head of water. Barak stopped outside a door guarded by another halberdier, and we were admitted to an outer office where Grey, ubiquitous as ever, sat behind a desk. He rose and greeted us. As on the previous occasion there was a nervous look on his round scholarly face.
