Dark Fire by C. J. Sansom

sharply.
    ‘Family papers and some gold. They were in the chest upstairs. I fetched them for Goodwife Gristwood.’
    ‘Let me see.’
    I frowned as he grabbed the papers. At least, I thought, the churl can read. He opened the bag of gold and examined the contents. Satisfied, he laid the gold and papers before Goodwife
Gristwood. She clutched them to her. Barak looked at me.
    ‘Any sign of the formula up there?’
    ‘Not that I can see. If it was in that chest they took it.’
    He turned to Jane Gristwood. ‘Do you know anything about a paper your husband and his brother had, a formula they were working on?’
    She shook her head wearily. ‘No. They told me nothing of what they did. Only that they were engaged on some work for Lord Cromwell. I didn’t want to know.’
    ‘These men are going to have to search your house from top to bottom,’ he said. ‘It’s important we find that paper. Afterwards two of them will stay here with
you.’
    She looked at him narrowly. ‘Are we prisoners, then?’
    ‘They are for your protection, madam. You may still not be safe.’
    She removed her coif and ran her fingers though her grey hair, then gave Barak a hard stare. ‘What about my front door? Anyone could get in.’
    ‘It will be repaired.’ He spoke to one of the retainers, a hard-looking fellow. ‘See to that, Smith.’
    ‘Yes, Master Barak.’
    He turned back to me. ‘Lord Cromwell wants a meeting now. He’s gone to his house in Stepney.’
    I hesitated. Barak stepped closer. ‘That’s an order,’ he said quietly. ‘I have told my master the news. He is not a happy man.’

Chapter Eight
    R IDING THROUGH the City again after being in that silent house of death, I felt strangely disconnected from the jostling,
noisy crowds. We had a long way to go, for Lord Cromwell’s house at Stepney was far beyond the City wall. We paused only to allow a procession past – a cleric in white robes leading a
man dressed in sackcloth, ashes strewn over his face and carrying a faggot, the church congregation following behind. Someone whose reformist opinions had been deemed heretical but who had
repented, the ashes and the faggot reminders of the burning that awaited him if he relapsed. The man was weeping – perhaps it had been a reluctant recantation – but if he sinned again
his body would be weeping blood as the fire shrivelled it.
    I glanced at Barak, who was eyeing the scene with distaste. I wondered what his religious opinions were. It had been quite a feat for him to reach Cromwell, collect these men and get back to
Queenhithe so quickly. Yet he did not look tired, though I felt exhausted. The procession shuffled past and we moved on. Thankfully the afternoon shadows were lengthening, the overhanging houses
bringing a welcome shade to the streets.
    ‘What’s that in your pocket?’ Barak asked as we rode up Bishopsgate.
    I put my hand to my robe and realized that I had slipped Sepultus’s book there without thinking.
    ‘It’s a book on alchemy.’ I looked at him fixedly. ‘How you watch me. You thought the formula might have been with those papers I gave to Goodwife Gristwood?’
    He shrugged. ‘Can’t trust anyone these days, not if you’re in the earl’s service. Besides,’ he added with an insolent smile, ‘you’re a lawyer and
everyone knows you have to keep an eye on lawyers. Not to do so would be
crassa neglegentia
, as you people say.’
    ‘Gross negligence. You have some Latin then?’
    ‘Oh yes. I have Latin, and know men of law. Many lawyers are great reformers, are they not?’
    ‘Ay,’ I replied cautiously.
    ‘Is it not amusing, then, now that the monks and friars have gone, how the lawyers are the only ones to walk around in black robes, calling each other brother and trying to part people
from their money?’
    ‘There have been jokes against lawyers time out of mind,’ I said shortly. ‘They become tiring.’
    ‘And they take oaths of obedience, though not of chastity or