Somers and the guard went out, closing the door quietly behind them. I gave Paget a quick glance; he looked back with that flat, empty gaze of his. The King, his eyes locking on mine again, spoke in a voice full of quiet menace. ‘So, Master Shardlake, I hear you have been spending time with my wife.’

‘No, your majesty, no!’ I heard the edge of panic in my own voice as I answered. ‘I have merely been helping her to search for, for – ’

‘For this?’ With difficulty the King reached behind him to the desk, his surprisingly delicate fingers clutching at a sheaf of papers. He heaved himself round again, holding it up. I saw the Queen’s writing, the first page torn in half where Greening had grasped it as he died. The Lamentation of a Sinner.

I felt the ground shift beneath me, again I almost fainted. I took deep breaths. The King stared at me, waiting for an answer, the little mouth tightening. Then, from beside me, Paget said, ‘Naturally, Master Shardlake, when I learned from my spy in that Anabaptist group that they had stolen a book written by the Queen, I told his majesty at once. He ordered the book brought to him, and the sect extirpated. It has been in his possession all this time.’

I stared foolishly at the manuscript. All this – all the weeks of anxiety and fear, the terrible thing that had happened to Barak tonight – and the Lamentation had been in the King’s possession all along. I should have been furious, but in the King’s presence there was no room for any emotion but fear. He pointed a finger at me, his voice rasping with anger. ‘Last year, Master Shardlake, when the Queen and I were at Portsmouth, I saw you at the front of the crowd as I entered the city.’ I looked up in surprise. ‘Yes, and I remembered you, as I do all those I have had cause to look on unfavourably. You failed once before to discover a stolen manuscript. At York, five years ago. Did you not?’

I swallowed hard. The King had insulted me in public, then. Yet he would have done far worse had he known that I had succeeded in discovering that particular cache of papers and had destroyed them on account of their incendiary contents. I looked back at him, fearing irrationally that those probing eyes could see into my very mind, that they could see what I had truly done at York, and even my treacherous thoughts this very afternoon about the Anabaptists’ creed.

The angry edge in the King’s voice deepened. ‘God’s blood, churl, answer your King!’

‘I – I was sorry to have displeased you, your majesty.’ It sounded craven, pathetic.