Free The Lambs of London by Peter Ackroyd

mean. It is absurd. It is nonsensical. He was a divine original.”
    “That is to say, without origins?”
    “Shall we say, William, that origins are of no consequence?”
    “I am glad to hear it.” His father looked at him sharply for a moment. “Shakespeare stands alone.”
             
    S AMUEL IRELAND WAS still studying the parchment laid out on the dining-room table.
    “The testament proves that he was not a papist, Father. Can you make out the words?”
    “There is something here commending his soul to Jesus.” “There is no Mary. There are no saints. No superstition. No bigotry.”
    Samuel Ireland wiped his eyes, with what seemed to be a nervous gesture. “There is no mistake, William?”
    “Look at the signature, Father. It is identical with that upon the deed.”
    Rosa Ponting was still examining the list for the Christmas posset. “It is a waste of your time, Sammy. If your son will not sell these things, what is the use of them?”
             
    O N A COLD evening in the following week Samuel and William Ireland were invited into the library of Church House beside St. Mildred’s, Fetter Lane. Here they were greeted by Doctor Parr and Doctor Warburton, both of them identically dressed in clerical black with white stocks, white wristbands and dusted grey periwigs.
    “Delighted,” said Doctor Parr.
    “Immeasurably,” said Doctor Warburton.
    They both bowed very gracefully.
    “Mr. Malone has written to the Archbishop.”
    “The Archbishop is overjoyed.”
    William was so intrigued by these two elderly clerics that he felt obliged to look away for a moment. He concentrated upon a print of Abraham and Isaac, surrounded by a heavy black frame.
    “To know that our foremost poet has been freed of all suspicion of papistry. It is a great joy.”
    William noticed, also, that both divines smelled of bruised oranges.
    “Will you join us in an amontillado?” Doctor Parr asked them.
    “The driest of the dry.”
    Doctor Warburton rang a small bell and a black boy—dressed in black, also, with white wristbands and a grey periwig—brought in a silver tray with four glasses and a decanter. Doctor Parr poured the sherry and proposed a toast to the “divine bard.”
    Samuel Ireland then took from his carrying-case the document that William had brought back in triumph the week before. “Can you read the Secretary hand, sir?”
    “I have known it all my life.”
    “Then this will cause you no difficulty.”
    Doctor Parr took the vellum from him and handed it to his colleague. Doctor Warburton, putting on his spectacles in a ritual he clearly enjoyed, began to read aloud. “‘Forgive us, oh Lord, all our sins and cherish us like the sweet bird that under the cover of her spreading wings receives her little brood and hovering over them keeps them’—what is this word?”
    He passed the paper to Doctor Parr. “‘Harmless,’ Warburton.”
    “‘—who keeps them harmless and in safety. Keep in safety, too, your sovereign James divinely appointed.’ This is excellent, Parr. He subscribed to our English Church. Note the image of the bird.”
    William walked over to a window and looked down into Fetter Lane. There was a plaque on the wall there, beneath the elm tree, which read “This Is Where the Great Fire of London Was Halted.” Hanging in this library, between the window and the shelves, was a tapestry depicting “Jesus among the Doctors in the Temple”; there were some threads unravelled loosely from it and, on an impulse, he plucked them out and put them in his pocket. When he turned round he realised that the black servant had been observing him; the boy was shaking his head and smiling at him. Since the others were deeply intent upon examining Shakespeare’s testament, William walked over to him. “A memento,” he said. “A memory of this place.”
    The boy’s eyes were large and tremulous. It was as if he were looking at William from under water. “That is no concern of mine,