Of Blood Descended

Steven Veerapen

(Polygon, £8.99)

Born in Glasgow and raised in Paisley, Steven Veerapen’s dual Scottish and Mauritian parentage sparked an interest in mixed marriage and dual heritage in his studies as a historian, particularly in Renaissance Britain. In the course of his research, he discovered John Blanke, a black trumpeter who played at the courts of Henry VII and VIII and, for this novel, he has invented a fictional son for John Blanke, Anthony.

Of Blood Descended introduces us to Anthony Blanke, a trumpeter like his father, as he returns to the household of Cardinal Wolsey in Hampton Court in 1552, two years after leaving it. Not yet 20, Anthony left Wolsey’s service in disgust at all the spying that came with it, spying that he himself partook in, at Wolsey’s behest. He now thinks he was a bit of a fool for giving up such a good job to be a lonely, penniless music teacher living with his stepmother, but he had other motivations for quitting. Tired of constantly being an outsider, he wanted to “undo the traces” of his blackness through prayer and Godly living.

Anthony has been summoned back to Hampton Court because Wolsey, splendidly realised here, wants him to take part in a King Arthur-themed masque being held in honour of Charles V of Spain, who is in England visiting his uncle, Henry VIII, for six weeks. Anthony is reluctant to “prance around” to be “gawped at” playing the Black Knight in an Arthurian masque, but he is persuaded to return to Wolsey’s service as an investigator when the dead body of Pietro Gonzaga, a historian from Mantua, is found in the grounds.

The temptation is too much to resist. Clad once more in the livery of the Cardinal, Anthony, who “was weary of being small, of not mattering” is empowered to investigate in his name. Gonzaga, he finds, had been tasked with studying obscure manuscripts in neglected archives to find evidence that would prove Henry VIII was descended from King Arthur, thus strengthening his hold on the throne. This knowledge directs him towards a murky and dangerous plot involving ancient books, prophecies and murder.

The engaging Veerapen falters only on the occasions when he resorts to tired tropes thriller writers should know to avoid – Anthony being taken in by a screamingly obvious trap being the worst offender. But these are easily overlooked in a crisp evocation of Renaissance-era London which has just enough period detail to bring it to life but not so much as to overburden it. (I particularly liked the offhand mentions of “the vinegary smell of paint” and the reason you wouldn’t see people riding horses through London streets.)

In Anthony Blake, Veerapen has come up with a protagonist who could sustain several sequels. As well as being in love with a nun, which never ends well, he’s a Renaissance hero who doesn’t like horses and isn’t much good at riding them; a black man who bristles when slighted but was embarrassed by a father he felt didn’t try hard enough to fit in; and a conflicted young man who doesn’t like to admit, even to himself, that he must have been a pretty good spy in the first place for Wolsey to retain his services now. He also seems at a crossroads politically. Having adored the charismatic, golden-haired king when he first ascended to the throne, he now sees the cold cunning that lurks inside Henry, and seems to have growing reservations about the system he serves, all of which promises interesting developments in future instalments.

ALASTAIR MABBOTT