Sovereign

Chapter Eleven

‘STOP!’

A fierce shout, in a deep voice I recognized. The glazier lowered his stave. Looking past him I saw Giles Wrenne’s tall head as he shouldered his way though the crowd.

‘Sir!’ I called out. ‘I have never been so glad to see anybody!’

The old man stepped in front of us, placing himself between us and the crowd. He looked impressive in a robe with a fur trim, his best no doubt, and a black cap with a red feather. ‘What is happening here?’ he asked the glazier sharply. ‘Master Pickering, what are you doing?’

‘These men were in Peter Oldroyd’s house, maister! The hunchback says he’s a lawyer, but I say they’re thieves.’ He pointed to the painted box lying at my feet. ‘He had that hidden under his robe.’

Wrenne looked at the box with a puzzled frown, then sharply at me.

‘We were on King’s business, sir,’ I said. I felt myself reddening.

Wrenne then raised himself to his full impressive height and addressed the crowd. ‘You all know me here in Stonegate! I can vouch for this man. He is a lawyer sent to work with me on the petitions to the King. I will deal with this!’

The crowd muttered, but the heat had gone out of them. Faces began to look worried as it sank in that they had been about to assault an officer of the crown. The apprentices who had thrown the stones sidled away. Barak glared at them, rubbing his shoulder. ‘Arseholes,’ he muttered.

Wrenne put his hand on Pickering’s shoulder. ‘Come now, sir. Leave this to me. Return to thy shop, you will be losing business.’

‘What business that is left for us with all the religious houses gone,’ the glazier answered, casting me a bitter look. ‘Peter Oldroyd is well out of it, God rest him.’

‘Ay, ay.’

‘The people here are angry, Maister Wrenne. Half their trade gone, then Peter dead while working for the King and all they can do is send soldiers to wreck his house and scarify his servants.’ He glanced at where Goodwife Byland was looking on with a haggard, tear-stained face. ‘And young Green that’s nowt but a good-natured lump of a lad, hauled off and locked up at St Mary’s.’

‘I heard. I came this way to find out what was happening. But none of this is Master Shardlake’s fault. Come now, let us pass. Pick up that box, young Barak.’

Much to my relief, the crowd parted to let us through. Wrenne went over to where a young lad stood staring wide-eyed at the scene. He held the reins of a donkey weighed down with heavy panniers; the petitions, no doubt.

‘Come, Adam,’ Wrenne said. The boy patted the donkey on the rump to set it going. As we walked away he gave Wrenne a questioning look. ‘You did well to stay calm, lad,’ Wrenne said to him. He turned to us. ‘My kitchen-boy. He’s been pestering me to let him see the preparations at King’s Manor.’

I nodded. I felt a score of eyes on our backs and breathed more easily as we passed the church and the Guildhall came into view across the square at the top of Stonegate. ‘I thank you with all my heart, sir,’ I said. ‘If you had not come by I fear what might have happened to us.’

‘Ay,’ Barak agreed. ‘They had started throwing stones. I have seen what can happen when a London crowd start doing that to some foreigner.’

Wrenne looked at him seriously. ‘Which is much how they see you, I fear. Feeling in Stonegate has been much stirred by what happened yesterday. It has become the talk of the town. That is why I took this way round to St Mary’s this morning, to see what was going on.’

‘The blame was Maleverer’s,’ I observed. ‘And he is a Yorkshireman.’

‘He is on the Council of the North, and so far as the Yorkers are concerned that means he is a King’s man.’ He shook his head. ‘He is too rough in his ways.’

I sighed. ‘I have to see him later.’

‘In connection with that?’ He nodded at the box, which Barak held clasped to his chest. ‘You found that at Oldroyd’s house?’

‘Yes. Yes, we did.’

‘What is it, if I might ask?’

‘We do not know. We are taking it back to Sir William.’

He looked at me sharply. ‘Something the poor apprentice told them about, at St Mary’s?’

‘I may not say, sir. And we do not know what is inside, it is locked.’

Wrenne looked at the box again, but said no more. We walked on to St Mary’s. Master Wrenne walked slowly, remarkable though he otherwise seemed for his age. Young Sergeant Leacon was still at his post at the gate, and I asked him whether Sir William had returned, noticing as I did so that Wrenne gave him a curious look.

‘Not yet, sir,’ he answered. ‘He’s expected any time. There’s many that want to see him and are having to wait. Master Dereham has arrived, the Queen’s new secretary, and he is making a mighty stink.’

Wrenne glanced at a little clock that had been set on the table in the sergeant’s cubby hole. It stood at twenty to nine.

‘We are due at Master Fealty’s office,’ Wrenne reminded us.

‘Barak and I still have half an hour. And first we must make sure this box is kept somewhere safe until Maleverer comes.’ I thought a moment, then turned to the sergeant, who was looking curiously at the casket in Barak’s arms. ‘Do you know where Master Craike might be found?’

‘He should be at his office in the manor house.’

‘Thank you.’ I turned to Barak and Wrenne. ‘We will ask him where the box may be kept safely, then change and go to the rehearsal.’

Wrenne turned to look over his shoulder at Sergeant Leacon, who was still watching us curiously. ‘That young fellow has a look of my father,’ he said in a voice tinged with sadness. ‘The same height and broad build, and my father’s hair was yellow and curly like that into his old age. He brought him back to mind.’ He turned round, then stopped and stared at his first clear view of the courtyard. Young Adam, too, was staring open-mouthed at the pavilions and the three huge tents. Men were still moving in furniture under the watchful eyes of red-coated soldiers. Through the door of one tent I saw a gigantic tapestry, bright with rich colours, being hung.

‘Jesu,’ Wrenne said again. ‘I have never seen anything like this.’

‘We still do not know what is planned. The senior officials do but may not say.’

Wrenne’s eyes turned to the monastery church. He looked sadly at the empty windows, the trail of mud by the door. A packman was leading a train of donkeys inside. ‘I expect the interior has been gutted,’ he said quietly.

‘Completely destroyed. It is being used to stable the horses.’

‘Sad,’ he murmured. ‘I visited it many times in the old days. Well, we had better get to the manor house. Sir James Fealty will be there as well as your Master Craike. Master Barak, could you carry the petitions? They are rather heavy.’

Barak took the heavy panniers from the donkey, which a guard allowed us to tie to a post. We left the boy with it, though he obviously hoped to come inside, and mounted the steps. We entered the large central hall. Here too the carpenters were finishing work, and I saw the hall had been hung from floor to ceiling with their the most splendid tapestries I had ever seen, interwoven with gold leaf that glinted among the bright colours. Looking up I saw the roof too had been painted in the most intricate and colourful designs.

Several officials stood around in earnest discussion and I saw Lady Rochford in a corner, speaking in a low voice to a bearded young man in a silken doublet with slashed sleeves, the colours gaudy. It was the man we had seen in the inn doorway the day we arrived, mocking the locals. Both their faces were tight with anger. Jennet Marlin stood a little way off. She looked curiously at Barak, the heavy panniers over his shoulders and holding the brightly painted box in his hands. Catching my eye, she made the briefest nod. Lady Rochford and the young man, catching her look, followed her gaze; Lady Rochford raised her eyes haughtily.

‘What’s the matter with them?’ I muttered.

‘Your coat’s all white down the back,’ Barak said. I twisted to look at it and saw it was smeared with white plaster dust where I had backed against Oldroyd’s wall. I heard a guffaw from the gaudily dressed young man.

‘Your coat, Master Wrenne,’ I said apologetically.

‘No matter. It will rub off. Come, sir, we must go.’

We walked on. We asked a guard where Craike’s office was located and he directed us up two flights of stairs to a suite of rooms behind the hall. Wrenne left us to find Sir James Fealty’s office, and we promised we would see him there shortly. I gave him his coat, apologizing again for its state.

There was a great bustle on the top floor, servants in King’s livery heaving trunks and boxes out of the rooms. Craike stood in a little office floored with rush matting, watching anxiously as papers and books were loaded into a chest. ‘Have a care,’ he said fussily. ‘Don’t get those papers out of order.’ He looked up in surprise as we entered. ‘Brother Shardlake!’

‘Good day, Brother Craike. Might we speak with you in confidence?’

He gave me a puzzled frown, but ordered the servants out. They took the chest with them, leaving the room bare save for a table on which Craike’s portable desk stood, a thick wad of papers pinned to it. I closed the door.

‘We are being shifted to the monks’ dormitory,’ he said. ‘It is a nightmare.’

‘I understand. But something has come into my possession, sir, that belonged to the dead glazier.’ I indicated the casket under Barak’s arm. ‘It is vital it be kept secure till Sir William returns. Do you know where I might leave it? I have to attend Sir James Fealty shortly.’

Craike ran a hand through his scanty hair. ‘The whole house is being turned upside down. You could leave it here, I suppose. I have been told to lock this room when I leave, but I do not have to surrender the key till six.’

I looked round dubiously. ‘Will this room be secure enough?’

‘The door is solid,’ Barak said, ‘and we are two floors up.’

Craike ran his hands through his hair again, then gave me a sudden apologetic smile. ‘Oh, Master Shardlake, you must think me an unhelpful churl. Only, with so much to do…’ He delved in his pocket, and handed me a key. ‘Here, take this. When you are done perhaps you could find me and return it.’

‘I will, sir. And thank you for your help at this busy time.’

‘Then I will see you later.’ Craike picked up his little desk, slung it round his shoulders and hurried from the room. Barak placed the box on the table.

‘It is light.’ He shook it. ‘There’s something inside. Cloth, perhaps?’ He gave the lid another experimental tug but it stayed fast.

‘Empty or no, it is safe now. Come, we must get changed.’ We left the room, but I cast a last anxious look at the casket before I locked the door behind us.

BARAK AND I SOON found Sir James Fealty’s office, a large room on the ground floor of the manor. We were in our best clothes, I in my best robe and my new cap, which I had bought in London. It was expensive, black velvet decorated with tiny garnets and a blue feather on the side. I disliked the gaudy thing. The feather had come a little loose in its clasp and the tip drifted in and out of my vision like a circling insect.

Sir James was a thin old fellow in a brown doublet, an embroidered collar to his shirt and a long wispy white beard that came to a point halfway down his chest. He was sitting at a large desk, reading the petitions and frowning. The clerk Cowfold who had insulted me behind my back the night before was standing at his shoulder, his face expressionless. His demeanour did not change as I gave him a hard look. Wrenne stood a little way off.

After a minute Sir James deigned to look up. ‘So you’re the lawyer,’ he said in a reedy voice. ‘Well, I suppose your clothes will do, though that feather in your cap needs straightening.’ He pointed his quill at Barak. ‘Who is that?’

‘My assistant, sir.’

He made a flicking motion with the quill. ‘You won’t be there. Outside.’

Barak gave him a nasty look, but left the room. Sir James turned back to the petitions and our summary. He studied them for another ten minutes, ignoring Wrenne and me completely. I had met self-important officials in my time, but Fealty was something new. I glanced at Wrenne, who winked at me.

After a while my back started to hurt, and I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. ‘You’d better not bob around like that on Friday,’ Sir James said without looking up. ‘You stand stock-still when you’re in the presence of the King.’ He tossed the summary aside. ‘Well, those will do I suppose.’ He heaved himself up from his desk. ‘Now listen carefully. This is what will happen on Friday.’

He took us through the planned event step by step. Early in the morning we would journey to Fulford Cross with the deputation from York sent to abase themselves before the King and present him with gifts from the city. We would all wait until the Progress arrived. All would kneel, as Henry had decreed everyone must do at his approach. There would be various ceremonies, during which Recorder Tankerd and I would wait, kneeling, at the front of the York delegation. Then the King and Queen would step forward and Tankerd would make his speech from his knees. Afterwards, Wrenne and I could rise to our feet, to present the petitions.

‘You will hand the petitions to the King’s pages, who will be standing by; they in turn will hand them to the King. Having thus formally accepted the documents, the King will pass them to another official. Later they will be given back to you to deal with from then on.’

‘Round in a circle like the maypole,’ Wrenne said with a smile. He seemed not at all intimidated by Sir James, who gave him an offended stare.

‘His Majesty will have graciously consented to deal with them,’ he rasped. ‘That is the point.’

‘Of course, Sir James,’ Wrenne answered mildly.

‘One thing more. The King may choose to address some words to you, some pleasantries. If he does you may look him in the face and reply, briefly, and thank him for addressing you. And you address him as Your Majesty, not Your Grace – he prefers that term now. Is that understood?’

‘It would be a great honour,’ Wrenne murmured.

Sir James grunted. ‘But unless he addresses you – ’ Sir James leaned forward threateningly – ‘do not look the King in the eye. Keep your heads bowed. It is a fact that many of the common sort who are brought into His Majesty’s presence never actually see his countenance. People will try to risk an upward glance, from vulgar curiosity. If the King sees that – well, he has a harsh tongue, and if he is in ill-humour, from the pain he suffers in his leg or some other cause, he is good at thinking up nasty punishments for those who offend him.’ He smiled tightly at us.

A picture of Aske’s skeleton, hanging in its chains, came into my head. ‘We will be careful on Friday, Sir James,’ I said.

‘You had better be. This is not a game. It is to show these barbarian papists the power and glory of their king.’ He motioned to Cowfold, who replaced the petitions in the panniers and handed them to me.

‘That is all. Present yourselves in the hall of King’s Manor at eight on Friday. And you, master lawyer, make sure you get a shave before then. Barbers are being laid on.’ He motioned us away with his pen.

We left and rejoined Barak, who was waiting outside. I blew out my cheeks.

‘He was a pompous old arsehole,’ Barak said.

‘I am glad that’s over, though I confess I am looking forward to Friday even less now.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Let us see whether Maleverer is back yet. Brother Wrenne, I shall see you on Friday morning. Can I give you the petitions to keep?’

‘Ay. I will take them back to my house.’

I shook his hand. ‘Thank you again for what you did this morning. You saved us a nasty beating, or worse.’

‘I am glad to have helped. Well, good luck with Sir William.’

‘Thank you. Until Friday then.’

‘Until Friday. The great day.’ He raised his eyebrows, then turned and left us.

MALEVERER, THOUGH, was not yet back. We waited for a while in the hall of the manor, where quite a little group had gathered with matters requiring his attention on his return. Lady Rochford and Jennet Marlin were still there, and the bearded young man, talking intently to Lady Rochford.

‘Is he going to be all day?’ Barak asked.

‘I am reluctant to leave that box all this time.’

‘Then let’s wait with it,’ Barak said. ‘We might as well be there as here.’

I considered. ‘Yes, why not. We can see from the window when he returns.’ I looked at him. ‘You don’t think I’m being too anxious.’

‘Not where Maleverer’s concerned, no.’

‘All right.’

He leaned close. ‘And perhaps we could take a look inside.’

I looked at him irritably. ‘It’s locked. I am not going to break it open.’

‘Don’t need to.’ Barak gave a sly smile. ‘You forget my skills at picking locks. A box like that would be child’s play.’ He glanced at my cap, which I had removed and was holding carefully. ‘Give me the pin keeping that feather in your cap and I could easily unlock it, see what is inside. Then we can lock it up again. No one need know if we didn’t want them to.’

I hesitated. Barak had that eager light in his eyes again. ‘We’ll see,’ I said.

We walked up to Craike’s office. My heart was beating fast, for I had an irrational fear the wretched casket might be gone. The corridor was silent and empty, the work of moving the officials out evidently complete. I unlocked Craike’s door and sighed with relief at the sight of the box sitting where we had left it on the table.

We locked the door again. Barak looked at me questioningly. Curiosity fought the fear of getting ever deeper into this grim business. But we were in deep as it was, and I knew how good a lockpick Barak was – I had seen him in action before. ‘Do it,’ I said abruptly. ‘But for Jesu’s sake, be careful.’ I removed the pin from my cap and handed it to him

He inserted it into the little lock, twisting it gently to and fro. I looked again at the scene painted on the box, Diana the huntress. The paint was lined with hairline cracks through age, but the picture was very well done; this box must have been very expensive once.

‘Shit,’ Barak said suddenly. He stood holding up half the pin. It had broken off, leaving the other half stuck in the lock. I could just see a tiny sliver of metal protruding. He tried to grasp it but it was not sticking out far enough.

‘You dolt!’ I cried ‘So much for your brag! If that pin’s stuck the box will have to be smashed open. Maleverer will see it’s been tampered with.’

‘The damned pin was too thin.’

‘Excuses won’t help.’

‘We could say we found it like that.’

‘I do not fancy lying to him. Do you?’

He frowned. ‘If I could lay hold of a pair of thin pliers I could have that pin out of the lock. Those workmen are bound to have pliers.’

I took a deep breath. ‘Well, go and find some, for Jesu’s sake. I knew I should not have agreed to this.’

He looked, for once, crestfallen. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ he said, and made for the door. He turned the key to let himself out. I heard his footsteps moving away down the corridor and sighed, looking anxiously at the box. I gently touched the broken end of the pin, wondering if my thinner fingers might get it out, but it was impossible.

Then I heard a faint click. I stared at the casket. Had my fiddling moved the tumblers? Hesitantly, I grasped the lid. It opened. Very tentatively, I pulled it fully up. A musty smell assailed my nostrils. I bent my head and slowly, carefully, looked inside.

The box was half full of papers. I picked out the top one, unfolded it carefully, then stared in puzzlement. It was a chart of the royal family tree such as one sees in ornamental genealogies, but written crudely in ink. It went back a century to Yorkist times, though some minor members of the family who had died without issue were missing. I studied it carefully, quite bemused. There was nothing secret here – it was the familiar royal line such as one saw displayed in many official buildings. If someone had made an abbreviated family tree of the royal house for a pastime, why on earth hide it?

I looked in the box again. Underneath the family tree was a scrappy piece of paper on which a rude text had been written. ‘This is the prophecy of the great magician Merlin,’ it began. ‘Revealed in the days of King Arthur, his prophecy of the Kings that will follow John…’ There was stuff about monarchs who would be called the Goat, the Lion and the Ass, before it concluded with, ‘The eighth Henry, that shall be called the Mouldwarp, who shall be cursed by God for his actions. His kingdom shall be divided into three, and none of his heirs shall inherit.’

I laid the scrawl down. It looked like one of the scurrilous prophecies that had been hawked around London at the time of the Pilgrimage of Grace. The penalty for distributing such things had been death.

The next document was not a paper but a parchment, quite a large one, folded over several times. I opened it out. To my astonishment it had the seal of Parliament at the bottom: this was an Act of Parliament, though not one I recognized. ‘Titulus Regulus,’ I read. ‘An Act for the Settlement of the Crown upon the King and his Issue…’ Which King? I hastily scanned the thick, beautifully inscribed black lettering. ‘Our Soveraign Lord the King Richard the Thirde…’ I read. I frowned again. I had never heard of this Act. I laid it carefully aside and turned to the box. The rest of the pages seemed to be a series of handwritten scrawls on cheap paper. The top one was larger than the rest. I took it out and laid it on the table.

This is the true confession of me, Edward Blaybourne, that I make in contemplation of death, that the world may know of my great sin…

Then something struck me on the side of the head, a heavy blow that made me gasp. My vision went misty, but I saw a big red drop fall on to Blaybourne’s confession. As I realized that it was my own blood, I felt another blow on the back of my neck. My legs buckled beneath me, and I fell into a great darkness.