Sovereign

Chapter Four

A GUARD TOLD US THAT to reach St Mary’s Abbey we should follow a street called Coneygate. This was another narrow lane full of busy shops, and again we proceeded at a snail’s pace. I noted a number of even narrower alleyways leading off, perhaps to squares and courts behind. I felt hemmed in by the city.

As we passed a large inn I saw a group of young men in colourful slashed doublets standing in the doorway, flanked by watchful servants, looking out over the crowd as they drank wine from leather bottles. One, a tall handsome young fellow with a dark beard, was pointing out members of the citizenry and laughing at their poor clothes. The evil looks he received made him laugh all the louder. The advance guard of the Great Progress, I thought; these gentlemen should take better care.

I thought about Radwinter and Broderick. Gaoler and prisoner, ice and fire. It was clear Radwinter visited whatever petty torments he could on Broderick, to keep him down and probably for his own enjoyment too. Such treatment could be dangerous; Sir Edward might be young but he was a gentleman, unused to privation. That burn on his chest could turn bad; I hoped there were good medical men in York. I wished my old friend Guy was with me. But Guy was far away, working as an apothecary in London.

I could not help being troubled anew by Sir Edward’s accusation that I was keeping him safe for the torturers. He was right. And yet, for all his brave defiant words, Sir Edward had begged Radwinter for something to drink. And I had been able to order it brought.

I remembered, too, Radwinter’s remark about my condition making me sympathetic to poor outcasts. How he could see into a man. Did he use such skills to delve into the minds of the heretics in Cranmer’s gaol at the top of the Lollards’ Tower? But he was right; sympathy for Broderick could cloud my judgement. I recalled the prisoner’s sudden furious lunge at the gaoler, and thought again, what has he done that he must be kept sealed away like a plague-carrier?

Outside a candlemaker’s shop I saw a plump, choleric-looking man in a red robe and broad-brimmed red hat, a gold chain of office round his neck, inspecting a box of candles. The mayor, I thought. The candlemaker, his apron spotted with grease, looked on anxiously as the mayor lifted a fat yellow candle from the box and inspected it closely. Three black-robed officials stood by, one carrying a gold mace.

‘It’ll do, I suppose,’ the mayor said. ‘Make sure only the finest beeswax goes to St Mary’s.’ He nodded and the group passed on to the next shop.

‘Doing his rounds.’ I said to Barak. ‘Making sure everything is in order for when the Progress arrives. And –’ I broke off with a start at the sound of a scream.

A young woman, standing at the mouth of one of the narrow alleys, was clutching a large basket, struggling to keep it from the grip of a ragged youth with a large wart on his nose who was trying to pull it from her. I saw it was the girl who had winked at Barak earlier. Another churl, a fair-haired boy with a broken nose, held her round the waist. Barak threw me Sukey’s reins and leaped from his horse, drawing his sword. A couple of passers-by stepped back hastily.

‘Leave her, you arseholes!’ Barak shouted. The two youths at once let go, turned and ran pell-mell up the alley. Barak made to follow, but the girl seized his arm.

‘No, sir, no! Stay with me, please, these are for Queen Catherine.’

Barak sheathed his sword, smiling at her. ‘You’re all right now, mistress.’

I dismounted carefully, keeping hold of both horses’ reins. Genesis shifted his hooves uneasily.

‘What happened?’ I asked her. ‘What do you mean, your basket is for the Queen?’

She turned to me, her cornflower-blue eyes wide. ‘I am a servant in the Queen’s privy kitchen, sir. I was sent to buy some of the things the Queen likes.’ I looked in the basket. There were sticks of cinnamon, almonds and pieces of root ginger. The girl gave a little curtsey. ‘My name is Tamasin, sir. Tamasin Reedbourne.’ I noted she had a London accent and it struck me her fustian dress was expensive wear for a kitchenmaid.

‘Are you all right, mistress?’ Barak asked. ‘Those knaves looked as though they’d pull your pretty arms from their sockets.’

She smiled, showing white teeth and a pair of pretty dimples. ‘I wouldn’t let go. When the Queen arrives her lodgings are to be filled with her favourite doucets, all made from ingredients bought here in York.’ She looked between us. ‘Are you here to meet the Progress, sirs?’

‘Ay.’ I gave a little bow. ‘I am a lawyer, Master Shardlake. This is my assistant, Jack Barak.’

Barak doffed his cap and the girl smiled at him again, a little coquettishly now. ‘You are brave, sir. I noticed you earlier, did I not?’

‘You know you gave me a pretty smile.’

‘You had a bodyservant in King’s livery with you then,’ I said.

‘Ay, sir. But Master Tanner wished to buy a piece of cloth and I gave him leave to go into that shop.’ She shook her head. ‘It was foolish, sir, was it not? I forgot what a barbarous place this is.’

‘Is that him?’ I asked, pointing to a thin-faced young man wearing the King’s badge who had just left a shop on the other side of the road. I recognized him from that morning. He crossed to where we stood, hand on his sword-hilt.

‘Mistress Reedbourne?’ he asked nervously. ‘What is the matter?’

‘Well may you ask, Tanner! While you were choosing cloth for your new doublet, two youths tried to steal the Queen’s dainties. This man rescued me.’ She smiled again at Barak.

Master Tanner cast his eyes to the ground. Genesis pulled at the reins.

‘We must go,’ I said. ‘We are due at St Mary’s. Come, Barak, they will be waiting like everyone else to tell us we were expected yesterday.’ I settled matters by bowing to Mistress Reedbourne. She curtsied again.

‘I am lodged at St Mary’s too,’ she said sweetly. ‘Perhaps I shall see you again.’

‘I hope so.’ Barak replaced his cap, then winked, making the girl turn scarlet. We rode off.

‘That was a bit of excitement,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Not that there was any danger, they were just ragamuffin lads. Must have thought there was something valuable in that basket.’

‘You did well.’ I smiled sardonically. ‘Rescuing the Queen’s doucets.’

‘The girl’s a little doucet herself. I’d not mind a game of hot-cockles with her.’

AT THE TOP OF Coneygate we passed into another road that ran alongside the high walls of the abbey. The King’s guards patrolled the top of the walls, and beyond them I saw the high steeple we had seen on our way in, almost as high as the Minster. The monasteries had all had enclosing walls, though I had never seen any so high as this; St Mary’s must have been an enormous site. Such a wall would greatly help security and I wondered whether this was why the abbey had been chosen for the King’s base in York.

Once again we passed under the barbican at Bootham Bar, this time turning left to join a queue of riders and pedestrians waiting to go into the abbey. My commission was scrutinized with care before we were allowed to pass. Inside, we dismounted. Barak took the panniers containing our belongings from the horses’ backs and slung them over his shoulders, then joined me in staring at the scene before us.

Directly ahead was a large manor house that must once have been the abbot’s residence. It was splendid even by the standards the abbots of the large monasteries allowed themselves, a three-storey building in red brick with high narrow chimneys. Beds of small white roses lined the walls. There had once been a lawn too but it had been turned to muddy earth by the passage of innumerable feet and cartwheels. Some men were excavating what turf was left, replacing it with flagstones, while a little way off others were digging up what must have been the monks’ graveyard, hauling up the gravestones and manhandling them onto carts. Above the main door of the manor the royal arms had been hung on a large shield.

Beyond the manor house stood an enormous monastic church of Norman design, one of the largest I had seen, its square tower topped by an enormous stone steeple, the façade decorated with ornate buttresses and carved pillars. The manor house and the church made two sides of a great courtyard, an area perhaps a furlong in length. There an amazing spectacle was taking shape. Outbuildings had been demolished, leaving trenches where foundations had once stood. Dozens of tents had been planted on the space, and hundreds of men were labouring in the open, working on the final stages of the construction of two enormous pavilions. Forty feet high, they had been built to resemble castles, complete with turrets and barbican gates; all in wood but painted and designed to resemble stone. Workmen on ladders swarmed over the extraordinary buildings, fixing plaster images of heraldic beasts, painting the walls in bright colours, glazing the windows. As I watched, I thought there was something familiar about the designs of the pavilions.

Trestle tables stood everywhere in the yard, carpenters hewing and planing huge lengths of wood. A pile of perhaps fifty trunks of young oak was stacked against the abbey wall, and sawdust lay everywhere. Other workmen were carving ornamental cornices in complex designs, the colours bright in the dull afternoon.

Barak whistled. ‘God’s wounds. What are they planning here?’

‘Some spectacle the like of which I’ve never imagined.’

We stood a moment longer watching the extraordinary scene, then I touched Barak’s arm. ‘Come. We have to find the man in charge of the accommodation. Simon Craike.’ I smiled. ‘I knew him, a long time ago.’

Barak shifted the weight of the panniers on his shoulders. ‘Did you?’

‘He was a fellow student at Lincoln’s Inn. I haven’t seen him since, though. He never practised, he went into the royal administration.’

‘Why’d he do that? The pay?’

‘Ay. He had an uncle in royal service who got him a post.’

‘What’s he like?’

I smiled again. ‘You’ll see. I wonder if he’s changed.’

We led the horses over to the manor house, which seemed to be the centre of all the great bustle; people were running in and out, officials standing on the steps giving orders, arguing and looking over plans. We asked a guard where Master Craike might be found, and he told us to wait, calling a groom to take the horses. As we stood there a high officer of state in a green velvet robe waved us out of the way, then another barged between us, as though we were dogs in his path.

‘Arseholes,’ Barak muttered.

‘Come, let us get out of their way.’

We walked to the corner of the manor house, near to where two women were arguing with an official who held a floorplan of some sort. He was bowing and scraping almost to the ground, risking his plan falling in the mud, as the more richly dressed of the two ladies berated him loudly. She was in her thirties, with brown hair under a French hood set with pearls, and a high-collared robe of red silk. A woman of status. Her square plain face was red with ill-temper.

‘Is it too much for the Queen to know how she may leave her lodgings in the event of a fire?’ I heard her say in a deep, sharp voice. ‘I ask again, which is the nearest door and who has the key?’

‘I am not sure, my lady.’ The official turned his plan round. ‘The privy kitchen may be nearest –’

‘I’m not interested in may be.’

The other woman saw us looking and raised her eyebrows in an affronted stare. She was slim, with a face that might have been attractive but for its cold, haughty expression. The brown curly hair beneath her plain hood was unbound, signalling unmarried status, though she too was in her thirties. She wore an expensive-looking engagement ring, however: a diamond set in gold. She frowned again and I nudged Barak out of hearing. Then I smiled at the sight of a man in a brown robe who had come out of the manor house and stood on the steps, staring round him. A little portable writing desk was tied round his neck with blue cord. An inkpot and a quill were set there, and a thick sheaf of papers was pinned to it.

I remembered Simon Craike by his anxious, harried air. But for that I might not have recognized him, for the years had changed my old fellow student greatly. The good fare of court had given him a plump face and wide girth, while the shock of fair hair I remembered was mostly gone, leaving only a yellow fringe. As he turned at my call, though, his careworn features lit up. Barak and I doffed our caps as he crossed to us, one hand on the little desk to keep it steady. He shook my hand with the other.

‘Master Shardlake! I recognized you at once. The years have dealt kindly with you, sir. Why, you still have your hair. Not even grey.’

I laughed. ‘’Tis a wonder, given some of the affairs I have had to deal with.’

‘By Our Lady, it must be near twenty years.’ Craike smiled sadly. ‘The world has seen many changes since then.’

‘Truly it has.’ I thought: a revolution in religion, the end of the monasteries and a great rebellion. And my father now dead, I remembered with a sudden stab. ‘So,’ I said. ‘I hear you are in charge of accommodating the gentlemen in York.’

‘Ay. I have never had such a task as this Progress. Everywhere I have been going ahead to work with the harbingers to ensure everyone has accommodation at each stop. The problems with the rains, the King ever changing his plans.’

‘You have been with the Great Progress from the start?’

‘Ay. There has never been one anything like so large.’ He shook his head. ‘The problems, you cannot imagine. Dealing with the waste has been the worst thing. Everywhere we stop vast pits have to be dug. With three thousand people, five thousand great horses, you may imagine?’

‘Cannot the local people use the dung for manure?’

‘There was far more than they need. And the stink, you can imagine…’

‘I can.’

‘Even with the pits, all the road from London to Hull is littered with rubbish. It has been a nightmare, sir, a nightmare.’ He shook his head. ‘And my poor wife left behind in London.’

‘You are married?’

‘Ay. Seven children we have.’ He smiled with pride. ‘And you, sir?’

‘No, I have never married. This, by the way, is my assistant. Master Barak.’

Craike studied Barak solemnly with his pale-blue eyes. ‘You will need him, all the work there is here. As for me, I am surrounded by incompetents. So much to be got ready. Indeed I fear I cannot spare much time now, though I am glad to see you again. But I will show you your quarters.’

I nodded at the manor house. ‘That is a fine building.’

‘Ay. It was the abbot’s house. The King will be staying there when he arrives – it has been renamed King’s Manor in his honour.’

‘Perhaps we may have an opportunity to meet later, discuss old times.’

‘I should like that, sir. I will if I can –’ He broke off, as the two women came round the corner, and a hunted look came into his face. ‘God’s death,’ he muttered, ‘not Lady Rochford again.’

I started, for that was a name whose mention could send a shudder through any group. The three of us bowed hastily. As we rose I looked more closely at the square-faced woman. Her high-coloured features were still set in an angry frown, and I noticed she seemed strung tight with nervous tension. Her companion, who was holding the plan the official had been showing them, saw me studying her mistress and gave me another disapproving look.

‘Master Craike!’ Lady Rochford snapped. ‘Your churl of a planmaster cannot answer the simplest question. I want to know, sir, is there a privy way out of this house on this side that the Queen might take? She is terrified of fire, when she was a girl in Horsham the house near burned down –’

‘I am sorry, my lady –’

‘Pox on sorry! Jennet, the plan! Hurry, woman!’

Her companion held it up. Craike laid it out on his desk, studied it a moment and then pointed out a door. ‘There. The privy kitchen is nearest.’

‘Is it guarded?’

‘No, madam.’

‘Then I will need a set of keys. Arrange it. Jennet, come on, do not stand there like a lost sheep!’ And with that, Lady Rochford snatched the plan and the two women left, holding their skirts up above the muddy ground.

Craike wiped his brow. ‘By heaven, that woman’s an ogre.’

‘Ay. I know her history. Who is her sour-faced companion?’

‘Mistress Jennet Marlin, a maid in waiting. She has cause to look sour. Her fiancé is in the Tower, accused of a part in the conspiracy.’

‘She’s local, then?’

‘Ay, she was picked to come to York for her local knowledge. There’s no taint of disloyalty against her, her family are reformers.’ Craike made a little moue of distaste, faint but enough to show me where he stood in matters of religion. ‘Come, I’ll take you to your accommodation. It’s not the best, I fear, but in a few days there will be thousands here. Thousands.’ He shook his head.

‘Four days now until they come, is it not?’

‘Ay. I have to send my officers to the inns today, to check all is ready. Something can always go wrong. By Our Lady, the trouble we had during the rains in July. The number of carts broken and stuck in the mud, they nearly called the whole thing off.’

‘I am sure all will be well,’ I said with a smile. I had a sudden memory of Craike as a student in the Lincoln’s Inn library, working late on his exercises – surrounded by papers, his hands stained with ink, determined everything should be exactly right.

‘I hope so,’ he answered with a sigh. ‘The itinerary has been constantly changed, it has driven me half mad. The King was supposed to be in Pontefract two days and stayed near two weeks, and now he’s diverted to Hull.’

‘Perhaps to allow time to finish all this work going on in the forecourt, those pavilions. What is it all for?’

Craike looked uncomfortable. ‘I am sorry, I may not say. It will be announced when the Progress arrives.’ He stepped away, leading us to the monastic church. ‘But the work – it is a nightmare, a nightmare!’

Barak grinned at his back. He seemed to be in a better mood since meeting the girl. ‘Was he always like this?’ he whispered.

‘He was the most conscientious student I ever met. Everything had to be done just right.’

‘That’s a recipe for a seizure.’

I laughed. ‘Come, or he’ll leave us behind.’

As we reached the church I saw that many of the stained-glass windows had been removed, while others were broken. A dark-haired, middle-aged man stood on a ladder some distance off, carefully removing a pane. At the foot of the ladder an enormous black horse stood grazing beside a high-sided wagon.

‘The glass is all going, then,’ I observed to Craike. ‘It’ll make the church look bleak when the King comes.’

‘That glazier is trying to get as many windows as possible out before the Progress arrives, for the King will want to see it has been put beyond use.’

At the sound of our voices, the glazier stopped working and looked down. He had a thin, careworn face and sharp, watchful eyes.

Craike called up to him. ‘How goes it, Master Oldroyd?’

‘Well enough, maister, thank you.’

‘Will you have all the windows out before the King comes?’

‘Ay, sir. I’ll be here at first light every day till ’tis done.’

Craike led us up the worn steps of the church. The great door stood half open, a trail of muddy footprints leading in; evidently the church had become a thoroughfare.

It had been a magnificent place once. Great decorated arches and pillars rose to dizzying heights, richly painted in green and ochre; the floor was of decorated tiles in many designs. Lit with candles, it would have been an awesome sight. Now, though, the many empty windows cast a cold dim light on side-chapels stripped of furniture and empty niches where statues had stood, some now lying in pieces on the floor. A trail of mud and broken tiles marked a shortcut leading to another half-open door at the south end of the nave. As we walked down the gutted church, our footsteps echoed eerily in a silence that contrasted strangely with the bustle outside. I shivered.

‘Ay, ’tis cold,’ Master Craike said. ‘We’re near the river here, ’tis a damp and foggy place.’

I saw that a considerable number of wooden stalls had been erected along the walls. Some horses already stood there though many were empty. Piles of straw spilled out on to the aisle.

Barak pointed at a stall. ‘There’s Sukey and Genesis.’

‘They’re using this place as a stable?’ I asked incredulously.

‘The horses of the courtiers and the senior servants will all be stabled here. ’Tis a sensible use of the space, though it seems sacrilegious, even if the church has been deconsecrated.’

We stepped out of the south door into a second large courtyard, just as bustling. More buildings were set along the walls, and there was an imposing gatehouse and another smaller church. This was still in one piece, the parish church perhaps. In the yard all manner of produce was being unloaded from carts: apples and pears by the sackful, heaps of charcoal and bundles of faggots, armfuls of candles of every size, and bale after bale of hay. Servants were carrying the goods to the buildings and to a series of temporary huts. Rows of stockades had been erected, accommodating a whole flock of sheep, numerous cows and even some deer. In one enclosure hundreds of fowls, jumbled together, were pecking the ground bare. I saw hens and ducks, turkeys and even a pair of great bustard, their giant wings docked. Nearby a gang of men was laying pipes in a trench that ran down to the south wall of the monastery. There, through an open gate, I glimpsed mudflats and a wide grey river. I shook my head. ‘I’ve never seen such labour.’

‘They’ll be feeding three thousand on Friday. But come, we go this way.’ Craike led us past the animal enclosures towards a large two-storey building. ‘This was the monks’ hospital,’ he said apologetically. ‘We have partitioned it into rooms. It is the best we can do. Most of the law officers are here. The servants have only poor tents.’

A little group of officials stood talking at the door, some holding the red staffs of office of the porters who watched the royal palaces for intruders. A big, burly man in a lawyer’s robe, who overtopped the others by a head, was questioning them. Craike lowered his voice. ‘That is Sir William Maleverer. He’s a lawyer, a member of the Council of the North. He has overall charge of legal matters and security.’

Craike approached the big man, coughing to attract his attention, and he turned irritably. He was in his forties, with hard, heavy features and a black beard cut in a straight line at the bottom, the fashionable ‘spade-beard’. Cold dark eyes studied us.

‘Well, Master Craike, whom have you and your little clerk’s desk brought me now?’ Maleverer’s voice was very deep, with a northern accent. I remembered the Council of the North was staffed by local loyalists.

‘Brother Matthew Shardlake, Sir William, from London, with his assistant.’

‘You’re dealing with the King’s pleas, aren’t you?’ Maleverer looked me over, his expression contemptuous, as though he had achieved his high stature and straight back by some great virtue. ‘You’re late.’

‘I am sorry. We had a hard ride.’

‘You’ll need to prepare for Friday. With Brother Wrenne.’

‘We have seen him already.’

Maleverer grunted. ‘He’s an old woman. But I’ll have to leave it between you, I’ve other issues to deal with. Just make sure a summary of those petitions is prepared for the Chamberlain’s office by Thursday morning.’

‘I am sure we can put all in order.’

He looked at me dubiously again. ‘You’ll be in the King’s presence on Friday. I hope you’ve better clothes than that mud-spattered coat.’

‘In our baggage, sir.’ I indicated the panniers, which Barak shifted again on his shoulders.

Maleverer nodded brusquely and turned back to his companions. Barak pulled a face at me as we passed into the building. The interior was gloomy, with small arched windows, a fire of kindling set in the centre of the stone floor. The religious scenes with which the walls had once been painted had been scraped off, giving the place an unkempt look. The hall had been divided into cubicles by wooden partitions. There seemed to be no one else there – all out at work, probably.

‘A stern fellow, Sir William,’ I observed quietly.

‘A harsh man, like all those on the Council of the North,’ Craike replied. ‘I am grateful I have little to do with him. Now, sir,’ he looked at me apologetically, ‘I have taken the liberty of giving you and your assistant adjoining cubicles. Otherwise Master Barak would have to go into the servants’ tents. With so many people of such varying ranks, it is hard to give everyone an appropriate place.’

‘I do not mind,’ I said with a smile. Craike looked relieved. He scrabbled on his little desk, found a piece of paper and led us past the row of stalls. The doors were numbered.

‘Eighteen, nineteen – yes, those are yours.’ He made a mark on the paper, then smiled. ‘Well, sir, it has been good to see you again, but I must leave you now.’

‘Of course, sir. But I hope we may meet for that cup of ale while we are here.’

‘If time allows, I would be pleased. But all this –’ he waved a hand towards the courtyard – ‘a nightmare.’ He gave a quick bow and then, with another glance at his list, he was gone.

‘Well, let’s see what we’ve got,’ I said to Barak. There was a key in the lock of the cubicle door and I turned it. Inside, apart from a small chest for storage, a truckle bed was the only furniture. I eased off my riding boots and lay down with a groan of relief. After a few minutes there was a knock and Barak came in, barefoot and carrying my pannier. I sat up.

‘God’s wounds,’ I said. ‘Your feet stink. But I dare say mine do too.’

‘They do.’

I noted the tiredness in his voice. ‘Let us take the chance to rest this afternoon,’ I said. ‘We can sleep till dinner-time.’

‘Ay.’ He shook his head. ‘What a scurry. I’ve never seen so many goods and animals in one place. And whatever secret pageantry they are planning out there to be catered for.’

I clicked my fingers. ‘Those pavilions reminded me of something,’ I said. ‘I’ve just realized it. The Field of the Cloth of Gold.’

‘When the King went to Calais to meet the French King?’

‘Ay. Twenty years since. There’s a painting of the pageant in the Guildhall. They built huge pavilions of just those designs, and giant tents all gilded with cloth of gold, which gave the occasion its name. Of course, Lucas Hourenbout is using those designs as a precedent.’

‘For what?’

‘I don’t know. Some very great celebration. But perhaps we should restrain our curiosity, just get on with our business.’

‘Dun’s the mouse.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And Lady Rochford’s here. God’s death, she’s one to avoid.’

I looked at him seriously. ‘Ay. She was part of your old master’s darkest scheme.’

Barak shifted uncomfortably. Jane Rochford had been one of those used by Thomas Cromwell to discredit Queen Anne Boleyn through accusations of sexual misconduct five years before. Lady Rochford’s evidence had been the most terrible: that George Boleyn, her own husband and Queen Anne’s brother, had had incestuous relations with the Queen. I had reason to know for certain what most people believed, that the charges against Queen Anne had been fabricated for political reasons.

‘She has made herself a byword for the worst treachery,’ I continued. ‘And was well rewarded for it. Made Lady of the Privy Chamber to Jane Seymour, then Anne of Cleves and now Catherine Howard.’

‘Didn’t look very happy on it, though, did she?’

‘No, she didn’t. There was something underneath her angry bluster. Well, it cannot be much fun knowing the whole world hates you. Let’s hope we don’t have to see her again.’

‘But you’ve to meet the King.’

‘So it seems.’ I shook my head. ‘Somehow I cannot quite take that in.’

‘And you have to be involved with the prisoner at the castle. No choice there.’

‘No. But again, I’m going to ask as few questions as I can.’ I told Barak the details of what had passed at York Castle, Radwinter’s cruelty and Broderick’s sudden lunge at him, though I left out what the gaoler had said about my having sympathy for the prisoner. At the end he looked thoughtful.

‘Those skilled in dealing with dangerous prisoners, guarding and watching them, are rare. Earl Cromwell prized such men greatly.’ He looked at me seriously. ‘I think you’re right. Don’t get involved with either of them any more than you have to.’

He left me, saying he would call me in time for dinner. I heard a creak and a sigh as he lay down on the bed next door. I closed my eyes and was soon asleep. I dreamed I heard my father calling to me from outside the room, his voice clear and vivid, but that when I rose from the little bed to join him the cubicle door had been replaced by one as thick and heavy as the one in Broderick’s cell, and it was locked.

BARAK HAD THE ENVIABLE gift of being able to tell himself, before he went to sleep, when he wanted to wake, and he seldom failed to do so at his allotted time. His knock at my cubicle brought me from my troubled dreams. The room was gloomy, and glancing from the window I saw the sun was low in the sky. I joined him in the hall. There were other people there now, clerks and two lawyers in black robes, young fellows. One of them, a small thin man who stood warming his hands by the fire, caught my eye and bowed.

‘You have newly joined us, sir?’ he asked, studying us with large curious eyes.

‘Yes. Brother Shardlake of Lincoln’s Inn and my assistant Barak. We are here to assist with the petitions to the King.’

‘Ah.’ He looked impressed, and smiled ingratiatingly. ‘Paul Kimber, sir. I am also from Lincoln’s Inn.’ He bowed again.

‘What work are you doing with the Progress?’

‘Supervising the drawing up of contracts with suppliers along the way, in the Purveyor’s office. Well, helping to. I have come all the way with the Progress, and hard work it has been negotiating with these northern barbarians.’ He laughed contemptuously.

‘Do you know where we might find some dinner?’ I asked.

‘At the common dining hall. We have to eat all hugger-mugger with the clerks and carpenters. You’ll need a docket, though, to show you are entitled to bouche of court.’

‘Where do we get those?’

‘At the Office of the Great Hall.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Not sure where that is now. They were moving it today, to bigger premises, in anticipation of the Progress arriving.’

‘Well, we will find it, I dare say.’

We stepped outside, into an autumnal smell of wood-smoke. I shivered a little, for the damp feel of the air was more pronounced now. A little way off, brown-smocked servants were feeding the crowds of animals in their makeshift paddocks.

‘Let’s go through the church again,’ I said. ‘It’ll be somewhere round the manor house.’

Again we trod with echoing footsteps through the monastic church, cold and full of deep shadows as the light faded, the only sound the horses stirring in their stalls. We walked out through the main door and stood looking out over the front courtyard. The workmen were busy as ever sawing and painting. I had never seen so many work so fast. Two servants were unloading lamps containing fat white candles from a cart and carrying them over to the men. Many of the tents were already lit by a glow from within.

‘Do they plan to work into the night then?’ Barak asked.

‘Looks like it. Let’s hope for their sakes it doesn’t rain.’

I turned at a clinking sound. The glazier Oldroyd whom we had seen earlier walked slowly by, leading his enormous horse. It was one of those black Midland giants, the largest and strongest in the land, and it pulled a high-sided cart, full of glass.

‘A good day’s labour, fellow?’ I asked.

‘A busy day, maister, ay,’ he said in a quiet voice. He touched his cap and I saw his hand was criss-crossed with tiny scars; from a lifetime’s cuts, no doubt. ‘They let me keep the glass and lead as payment for my services.’

‘What do you do with it?’

‘It goes to gentlemen’s houses. A mythical beast or a ploughman at his toil makes a pretty centre-pane for a window, and cheaper than staining new glass.’ He paused. ‘But I am commanded to melt down the figures of monks and saints. It is sad, they are often beautiful.’ He stopped suddenly and gave me an anxious look; such comments could be construed as criticism of the King’s policy. I smiled to show I took no exception to his words. For a moment I thought he might say something more, but he lowered his head again and led his mighty horse off towards the gate.

I looked round the tents, wondering if I might spot Lucas Hourenbout. Barak asked a couple of officials if they knew where the Office of the Great Hall might be as they scurried past, but they only shook their heads; everyone was still in a great hurry. He sighed, and nodded in the direction of the little sentry box by the gate where the soldier who checked the papers of those coming in and out was posted.

‘Let’s ask him.’

We walked over to the gate. A young sergeant in the scarlet livery of the King’s yeomen was checking a carter’s papers. He was in his twenties, tall and flaxen-haired, with a handsome, open face. Glancing into his booth, I saw a Testament open upon a shelf under the window, one of those with notes to explain the words for those with little reading.

‘All in order,’ he said, handing the carter’s papers back, and the man led his horse in.

‘Know where the Office of the Great Hall is?’ Barak asked. ‘We’ve just arrived, we’re hungry.’

‘Sorry, sirs,’ he said. ‘I don’t know. I heard it’s moved.’

‘So everyone says.’

‘His pies aren’t bad.’ The young soldier nodded to where a pieman was touting his wares among the carpenters. He was doing a good trade.

‘Fancy another pie?’ Barak asked me.

‘Better than wandering among all these folk all evening.’

Barak went over to the pieman. The fellow gave him a deferential little bow; he was on royal territory now.

‘Thank you,’ I said to the soldier.

‘No trouble, sir. Everything is bustle and confusion tonight.’

‘Where are you from, sergeant?’ I asked, noting he had a southern accent.

‘Kent, sir.’

‘Ah, yes, I thought I recognized those tones. I had a job of work down there a few years ago.’

‘Most of us recruited for the Progress are from Kent. There’s six hundred Kentish archers arriving with the King on Friday. He knows we’re the best in the country, and the most loyal.’

I nodded at his book. ‘You are improving your knowledge?’

He blushed. ‘Our chaplain says all should learn to read well.’

‘That is true. Well, good evening, sergeant.’ I went out and joined Barak. We stood eating our pies, watching the craftsmen. It was an extraordinary scene, men calling, hundreds of lamps shining, while, above, the guards patrolled the high walls with their pikes and guns. I looked at the huge silent bulk of the church outlined against the darkening sky.

‘I could do with going back to bed,’ Barak said.

‘Ay, me too. We had no sleep last night.’

We returned to the lodging house. Our quarters were full of lawyers and officials now. We were too tired to do more than nod greetings to them as we headed for our stalls. I fell asleep at once.

I WOKE VERY EARLY, surfeited at last with sleep. It was barely dawn, and all around came the snores and grunts of slumber. It was rare for me to wake before Barak. I rose and dressed silently, rubbing my hand over stubbly cheeks; I must get a shave.

I stepped quietly outside into a misty half-light, white and still. I realized that for the first time since our arrival there was silence at St Mary’s, no calling or sawing, no tramping feet. The animals stood quietly in their byres, their breath steaming. I crossed the courtyard towards the church, my feet silent on the grass. It was very wet; it must have rained in the night. The roof was hidden in the mist. I reflected that only two or three years ago the monks would have been at service now, their chants rising and falling.

I decided to walk through the church and see what was happening in the main courtyard. A dim light came through the windows, but all round the side-chapels, where once candles would have been lit before saints’ images, stood empty and dim. I went over to the horses and spoke a few words to Genesis and Sukey, then walked on. Halfway down I was puzzled to hear a scraping, chinking noise, repeated over and over. Turning, I saw above me the shape of Master Oldroyd, already at work hacking at the lead round a stained-glass window.

I came out into the main courtyard. All was silent here too, the huge pavilions ghostly shapes in the mist. The gate on to Bootham was closed, a guard leaning on his pike and yawning sleepily. Lights flickered, however, at the window of the abbot’s house, and a few officials were already standing around the doorway, stamping their feet and coughing.

‘Master Shardlake. Sir!’ I turned at the sound of a woman’s voice. The girl Tamasin, wearing a fine hooded coat of demi-worsted, was walking towards me. I halted.

‘Mistress Reedbourne.’

‘Good morning, sir,’ she said with a curtsy. ‘I am glad we are met. I would like to thank you properly for your help yesterday.’ She looked around through the fog. ‘Is Master Barak with you?’

‘He is abed yet,’ I said. ‘And you, Mistress Reedbourne, is it not early for you to be abroad?’ I thought again of yesterday’s adventure. It was convenient for her the assault should have happened just as we rode past.

She smiled at me. ‘I am to meet my mistress, Jennet Marlin, and go over to the cooks. Lady Rochford is unhappy with the arrangements for the Queen’s privy kitchen. My mistress has a busy day ahead and wished to start early.’

I eyed her narrowly. So she worked for Jennet Marlin, the sour-looking woman who had been with Lady Rochford yesterday.

‘I fear Mistress Marlin is still abed too,’ the girl said, drawing her coat round her. ‘But I have to wait for her here.’

I nodded. ‘Well, I must be on my way,’ I said.

‘Perhaps I may see Master Barak again,’ she continued, unabashed by my cool manner. ‘And thank him.’

‘We shall be very busy. I doubt our paths will cross.’

‘They may, if we are all lodged here –’

She broke off suddenly, and we both jerked round as a great scream sounded through the fog from the direction of the church: it was a terrible, animal sound, inhumanly loud, and it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. An official in a red robe walking towards the works stopped dead, his mouth falling open.

‘What in Jesu’s name…’ the girl breathed.

The dreadful sound came again, closer, and suddenly a huge blurry shape appeared, charging through the mist. It hit the red-robed official, knocking him aside like a skittle, then charged on, straight to where Tamasin and I stood.