by C. J. Sansom
‘I am involved with the preparation of the petitions to the King. I will be at the presentation to him.’
‘You do not sound as though it is a task you relish.’
I hesitated. ‘It is a little daunting.’
‘I have seen the King, you know.’
‘Have you?’
Radwinter nodded proudly. ‘Do you remember the trial of John Lambert three years ago?’
I did. The King, as Supreme Head of the Church, had presided over the heresy trial of Lambert, a radical reformer. It was the first sign he felt reform had gone far enough.
‘Ay,’ I answered slowly. ‘He was burned.’
‘As he deserved. Lambert was under my care while he was held in the Lollards’ Tower; I accompanied him to the trial. The King was -’ a smile played round the corners of his mouth – ‘splendid. Magnificent. Dressed all in white, the colour of purity. When Lambert tried to air his heretical interpretations of the scriptures, he shouted him down, reduced him to a cringing dog. I saw Lambert burned too, he made a great shouting.’ Radwinter looked at me; I sensed that he guessed how distasteful I would find this. He was playing with me again after all. I did not reply.
‘And he will be magnificent again, with the Yorkers. He has been clever, forcing the gentry to take personal oaths to him. He forgives their trespasses and at the same time makes it clear that if those oaths are broken they can expect no mercy. Carrot and stick, that is how one deals with donkeys like these. So,’ he added, ‘your journey to York is concerned with more than Broderick.’
‘The Archbishop offered me the legal position first. I was only given this second mission once I had agreed.’
Radwinter laughed softly. ‘Yes, he can be a fox. But it will pay well.’
‘Well enough,’ I said stiffly.
‘Enough to buy a new robe, I hope, especially if you are to see the King. The one you wear is torn. I only mention it in case you had not seen.’
‘I have another. This one was torn this morning. On a glazier’s cart.’
‘Really? A strange mishap.’
‘Yes.’ I told him the story of finding Oldroyd’s body, though only the parts that were public knowledge. The gaoler smiled again. ‘It seems a lawyer’s work is never done,’ he said. He put down his goblet. ‘Well, I expect you would like to see Sir Edward.’
‘Please.’
Once again I followed as he ascended with his quick, light steps. I thought about what he had said about Lambert’s trial and burning, and remembered Cranmer’s description of Radwinter as a man of true and honest faith. That meant following the orthodoxy that the last word on religious matters belonged to the King, as Supreme Head. Such a man might well approve of burning a heretic, but his light and jesting tone had repelled me. Were his professions of faith merely a cover for enjoyment of cruelty? I stared at his back as he turned the key in the door to Broderick’s cell.
Sir Edward was lying on his dirty pallet. Fresh rushes had been laid on the floor as I had ordered, though, and the cell stank less. I saw his shirt was open, a poultice strapped to his chest. He was emaciated, all his ribs visible under dead white skin. He stared at me coldly again.
‘Well, Sir Edward,’ I asked, ‘how are you today?’
‘They’ve poulticed my burn. It stings.’
‘That can be a sign it is having effect.’ I turned to the gaoler. ‘He is very thin, Master Radwinter. What does he have to eat?’
‘Pottage from the castle kitchens, the same the guards get. Not too much, certainly. A weakened man is less likely to make trouble. You saw yesterday how he can spring at one.’
‘And how well he is chained. And he has been ill; a sick man may waste away without food.’
Radwinter’s eye glinted. ‘Would you like me to order thrushes in a pie from the King’s kitchen, then, perhaps a plate of marchpanes?’
‘No,’ I answered, ‘but I would like him put on the same rations as the guards.’ Radwinter set his lips. ‘See to it, please,’ I said quietly.
Broderick laughed hoarsely. ‘Does it not occur to you, sir, I would rather be weak when I get to London? So weak the torturers’ first attentions kill me.’
‘They would take care not to do that, Master Broderick,’ Radwinter said softly. ‘When you are brought to them they will study you carefully. They know how to bring each man to a degree of pain that will make him talk, yet keep him conscious and alive. But certainly a weaker man is likely to be able to endure less, to talk more quickly.’ He smiled at me. ‘So you see, the better you treat him, the more pain he will endure.’
‘No,’ I said sharply. ‘He is to be fed properly.’
‘And I will eat, for I am hungry. Even though I know what awaits me.’ Broderick gave me a look full of pain as well as anger. ‘How we hold on to life, eh, lawyer? We struggle to survive, even when there is no sense in it.’ He looked towards the window. ‘I came to see poor Robert every day while he hung out there, so he might see a friendly face. Each day I hoped to find him dead, yet each day he moved still, trying to ease his pains as he dangled, making weak groans. Yes, how we hold on to life.’
‘Only the innocent deserve a quick death,’ Radwinter said. ‘Well, Master Shardlake, I will arrange for the extra rations for Sir Edward. Is there anything else?’
I looked at Broderick; he was staring at the ceiling again. There was a moment’s silence, the only sound the patter of rain at the window. ‘Not for now. I will come again, tomorrow probably.’
Once again Radwinter led me outside, locking the heavy door. I could tell by the set of his shoulders that he was angry, yet I was surprised by the ferocity of his look when he turned to me. His face was red, he almost scowled. Now I saw he nourished fire under that ice. In a way it was a relief.
‘You undermine me before that treacherous, filthy rogue, sir.’ His voice was thick with anger. ‘If you wanted to change his rations, could you not have waited till we were outside to tell me?’
I looked at him steadily. ‘I want him to see that I am in charge of his welfare.’
‘I told you before, you do not know what manner of man you are dealing with. You may regret this softness.’
‘I will obey my orders.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I think your judgement is clouded, sir. Not by zeal as the Archbishop told me, but by delight in cruelty.’ The look he gave me was chilling, but anger drove me on. ‘But you will not indulge yourself at the expense of the Archbishop’s orders. He will hear what manner of man you are.’
To my surprise Radwinter laughed in my face, a mocking laugh that echoed round the dank corridor.
‘You think the Archbishop does not know me? He knows me well, sir, and knows that England needs such as me to keep it safe from heretics!’ He stepped closer to me. ‘And we all serve a just and angry God. You should not forget it.’
Chapter Eight
WE HEADED BACK TO the Minster, walking quickly for we were very late for Master Wrenne.
‘Perhaps I should take a message to Maleverer at St Mary’s now,’ Barak suggested. ‘About the boy looking at the spot on the wall.’
I hesitated. ‘No, I need you to help with the petitions, the summaries must be ready for tomorrow morning. We will leave as soon as we can, go straight back to St Mary’s. Besides, they’ve probably scared whatever he knows out of that unfortunate boy.’
Arriving at the Minster, I showed my papers again at the gate and we passed inside once more.
Just then a shaft of sunlight pierced the clouds that were gathering, shining on the huge windows of the great church and making a riot of colour.
‘Why is York Minster allowed to keep its stained glass,’ Barak asked, ‘while the monasteries have it all torn out as idolatrous?’
‘There are reformers who would pull the coloured glass from all churches, have only plain windows. But the King’s limited himself to the monasteries. For now.’
‘It makes no sense.’
‘It’s part of the compromise with the traditio
nal party. You can’t expect politics to make sense.’
‘You’re right there.’
The old housekeeper answered Wrenne’s door, her look as cheerless as ever. The old man sat reading in the candlelit hall, where a good fire blazed in the central hearth. I saw an effort at cleaning had been made since the day before, for the books had been tidied and the green and yellow floor-tiles shone. The peregrine falcon still stood on its perch by the fire; the bell on its leg tinkled as it turned to stare at us. A fine cloth with a design of white roses had been put on the table, where three large stacks of paper stood. Master Wrenne rose slowly to his feet, laying down his book.
‘Brother Shardlake. And young Barak, good.’
‘I am sorry we are late,’ I said. ‘You had my note?’
‘Yes. Some urgent business, you said?’
Again I told the story of the glazier falling into his cart, leaving out the subsequent events. Wrenne frowned thoughtfully.
‘Peter Oldroyd. Yes, I knew him; I have done legal work for the glaziers’ guild, he was chairman one year. A quiet, respectable fellow; lost his family in the plague in ’38. It is sad.’ Wrenne was silent for a long moment, then said, ‘You catch me at my books. Sir Thomas More, his history of Richard III. A man of rare invective, was he not?’
‘Yes, he was not the gentle saint some people paint him.’
‘But he had a good turn of phrase. I have been reading what he said about the Wars between the Roses last century. “These matters be Kings’ games, as it were stage plays, and for the most part played upon scaffolds.” ’
‘So they were. Upon bloody fields of battle too.’
‘Indeed. But sit; take some wine before we begin. You look as though it has been a hard morning.’
‘Thank you.’ As I took a cup my eye strayed to the piles of books. ‘You have a most rare collection, sir.’
‘Yes, I have many old monkish books. They are not theological works, that would have me under surveillance from the Council of the North, but I have saved some valuable works of history and philosophy. For their interest, and their beauty too. I am something of an antiquarian, you see. It has been an interest all my life.’
‘That is a worthy task, sir. There was much wrong with the monasteries, but so much learning and beauty has gone to the fire. I have seen pages written with care hundreds of years ago used to wipe down horses.’
Wrenne nodded. ‘I thought we would be of like mind, brother. I can tell a scholar. There has been a great cull of monastic libraries in York these last three years. St Clement’s, Holy Trinity, above all St Mary’s.’ He smiled. ‘The antiquarian John Leland was here in the spring. He was most interested in the library I have collected upstairs. Even a little jealous, I think.’
‘Perhaps I may see it some time.’
‘Indeed.’ Wrenne nodded his leonine head. ‘But I fear we must study some lesser documents today. The petitions to the King.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Where do you practise, Brother Shardlake?’
‘Lincoln’s Inn. I am lucky, I have a house hard by in Chancery Lane.’
‘I studied at Gray’s Inn. Many years ago.’ Wrenne smiled. ‘It was 1486 when I came to London. The King’s father had not been on the throne a year.’
I did a quick calculation in my head: fifty-five years ago, he must be well over seventy. ‘But you returned to practise in York?’ I asked.
‘Ay, I was never at ease in the south.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘I have a nephew at Gray’s Inn, the son of my late wife’s sister. He went down there and stayed. Perhaps you may have heard of him.’ He looked at me keenly. ‘Martin Dakin. He would be near your age now, a little older. Just past forty.’
‘No, I do not know him. But there are hundreds of barristers in London.’
Wrenne looked uncomfortable. ‘There was a bad fratch, a family quarrel, and we lost touch.’ He sighed. ‘I would like to see him again before I die. He is my only family now, you see. His parents died in the plague three years ago.’
‘Many seem to have died then.’
He shook his head. ‘York has had a terrible time these last five years. The rebellion in 1536, then in 1538 the plague. It returned in 1539 and again last year, though mercifully this year we have been spared.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Otherwise the King would not have come. His harbingers have been around the hospitals all summer, making sure there have been no cases. Instead this year we have had the new conspiracy. Troubled times.’
‘Well, let us hope for a better future now. And I would gladly take a message to your nephew in London, sir. If you wished.’
‘Thank you.’ Wrenne nodded slowly. ‘I will think on that. I had a son, who I dreamed would follow me in the law, but he died when he was five, poor nobbin.’ Wrenne looked into the fire, then shrugged and smiled. ‘Forgive an old man’s gloomy talk. I am the last of my line and some days it weighs on me.’
I felt a catch at my throat, for his words made me think of my father; I too was the last of my line.
‘We have noticed, sir,’ Barak said, ‘that security in the city seems very great. We saw some Scotch turned away at Bootham Bar.’
‘Yes, and all the stout vagabonds are being cleared from the city. The beggars will be gone from the Minster tomorrow. Poor caitiffs. Security is tight.’ Wrenne hesitated, then added, ‘You must know, sir, the King is not popular up here. Not among the gentry, though now they bow and scrape, and even less among the common people.’
I remembered Cranmer’s scathing words about northern papists. ‘Because of the religious changes, that caused the rebellion?’
‘Ay.’ Wrenne clasped his hands round his goblet. ‘I remember the rebellion. The King’s agents were closing the small monasteries and assessing church property. Then suddenly the commons erupted all over Yorkshire. It was like a wildfire.’ He waved a large, square hand where a fine emerald ring glinted. ‘They elected Robert Aske leader and within a week he had marched into York at the head of five thousand men. The City Council and the Minster authorities were terrified. This was an explosive crowd of rough peasants who had turned themselves into an army. So they agreed to obey Aske; the church authorities held a celebratory Mass for him in the Minster.’ He nodded at the window. ‘I watched the rebels processing into the Mass from there; thousands of them, all with swords and pikes.’
I nodded reflectively. ‘And they thought they could make the King agree to reverse the religious changes.’
‘Robert Aske was a naïve man for a lawyer. But if the King had not tricked them into disbanding his army I believe they could have taken the whole country.’ He looked at me seriously. ‘The discontent in the north goes back a very long way. To the Striving between the Two Roses last century. The north was loyal to King Richard III and the Tudors have never been popular. The rebellion was about more than religion, too. The Dalesmen sent round tracts by a “Captain Poverty” full of complaints about high rents and tithes. When the religious changes came -’ he spread his big hands – ‘it was the straw that broke the camel’s back.’
‘King Richard?’ Barak asked. ‘Yet he seized the throne, and murdered the rightful heirs. The Princes in the Tower.’
‘There are those who say it was the King’s father that killed them.’ He paused. ‘I was a boy when King Richard processed through York after his coronation. You should have seen the city then. People hung their best carpets from the windows all along the way, petals were showered on him as he rode by. It is different today. The common folk are reluctant even to lay gravel before their doors to smooth King Henry’s way, for all the council have ordered it.’
‘But the quarrels of the Two Roses can hardly have meaning today,’ I said. ‘The Tudors have been on the throne near sixty years.’
‘No?’ Wrenne inclined his head. ‘They say after the conspiracy was uncovered this spring, the old Countess of Salisbury and her son were executed in the Tower.’
I recalled the story of the aged countess’s dreadful death; it had circulated in Lond
on that summer. Imprisoned without charge, she had been led to the block where an inexperienced boy had hacked at her head and shoulders; the King’s executioner had been busy in York, despatching the conspirators.
‘She was the last Yorkist heir,’ Wrenne said quietly. ‘Was that not done because the King still fears the name Plantagenet?’
I sat back. ‘But surely the conspiracy this year was mainly about religion, like the Pilgrimage of Grace?’
‘Old loyalties played their part too. The King killed the countess and her son to make sure.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘And they say his young children have disappeared into the Tower?’
‘No one knows.’
‘More Princes in the Tower.’
I nodded slowly. I remembered Cranmer saying, ‘This time they called him tyrant; many meant to overthrow him.’
‘I see more clearly now why there is such tight security for this visit,’ I said. ‘And yet, the house of Tudor has brought safety and security to England. No one can deny that.’
‘Very true.’ Wrenne leaned back in his chair with a sigh. ‘And for the King to come and set his stamp on the north is an intelligent plan. I only say, sir, do not underestimate the currents that run here.’
I looked at the old man, wondering where his sympathies lay. I guessed that like many an aged student of the world’s affairs, he was past feeling any great passion. I changed the subject.
‘It seems we will be present at the King’s reception on Friday. Sir William Maleverer confirmed it to me yesterday at St Mary’s. We are to hand over the petitions.’
‘Yes, I have had a message. We are to take the petitions to the Office of the Great Chamberlain tomorrow. He will see us at nine and take us through our paces for the meeting with the King. He wants me to bring the petitions and the summary half an hour early so he can go through them. So I will start early for St Mary’s, and see you there at nine.’
‘I hope we will be properly rehearsed.’
‘I am sure we will. The Council will want everything to go with perfect smoothness.’ Wrenne smiled and shook his head. ‘By Jesu, to see the King at my age. That will be a strange thing.’