Sovereign ms-3

by C. J. Sansom

  I stepped back. ‘Why, Suzanne, what have I done?’

  She turned round, facing me. ‘It’s all your fault!’

  ‘Why – why, what is?’

  ‘They won’t let me walk with them! They say my clothes smell, I’m dirty, I’ve no more manners than a tinker! And it’s all because I spent my time playing with you instead of learning girlish things! Gilly Baldwin tells me I should make eyes at my hunchback friend!’ Her voice rose, became tearful; her mouth was like a great angry ‘O’ in her scarlet face.

  I looked up the lane. The troop of lads and girls had come to a halt and were watching the scene. The boys looked uneasy but there was a ripple of nasty laughter from the girls. ‘Suzy’s rowing with her swain,’ one called.

  Suzanne rounded on them. ‘Don’t,’ she screamed. ‘He’s not! Don’t! Stop it!’ As the laughter redoubled she turned and ran off into a field, still howling, striking out at the ears of young wheat with her branch like one possessed. I looked after her for a while, then turned and walked back the way I had come. I would resume my way home once the boys and girls had gone. I had long ago learned that keeping silent and walking away was the best way to avoid mockery. Yet despite Suzanne’s own cruelty to me, despite knowing that it was her family, not me, that had made her an outcast, whenever I saw her afterwards, always alone, always giving me vicious looks when she acknowledged me at all – I felt guilty, as though I was indeed partly responsible for her fate. I left for London a few years later and never saw her again, though I heard that she had never married and in later years had become a fierce reformer, denouncing neighbours for popery. And Jennet Marlin, though she came from a different class, had that same air of being consumed by anger against a world that had done her wrong. And with her, too, I had the same odd urge to appease. I sighed and lay back on my pillow, reflecting on how strange were the ways of the mind. And then, at last, I slept.

  BARAK HAD SET HIMSELF to wake at six and shortly after that he knocked softly at my door. I felt unrefreshed by such sleep as I had had, but rose and dressed in the chill damp air. I put on Wrenne’s coat again rather than my own; it would remind me to return it to him when we met at the rehearsal. We slipped out quietly so as not to wake the men sleeping all round us. Outside dawn was only just breaking and everything was deep in shadow. We took the path alongside the church, where we had found poor Oldroyd the morning before, and made our way to the gate, where young Sergeant Leacon was on duty again.

  ‘Up again early, sir?’ he asked me.

  ‘Ay, we have to go into town. You have been on night duty again?’

  ‘Ay, and for another two days until the King comes.’ He shook his head. ‘That was a strange business yesterday, sir, with the glazier. Sir William Maleverer questioned me about it afterwards.’

  Him too, I thought. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You are right, it was a strange matter. When that horse charged out of the mist I did not know for a second what it was – something from hell perhaps.’

  ‘They say it was an accident, sir. Do you know?’

  I could see from his sharp look that he doubted that, perhaps thinking Maleverer was taking a lot of trouble over an accidental death. ‘That is what they say.’ I changed the subject. ‘I expect you have seen a few strange things happen on the way from London.’

  ‘None as strange as that. Until I was sent here from Pontefract it was all walking and riding alongside the Progress, through thick mud when it rained and great clouds of dust when it didn’t.’ He smiled. ‘Though there was great to-do near Hatfield, when a monkey one of the Queen’s ladies had brought escaped and made its way to a local village.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘The poor heathen folk there thought it was a devil, fled to the church and called the priest to go and send it back to Hell. I was sent with some men to take it. It was sitting in a cottager’s outhouse, happily working its way through his store of fruit.’

  Barak laughed. ‘That must have been a sight!’ ‘It was. Sitting there in the little doublet its mistress dressed it in, its tail sticking out behind. Those villagers were all papists, I’d swear they thought the King’s Progress had its own legion of devils in attendance.’ He paused and shook his head.

  ‘Well, we must be on our way, we have business.’ We passed through the gate and walked to Bootham Bar. ‘Sharp young fellow, that,’ I observed.

  Barak grunted. ‘Soldiers should ask no questions.’ ‘Some people cannot help asking questions.’ He gave me a sidelong look. ‘Don’t I know it?’ We arrived at the gate. It was shut, the curfew not yet lifted, and the guard was unwilling to let us through. I felt in my pocket for my commission, then cursed as I realized I had left it in my cubicle.

  ‘Can’t let tha in without it, sir,’ the guard said firmly. I asked Barak to go back to Sergeant Leacon and see if he could send someone to vouch for us. He returned in a few minutes with another big Kentishman, who peremptorily ordered the guard to let us through. Grumbling, the man opened the huge wooden gates and we slipped out.

  We walked to Stonegate as the sun rose and the city came to life, keeping under the eaves as people opened their windows and threw the night’s piss into the streets. The shopkeepers appeared in their doorways and the noise of their shutters banging open accompanied our passage.

  ‘You are quiet this morning,’ I said to Barak. I wondered if he had been thinking about our conversation.

  ‘You too.’

  ‘I did not sleep well.’ I hesitated. ‘I was thinking about Broderick, among other matters.’

  ‘Ay?’

  ‘You know my instructions are to make sure he is safe and well when he is delivered to London?’

  ‘Is the gaoler making that difficult?’

  ‘He likes to visit Broderick with pinpricks, but I think I can stop that. No, it is Broderick himself. He says I am keeping him healthy so the torturers can have a better time with him.’

  ‘It is harder to break a fit man.’

  ‘He says nothing will make him talk. He will die under the torture.’

  Barak turned to me, his face impassive. ‘Lord Cromwell said most men talk in the end. He was right.’

  ‘I know, but this Broderick is not most men.’

  ‘A lot may happen between now and the Tower. He may decide to talk, or some new information may appear that makes his interrogation less important. Who knows? He may yet be grateful for your attentions.’

  I shook my head. ‘No. Cranmer stressed his great importance. He will be tortured, and if he does break in the end it will be after much agony.’

  Barak gave me the impatient look that came over his face sometimes. ‘Didn’t you think of that at the start?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, but I was much preoccupied with my father then, and his estate. I will profit from this,’ I added heavily.

  ‘You’re stuck with it now.’

  ‘I know. By God,’ I said forcefully, ‘I will be glad to see London again.’

  ‘Me too.’

  As we passed along Petergate we heard an altercation and saw, a little way ahead, two beggarmasters with their staves urging half a dozen ragged lads along. As we came close I stopped, for among them I recognized the lad with the big wen on his nose who had grabbed Tamasin Reedbourne’s basket two days before. His companion was there too. I saw from Barak’s face he recognized him too. I stepped quickly over to the beggarmasters.

  ‘Excuse me, sirs. Are you taking those lads from the city?’

  ‘Ay, maister.’ The beggarmaster who replied was an older man, with a thin hard mouth. ‘No beggars or Scotch in the city for the King’s visit.’

  I pointed to the boy with the warty nose. ‘I would like a quick word with him.’

  ‘Is he known to thee? He hasn’t robbed tha, has he?’ The boy was looking anxiously at Barak and me, obviously recognizing us.

  ‘No, but he may be able to answer a question on a matter I am concerned with.’ I raised a hand with a sixpence in it.

  The beggarmaster e
yed it greedily. ‘I don’t mind letting you have him for a few moments. The City doesn’t pay us much, do they, Ralph?’

  ‘No,’ his companion agreed. With a sigh, I produced another sixpence for him, nodding to Barak to take the boy’s collar. The lad looked frightened as we led him to the side of the street, out of earshot of the beggarmasters and their wretched charges, who stood looking on.

  ‘I want to ask you about two days ago.’ I looked into the boy’s dirty face. He stank mightily. He was even younger than I had thought, no more than thirteen or so. ‘Just information, you are not accused of anything. It could be useful to me.’ I produced another sixpence from my purse.

  ‘What is this about?’ Barak asked, puzzled. ‘He tried to rob Tamasin.’

  ‘What is your name, lad?’ I asked, ignoring Barak.

  ‘Steven Hawkcliffe, maister.’ The boy’s accent was so thick it was hard to understand him. ‘It weren’t a real robbery,’ he said. ‘She asked us to pretend to steal her basket.’

  ‘The girl?’

  ‘Ay, ay. My friend John and I were begging in the streets, trying to get what we could before we were thrown out of t’city. The girl came up to us and asked us to pretend to rob her. Her bodyservant that was with her, he wasn’t happy but she made him go to a shop and pretend to buy something. It weren’t robbery, maister.’

  Barak jerked the boy round to face him. ‘You’d better tell the truth, or I’ll chop you smaller than herbs for the pot. Why would the girl do that?’

  ‘She said she wanted to attract the attention of a man who would be passing soon. ’Tis true, maister,’ he added, suddenly tearful. ‘She bade us wait in the mouth of the ginnel till she called. She did, and I pretended to try and take her bag, but I didn’t pull it hard. Then you came rushing over with your sword. That scared us and we ran.’

  Barak frowned mightily. He could see the boy was telling the truth.

  ‘Where are you from, lad?’ I asked.

  ‘Northallerton, maister. There’s no work there, my mate John and I came to York but ended by begging.’

  ‘Where are the beggarmasters taking you?’

  ‘We’re being put on the road. We’ve to be ten miles from York by Friday. The infirm are hidden away at Merchant Taylors Hall but all who can walk are to go out. And not even any houses of religion left where we can claim doles.’ He looked at me, dark blue eyes wide in his grimy face. I sighed, but replaced the sixpence and brought out a shilling, making sure my back was to the beggarmasters. ‘Here. Don’t let them see.’

  ‘Thanks, maister,’ the boy muttered. I waved the beggar-master across and handed the boy over.

  ‘What the fuck was Tamasin playing at?’ Barak asked after they had gone. His face was furious.

  ‘I don’t know. I felt something was not right, but held my tongue.’ I looked at him. ‘Now, though, I will have to ask her. In case this was a ploy to get to know me.’

  Barak looked surprised. ‘You? But it is me she has been after.’

  ‘It is me who is responsible for the welfare of an important prisoner. I have to discover what this is all about, Barak.’

  He nodded. ‘May I ask one thing? Don’t report her to that Marlin woman. Not yet. Question her yourself -’

  ‘I intend to. Mistress Marlin herself has connections to a suspected conspirator.’

  ‘Shit. You don’t think…’

  ‘I don’t know what to think. But I must find out. Now come, let us see what has happened at Oldroyd’s house before too many people are abroad.’ I fingered the key in my pocket, glad Maleverer had not asked for it back.

  THE SHOPS WERE OPENING as we walked down Stonegate. The shopkeepers glanced at us coldly and I felt eyes following us down the street. I wondered if a guard might have been left at the house but there was no one outside. Shutters had been drawn across the windows. The door was locked; Maleverer must have found another key inside the property. I unlocked it.

  With the shutters closed it was dim inside. Barak stepped across the room and threw them open wide. Then we both jumped convulsively at a loud yell of distress from behind us.

  In the light we saw the room was in chaos. The buffet had been pulled away from the wall, chairs and settles and table lay overturned. In the midst of all, in a truckle bed before the hearth, a plump middle-aged woman in a white nightcap and nightgown sat up. She screamed again, fit to shake the rafters.

  I made a soothing gesture. ‘Madam, please. We mean no harm! We did not know anyone was here.’ But she went on yelling, her eyes wide with fear, until Barak stepped forward and gave her a slap across the face. She stopped, put her hand to her cheek, then burst out crying.

  ‘God’s mercy,’ Barak said. ‘You’ll wake the dead. We told you, we mean no harm.’

  The woman’s sobs subsided and she pulled the thin blanket up around her neck. I felt sorry for her. She looked utterly helpless sitting there, a red mark now on her cheek. I noticed her clothes were folded by the bed. ‘Are you Master Oldroyd’s housekeeper?’ I asked.

  ‘Ay, maister,’ she answered tremulously. ‘Kat Byland. Art tha King’s men?’

  ‘Yes. Please, compose yourself. Barak, let us step into the passage a moment, allow this good woman to dress.’

  We went and stood in the hall. From within came a creak, then a muted sobbing as the housekeeper sought her clothes. ‘I’m sorry I had to slap her,’ Barak muttered. ‘It was the only way to silence her before she roused the neighbourhood.’

  I nodded. After a minute the housekeeper opened the door. Her face was unutterably weary. ‘We wish to cause you no more trouble, madam,’ I said. ‘We need merely to look upstairs for something.’

  She sat on the bed again. ‘I can’t tell you any more than I told Sir William yesterday. I knew nothing of poor Maister Oldroyd’s affairs, God rest his gentle soul.’ She made the sign of the cross, then looked miserably around the wreckage. ‘See what they did to his house, they turned the yard inside out too. And poor young Paul taken and locked up, that never hurt a fly. I don’t understand any of it.’

  ‘If you know nothing, you will come to no harm.’

  She raised an arm, then let it fall in a helpless gesture. ‘I ought to set all this to rights. But for who?’ She gave a despairing laugh. ‘There’s no one left.’

  We left her and mounted the stairs. The doors to both bedrooms were open and both, like the hall, had been turned upside down. We stepped into Oldroyd’s room. The bed had been overturned and the chests up-ended, Oldroyd’s clothes strewn around. The wall-hanging had been torn down and lay in a heap. The wall behind was of painted wooden panels.

  ‘No sign of anything there,’ Barak said. ‘What were you hoping for, an alcove?’

  ‘Something, at least.’ I stepped to the area the boy’s eyes had gone to yesterday and tried tapping the wall. It sounded solid enough, it was a supporting wall between Oldroyd’s house and the next one. Barak joined me, bending down and tapping the panels.

  ‘Aha, what’s this?’ he said.

  I knelt beside him. He tapped again at a panel by the floor. It sounded different, hollow. I felt the edges with my fingers. There were a series of recesses cut into the wood of the joist, just big enough to slip fingernails into. I pulled gently, and the panel came out of little grooves that held it into the wood and fell on the floor, exposing a hollow space behind. It was skilfully done; but then, I reflected, poor Oldroyd had been a craftsman.

  We looked inside. A space, perhaps eighteen inches square. And, almost filling it, a box. I pulled it out. It was a foot square, strongly made from some dark wood, the lid beautifully painted with a scene of Diana the huntress, her bow and arrow raised at a stag. It was the sort of box a wealthy woman might keep her jewels in. I noted the paint was faded; the huntress’s dress and indeed the whole design of the box were in the fashion of a hundred years ago, before the Wars between the Two Roses. Barak whistled.

  ‘You were right. We’ve got something.’

  ‘It’s very l
ight,’ I said. ‘But I think there’s something inside.’ I grasped the lid, but it would not budge and I saw there was a strong lock. I shook the box, but heard no sound.

  ‘Let’s smash it open,’ Barak said.

  I hesitated. ‘No. This should be opened in the presence of Maleverer.’ I stared at the box.

  ‘That apprentice must have known it was here, whether by spying through his master’s keyhole or some other means.’

  ‘He can’t have told them at St Mary’s or they’d have been after it. I can understand the searchers missing it yesterday, it is well hidden.’

  ‘But why hasn’t the apprentice told them? You saw him, he was terrified.’

  ‘Maleverer left before he could question him. Come, the sooner this goes back to St Mary’s the better.’

  Barak frowned. ‘What’s that noise?’ He stood and went to the window. A loud murmuring was audible from outside. I joined him. Goodwife Byland was standing there, weeping on the shoulder of another woman. Three or four other women stood around, with half a dozen men, shopkeepers by the look of them. I saw three blue-coated apprentices join the group.

  ‘Damn it,’ I breathed. ‘The housekeeper’s roused the neighbours.’

  ‘Let’s get out the back way.’

  I tucked the box under Master Wrenne’s coat, glad now of its voluminous folds, and followed Barak down the stairs. But there was no escape. The housekeeper had left the door open and as soon as we reached the bottom of the staircase we were visible to the crowd. An apprentice pointed at us. ‘Look, that’s them.’

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Put on a bold face.’ I stepped out, remembering with sinking heart that I did not have my commission with me. ‘What is this commotion?’ I asked, adopting a stern tone.

  A shopkeeper in a leather apron stepped forward. He had the scarred hands of a glazier and carried a wooden stave in his hand. ‘Who art tha? What business hast tha in that house?’ he asked angrily. ‘My friend Peter Oldroyd is dead and the King’s men take licence to knock his house and servants about. Poor Goodwife Byland is scared out of her wits.’