Sovereign ms-3

by C. J. Sansom

  Lady Rochford, Rich and the other courtiers detached themselves from the Yorkers and rode over to the Progress, disappearing into the brightly arrayed throng at the front. There was silence for a few seconds more. Then things began to happen. The soldiers accompanying us rode ahead to form a line on each side of the road, between us and the Progress. Then figures began to detach themselves from the gorgeously robed crowd ahead and approach slowly on foot. First, half a dozen heralds, red tunics emblazoned with the leopards and lilies of the King’s arms, came to stand with the soldiers, holding aloft long trumpets from which bright pennants hung. Then two grooms wearing particoloured jackets in Tudor green and white led a pair of horses up, halting before us and a little to one side. Long coats, richly embroidered, hung over the animals’ backs almost to the ground, and the gold fringes and tassels on their black velvet harnesses glinted in the sun. One horse, a grey mare, was large enough but the other was gigantic, a huge charger. The King’s and Queen’s horses of state, I realized.

  They kept coming, these harbingers of the King, in ones and twos, building the tension to breaking point. I felt my collar slick with sweat. The Chamberlain, an old man bearing a huge golden-handled sword of state, came and stood facing us, holding the sword up by the hilt. Nobles and ladies in scarlet and gold took places behind him. Among them I noticed a very big, barrel-chested man with a broad face framed by a brown spade-beard like Malev-erer’s. From his appearance I knew this must be Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, the peer who had organized the Progress. He was on the Privy Council, he would know about Oldroyd, Blaybourne, my loss of those papers. And I thought, with a sudden tremor, does the King know too?

  A group of small boys, the children of honour in yellow and green tunics and caps, now rode up and halted before us. A whole crowd of courtiers faced us now, their clothes swirls of gorgeous colour, caps and robes gleaming with jewels, their faces expressionless. It is a strange thing, but even the greatest tension can only be held for so long, and my mind drifted back to the ploughman I had seen earlier. I thought of how many hundreds of times my father must have walked behind the plough. If he could see me now, about to meet the King, would he be proud?

  My attention was jerked back, not by a noise but by a new silence. The low rumble of murmurs and shufflings from the procession ahead fell away. Then the heralds raised their trumpets and blew long notes in unison. At once, behind us, there was a rustling sound as the York councillors fell to their knees. Recorder Tankerd stepped forward, then he too fell to his knees. Giles and I took off our caps and followed. The grass was damp under my knees.

  Two figures then stepped forth. I had a quick glimpse of an enormous man, a small girl dressed all in silver by his side. I pulled off my cap and bowed my head deeply as the King and Queen approached, their footsteps audible in the sudden, total silence. I heard a faint creak and remembered it was said the King wore corsets now to hide his girth.

  They stopped perhaps six feet away. On my knees, with my head bowed, I could see only the hem of the Queen’s dress, intricately sewn with tiny jewels of every colour, and the King’s white netherhose and square-toed white shoes, buckled with gold. His legs were thick as a bull’s. I saw he carried a jewelled walking stick that he pressed heavily into the cinders of the road as he approached. My heart pounded as I knelt there, gripping the petitions tightly, my cap held crushed against the papers.

  ‘Men of York, I will hear your submission!’ The voice that came from that enormous figure was oddly high-pitched, almost squeaky. Looking sidelong, I saw Recorder Tankerd, crouched on his knees, unroll a long parchment. He looked up at the King and took a long, shuddering breath. He opened his mouth but for a long, terrible second, no sound came. That moment’s silence was utterly terrifying. Then his wits returned and he began declaiming, a loud clear lawyer’s address.

  ‘Most mighty and victorious Prince -’

  It was a long speech, the tone one of utter abasement.

  ‘We your humble subjects, who have grievously and traitorously offended Your Most Royal Majesty in the most odious offence of traitorous rebellion, promise and vow in the words of faith and truth to love and dread Your Majesty Royal to the utter effusion of our hearts’ blood…’

  I dared not raise my head, though my neck was hurting again and my back too after so long kneeling, still holding the wretched petitions. I looked sideways at Giles. His big head was bowed almost to the ground; I could not see his expression. Tankerd concluded at last.

  ‘In token of our submission, Gracious Sovereign, we give you our address, sworn to by all here.’

  He bowed low and handed the big parchment to one of the children of honour who came forward to take it.

  Next the mayor stepped up, bearing the two ornate cups I had seen at the Guildhall. He knelt and with more words of abasement begged the King to accept the city’s gift. He was, I saw, sweating like a pig. He tumbled his words nervously and I could not catch all he said. My attention wandered again for a moment. Then a sudden fierce whisper in my ear from Giles. ‘Quick! It is us now!’ I felt my bowels lurch as I rose and turned to follow Giles, keeping my head bent. It was foolish, I that had once had Thomas Cromwell for a friend and confronted Richard Rich and the Duke of Norfolk, reduced to such a jelly. Yet this was not an official or nobleman I was approaching now. This was God’s anointed on earth, Head of His Church, guardian of the souls of three million subjects, more than human in his glory. In those few seconds I believed it all.

  We halted beside Recorder Tankerd. Amidst that kneeling crowd I felt horribly exposed. The King was so close now that with my eyes cast down I could see the thick fur on his coat stirring slightly in the breeze, the huge rubies set in gold on his doublet. Still looking down, I saw his left calf was thicker than his right, and made out the criss-cross shape of bandages beneath the white hose. I noticed a slight yellow stain there. And then a puff of wind carried a foul smell to my nostrils: like a blocked drain, the sharp rancid smell of pus.

  Giles began speaking in his loud clear voice. ‘I come to you, dread Majesty, as representative of the citizens of York, in prayer that you might hear the petitions for justice of the people.’

  ‘I will,’ the King replied. Giles turned to me and I placed the petitions in his hands, keeping my head still bent. And then I dropped my cap. The feather came off as it hit the ground. I dared not pick it up and stood looking down at it, cursing inwardly. Giles handed the petitions on to the children of honour in two bundles and they put them into the King’s hands – delicate white hands, each long finger adorned with a jewelled ring. I heard an official step forward; the King handed the petitions on to him.

  Then I heard him laugh.

  ‘By Jesu, sir,’ he said to Giles in his high voice. ‘You are a fine-looking old fellow. Are they all so big in the north?’ I raised my head slightly, daring to glance at Wrenne’s face though not the King’s. He was smiling up at the monarch, quite composed. ‘I am not so tall as Your Majesty,’ he said. ‘But who may rise so high?’

  The King laughed again, heartily, a rich booming sound. ‘Let all hear,’ he called loudly, ‘that I say this good old man shows the north breeds fine fellows. See the other lawyer by his side, the one that dropped his cap! I know he is a southron, see what a poor bent bottled spider he appears by his side!’

  Then, as the Yorkers around me broke into sycophantic laughter, I looked up. I must, now the King had spoken. He was so tall I had to lift my head to see his face beneath its thickly jewelled cap. I saw a red, jowly face, a fringe of reddish-grey beard, a pursed little mouth under a commanding beak of a nose. The King was looking straight at me, from small deep-set eyes that were mirrors of Radwinter’s: blue, icy, glinting, cruel. I realized that he knew who I was, he knew about the lost papers, he had marked me. He gave me a barely perceptible nod, twisting his tiny mouth into a little smile, then turned and limped away to his horse, pressing heavily on his stick. Then I saw Queen Catherine looking at me. She had a plump countenan
ce, bonny rather than pretty. She was frowning a little, but sadly, as though sorry for the King’s cruelty. Abruptly she turned away and walked to her own horse. Behind me there was a collective flutter of movement as the Yorkers rose to their feet.

  I bent and retrieved my cap and the feather. For a second I stood rooted to the spot, my mind blank with shock and pain, then I felt my bowels lurch again, painfully. I glanced round for Giles, but he had gone; I saw his tall form walking away into the Yorker crowd. Many of them were staring at me, grinning or laughing. Recorder Tankerd still stood hard by, looking embarrassed. I grabbed his arm.

  ‘Brother Tankerd!’ I whispered. ‘I need the jakes, now. Where can I go?’

  For answer he pointed across the meadow to where the large board stood. ‘Behind there.’ Now I understood the significance of those planks with holes in them. ‘But you must hurry,’ he said. ‘Half the council is ahead of you.’ And indeed men were peeling off from the Yorker crowd, brown-robed figures limping and stumbling across the meadow. I followed them at a run, pursued by a fresh burst of laughter; my ears burned. Ahead of me an agonized moan from a staggering councillor told me that for one, at least, it was too late.

  I RODE BACK TO TOWN with the Yorkers, behind the royal party and the soldiers and ahead of the vast rumbling procession that I felt looming at my back like the great behemoth in the Book of Job. The King’s words had left me crushed; it was hard to ignore the sidelong looks of amusement people gave me.

  We passed under Fulford Gate and so back into York. The streets were lined with people now, held back by soldiers; I heard cheers ahead as the King rode by, but they sounded ragged. I looked out for Barak and Tamasin but could not see them. I knew the next ceremony would be for the King to receive those who had been actively involved in the 1536 rebellion but had escaped execution because they were needed politically. I had heard they were to crawl to the King on their bellies in front of the Minster; then he would take Mass and the formal ceremonies would be over.

  I wanted only to get away, and took the opportunity of a gap in the soldiery to slip down a side-street and make for St Mary’s. I thought, the story of the King’s mockery will get back to Lincoln’s Inn; lawyers’ gossip could reach as far as the moon. This day would haunt me for the rest of my life. As for any danger I might be in, wandering around alone, I was past caring.

  I LEFT GENESIS WITH a groom at the church, without even a farewell pat, and marched away. I frowned at the thought that Giles had deserted me; he might have stayed, said something supportive to dull my shame a little. I halted, irresolute, for I did not want to take my bitter thoughts back to my lodgings; I felt they might overcome me. I decided to go and see how Broderick fared; the prison would suit my mood.

  I acknowledged the guard’s salute with a curt nod. Radwinter was sitting on a chair outside the cell door, reading his The Obedience of a Christian Man, which lauded the King’s role as God’s anointed. The gaoler looked as neat and self-contained as ever, his hair and little beard trimmed by the barber.

  ‘How went the reception for the King?’ he asked. I shivered. His eyes and the King’s were so alike in their cruel glitter. He was looking at me keenly, the wretch could see I was upset.

  ‘Well enough,’ I said brusquely.

  ‘Your cap feather is askew.’

  I took my cap off, crushing it in my hand. Radwinter looked at me with interest. ‘Did it go badly?’

  ‘All went according to plan.’

  ‘Was the King merry, or sombre?’

  ‘He was in most merry mood. How is Broderick?’

  ‘He sleeps. He ate a little earlier. Food I watched the King’s privy cook prepare himself in His Majesty’s privy kitchen. I brought it to Broderick, watched him eat.’

  ‘I had better see him.’

  ‘Very well.’ Radwinter rose and took the keys from his belt. He looked at me speculatively again.

  ‘Did the King speak to you?’

  ‘A word only.’

  ‘ ’Tis a great honour.’

  ‘Ay.’

  He smiled. ‘Did he comment on your bruise?’

  ‘No. He did not.’ I felt anger starting to boil within me.

  ‘What then?’ Radwinter smiled. ‘I see I have hit a mark. Ah, did he remark your bent back? I know he dislikes those with deformities, for all his fool Will Somers is a crookback. He is said to be superstitious. Perhaps the sight of you -’

  I threw myself at Radwinter, as I had done at no man since my student days. I grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the stone wall. But he was stronger than I, he reached up, twisted my arm away and sent me flying back against the wall. The soldiers rushed forward, but Radwinter raised a hand.

  ‘It is all right,’ he said smoothly. ‘Master Shardlake is in quarrelsome mood, but I have him. No need to report this for now.’ The soldiers looked at me doubtfully. I leaned against the stone wall, breathing heavily. Radwinter was smiling, gloating.

  ‘Do you not know the penalty for fighting in the precincts of the King’s court? The loss of your right hand. By the King’s special order. And for a man responsible for an important prisoner to assault his guard?’ He shook his head, then gave me a triumphant look. ‘I have you now if I want you, sir,’ he said quietly. ‘Mark that. The soldiers saw.’ He laughed. ‘I knew the way to break you was your hatred of what you are, a scrabbling bitter hunchback.’

  ‘And you are Death,’ I answered savagely. ‘You are the Bane, the antithesis of everything good and alive under the sun.’

  Radwinter laughed again, merrily. Suddenly my anger left me. It was no use against this man; one might as well rage against a rabid dog. ‘Let me in the cell,’ I said.

  He opened the door, bowing me in with a mocking flourish. I actually entered the dank hole with relief. Broderick lay on a pallet, looking up at me. He was filthy, smelling still of vomit. I decided I would order him washed. His eyes were full of speculative interest. He would have heard every word of what had passed outside.

  ‘I have come to see how you fare,’ I said tonelessly.

  He looked at me, then beckoned with a thin arm. ‘Come, kneel by me,’ he said, ‘and I will talk. He will not be able to hear, that man outside who as you say is Death. It will anger him.’

  I hesitated, then knelt down carefully, my knees cracking protestingly. He looked at my crushed cap that I still held.

  ‘So the King was cruel to you?’ he said quietly.

  I did not reply.

  ‘Yes, he is a cruel man, he strikes as harshly as he can for pleasure, like Radwinter. Poor Robert Aske’s fate testifies to that.’

  ‘I say nothing against the King.’

  ‘He is the Mouldwarp.’

  ‘Not that old legend,’ I answered wearily.

  ‘No legend,’ Broderick said firmly. ‘A prophecy. They all knew it at the Pilgrimage of Grace. Merlin prophesied the Mouldwarp, the tyrant who would be driven from his realm with all his line. No child of his should succeed.’ I looked at him keenly. Oldroyd had said something very similar as he was dying.

  Broderick reached out and gripped my arm with sudden strength, then whispered softly but fiercely: ‘Forth shall come a worm, an Aske with one eye; He shall gather of chivalry a full fair flock, The chicken shall the capon slay.’ His eyes burned into me. ‘You have seen him. The creature that claims to represent Christ’s will on earth, to be our just ruler. Can you deny he is the Mouldwarp?’

  ‘Let go my arm, Sir Edward.’

  ‘Aske’s coming was prophesied. Robert had only one eye, he lost the other in an accident.’

  ‘But it was Aske who was overthrown, not the King.’

  ‘He sowed the seed that will flourish. The Mouldwarp will be thrown down yet.’

  I shook my arm free. ‘This is nonsense.’

  ‘The prophecy is true,’ Broderick said. He spoke calmly now, with certainty. ‘The King will fall. Soon, though probably not before I am dead.’

  I met his gaze. ‘What yo
u say is treason, for all that it is silly nonsense.’

  He sighed. ‘Go then. Only – I thought you had seen the truth about the King.’

  I got up painfully. It gave me some satisfaction to see Radwinter looking frowningly through the bars. He opened the door for me.

  ‘What did he say?’ he asked sharply. ‘What were you whispering about?’

  ‘Nothing important,’ I answered. I looked at my cap. It was crumpled, the feather broken, the little garnets hanging loose. I turned my back on him and walked away. I felt the soldiers’ eyes following me. They would tell Leacon about my assault on the gaoler.

  I reached the lodging house, and in my cubicle I threw my cap on the floor and kicked at the damned thing until it was a shapeless wreck. Then I sat down heavily upon the bed.

  I sat in silence. I thought how, for years, as Thomas Cromwell rose steadily in the service of the state, I had had a tiny share of reflected glory as my one-time friend rose nearer and nearer to the ultimate source of that light, the throne. The King, Head of the Church, fount of law and justice; to meet with him was the greatest glory an Englishman could dream of. Now I had met him. I felt for a second that he had shown me what I was, an unworthy creature, a beetle crawling on the earth. Then anger came again. I had not deserved that dreadful humiliation. I thought, perhaps Broderick is right, perhaps Henry VIII is indeed the Mould-warp, whose rule of terror – for such I had seen it grow into these last few years – would be overthrown. And perhaps should be, I thought.