Coincidence

by C. J. Sansom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Thank you. Until Friday then.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Not where Maleverer’s concerned, no.’

  ‘All right.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘The damned pin was too thin.’

  ‘Excuses won’t help.’

  ‘We could say we found it like that.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Chapter Twelve

  MY FIRST SENSATION WHEN I woke was of unaccustomed warmth. I luxuriated in it for a second, realizing how used I had become in York to feeling cold and damp. But why was I in York? Then I remembered everything in a rush. I tried to sit up but a throbbing pain banged at the back of my neck. Hands grasped me and eased me back to a lying position. ‘He’s awake!’ I heard Master Craike call out. ‘Bring the hippocras! Careful there, sir, you have had a bad blow to the head.’

  I opened my eyes: I was lying on a nest of cushions on a rush-matting floor. Master Craike stood above me, his plump hands clasped anxiously. Barak appeared behind him, bearing a jug and a glass. ‘Have some of this, sir,’ he said. ‘Not too much.’

  I drank some of the warm wine. The sweetness revived me. I endeavoured again to sit up but the back of my neck hurt and there was another pain at the side of my head. I felt it and my hand came away sticky with blood.

  ‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ Barak said. ‘That one was a glancing blow.’

  I stared groggily around the room, which seemed familiar, and realized I was in Maleverer’s office at the King’s Manor. The warmth came from a firepan, one of the charcoal-burning braziers used to heat rooms in wealthy houses. A red-coated soldier with a pike stood by the door, watching us, and I realized we were under guard.

  ‘How long have I been unconscious?’ I asked.

  ‘Over an hour,’ Barak answered. ‘I was worried.’ And indeed his face was as anxious as Craike’s.

  ‘Do you remember what happened, sir?’ Craike asked.

  ‘Something hit me. The box clicked open when I touched the lock, there were papers inside. I was looking at them – Barak, the box! Where is it?’

  ‘The box is safe enough.’ He nodded at the table, where the casket stood, the lid open. ‘It’s empty,’ he said heavily.

  ‘Papers,’ I said. ‘It was full of papers.’

  His face set. ‘We’re in the shit,’ he said. ‘I came back with some pliers, perhaps half an hour after I left you. I found you lying on the floor of Master Craike’s office, with him bending over you.’ He looked suspiciously at Craike, who frowned back at him.

  ‘The steward’s office asked me for the key,’ the plump official said. ‘They had told me it wasn’t required till this evening but they changed their minds.’ He gave Barak a haughty look. ‘You may check with them. I looked for you but could not find you. In the end I came to the office. As I turned the corner I heard footsteps, someone going down the back stairs. The office door was open and you were lying on the floor. Then this fellow came in.’

  I felt my head carefully. It was a wonder I had not been killed. Oldroyd had been, I thought, and felt a stab of terror lance through me. I looked at Craike. ‘You must have interrupted the person who assaulted me. You may have saved my life. Did you hear or see anything of the person running?’

  ‘No. Only those footsteps.’

  I sighed deeply. ‘So the papers are gone.’ I looked at Barak. If his lockpicking had not come to grief this would not have happened. I tried to marshal my thoughts. ‘If whoever attacked me heard Master Craike coming they could have grabbed the papers and fled. The box would be more difficult to hide.’ I looked at the wretched thing that I had tried to guard with such care. ‘With the papers gone it has no value.’

  Barak stepped in front of Craike and bent to refill my glass. ‘Yes. Anyone could hide the papers in their clothes.’ He inclined his head slightly at Craike, still suspicious of him.

  I glanced again at the guard. ‘Why are we being held here?’

  ‘Sir William returned just after I found you,’ Barak said. ‘He ordered us all to be brought here. He has gone to make some enquiries.’ He reddened. ‘He is in a mighty rage with us for opening the box. I had hoped it had been empty. What were the papers?’

  ‘They were – they made no sense.’

  The guard stirred himself. ‘I should send word you have recovered.’ He opened the door, spoke to someone outside, then returned to his post, gripping his pike. A few moments later we heard heavy footsteps outside, and I braced myself as the door banged open and Maleverer came in.

  He was still in riding clothes, heavy boots and a riding coat spattered with mud. He stared at me coldly. ‘So you are awake,’ he said unceremoniously. ‘Well, would you care to tell me what in Christ’s name has been going on? I come back to find you attacked right here in King’s Manor, with His Majesty due in two days.’ His Yorkshire accent strengthened as his voice rose with anger. He threw off his coat, revealing a black velvet jerkin over a silk shirt. A thick gold chain of office gleamed on his broad chest. He stood, hands on hips, glaring down at me.

  I struggled to sit up properly. ‘In the box, Sir William. We found it at Oldroyd’s house. There were some papers in it —’

  His eyes widened and he leaned forward. ‘What papers? Quick, what were they? Who saw them?’

  ‘Only I. When I was attacked, they were taken —’

  ‘You had them and let them be stolen. You—’ He checked himself and turned to the guard. ‘Wait outside, this is a privy matter. You too, Master Craike. No, wait. You were the one who found the lawyer?’

  ‘Yes. I told you —’

  ‘You came upstairs,’ I said, my mind beginning to work again. ‘To the top floor, and as you reached the hallway you heard someone going down the back stairs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you say,’ Maleverer interjected brutally. ‘And just afterwards this Barak found you bending over his body.’

  ‘That is right,’ Barak confirmed.

  Craike’s lips set. ‘I see. I am under suspicion.’

  Maleverer turned to Barak. ‘You have been with Master Craike since you found him?’

  ‘Yes, Sir William. We went toget
her to tell the guards—’

  Maleverer turned back to Craike. ‘So if you had some implement you used to try to brain the lawyer here, it’ll be about your person still. And now we have these papers missing too. Take off your robe, let’s see if there’s anything under there besides your fat carcass.’

  ‘I have nothing to hide, sir.’ Craike removed his long robe. I was relieved to see, underneath, only a doublet whose buttons strained at his plump stomach. Maleverer called the guard in. ‘Search him. See there’s nothing concealed in his upper hose.’ He turned to me. ‘These papers, how many were there?’

  ‘The box was half full. A thick packet.’

  Maleverer nodded to the guard. ‘See if they’re there.’

  The guard came over and patted Craike from neck to feet. Craike began to sweat. The guard turned to Maleverer with a shake of his head. ‘Nothing, sir.’

  Maleverer gave a grimace of disappointment. He nodded at Barak. ‘Now him, just to be sure.’ He watched as Barak submitted to the same treatment, then looked balefully at Craike. ‘Right, you can go. For now. But I find it hard to credit that someone heard you coming upstairs in time to run off without being seen. You are under suspicion, sir. You have long been known for papist leanings.’

  Craike’s eyes were wide with fear as he turned and left the room. Maleverer turned his gaze to Barak. ‘You can stay. You were Lord Cromwell’s trusted man once, were you not?’

  ‘You are well informed, sir,’ Barak said quietly.

  ‘Yes. I am.’

  I struggled to get up. Barak helped me to a chair. Maleverer studied me. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. A little dizzy, and my head and neck are sore.’

  He grunted. ‘Your head sits oddly enough on your body to start with.’ He crossed the room and sat on a corner of his desk, thrusting a booted foot out in front of him and folding his arms. He looked at me, his dark eyes hard and probing. ‘What were these papers you saw?’

  ‘I looked at the top four. There were more underneath I did not see. The first was a royal family tree. Hand drawn.’