Sovereign

by C. J. Sansom

  ‘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.

  Chapter Five

  IT WAS AN ENORMOUS HORSE, the glazier’s; I recognized it in the same moment that I grabbed the girl and jumped back, just in time for I felt the wind of its passing and caught the stink of its sweat. I almost fell, but Tamasin, reacting quickly, put her hand on my back and managed to steady me. I hate being touched there but for the moment scarcely registered it. We stared at the great horse. It had run up to the wall of the manor and stood there at bay, trembling, its eyes rolling wildly and its mouth flecked with foam. I turned to the girl. ‘Are you all right?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ She looked at me oddly. ‘You saved me.’ ‘We’d only have been knocked over,’ I said brusquely. ‘See, yonder fellow is getting up.’ I pointed to the official the horse had set spinning; he was rising painfully to his feet, his r
ed robe covered in mud. People were running out of the abbot’s house, fetched by the din, including a couple of guards with drawn swords. They approached the horse; with another shrill scream it reared up on its hind legs and kicked out, causing them to jump back hastily, for those gigantic hairy hooves could have smashed their skulls. I stared at the animal that had passed me so peacefully the night before. What had happened to drive it near-mad?

  ‘Leave it!’ someone called. ‘Leave it and it’ll calm.’ The crowd stood back, forming a semicircle round the horse. It stood still, shivering, rolling terrified eyes at the crowd.

  ‘God’s teeth, what has happened? Are you all right, Master Shardlake?’ I turned at a voice at my elbow. Master Craike had appeared and was staring open-mouthed at the scene.

  ‘Ay. It’s the glazier’s horse, something has terrified it.’

  ‘Goodman Oldroyd?’ Craike looked around. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I can’t see him.’

  He stared at the terrified horse. ‘That animal is usually the quietest of beasts. It didn’t even need tying up. Master Oldroyd would leave it to graze beside his cart.’

  I looked at him. ‘Will you come with me, sir, to see what has happened?’

  The crowd was growing, servants from the house and half-dressed workmen from the tents milling around. I saw the sergeant I had spoken with the evening before hurrying over with a little group of soldiers.

  ‘Ay, sir,’ Craike said. ‘I will come.’ He looked at Tamasin, still standing beside me. ‘I am surprised you are about so early, girl, and alone.’

  ‘I am waiting for Mistress Marlin.’

  ‘I think you should go indoors,’ I said firmly. She hesitated a moment, then curtsied low and walked away. Craike went over to the sergeant and I followed. I saw Tamasin had stopped on the edge of the crowd and was still looking on. I remembered her hand on my back and I must have glared at her, for she turned then and walked back to the house.

  Craike addressed the sergeant. Like some habitually anxious men, when a real crisis came he was quite cool. ‘That horse belongs to the man who has been taking the windows from the church. I fear something has happened to him. Will you bring another man, and come with us?’

  ‘Ay, sir.’

  ‘The other soldiers had best stay here. To watch the horse and get this crowd back to their duties. And send someone to inform Sir William Maleverer. What is your name?’

  ‘George Leacon, sir.’ The sergeant spoke quickly to his men, selected another fellow as tall and broadly built as himself, then took a firm hold of his pike and led the way towards the side of the church.

  The mist was still thick. We tramped carefully along wet duckboards that had been laid to the right of the church. I wished Barak were with us. Then I heard a sound ahead of us, a rusty creak. I turned to Craike. ‘Did you hear that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It sounded like a door closing.’

  ‘What’s that ahead?’ He pointed at a large brown shape that appeared ahead of us through the mist. As we approached we saw it was the glazier’s cart, his ladder leaning against it.

  ‘Where is he?’ Craike asked, puzzled. ‘You can see nothing for this damned fog. Master Oldroyd!’ he called loudly. The soldiers followed suit, their voices muffled by the mist. There was no reply, no sound at all.

  ‘He must have let the horse loose to graze. But what terrified it so?’

  The soldiers called out again. I studied the cart. The ladder was propped against it at an odd angle, the end leaning right over the cart. Struck with a sudden foreboding, I touched Leacon’s arm.

  ‘Can you give me a lift up, sergeant? I want to look inside there.’

  The young man nodded and bent to make a stirrup of his hands. I grasped the top of the cart and felt myself levered up. I heard my robe rip, caught in a sliver of glass embedded in the wood. Then, the sergeant still holding my foot, I looked over the top, at one of the most terrible sights I have ever seen.

  The cart was three-quarters full of shattered pieces of stained glass. Master Oldroyd lay on his back on top of the glass, his body pierced in several places by sharp fragments. A big piece, sharp as a pointed sword and covered with blood, had gone right through the centre of his body and protruded from his stomach. Oldroyd’s face, directly below mine, was white, his eyes closed. Blood covered the glass beneath his body.

  I swallowed hard. ‘He’s in here!’ I called. ‘He’s dead!’

  ‘Help me up,’ I heard Craike order someone, and a moment later his round face appeared on the other side of the cart. He blenched. ‘Dear Jesu. He must have fallen from the ladder.’ He turned to where a little crowd was gathering, and called out, ‘Here! Four of you climb up, stand on others’ shoulders. We must pull the body out!’

  There was more scrabbling, and the heads and shoulders of four stout workmen appeared. They all looked shocked at the scene in the cart, but hesitantly reached out. They grasped Oldroyd’s feet and hands and pulled at them. The body slid up that terrible spike of glass, a great gout of blood pouring from the wound. Then I nearly fell from the cart as the glazier’s eyes opened wide. ‘He’s alive!’ I cried, startling the workmen. They dropped him back onto the broken glass with a tinkling crash.

  Oldroyd stared at up me. He tried feebly to lift an arm and his mouth worked in an attempt to speak. I leaned over, as far as I dared. He reached up and gripped my robe with his scarred bloody hand. I held the side of the cart convulsively; terrified I might fall in with him, face-first onto that broken glass.

  ‘The Ki — The King!’ he said in a trembling whisper.

  ‘What about him? What is it?’ I heard my own voice shake, for my heart was juddering mightily in my chest.

  ‘No child of Henry and—’ He gasped and coughed up a dribble of blood. ‘Of Henry and Catherine Howard – can ever – be true heir!’

  ‘What? What is this?’

  ‘She knows.’ He gave a convulsive shudder. ‘Blaybourne,’ he whispered frantically, his blue eyes staring into mine as though by doing so he could hold onto life. ‘Blaybourne—’ The word ended in a rattling gasp, Oldroyd’s grip slackened, and his head fell back. He was dead; being lifted up had opened his wounds and the last of his blood was even now spilling out over the spikes and needles of glass.

  I hauled myself upright, my arms trembling. The workmen were looking at me, aghast. ‘What did he say, sir?’ Craike asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ I answered quickly. ‘Nothing. Take him out.’ I called over my shoulder to Sergeant Leacon: ‘Help me down.’ He did so, and I steadied myself against the cart, just as Barak ran up to us. ‘Where in God’s name have you been?’ I snapped, quite unfairly.

  ‘Looking for you,’ he answered truculently. ‘The whole place is abuzz. God’s nails, what’s going on?’

  ‘The glazier fell off his ladder into his cart, it sent his horse running off in terror.’

  The tall figure of Sir William Maleverer appeared, his black robe flapping round his long legs. The crowd parted hastily before him. He watched, frowning, as Oldroyd’s bloody corpse was dragged to the top of the cart and fell with a sickening flop to the earth.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ Maleverer snapped. ‘Craike, and you, brother lawyer, what’s happened?’

  ‘The glazier fell in his cart,’ Craike answered.

  Maleverer gave the body a look of distaste. ‘Wantwit fool. As if we haven’t enough to do. I’ll have to trouble the King’s coroner now.’ He looked round the crowd. ‘Who found him?’

  I stepped forward. ‘I did.’

  Maleverer grunted, then turned to face the crowd. ‘Get your mangy arses back to work!’ he shouted. ‘You as well, Craike. And you, soldier,’ he said to Leacon. ‘Take that carcass to the manor. And see that mad horse gets an axe to the head!’

  Such was the force of Maleverer’s presence that the crowd dissolved at once, excited mutters floating back through the mist. Leacon and the other soldier lifted Oldroyd’s body between them and wal
ked away, followed by a frowning Maleverer. Barak made to follow, but I held him back. ‘No, Jack,’ I said quickly. ‘There’s something I must tell you. My head’s awhirl.’

  We stood there, in the shadow of the cart, and I told him Oldroyd’s last words.

  ‘Jesu,’ he said. ‘The man spoke treason. Was he some sympathizer with the conspirators? Shouting his defiance when he knew he was about to die?’

  I frowned. ‘He seemed to be trying desperately to tell me something.’

  ‘Why you? You only spoke to him for a minute yesterday.’

  ‘He was dying, there was no one else to tell.’

  ‘Who is this Blaybourne?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe the man who killed him.’ I shook my head.

  ‘But it was an accident, surely. He fell from his ladder.’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I think he could have been pushed. He was a glazier, they’re not people to fall off ladders.’ I looked down the length of the church, past the cart. ‘And as I was walking down to the church I heard something, a creak. It sounded like a door closing.’

  Barak’s face became sharp. ‘Someone who’d killed the glazier, and heard you coming?’

  ‘Possibly. And escaped into the church.’

  ‘Then let’s go and look.’ The old eagerness for combat was back in his eyes. I hesitated.

  ‘I don’t want to get involved, Barak. That’s why I said nothing about Oldroyd’s last words. No one heard them but me. No one needs to know.’

  ‘But if he spoke against the King and Queen, you must tell.’ His face was full of anxiety. ‘There were people this spring hanged for knowing something was afoot and saying nothing. What if there’s something else abroad here, and Oldroyd knew? The King’s due here in two days. Tell Maleverer what you heard, for Jesu’s sake!’

  I nodded slowly. He was right.

  ‘And we can try to find that door you heard creak. See if there’s anybody in the church. Come along, if we heard something in the church Maleverer would expect us to look.’ Barak fingered the hilt of his sword, which he had buckled on as usual.