by C. J. Sansom
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 light,’ 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.’
‘I am a lawyer sent from St Mary’s. We merely wished to check the house was in order.’ It sounded lame even to me.
‘Crawling hunchback,’ an apprentice called out, to murmurs of approval. Barak laid a hand on his sword, but I shook my head. If this crowd turned violent we could be in trouble. I looked up and down the street, hoping to see one of the guards or constables, but there was none in sight.
I raised a hand. ‘Listen, please. I am sorry for the damage that has been done here. I have had no part of it. I am sorry if we frightened the good woman there. But there are enquiries into Master Oldroyd’s affairs —’
‘What enquiries?’ the glazier said. ‘Peter was a good man, he did none wrong.’
‘I cannot say more. And now, please let us pass.’
The glazier tightened his hold on his club. ‘Where’s thy papers? Come on, tha awd scrat! King’s men all have papers!’
‘Mebbe they’re thieves!’ someone called out.
I glanced over the hostile crowd, looking for Master Dike, the glazier I had met yesterday. He could at least vouch I had made enquiries on behalf of the King. But he was not there.
I took a deep breath. ‘Let us pass,’ I said curtly, taking a step forward. Neither the glazier nor the rest of the crowd budged an inch. That meant we were in real trouble. Then a stone, thrown by someone at the back of the crowd, struck me painfully on the arm that held the box under my coat. My arm jerked and the box dropped to the pavement with a clatter.
‘Thieves!’ someone called out. ‘They are thieves!’ Another stone struck Barak on the shoulder, and the crowd surged forward, pressing us against the wall of the house. The glazier raised his stave, and I braced myself for the blow.
Chapter Eleven
‘STOP!’
A fierce shout, in a deep voice I recognized. The glazier lowered his stave. Looking past him I saw Giles Wrenne’s tall head as he shouldered his way though the crowd.
‘Sir!’ I called out. ‘I have never been so glad to see anybody!’
The old man stepped in front of us, placing himself between us and the crowd. He looked impressive in a robe with a fur trim, his best no doubt, and a black cap with a red feather. ‘What is happening here?’ he asked the glazier sharply. ‘Master Pickering, what are you doing?’
‘These men were in Peter Oldroyd’s house, maister! The hunchback says he’s a lawyer, but I say they’re thieves.’ He pointed to the painted box lying at my feet. ‘He had that hidden under his robe.’
Wrenne looked at the box with a puzzled frown, then sharply at me.
‘We were on King’s business, sir,’ I said. I felt myself reddening.
Wrenne then raised himself to his full impressive height and addressed the crowd. ‘You all know me here in Stonegate! I can vouch for this man. He is a lawyer sent to work with me on the petitions to the King. I will deal with this!’
The crowd muttered, but the heat had gone out of them. Faces began to look worried as it sank in that they had been about to assault an officer of the crown. The apprentices who had thrown the stones sidled away. Barak glared at them, rubbing his shoulder. ‘Arseholes,’ he muttered.
Wrenne put his hand on Pickering’s shoulder. ‘Come now, sir. Leave this to me. Return to thy shop, you will be losing business.’
‘What business that is left for us with all the religious houses gone,’ the glazier answered, casting me a bitter look. ‘Peter Oldroyd is well out of it, God rest him.’
‘Ay, ay.’
‘The people here are angry, Maister Wrenne. Half their trade g
one, then Peter dead while working for the King and all they can do is send soldiers to wreck his house and scarify his servants.’ He glanced at where Goodwife Byland was looking on with a haggard, tear-stained face. ‘And young Green that’s nowt but a good-natured lump of a lad, hauled off and locked up at St Mary’s.’
‘I heard. I came this way to find out what was happening. But none of this is Master Shardlake’s fault. Come now, let us pass. Pick up that box, young Barak.’
Much to my relief, the crowd parted to let us through. Wrenne went over to where a young lad stood staring wide-eyed at the scene. He held the reins of a donkey weighed down with heavy panniers; the petitions, no doubt.
‘Come, Adam,’ Wrenne said. The boy patted the donkey on the rump to set it going. As we walked away he gave Wrenne a questioning look. ‘You did well to stay calm, lad,’ Wrenne said to him. He turned to us. ‘My kitchen-boy. He’s been pestering me to let him see the preparations at King’s Manor.’
I nodded. I felt a score of eyes on our backs and breathed more easily as we passed the church and the Guildhall came into view across the square at the top of Stonegate. ‘I thank you with all my heart, sir,’ I said. ‘If you had not come by I fear what might have happened to us.’
‘Ay,’ Barak agreed. ‘They had started throwing stones. I have seen what can happen when a London crowd start doing that to some foreigner.’
Wrenne looked at him seriously. ‘Which is much how they see you, I fear. Feeling in Stonegate has been much stirred by what happened yesterday. It has become the talk of the town. That is why I took this way round to St Mary’s this morning, to see what was going on.’
‘The blame was Maleverer’s,’ I observed. ‘And he is a Yorkshireman.’
‘He is on the Council of the North, and so far as the Yorkers are concerned that means he is a King’s man.’ He shook his head. ‘He is too rough in his ways.’
I sighed. ‘I have to see him later.’
‘In connection with that?’ He nodded at the box, which Barak held clasped to his chest. ‘You found that at Oldroyd’s house?’
‘Yes. Yes, we did.’
‘What is it, if I might ask?’
‘We do not know. We are taking it back to Sir William.’
He looked at me sharply. ‘Something the poor apprentice told them about, at St Mary’s?’
‘I may not say, sir. And we do not know what is inside, it is locked.’
Wrenne looked at the box again, but said no more. We walked on to St Mary’s. Master Wrenne walked slowly, remarkable though he otherwise seemed for his age. Young Sergeant Leacon was still at his post at the gate, and I asked him whether Sir William had returned, noticing as I did so that Wrenne gave him a curious look.
‘Not yet, sir,’ he answered. ‘He’s expected any time. There’s many that want to see him and are having to wait. Master Dereham has arrived, the Queen’s new secretary, and he is making a mighty stink.’
Wrenne glanced at a little clock that had been set on the table in the sergeant’s cubby hole. It stood at twenty to nine.
‘We are due at Master Fealty’s office,’ Wrenne reminded us.
‘Barak and I still have half an hour. And first we must make sure this box is kept somewhere safe until Maleverer comes.’ I thought a moment, then turned to the sergeant, who was looking curiously at the casket in Barak’s arms. ‘Do you know where Master Craike might be found?’
‘He should be at his office in the manor house.’
‘Thank you.’ I turned to Barak and Wrenne. ‘We will ask him where the box may be kept safely, then change and go to the rehearsal.’
Wrenne turned to look over his shoulder at Sergeant Leacon, who was still watching us curiously. ‘That young fellow has a look of my father,’ he said in a voice tinged with sadness. ‘The same height and broad build, and my father’s hair was yellow and curly like that into his old age. He brought him back to mind.’ He turned round, then stopped and stared at his first clear view of the courtyard. Young Adam, too, was staring open-mouthed at the pavilions and the three huge tents. Men were still moving in furniture under the watchful eyes of red-coated soldiers. Through the door of one tent I saw a gigantic tapestry, bright with rich colours, being hung.
‘Jesu,’ Wrenne said again. ‘I have never seen anything like this.’
‘We still do not know what is planned. The senior officials do but may not say.’
Wrenne’s eyes turned to the monastery church. He looked sadly at the empty windows, the trail of mud by the door. A packman was leading a train of donkeys inside. ‘I expect the interior has been gutted,’ he said quietly.
‘Completely destroyed. It is being used to stable the horses.’
‘Sad,’ he murmured. ‘I visited it many times in the old days. Well, we had better get to the manor house. Sir James Fealty will be there as well as your Master Craike. Master Barak, could you carry the petitions? They are rather heavy.’
Barak took the heavy panniers from the donkey, which a guard allowed us to tie to a post. We left the boy with it, though he obviously hoped to come inside, and mounted the steps. We entered the large central hall. Here too the carpenters were finishing work, and I saw the hall had been hung from floor to ceiling with their the most splendid tapestries I had ever seen, interwoven with gold leaf that glinted among the bright colours. Looking up I saw the roof too had been painted in the most intricate and colourful designs.
Several officials stood around in earnest discussion and I saw Lady Rochford in a corner, speaking in a low voice to a bearded young man in a silken doublet with slashed sleeves, the colours gaudy. It was the man we had seen in the inn doorway the day we arrived, mocking the locals. Both their faces were tight with anger. Jennet Marlin stood a little way off. She looked curiously at Barak, the heavy panniers over his shoulders and holding the brightly painted box in his hands. Catching my eye, she made the briefest nod. Lady Rochford and the young man, catching her look, followed her gaze; Lady Rochford raised her eyes haughtily.
‘What’s the matter with them?’ I muttered.
‘Your coat’s all white down the back,’ Barak said. I twisted to look at it and saw it was smeared with white plaster dust where I had backed against Oldroyd’s wall. I heard a guffaw from the gaudily dressed young man.
‘Your coat, Master Wrenne,’ I said apologetically.
‘No matter. It will rub off. Come, sir, we must go.’
We walked on. We asked a guard where Craike’s office was located and he directed us up two flights of stairs to a suite of rooms behind the hall. Wrenne left us to find Sir James Fealty’s office, and we promised we would see him there shortly. I gave him his coat, apologizing again for its state.
There was a great bustle on the top floor, servants in King’s livery heaving trunks and boxes out of the rooms. Craike stood in a little office floored with rush matting, watching anxiously as papers and books were loaded into a chest. ‘Have a care,’ he said fussily. ‘Don’t get those papers out of order.’ He looked up in surprise as we entered. ‘Brother Shardlake!’
‘Good day, Brother Craike. Might we speak with you in confidence?’
He gave me a puzzled frown, but ordered the servants out. They took the chest with them, leaving the room bare save for a table on which Craike’s portable desk stood, a thick wad of papers pinned to it. I closed the door.
‘We are being shifted to the monks’ dormitory,’ he said. ‘It is a nightmare.’
‘I understand. But something has come into my possession, sir, that belonged to the dead glazier.’ I indicated the casket under Barak’s arm. ‘It is vital it be kept secure till Sir William returns. Do you know where I might leave it? I have to attend Sir James Fealty shortly.’
Craike ran a hand through his scanty hair. ‘The whole house is being turned upside down. You could leave it here, I suppose. I have been told to lock this room when I leave, but I do not have to surrender the key till six.’
I looked round dubiously. ‘Will t
his room be secure enough?’
‘The door is solid,’ Barak said, ‘and we are two floors up.’
Craike ran his hands through his hair again, then gave me a sudden apologetic smile. ‘Oh, Master Shardlake, you must think me an unhelpful churl. Only, with so much to do . . .’ He delved in his pocket, and handed me a key. ‘Here, take this. When you are done perhaps you could find me and return it.’
‘I will, sir. And thank you for your help at this busy time.’
‘Then I will see you later.’ Craike picked up his little desk, slung it round his shoulders and hurried from the room. Barak placed the box on the table.
‘It is light.’ He shook it. ‘There’s something inside. Cloth, perhaps?’ He gave the lid another experimental tug but it stayed fast.
‘Empty or no, it is safe now. Come, we must get changed.’ We left the room, but I cast a last anxious look at the casket before I locked the door behind us.
BARAK AND I SOON found Sir James Fealty’s office, a large room on the ground floor of the manor. We were in our best clothes, I in my best robe and my new cap, which I had bought in London. It was expensive, black velvet decorated with tiny garnets and a blue feather on the side. I disliked the gaudy thing. The feather had come a little loose in its clasp and the tip drifted in and out of my vision like a circling insect.
Sir James was a thin old fellow in a brown doublet, an embroidered collar to his shirt and a long wispy white beard that came to a point halfway down his chest. He was sitting at a large desk, reading the petitions and frowning. The clerk Cowfold who had insulted me behind my back the night before was standing at his shoulder, his face expressionless. His demeanour did not change as I gave him a hard look. Wrenne stood a little way off.
After a minute Sir James deigned to look up. ‘So you’re the lawyer,’ he said in a reedy voice. ‘Well, I suppose your clothes will do, though that feather in your cap needs straightening.’ He pointed his quill at Barak. ‘Who is that?’
‘My assistant, sir.’