by C. J. Sansom
We rode through a deserted city. Every window was crammed with faces, though, as the Yorkers watched us pass. In the night the streets had been covered with sand and ashes that dulled the clatter of hooves, and as we rode by men with rakes darted out behind us to smooth them again. In some streets garlands of white roses had been hung across the way, and here and there a gaily coloured carpet or cloth flew from a window, but these were few. I remembered Giles telling me how gay and colourful the Yorkers had made their city for King Richard III, and turned to look at him.
‘How is the investigation of Master Oldroyd’s death going?’ he asked me.
‘The King’s coroner is investigating now.’
‘He was a skilful man, it was strange he should fall in his cart. Some in the city say he must have been pushed from his ladder, but surely that cannot be?’
‘I do not know,’ I answered uncomfortably.
‘There has been quite a chapter of accidents at St Mary’s, has there not? Maleverer must be concerned.’
‘He is.’
‘Are you still involved?’ he asked.
‘No. Not any more.’
We were passing towards another gate now, Fulford Gate it must be, festooned with garlands. I wondered, would they nail the heads and bits of men’s bodies back afterwards?
Beyond the gate there was a straggle of houses but after a few minutes we found ourselves in flat open country, green pastures and brown ploughed fields dotted with patches of water after yesterday’s rain. The road had been put in good order, potholes filled up.
A little way ahead a number of carts was drawn up beside the road, watched by servants and half a dozen soldiers. Here the city officials dismounted. In uncomfortable silence they removed their finery and put on long robes of a dark, saddle-tawny colour that they took from the cart. It was strange watching Mayor Hall undress, his red face frowning, then thrust stringy white arms into the plain robe. The servants packed the finery carefully into boxes in the cart, and the councillors’ caps too; evidently they were to go bareheaded. I glanced over the fields; in the distance a husbandman could be seen leading a team of oxen in the first winter ploughing. I thought suddenly of my father.
The captain carefully pulled a little portable clock from his pouch. ‘Fall to!’ he called again. The councillors mounted and we rode on a little further, to where a big white stone cross stood by the road. Here fences had been knocked down to create an open space extending into the pastureland on either side. The captain dismounted and went to stand on the plinth of the cross. In a loud clear voice he ordered all to dismount and stand in ranks of twenty, councillors in front, officials like Giles and I to one side, the others behind. Giles handed me the petitions from his knapsack.
‘Here, you must keep these till the King comes. Remember, you hand them to me then.’ I nodded and grasped them to my chest, wishing they were less heavy. Tankerd, with a nervous twitch of his eyebrows, hitched the gold-edged knapsack over his shoulder and went off to join the councillors. The grooms collected the horses and led them into the pasture. The captain surveyed us then went to stand in front of us, looking down the Fulford Road. ‘Now we wait,’ Giles said quietly. I stretched my neck, for it ached again, then winced as it gave a painful click.
We stood in silence, all that great concourse, watching the road ahead. At first nothing could be heard but the gentle tick-tick as leaves fell from the trees beside the road. The horses had been led some way into the field, near a long, low wooden structure draped with brown cloth. I wondered what it was for. A group of servants were manhandling long wooden planks behind the cloth. The planks had round, head-sized holes cut in them at long intervals, putting me in mind of an enormous row of stocks. I looked at Giles, who shrugged. I shifted the heavy petitions in my arms.
It was hot now and I caught the stink of sweat as men began perspiring in their robes. I touched my cap to make sure the wretched feather was still fixed properly, feeling sorry for the councillors standing bareheaded in the sun. Mayor Hall passed a hand over his bald crown.
WE HEARD THE PROGRESS before we saw it, a sound like distant thunder. The rumble grew louder and I realized it was the sound of thousands of hooves. Then I saw an enormous brown patch appear over a slight rise in the distance. It spread slowly up the road towards us like a giant stain, filling the wide road from side to side. It rolled on and on, no sign of an end. The rumbling and thunder of hooves filled the air, startling the birds from the trees, and I made out the shapes of hundreds of high-sided carts, pulled by teams of enormous draught horses. Red-coated soldiers rode alongside, knee to knee in two rows. And at the head a shimmering mix of bright colours that resolved itself into a crowd of gorgeously robed people on horses dressed almost as richly as their riders. I strained my eyes to see if I could make out the King, but just then a blast of trumpets sounded from the throng, making us all start, and the whole giant concourse stopped dead a quarter of a mile in front of us. The hoofbeats died away, to be replaced with a murmur of voices that rose and fell like the sea, with occasional shouted instructions audible to us as, under the soldiers’ eyes, we waited in expectant silence. I sensed the nerves of all around me were strained to breaking point. Even Giles seemed tense, his blue eyes alight with curiosity. He caught my eye and smiled. ‘Well,’ he whispered, ‘here it is.’
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 enor
mous 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 countenance, 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 —’