Sovereign

by C. J. Sansom

  ‘You have found my secret, sir,’ she said quietly.

  I handed it to her. She quickly enclosed it in her little fist. She must have worn it on a belt round her underskirt, I thought, hidden.

  I looked up and down the corridor. ‘Does Barak know you are a papist?’ I asked her quietly. ‘He told me once you had no strong views on religion.’

  She met my hard gaze. ‘I am not a papist, sir. But my grandmother was brought up long before reform was heard of and she was always ticking at her beads. She said they calmed her when she was worried. It is a comfort to poor folk still.’

  ‘A comfort that is disapproved of now. As you know, for you keep it hidden.’

  Her voice rose defiantly. ‘Saying the words in your head, sir, ticking the beads, what harm does it do? It calms me.’ She looked at me and I saw the strain in her face. ‘I am worried what we saw may come out. I am afraid. And I mourn Jennet.’

  I looked at her fist closed round the rosary. I saw the nails were bitten to the quick. ‘That is truly all the beads are, something to calm you?’

  ‘Yes, that is all. I think I had better stop this habit,’ she added bitterly. ‘I will follow whatever forms of religion are required by the King, even though they change from year to year. It is a puzzle to me and perhaps a puzzle to God, but common folk must leave God and the King to resolve it between them, must they not?’

  ‘That is wisest.’

  She turned away then. She did not go back to our room where Barak waited but marched off down the corridor. Her footsteps sounded down the inn stairs. I followed more slowly. I wondered, had she told the truth about why she ticked the beads, or had she invented that tale about her grandmother with her usual quickness? I felt more than ever that I did not really know Tamasin, that she was a woman who kept much secret.

  THE NEXT MORNING found me at the little library once more, for all that it was raining again. As the servant took my wet coat in the hall, Brother Davies came clattering busily down the stairs, a leather bag under his arm.

  ‘Brother Shardlake. Back so soon? I have to go now, a case before the City Council, but look at anything that interests you in the library.’

  ‘Thank you. How much?’

  He waved a hand. ‘No fee for visitors. But a little word of warning.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Old Brother Swann is in this morning. He is over eighty, the oldest lawyer in Hull by many years. Long retired – he says he comes here to keep up to date with the law but really he comes to talk.’

  ‘Ah. I see.’

  ‘I looked in a moment ago, he is asleep before the fire. Do not wake him if you want to study.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He nodded, took his coat from the servant and went out into the pelting rain. I opened the library door quietly. Within it was warm and peaceful, a good fire lit in the grate, the embossed lettering on the spines of the large old books glinting in the flames. The only occupant was an old man in a shiny lawyer’s robe, fast asleep by the fire. His face was a mass of lines and wrinkles, the pink skull showing through sparse white hair. I tiptoed over to the shelves, took a couple of books containing cases relevant to the Bealknap case and sat down at a table. I found it hard to concentrate, though; I had been away from my books too long. I reflected on Giles’s words. I had not liked that look Rich had given me as we parted. Yet every instinct told me Rich would not have gone to so much trouble unless he feared he might lose the case. I had to go on, I had to try to win. Fighting for my clients was my life’s work; if I gave in, what was left for me?

  I looked up to find the old man had woken and was looking at me with surprisingly bright blue eyes. He smiled, multiplying the wrinkles in his face.

  ‘Not in the mood for work today, brother?’

  I laughed. ‘No, I fear not.’

  ‘I do not think I have seen you before. Are you new to Hull?’

  ‘I am here with the King’s Progress.’

  ‘Ah, yes, that.’

  ‘My name is Matthew Shardlake.’ I rose in my place and bowed.

  ‘Forgive me if I do not rise. I am eighty-six. My name is Alan Swann. Barrister at law. Retired,’ he added with a chuckle. ‘So, then, the bad weather keeps you here.’

  ‘I fear so.’

  ‘I remember the great gale of 1460, the year of the Battle of Wakefield.’

  ‘You remember that?’ I asked in surprise.

  ‘I recall the messenger coming to Hull saying the Duke of York was slain, his head set over the gates of York wearing a paper crown. My father cheered, for we all supported the House of Lancaster then. It was later the county went over to the Yorkists.’

  ‘I know. I have a friend in York who has told me stories of the Striving between the Roses.’

  ‘Hard times,’ he said. ‘Hard times.’

  A thought struck me. ‘You will remember Richard III’s seizure of the throne after King Edward V died. The disappearance of the Princes in the Tower?’

  He nodded. ‘Ah, yes.’

  ‘When Richard took the throne, rumours were put about that his brother Edward IV’s marriage was invalid.’ I hesitated. ‘And was there not something about King Edward’s own legitimacy?’ I looked at Brother Swann keenly. Giles had been little more than a boy in 1483, but this ancient would already have been a man of almost thirty.

  Brother Swann was silent, turning to look into the fire. The wind drew the yellow flames up the chimney with a faint roar. I wondered if he had forgotten me, but then he turned back to me with a smile.

  ‘That is a matter no one has spoken of for many years. Many years.’

  ‘I am something of an antiquarian. Like my friend from York. He was telling me about the rumours, about King Edward.’ I felt guilty, lying to the old man, but I wanted to know what he remembered.

  Brother Swann smiled. ‘It was an interesting story. How much of it was true no one knows, nor ever will for the King’s father suppressed all talk of it.’

  ‘Yes, I heard.’

  He looked at me. ‘Edward’s mother, Cecily Neville, she made the claim after Edward died. She said in public that Edward IV’s father had not been the late Duke of York, her husband. She said Edward was illegitimate, the son of a liaison she had with an archer, when they were in France during the wars.’

  My heart started beating fast.

  ‘That made a mighty stir,’ the old man said softly. He paused and wrapped his cloak around himself. ‘There is a bitter draught from that window. This wind nearly blew me off my feet on my way here. I remember the gale of 1460. . .’

  I controlled my impatience. ‘Yes, you told me. But you were talking of Cecily Neville —’

  ‘Ah, yes. Cecily Neville stood up outside St Paul’s – I think it was St Paul’s – and told the world that Edward IV was the offspring of a liaison between her and an archer. A lawyer came up here from London on a case shortly after, he told me all about it.’

  ‘Do you remember the archer’s name?’

  ‘Blaybourne. Edward Blaybourne, a Kentish archer.’

  The blood was thudding in my ears. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘I think he must have been dead by the time of Richard III’s usurpation. The liaison had been forty years before, after all.’ He looked at me seriously. ‘Perhaps he was done away with.’

  ‘So there was no real evidence for the story?’

  ‘Not that I know of. As I said, it was hushed up after the Tudors came to the throne. For Henry VII married Edward IV’s daughter, the present King’s mother. There was an Act of Richard’s —’

  ‘The Titulus Regulus.’

  ‘You know of that?’ He looked at me with sudden concern. ‘I am not sure we should be talking of such things, even now. I have not thought of it for years.’

  ‘You must be one of the few who remember it.’

  ‘Yes. Not many reach eighty-six,’ he said proudly. ‘But it was only rumour, even then.’

  I got up suddenly. ‘Sir, I have just remembered something. I was so intere
sted in our talk, I forgot I have an appointment.’

  Brother Swann looked disappointed. ‘Must you go so soon?’

  ‘I fear so.’

  ‘Well, perhaps I shall see you again. I am often here in the mornings, by Brother Davies’s good fire.’ He looked at me, sudden sadness in his eyes. ‘He indulges me. I know I talk too much and distract people. But you see, sir, all my contemporaries are dead.’

  I took his hand, thin and light as a bird’s claw, and pressed it. ‘You have a store of memories to be proud of, brother. Thank you.’ And with that I went out. My head was in a mighty whirl.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  I WALKED RAPIDLY BACK through Hull, my head down against the buffeting wind. My mind was racing, making calculations, connections.

  So I had been right all along when I hazarded to Barak that Edward IV might have been illegitimate, and Blaybourne his father. But Blaybourne had not been done away with as old Brother Swann surmised; he had survived to write a confession on his deathbed. I remembered those few words I had read, in that rough uneducated hand: ‘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 . . .’ He must have died before 1483, when old Cecily Neville made her announcement, or, as Brother Swann had said, surely she would have produced him as evidence of her claim.

  And in the Tower, back in April after the conspiracy was discovered, someone had confessed on the rack to the existence of those papers, but had not known where they were nor who had them. The conspirators’ policy of limiting information to those who needed to know had served them well. Bernard Locke, taken to the Tower, did know that Oldroyd had the papers, but ironically they had feared to torture him because he had connections and because the evidence against him was thin. Meanwhile they had arrested Broderick. My guess was that he did know something about the papers, but they had been unable to get him to talk in York and decided to bring him south.

  And what of the other documents in that box? Probably more evidence about Blaybourne, to support his claim. Like the Titulus. And that family tree was a sort of aide-memoire. I asked myself who knew about the Blaybourne story now. The King and the Privy Council would have known for months. When I told Maleverer that Oldroyd had spoken the name Blaybourne before he had died, he had taken it to the Duke of Suffolk. The Duke knew what that name meant. He would have told Maleverer then. That explained his saying that it all went back to Cecily Neville. I remembered the rest of Oldroyd’s words: ‘No child of Henry and Catherine Howard can ever be true heir. She knows.’ I stopped dead in the street. Of course. He meant no child of theirs could be true heir, not because a child of Catherine Howard’s might be Culpeper’s, but because Henry was the grandson of an archer. And when he said, ‘She knows,’ he had meant Jennet Marlin, who had just knocked him off his ladder. ‘This is not about Catherine Howard at all,’ I said aloud.

  IN OUR ROOM AT the inn Barak was stumping around; he had abandoned his stick, too soon in my opinion, and was limping around the chamber, wincing as he put his foot to the floor.

  ‘Be careful,’ I said.

  ‘It’s all right if I put only a little weight on it!’ He took a step forward, winced again and sat down heavily on the bed. ‘Fuck it!’

  ‘Jack,’ I said, sitting on my own bed next to his, ‘I have found something out.’

  ‘What?’ There was irritation in his tone, but when I told him what Brother Swann had told me, and of what I had deduced on the way back, he whistled.

  ‘Jesu.’ He was silent a moment, letting it all sink in, then he looked at me. ‘So it’s true, the King is truly the grandson of a Kentish archer.’

  ‘That’s how it looks.’

  His eyes were wide. ‘And the King knows – he’ll have known since the existence of these papers came out.’

  ‘And will have been told I found the papers, and lost them. No wonder he wanted to hurt me at Fulford. And no wonder the rebels were desperate to get those documents, if Blaybourne’s confession is in there.’

  ‘Yet Bernard Locke wanted Jennet Marlin to destroy them, to save his skin.’

  ‘Yes. It’s an irony.’

  ‘But how the hell did that confession get from Blaybourne in Kent, assuming that’s where he went back to, into the hands of the Yorkshire rebels? And if it’s – what – over sixty years old, why only use it now? Why not during the Pilgrimage of Grace five years ago?’

  I stroked my chin. ‘Robert Aske and the commons did not want to overthrow the King then, only Cromwell and Cranmer. And maybe they did not have the papers then.’

  He looked at me keenly. ‘So you think this has nothing to do with Catherine Howard and Culpeper at all?’

  ‘No. The fact that Jennet Marlin killed him certainly puts a new light on Oldroyd’s words. When he said, “She knows,” I think he meant Jennet Marlin.’

  He heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Then we’re in the clear. Tammy will be mightily relieved when I tell her.’ He thought a moment. ‘Will you tell Maleverer what the old lawyer said?’

  ‘There’s no point. He knows about Blaybourne already. No, there is no reason to do anything. We can forget about it, and about Catherine Howard, and go home.’ I shook my head. ‘Taking two dangerous secrets with us, about Blaybourne and the Queen. But we must keep our mouths shut.’

  ‘I wonder if the conspirators have those papers now.’

  ‘Who knows?’ I waved a hand. ‘If so, let them do what they will, let them print a thousand copies of Blaybourne’s confession and post them round the streets of York and London. I do not care any more.’

  ‘You could perhaps tell Cranmer what you suspect about Jennet Marlin never having the papers,’ he mused. ‘It might be of some help to them in unravelling the conspiracy.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘You should do it.’

  ‘I’ll think on it,’ I repeated irritably. I realized that despite the fact they were mostly papists, part of me was with the conspirators. ‘Anyway, Jesu knows when we’ll get back,’ I added, nodding at the window. It had started raining again, a high wind blowing big drops against the pane.

  ‘We’ll get there eventually, I suppose. Back to Lincoln’s Inn.’

  I looked at him. ‘You are still coming back to work with me? You haven’t changed your mind?’

  He nodded. ‘I still want to come back. It’s time to settle down. I shall be seeing Tammy,’ he added, giving me a challenging look.

  I hesitated. ‘I know she still blames me in some way for that woman’s death. Oh, she is making herself friendly again, it would not do to make an enemy of the man who employs you, but I can see she still blames me. It is not fair.’

  Barak looked uncomfortable. ‘Tammy finds it hard to accept Jennet Marlin is dead. She knows you are not to blame, but – women are illogical.’

  I grunted. ‘Tamasin can be clever enough when it suits her. Like faking that robbery. Like making up to me now, because she knows on which side her bread is buttered.’ I wondered whether to tell him about the rosary, but thought, he will only believe the story that she has it because it was her grandmother’s. True or not, he will take her side, for that is what people in love do.

  He was frowning at me. ‘Tammy has been in tears many nights since Jennet Marlin died. I wish she’d curse the woman as she deserved, but she won’t. Between that and her worry over the Queen and Culpeper, she is finding things hard.’

  ‘Well,’ I said. ‘It seems when we return to London I must get used to her ways.’

  ‘Yes,’ he answered boldly, then added quietly, ‘You know what your trouble is?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t understand women. Normal women, ordinary feminine women. when you do like a woman, it’s some fierce malapert creature like Lady Honor last year —’

  I stood up. ‘I wonder how much you understand. Tamasin seems to have you wrapped round her little finger, which is a thing I thought I would never see.’ I wished
as soon as I said it that I had not spoken; apart from anything else, we were both fractious from being cooped up together.

  Barak’s eyes narrowed. ‘You know what your other problem is? You’re jealous. Jealous of what Tammy and I have. Perhaps you need to find another fine lady to moon over.’

  I stood up. ‘You have said enough!’

  ‘Hit a nerve, have I?’ he asked sardonically. ‘I am going to see Master Wrenne.’ I walked out, slamming the door like a silly child.

  RELATIONS BETWEEN BARAK and me remained strained over the following days. The weather continued windy with hard blustery showers, the wind still from the southeast so there was no question of setting sail. The innkeeper grumbled that if this went on, Hull would be ruined for lack of trade. Tamasin was cool with me again. Barak had probably told her of our quarrel; I wondered if she had told him about the rosary.

  I was glad, though, that under this regime of enforced rest Giles’s health had remained stable, though sometimes I sensed from his drawn expression that he was in pain. I spent much time with him, exchanging stories of our time in the law, and he told me much of life in York and the town’s decline during his lifetime. I understood more and more how the north had been neglected and oppressed under the Tudors. I knew that, short as our acquaintance had been, when Giles died it would be like the loss of my father over again. But I would be with him at the end, I had decided, even if it meant coming back to York with him after he had visited London.

  The Progress, meanwhile, had left Hull. On the fourth of October there had been a break in the weather; even some watery sunshine, the first we had seen in that place. Word went round that the Progress would be crossing the Humber next day, on the first leg of the long journey home. Giles and I walked down to the shore of the great estuary and watched as hundreds of boats ferried the vast retinue across the river to Barton on the Lincolnshire shore. It went on for hours. Boats must have been brought from all over Yorkshire, the water was thick with white sails.