Sovereign ms-3 Page 6

  Barak grinned at his back. He seemed to be in a better mood since meeting the girl. ‘Was he always like this?’ he whispered.

  ‘He was the most conscientious student I ever met. Everything had to be done just right.’

  ‘That’s a recipe for a seizure.’

  I laughed. ‘Come, or he’ll leave us behind.’

  As we reached the church I saw that many of the stained-glass windows had been removed, while others were broken. A dark-haired, middle-aged man stood on a ladder some distance off, carefully removing a pane. At the foot of the ladder an enormous black horse stood grazing beside a high-sided wagon.

  ‘The glass is all going, then,’ I observed to Craike. ‘It’ll make the church look bleak when the King comes.’

  ‘That glazier is trying to get as many windows as possible out before the Progress arrives, for the King will want to see it has been put beyond use.’

  At the sound of our voices, the glazier stopped working and looked down. He had a thin, careworn face and sharp, watchful eyes.

  Craike called up to him. ‘How goes it, Master Oldroyd?’

  ‘Well enough, maister, thank you.’

  ‘Will you have all the windows out before the King comes?’

  ‘Ay, sir. I’ll be here at first light every day till ’tis done.’

  Craike led us up the worn steps of the church. The great door stood half open, a trail of muddy footprints leading in; evidently the church had become a thoroughfare.

  It had been a magnificent place once. Great decorated arches and pillars rose to dizzying heights, richly painted in green and ochre; the floor was of decorated tiles in many designs. Lit with candles, it would have been an awesome sight. Now, though, the many empty windows cast a cold dim light on side-chapels stripped of furniture and empty niches where statues had stood, some now lying in pieces on the floor. A trail of mud and broken tiles marked a shortcut leading to another half-open door at the south end of the nave. As we walked down the gutted church, our footsteps echoed eerily in a silence that contrasted strangely with the bustle outside. I shivered.

  ‘Ay, ’tis cold,’ Master Craike said. ‘We’re near the river here, ’tis a damp and foggy place.’

  I saw that a considerable number of wooden stalls had been erected along the walls. Some horses already stood there though many were empty. Piles of straw spilled out on to the aisle.

  Barak pointed at a stall. ‘There’s Sukey and Genesis.’

  ‘They’re using this place as a stable?’ I asked incredulously.

  ‘The horses of the courtiers and the senior servants will all be stabled here. ’Tis a sensible use of the space, though it seems sacrilegious, even if the church has been deconsecrated.’

  We stepped out of the south door into a second large courtyard, just as bustling. More buildings were set along the walls, and there was an imposing gatehouse and another smaller church. This was still in one piece, the parish church perhaps. In the yard all manner of produce was being unloaded from carts: apples and pears by the sackful, heaps of charcoal and bundles of faggots, armfuls of candles of every size, and bale after bale of hay. Servants were carrying the goods to the buildings and to a series of temporary huts. Rows of stockades had been erected, accommodating a whole flock of sheep, numerous cows and even some deer. In one enclosure hundreds of fowls, jumbled together, were pecking the ground bare. I saw hens and ducks, turkeys and even a pair of great bustard, their giant wings docked. Nearby a gang of men was laying pipes in a trench that ran down to the south wall of the monastery. There, through an open gate, I glimpsed mudflats and a wide grey river. I shook my head. ‘I’ve never seen such labour.’

  ‘They’ll be feeding three thousand on Friday. But come, we go this way.’ Craike led us past the animal enclosures towards a large two-storey building. ‘This was the monks’ hospital,’ he said apologetically. ‘We have partitioned it into rooms. It is the best we can do. Most of the law officers are here. The servants have only poor tents.’

  A little group of officials stood talking at the door, some holding the red staffs of office of the porters who watched the royal palaces for intruders. A big, burly man in a lawyer’s robe, who overtopped the others by a head, was questioning them. Craike lowered his voice. ‘That is Sir William Maleverer. He’s a lawyer, a member of the Council of the North. He has overall charge of legal matters and security.’

  Craike approached the big man, coughing to attract his attention, and he turned irritably. He was in his forties, with hard, heavy features and a black beard cut in a straight line at the bottom, the fashionable ‘spade-beard’. Cold dark eyes studied us.

  ‘Well, Master Craike, whom have you and your little clerk’s desk brought me now?’ Maleverer’s voice was very deep, with a northern accent. I remembered the Council of the North was staffed by local loyalists.

  ‘Brother Matthew Shardlake, Sir William, from London, with his assistant.’

  ‘You’re dealing with the King’s pleas, aren’t you?’ Maleverer looked me over, his expression contemptuous, as though he had achieved his high stature and straight back by some great virtue. ‘You’re late.’

  ‘I am sorry. We had a hard ride.’

  ‘You’ll need to prepare for Friday. With Brother Wrenne.’

  ‘We have seen him already.’

  Maleverer grunted. ‘He’s an old woman. But I’ll have to leave it between you, I’ve other issues to deal with. Just make sure a summary of those petitions is prepared for the Chamberlain’s office by Thursday morning.’

  ‘I am sure we can put all in order.’

  He looked at me dubiously again. ‘You’ll be in the King’s presence on Friday. I hope you’ve better clothes than that mud-spattered coat.’

  ‘In our baggage, sir.’ I indicated the panniers, which Barak shifted again on his shoulders.

  Maleverer nodded brusquely and turned back to his companions. Barak pulled a face at me as we passed into the building. The interior was gloomy, with small arched windows, a fire of kindling set in the centre of the stone floor. The religious scenes with which the walls had once been painted had been scraped off, giving the place an unkempt look. The hall had been divided into cubicles by wooden partitions. There seemed to be no one else there – all out at work, probably.

  ‘A stern fellow, Sir William,’ I observed quietly.

  ‘A harsh man, like all those on the Council of the North,’ Craike replied. ‘I am grateful I have little to do with him. Now, sir,’ he looked at me apologetically, ‘I have taken the liberty of giving you and your assistant adjoining cubicles. Otherwise Master Barak would have to go into the servants’ tents. With so many people of such varying ranks, it is hard to give everyone an appropriate place.’

  ‘I do not mind,’ I said with a smile. Craike looked relieved. He scrabbled on his little desk, found a piece of paper and led us past the row of stalls. The doors were numbered.

  ‘Eighteen, nineteen – yes, those are yours.’ He made a mark on the paper, then smiled. ‘Well, sir, it has been good to see you again, but I must leave you now.’

  ‘Of course, sir. But I hope we may meet for that cup of ale while we are here.’

  ‘If time allows, I would be pleased. But all this -’ he waved a hand towards the courtyard – ‘a nightmare.’ He gave a quick bow and then, with another glance at his list, he was gone.

  ‘Well, let’s see what we’ve got,’ I said to Barak. There was a key in the lock of the cubicle door and I turned it. Inside, apart from a small chest for storage, a truckle bed was the only furniture. I eased off my riding boots and lay down with a groan of relief. After a few minutes there was a knock and Barak came in, barefoot and carrying my pannier. I sat up.

  ‘God’s wounds,’ I said. ‘Your feet stink. But I dare say mine do too.’

  ‘They do.’

  I noted the tiredness in his voice. ‘Let us take the chance to rest this afternoon,’ I said. ‘We can sleep till dinner-time.’

  ‘Ay.’ He s
hook his head. ‘What a scurry. I’ve never seen so many goods and animals in one place. And whatever secret pageantry they are planning out there to be catered for.’

  I clicked my fingers. ‘Those pavilions reminded me of something,’ I said. ‘I’ve just realized it. The Field of the Cloth of Gold.’

  ‘When the King went to Calais to meet the French King?’

  ‘Ay. Twenty years since. There’s a painting of the pageant in the Guildhall. They built huge pavilions of just those designs, and giant tents all gilded with cloth of gold, which gave the occasion its name. Of course, Lucas Hourenbout is using those designs as a precedent.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I don’t know. Some very great celebration. But perhaps we should restrain our curiosity, just get on with our business.’

  ‘Dun’s the mouse.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And Lady Rochford’s here. God’s death, she’s one to avoid.’

  I looked at him seriously. ‘Ay. She was part of your old master’s darkest scheme.’

  Barak shifted uncomfortably. Jane Rochford had been one of those used by Thomas Cromwell to discredit Queen Anne Boleyn through accusations of sexual misconduct five years before. Lady Rochford’s evidence had been the most terrible: that George Boleyn, her own husband and Queen Anne’s brother, had had incestuous relations with the Queen. I had reason to know for certain what most people believed, that the charges against Queen Anne had been fabricated for political reasons.

  ‘She has made herself a byword for the worst treachery,’ I continued. ‘And was well rewarded for it. Made Lady of the Privy Chamber to Jane Seymour, then Anne of Cleves and now Catherine Howard.’

  ‘Didn’t look very happy on it, though, did she?’

  ‘No, she didn’t. There was something underneath her angry bluster. Well, it cannot be much fun knowing the whole world hates you. Let’s hope we don’t have to see her again.’

  ‘But you’ve to meet the King.’

  ‘So it seems.’ I shook my head. ‘Somehow I cannot quite take that in.’

  ‘And you have to be involved with the prisoner at the castle. No choice there.’

  ‘No. But again, I’m going to ask as few questions as I can.’ I told Barak the details of what had passed at York Castle, Radwinter’s cruelty and Broderick’s sudden lunge at him, though I left out what the gaoler had said about my having sympathy for the prisoner. At the end he looked thoughtful.

  ‘Those skilled in dealing with dangerous prisoners, guarding and watching them, are rare. Earl Cromwell prized such men greatly.’ He looked at me seriously. ‘I think you’re right. Don’t get involved with either of them any more than you have to.’

  He left me, saying he would call me in time for dinner. I heard a creak and a sigh as he lay down on the bed next door. I closed my eyes and was soon asleep. I dreamed I heard my father calling to me from outside the room, his voice clear and vivid, but that when I rose from the little bed to join him the cubicle door had been replaced by one as thick and heavy as the one in Broderick’s cell, and it was locked.

  BARAK HAD THE ENVIABLE gift of being able to tell himself, before he went to sleep, when he wanted to wake, and he seldom failed to do so at his allotted time. His knock at my cubicle brought me from my troubled dreams. The room was gloomy, and glancing from the window I saw the sun was low in the sky. I joined him in the hall. There were other people there now, clerks and two lawyers in black robes, young fellows. One of them, a small thin man who stood warming his hands by the fire, caught my eye and bowed.

  ‘You have newly joined us, sir?’ he asked, studying us with large curious eyes.

  ‘Yes. Brother Shardlake of Lincoln’s Inn and my assistant Barak. We are here to assist with the petitions to the King.’

  ‘Ah.’ He looked impressed, and smiled ingratiatingly. ‘Paul Kimber, sir. I am also from Lincoln’s Inn.’ He bowed again.

  ‘What work are you doing with the Progress?’

  ‘Supervising the drawing up of contracts with suppliers along the way, in the Purveyor’s office. Well, helping to. I have come all the way with the Progress, and hard work it has been negotiating with these northern barbarians.’ He laughed contemptuously.

  ‘Do you know where we might find some dinner?’ I asked.

  ‘At the common dining hall. We have to eat all hugger-mugger with the clerks and carpenters. You’ll need a docket, though, to show you are entitled to bouche of court.’

  ‘Where do we get those?’

  ‘At the Office of the Great Hall.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Not sure where that is now. They were moving it today, to bigger premises, in anticipation of the Progress arriving.’

  ‘Well, we will find it, I dare say.’

  We stepped outside, into an autumnal smell of wood-smoke. I shivered a little, for the damp feel of the air was more pronounced now. A little way off, brown-smocked servants were feeding the crowds of animals in their makeshift paddocks.

  ‘Let’s go through the church again,’ I said. ‘It’ll be somewhere round the manor house.’

  Again we trod with echoing footsteps through the monastic church, cold and full of deep shadows as the light faded, the only sound the horses stirring in their stalls. We walked out through the main door and stood looking out over the front courtyard. The workmen were busy as ever sawing and painting. I had never seen so many work so fast. Two servants were unloading lamps containing fat white candles from a cart and carrying them over to the men. Many of the tents were already lit by a glow from within.

  ‘Do they plan to work into the night then?’ Barak asked.

  ‘Looks like it. Let’s hope for their sakes it doesn’t rain.’

  I turned at a clinking sound. The glazier Oldroyd whom we had seen earlier walked slowly by, leading his enormous horse. It was one of those black Midland giants, the largest and strongest in the land, and it pulled a high-sided cart, full of glass.

  ‘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 wa
s 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.