C Sansom - Sovereign

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 walked 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.

I looked at him. For more than a year I had been the one in charge, showing him the ways of the law, but suddenly he was Lord Cromwell’s man of action again, keen and alert. I nodded reluctantly and felt for my dagger. ‘Come on then.’

Barak led the way along the wall. The mist was thinning now, a pale sun showing through. Sure enough, a short way beyond the cart a little door was set in the wall. It had a big keyhole and I wondered if it was locked, but when Barak pushed the door it opened with the same rusty creak I had heard earlier. Drawing his sword, he pushed the door wide. We stepped in.

‘Look,’ he breathed. He pointed down at a fresh set of footprints. The damp smudges went from the door across the church. I strained to look, twisting my head, for a large pillar blocked our view.

‘I can’t see anything,’ I whispered.

‘Let’s just follow the footprints. They’re very recent – whoever made them was in the damp grass for a good while.’

‘So there was someone.’

Barak nodded. ‘Dodged into the church when he heard you coming, and ran. He’s probably gone out one of the main doors now.’

I shook my head. ‘If I was him, knowing there was about to be a great hue and cry, I’d have hidden in the church until the crowds were gone. Jesu knows there are enough dark spaces.’

Barak took a firm grip of his sword. ‘Let’s follow those prints.’

The marks on the tiled floor were faint but visible. They crossed the breadth of the church, intersecting with the trail of mud and dung left by those taking the shortcut along the length of the nave, then continued, fainter, on the other side to where a large internal doorway stood, its arch decorated with scenes from the life of Christ. The door was open a little, and the wet smudges ended there.

Barak smiled. ‘Got him,’ he whispered. ‘This’ll be a feather in our caps.’ He stepped back, then kicked the door wide, the crash echoing and re-echoing around the great abandoned church. We looked in. An elaborately decorated vestibule lay ahead, with a low vaulted ceiling supported by wide carved pillars. Ahead, another archway led to a large inner room, lit by a big stained-glass window that had survived and through which daylight filtered dimly; probably the chapterhouse. We stepped inside, watching the pillars carefully lest our quarry had concealed himself behind one.

‘Come on!’ Barak called out. ‘We’ve got you! Give yourself up!’

‘Stay by the door,’ I suggested. ‘I’ll go and find those soldiers.’

‘No, I fancy taking this one myself.’

‘Barak!’ I said. ‘Be sensible!’ But he was already moving round the room, sword held out before him. I pulled out my dagger, peering into the corners. The anteroom was ill-lit, it was difficult to see. Then Barak let out a sudden yell.

‘Jesu Christ!’

I ran across to where he stood in the doorway to the inner room. It was empty, all the furniture removed, but round the walls stood two tiers of men, dressed in brightly coloured robes. I saw white hair, long beards, pink faces and glinting eyes. I stood with my mouth open for a second, then laughed.