C Sansom - Sovereign

‘Ay.’ He smiled thoughtfully. ‘Something to tell my children one day.’

I looked at him. He had never spoken of having children before; always he had seemed one who lived from day to day.

‘Perhaps we could help Master Wrenne find this nephew of his,’ I said. ‘You could ask around the Inns for me.’

‘Might be best to leave well alone. Might find this nephew doesn’t want to see him.’ A hard note crept into Barak’s voice, and I remembered he had cut himself off from his mother when she remarried, with much bitterness.

‘Perhaps. But we could try. It was sad his only child died.’

‘Ay.’ He paused. ‘Master Wrenne runs on a bit. All that talk of kings and the old wars.’

‘I remember a talk I had with Guy, just before we left.’

‘How is the old Moor?’

‘Well enough. I was talking of the King’s Progress, and he told me the story of the last king of his country, Granada. When he was a boy it was still a Moorish kingdom, independent from Spain. The last ruler, King Boabdil the Small-’

‘There’s a name! ’

‘Listen, will you. Guy saw him as a child carried through Granada in a litter, everyone bowing and showering him with flowers, as Brother Wrenne said the Yorkers did for King Richard. But Boabdil lost his kingdom to Spain, and had to flee in exile to the land of the Moors.’

‘What became of him?’

‘Guy said it was rumoured he died in a battle in Africa. The point is, no one knows. His power and glory were gone.’

As we walked up the street called Petergate, we heard a commotion of cries and shouts. Turning to look, we saw four ragged-looking beggars running towards us, holding up their arms to ward off blows aimed at their shoulders by three men in official-looking robes carrying stout birching-rods. They passed us and were driven on towards the river that divided the city. ‘Clearing the beggars from the city,’ I observed.

Barak watched as the ragged men were driven on to a large stone bridge. ‘And how are they supposed to live outside?’ he asked. ‘Beg alms from the trees and bushes?’

We were silent as we walked under the barbican at Bootham Bar. I saw that the heads on their poles, and the disgusting hank of flesh, had been removed. ‘No beggars, no rebels’ carrion,’ Barak observed. ‘The city’s to look its best for the King.’

I wondered if they would take Aske’s remains down from the castle. But probably the King would not visit that decayed and doleful spot.

DESPITE THE RAIN and darkness at St Mary’s, the workmen were still labouring away. Sounds of sawing and hammering came from the pavilions, while beside them men were working at putting up the gigantic tents, smoothing canvas and tautening ropes. I remembered seeing enormous tents in pictures of the Field of the Cloth of Gold. The courtyard was a sea of mud. I had never seen men work in such conditions before. Evidently there was a problem with drainage, for a group of labourers, caked in mud, had excavated a trench around the second pavilion and were extending it into a long channel, with much shouting and cursing. Officials stood arguing over plans in the doorway of the manor house; we squeezed through them and told the guard we needed to see Sir William Maleverer.

‘He’s not here, sir,’ the man said. ‘He’s ridden off to meet the Progress. At Leconfield, I believe.’

‘How far is that?’

‘Thirty miles off. He had an urgent summons. But he’ll be back tomorrow morning.’

I thought a moment. ‘Is the King’s coroner here? Master Archbold?’

‘He’s gone with him.’

I bit my lip. ‘There was an apprentice boy taken in the town by Sir William this morning, held for questioning. Perhaps a female servant too. Do you know what happened to them?’

He looked at me suspiciously. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘We were there when the apprentice was taken. I need to speak to Sir William about it.’

‘The boy’s been locked up, with strict orders he is to be held close till Sir William returns. The woman-servant was sent home; Sir William had just finished questioning her and was about to start on the boy when the summons came.’

‘Can I get a message to Sir William?’

‘In this weather it would take hours even for a fast messenger to reach the Progress and find him, sir. It would be just as well to wait until tomorrow morning. He is setting off first thing, I believe.’

I thought a moment. ‘All right. We’ll wait. Could you have a message left for Sir William, that Master Shardlake needs to see him, in connection with that boy? I shall be here tomorrow morning.’

There was nothing left to do but return to our lodgings. We walked along the side of the church – I was not going to take any shortcuts through that church again, even if it got us out of the rain. I saw the glazier’s cart had been removed.

‘I said I should have come back and given Maleverer a message,’ Barak said.

‘Thank you for reminding me,’ I answered drily. ‘I’ll probably get into trouble now. Why has he gone to meet the Progress? God’s wounds, is this matter important enough for him to need to consult the Privy Council?’

‘Richard Rich is on the Privy Council, isn’t he?’

‘Don’t remind me.’ I sighed deeply. ‘God’s death, I wish I’d never got entangled in this!’ I kicked out in anger at a discarded piece of wood on the duckboards, then reddened with embarrassment as I saw the stout figure of Master Craike approaching through the gloom. He was walking carefully along the slippery duckboards, swathed in a fur-lined coat with a hood up against the rain. He smiled, affecting not to notice my outbreak of temper.

‘Foul weather,’ he said.

‘Ay, it is. I see the glazier’s cart has gone.’

He nodded. ‘It was ordered to be searched, Jesu knows why. But are you all right, I heard you got locked in the chapterhouse?’ His eyes were alive with curiosity.

‘A foolish accident. I must thank you, sir, for your help this morning.’

‘It was nothing. But the glazier’s death seems to have caused a great stir. I was brought before Sir William earlier. He made me tell him everything that happened. Something is going on, sir,’ he said portentously.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘There seems to be. Tell me, Master Craike, how well did you know Oldroyd?’

He gave me a sharp look. ‘Not well,’ he answered quickly. ‘When he came to start work last week he asked if there was a place he could keep his horse and cart overnight, and I had to tell him he must leave the cart in the open, and take the horse home each night. There is so little room, you see. Afterwards, if I was passing I would exchange a few words with him. He seemed a pleasant enough fellow, and I was curious to talk to a Yorker. I have scarcely been into the town,’ he added; it seemed to me a little too quickly.

‘He seemed to regret the passing of the old ways.’ I looked keenly at Craike.

‘Perhaps. I did not discuss that with him. I have little time for talk, the amount of work there is. The Knight Harbinger has arrived, to see all is ready for the King. I am on my way to meet him.’ He wiped a drip of water from his hood. ‘In fact, I must be off.’

‘Ah well, no doubt I shall see you later. We must have that drink.’

‘We must,’ he said hastily. He stepped off the duckboards to walk round us, his feet squelching in the grass, and was gone.

‘He was keen to leave,’ Barak observed.

I watched his big form disappearing in the rain. ‘Yes. I suspect he’s a sympathizer with the old religion – he and Oldroyd probably shared opinions together. I hope that’s all.’ We resumed our way, passing the door we had gone through that morning.