C Sansom - Sovereign

‘The soldiers seem to be going, the King’s visit must be over. I think we may make our way across to the Minster now.’

‘I would have liked to see the King,’ Tamasin said. ‘I only glimpsed him for a moment when he came to York.’

‘You do not see him in the course of your duties?’ Giles asked.

‘No. Only the Queen occasionally, and I have never spoken with her.’

‘Well, seeing His Majesty once can be enough, eh, Matthew?’

‘It can indeed,’ I replied feelingly.

WE MADE OUR WAY outside and walked up the little street to the Minster forecourt. But we had miscalculated; Henry had not gone. Soldiers still lined the walls and the King, who had just descended the Minster steps, was stumping heavily towards us on his stick. There was a retinue of courtiers behind him, and a white-haired old man in robes like Cranmer’s walked at his side, who I realized must be Archbishop Lee of York. The King, dressed today in a heavy fur-lined robe open to show his jewelled doublet and thick gold chain, was berating the old man; his face was red with anger, redder than his beard. We stood by the wall, bowing our heads – I bowed mine as low as it would go, praying the King would not recognize me and stop for another of his merry jests.

‘God’s blood!’ we heard Henry shout in his hoarse, squeaky voice. ‘That shrine is large and rich enough to hold the bones of a monarch, not a long-dead archbishop! Remove all those offerings and have the whole thing down! God’s death, Lee, I will have either it or you in pieces on a dunghill, do you hear? You would have kept me from seeing it!’ His voice rose. ‘I ordered the shrines closed and I will have every one in England down. I will have no authority in religion save mine!’

His voice faded as he passed by. I ventured to look up. The courtiers were following now and the King was walking on. I looked at the back of his fur-collared, rich velvet coat. Was he really the grandson of some commoner? I trembled a little, as though my thoughts could somehow reach him. I saw his limp was very bad; without his jewelled stick I doubted he could walk at all. The soldiers peeled away from the walls and followed behind their master as he went through the gates.

‘Well, Tammy,’ Barak said. ‘You got to see the King close to after all.’

‘I did not know he looked so old,’ she said quietly. ‘Pity the Queen.’

‘Pity all of us,’ Giles said. ‘Come, let us go in.’

THE INTERIOR OF THE Minster was a wonder, the nave larger than St Paul’s and more brightly lit. I stared around me through a light haze of incense. From the inside the magnificence of the stained glass was even more apparent, the great east window dominating all. In side-chapels and little niches, chantry priests stood quietly murmuring their masses. Again I thought of the strangeness of the pattern reform had taken in England: the great monastic church at St Mary’s had been turned into a stable and smithy, while the Minster stood intact.

Tamasin pointed to a strange object, the painted figure of a long-necked dragon that hung over the nave. ‘What is that, Master Wrenne?’

‘A lever for the lid of the great font. A touch of decorative humour. Out of fashion these days.’

I walked to where Barak stood a little way off, looking at a richly decorated side-chapel. A little group of clerics stood nearby. One of them was the man Wrenne had pointed out as the Dean. He was looking grimly pleased. ‘So do it,’ he said. ‘Commission the workmen.’ He stalked away, his footsteps echoing on the tiled floor.

‘He’s been ordering them to take down a great shrine in the quire,’ Barak told me. ‘The King was furious when he saw all the offerings laid before it.’

‘Earwigging, were you?’ I asked with a smile.

‘Might as well.’ He shrugged. ‘Can’t say these old churches interest me.’

‘Tamasin seems enthralled.’

‘That’s women for you.’

‘Any word from London? About who her father might be?’

‘None. She’s stopped talking about it. I lost my temper with her, in fact.’ He looked shamefaced. ‘Told her she should let it go, stop thinking about it all the time. Seems to have done the trick, she’s hardly mentioned it since.’

We went over and joined Tamasin before the quire screen. It was decorated with a series of life-size figures that I recognized as the kings of England, from William the Conqueror to Henry V. They were exquisitely done. I counted them. ‘Eleven,’ I said.

‘Are they not marvellous?’ Tamasin asked.

‘Yes.’

She pointed to the statues. ‘Why does the row stop with King Henry V?’

‘Good question. Master Wrenne may know.’ I looked around for the old man, but there was no sign of him.

‘He went off through there,’ Tamasin said, nodding to the door to the quire.

‘I will go and look. No, stay here,’ I added as they made to follow. I hoped he had not been taken ill again; if so, I did not want the others to see.

I walked into the quire, lined with rows of high, beautifully decorated wooden pews. To one side stood an enormous, ornate construction in dark wood, richly adorned with pillars and arches. A decorated sepulchre was set atop a bier ten feet high, with niches carved in the side where people could kneel and pray. Offerings were hung on the bier: rosaries and rings and necklaces. Giles knelt in a niche, praying intently, his lips moving silently. Hearing my footsteps, he turned. He stared blankly for a moment, his mind far away. Then he smiled and rose stiffly to his feet.

‘Forgive me,’ I said. ‘I did not mean to interrupt.’

‘No, no, it was discourteous of me to leave you.’ He waved at the shrine. ‘Well, behold the shrine of St William, that so angered the King.’

‘Who was he?’

‘An early archbishop of York. It is said the Ouse bridge collapsed when he was crossing it in procession, but by divine intervention none were killed. He is the patron saint of the city; many come to pray for his intercession, as you see.’

I nodded uncomfortably. To me tales of centuries-old miracles had no meaning; and the shrine struck me over-elaborate, even ugly.

‘It seems those who say the King’s passion for reform died with Cromwell were wrong,’ Giles said. ‘As we heard from his own lips, St William’s shrine will be destroyed. It offends his great vanity.’

‘It seems so,’ I said quietly.

‘Would you approve?’ He gave me a sharp look.

‘I confess saints and shrines mean little to me. But perhaps it is a shame to destroy it if it means so much to the people.’

‘Now this too is to be taken from York.’ He sighed. ‘Well, let us go.’ With a last look at the shrine, he turned away. We returned to the nave, where Tamasin and Barak still stood before the statues of the kings.

‘Master Wrenne?’ Tamasin asked him. ‘Why do the Kings stop at Henry V?’

‘Ah. There used to be a figure of Henry VI there, the Lancastrian king who was defeated in the Wars of the Roses. Many believed him to be a saint, and people would come and make offerings beneath his statue. The Yorkist kings did not approve, so the statue was removed.’ He turned to me and raised his eyebrows. ‘So you see, kings as well as saints may be written out of history.’

Two clerks walked past us, going into the quire. ‘Tomorrow?’ I heard one say to the other.

‘Ay. He’s tired of waiting, they’re packing up tonight and going on to Hull in the morning. The King’s said to be furious, perhaps that’s why the shrine angered him so.’