Sovereign (7 page)

‘Then why provoke him?’

‘To show you. But I will have the physician fetched.’

‘Please do. Whatever he has done, that man is to be treated as well as safety allows. And you should call him Sir Edward – he is still entitled to the courtesy.’

‘Safety means he should be kept in no doubt who is master. You do not know what he is capable of.’

‘Very little, chained to a wall.’

Radwinter’s mouth set in a line as hard as a knife-blade. He stepped forward so his face was close to mine. His eyes seemed to bore into me.

‘I saw your sympathy for him,’ he said. ‘The softness in your face. That worries me, with a man as dangerous as that.’

I took a deep breath, for it was true that there was something about people being kept in cells that revolted me.

‘I have struck a nerve, I see.’ Radwinter smiled softly. ‘Then let me strike another. I distrust that sympathy in you, sir. Perhaps those who seem outcasts resonate in your
soul. Perhaps because of the condition of your back.’

My mouth tightened at the insult, at the same time as my stomach lurched in recognition that, again, he spoke true.

He nodded. ‘I am the one responsible for keeping Broderick secure, and for getting him back to London. There are those in this city who know he is here and would free him if they could, so
I must study and scrutinize all those I meet, look as far as I can into their souls. Even yours, sir.’

I stared into those cold eyes. ‘Get him his physician,’ I said curtly. ‘I will come again tomorrow to see how he progresses.’

He stared back a moment longer, then gave that little incline of his head. ‘At what time?’

‘When I choose,’ I answered, then turned and left the room.

O
UTSIDE,
B
ARAK WAS
sitting on a bench watching the comings and goings at the courthouse. A chill autumnal wind had risen,
bringing more leaves tumbling from the trees. He looked at me curiously.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked. I must have looked as drained as I felt.

I shook my head. ‘I don’t know which man is the worse,’ I said. ‘It seemed the gaoler, yet – I don’t know. ’ I looked to where Aske’s skeleton
dangled. The breeze made it swing a little to and fro, as though the dead white bones were struggling to be free.

A
GUARD TOLD US THAT
to reach St Mary’s Abbey we should follow a street called Coneygate. This was another narrow
lane full of busy shops, and again we proceeded at a snail’s pace. I noted a number of even narrower alleyways leading off, perhaps to squares and courts behind. I felt hemmed in by the
city.

As we passed a large inn I saw a group of young men in colourful slashed doublets standing in the doorway, flanked by watchful servants, looking out over the crowd as they drank wine from
leather bottles. One, a tall handsome young fellow with a dark beard, was pointing out members of the citizenry and laughing at their poor clothes. The evil looks he received made him laugh all the
louder. The advance guard of the Great Progress, I thought; these gentlemen should take better care.

I thought about Radwinter and Broderick. Gaoler and prisoner, ice and fire. It was clear Radwinter visited whatever petty torments he could on Broderick, to keep him down and probably for his
own enjoyment too. Such treatment could be dangerous; Sir Edward might be young but he was a gentleman, unused to privation. That burn on his chest could turn bad; I hoped there were good medical
men in York. I wished my old friend Guy was with me. But Guy was far away, working as an apothecary in London.

I could not help being troubled anew by Sir Edward’s accusation that I was keeping him safe for the torturers. He was right. And yet, for all his brave defiant words, Sir Edward had begged
Radwinter for something to drink. And I had been able to order it brought.

I remembered, too, Radwinter’s remark about my condition making me sympathetic to poor outcasts. How he could see into a man. Did he use such skills to delve into the minds of the heretics
in Cranmer’s gaol at the top of the Lollards’ Tower? But he was right; sympathy for Broderick could cloud my judgement. I recalled the prisoner’s sudden furious lunge at the
gaoler, and thought again, what has he done that he must be kept sealed away like a plague-carrier?

Outside a candlemaker’s shop I saw a plump, choleric-looking man in a red robe and broad-brimmed red hat, a gold chain of office round his neck, inspecting a box of candles. The mayor, I
thought. The candlemaker, his apron spotted with grease, looked on anxiously as the mayor lifted a fat yellow candle from the box and inspected it closely. Three black-robed officials stood by, one
carrying a gold mace.

‘It’ll do, I suppose,’ the mayor said. ‘Make sure only the finest beeswax goes to St Mary’s.’ He nodded and the group passed on to the next shop.

‘Doing his rounds.’ I said to Barak. ‘Making sure everything is in order for when the Progress arrives. And—’ I broke off with a start at the sound of a scream.

A young woman, standing at the mouth of one of the narrow alleys, was clutching a large basket, struggling to keep it from the grip of a ragged youth with a large wart on his nose who was trying
to pull it from her. I saw it was the girl who had winked at Barak earlier. Another churl, a fair-haired boy with a broken nose, held her round the waist. Barak threw me Sukey’s reins and
leaped from his horse, drawing his sword. A couple of passers-by stepped back hastily.

‘Leave her, you arseholes!’ Barak shouted. The two youths at once let go, turned and ran pell-mell up the alley. Barak made to follow, but the girl seized his arm.

‘No, sir, no! Stay with me, please, these are for Queen Catherine.’

Barak sheathed his sword, smiling at her. ‘You’re all right now, mistress.’

I dismounted carefully, keeping hold of both horses’ reins. Genesis shifted his hooves uneasily.

‘What happened?’ I asked her. ‘What do you mean, your basket is for the Queen?’

She turned to me, her cornflower-blue eyes wide. ‘I am a servant in the Queen’s privy kitchen, sir. I was sent to buy some of the things the Queen likes.’ I looked in the
basket. There were sticks of cinnamon, almonds and pieces of root ginger. The girl gave a little curtsey. ‘My name is Tamasin, sir. Tamasin Reedbourne.’ I noted she had a London accent
and it struck me her fustian dress was expensive wear for a kitchenmaid.

‘Are you all right, mistress?’ Barak asked. ‘Those knaves looked as though they’d pull your pretty arms from their sockets.’

She smiled, showing white teeth and a pair of pretty dimples. ‘I wouldn’t let go. When the Queen arrives her lodgings are to be filled with her favourite doucets, all made from
ingredients bought here in York.’ She looked between us. ‘Are you here to meet the Progress, sirs?’

‘Ay.’ I gave a little bow. ‘I am a lawyer, Master Shardlake. This is my assistant, Jack Barak.’

Barak doffed his cap and the girl smiled at him again, a little coquettishly now. ‘You are brave, sir. I noticed you earlier, did I not?’

‘You know you gave me a pretty smile.’

‘You had a bodyservant in King’s livery with you then,’ I said.

‘Ay, sir. But Master Tanner wished to buy a piece of cloth and I gave him leave to go into that shop.’ She shook her head. ‘It was foolish, sir, was it not? I forgot what a
barbarous place this is.’

‘Is that him?’ I asked, pointing to a thin-faced young man wearing the King’s badge who had just left a shop on the other side of the road. I recognized him from that morning.
He crossed to where we stood, hand on his sword-hilt.

‘Mistress Reedbourne?’ he asked nervously. ‘What is the matter?’

‘Well may you ask, Tanner! While you were choosing cloth for your new doublet, two youths tried to steal the Queen’s dainties. This man rescued me.’ She smiled again at
Barak.

Master Tanner cast his eyes to the ground. Genesis pulled at the reins.

‘We must go,’ I said. ‘We are due at St Mary’s. Come, Barak, they will be waiting like everyone else to tell us we were expected yesterday.’ I settled matters by
bowing to Mistress Reedbourne. She curtsied again.

‘I am lodged at St Mary’s too,’ she said sweetly. ‘Perhaps I shall see you again.’

‘I hope so.’ Barak replaced his cap, then winked, making the girl turn scarlet. We rode off.

‘That was a bit of excitement,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Not that there was any danger, they were just ragamuffin lads. Must have thought there was something valuable in that
basket.’

‘You did well.’ I smiled sardonically. ‘Rescuing the Queen’s doucets.’

‘The girl’s a little doucet herself. I’d not mind a game of hot-cockles with her.’

A
T THE TOP OF
Coneygate we passed into another road that ran alongside the high walls of the abbey. The King’s guards patrolled the top of the
walls, and beyond them I saw the high steeple we had seen on our way in, almost as high as the Minster. The monasteries had all had enclosing walls, though I had never seen any so high as this; St
Mary’s must have been an enormous site. Such a wall would greatly help security and I wondered whether this was why the abbey had been chosen for the King’s base in York.

Once again we passed under the barbican at Bootham Bar, this time turning left to join a queue of riders and pedestrians waiting to go into the abbey. My commission was scrutinized with care
before we were allowed to pass. Inside, we dismounted. Barak took the panniers containing our belongings from the horses’ backs and slung them over his shoulders, then joined me in staring at
the scene before us.

Directly ahead was a large manor house that must once have been the abbot’s residence. It was splendid even by the standards the abbots of the large monasteries allowed themselves, a
three-storey building in red brick with high narrow chimneys. Beds of small white roses lined the walls. There had once been a lawn too but it had been turned to muddy earth by the passage of
innumerable feet and cartwheels. Some men were excavating what turf was left, replacing it with flagstones, while a little way off others were digging up what must have been the monks’
graveyard, hauling up the gravestones and manhandling them onto carts. Above the main door of the manor the royal arms had been hung on a large shield.

Beyond the manor house stood an enormous monastic church of Norman design, one of the largest I had seen, its square tower topped by an enormous stone steeple, the façade decorated with
ornate buttresses and carved pillars. The manor house and the church made two sides of a great courtyard, an area perhaps a furlong in length. There an amazing spectacle was taking shape.
Outbuildings had been demolished, leaving trenches where foundations had once stood. Dozens of tents had been planted on the space, and hundreds of men were labouring in the open, working on the
final stages of the construction of two enormous pavilions. Forty feet high, they had been built to resemble castles, complete with turrets and barbican gates; all in wood but painted and designed
to resemble stone. Workmen on ladders swarmed over the extraordinary buildings, fixing plaster images of heraldic beasts, painting the walls in bright colours, glazing the windows. As I watched, I
thought there was something familiar about the designs of the pavilions.

Trestle tables stood everywhere in the yard, carpenters hewing and planing huge lengths of wood. A pile of perhaps fifty trunks of young oak was stacked against the abbey wall, and sawdust lay
everywhere. Other workmen were carving ornamental cornices in complex designs, the colours bright in the dull afternoon.

Barak whistled. ‘God’s wounds. What are they planning here?’

‘Some spectacle the like of which I’ve never imagined.’

We stood a moment longer watching the extraordinary scene, then I touched Barak’s arm. ‘Come. We have to find the man in charge of the accommodation. Simon Craike.’ I smiled.
‘I knew him, a long time ago.’

Barak shifted the weight of the panniers on his shoulders. ‘Did you?’

‘He was a fellow student at Lincoln’s Inn. I haven’t seen him since, though. He never practised, he went into the royal administration.’