Sovereign (52 page)

‘It can indeed,’ I replied feelingly.

W
E 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.’

T
HE INTERIOR OF THE M
inster 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.’

I turned to him. ‘Pardon me, sir. Is the King leaving?’

The old man smiled. ‘Ay sir. First thing tomorrow. He has given up on waiting for King James. They’re packing everything up at the camp already.’ He smiled, evidently pleased
at the news.

I turned back to my companions. Our faces lit up with relief. ‘At last,’ Tamasin said. ‘God be praised!’

W
HEN WE RETURNED TO
St Mary’s we found the scene already transformed. The royal tents were being taken down, men
carefully wrapping the rich tapestries and furnishings and loading them on to carts.

An official posted in the yard stopped us. ‘Sirs, mistress. A moment please. Have you horses stabled in the church?’

‘Yes.’

‘Be sure you fetch them early tomorrow morning. All must be present in the courtyard by six.’

‘That early?’

‘Yes. The Progress is to be at Howlme on Spalding Moor by nightfall The King wants to shake the dust of York from his feet.’

‘Where will we sleep tomorrow?’ Barak asked.

‘In tents, of course, in the fields. Howlme Manor is big enough only for the royal household. Sir, excuse me.’ The official grabbed the arm of another man who had come in, and Barak
grinned at Tamasin. ‘You’ll have to sleep in the mud tomorrow, Tammy.’

She tossed her head. ‘The Queen’s servants always have good tents.’ She made a face. ‘Well, usually.’ We laughed, our hearts lifted by the thought of moving on at
last.

‘I had best check what the arrangements are for Broderick,’ I said to Barak. ‘I will see you later.’

‘D’you not want me to come with you?’

I hesitated. But surely I was safe in full daylight. ‘No. I will be safe among the soldiery. I will see you at the refectory in an hour.’

I left them and headed off to the cell. I thought about Giles. He had said he would arrive at King’s Manor at dawn; I hoped he would be able to find us in the mêlée there was
bound to be tomorrow morning. He had returned home, to prepare for the journey that would end in London.

S
ERGEANT
L
EACON WAS
standing guard over Broderick’s cell with a soldier. I greeted them.

‘Well, sir,’ the sergeant said. ‘So we are to be off at last. I am not sorry.’

‘Me neither. What is to happen with Broderick?’

‘He is to be put in a carriage with Radwinter. Sir William came and told us. He is relieved Broderick is to be moved at last. He will be in the Tower soon.’

‘Ay.’ I thought the news that had brought such relief to me only brought Broderick nearer to torture and death.

‘My men and I will ride alongside the carriage.’ The sergeant looked at me seriously. ‘It is to be close guarded, sealed from the rest of the Progress.’

‘How is he?’

‘Quiet, as usual. Radwinter is in with him now. He is back in charge.’ His face twisted with distaste.

I looked through the barred window. Broderick was lying on his bed, Radwinter kneeling beside him talking quietly. A candle was set by the bed. Broderick’s eyes glinted as he turned to
look at me. Radwinter stood, frowned for a second, then came and unlocked the door. He gave me his mocking smile. ‘Master Shardlake. We have been looking forward to your visit, Sir Edward and
I tire of each other.’

I entered the cell. It smelled rankly. ‘He fares well?’

‘Ay. And has eaten his meals like a good fellow.’ I looked at Broderick. He did not look well to me; his face had a yellow tinge.

‘He should have some exercise,’ I said.

Radwinter shook his head firmly. ‘No, he is not to be seen abroad. He is to be kept close till we reach London. Though it makes the hours hang heavy. To help them pass I have been telling
Sir Edward tales of the Lollards’ Tower, some of the prisoners I have known.’

Broderick raised himself on one elbow. ‘He seeks to frighten me with accounts of the burnings and disembowellings he has sent people to. It is a relief to see even your long face, Master
Shardlake.’ There was a hint of patrician disdain in his voice, reminding me he had once been a man of status.

‘We move on tomorrow, Sir Edward,’ I said. ‘Have you been told?’