‘I do not mind,’ I said with a smile. Craike looked relieved. He scrabbled on his little desk, found a piece of paper and led us past the row of stalls. The doors were numbered.
‘Eighteen, nineteen – yes, those are yours.’ He made a mark on the paper, then smiled. ‘Well, sir, it has been good to see you again, but I must leave you now.’
‘Of course, sir. But I hope we may meet for that cup of ale while we are here.’
‘If time allows, I would be pleased. But all this –’ he waved a hand towards the courtyard – ‘a nightmare.’ He gave a quick bow and then, with another glance at his list, he was gone.
‘Well, let’s see what we’ve got,’ I said to Barak. There was a key in the lock of the cubicle door and I turned it. Inside, apart from a small chest for storage, a truckle bed was the only furniture. I eased off my riding boots and lay down with a groan of relief. After a few minutes there was a knock and Barak came in, barefoot and carrying my pannier. I sat up.
‘God’s wounds,’ I said. ‘Your feet stink. But I dare say mine do too.’
‘They do.’
I noted the tiredness in his voice. ‘Let us take the chance to rest this afternoon,’ I said. ‘We can sleep till dinner-time.’
‘Ay.’ He shook his head. ‘What a scurry. I’ve never seen so many goods and animals in one place. And whatever secret pageantry they are planning out there to be catered for.’
I clicked my fingers. ‘Those pavilions reminded me of something,’ I said. ‘I’ve just realized it. The Field of the Cloth of Gold.’
‘When the King went to Calais to meet the French King?’
‘Ay. Twenty years since. There’s a painting of the pageant in the Guildhall. They built huge pavilions of just those designs, and giant tents all gilded with cloth of gold, which gave the occasion its name. Of course, Lucas Hourenbout is using those designs as a precedent.’
‘For what?’
‘I don’t know. Some very great celebration. But perhaps we should restrain our curiosity, just get on with our business.’
‘Dun’s the mouse.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And Lady Rochford’s here. God’s death, she’s one to avoid.’
I looked at him seriously. ‘Ay. She was part of your old master’s darkest scheme.’
Barak shifted uncomfortably. Jane Rochford had been one of those used by Thomas Cromwell to discredit Queen Anne Boleyn through accusations of sexual misconduct five years before. Lady Rochford’s evidence had been the most terrible: that George Boleyn, her own husband and Queen Anne’s brother, had had incestuous relations with the Queen. I had reason to know for certain what most people believed, that the charges against Queen Anne had been fabricated for political reasons.
‘She has made herself a byword for the worst treachery,’ I continued. ‘And was well rewarded for it. Made Lady of the Privy Chamber to Jane Seymour, then Anne of Cleves and now Catherine Howard.’
‘Didn’t look very happy on it, though, did she?’
‘No, she didn’t. There was something underneath her angry bluster. Well, it cannot be much fun knowing the whole world hates you. Let’s hope we don’t have to see her again.’
‘But you’ve to meet the King.’
‘So it seems.’ I shook my head. ‘Somehow I cannot quite take that in.’
‘And you have to be involved with the prisoner at the castle. No choice there.’
‘No. But again, I’m going to ask as few questions as I can.’ I told Barak the details of what had passed at York Castle, Radwinter’s cruelty and Broderick’s sudden lunge at him, though I left out what the gaoler had said about my having sympathy for the prisoner. At the end he looked thoughtful.
‘Those skilled in dealing with dangerous prisoners, guarding and watching them, are rare. Earl Cromwell prized such men greatly.’ He looked at me seriously. ‘I think you’re right. Don’t get involved with either of them any more than you have to.’
He left me, saying he would call me in time for dinner. I heard a creak and a sigh as he lay down on the bed next door. I closed my eyes and was soon asleep. I dreamed I heard my father calling to me from outside the room, his voice clear and vivid, but that when I rose from the little bed to join him the cubicle door had been replaced by one as thick and heavy as the one in Broderick’s cell, and it was locked.
BARAK HAD THE ENVIABLE gift of being able to tell himself, before he went to sleep, when he wanted to wake, and he seldom failed to do so at his allotted time. His knock at my cubicle brought me from my troubled dreams. The room was gloomy, and glancing from the window I saw the sun was low in the sky. I joined him in the hall. There were other people there now, clerks and two lawyers in black robes, young fellows. One of them, a small thin man who stood warming his hands by the fire, caught my eye and bowed.
‘You have newly joined us, sir?’ he asked, studying us with large curious eyes.
‘Yes. Brother Shardlake of Lincoln’s Inn and my assistant Barak. We are here to assist with the petitions to the King.’
‘Ah.’ He looked impressed, and smiled ingratiatingly. ‘Paul Kimber, sir. I am also from Lincoln’s Inn.’ He bowed again.
‘What work are you doing with the Progress?’
‘Supervising the drawing up of contracts with suppliers along the way, in the Purveyor’s office. Well, helping to. I have come all the way with the Progress, and hard work it has been negotiating with these northern barbarians.’ He laughed contemptuously.
‘Do you know where we might find some dinner?’ I asked.
‘At the common dining hall. We have to eat all hugger-mugger with the clerks and carpenters. You’ll need a docket, though, to show you are entitled to bouche of court.’
‘Where do we get those?’
‘At the Office of the Great Hall.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Not sure where that is now. They were moving it today, to bigger premises, in anticipation of the Progress arriving.’
‘Well, we will find it, I dare say.’
We stepped outside, into an autumnal smell of wood-smoke. I shivered a little, for the damp feel of the air was more pronounced now. A little way off, brown-smocked servants were feeding the crowds of animals in their makeshift paddocks.
‘Let’s go through the church again,’ I said. ‘It’ll be somewhere round the manor house.’
Again we trod with echoing footsteps through the monastic church, cold and full of deep shadows as the light faded, the only sound the horses stirring in their stalls. We walked out through the main door and stood looking out over the front courtyard. The workmen were busy as ever sawing and painting. I had never seen so many work so fast. Two servants were unloading lamps containing fat white candles from a cart and carrying them over to the men. Many of the tents were already lit by a glow from within.
‘Do they plan to work into the night then?’ Barak asked.
‘Looks like it. Let’s hope for their sakes it doesn’t rain.’
I turned at a clinking sound. The glazier Oldroyd whom we had seen earlier walked slowly by, leading his enormous horse. It was one of those black Midland giants, the largest and strongest in the land, and it pulled a high-sided cart, full of glass.
‘A good day’s labour, fellow?’ I asked.
‘A busy day, maister, ay,’ he said in a quiet voice. He touched his cap and I saw his hand was criss-crossed with tiny scars; from a lifetime’s cuts, no doubt. ‘They let me keep the glass and lead as payment for my services.’
‘What do you do with it?’
‘It goes to gentlemen’s houses. A mythical beast or a ploughman at his toil makes a pretty centre-pane for a window, and cheaper than staining new glass.’ He paused. ‘But I am commanded to melt down the figures of monks and saints. It is sad, they are often beautiful.’ He stopped suddenly and gave me an anxious look; such comments could be construed as criticism of the King’s policy. I smiled to show I took no exception to his words. For a moment I thought he might say something more, but he lowered his head again and led his mighty horse off towards the gate.