‘Come on!’ Mistress Marlin walked away with a swish of skirts. There was an odd stiffness about her gait, as though her body was held tight with tension. If she had a fiancé in the Tower she would have much to worry about. Tamasin spoke quickly to Barak. ‘Will you be dining in the hall tonight?’
‘I don’t know, mistress. We haven’t even had time for breakfast yet.’
‘But you will be entitled to bouche of court. Do you not have dockets?’
‘Not yet,’ I said.
‘I will get some for you.’
‘We will not be dining till late,’ I said. ‘We have a busy day.’
‘Say six, then?’
‘That will be fine,’ Barak said. ‘Six o’clock.’
Tamasin curtsied quickly and went to join her mistress. They disappeared into the house. I shook my head. ‘That girl is the most pert creature I have ever come across.’
‘Her mistress is a rude bitch.’
‘Yes, she is. These royal women-servants seem to think they can take any liberty. And that young Tamasin has set her sights on you.’
Barak smiled. ‘Can’t say I mind. Not short of spirit, is she?’
‘Come,’ I said. ‘Let’s see if there’s anywhere in this great warren where we can arrange for messages to be sent.’
A guard directed us to a tent where boys were running in and out, carrying papers. A whole system for sending messages around the city had been set up. The man in charge seemed reluctant to get word to Wrenne, but mention of Maleverer’s name worked wonders, and a lad was despatched with a scribbled note.
We fetched our outdoor clothes and made our way to the gate to Bootham. People were scurrying in and out under the barbican and one of the King’s soldiers was arguing with a dusty-looking couple who had stepped down from a poor wagon covered with sacks. Both wore baggy smocks of strange design, green squares of different sizes intersecting across a russet background.
‘We heard they were crying out for all the produce as they can get for the King’s visit!’ the man said in the accent of a Scotchman.
‘No Scotch in the city while the King’s here, no vagabonds,’ the guard said implacably.
‘But we’ve driven from Jedburgh. We’ve the year’s oat harvest here.’
‘Then serve it to thy border reivers that steal our cattle. Turn round and be off. No Scotch!’
The couple remounted their wagon wearily. The guard winked at us as we approached. ‘Keep the barbarians out, eh?’ A Yorkman by his accent, he looked pleased with himself. I reflected that yesterday Brother Kimber had used the same word about the northern English.
We walked back into the city. The Guildhall was only a few streets away, in a square next to another abandoned monastery, the roof gone. How full this city must have been of monks and friars. The Guildhall was busy as the King’s Manor, a scurry of people going in and out. It was an imposing building, though far smaller than its counterpart in London. I asked the guard at the door where I might find the city coroner.
‘He’s not here, maister.’ The man looked at us curiously. ‘But Recorder Tankerd is within.’ He let us pass, into a big hall with a splendid hammerbeam roof where merchants and officials stood talking as officials bustled in and out of side-rooms. I asked a passing clerk where I could find the Recorder; the title of the city’s chief legal officer was the same as in London.
‘He’s with t’mayor. I doubt he can see you, sir.’
‘I come from Sir William Maleverer.’
Once again that name brought results. ‘Oh. Then come with me, sir.’
We followed the clerk to a large room with a fine view across the river, where two men stood at a table poring over gold coins, counted into piles. I recognized the plump figure of the mayor in his bright red robes from the day before. ‘With all the people we’ve canvassed,’ he was saying crossly, ‘they’ll say we should have collected more.’
‘It was hard enough getting this much. And the gold cup is a good one.’ The other man was younger, with a thin, serious face, wearing a lawyer’s robe.
‘This won’t fill it.’ The mayor looked up angrily at our entrance. ‘Jesu’s blood, Oswaldkirke, what is it now?’
The clerk bowed almost to the floor. ‘Maister Mayor, this gentleman has come from Sir William Maleverer.’
The mayor sighed, waving the clerk out, and turned protuberant eyes to me. ‘Well, sir, how can I help Sir William now?’ He pointed irritably at the piles of coins. ‘The Recorder and I are preparing the city’s present to the King for Friday.’
I introduced myself and explained my mission to investigate the glazier’s death. ‘I have been asked to deal with the matter,’ I said, ‘but wished to inform the York coroner, as a courtesy. Perhaps he may be able to give me some aid,’ I added hopefully.
The mayor frowned. ‘I knew Peter Oldroyd, he was chairman of the glaziers’ guild two years ago. The city should investigate this.’
‘If the death took place on royal property, the King’s coroner has jurisdiction,’ said the thin-faced man. He extended a hand. ‘William Tankerd, the city Recorder.’ He smiled, but eyed me curiously.
‘Matthew Shardlake, of London.’
‘God’s death,’ the mayor snapped pettishly. ‘Am I to have no authority left in my own city?’ He sighed and waved a hand at the Recorder. ‘Take them outside, Tankerd, they shouldn’t be in here with all this gold. Tell him what he needs to know, but don’t be long.’
Tankerd led us outside. ‘Forgive Mayor Hall,’ he said. ‘We have much to do before Friday. People are still throwing rubbish in the streets and they won’t clear their middens, no matter how we threaten them.’
‘I am sorry to trouble you, sir. If you could tell me where I may find the coroner…’
He shook his head. ‘I fear Maister Sykes is out of town today, holding an inquest over at the Ainsty.’
‘Then may I ask where Master Oldroyd lived? His family should be told.’ That was an aspect of my task I was not looking forward to.
‘All the glaziers live in Stonegate. It is almost opposite here, up the road from St Helen’s church. Oldroyd lived just beyond the churchyard, I believe.’
‘Thank you, sir. Then I will go there.’
He nodded, then gave me a sharp look. ‘Take care, sir. With the monasteries going down, the glaziers have lost much of their work. They are not friendly to southrons.’
ALMOST OPPOSITE THE SQUARE from the Guildhall stood an old church with fine glasswork, and a passer-by confirmed the narrow street running alongside it was Stonegate. It was bounded on one side by the ancient churchyard and the buildings were tall and narrow, overhanging eaves cutting out much of the light from the grey sky. As we walked down it we saw some houses had signs outside showing glazed windows, and I could hear tinkling and hammering from workshops behind. Halfway down Stonegate the churchyard ended. ‘Round here somewhere,’ Barak said.
I stopped a passer-by, a middle-aged man with a square face and black hair under a wide cap, and asked if he knew which was Master Oldroyd’s house.
‘Who wants t’know?’ he replied, looking at me keenly. I noticed his hands were covered in scars as Oldroyd’s had been.
‘We come from St Mary’s,’ I said. ‘I am afraid he has met with an accident.’
‘An accident? Peter?’ His face filled with concern.
‘Did you know him, sir?’
‘Of course I did, he is in my guild and a friend too. What happened, maister lawyer?’
‘He fell from his ladder early this morning while working on the monastery church. I fear he is dead.’
The man frowned. ‘Fell from his ladder?’
‘The circumstances are uncertain. We have been appointed to investigate by the King’s coroner,’ I said. ‘If you knew him, Master…’
‘Ralph Dike. I’m a master glazier, as Peter was. He was a good man.’
‘Perhaps you could tell us about Master Oldroyd. Does he have a family?’