by C. J. Sansom
‘You had a safe journey?’ I asked.
‘Ay, ’twas uneventful.’ He looked at me curiously. ‘I heard about the thorns under your horse’s saddle.’
‘Does everyone on the Progress know?’
‘It caused quite a stir.’ He jerked his head at the carriage behind him. ‘Is it something to do with Broderick?’
‘I think not.’ I sighed. ‘I came for a walk, to get away from the crowds.’
He smiled. ‘I too found that great pack of people on the Progress oppressive at first, when we left London. You get used to it.’
‘I am not sure I ever could. I thought I would walk up to the village. A friend of mine has gone there. Perhaps you saw him pass? A tall old fellow with a stick, wearing a lawyer’s robe?’
‘Ay. He went up a short while ago.’ He glanced at the carriage. ‘Sir, I do not like the look of the prisoner. He has a yellow colour, he has seemed sickly ever since he was poisoned. He should be allowed some air; it cannot do him good to be locked up in there all the time with that man.’
‘You are right.’
‘It would pity any man’s heart to see the poor fellow. Whatever he has done. He looks and moves like an old man, though I am told he is not yet thirty.’
‘Yes.’ I shook my head. ‘And he will die horribly for his beliefs, like so many in these last years.’
Sergeant Leacon gave me a curious look. ‘He was prepared to kill for those beliefs as well. If the north had risen this spring as they planned, there would have been much bloodshed.’
I nodded slowly. ‘Yes, you are right, sergeant. There would. Perhaps I have become over-sympathetic to our prisoner. Yet I have to watch for his welfare. I will speak to Maleverer, see if some arrangement can be made for him to have exercise.’ I looked at the black carriage. ‘I cannot face seeing Radwinter just now. I will take my walk, and call in on my way back to see how Broderick does.’
‘Be careful, sir, if you have enemies about.’
‘I will.’ I looked at the young soldier. ‘Is there any more news of your parents’ land case?’
‘Only a letter from my uncle saying they are sore worried. He plans to bring them to London to see me when the Progress returns. I will be billeted at the Tower then.’
‘Bring them to see me,’ I said. ‘I am sorry for my part in their trouble.’
‘Can you help them, do you think?’
‘I cannot say without seeing the papers in the case. But if I can, I shall. I promise.’
The sergeant gave me a long, searching look. ‘I hope so, sir. If they are turned off their land they will have nothing.’
FEELING GUILTY, I left the field and began to mount the hill. The path was wide, bordered by oak woods, covered thickly in fallen leaves so that I had to be careful not to slip. I felt a moment’s nervousness at being thus alone, but reflected that if anyone else came up the hill I should see them.
A chill breeze blew. The village, when I reached it, was but a single street of poor houses straddling the upward path. A few chickens and pigs rooted about but apart from some children playing by a puddle I saw no one; most of the adults had probably been pressed into service to help settle the Progress for the night.
Beyond the village the hill grew steeper. At the summit the path came out on to a stretch of open ground in front of the square-towered Norman church, the ancient churchyard to its left extending back to woods behind. I halted in front of the lychgate to get my breath. There was a stiff breeze up here and the air felt clean. To my right I saw an enormous beacon, twenty feet high, made of planks secured in place by thick ropes. I went over to study it. It was one of the beacons Cromwell had ordered to be set on hills all over the country three years ago, when it looked as though the French and Spanish might invade England at the Pope’s behest.
From up here I could see the camp as it spread itself out over the fields for the night. As when I first saw it approaching at Fulford, the Progress made me think of a great stain on the landscape. I looked across to the mansion where the King would have taken up residence now, a fine old building. Broderick said the King had stolen it from Robert Constable. He has stolen so much, I thought.
‘On a clear day you can see York Minster.’
A voice at my elbow made me jump. I turned to see Giles beside me. ‘Jesu, sir, you startled me.’
‘I am sorry. I was over in the churchyard on my way to visit my parents’ grave, and saw you coming. My footsteps made no sound on these wet leaves. You look sad, Matthew.’
‘I needed to get away from the camp. I breathe easier up here.’
‘Ay, ’tis all din and mess down there.’ His eye went to the misty horizon. The sun was low behind the milky clouds, tinges of red showing through. He leaned heavily on his stick. ‘You know, the day it was decided I would go to law I walked up here and looked over at the Minster. I thought, one day I shall work as a lawyer there.’
‘As you did.’
‘Ay.’ He shook his head. ‘So long ago. When man’s relation to God seemed clear and settled.’ He sighed. ‘Since then the world has been turned upside down. And York and the north have ended on the bottom.’
‘Perhaps things will settle now in the north, after the Progress.’
‘I do not think the King has done much to assuage the bitterness up here. Oh, he has bought the gentry, secured their allegiance with oaths, but you only need to look at the faces of ordinary people to see what their true feelings are.’
I laughed uneasily. ‘Giles, you sound like those who grudge all rich men and would pull them down.’ I smiled sadly. ‘Sometimes I wonder if they have not the right of it.’
‘No, no.’ Giles shook his leonine head. ‘We must have kingship to have order. But – it is unfortunate that England has the King it does.’
‘Yes. It is.’ I looked out over the fields. They had been carved out of the boggy ground at the foot of the hill and ended abruptly at the marshland, which I saw stretched away for miles. I decided to change the subject, realizing anew how strained old loyalties I had once taken for granted had become.
‘Where was your parents’ farm, Giles?’ I asked.
He pointed with his stick at a clutch of buildings. ‘There. My father drained the land himself. Howlme marsh is quite trackless, you know. There is a hermitage some way off, where a couple of monks used to guide travellers who became lost. Gone now, of course, even their poor hovel taken by the King.’
‘Were you happy as a child?’ I asked him.
He smiled. ‘Oh, yes.’
‘Your father did not expect you to carry on the farm?’
‘No. I enjoyed my schoolwork, you see. They saw my tastes lay with words and arguments rather than billhooks and drainage ditches, and they thought I might raise myself up in the world.’
‘My tastes were bookish too. And I liked drawing – I used to paint for a pastime, though not recently. But I always knew my father would rather have had a strong son to carry on the farm than – well, than me.’
‘He should have accepted you as you were, rejoiced that you had brains.’
‘He tried, I think.’ I hesitated. ‘My mother died when I was ten.’
‘No woman’s softening influence on your father, then.’
‘No, he was harder after that.’ I was silent a moment.
‘I was on my way to my parents’ grave, and then the church. Would you like to see them?’
‘Yes. I must consider a design for a headstone for my father.’
He led me into the churchyard. Most of the gravestones were sandstone, weathered with the years, but he took me to a prominent stone in white marble. The inscription was simple:
Edward Wrenne 1421-1486
and his wife Agnes 1439-1488
At rest
‘They both died when I was a student,’ he said. ‘My mother was devoted to my father. She pined away and died eighteen months after him.’
‘She was much younger.’
‘Ay. My father had anothe
r wife before her, more his own age. They had no children. She died when they were in their forties and is buried with her family. Then my father married my mother. I was the child of his old age.’
‘My father’s family lived round Lichfield for generations. I think that was partly why he was sorry I did not carry on the farm. The line going out.’
‘My father came to Howlme from beyond Wakefield when he was a young man. So there was less of a local tie.’
I nodded slowly. ‘Well, it is a fine memorial. Marble, that is good. I shall provide a marble headstone for my father.’
‘Leave me a moment, Matthew,’ Giles said quietly. ‘I will join you in the church in a minute. It is worth a visit.’
I turned and walked back to the church. I stopped. I had heard a branch crack, a loud pop. I stared at the trees that shadowed the graveyard but saw nothing. A deer, I thought, as I walked on to the little church.
The interior was lit dimly by candles. There were pretty little vaulted arches and a new roof whose beams were decorated with Tudor roses. In a large side-chapel a candle winked redly in a lamp set before an image of the Virgin. King Henry would not like that. I sat in a pew, thinking about my father as the light coming through the high stained-glass windows slowly faded. His face came into my mind: grizzled, unmoving, unsmiling. Yes, he had been hard. In truth that was why in adult life I had always been reluctant to go home.
The door opened and Giles came in, his stick tapping on the floor. He went to the side-chapel, crossed himself, then took a candle and lit it from the lamp. He came over, put the candle on the front of the pew and sat down heavily beside me.
‘This is a pretty place, is it not? I was an altar boy once.’ He laughed. ‘We were naughty children. We used to catch the mice that came to nibble the candles, set them between the shafts of tiny carts we made and send them skittering down the aisles.’
I smiled. ‘I was an altar boy too. I was obedient, though. I took it all seriously.’
He looked at me. ‘Till you transferred your allegiance to reform.’
‘Yes. I was hot-headed for reform once, believe it or not. Always questioning everything.’
‘I think perhaps you still do that.’
‘Perhaps. In a different way.’
Wrenne nodded at the side-chapel. ‘That is the Constable chapel.’
‘Sir Robert Constable’s family?’
‘Yes. They have been landowners here for centuries. A chantry priest still says a daily Mass for their souls. The priest of the church when I was a lad was a Constable.’
‘Were they good landlords?’
‘No. They were hard, grasping men, Robert Constable as much as any of them. Yet he died for his beliefs in the end.’
As I told Sergeant Leacon that Broderick would, I thought. ‘I hear his bones still hang over the gates of Hull.’
‘Yes. We shall see them.’ He thought a moment. ‘I sold the farm to the Constables after my father died. It made no sense to keep a farm so many miles from where I lived. No more than it makes sense for you. You should not feel guilty at selling your father’s farm, Matthew.’
‘No, you are right.’
He looked at me and shook his head. ‘You have had much to bear. First your father, now these attacks on you. There have been others, you said?’
I took a deep breath. ‘Three counting the thorn under Genesis’ saddle. Not counting the time when I was struck down and those damned papers stolen. A week ago someone tried to ram a spit through me at the camp.’
His eyes widened. ‘Jesu.’
‘And then a bear was let loose in my path.’
‘Dear God.’
‘I fear the person who is after me may think I learned more than I did from the papers inside that box. I only had time to glance at a few of them.’ I paused. ‘One of them was the Titulus.’
‘Ah.’
‘That was how I knew it was dangerous for you to have a copy.’
‘I understand now. What others did you see?’ he asked curiously. ‘When he questioned me, Maleverer said you had had no time to look.’
‘Nothing of note.’
‘Maleverer must have been angry with you for that.’
‘He and the Privy Council.’
‘How have you borne it all?’ he asked gently. ‘That and what happened at Fulford as well?’
‘One bears things because there is no alternative.’ I looked at him. ‘As you have cause to know, better than anyone.’
‘Ay.’ He nodded his head slowly. ‘Ay. The Lord lays heavy burdens on us. Heavier than a man should have to bear, I think in dark moments.’
I shifted in the narrow pew, my neck was becoming uncomfortable again. ‘I think we should go back now. It will be getting dark.’
‘Allow me a few minutes more,’ he said. ‘I would like to say a prayer.’
‘Of course. I will wait for you by the beacon.’
I LEFT THE CHURCH. Outside the sun was below the horizon now, the churchyard dim. I walked through the gate. I looked out over the camp: torches and bonfires were alight across the fields, all the windows of the manor house were brightly lit. The King and Queen would be there now; Master Craike would have made sure all was ready for their comfort.
Giles was taking a long time at his prayers. I fingered the thick ropes holding the beacon upright, tied tightly to the top of an iron pole that protruded from the centre of the huge bonfire and secured to stakes in the ground at the bottom.
I was conscious of pressure on my bladder. I looked round the churchyard and the trees that bordered the open space to make sure no one was there. I unlaced my hose and sighed with relief as I let out a jet of piss against the beacon. I finished and laced myself up again. I turned, then stood stock still, rigid with shock. Jennet Marlin stood ten feet from me. She wore a dark coat with a hood and her mouth was set in its grimmest expression. She was holding a crossbow, and it was aimed at my heart.
I stared at her, my mouth open. She shifted the weight of the crossbow slightly on her shoulder. I flinched, waiting for the bolt to thud into me. But though her hand was on the trigger she did not fire.
‘This time I have you,’ she said, her voice sharp as a file.
I glanced over her shoulder at the church, a black shape against the evening sky, the light from the chapel outlining the windows in a dim red glow. She gave a rictus of a smile and shook her head. ‘Do not look for help from the old man,’ she said.
‘What – what have you done to him?’
She looked at me with those large eyes. They were afire with gloating anger.
‘I have secured the church door with a spar of wood through the handles. He is trapped, that is all. I do not take life unless it is necessary.’
‘And mine?’ I asked. ‘Is it necessary to take mine?’
She did not answer. I saw the crossbow tremble in her arms a moment. She was at a great pitch of tension. I prayed her hand did not slip -
I knew I had to keep her talking as long as I could, keep her from pressing that trigger. ‘It was you who tried to spit me at the camp? You who let the bear loose and put that thorn under my horse’s saddle?’
‘Yes. Seeing you in the camp that first time was a lucky chance – I was walking down by the river.’ There was hatred in her look now. Why? What did she think I had done? ‘As for the bear, I knew from Tamasin that you had gone into York and I waited by the outbuildings for your return. I thought there would be a chance in the dark. You came back and when you walked through the church I ran along the side and got behind the bear’s cage. Oh, I have watched you for the last two weeks,’ she added with intensity. ‘From the windows of the manor, from the camp, from hidden places in the courtyard. When I saw you from the camp tonight, walking up the hill, I knew this was my best opportunity.’
‘You got that crossbow from the overturned cart.’
‘Yes.’ She seemed steadier now, eyeing me along the length of the weapon.
‘I thought someone was wat
ching from the woods.’ Keep her talking, I thought, keep her talking. ‘You killed Oldroyd?’ I asked her.
‘Yes. Oldroyd had to die. He had that damned casket. He would not give it up to me even though I told him I came from Bernard.’
‘You are on a mission from your fiancé? So Bernard Locke was a conspirator?’
‘Yes, he was.’
‘But I thought you were a reformer?’
‘I am. Bernard regrets what he did. He wanted the contents of that box destroyed – they could endanger the throne, he told me. He has repented. Like me, he would save the King from treasonous conspiracies.’
I wondered whether Bernard Locke had truly repented. No, I thought – he has used this besotted woman as his catspaw.
Behind her, I saw a movement, a big dim shape edging towards her. It was Giles. He had got out of the church somehow and was approaching Jennet Marlin slowly, his stick raised in both hands, his expression intent as he tried to get closer to her without making a sound. I forced my eyes back to Jennet Marlin.
‘Bernard told me the papers were in the possession of Master Oldroyd of York, kept in a secret place at his house. He told me I would have to kill the glazier and take his keys from his body to get hold of them. He would never give them up.’
‘You toppled that defenceless man off his ladder, in cold blood.’
‘I had no choice.’ Her steely voice did not waver. ‘And was he not a conspirator, deserving of a traitor’s death? If it was not for his horse bolting when he fell, I would have had the keys to his house from his body, but that sounded the alarm.’
‘You heard us coming and hid in the church?’
‘Yes, you and that lout Barak nearly had me there. It was as well I had taken care to find keys. But then before I could get to Oldroyd’s house, you appeared with that box. A jewel casket, just as Bernard had described to me.’
‘And so you made friends with me, planning all the time to kill me. Because you thought I knew the contents of that box?’
