‘That must be the old St Mary’s Abbey, where we’ll be staying,’ I said. ‘Sounds like there’s a lot of work going on to make it ready for the King.’

‘Shall we go there now, leave our bags?’

‘No, we should see Brother Wrenne first, then go to the castle.’

‘To see the prisoner?’ he asked quietly.

‘Ay.’

Barak looked up at the walls. ‘St Mary’s is guarded well.’

‘The King will be none too sure of his welcome, after all that’s happened up here.’

I had spoken softly, but the man in front of us, walking beside a packhorse laden with grain, turned and gave us a sharp look. Barak raised his eyebrows and he looked away. I wondered if he was one of the Council of the North’s informers; they would be working overtime in York now.

‘Perhaps you should put on your lawyer’s robe,’ Barak suggested, nodding ahead. The carts and packmen were turning into the abbey through a large gate in the wall. Just past the gate the abbey wall met the city wall at right angles, hard by a fortress-like gatehouse decorated with the York coat of arms, five white lions against a red background. More guards were posted there, holding pikes and wearing steel helmets and breastplates. Beyond the wall, the Minster towers were huge now against the grey sky.

‘I’m not fetching it out of my pack, I’m too tired.’ I patted my coat pocket. ‘I’ve got the Chamberlain’s authority here.’ Archbishop Cranmer’s seal was there too; but that was only to be shown to one person. I stared ahead, at something I had been told to expect yet which still made me shudder: four heads fixed to tall poles, boiled and black and half eaten by crows. I knew that twelve of the rebel conspirators arrested that spring had been executed in York, their heads and quarters set on all the city gates as a warning to others.

We halted at the end of a little queue, the horses’ heads drooping with tiredness. The guards had stopped a poorly dressed man and were questioning him roughly about his business in the city.

‘I wish he’d hurry up,’ Barak whispered. ‘I’m starving.’

‘I know. Come on, it’s us next.’

One of the guards grabbed Genesis’ reins while another asked my business. He had a southern accent and a hard, lined face. I showed him my letter of authority. ‘King’s lawyer?’ he asked.

‘Ay. And my assistant. Here to help with the pleas before His Majesty.’

‘It’s a firm hand they need up here,’ he said. He rolled the paper up and waved us on. As we rode under the barbican I recoiled from the sight of a great hank of flesh nailed to the gate, buzzing with flies.

‘Rebel’s meat,’ Barak said with a grimace.

‘Ay.’ I shook my head at the tangles of fate. But for the conspiracy that spring I should not be here, and nor would the King be making his Progress to the North, the largest and most splendid ever seen in England. We rode under the gate, the horses’ hooves making a sudden clatter inside the enclosed barbican, and through into the city.

BEYOND THE GATE was a narrow street of three-storey houses with overhanging eaves, full of shops with stalls set out in front, the traders sitting on their wooden blocks calling their wares. York struck me as a poor place. Some of the houses were in serious disrepair, black timbers showing through where plaster had fallen off, and the street was little more than a muddy lane. The jostling crowds made riding difficult, but I knew Master Wrenne, like all the city’s senior lawyers, lived in the Minster Close and it was easy to find, for the Minster dominated the whole city.

‘I’m hungry,’ Barak observed. ‘Let’s get some breakfast.’

Another high wall appeared ahead of us; York seemed a city of walls. Behind it the Minster loomed. Ahead was a large open space crowded with market stalls under brightly striped awnings that flapped in the cool damp breeze. Heavy-skirted goodwives argued with stallholders while artisans in the bright livery of their guilds looked down their noses at the stalls’ contents, and dogs and ragged children dived for scraps. I saw most of the people had patched clothes and worn-looking clogs. Watchmen in livery bearing the city arms stood about, observing the crowds.

A group of tall, yellow-haired men with dogs led a flock of odd-looking sheep with black faces round the edge of the market. I looked curiously at their weather-beaten faces and heavy woollen coats; these must be the legendary Dalesmen who had formed the backbone of the rebellion five years before. In contrast, black-robed clerics and chantry priests in their brown hoods were passing in and out of a gate in the wall that led into the Minster precinct.

Barak had ridden to a pie-stall a few paces off. He leaned from his horse and asked how much for two mutton pies. The stallholder stared at him, not understanding his London accent.

‘Southrons?’ he grunted.

‘Ay. We’re hungry. How much – for – two – mutton pies?’ Barak spoke loudly and slowly, as though to an idiot.

The stallholder glared at him. ‘Is’t my blame tha gabblest like a duck?’ he asked.

‘ ’Tis you that grates your words like a knife scrating a pan.’

Two big Dalesmen passing along the stalls paused and looked round. ‘This southron dog giving thee trouble?’ one asked the trader. The other reached out a big horny hand to Sukey’s reins.

‘Let go, churl,’ Barak said threateningly.

I was surprised by the anger that came into the man’s face. ‘Cocky southron knave. Tha thinkest since fat Harry is coming tha can insult us as tha likest.’

‘Kiss my arse,’ Barak said, looking at the man steadily.

The Dalesman reached a hand to his sword; Barak’s hand darted to his own scabbard. I forced a way through the crowd.

‘Excuse us, sir,’ I said soothingly, though my heart beat fast. ‘My man meant no harm. We’ve had a hard ride -’

The man gave me a look of disgust. ‘A crookback lord, eh? Come here on tha fine hoss to cozen us out of what little money we have left up here?’ He began to draw his sword, then stopped as a pike was jabbed into his chest. Two of the city guards, scenting trouble, had hurried over.

‘Swords away!’ one snapped, his pike held over the Dalesman’s heart, while the other did the same to Barak. A crowd began to gather.

‘What’s this hubbleshoo?’ the guard snapped.

‘That southron insulted the stallholder,’ someone called.

The guard nodded. He was stocky, middle-aged, with sharp eyes. ‘They’ve no manners, the southrons,’ he said loudly. ‘Got to expect that, maister.’ There was a laugh from the crowd; a bystander clapped.

‘We only want a couple of bleeding pies,’ Barak said.

The guard nodded at the stallholder. ‘Gi’e him two pies.’

The man handed two mutton pies up to Barak. ‘A tanner,’ he said.

‘A what?’

The stallholder raised his eyes to heaven. ‘Sixpence.’

‘For two pies?’ Barak asked incredulously.

‘Pay him,’ the guard snapped. Barak hesitated and I hastily passed over the coins. The stallholder bit them ostentatiously before slipping them in his purse. The guard leaned close to me. ‘Now, sir, shift. And tell thy man to watch his manners. Tha doesn’t want trouble for’t King’s visit, hey?’ He raised his eyebrows, and watched as Barak and I rode back to the gates to the precinct. We dismounted stiffly at a bench set against the wall, tied up the horses and sat down.

‘God’s nails, my legs are sore,’ Barak said.

‘Mine too.’ They felt as though they did not belong to me, and my back ached horribly.

Barak bit into the pie. ‘This is good,’ he said in tones of surprise.

I lowered my voice. ‘You must watch what you say. You know they don’t like us up here.’

‘The feeling’s mutual. Arseholes.’ He glared threateningly in the direction of the stallholder.

‘Listen,’ I said quietly. ‘They’re trying to keep everything calm. If you treat people like you did those folk you don’t just risk a sword in the guts for both of us, but trouble for the Progress. Is that what you want?’