Lady Rochford, Rich and the other courtiers detached themselves from the Yorkers and rode over to the Progress, disappearing into the brightly arrayed throng at the front. There was silence for a few seconds more. Then things began to happen. The soldiers accompanying us rode ahead to form a line on each side of the road, between us and the Progress. Then figures began to detach themselves from the gorgeously robed crowd ahead and approach slowly on foot. First, half a dozen heralds, red tunics emblazoned with the leopards and lilies of the King’s arms, came to stand with the soldiers, holding aloft long trumpets from which bright pennants hung. Then two grooms wearing particoloured jackets in Tudor green and white led a pair of horses up, halting before us and a little to one side. Long coats, richly embroidered, hung over the animals’ backs almost to the ground, and the gold fringes and tassels on their black velvet harnesses glinted in the sun. One horse, a grey mare, was large enough but the other was gigantic, a huge charger. The King’s and Queen’s horses of state, I realized.
They kept coming, these harbingers of the King, in ones and twos, building the tension to breaking point. I felt my collar slick with sweat. The Chamberlain, an old man bearing a huge golden-handled sword of state, came and stood facing us, holding the sword up by the hilt. Nobles and ladies in scarlet and gold took places behind him. Among them I noticed a very big, barrel-chested man with a broad face framed by a brown spade-beard like Malev-erer’s. From his appearance I knew this must be Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, the peer who had organized the Progress. He was on the Privy Council, he would know about Oldroyd, Blaybourne, my loss of those papers. And I thought, with a sudden tremor, does the King know too?
A group of small boys, the children of honour in yellow and green tunics and caps, now rode up and halted before us. A whole crowd of courtiers faced us now, their clothes swirls of gorgeous colour, caps and robes gleaming with jewels, their faces expressionless. It is a strange thing, but even the greatest tension can only be held for so long, and my mind drifted back to the ploughman I had seen earlier. I thought of how many hundreds of times my father must have walked behind the plough. If he could see me now, about to meet the King, would he be proud?
My attention was jerked back, not by a noise but by a new silence. The low rumble of murmurs and shufflings from the procession ahead fell away. Then the heralds raised their trumpets and blew long notes in unison. At once, behind us, there was a rustling sound as the York councillors fell to their knees. Recorder Tankerd stepped forward, then he too fell to his knees. Giles and I took off our caps and followed. The grass was damp under my knees.
Two figures then stepped forth. I had a quick glimpse of an enormous man, a small girl dressed all in silver by his side. I pulled off my cap and bowed my head deeply as the King and Queen approached, their footsteps audible in the sudden, total silence. I heard a faint creak and remembered it was said the King wore corsets now to hide his girth.
They stopped perhaps six feet away. On my knees, with my head bowed, I could see only the hem of the Queen’s dress, intricately sewn with tiny jewels of every colour, and the King’s white netherhose and square-toed white shoes, buckled with gold. His legs were thick as a bull’s. I saw he carried a jewelled walking stick that he pressed heavily into the cinders of the road as he approached. My heart pounded as I knelt there, gripping the petitions tightly, my cap held crushed against the papers.
‘Men of York, I will hear your submission!’ The voice that came from that enormous figure was oddly high-pitched, almost squeaky. Looking sidelong, I saw Recorder Tankerd, crouched on his knees, unroll a long parchment. He looked up at the King and took a long, shuddering breath. He opened his mouth but for a long, terrible second, no sound came. That moment’s silence was utterly terrifying. Then his wits returned and he began declaiming, a loud clear lawyer’s address.
‘Most mighty and victorious Prince -’
It was a long speech, the tone one of utter abasement.
‘We your humble subjects, who have grievously and traitorously offended Your Most Royal Majesty in the most odious offence of traitorous rebellion, promise and vow in the words of faith and truth to love and dread Your Majesty Royal to the utter effusion of our hearts’ blood…’
I dared not raise my head, though my neck was hurting again and my back too after so long kneeling, still holding the wretched petitions. I looked sideways at Giles. His big head was bowed almost to the ground; I could not see his expression. Tankerd concluded at last.
‘In token of our submission, Gracious Sovereign, we give you our address, sworn to by all here.’
He bowed low and handed the big parchment to one of the children of honour who came forward to take it.
Next the mayor stepped up, bearing the two ornate cups I had seen at the Guildhall. He knelt and with more words of abasement begged the King to accept the city’s gift. He was, I saw, sweating like a pig. He tumbled his words nervously and I could not catch all he said. My attention wandered again for a moment. Then a sudden fierce whisper in my ear from Giles. ‘Quick! It is us now!’ I felt my bowels lurch as I rose and turned to follow Giles, keeping my head bent. It was foolish, I that had once had Thomas Cromwell for a friend and confronted Richard Rich and the Duke of Norfolk, reduced to such a jelly. Yet this was not an official or nobleman I was approaching now. This was God’s anointed on earth, Head of His Church, guardian of the souls of three million subjects, more than human in his glory. In those few seconds I believed it all.
We halted beside Recorder Tankerd. Amidst that kneeling crowd I felt horribly exposed. The King was so close now that with my eyes cast down I could see the thick fur on his coat stirring slightly in the breeze, the huge rubies set in gold on his doublet. Still looking down, I saw his left calf was thicker than his right, and made out the criss-cross shape of bandages beneath the white hose. I noticed a slight yellow stain there. And then a puff of wind carried a foul smell to my nostrils: like a blocked drain, the sharp rancid smell of pus.
Giles began speaking in his loud clear voice. ‘I come to you, dread Majesty, as representative of the citizens of York, in prayer that you might hear the petitions for justice of the people.’
‘I will,’ the King replied. Giles turned to me and I placed the petitions in his hands, keeping my head still bent. And then I dropped my cap. The feather came off as it hit the ground. I dared not pick it up and stood looking down at it, cursing inwardly. Giles handed the petitions on to the children of honour in two bundles and they put them into the King’s hands – delicate white hands, each long finger adorned with a jewelled ring. I heard an official step forward; the King handed the petitions on to him.
Then I heard him laugh.
‘By Jesu, sir,’ he said to Giles in his high voice. ‘You are a fine-looking old fellow. Are they all so big in the north?’ I raised my head slightly, daring to glance at Wrenne’s face though not the King’s. He was smiling up at the monarch, quite composed. ‘I am not so tall as Your Majesty,’ he said. ‘But who may rise so high?’
The King laughed again, heartily, a rich booming sound. ‘Let all hear,’ he called loudly, ‘that I say this good old man shows the north breeds fine fellows. See the other lawyer by his side, the one that dropped his cap! I know he is a southron, see what a poor bent bottled spider he appears by his side!’
Then, as the Yorkers around me broke into sycophantic laughter, I looked up. I must, now the King had spoken. He was so tall I had to lift my head to see his face beneath its thickly jewelled cap. I saw a red, jowly face, a fringe of reddish-grey beard, a pursed little mouth under a commanding beak of a nose. The King was looking straight at me, from small deep-set eyes that were mirrors of Radwinter’s: blue, icy, glinting, cruel. I realized that he knew who I was, he knew about the lost papers, he had marked me. He gave me a barely perceptible nod, twisting his tiny mouth into a little smile, then turned and limped away to his horse, pressing heavily on his stick. Then I saw Queen Catherine looking at me. She had a plump countenance, bonny rather than pretty. She was frowning a little, but sadly, as though sorry for the King’s cruelty. Abruptly she turned away and walked to her own horse. Behind me there was a collective flutter of movement as the Yorkers rose to their feet.