‘Forgive me,’ I said. ‘I did not mean to interrupt.’

‘No, no, it was discourteous of me to leave you.’ He waved at the shrine. ‘Well, behold the shrine of St William, that so angered the King.’

‘Who was he?’

‘An early archbishop of York. It is said the Ouse bridge collapsed when he was crossing it in procession, but by divine intervention none were killed. He is the patron saint of the city; many come to pray for his intercession, as you see.’

I nodded uncomfortably. To me tales of centuries-old miracles had no meaning; and the shrine struck me over-elaborate, even ugly.

‘It seems those who say the King’s passion for reform died with Cromwell were wrong,’ Giles said. ‘As we heard from his own lips, St William’s shrine will be destroyed. It offends his great vanity.’

‘It seems so,’ I said quietly.

‘Would you approve?’ He gave me a sharp look.

‘I confess saints and shrines mean little to me. But perhaps it is a shame to destroy it if it means so much to the people.’

‘Now this too is to be taken from York.’ He sighed. ‘Well, let us go.’ With a last look at the shrine, he turned away. We returned to the nave, where Tamasin and Barak still stood before the statues of the kings.

‘Master Wrenne?’ Tamasin asked him. ‘Why do the Kings stop at Henry V?’

‘Ah. There used to be a figure of Henry VI there, the Lancastrian king who was defeated in the Wars of the Roses. Many believed him to be a saint, and people would come and make offerings beneath his statue. The Yorkist kings did not approve, so the statue was removed.’ He turned to me and raised his eyebrows. ‘So you see, kings as well as saints may be written out of history.’

Two clerks walked past us, going into the quire. ‘Tomorrow?’ I heard one say to the other.

‘Ay. He’s tired of waiting, they’re packing up tonight and going on to Hull in the morning. The King’s said to be furious, perhaps that’s why the shrine angered him so.’

I turned to him. ‘Pardon me, sir. Is the King leaving?’

The old man smiled. ‘Ay sir. First thing tomorrow. He has given up on waiting for King James. They’re packing everything up at the camp already.’ He smiled, evidently pleased at the news.

I turned back to my companions. Our faces lit up with relief. ‘At last,’ Tamasin said. ‘God be praised!’

Chapter Thirty-one

WHEN WE RETURNED TO St Mary’s we found the scene already transformed. The royal tents were being taken down, men carefully wrapping the rich tapestries and furnishings and loading them on to carts.

An official posted in the yard stopped us. ‘Sirs, mistress. A moment please. Have you horses stabled in the church?’

‘Yes.’

‘Be sure you fetch them early tomorrow morning. All must be present in the courtyard by six.’

‘That early?’

‘Yes. The Progress is to be at Howlme on Spalding Moor by nightfall The King wants to shake the dust of York from his feet.’

‘Where will we sleep tomorrow?’ Barak asked.

‘In tents, of course, in the fields. Howlme Manor is big enough only for the royal household. Sir, excuse me.’ The official grabbed the arm of another man who had come in, and Barak grinned at Tamasin. ‘You’ll have to sleep in the mud tomorrow, Tammy.’

She tossed her head. ‘The Queen’s servants always have good tents.’ She made a face. ‘Well, usually.’ We laughed, our hearts lifted by the thought of moving on at last.

‘I had best check what the arrangements are for Broderick,’ I said to Barak. ‘I will see you later.’

‘D’you not want me to come with you?’

I hesitated. But surely I was safe in full daylight. ‘No. I will be safe among the soldiery. I will see you at the refectory in an hour.’

I left them and headed off to the cell. I thought about Giles. He had said he would arrive at King’s Manor at dawn; I hoped he would be able to find us in the mêlée there was bound to be tomorrow morning. He had returned home, to prepare for the journey that would end in London.

SERGEANT LEACON WAS standing guard over Broderick’s cell with a soldier. I greeted them.

‘Well, sir,’ the sergeant said. ‘So we are to be off at last. I am not sorry.’

‘Me neither. What is to happen with Broderick?’

‘He is to be put in a carriage with Radwinter. Sir William came and told us. He is relieved Broderick is to be moved at last. He will be in the Tower soon.’

‘Ay.’ I thought the news that had brought such relief to me only brought Broderick nearer to torture and death.

‘My men and I will ride alongside the carriage.’ The sergeant looked at me seriously. ‘It is to be close guarded, sealed from the rest of the Progress.’

‘How is he?’

‘Quiet, as usual. Radwinter is in with him now. He is back in charge.’ His face twisted with distaste.

I looked through the barred window. Broderick was lying on his bed, Radwinter kneeling beside him talking quietly. A candle was set by the bed. Broderick’s eyes glinted as he turned to look at me. Radwinter stood, frowned for a second, then came and unlocked the door. He gave me his mocking smile. ‘Master Shardlake. We have been looking forward to your visit, Sir Edward and I tire of each other.’

I entered the cell. It smelled rankly. ‘He fares well?’

‘Ay. And has eaten his meals like a good fellow.’ I looked at Broderick. He did not look well to me; his face had a yellow tinge.

‘He should have some exercise,’ I said.

Radwinter shook his head firmly. ‘No, he is not to be seen abroad. He is to be kept close till we reach London. Though it makes the hours hang heavy. To help them pass I have been telling Sir Edward tales of the Lollards’ Tower, some of the prisoners I have known.’

Broderick raised himself on one elbow. ‘He seeks to frighten me with accounts of the burnings and disembowellings he has sent people to. It is a relief to see even your long face, Master Shardlake.’ There was a hint of patrician disdain in his voice, reminding me he had once been a man of status.

‘We move on tomorrow, Sir Edward,’ I said. ‘Have you been told?’

Radwinter answered. ‘Ay. I’ve to rattle in a closed carriage with him all the way to Hull.’

‘We stop at a place called Howlme tomorrow night.’

Broderick nodded. ‘I know it well. The manor house used to belong to Sir Robert Constable, Robert Aske’s deputy in the Pilgrimage of Grace. Constable’s remains hang over the gates of Hull now, and the King stole his house at Howlme. ’Twas a fine mansion.’

I grunted, then nodded my head at the door. ‘A word, sir,’ I said to Radwinter. He followed me outside, telling the soldier to sit with Broderick. Clearly he was not to be left alone for a minute now.

Radwinter leaned against the wall and stared at me interrogatively. Sergeant Leacon stood looking on, leaning on his pike.

‘I am worried by how pale Broderick is. And that cell stinks. He needs air.’

‘He’ll be in the carriage tomorrow.’

‘I am not sure he is fit to travel.’

‘What you think does not matter. Those are the rules.’

I met his gaze. ‘I remember Cranmer said a man died under your care once. Were that to happen again, with this prisoner, I would not envy your position.’

I wondered if he would burst out in mocking anger, but he only nodded and smiled again. ‘We are all allowed one mistake, Master Shardlake. The circumstances were quite different. Shall I tell you what happened?’

‘Well?’

He shifted his position, making himself more comfortable. ‘It was seven years ago, when the King had not long married Anne Boleyn. There was a Dominican monk from a house in Hertfordshire who had come to London and was preaching that the King’s break with Rome meant he was condemned by God. He was brought before the Archbishop but would say nothing about who was feeding and sheltering him. Your old master Cromwell wanted him taken to the Tower so the information could be racked out of him, but the Archbishop decided a sojourn in the Lollards’ Tower might be sufficient to cool him down and loosen his tongue. He was put under my care and I was told to deal with him strictly, and find out what I could.’