Sovereign by C. J. Sansom Page B

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,