Free Sovereign by C. J. Sansom

red staffs of office of the porters who watched the royal palaces for intruders. A big, burly man in a lawyer’s
robe, who overtopped the others by a head, was questioning them. Craike lowered his voice. ‘That is Sir William Maleverer. He’s a lawyer, a member of the Council of the North. He has
overall charge of legal matters and security.’
    Craike approached the big man, coughing to attract his attention, and he turned irritably. He was in his forties, with hard, heavy features and a black beard cut in a straight line at the
bottom, the fashionable ‘spade-beard’. Cold dark eyes studied us.
    ‘Well, Master Craike, whom have you and your little clerk’s desk brought me now?’ Maleverer’s voice was very deep, with a northern accent. I remembered the Council of the
North was staffed by local loyalists.
    ‘Brother Matthew Shardlake, Sir William, from London, with his assistant.’
    ‘You’re dealing with the King’s pleas, aren’t you?’ Maleverer looked me over, his expression contemptuous, as though he had achieved his high stature and straight
back by some great virtue. ‘You’re late.’
    ‘I am sorry. We had a hard ride.’
    ‘You’ll need to prepare for Friday. With Brother Wrenne.’
    ‘We have seen him already.’
    Maleverer grunted. ‘He’s an old woman. But I’ll have to leave it between you, I’ve other issues to deal with. Just make sure a summary of those petitions is prepared for
the Chamberlain’s office by Thursday morning.’
    ‘I am sure we can put all in order.’
    He looked at me dubiously again. ‘You’ll be in the King’s presence on Friday. I hope you’ve better clothes than that mud-spattered coat.’
    ‘In our baggage, sir.’ I indicated the panniers, which Barak shifted again on his shoulders.
    Maleverer nodded brusquely and turned back to his companions. Barak pulled a face at me as we passed into the building. The interior was gloomy, with small arched windows, a fire of kindling set
in the centre of the stone floor. The religious scenes with which the walls had once been painted had been scraped off, giving the place an unkempt look. The hall had been divided into cubicles by
wooden partitions. There seemed to be no one else there – all out at work, probably.
    ‘A stern fellow, Sir William,’ I observed quietly.
    ‘A harsh man, like all those on the Council of the North,’ Craike replied. ‘I am grateful I have little to do with him. Now, sir,’ he looked at me apologetically,
‘I have taken the liberty of giving you and your assistant adjoining cubicles. Otherwise Master Barak would have to go into the servants’ tents. With so many people of such varying
ranks, it is hard to give everyone an appropriate place.’
    ‘I do not mind,’ I said with a smile. Craike looked relieved. He scrabbled on his little desk, found a piece of paper and led us past the row of stalls. The doors were numbered.
    ‘Eighteen, nineteen – yes, those are yours.’ He made a mark on the paper, then smiled. ‘Well, sir, it has been good to see you again, but I must leave you now.’
    ‘Of course, sir. But I hope we may meet for that cup of ale while we are here.’
    ‘If time allows, I would be pleased. But all this –’ he waved a hand towards the courtyard – ‘a nightmare.’ He gave a quick bow and then, with another glance
at his list, he was gone.
    ‘Well, let’s see what we’ve got,’ I said to Barak. There was a key in the lock of the cubicle door and I turned it. Inside, apart from a small chest for storage, a
truckle bed was the only furniture. I eased off my riding boots and lay down with a groan of relief. After a few minutes there was a knock and Barak came in, barefoot and carrying my pannier. I sat
up.
    ‘God’s wounds,’ I said. ‘Your feet stink. But I dare say mine do too.’
    ‘They do.’
    I noted the tiredness in his voice. ‘Let us take the chance to rest this afternoon,’ I said. ‘We can sleep till