Free Sovereign by C. J. Sansom Page B

Lincoln’s Inn.’ He bowed again.
    ‘What work are you doing with the Progress?’
    ‘Supervising the drawing up of contracts with suppliers along the way, in the Purveyor’s office. Well, helping to. I have come all the way with the Progress, and hard work it has
been negotiating with these northern barbarians.’ He laughed contemptuously.
    ‘Do you know where we might find some dinner?’ I asked.
    ‘At the common dining hall. We have to eat all hugger-mugger with the clerks and carpenters. You’ll need a docket, though, to show you are entitled to bouche of court.’
    ‘Where do we get those?’
    ‘At the Office of the Great Hall.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Not sure where that is now. They were moving it today, to bigger premises, in anticipation of the Progress
arriving.’
    ‘Well, we will find it, I dare say.’
    We stepped outside, into an autumnal smell of wood-smoke. I shivered a little, for the damp feel of the air was more pronounced now. A little way off, brown-smocked servants were feeding the
crowds of animals in their makeshift paddocks.
    ‘Let’s go through the church again,’ I said. ‘It’ll be somewhere round the manor house.’
    Again we trod with echoing footsteps through the monastic church, cold and full of deep shadows as the light faded, the only sound the horses stirring in their stalls. We walked out through the
main door and stood looking out over the front courtyard. The workmen were busy as ever sawing and painting. I had never seen so many work so fast. Two servants were unloading lamps containing fat
white candles from a cart and carrying them over to the men. Many of the tents were already lit by a glow from within.
    ‘Do they plan to work into the night then?’ Barak asked.
    ‘Looks like it. Let’s hope for their sakes it doesn’t rain.’
    I turned at a clinking sound. The glazier Oldroyd whom we had seen earlier walked slowly by, leading his enormous horse. It was one of those black Midland giants, the largest and strongest in
the land, and it pulled a high-sided cart, full of glass.
    ‘A good day’s labour, fellow?’ I asked.
    ‘A busy day, maister, ay,’ he said in a quiet voice. He touched his cap and I saw his hand was criss-crossed with tiny scars; from a lifetime’s cuts, no doubt. ‘They let
me keep the glass and lead as payment for my services.’
    ‘What do you do with it?’
    ‘It goes to gentlemen’s houses. A mythical beast or a ploughman at his toil makes a pretty centre-pane for a window, and cheaper than staining new glass.’ He paused. ‘But
I am commanded to melt down the figures of monks and saints. It is sad, they are often beautiful.’ He stopped suddenly and gave me an anxious look; such comments could be construed as
criticism of the King’s policy. I smiled to show I took no exception to his words. For a moment I thought he might say something more, but he lowered his head again and led his mighty horse
off towards the gate.
    I looked round the tents, wondering if I might spot Lucas Hourenbout. Barak asked a couple of officials if they knew where the Office of the Great Hall might be as they scurried past, but they
only shook their heads; everyone was still in a great hurry. He sighed, and nodded in the direction of the little sentry box by the gate where the soldier who checked the papers of those coming in
and out was posted.
    ‘Let’s ask him.’
    We walked over to the gate. A young sergeant in the scarlet livery of the King’s yeomen was checking a carter’s papers. He was in his twenties, tall and flaxen-haired, with a
handsome, open face. Glancing into his booth, I saw a Testament open upon a shelf under the window, one of those with notes to explain the words for those with little reading.
    ‘All in order,’ he said, handing the carter’s papers back, and the man led his horse in.
    ‘Know where the Office of the Great Hall is?’ Barak asked. ‘We’ve just arrived, we’re hungry.’
    ‘Sorry, sirs,’