Sovereign by C. J. Sansom Page B

the high steeple we had seen on our way in, almost as high as the Minster. The monasteries had all had enclosing walls, though I had never seen any so high as this; St
Mary’s must have been an enormous site. Such a wall would greatly help security and I wondered whether this was why the abbey had been chosen for the King’s base in York.
    Once again we passed under the barbican at Bootham Bar, this time turning left to join a queue of riders and pedestrians waiting to go into the abbey. My commission was scrutinized with care
before we were allowed to pass. Inside, we dismounted. Barak took the panniers containing our belongings from the horses’ backs and slung them over his shoulders, then joined me in staring at
the scene before us.
    Directly ahead was a large manor house that must once have been the abbot’s residence. It was splendid even by the standards the abbots of the large monasteries allowed themselves, a
three-storey building in red brick with high narrow chimneys. Beds of small white roses lined the walls. There had once been a lawn too but it had been turned to muddy earth by the passage of
innumerable feet and cartwheels. Some men were excavating what turf was left, replacing it with flagstones, while a little way off others were digging up what must have been the monks’
graveyard, hauling up the gravestones and manhandling them onto carts. Above the main door of the manor the royal arms had been hung on a large shield.
    Beyond the manor house stood an enormous monastic church of Norman design, one of the largest I had seen, its square tower topped by an enormous stone steeple, the façade decorated with
ornate buttresses and carved pillars. The manor house and the church made two sides of a great courtyard, an area perhaps a furlong in length. There an amazing spectacle was taking shape.
Outbuildings had been demolished, leaving trenches where foundations had once stood. Dozens of tents had been planted on the space, and hundreds of men were labouring in the open, working on the
final stages of the construction of two enormous pavilions. Forty feet high, they had been built to resemble castles, complete with turrets and barbican gates; all in wood but painted and designed
to resemble stone. Workmen on ladders swarmed over the extraordinary buildings, fixing plaster images of heraldic beasts, painting the walls in bright colours, glazing the windows. As I watched, I
thought there was something familiar about the designs of the pavilions.
    Trestle tables stood everywhere in the yard, carpenters hewing and planing huge lengths of wood. A pile of perhaps fifty trunks of young oak was stacked against the abbey wall, and sawdust lay
everywhere. Other workmen were carving ornamental cornices in complex designs, the colours bright in the dull afternoon.
    Barak whistled. ‘God’s wounds. What are they planning here?’
    ‘Some spectacle the like of which I’ve never imagined.’
    We stood a moment longer watching the extraordinary scene, then I touched Barak’s arm. ‘Come. We have to find the man in charge of the accommodation. Simon Craike.’ I smiled.
‘I knew him, a long time ago.’
    Barak shifted the weight of the panniers on his shoulders. ‘Did you?’
    ‘He was a fellow student at Lincoln’s Inn. I haven’t seen him since, though. He never practised, he went into the royal administration.’
    ‘Why’d he do that? The pay?’
    ‘Ay. He had an uncle in royal service who got him a post.’
    ‘What’s he like?’
    I smiled again. ‘You’ll see. I wonder if he’s changed.’
    We led the horses over to the manor house, which seemed to be the centre of all the great bustle; people were running in and out, officials standing on the steps giving orders, arguing and
looking over plans. We asked a guard where Master Craike might be found, and he told us to wait, calling a groom to take the horses. As we stood there a high officer of state in a green velvet robe
waved us out of