IT WAS AN ENORMOUS HORSE, the glazier’s; I recognized it in the same moment that I grabbed the girl and jumped back, just in time for I felt the wind of its passing and caught the stink of its sweat. I almost fell, but Tamasin, reacting quickly, put her hand on my back and managed to steady me. I hate being touched there but for the moment scarcely registered it. We stared at the great horse. It had run up to the wall of the manor and stood there at bay, trembling, its eyes rolling wildly and its mouth flecked with foam. I turned to the girl. ‘Are you all right?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ She looked at me oddly. ‘You saved me.’ ‘We’d only have been knocked over,’ I said brusquely. ‘See, yonder fellow is getting up.’ I pointed to the official the horse had set spinning; he was rising painfully to his feet, his red robe covered in mud. People were running out of the abbot’s house, fetched by the din, including a couple of guards with drawn swords. They approached the horse; with another shrill scream it reared up on its hind legs and kicked out, causing them to jump back hastily, for those gigantic hairy hooves could have smashed their skulls. I stared at the animal that had passed me so peacefully the night before. What had happened to drive it near-mad?

‘Leave it!’ someone called. ‘Leave it and it’ll calm.’ The crowd stood back, forming a semicircle round the horse. It stood still, shivering, rolling terrified eyes at the crowd.

‘God’s teeth, what has happened? Are you all right, Master Shardlake?’ I turned at a voice at my elbow. Master Craike had appeared and was staring open-mouthed at the scene.

‘Ay. It’s the glazier’s horse, something has terrified it.’

‘Goodman Oldroyd?’ Craike looked around. ‘Where is he?’

‘I can’t see him.’

He stared at the terrified horse. ‘That animal is usually the quietest of beasts. It didn’t even need tying up. Master Oldroyd would leave it to graze beside his cart.’

I looked at him. ‘Will you come with me, sir, to see what has happened?’

The crowd was growing, servants from the house and half-dressed workmen from the tents milling around. I saw the sergeant I had spoken with the evening before hurrying over with a little group of soldiers.

‘Ay, sir,’ Craike said. ‘I will come.’ He looked at Tamasin, still standing beside me. ‘I am surprised you are about so early, girl, and alone.’

‘I am waiting for Mistress Marlin.’

‘I think you should go indoors,’ I said firmly. She hesitated a moment, then curtsied low and walked away. Craike went over to the sergeant and I followed. I saw Tamasin had stopped on the edge of the crowd and was still looking on. I remembered her hand on my back and I must have glared at her, for she turned then and walked back to the house.

Craike addressed the sergeant. Like some habitually anxious men, when a real crisis came he was quite cool. ‘That horse belongs to the man who has been taking the windows from the church. I fear something has happened to him. Will you bring another man, and come with us?’

‘Ay, sir.’

‘The other soldiers had best stay here. To watch the horse and get this crowd back to their duties. And send someone to inform Sir William Maleverer. What is your name?’

‘George Leacon, sir.’ The sergeant spoke quickly to his men, selected another fellow as tall and broadly built as himself, then took a firm hold of his pike and led the way towards the side of the church.

The mist was still thick. We tramped carefully along wet duckboards that had been laid to the right of the church. I wished Barak were with us. Then I heard a sound ahead of us, a rusty creak. I turned to Craike. ‘Did you hear that?’

‘No.’

‘It sounded like a door closing.’

‘What’s that ahead?’ He pointed at a large brown shape that appeared ahead of us through the mist. As we approached we saw it was the glazier’s cart, his ladder leaning against it.

‘Where is he?’ Craike asked, puzzled. ‘You can see nothing for this damned fog. Master Oldroyd!’ he called loudly. The soldiers followed suit, their voices muffled by the mist. There was no reply, no sound at all.

‘He must have let the horse loose to graze. But what terrified it so?’

The soldiers called out again. I studied the cart. The ladder was propped against it at an odd angle, the end leaning right over the cart. Struck with a sudden foreboding, I touched Leacon’s arm.

‘Can you give me a lift up, sergeant? I want to look inside there.’

The young man nodded and bent to make a stirrup of his hands. I grasped the top of the cart and felt myself levered up. I heard my robe rip, caught in a sliver of glass embedded in the wood. Then, the sergeant still holding my foot, I looked over the top, at one of the most terrible sights I have ever seen.

The cart was three-quarters full of shattered pieces of stained glass. Master Oldroyd lay on his back on top of the glass, his body pierced in several places by sharp fragments. A big piece, sharp as a pointed sword and covered with blood, had gone right through the centre of his body and protruded from his stomach. Oldroyd’s face, directly below mine, was white, his eyes closed. Blood covered the glass beneath his body.

I swallowed hard. ‘He’s in here!’ I called. ‘He’s dead!’

‘Help me up,’ I heard Craike order someone, and a moment later his round face appeared on the other side of the cart. He blenched. ‘Dear Jesu. He must have fallen from the ladder.’ He turned to where a little crowd was gathering, and called out, ‘Here! Four of you climb up, stand on others’ shoulders. We must pull the body out!’

There was more scrabbling, and the heads and shoulders of four stout workmen appeared. They all looked shocked at the scene in the cart, but hesitantly reached out. They grasped Oldroyd’s feet and hands and pulled at them. The body slid up that terrible spike of glass, a great gout of blood pouring from the wound. Then I nearly fell from the cart as the glazier’s eyes opened wide. ‘He’s alive!’ I cried, startling the workmen. They dropped him back onto the broken glass with a tinkling crash.

Oldroyd stared at up me. He tried feebly to lift an arm and his mouth worked in an attempt to speak. I leaned over, as far as I dared. He reached up and gripped my robe with his scarred bloody hand. I held the side of the cart convulsively; terrified I might fall in with him, face-first onto that broken glass.

‘The Ki – The King!’ he said in a trembling whisper.

‘What about him? What is it?’ I heard my own voice shake, for my heart was juddering mightily in my chest.

‘No child of Henry and-’ He gasped and coughed up a dribble of blood. ‘Of Henry and Catherine Howard – can ever – be true heir!’

‘What? What is this?’

‘She knows.’ He gave a convulsive shudder. ‘Blaybourne,’ he whispered frantically, his blue eyes staring into mine as though by doing so he could hold onto life. ‘Blaybourne-’ The word ended in a rattling gasp, Oldroyd’s grip slackened, and his head fell back. He was dead; being lifted up had opened his wounds and the last of his blood was even now spilling out over the spikes and needles of glass.

I hauled myself upright, my arms trembling. The workmen were looking at me, aghast. ‘What did he say, sir?’ Craike asked.

‘Nothing,’ I answered quickly. ‘Nothing. Take him out.’ I called over my shoulder to Sergeant Leacon: ‘Help me down.’ He did so, and I steadied myself against the cart, just as Barak ran up to us. ‘Where in God’s name have you been?’ I snapped, quite unfairly.

‘Looking for you,’ he answered truculently. ‘The whole place is abuzz. God’s nails, what’s going on?’

‘The glazier fell off his ladder into his cart, it sent his horse running off in terror.’

The tall figure of Sir William Maleverer appeared, his black robe flapping round his long legs. The crowd parted hastily before him. He watched, frowning, as Oldroyd’s bloody corpse was dragged to the top of the cart and fell with a sickening flop to the earth.