by C. J. Sansom
Copuldyke was not worth the trouble of getting into an argument with. I ignored his remark and said, ‘I have agreed to act for Master Boleyn, so I must get myself up to East Anglia. I will need authorization in writing from you, sir, to act as your agent, your name being on the record as acting for him.’
‘I have it prepared. Toby –’ Copuldyke waved haughtily at his assistant, and the bearded young man passed me a document.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘That appears in order, Brother Copuldyke. If you could just sign.’
‘Happy to.’ Copuldyke took the paper and signed with a flourish. He let out a sigh of relief as he passed the authorization across the desk. I turned back to Lockswood. ‘I gather you are to come with us.’
‘I am, sir,’ the young man said quietly. Though Copuldyke had no trace of an accent, Lockswood spoke with a deep burr.
‘Master Parry said you had good knowledge of Norfolk.’
Copuldyke interrupted before Lockswood could reply. ‘Oh, Toby knows Norfolk inside out. Spends more than half his time there on work for me. His father’s a yeoman farmer, though he hasn’t enough land for his sons, so I took Toby on when he decided to try the law.’ Copuldyke spoke condescendingly, then turned to Nicholas. ‘And you, young man, you are going, too?’
‘I am, sir.’
‘Not called to the bar yet, by your short robe.’
‘I hope to be called soon, Master Copuldyke,’ Nicholas replied, a slight edge to his voice.
‘We must leave on Monday,’ I said. ‘I know the basic details of the matter from Master Parry. But perhaps you and Lockswood could tell me a little more.’ I turned to the young man. ‘I understand you visited Master Boleyn in gaol.’
Lockswood turned to his master, who nodded his agreement, then said, ‘I visited him last week in the castle gaol, where he is held until trial. An unpleasant place, sir, and Master Boleyn was in a sorrowful state. He seemed shocked by what had happened to him, kept doddering—’
‘Toby!’ Copuldyke snapped. ‘How many times have I told you not to use Norfolk slang in this office?’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Despite his apology, Lockswood’s eyes flashed angrily for a moment. ‘I meant he was shivering, very upset. He kept repeating that he was innocent. And he was concerned for the welfare of his wife. I promised him the Lady Elizabeth’s Comptroller had taken an interest in the case, and would be sending a lawyer experienced in matters of blood. If I may venture an opinion –’
I glanced at Copuldyke, who shrugged and waved a hand. Lockswood continued, ‘I thought, sir, that a guilty man who had left Edith Boleyn’s body in full view would not be so shocked at finding himself in gaol.’
‘Unless he was a good actor,’ Nicholas said.
‘That’s true, sir.’
‘Have you visited his family home?’ I asked.
‘Yes, sir, at his request. It’s a fine old manor house, though most of the servants have left since their master was arrested. His second wife was there, and Master Boleyn’s sons by his first wife. Poor Mistress Boleyn was in a piteous state. She said the neighbours shun her.’
‘Best not refer to her as Mistress Boleyn now,’ Copuldyke said. ‘The return of Edith Boleyn, even if recently dead, invalidates this subsequent marriage. What is her maiden name again?’
‘Heath,’ Lockswood answered. ‘Isabella Heath.’
‘Formerly serving girl at the White Hart Inn in Norwich,’ Copuldyke said. He gave a little bark of laughter. ‘No wonder eyebrows were raised when Boleyn took her into his house after his wife disappeared, and then married her. I hear she’s a saucy strumpet.’
Lockswood did not comment on the remark, but went on quietly, ‘Some have wondered if Isabella might have been involved in Edith’s murder. Like her husband, she has a motive for killing her if she turned up out of the blue. But, of course, she would have no more motive than John Boleyn for displaying the body so grotesquely.’
‘We thought it sounded more like a crime committed by some third party who hated Edith,’ Nicholas observed.
‘And who perhaps hated John Boleyn and Isabella as well,’ I added.
‘When I went to visit Isabella at the house, to tell her a lawyer was coming from London to look at the case, she was full of gratitude,’ Lockswood said. ‘She said she did not know what would become of her, otherwise. She must have suffered for years from all the muckspouts – I beg your pardon, gossips, regarding her low status.’ There was a note of anger in Lockswood’s voice, quickly suppressed. He glanced at Copuldyke, then continued, ‘From what I hear she and her husband were close.’
‘And what of the twin boys?’ I asked. ‘Edith’s children?’
Copuldyke interjected, with some fierceness, ‘Spoiled brats run wild. The Boleyns couldn’t keep a tutor because of their antics. Once when I was riding near their home they threw stones at my horse, and knocked my cap off. Ill-conditioned brats.’ He frowned. ‘But what would you expect, with their mother leaving them to be brought up by a serving woman?’
Lockswood waited till his master had finished, then answered me. ‘Their names are Gerald and Barnabas. Apparently, they have always been difficult, even before their mother left. They are like as two peas, save Barnabas has a large scar running down one cheek. Both resemble her, fair-haired and strongly built.’
‘How were they with Isabella?’ I asked curiously.
‘They just ignored her. They were preparing to set off on a journey when I arrived. They asked me if I thought their father would get off, and when I said I didn’t know, they wanted to know whether the King would take his property if he were hanged, told me the escheator’s and feodary’s men had already been round to take a look. I had to tell them their father’s property was forfeit if he were found guilty. One said to the other that they’d have to go to their grandfather about that.’
‘Who would that be?’
‘Their mother Edith’s father, Gawen Reynolds, he’s a wealthy Norwich merchant and alderman. John Boleyn’s parents are long dead; he inherited their property – not just the North Brikewell manor where they lived, but two other manors in Norfolk. He has some wealth, which is why Southwell’s people and the escheator’s man Flowerdew were sniffing around. Although there are rumours his finances are not in sound order. His income from rents has been falling because of the inflation, and he overstretched himself by buying a large house in London a couple of years ago.’
I considered. ‘The boys sound more interested in the property than in their father.’
‘Yes,’ Lockswood agreed. ‘They did not even ask whether I thought him guilty.’
‘Did they show any sign of mourning their mother?’
Lockswood shook his head as he looked at me. ‘They did not mention her. I remember Isabella stood in the doorway as I spoke with them, watching them with a strange look – dislike, but fear too, I think.’
‘Did you see Master Reynolds, the grandfather?’ I asked. ‘He and his wife must have suffered a shock, believing their daughter had disappeared nine years ago, then learning she had been murdered just days before.’
Lockswood shook his head again. ‘There was no point in my trying to see them. The Reynolds are a rich family, I doubt they’d see a mere solicitor. They might talk to you, sir. Though apparently Reynolds and his wife have shut themselves away since news of their daughter’s death. Word is the old man is convinced John is guilty, and wants to see him hanged.’
I glanced at Nicholas. When Edith came to Hatfield she had said her parents were dead. If she had landed in dire straits, and did not want to return to her husband, surely her parents were the obvious people to appeal to. Yet she had not done so. I could not discuss the Hatfield visit with Copuldyke or Lockswood, but made a note to talk to Edith’s parents as soon as I could.
‘Of course one can understand the interest of the King’s officials,’ Copuldyke interjected. ‘The estate was originally monastic land, held by Boleyn on knight tenure when the old king sold it. Thus i
f Boleyn is executed, the boys become wards of the King, and he’d have the right to make their marriages – or, rather, the Lady Mary would, as feodary. Although she delegates that work to Sir Richard Southwell. Not that the boys sound very marriageable, especially if the Boleyn lands are forfeited.’
‘And the agent of the escheator, responsible for the administration of the lands if they are forfeited, I believe that is a man called John Flowerdew.’
Copuldyke chuckled throatily again. ‘Flowerdew is a serjeant like you, Brother Shardlake. A busy, quarrelsome fellow. Has his nose into everything, and always on the make. I wish you the joy of meeting him.’ His manner became serious. ‘As for Southwell, you should be careful how you deal with him. He is one of the leading men in Norfolk now, runs twenty thousand sheep and is in line for the King’s Council.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘He is a dangerous man. He has been the subject of many accusations – embezzlement, conspiracy to abduct an heiress, a false witness in the case against his old master the Duke of Norfolk, along with a narrow escape from an accusation of murder.’
‘Murder?’
‘Yes, indeed. Getting on for twenty years ago he was involved in a quarrel with another Norfolk landowner, and ended up knifing him in a fight in London. It was a clear case of murder, but he made an application for a pardon from the old king, and got it.’
‘As the very rich do,’ Toby said quietly.
Copuldyke went on, ‘Do not get into bad odour with him, sir. Especially as he represents Mary, and your instructions are from Elizabeth.’ His voice rose anxiously. ‘Remember that officially you are my agent. I want no trouble with Southwell.’
‘He is no man to meddle with,’ Lockswood agreed.
Copuldyke said, ‘Perhaps if John Boleyn is executed Mary will buy his lands, add them to her Norfolk estates. To spite her sister.’
I answered, ‘Yet these visits by agents of Southwell and Flowerdew seem very – previous. John Boleyn has not yet even been convicted.’
‘The common view is he will be,’ Lockswood said gravely. ‘He’s not popular, especially since marrying Isabella. Then there is the dispute with his neighbour.’
‘What can you tell me about that?’
Copuldyke bridled a little at my addressing his assistant directly rather than him. ‘Tell him, Toby,’ he said. ‘Give Serjeant Shardlake the benefit of your great knowledge of the law of property in Norfolk.’ He turned to me. ‘He’s even gone to the trouble of making a sketch map for you.’
Lockswood reddened at his master’s patronizing tone. ‘If it would help you, sir –’
‘I am sure it would.’
He produced a paper from a drawer and placed it on the desk. We leaned forward to look. It was not an exact plan, but had been carefully drawn.
‘That’s good, Lockswood,’ Nicholas said appreciatively.
The older man frowned slightly; he was half a dozen years older than Nicholas, and probably far more experienced in the law. But as a clerk his status was distinctly junior. ‘This is a map of John Boleyn’s manor, North Brikewell,’ Lockswood explained. ‘He owns other properties, as I said, but this is his largest property and his residence’ – he pointed to the top of the map – ‘is the manor house here, next to the village, which is quite small. And down here, see, the Brikewell stream. It divides the manor from South Brikewell, which is owned by his neighbour Leonard Witherington. Both manors are farmed on the usual three-field system, two fields planted with crops and the third left fallow each year, on a rotating basis. Each field is divided into strips, and each tenant holds one or more strips in each field.’
‘Serjeant Shardlake is a land lawyer, Lockswood,’ Copuldyke said heavily. ‘I imagine he and even his young assistant know how the threefield system works.’
Nicholas pointed to the fields. ‘There are quite a few larger patches among the strips. Is that where tenants have brought together several strips and enclosed them as a separate farm?’
‘Yes, that is correct.’
‘There are one or two tenants who have done the same on my father’s estate, in Lincolnshire.’
‘We have more enclosed lands, often freehold, in Norfolk than most counties. And as you will see, if you look at the bottom right, Witherington has enclosed parts of one of the common fields for sheep, opposite his own demesne land. And there is also an area of enclosed pasture which used to be part of the common pasture of South Brikewell.’
‘How did he get hold of it?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Lockswood answered. ‘Probably argued that as lord of the manor he is entitled to a share of the common pasture, proceeded to enclose it, and was able to enforce his will.’
I smiled wryly. ‘Like a Roman emperor gradually extending his territory. How many sheep has Witherington on his lands?’
‘Maybe three hundred. With the high price of wool, this shearing time he will make a tidy profit. Far more than if the land were put to crops. It is happening all over Norfolk,’ Lockswood added seriously.
Copuldyke stirred in his chair. ‘Landlords must turn a profit if they are to live like gentlemen,’ he said irritably. ‘With the rise in prices, a rent set thirty years ago will hardly provide much income.’
‘And so you get landlords enclosing tenants’ land where the leases have run out, or enclosing part of the common pasture and running it for sheep, not always in accordance with manorial custom.’ I smiled grimly.
Copuldyke waved a dismissive hand. ‘If the tenants think it has not been done correctly, they can always go to the courts.’
‘Which often takes years as well as money. While a poor farmer needs to work his land from year to year, from day to day.’
‘You sound like a Commonwealth man,’ Copuldyke said disapprovingly. ‘I’ve had to tell Lockswood here off for some of the things he comes out with.’
‘I speak only from many years’ experience in Requests.’ To avoid further argument, I turned to look at the plan again. ‘This is an unusual layout for a manor. The woodland, common pasture and waste are set between the manors, not surrounding the main fields.’
‘That is because the stream dividing the manors runs through the middle,’ Lockswood explained. ‘The land on either side gets slabby – muddy – in wet weather, though to ease the problem over the years drainage ditches have been dug along it. Over to the eastern end it is quite marshy, used as common waste from which the villagers take reeds, and wildfowl. And the west is given over to woodland.’
‘What is the X?’ Nicholas asked. ‘Is that where Mistress Boleyn was found?’
‘It is.’
I said, ‘The spot is very near the only bridge across the stream. So perhaps her killer met her at the bridge, and killed her there. Otherwise she would have had to be carried quite some distance.’
There was silence for a moment, then Copuldyke said, ‘The two estates are almost mirror images of each other.’
‘Not quite, sir,’ Lockswood ventured. ‘North Brikewell is a good bit smaller. When the Benedictine abbey that owned it was dissolved in 1538, John Boleyn and Leonard Witherington were local men looking to expand their properties, and each bought one manor. There was only one manor house there originally, for the monks’ steward, the one which John Boleyn bought. Leonard Witherington built his own house there, as you see. Like John Boleyn he owns other lands, and he is the wealthier of the two.’
I looked again at the map. ‘I see Richard Southwell has land to the north, and also to the east.’
‘Yes,’ Copuldyke interjected. ‘And runs sheep on both manors. If John Boleyn is found guilty Southwell may wish to buy North Brikewell, link his lands together. The bigger the sheep run, the greater the profits. He might not even need an extra shepherd.’
Nicholas said, ‘He’d have to get the existing tenants off the land.’
Copuldyke waved a hand. ‘That is future conjecture, and not our business.’
‘What is the average size of a tenant’s holding?’ I asked.
> ‘Small, ten to fifteen acres,’ Lockswood answered. ‘Some have larger holdings, like the tenants who have managed to enclose their lands, but at the other end of the scale there are many small cottagers who supplement their income by hiring themselves out as labourers or craftsmen to make ends meet. But with both Boleyn’s and Witherington’s areas of demesne land, which was once farmed, being put to sheep, there is less demand for labour. There are around twenty-five families in North Brikewell, somewhat over thirty in South Brikewell.’
I traced a dotted line which cut through the middle of the North Brikewell woodland, pasture and waste, marked old stream bed. ‘Is that the line which Witherington claims is the proper boundary?’
‘Yes,’ Copuldyke answered. ‘According to the original grant to the monks – a centuries-old piece of parchment like all the monkish title deeds – the boundary between the two manors is described as “the Brikewell stream”. There is evidence of an old stream bed there, but some time over the course of the past four hundred years, the stream has shifted its course, as happens in that sandy country. It is an interesting legal problem. Is the proper boundary today the present course of the stream, or the stream as it was when the document was made? Of such matters are long and profitable court cases made, eh, Brother?’ He smiled and rubbed his hands together.
I considered. ‘When Boleyn and Witherington bought the manors ten years ago, they obviously accepted the modern boundary.’
Copuldyke raised a finger. ‘But Witherington says the old deeds were not delivered to them until after purchase. Otherwise he would have questioned it. You know what the Court of Augmentations is like for delay.’