by C. J. Sansom
‘I’m sure a court would say that it was Witherington’s responsibility to check the boundaries.’
Lockswood interrupted with a gentle cough. ‘The present issue, I believe, is that Witherington’s tenants have been discontented with him over the enclosure of part of the common pasture. The tenants say they have not enough left to graze their animals, the horses and bullocks they need to pull their ploughs, the cows to give them milk –’
Copuldyke barked with laughter again. ‘And so on and so on, tenants always scream nowadays if they lose an inch of common land. But Witherington has proposed a remedy to his tenants – if he can gain control over the land between the current stream and the old stream bed, he has promised to turn half of it over to common pasture for the tenants, keeping only half for sheep.’
‘If he can gain control of it,’ I observed.
Lockswood turned to me. ‘If Witherington won his argument, the North Brikewell tenants would lose a good deal of their common land. There is now a good degree of enmity between the two villages, though some of the tenantry in both blame Witherington’s plans. A few months ago there was a fight between tenants of the two villages when Witherington tried to move some of his sheep onto the North Brikewell common pasture. I believe the Boleyn boys were involved.’
‘Yet Witherington has not taken the matter to court,’ I said. ‘Perhaps his lawyer advised him he will lose. It certainly gives Witherington a motive to get John Boleyn out of the way. He could then try to buy up North Brikewell and be done with it.’
Copuldyke said, ‘But if Southwell wanted it, I doubt Witherington would dare do battle with him.’ He shrugged. ‘Though perhaps he and Southwell could arrange some exchange of lands.’
‘Thank you, Lockswood,’ I said pointedly. ‘I see the situation on the ground more clearly. And I look forward to your coming with us.’
Lockswood gave a little bow. ‘I shall be glad to give what help I can.’
Copuldyke sighed and looked put upon. ‘I can’t really spare Toby just now, but Master Parry is an important client. There’s one more thing that needs doing,’ he added. ‘When Toby visited John Boleyn in prison he asked if someone could go and ensure his London house was secure, and remove the deeds and associated documents relating to his land from there. When he is not in town he pays the local watch to keep an extra eye on the place. It’s not far, on the north side of the Strand opposite Somerset House. Toby has the key.’
‘Perhaps we could go there now,’ I said. ‘Get things underway.’
‘All right. But come straight back after, Toby, I’ve some errands for you before you disappear to Norfolk.’
I rose and bowed to Copuldyke. ‘I thank you for your assistance, Brother.’
He gave me a weary look. ‘Just keep this matter out of my hair, Serjeant Shardlake. That is all I ask.’
We went out. And I thought, If John Boleyn had his deeds and documents in London, what did this do to his claim that the night Edith was killed he had spent two hours studying his deeds and legal matters in his North Brikewell study?
Chapter Six
John Boleyn’s town house lay on the north side of the Strand, opposite the huge construction site of Somerset House. As Nicholas, Lockswood and I walked down Chancery Lane, I studied the young man who would be our guide to what was happening in Norfolk. The light breeze ruffled his black hair and beard, but his round face was expressionless.
‘Have you worked for Master Copuldyke long?’ I asked.
‘Five years.’
‘And you are a farmer’s son? My father was a yeoman in Lichfield.’
‘A good farming area, from what I hear,’ Lockswood answered neutrally. I remembered Copuldyke saying his father’s farm was too small to support his son, and changed the subject. ‘The papers at John Boleyn’s house are connected with the Brikewell manors?’
‘I believe so. When I visited him in prison, he said he’d brought them down to London as he planned to consult a lawyer.’
‘So,’ I said, ‘perhaps Witherington planned to go to law over the stream boundary after all.’
‘Yes. Maybe he hoped to wear John Boleyn out with a long battle through the courts.’
Nicholas said, ‘This Witherington sounds as though he has an interest in seeing Boleyn hanged.’
‘I do not know. But John Boleyn seems to have been content to live quietly on his lands, spending part of the time at his London house, while Master Witherington is one of those who would pile land on land, money on money, and hope for a knighthood at the end of it. As the saying goes,’ Lockswood added, sadly, ‘never in England were there so many gentlemen and so little gentleness.’
‘Come, fellow, you exaggerate,’ Nicholas said, adopting the patronizing tone he sometimes used to those of lower status. ‘There are many fine and honest gentlemen in England.’
‘I’m sure you are right, sir,’ Lockswood said, blank-faced again.
We turned the corner into the Strand, passing under the arch of Temple Bar. A pall of dust hung in the air, which set me coughing, and there was the sound of sawing and hammering from the southern side of the road where hundreds of men were working on Somerset House. The huge palace, fronted with high columns, was almost complete, but work continued on the many lesser buildings; trenches were being dug, foundations laid, timber was being sawed, masons in aprons worked on great blocks of stone. As we passed on the other side of the road Nicholas said, ‘Remember last year, when they blew up part of the old St Paul’s charnel house with gunpowder, sending the bones of ancient aldermen flying across the town?’
‘I do, indeed. An ancient thigh bone with part of a shroud attached landed in my neighbour’s garden.’
Nicholas grasped my arm, bringing me to a halt. ‘Look!’ he said excitedly, pointing across the road. ‘Is that not the Protector?’
I followed his gaze, and saw a tall, thin man with a long, pointed fair beard, a richly coloured robe, and a guard of three swordsmen in Seymour livery. He was bending over a plan laid out on a trestle table, where an architect in a long robe was indicating features with a pointer. I had met Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset and Lord Protector, briefly, in the old king’s time, and was struck by how much older he looked, his thin face hollow-cheeked, his expression severe. He stroked his long beard as he followed the architect’s words.
‘Is that him?’ Lockswood asked curiously. ‘The Good Duke?’ He used the name which Somerset had gained by his professed friendship for the poor.
‘It is.’
‘He looks as though he has all the cares of the world on his shoulders.’
‘Those of the kingdom, certainly,’ Nicholas remarked. ‘You have not seen him before, Lockswood?’
‘Yes, now you point him out. I went to watch the procession to open the Parliament two years ago, and saw him riding next to the King. It was the King I watched, of course, dressed all in purple and gold, so many jewels on his clothes they shone in the sun.’ He shook his head in reminiscence. ‘Such a little boy. They say he is much grown now.’
‘Still six years till he comes to his majority,’ I said.
Nicholas said, ‘Perhaps Somerset House may even be built by then.’
‘Perhaps. Come on,’ I said. ‘We should not stand staring, and the dust hurts my eyes.’
*
THE SOUTH SIDE of the Strand was where the great men of the realm had their houses, gardens running down to the river making an easy boat ride to London or Westminster. The buildings on the north side were older and less grand, lanes between them running up to the open fields beyond. Boleyn’s house was at the top of such a lane, a rambling house built round a central courtyard, probably an old farmhouse. I noticed loose tiles and chipped paintwork. Lockswood produced a key and opened the heavy front door. We followed him in. The place was only half furnished, everything covered with dust from the Protector’s building site. I smelled damp, too.
‘Looks as though it needs some work to make a gentleman’s town house
,’ Nicholas said.
‘Maybe Boleyn’s eyes were larger than his purse.’ I turned to Lockswood. ‘I think we should look for those papers.’
‘Master Boleyn said his office was upstairs. We can find them, make sure everything is secure, and then I must find the local constable. Master Copuldyke has given me a half-sovereign to grease his palm, make sure he continues to keep a good eye on the house.’ Lockswood smiled tightly. ‘He’ll be sure to enter it in the ledger to claim back from Master Parry.’
We climbed the staircase. A number of rooms gave off the landing. One door was half open, the room within furnished as an office – a desk, a few stools, and a large wooden chest. The walls were bare except for an old portrait of a stern-looking, black-haired man in the red robes of a London alderman. On the frame was a plaque, Geoffrey Boleyn, 1401–1463.
‘Anne Boleyn’s great-grandfather,’ I said, ‘who came to London and made his fortune.’
‘He was brother to John Boleyn’s great-grandfather,’ Lockswood explained.
‘You know something of the family?’
‘’Tis my business to know about the Norfolk gentry, sir. When claimants call on the Lady Elizabeth, my master sends me out to find their antecedents.’ I noticed again the keenness in Lockswood’s blue eyes, contrasting with his cautious expression. He went to the chest, producing another key. It would not turn. Frowning, he attempted to lift the lid. It opened, showing compartments filled with paper, documents and writing materials. ‘That’s odd,’ he said. ‘Master Boleyn said I’d need the key.’ He looked among the papers, then pulled out a folder containing an ancient plan along with some parchment scribed in Latin and Norman French. ‘I think this is it,’ he said.
I held out a hand for the plan and opened it carefully. It was a faded, yellowed parchment, hundreds of years old, with a coloured plan of the North and South Brikewell manors. The stream boundary, I noticed, followed the course of the old stream. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Here it is—’
I broke off at the sound of running feet from the corridor outside, coming from the back of the house. I glanced at the doorway, then turned to the window, my eye caught by a movement outside. To my astonishment I saw a dirty, barefoot, ragged boy of about ten running frantically across the stone flags of the courtyard. Suddenly he gave a cry and fell over, blood welling up through the dirty linen of his shirt. He struggled to rise but as he got to his feet he howled and fell over again, grasping one arm.
‘Got him!’ a voice cried.
‘Me too! One hit each!’ The voice which answered was almost identical, educated but with a slight lengthening of the vowels. Then two stocky fair-haired young men ran past the door of the office, not seeing us, and clattered down the stairs. I realized that from the back of the house they would not have heard us enter.
Nicholas and I stared at each other in surprise, and Nicholas’s hand went to his sword hilt. ‘What on earth – ?’ I asked.
Lockswood looked suddenly grim. ‘It’s the twins.’
We watched as the fair-haired lads, dressed in good-quality doublets, ran from the inner door into the courtyard. In build they were identical. Each carried a sling; they must have used them to hurl stones at the child from the windows. The little boy was trying to get up again. One of the twins kicked him in the ribs and he cried out in pain and fear.
Lockswood’s face was suddenly grim. ‘We must stop this.’ He headed for the door. I grasped his arm.
‘Are those John Boleyn’s sons?’
‘They are, sir. They must have made their way to London, perhaps to seek what they could steal from here. If we don’t stop them,’ he said seriously, taking a deep breath, ‘they might kill that child.’
The three of us rapidly descended the staircase and stepped into the morning sunshine. The ragged child was still trying to escape, but each time a well-aimed kick sent him falling over again. ‘Think you can camp out in our father’s house, you little beggar thief?’ one of the twins asked.
‘What have you stolen, eh?’ The other was talking now. ‘Hope it’s enough to have you hanged.’ Their tone was jesting, mocking, their voices hardly raised.
‘Master Gerald, Master Barnabas!’ Lockswood called out. ‘Stop that, please.’
The two boys looked up. Their faces were square, with wide, flat noses, thin lips and small blue eyes. They could be told apart only by the long, narrow scar which one had running from his mouth to his ear, standing out pale on his suntanned face. They stared at us coldly, while the injured boy lay on the cobblestones, weeping now.
The scarred twin grinned, showing square white teeth. ‘Here, Gerald,’ he said. ‘It’s that nosy clerk Lockswood. Maarnin’ there, Toby Lockswood,’ he said in an exaggerated Norfolk drawl. ‘What’s frampling yew, bor?’
‘How yer diddlin, Toby?’ The other followed his brother’s lead. ‘Brung a pair o’ laawyers, have yer? A hunchback an a long streely lad.’
‘Did you not hear us come in?’ Lockswood asked.
‘We were busy having fun,’ the boy without the scar answered, reverting to his educated voice.
Lockswood reddened, but spoke firmly. ‘We are here to secure your father’s premises, and fetch some documents. What are you doing to that poor child?’
‘Poor child?’ the one without the scar answered. ‘He’s a little thief and burglar. We, too, came to see how the house fared; we were just leaving when we found him camped in the kitchen, little mitcher. Did your job for you, I reckon.’
‘Did your father authorize you to come here?’ I asked sharply.
‘Who are you, Master Hunch-fuck?’
Nicholas put his hand on his sword hilt. ‘You’ll show my master some respect,’ he said.
The boys stood shoulder to shoulder and met his stare, quite unintimidated. ‘Don’t go threatening us, you long streak of piss.’
Nicholas stepped forward, but I clutched his arm to hold him back. I said to the boys, ‘I am Master Shardlake, appointed by Master Copuldyke to represent your father. I am coming to Norfolk next week to help with his defence in the case of your mother’s murder.’ I hoped that by speaking directly of the terrible things that had happened to their parents the boys might be cowed, but they shrugged in unison, as though they could not have cared less. I looked at the little boy on the ground. ‘What were you doing to him?’
Gerald – the boy without the scar, according to Lockswood – answered with chilling casualness. ‘Just hunting him around the house. We felt like a bit of sport, and there’s no deer or game here in London.’
‘Take him to the constable, if you like.’ Barnabas added. ‘There’s some silverware missing from the house, enough to hang this little rabbit.’
‘Or have him branded and put to service at least, under the new law,’ Gerald said.
The boy looked at me. ‘I’ve stolen nothing,’ he said frantically, ‘by Christ’s wounds!’
I noticed that Barnabas and Gerald had full pouches at their waists, remembered what Lockswood had said about them coming here to steal, and stared hard at them. ‘Maybe you’d like to show us what you have in those pouches,’ I said, glancing at Nicholas, whose hand was still on his sword hilt.
The twins looked at each other. Perhaps realizing the odds were against them, Gerald said, ‘Naah. I think we’ll fetch our horses and go back to Brikewell.’
I thought of forcing them to open the pouches, but sensed they would fight and I did not want to start this investigation by dragging Nicholas and Lockswood into a scuffle with Boleyn’s sons. I asked, though, ‘Did you open the chest in your father’s office?’
‘Yes,’ Gerald answered truculently. ‘Why shouldn’t we? If they hang him we’re his heirs. We wanted to see what we might get, but we couldn’t make much of the Latin and French rubbish written in those papers.’
‘If they hang your father, his lands go to the King, and you become the King’s wards,’ I said.
Gerald’s eyes narrowed, ‘I’ve heard that sometimes, if the heir’s
a minor, the King will grant the land back to him.’
‘And Protector Somerset’s known to listen to a sob story,’ his brother added.
‘You’d have to get past the escheator first,’ Lockswood said. ‘John Flowerdew is his local agent, he’d be responsible for the lands. You’ll have heard what he’s like.’
Gerald shrugged. ‘Well, whatever happens, that bitch Isabella won’t get anything. Come on, Barney, let’s get away from these leeching lawyers.’
The two boys turned and went back into the house. I heard the outer door slam. The little boy they had been hunting had got to his feet and stood shivering, his back to the courtyard wall.
‘Have they hurt you?’ I asked gently.
‘They got my side with a stone, then my ribs.’
I looked at the ground and saw a couple of small, pointed flints. ‘They came in and when I tried to escape they chased me all over. I heard one shout that the first to break my head open would get a half-sovereign.’ He tailed off, crying again. ‘I was only looking for shelter. It’s been so cold and wet till this week.’
I sighed, and gave the boy two shillings from my purse. ‘Be off now. We’re going to lock up the house, and it’s probably safer not to come back.’
‘I stole nothing, sir. I promise. I was asleep in the room next to the kitchen and heard sounds like metal clanking. Anything that’s gone, they took it.’
‘All right. Just go now. Straight through the house and out the front door.’ It was hard to look at the child, rake-thin, his dirty shirt bloodied, spots and scabs on his face. As he limped away I realized I had not even asked his name.
We stood in silence in the sunny courtyard for a moment. ‘So those are John Boleyn’s sons,’ I finally said.
Lockswood nodded. ‘A nasty pair. They’ve had a bad reputation since childhood.’
Nicholas said, ‘They seemed to care nothing for their father’s imprisonment, or their mother’s death.’
I looked at Lockswood. ‘Was that bravado, do you think? Pretending not to care?’
He sighed. ‘I don’t know. But hunting a helpless child as though he were a rabbit – that does not surprise me.’ His round face was set now, and angry. And indeed there had been a coldness about those boys that chilled me. He continued, ‘A few months ago they took part in the scuffle with Leonard Witherington’s men over the estate boundary. They mix with a crowd of gentlemanly ruffians, some of them Sir Richard Southwell’s servants. They’ve hired themselves out more than once to landlords who want to get tenants off their land. There’s stories of cattle maimed, ricks set on fire, people hurt.’