by C. J. Sansom
‘No, you did your best.’
He smiled. ‘I know you and Jack still meet, but he has to do it in secret.’
‘Yes, and I intend to see him in Norfolk.’
He looked at me seriously. ‘Don’t get him in any more trouble.’
‘I won’t, but I will see him, given the chance.’
Guy nodded. I saw his eyes were closing with tiredness. ‘I think I had better go,’ I said. ‘I will see you in two, maybe three weeks.’
‘I look forward to it, Matthew.’
I turned to leave. As I descended the staircase I heard, from the kitchen at the back, the sound of things being moved on a table. Quietly, for Tamasin was never one to give way to temper. I hesitated for a moment, then turned and left the shop.
Chapter Eight
Next morning, Saturday, I rose early. It was a lovely June morning, but I had little leisure to enjoy it; I had to visit Lincoln’s Inn and find friendly barristers to look after my cases for the two or three weeks I would be in Norfolk. Fortunately, especially at Assize time, such arrangements were common. And I must ensure my clerk John Skelly was properly briefed. Then in the evening there was supper at my friend Philip Coleswyn’s house.
Over breakfast John Goodcole told me he had hired four good horses to be available early on Monday morning, to transport Nicholas, Lockswood, myself and our baggage to Norwich. I thanked him gratefully. He also handed me a letter, just delivered by a rider from Hatfield. I opened it. It was from Parry:
Master Shardlake, greetings.
I send this letter to reach you before you depart for Norfolk. I have arranged rooms for you and Master Overton for two weeks from the thirteenth of June, which should be the earliest you will arrive. They are at the Maid’s Head Inn, by the cathedral, one of the best in Norwich. It is in Tombland district, at a little distance from the market square below which stand the castle gaol and the Shire Hall, where the trial will be held. Most of the lawyers will be staying at the market square inns, so you will be away from all the gossip.
Yesterday I had occasion to meet with Master William Cecil, Secretary to the Protector, with whom I know you are acquainted. He is my distant relative and is to be trusted on matters concerning the Lady Elizabeth. I mentioned the Boleyn case to him, and sought his discretion should any rumours reach him. I also mentioned you were going to Norfolk to carry out discreet enquiries.
Please write and let me know when you are safely arrived in Norwich.
Your loving friend,
Thomas Parry
I had not realized that Parry was related to William Cecil. I guessed he had asked Cecil to keep any rumours about John Boleyn from the Protector. And he was lodging me at an inn some distance from where the other lawyers would be. I understood his desire for discretion, but that would be difficult if I were to investigate things properly as the Lady Elizabeth wished. I was conscious of the sealed application for a pardon which Elizabeth had handed me before I left Hatfield, and which was carefully locked away at my house. I hoped I would never have to use it.
*
I SPENT THE MORNING at Lincoln’s Inn, where, fortunately, I managed to find people to deal with my cases temporarily, then went into my chambers with a list of instructions for Skelly. Nicholas was already there, finishing some work of his own.
‘Looking forward to tonight, hey?’ I asked.
‘I am, sir. It was good of you to ask Master Coleswyn to invite the Kenzy family.’
‘Well, I know you are keen to see the delightful Beatrice.’
Nicholas flushed slightly, and Skelly lowered his head to hide a smile. I reflected again that there was something about Beatrice Kenzy that I did not like, but it was not for me to lay rocks in the path of my assistant, who seemed genuinely smitten.
‘Do you know who else is coming?’ Nicholas asked.
‘I think it is just Philip Coleswyn and his wife, us and the Kenzys. And Philip’s old mother, who lives with them now, to make up the numbers.’
‘Has he not invited a lady to pique your interest?’
‘Not unless the old woman piques it. But I believe she is over seventy.’
Philip was a good friend; I had met him when we were on opposite sides in a particularly unpleasant case, and he had shown himself an honest and compassionate man. He was a strong Protestant, but open-minded enough to mix with people with differing views. Philip knew Beatrice’s father, another barrister, from work, and with typical kindness he had agreed to invite us all to supper so that Nicholas could further his pursuit of Beatrice.
*
THE SUPPER WAS arranged for six o’clock, and I walked from my house to Coleswyn’s residence in Little Britain Street, off Smithfield. It stood in a row of old dwellings, their overhanging jettied roofs giving welcome shade from the sun, which late in the afternoon was hot still. Summer, it appeared, had arrived at last.
Before setting out I had begun packing for Norwich, and had looked out my last letter from my old servant Josephine. I remember it said that she was pregnant, that she and her husband were in difficulty, and I had sent some money. I realized it was six months since then. The address they gave was Pit Street, St Michael’s Coslany, Norwich. I had no idea where that might be. I thought, Pit Street; Tombland. Neither name seemed to augur well.
I was a little late, the last to arrive. I had dressed in my black summer robe with a brown doublet beneath, silver aiglets on silk cords the only concessions to colour, remembering this was a Protestant house where modesty in dress was favoured. And indeed, when I was shown into the parlour and Philip stepped forward to greet me, he wore a dark doublet beneath his robe, the white collar of his shirt the only contrast. He had grown the long beard fashionable among radicals. He took my hand. ‘Matthew. God give you good evening.’
‘I am sorry to be late.’
‘Just a little, no matter.’
His wife, Ethelreda, came forward and curtsied. She was a fair-haired, attractive woman, like her husband nearing forty. She wore a brown dress, her hair bound under the blue circlet of a French hood. I thought how different she looked from the worn, frightened figure I had first met three years before, when the old king’s final hunt against Protestant heretics was in full swing.
‘Ethelreda. You look well. How are your children?’
‘Growing fast. But we have a good tutor, who keeps them in order.’ Unlike the Boleyn twins, I thought, with whom no tutor would stay. ‘Come,’ she continued. ‘This is my husband’s mother.’ An old woman with white hair under a gable hood, a discontented expression on her plump, wrinkled face, sat in a chair. ‘Mother,’ Ethelreda said, ‘this is Serjeant Matthew Shardlake, our good friend. My mother-in-law, Mistress Margaret Coleswyn.’
The old lady turned a keen, wintry gaze on me, then gave a crooked smile. ‘I see you are an old white-head, like me. Young people are too quick to show off their hair these days, headgear is not as modest as it was.’
Edward Kenzy stepped forward. In his fifties and a fellow-barrister at Lincoln’s Inn, he was a political and religious conservative, a seasoned cynic about both the law and the world, who enjoyed good conversation, food and wine. I had met him several times in the course of business, and despite our different opinions I rather liked him. Under his lawyer’s robe he wore a dark red silken doublet; the collar of his shirt was decorated in elaborate blackwork. Old Mistress Coleswyn, for whom, no doubt, he was too gaudily dressed, frowned. Cheerfully ignoring her, Kenzy shook my hand. ‘Brother Shardlake,’ he said. ‘It is a while since we have seen you in the courts. The Lady Elizabeth must be keeping you busy. Young Master Overton tells my daughter you are off to Norfolk on her affairs on Monday.’
‘Yes, we are.’ I looked across to where Nicholas stood in conversation with Beatrice Kenzy. He was not wearing his robe, but a new doublet of light green satin and a black belt with a decorated golden buckle at his waist. Both looked costly. Beatrice wore a blue dress with a high collar, a jewelled pendant round her neck. She was a pr
etty girl, black-haired like her father, her face white with powder. She was listening to Nicholas with wide-eyed attention, her small mouth set in a slight simper. It was that simpering expression, I realized, that had set me against her, unfairly perhaps, for I had always favoured strong-minded, intelligent women. Standing just near enough to hear the conversation was a middle-aged woman so like Beatrice that she had to be her mother. She wore a fashionable little hat on her greying hair instead of a hood, and a yellow dress with contrasting black sleeves.
Kenzy took me to her. ‘My wife, Laura. My dear, this is Serjeant Matthew Shardlake, Nicholas’s employer.’
Her expression as she listened to her daughter’s conversation had been sharp, but it softened into a smile as she curtsied. ‘Serjeant Shardlake, I have heard much about you,’ she said in gushing tones. ‘How you used to work for the late Queen Catherine, God save her soul, and now for the household of the Lady Elizabeth.’
‘Yes, though I used to work at the Court of Requests as well.’
‘Such connections must bring you good work.’ She glanced at Nicholas and Beatrice. ‘And of course, working for you, young Nicholas must be making good connections too.’ Her blue eyes were calculating, and I now began to understand something that had puzzled me – why a successful, prosperous barrister would encourage a penniless young man like Nicholas to court his only daughter. Mistress Kenzy, who I realized was probably the prime mover, had been dazzled by the names of my patrons, and hoped Nicholas would soon be mixing with the highest in the land. I looked at Beatrice, still listening with rapt interest to Nicholas’s account of his visit to Hatfield Palace, and wondered if that was her motivation, too.
A steward appeared in the doorway, and Philip clapped his hands. ‘Come everyone, let us eat.’ We passed through to the dining room, where the table was set with plates, fine glassware and napkins. We seated ourselves and placed our napkins over our shoulders. I was next to Laura Kenzy, while on my other side Philip sat at the head of the table. Opposite me old Mistress Coleswyn settled herself down with the aid of a servant. Grace was said, and Philip offered a toast to the health of ‘The King, our little shepherd’. Servants brought in a first course of salads, eggs and cheese, with plates of good manchet bread and butter.
Philip said, ‘This is the first supper this year where we shall not need candles.’ And indeed the light from the windows giving on to the pretty garden outside was quite sufficient to dine by. ‘The weather has been dreadful this spring,’ he continued, ‘I fear a bad harvest, and much suffering for the poor later in the year.’
‘The poor are always with us,’ Edward Kenzy said. ‘It was always so, and always will be.’
‘They have seldom suffered so much as now,’ Philip replied. ‘A penny loaf is but half the size it was two years ago.’ Philip was a strong Commonwealth man, as ardent for reform in society as in religion, believing like me that the State owed a duty to rectify the abuses that had caused such a rise in poverty. He turned to me for support.
‘’Tis true,’ I agreed. ‘Prices go up faster than ever, but the wages of the poor remain the same.’
‘Prices have gone up for everyone,’ Laura Kenzy said, righteously. ‘It is no easy thing for those like me who have to run a household. Or my brother, who owns houses at Bishopsgate. His costs go up, but the tenants’ rents were set years ago. Is that fair?’ She turned to me, flushing slightly. ‘Begging your pardon, Serjeant Shardlake.’
‘No need, madam. You have the right to an opinion like everyone else.’
Ethelreda said, to change the subject, ‘Is anyone going to St Paul’s Cathedral tomorrow, to hear Archbishop Cranmer preach from the new Prayer Book?’
‘My wife and daughter will be going to the Lincoln’s Inn Chapel, but I shall go to St Paul’s,’ Edward Kenzy answered neutrally. ‘I suppose it will be, at least, a historic occasion.’ I looked at him, remembering his reputation as a religious traditionalist. He met my eye. ‘What of you, Brother Shardlake?’
‘I shall go. As you say, a historic occasion.’
‘I believe you have worked for the archbishop, too, in the past,’ Laura Kenzy said, any traditionalist reservations of her own overcome by snobbery.
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘In the old king’s time. Whatever else, Archbishop Cranmer is a man of sincerity.’
Ethelreda, her face alight with enthusiasm, joined in. ‘Last week our family went to hear Master Latimer preach at the Cathedral Cross. He spoke of the sickness in the body of the State, and the need to ensure the bodily welfare of all within the Commonwealth.’
‘You speak wrongly, Ethelreda, sometimes I think you have not the brains of a flea.’ Old Margaret Coleswyn’s voice rasped with contempt. ‘Yes, Master Latimer spoke of reform that is needed in the Commonwealth, but that was for ten minutes in a speech of two hours. He spoke far more of what is truly wrong in England, its devotion to the sins of the flesh, gaming and whoring, its failure truly to root out the remnants of papistry. And he condemned those who rose up against their landlords last month.’ The old woman glared around the table, inviting challenge.
Ethelreda went red. ‘Mother –’ Philip said, warningly.
Edward Kenzy chuckled. ‘The Commonwealth men and pamphleteers will have noted down only what he said about land reform, I’m sure, and distributed it far and wide. I hope Master Latimer did not condemn fine dining, or we are all condemned to hellfire. Though I think he believes most of us are doomed to it anyway, and is quite cheerful about it. This egg sauce is delicious, Coleswyn.’ An uneasy titter went round the table, though old Mistress Coleswyn sat stony-faced.
‘Latimer was right at least in condemning those peasants who rose up against enclosures last month,’ Kenzy continued, more seriously. ‘There was a bad business in Wiltshire, too, where they tried to take down the fences round Sir William Herbert’s new park, and he had to gather two hundred men to rout them, not without bloodshed, I hear.’ He looked at me. ‘Herbert’s wife is sister to the late Queen Catherine. Did you hear any news of the affair?’
‘No, I met the Herberts only once,’ I said carefully. ‘One can surely understand the anger of Herbert’s tenantry against huge amounts of good agricultural land being fenced off so the great lords may go a-hunting. This passion for parkland has its consequences for the poor of the Commonwealth.’
Kenzy looked at me levelly. ‘What is your definition of the Commonwealth?’
‘The whole nation, held in economic balance, the rules ensuring that none are too poor to live.’
Philip added, ‘The Protector issued a strong proclamation against illegal enclosures in April, and I believe he has asked John Hales to organize a whole new series of commissions to go around all England this summer, and reverse all illegal enclosures of land since 1485. Many old injustices may thus be remedied.’
I considered, then said, ‘Many old injustices there are, and new ones too with the enclosure of common land for sheep.’ I thought of the Brikewell manors. ‘But to disentangle all enclosures since 1485 –’ I shook my head sadly – ‘that is a job that could occupy a hundred lawyers for years. Any return of lands to the common people will be challenged in the courts by the landlords, even if they are not seized back as soon as the commissioners move on – the magistrates and gentlemen will be united against them. I do not think the Protector has thought this through. He may indeed wish serious reform, but careful planning is needed.’
Kenzy said, ‘Yes. How are the commissioners supposed to know what was common land fifty years ago, if documentary evidence is lacking, which, probably, it is?’
Coleswyn said, ‘Then evidence will be taken from aged persons who were alive at the time –’
‘Anyone who was an adult in 1485 would be eighty now, if still alive,’ Kenzy replied scoffingly.
‘They may have told their children, who could give evidence.’
‘Come, Philip,’ Kenzy said impatiently. ‘You know that would be mere hearsay, inadmissible in court. And who are th
ese people the commissioners will be asking to testify? Tenants, leaseholders, squatters; are they to be the ones who decide who is to own what land in England? Against the will of the local landholders? Does Protector Somerset wish the foot of the body politic to rule the head against all natural and biblical precedent?’
‘He only wishes to do justice,’ Philip said, gravely.
‘He wishes to keep his reputation as the Good Duke with the poor, is nearer the truth,’ Kenzy retorted. ‘As Serjeant Shardlake says, he does not think things through. And in truth Somerset cares for nothing but conquering Scotland.’
‘I have occasionally wondered whether perhaps it might be better if the foot of the body politic had the rule,’ I said, greatly daring, ‘given how the head treats the foot.’
Old Margaret Coleswyn was scandalized. ‘You would deny the social order ordained by God? You sound like an Anabaptist, sir, who would bring the land to murder and anarchy!’
I gave her a wintry smile. ‘I recall just three years ago, when accusations of Anabaptism were thrown at every Protestant by religious traditionalists. Strange how readily reformers themselves now throw the name Anabaptist around. Mistress Joan Bocher has been found guilty of Anabaptist heresy, has she not? I believe she is in the care of Lord Chancellor Rich, who tortured Anne Askew. Perhaps she too will be burned. It is strange how the wheels turn.’
The old woman did not reply, but simply looked at me in outrage. There was silence round the table. Then, to the relief of us all, the second course was brought in; a platter of roast beef on a bed of herbs, plates of chicken in lemon juice. Everyone set to with a will.
‘I congratulate you on the fine meal, Mistress Coleswyn,’ Edward Kenzy said eventually.
‘Thank you. It was hard to get everything, things are either scarce or expensive. The merchants hoard goods one month, then sell them the next when prices have risen again.’
‘I know,’ Kenzy said. ‘I think everyone round this table would at least agree the rise in prices is a serious problem.’ He looked around. ‘But what is the cause, hey? Merchants withholding goods so prices rise, yes, but the real problem is the debasement of the coinage. It is no accident we have had two re-coinages this year alone, and that prices rise faster than ever. The root problem is the waste of money on that war in Scotland, which can never be won. The six-year-old Mary, Queen of Scotland is gone to France, now she will never marry King Edward, and there are French troops in Scotland too. I believe that is all the Protector cares about, fighting this unwinnable war to the cost of everyone.’