by C. J. Sansom
Someone from the crowd called out, ‘If you’re Scotch, why aren’t you up fighting with your countrymen?’
‘Yes, have you no honour?’ The soldier who had aimed the kick, a large fellow who seemed to be the ringleader, drew his foot back for another. ‘Come, spy, uncover your face! I’ll make it so your mother won’t recognize you!’
There was a bustle of movement, and to my relief I saw the stout figure of Lord Mayor Amcoates approaching, in his red robes and huge gold chain, half a dozen constables with clubs at his side. He stepped forward, face red with fury above his long grey beard. Beside him walked another soldier; about forty, tall and slim, with a seamed face, beaky nose, and short brown beard. He had an air of authority, though his expression was one of irritation.
‘In the name of the King, stop this brawling!’ the mayor shouted at the soldiers. ‘God’s death, I’ll have you all hanged for riot and desertion! Captain Drury, bring your men to order!’ He glared at the soldier beside him, who gave the mayor a narrow-eyed look but called to his men to stand to attention, which they immediately did, stepping away from the Scotchman. The mayor turned to the crowd, which was already melting away. ‘Be off with you all!’ he shouted. ‘Go find a cockfight!’ The Scotchman, meanwhile, made an attempt to stand but fell back; I caught a glimpse of his blackened eyes. He spat out a couple of bloody teeth. Seeing this, Captain Drury gave a smile that sent a chill through me.
‘What’s this hurly-burly, men?’ Drury asked the soldiers in a jesting tone.
‘We came into town, sir, to see what was happening,’ the man who had kicked the Scotchman answered. ‘That Scotch ape came out the tavern and called us English hogs! It was a stain on our honour, sir.’
The man lifted his shattered face, looked at the mayor, and desperately tried to speak, his voice muffled by the blood that dripped from his mouth. ‘I didnae! I was buying a chapbook from a peddler, the soldiers heard my accent and set on me! I’ve lived in London ten years, I earn my bread honestly –’
Mayor Amcoates looked down at him with distaste. ‘How? What do you do?’
‘I work for a grain merchant, sir. Master Jackson at Three Cranes Wharf. I fetch grain from the docks, help in the warehouse – I’ve a wife and children –’
The mayor turned to Captain Drury. ‘Your men should be in camp, not wandering the city causing trouble.’
Drury said, ‘This man insulted them. He could be a spy.’
‘A spy would not draw attention to himself.’ The mayor raised his voice. ‘God’s bones, Drury, you may lead the King’s chief company, but I will have no more of these soldiers’ commotions! I warn you, Protector Somerset is aware of them. Now, take your men and get back to your camp at Islington.’
Drury looked at his men, then spoke boldly to Amcoates. ‘And what of this Scotch dog, sir? Should he not be prosecuted for insulting His Majesty’s soldiers?’
Amcoates met his gaze with fury, but Drury did not flinch. The mayor sighed, then nodded to a constable. ‘Take him to the Fleet, hold him for questioning.’
Captain Drury showed that nasty smile again, then bowed and ordered his men to fall in behind him. They marched away. Two constables took the Scotchman under the arms and dragged him off, feet bumping over the cobbles, drops of blood falling from his face. I thought of my old friend George Leacon, who had been a captain in the French wars and had gone down on the Mary Rose. He would have been ashamed to see men under his command act like that. But we had been at war so long, perhaps it had turned men into brutes. I glanced at the blood on the cobbles, glistening bright red in the sun. I wish to God it could have been the last such sight I was to see that summer.
Part Two
NORWICH
Chapter Ten
We were due to arrive in Norwich early in the afternoon of Thursday, the thirteenth of June, five days before the Assizes were to begin. It was a long ride, north through Middlesex and Hertfordshire, then north-east to Norfolk. The weather continued warm and sunny, but the roads were in a poor state after the frosty winter followed by the wet spring. Many times we had to plod slowly through mud. I found the journey increasingly hard on my back, as I had feared, and was in some pain by the time we crossed into Norfolk. Nicholas was solicitous of my condition, though Toby Lockswood was keen to proceed as fast as possible and did not appear to notice. Pride prevented me from ordering him to go more slowly, but Nicholas must have spoken to him on our second day, for afterwards he did go at an easier pace. The only times we all speeded up were when we saw groups of masterless men on the road, of which there were a good many, always heading south towards London.
I had already observed that Toby and Nicholas, who lodged together at the inns we slept at, did not get on well. They spoke to each other little, though with me Toby was civil and helpful, if self-contained; he was quiet, though, with something cold about his manner. Nicholas’s gentleman’s habit of talking down to those of lower station, even if he had to work with them, was reasserting itself with Toby.
We entered Norfolk at Thetford, and at first the road cut through forest and woodland country, with many small farms and areas given over to pasture. Much of the woodland was ancient oak, green and verdant, but we had no time to take pleasure in it, slogging steadily on. Shortly after leaving Thetford, Toby pointed to our right and said the Lady Mary’s palace of Kenninghall lay a few miles off in that direction.
We followed the long straight road through Attleborough and the larger town of Wymondham, names which meant nothing to me then. As we approached Wymondham, Toby referred to it as ‘Windham’, which puzzled me as I had seen the longer name on the route plan we carried.
‘But it is spelt Wymondham,’ I said.
‘We do that sometimes in Norfolk,’ he said. ‘Miss out the middle syllable when a word’s too long. Take the easy way round.’
I smiled at this rare sign of humour.
After Wymondham the nature of the countryside changed. There was less woodland; the flat land stretching to the wide horizon was intensively cultivated, apart from occasional areas of sandy heath dotted with forget-me-nots and rabbit burrows. It was what I had expected, a patchwork of open fields divided into strips, but with a good number of self-contained, enclosed farms carved out of them, some quite large. What surprised me were the large areas given over to sheep, more than I had ever seen. Strange-looking creatures too; they had wool curling down in long braids, rather than the short fleeces familiar from the fields round London. They were penned in by strong wicker hurdles about five feet high, connected to each other with metal braces, which sometimes stretched a mile or more along the roadway, often with ditches outside. On the farms the fields were dotted with people weeding the crops, which had not grown nearly as high as one would expect in mid-June. The sheep-runs, though, were empty of people except the occasional shepherd with a boy or dog. One dog ran alongside us for a while, barking wildly on the other side of the fence, scaring the sheep so the silly creatures ran away, huddling together and bleating in panic.
We passed through several villages. Through open windows I saw weavers at their looms, and many women and children stood in the doorways spinning wool on wooden spindles, turning them endlessly. Many people gave us sour looks, and hardly any doffed their caps or bowed as country people customarily did to gentlemen passing through. At one village a cart full of hay, pulled by a bony nag and led by a man in a smock, turned out of a farmyard in front of us. The cart was in the centre of the road and there was room for him to move to one side to let us pass in single file. I thought perhaps he had not seen us and called out, ‘Please, fellow, let us pass!’
The man ignored me. Nicholas frowned and called out angrily, ‘Out of the way, churl! We’re on urgent business!’ The man set his shoulders firmly and continued to proceed along the middle of the road. Toby gave Nicholas a cold stare. ‘Rudeness won’t help you here, master,’ he said. There was a bite on the last word I had never heard before. He called to the man in front, emphasizing
his Norfolk accent, ‘Pardon that fellow’s antrums, bor. Be good-doing and let us through, we’re in a hurry to reach Naaritch.’
The farmer looked round at Toby, nodded, and moved the cart to the side.
On the far side of the village Nicholas asked Toby, ‘What are antrums?’
‘Airs and graces,’ Toby answered tersely. ‘’Tis a good thing neither of you are wearing your legal robes. Lawyers are not popular in Norfolk these days.’
*
WE SPENT THE night at an inn in Wymondham. My back was now so painful I found it difficult to walk without the stick I had brought with me. In the inn yard, as the horses were led away, Nicholas said solicitously, ‘You look uncomfortable, sir.’
‘I’ll be all right when we get to Norwich tomorrow. No more riding.’ I lowered my voice. ‘I think you would do well to be more friendly to Toby. His local knowledge is important to us.’
Nicholas frowned. ‘I do my best, but he makes it clear he dislikes me. In the evenings he tries to lecture me as though he were my equal, saying the ills of the country are caused by greedy gentlemen. It is boring, and insolent. Dangerous, too, with this talk of trouble in the West Country.’
His talk of trouble there was true. At each inn we stopped at, the talk was of the sudden uprising in Devon, which apparently had now spread to Cornwall, with rumours of troubles in Hampshire, too. Nobody seemed sure whether these protests were against the new Prayer Book, or the abuses of the gentlemen, or both.
‘He’s never spoken like that to me,’ I said.
‘You pay his wages. I understand now why Copuldyke speaks roughly to him.’
I said gently, ‘Well, Nicholas, you have told me your own father is no great example of gentlemanly behaviour.’
‘I seek to do better, to live up to my station,’ he answered proudly.
‘Then humour Toby. You’ll get on better without what he sees as’ – I smiled – ‘your antrums.’
Nicholas did not smile in return; he only said grimly, ‘I’ll try.’
*
THE NEXT MORNING, we set out early. Some miles from Norwich Toby pointed up a sandy lane. ‘That leads to the Brikewell manors,’ he said. I looked up the lane; in the distance I could see the roof of a two-storey house, perhaps John Boleyn’s.
Around midday we crossed the River Yare. By now we could see the great spire of Norwich Cathedral ahead. As we came closer we saw other spires, and the battlemented city walls, which stretched along a wide area, except where the River Wensum flowed through the city, brown and fringed with reeds.
The road was busy with carts bringing goods into the city and we halted as we approached the largest and most ornate of the gatehouses set in the walls, with double round towers on each side of a wide-arched door. There was insufficient room for more than one cart to pass through at a time, and there were several carts ahead of us. We halted before a low ditch with a wooden bridge in front of the gatehouse, half-filled with stinking rubbish like the ditches outside London Wall. There was a gallows, too, where the half-rotted body of some malefactor hung in chains, a pair of rooks picking at the blackened flesh. I turned and looked along the walls. They were of dark flint, studded with many projecting towers. I noticed that in some places they were in a state of disrepair, half tumbled down. ‘These walls are in no good state for defence,’ I said to Toby. ‘And they are lower than I expected, lower than London or York.’
He nodded. ‘They were built for civic pride, not defence. In the days before the Great Plague two centuries ago. The city was larger then.’
*
WE ENTERED THROUGH the gate, and rode into the city. I was surprised by how much open ground there was – to our right was an area of grass, where earthen butts stood for Sunday archery practice, while to the left were the grounds of a large building undergoing demolition. ‘St Mary’s,’ Toby said. ‘Used to be a big chantry college. The government has sold it to the Spencers, one of the big Norwich families.’
We rode on. There were more buildings now, houses and shops with glimpses of courtyards behind them. A small, malodorous stream ran down the centre of the road. Many shops were selling leather goods, and there was a strong smell of new-tanned skins in the air. The streets were busy, though not as thronged as London, with the same mixture of workmen in leather or wadmol jackets, blue-coated apprentices, goodwives in their coifs and the occasional gentleman with decorated doublet, codpiece and sword. I noticed the gentlemen were accompanied by a good retinue of armed servants, while many citizens looked poor; shoeless, their clothes ragged and dirty, their cheeks hollow. Beggars and workless men leaned on walls, watching those who passed by. Some gave us hostile looks. I thought of Josephine and her husband, and wondered how they fared.
To our left, atop artificial grassy mounds built one on top of another, stood a Norman castle, a gigantic battlemented cube of stone, faced with flint at the lowest level, the higher levels of limestone, dirty with age. Like all the Norman castles it was a brutal, solid statement of power. Most now served as gaols. Toby pointed to one of the smaller buildings beside it. ‘That’s the Shire Hall, where the Assizes will be held.’
‘And Master Boleyn is in the castle prison.’
‘No escape from there,’ Nicholas said, staring at the huge, solid block. ‘His only road is to trial.’
‘And from there,’ Toby said, ‘to freedom or to the gallows on hanging-day afterwards. You are right, Master Overton, there is no other road.’
I did not answer, but thought of the Lady Elizabeth’s application for a pardon in my pocket, and again hoped desperately it would not be needed.
We rode on, into the largest market square I had ever seen, rectangular and with a downward slope towards the river. We passed a magnificent church, where I noticed that the stained-glass in the east window, beautifully coloured, was still in place. ‘St Peter Mancroft,’ Toby said. ‘Where the rich city fathers gather on Sundays.’
On the grassy mounds leading up to the castle a cattle market was in preparation, the beasts in a series of pens, men walking around, inspecting them. The marketplace itself, with permanent booths and shops at the top and an open cobbled space at the bottom, was closed; men in leather aprons were clearing rubbish from the cobbles. ‘Wednesday and Saturday are market days,’ Toby said. ‘On Saturday, there won’t be room to move here.’
We rode through the marketplace. In its centre stood a huge, ornate market cross, two storeys high. At the top of the square I saw an impressive building of flint and limestone, one wall decorated in an alternating pattern of black and white squares. ‘The Guildhall,’ Toby said, ‘where the city business is done, the tolls are added up, and the guildsmen meet.’ By the doors I noticed a small group of gentlemen in richly decorated gowns attended by armed retainers, looking down over the marketplace and talking quietly. ‘The city aldermen and sheriffs,’ Toby explained. ‘Representatives of the great city families. The Stewards, the Anguishes, the Sothertons. That fat little fellow in the red robes is this year’s mayor, Thomas Codd.’ I noticed that next to the Guildhall another gibbet stood, though without a dangling corpse this time, and beside it were the town stocks and a canopied well.
‘You said John Boleyn’s father-in-law was an alderman.’
‘Yes, Gawen Reynolds. But he and his wife have shut themselves up in their house in Tombland since the news of their daughter’s murder. Reynolds is well known as a haughty old fellow with a vicious temper, but if you attend him in your serjeant’s robes, he may speak to you.’ Toby smiled wryly. ‘He married his daughter to John Boleyn when Anne Boleyn was set to become Queen; he thought association with her name would add to his status. But of course she didn’t last.’
Before I could reply a crowd of beggarly children appeared, seemingly from nowhere, and surrounded our horses, lifting stick-thin arms with cries of ‘Charity, gemmun!’, ‘We’re clammed half ta dead!’
To my surprise it was Toby who waved them away, calling fiercely, ‘Shut that rattock! Begone!’
We rode on, followed by a stream of insults. ‘Bent hunchback! Doghearts! Snudges!’ I looked at Toby. ‘You have to be firm here, sir, even more than in London,’ he said quietly. ‘If you are marked out as charitable, you’ll get no peace. It’s hard, though, many of them are truly near starving. The city set a new poor rate last month, but what they raise makes little difference.’ There was an angry tremor in his voice.
A number of inns stood at the top of the marketplace, just above the Guildhall. Little groups of people stood talking outside. The inns where the lawyers would stay when the Assizes arrived, I thought. As we approached, a stocky man in his late thirties detached himself from one group and marched towards us. He wore a green doublet and black hose, a wide red cap covering his brown hair. The thing that drew Toby’s eye towards him, though, was that he lacked a right hand, having instead a metal rod with a curved handle, below a pointed end covered in a leather sheath. With the handle he held a leather bag.
‘Jack!’ I said, leaning over to take his proffered left hand. ‘I hadn’t expected to see you in Norwich so soon!’
‘I hadn’t expected to see you at all! But when I saw a gentleman surrounded by a crowd of eager beggars, I thought it must be you. And Nicholas, how fare you, long lad?’
‘Well enough.’ Toby looked a little surprised at their familiarity, but though my former assistant had started life as a child of the streets, he had helped train Nicholas up, and the three of us had lived through the events that ended with Barak losing his right hand to a swordsman.
I indicated Toby. ‘This is Goodman Lockswood, a Norwich man assisting us on the case that brings us here.’ They shook hands.
‘You’re here on a case?’ Barak asked. ‘At the Assizes?’
‘Yes.’
‘One of the civil law matters? A land case?’
I hesitated. ‘Not quite. I’d welcome the chance to discuss it with you, if you have time. But why are you here now? Surely the trials are not due until next week.’