by C. J. Sansom
‘Indeed. It’s roused some interest among the assize staff, on account of the name, and the nasty circumstances. It all sounds pretty horrible.’
‘It is.’ I told him what I knew of the Boleyn case, the Lady Elizabeth’s interest, and Toby Lockswood’s accompanying us to Norwich, though I had to leave out the story of Edith Boleyn’s visit to Hatfield. When I had finished, Barak looked at me narrowly. ‘I thought you’d had enough of political matters.’
‘This is not political. The Lady Elizabeth only wants us to investigate the facts and ensure justice is done.’
‘It may not be high London politics, but it’s political around here. The Boleyn name isn’t popular, I’ve learned that much, and John Boleyn setting up house with an alewife did him no good with the local gentry.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
He looked at me sharply. ‘Do you think him innocent?’
‘I honestly don’t know. My mission is to ensure all information comes before the court, and that he has a fair trial.’
Nicholas asked, ‘Do you think they’ll be able to find an impartial jury?’
Barak shrugged. ‘It won’t be easy. The name Boleyn isn’t popular, as I’ve said. And the judges will be looking for a conviction on an outrage like this. Sentencing gets harsher every year; it’s thanks to all these Calvinistic types in power.’
‘You told me one of the judges on the circuit is a hard man. Judge Gatchet, wasn’t it?’
Barak nodded seriously. ‘He’ll want a kill. You know the other judge, Reynberd; quiet, smiling. Sometimes he pretends to be asleep, but he observes everything, especially local politics. He can strike hard when he chooses but he’s not as harsh as Gatchet. As usual on Assizes, they appoint two different types, to balance each other.’
‘You sound out of sympathy with the Assizes,’ Nicholas observed.
Barak leaned back in his chair. ‘Ay, lad, I am. Seeing the judges entering the cities with their armed retinues, all pomp and ceremony, up there on horses in their red robes, the robes of blood, as people call them . . . Then watching them hurry through the capital cases, afraid of catching gaol fever. They’re on to the next town before the hanging day. Some of the civil cases too’ – he shook his head. ‘Last year a landlord brought a case against a blind widow with five children. Her husband was his tenant, but he died, and the landlord wanted to put the widow and children out on the grounds they couldn’t manage the farm. He won, the judge saying the tenant had to be able to farm the land to pay the landlord his due rent, and the widow and children went on the streets.’ He shrugged. ‘I suppose he was right, as a matter of law.’
‘Unfortunately, he was,’ I agreed.
‘That’s hard,’ Nicholas said quietly.
‘Ho, Nick, I thought you were the landlord’s friend.’
‘Not where an injustice like that is concerned.’
‘Spirit of the times,’ Barak said bitterly. ‘Pay the poor in worthless money, conscript them to serve in this mad Scottish war.’
I smiled. ‘You are become a Commonwealth man.’
He shrugged. ‘I see what I see. I was here in Norwich on the winter Assizes two years ago, and, by God, things are worse now. People are saying they wish King Henry was back, at least you knew where you were with the old bastard.’
‘Usually in trouble,’ Nicholas said feelingly.
Barak sighed. ‘Well, I think I’ll make this my last Assizes. Spend more time working with the London solicitors.’ He smiled, brightening. ‘I can write a fair hand with my left now, it’s taken a lot of practice and it’s a bit of a scrawl but it’s legible. I can take depositions again.’
‘That is good,’ I said, looking uncomfortably at his prosthesis, the attached knife sticking out, protected by its leather sheath.
There was an uncomfortable silence. I was conscious that a group of four young men, who had taken seats at an adjoining table shortly before, were looking at us. They were sunburned, wore wide hats and leather smocks, and long poles were balanced on their table. I took them for boatmen from the nearby river.
‘The Blue Boar’s coming up in the world,’ one said, loud enough for us to hear. ‘Look at yinder gemmen.’
‘Even if they are a funny-looking crew.’
‘Furriners here for the Assizes, probably. Come to see who’s going to dance from market gibbet next week.’
‘Yin’s a hunchback, yin’s got a metal hand. Can’t see what’s wrong with the third one.’
‘Maybe he’s missing his cock.’
They laughed coarsely and Nicholas reddened. ‘You insolent churls,’ he said, pushing back his chair. Barak put out a restraining hand, then laid his artificial one on the table with a loud clang, and pulled off the sheath covering the knife. It was not long, but sharp. He looked meaningfully at the men.
‘We’re just mardlin, sir,’ one said, though a touch aggressively, and they bent their heads over their drinks again. Barak turned back to us. ‘See what I mean,’ he said quietly. ‘Gentlemen aren’t popular here now, and don’t get the usual civilities.’
‘Insults that children would make,’ Nicholas said, still staring boldly at the men. One looked back at him threateningly, and Barak asked, to distract him, ‘What are your next steps on the case?’
Nicholas answered, ‘Tomorrow we’ll see Boleyn in gaol, and the coroner, then visit the victim’s parents, if they’ll see us.’
‘Any idea yet who might have done it, if not John Boleyn?’
I shook my head. Nicholas said, ‘There’s plenty of choice. Boleyn’s sons, his second wife, the neighbour he had quarrelled with.’
I thought, but did not say, And Richard Southwell, who might be interested in Boleyn’s lands, and from whom I was warned off by Cecil.
Nicholas said, ‘If only Boleyn had an alibi for the two hours when his second wife said he was studying legal papers, but did not actually see him.’
‘Especially as those papers were down in London,’ I added. ‘The crucial papers about Brikewell. I have them.’ I looked at Nicholas. ‘I think we should take Lockswood and visit the Brikewell manors on Saturday.’
‘Mind if I come along?’ Barak asked diffidently. ‘I’m busy tomorrow, but free Saturdays.’ I raised my eyebrows, and he said, ‘Tamasin’s down in London, isn’t she? She won’t know.’
I hesitated, then said, ‘All right.’ I gave Nicholas a quick nod. He said, ‘I need the jakes. I’ll be back in a minute.’
When he had gone, I said quietly to Barak, ‘I had an encounter with Tamasin a week ago.’ I told him what had passed at Guy’s. He shook his head. ‘She won’t forgive or forget, will she? Three years now. I’ve tried to move her, but she won’t budge.’
‘She said she thinks of me when she rubs oils on your – your stump in the evening. She says it hurts then.’
He sighed deeply. ‘It does, it hurts now. But pain is part of life, isn’t it? I noticed you were walking very carefully when you came in.’ Then he said, with sudden anger, ‘She’s always on at me not to do this, be careful with that. I think she would like to have me in swaddling clothes like a baby. The arguments we have when I say I’m going on Assizes duty – I get sick of it.’
I looked at him anxiously, remembering the time they had parted for a while. He read my look and said, ‘I’d never be without Tammy and the children, the care she gives me is more than most men get, but – she’s got to realize I can do most things I used to.’ He shook his head. ‘Women, eh? How’s young Nick doing in that department?’
I smiled. ‘He is interested in someone, and it may go somewhere, but I can’t say I like the girl.’
Next to us the four boatmen stood up, taking their staffs. One tipped his hat to me, and bowed, but then made a loud fart. Laughing, he and his companions walked off towards the inn. Barak smiled. We sat in silence for a moment. I looked over at the high gatehouse, its battlemented towers a darker shadow in the growing dusk. A light glimmered in the diamond-paned windows twenty feet up.
‘
That’s an impressive building,’ I said.
‘It was built to guard Bishopsgate Bridge. It’s the only bridge over the river on this side.’
‘What’s that great mansion on top of the hill beyond?’
‘Surrey Place. Built only a few years ago by the Earl of Surrey, the Duke of Norfolk’s son. Since he was executed it’s been empty, managed by the King’s escheator. It’s too grand a place for anyone else in these parts to buy. Beyond is Mousehold Heath, a big expanse of land owned by the cathedral, too sandy for anything but light grazing. It has its history,’ he said, melancholy entering his voice.
‘What’s that?’
‘Centuries ago they found a young boy murdered there. They blamed the Norwich Jews, and they suffered for it. They made the boy a saint, William of Norwich; there was a shrine to him in the cathedral until all the shrines were taken down by King Henry. At least that’s one good thing the old villain did.’ Barak’s hand had gone to his shirt, and I guessed he was fingering the old, worn mezuzah handed down to him by his father, for he was of Jewish ancestry. He gazed up at the darkening escarpment. ‘And Mousehold was the site of a great camp during the Peasants’ Revolt.’ He looked at me meaningfully. ‘The other day in a tavern I heard some working men talking about that. They mentioned Wat Tyler, and Piers Plowman. That’s the mood here.’ He looked round. ‘Where’s Nicholas, he’s taking a long time over that piss.’
‘I could do with a visit to the jakes myself. And I’m hungry, do they serve food here?’
‘Ay, a reasonable pottage.’
‘I’ll get some.’
I stood, wincing a little as my back protested, and made my way across the garden to the far end, where a horn lantern swung above a wooden shed. ‘Nicholas,’ I called. ‘Are you in there?’ There was no answer. I pulled the door open, then stepped back with a gasp. Nicholas lay face down on the filthy floor, next to the pit with two planks on bricks over it. I grasped at the lantern and held it over him. There was blood on the back of his head. I touched the pulse on his neck. To my relief it was throbbing. I saw a paper had been placed on his back, and raised the lantern to it. In scrawled capitals I read: DEATH TO ALL GENTLEMEN.
Chapter Twelve
Nicholas groaned and stirred. I helped him to a sitting position, calling loudly to Barak. He hurried over, followed by several other patrons of the inn. By that time, to my relief, Nicholas was groaning and shaking his head.
‘What happened?’ I asked him.
‘I don’t know. I came in here, then someone hit me on the back of the head.’ His hand went to his purse. ‘It’s still here,’ he said in surprise.
Barak stepped forward and examined his head. ‘Just a scalp wound. Lot of blood but no damage. They meant to humiliate you, I think, not to kill or rob. Did you see who it was?’
‘No, but I think there were several of them.’
‘Those boatman,’ Barak said.
I held up the note. ‘I think you’re right,’ I said quietly. ‘Revenge.’
‘Revenge for what?’ Nicholas asked angrily. ‘It was they who began insulting us.’
‘Perhaps for calling them churls,’ Barak said. ‘People of low class, in other words. It’s not an insult to use lightly around here.’
I said, ‘They called us worse, and for no reason. Come, let’s get out of this stink-hole.’
Watched by a dozen curious faces, we helped Nicholas outside and over to a bench. He blinked and shook his head again. Someone laughed. ‘He’s fair dozzled.’
‘A’s fine clothes is all shitty.’
Indeed Nicholas’s clothes were mired with the filth of the cesspit floor, and he stank mightily. The inn landlord hurried up. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked anxiously, addressing Barak, his guest.
‘Our friend here was attacked when he went to the jakes.’
‘Was he robbed?’
‘No, but he was hit on the head.’
I handed the innkeeper the note. ‘This was left. There were some boatmen insulting us earlier, I think it might have been them.’
‘He said he didn’t see nothing,’ someone said angrily. ‘Gemmun all right, accusing folk without evidence.’
‘Furrinners, too. Why don’t they go back to London?’
There was a murmur of agreement from the little crowd, and the innkeeper led us away. He lowered his voice.
‘A lot of my customers are river folk,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry for what happened, but please, sir, don’t throw accusations around, or there’ll be trouble. Report it to the constable, if you like, but I doubt he will be able to do anything without evidence.’
I looked hard at the man, guessing the boatmen who had attacked Nicholas were probably regular customers, but Barak, after surveying the crowd, said quietly, ‘I think you and Nicholas should go.’
‘What about you?’
He smiled wryly. ‘I’m only a gentleman by association with you two. I’ll be all right.’
The innkeeper looked relieved. ‘I’ll call a couple of link-boys to light your way back. Where are you staying?’
‘The Maid’s Head.’
The innkeeper walked back to his customers. ‘It’s all right. Nobody is being accused. Come on now, no trouble, lads.’ The men returned to their benches.
‘How are you feeling?’ I asked Nicholas.
‘Just a sore head. But by Christ, I need a wash.’
I looked around the candlelit benches, receiving a couple of sour looks in return. I was glad when the innkeeper reappeared, accompanied by a couple of stout link-boys with flaming torches.
*
BACK AT THE Maid’s Head, we explained Nicholas’s state by saying he had slipped on a turd in the street. After a thorough wash and change of clothes he looked much better, though still pale. He insisted he would be able to accompany me and Toby around Norwich the following day, and I left him to sleep. I had kept the piece of paper. One of those boatmen – I was sure the attack had come from them – had been literate. This hatred of gentlemen – and boldness in attacking them – was something I had never encountered before, and I was careful to lock my door before going to bed.
*
THE NEXT MORNING, I was up at five, and eating breakfast with Nicholas in the inn parlour before six. Fortunately, his colour had returned, and the nasty bruise on his head was concealed by a wide cap. I had repeated Guy’s exercise last night, and my back felt much better. I would not have liked to ride again so soon, but I felt I could manage to walk without my stick. Punctually, as the cathedral bells sounded six, Toby Lockswood walked in from the stables. He bowed to us. ‘God give you good morrow, sirs.’
‘And you, Toby. How fare your parents?’
‘My mother is better than she was. But my father is worried about the crops.’
I looked out of the window at the sunlit street. ‘At least the wet weather is over.’
‘Ay. It’s hot already, it’s going to be a swelking day.’
‘And a busy one. I want to see John Boleyn at the castle, the coroner, and, if possible, Edith Boleyn’s family.’
‘I managed last night to arrange a meeting with the coroner. He will see you in the Guildhall at twelve o’clock.’
I considered. ‘I would rather see him before Boleyn.’
‘That was the earliest he could do, sir.’
‘Then we’ll see Boleyn first. And did you manage to find out anything about my old servant, Josephine Brown?’
He shook his head. ‘Nobody recognized the name, nor that of the retired lawyer, Peter Henning. However, a solicitor’s assistant, who is a friend of mine, will make enquiries. Even if Master Henning is retired, his name should be known. God willing, he’s still alive,’ he added.
‘Thank you. It is – important to me. Well, we should go.’ I glanced at Nicholas. ‘Are you sure you’re up to it, after that blow on the head?’
‘Of course,’ he answered, a little irritably.
Toby frowned. ‘Blow on the head?’
I t
old him of events at the Blue Boar, and showed him the paper I had found. He flicked his black beard.
‘You shouldn’t have called those men churls,’ he said seriously. ‘Even if they did start it.’
‘So my friend Barak said.’
‘Just going to an inn not usually patronized by gentlemen would be enough.’ He looked at Nicholas. ‘You must take care to avoid any unnecessary quarrels.’
‘I was thinking of reporting it to the constable,’ Nicholas replied.
‘It would go nowhere, and may get you a bad name.’ He looked at me with those intense blue eyes. ‘And sir, we have our work cut out as it is, do we not?’
*
WE LEFT THE Maid’s Head at seven. Nicholas and I had donned our legal robes. First of all Toby led us round the corner into Tombland. He pointed at a large house brightly painted in yellow. ‘That is Alderman Gawen Reynolds’s house, next to Augustine Steward’s. I warn you again, he is a difficult and bad-tempered old man. His poor old wife always looks afraid of him, and he has ever had a reputation for pestering the female servants. But now, to get to the Guildhall, we should turn back and go up Elm Hill.’
We walked on to the wide market square, the great block of the castle looming over it. There people were cleaning their stalls and sweeping horse dung and rubbish away in preparation for the morrow’s market. Goods were being carried into warehouses. Beside the market cross a man in a preacher’s robe was addressing a crowd, mostly blue-coated apprentices, stabbing the air with a New Testament to emphasize his points. In his loud, deep voice, he said, ‘St Paul tells us, “The body consists of not one member, but many. Now, they are many, but of one body.” ’
‘Ay!’ a boy called out. ‘All the faithful are equal before God!’ There were shouts of agreement.
The preacher, a tall young man, waved the Testament again. ‘They are! But St Paul also reminds us we each have different parts to play in this world, like the parts of the body. “Having then gifts differing according to the grace that is given to us. If it is the gift of prophecy, let us prophesy—” ’
An old man with a wild white beard shouted out from the crowd, ‘I prophesy the commons shall have rule of the country when John Hales’s enclosure commission comes. For together we are as great as the Leviathan in Job.’ Eyes turned to him as he quoted, in turn, ‘ “Can you draw out Leviathan with a hook? Or his tongue with a cord? Can you put a hook into his nose or bore his jaw through with a thorn?” ’ His voice rose. ‘ “Will he make many supplications unto you? Will he speak soft words to you?” We, the common people of this land, are Leviathan.’