by C. J. Sansom
There were cheers. The preacher shook his head vigorously. ‘No, brothers, there is justice that needs to be done in God’s kingdom, and it will be done, by the grace of the King and the Lord Protector. But the body must have its head, some must rule. Again, St Paul says, “Let him that rules, do it with diligence.” ’
‘Fuck the landlords!’ an apprentice called out.
We walked on. ‘The preacher walks a tightrope with the crowd,’ I observed. ‘It’s the same in London.’
Toby replied, ‘That’s why the right to preach is strictly controlled now. That was Robert Watson, one of Cranmer’s protégés, appointed as a canon at the cathedral to be a thorn in the side of Bishop Rugge.’
‘Is Rugge a traditionalist?’ Nicholas asked.
‘Ay, and lazy and corrupt. Watson sings the Protector’s tune. Though some, like that old man, want more. Old Zachary Hodge. He thinks himself a prophet of the Lord, he’s been preaching around Norwich for twenty years. Done spells in the Guildhall gaol for it. Not that a lot of what he says isn’t right.’
‘So many think themselves prophets these days,’ Nicholas said wearily. ‘Preaching,’ he continued, ‘it’s always slanted to somebody’s politics.’
‘That it is, lad,’ I agreed.
We had reached the bottom of the market square. We paused beside a cart to allow a skinny, ragged lad in his mid-teens, with an unruly shock of brown hair and carrying a large bale of cloth, to cross our path. A plump middle-aged man standing in a doorway called out to him, ‘Hurry up, Scambler! Ain’t got all day!’
Though struggling under the load, the boy picked up his pace. Someone from inside the building approached the man with a list, and he turned away. At that moment three other boys, in apprentices’ robes, who had been loitering near the cart, ran across to the boy, one of them kicking his feet from under him so that he fell forward. The bale, despite the boy’s frantic attempt to grab it, landed in the mud of a puddle drying after the rains. The three boys shouted, ‘Sooty Scambler’s done it again!’ The man in the doorway turned round, frowned mightily, and walked rapidly over. He looked with dismay at his bale of cloth. He dragged it from the mud, then stood over the boy, who was rising to his feet, a puzzled expression on his face. The three apprentices who had caused his fall stood around, serious-faced now. One shook his head disapprovingly.
Scambler’s employer shouted, ‘Look what you’ve done now, you shanny, buffle-headed—’
Nicholas marched over to him. ‘If you please, sir! Those three tripped him, we saw it!’
Toby sighed. ‘I’ve said before, we need to keep the peace.’
‘Those boys should not be allowed to get away with that,’ I answered, going to join Nicholas. Toby followed reluctantly.
The stallholder was glowering at Nicholas. ‘You keep your nose out, young master lawyer! I’ve had six weeks of Sooty Scambler’s nonnying about and I’ve had enough. Get out, Scambler! If you had any family left, I’d sue them in the mayor’s court for damage to my cloth!’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ I said firmly. ‘But my assistant is right. Those boys tripped your employee. All three of us saw it.’
‘We did not,’ the apprentices chorused in outraged unison. The boy Scambler stared at them, the startled expression on his face turning slowly to a frown. ‘Did they?’ he asked quietly.
I looked at him more closely, wondering if he was a wantwit, but his eyes, though full of perplexity, did not have the vacancy of a fool.
The stallholder was still furious. ‘You think my poor Norfolk wit not up to knowing my own workers?’ He pointed a shaking finger at the three boys. ‘Those lads are apprenticed to respectable Norwich freemen. Scambler’s a careless fool without the concentration of a sheep. His own father, that was a chimbly sweep, had to sack him because, little bag of bones though he is, he kept getting stuck up people’s flues.’ That explained the nickname Sooty.
One of the apprentices heaved up the muddy bundle of cloth and handed it to the stallholder. He nodded thanks. Scambler, tears in his eyes now, said, ‘They must have tripped me. I was watching my footing, master!’
In reply, the stallholder smacked him hard round the face. ‘Get out! Don’t come near my stall again!’ He glared at us. ‘Lawyers! Furriners!’ He spat viciously on the ground, then went into the warehouse and slammed the door. The three apprentices ran off, laughing. As they disappeared into one of the alleyways, one sang tunelessly, ‘Soo-ty Scambler, Soo-ty Scambler! Li-ttle buffle-headed cunt.’ Scambler stared after them with tears coursing down his face. I said gently, ‘I did my best, lad, I’m sorry.’
‘It was kind, sir, I thank you.’
I felt in my purse and handed the lad a shilling. ‘Why did those boys do that?’ I asked. Scambler shook his head, then blinked, the tears flowing faster now. ‘People do things like that to me,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t know why.’
Toby said impatiently, ‘Come, lad, stop weeping. Be a man.’
Scambler looked at him, then suddenly turned and ran off, up towards the castle. We stared after him.
‘Little wretches,’ Nicholas said. ‘Why torment the boy so? Losing him his job.’
I said feelingly, remembering my own childhood, ‘Because he’s different. People don’t like difference, children even less than adults. The preachers are right about one thing, mankind is fallen from grace.’ I looked at Toby. ‘You might have backed us up.’
‘I said, sir, it is better not to attract attention. Master Copuldyke said that was Master Parry’s instruction.’
‘Come,’ I said sharply, ‘we are due at the castle.’ As I turned away I thought, So there are limits to Toby’s sympathy for the oppressed.
Chapter Thirteen
To reach the series of enormous grassy mounds on which Norwich Castle was built we had to cross an open area where stalls for tomorrow’s cattle market had been set up, then a filthy stream, before following a long circular path to the causeway giving entrance to the great building. The sun was higher now, and by the time we reached the causeway, I was hot, my back beginning to hurt again, though both Lockswood and Nicholas looked quite fresh, despite the events of the night before. We then had to walk along the causeway itself. Eventually, we reached the main doorway, a huge semicircular arch. The great wooden doors were closed, but a well-built guard carrying a polished halberd stood at a small clicket door set into one of them. He wore a round helmet and the white tunic of a soldier, the letters ER embossed on it, reminding me that authority over the castle rested with the King, not the city. He was watching a man nail a large, official-looking paper to the castle door. He finished and nodded to the guard. ‘Off to the Guildhall next,’ he said and walked off down the causeway.
Lockswood studied the official-looking paper. He stroked his black beard, then whistled.
‘Another proclamation from the Protector?’ I asked.
‘Ay.’ We leaned forward to read it. Toby said, ‘See, it offers a general pardon for all those who rioted against enclosures in the spring. Against Sir William Herbert and his like.’
Nicholas frowned. ‘What is he thinking? At this time? With the rebellion in the West. It’ll only encourage others to do the same.’
Toby answered, his face expressionless, ‘Yes, it could, couldn’t it?’
I went to the guard and showed him the letter of authority which Copuldyke had given me in London. ‘We are here to see a prisoner, John Boleyn,’ I told him. The man nodded and let us through the clicket door. We walked under a stone-flagged porch and a magnificently decorated arch into a huge, empty space, dimly lit by high windows. The place smelled, like all prisons, of sweat, urine and damp. Despite the heat outside, the air was chill and dank. Another couple of guards were playing cards at a trestle table. One came over, an enquiring look on his face, and when I explained my business he shouted, ‘Oreston!’ in a voice which echoed round the vast chamber. I heard footsteps ascending a metal staircase, then an inner door opened and a heavily built young man i
n a dirty smock, a club at his belt, walked over to us. ‘A cartful of lawyers to see Boleyn,’ he was told. The gaoler looked at us curiously. ‘Someone is taking a great interest in Master Boleyn, I see.’
‘His lawyer in London is unable to attend.’ I nodded at Toby. ‘This is his assistant, Goodman Lockswood.’
The gaoler led us through a door and down a flight of circular iron steps into another broad area, stone-flagged, dimly lit by high windows, containing several doors with small barred windows. Our footsteps made an echoing clang as we descended, and several pale, desperate men came and looked through the bars. The gaoler led us over to a door, opening it with a key from a large bunch at his belt.
John Boleyn’s cell was small, lit only by a tiny barred window under the roof. I guessed we must be underground. There were dirty rushes on the floor, a stinking pail, a stool and a truckle bed with a straw mattress the only furniture. A man sat on the bed, squinting to try and read a New Testament by the light from the window. He looked up. I had expected someone fair and burly like the twins, but their father, though tall and athletically built, had black hair and a black beard. His lined, dirty face looked worn out, and there was a shocked expression in his wide blue eyes. It was hard to believe this was a substantial Norfolk landowner. I remembered Lockswood, in London, saying that Boleyn was in a sorrowful state.
The gaoler asked cheerfully, ‘Making your peace with God, master, before you hang?’
Boleyn stared back at him contemptuously.
‘Get out,’ I told the gaoler. He shrugged and left, locking the door behind him.
I extended a hand to Boleyn. ‘I am Serjeant Matthew Shardlake, sent to look into this matter on behalf of Master Copuldyke. My assistant, Master Overton. I think you know Goodman Lockswood.’
‘Ay,’ Boleyn replied in cultivated tones. ‘You are a serjeant-at-law? I had not expected someone so senior.’
I smiled. ‘There are those who would help you, Master Boleyn. I am not allowed to represent you in court as it is a criminal case, but I will investigate the facts further, see if new light can be thrown on the matter. Do you mind if I take the stool? My back has been troublesome of late.’
‘Have you seen my wife, my Isabella?’ Boleyn asked with sudden emotion.
‘No, but I hope to go over to Brikewell and see her tomorrow.’
‘They say she is my wife no more, the chaplain will not let her visit.’ Boleyn sighed angrily. ‘They will hang me. They don’t like my name, they don’t like my wife, my neighbour covets my lands –’
I spoke encouragingly. ‘In court, it is facts that matter, not prejudices. I would ask some questions, if I may? I have your deposition here.’ I took it from my bag.
‘If you wish.’
‘First, about your wife disappearing nine years ago. I understand she left quite suddenly, without any explanation.’
To my surprise, he laughed bitterly. ‘Yes. And yet in some ways I was not surprised.’
‘Why?’
He hesitated, then said, ‘When I married Edith Reynolds near twenty years ago, she was a beautiful young woman, buxom and with lovely blonde hair, though quiet and shy – dominated by her father, I think. I believe now she only married me to get away from him. Though I loved her then. I did.’ He fell silent again, biting his lip, then spoke softly. ‘As soon as we were married, she changed. She was reluctant even to perform the most – essential wifely duties.’ His face went red and he looked at me defiantly. ‘A man does not like to admit such things, but I am past caring. She fell pregnant at once with the twins, but then refused to have more children. And she had no attachment to the boys, right from when they were babies. I have sometimes wondered if that is why Gerald and Barnabas have turned out the brutes they have.’ A tremor of anger sounded in his voice. ‘Living with her became a very hell. She was constantly ill tempered, the servants were afraid of her, apart from her maid Grace Bone, who became her confidante for a while, but even she left in the end. And her strange habits – as I told you, my wife was a buxom woman when we met, but sometimes, for no reason, she would starve herself until she was just skin and bone. I don’t know why; she would just snap that she wasn’t hungry. I tried kindness, I tried shouting at her, but nothing made any difference. I began to fear Edith was mad.’
‘And then you met your present wife. Isabella.’
Boleyn lifted his face defiantly again. It was a mobile face, the face of an emotional man. ‘Yes, the year before Edith vanished. Isabella worked at an inn I frequented. She was everything my wife was not – kind, cheerful, friendly, young, and – she liked me. It was strange to be liked by a woman after so many years. She became my mistress. Is that so unusual, in the circumstances?’ he asked, a sudden note of anger in his voice.
Toby said, ‘Then tongues started clacking, and somebody told Edith about Isabella.’
‘Yes, Edith said nothing to me, but fell into one of her bad phases. It was not long since Gerald cut Barnabas’s face, which angered and, I think, frightened her. She stopped eating again. It was a difficult time, a very hot summer. We had almost no harvest that year, I was worried about money. You may remember, it was the year Lord Cromwell fell. I confess I was harsh with Edith, and more than once lost my temper.’ So, I thought, he did have a temper, but could it cause him to lose control to the extent of murdering Edith in that terrible way? He continued, ‘Then one day at the beginning of December she simply disappeared, taking nothing but the clothes she stood in. A hue and cry was raised, but no trace of her was ever found.’
I asked, ‘When did Isabella move in?’
Boleyn frowned, a stubborn expression appearing on his face. ‘The next year, only when it was clear Edith was gone for good. You’ll see that from my deposition, I’ve made no effort to hide it. Oh, that scandalized the fine gentry folk of Norfolk. Half of them believed I had murdered Edith and buried her somewhere; they were avoiding me anyway, saying I had no more morals than Anne Boleyn, my distant kinswoman. So I thought, to hell with them.’
‘And you have no idea where Edith was, all those nine years?’
He shook his head wearily. ‘I wish I did. Like everyone else, I thought she was dead, that she had killed herself.’
‘Did she have any connections outside Norfolk?’ I hesitated, then added, ‘In Essex, say, or Cambridgeshire, or Hertfordshire?’ Nicholas gave me a warning look. Mentioning Hertfordshire was getting a little close to Hatfield. But Boleyn only looked back at me blankly.
‘No. She was Norwich born and bred.’
‘I understand her father is a Norwich merchant.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Anger entered his voice again. ‘Gawen Reynolds is a cloth merchant, as were his father and grandfather. They built up a fortune, partly by selling worsted cloth to the Dutch, illegal though that is. A hard man. I thought I’d better not put all that in my deposition. He’s one of those who run Norwich, his wife is a Sotherton. A brutal, vicious man, high in city politics. He’s gone to ground, concerned the case will hurt his status in the city.’ Boleyn laughed. ‘He had ambitions to be Mayor of Norwich. This case will put an end to that. He would not be sorry to see me hang.’
‘I plan to see him later.’
‘I doubt he will talk to you.’
‘I can be persistent.’
Toby had begun to scratch his head, and Boleyn smiled mirthlessly. ‘I fear the bedding here is full of fleas.’
‘Master Boleyn,’ I said seriously, ‘if we are to get you acquitted, we must consider who else might have had a motive to murder your wife. A motive to set you up for the murder. And identify who might have been able to put your boots and the hammer in the stables after the attack. Is it true that you and the stable boy had the only keys?’
‘Yes.’ His face softened. ‘My horse, Midnight, is a fine steed, but temperamental. He will do anything I tell him, but is suspicious of others. I would not let the twins near him, he kicks at them on sight, and I feared he might do the same to Isabella or my workmen. He was s
afe only with the stable boy. But he could not have been involved.’ Boleyn gave a mirthless laugh. ‘The boy’s a wantwit, though he had a remarkable way with horses. I took him on at the start of the year, though I had some doubts; he had a reputation as an unreliable scamp, but someone told me he had a feel for horses. It was true, he was very good with Midnight, and the horse liked him. I think young Simon preferred animals to people. The twins were always baiting him. He could no more have killed my wife than flown to the moon. He always kept the keys with him, at my instruction. After the murder he handed them in and left. I think Scambler was scared, he was scared of his own shadow, that one.’
Nicholas and I exchanged a look. I said, ‘We saw a boy called Scambler in town on the way here. A skinny lad of about fifteen.’
‘That’s him.’
‘Some apprentices tripped him while he was carrying a bale of wool, making him drop it in the mud. His employer sacked him on the spot. They called him Sooty.’
Boleyn nodded. ‘He’s always careering madly around the city, always in some sort of trouble because of his scatterbrained foolishness.’
‘What happened today was not his fault,’ Nicholas said.
Boleyn shrugged. ‘Boys will be cruel. But you can forget about Scambler in connection with this.’
‘That we cannot,’ I answered firmly. ‘If we are to investigate this matter thoroughly, we have to interview everyone who was potentially involved. You say he was the only one apart from you with a key to the stables. When he left you, where did he go?’
Boleyn shrugged, irritated now. ‘I don’t know. I believe he has an aunt around Ber Street. His parents are dead. Someone will direct you easily enough, Sooty Scambler is well known in Norwich. But you will be wasting your time.’