by C. J. Sansom
We walked on, to where a bridge of wooden planks crossed a stream, the boundary with Witherington’s land. On his side there was farmland to the left, sheep pasture enclosed by hurdles to the right. Further down we could see a village, and the church. Chawry said, ‘In some places, the local priest might have been asked to intervene in a quarrel, but the man here is weak, uneducated, and keeps out of things.’ He grunted. ‘Favours the old ways, and keeps quiet.’
We stood on the bridge, looking down at the little stream flowing slowly between its muddy banks, overhung by the occasional willow. Chawry took a deep breath. ‘You wish to see the place the body was found?’
‘Please.’
We returned to Boleyn’s side of the stream, and went through a gate into the pastureland. Chawry followed the stream for about fifty yards, then stopped, looking down the muddy bank. ‘It was just there, by that young willow. I was called out when the old shepherd discovered her. It was an awful sight, that naked body sticking up for all to see: when they pulled it out the head was all pashed in. The top fell to pieces, dropping her brains in the water.’
I stepped down into the mud, glad of the boots. Each step released stinking bubbles. Nicholas followed, extending a hand to aid Barak, who found it hard to balance because of his arm. Chawry and Toby stayed on the bank. Chawry called down, ‘Be careful, it sucks at your feet; you have to slod through carefully.’
‘Easy enough to get a body in the water, if you’re strong enough,’ Barak said. ‘Just need to hold it by the middle and drop it in.’
I looked back at the bridge, measuring the distance. ‘But carrying it here, and then through this mud, would be hard. Even if we assume Edith was bludgeoned and killed at the bridge – and it’s an obvious place for people to arrange to meet – the killer then had to carry the body here, and in total darkness. It would take a very strong man, and one who knew the ground, to do that.’
Nicholas nodded agreement. ‘I doubt I could do it.’ He looked at me. ‘Perhaps there were two of them.’
‘That’s a possibility,’ Barak agreed.
For a moment, we stood in silence in the mud, looking at the gently flowing water, a peaceful place now.
‘We agree it would be difficult for one man to carry Edith here,’ I said. ‘Yet surely a madman acting out some hideous fantasy would act alone.’
‘Or two brutal madmen who always act together,’ Nicholas said quietly.
I looked at him. ‘Gerald and Barnabas?’
‘Their mother could have contacted them, arranged to meet them here.’
‘Yet everyone has said they loved her, however they behave towards everyone else.’ I bit my lip and stared over the fields and meadows. ‘So many possibilities.’
We heaved ourselves out of the mud and returned to the path. Chawry was stroking his red beard. I said, ‘I am grateful to you, Master Steward, for showing us this place. One more question, if I may. Have there been any other murders, or disappearances, in this area in the last few years?’
He shook his head, looking puzzled. ‘None. This is a quiet place – apart from the ruffle with Witherington’s tenants a few months ago.’
‘I just wondered,’ I said lightly. I was thinking of the maid Grace Bone, who had disappeared as completely as Edith, just before her.
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
I said, ‘That ruffle, I understand the twins were there, and there was some violence on both sides. Did Master Boleyn ask you to organize matters on your side?’
Chawry’s brown eyes glinted and he frowned slightly. ‘It was Witherington who tried to occupy our land forcibly. I had a paid informer among his tenants, so we were ready for them when they came. Master Boleyn asked me to organize matters and, yes, it was my idea to bring in the twins. Despite their bad relationship with their father, they are always keen on any sort of trouble. They are part of a little band of young gentlemen who hire themselves out when there are quarrels between landlords, or between landlords and tenants. If things got rough, blame Witherington.’
‘Did Master Boleyn know the twins were coming?’
His eyes glinted again. ‘I thought it better not to tell him. I contacted them through their grandfather.’
‘Probably best,’ I said. I thought, There was a streak of ruthlessness in this man. ‘Thank you for your help. I think you should return to your mistress now. We shall go on to South Brikewell and see if we can talk to Master Witherington.’
Chawry inclined his head. ‘Be careful, sir. Witherington can be a brute.’
As we crossed the bridge I looked back. Chawry was standing on the path, staring at us. Then, ahead of us, we heard cries and shouts, voices raised in anger. On Witherington’s lands, something was happening.
Chapter Seventeen
We walked on, towards South Brikewell village. The shouting continued, and on the rising ground beyond the village we could discern figures running about in the fields, and white birds flying up. We walked past the gateway of another manor house, newer than Boleyn’s, built of flint. In the courtyard men were running to and fro, and a couple of horses were being brought from the stables. One man stood holding a pair of enormous hunting mastiffs on leashes. They saw us and began barking angrily, baring their teeth.
‘Doesn’t look like a good time to visit,’ Barak said. ‘There’s trouble of some sort going on.’
‘We could see what’s happening in the fields,’ Toby suggested.
‘Maybe that’s best left alone,’ Nicholas answered.
‘No,’ Barak said. He was holding his prosthetic hand up with his left; the dragging weight of it told while he was walking. Nonetheless, he was keen to discover what was happening. ‘It may be useful to take a look. We’ve all got knives,’ he added, ‘and Nick has his sword.’
‘All right,’ I agreed. ‘But be careful.’
We passed through the village, again mainly poor houses built round a pond, and somewhat smaller than North Brikewell. Behind it enclosed pasture was dotted with newly shorn sheep. In the middle of the pasture stood a shepherd’s hut, and I wondered if it belonged to the man who had found the body, Adrian Kempsley.
The village was deserted apart from a few chickens and goats scrabbling around. Most windows were shuttered, but where they were open we saw faces, mostly old people and children, looking out with anxious expressions. We could now see, in the fields beyond, some thirty people, mostly men but also women and some older children, walking along the narrow ridges that divided the strips where oats grew, green and short for the season. They carried nets and pitchforks, and three young men had bows and arrows. As the people moved slowly along, more white birds rose from the ground, flying in a disoriented way. People slashed at them, and one of the archers loosed an arrow, bringing a bird to the ground.
‘Good shot,’ Nicholas said admiringly.
‘What are they doing?’ I asked.
Toby smiled. ‘Killing the landlord’s doves that are eating their crops. Look over there.’ He pointed to where, at the edge of the pastureland, a tall hexagonal building stood. ‘A great dove house. Dove eggs and meat are a great delicacy for the rich, but they steal grain from babies’ mouths.’
Nicholas said, ‘My father has a dove house, but it is tiny compared to that.’
‘Fashionable ones like this one can house hundreds of the wretched birds.’ Toby laughed. ‘See how they stagger. The people will have left out some seed well laced with beer.’
‘It’s not legal to kill them like that,’ I said. ‘They could get into trouble.’
‘People have had enough,’ Toby spat, with sudden violent emphasis. I stared at him hard. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said.
Another dove rose dozily into the air, to be impaled by a pitchfork. People were looking at us now, no doubt puzzled by the sudden appearance of four strangers. I remembered the scene when the boys had bared their arses at the group of lawyers on the road. ‘Maybe we should leave,’ I said quietly.
At that
moment, though, there was a barking and clatter of hooves on the path behind us. We stepped hurriedly aside as two horsemen rode past, followed by half a dozen burly men carrying swords and halberds, and two others, each with a mastiff on a lead. The horsemen dismounted at the fence enclosing the field, tethered their animals, and threw open the gate. Their leader was a short, plump red-faced man in his fifties, waving a sword. ‘Stop that,’ he roared. ‘Knaves! Churls! Stop killing my birds! You’re breaking the law, I’ll have you all conscripted and sent to Scotland!’
Barak said, ‘Master Leonard Witherington, I’d guess.’
Witherington led his party into the field. The villagers stopped attacking the birds and gathered together. They did not answer him, even when he slashed out angrily at the green barley with his sword, cutting off the ears of the crop. The villagers stood in a group, the men holding up billhooks, forks and other agricultural implements which could easily become deadly weapons. The three young archers strung arrows to their bows, but pointed them downwards as they eyed Witherington’s approaching men.
The plump little man came to a halt in front of them, still yelling at the top of his voice. ‘Dozzled plough-joggers! Knaves! I’ll have you off your lands for this!’
‘Shut your clack-box, Master Witherington!’ someone called back.
‘Ay, or I’ll stick you with this gib-fork! And those dogs of yours!’ An elderly man raised a two-pronged fork angrily.
‘You’ll bully-rag us no more!’
A villager pointed a billhook at the big hexagonal building. ‘Burn down his duffus!’
Witherington’s men raised their swords. In turn the archers raised their bows and aimed at them. Then a tall, middle-aged man stepped forward from the villagers. In contrast to the ragged, pinched look of many of his fellows he was well-fed, wearing a good-quality doublet and hose. He looked at Witherington and spoke in a loud clear voice. ‘We want no violence, sir, but your birds are playing havoc with our crops. The harvest will be poor enough this year.’
‘I’d not have expected you to side with these dogs, Yeoman Harris,’ Witherington said angrily. ‘You have fifty acres of your own land, half of them bought from me.’
‘That doesn’t stop your birds spoiling them!’ Harris replied. ‘It must stop!’
There was a moment’s silence, the two groups facing off. People from both sides looked curiously at us. ‘What yew doin’ ’ere!’ one of the villagers called out threateningly. Harris raised a hand to quiet him, then walked slowly down towards us. He had a large knife at his belt. Nicholas had been right, this could mean serious trouble. But as he approached, I saw the man was smiling.
He asked, eagerly, ‘Are you the commissioners come to look into illegal enclosures? We knew the Protector was sending them out. We did not expect you so soon.’
I realized he thought we were part of Somerset’s promised new commissions. It made sense, a senior lawyer and his men suddenly appearing in the village. I hesitated, then said, ‘No, though I have heard they are to be sent. I am in Brikewell on private business, nothing to do with your lands. I came to speak to Master Witherington.’
Another man walked briskly down towards us. He was younger, poorly dressed in a ragged smock and carrying a scythe. The expression on his face was furious. ‘You doddipoll, Harris, they’re Witherington’s men.’ He raised the scythe threateningly. ‘Think you can get us for clearing our fields of those pests! I could gut you like a fish, Master Hunchback!’ Barak and Nicholas moved forward, but the man did not move. ‘What’ve I left to lose, eh?’ he shouted angrily. ‘Two years in Scotland, harried by the redshanks, living in damp forts built of mud that couldn’t even keep the rain out, and a year’s pay owing! I come back and find my family near clammed with hunger, while that bag of shit’ – he waved his weapon at Witherington – ‘piles up profits from his sheep!’
‘Wait, Melville!’ Harris put a restraining hand on the man’s arm, then looked at us, his expression hard now. ‘What is your business with Witherington?’
I replied in a voice loud enough to carry up the field. ‘I am working on the Boleyn murder case, I have come from his house, I wish only to ask Master Witherington some questions.’ Witherington frowned at me. There was silence again. Barak spoke quietly to Melville. ‘You’ve got numbers on your side, matey, but they’ve got the better weapons and those dogs, and you’ve women here. It’s up to you, but if it were me, I’d leave off, for now at least.’
‘Ay, he’s right,’ Toby agreed. ‘More’s the pity.’
Harris and Melville looked at each other, then Melville called out to the crowd. ‘The lawyer isn’t a commissioner, but he’s not Witherington’s man either. Come, let’s leave it, we’ve done what we came to do, got most of these birds.’
The archer who had shot the dove retrieved his arrow and held it up, the bird impaled, its white feathers now a mass of blood. The villagers cheered, and Witherington went puce. Nonetheless, he allowed the crowd to walk past his men. But he shouted after them, ‘Harris! You’re a marked man! And Melville, I’ll have your lands, you insolent churl!’
For answer, Melville turned and raised two fingers at him.
I took a deep breath. ‘Thank God you were here,’ I said to Barak. ‘Otherwise there might have been blood spilt.’
‘A mighty ruffle, at least.’
‘By God, the way those peasants spoke to the manor lord,’ Nicholas said. He shook his head and laughed, outrage tinged with reluctant admiration.
‘Here he comes,’ Barak said. Witherington had left his men and was stumping down towards us, sword in hand, his round, red face still furious. He halted before me.
‘Who are you, sir? I heard you mention Boleyn.’
‘Yes, we are reviewing the evidence in the case against him. Merely to make sure nothing has been overlooked.’
‘On whose behalf?’
‘I am appointed agent for Master Copuldyke.’
Witherington eyed me narrowly. ‘You’re here for the Lady Elizabeth, then.’
I took a deep breath. ‘She only wishes us to examine the facts, and ensure justice is done. I do not say Master Boleyn is innocent.’
‘As well you don’t.’ Witherington gave a sudden, scoffing laugh. ‘The Lady Mary won’t be pleased if she gets to hear her sister’s sniffing around Norfolk business. Well, what do you want of me?’
‘Only to hear events from your – perspective. And perhaps, if you permit, to talk to the shepherd who found the body.’
Witherington looked at Barak. ‘What did you say to those churls, that made them go?’
Barak met his gaze. ‘Only that you were better armed, and that they should have a care for the women among them.’
Witherington looked at me again. ‘I shall be reporting this matter to the Justice of the Peace, I’ll have Harris and Melville prosecuted for destroying my birds.’ His anger rose again. ‘You can be witnesses, you saw them killing those doves, you saw their insolence, and saw Melville raise two fingers at me!’ For a moment he almost choked with anger.
‘You are free to contact me,’ I said. Toby opened his mouth to protest, but Barak gave him a wink. Allowing Witherington to contact me did not mean I would reply, nor give a reply to his liking.
Witherington, however, nodded with satisfaction. He was, I realized, a man of no great intelligence. He turned to his men. ‘Shuckborough! Go and fetch old Adrian Kempsley to the manor house. He’ll be dozing in his shed.’ He paused, then added, ‘And bring Lobley too. This man should see him. You two, bring the dogs back to the manor; the rest of you, about your business.’ With that, the little martinet marched back to the road. We followed, passing his men, who looked at us dubiously.
*
WE ARRIVED AT Witherington’s house, and he led us into an echoing, stone-flagged hall. Servants peeped nervously at us from open doorways, and one approached his master. ‘Is all well, sir?’ he asked meekly.
‘Not unless you count the killing of dozens of my birds as
being well,’ Witherington answered fiercely. ‘Bring some beer to my study. You two lawyers, come with me.’ Leaving Toby and Barak in the hall, Nicholas and I followed him into a study which smelled strongly of dog, and where account books and documents were piled untidily. He pushed them aside. ‘This house is getting messy since my wife died.’
‘I am sorry,’ I said.
Witherington nodded acknowledgement. He put his sword on the desk, then sat behind it, waving Nicholas and me to stools. He looked at us, then gave a bark of laughter. ‘That’s some hand your man outside has got.’
‘He lost the real one in an honourable fight,’ Nicholas said.
‘Against the Scotch barbarians?’
‘No,’ I answered. ‘Some London ones.’
‘Oh yes,’ Witherington said, ‘there’s plenty of barbarians in England, as you’ve just seen. Christ’s bowels, the times we live in. It’s these damned Commonwealth men, and the Protector. By Jesu, I wish we had the old king back. I hear things are getting worse in the south-west, and there’s trouble elsewhere. And that was not the first such scene in these parts. People here are too stupid to see what is in their own interest. They say I want to enclose more land here for sheep, which I do, but I told them that when I get part of Boleyn’s land through the court, they can have it for pasture.’
I said, ‘I heard there was an – incident – in the spring. Between some of your men and Boleyn’s.’
Witherington looked at me narrowly. ‘Yes. In March. I sought to assert my legitimate claim to the land up to the old stream bed by occupying it, but my men were driven off violently by Boleyn’s people.’
In fact, his forcible entry onto disputed land was quite illegal, but I did not make the point. ‘I understand you are now taking the matter to law.’
Witherington shrugged. ‘It may not be necessary. If Boleyn hangs, his lands will go to the King, and I may be able to negotiate with the escheator.’
‘His local agent being John Flowerdew.’
‘I believe so,’ he answered cautiously.
‘I understand that Sir Richard Southwell owns land bordering both yours and Boleyn’s.’