by C. J. Sansom
He stroked his beard, and looked at me. ‘The apprentice may be possible, through the locksmiths’ guild, as you suggest. As for Vowell, I can only put the word around.’ He sounded reluctant. ‘But does it matter now, with the pardon coming?’
‘There is a possibility the application may not succeed. And surely it would be good to find Edith’s real murderer, and clear Boleyn’s name.’
‘The killer may have murdered Snockstobe as well,’ Barak added.
Toby looked at me. ‘Will Master Copuldyke agree?’
‘Whether he does or no, I guarantee to pay you.’
He stroked his dark beard, then looked at me with something like admiration. ‘I think, sir, that you are the most persistent lawyer I have met. Yes, I will do as you ask. For now my mother and the coming harvest must take priority, but subject to that I will do what I can.’
‘I thank you.’ I reached out and shook his hand. ‘I will give you a formal letter of engagement. Write to me any time at Lincoln’s Inn.’
We sat back, silent. Then Nicholas spoke quietly. ‘Where was Edith, those nine years?’
‘Not in Norwich, I’m sure,’ Toby said. ‘Nobody saw her. Unless she was hidden in a cellar somewhere.’
It was an uncomfortable thought. Barak said, ‘If she wasn’t in Norwich, where was she? And was she a guest, or a prisoner?’
‘And how did she end up in—’
I kicked Nicholas under the table, before he could utter the name ‘Hatfield’. That was one secret we had kept and must continue to keep, or the pamphleteers would have an even richer tale to tell. I said, ‘Come, if Toby is to ride back to his farm, we should go down for dinner.’
We left the room and walked down the broad staircase. Tonight I would try again to persuade Barak to return to London with Nicholas and me, and tomorrow I would tell the Maid’s Head innkeeper, doubtless to his relief, that we would be leaving on Saturday. I looked at my three companions, sad to think that this was probably the last time we should all meet together. As we walked across the stone-flagged hall to the dining room, I heard two merchants talking angrily about rioting at a place called Attleborough, where the local peasantry had thrown down the fences keeping in the sheep of the local landlord.
*
THE NEXT MORNING, the twenty-first of June, Nicholas and I once more walked down to the castle, to fetch the document approving the cancellation of the execution. The previous evening Barak had reluctantly agreed to come back to London with us, and to face Tamasin with the news that he had lost his lucrative post. Today was Friday; the criminal cases at the Assizes were over but the civil cases would continue today, the judges moving on to Suffolk tomorrow. We were in sombre mood as we walked through Tombland. It was hot again, and we had left off our lawyers’ robes; we did not need to impress anyone any more. Nicholas though, as usual, wore his sword at his hip.
‘At least you will see Beatrice in a few days,’ I said to him. He had written a letter for the post-rider to take, saying he was returning.
‘Yes, and this new young man who is courting her.’
‘As I said before, she is probably teasing you, to whet your interest.’
‘She would not be so cruel.’ Yet he sounded less definite than before.
I said, ‘You did well last night, saying Chawry belongs on our list of suspects. And agreeing Isabella does too.’
‘Why was that doing well?’
I smiled. ‘Because you so clearly like her. But your analytical skills as a lawyer prevailed over your emotional attachments. We’ll make a serjeant of you yet.’
He smiled, pleased at the compliment.
‘I have booked the horses for nine tomorrow. I thought this afternoon we might visit Josephine and Edward again.’
‘Yes. Though I hope Edward does not go on this time about the condition of the people; he is almost as fierce as Toby.’
I remembered Edward sitting with Michael Vowell and the man Miles that evening at the Blue Boar, and forbore to say, perhaps he is fiercer.
We made our way through Upper Goat Lane to the marketplace. Passing along the side of the Guildhall, we heard a hum of voices, and saw that those found guilty of felonies during the Assizes were about to be hanged – slowly and agonizingly, on Judge Gatchet’s orders.
A crowd of about a hundred had assembled in front of the Guildhall. The wooden structure we had seen being erected a few days before was complete, a wide raised platform with steps leading up, and four gallows from which thick ropes dangled, nooses at the end. The executioner, a powerfully built man in a white shirt with grey hair and a hard, square face, was pulling at the nooses, testing their strength with professional expertise. Half a dozen soldiers with halberds stood in front of the scaffold, facing the crowd, which pressed close. The executioner’s assistant, a young man in his twenties, pulled a lever, causing the front section of the boarding, under the nooses, to fall with a crash. He pushed the lever back and the boarding rose into place again. He nodded with satisfaction.
At the bottom of the market square three high-sided carts appeared, drawn by horses. More soldiers from the castle walked alongside. Another walked ahead, beating a drum.
I had seen such carts in London many times, making their way to Tyburn. Nicholas nudged me. ‘Look there,’ he said. The crowd were mostly poor folk of both sexes, come to see the spectacle, though a number of weeping relatives were being comforted by friends. Two relatives, however, were not weeping. Gerald and Barnabas Boleyn stood with half a dozen other expensively dressed young men, among whom I recognized John Atkinson. They were talking lightly. The rest of the crowd left a space around them. ‘Brutes,’ Nicholas said in disgust. ‘Come to see their father hang. They mustn’t know about the pardon.’
‘Reynberd can’t have made it public.’ I looked at them; in court they had threatened to come and see their father hanged, but I confess I was shocked to see them actually do it.
‘Short drop,’ a man said to his wife. ‘Some of them should make a fine dance.’
‘I don’t want to see this.’ Nicholas turned away.
I, though, stood rooted to the spot. For the carts had reached the top of the marketplace, outside the Guildhall, and halted. Four people from the first were being brought down by the soldiers. Their arms were bound tightly to their sides. I recognized them from the day before; the wild-haired girl, a rag doll clutched in one hand, the red-faced man who had stolen wine, and who, from the difficulty the soldiers had in getting him down, had been allowed to get drunk this morning, and the starveling old man who had stolen loaves of bread, shaking with fear. And last, his eyes wide with terror, came one who wore a brightly dyed doublet and shirt instead of the well-worn clothes of the poor: John Boleyn. I clutched Nicholas’s arm so tightly he cried out. He followed my gaze. ‘Jesus Christ!’
Boleyn shrieked, ‘I have a stay of execution!’ He struggled against the two soldiers holding him. ‘Approved by the judge!’
‘And I’m the queen of France!’ one answered. ‘Come on, the others an’t makin’ any trouble!’
The other three prisoners were walking quietly to the scaffold, the drunk man swaying slightly, the woman clutching her rag doll tightly in one bound hand, bending her head to look at it. They were almost at the steps now. People laughed at the exchange between the soldier and Boleyn, though the twins’ faces wore expressions of contempt. Boleyn, looking frantically over the crowd, saw Nicholas and me and shouted, ‘Help me! Help me!’
‘Death to all murderers!’ someone shouted out. Two voices called as one, ‘Die like a man!’ I realized it was the twins.
‘We have to stop this!’ I shouted, and barged through the crowd, Nicholas at my heels. The condemned were mounting the steps. The old man, his shaking now uncontrollable, began to weep. I made to follow them up the steps, but a soldier blocked my path, his halberd pointed at my face. ‘What the fuck d’you think you’re doing? D’you want hanging, too?’
‘John Boleyn does have a stay of execu
tion!’ I shouted. ‘I’m his lawyer! It was granted by Judge Reynberd yesterday!’
Another soldier pointed his weapon at Nicholas. ‘How do I know you’re lawyers?’
Two voices from the crowd shouted, ‘They ain’t lawyers!’ The twins.
‘Hang them too!’ another voice called. ‘Death to all gentlemen!’ There was a general cheer. The crowd, uncomfortably close, was becoming restive.
I looked up. A soldier set each prisoner in front of a noose. The drunk man, appearing suddenly to realize where he was, tried to step back, shrieking, ‘No! No!’
The soldier beside me said threateningly, ‘Where’s this fucking pardon, then?’
‘At the castle! We were on our way to fetch it! A copy should have gone to the castle constable. For pity’s sake, let us talk to the executioner!’
‘So no paper, then?’
‘No, but—’
On the scaffold the executioner had already placed the noose over the head of the old man and tightened it. He watched me expressionlessly, but on hearing there was no paper, he moved the young woman’s head into the second noose. Then he did the same to John Boleyn and finally the struggling drunk. Boleyn shouted, ‘That’s my lawyer, I’m innocent!’ The young woman, even with the noose round her neck, bent round to look at her doll. ‘Milly, little Milly,’ she muttered. The old man shook silently.
‘Let us up!’ Nicholas shouted. He leaned forward and grabbed the soldier’s halberd with one hand, while with the other he began unsheathing his sword, leaving me momentarily free to run to the steps. ‘Master Shardlake!’ Boleyn yelled. The executioner frowned and nodded urgently to his assistant. He pulled the lever. The board dropped.
There was a roar from the crowd as all four prisoners fell, though only a few inches. The old man was instantly still, but the man next to Boleyn, his protests choked off, jerked wildly with his feet, instinctively trying to find a footing to halt his strangulation, eyes bulging, foam at his lips. The young woman, too, danced frantically on air. The front of her dress darkened as she wet herself, and the doll dropped from her fingers to land on the ground below. Someone instantly grabbed it up as a souvenir. Boleyn, though, did not dance, only jerked convulsively from side to side as his face grew purple, his tongue protruding.
I reached the top of the steps. The executioner stood in front of me, his solid form barring my way. ‘There is a pardon,’ I shouted. ‘For pity’s sake, before it’s too late!’
An elderly woman had struggled to the front of the crowd. She stood at the foot of the steps and raised clasped hands in a begging gesture at the executioner. ‘My husband! My husband! Please, please, let me pull at his legs and end his agony!’ Looking past the other, swinging, dancing, ghastly forms I saw the old man was not dead after all, he had begun to writhe in silent agony.
I do not know where I got the strength from to push the executioner away. I ran past the woman, whose frantic dancing jerks made her legs rise higher and higher, nearly kicking me on the arm. Then I reached Boleyn, whose eyes were clenched tight shut now, tears pouring from them. His protruding tongue was now blue. I grabbed him round the waist, heaving upwards with all my strength. My back spasmed agonizingly. I heard the crowd booing loudly. Then Nicholas was at my side, also holding Boleyn up to try and stop the strangling. Then I felt strong hands grasp my arms. I stumbled and fell backwards, off the edge of the scaffold, into the midst of the baying crowd. I felt a terrible pain in my back, then darkness.
Part Three
WYMONDHAM
Chapter Thirty-one
I woke, a sudden lurch out of darkness. I was lying down, and, for a terrible moment feared I was still beneath the scaffold, amid the baying crowd, Boleyn and the others strangling above me. I gasped and tried to move, but a terrible pain shot across my back, and I cried out. Then I felt a cool cloth on my head and heard a familiar female voice say, gently, ‘Do not move, Master Shardlake. The doctor said when you wake you must remain still.’ I blinked, and saw I was in my bed at the Maid’s Head, Josephine standing above me with an expression of deep concern on her face. ‘You are safe,’ she said softly.
‘Boleyn –’ I gasped. My mouth was parched.
‘He lives,’ she said with a smile. ‘Now wait, I must fetch the doctor. I shall be only a few minutes. Please, stay quite still.’ She hurried out. The pain of the spasm was fading and, hearing a sound beside me, I dared to turn my neck slightly. Beside the bed I saw, of all things, a light wooden carrying-crib. Lying within was a little fair-haired baby; Josephine’s daughter, Mousy. She looked up at me, and suddenly gave a toothless smile and reached out her arms. I smiled back.
Josephine returned with Dr Belys, who had treated Toby after our fight with the twins, his sharp-featured face serious. With a curtsey, Josephine took up Mousy and left the room. Belys raised a hand. ‘Do not move your back, or you will hurt yourself.’
Gripped with a sudden terror, I said, ‘Will I be able to walk again?’
‘Certainly, certainly.’ He smiled. ‘You were lucky, you could have broken your spine, but God must have you in his view, for you only damaged the soft tissues of your upper back. For now they are stiff as a board. But soon, if you do as I say, you should be up and about again. I examined you thoroughly while you were unconscious. Fortunately for you, I have made a specialism of bone and muscle ailments.’
‘You have?’
‘I like their – practicality, shall we say, compared to some of my colleagues’ weird potions.’
‘How long have I been unconscious?’
‘Near a day. It is Saturday morning. But you have not fractured your skull, only given it a nasty jolt when you fell. There was much blood, as always with scalp wounds. The crowd thought you dead.’ The doctor reached for a pitcher of small beer on the table by my bed, and made me drink slowly. Then he sat, put his hands on his knees and, looking serious, said, ‘You have made yourself the talk of Norwich.’
‘Josephine said Boleyn lives –’
‘Yes, when the executioner pulled you away and you fell off the scaffold, your young colleague held Boleyn up, saved him from strangling. I am told Master Overton was screaming at the executioner that he had killed you, that there was a pardon, and he would end up being hanged himself.’ Dr Belys looked at me seriously again. ‘Had you landed slightly differently, you could have smashed your spine, and never walked again.’ He let that sink in. ‘The executioner took Boleyn down, and he has been returned to Norwich Castle. He cannot speak yet, and has nasty compression marks on his throat, but he is safe. His wife asked me to attend him too.’
‘And the others hanging? Those still waiting in the carts?’
‘All the other executions went ahead, of course.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘The commons say the gentleman they had come to see hanged was saved by legal artifice, but the poor folk all died.’
‘There is truth in what they say.’
He gave me a sidelong look, then changed the subject. ‘You are lucky you have such good friends. Master Overton contacted Goodman Barak and Goodwife Brown, and the three of them have been taking turns to sit with you. Now, the spasms will ease, but only if you move slowly and carefully, and you must stay in bed at least a day. Tomorrow, or the day after, you may get up. I like my patients up and about as soon as possible. Meanwhile, with my approval, Master Overton has written to your doctor in London.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I think you and Guy might like each other. Have you read Vesalius on anatomy?’
‘I have a copy.’
‘So does Guy. Thank you, again.’
Dr Belys smiled. ‘Wait till you see my bill. Doctors charge even more than lawyers.’ He hesitated. ‘Two things more. I have a concoction of my own that should ease the pain, but do not take too much. Also, it would help if you were to have your back gently massaged twice a day. Goodwife Brown has offered to do that. A woman’s hands are best.’
I drew in a deep breath. I found it distasteful for anyone to see my bent back, a
nd a woman, Josephine –
Belys saw my hesitation. ‘She has already agreed. And Goodman Barak or Master Overton will be present as well, to avoid any suggestion of impropriety.’
‘It will help?’
‘Greatly.’
‘Barak, then,’ I said. ‘He has seen my back before.’
‘Good. But for now, lie still.’ He looked at me, with my lined face and prematurely white hair. ‘I am told you are forty-seven.’
‘I am.’
‘And with your disability – are you not getting a little old for such escapades?’
*
AFTER HE LEFT, Barak and Nicholas entered. Nicholas looked pale, troubled. I thanked him for his part in saving Boleyn. ‘I don’t know how I managed it,’ he said seriously. ‘I held him up, taking the weight of his body, those poor people kicking and choking all round me, the executioner trying to pull me off, I thought you were dead –’ He broke off, shaking his head.
Barak also looked strained, but punched Nicholas lightly on the arm. ‘There must be some muscle on the beanpole, after all.’
‘And a good thought, Nicholas, to write to Guy.’ Then I remembered, ‘The letters to Parry and the Lady Elizabeth –’ Without thinking, I tried to sit up, and another spasm sent me gasping.
Nicholas said, ‘I sent them off as soon as I got the stay of execution from the court office. They swore blind they’d sent a copy of it to the castle constable.’
Barak said, ‘The constable says he never got it. I wonder what happened there. But it’s too late to find out, the judges move on to Suffolk this afternoon.’