by C. J. Sansom
‘I am sorry you are offended, my Lady. Please be sure that I have been concerned only to carry out my duties as a lawyer.’
Mary sat back in her chair. She spoke coldly and harshly. ‘As you did for that other patron of the new religion, Catherine Parr. That woman tried to subvert the faith of all the King’s children, but she never succeeded with me. I saw her true nature. What was that book she wrote, Lamentation of a Sinner? Bewailing how she had fallen to the sins of the flesh before she discovered the Bible? But she fell into sin again, did she not, marrying the Protector’s treacherous brother when my father was barely cold in his grave.’
I looked at her. She must have known I had worked for Catherine Parr for years, and of my respect for the late queen. Yet I saw from Mary’s eyes, now wide and bright with a furious glint, that her remarks were not mere viciousness. This was what, in her hatred and anger, she truly believed.
Southwell said, ‘I think this interview is over, my Lady?’
Mary nodded agreement. ‘I think I have made myself clear. Good morrow, Serjeant Shardlake.’
I bowed low again, then walked backwards from the chamber, the doors opening behind me. Outside I stared at the closed door for a moment, overcome with anger. The steward looked at me questioningly. I nodded, and he led me away.
*
I MADE SURLY COMPANY for Nicholas on the ride back to Wymondham. I told him only the barest outline of what Mary had said. The encounter had troubled me much. Her threatened intervention in the pardon application could only make matters more difficult. I remembered, too, Southwell’s talk of the rebellions being coordinated, and the meeting I had overheard under the oak at the Blue Boar. Southwell had spoken of spies, too. Were some men playing both sides of the fence, pretending to support rebellion but acting for the government? The sooner we left for London the better.
It was dark when we reached Wymondham. I was exhausted and my back ached badly again; Nicholas, too, looked tired, his pale face red with sunburn after the long journey. The streets were more crowded now, the Wymondham play was scheduled for tomorrow. Many doors and windows were brightly lit with lanterns, men with packs on their backs heading for the tents on the meadow. The mood was cheery, with laughter and some singing. We had a quick dinner and went to bed. I gave Nicholas some lavender oil to put on his burned face. Despite the thoughts whirling in my mind, I fell asleep quickly, tired out as I was. In the night, though, I was woken by someone calling out on the streets, ‘The enclosure commissioners are coming! There’s to be a new proclamation next week!’ There was cheering, and I heard the news shouted out again, further away.
*
IT WAS A LITTLE after noon the next day that we arrived back in Norwich. Saturday, the sixth of July. Even though we would soon be leaving, I needed to write at once to Parry and tell him of my encounter with Mary. It was market day again, the streets busy, and I was glad when at last we rode back into Tombland, the Maid’s Head and the cathedral gates coming into view. I said, ‘Home again.’
Nicholas sighed, ‘I can never see Norwich as home. When can we return to London?’
‘Perhaps Monday. Tomorrow I want to ride out to Toby’s farm and see what has happened to him. We’ll take Jack, he gets on with him.’
Nicholas laughed. ‘Unlike me. Don’t worry, the feeling’s mutual.’
‘And I can keep an eye on Jack. See he doesn’t drink.’
‘I doubt he’ll be doing much of that,’ Nicholas said seriously. ‘I think he’s almost out of money.’
Suddenly, Nicholas pointed at the brightly decorated Erpingham gate leading into the cathedral. ‘Look there, isn’t that Simon Scambler?’
Scambler, dressed in ragged hose and a dirty shirt, stood in the gateway, talking to an elderly surpliced cleric, waving his hands. I saw the cleric shake his head. Scambler groaned loudly, then ran across Tombland into the alleys on the far side. A cart loaded with wool almost hit him, the driver letting loose a string of oaths. Somebody laughed. I turned my horse towards the cleric, who was going back into the precinct. ‘Wait, sir,’ I called. ‘Please.’
He turned and waited for us to ride up. He was small and plump, bald but for a fringe of white hair, kind-faced. ‘Can I help you, sirs?’ he asked.
‘That boy who was talking to you. I know him.’
He looked at us anxiously. ‘Sooty Scambler? Not in trouble with the law, is he?’
‘No. He was a witness in a case.’
He drew a sharp breath. ‘That case?’
‘Yes. I am Serjeant Matthew Shardlake.’
‘Canon Charles Stoke. I taught Scambler at the cathedral school.’
‘I heard he was homeless now.’
‘Homeless and jobless,’ Stoke said, wearily. ‘He came to ask if there might be a place for him at the cathedral choir. I had to tell him no.’
‘He was at the cathedral school, you say?’
‘Yes. How much do you know about him?’
‘Only a little.’
Canon Stoke took a deep breath. ‘His parents were poor, his father a chimney sweep, and his mother died when he was ten. Simon was clever, no question, and had a good singing voice, remarkable after his voice broke. We took him in. But his behaviour –’ the old man shook his head vigorously. ‘That I could never understand. He picked up some things, like music, with ease, and learned to read well, but other, elementary things he could not grasp at all. Discipline especially.’ He looked at me seriously. ‘I do not mean he was disobedient, but he could not seem to grasp basic rules of behaviour, with that waving of his arms, speaking and even singing out of turn –’
‘A sort of blind unruliness,’ I said.
‘I see you know him, sir. Well, neither beating nor reasoning put him in order. Other children and even some teachers mocked him. We could not control him. When he was thirteen we had to ask him to leave. And he never seemed interested in the Christian faith.’
‘Then he worked for his father?’
Canon Stoke smiled sadly. ‘That fared no better. He got stuck up chimneys, or sent down piles of soot before the furniture had been covered.’
‘And so he became Sooty.’ I smiled sadly.
‘Then his father died. I gather Simon’s later attempts at employment were not a success. When his father died last year, he went to live with an aunt.’ Stoke took a deep breath. ‘A lady steeped in radical religion, I believe. Simon told me she has thrown him out.’
‘Yes. I feel partly responsible; Simon was much upset by the Boleyn case.’
Canon Stoke bit his lip. ‘I wish I could help, but even if I took him into the choir, his indiscipline would soon get him in trouble with Bishop Rugge.’
‘Where is he living now?’
‘On the streets, I fear. He was much upset when I said I could not help.’ The old man turned away. ‘I am sorry, but I think there is no more I can do. Except pray.’
He walked away into the precinct. I turned to Nicholas. ‘One other thing I will do before we leave. I will find Simon, and help him somehow.’
*
BACK AT THE INN, I wrote to Parry and arranged for a post-rider to take the letter to Hatfield. Then I lay down, exhausted and sore, to get some sleep. Some hours later, Nicholas knocked on the door. He looked serious.
‘You should come downstairs, sir. Isabella Boleyn is there. With Daniel Chawry.’
I made my way down. Isabella was sitting in the parlour, head in her hands. Chawry sat uncomfortably beside her.
‘What is it?’ I asked, fearing something had happened to Boleyn.
Isabella raised a tear-stained face. She looked at the end of her tether. ‘I was thrown out of my house this morning, sir, and Daniel is dismissed. They took my money too, all the money John left for me.’
‘Who did?’
‘Serjeant Flowerdew’s men.’
‘What? They can’t do that!’
‘They said I’d no right to be there, as I am not John’s wife. They came on behalf of the twins’ grandfa
ther; he has been sold their wardship. The twins came too, they laughed as we were put out. They have taken over the house. Thank God a carter gave us a ride to Norwich. I am penniless, I have nowhere left to go. Please, sir, help me.’
Chapter Thirty-five
I asked Nicholas to fetch quill and paper, then sat down and asked Isabella exactly what had happened. Strong woman though she was, she was utterly exhausted, and as Nicholas returned she said, ‘You tell him, Daniel.’
‘They came early in the morning, as people do when there’s an eviction,’ Chawry began. ‘We were breakfasting in the kitchen – Mistress Boleyn and I. The bag of money the mistress told me the master had left for her was on the table, she was counting out wages for our two labourers. Then came a tremendous battering on the door. When I answered I was shoved in the chest by Gerald Boleyn. He caught me off balance, the devil, and I landed on the floor. Then he and Barnabas pushed their way in, followed by three young thugs, friends of theirs, I think. One was that mole-faced John Atkinson who was at court.’
‘Southwell’s man,’ I said.
‘Yes. And John Flowerdew brought up the rear, frowning fiercely. He said that as the King’s feodary Southwell had sold the twins’ wardship to their grandfather, and that as local agent for the escheator he had agreed with Master Reynolds’s instructions to clear out the mistress. Since she is not legally married, she has no right to be there, and the twins had right of occupation. Then he thrust a document in front of the mistress, snatching up her money at the same time, saying that for now, as the escheator’s agent, he should have care of it.’
‘What did this paper say?’ I asked.
Isabella looked up bleakly. ‘I can barely read, sir.’ She added bitterly, ‘As people like to remind me, I was raised a servant.’
Chawry said, ‘I tried to pick the paper up, but Flowerdew snatched it back. Then we were both told to leave immediately. The twins were taking up occupation then and there. It looked like their friends were staying too; through the window I could see loaded packhorses.’
‘They’ll wreck the place,’ Isabella said, tears pricking her eyes.
Chawry looked suddenly agitated. ‘There were half a dozen of them, sir. I knew the twins wouldn’t hesitate to use more violence. I told the mistress we must seek advice from you.’
I wondered whether he feared I might think him a coward, and said, ‘You did the right thing. Until the matter of the pardon is decided, John Boleyn’s property is frozen – everything should be left as it is. While that situation lasts, Southwell has no right to do anything with the twins’ wardship; they have not been made wards of court. Nor can Flowerdew do anything with his property. I would like to see that document of his.’ I realized that Southwell, and perhaps Mary, too, would have known this was coming when we spoke yesterday. I wondered if Mary was behind it all, yet doubted it – such a petty move would not make her popular. Could Southwell and Flowerdew have acted together, or was Flowerdew acting on his own?’
‘You have no money?’ I asked Isabella.
‘A few shillings.’
Chawry looked awkward. ‘There are my parents, Mistress, we could go to them. I have a little money.’ He reached out a hand to her, then withdrew it. Isabella shook her head.
‘No, Dan, there is already scandalous talk about us.’
I looked at Nicholas, and said grimly, ‘I think we should visit Master Flowerdew. I want to see that paper. I believe he has behaved unlawfully.’
‘The Wymondham innkeeper said he was at home, at a place called Hethersett.’
Chawry said, ‘It’s about five miles from Norwich, off the Wymondham Road.’
I took a deep breath. ‘Then we go there first thing tomorrow.’ I did not welcome the thought of another ride of several miles, but saw no alternative. ‘We’ll take Barak as well. The more people the better. Nicholas, spend tonight in my room, Mistress Boleyn can have yours. Could you find an inn, Daniel?’
‘I’ll find somewhere.’
Nicholas said, ‘Perhaps tomorrow we can give Flowerdew a taste of his own medicine.’ He smiled reassuringly at Isabella. She gave him a tearful smile in return.
*
BARAK, STILL AT THE Blue Boar, was only too pleased to be asked to join us; he was, he said, becoming bored and running low on money. ‘Can’t buy a decent amount of beer,’ he said ruefully, scratching his beard with his artificial hand. ‘The innkeeper doesn’t do credit.’
So we set out early on Sunday morning, taking our horses from the stables. Nicholas and I wore clean shirts and doublets. We had brought our best robes – the others we had left for cleaning – but folded them in our knapsacks, for the weather was even hotter. The roads were quiet. Barak said, ‘I wandered around the market yesterday, picked up some gossip. Apparently, the rebel camp outside Colchester has been sent a pardon, and told that the enclosure commissioners will redress their complaints. The commission’s to be formally announced in London tomorrow.’
‘Does Protector Somerset really intend to have the enclosure commissioners take dictation from rebel commoners?’ Nicholas retorted. ‘He should send troops and put them down.’
‘With one army trying to hold on to his last forts in Scotland, and another being gathered for the West Country?’ Barak answered scoffingly. ‘The Protector’s been caught on the hop. Good thing too, if you ask me. The local landowners will do anything they can to impede the commissioners, so a bevy of armed men ready to enforce their decisions may mean reform is carried out at last. Remember, the commissioners will have Somerset’s authority, in the name of the King.’
Nicholas shook his head vigorously. ‘Society is like the human body, those with education and ancestry as the head, and the head directs people like us, the hands. The common people are the foot; they know no more than how to walk behind the plough. They cannot dictate policy.’
‘So people say,’ Barak answered, coldly.
‘It’s how things have always been. It’s what the preachers have always taught.’
‘When did you ever take notice of preachers? My old master Cromwell, he was the son of a blacksmith and in his time nobody was more powerful.’
‘Except the King. Who executed him.’
‘Let’s be practical,’ I interjected. ‘John Hales’s enclosure commissions are a good thing, I represented poor people at the Court of Requests for years, I know how landlords force people off lands their families have farmed for centuries. But to enforce reform on the scale and at the speed Somerset has in mind, with almost every gentleman in England against him, it’s impossible. Furthermore, I can’t see him allowing the common people to dictate to him either. And he’s not the King; constitutionally, he depends on the Council, and if he goes too far, they’ll overthrow him.’
‘He’s already given way in Essex,’ Barak said.
I looked at him. ‘Remember the Northern rebellion in ’thirty-six, against the religious changes? The old king promised to meet the rebels’ demands, waited till the rebel army went home, then got together an army and massacred them.’
‘Somerset isn’t Henry,’ Barak insisted.
‘More’s the pity,’ Nicholas said. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve seen some grim sights in Norwich, I agree reform is needed – but society has a right order and if it is overturned, there will be anarchy!’
‘Enough!’ I said with sudden anger. ‘We have serious business today, we should concentrate on that. God’s blood, this case, the pardon, they’re both frozen solid, yet still the matter piles troubles upon us! Jack, have you some ale in your pannier? I’m parched in this heat.’
He passed me a leather pouch, giving me a searching gaze. I had told him, and Nicholas, what had transpired at Kenninghall. I was worried, tired, hot, and had heard enough of these arguments. I did not know then that their consequences would rule my life for the next two months, and reshape it for ever.
Chapter Thirty-six
As we travelled on, more people appeared on the roads, heading, no doubt, f
or Wymondham Fair. Towards eleven, we arrived at Hethersett. It was little more than a village, centred on a large open green with cottages and farmland around it. Westwards was a wide area of common land, with many fences and ditches for sheep. We were directed to Flowerdew’s house. It lay at the end of a hedged avenue with sheep fields on either side. It was a modern brick building with tall chimneys, clearly the home of a wealthy man. We paused in the lane, and Nicholas and I donned our robes before riding through the gates.
The door was answered by a servant. He said Serjeant Flowerdew was out, riding the boundaries of his lands with his steward and his sons. I gave my name, and he asked us to wait while he fetched Mistress Flowerdew. A thin woman with a severe face appeared. Her expression was surprised, and unfriendly. She gave us the barest curtsey. ‘Serjeant Shardlake,’ she said coldly. ‘My husband has spoken of you.’
‘I apologize for calling without an appointment,’ I said civilly, ‘but I must speak to Serjeant Flowerdew urgently. When will he return?’
‘Towards dinner-time. Perhaps five. You may return then, if you wish.’ She gave another ghost of a curtsey, then closed the door in our faces.
‘She could have offered us refreshment,’ Nicholas said. ‘Ordinary politeness dictates that.’
I smiled. ‘I imagine Flowerdew has given me no good report.’
‘What do we do now?’ Nicholas wiped his face, which was reddening with sunburn again. ‘I’m baking.’
‘Return at five. I’m not going back to Norwich without seeing Flowerdew.’
‘I saw a tavern in the village,’ Barak said. ‘We could get something to eat and drink.’
‘Didn’t look like much of a place.’ Nicholas was in a complaining mood. ‘I don’t fancy sitting in whatever tavern they may have, being stared at by country gruffs all afternoon.’