by C. J. Sansom
‘Where the hell else has she to go?’ I shouted, then shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, this has – unmanned me.’
‘And me.’ He stood looking at the dreadful scene again for a second, then roused himself. ‘Yes, we must save Mousy.’ He left the church.
I held the child; she clutched at me frantically. Thank God she was too young to understand the horror that had taken place here. I took a last look at my murdered friends, but averted my eyes from what had been done to Josephine. Poor Edith Boleyn came to mind, stuck in a ditch with her bare legs up in the air. Before we left Norwich, I would deal with the man who had done that to her, her own father.
Chapter Eighty-one
I crossed the road and entered the inn, heads turning in amazement at the sight of a white-haired lawyer carrying a filthy, bloody, wailing baby. Mousy was pushing at me now, screaming and wriggling, trying to escape. I shouted at a servant to bring warm water to our room before mounting the stairs; I knew little about babies, but Barak must know what to do.
He was sitting in the middle of our room. He stared at Mousy, looking shocked. ‘God’s death,’ he said. ‘So it’s true, they are dead.’
The child, though becoming exhausted, was slippery in my arms. I said to Barak in panic. ‘Help me, how do we quiet her?’
A servant appeared, carrying a ewer of water. Barak said decisively, ‘Give me Mousy, I’ll clean her up. Put the bowl on the table.’
I watched as he limped across and washed Mousy thoroughly. She screamed and bawled all the time, a far cry from the gentle, biddable child I had known. Then he took off his shirt, swaddled her in it and walked up and down, making soft cooing noises. ‘She needs milk more than anything,’ he said. ‘And soon.’
I sat and looked at them, still numb from this latest, terrible shock. Barak looked at me incredulously. ‘Nick says you want to take her back to London with us.’
‘She has nobody else. I’m going to adopt her.’ I had not even thought of it till then, but the moment the words were out of my mouth I knew it was what I wanted to do.
*
IT WAS ANOTHER HOUR before Nicholas returned. With him was a woman in her thirties, an apron over her cheap wadmol dress. She was short and buxom, with a round, kindly face and, beneath her white coif, large, intelligent blue eyes which softened immediately at the sight of Mousy. Nicholas said breathlessly, ‘The woman at the cathedral directed me to this goodwife. She’s her cousin. Her name is Liz Partlett, she is a wet-nurse and has just left her employer.’
‘Can you help us?’ I asked. ‘I will pay well.’
‘Yes,’ she said in a quiet Norfolk accent. ‘My own baby died last spring, poor lallen thing, but I just keep producing milk.’ She gently took the baby from Barak. ‘Come, you’re not holding the poor grub right, give her to me. Don’t, you’ll drop her.’
I said, ‘We have the key to the room next door, you can go there.’
‘Very well, sir,’ she said obediently, smiling down at Mousy who had quietened at once and was already pawing instinctively at her breasts. ‘How old is the poor child?’
‘Six months now.’
‘Your boy told me both her parents had just died.’ She looked at me keenly, her eyes lingering on the marks still visible on my wrists, though she said nothing.
‘Yes. One of the many Norfolk tragedies,’ I added bitterly. ‘Her name is Mary, but her parents called her Mousy.’
‘Come, then, Mousy.’ She left the room.
Barak said, ‘I think you found a gem there, Nick boy.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘I think you did.’
*
LIZ HAD BEEN GONE only a short time when Master Theobald appeared. He looked at us, taking a deep breath. ‘My servant says you have brought a baby and a wet-nurse here.’
‘We had no option. We found her in the church over the road; her parents had been killed. We knew her mother.’
Master Theobald’s eyes widened. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I am afraid you must still leave within the hour. The Earl of Warwick is making the Maid’s Head his headquarters, everyone other than his men must leave. I am sorry. There may be room at other inns, perhaps in the marketplace. Most of the soldiers have been quartered on the citizens.’
I said, ‘We shall need fresh horses to return to London. But we have next to no money left. Might you help us?’ He looked doubtful, and I added, ‘If you let me know what is owed, I will give you a promissory letter now, and will pay as soon as I get back to London.’ I paused. ‘I am a serjeant of Lincoln’s Inn, I may be trusted. For myself, I have no money left here, like many in the city.’
He looked at me for a moment, then nodded. ‘Very well. I trust you, Serjeant Shardlake, despite the strange goings-on your stay has sometimes brought. And you suffered with the other chained gentleman at Norwich. I will arrange horses. But please despatch the money and horses promptly when you return to London. You will understand our trade has been much disrupted.’ Despite himself, he smiled. ‘A baby now.’ He shook his head, bowed, and left.
*
THE THREE OF US, left alone, were silent a moment. Then Nicholas said, ‘Josephine’s and Edward’s murders must be reported.’
‘There’s no point,’ I answered wearily. ‘There can be little doubt Edward was sought out and killed as a senior rebel on Warwick’s orders, and Josephine was killed for – for sport. If we report it, nothing will be done, and we could find ourselves questioned about our relationship with Edward. No, if anybody asks, we heard the sound of a crying baby in the church, and found it was the child of my former servant. That is all.’
‘At least we could arrange a Christian burial,’ Nicholas said, his voice breaking.
Barak answered impatiently, ‘Can you imagine how many burials there will be in Norwich this week? No, we should leave as soon as possible.’
‘There is one thing left to do,’ I said grimly. I was still determined to deal with Gawen Reynolds.
*
THE FIVE OF US made our way to the marketplace; Barak, Nicholas and Liz Partlett carrying Mousy. Fed and comforted, the poor child had mercifully fallen asleep. I looked at her, amazed by the sudden decision I had made, wondering whether I could love this child enough to adopt her. A clutch at my heart told me that perhaps I could.
On the way we saw more grim sights; a cart containing bloodied bodies and severed heads, probably of those executed at the Oak of Reformation. The Earl of Warwick had indeed worked fast. His popularity among the wealthier citizens was clear; the emblem of the bear and ragged staff was nailed to many doors. I wondered bitterly whether he had brought a supply with him.
The marketplace was still the filthy mess Nicholas had described, men from the poorer classes set to clean the debris left by Warwick’s soldiers. The gallows by the Guildhall had half a dozen bodies dangling from it. There was a little crowd; more men would probably soon be brought to share their fate. I remembered the day when I had saved Boleyn, the woman with the doll writhing in her death agonies. I looked away, feeling faint for a moment. Nicholas pressed my arm.
We made for Isabella’s old inn, where, to our relief, we were offered two rooms. I made it clear that although Isabella had had money, the rest of us did not, but my serjeant’s robe, and the marks on my wrists which I was careful to let the innkeeper see, sufficed. ‘I have many officers here,’ he said ruefully, ‘and only the earl’s treasurer’s promise that I will be paid. I’m sure your word is as good as his. And there has been no Wednesday market this week, of course, so none of the wealthier traders have come to stay. Damn those rebels. But hopefully the traders will return on Saturday.’ He grimaced. ‘I’m told the soldiers will be selling things taken from the bodies at Dussindale.’
*
I WANTED TO GO to Gawen Reynolds’s house immediately, but Barak and Nicholas said we were all exhausted, it could wait until tomorrow.
‘God’s death,’ I said impatiently, ‘he’s the last witness to all that happened to Edith – Peter Bone is de
ad and Michael Vowell beyond reach, wherever the Protector sent him. We need a living witness.’ But even as I spoke I felt my head swim again and said wearily, ‘All right, tomorrow morning.’
‘There’s Southwell, too,’ Nicholas said. ‘He was intimately involved in the whole thing.’
‘You saw him at Dussindale, he’s at Warwick’s right hand now. We can’t deal with him ourselves, but we can inform Parry and the Lady Elizabeth about his involvement, and about the money he gave Robert Kett, and ask them to inform William Cecil.’ My voice hardened. ‘But Reynolds is a different matter. I say we should take him now.’
‘He’s not going anywhere,’ Barak said impatiently. ‘Not even outside, I shouldn’t think. Tomorrow is soon enough.’
I nodded and sank down on the bed. I could not help reflecting that, though younger, Barak and Nicholas looked as exhausted as me. We were at the back of the inn, with only a view of the stableyard. I was glad, for I had no doubt more hangings would be taking place in the marketplace.
I slept most of the day, waking only to take dinner. Afterwards, I went next door to visit Liz Partlett, tapping carefully before I was called to enter lest she was feeding Mousy. The baby, though, was fast asleep on the bed, little bubbles of milk at the corners of her mouth, while Liz sat sewing.
‘Is all well?’ I asked.
She stood and curtsied. ‘Yes, sir, I have cleaned the child thoroughly and she fed like a bezzler.’ She smiled. ‘I think she’s beginning to teethe.’
I looked at the wet-nurse gratefully. She had asked nothing about the details of Mousy’s parents’ death; but there had been so many deaths in Norfolk this last week. I turned to the sleeping child, her tiny, plump, yet perfect little fingers. I hesitated a moment, then came to a decision. ‘We plan to leave Norwich and ride to London by way of Hatfield, tomorrow or the next day at the latest. Would you come with us?’ Liz looked doubtful, so I quickly added, ‘Once we are back in London I will engage a wet-nurse there, and pay for you to be accompanied safely back here.’
She returned my look, and I was surprised to see anger flare in her blue eyes, though her voice remained low. ‘I will not return to Norwich, sir,’ she said. ‘My husband is dead, my child is dead, and Norwich is become a city of death.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I should tell you now, sir, if you plan on taking me to London, my husband was Kett’s man. Our child died in the plagues this spring, as much of hunger as sickness, as my David had no work. When the rebellion started, he went to Mousehold, with my blessing. He died a month ago, fighting the Earl of Northampton’s forces. I had a job as a wet-nurse with a merchant family, but they knew who my husband was and after the Marquess of Warwick’s victory they cast me out.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I have seen the marks on your and Master Overton’s wrists and I guess you were among the gentlemen prisoners set before the earl’s forces. So I should tell you my background before some gossip whispers it.’ She lifted her small, shapely chin.
‘I thank you for your honesty.’ I smiled sadly. ‘Things are, though, not always quite what they seem. Yes, we were with the chained gentlemen, but we were made prisoners only because of lies told about us by a man who wanted us dead. There is much more I could tell you, and perhaps one day I shall, but not now. Will you take my word that we are not necessarily on different sides?’
She went on staring at me with that penetrating gaze. A servant would not have dared look at a new employer in such a fashion before the rebellion, but many had learned new ways. Then she said, simply, ‘Yes, sir, I take your word.’
‘Thank you. Then you will come to London with us? Perhaps,’ I added tentatively, ‘if you do not wish to return to Norwich and things go well, you might stay to look after Mousy there. But you must decide.’
She nodded then, and smiled. ‘Thank you, sir. I will come, and we shall see.’
Afterwards I should have liked to return to bed, but there was a document I had to prepare, a long deposition to the court giving an account of the story told me by Peter Bone, and then by Michael Vowell after he had betrayed us. Bone was dead, but hearsay evidence of what a dead person had said might – just about – be admissible in court. Michael Vowell, I guessed, would be protected from any proceedings. I got Barak and Nicholas to help me with the drafting, for it had to be worded tactfully, more than stretching the truth in saying we had been held under force in the camp, and avoiding any mention that Vowell had worked as a spy. At length it was done, and I went to bed, leaving poor Nicholas to draw up a second copy for me to sign tomorrow and take to London. Now we had only the second murderer, Gawen Reynolds, to deal with, and I believed I had a way to draw him out, given that crucial factor in his personality, his lack of self-control.
Chapter Eighty-two
Early the next morning, to my surprise, we were wakened by the sound of church bells. Nicholas, Barak and I were all crowded in the same bed, and I looked at them in sleepy astonishment.
‘Why are the bells ringing? It is only Friday, surely?’
Barak sat up and rubbed the stump of his arm. ‘It’ll be for the great thanksgiving service at St Peter’s Church at the marketplace. The service is at ten, it’s eight now. We should get to Reynolds’s house; he may be going there.’
We breakfasted hastily. The inn was full of officers, but I went to look at Mousy before we left. Liz was changing the absorbent rag for her bottom. I was surprised at the lack of any smell. Liz smiled. ‘Breast milk doesn’t stink, sir.’
I smiled. ‘I did not know that; but I know so little of children. We have to go out, to Tombland.’
‘Shall we leave today, sir?’ she asked.
‘I hope so, but it depends how this morning’s – business – goes.’
I returned to Barak and Nicholas. We all carried knives. I would rather Nicholas still had the sword which had been confiscated the day before, and Barak, still limping, needed my stick. Nonetheless, we could expect only Reynolds, his wife and female servants at his house.
*
IT WAS A CLEAR, sunny day. Averting our eyes from the fresh bodies hanging from the gallows and the heads which had been set up outside the Guildhall, we made our way to Tombland. Here, unlike in the marketplace, the clearing-up was nearly finished, the square looked almost normal. Magdalen Street, however, that led to the Maid’s Head entrance, had been closed off by a line of soldiers. I saw a massive shield with Warwick’s coat of arms nailed above the front door of the inn. I could not bear to look at the church where Josephine and Edward had been slain.
‘All these signs of the bear and ragged staff all over the city,’ Barak said, perhaps to distract me. ‘Warwick is showing his power.’
Nicholas said, ‘I remember it first being rumoured that the Protector would lead the government forces, but then he ordered Warwick to do it.’
I grunted, ‘Perhaps Somerset knew that leading the army would be the final nail in the coffin of his presenting himself as a friend of the poor. But he should have seen how this victory would strengthen Warwick.’
We had arrived outside the doors of Reynolds’s yard, which were firmly closed. I took a deep breath. ‘Now, in we go. Unfortunately, we must force the women servants to let us in.’ I drew my knife, as did Nicholas, while Barak took the sheath from the knife on his artificial hand. I banged loudly on the door.
There was no reply. We all three banged again, louder. We heard footsteps, and a female voice said tremulously, ‘What is it?’
I put on my most commanding voice. ‘We demand to be admitted at once, we are officers of the law!’ There was silence from within. Barak shouted, ‘Do you want us to break down this door?’
There was the sound of a key turning, and the courtyard door creaked open. A middle-aged woman, eyes wide with fear, stared at Nicholas and me in our dark robes, and Barak with his grotesque hand-knife. ‘What is your name?’ I asked brusquely.
She curtsied. ‘Laura Jordan, sir, mistress of the female servants. We have no steward now.’
‘We d
emand to see Master Gawen Reynolds immediately.’
The woman’s shoulders sagged. ‘He is on the top floor, with the mistress, watching for the body parts of executed rebels to be brought through the city.’
How like Reynolds. ‘Take us to him.’
The woman led us across the yard to the house, then up three flights of stairs to the top floor. All the doors we passed were shut. There were two more doors on the top floor, one small, one larger. The smaller one was closed but the larger stood open. It gave on to what looked like a study, a spacious room with a desk, racks of papers and comfortable chairs. Gawen Reynolds was looking through the large, mullioned window at the street below, resting his hands on his stick. Jane, as ever, stood in the shadows at the back of the room, dressed in black except for the white bandages on her hands. Her husband was giving her a running commentary. ‘Soldiers coming, on horseback, with halberds. They’re not risking any trouble from the mob.’ I heard the sound of horses passing, then the squeak of wheels. Reynolds’s voice rose. ‘Here comes the cart, they’ve cut them into quarters, the heads in a pile on top. Mouths wide open in their death agonies, most of them!’ He barked a grotesque laugh. ‘Come here, woman, look at the men responsible for the death of your grandson!’ He turned, and saw us in the doorway. His face turned puce.
‘By God,’ he said, his voice unexpectedly quiet. ‘I had hoped you were all dead.’ His voice rose. ‘Laura Jordan, why in the devil’s name did you allow them in?’
Goodwife Jordan took a step backwards. ‘They said they came in the name of the law. They threatened to break in the yard door.’
‘I’ll break in your fucking door before the day’s done. Get out!’
She retreated, terrified. Jane Reynolds remained still and silent in the corner. Her husband rasped at us, ‘What do you want? I hear my son-in-law is to be returned to the castle.’
I looked at him directly. ‘Master Reynolds, we are here to arrest you for the murder of your daughter, Edith.’
‘Are you mad?’ Reynolds shouted, but I caught the tremor in his voice. Jane suddenly looked up, staring wide-eyed at her husband.