Tombland (The Shardlake series Book 7)

by C. J. Sansom

  The clerk of the court read out the indictment, that on the night of 14–15 May 1549, John Boleyn did murder his wife Edith Boleyn. Then Judge Reynberd stirred and spoke in his rich voice. ‘I must say, I am surprised by the rash of applications for sureties for defence witnesses these last few days. The allowing of defence witness testimony should not be abused.’ He looked directly at me. ‘I see one is a serjeant-at-law.’ He waved a hand, ushering me to my feet.

  ‘Serjeant Matthew Shardlake, my Lord.’

  ‘I must stress you can only give evidence as a witness, not act as counsel for the accused.’

  ‘Indeed, my Lord.’

  ‘You act for John Boleyn?’

  ‘I do.’

  He grunted. ‘Very well. Then let the accused be sworn in.’ Boleyn took the oath in a strong, clear voice. The coroner was asked to give his evidence first, and stepped up to the witness box. He confirmed that he had brought the indictment following the coroner’s court’s finding that Edith had been murdered by her husband. The constable followed, stating that he had gone to search Boleyn’s premises and found a pair of boots and a bloodied club in a stable to which John Boleyn said he had the only keys, and confirmed, too, that there was no possibility that the boots and hammer had been thrown in from the outside. He added, ‘Master Boleyn has an alibi from his wife for most of that evening and night, but nothing for the hours between nine and eleven, when, he says, he was in his study working, but nobody else saw him. These are the boots and the hammer.’ He placed them on the desk; I could see the dark stains on the hammer. ‘I had the devil’s job getting them out of the stable,’ he said. ‘The steward had to help me with the horse.’

  Boots and hammer were then taken for the jury to inspect. The entire public gallery turned to look. There was an excited murmuring. Gatchet leaned forward. ‘Silence!’ he called. ‘That hammer is not something to peer at shamelessly; it is the instrument of a foul crime against God and man!’

  Next, the shepherd Adrian Kempsley was called, staring fearfully at the judges as he walked to the witness box. Reynberd said, ‘Now, Goodman Kempsley, tell us what happened on the morning of the fifteenth of May.’

  In a halting voice Kempsley repeated the story about finding the body, glancing occasionally at his master Witherington. He described how the lower half of Edith’s naked body stuck up in the air, her thin legs standing out at angles, her private parts visible, and how the top of her head came to pieces when she was pulled from the mud. Her face, he said, remained whole and recognizable, her eyes wide as though with shock. Again there was a murmuring from the public benches, though more subdued after Gatchet’s warning. Reynberd released Kempsley and he scuttled back to his seat. John Boleyn stood with his head hanging down. The twins’ faces were tight and red, Barnabas’s scar standing out a livid white on his cheek. Their grandfather sat expressionless.

  Then came the sound of a woman sobbing – a loud, desperate, heartbroken sound. Edith’s mother, old Jane Reynolds, sat hunched forward, head in her bandaged hands, weeping as though she might never stop. ‘Edith, Edith,’ she said, ‘God save you, I wanted a boy – I wanted a boy!’ The crowd made sympathetic sounds. Reynberd turned to the tipstaff. ‘I think Mistress Reynolds should leave the room.’ The tipstaff gently ushered her out, unresisting, still sobbing. Her husband Gawen stared at Boleyn. Then the tipstaff returned and called Gawen Reynolds’s name.

  The old man, his robes swirling round him, walked to the witness box, leaning heavily on his stick.

  Reynberd asked quietly, ‘You wish to give testimony as to the character of your daughter?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord. I apologize for my wife breaking down just now, but Edith’s death has broken her poor heart. And mine,’ he added, his own voice catching for a moment. It was an act, I was sure, but a very good one. He continued, ‘I was not sure I could bear to come here today, but I decided it was my duty to my daughter and to God.’

  A murmur of sympathy rose from the audience. Reynolds took a deep breath, then, in a steady voice, told the court that Edith was his and his wife’s only child and that, sadly, since childhood, she had always been prone to melancholy, for reasons he never understood, but John Boleyn had happily taken her in marriage. ‘Later, though,’ he added, ‘my son-in-law took up with a woman of ill virtue, a serving woman at an inn.’ He stared at Isabella. ‘Word of this – liaison – reached Edith. Perhaps my son-in-law did not care, but in any event, nine years ago, my poor daughter disappeared. When she could not be found I thought perhaps she had been overcome with melancholy, and killed herself. And then she was discovered, murdered in that horrible way, last month. I think her return, after her husband had married the strumpet he had been living with openly for years –’ he stared at Boleyn, who looked back defiantly – ‘drove him to a mad, devilish rage, and caused him to kill her in that shocking manner.’

  At this point I stood up. ‘I must object, my Lord. This is speculation, not evidence.’

  Reynberd glared at me. ‘I warned you, Serjeant Shardlake, you are not here as counsel. Nonetheless, I was about to make the same point myself.’ He turned to Reynolds. ‘Have you no idea where your daughter was during the nine years since she disappeared?’

  ‘None, my Lord. I only wish that she had come to me.’ Again his voice broke.

  Reynberd dismissed Reynolds. He turned to the accused. ‘Master Boleyn, how long were you married to your wife before she disappeared?’

  ‘Ten years.’

  ‘Would you call it a happy marriage?’

  I drew in my breath sharply. Reynberd was within his rights to raise the issue from the bench, but the revelation of long-term bad relations between the two could only strengthen the case against Boleyn. He hesitated, and looked at me. Reynberd followed his gaze and frowned. I looked down. Boleyn swallowed, then said, ‘It was not a happy union, as was well known. Edith showed no affection for me, nor her sons. In truth, my wife did not seem to like anyone; she hated social occasions. Sometimes she would – it is hard to believe – starve herself for no reason, reducing herself to the point where her bones stuck out. She would never answer questions about why she did such things. Nonetheless, I had married her and she was my wife.’ He added, in a whisper, ‘The cross I was given to bear.’

  ‘Until you turned elsewhere for comfort?’

  Suddenly Boleyn’s temper flashed. ‘What man would not?’

  Gatchet cut in, his voice like a file, ‘Any good Christian man.’

  There was silence. Then Reynberd said, ‘I now call your sons, Gerald and Barnabas Boleyn.’

  The twins walked, stolidly and expressionlessly, to the witness box, a pair of well-dressed young gentlemen in silken doublets. Boleyn looked at them for a long moment, an unreadable expression in his narrowed eyes. I had warned him the night before to keep steady, not to let them anger him.

  Reynberd said, ‘You are the sons of John and Edith Boleyn. Gerald and Barnabas?’

  ‘Yes.’ They answered politely. So they knew how to behave when they needed to.

  ‘Have you always resided with your father?’

  ‘Till he went to gaol,’ Gerald answered coolly.

  ‘Was he a good father?’

  ‘He showed little interest in us,’ Barnabas replied.

  ‘And your mother?’

  Gerald looked straight back at Reynberd. ‘Our poor mother was always unwell. But our father did nothing to help her, he only shouted at her. We loved her, and were brokenhearted when she left because our father had taken up with that tavern-woman.’ He pointed at Isabella.

  Reynberd turned to Boleyn. ‘Have you any questions?’

  He looked at his sons, his voice trembling. ‘You made your mother’s life a misery. And mine. Your indiscipline, your violence even towards the tutors we engaged . . . Was it not your behaviour as much as anything that drove my wife away?’

  Gerald answered, his voice cold. ‘What, when we were nine years old? No, it was your adultery that was the final straw f
or her. We are glad that now we live with our grandfather, who shows us the affection you never did.’

  It was an accomplished performance. I could see sympathy on the faces of many in the audience, even though many in Norwich must know the twins’ wild reputation. Boleyn’s face darkened, and I feared he might lose his temper again, but instead he set his lips hard and said nothing more.

  Reynberd said, ‘I believe that completes the prosecution evidence, except for one thing. Master Boleyn, am I correct, the only alibi you have for the evening in question is that of Isabella Heath’ – Isabella reddened at the use of her maiden name – ‘and that there were two hours, between nine and eleven, when she did not see you, as you were, your deposition says, working in your study?’

  ‘That is correct,’ Boleyn answered firmly.

  ‘She did not even bring you a glass of wine, or beer? Or get one of the servants to do so?’

  ‘I asked not to be disturbed while I worked. I was studying estate papers, related to a dispute with my neighbour Master Witherington, who claims some of my land.’

  Reynberd inclined his head slightly. I looked at the jury; several were whispering together. This was the most damning evidence against Boleyn.

  Reynberd said, ‘Very well. I think we will take a short adjournment. There is a document concerning one of the civil cases I must attend to. Return in fifteen minutes.’

  The judges rose, and left by their private door. From the corner of my eye, I saw Sir Richard Southwell leave the room. I went across to Nicholas. ‘What do you think?’ I asked.

  ‘I wish Boleyn hadn’t snapped at Gatchet.’

  ‘Yes, though he would make a saint lose his temper. Gawen Reynolds got the jury’s sympathy.’ I laughed mirthlessly. ‘And I got a telling off.’

  ‘Sticks and stones.’

  ‘The lack of an alibi – the unhappy marriage – the twins blaming him for their mother’s disappearance . . .’ I shook my head. ‘Well, we must ensure every bit of evidence casting doubt on Boleyn’s guilt is raised, and emphasized. Especially the missing keys. It is up to us now.’

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  When the judges returned, John Boleyn was the first to give evidence, from the dock. The room was becoming hot now, with Judge Reynberd mopping his cheeks with a lace handkerchief. Gatchet said to Boleyn, with a wave of the hand, ‘The room is yours.’ All eyes turned to him.

  He looked down at his notes and then, to my relief, began speaking clearly and fluently. ‘My Lord, I would submit there is no evidence linking me to this terrible crime. Indeed, my wife’s body being left in public view in that hideous way only advertised to the world that she had been alive until the day before, making my second marriage invalid. I submit that I had no motive to leave her body exposed to the world. Further, I have evidence that this crime could not have been committed by one man alone, that mine was not the only key to my horse’s stable and that this second key disappeared for a while.’ He took a deep breath. While speaking he looked straight ahead, occasionally glancing at the jurors. I had advised him to do this – establishing eye contact would remind them he was a human being whose life was in their hands. There was a murmuring in the court. He had, at least, impressed them.

  Judge Gatchet intervened. ‘You spoke of your second marriage. But is it not the case that shortly after your wife disappeared, you took Isabella Heath into your home and lived with her for seven years, marrying her only after your wife was declared dead, exposing your servants and young sons’ – he cast a glance at the twins who, as if on cue, lowered their heads – ‘to ungodly immorality?’

  Boleyn looked straight back at Gatchet. ‘I never meant Edith to discover my relations with Isabella, it was mean common gossips who told her. After she disappeared, I notified the authorities and made every effort to find her, involving the local constable and assisting the search in every way. I ask the coroner if that is not true.’

  The coroner rose in his place and said, ‘My predecessor is dead now, but he told me of the efforts to find Edith Boleyn, and I have seen the papers. Master Boleyn is correct.’

  ‘Nonetheless,’ Gatchet persisted, ‘you lived openly in sin for seven years.’

  ‘I am on trial here for murder.’ Boleyn’s voice rose; suddenly he was shouting. ‘This is not the Church court where gossips and backbiters cast easy judgement on things they know nothing about!’

  I took a deep breath. His temper was out. There was a gasp from the well of the court. Gatchet went purple. ‘How dare you speak to a lord justice like that!’ he said furiously. ‘You ungodly, shameless wretch –’

  Reynberd looked at Boleyn hard. ‘Do not speak like that again in court, Master Boleyn. Apart from anything else, it will do you no credit.’

  Boleyn swallowed audibly, realizing he had made a serious mistake. ‘I apologize, my Lord.’

  ‘That’s better. Now, what else have you to say?’

  He glanced quickly at his notes. ‘I wish to call Isabella Heath, and my steward Daniel Chawry, to give evidence as to my character.’

  Reynberd waved a hand. ‘Very well.’

  Isabella took a deep breath, stepped out and mounted the witness box. Her stance and expression were exactly right – sober and melancholy.

  Boleyn coughed, then spoke softly, ‘Isabella, how long have we shared our lives together?’

  ‘Nine years, sir. And for the last two, after your poor wife was declared dead, we have been married.’ She looked at the judges, her expression one of open honesty.

  Gatchet was still in a vile mood. ‘Why did you agree to live in sin with this man?’

  Isabella looked straight back at him. ‘Because I loved him, and his wife was gone.’

  Another murmur from the public gallery. It sounded sympathetic; I saw a couple of women nodding.

  Boleyn said, ‘You would say we have been happy?’

  Isabella looked at him and smiled unforcedly. ‘I think it a rare thing in the world for two people to feel such natural devotion as we have, despite the difference in our age and status.’

  ‘Do you believe me capable of murder?’

  ‘Never, sir. You are a gentle man, too gentle perhaps, for that has allowed acquisitive neighbours and unruly children to take advantage sometimes.’ She looked directly at Leonard Witherington, then the twins, who stared back expressionlessly.

  Boleyn said, ‘I confess I laid hard courses upon you. Public obloquy because we lived together without being married –’

  ‘Only for legal reasons, sir, since seven years had to pass before Edith, God rest her soul, could be declared dead.’

  ‘You had the burden of becoming mistress of my estate, and bringing up my sons, who were not easy.’ Then he asked, ‘Did you ever think of leaving me?’

  ‘Never.’

  Isabella and Boleyn were both close to tears now. Boleyn swallowed and then suddenly asked, ‘If I am found innocent of this terrible crime, now poor Edith is dead, would you marry me again?’

  Isabella looked startled. Then she answered, ‘Certainly.’

  I drew a deep breath. I saw two men scribbling frantically – this was ideal material for a sensational pamphlet; effectively, a proposal from the dock. However, I saw a couple of respectable jurymen frowning at each other, and both judges looked cross. Reynberd called for silence, then leaned forward and said, ‘I must ask the jury to discount that last emotional display. Master Boleyn, have you any further questions for this witness?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Isabella stepped down, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.

  Daniel Chawry leaned across and whispered to me, ‘I didn’t expect that.’ He looked distressed, as well he might if he was attracted to Isabella. Isabella returned to the bench and sat down, wiping her eyes. ‘You did well,’ I said quietly.

  Boleyn called Chawry next. He was still struggling with emotion, but with an effort he gathered himself. He confirmed that he had worked for Boleyn for five years, and had always found him amiab
le, decent and honest. He did not believe he could have been capable of a savage murder.

  ‘And yet,’ Boleyn said, ‘I am sure you would not say I was a paragon of virtue.’ This was a point I had asked him to make, in case the jury became bored by paeans of studied praise. ‘What faults have I?’

  ‘As your wife said—’

  ‘As Goodwife Heath said,’ Gatchet snapped.

  ‘I beg pardon, my Lord. As she said, people have taken advantage of you. On property matters, for example.’ He, too, looked at Witherington. ‘And –’

  ‘Go on, Chawry,’ Boleyn said.

  ‘You are perhaps a little unworldly over financial matters. In this fiercely acquisitive age.’

  A couple of people ventured to give an approving murmur. That point would play well with the poorer classes; but there were none of them on the jury.

  Gatchet said, ‘We have seen the accused has a temper.’ Reynberd nodded sagely. ‘You must have seen signs of that.’

  ‘Master Boleyn is not a man of choler,’ Chawry answered carefully. ‘Sometimes he can become angry, even lose his temper. But only when he is sore vexed, as over a bad harvest or the misbehaviour of his sons.’

  ‘The reappearance of his wife must certainly have vexed him,’ Reynberd said pointedly.

  Glancing quickly at his notes, Boleyn said, ‘To turn to another point. You know the place where my wife’s body was found?’

  ‘Naturally I know every foot of your estate, sir.’

  ‘With the court’s permission, I should like to pass your lordships and the jury copies of a sketch plan of my estate. I would also ask that a copy be given to the shepherd, Goodman Kempsley, whom I wish to question.’ At this poor Kempsley stared at him in horror. Judge Reynberd held out a hand, and Boleyn passed up copies of the plans Toby had drawn – I had got him to make copies. Reynberd looked at them, nodded, and passed them to the tipstaff who handed them round. ‘Hurry up,’ Gatchet said as a juror dropped his copy. ‘Other cases are waiting.’