Tombland (The Shardlake series Book 7)

by C. J. Sansom

  I sat down, and looked at the jury. ‘That was a biased summing up,’ I said to Isabella.

  ‘Are we then lost, sir?’

  I looked at the jurymen. ‘All depends on them now.’

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Reynberd left the courtroom; everyone rose and bowed. Evidently Gatchet was being left to try the other cases alone. The gaoler led Boleyn from the dock to the prisoners’ bench, the chains round his ankles clanking, as two more gaolers brought in a ragged procession of half a dozen prisoners – the remainder of this batch of criminal cases – and sat them on the bench. One, a wild-haired woman in her twenties, was coughing incessantly. People on the public benches looked at her apprehensively; attending the criminal Assizes meant the risk of catching ‘gaol fever’ from the bad humours of the prison. Several poor citizens, relatives of the accused, entered and took places on the public benches. Gatchet lifted a pomander to his nose. The tipstaff announced, ‘The King against Fletcher. Theft of six loaves of bread.’ A painfully thin old man rose. He was shaking; the bread would be worth more than a shilling; this was a capital offence. Gatchet glared at him. I whispered to Isabella, ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  She followed me, together with Chawry, Scambler and his aunt, and Nicholas and Toby. We stood in the antechamber. I saw the twins’ grandmother, old Jane Reynolds, sitting on a bench, hands on her lap, the white bandages standing out against her black clothes. I remembered what Parry had told me about Edith’s twisted hands – perhaps the condition was hereditary. Her face under its black hood was like paper in the sunlight, her eyes staring ahead unseeingly. I wondered what she had meant when she said in court, ‘Edith, God save you, I wanted a boy.’

  We found a bench and sat down. ‘It does not look good, sir, does it?’ Isabella said, in a small voice.

  ‘Well, the test in criminal cases is that the jury must find the accused guilty beyond reasonable doubt. Perhaps we might have done that with the key at least, although the twins did not break under questioning as I had hoped.’

  Chawry looked at Isabella, a strange expression on his face – it seemed to me part sympathy, part longing. He turned to me. ‘I have heard that in hanging cases juries will find someone innocent if they can.’

  Toby grunted. ‘Unless they are prejudiced against the accused. And there are several fat Norfolk gentry on the jury.’

  Isabella looked at him in distress, and I frowned at him. Saying that now did not help. ‘Churl,’ Nicholas muttered audibly.

  On Nicholas’s other side, Scambler looked at me. ‘I didn’t help, did I, sir? Made a nonny of myself again.’

  ‘Singing in the witness box.’ His aunt shook her head despairingly.

  Scambler said, ‘Something always happens. I never mean it to.’

  His aunt spoke with quiet intensity. ‘You don’t listen, you don’t think. You’re hopeless.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘Simon was clear over what he said about the beating up and the missing key. It was obvious he was telling the truth.’ Yet his confused behaviour in court would have lent credibility to the twins’ speculation that he had simply missed the key on his first search.

  The door swung open and old Gawen Reynolds marched out, followed by the twins. He went to his wife and said, ‘Come, Jane, we are going home. I have arranged to be informed of the verdict.’ Jane rose meekly and followed. As he passed us, Gawen Reynolds glared, but said nothing. The twins hung back for a moment, looking down at Scambler. Nicholas moved closer to him, glaring back defiantly. Barnabas smirked, and slowly drew a finger across his throat.

  *

  WE SAT UNCOMFORTABLY for nearly an hour. I would have liked to discuss the case with Nicholas and Toby, but not with Isabella there. Chawry tried to distract her with news of the farm, how badly rain was needed. Then an inner doorway opened and Barak appeared. He looked around quickly, then approached. ‘I’ll have to be quick, but I wanted to tell you the jury’s gone out. How did it go?’

  ‘We did as well as we could,’ I answered neutrally.

  Taking my meaning, Chawry gave Isabella a sympathetic glance. She was looking at Barak, puzzled. ‘A friend,’ I said.

  ‘I thought the jury would take longer,’ Isabella said, ‘with all the other cases to hear as well as John’s.’

  ‘Your husband was given extra time, because it was such a –’ I hesitated – ‘controversial case.’ I meant scandalous, likely to attract publicity. ‘The jury won’t be out long,’ Barak added. ‘The judges like to get on with things. No food or water until they come to a verdict.’

  She smiled. ‘Thank you for coming to tell us.’

  Barak nodded and disappeared through the door again.

  It was another half-hour before the tipstaff called us into court. When we stood up Isabella faltered. Chawry took her arm.

  In the courtroom the jurymen were assembled in their box. Boleyn sat with the other prisoners, looking pale. Many on the public benches were staring at him; the two men I had seen writing earlier sat with poised quills. I saw Southwell and Flowerdew sitting together.

  Gatchet banged his gavel and turned to the jury. ‘First case, Boleyn. Master foreman, do you find the prisoner innocent or guilty of murder?’

  There was a loud, clear answer. ‘Guilty.’

  I had feared Isabella might faint, but it was her husband who suddenly fell down, hitting the floor with a thud, his chains clanking. The gaoler bent to haul him back to his feet.

  Gatchet looked at him implacably. ‘John Boleyn, you have been found guilty of one of the most heinous murders I have ever encountered. I sentence you to be hanged by the neck till you are dead, at nine o’clock tomorrow.’

  *

  BOLEYN WAS PUT BACK on the bench, the colour beginning to return to his face. He looked at Isabella and managed a little smile. Already Gatchet had proceeded to ask the verdict on another case, a ragged, red-faced man in his forties, known as a drunken beggar, who had stolen a dozen bottles of wine. He, too, was sentenced to death. Nicholas touched me urgently on the arm. ‘The pardon. Take it to Barak.’

  I came to myself. ‘Yes. I must hand it to the judge. Reynberd will be better. I will see if Barak can help me.’

  Isabella grasped my arm with both hands, a pleading look in her eyes. I whispered, ‘With the Lady Elizabeth’s signature, he must postpone the sentence, I’m almost certain.’ A third person, a servant girl of fourteen who had run away with some of her employer’s clothes, was found not guilty of felony theft, the jury valuing the goods at less than a shilling. Gatchet glared at them, but this was the type of case where juries could be merciful.

  We went outside. I told Chawry to take Isabella back to her inn, asking Toby to accompany them lest they were bothered by pamphleteers seeking statements – the two writers had hurried outside once Boleyn’s sentence was pronounced. ‘Nicholas, come with me.’

  Just then the door to the court opened and Southwell and Flowerdew came out. Flowerdew nodded to me. ‘My commiserations, Serjeant Shardlake,’ he said with a half-disguised smirk.

  ‘Thank you,’ I answered coldly.

  ‘Boleyn’s lands are forfeit to the King now, under my management as agent of the escheator, Sir Henry Mynne. That serving woman will have to leave his house.’ He looked at me coldly. ‘I hope as Boleyn’s representative you can facilitate that.’

  Southwell added, looking down at me with his steady, unblinking gaze under those half-closed eyelids, ‘And I, as agent of the feodary, am responsible for those boys’ wardship.’ He smiled threateningly. ‘I hope we can arrange things smoothly. I understand their grandfather may want to buy the wardship. I’m sure I can negotiate a price on behalf of the King.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Gentlemen,’ I said, ‘you are, I fear, being a little previous. I shall be applying for a pardon. On behalf of the Lady Elizabeth. Now.’

  Flowerdew looked taken aback. Southwell’s face darkened and his eyes opened wide. ‘She can’t do that –’

  ‘She can,
and has, Sir Richard.’ Remembering that Southwell himself had been pardoned for a murder by the old king, I was happy to add, ‘There are precedents. Excuse us, gentlemen.’ Southwell looked at me in outrage. I bowed quickly, knocked on the adjacent door which Barak had used, and passed through.

  *

  WE FOUND OURSELVES in a large office where half a dozen clerks were working on papers, Barak among them. The others gave me hostile glances, but Barak came across.

  ‘Guilty?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘I fear so.’

  ‘I thought that jury didn’t look sympathetic. Where’s that poor woman?’

  ‘I sent her back to her inn.’

  ‘She’s desperate,’ Nicholas added sadly. ‘Boleyn will go back to his cell now, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, until the entertainment tomorrow.’

  ‘I have the application for the pardon. I thought it would be better given to Reynberd.’

  Barak nodded. ‘He’s on civil cases now; you’ll have to wait till he breaks for lunch. Probably an hour or so.’

  I looked at the other clerks, still giving us hostile looks. One in particular, a tall, thin fellow, stared at us fixedly. I bent closer to Barak. ‘Should I not have come in here?’

  ‘Can’t be helped,’ he answered with a shrug. ‘Come, I’ll show you where to wait.’

  He led us into another, windowless corridor which ended at a large door. There was a bench outside. ‘That’s his chambers. Wait there.’

  Nicholas said, ‘We were stopped earlier by Southwell and Flowerdew. Came at us like a couple of crows at a corpse.’ He smiled. ‘You should have seen their faces when Master Shardlake told them about the pardon application.’

  ‘Southwell works for the Lady Mary,’ I said. ‘She will not be pleased to hear this. The sooner we get the application in to the judge, the better.’

  We sat there some time after Barak returned to the clerks’ office; the corridor was quiet after the courtroom bustle. We heard the occasional opening and closing of doors, and once a distant, anguished scream, probably from Gatchet’s courtroom as someone else was sentenced to death. Nicholas shook his head. ‘So these are criminal trials. It’s like the anteroom to hell.’

  A door opened, some distance up the corridor, and two men came out. From their dress they looked like senior officials rather than courtroom staff. They stood talking in low voices. One said, ‘Our agent says today’s just a local ruffle, the main action’s coming elsewhere, and not yet.’

  ‘There’s been some familiar faces seen, one or two from Kent. But no firm word of anything.’

  ‘Keep the information coming. Southwell’s on my back.’

  The other man glanced round and, seeing us, put an arm on the other’s shoulder. They walked away down the corridor.

  ‘What was that about?’ Nicholas asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ But my mind went back to that evening at the Blue Boar: Edward Brown, Michael Vowell and the man called Miles, who seemed like a soldier, talking of something happening on the twentieth of June. Today.

  Footsteps sounded from the opposite direction. Judge Reynberd appeared, robe billowing around his plump form, the tall, thin clerk who had glared at us in the office following with a pile of papers. We rose and bowed. Reynberd gave a half-smile. Unexpectedly, he did not look surprised to see us. ‘Serjeant Shardlake. The lawyer with all the hearsay.’ His tone was jocular, but his eyes were sharp and hard. He looked at Nicholas. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘My assistant, Master Overton.’

  He turned to the clerk. ‘Unlock the door, Arden, put those papers on the table, then go and do what I told you.’

  When he was gone, Reynberd ushered us in. He shrugged off his red fur-lined robe, revealing a silk doublet and ruffled collar, then sat behind the desk, kicking off his shoes. ‘God’s blood, I’m hot.’ He smiled, showing grey teeth with several gaps. ‘I thought you might be here,’ he said.

  ‘You did, my Lord?’ Nicholas and I exchanged a puzzled look.

  ‘Oh yes. More of that in a moment. Now, what have you to say to me?’

  I took a deep breath. ‘The Lady Elizabeth wishes to request a pardon for Master Boleyn.’ I pulled the request from my pocket, and handed it over. Reynberd studied the document, raised his eyebrows in surprise, then laid it on his desk.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘I did not expect she would go that far. I guessed she was behind your presence – few have the resources to employ a serjeant-at-law and an assistant. You made the best of a poor case, I suppose. Apart from calling that half-witted boy, perhaps.’ He laughed throatily, then leaned forward and spoke, in a menacingly quiet voice. ‘I take it there will be no argument that this trial was not fairly and properly conducted. We went to great lengths to ensure it was, given the publicity that must follow.’

  I hesitated. ‘I make no complaint, my Lord.’

  Reynberd shrugged. ‘Boleyn was arrested over a month ago. If you only got here last week, that’s not my fault.’ He continued, ‘Any word, or hint that this trial was not properly conducted will go ill for you.’

  ‘That is not my intention, my Lord. The Lady Elizabeth asks her brother the King for a pardon under the Royal Prerogative; that is all.’

  He gave me his unpleasant smile again. ‘Well, I do not know what the Protector will say about the Lady Elizabeth involving herself in scandal. Again. In Mary’s country, too. However,’ he picked up the request and tapped it on the desk, ‘as you will know, all requests for a pardon have to be approved by the judge. Some I do not allow to go forward but, where money and influence are concerned – what can I do?’ He smiled again. ‘The people will be disappointed when they do not see Boleyn hang tomorrow.’

  I did not comment. He asked, ‘What about you, will you scurry back to London now?’

  ‘In a few days, probably.’

  He nodded. ‘Well, I have someone you can take with you.’ He shouted suddenly, making us jump. ‘Arden!’

  The door opened and the clerk entered. Behind him came Barak, his face set and angry. His artificial hand had been removed, and his right sleeve hung empty. Reynberd looked at it and raised his eyebrows. Arden said, ‘There was a knife on the end of it. Weapons should not be brought into your Lordship’s presence.’

  Arden took a position by the door. Reynberd looked at Barak and smiled again, wolfishly. ‘So, we have a cuckoo in the nest, a clerk who does favours for particular clients. That is not allowed.’

  I stared at him. In every court in England clerks were bribed to move applications along or delay them, to get inside information. Officially prohibited, it was as much part of the system as the tipstaff’s stick and the judges’ robes. Nonetheless, Reynberd shook his head disapprovingly, while Barak stood wordless, his lips set in a thin line. Reynberd turned to me.

  ‘When Master Barak came to work as an Assize clerk two years ago, he came with an interesting record. Years working in a somewhat vague capacity for Thomas Cromwell, then several more years working for you. Made him a very useful man to chase up reluctant jurors, sound out local opinion in the taverns before the Assizes, as well as the usual shuffling of papers. But his repeated lodging of applications for sureties for witnesses in this case puzzled the chief clerk here, as did the way he brought you here this morning. Serjeant Shardlake, you have been suborning court staff to act in your favour.’

  ‘I have done no more than anyone else, my Lord. Nor has Barak. And no money passed.’

  ‘Nonetheless, it is an infraction of the rules, and cannot be tolerated.’ He nodded at Arden. ‘A record will be made; I hope it does not become necessary to forward it to the Protector when he considers the pardon application.’ He smiled again, raising his eyebrows.

  I realized he wanted something to hold over me, in case I did make any criticism of the trial. He turned his gaze to Barak and spoke, briefly and coldly. ‘Naturally, you are dismissed from Assize service.’

  I feared an outburst from Barak, but he merely smiled at Reynbe
rd. ‘All right,’ he said casually. ‘I’ve had enough of this nonsense anyway.’ He raised his empty sleeve. ‘Can I have my hand back before I go? It helps with spearing ugly fat red gobbets of meat on my plate.’

  Reynberd gave him a long, hard look. ‘Get out,’ he snapped.

  Barak gave a slight, mocking bow, and left the room. Nicholas, normally respectful, burst out, ‘That was not necessary.’

  Reynberd raised his eyebrows. ‘Not necessary what, boy?’ He stared him down.

  Nicholas bit his lip. ‘My Lord.’

  ‘That’s better. Now, I must get on with preparing the order cancelling Boleyn’s execution. Come and collect it at eight tomorrow morning. For now, be gone.’ When we reached the door he said, ‘And Serjeant Shardlake –’

  I turned. ‘My Lord?’

  ‘I should leave Norwich soon. You have made enemies.’

  *

  BARAK WAS WAITING for us outside the Shire Hall, leaning against the wall in the sun, his artificial hand strapped back on, looking down Castle Hill at the spires of Norwich. He gave us a wry smile. ‘Well, that’s that,’ he said.