Tombland (The Shardlake series Book 7)

by C. J. Sansom

  Nicholas and I rode through the city, dressed in our legal robes. It was early; with few people about there was less risk of getting barged. The weather was hot again, the streets stinking mightily. To my relief riding was not painful. Traders were opening their shops; banging down the shelves on which goods would be displayed, pouring water on the streets, sometimes kicking beggars from their doorways. One such man, dressed in little more than rags, face red and blotchy, staggered into our path. He raised a leather flagon, calling out, ‘Good morrow, masters! Off to cheat some clients of their gold? Take a drink to whet your appetite!’ Both horses started nervously, and a jolt of pain went through my back.

  ‘Be off, churl!’ Nicholas shouted. The man staggered away. ‘Are you all right?’ Nicholas asked.

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘He could have had you off, the sot. These people spend what they get from begging on drink.’

  ‘Why do you think they do that?’ I asked.

  ‘Because they’re good-for-nothings. Why else?’

  ‘Perhaps because otherwise their lives would be unbearable.’

  *

  WE ARRIVED AT NORWICH Castle, approached the main gate and asked to visit John Boleyn. The guard looked at us with interest; doubtless he had heard about the hanging. We entered the cold central hall. A new gaoler came to meet us, his manner less surly than his predecessor. He led us along a corridor at ground level to another cell, opening the door for us.

  Boleyn’s new quarters were more spacious than before, and less damp. A barred window in a deep recess, thick as the castle wall, gave a view down Castle Hill to the spires of Norwich. He had been allowed a table and some stools. He rose from the bed to greet us. A thick red weal ran round his neck, and there was a look of shock in his eyes. I raised a hand. ‘I understand you cannot speak yet, Master Boleyn. Do not try.’

  To my surprise, he embraced us both warmly, making little grunting sounds. He pointed to the table, where a slate and a piece of chalk lay. He bent and wrote, ‘Thank you. You behaved like true heroes. Please, henceforth, call me John.’

  ‘And call us Matthew and Nicholas. Are they treating you better now?’

  He nodded, but even that gesture caused him to wince. He turned back to the slate, rubbed out the previous words and wrote, ‘Isabella pays them.’

  I smiled. ‘I believe she found the money,’ I said. ‘I saw her on Saturday.’ I told Boleyn, as Isabella doubtless had already, that delays over the pardon were likely, urging him not to lose heart. I said we would be returning to London soon, but would remain in touch, adding that I had set Toby to try and trace the locksmith’s apprentice. At that he turned again to the slate and wrote in large letters, pressing the chalk so hard it almost broke: I AM INNOCENT.

  *

  WHEN THE GAOLER let us out, I told him Boleyn’s wife would pay to ensure Boleyn was well treated, and suggested he be allowed some exercise outside. He nodded. ‘Constable Fordhill has agreed he’s to be allowed to take the air on the castle roof. The constable would like to see you. About what happened last week.’ He looked at us sidelong, whether out of respect for our courage or amazement at our foolhardiness was hard to tell.

  *

  A SOLDIER LED US up two flights of stairs to the constable’s quarters. They were comfortable and brightly lit, with tapestries on the walls. A little boy sat in the hallway, playing with a wooden horse on wheels – a strange domestic touch in this place. The soldier knocked on an ancient wooden door and we were called in.

  Constable Fordhill was a strongly built, middle-aged man with black hair and a short beard, dressed in a fashionable high-collared doublet. He had a military bearing and watchful grey eyes. Bowing civilly, he invited us to sit on stools before his desk. He sat behind it, studying us a moment, then spoke quietly. ‘So, the pardon request has now been lodged in London?’

  ‘It has, Master Fordhill.’

  He nodded slowly. ‘I understand the initiative comes from the Lady Elizabeth.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ This was common knowledge now.

  Fordhill nodded again. ‘I take it John Boleyn is related to Anne Boleyn.’

  ‘Distantly, yes.’

  He considered. ‘The Protector may not welcome the Lady Elizabeth’s involvement in such a scandalous matter. After the Thomas Seymour business.’

  ‘She wishes only to help a relative.’

  ‘Despite his being found guilty by a jury of his peers?’

  ‘I believe the verdict was wrong. There was reasonable doubt. I still seek a key witness.’

  Fordhill raised his eyebrows. ‘And the Lady Elizabeth agrees with your view? And her Comptroller? Master Parry, is it not?’

  I paused, then answered, ‘Yes.’ Fordhill raised an eyebrow, noting my hesitation. I continued. ‘I am advised it may be some time before the pardon is considered. Given the problems in the south-west, and elsewhere.’

  ‘Yes.’ Fordhill turned and looked out of his window – which like Boleyn’s had a view over Norwich. ‘Thank God things are quiet here, though I believe there are a few makebates around the town.’ He turned back to us, and said gruffly, ‘I am sorry for what happened last week at the hanging. You both seem to have played a brave part. I understand you were injured, Serjeant Shardlake.’

  ‘I am much improved now.’

  Fordhill was silent a moment, then he frowned and barked, in sudden anger, ‘I am responsible for carrying out the Assize sentences. For a pardon to go missing was a disgrace!’

  I asked quietly, ‘Do you know how it happened, sir?’

  He shook his head. ‘I questioned Judge Reynberd. He said that when he signed the stay of execution, he gave it to his chief clerk to make a copy for me, to be brought over urgently.’

  ‘That would be Master Arden.’ The chief clerk who had had Barak sacked.

  Fordhill raised his eyebrows. ‘You are well informed. Well, Arden swears he made the copy and had a junior clerk run across to the castle and pass it to the senior guard on duty, who should have brought it straight to me. But the guard is quite definite he received nothing. I believe him; he served under me in France. The junior clerk whom Arden sent with the message – I questioned him too; he seemed nervous, but stuck to his story. Unfortunately, Reynberd would not allow me to question him alone; Arden was there, and said as bold as brass that the document had been sent, and must have been lost within the castle.’ He grunted. ‘But I am not letting it go. I have written to Lord Chancellor Rich requesting a full investigation.’

  ‘Did you mention my involvement?’

  ‘Yes. I wanted to stress that, but for you, Boleyn would have been illegally hanged. I mentioned you had been injured.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, though I knew that when Rich read that news he was more likely to reward Arden than interrogate him. But why had Arden done it in the first place? For whom? I exchanged a glance with Nicholas.

  ‘I will not let the matter rest,’ Fordhill went on. ‘It impugns my administration, and my honour.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. I had a momentary flashback of those poor people strangling beside me, knocking against me in their dance of death.

  ‘In the meantime,’ Fordhill continued, ‘Master Boleyn will be treated well.’

  ‘And if I may suggest, sir,’ I said, seriously, ‘good care should be taken for his safety. Clearly he has enemies.’

  Fordhill nodded. ‘You may rest easy. Nothing amiss will happen while he is in my custody.’

  *

  WE RODE SLOWLY BACK to the Maid’s Head. ‘Will Boleyn be safe?’ Nicholas asked.

  ‘I think so. Fordhill’s whole reputation is at stake.’

  ‘You think the clerk Arden was responsible for Boleyn being nearly hanged?’

  ‘It looks like it, unless Reynberd was involved. But I doubt that, the possible consequences for him could not be more serious. No, I think somebody paid Arden, and paid well.’

  ‘And he is gone to the Suffolk Assizes. Another person we shoul
d question out of reach.’

  ‘Well, we shall be back in London soon, and can look into it ourselves.’

  ‘Your back is really better?’

  I smiled with relief. ‘Yes, truly. Though I am glad Josephine is coming later to give me another massage. Barak is chaperoning her again.’

  We had reached the bottom of Tombland. ‘Look there,’ Nicholas said, and pointed across the road to where Gawen Reynolds and his wife had just stepped out of their house. The old man, in his red aldermanic robe, leaned heavily on his stick; his wife was dressed, as ever, in black, white bandages on her hands. Reynolds saw us, following our passage with a ferocious glare. Nicholas insolently doffed his cap to him. We rode into Magdalen Street and the Maid’s Head stableyard. The ostler brought mounting blocks, and Nicholas helped me down. As I stepped on the ground I heard a harsh voice behind me. ‘Can’t you even dismount properly, crookback?’

  We turned to find Reynolds standing there, hands clenched on his stick. The ostler stared at him. ‘Piss off,’ the old man said, and the ostler hastened into the inn.

  ‘I was injured, Reynolds,’ I answered coldly, ‘at the hanging ten days ago. Your grandsons will have told you. They were there, to see their own father hanged.’

  ‘Good. He was lawfully sentenced.’

  ‘Don’t pretend you haven’t heard of the pardon application,’ Nicholas said hotly. ‘I’m told it’s the talk of Norwich.’

  ‘What do you want, Master Reynolds?’ I asked curtly.

  ‘To know how long this pardon will take?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘I have contacts in London who can find out.’

  ‘I would not cross the Lady Elizabeth,’ I said.

  ‘Piss the whore’s daughter,’ Reynolds snapped. ‘It’s Mary who counts in Norfolk.’

  After a moment’s silence, I asked, ‘Why do you want your son-in-law dead so much?’

  ‘Because he’s a weakling, a lecher, the Boleyn family is tainted, and I want the thorn out of my family’s flesh.’

  I met his gaze. ‘You may be a power in Norwich, Master Reynolds, and your grandsons figures of fear. But there is nothing you can do. The pardon has been lodged, and I have just seen the constable at the castle. He will ensure Master Boleyn is kept safe until the result of the application is known.’

  Reynolds looked at me, wrinkling his nose with contempt. ‘You are a crookbacked scuttling lawyer, no proper man for all your learning. When are you leaving?’

  ‘Soon enough.’

  ‘Then at least I will not see your ugly face again. The sight of it made my wife cry, I had to send her home.’ He looked at Nicholas. ‘I will leave you to take your pleasures. I understand from the inn servants that some young woman comes here, and your friend with one arm, and they go to your room. Whatever games you get up to together, they must be worthy of a fairground. Does the lanky boy join in?’

  Nicholas took a step towards him, but I laughed, which seemed to infuriate Reynolds more than anything. ‘Have you no honour, sir?’ Reynolds snapped. ‘No gentleman would take such remarks for jest.’

  ‘It was the sort of thing your grandsons might say, Master Reynolds. You talk like some malicious boy.’ Reynolds gave a disgusted snarl, but composed himself and hobbled out.

  ‘Old viper,’ Nicholas said. ‘I’d like to have sent him on his way with a boot up his arse.’

  ‘You sound just like Barak,’ I said, and smiled.

  *

  THE NEXT DAY, Tuesday, I went on my own for a longer, unaccompanied ride, through St Stephen’s Gate and out into the countryside. I was gaining confidence now. The hot weather had returned in earnest, and I noticed how ill-grown the crops were. I passed a large saffron field. After a mile the road passed a large triangular area enclosed with a hedge and ditch, the familiar hurdles behind, but cattle, not sheep, grazed within. I passed a shack, and saw an old man sitting outside watching the animals.

  ‘God give you good morrow, Goodman,’ I said. He stood and bowed. ‘Whose are all these cattle?’

  He smiled. ‘You be a furriner, master, to ask that. They all belong to the city folk, who use them for their milk. Some are shared between two families. The land was enclosed by the city, it stops the beasts awandering; I’m the neatherd, the man who looks after them,’ he added proudly. ‘Anyone who pays a ha’penny a week may graze their beasts here.’

  ‘What of those who cannot afford that?’

  He looked at me askance. ‘Then they must look to it their beasts don’t stray onto another’s land, or pay a fine to get them back. Excuse me, sir, I must keep a-doin’, there’s a calf should go back to his mother over there.’ He bowed quickly and hurried off, though I could see no calf in trouble. I rode down to the river, then back again, reflecting that nothing in Norfolk was straightforward.

  *

  ON WEDNESDAY, I had arranged to take a longer ride, with Barak and Nicholas and also Josephine and Edward Brown. Both had learned to ride in London, but had not done so for some time and were keen to do so again, so we hired a pair of horses for them at the inn. It was partly by way of thanks for what Josephine had done for me. The innkeeper bowed, but I suspected that by now Master Theobald, kindly man though he was, would be glad to be rid of us. I wondered which of his staff had been gossiping to Reynolds’s people.

  We met Barak at the Blue Boar Inn, for we planned to cross Bishopsgate Bridge and ride south along the riverbank, along the foot of Mousehold Heath. Edward rode his horse easily, though Josephine was a little nervous at first. We clattered over Bishopsgate Bridge and began following the path along the riverside. Barak had his artificial hand in place, and, from the look of him, had not had a drink that day – Nicholas and I had been keeping a careful eye out.

  Edward looked up the road leading to the escarpment, which close to was steeper and higher than I had realized, to the palace of the Earl of Surrey at the top, deserted behind its walls. Away to the north two large windmills turned slowly – there must be a breeze up there. ‘They say the palace is magnificent inside,’ I observed.

  ‘Nobody there now but the escheator’s caretakers, same as at the Duke of Norfolk’s palace in town.’ Edward smiled wryly. ‘The late Earl of Surrey built it to be a marvel for the whole city, that’s why he put it atop Mousehold Heights.’

  ‘Was not Richard Southwell involved in the fall of the Earl of Surrey and his father?’

  ‘Yes. Gave evidence at the Earl of Surrey’s trial, that Surrey quartered his arms with the old king’s – though Southwell served his father the Duke for years. He is a man without morals.’

  ‘Sounds like Norfolk’s answer to Richard Rich,’ Barak observed.

  I thanked Edward for agreeing to let his wife minister to my back. ‘We were glad to help you,’ he answered. ‘After your kindness in seeking us out to aid us.’

  ‘Do you still have work carting stone at the cathedral?’

  Edward sighed. ‘It is almost done.’ He looked at me. ‘Josephine and I will move back to London, if you can help us.’ He looked at me, his thin, handsome face embarrassed at having to ask for charity once more.

  ‘I’m sure I can find you both work.’

  Josephine smiled. ‘And Mousy can grow up a Londoner, like her father.’

  ‘But not quite yet,’ Edward answered, with a quick glance at his wife. ‘Perhaps in the autumn.’

  ‘You only have to write,’ I said.

  As we rode southwards, to our left the ascent to Mousehold gradually became less steep, and we saw thick woods stretching down to flat cultivated land between the river and the heath. We rode into the little hamlet of Thorpe, where we took some beer at an inn overlooking the river.

  ‘It is a beautiful country,’ I observed.

  ‘London will be better for Mousy,’ Josephine replied.

  Edward was looking up at the heath, less wooded here, wide, a gently rising expanse of yellow grass dotted with sheep that he told me belonged to the cathedral. ‘
Wat Tyler’s rebels had a camp up there two hundred years ago,’ he said. ‘And there’s a chapel to St William up in the woods, the boy they said the Jews murdered to drink his blood back in King Stephen’s time.’

  Barak said, ‘My father had Jewish ancestry. We never drank any blood.’

  Edward reddened. ‘I am sorry, I did not know. Anyway, his shrine in the cathedral was taken down by the old king.’

  ‘Was not Our Saviour himself a Jew?’ Josephine asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Edward replied. ‘And a poor man, a carpenter.’

  Barak looked across the river at the spires and towers of the Norwich churches. ‘I wonder what He’d make of all those. Not much, probably.’

  We rode back the way we had come. By the time Bishopsgate Bridge came into view again, I calculated we had ridden four miles, and I had only a slight ache in my back. I thought that I could make it to London now if we took it in easy stages.

  As we approached Bishopsgate Bridge, we saw three men descending the road from the escarpment. They were working men, in grey smocks, one with the rolling walk of a ploughman, the others with the faster pace of city people. One, I noticed, held himself in a soldierly way, firmly upright, pace even, arms swinging. They were almost at the foot of the hill. They halted at the sight of our little party, looking surprised. Edward raised a hand to them. ‘I know one of those fellows,’ he said. ‘Excuse me.’ He dismounted, walked over to the men and shook their hands. They were too far away for me to hear more than a murmur. I saw Josephine watching me carefully. I tried to listen, remembering that other meeting between Edward and the soldier at the Blue Boar, but caught only one man saying, ‘Apart from lack of water, it’s ideal.’

  They parted, and Edward rode back to us. There was a sparkle of excitement in his eyes. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we must get back. Juliet Wingate said she could only keep Mousy till five.’

  We left Barak at the Blue Boar, and as we parted from Josephine and Edward outside the Maid’s Head, I said we would be leaving in a day or two now. ‘You should, sir,’ Josephine said. ‘You must have business waiting in London.’ She sounded surprisingly eager to see me gone, and I felt a little hurt. ‘We will write soon,’ Edward said.