Tombland (The Shardlake series Book 7)

by C. J. Sansom

  Nicholas and I rode into the stableyard. To my surprise, Master Theobald himself bustled in, waving a letter with a large red seal. He handed it up to me. ‘This came just after you left.’

  I reached for it, thinking it some fresh missive from Parry or the Lady Elizabeth, but the seal was strange. I tore it open, then took a deep breath.

  ‘What is it?’ Nicholas asked.

  I handed it to him and said, speaking low, ‘We should go upstairs.’

  Chapter Thirty-three

  In my room I gave the letter to Nicholas. It was from Kenninghall Palace, short and curt:

  Serjeant Shardlake,

  The Lady Mary requires your presence here at two o’clock in the afternoon of Friday, the fifth day of July.

  Richard Southwell,

  Steward to the Lady Mary

  ‘What does she want?’ he asked.

  ‘Perhaps to discover more about her sister’s role in the Boleyn affair.’

  Nicholas looked anxious. ‘Could she have learned that Edith Boleyn was at Hatfield? Remember, Parry spoke of each sister having spies.’

  ‘I don’t know. But our duty as Lady Elizabeth’s lawyers is to give nothing away. Even if Mary is heir to the throne.’ I looked at him hard.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Southwell may be there too.’ I frowned.

  I fetched the map Toby had made for our journey to Norfolk. ‘Kenninghall. It’s over twenty miles to the south. I couldn’t ride that far in one day. We’ll have to break the journey at Wymondham or Attleborough. Go and talk to the innkeeper, see which he thinks best.’

  Nicholas left, and I crossed to the window. It was market day again, the streets busy. People looked hot and tired. Why had we been summoned by Mary?

  Nicholas returned. ‘Wymondham is the best place to stop. Going on to Attleborough would be a long ride; it may be better to have the shorter ride the first day.’ I nodded agreement. ‘The innkeeper said things are a bit uncertain at Attleborough, too, the peasants still in a tickle. Wymondham is a place of goodly size with fine inns, the third largest city in Norfolk, but they have an annual play and a big fair down there this weekend. They call it the Wymondham Game. If we go soon, though, we should be able to find a place to stay. He recommends an inn called the Green Dragon.’

  ‘Very well. We’ll leave first thing tomorrow.’ I had intended going to Toby Lockswood’s farm, to see why he had not been in touch, but that would have to wait. ‘Come, let’s go to the Blue Boar and tell Barak. Then we should get a haircut and shave.’

  *

  NEXT MORNING, THURSDAY, we rose early, and went down for breakfast wearing our lawyers’ robes over our best clothes. Some merchants who had come to Norwich market from other parts had stayed overnight, and at breakfast there was much talk of peasant rebellions spreading in other parts of the country. Apparently, groups of rebels had set up camps in Essex as well as Kent; the Essex camp allegedly containing a thousand men, and all the camps were sending petitions demanding redress of unlawful enclosures and other grievances to the Protector. There were rumours of serious trouble in Oxfordshire, too. One merchant spoke of a new proclamation from the Protector warning that all rioters would suffer extreme punishment as traitors, but he angrily predicted that there would soon be another one saying all were pardoned. ‘My customer in Kent says the rebels talk of building a godly Commonwealth,’ the man concluded.

  ‘All this talk of Commonwealth will start to be read as meaning all wealth should be held in common. It’s no better than Anabaptism,’ his friend replied.

  I raised my eyebrows at Nicholas, who frowned.

  *

  THERE WAS INDEED a new proclamation promising death to rioters posted on the city gate, but beyond, the flat countryside was quiet and still. Nicholas said, ‘I wonder how many of those rumours are true. With the West Country rebels, further trouble is the last thing that’s needed. All our efforts should be focused on defeating the Scots.’

  ‘Nicholas, you and the Protector must be the last people in England not to realize that war is lost.’

  He was silent for a moment. ‘Perhaps you’re right. But rebellion in time of war is indeed treason.’

  ‘A lot of it could be hot air.’

  ‘Those merchants sounded serious.’ He paused. ‘You met the Lady Mary once, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, three years ago. She’s clever, calculating. There’s a real hardness there, too.’

  ‘She refused to accept the old king’s supremacy over the Church for years, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, both that and his divorce from her mother.’

  ‘Catherine of Aragon, wasn’t it? There were so many queens when I was growing up, I lost count.’

  ‘Yes. Mary came to accept the Royal Supremacy only after her mother and Anne Boleyn, whom she hated, were both dead. Then she conformed for ten years. But now she won’t accept the English Prayer Book.’

  ‘Does she want to go back to Rome?’

  ‘If she does, she hasn’t said. But she won’t abandon the Latin Mass. And she’s shown before how obdurate she can be. And one thing we mustn’t forget even for a moment: she hates Elizabeth.’

  *

  WE RODE SLOWLY, for I was anxious not to overstrain my back, and allowed others to overtake us. It was Thursday afternoon when we arrived at Wymondham, a market town with substantial buildings in the main street. On a stretch of meadowland to the south tents were being erected for the coming fair, and near the city centre a shallow pit was being dug. I saw a wooden structure with a stage being erected nearby. We passed the market square, where much business was being done around the undercroft of a wooden market hall. To the south I saw a large church of white stone, a tall tower at each end. One tower was a ruin, windows and roof gone, though the other seemed in good repair. Beyond we caught glimpses of that common sight in England, the half-levelled buildings of a monastery.

  ‘That must have been a big place,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘It must. Come, the inn is beyond that large chapel over there.’

  The doors of the chapel were open, and as we watched, two men dressed as knights of ancient days, with chain mail woven from yarn, went inside.

  ‘I wonder what the play is,’ I said.

  ‘The Maid’s Head innkeeper said it was originally written about Thomas Becket.’

  I looked at him in surprise. ‘The archbishop who defied his king. Talk of him has been dangerous for ten years.’

  ‘Apparently they’ve doctored the play to make it politically acceptable.’

  We reached the inn, a large building with shops set into the ground floor. A powerfully built, elderly man with a short white beard was manhandling a pig’s carcass into a butcher’s shop with the aid of a boy. We left our horses at the inn stables and went inside. We were greeted by a small, plump fellow in an apron, showing us none of the formality of the Maid’s Head innkeeper. I asked if he could accommodate us for two nights.

  ‘Yes, sirs. You’re just in time, though; hundreds will be coming soon for the play and the fair.’ He looked at me curiously. ‘Have you legal business in Wymondham?’

  ‘No, far off. We are breaking our journey. I am Serjeant Matthew Shardlake, and this is Master Overton.’

  He looked at me narrowly. ‘Serjeant? Any connection to Serjeant John Flowerdew?’

  ‘No, though I met him at the Norwich Assizes.’

  ‘Is he a friend?’ the innkeeper asked cautiously.

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘He’s been the plague of Wymondham these last ten years. He lives at Hethersett, north of here, in a fine house. I believe he’s there now, probably enclosing more of his land for sheep.’

  ‘Many landowners are doing that in these parts, I believe.’

  The innkeeper snorted. ‘He’s not content with enclosing the lands. He was the Court of Augmentations’ agent here during the dissolution. He resisted the townspeople buying the part of the abbey church the citizens had always used for their own servi
ces, and when we wrote to Lord Cromwell and he sold it to us, Flowerdew took the lead and stonework from the south aisle, saying it was part of the monks’ dormitory.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Excuse me mardlin’ on, sirs, but that man’s a thorn in our flesh.’

  ‘Strange for a rich man to go to such lengths over some lead.’

  ‘Flowerdew loves a quarrel, he’d skin a flea for its hide and tallow. Ask William Kett the butcher in the shop outside.’ He shook his head. ‘But you must be tired. I’ll get a man to show you your rooms and bring you some water to wash off the dust from the road.’

  *

  WE ATE AT THE INN, then decided to walk down to the church: the air was cooler now. It was still a splendid building, built of the same white stone as Norwich Cathedral. We could see where the monks’ half of the church had been pulled down. We went inside the townspeople’s church, not yet whitewashed though the niches that once contained saints’ images were empty. A patch-up job on the south aisle gave the otherwise beautiful structure a lopsided look.

  Nicholas shook his head. ‘Surely it would be in Flowerdew’s interests, as a local landlord, to keep the townspeople happy.’

  ‘Some people just enjoy quarrelling. You’ve worked in the law long enough to know that.’

  We walked past the monastery ruins to a little river, then turned back to the town. Although it was almost dark now, the streets were crowded, the taverns full, customers spilling out onto the pavement in the warm summer evening. As we passed one group, someone called out, ‘Leeching lawyers! Hell has gates for them who prey on the Commonwealth!’

  Ignoring them, we turned into Market Street. Another crowd stood outside a tavern. One man turned at our approach, then quickly vanished down an alley. I stopped. ‘What is it?’ Nicholas asked.

  ‘Did you see that man?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I thought I recognized him, but perhaps not.’ Yet I was sure it was the man Miles, whom I had overheard in Norwich talking to Vowell and Edward Brown. I had still said nothing of that to Nicholas. ‘Come,’ I said. ‘We must be up early tomorrow, to reach Kenninghall by two.’

  We went to bed early. I slept well, only to be woken at dawn by the sound of carts trundling into Wymondham, bringing goods for the coming fair.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  We set out for Kenninghall shortly before six. It was a long, hot ride through the countryside under the wide blue sky, more than twelve miles. We passed through Attleborough, which I remembered from our journey to Norwich. The town seemed quiet, but in the countryside beyond I saw lines of broken earth where fences had been pulled up, and the sheep were gone from the fields.

  We turned off the main road past Eccles, following a well-maintained track. The land was fenced, mostly wooded parkland though with fields and sheep pastures too. At length we came in view of an imposing, redbrick palace, fairly new like Hatfield, though considerably larger. The wide entrance had two soldiers on guard. Kenninghall. The palace that had been the old Duke of Norfolk’s until Mary bought it. As we approached, stable boys appeared from an outhouse and ran up while a steward, the letter M embossed on his robe, marched towards us with one of the soldiers.

  ‘We have come to see the Lady Mary,’ I said. ‘Serjeant Matthew Shardlake. My assistant Master Overton. We have an audience at two.’

  The man nodded. The stable boys had brought mounting blocks and we dismounted, Nicholas giving me a hand down. The steward led us inside. The interior was very different from Hatfield, richly decorated, with bright tapestries and ornate tables with vases of Venetian glass full of flowers. I caught the scent of incense from a chapel somewhere.

  ‘Did you have a good ride in this fine weather?’ the steward asked.

  ‘A little tiring. We stayed at Wymondham overnight.’

  ‘Did you pass Attleborough, where those peasant dogs threw down Green’s fences? Are they still down?’

  ‘From what we could see.’

  The steward paused before a double door with a guard outside. He knocked. A male voice answered, ‘Come in.’ The steward inclined his head at Nicholas. ‘You stay outside,’ he said, then opened the door. I entered. At the far end of a long room Sir Richard Southwell, dressed soberly in a long brown robe with furred collar, looked down at me through those half-closed eyes with his habitual haughtiness, arms clasped behind his back. Next to him was an ornate chair, three steps leading up to it, where, under a crimson canopy of state, sat the King’s heir, the Lady Mary. Two ladies-in-waiting were embroidering at the foot of the steps, heads lowered over their work. I took off my cap and bowed, not as low as I should because of my stiff back.

  ‘Rise, sir,’ the Lady Mary said in civil tones. She saw the steward still standing by the door and dismissed him with a wave of the hand. She smiled, though her dark eyes were watchful. She was thirty-three now, more than twice Elizabeth’s age. She was as I remembered, small and thin yet with an air of iron will, though there were new lines of strain around her small mouth. Her dark auburn hair was covered by a jewelled French hood, and I noticed that her magnificent dress, like the one I had seen her wearing three years before, was embroidered with pomegranates, the emblem of her mother, Catherine of Aragon.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Serjeant Shardlake. I wished to talk to you.’

  ‘How may I help you, my Lady?’

  She smiled thinly. ‘Do you remember our meeting three years ago? When you were helping Queen Catherine, God pardon her soul, search for a lost jewel?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘You are much changed. Your hair is white, and I think you have lost weight.’

  ‘I grow older, my Lady.’

  ‘The troubles of England today would age anyone, I think. Sir Richard here has just returned from a meeting of senior men of the counties with the Protector. An army is being sent against the rebels in the south-west.’

  I looked at her closely, but her expression was flat, unreadable. She looked at Southwell. ‘And now there are reports of outbreaks across the country, men setting up camps and wrecking landowners’ fences.’

  ‘A new one every day,’ Southwell agreed. So the merchants in Norwich had spoken true.

  She turned back to me. ‘You have been at the Norwich Assizes, I am told. What would you say of the mood in Norfolk?’

  ‘There seems to be discontent in the city,’ I answered cautiously. ‘I have not been out in the countryside apart from my journey here.’ I hesitated, then added, ‘I heard some merchants talking yesterday, about risings in Kent and Essex, and Oxfordshire, too.’

  ‘See, the local merchants know more than the Protector about what is happening,’ Mary said contemptuously to Southwell.

  He nodded agreement. ‘These risings are coordinated at some level, they must be. Even if it is only malcontents and runagates going from one place to the next, calling on people to join in. But my spies’ information is that Norfolk is quiet, apart from those Attleborough dogs.’

  Mary looked at me. ‘The discontent in Norwich. What is it about?’

  ‘There is anger about the rising prices, debasement of the coinage, lack of employment.’

  ‘And the religious changes, are they mentioned?’ Suddenly her gaze was steely.

  ‘Not that I have heard,’ I answered truthfully.

  So she wanted to see whether local discontent encompassed the changes in religion; though that could not be the main reason I was called.

  Southwell added, ‘Outside the south-west, the talk is all of commonwealth. A radical Protestant notion. And I think some believe John Hales’s enclosure commissions will bring the changes which those rebels want, and by setting up these camps they can dictate to him.’ He still looked at me with that cold expression; and it suddenly occurred to me that he had the wealth, status and formidable reputation to have suborned the clerk Arden over the notice of Boleyn’s pardon. But then so did John Flowerdew.

  ‘But the Prayer Book may become an issue,’ Mary said quietly. Southwell gave her a quick
, warning look, and she turned back to me. ‘Of course, all rebellion by common people against the social order is treason against my brother the King, and must be harshly punished.’

  I bowed my head in formal acknowledgement.

  She turned again to Southwell, her tone suddenly sharp. ‘As you suspected, he knows nothing. But it is always worth asking.’ She looked at me, her expression quite different now, stern and severe. ‘Serjeant Shardlake, my main purpose in calling you was to ask what my sister thinks she is about, sending you here to intervene in the case of her Boleyn relative who has been found guilty of a disgusting murder. I am told you actually went up on the scaffold and prevented the man being hanged.’ Her dark eyes were probing and hard now, her thin lips drawn tight.

  ‘The Lady Elizabeth asked only that I investigate the case. When the verdict went against Boleyn my instruction was to lay an application for a pardon, which I did. All that is quite legal,’ I said. Then I added, ‘The application was accepted by the judge, but the notice cancelling the execution did not reach the castle constable in time. That was why I intervened at the hanging. The execution would have been illegal.’

  Mary laughed harshly, and turned to Southwell. ‘You see, where a Boleyn is concerned, even the finding of a jury is not enough.’

  I glanced at Southwell, remembering that he had once himself obtained a pardon for murder, then said steadily, ‘I have done only what is permitted by law.’

  The Lady Mary smiled, sourly. ‘Certain – discussions – are taking place between myself and Protector Somerset, mainly through Sir Richard here. I will ensure that my discontent over this pardon application is made known to the Protector. Perhaps then he will deny it to please me.’ Her voice deepened. ‘Anne Boleyn brought ruin to this country and misery to my father. He turned to Jane Seymour – the Protector’s sister. Let Elizabeth remember that.’