by C. J. Sansom
‘It’s only three miles to Wymondham,’ Barak said. ‘They’ll probably have the play on today.’
‘All right,’ I said, ‘let’s find something to eat at the inn, then go on to Wymondham. Damn Flowerdew, we’ll have to ride back to Norwich in the dark. Nicholas, at least let us get these hot robes off.’
We had a surprisingly good pottage and beer at the inn, but were indeed stared at by the locals, and not in a friendly way. I heard someone mutter ‘rich furriners’. And so, after the meal, we rode on to Wymondham, though the sun was now at its zenith.
Arriving there, we left the horses at the Green Dragon stables. I was surprised how many people were about now – this festival was bigger than I had thought. We passed the area where the play was being staged but nothing was happening, although the stage had been erected and covered with curtains, and the pit we had seen being dug in front of it earlier was now surrounded by stone flags, with old beams laid over it. The common nearby was now crowded with tents, and buzzing with people. Stalls had been set up along the streets. As we walked along, I marvelled at their variety; some, like those selling clothing and blocks of salt, were substantial, with coloured awnings providing welcome shade, while elsewhere families sold vegetables, cheese, live chickens in cages and the like, from the back of farmers’ carts. Craftsmen’s stalls sold everything from farm tools to shepherds’ crooks with curved cow horns at the end. One sold children’s dolls, and I bought a cloth doll with little buttons sewn on for eyes. ‘For little Mousy,’ I said with a smile. Barak bought another for his daughter. Sarcastically, he asked the goodwife serving us whether she had a doll like a witch to buy for his wife. The woman looked scandalized, stared at his metal hand, and crossed herself. ‘Just joking,’ he said.
‘I didn’t know they had such big fairs in the country,’ Nicholas observed.
‘It’s the biggest I’ve seen,’ Barak agreed. ‘Though I’ve seen others when I’ve been on summer assizes. July’s a quiet time for farmers, apart from weeding the crops.’
I saw an old woman arguing with a stallholder who refused to accept one of the old testoon coins. ‘They had to be handed in by the end of last month,’ he told her.
‘There have been so many changes, I didn’t realize –’ she said, and began to cry.
We walked on through the crowds. I caught a tension in the air, and here and there saw people talking quietly in huddles.
A sudden thunderous bang made us jump. We looked round to where a crowd of over a hundred was now gathered around the stage. Barak and Nicholas began shoving their way towards the front, and I followed. A man in the crowd was handing out printed pamphlets. I took one. Headed, ‘A True Sermon of a Faithful Bishop’, it was another Commonwealth pamphlet: ‘. . . sheep fields and the great parks have eaten up whole villages and towns, all for the pleasure and profit of the rich . . .’
The curtains had been pulled back from the front of the stage, revealing a backcloth depicting the interior of a Roman building, copied, perhaps, from a tapestry. At the back of the stage a group of men in black robes, with long, false white beards, sat at a table counting metal discs. In the pit in front of the stage a fire had been lit, and from within came another loud bang and a cloud of yellow smoke. Barak murmured, ‘Gunpowder; I hope they know what they’re doing.’
At the front of the stage a grotesque, horned figure, clothes and face painted red and holding a pitchfork, was laughing dementedly as a man dressed as a cleric knelt before him, a woman wearing angel wings wringing her hands beside him. ‘See!’ the devil roared in a mighty voice, ‘Christ’s followers will not survive the blows of the wealthy!’ At that four men dressed as knights ran out. They pretended to thrust wooden swords through the body of the cleric, who collapsed groaning on the ground. The crowd shouted and booed. It was a representation of the murder of Thomas Becket by King Henry II, cleverly changed to a Roman setting.
There was another gunpowder bang, and, parting the backcloth curtains, a man dressed all in white, face and hair painted gold, emerged onstage to cheers from the crowd. He went over and lifted up the dead cleric. The four soldiers looked on astonished, the devil shrank away from him, and the angel-woman, who, I realized, was a boy, carried the body of the cleric behind the backcloth.
The golden man addressed the crowd: ‘I am the risen Christ, who will see all men of faith receive their reward! See, brethren, how those who rob and harry true Christians receive their due!’
He went to the men at the tables, and, upending the tables, sent the metal discs clinking and rolling across the stage, while the men grovelled on the floor to retrieve them. Then the devil forced them to rise, using his pitchfork to harry them down the steps leading from the stage towards the fiery pit, still issuing smoke. The money-changers, I thought, forced from the Temple. The devil, who was wearing strong boots, stepped onto the metal grille above the fire, which I realized represented the pit of hell. There was another bang, and a huge cloud of thick red smoke. When it dispersed, the devil and his victims had vanished. The Christ figure approached the stage:
See the money-changers tooken away!
So, brethren, should it be today!
Our guild is dissolved, our play is changed,
But still it lasts, its message never feigned!
There was a roar from the crowd. A curtain descended as people cheered and clapped.
‘Clever,’ said Barak.
‘That is very radical stuff,’ I said.
‘It’s the giant next!’ someone called out.
Looking round I saw the big white-bearded man I had seen last week outside the butcher’s shop, conversing animatedly with a little group of people. I stared, for I recognized another familiar face – not the man Miles, but the muscular form of Gawen Reynolds’s old steward, Michael Vowell, who had also been at the meeting at the Blue Boar in Norwich. His brown hair and beard were a little longer, and unkempt now, and he wore a countryman’s smock.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘Reynolds’s steward. He said he thought he might find work in Wymondham.’
Barak said, ‘Some juicy stories about that household could be useful if Reynolds is behind Isabella’s eviction.’
We stepped towards the group. They stood just outside the butcher’s shop, black pudding and pigs’ heads displayed on the counter outside. A boy was whisking away flies. The white-bearded man, almost as tall as Nicholas, saw us approaching and nodded quickly at his group, who fell silent. ‘What do you gentlemen want?’ he asked in a deep voice.
‘A word with Goodman Vowell, if we may.’
Vowell said, ‘It’s all right, I know them.’ He led us a few yards away.
‘God give you good morrow, Goodman Vowell,’ I said. ‘I remember you said you were coming to Wymondham. Did you find work?’
‘No, my contact’s household required no more servants. And there is no work in the fields.’ He frowned, looking displeased as well as surprised to see us.
‘You may have heard, Master Boleyn was found guilty, but a request for a pardon has been lodged.’
‘Has it?’ He laughed. ‘That’ll annoy Master Reynolds.’
‘Boleyn’s wife Isabella has been evicted from their home, and the twins put in by their grandfather. Illegally, by John Flowerdew.’ I hesitated. ‘Any information you can give about dark doings in the Reynolds’s household may help us. Help poor Mistress Boleyn.’
Vowell bit his lip, considering. Then he shook his head. ‘Master Shardlake, if I say too much against my old employer, it could hinder me in finding new work.’ He glanced back to where the elderly butcher and the others were watching us. He bowed. ‘I hope you enjoy the Wymondham Fair.’ And with that, he returned to his friends.
‘Well,’ Nicholas said, ‘that’s that.’
Barak looked at the lengthening shadows. ‘Time to get back to Flowerdew’s house.’
*
WE RETURNED TO HETHERSETT after five. Again Nicholas and I put on our robes, then, with Barak, rode up the aven
ue, dismounted and knocked at the door. This time John Flowerdew himself answered. It was strange to see him dressed not in robe, coif and cap but a brown doublet, half-unbuttoned to show the fine linen shirt underneath. His hair was receding from his temples, leaving a triangular widow’s peak. His thin, sour face was set in a frown; a worried frown, I thought.
‘Serjeant Shardlake. I was told you called this morning. I thought you had left Norfolk by now.’ His tone was not welcoming, but neither was it his customary sneering rasp. ‘Why do you call on a Sunday?’ His eyes widened a little at the sight of Barak’s hand.
I answered politely but firmly. ‘I come on behalf of Mistress Isabella, who, I understand, was evicted by you from her house this morning.’
He continued in the same even tone, ‘That woman is not Boleyn’s wife. She has no legal right to be there. His sons, on the other hand, do.’
I looked him in the eye. ‘They do not. Mistress Isabella was told the boys’ wardship had been granted to their grandfather, though until the pardon is approved or refused no dealings whatever can be made with Master Boleyn’s property or his heirs, apart from keeping his affairs in order. Certainly not evicting his fiancée and the estate steward, without notice, appropriating monies Master Boleyn gave to Isabella, and installing Gerald and Barnabas in his house. All that, Serjeant Flowerdew, is illegal. Mistress Boleyn, or Mistress Heath, if you prefer, was presented by you with a document purporting to authorize your actions. I would like to see it. May we come in?’ Flowerdew hesitated. I smiled, then added, ‘I am sure the Court of Common Pleas would be displeased if I told them a fellow serjeant had refused to discuss any – misunderstanding – in front of witnesses,’ I added, glancing at Barak and Nicholas.
Flowerdew hesitated still. He was caught out; clearly, he thought I had already gone back to London and he could act with impunity. What I did not understand was why he had done this. He looked over his shoulder to where his wife stood, looking anxious. Two boys in their early teens appeared from an inner room, along with a short, powerfully built man in his forties. Flowerdew bit his lower lip, then said, ‘Come in, to my office.’ He looked at Barak. ‘He can stay with the horses.’
Nicholas and I followed Flowerdew inside. I noticed that the furniture and tapestries in the house were all of the best quality. He waved a hand briefly at the onlookers. ‘My wife Alice, my sons, Edward and William, my steward Glapthorne.’ Then he led us into a well-organized office full of documents, estate maps and law books. ‘Sit down,’ he said, indicating two stools before his desk. He sat behind it, and clasped his hands together before speaking. ‘If you take this to court, it is unlikely to come on before the pardon is decided.’
‘As I said, I would like to see your authorization for the eviction.’
‘I showed it to Goodwife Heath.’
I had had enough of being patient. ‘Who, you guessed, probably could not read; but you kept it from Master Chawry, who, as a steward, could.’
Flowerdew gave a crooked smile. ‘He’s bedding her, you can see by the way he looks at her.’
‘The document, Serjeant Flowerdew. Misconduct by a serjeant-at-law is serious. You may be a man of power here, but in London I work for the Lady Elizabeth, and count the Protector’s Secretary William Cecil as a friend.’
Flowerdew began to look uncomfortable. He made a poor attempt at a friendly smile. ‘I hear you worked for Cromwell, ten years ago. So did I. I was responsible for closing Wymondham Abbey for him.’ He frowned, anger showing through. ‘You have no idea the trouble that gave me.’
‘With the monks?’
He smiled again. ‘Oh no, they fled the coop quickly enough, after what happened to the abbots of Glastonbury and Fountains. It was the damned townsmen, saying they were entitled to all sorts of property. Still, I got some lands myself out of it – and have worked for King Henry and King Edward in the county ever since in various capacities, and now, working for the escheator I have brought some good revenues to the Crown.’
And to yourself, no doubt, I thought. Flowerdew said, trying now to draw me into a friendly conversation between lawyers, ‘I find working in my home county more agreeable than in London.’
‘You never aimed to become a judge?’
He flushed, and I realized he had probably been disappointed in that ambition. ‘No,’ he answered curtly. ‘And you?’
‘I have never wanted that either. The document, sir,’ I repeated quietly.
Flowerdew set his lips, then produced a paper from his desk and handed it over. It was a notice of eviction, granting power of occupation of North Brikewell Manor to Gerald and Barnabas Boleyn on behalf of their grandfather, prospective grantee of their wardship. It was signed by Flowerdew, but there was no seal of authority.
I looked at him. ‘This document has no legal validity whatsoever.’
He shifted in his chair, his arrogance gone. ‘You know what men like Chawry are like, think they know the law better than you and me and challenge everything. It was easier this way.’
I handed the document to Nicholas. ‘This is serious,’ I said. ‘I shall keep this paper.’
Flowerdew laid his hands on the desk. He looked worried now. ‘Sir, we were only anticipating events –’
‘We?’
He hesitated. ‘Sir Richard Southwell and I. It was he who suggested this after he heard of the pardon application.’ He added in a rush, ‘You must understand, he is a powerful man, and a dangerous one.’
‘So I hear.’
Nicholas asked, ‘But why would he be interested in evicting Isabella?’
‘Perhaps he wants the estate,’ I suggested. ‘He has land on both sides.’
‘I know nothing of that,’ Flowerdew said quickly. ‘Listen, sir, tomorrow I will speak to him, tell him it is best we let the woman back in for now.’ He ran his tongue along his thin lips, clearly not relishing the prospect.
I smiled. ‘See, Brother Flowerdew, it is always good when lawyers talk.’
He gave a tight smile in return.
‘Then there is the matter of the sovereigns you took. Those were a gift from John Boleyn to his wife, as I can attest, and therefore belong to her in any event.’ I held out a hand.
Flowerdew hesitated a moment, then took a key, unlocked a drawer in his desk, and handed me a black drawstring bag. I looked inside and caught the glint of gold. ‘I shall give it back to Isabella,’ I said. ‘Would you like a receipt?’
‘That will not be necessary.’ Clearly now realizing the trouble I could make for him, his manner turned ingratiating. ‘It is late for you to ride back to Norwich. Would you have dinner with us, and stay the night? You can return tomorrow.’
I looked at Nicholas, who shook his head slightly. I did not relish the prospect of spending a night under Flowerdew’s roof, but my back had been aching more and more and the prospect of a night’s rest in a good bed was hard to resist. ‘Thank you, Serjeant Flowerdew,’ I said mildly. ‘We should be glad to.’
*
ALTHOUGH I COULD see it cost him, Flowerdew continued making efforts to be civil at a dinner of well-cooked pork, served by servants under the eye of the burly steward, Glapthorne. Flowerdew did most of the talking, and I got the impression his wife was more used to listening. The two boys struck me as ill-mannered – one put salt in the other’s wine when he was not looking – but harmless enough. I said we had visited the Wymondham fair, and been surprised by its size.
‘Oh, together with the play it’s always made a fortune for the townsmen,’ Flowerdew said bitterly. ‘They’ll be showing scenes till tomorrow morning. That play is nothing but a papist relic, though they’ve been careful to write out references to Becket.’
‘Some of its sentiments sounded quite radical,’ Nicholas said.
‘Really?’ Flowerdew’s eyes flashed. ‘I must get a copy, see if there is anything which might interest Bishop Rugge. Did you see that chapel in the centre of the city? It used to belong to the abbey, but the townspeople bought i
t. They wanted every last outbuilding, every piece of church property they could lay claim to as belonging to the parish. They wrote to Lord Cromwell himself, who granted it to them.’ His tone grew angry again. ‘The arguments I’ve had with those churls over the years. The Ketts and the like. Men who think that because they’ve come up a little in the world, butchers and tanners who’ve acquired some land, they can lead the townsfolk against the King’s officials.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Robert Kett’s still enclosed some of his land though, as I have; sheep are the only way to make money now.’
‘I saw a large white-bearded man outside a butcher’s shop. I believe that is William Kett?’
‘It is.’ His voice rose, showing his temper. ‘His brother Robert is even worse. But I’ll have them both one day, I swear it.’ He stabbed viciously at a piece of pork on his plate.
After the meal Flowerdew suggested a game of cards, but we pleaded the need for an early night. Barak, we were told, had been given a place in the servants’ quarters. I slept deeply in a comfortable feather bed, and woke late, the sun already high. Breakfast was over but a servant arranged some food for us. We saw no sign of Flowerdew. Afterwards his wife appeared, and I said we should take our leave. She readily agreed, and sent a servant to fetch Barak and our horses. She called to her husband, and Flowerdew came out from his office. I bowed to him. ‘I think it time for us to depart, sir.’
‘I trust you slept well.’ He smiled, though his dark eyes were hard as stones. I was finding his forced amiability wearing, glad to be setting off. But he said quietly, ‘Before you leave, may we have a word in my office? Alone,’ he added, glancing at Nicholas.
I nodded, hesitantly, for I did not trust Flowerdew an inch, but followed him. He stood behind his desk, laying his hands on it, took a deep breath, then looked at me. ‘Master Shardlake, I confess I made a mistake in creating that document to get Isabella Heath out of that house. But’ – he shook his head – ‘as I said, Sir Richard Southwell is not a man easily refused. Nor, frankly, is Master Gawen Reynolds. If you knew these parts better, you would understand.’