Tombland (The Shardlake series Book 7)

by C. J. Sansom

  I sat up as a shadow fell over me. The boy Natty had emerged from the river and stood above me, drying himself with his shirt, his strong, heavy body stark naked. Quite unembarrassed, he said, ‘You not goin’ in, marster?’

  ‘Not today.’

  He said, ‘You remember the man I told you of, from the Sandlings?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I spoke to him. He can tell you something important. I’ve asked him to come to our huts tonight. He’s a bit afraid, but he will. He says it was a wicked thing.’

  ‘Thank you, Natty. I am very grateful.’

  He studied me, rubbing his broad shoulders dry. ‘You care then, for the death of a poor ’prentice?’

  ‘Yes. And that of his master, and a woman, who I think were murdered by the same people.’

  He said quietly, ‘Ay, I see you do.’ He found the rest of his clothes, dressed, and walked away up the steep hill. The young lad’s belief in me moved me strangely.

  *

  THAT NIGHT I FELT clammy, and found it hard to sleep. When we rose at dawn, I saw the sky was milky white, not blue, and the air, hotter than ever, was sticky. We breakfasted with the Swardeston villagers as usual – about fifteen of us. Then the men went off to hear Conyers’s sermon before starting their day’s labour in the woods, digging cesspits, or building huts. A messenger had come round the previous night with the packs from my horse, and I pulled out my robe and put it on. Immediately, there were catcalls from those gathered round the cooking fire: ‘He’s a-gettin’ his lawyer’s robe on, hands to yer purses.’ The humour was good-natured, though, and no one mocked me for a hunchback; after several days my camp-mates had realized I was harmless.

  ‘I go to help Captain Kett at the Oak of Reformation,’ I said with a smile.

  ‘We heard,’ one of the men said. I thought, Was there nothing that did not quickly circulate in Kett’s camp?

  ‘Will any of you be coming?’ I asked.

  Goodwife Everneke nodded to a thick-set middle-aged man. ‘One or two. Master Dickon there, he goes tomorrow to plead the cause of our village. Our landlord’s been brought in by force.’

  ‘A good ding o’ the pate’s what he needs,’ someone said, to approving murmurs.

  ‘I’m only there to advise on the legalities,’ I said. I looked at Natty. ‘Are you coming?’

  ‘I have no landlord, I will be going with Goodman Johnson to archery practice.’

  ‘Ay, we start today,’ the old man said.

  I turned to Barak and Nicholas. ‘Jack, come along,’ I said quietly. ‘Nicholas, I think it politic you stay here.’

  He nodded and looked down. I wondered whether he was ashamed now of yesterday’s performance. Barak and I set off. ‘See those rogues are well punished!’ someone called after us.

  *

  WE WALKED TO St Michael’s Chapel. On our way I picked up a pamphlet lying on the ground. It was headed: ‘When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman?’

  At the chapel, guards in breastplates and carrying halberds let us in.

  ‘God give you good morrow, Captain Kett,’ I said. He did not look in such good spirits today – the heavy brows under the short grey hair were frowning.

  ‘Good morrow,’ he answered curtly. ‘Though it could be better. Our assault on Yarmouth has failed, the city people repelled my men. But we shall attack again,’ he added fiercely, ‘with trained men this time. Training, that is what Captain Miles says we need now.’

  ‘Have the warrants to requisition goods gone around the countryside?’ I asked.

  ‘They have.’ He waved an arm at the desks. ‘More are being written. And now we labour to produce our demands, to send to the Protector. We must hurry, the camps at Thetford and Ipswich have already sent theirs.’ He frowned, fixing me with those large, penetrating brown eyes. ‘So, the trials. You are the only qualified lawyer I have left who will assist me. There is young Overton, but I understand he called me traitor in the market square yesterday.’

  I sighed. ‘Everything gets back to you, Captain Kett.’

  ‘And so it should.’ He raised his voice angrily. ‘I need informers. Do you not think the city and the landlords have spies in this camp?’

  ‘Nicholas – he just lost his temper. An old man was being attacked.’

  Kett frowned. ‘Gawen Reynolds, one of the worst men in Norwich, and firm against us.’

  ‘Nicholas is sorry for his words.’

  Kett answered fiercely, and I quailed a little at the forcefulness in him. ‘He called me traitor. We are not traitors’ – he banged a heavy fist on the desk, causing everyone to look up from their writing – ‘this is the King’s camp and we serve the Protector in his desire for reform!’

  I spoke humbly. ‘I entreat you not to imprison Nicholas again, he is but a lad with a loose tongue and an over-strong attachment to his gentleman status – all the more because he has no lands or money; he was disinherited over a matter of the heart.’

  ‘Anyone else who behaved like that would be in Norwich Castle. We’re moving some of the prisoners there.’ He lowered his voice again. ‘But one of my advisers in the town spoke up for him. Someone I trust, Edward Brown.’

  ‘His wife said he was visiting the camp.’

  ‘His assessment of Overton is the same as yours. He says the boy has been kind to him and his wife.’

  ‘’Tis true.’

  Kett took a deep breath, and gave me a hard look. ‘Very well, Master Shardlake, he remains free for now, but he stays quiet in his hut. Any more outbursts and I must lock him up again, or I will be seen by the men as dispensing favours to those who work with me. Is that clear?’

  ‘It is, Captain Kett, and I thank you.’

  He grunted, then turned to his desk, and gave me a list of names. ‘Those to be tried at the Oak of Reformation today. There will be others later.’ I looked at the list. There were fourteen, three I recognized; Leonard Witherington and Gerald and Barnabas Boleyn. Kett said to me, quietly now, ‘At the trials there will be calls for violence from some, not surprisingly, given their sufferings. But they have been told their complaints must be presented in an orderly way, and recorded – that is important – to be shown to the commissioners. The men of the camp will decide whether they are to be set free or imprisoned. So, justice will be done.’

  ‘The accused will have a chance to speak?’

  ‘Of course. Everyone does in this camp.’

  ‘What of the jury?’

  ‘Those assembled will decide.’

  ‘No jury of twelve men?’

  Kett said, coldly and clearly, ‘To satisfy the men’s anger we must involve everyone. And move quickly. Come, Master Shardlake, you were at Boleyn’s criminal trial and I have seen others – it is all over in minutes, and men are hanged for the theft of a pig. There will be no hangings here, though there may be a beating or two, so be content with that. Just make sure nobody strays too far from specific accusations.’

  ‘I will. But may I ask, what will happen to the men who are imprisoned?’

  ‘They will be handed over to the commissioners, or the Protector’s representatives, when our demands are met. Now let us go. They will be gathering at the Oak.’

  *

  WE WALKED A QUARTER of a mile eastwards, well into the body of the camp. Caps were doffed and cheers sounded as Kett passed, and he raised his cap in return. We passed a flat area of heath where mounds of turf were being set up as archery butts; a hundred yards off some dozens of young men, mostly strongly built, waited with bows, quivers filled with arrows over their shoulders. Natty was among them.

  We halted where a crowd of several hundred was already gathered round a huge oak, alone among the stumps of trees cut down around it. The few women stood close to their menfolk.

  The tree was a magnificent specimen, at over sixty feet high one of the largest I had seen, hundreds of years old. The lower branches had been lopped off and a wooden stage thirty feet across erected in front of it, seven
feet above ground so all could see. A wooden canopy above the stage provided shelter from the sun. It was a fine piece of carpentry. On the front of the canopy the arms of England had been painted, and the letters E VI R, to stress the camp’s loyalty to the King. At the front of the crowd I saw Toby Lockswood, standing with his arms folded, a grim expression on his face.

  To one side stood a sorry-looking group of men, dressed either in dirty shirts or the tattered rags of former finery, their legs chained. They were guarded by a dozen men in half-armour, among whom I recognized John Miles, wearing a helmet with feathers attached as a sign of command. Above his fair beard, his sharp, keen eyes watched the crowd, and I guessed part of his job was to deal with any trouble that might arise. I was surprised to see Michael Vowell standing next to him, making notes on a piece of paper. Evidently, his literacy had led him to rise in the camp hierarchy.

  I studied the gentlemen; some had bruised faces; many stared about them wild-eyed. Among them was Leonard Witherington of Brikewell. He still wore the same dirty shirt in which I had seen him dragged from Brikewell, and an old pair of upper hose. His jowls hung pendulously, and there was a look of fear on his mottled face. Then I saw the twins, Gerald and Barnabas. They stared back at me with their cold blue eyes. Their shirts and hose were torn and tattered, and both had bruised faces, Barnabas’s white scar even more prominent. Each now had a scraggy boy’s moustache and beard. Yet they looked totally unintimidated. One of the camp-men carried a rope in his hand, a noose at one end, and he waved it jocularly at the prisoners on the end of a home-made spear, until Miles gestured angrily to him to desist. I noticed many near the front of the crowd carried home-made weapons.

  On top of the stage was a wide desk; to my surprise I saw stout little Mayor Codd sitting behind it, and the elderly Alderman Aldrich, both looking anxious. William Kett, whose face was set in a grim smile, sat next to them. He rose to greet his brother. Well, I thought, it is come.

  *

  ROBERT KETT MOUNTED the stage. He indicated that Barak and I should take seats behind the desk, then stepped up to address the crowd. Once again I was to be amazed by the power and fluency of his speech.

  ‘We are here to do justice against those landlords who have oppressed their tenants, and to set free those innocent of wrongdoing. These trials will be conducted on the principles of English law, based on evidence, which Serjeant Shardlake here, a lawyer but a good man, will advise me on while his assistant Jack Barak ensures notes are taken for presentation to the King’s authorities at a later date. Those found innocent will be set free, those found guilty returned to imprisonment. The city authorities have been invited to join us in seeing justice done.’ Kett paused, then added grimly, ‘There have also been some of our men who have taken goods and money from the manor houses and kept hold of them, instead of giving them to the representatives of their Hundreds to be held for the common purse. Tomorrow, we shall deal with those, for every man here is subject to justice under law.’ A few in the crowd ceased smiling, and I thought it was a clever move to say that now, to show that all were subject to justice. Kett sat down beside me, and banged a gavel on the desk. ‘Now, the first accused, Sir William Jermstone.’

  A middle-aged man, stout from good feeding, was led, his chains clanking, by a soldier to stand before the stage; like his fellows he wore hose and a dirty shirt, but his look was defiant. ‘Who accuses this man?’ Kett asked.

  ‘I do!’ A man in his thirties stepped forward. ‘Richard Sherman, husbandman of Pullan! I accuse Sir William of passing on feudal charges to his tenants, charges which are due from him personally to the King, and of taking common land!’ Others of Sir William’s tenants stepped forward, shouting ‘Ay’. Everything that he had allegedly done was in breach of the law. Jermstone was asked what he had to say in his defence, but he only blustered loudly that he did not accept trial by an assembly of rude and common people.

  By now the crowd was becoming worked up, and there were cries of ‘Kill the old swag-belly! Hang him from the Oak!’

  William Kett rose and stepped to the front of the stage. ‘Shut your clack-boxes!’ he roared. ‘My brother told you, there will be no hangings! Let the Lord Protector hang those who deserve it! This is a fine display before Mayor Codd!’

  ‘Hang him, too!’ someone called out.

  Robert Kett pointed at the man. ‘Do you want to be locked up too, yag-mouth?’ he shouted. He raised his voice to his loudest pitch. ‘You appointed me your leader, and I promised justice, not violence!’ The man he had identified looked abashed. Kett added, ‘Sir William Jermstone is to be committed to prison, his ill-doings recorded.’ The soldier led him away. ‘Second accused,’ Kett said. ‘Robert le Grand of West Flegg.’

  I was impressed with Kett’s restraint in dealing with Jermstone, who had so insulted the assembly. The second trial proceeded much as the first, with similar accusations, and only once did I lean aside to murmur in Kett’s ear when le Grand was accused of defaming someone’s dead father. Kett spoke up: ‘Matters of defamation cannot be raised if the person is dead!’

  Again, when the evidence was done, there were cries to hang the wretched prisoner, although he had taken a different tack and admitted to what he had done in a humble voice; he was shaking. Kett let the crowd shout a little before ordering le Grand to be returned to prison. I noticed that those who shouted tended to be the younger men and the most poorly dressed. It was the tenants and craftsmen, with at least a little property to protect, who were quieter. I understood why those who had nothing to lose had cause to be fiercest, but if this descended into a bloodbath, it would be the end of the camp. With Kett in charge, though, I was sure it would not.

  Fortunately, the third accused turned out to be something of a model landlord whom several of his tenants asked to be freed. Kett ordered this done; the man looked around him a moment, astonished, then turned and ran off in the direction of the road to Norwich.

  The trials proceeded, Kett needing only a few words of advice from me when an accuser went off the point or brought unprovable allegations. A few landowners were released but most were returned to imprisonment, always to cheers from the crowd; sometimes boys would turn round and bare their buttocks.

  Eventually, Leonard Witherington was led stumbling to the Oak. He trembled as he stood facing us. ‘Who accuses this man?’ Kett asked.

  Two men stepped forward, both of whom I recognized from my visit to Brikewell – the yeoman Harris, a grey doublet over his shirt, and Melville, the young man who had been fiercest against Witherington. Harris spoke first, reciting the familiar litany of commons encroached upon, rents raised illegally and the passing on of feudal dues. Harris said the feodary’s agent himself had come to Witherington to tell the tenants they must pay – John Flowerdew. At mention of his name there was a rumble among the crowd, and someone called out to Witherington, ‘How much did you pay him?’

  Kett said, ‘Well, did you bribe him?’

  Witherington shifted uneasily. ‘I gave him a sovereign.’

  ‘Note that down, Jack Barak,’ Kett said. There were more curses against Flowerdew; he had done well to escape from Hethersett last week.

  Young Goodman Melville stepped forward. ‘I also accuse Leonard Witherington of spoiling our crops by allowing birds from his great duffus to eat them, so we had no choice but to kill them.’ He pointed a finger at me. ‘The lawyer who sits there saw it with his own eyes!’

  I turned to Kett, and whispered, ‘He’s right. I was visiting Witherington over the Boleyn case. But, Captain Kett, keeping doves is not illegal.’

  ‘What’s he saying?’ Melville called out. ‘He was there, he saw it!’ There was more angry murmuring. Neither Codd nor Aldrich had done more than take notes, but now Aldrich leaned in to Kett and said, ‘You must answer him, they are getting stirred up.’

  Kett was ready for this. He stood and said, ‘Master Shardlake was indeed at Brikewell, but he advises me the keeping of great numbers of doves is not illegal.�
�� There were shouts of protest. ‘Nonetheless’ – he raised his voice – ‘it should be made illegal, and it will be! I intend it to be one of the demands to the King and Protector which the Hundred representatives are even now preparing. This injustice will be righted!’ The shouts turned to cheers. Harris spoke up again. ‘There is more against Witherington. Back in the spring his steward recruited us and made us occupy part of his neighbour John Boleyn’s land. He told us Witherington had a right to it, and would give part to us as common land. Otherwise we would lose much of our own.’

  Aldrich spoke up. ‘So you and your neighbours took part in a forceful occupation of his land?’

  Melville shouted, ‘We’d no fucking choice.’

  Yeoman Harris stepped forward. ‘That is true, and we hoped to occupy the land peacefully. But someone told Boleyn and a group of young savages came at us, recruited by the Boleyn twins from Sir Richard Southwell’s gentlemen thugs. They beat us, and Gerald Boleyn struck a boy from our village on the head so badly he has lost his wits.’ He gestured to the crowd, and a man brought forward young Ralph, the boy I had seen at Brikewell. From his looks the man was Ralph’s father. Ralph stared vacantly at the Oak, mouth open and dribbling, clearly with no idea where he was. Gently, his father pushed his head down so the scarred bald patch was visible. Men nearby leaned forward to look and a woman stepped forward and shouted, ‘For shame, for shame!’

  Witherington turned to address Kett, wringing his hands. ‘It was not me who did this; it was Gerald Boleyn, acting for his father, John. The attack was led by his steward, Chawry.’ I thought, So Chawry was there, then I saw that Witherington was pointing a shaking finger at me. ‘And Serjeant Shardlake is Boleyn’s lawyer.’