Tombland (The Shardlake series Book 7)

by C. J. Sansom

  Barak addressed the crowd, several of whom had drawn knives. ‘Come on, lads, many of you know me, and Master Shardlake is working with Captain Kett. Nicholas here said nothing of that sort.’ He looked at Toby. ‘Lockswood worked with us before the rebellion, he has a grudge against Nicholas, and has said bad things about him before, in front of Captain Kett. Let him decide this.’

  Toby pointed at Nicholas and shouted, ‘That young gentleman is against us!’

  I stepped forward. ‘Did anyone else hear these alleged words? Did they?’

  The crowd looked between us, uncertain who to believe. At length an older man stepped forward. ‘Let the boy be taken to Surrey Place till Captain Kett is free to deal with this. The lawyer is right, justice must be seen to be done.’

  Two men stepped forward and seized Nicholas by the arms. I looked at Lockswood grimly, then said to Nicholas, ‘We’ll work this out. Do not fear.’

  He was led away, Toby watching with a cold smile.

  *

  BARAK AND I waited outside St Michael’s Chapel, but Kett was still out in the camp, directing the clearing up. Evening drew on, time for the religious service by Conyers at the Oak of Reformation, and Barak and I decided to go; Kett often attended evening service.

  We found an unusual scene. Kett was not present, but there was a large crowd, mostly filthy after a hard day’s work. They had been rewarded with several barrels of small beer which had been set out on a table, and some were already a little drunk. Conyers stood by the stage in his white surplice and stole, arguing with another cleric, a stocky man in his forties with a fierce, determined aspect and obstinate chin. I heard him say, ‘’Tis not the time, Master Parker.’

  Barak said quietly, ‘I’ve seen him before; years ago, when I first worked for Lord Cromwell. Matthew Parker, Anne Boleyn’s chaplain; he’s one of the leading Protestants now.’

  ‘What’s he doing here?’

  ‘He’s a Norwich man, if I remember right.’

  A man in the crowd shouted out, ‘Begone, Master Parker, we know the camp in Cambridge is put down and you played your part!’

  ‘Go to Kenninghall and try your arts on the Lady Mary!’

  There was a flurry of laughter, although some looked uneasy at this mocking of a senior Protestant preacher. Parker, with an angry gesture, turned and walked away. Someone called, ‘Come, Master Conyers, preach to us! You know God’s word and our Lord’s promises better than him!’

  Barak said, ‘Come on, let’s get back to St Michael’s Chapel.’

  *

  WHEN WE ARRIVED, the guard told us Kett and his brother were inside, dining after a hard day. I was unsure whether to interrupt, but thought of Nicholas being led away, and went inside with Barak. Several men were poring over makeshift maps of the camp, marking areas damaged by flooding. Kett, his wife and his brother William were eating at their table at the head of the chapel. Kett’s face was red with anger, as fierce as I had ever seen him. ‘First some try to seize Wharton, then they insult Parker! If things go on like this, we’ll lose control!’

  ‘It’s not so bad as that,’ Alice said. ‘The flood was a shock to everyone.’

  William snorted. ‘Put a few of the malcontents in Norwich Castle, that’ll give them something to think about!’

  Robert banged his fist on the table. ‘No, it’ll just make the men angrier!’

  ‘I don’t think this is the time,’ Barak said quietly. But Kett had seen me. He – the man who I was beginning to consider a friend – glowered at me. ‘Master Shardlake! I hear more bad news about that wretched boy Overton!’

  I spoke quietly. ‘From Toby Lockswood? Captain, remember, he spoke out of malice against Nicholas before. You reprimanded him.’

  Kett was in a fierce mood. ‘And you remember Master Overton has spoken out before against what we are doing, and is only free at your request. Now I hear he says I should be locked up and that the camp is a commonwealth of rogues!’

  ‘Sir, I was present when Nicholas and Toby spoke privily. It was as Wharton was being led to Norwich. I did not hear their words, but they spoke quietly. Nicholas denies he spoke as Lockswood said. This is a matter of revenge.’

  William Kett looked at me. ‘Lockswood said two other men heard the words.’

  ‘Then they are liars whom he has suborned,’ I replied, angry myself now.

  William turned to Robert. ‘See, now he calls the camp-men liars!’

  Robert took a deep breath to calm himself. ‘Lockswood has witnesses to Overton’s words. I have ordered the boy is to be taken to Norwich Castle, and there he will stay till I order otherwise.’ He looked at me with those fierce, strong eyes. ‘And you, Master Shardlake, watch your step.’

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Barak and I slept little that night, only two of us now in the turf-roofed hut: Scambler was sharing a neighbouring hut with young Natty. When we returned to the Swardeston camp after our disastrous meeting with Kett, Simon asked where Nicholas was. I told him, for the news would soon be around the camp. He looked downcast, for he liked Nicholas. The others gave us curious looks.

  Discussing what had happened at St Michael’s, Barak and I agreed we must wait till Kett was in a better humour and appeal to his sense of justice, asking that Toby and his two alleged witnesses be brought before him to repeat the allegations in front of Nicholas.

  ‘Kett may want a hearing at the Oak,’ Barak said. ‘And Nick hasn’t made himself popular.’

  ‘Yes. We must play this carefully.’

  ‘Damn that Toby Lockswood,’ Barak said savagely. ‘It was just petty revenge. I’d like to beat the bastard to a pulp.’

  ‘Don’t you get in trouble too.’ I hesitated. ‘I see you’re keeping sober.’

  He looked me in the eye. ‘I’ve found a worthwhile cause. After working at those Assizes, Jesus knows I needed it.’

  I went outside for a wash. During the storm the camp-men had laid out barrels and bowls wherever they could and there was a full pail of rainwater outside the hut. For the first time everyone had fresh water. The sun had set, and I looked out over the darkened camp; cooking fires burned, dots of red on the dark heath. A bat, a flittermouse, as they called it here, flew soundlessly past. I walked a little way towards the escarpment; larger fires burned around the guard posts, and in the distance pinpoints of light were visible from Norwich. I thought, Tomorrow, the nineteenth of July, we shall have been on Mousehold Heath a week.

  *

  THE NEXT MORNING, Barak was sent to work cataloguing the large delivery of wood brought in to reinforce the cattle and horses’ paddocks. Under Kett and the governors everything was rigorously accounted for. Simon Scambler went to help with the horses. I had a message that there were again to be no trials today, with much work still to be done after the storm. Left alone, I decided to seek out Michael Vowell and ask what he knew of relations between the Reynolds and Southwell families.

  I went to the Oak of Reformation, which had become the main gathering point for the camp. I was almost there when, to my astonishment, I saw Reverend Matthew Parker, his surplice stained with earth, face red with anger, limping towards the road back to Norwich together with another cleric and a couple of attendants. I stared at him, and he glowered at me; with my stained shirt, white beard and hair and broad cap, no doubt he took me for an elderly camp-man.

  Arriving at the Oak, I found a concourse of men, some hundreds strong. Apart from a few who looked disapproving, they were in merry mood. I saw the stocky figure of Michael Vowell among them, joking with some of the younger men. He was dressed in a leather jerkin and cap, sunburned now. I approached him. ‘What has happened?’ I asked. ‘I saw Reverend Parker just now. He did not look happy.’

  This brought further laughter from the young men. Vowell smiled. ‘Parker came when Reverend Conyers was giving the morning service, and insisted on taking his place. He stood on the stage and went on at us for having a few drinks last night. Then, damn his cheek, he told us to abandon the
camp and trust in the King’s emissaries. Wherever they might fucking be,’ he added.

  Reynolds’s former steward was very different now from the rather serious figure I had first met in Norwich. He seemed to have chosen younger men to associate with, the natural radicals within the camp. But, like them, he now had, for the first time, liberty to express his true feelings openly. One of his young friends said, ‘Time was we had to bow and tremble to the preachers. Not now! Some of our men went under the stage and pricked Parker’s feet with spears.’

  There were fresh guffaws of laughter. ‘You should’ve seen him dance! That put an end to his squitty talk!’

  ‘We dinged clods of earth at him!’

  ‘No wonder he looked frampled when you saw him!’

  Vowell said, a little regretfully, ‘But then Reverend Conyers led this choir of children he had brought from Norwich in singing the Te Deum in English; that quieted everybody and gave Parker the chance to run.’

  ‘I noticed he was limping.’ I could not forbear a smile, for the story had a humorous aspect and no damage had been done.

  One of the men with Vowell looked at me curiously. ‘Ain’t you the lawyer that’s been advising Captain Kett at the trials?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Can tell you’re a lawyer by those inky, womanish fingers,’ he said. ‘How d’you come to be here?’

  ‘That’s a long story.’

  Several looked at me suspiciously, and I saw that some were among those who had called for hangings at the trials. I said, humbly, ‘May I speak privily for a moment with Master Vowell?’

  Someone laughed. ‘Listen to that! A lawyer asking permission like we were equals!’

  ‘We are, now,’ another said forcefully.

  I looked at him. This was radical talk indeed. Vowell took my arm and led me away a few feet, still smiling a little. ‘What is it?’

  ‘A question that has been going through my mind about Edith Boleyn’s murder, and those that followed.’

  He looked at me sharply. ‘Do you think there’s a connection to those damn twins escaping?’

  ‘No. My question was, I know the twins worked with some of Sir Richard Southwell’s men. I wondered whether their grandfather and Southwell were associated at all.’

  To my surprise, Vowell laughed. ‘No, Master Shardlake, you’re on the wrong track there. Reynolds and Southwell hate each other. They are both quarrelsome and vicious men. Ten years ago, they had a big argument over the purchase of a house in Norwich. I heard the shouting and threats when Southwell came to visit my master.’ He laughed again. ‘If you think some of the language in the camp is ripe, you should have heard those two.’

  ‘Who won the argument?’

  ‘Southwell, of course. He had the most power and money, even then. But Gawen Reynolds never forgot or forgave; he never does. He was furious when the twins took up with Southwell’s band of gentlemen rogues, but’ – he shrugged – ‘not even their grandfather can prevent Gerald and Barnabas doing what they want. He had to swallow it.’

  ‘I see. I have been thinking too about the twins’ grandmother. How did you find her to deal with, when you were steward?’

  ‘Jane Reynolds was afraid of her own shadow. I sometimes wondered if she was in her right mind.’ He looked at me sharply. ‘Maybe her daughter inherited that.’

  ‘She said in court, “Edith, Edith, God save you, I wanted a boy.”’

  He spoke dismissively. ‘Mistress Jane often said things that made no sense.’ Then with sudden intensity, he said, ‘Master Shardlake, I want to forget that family. I have different concerns now. I want to build a new and fairer England.’

  I nodded. ‘I notice you seem to mix with the younger men, the more radical element.’

  ‘Yes. Those who have nothing, and should have their fair share.’

  ‘Yes, they should. But young men are excitable, and we do not want bloodshed.’

  He smiled bitterly. ‘So Matthew Parker said. I think you are a good man, Master Shardlake, but you remind me that you are, like him, a man of the gentleman class.’

  *

  EARLY THAT EVENING, after work, there were entertainments in the camp, in the wide natural amphitheatre Goodwife Everneke had spoken of, beyond St Michael’s Chapel. Barak and I went to watch. We arrived to see a stage occupied by jugglers, tossing coloured balls to and fro with astonishing skill. Afterwards a tightrope walker crossed a rope between two trees, balancing himself with a long pole held in his arms. The crowd stood silent, fearful of seeing him fall, but he made it and descended the opposite tree to loud cheers and claps. Pennies were thrown to him.

  A cockfight followed, which I did not wish to see, and I persuaded Barak to walk a little. I asked, ‘Did you notice a change in the attitude of the villagers towards us at dinner? They did not invite us to come here with their party.’

  ‘The news about Nicholas is out. People asked me about it, but I said there was a mistake. Perhaps we could sound out Kett again tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes. Ask the guards at St Michael’s Chapel first if he’s in a better mood.’

  Barak answered, a little sharply, ‘Kett is anxious that nothing has been heard from the commissioners. And he has huge responsibilities. You can’t expect him to make Nicholas a priority.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Look, there’s young Natty, with Sooty Scambler.’

  ‘Don’t call him that! His name is Simon. Perhaps now he is among people from the villages that nickname can be forgotten.’

  We approached the two boys. They were an oddly assorted pair; the quiet, powerfully built Natty and the thin, forever gesturing Simon.

  ‘God give you both good evening,’ I said.

  ‘And you,’ Natty answered cheerfully.

  ‘How is your friend young Stephen Walker?’

  ‘Diddlin’ along well enough. He’s with some other villagers from the Sandlings.’

  ‘Did you not feel like joining them?’

  Natty shook his head. ‘He has family there. I like the Swardeston camp. They’re happy to take in waifs and strays, eh, Simon?’ He clapped Scambler lightly on the arm.

  Scambler nodded. ‘Ay, waifs and strays though we be, we are not treated like grubs any more.’ He smiled at me, tremulously, as though unsure of his new happiness. It struck me that these two boys, abandoned by their country, were perhaps not such unlikely friends after all.

  ‘There’s a puppet show about to begin,’ Simon said to Natty. ‘Shall we watch?’

  ‘Ay, I’ve never seen such a thing.’

  ‘The puppeteers are Norwich men,’ Simon said excitedly. ‘I saw them once before. They’re wonderful.’ He clapped his hands and turned to us. ‘Will you come?’

  ‘Yes. So long as the cockfighting is over.’

  Barak said, ‘He doesn’t like the sight of blood.’

  ‘No,’ I agreed emphatically. ‘I do not.’

  *

  WE MADE OUR WAY back to the Oak, where a large, brightly coloured stage had been erected, a curtain before it. The large crowd was noisily good-humoured, passing flagons of beer around. It was small beer, weak, and I heard someone complain that Captain Kett should allow more strong beer.

  The curtains parted, to reveal a scene representing the interior of a wealthy house, with beautifully constructed miniature tables and chairs and even a buffet displaying tiny plates and flagons. Two puppets, held by puppeteers kneeling below behind a cloth, shuffled onto the stage. Their clothes were those of a rich lady and gentleman, and their painted faces were both severe. There were cheerful boos from the crowd.

  The lady said in a haughty, scratching voice, ‘The rents from our land no longer keep me in fine dresses. What is to be done, Husband? I can afford no fine hood to cover my tresses.’

  Her husband answered in a deep, ogre-like voice, ‘Fear not, good wife, I have a plan. I’ll turn my land to sheep, evict each and every man!’

  The woman clapped. The play continued with the introdu
ction of a villainous steward, who suggested they conspire with a lawyer to say the tenants’ leases were ended. The lawyer then appeared, a dark-haired man in black robe and cap.

  Simon began hopping with excitement as the play continued. It introduced a yeoman farmer with his own land, obviously intended to represent Robert Kett, accompanied by a group of tenants, who said they would take over the land. A fight followed in the house, with much knockabout humour as the puppet figures beat each other with sticks. People shouted, even the phlegmatic Natty calling on the tenants to ‘Culp the landlords proper!’

  In the end the tenants won the fight and took the furniture from the house. The landowners and their lawyer, much buffeted about, were left alone on stage.

  Clever as the performance was, I became a little tired with the stock characters and turned to ask Natty what people were saying about Nicholas. He looked at me seriously. ‘Most villagers have been suspicious of him, he’s known to have said things against the camp, but Goody Everneke says there’s no harm in him, it’s just that being here he’s like a fish out of water.’ He smiled. ‘And what she says counts.’

  ‘He has said stupid things in the past, but not this time. He was betrayed by Toby Lockswood, who worked with us before the rebellion, and who hates him.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Natty’s honest face registered surprise.

  ‘I would swear it.’

  ‘So would I,’ added Barak.

  Natty raised his eyebrows. ‘Toby Lockswood is become a powerful figure here. He is one of those who can read and write, and has thought much on the Commonwealth. But Captain Kett will find the truth of it.’

  ‘I hope so.’ I turned back to the puppet play, which was almost at an end. Left alone in their empty house, the landowner and his wife argued about what they would do. The man said, ‘Wife, the days of your fine clothes are over. You must sell them all, dress like the wife of a poor drover.’ The wife shrieked, and then the puppeteer did an amazing thing. He upended the puppet, pulling her clothes over her head to reveal that underneath was another set, woven to represent poor, torn rags. But the biggest surprise was that under her dress was a second head, exactly the same, so that in an instant the fine lady was transformed into a ragged woman. The crowd roared and cheered. Something stirred at the back of my mind, some thought I could not quite formulate connected to the Boleyn case. But then I was distracted by Simon nudging me hard in the ribs again with a bony elbow. ‘Master Shardlake, how did they do that? It was wonderful, wonderful!’