by C. J. Sansom
‘What does he mean?’ Barak asked.
‘Mayor Codd has been taken prisoner to Surrey Place!’
‘Surely they won’t execute him –’
‘Of course not,’ Edward answered impatiently. ‘He’ll likely be tried at the Oak. That fellow’s just a totty-head – it’s a joke going round.’
We turned left towards the castle. As we did so I saw a familiar figure, a large pack on his back, approaching. Peter Bone, brother of Edith Boleyn’s late maid. His nut-brown hair and beard had been cut short like that of most camp-men, and his thin, handsome face wore a tired expression. I had never seen him walking before and I saw now that he did so with some difficulty, taking slow steps. Seeing me he halted, and I think would have turned away, but Edward hailed him. ‘Peter! So you have come down into town.’
‘I have. My poor feet made me unfit to fight.’ He nodded to me. ‘Master Shardlake.’
‘What have you there?’ Edward asked.
‘My belongings,’ he answered grimly. ‘When I left my house the landlord kept my things, so this afternoon I went there with some friends and got them back.’ He laughed. ‘By God, things have changed now. The landlord huddled himself up in a corner, begging us not to kill him. We just gave him a good loud yagging, then I took all my clothes, shoes, and some family possessions. I hear the town centre is a bit wild, so I’m taking the long way round to Bishopsgate.’ He hesitated. ‘I am sorry if I have been uncivil, Master Shardlake. Only – when you first came to see me it brought back memories of my poor dead sisters.’ Tears pricked the corners of his eyes.
‘I am sorry,’ I said.
He nodded, and hitched the pack on his back. ‘Well, I walk slow, I must keep a-doin’ if I’m to get back to the camp. Fare ye well.’
‘And you,’ Edward said. ‘What was that about?’ he asked me as Peter trudged away.
‘When I came here last month, to help John Boleyn in the murder case, I asked Peter Bone about his sister who worked for Edith. I did not know both his sisters had died in the spring.’
‘Ay, and without them his business failed. And years of working the treadle have given him problems with his feet, walking far pains him. But he is one who has found a new spirit of hope in the camp. And, like me, as a city man he has local knowledge which will help us with what may come. He is a decent man, honest and hard-working.’
‘What may come – you mean a force sent by the government?’
‘It’s possible, though I believe negotiation just as likely now, as I told Josephine.’ He sighed. ‘Well, whatever happens, we must face it.’
‘Yes. After hearing that proclamation I can do no other than support Captain Kett.’
‘He took his time in deciding, though,’ Barak said. But he was smiling as he looked at me.
We passed a prosperous-looking house, and could hear prayers said in cultivated voices through an open window. ‘Lord, deliver us from the forces of evil and darkness, from murderers and men of war . . .’ Edward smiled wryly. ‘The rich are pissing themselves.’ I thought, but did not say, they are frightened, like Josephine. To change the subject, I asked, ‘What do you think of Captain Miles? He seems a good soldier, but things today could have been better ordered.’
‘He and the other ex-soldiers he has appointed as officers are able, but we lack weapons, which is why we are taking all we can find from the city. And training –’
‘Yes. Sometimes it is easy to forget the camp has only been in existence ten days.’
‘Miles and Captain Kett have plans for more training. To make sure everyone who is fit learns military discipline. And to involve the city poor, in case there is street fighting next time.’ He looked at me. ‘Captain Kett is no fool. He believed, perhaps too much, in the support of the Protector, but he had an alternative plan ready.’
‘Some men may be hard to discipline. Michael Vowell, for example, do you know him?’
‘He can be rowdy and seems to like the company of the more radical, younger people. But, like Peter Bone and me, he has excellent knowledge of the city. He is a useful man.’
I hesitated, then asked, ‘Do you know Toby Lockswood well?’
He looked at me. ‘The one who accused young Nicholas?’
‘Falsely. Lockswood worked with us on the Boleyn case and used his local knowledge industriously. I did all I could to accommodate him when his family fell ill; I thought he respected me, and he and Jack got on well.’
‘My mistake,’ Barak said darkly.
‘He and Nicholas, though, were always arguing over social matters and detested each other. But – to do this to Nicholas, it is simply vicious.’
‘Maybe Nicholas really did say what Lockswood reported.’
‘Never! I was nearby, and can swear there were no angry words between them. Nicholas told me the accusation was false and – yes, he has too high an estimation of his gentleman status, but the one thing Nicholas has never been, ever, is a liar.’
Edward looked at me closely. ‘Toby Lockswood is becoming an important man in the camp. He works tirelessly, he is literate, and his local knowledge is unsurpassed. Yes, he seems a hard and angry man. But he has just lost both parents, so perhaps it is no surprise.’
‘That is no reason to take it out on Nicholas,’ Barak countered.
‘Yet the lad did say bad things about the camp-men before.’
‘I know, but not since.’
‘Yet Toby Lockswood has witnesses.’
‘I was there, and I saw none. Witnesses can be perjured. As a lawyer I know that better than anyone. You have influence, Edward, I ask you to think on what I have said.’
Edward pursed his lips, considering my plea. We walked on in silence for a few minutes. Then I said, ‘I understand what the camp-men hope to get out of this, reform of the abuses in the countryside. But what will Norwich gain?’
He smiled. ‘Same as the country folk, teach the great ones of the city a lesson they will never forget. You know they started a poor rate at the beginning of the year, but a tiny amount? Well, I’m sure we will see that increased, for a start. And we have other grievances, about wages for example, which they will be afraid to resist now. And remember those demands Kett sent to London were drawn up before the city became really involved. Others can be sent. Do you not think the townspeople suffer as much from the rise in prices and lack of work as the country folk? And look at how we were charged money to use the Town Close. Well, we have brought down the fences.’
‘Yes. Remember, like you I have seen what conditions are in London, and in Norwich they seem worse.’
We had reached the foot of the Castle Mound. Already I was tired, it had been one of the most tumultuous days in my life. I took a deep breath as we began the long ascent to the huge, square building, standing stark against the cloudless blue sky.
Chapter Fifty-seven
Outside the castle I noticed the soldiers who had stood guard previously had been replaced by men from the camp, wearing the steel breastplates and round sallet helmets that served as military uniform there. The cannon which had stood outside the entrance had gone, tracks along the castle mound showing where they had been dragged down to the river. Now they were in the hands of the camp, to help resist any further attack.
Edward approached one of the guards. ‘I have a pass from Captain Kett,’ he said. ‘This is Lawyer Shardlake from the camp and his assistant. He wishes to visit two of the prisoners. Nicholas Overton and John Boleyn.’
At the sight of the pass the man looked at him with respect. He consulted a list. ‘They both be here.’
‘Where are the castle soldiers?’ Barak asked.
‘Most fled after losing against us at Bishopsgate. Our men are in charge now. The mayor and senior aldermen are taken to Surrey Place, but some servants of the city authorities who fought against us are being held here.’
I asked, ‘What about Constable Fordhill?’
‘Captain Kett’s made an arrangement with him. He’ll stay in charg
e, but under his orders. We’re keeping on the gaolers.’
I said, ‘May I talk to the constable?’ The guard looked at Edward, who nodded.
‘You’ve gained much respect for a Lunnoner,’ Barak said to him as we walked under the castle barbican.
‘I’ve done a lot to help the camp.’ Edward laughed. ‘Who’d have thought that three years ago I was just steward to old Lawyer Henning?’
‘Talent will out,’ I said.
‘If people get a chance, but precious few do. The camp has given me one.’
I looked at him seriously. ‘It has. But do consider Josephine.’
He shook his head. ‘I worry about her all the time. I wish I could get her and Mousy to the camp. But she won’t go.’
We entered the castle. The afternoon sun was fading, and the great cavernous hall was dim, but I saw more people than before, gaolers supplemented by men with spears and halberds from the camp. Edward spoke to one of the men from the camp, and we were led up to Constable Fordhill’s quarters. I remembered the previous occasion I had visited him, before the rebellion. His little son had been playing in the hallway then.
Fordhill was in his office. He exuded the same air of authority, his grey hair and beard were neatly trimmed, but he could not quite hide his anxiety. Edward bowed briefly and showed him the pass from Captain Kett. Fordhill looked at me wryly. ‘So you ended up at the camp, Serjeant Shardlake?’
‘I am assisting at the trials at the Oak of Reformation, ensuring legal rules are observed. This is my assistant, Jack Barak.’
‘I imagine you are doing the same as me – trying to ensure some order and justice. I think the London authorities have forgotten me, I have had no orders from them so I have placed myself under the authority of Captain Kett – where, as is my duty’ – he glanced at Edward – ‘I try to see the prisoners are held securely and not mistreated.’
Edward answered, ‘That is what we want too, Constable.’
Fordhill nodded in acknowledgement. ‘So, Serjeant Shardlake, I imagine you have come to see John Boleyn.’ He gave me a sharp look. ‘Was anything ever discovered about how that stay of execution was mislaid?’
‘No. But I think someone paid for it to be lost.’
His face became serious. ‘I imagine you have come because of the attempt to poison him?’
I stared at him, taken aback. ‘What?’
Fordhill looked surprised in his turn. ‘You did not know?’
‘No. I came only to visit him – and also my assistant Nicholas Overton, who was held here, too. What in God’s name happened?’
Fordhill sat back heavily in his chair. ‘Boleyn is safe, but the man who ate the chicken delivered to him last night is dead. There is some shortage of space here now, and we put one of the senior city constables who fought against the camp to share his cell. A bullying fellow, according to Boleyn; when his food was delivered he took it from him and set about the chicken. There must have been some powerful poison in it; within two hours he was emptying his guts all over the floor, within three he was dead. His body has gone to the coroner.’
‘So it was intended for Boleyn.’
‘No doubt of that. Like all the parcels his wife has sent to him it was wrapped in cloth, tied with string, with a label attached in his steward Chawry’s handwriting.’
‘Could the parcel have been interfered with at the castle?’
‘It was well tied, as most food parcels are lest the guards take their pickings.’ He leaned forward. ‘Boleyn denies his wife or steward could have intended him harm, and certainly Mistress Isabella has been the most conscientious of visitors. But whether any accusations are laid now rests with the coroner and, I suppose, the camp authorities.’
‘Can I see him?’
‘Yes, but I warn you he is much shaken.’
I took a deep breath. ‘And Nicholas Overton? Where is he?’
‘In a cell with some other gentlemen. Conditions there are less – comfortable – than Boleyn’s new cell, but then’ – he raised his eyebrows – ‘young Master Overton has no application pending for a royal pardon.’
I looked at Edward. ‘May Barak and I speak to Boleyn alone?’
He considered, but shook his head. ‘A man has died from poisoning. I think I should be present, and this should be reported to whatever authorities Captain Kett establishes for Norwich.’
Fordhill stood, went to the door, and called in a loud military bark, ‘Parker! Visitors for John Boleyn! Escort them at once!’ Footsteps hurried towards us. Fordhill still had some authority – for now.
*
JOHN BOLEYN was still in the well-appointed cell to which he had been moved after the trial. It stank to high heaven, though, with shit and vomit all over the floor, the remains of a chicken and other foodstuffs in a corner. Boleyn sat behind his desk, head in his hands. He looked up as we were shown in. He looked pale and drained of energy, and had a large purple bruise on his cheek, but there was fury in his eyes.
‘Matthew.’ His tone was cold. ‘So, you are still with those rebel clowns? I’m told they’ve taken Norwich now, many unfortunate gentlemen are being brought in as prisoners.’ He gestured at Edward Brown. ‘Who is this?’
‘The man who got me in to see you,’ I answered sharply.
‘And I think it best you keep a civil tongue in your head,’ Edward added.
Boleyn sighed and shook his head. ‘You will have heard what happened yesterday?’
‘Yes.’ I looked at the stinking mess on the floor. ‘Has nobody been to clear this up?’
Boleyn laughed bitterly. ‘What do you think this is, the Maid’s Head? They’ll come when they feel like it.’
‘What happened?’ I asked.
He said in softer tones, ‘Isabella is still at the inn, God bless her, and she brings me a parcel of food each day. Well tied and labelled in Chawry’s hand, for she cannot write. It arrived as usual yesterday afternoon, but by then I had a fellow-prisoner, a constable. He was captured but took his fists to the camp-men, and ended up here.’ His voice rose angrily. ‘He was nothing more than a thug, and when my parcel arrived he grabbed it. I fought the swine, big as he was. He gave me this.’ He touched his bruised cheek. Then he laughed bitterly. ‘He tore open the parcel and started tearing at the chicken, telling me I could suck on the bones. But within half an hour he was screaming at the pain in his guts, then he spilled out that lot –’ he inclined his head to the mess on the floor – ‘and by the time I got a guard to come by shouting and knocking, he was dead. Whatever was in that chicken, it was powerful. And meant for me.’
‘Did the parcel look as though it might have been interfered with?’
‘I didn’t get the chance to look at it, it was being stolen in front of my fucking eyes!’ Boleyn shouted, reminding me of his temper. ‘But it must have been – you’re not suggesting that my wife or Chawry, the most loyal servant I ever had, did this, are you?’
I raised my hands. ‘I am only trying to discover how this happened.’
‘Then look to those who would like to see me dead. My neighbour, Witherington, who tried to steal my land. I hear he has been a prisoner some time, but who knows what he could have arranged through bribes and intermediaries. Or those damned sons of mine and their friends, if they are still in Norwich.’
‘They are,’ Barak said. ‘They were seen fighting against Captain Kett’s forces this morning.’
I added, ‘And there is reason to believe one of their friends, John Atkinson, was involved in the murder of the locksmith’s apprentice.’
‘They wanted to see me hang,’ Boleyn said, savagely. ‘I will see them hang if they did this.’
I said, ‘I will ask Constable Fordhill to arrange for your food parcels to be checked by someone in authority.’ I turned to Edward. ‘Will you support me in that?’
He shrugged. ‘Why do you care so much about this man? He’s just another landowner who thinks us brutes. I don’t like his insults.’
‘He is
my client. Please, as a favour to me, and in the interests of justice.’
Edward sighed. ‘All right, though it’s not as though I haven’t enough to do.’
Boleyn said angrily, ‘Fordhill can’t stop someone coming in and murdering me in my bed. It’s chaos out there, didn’t you see?’
‘I have an idea there,’ I said. ‘John, I will leave you now, but will return soon. Edward, could you take me to visit Nicholas? Please?’
As Edward knocked on the cell door for the guard, Boleyn said pleadingly, ‘Will you visit Isabella, see if she is all right?’
‘Of course.’
*
NICHOLAS WAS IN a basement cell, similar to the one John Boleyn had first occupied. The gaoler, whom I recognized from my first days visiting the castle, gave us a nasty smile as he turned the key in the lock. ‘Hold your breath,’ he said, ‘it stinks. We haven’t had time to clear the pisspots.’
He led us into a damp, smelly chamber. A guard from the camp with a club at his waist and holding a sharp-looking half-pike stood by the door, a cold look on his face. All round the walls gentlemen sat in torn finery. A few, who, I guessed, had just been brought in from the city, were talking quietly but angrily in a corner, calling the rebels the refuse of the people, ruffellers and seditioners. Others were silent, staring into space or trying to sleep, and I guessed they had been here longer. I looked for Nicholas and saw him, sitting against the wall with his hands on his knees. A fat middle-aged man leaned against him. He was very pale, his breathing laboured. To my surprise I recognized Leonard Witherington, Boleyn’s feuding neighbour.
Nicholas looked up at us with surprise. ‘Master Shardlake, Jack, Edward.’ His voice was croaky, his hair and beard unkempt, his green eyes sunken.
‘How long have I been here?’ he asked. ‘I lose track of time – I think I’ve been here a week.’