Tombland (The Shardlake series Book 7)

by C. J. Sansom

  As we trudged up the Castle Mound, my pace slowed, and I realized how tired I was, physically but mentally, too. My life this last month had been a whirl such as I had never known. And for most of the time I had been little more than an onlooker. I glanced at Michael Vowell. He had been at the heart of all that had happened, culminating in the battle, but his face had settled into its usual calm expression, showing nothing of what he had been through. But he was many years younger than I, and full of commitment to the cause. He looked up at the grey sky. ‘We’d best keep a-doin’, it looks like more rain.’

  *

  THE INTERIOR OF the gaol was even more crowded than before, and the space, huge as it was, had the prison smell of unwashed bodies, badly cooked food, and fear. A small group of gentlemen were being led upstairs. One said furiously, ‘I’m a former mayor of Norwich!’

  ‘Don’t get it yet, do you?’ the man leading them said wearily.

  Vowell secured us a gaoler to take us to Boleyn’s cell. To my relief, he and Nicholas both seemed well enough, and were playing chess at the table. They looked up at me in surprise. I introduced Vowell as an official of the camp, and Boleyn gave him a steely look. Then he turned to me and smiled. ‘Isabella is coming to stay with me from tomorrow. God bless her stout heart. Chawry is going back to look after Brikewell.’

  ‘Yes, so I understand.’ He obviously suspected nothing of what had happened, though I guessed that Vowell, who raised his eyebrows slightly, did.

  ‘What of me?’ Nicholas asked ruefully. ‘Will I go back to the other cells, or the ones under the Guildhall? I hear they are bad.’

  I felt a pang of conscience. I had left him here, his future uncertain, for two weeks. ‘No, Nicholas, I have managed to take care of that at last. You are returning with us to the camp. You are to have a public trial at the Oak tomorrow. But truth is on your side, you are a lawyer, and I have every hope you will be freed.’

  Nicholas looked at Vowell. ‘If there is justice at these trials, I shall be.’

  To my surprise, Vowell said, ‘I’ve sometimes thought Toby Lockswood’s gone a bit funny in the head. He’s always so ferocious against the gentlemen, never stops – people get tired of it.’

  ‘He lost both his parents just before the rebellion,’ I said. ‘And the family farm.’

  Vowell inclined his head. ‘Well, that would unsettle anyone.’ He looked at Nicholas, ‘Boy, you must give an oath to Master Shardlake to stay with him, and not try to escape before your trial.’

  Nicholas looked me in the eye. ‘I swear it.’

  Boleyn asked, ‘What will happen to the Norwich gentlemen taken prisoner? Are they to have trials before that Oak of yours, too?’

  ‘That remains to be decided,’ Vowell said, his voice suddenly authoritative. ‘You and your wife should sit safely here, and ask no questions.’

  ‘It’s a long time since I dared ask anything,’ Boleyn said, with an edge to his voice and a savage glance at Vowell that reminded me again he had a temper.

  Quickly changing the subject, Nicholas said, ‘We saw Northampton’s defeat from the window. We couldn’t see the fighting in Palace Plain, but late in the afternoon we saw Northampton’s forces running away, past the castle and through the gates.’ His brow clouded. ‘I never thought I’d see anything like it, a royal army, men trained to fight honourably to the last, pushing to get through the gates, shoving aside some of the richer citizens who were trying to get out – old people, women, children, many dressed only in their under-clothes, their fine dress thrown aside to try to hide their status.’ He shook his head. ‘It is not what I was brought up to believe warfare should be.’

  Boleyn said, ‘I thought I saw the twins among those fleeing, but I couldn’t be certain. My devilish sons,’ he added with a sigh. He rose and embraced Nicholas. ‘Thank you, lad, for your company and friendship.’

  ‘And may you get your pardon.’

  ‘So I pray,’ Boleyn said. He looked at me. ‘Matthew, have you discovered any more about who killed Edith?’

  ‘It is hard to make enquiries in the present circumstances. But I will not give up.’

  Boleyn embraced me too, though pointedly he ignored Vowell. We left him sitting on his bed, his face thoughtful.

  *

  AS WE WALKED DOWN the hill, I told Nicholas the news from the camp: first, that old Hector Johnson was dead.

  ‘I am sorry, he was a good man.’

  ‘And a brave soldier. He died honourably.’ I went on to tell him that Barak, Scambler and Natty were all safe, though Natty’s arm wound was giving him some trouble. ‘I spoke to Dr Belys, but he was little help. He is no friend to the rebellion. But if Natty fails to improve, I may contact him again, try to appeal to his better nature.’

  Vowell raised his eyebrows. ‘Special treatment for one you have befriended?’

  I sighed, too tired to argue. Nicholas shook his head again. ‘I cannot believe a royal army could flee so dishonourably.’

  ‘Against a pack of commoners?’ Vowell asked. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘No,’ Nicholas answered seriously. ‘The camp-men had greater numbers, but were not fully trained. Northampton’s army were the trained soldiers.’ He added quietly, ‘I wonder if our armies’ defeats in Scotland were like that.’

  I asked Vowell, ‘What will happen to these new captives? Is Boleyn right, will they go for trial at the Oak?’

  ‘Captain Kett and his advisers have yet to decide. The mood in the camp after the battle – there may be demands for executions, they’re probably safer locked up.’ He looked at me. ‘I know you think me a dangerous radical, Master Shardlake, but I do not want them killed. Captain Kett was much angered by what was done to that Italian.’ It had started to rain. Vowell looked up at the sky. ‘We’d best get back quick as we can, or we’ll get drouched again.’

  I thought, If that was the mood in the camp, then how would Nicholas fare on Tuesday?

  Chapter Sixty-seven

  The atmosphere in camp that evening remained euphoric after the victory over Northampton’s army, and, after the afternoon drizzle petered out, there was much drinking around the campfires, with music and singing. I remember one song I heard over and again; a jesting letter which a rebel had left at a manor house set to music:

  Mr Pratt, your sheep are very fat,

  And we thank you for that;

  We have left you the skins

  To pay for your wife’s pins,

  And you must thank us for that.

  Some groups of huts though, were quiet, not joining the celebrations, and I guessed people there had lost friends or relatives in the battle. It struck me, too, that there was something forced about the cheerfulness, and I heard the occasional fight erupt; for all their bravery, many who had had their first experience in battle would be in shock.

  On returning from Norwich, Michael Vowell had said Nicholas must remain in our hut, so he and I and Barak – reunited at last – stayed there that evening. I told Barak what had passed between Isabella and Chawry. He looked serious. ‘That’s a surprise.’

  ‘This has been brewing a long time. Up to now he certainly kept himself under control, but to try and rape her – Daniel Chawry is not the man I thought.’

  Nicholas said, ‘And if Isabella Boleyn had not been of such strong character, and prepared to fight, he would have done it. And to go to the castle and arrange things by herself – what a woman,’ he added admiringly.

  ‘I thought you liked them quiet and courtly, like that Beatrice Kenzy.’ Barak spoke jestingly, but from the sadness in his eyes I guessed he was thinking of Tamasin. He had heard nothing yet in reply to his letter.

  I said, ‘This makes Chawry a more likely candidate for Boleyn’s poisoner, and maybe Edith’s killer. His feelings towards Isabella have been there for years. I do not think she realized the depths of his – passion. I think he might have attacked her today had not Michael Vowell intervened. It puzzles me that she should have let him go free so readily.’ />
  ‘She wants to be rid of him,’ Nicholas suggested.

  Barak nodded. ‘Most men told they had no chance would surely have given up long ago, perhaps gone away. There’s something wrong with Chawry.’

  I said, ‘And if I remember correctly, he had no alibi for the night Edith was killed.’

  Nicholas said, ‘And yet I remember how upset he was when we visited the site of Edith’s death.’

  ‘Guilt, perhaps,’ Barak observed.

  I answered, ‘But if he did kill Edith, and was responsible for the theft of the key and the killings of Snockstobe and his apprentice, he must have had accomplices. By God, I wish we could have detained him. Why did she let him go free? Though I doubt Vowell would have agreed to take him to the camp. Kett’s people are not interested in the case.’

  ‘They’ve bigger concerns,’ Barak said.

  Nicholas asked me, ‘Do you think Chawry will return to Brikewell?’

  ‘I doubt it. Isabella isn’t going to tell John Boleyn what happened, at least for now. But she will, I am sure, so he has probably fled. In which case we’ve lost him.’

  I looked out at the campfires and horn-lamps dotting the dark heath. A song carried on the night air:

  When Adam delved and Eve span,

  Who was then the gentleman –

  *

  AT BREAKFAST THE next day, Goodwife Everneke said that a preliminary expedition of a hundred men was to be sent to Yarmouth, to see if the city could be persuaded to join us – otherwise it might be attacked with a large force. Religious services went on as usual under the Oak and elsewhere in the camp, and for a moment I considered taking Communion again, but I had slept badly; with three of us the hut was crowded again. It was hard to get my back comfortable, and I could not get what Chawry had done out of my mind.

  I went to visit Josephine – she was alone with Mousy, Edward being once more in Norwich, and in a low mood. I stayed with her a while and played with Mousy, then went to see Natty and Simon. Natty said his arm was better; I looked at it and was pleased to see there was less redness now around the wound. Simon, still affected by the battle and the news of Hector Johnson’s death, sat in a corner of the hut, singing quietly to himself, arms round his knees, rocking to and fro. Both were still shocked after the battle, and after a little while I left them.

  *

  THEN I DISCUSSED Nicholas’s forthcoming trial with him. ‘I won’t be able to take any part,’ I said. ‘I have an interest.’

  Nicholas looked at me, his green eyes sharp. ‘I had much time to think while I was in the gaol. I have thought of a strategy.’

  I smiled. ‘I’m sorry, I forget you are experienced in court proceedings now. But remember, this will be different, the jury will be camp-men and they may be hostile.’

  ‘I think I can win,’ he said. He looked at Barak, who smiled and nodded. ‘I’ve been making some enquiries about the so-called witnesses,’ he said, and winked.

  ‘Good. I—’ I felt suddenly faint, and leaned forward with a groan. Nicholas grasped me. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked urgently.

  ‘I – I think so. There is so much on my mind, for a second my head spun. The air in here –’

  ‘Yes, it stinks.’

  ‘It’s more than that,’ Barak said. ‘He’s taken the troubles of the whole world on his shoulders again. John and Isabella Boleyn, you, Simon and Natty, Josephine, everybody.’

  I said quietly, ‘Perhaps you’re right. And I worry what will become of the rebellion.’ I put a hand to my brow. ‘I am not myself – things go through my mind and I cannot catch hold of them. Something that happened at the puppet show, and something too that Michael Vowell said yesterday that struck me – but I have forgotten.’ I pounded my brow with my fist.

  ‘That’s right,’ Barak said wearily. ‘Punish yourself.’

  *

  THERE WAS A CROWD of several hundred at the Oak of Reformation, talking about the small force that had left for Yarmouth. That day Robert Kett himself was presiding over the trials, and I watched as he mounted the platform and stood a moment looking over the crowd, gauging the mood of the people after the battle. Despite the troubles of the last few days, his air of authority was as strong as ever, and he was greeted by loud cheers. Nicholas’s was to be the first case to be heard, and I stood with him and Barak a little way from the platform. We had discussed our strategy earlier, and I thought it could work – if Nicholas got a fair hearing. Toby Lockswood stood at the front of the crowd, arms folded, his black-bearded face fierce. He looked at us, this man who had once worked with us so closely, with savage contempt.

  Kett called out, ‘First, we have the case of Nicholas Overton, accused of defaming the camp.’ There were a few catcalls and boos, and Kett shouted for silence. He went on, ‘Afterwards, there will be trials of those who took property from Norwich households without authority, which is simple looting, and there is also another man who has allegedly stolen property from his fellow camp-men. This thieving angers me, which is why I am presiding today. To succeed we must work together like brothers!’

  Someone called out, ‘What of the Norwich gentlemen who helped Northampton kill our men? My cousin died! Why have they not been brought here?’

  ‘Ay!’ another agreed. ‘They should be hanged!’ There were murmurs of agreement from many, and Toby Lockswood nodded vigorously.

  Kett stepped to the edge of the platform, hands on hips, his expression fierce. ‘The leaders of the Hundreds and I are considering what is to be done with those gentlemen. For now they are secure in custody. I shall place the issue before you to decide, but not today!’ His voice rose. ‘Today we take Yarmouth!’ There were cheers at that. Kett looked at the man beside him who served as an usher. ‘The Overton case. Have the parties and witnesses been sworn?’

  ‘They have, Captain.’

  Kett nodded. ‘Nicholas Overton, come before the platform. Toby Lockswood, you are the accuser. Speak.’

  I took a deep breath, and looked at Barak. His left hand was supporting his artificial one, his fingers crossed.

  Chapter Sixty-eight

  Toby opened confidently, ‘My evidence, Captain Kett, is simple. On the eighteenth of July, I was at the crest of the escarpment the day that crooked lawyer, Robert Wharton, was taken down to Norwich. Overton, whom I knew as a great enemy of the Commonwealth, said, at the top of the road going down to Norwich, that Robert Wharton should be freed, Captain Kett imprisoned, and the camp is a commonwealth of rogues.’

  There were angry murmurs from the crowd. Kett called for silence, and turned to Nicholas. ‘What say you?’

  Nicholas faced the hostile crowd directly. I admired his courage. ‘I never said any of those words. When we worked together, Toby Lockswood formed a fierce dislike of me, and this is his revenge.’

  Kett intervened sharply, ‘The issue here is not whether you and Lockswood disliked each other, but whether you used the words you are accused of.’

  ‘Again, I swear I did not.’

  Toby bowed briefly, then said, ‘May I bring forward my witnesses?’ Kett nodded, and I exchanged a glance with Barak. He winked; while Nicholas was imprisoned he had been making his own enquiries around the camp.

  The first witness, who had been standing nearby, was an elderly peddler, Goodman Hodge. He often visited the camp with his donkey, and, like many peddlers, was a source of information and gossip about events beyond Norwich. He stepped forward and looked at Kett, then Nicholas, a little uneasily. Then he said, ‘I was standing near the accused when he used those words. I heard him clear.’

  Nicholas asked, civilly, ‘Goodman Hodge, you say you heard me say what Goodman Lockswood reported.’

  Hodge glanced at Kett. His demeanour was shifty now, which Kett could not fail to notice. ‘Yes,’ Hodge answered. ‘As wicked words as ever I heard.’

  ‘You remember what was happening in the camp that day?’

  ‘Yes. That man, Wharton, was being led down the hill. There was great ang
er towards him. You and Toby Lockswood were standing at the top of the road. I remember it well.’

  ‘Where were you, when you heard the words?’

  ‘Under a tree, for the shade – it was a powerful hot day.’

  Nicholas said, still in a pleasant tone, ‘As is common knowledge, nearly all the trees on the escarpment have been cut down, to provide wood and give a clear view of Norwich. There is only one large one left. I have sheltered under it myself.’

  ‘Yes,’ Hodge agreed.

  ‘The distance between the tree and the path to Norwich is at least a hundred feet. I will be happy to measure it out before Captain Kett. At that distance you could not possibly hear anything I said to Toby Lockswood.’

  ‘You were shouting!’

  Nicholas laughed. ‘To hear me from that distance, amid the commotion that was going on, I should have had to have used a trumpet!’

  Some in the crowd laughed; they liked humour.

  Hodge made no reply. Nicholas waited a minute, then asked for the witness to be dismissed. Hodge gratefully disappeared into the crowd. Toby glared at us.

  Wallace, the second witness, was very different, a large, solid middle-aged man. He took a confident stance, arms folded, and in answer to a question from Toby said he had been standing near them and heard the words Nicholas was reported as saying. Nicholas then asked, ‘What exactly did you hear?’

  ‘What you said, gemmun, at the crest of the hill as Wharton was being led down. I was not ten feet away. You said, clear as day, that Robert Wharton should be freed, Captain Kett imprisoned, and that we are a commonwealth of rogues!’

  There were boos from the crowd. Nicholas turned to Kett, and asked quietly, ‘May I ask, Captain Kett, that Goodman Wallace remain where he is while I call my witnesses, Edward Bishop and Thomas Smith, of Tunstead?’