Tombland (The Shardlake series Book 7)

by C. J. Sansom

  Parry was silent, digesting this new information, rubbing a hand across his plump chin. He sighed, then said, looking me hard in the eye again, ‘I must discuss this with the Lady Elizabeth. Now. Whether any of this should be revealed.’

  ‘But surely – when he was one of those who conspired to kill her relative –’

  Parry interrupted. ‘Matthew, much is happening on the Council now. We are all but thrown out of Scotland, and after these terrible rebellions and now the war with France, there are those who say the Duke of Somerset should be removed as Protector. You can imagine the main candidate to take his place.’

  ‘The Earl of Warwick?’

  ‘Yes; but Somerset still has his supporters. I do not know how this will fall out, but I suspect trouble to come. And the Lady Elizabeth’s policy is, and must always be, to stay out of high politics.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Remember, Southwell was nominated by the late king as an alternate member of the Council, should any member die. And do not forget that after two months in the rebel camp consorting with Robert Kett, your own continued safety is largely a matter of luck, because it is the Council’s policy to forgive gentlemen who were forced to aid the rebels under threat, not just in Norfolk but all across the country. Otherwise local government would be stripped bare.’ He eyed me narrowly. ‘Though I have a suspicion your work with Kett, however you may have sought to moderate his policy, was not wholly involuntary. No, do not answer, I do not wish to hear. But if I have suspicions, so will others. Richard Rich, for example, who is currently busy executing rebel leaders in Essex.’ He frowned slightly. ‘By the way, I am told you brought a one-armed man and a woman, both commoners from what Fowberry said, back with you from Norwich – together with, of all things, a baby. Who are they?’

  ‘The man is my old employee, Barak, who, I told you in June, was working at the Norwich Assizes. The baby is the daughter of an old servant who went with her husband to live in Norwich. They were both killed during the rebellion. The woman is a wet-nurse I have employed. I intend to adopt the child.’

  ‘Killed? Rebel supporters, then, I take it.’

  ‘They were murdered,’ I said, returning Parry’s hard look.

  ‘If you are going to adopt the child, you must invent a less incriminating story for her background.’ He rose abruptly from the table. ‘I am going to tell the Lady Elizabeth about Southwell. Stay here.’

  *

  IT WAS AN HOUR before he returned. I sat there, thinking of all those I had known that summer who had died in the rebel cause, poor Simon Scambler most of all. I would have brought him back to London and found him work, young Natty, too. I thought, How could Parry, or anyone I knew in London, understand the things I had seen? But he was right, I must invent some new story about Josephine and Edward’s death.

  When he returned, Parry’s mood had softened. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘the King’s birthday present has arrived. The Lady Elizabeth is much relieved.’ He folded his hands across his broad stomach and studied me. ‘As for Southwell, she may confide the matter to William Cecil, and leave things to his judgement. She will think on it.’

  I sighed. If the matter went before Cecil, whatever he did would be a political decision. Parry added, ‘And I am to send him the depositions you brought, which should make the pardon a formality.’ He looked at me sharply again. ‘The Lady wishes to see you, Blanche Parry will come in a moment to take you. Be careful what you say, Matthew. Do not mention this proposed adoption.’

  There was a knock at the door and Mistress Parry entered. She curtsied briefly, her face expressionless. ‘Serjeant Shardlake, please come with me.’

  *

  ELIZABETH WAS AGAIN in her study, writing at her desk. Probably in anticipation of her birthday celebrations, her black clothes had been replaced by a bright red dress with sleeves slashed to show a yellow lining. She looked healthier than in June, and had gained some weight. Mistress Parry announced me and went to stand behind her mistress, but Elizabeth, without looking up, said, ‘You may go, Blanche. I wish a private converse with Serjeant Shardlake.’

  Blanche’s mouth tightened a little, but she said quietly, ‘As you wish, my Lady,’ and left the room with a swish of skirts. Elizabeth put down her quill and carefully sanded the document she had been writing; only then did she look up, smiling slightly. I bowed deeply.

  ‘A translation of Virgil, Latin to French. I ever enjoyed study.’ She indicated a chair. ‘Sit,’ she said. Her gaze was keen, questing. ‘You look thin, sir.’

  ‘I have had a – difficult time, my Lady.’

  ‘I have read your letter, and heard the story. So, John Boleyn is likely to be freed. At last.’ There was a bite in her voice at the last words.

  ‘I would think so, my Lady.’

  ‘What did you think of him?’

  I considered. ‘An ordinary country gentleman, caught in the toils of a conspiracy to gain his land.’

  Elizabeth inclined her head. ‘Did I catch a note of contempt in your voice when you called him ordinary? But then, of course, you have been consorting with rebels for two months, have you not?’ Her voice sharpened.

  ‘My Lady, I was captured by them. Yes, I helped Captain Kett, but I did all I could to ensure his judgements were based on law.’

  Her voice rose. ‘His judgements. And who was he to make himself a judge of his betters?’ Impatiently she brushed aside a strand of long auburn hair.

  I ventured to say, ‘That is all over now.’

  ‘Over! You say it is over!’ She was shouting now. ‘No, Serjeant Shardlake, it is not! You have brought me accusations against Sir Richard Southwell. I may decide those should be passed to William Cecil.’ She leaned forward, her brown eyes boring into mine. ‘I can trust him to make a decision that will not jeopardize me in any way. He may well consider it best to keep the whole thing quiet.’

  ‘Three people were murdered, my Lady,’ I dared to say. ‘Surely it is a question of justice. Justice is something we have discussed before, and I thought we agreed that all deserve it.’

  Elizabeth banged her fist on the desk, making me jump. ‘God’s blood,’ she shouted, ‘your time consorting with those rebel dogs has made you insolent, sir! You, of all people, should know that justice is often the servant of politics. It is your duty, it was always your duty, to protect me! But instead you spend half the summer in that camp of seditioners, the spittle and filth of our society! Did you ever think of the repercussions that might have for me, when you sat helping Robert Kett dole out his monstrous perversions of justice?’

  And now my own temper flared. ‘And why did they rebel, those men? Because they had no alternative after the injustices wreaked by greedy landlords and crooked royal officials!’ Realizing that I had gone too far, much too far, I added quietly, ‘And I was always careful to say and do nothing that could harm you.’

  Elizabeth’s eyes were blazing now, her normally pale face red, her hands tightened into fists. She shouted, ‘God’s blood, do you dare support those men of mischief to my face? I thought you were one of the few I could trust in the pack of wolves that surrounds me, and God knows I have paid you well these last two years!’ She stood up, face blazing, and yelled, ‘No more! You ingrate, you consorter with traitors! God’s death, get out! You are dismissed from my service! Go!’ And with that she picked up the inkpot from her desk and threw it at me. It landed on my chest, splattering my robe and face with ink. ‘Get out!’ she shrieked again. I scrambled to the door, almost tripping as I made a hasty bow, grasped the handle and ran out.

  On the other side I stood in the anteroom, breathing heavily. I rubbed my face, which succeeded only in transferring some of the ink to my hands. Thomas Parry stood there with Blanche; no doubt she had called him when the shouting began. From the other side of the closed door I heard an unexpected sound – Elizabeth weeping, a loud, desperate sound. Blanche gave me a chilling look and went in to tend to her mistress.

  To my surprise, Parry smiled. ‘The inkpot, was it
?’

  ‘Yes. I – I misspoke. Badly. She has dismissed me.’

  Parry smiled again. ‘You’re lucky it was not the paperweight. If it is only the inkpot, she will regret her words later. Wait a few months, she will recall you again. I know her.’

  I said, ‘Perhaps I may not wish to serve the Lady Elizabeth again. She did not even thank me for saving her relative.’

  Parry smiled ruefully. ‘She did not like having to apply for the pardon. It made waves, you see.’

  ‘I doubt I shall return.’

  Parry shook his head. ‘Do not be pettish, Serjeant Shardlake. After your questionable part in the rebellion, you need a powerful patron. And though she may say she no longer trusts you, I believe she does, and there are very few who command her trust. Reflect on that. Now come, let us see if we can get some of that ink off you. I have had the inkpot a few times myself, you know.’

  Chapter Eighty-five

  And so, at last, we returned to London, arriving early in the afternoon of the eighth of September. I was morose throughout the journey, still angry with the Lady Elizabeth, and brusquely dismissed questions from Nicholas and Barak about what had happened. Despite Master Parry’s help, my robe and fingers were still inky. Liz Partlett had withdrawn into herself, avoiding conversation; nervous, perhaps, as we approached London.

  There were grim sights there, too, heads and body parts spiked on poles on the gates. Rebel leaders from the lesser camps, no doubt, from Essex or Sussex or Kent, God knew where.

  We were all tired, me most of all, and my back hurt badly. As we rode down Cornhill towards Cheapside, Nicholas said to Liz, ‘We will soon be home now. Master Shardlake has a fine house in Chancery Lane, and you will meet his servants; I am sure you will like them.’

  I looked fondly at Mousy, asleep in her pannier, a thumb in her mouth. I said to Liz, ‘She will be going to the house where her mother lived. But first there is one visit I must make. It is on our way. I want to go to my friend Guy’s house; I do not even know whether that good old man is still alive.’

  And so we turned off Cheapside and rode through the narrow lanes into the apothecaries’ district. We caught glimpses of the Thames, Liz staring in awe at its size. Guy’s house was quiet. With Nicholas’s help, I dismounted and knocked at the door. There was a slow shuffle of feet and Francis Sybrant opened the door, his eyes widening at the sight of us. ‘Master Shardlake! Master Overton! Jack Barak! Oh, thank God, we did not know what had become of you, we thought you might be dead at the hands of those rebels until Jack’s letter to Tamasin arrived two days ago.’ Then he looked at Liz and Mousy with a puzzled expression, and raised his eyebrows questioningly at Barak. Liz reddened.

  I said hastily, ‘The child is Josephine’s, my old servant. I fear she and her husband are dead. This is Goodwife Partlett, her wet-nurse. Now tell me, Francis, quick, how is Dr Malton?’

  ‘A little better, but still weak.’ He sighed. ‘He sees no patients, and I doubt he will again.’

  ‘Thank God, though, he is alive.’

  ‘Thank God indeed.’ He looked back into the house, then came outside and said in a low voice, ‘Tamasin is here. She has spent much time with us over the summer. Oh, she has been so worried –’

  ‘Where is she?’ Barak asked, dismounting quickly.

  ‘In the kitchen –’

  Barak limped past us into the house. I saw the open kitchen door, and Tamasin’s face as she turned round, her expression turning to astonishment and delight. Barak took her in his arms, then closed the kitchen door.

  Nicholas helped Liz to dismount. Francis said, ‘You have been in Norfolk all this time?’

  ‘Yes, Francis.’ I smiled tiredly. ‘It is a long story.’

  ‘Come through to Dr Malton, he is in his bedroom, he spends much of his time in his chair reading now, but he can walk with his stick, sometimes he even walks up and down the street, though it tires him.’

  Nicholas and I followed Francis down the hallway. Liz stood uncertainly, and Francis suggested she and Mousy wait in the parlour.

  My old friend was, indeed, reading in his chair. His face was still pale, but he looked somewhat better than three months ago. He, too, stared, amazed, for a moment, then, with a cry, rose and embraced me. ‘Matthew, thank heaven, where have you been? I know you were injured, I corresponded with Dr Belys, but then the rebellion came and for weeks, until Jack’s letter to Tamasin arrived – nothing.’ His voice quavered.

  I got him to sit down again and told him the bare bones of what had happened to us. He listened intently, then leaned back and sighed.

  ‘We knew in London that there were risings everywhere, the whole country seemed under threat. We were told the rebels intended to overthrow the King and hold all goods in common, like the German peasant rebels twenty years ago.’

  ‘No, Guy. Most wanted only to keep their villages safe from greedy sheep farmers and officials. They trusted Somerset’s promises of reform, you see. They were waiting for the commissioners. But the commissioners never came; Somerset sent two armies instead.’

  ‘They said as well that the rebels wanted to end the English Mass, go back to Rome.’

  ‘Not in Norfolk. Elsewhere, I cannot say. There were Catholics among the rebels, but most were Protestants – and everyone stressed their support for the religious changes, playing to Somerset’s gallery. Much good it did them.’

  He sighed. ‘I know there have been many executions at Tyburn, and hear there are rebels’ heads on all the gates. It makes me glad I cannot walk far; I have never liked to see such things.’

  ‘Then it is well you were not in Norwich in the days before I left, Guy. Rebel heads everywhere. And many thousand dead at the Battle of Dussindale.’

  ‘Poor souls.’ After a moment he added quietly, ‘You sympathized with them, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, and have just had the benefit of the Lady Elizabeth’s temper for it.’

  He fell silent. ‘And how are you?’ I asked at length.

  ‘A little better.’ He smiled. ‘I think my time is not quite up yet, though I doubt I shall recover fully. It galls me that I cannot even identify what is wrong with me. I shall not practise medicine again.’

  I said, ‘That is a pity. I have Josephine’s baby with me.’ I explained what had happened to her parents, and my plans to adopt Mousy. I added diffidently, ‘Perhaps you might just look her over, to ensure everything is all right. If you feel up to it.’

  He smiled. ‘Very well, as it is Josephine’s baby. Have her nurse bring her in.’

  I sent Liz in with Mousy, then took her place in the parlour with Nicholas. He said, ‘How is Guy?’

  ‘Somewhat better, but I think perhaps he spends too much time sitting in his room.’

  He said, hesitantly, ‘It is awkward for you, with Tamasin here.’

  ‘Yes, but I think things are going well with her and Jack.’ The kitchen door was still closed. I looked at him. ‘And you, how are you?’

  He scratched his head. ‘I still cannot quite take it all in.’

  ‘Nor I. But I shall return to work. Will you come, too?’

  He smiled. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Mistress Kenzy?’

  ‘I shall let her down gently.’ He smiled sadly. ‘I do not think she will be too upset. She is not for me. I know that now.’

  I nodded, then ventured to open the door and peep out. The kitchen door was still shut, though I could hear soft voices. I wondered what Barak had told Tamasin – not the whole truth about his participation in the rebellion, I guessed, and that would be wise. But I hoped he and Tamasin now realized how much they needed each other. I closed the door quietly again.

  A few moments later, Francis called me back to Guy. Nicholas accompanied me. Guy was holding Mousy gently in his frail hands. I was touched when she reached out to me and smiled. Guy said, ‘This is a fine, healthy child, and I give the credit to your wet-nurse. Perhaps she should be promoted to full nurse.’

  ‘Yes,’
I said. ‘I think she should.’ I smiled at Liz, who said quietly, ‘Thank you, sir.’

  There were footsteps in the hall. I turned. Barak and Tamasin stood in the doorway, hand in hand. Tamasin had new lines on her pretty face, but looked happy. At the sight of Liz and Mousy, her face softened. Under her coif Tamasin’s blonde hair was just the colour of Mousy’s. Tamasin said, ‘So this is poor Josephine’s child. How lovely she is.’ She went over and stroked Mousy’s head.

  Guy ventured, ‘And in good health, thanks to Master Shardlake’s rescue of her and the care of Goodwife Partlett here.’

  Tamasin turned to me. For the first time in three years, she addressed me civilly. ‘Jack says you are going to adopt her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘We have some of George’s and Matty’s old baby clothes, I will send them on to you. Jack has told me how all of you were captured by the rebels and made to work for them. He says he owes much to you.’ Behind her back, Barak winked at me. I felt guilty, for if he had not accompanied me to Wymondham that day he would not have been taken. And yet, I realized, given his mood when the uprising happened, he would almost certainly have joined the rebels anyway.

  ‘Tamasin,’ I said gently, ‘I have always understood why you did not wish to speak to me, after I was responsible for Jack losing his hand. But if you could forgive me, if we could be friends again, I should be the happiest man in London.’

  She looked at me directly with her cornflower-blue eyes. ‘I do.’ She swallowed. ‘It is when you fear you might have lost people that you realize how much they mean to you.’ And then she came forward and embraced me. I saw the happiness on Guy’s face.

  Liz, who naturally did not understand any of this, said quietly, ‘Well, if you will excuse me, it is time for Mousy’s feed.’

  Chapter Eighty-six

  The silver tableware glinted in the light of the beeswax candles set in their sconces on the table. A fine dinner was again in progress at my friend Philip Coleswyn’s house, a seasonal platter of grouse in the centre, and fresh fruit and vegetables, the best of the poor harvest. Unlike my last dinner there, in June, the shutters were closed against the night, and a fire blazed in the grate. It was late October, a month and a half since our return from Norwich.