‘My friend discovered that the retired lawyer, Henning, and his wife both died of smallpox last year. The executors sold his house and put the servants out. My friend got in touch with their old steward, who is living little better than a beggar now, but he was able to tell me about Goodman Brown and his wife. They had kept in touch until a few months ago.’
Nicholas shook his head. ‘You mean the servants were left with nothing? That’s hard.’
‘Happens more often than you’d think,’ Toby replied.
Barak said, ‘Good work.’
Toby gave him a careful look. ‘I believe you are also acting as eyes and ears for the judges, weighing up the public mood in Norwich.’
I said, ‘Jack did similar work for Lord Cromwell for many years.’
‘Cromwell.’ Toby looked, impressed. ‘They say he would have been a friend to the poor, had Parliament or the old king let him.’
‘Very true,’ Barak agreed.
‘But that is not so of the judges,’ Toby said, his blue eyes still keenly on Barak’s face.
‘I’m just here to see what the general mood is. The judges have to report back to Lord Chancellor Rich and the Protector after the Assizes.’
‘And what would you say the mood is?’
‘Very discontented.’ Barak smiled enigmatically. ‘It’s been the same all along the circuit, but especially here. I’ve never come across anything like it.’
WE RODE OUT shortly after. My back was much better and I hoped the five-mile ride would be bearable. To avoid the marketplace, we rode out of St Benedict’s Gate to the west of the city before joining the road south. Early as it was, the road was busy with people bringing goods to market, ranging from carters with loads of butter and cheese to peddlers with huge packs on their backs. There were also several gentlemen and lawyers riding in for the start of the Assizes, now only three days away, each with a small retinue of servants. Two elderly lawyers in black robes, surrounded by mounted servants, rode up to where a group of teenage lads heading for town were strung out across the road, talking loudly and cheerfully.
‘Make way there, churls,’ the lawyer shouted.
Normally the boys would have made way for such as they, especially as their servants were large men with long knives at their belts. This time, however, although they moved to the side of the road, the lads then promptly turned their backs, lowered their netherstocks, and presented the lawyers with a view of six skinny white arses. The face of the man who had shouted at them reddened with fury, all the more since many other travellers laughed and there were shouts of, ‘Well done, bors!’ and ‘Now shit on him!’ Barak and Toby laughed too, although Nicholas and I, both also dressed in lawyers’ robes, exchanged uneasy glances. ‘Nobody had better try that with us,’ Nicholas said.
The crowds thinned as we continued south. The land was flat, the cloudless blue sky wider than any I had seen. On a piece of pastureland a little group of men was busy shearing, hurdles drawn together to pen in the sheep. The animals were pulled out one by one, thrown on their backs on a trestle table, and the long, curled fleeces removed with amazing dexterity by the shearers with their big shears. It was late in the season for shearing, but the cold winter and spring had doubtless delayed everything.
I was riding with Nicholas, Toby and Barak behind. I had not seen Barak ride since he lost his hand but he managed well enough, mainly using his good hand on the reins though the end of his prosthesis was curled over them, too. I caught snatches of his conversation, and was glad Toby seemed to be getting on well with him, if not with Nicholas.
‘Never seen so many sheep,’ Barak said.
‘More land turned over to them every year. And more unemployed villagers as a result.’
‘So I’ve heard around the taverns.’
I glanced back at them and asked, ‘Have either of you heard any more about the rebellions in the West?’
Barak said, ‘Some say they are against the new Prayer Book, others against the local gentlemen. I don’t know, I’m not sure Protector Somerset does either. But it sounds as though it’s spreading.’
We rode deeper into the countryside, then turned right into a sandy lane.
Behind me, Barak asked Toby if he was married.
‘Me? No, I’m not ready to tie myself to a wife and children yet.’
‘I’ve been tied down for seven years,’ Barak laughed. ‘It’s good to get away now and again.’ He called out to Nicholas. ‘What about you, lad? How’s your love life?’
‘I am wooing the daughter of a Gray’s Inn barrister. Her name is Beatrice.’
‘Nice-looking, is she?’
‘Fair as a rose, gentle as a dove.’
‘Will there be wedding bells?’
‘Who knows?’
I leaned back to join in. ‘Beatrice’s mother is dazzled by the range of people I have worked for. I think she dreams of one day meeting the Lady Elizabeth.’ I would not have dared criticize Beatrice in front of Nicholas, but a dig at her mother would do no harm.
‘A snob, then?’ Barak answered, ever direct.
‘All the better for me to advance my suit,’ Nicholas said shrewdly.
We passed a small chantry church, where until last year a priest would have said Masses for the dead; the church and lands had now been appropriated by the King. Many of the stained-glass windows had been broken by stones, and someone had chalked Death to the Pope on the door. A little beyond, we saw a church steeple rising in the distance, and Toby pulled to a halt. ‘We’re nearly at Brikewell now. That’s the Brikewell church. It may be useful, sir, to have the plan I gave you to hand.’
I pulled it from my pouch, looking at it as we rode on. The ploughland to our left belonged to the old chantry. I wondered if someone was negotiating to buy it, and noticed that Sir Richard Southwell owned the land beyond. We arrived at a small, poor-looking hamlet. Ancient cottages, most of them tiny, were clustered round a small pond. Again, to our left was ploughland, while to the right was green pastureland, dotted with the grey-white local sheep. ‘That’s demesne land, belonging to the manor,’ Toby said. ‘Boleyn farmed it directly till he put it to sheep. And beyond is his manor house.’
Brick walls abutted the lane now. We came to a pair of open iron gates, giving us a view of a modern red-brick manor house, long chimneys reaching to the sky. I noticed the knot gardens in front of the house were starting to run wild, the flowerbeds full of weeds.
‘So this is where John Boleyn lives?’ Nicholas asked.
‘Yes,’ Toby answered. ‘A far cry from Norwich Castle gaol.’
We rode slowly up the path. As we approached the main door a tall bearded man in his thirties, with red hair and a solid body already starting to run to fat, came out. He was carrying a mounting block. ‘I am Serjeant Shardlake,’ I said. ‘A lawyer appointed by Master Copuldyke to look into the case against John Boleyn. Is Mistress Isabella at home?’
The man frowned. ‘We didn’t know there had been a change of lawyer.’
‘I am acting as Master Copuldyke’s agent. I have a letter of authority. And you will recognize Goodman Lockswood.’
‘Ay. God give you good morrow, Toby.’
‘And you, Daniel. We are here to help if we can.’ Toby turned to me. ‘This is Master Boleyn’s steward, Daniel Chawry.’
The steward bowed to each of us in turn. ‘I fear when you have dismounted I must ask you to help me take the horses to the stables. There are no other male servants now.’
‘Is it just Mistress Isabella at home?’ I had feared the twins might have returned, but Chawry answered, ‘Just her, her maid and me. The other servants left when the master was taken away.’