‘Good shot,’ Nicholas said admiringly.
‘What are they doing?’ I asked.
Toby smiled. ‘Killing the landlord’s doves that are eating their crops. Look over there.’ He pointed to where, at the edge of the pastureland, a tall hexagonal building stood. ‘A great dove house. Dove eggs and meat are a great delicacy for the rich, but they steal grain from babies’ mouths.’
Nicholas said, ‘My father has a dove house, but it is tiny compared to that.’
‘Fashionable ones like this one can house hundreds of the wretched birds.’ Toby laughed. ‘See how they stagger. The people will have left out some seed well laced with beer.’
‘It’s not legal to kill them like that,’ I said. ‘They could get into trouble.’
‘People have had enough,’ Toby spat, with sudden violent emphasis. I stared at him hard. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said.
Another dove rose dozily into the air, to be impaled by a pitchfork. People were looking at us now, no doubt puzzled by the sudden appearance of four strangers. I remembered the scene when the boys had bared their arses at the group of lawyers on the road. ‘Maybe we should leave,’ I said quietly.
At that moment, though, there was a barking and clatter of hooves on the path behind us. We stepped hurriedly aside as two horsemen rode past, followed by half a dozen burly men carrying swords and halberds, and two others, each with a mastiff on a lead. The horsemen dismounted at the fence enclosing the field, tethered their animals, and threw open the gate. Their leader was a short, plump red-faced man in his fifties, waving a sword. ‘Stop that,’ he roared. ‘Knaves! Churls! Stop killing my birds! You’re breaking the law, I’ll have you all conscripted and sent to Scotland!’
Barak said, ‘Master Leonard Witherington, I’d guess.’
Witherington led his party into the field. The villagers stopped attacking the birds and gathered together. They did not answer him, even when he slashed out angrily at the green barley with his sword, cutting off the ears of the crop. The villagers stood in a group, the men holding up billhooks, forks and other agricultural implements which could easily become deadly weapons. The three young archers strung arrows to their bows, but pointed them downwards as they eyed Witherington’s approaching men.
The plump little man came to a halt in front of them, still yelling at the top of his voice. ‘Dozzled plough-joggers! Knaves! I’ll have you off your lands for this!’
‘Shut your clack-box, Master Witherington!’ someone called back.
‘Ay, or I’ll stick you with this gib-fork! And those dogs of yours!’ An elderly man raised a two-pronged fork angrily.
‘You’ll bully-rag us no more!’
A villager pointed a billhook at the big hexagonal building. ‘Burn down his duffus!’
Witherington’s men raised their swords. In turn the archers raised their bows and aimed at them. Then a tall, middle-aged man stepped forward from the villagers. In contrast to the ragged, pinched look of many of his fellows he was well-fed, wearing a good-quality doublet and hose. He looked at Witherington and spoke in a loud clear voice. ‘We want no violence, sir, but your birds are playing havoc with our crops. The harvest will be poor enough this year.’
‘I’d not have expected you to side with these dogs, Yeoman Harris,’ Witherington said angrily. ‘You have fifty acres of your own land, half of them bought from me.’
‘That doesn’t stop your birds spoiling them!’ Harris replied. ‘It must stop!’
There was a moment’s silence, the two groups facing off. People from both sides looked curiously at us. ‘What yew doin’ ’ere!’ one of the villagers called out threateningly. Harris raised a hand to quiet him, then walked slowly down towards us. He had a large knife at his belt. Nicholas had been right, this could mean serious trouble. But as he approached, I saw the man was smiling.
He asked, eagerly, ‘Are you the commissioners come to look into illegal enclosures? We knew the Protector was sending them out. We did not expect you so soon.’
I realized he thought we were part of Somerset’s promised new commissions. It made sense, a senior lawyer and his men suddenly appearing in the village. I hesitated, then said, ‘No, though I have heard they are to be sent. I am in Brikewell on private business, nothing to do with your lands. I came to speak to Master Witherington.’
Another man walked briskly down towards us. He was younger, poorly dressed in a ragged smock and carrying a scythe. The expression on his face was furious. ‘You doddipoll, Harris, they’re Witherington’s men.’ He raised the scythe threateningly. ‘Think you can get us for clearing our fields of those pests! I could gut you like a fish, Master Hunchback!’ Barak and Nicholas moved forward, but the man did not move. ‘What’ve I left to lose, eh?’ he shouted angrily. ‘Two years in Scotland, harried by the redshanks, living in damp forts built of mud that couldn’t even keep the rain out, and a year’s pay owing! I come back and find my family near clammed with hunger, while that bag of shit’ – he waved his weapon at Witherington – ‘piles up profits from his sheep!’
‘Wait, Melville!’ Harris put a restraining hand on the man’s arm, then looked at us, his expression hard now. ‘What is your business with Witherington?’
I replied in a voice loud enough to carry up the field. ‘I am working on the Boleyn murder case, I have come from his house, I wish only to ask Master Witherington some questions.’ Witherington frowned at me. There was silence again. Barak spoke quietly to Melville. ‘You’ve got numbers on your side, matey, but they’ve got the better weapons and those dogs, and you’ve women here. It’s up to you, but if it were me, I’d leave off, for now at least.’
‘Ay, he’s right,’ Toby agreed. ‘More’s the pity.’
Harris and Melville looked at each other, then Melville called out to the crowd. ‘The lawyer isn’t a commissioner, but he’s not Witherington’s man either. Come, let’s leave it, we’ve done what we came to do, got most of these birds.’
The archer who had shot the dove retrieved his arrow and held it up, the bird impaled, its white feathers now a mass of blood. The villagers cheered, and Witherington went puce. Nonetheless, he allowed the crowd to walk past his men. But he shouted after them, ‘Harris! You’re a marked man! And Melville, I’ll have your lands, you insolent churl!’
For answer, Melville turned and raised two fingers at him.
I took a deep breath. ‘Thank God you were here,’ I said to Barak. ‘Otherwise there might have been blood spilt.’
‘A mighty ruffle, at least.’
‘By God, the way those peasants spoke to the manor lord,’ Nicholas said. He shook his head and laughed, outrage tinged with reluctant admiration.
‘Here he comes,’ Barak said. Witherington had left his men and was stumping down towards us, sword in hand, his round, red face still furious. He halted before me.
‘Who are you, sir? I heard you mention Boleyn.’
‘Yes, we are reviewing the evidence in the case against him. Merely to make sure nothing has been overlooked.’
‘On whose behalf?’
‘I am appointed agent for Master Copuldyke.’
Witherington eyed me narrowly. ‘You’re here for the Lady Elizabeth, then.’
I took a deep breath. ‘She only wishes us to examine the facts, and ensure justice is done. I do not say Master Boleyn is innocent.’
‘As well you don’t.’ Witherington gave a sudden, scoffing laugh. ‘The Lady Mary won’t be pleased if she gets to hear her sister’s sniffing around Norfolk business. Well, what do you want of me?’
‘Only to hear events from your – perspective. And perhaps, if you permit, to talk to the shepherd who found the body.’
Witherington looked at Barak. ‘What did you say to those churls, that made them go?’