Tombland

I said, ‘Normally, I would agree with you, Toby, but since this is such a notorious case I think the judges will want to take more time and care. And be more active in questioning witnesses than they usually are.’ I drained my mug of ale. ‘Come, let us go. Sometimes the early bird may surprise a worm.’

* * *

HOWEVER , WHEN WE arrived at the Shire Hall and made our way to the anteroom of the court where the criminal trials were being heard, the only worms we found were the escheator’s representative John Flowerdew and that of the feodary Lady Mary – Sir Richard Southwell. Flowerdew’s tall, thin frame in its black robe reminded me of a perching crow, while Southwell, his stocky figure swathed in a long dark robe with a fur collar, a black cap encrusted with tiny diamonds on his head, wore his usual expression of haughty contempt. They were talking together quietly, but turned as we came in. Beside Southwell was a well-built young man with a narrow face disfigured with two large moles, a hard face and bright, angry-looking eyes. Leaving Nicholas and Toby, I approached them and bowed. Southwell was saying to Flowerdew, ‘Are you staying for the whole Assizes?’

‘Unfortunately, I must, given my duties as the escheator’s agent. Though I have business back in Wymondham. That wretch Kett may be making trouble for me again.’

‘You really ought to deal with him.’ Southwell turned at my approach and gave me his cold, intimidating stare. ‘Serjeant Shardlake,’ he said in an unfriendly tone.

‘God give you good morrow, Sir Richard. And you, Brother Flowerdew.’

‘Brother Shardlake,’ Flowerdew answered cheerfully. ‘The Boleyn case is first on. Judge Reynberd is taking time off from the civil cases to sit with Gatchet on this one.’

‘That is unusual.’ I wondered whether Reynberd might have chosen to sit in order to soften Gatchet’s harshness, if need be.

‘Nonetheless,’ Flowerdew continued, ‘I think Boleyn will lose. The evidence of the items found in his stable is very damning. But we shall see. Sir Richard and I are attending as the feodary and escheator’s representatives.’ His cheerfulness had a mocking undertone.

Southwell, who had been watching grimly, said, ‘I see you have exercised yourself on this case. Your own name is on the witness list.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You will remember, of course, that this being a criminal trial, you cannot represent Boleyn. I hope you are not seeking to worm your way into the role of advocate under pretence of being a witness.’

‘Certainly not, Sir Richard. I have first-hand evidence to give.’

He leaned closer, looking down on me. ‘I see you have not heeded Master Cecil’s suggestion to keep a low profile.’ He shrugged his big shoulders. ‘Well, be it on your own head.’

Beside him, the young man laughed. Southwell turned to him with a smile. ‘This is my faithful servant, John Atkinson. He is friendly with the Boleyn twins. They believe their father guilty, don’t they, John?’

‘That they do.’ He smiled unpleasantly, showing yellow teeth. So this was the young man who, the year before, had abducted a teenage heiress and tried to force her into marriage, with Southwell’s help.

More footsteps echoed in the high antechamber. Isabella entered, accompanied by Daniel Chawry. I excused myself and went over to where they had joined Toby and Nicholas. Isabella looked pale but composed. I asked, ‘How are you, Mistress Boleyn?’

‘Don’t you mean Goodwife Heath?’ It was John Atkinson who had called out. Isabella reddened.

‘Neither good, nor wife, from what I hear,’ Southwell added with a laugh. Flowerdew turned aside, but I saw him smile first.

Isabella shot back, ‘You pair want John’s lands, and the twins’ wardship, I know!’

Southwell frowned mightily at her insolence, and took a step towards her, but checked himself. I said, urgently, ‘Be quiet, mistress, please. You must not respond to any provocation.’

‘He’s right,’ Chawry said gently. Isabella set her lips, but nodded.

Other witnesses arrived, mostly poor folk involved with other criminal cases, looking nervously around the stone antechamber with its high, vaulted roof, and at those like Flowerdew and me in legal robes. A familiar trio entered; Boleyn’s neighbour and rival, the plump, red-faced Leonard Witherington, and his hefty steward Shuckborough, who held the old shepherd Adrian Kempsley firmly by the arm: the old man looked terrified. I thought, He must lead a lonely life in his shepherd’s hut; he would be unused to such crowds and, no doubt, had been told by Witherington exactly what to say. Witherington looked at Isabella, curled his lip, and grunted. She turned away.

Just afterwards Simon Scambler entered with his strange, loping walk. His aunt, her grim face framed by a black coif, accompanied him. Scambler looked less frightened than puzzled by it all, his mouth gaping like a fish. I heard someone in the crowd laugh. Seeing us, Scambler hastened over, his face brightening. ‘Master Shardlake. Master Overton.’

‘God give you good morrow, Simon. Mistress Scambler.’