Tombland

Aunt Hilda pursed her lips even more tightly than nature had intended. ‘Mistress Marling, if you please. Sooty’s mother was my sister.’

‘It’s good to see you,’ Scambler said to me. ‘I feel safer now.’

I spoke seriously. ‘You must be ready for some strong questioning in court, Simon.’

‘They may be harsh with you, Sooty,’ his aunt said. ‘But you must answer honestly, remembering that God watches all.’

‘I am sure you will, Simon,’ Nicholas added encouragingly.

The doors opened again to admit the twins, accompanied by their grandfather in his aldermanic robes. Barnabas had one arm in a sling under his fine slashed doublet. All three glared at me like snakes. Old Mistress Jane Reynolds followed her husband and grandchildren, her coifed head held low. Scambler shrank away from the family, Isabella too. Nicholas laid a protective hand on her arm.

The twins and their grandfather jostled their way through the crowd, the old man impatiently shoving aside a young woman who stood in his path. Barnabas looked back at Scambler and called out loudly, making everyone look round, ‘Come to tell the court we beat you, have you, you dozzled spunk-stain!’

There was silence. To my surprise, the sharp tones of John Flowerdew broke it. ‘Don’t you shout out like that, young Boleyn, or you’ll be in charge of the court bailiff!’

The twins scowled and took a step towards Flowerdew, but their grandfather said sharply, ‘No! He’s not one to make an enemy of! He could be in control of your lands.’

The twins halted, still glaring at Flowerdew. Then they spotted John Atkinson next to Southwell, and went over to him. ‘Come to see the show, Johnny?’ Gerald asked.

‘Ay. What you done to your arm, Barney?’

‘Just a fight. You given up trying to get that cheeky cow Agnes Randolph to marry you?’

Atkinson frowned. ‘We are married.’ Gerald nudged him and winked, so that Atkinson smiled wryly.

I looked at the twins. I was sure they would say nothing about attacking us and losing their swords to us. An inner door opened, and a black-robed man bearing a white staff came out. He called, ‘Witnesses in the case of the King against John Boleyn, come into court!’

* * *

THE PUBLIC BENCHES were already crowded with people of both sexes; some looked like gentry folk, serious-faced at the trial of one of their own. There was a large number of common people too, looking eager to see the game of law played out. Both judges already sat on the raised dais, Gatchet looking serious and Reynberd, as usual, deceptively half-asleep. Below them, at the clerks’ table, a row of black-robed men sat, a sea of papers before them. The tipstaff guided us to a bench left vacant for witnesses, showing Nicholas and Witherington, old Mistress Reynolds and Scambler’s aunt Hilda to the public benches. The twins and their grandfather sat at one end of the long witness bench, with Kempsley next to them. He cast a worried glance at the twins; he would know what they had done to the boy I met at Witherington’s house. Chawry sat at the opposite end, then Isabella, then me, while Scambler rushed to sit next to me. There was a gap in the middle of the bench. Scambler looked round for his aunt; seated a little way off, she stared straight ahead at the judges, her face like a wrinkled white prune. I looked at the jury box next to the dais. Twelve middle-aged men, all soberly but finely dressed. Eight had tanned faces, and I guessed they were rural gentry or respectable yeomen; likely to be prejudiced against Boleyn because of his name, and Isabella. There were also four who looked like prosperous Norfolk merchants.

Two middle-aged men came and took up the vacant space in the middle of the witnesses’ bench; I recognized Henry Williams, the coroner, who bowed slightly as he passed me. His neighbour, I guessed, was the constable for the Brikewell area.

A murmur went around the court as John Boleyn was brought in by a gaoler. He had managed to shave and get his hair cut – I had paid the gaoler the previous day – and wore a fresh grey-coloured doublet and white shirt. For the first time he looked like the respectable gentleman he was, but his feet were chained together, the metal rattling on the wooden floor as he mounted the steps to the dock. He held a little sheet of prepared notes. He stood staring straight ahead at the witnesses and the audience; perhaps my news of the pardon, the prospect that today was not necessarily the end, had given him new confidence.

The clerk of the court read out the indictment, that on the night of 14–15 May 1549, John Boleyn did murder his wife Edith Boleyn. Then Judge Reynberd stirred and spoke in his rich voice. ‘I must say, I am surprised by the rash of applications for sureties for defence witnesses these last few days. The allowing of defence witness testimony should not be abused.’ He looked directly at me. ‘I see one is a serjeant-at-law.’ He waved a hand, ushering me to my feet.

‘Serjeant Matthew Shardlake, my Lord.’