Tombland

Reynberd dismissed Reynolds. He turned to the accused. ‘Master Boleyn, how long were you married to your wife before she disappeared?’

‘Ten years.’

‘Would you call it a happy marriage?’

I drew in my breath sharply. Reynberd was within his rights to raise the issue from the bench, but the revelation of long-term bad relations between the two could only strengthen the case against Boleyn. He hesitated, and looked at me. Reynberd followed his gaze and frowned. I looked down. Boleyn swallowed, then said, ‘It was not a happy union, as was well known. Edith showed no affection for me, nor her sons. In truth, my wife did not seem to like anyone; she hated social occasions. Sometimes she would – it is hard to believe – starve herself for no reason, reducing herself to the point where her bones stuck out. She would never answer questions about why she did such things. Nonetheless, I had married her and she was my wife.’ He added, in a whisper, ‘The cross I was given to bear.’

‘Until you turned elsewhere for comfort?’

Suddenly Boleyn’s temper flashed. ‘What man would not?’

Gatchet cut in, his voice like a file, ‘Any good Christian man.’

There was silence. Then Reynberd said, ‘I now call your sons, Gerald and Barnabas Boleyn.’

The twins walked, stolidly and expressionlessly, to the witness box, a pair of well-dressed young gentlemen in silken doublets. Boleyn looked at them for a long moment, an unreadable expression in his narrowed eyes. I had warned him the night before to keep steady, not to let them anger him.

Reynberd said, ‘You are the sons of John and Edith Boleyn. Gerald and Barnabas?’

‘Yes.’ They answered politely. So they knew how to behave when they needed to.

‘Have you always resided with your father?’

‘Till he went to gaol,’ Gerald answered coolly.

‘Was he a good father?’

‘He showed little interest in us,’ Barnabas replied.

‘And your mother?’

Gerald looked straight back at Reynberd. ‘Our poor mother was always unwell. But our father did nothing to help her, he only shouted at her. We loved her, and were brokenhearted when she left because our father had taken up with that tavern-woman.’ He pointed at Isabella.

Reynberd turned to Boleyn. ‘Have you any questions?’

He looked at his sons, his voice trembling. ‘You made your mother’s life a misery. And mine. Your indiscipline, your violence even towards the tutors we engaged ... Was it not your behaviour as much as anything that drove my wife away?’

Gerald answered, his voice cold. ‘What, when we were nine years old? No, it was your adultery that was the final straw for her. We are glad that now we live with our grandfather, who shows us the affection you never did.’

It was an accomplished performance. I could see sympathy on the faces of many in the audience, even though many in Norwich must know the twins’ wild reputation. Boleyn’s face darkened, and I feared he might lose his temper again, but instead he set his lips hard and said nothing more.

Reynberd said, ‘I believe that completes the prosecution evidence, except for one thing. Master Boleyn, am I correct, the only alibi you have for the evening in question is that of Isabella Heath’ – Isabella reddened at the use of her maiden name – ‘and that there were two hours, between nine and eleven, when she did not see you, as you were, your deposition says, working in your study?’

‘That is correct,’ Boleyn answered firmly.

‘She did not even bring you a glass of wine, or beer? Or get one of the servants to do so?’

‘I asked not to be disturbed while I worked. I was studying estate papers, related to a dispute with my neighbour Master Witherington, who claims some of my land.’

Reynberd inclined his head slightly. I looked at the jury; several were whispering together. This was the most damning evidence against Boleyn.

Reynberd said, ‘Very well. I think we will take a short adjournment. There is a document concerning one of the civil cases I must attend to. Return in fifteen minutes.’

The judges rose, and left by their private door. From the corner of my eye, I saw Sir Richard Southwell leave the room. I went across to Nicholas. ‘What do you think?’ I asked.

‘I wish Boleyn hadn’t snapped at Gatchet.’

‘Yes, though he would make a saint lose his temper. Gawen Reynolds got the jury’s sympathy.’ I laughed mirthlessly. ‘And I got a telling off.’

‘Sticks and stones.’

‘The lack of an alibi – the unhappy marriage – the twins blaming him for their mother’s disappearance ...’ I shook my head. ‘Well, we must ensure every bit of evidence casting doubt on Boleyn’s guilt is raised, and emphasized. Especially the missing keys. It is up to us now.’

Chapter Twenty-eight

When the judges returned, John Boleyn was the first to give evidence, from the dock. The room was becoming hot now, with Judge Reynberd mopping his cheeks with a lace handkerchief. Gatchet said to Boleyn, with a wave of the hand, ‘The room is yours.’ All eyes turned to him.