Tombland

‘John Boleyn does have a stay of execution!’ I shouted. ‘I’m his lawyer! It was granted by Judge Reynberd yesterday!’

Another soldier pointed his weapon at Nicholas. ‘How do I know you’re lawyers?’

Two voices from the crowd shouted, ‘They ain’t lawyers!’ The twins.

‘Hang them too!’ another voice called. ‘Death to all gentlemen!’ There was a general cheer. The crowd, uncomfortably close, was becoming restive.

I looked up. A soldier set each prisoner in front of a noose. The drunk man, appearing suddenly to realize where he was, tried to step back, shrieking, ‘No! No!’

The soldier beside me said threateningly, ‘Where’s this fucking pardon, then?’

‘At the castle! We were on our way to fetch it! A copy should have gone to the castle constable. For pity’s sake, let us talk to the executioner!’

‘So no paper, then?’

‘No, but—’

On the scaffold the executioner had already placed the noose over the head of the old man and tightened it. He watched me expressionlessly, but on hearing there was no paper, he moved the young woman’s head into the second noose. Then he did the same to John Boleyn and finally the struggling drunk. Boleyn shouted, ‘That’s my lawyer, I’m innocent!’ The young woman, even with the noose round her neck, bent round to look at her doll. ‘Milly, little Milly,’ she muttered. The old man shook silently.

‘Let us up!’ Nicholas shouted. He leaned forward and grabbed the soldier’s halberd with one hand, while with the other he began unsheathing his sword, leaving me momentarily free to run to the steps. ‘Master Shardlake!’ Boleyn yelled. The executioner frowned and nodded urgently to his assistant. He pulled the lever. The board dropped.

There was a roar from the crowd as all four prisoners fell, though only a few inches. The old man was instantly still, but the man next to Boleyn, his protests choked off, jerked wildly with his feet, instinctively trying to find a footing to halt his strangulation, eyes bulging, foam at his lips. The young woman, too, danced frantically on air. The front of her dress darkened as she wet herself, and the doll dropped from her fingers to land on the ground below. Someone instantly grabbed it up as a souvenir. Boleyn, though, did not dance, only jerked convulsively from side to side as his face grew purple, his tongue protruding.

I reached the top of the steps. The executioner stood in front of me, his solid form barring my way. ‘There is a pardon,’ I shouted. ‘For pity’s sake, before it’s too late!’

An elderly woman had struggled to the front of the crowd. She stood at the foot of the steps and raised clasped hands in a begging gesture at the executioner. ‘My husband! My husband! Please, please, let me pull at his legs and end his agony!’ Looking past the other, swinging, dancing, ghastly forms I saw the old man was not dead after all, he had begun to writhe in silent agony.

I do not know where I got the strength from to push the executioner away. I ran past the woman, whose frantic dancing jerks made her legs rise higher and higher, nearly kicking me on the arm. Then I reached Boleyn, whose eyes were clenched tight shut now, tears pouring from them. His protruding tongue was now blue. I grabbed him round the waist, heaving upwards with all my strength. My back spasmed agonizingly. I heard the crowd booing loudly. Then Nicholas was at my side, also holding Boleyn up to try and stop the strangling. Then I felt strong hands grasp my arms. I stumbled and fell backwards, off the edge of the scaffold, into the midst of the baying crowd. I felt a terrible pain in my back, then darkness.

Part Three

WYMONDHAM

Chapter Thirty-one

I woke, a sudden lurch out of darkness. I was lying down, and, for a terrible moment feared I was still beneath the scaffold, amid the baying crowd, Boleyn and the others strangling above me. I gasped and tried to move, but a terrible pain shot across my back, and I cried out. Then I felt a cool cloth on my head and heard a familiar female voice say, gently, ‘Do not move, Master Shardlake. The doctor said when you wake you must remain still.’ I blinked, and saw I was in my bed at the Maid’s Head, Josephine standing above me with an expression of deep concern on her face. ‘You are safe,’ she said softly.

‘Boleyn –’ I gasped. My mouth was parched.

‘He lives,’ she said with a smile. ‘Now wait, I must fetch the doctor. I shall be only a few minutes. Please, stay quite still.’ She hurried out. The pain of the spasm was fading and, hearing a sound beside me, I dared to turn my neck slightly. Beside the bed I saw, of all things, a light wooden carrying-crib. Lying within was a little fair-haired baby; Josephine’s daughter, Mousy. She looked up at me, and suddenly gave a toothless smile and reached out her arms. I smiled back.