Tombland

On Sunday, from the window of my room, I witnessed a clerical marriage at the church across the road, the first I had seen since the clergy were permitted to marry last year. The couple, both in early middle age, left the church and walked with bright faces to the lychgate. The husband wore his clerical cassock, his wife a modest dress and coif. A cheering group, perhaps from his congregation, had gathered outside, together with several onlookers. Someone in the street called out, ‘This is fornication in the eyes of the Lord!’ but the marriage party ignored them. I stood and went over to my table, where I had been going over the case documents again. I still had not heard from Toby; it had been over a week and he would surely have heard about events at the hanging. I thought, Perhaps not, perhaps his mother’s health is worse; but still I felt uneasy. After we left Norwich, our hopes of finding the apprentice Walter would rest on him.

Chapter Thirty-two

Monday came, the first of July. I was walking now without my stick, but was nervous at the thought of mounting a horse again. Nicholas, who was to accompany me to the castle, helped me onto the animal’s back. We had spent the previous evening visiting Barak at the Blue Boar, and he had seemed less angry, saying little, but still drinking more than he should. I told him that if my riding went well, we might leave Norwich by the end of the week. ‘Just as well,’ he replied. ‘I’m running short of money.’

Nicholas and I rode through the city, dressed in our legal robes. It was early; with few people about there was less risk of getting barged. The weather was hot again, the streets stinking mightily. To my relief riding was not painful. Traders were opening their shops; banging down the shelves on which goods would be displayed, pouring water on the streets, sometimes kicking beggars from their doorways. One such man, dressed in little more than rags, face red and blotchy, staggered into our path. He raised a leather flagon, calling out, ‘Good morrow, masters! Off to cheat some clients of their gold? Take a drink to whet your appetite!’ Both horses started nervously, and a jolt of pain went through my back.

‘Be off, churl!’ Nicholas shouted. The man staggered away. ‘Are you all right?’ Nicholas asked.

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘He could have had you off, the sot. These people spend what they get from begging on drink.’

‘Why do you think they do that?’ I asked.

‘Because they’re good-for-nothings. Why else?’

‘Perhaps because otherwise their lives would be unbearable.’

* * *

WE ARRIVED AT NORWICH Castle, approached the main gate and asked to visit John Boleyn. The guard looked at us with interest; doubtless he had heard about the hanging. We entered the cold central hall. A new gaoler came to meet us, his manner less surly than his predecessor. He led us along a corridor at ground level to another cell, opening the door for us.

Boleyn’s new quarters were more spacious than before, and less damp. A barred window in a deep recess, thick as the castle wall, gave a view down Castle Hill to the spires of Norwich. He had been allowed a table and some stools. He rose from the bed to greet us. A thick red weal ran round his neck, and there was a look of shock in his eyes. I raised a hand. ‘I understand you cannot speak yet, Master Boleyn. Do not try.’

To my surprise, he embraced us both warmly, making little grunting sounds. He pointed to the table, where a slate and a piece of chalk lay. He bent and wrote, ‘Thank you. You behaved like true heroes. Please, henceforth, call me John.’

‘And call us Matthew and Nicholas. Are they treating you better now?’

He nodded, but even that gesture caused him to wince. He turned back to the slate, rubbed out the previous words and wrote, ‘Isabella pays them.’

I smiled. ‘I believe she found the money,’ I said. ‘I saw her on Saturday.’ I told Boleyn, as Isabella doubtless had already, that delays over the pardon were likely, urging him not to lose heart. I said we would be returning to London soon, but would remain in touch, adding that I had set Toby to try and trace the locksmith’s apprentice. At that he turned again to the slate and wrote in large letters, pressing the chalk so hard it almost broke: I AM INNOCENT .

* * *

WHEN THE GAOLER let us out, I told him Boleyn’s wife would pay to ensure Boleyn was well treated, and suggested he be allowed some exercise outside. He nodded. ‘Constable Fordhill has agreed he’s to be allowed to take the air on the castle roof. The constable would like to see you. About what happened last week.’ He looked at us sidelong, whether out of respect for our courage or amazement at our foolhardiness was hard to tell.

* * *