Tombland

WE RODE SLOWLY , for I was anxious not to overstrain my back, and allowed others to overtake us. It was Thursday afternoon when we arrived at Wymondham, a market town with substantial buildings in the main street. On a stretch of meadowland to the south tents were being erected for the coming fair, and near the city centre a shallow pit was being dug. I saw a wooden structure with a stage being erected nearby. We passed the market square, where much business was being done around the undercroft of a wooden market hall. To the south I saw a large church of white stone, a tall tower at each end. One tower was a ruin, windows and roof gone, though the other seemed in good repair. Beyond we caught glimpses of that common sight in England, the half-levelled buildings of a monastery.

‘That must have been a big place,’ Nicholas said.

‘It must. Come, the inn is beyond that large chapel over there.’

The doors of the chapel were open, and as we watched, two men dressed as knights of ancient days, with chain mail woven from yarn, went inside.

‘I wonder what the play is,’ I said.

‘The Maid’s Head innkeeper said it was originally written about Thomas Becket.’

I looked at him in surprise. ‘The archbishop who defied his king. Talk of him has been dangerous for ten years.’

‘Apparently they’ve doctored the play to make it politically acceptable.’

We reached the inn, a large building with shops set into the ground floor. A powerfully built, elderly man with a short white beard was manhandling a pig’s carcass into a butcher’s shop with the aid of a boy. We left our horses at the inn stables and went inside. We were greeted by a small, plump fellow in an apron, showing us none of the formality of the Maid’s Head innkeeper. I asked if he could accommodate us for two nights.

‘Yes, sirs. You’re just in time, though; hundreds will be coming soon for the play and the fair.’ He looked at me curiously. ‘Have you legal business in Wymondham?’

‘No, far off. We are breaking our journey. I am Serjeant Matthew Shardlake, and this is Master Overton.’

He looked at me narrowly. ‘Serjeant? Any connection to Serjeant John Flowerdew?’

‘No, though I met him at the Norwich Assizes.’

‘Is he a friend?’ the innkeeper asked cautiously.

‘Certainly not.’

‘He’s been the plague of Wymondham these last ten years. He lives at Hethersett, north of here, in a fine house. I believe he’s there now, probably enclosing more of his land for sheep.’

‘Many landowners are doing that in these parts, I believe.’

The innkeeper snorted. ‘He’s not content with enclosing the lands. He was the Court of Augmentations’ agent here during the dissolution. He resisted the townspeople buying the part of the abbey church the citizens had always used for their own services, and when we wrote to Lord Cromwell and he sold it to us, Flowerdew took the lead and stonework from the south aisle, saying it was part of the monks’ dormitory.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Excuse me mardlin’ on, sirs, but that man’s a thorn in our flesh.’

‘Strange for a rich man to go to such lengths over some lead.’

‘Flowerdew loves a quarrel, he’d skin a flea for its hide and tallow. Ask William Kett the butcher in the shop outside.’ He shook his head. ‘But you must be tired. I’ll get a man to show you your rooms and bring you some water to wash off the dust from the road.’

* * *

WE ATE AT THE INN , then decided to walk down to the church: the air was cooler now. It was still a splendid building, built of the same white stone as Norwich Cathedral. We could see where the monks’ half of the church had been pulled down. We went inside the townspeople’s church, not yet whitewashed though the niches that once contained saints’ images were empty. A patch-up job on the south aisle gave the otherwise beautiful structure a lopsided look.

Nicholas shook his head. ‘Surely it would be in Flowerdew’s interests, as a local landlord, to keep the townspeople happy.’

‘Some people just enjoy quarrelling. You’ve worked in the law long enough to know that.’

We walked past the monastery ruins to a little river, then turned back to the town. Although it was almost dark now, the streets were crowded, the taverns full, customers spilling out onto the pavement in the warm summer evening. As we passed one group, someone called out, ‘Leeching lawyers! Hell has gates for them who prey on the Commonwealth!’

Ignoring them, we turned into Market Street. Another crowd stood outside a tavern. One man turned at our approach, then quickly vanished down an alley. I stopped. ‘What is it?’ Nicholas asked.

‘Did you see that man?’

‘No.’

‘I thought I recognized him, but perhaps not.’ Yet I was sure it was the man Miles, whom I had overheard in Norwich talking to Vowell and Edward Brown. I had still said nothing of that to Nicholas. ‘Come,’ I said. ‘We must be up early tomorrow, to reach Kenninghall by two.’

We went to bed early. I slept well, only to be woken at dawn by the sound of carts trundling into Wymondham, bringing goods for the coming fair.