Tombland

It was dark when we reached Wymondham. I was exhausted and my back ached badly again; Nicholas, too, looked tired, his pale face red with sunburn after the long journey. The streets were more crowded now, the Wymondham play was scheduled for tomorrow. Many doors and windows were brightly lit with lanterns, men with packs on their backs heading for the tents on the meadow. The mood was cheery, with laughter and some singing. We had a quick dinner and went to bed. I gave Nicholas some lavender oil to put on his burned face. Despite the thoughts whirling in my mind, I fell asleep quickly, tired out as I was. In the night, though, I was woken by someone calling out on the streets, ‘The enclosure commissioners are coming! There’s to be a new proclamation next week!’ There was cheering, and I heard the news shouted out again, further away.

* * *

IT WAS A LITTLE after noon the next day that we arrived back in Norwich. Saturday, the sixth of July. Even though we would soon be leaving, I needed to write at once to Parry and tell him of my encounter with Mary. It was market day again, the streets busy, and I was glad when at last we rode back into Tombland, the Maid’s Head and the cathedral gates coming into view. I said, ‘Home again.’

Nicholas sighed, ‘I can never see Norwich as home. When can we return to London?’

‘Perhaps Monday. Tomorrow I want to ride out to Toby’s farm and see what has happened to him. We’ll take Jack, he gets on with him.’

Nicholas laughed. ‘Unlike me. Don’t worry, the feeling’s mutual.’

‘And I can keep an eye on Jack. See he doesn’t drink.’

‘I doubt he’ll be doing much of that,’ Nicholas said seriously. ‘I think he’s almost out of money.’

Suddenly, Nicholas pointed at the brightly decorated Erpingham gate leading into the cathedral. ‘Look there, isn’t that Simon Scambler?’

Scambler, dressed in ragged hose and a dirty shirt, stood in the gateway, talking to an elderly surpliced cleric, waving his hands. I saw the cleric shake his head. Scambler groaned loudly, then ran across Tombland into the alleys on the far side. A cart loaded with wool almost hit him, the driver letting loose a string of oaths. Somebody laughed. I turned my horse towards the cleric, who was going back into the precinct. ‘Wait, sir,’ I called. ‘Please.’

He turned and waited for us to ride up. He was small and plump, bald but for a fringe of white hair, kind-faced. ‘Can I help you, sirs?’ he asked.

‘That boy who was talking to you. I know him.’

He looked at us anxiously. ‘Sooty Scambler? Not in trouble with the law, is he?’

‘No. He was a witness in a case.’

He drew a sharp breath. ‘That case?’

‘Yes. I am Serjeant Matthew Shardlake.’

‘Canon Charles Stoke. I taught Scambler at the cathedral school.’

‘I heard he was homeless now.’

‘Homeless and jobless,’ Stoke said, wearily. ‘He came to ask if there might be a place for him at the cathedral choir. I had to tell him no.’

‘He was at the cathedral school, you say?’

‘Yes. How much do you know about him?’

‘Only a little.’

Canon Stoke took a deep breath. ‘His parents were poor, his father a chimney sweep, and his mother died when he was ten. Simon was clever, no question, and had a good singing voice, remarkable after his voice broke. We took him in. But his behaviour –’ the old man shook his head vigorously. ‘That I could never understand. He picked up some things, like music, with ease, and learned to read well, but other, elementary things he could not grasp at all. Discipline especially.’ He looked at me seriously. ‘I do not mean he was disobedient, but he could not seem to grasp basic rules of behaviour, with that waving of his arms, speaking and even singing out of turn –’

‘A sort of blind unruliness,’ I said.

‘I see you know him, sir. Well, neither beating nor reasoning put him in order. Other children and even some teachers mocked him. We could not control him. When he was thirteen we had to ask him to leave. And he never seemed interested in the Christian faith.’

‘Then he worked for his father?’

Canon Stoke smiled sadly. ‘That fared no better. He got stuck up chimneys, or sent down piles of soot before the furniture had been covered.’

‘And so he became Sooty.’ I smiled sadly.

‘Then his father died. I gather Simon’s later attempts at employment were not a success. When his father died last year, he went to live with an aunt.’ Stoke took a deep breath. ‘A lady steeped in radical religion, I believe. Simon told me she has thrown him out.’

‘Yes. I feel partly responsible; Simon was much upset by the Boleyn case.’

Canon Stoke bit his lip. ‘I wish I could help, but even if I took him into the choir, his indiscipline would soon get him in trouble with Bishop Rugge.’

‘Where is he living now?’

‘On the streets, I fear. He was much upset when I said I could not help.’ The old man turned away. ‘I am sorry, but I think there is no more I can do. Except pray.’

He walked away into the precinct. I turned to Nicholas. ‘One other thing I will do before we leave. I will find Simon, and help him somehow.’

* * *