Tombland

BARAK , STILL AT THE Blue Boar, was only too pleased to be asked to join us; he was, he said, becoming bored and running low on money. ‘Can’t buy a decent amount of beer,’ he said ruefully, scratching his beard with his artificial hand. ‘The innkeeper doesn’t do credit.’

So we set out early on Sunday morning, taking our horses from the stables. Nicholas and I wore clean shirts and doublets. We had brought our best robes – the others we had left for cleaning – but folded them in our knapsacks, for the weather was even hotter. The roads were quiet. Barak said, ‘I wandered around the market yesterday, picked up some gossip. Apparently, the rebel camp outside Colchester has been sent a pardon, and told that the enclosure commissioners will redress their complaints. The commission’s to be formally announced in London tomorrow.’

‘Does Protector Somerset really intend to have the enclosure commissioners take dictation from rebel commoners?’ Nicholas retorted. ‘He should send troops and put them down.’

‘With one army trying to hold on to his last forts in Scotland, and another being gathered for the West Country?’ Barak answered scoffingly. ‘The Protector’s been caught on the hop. Good thing too, if you ask me. The local landowners will do anything they can to impede the commissioners, so a bevy of armed men ready to enforce their decisions may mean reform is carried out at last. Remember, the commissioners will have Somerset’s authority, in the name of the King.’

Nicholas shook his head vigorously. ‘Society is like the human body, those with education and ancestry as the head, and the head directs people like us, the hands. The common people are the foot; they know no more than how to walk behind the plough. They cannot dictate policy.’

‘So people say,’ Barak answered, coldly.

‘It’s how things have always been. It’s what the preachers have always taught.’

‘When did you ever take notice of preachers? My old master Cromwell, he was the son of a blacksmith and in his time nobody was more powerful.’

‘Except the King. Who executed him.’

‘Let’s be practical,’ I interjected. ‘John Hales’s enclosure commissions are a good thing, I represented poor people at the Court of Requests for years, I know how landlords force people off lands their families have farmed for centuries. But to enforce reform on the scale and at the speed Somerset has in mind, with almost every gentleman in England against him, it’s impossible. Furthermore, I can’t see him allowing the common people to dictate to him either. And he’s not the King; constitutionally, he depends on the Council, and if he goes too far, they’ll overthrow him.’

‘He’s already given way in Essex,’ Barak said.

I looked at him. ‘Remember the Northern rebellion in ’thirty-six, against the religious changes? The old king promised to meet the rebels’ demands, waited till the rebel army went home, then got together an army and massacred them.’

‘Somerset isn’t Henry,’ Barak insisted.

‘More’s the pity,’ Nicholas said. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve seen some grim sights in Norwich, I agree reform is needed – but society has a right order and if it is overturned, there will be anarchy!’

‘Enough!’ I said with sudden anger. ‘We have serious business today, we should concentrate on that. God’s blood, this case, the pardon, they’re both frozen solid, yet still the matter piles troubles upon us! Jack, have you some ale in your pannier? I’m parched in this heat.’

He passed me a leather pouch, giving me a searching gaze. I had told him, and Nicholas, what had transpired at Kenninghall. I was worried, tired, hot, and had heard enough of these arguments. I did not know then that their consequences would rule my life for the next two months, and reshape it for ever.

Chapter Thirty-six

As we travelled on, more people appeared on the roads, heading, no doubt, for Wymondham Fair. Towards eleven, we arrived at Hethersett. It was little more than a village, centred on a large open green with cottages and farmland around it. Westwards was a wide area of common land, with many fences and ditches for sheep. We were directed to Flowerdew’s house. It lay at the end of a hedged avenue with sheep fields on either side. It was a modern brick building with tall chimneys, clearly the home of a wealthy man. We paused in the lane, and Nicholas and I donned our robes before riding through the gates.

The door was answered by a servant. He said Serjeant Flowerdew was out, riding the boundaries of his lands with his steward and his sons. I gave my name, and he asked us to wait while he fetched Mistress Flowerdew. A thin woman with a severe face appeared. Her expression was surprised, and unfriendly. She gave us the barest curtsey. ‘Serjeant Shardlake,’ she said coldly. ‘My husband has spoken of you.’

‘I apologize for calling without an appointment,’ I said civilly, ‘but I must speak to Serjeant Flowerdew urgently. When will he return?’