Tombland

The Swardeston camp had suffered too, turf roofs leaking water into the interior, puddles in the doorways. Nicholas was helping with the baling out. Some of the men had just come back from Thorpe Wood with long branches which they placed in the ground. Lengths of rope were tied between them and wet clothes hung out. Barak and I quickly changed into dry clothes, then joined in, taking everything possible into the sun to dry. Dickon, the man who had given evidence against the Swardeston landlords, joined me in slinging wet clothes over a line. ‘Do you think I did well today?’ he asked. ‘Did your man note down the accusations against that rogue?’

‘He did, and I am sure the commissioners and the Protector will follow them up.’

He smiled wryly. ‘We’ve put his sheep off the commons. It’s done already, and we won’t let it be undone.’

A tall, serious-looking man appeared. I had seen him in St Michael’s Chapel; he was another governor. He nodded to us. ‘That’s right, bors, keep a-doin’, get everything dry. Put the top layer of your bedding bracken out as well.’ He moved on.

I looked at our hut. Water dripped from the turf, making a puddle on the mud floor. Barak said, ‘Far cry from your Chancery Lane house, isn’t it?’

I laughed. ‘It is indeed.’

‘Most of these people are probably used to leaking roofs.’

Nicholas shoved past us and began picking up armfuls of wet bracken. ‘Come on, you two,’ he said. ‘Get this stuff moved.’

* * *

I HAD WORRIED about Scambler finding us in the chaos, but shortly afterwards he arrived, together with old Hector Johnson. I was alarmed to see that Scambler was limping, and had a bruise on his chin. Johnson said, ‘Found him over by the main track, asking for the Swardeston huts, he’d got himself lost. Bit of a hero, this lad.’

‘How so?’

‘There was a great to-do with the horses. A strong wooden paddock’s been built to hold them, but many are nervous and the thunder and hail drove them wild. They tried to escape. One big stallion was kicking at the fence to break it down, and the others would have followed. But this lad went up to it and, God knows how, managed to quiet it, though not before it stood on his foot and butted him with its head. People say he was singing to the animal. If those horses had broken out and gone careering through the camp, you can imagine the damage.’ He patted Scambler on the back. Simon looked down, red in the face.

‘There!’ I said. ‘I told them he was good with horses. Well done, Simon.’

Scambler looked up, and for the first time since I had met him, he smiled.

* * *

THAT EVENING , as we sat around the cooking fire, damp despite the end of the rain, Scambler told us what had happened to him since his aunt had thrown him out. With nowhere to live, he had joined the ranks of the Norwich beggars. He’d learned how most had once had jobs or families, though some had been beggars from childhood. Most drank strong beer, befuddling themselves to escape their miserable reality, but if Scambler’s aunt’s church had done one good thing, its condemnation of drink had stuck with Simon and he had refused all offers of it. Begging, however, brought in less than enough to eat and once or twice he was set on by his old tormentors from school. Some of the citizens who had dropped a penny into his cap had said, complacently, ‘Knew you’d come to this, Sooty.’

Goodwife Everneke, who seemed to hear everything, passed Scambler an extra plate of mutton, which he quickly devoured. He had been talking quickly, as usual, with wild gestures, but when he had eaten he looked at me and said, slowly, ‘One day I was sitting outside the cathedral, so hungry I felt faint. I feared I’d die soon, and my aunt’s promises of hell kept coming into my head –’

‘She’s an evil old bitch,’ Barak interjected forcefully.

‘I was sitting there, no coins in my cap, when I heard some drop in. I looked and there were three shillings – three shillings, Master Shardlake! And standing over me was old Mistress Jane Reynolds – you remember, from the court?’

‘Yes. I would not have thought her one for charity.’

‘I was scared, her standing over me, all in black, with that white, lined face. But she just said kindly, “You were at court. Poor boy. I wanted a boy, you know, I needed a boy, not poor Edith.” Then she said, “If you see my grandsons, be sure to run.” There was such a look of sorrow in her face.’ Scambler shook his head. ‘Those three shillings saved me, kept me going until I heard about the camp and came up here.’

I looked at Barak and Nicholas, remembering Jane Reynolds’s words in court – ‘Edith, God save you, I wanted a boy.’ I said, ‘I think she is in mental agony.’ I frowned. ‘Why does she keep saying, “I wanted a boy”?’

Nicholas said quietly, ‘Perhaps the twins killed their mother after all.’

* * *