Tombland

LUNCHTIME ARRIVED . Nicholas and I, depressed by the sights of the morning, returned to the Swardeston camp to eat a meagre meal – there was only stale bread and beer left. We were sitting round the ashes of the campfire when we heard footsteps approaching. Four soldiers carrying halberds appeared. At their head, looking grim, was Michael Vowell.

‘What is it?’ Nicholas asked coldly.

Vowell spoke in a formal tone. ‘Serjeant Matthew Shardlake, Master Nicholas Overton, we have reason to believe you are spies for the enemy, and thieves, too.’

I rose to my feet, a cold feeling in my stomach. ‘What are you talking about? We are neither.’

Vowell, his eyes still on me, waved to his men. ‘Search that hut. Turn it inside out.’

‘You can’t do that,’ Nicholas protested. ‘Where is your authority?’ For answer one of Vowell’s men levelled the point of his halberd at his chest.

We had to stand outside while the hut was searched; we heard our bracken bedding pulled apart. Then one of the soldiers reappeared, holding a letter in his hand, as well as the pendant I had admired that day at Surrey Place; I remembered Vowell had been present then. The man handed both to Vowell, who waved the pendant at me. ‘I remember you coveting this. You said it reminded you of a similar one worn by your former employer, the late Queen Catherine Parr – whose brother the Marquess of Northampton led the first attack on us last month.’

‘Traitors,’ one of the soldiers said. ‘Kett should never have allowed them here.’

I looked at Michael Vowell. ‘Take us, then, to Captain Kett.’

For answer Vowell opened the letter and read it aloud: ‘“Urgent and secret; to the noble Earl of Warwick; 25 August 1549: My Lord, today we managed to study carefully the defences which the rebels have erected against an assault on Mousehold Heath. I have prepared a diagram, which is enclosed. Your Grace’s loyal servants, Matthew Shardlake and Nicholas Overton”.’ The signatures were crude impersonations. The diagram, which Vowell held up, was a rough but accurate representation of the defences we had seen yesterday.

Vowell turned to his men. ‘I myself saw Shardlake and Overton inspecting the defences yesterday. Toby Lockswood, God save his soul, who died yesterday fighting for the Commonwealth, knew they were traitors but Kett was too soft, he trusted them.’

I said, ‘That letter is a crude forgery, and I did not steal the pendant.’ I remembered the disturbed bracken. ‘You planted both in our hut yesterday. I say again, take us to Captain Kett.’

Vowell laughed. ‘Do you think he has time to waste on you? Now? But he will be shown the letter and diagram.’

I looked at the soldiers. ‘None of what Michael Vowell says is true. He is doing this because he knows I have discovered he is a murderer.’

‘Kiss my arse,’ one of them replied flatly. ‘Master Vowell is a trusted aide to Captain Kett. As for you pair, you’re going to Surrey Place, to be chained in front of our forces with the other gemmun.’

I looked at Nicholas. Stupidly, given the information I had about him, I had not thought Vowell an immediate danger. But he had prepared everything carefully.

He looked at me coldly. ‘Take Overton to Surrey Place now. Tie Shardlake’s hands, but leave him with me. I think I will give him a lesson about telling lies to a captain of the Commonwealth; I shall fetch him to Surrey Place shortly.’

My hands were bound behind me, then Nicholas, resisting fiercely, was taken away. Vowell, smiling openly now, gestured me to enter the hut.

He pushed me roughly to the floor, and sat down comfortably in the opposite corner, giving me a concentrated stare as he pulled a knife from his belt, and began gently picking at his fingernails.

‘I need to know,’ he said quietly, ‘how you guessed I was one of those who murdered Edith Boleyn. I realized you knew from the way you looked at me yesterday – a spy like me learns to read faces quickly – and yes, I have been a spy for the government myself since the beginning, that letter and diagram are copies of the ones I took to Warwick’s camp myself. You can either tell me, or I can torture it out of you with this knife. I told the lads I was going to teach you a lesson.’

Realizing there was nothing I could do, I took a deep breath. ‘When you came with me to Norwich three weeks ago, you said Jane Reynolds’s swollen hands were a family trait, and Edith had it in later life. But how could you have known that unless you had seen her recently? It was being with Peter Bone, and his talking of his sister, that reminded me. One of his sisters was actually Edith Boleyn in disguise. She ran from Brikewell with Grace Bone nine years ago, taking the identity of their other sister, who had died.’

Vowell laughed out loud. ‘So that was what happened to her. I have wondered over the years. The lady of Brikewell Manor, husband of Anne Boleyn’s relative, working as a spinner. Oh, that is funny.’

‘It was a family tragedy.’