Tombland

To reach the series of enormous grassy mounds on which Norwich Castle was built we had to cross an open area where stalls for tomorrow’s cattle market had been set up, then a filthy stream, before following a long circular path to the causeway giving entrance to the great building. The sun was higher now, and by the time we reached the causeway, I was hot, my back beginning to hurt again, though both Lockswood and Nicholas looked quite fresh, despite the events of the night before. We then had to walk along the causeway itself. Eventually, we reached the main doorway, a huge semicircular arch. The great wooden doors were closed, but a well-built guard carrying a polished halberd stood at a small clicket door set into one of them. He wore a round helmet and the white tunic of a soldier, the letters ER embossed on it, reminding me that authority over the castle rested with the King, not the city. He was watching a man nail a large, official-looking paper to the castle door. He finished and nodded to the guard. ‘Off to the Guildhall next,’ he said and walked off down the causeway.

Lockswood studied the official-looking paper. He stroked his black beard, then whistled.

‘Another proclamation from the Protector?’ I asked.

‘Ay.’ We leaned forward to read it. Toby said, ‘See, it offers a general pardon for all those who rioted against enclosures in the spring. Against Sir William Herbert and his like.’

Nicholas frowned. ‘What is he thinking? At this time? With the rebellion in the West. It’ll only encourage others to do the same.’

Toby answered, his face expressionless, ‘Yes, it could, couldn’t it?’

I went to the guard and showed him the letter of authority which Copuldyke had given me in London. ‘We are here to see a prisoner, John Boleyn,’ I told him. The man nodded and let us through the clicket door. We walked under a stone-flagged porch and a magnificently decorated arch into a huge, empty space, dimly lit by high windows. The place smelled, like all prisons, of sweat, urine and damp. Despite the heat outside, the air was chill and dank. Another couple of guards were playing cards at a trestle table. One came over, an enquiring look on his face, and when I explained my business he shouted, ‘Oreston!’ in a voice which echoed round the vast chamber. I heard footsteps ascending a metal staircase, then an inner door opened and a heavily built young man in a dirty smock, a club at his belt, walked over to us. ‘A cartful of lawyers to see Boleyn,’ he was told. The gaoler looked at us curiously. ‘Someone is taking a great interest in Master Boleyn, I see.’

‘His lawyer in London is unable to attend.’ I nodded at Toby. ‘This is his assistant, Goodman Lockswood.’

The gaoler led us through a door and down a flight of circular iron steps into another broad area, stone-flagged, dimly lit by high windows, containing several doors with small barred windows. Our footsteps made an echoing clang as we descended, and several pale, desperate men came and looked through the bars. The gaoler led us over to a door, opening it with a key from a large bunch at his belt.

John Boleyn’s cell was small, lit only by a tiny barred window under the roof. I guessed we must be underground. There were dirty rushes on the floor, a stinking pail, a stool and a truckle bed with a straw mattress the only furniture. A man sat on the bed, squinting to try and read a New Testament by the light from the window. He looked up. I had expected someone fair and burly like the twins, but their father, though tall and athletically built, had black hair and a black beard. His lined, dirty face looked worn out, and there was a shocked expression in his wide blue eyes. It was hard to believe this was a substantial Norfolk landowner. I remembered Lockswood, in London, saying that Boleyn was in a sorrowful state.

The gaoler asked cheerfully, ‘Making your peace with God, master, before you hang?’

Boleyn stared back at him contemptuously.

‘Get out,’ I told the gaoler. He shrugged and left, locking the door behind him.

I extended a hand to Boleyn. ‘I am Serjeant Matthew Shardlake, sent to look into this matter on behalf of Master Copuldyke. My assistant, Master Overton. I think you know Goodman Lockswood.’

‘Ay,’ Boleyn replied in cultivated tones. ‘You are a serjeant-at-law? I had not expected someone so senior.’

I smiled. ‘There are those who would help you, Master Boleyn. I am not allowed to represent you in court as it is a criminal case, but I will investigate the facts further, see if new light can be thrown on the matter. Do you mind if I take the stool? My back has been troublesome of late.’

‘Have you seen my wife, my Isabella?’ Boleyn asked with sudden emotion.

‘No, but I hope to go over to Brikewell and see her tomorrow.’

‘They say she is my wife no more, the chaplain will not let her visit.’ Boleyn sighed angrily. ‘They will hang me. They don’t like my name, they don’t like my wife, my neighbour covets my lands –’