Tombland

‘And the poor hardly fared well by trusting Somerset. It is said eleven thousand died across the country in the suppression of the rebellions.’

Philip sighed. ‘Was there ever such a year as this?’

‘I cannot remember one.’

He left soon after. I sat staring from my window, where the cobbles of Lincoln’s Inn courtyard were now covered in autumn leaves. I remembered the Earl of Warwick hinting to me after Dussindale that these whirling days might not yet be quite over. And indeed, throughout September, there had been rumours that most of the Council wanted a change of government. In early October Somerset had issued a proclamation asking his subjects to repair to Hampton Court, where he had taken the young King, ready for battle. Some six thousand, mostly poor Londoners, had gone to support him – incredibly, even after Dussindale, some still saw him as the friend of the poor. They had, though, only the most basic arms and no training, whilst Lords Russell and Herbert, leaders of the military forces against the rebels in the West, declared for Warwick on the way back to London with their armies. Somerset moved Edward to Windsor, but on the ninth of October he had surrendered, realizing he could not win. The Protectorate was abolished, and authority returned to the whole Council, though there was little doubt that Warwick would be its leader. A few days later, I saw the young King ride through London, cheered by the crowds, waving in acknowledgement. The poor boy had been moved around like a chess piece by his uncle, and though I noticed he was growing taller, his thin face filling out, his features were marked by the fear he must have experienced that month.

After my talk with Philip I went through to see Nicholas. He had his own room now, and was reading a deposition. But he looked bad, his red hair uncombed, his face thinner, emphasizing his long nose, and dark bags under his eyes. I told him of Philip’s visit.

He put down the deposition and looked at me. ‘He is right, I have been discourteous. Though as I have said, Beatrice is not for me.’ He sighed deeply. ‘But who is?’

‘There will be someone.’

He shook his head. ‘I have been thinking about my family, how they disowned me when I refused to marry a girl I did not love, and who did not love me.’

‘That was cruel. But Nicholas, it was three years ago.’

He stood up. ‘All I had left was my status as a gentleman, one without a penny to his name but with proper education and manners. It was all I had left,’ he repeated sadly. ‘But if I am not a real gentleman, nor a commoner, then what am I?’

I crossed the room and took him by the shoulders. ‘A lawyer, Nicholas, and a good one. Let that be enough for now. Memories of Norfolk are still raw, I know, and they will never leave us, but they will fade with time if you let them. And cut the knot with Beatrice as kindly as possible.’

He grasped my arm. ‘Thank you.’

I smiled. ‘And in heaven’s name tidy yourself up, get a shave and a haircut.’

* * *

PHILIP HAD PLANNED the seating so that Beatrice and Nicholas were opposite each other. Philip sat at the head of the table, his wife Ethelreda at the opposite end, while I sat next to Beatrice with her mother Laura on my other side. That left me once more opposite old Margaret Coleswyn, with Edward Kenzy on her other side.

The dinner began quietly, with comments confined to complimenting the food. Beatrice and Nicholas spoke little, Beatrice asking nothing about his time in Norwich. At length he said, ‘I regret I was unable to write when I was away. Circumstances were very difficult.’

‘You have been back over a month.’

‘I am sorry.’

Old Margaret Coleswyn, in her sober black dress and old-fashioned square hood, who did not seem to have grasped the purpose of the dinner, turned on Beatrice and said, ‘You should not pester Master Nicholas, girl. What he must have endured, a prisoner of those godless rebels all these weeks. Look at him, you can see he is but a shadow of himself.’

Beatrice bent her head to her plate.

I looked at old Margaret. Despite their difference in class, she reminded me of Simon Scambler’s aunt. After Dussindale I had made no effort to find her and tell her what had become of her nephew. She would only have been outraged, I was sure, by his baring of his bottom at the Herald. When I thought of Simon I found it hard to keep my tongue bridled, and now I said, ‘The Norfolk rebels were not godless. There was constant preaching in the camp.’

She looked at me, outraged. ‘Then they were not true godly preachers, for did not our Saviour say, “Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s”? Do you speak up for the rebels, Master Shardlake?’

With a warning glance at me, Edward Kenzy bent towards her. ‘Do you know how many words there are in the Bible, good Mistress Coleswyn?’

She looked at him, puzzled. ‘What has that to do with anything?’