Tombland

Cecil smiled thinly. ‘But trouble has a habit of finding you.’ He stopped, and looked back at the pulpit from which Cranmer had spoken. ‘We took a great step today. Before long, we shall go further, and have a service that makes clear the bread and water are only a commemoration of Christ’s sacrifice.’

‘That is what the Protector wishes?’

He looked at me seriously. ‘It is what the King wishes. Their minds are as one.’

We had reached the door. Cecil turned and shook my hand. ‘Take some time to enjoy Norwich, Master Shardlake, it is a beautiful city. And the Norfolk people mostly favour the reformed faith, Southwell and the Lady Mary notwithstanding. And keep a low profile, eh?’ He walked down the steps to where a little group of servants stood waiting for him. I stepped out into the sunshine. Philip Coleswyn came across, with Ethelreda and their two young children. Like Cecil’s, his face was alight with enthusiasm. ‘So, it is done,’ he said.

‘Cranmer is certainly a great preacher.’

‘It was good to see you at supper last night,’ Philip said. ‘I am sorry if the conversation became a little – fractious.’

I smiled. ‘Conversations tend to, in these days. No, it was a fine meal, and interesting company. Thank you for inviting the Kenzys.’

‘Edward Kenzy is a man of reaction, though, oddly, I cannot help liking him.’

‘I like him too. He says what he thinks, with candour.’

‘Though his wife –’ Ethelreda stopped herself.

Philip raised his eyebrows. ‘Perhaps the less said about her the better.’ We laughed. ‘When you return from Norfolk you must come and dine again.’

‘I will.’

I watched them go, envying their family happiness, then walked away. I thought suddenly of Edward and Josephine Brown. Their child would have been born by now. I would have to seek them out when I got to Norfolk.

I had not been concentrating on where I was going, and looked up at the sight of a crowd gathered at the head of an alley leading to Carter Lane. In the middle of the group a man was on his knees. His hands covered his face; blood seeped through his fingers and there was a bright red stain on the grey cobbles. He was surrounded by half a dozen grinning soldiers wearing white tunics with the Cross of St George. I remembered the Boleyn twins and the beggar boy they had tormented. This, though, was worse. The crowd, mostly apprentices but a few workmen and a couple of women too, looked on appreciatively and called approval as a soldier aimed a kick at the man’s side with a boot. He groaned and put a hand out to the wall to stop himself from falling.

‘I’m no a spy,’ he said in a thick Scotch accent, ‘I’ve been in London these ten years, an honest worker—’

Someone from the crowd called out, ‘If you’re Scotch, why aren’t you up fighting with your countrymen?’

‘Yes, have you no honour?’ The soldier who had aimed the kick, a large fellow who seemed to be the ringleader, drew his foot back for another. ‘Come, spy, uncover your face! I’ll make it so your mother won’t recognize you!’

There was a bustle of movement, and to my relief I saw the stout figure of Lord Mayor Amcoates approaching, in his red robes and huge gold chain, half a dozen constables with clubs at his side. He stepped forward, face red with fury above his long grey beard. Beside him walked another soldier; about forty, tall and slim, with a seamed face, beaky nose, and short brown beard. He had an air of authority, though his expression was one of irritation.

‘In the name of the King, stop this brawling!’ the mayor shouted at the soldiers. ‘God’s death, I’ll have you all hanged for riot and desertion! Captain Drury, bring your men to order!’ He glared at the soldier beside him, who gave the mayor a narrow-eyed look but called to his men to stand to attention, which they immediately did, stepping away from the Scotchman. The mayor turned to the crowd, which was already melting away. ‘Be off with you all!’ he shouted. ‘Go find a cockfight!’ The Scotchman, meanwhile, made an attempt to stand but fell back; I caught a glimpse of his blackened eyes. He spat out a couple of bloody teeth. Seeing this, Captain Drury gave a smile that sent a chill through me.

‘What’s this hurly-burly, men?’ Drury asked the soldiers in a jesting tone.

‘We came into town, sir, to see what was happening,’ the man who had kicked the Scotchman answered. ‘That Scotch ape came out the tavern and called us English hogs! It was a stain on our honour, sir.’

The man lifted his shattered face, looked at the mayor, and desperately tried to speak, his voice muffled by the blood that dripped from his mouth. ‘I didnae! I was buying a chapbook from a peddler, the soldiers heard my accent and set on me! I’ve lived in London ten years, I earn my bread honestly –’

Mayor Amcoates looked down at him with distaste. ‘How? What do you do?’

‘I work for a grain merchant, sir. Master Jackson at Three Cranes Wharf. I fetch grain from the docks, help in the warehouse – I’ve a wife and children –’