Tombland

A number of inns stood at the top of the marketplace, just above the Guildhall. Little groups of people stood talking outside. The inns where the lawyers would stay when the Assizes arrived, I thought. As we approached, a stocky man in his late thirties detached himself from one group and marched towards us. He wore a green doublet and black hose, a wide red cap covering his brown hair. The thing that drew Toby’s eye towards him, though, was that he lacked a right hand, having instead a metal rod with a curved handle, below a pointed end covered in a leather sheath. With the handle he held a leather bag.

‘Jack!’ I said, leaning over to take his proffered left hand. ‘I hadn’t expected to see you in Norwich so soon!’

‘I hadn’t expected to see you at all! But when I saw a gentleman surrounded by a crowd of eager beggars, I thought it must be you. And Nicholas, how fare you, long lad?’

‘Well enough.’ Toby looked a little surprised at their familiarity, but though my former assistant had started life as a child of the streets, he had helped train Nicholas up, and the three of us had lived through the events that ended with Barak losing his right hand to a swordsman.

I indicated Toby. ‘This is Goodman Lockswood, a Norwich man assisting us on the case that brings us here.’ They shook hands.

‘You’re here on a case?’ Barak asked. ‘At the Assizes?’

‘Yes.’

‘One of the civil law matters? A land case?’

I hesitated. ‘Not quite. I’d welcome the chance to discuss it with you, if you have time. But why are you here now? Surely the trials are not due until next week.’

‘No, the judges are still in Cambridgeshire. I’m one of those sent ahead, to sniff out the air in Norwich, see which of the Protector’s proclamations are being properly observed – which is pretty well bugger all – how folk are reacting to the Prayer Book, what sort of people might be suitable for jury service.’ He inclined his head back to the group he had been talking to. ‘That’s what I’m doing now.’ Then his eyes narrowed. ‘What sort of case is this one of yours, then? A criminal one? You won’t be allowed to represent the accused.’

‘Later,’ I said quietly. ‘Where are your lodgings?’

‘An inn down by the river. The Blue Boar. At the far end of Holme Street. It’s a bit of a hike from here, but the likes of me don’t get the best quarters. Where are you staying?’

‘The Maid’s Head, in Tombland.’

‘Very nice. I pass it on my way into the city.’ He paused, and looked at me. ‘You look pale, are you feeling all right?’

‘Yes, yes,’ I answered irritably. ‘Just a little trouble with my back. Can I meet you for a drink at the Blue Boar later? Say at seven.’

‘All right. You can tell me what trouble you’ve got yourself into now.’ Barak winked at Nicholas, gave Toby a salute with his artificial hand, then turned and walked back to his fellows.

* * *

WE RODE OUT of the marketplace, into the busy, tangled alleyways of the centre of the city, and through the clanging noise of the metalworkers’ district. I remarked that many of the buildings looked new. Toby said, ‘There were two great summer fires in central Norwich forty years ago. It could happen again, the new houses are mostly lath and plaster. It was mostly flint buildings, like the churches, which survived.’

‘The city seems full of churches,’ Nicholas observed.

Toby replied with a rare smile, ‘They say there are more churches and alehouses in Norwich than anywhere in England.’ He turned to me. ‘So that was the man who used to work for you.’

‘Yes. Jack Barak.’

We passed a large, ancient stone building where workmen were carrying in bales of cloth. Toby told me it had been a great Dominican friary before the Dissolution, and had been sold to the city by old King Henry. Then we rode down a street of new houses, built since the fires, mostly dwellings of richer citizens, which Toby said was called Elm Hill. At the far end, just below where a flint church stood, the street crossed a broader highway. Nearby I saw a bridge over the brown, muddy river. Toby turned in the opposite direction, downhill. The huge cathedral with its high, narrow spire now dominated the view. Beyond, in the distance, I saw a large heath, surprisingly high in the flat Norfolk landscape, the grass dotted with sheep.

We rode down towards the cathedral. Toby stopped just before the highway ended in a broad space fronting the walled cathedral precinct. ‘That is Tombland,’ he said.

‘Why is it called that? Was it once a burial ground for the cathedral?’

‘No. It’s always been called Tombland, perhaps the name comes from the old Saxons. Only the richest have houses there.’ He nodded to his left, where a wide gateway set in the wall of a large building stood open. ‘And this is the main entrance to your inn, the Maid’s Head.’

* * *