I traced a dotted line which cut through the middle of the North Brikewell woodland, pasture and waste, marked old stream bed. ‘Is that the line which Witherington claims is the proper boundary?’
‘Yes,’ Copuldyke answered. ‘According to the original grant to the monks – a centuries-old piece of parchment like all the monkish title deeds – the boundary between the two manors is described as “the Brikewell stream”. There is evidence of an old stream bed there, but some time over the course of the past four hundred years, the stream has shifted its course, as happens in that sandy country. It is an interesting legal problem. Is the proper boundary today the present course of the stream, or the stream as it was when the document was made? Of such matters are long and profitable court cases made, eh, Brother?’ He smiled and rubbed his hands together.
I considered. ‘When Boleyn and Witherington bought the manors ten years ago, they obviously accepted the modern boundary.’
Copuldyke raised a finger. ‘But Witherington says the old deeds were not delivered to them until after purchase. Otherwise he would have questioned it. You know what the Court of Augmentations is like for delay.’
‘I’m sure a court would say that it was Witherington’s responsibility to check the boundaries.’
Lockswood interrupted with a gentle cough. ‘The present issue, I believe, is that Witherington’s tenants have been discontented with him over the enclosure of part of the common pasture. The tenants say they have not enough left to graze their animals, the horses and bullocks they need to pull their ploughs, the cows to give them milk –’
Copuldyke barked with laughter again. ‘And so on and so on, tenants always scream nowadays if they lose an inch of common land. But Witherington has proposed a remedy to his tenants – if he can gain control over the land between the current stream and the old stream bed, he has promised to turn half of it over to common pasture for the tenants, keeping only half for sheep.’
‘If he can gain control of it,’ I observed.
Lockswood turned to me. ‘If Witherington won his argument, the North Brikewell tenants would lose a good deal of their common land. There is now a good degree of enmity between the two villages, though some of the tenantry in both blame Witherington’s plans. A few months ago there was a fight between tenants of the two villages when Witherington tried to move some of his sheep onto the North Brikewell common pasture. I believe the Boleyn boys were involved.’
‘Yet Witherington has not taken the matter to court,’ I said. ‘Perhaps his lawyer advised him he will lose. It certainly gives Witherington a motive to get John Boleyn out of the way. He could then try to buy up North Brikewell and be done with it.’
Copuldyke said, ‘But if Southwell wanted it, I doubt Witherington would dare do battle with him.’ He shrugged. ‘Though perhaps he and Southwell could arrange some exchange of lands.’
‘Thank you, Lockswood,’ I said pointedly. ‘I see the situation on the ground more clearly. And I look forward to your coming with us.’
Lockswood gave a little bow. ‘I shall be glad to give what help I can.’
Copuldyke sighed and looked put upon. ‘I can’t really spare Toby just now, but Master Parry is an important client. There’s one more thing that needs doing,’ he added. ‘When Toby visited John Boleyn in prison he asked if someone could go and ensure his London house was secure, and remove the deeds and associated documents relating to his land from there. When he is not in town he pays the local watch to keep an extra eye on the place. It’s not far, on the north side of the Strand opposite Somerset House. Toby has the key.’
‘Perhaps we could go there now,’ I said. ‘Get things underway.’
‘All right. But come straight back after, Toby, I’ve some errands for you before you disappear to Norfolk.’
I rose and bowed to Copuldyke. ‘I thank you for your assistance, Brother.’
He gave me a weary look. ‘Just keep this matter out of my hair, Serjeant Shardlake. That is all I ask.’
We went out. And I thought, If John Boleyn had his deeds and documents in London, what did this do to his claim that the night Edith was killed he had spent two hours studying his deeds and legal matters in his North Brikewell study?
Chapter Six
John Boleyn’s town house lay on the north side of the Strand, opposite the huge construction site of Somerset House. As Nicholas, Lockswood and I walked down Chancery Lane, I studied the young man who would be our guide to what was happening in Norfolk. The light breeze ruffled his black hair and beard, but his round face was expressionless.
‘Have you worked for Master Copuldyke long?’ I asked.
‘Five years.’
‘And you are a farmer’s son? My father was a yeoman in Lichfield.’
‘A good farming area, from what I hear,’ Lockswood answered neutrally. I remembered Copuldyke saying his father’s farm was too small to support his son, and changed the subject. ‘The papers at John Boleyn’s house are connected with the Brikewell manors?’
‘I believe so. When I visited him in prison, he said he’d brought them down to London as he planned to consult a lawyer.’
‘So,’ I said, ‘perhaps Witherington planned to go to law over the stream boundary after all.’
‘Yes. Maybe he hoped to wear John Boleyn out with a long battle through the courts.’
Nicholas said, ‘This Witherington sounds as though he has an interest in seeing Boleyn hanged.’
‘I do not know. But John Boleyn seems to have been content to live quietly on his lands, spending part of the time at his London house, while Master Witherington is one of those who would pile land on land, money on money, and hope for a knighthood at the end of it. As the saying goes,’ Lockswood added, sadly, ‘never in England were there so many gentlemen and so little gentleness.’
‘Come, fellow, you exaggerate,’ Nicholas said, adopting the patronizing tone he sometimes used to those of lower status. ‘There are many fine and honest gentlemen in England.’
‘I’m sure you are right, sir,’ Lockswood said, blank-faced again.
We turned the corner into the Strand, passing under the arch of Temple Bar. A pall of dust hung in the air, which set me coughing, and there was the sound of sawing and hammering from the southern side of the road where hundreds of men were working on Somerset House. The huge palace, fronted with high columns, was almost complete, but work continued on the many lesser buildings; trenches were being dug, foundations laid, timber was being sawed, masons in aprons worked on great blocks of stone. As we passed on the other side of the road Nicholas said, ‘Remember last year, when they blew up part of the old St Paul’s charnel house with gunpowder, sending the bones of ancient aldermen flying across the town?’
‘I do, indeed. An ancient thigh bone with part of a shroud attached landed in my neighbour’s garden.’
Nicholas grasped my arm, bringing me to a halt. ‘Look!’ he said excitedly, pointing across the road. ‘Is that not the Protector?’
I followed his gaze, and saw a tall, thin man with a long, pointed fair beard, a richly coloured robe, and a guard of three swordsmen in Seymour livery. He was bending over a plan laid out on a trestle table, where an architect in a long robe was indicating features with a pointer. I had met Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset and Lord Protector, briefly, in the old king’s time, and was struck by how much older he looked, his thin face hollow-cheeked, his expression severe. He stroked his long beard as he followed the architect’s words.
‘Is that him?’ Lockswood asked curiously. ‘The Good Duke?’ He used the name which Somerset had gained by his professed friendship for the poor.