‘It is.’
‘He looks as though he has all the cares of the world on his shoulders.’
‘Those of the kingdom, certainly,’ Nicholas remarked. ‘You have not seen him before, Lockswood?’
‘Yes, now you point him out. I went to watch the procession to open the Parliament two years ago, and saw him riding next to the King. It was the King I watched, of course, dressed all in purple and gold, so many jewels on his clothes they shone in the sun.’ He shook his head in reminiscence. ‘Such a little boy. They say he is much grown now.’
‘Still six years till he comes to his majority,’ I said.
Nicholas said, ‘Perhaps Somerset House may even be built by then.’
‘Perhaps. Come on,’ I said. ‘We should not stand staring, and the dust hurts my eyes.’
THE SOUTH SIDE of the Strand was where the great men of the realm had their houses, gardens running down to the river making an easy boat ride to London or Westminster. The buildings on the north side were older and less grand, lanes between them running up to the open fields beyond. Boleyn’s house was at the top of such a lane, a rambling house built round a central courtyard, probably an old farmhouse. I noticed loose tiles and chipped paintwork. Lockswood produced a key and opened the heavy front door. We followed him in. The place was only half furnished, everything covered with dust from the Protector’s building site. I smelled damp, too.
‘Looks as though it needs some work to make a gentleman’s town house,’ Nicholas said.
‘Maybe Boleyn’s eyes were larger than his purse.’ I turned to Lockswood. ‘I think we should look for those papers.’
‘Master Boleyn said his office was upstairs. We can find them, make sure everything is secure, and then I must find the local constable. Master Copuldyke has given me a half-sovereign to grease his palm, make sure he continues to keep a good eye on the house.’ Lockswood smiled tightly. ‘He’ll be sure to enter it in the ledger to claim back from Master Parry.’
We climbed the staircase. A number of rooms gave off the landing. One door was half open, the room within furnished as an office – a desk, a few stools, and a large wooden chest. The walls were bare except for an old portrait of a stern-looking, black-haired man in the red robes of a London alderman. On the frame was a plaque, Geoffrey Boleyn, 1401–1463.
‘Anne Boleyn’s great-grandfather,’ I said, ‘who came to London and made his fortune.’
‘He was brother to John Boleyn’s great-grandfather,’ Lockswood explained.
‘You know something of the family?’
‘’Tis my business to know about the Norfolk gentry, sir. When claimants call on the Lady Elizabeth, my master sends me out to find their antecedents.’ I noticed again the keenness in Lockswood’s blue eyes, contrasting with his cautious expression. He went to the chest, producing another key. It would not turn. Frowning, he attempted to lift the lid. It opened, showing compartments filled with paper, documents and writing materials. ‘That’s odd,’ he said. ‘Master Boleyn said I’d need the key.’ He looked among the papers, then pulled out a folder containing an ancient plan along with some parchment scribed in Latin and Norman French. ‘I think this is it,’ he said.
I held out a hand for the plan and opened it carefully. It was a faded, yellowed parchment, hundreds of years old, with a coloured plan of the North and South Brikewell manors. The stream boundary, I noticed, followed the course of the old stream. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Here it is—’
I broke off at the sound of running feet from the corridor outside, coming from the back of the house. I glanced at the doorway, then turned to the window, my eye caught by a movement outside. To my astonishment I saw a dirty, barefoot, ragged boy of about ten running frantically across the stone flags of the courtyard. Suddenly he gave a cry and fell over, blood welling up through the dirty linen of his shirt. He struggled to rise but as he got to his feet he howled and fell over again, grasping one arm.
‘Got him!’ a voice cried.
‘Me too! One hit each!’ The voice which answered was almost identical, educated but with a slight lengthening of the vowels. Then two stocky fair-haired young men ran past the door of the office, not seeing us, and clattered down the stairs. I realized that from the back of the house they would not have heard us enter.
Nicholas and I stared at each other in surprise, and Nicholas’s hand went to his sword hilt. ‘What on earth –?’ I asked.
Lockswood looked suddenly grim. ‘It’s the twins.’
We watched as the fair-haired lads, dressed in good-quality doublets, ran from the inner door into the courtyard. In build they were identical. Each carried a sling; they must have used them to hurl stones at the child from the windows. The little boy was trying to get up again. One of the twins kicked him in the ribs and he cried out in pain and fear.
Lockswood’s face was suddenly grim. ‘We must stop this.’ He headed for the door. I grasped his arm.
‘Are those John Boleyn’s sons?’
‘They are, sir. They must have made their way to London, perhaps to seek what they could steal from here. If we don’t stop them,’ he said seriously, taking a deep breath, ‘they might kill that child.’
The three of us rapidly descended the staircase and stepped into the morning sunshine. The ragged child was still trying to escape, but each time a well-aimed kick sent him falling over again. ‘Think you can camp out in our father’s house, you little beggar thief?’ one of the twins asked.
‘What have you stolen, eh?’ The other was talking now. ‘Hope it’s enough to have you hanged.’ Their tone was jesting, mocking, their voices hardly raised.
‘Master Gerald, Master Barnabas!’ Lockswood called out. ‘Stop that, please.’
The two boys looked up. Their faces were square, with wide, flat noses, thin lips and small blue eyes. They could be told apart only by the long, narrow scar which one had running from his mouth to his ear, standing out pale on his suntanned face. They stared at us coldly, while the injured boy lay on the cobblestones, weeping now.
The scarred twin grinned, showing square white teeth. ‘Here, Gerald,’ he said. ‘It’s that nosy clerk Lockswood. Maarnin’ there, Toby Lockswood,’ he said in an exaggerated Norfolk drawl. ‘What’s frampling yew, bor?’
‘How yer diddlin, Toby?’ The other followed his brother’s lead. ‘Brung a pair o’ laawyers, have yer? A hunchback an a long streely lad.’
‘Did you not hear us come in?’ Lockswood asked.
‘We were busy having fun,’ the boy without the scar answered, reverting to his educated voice.
Lockswood reddened, but spoke firmly. ‘We are here to secure your father’s premises, and fetch some documents. What are you doing to that poor child?’
‘Poor child?’ the one without the scar answered. ‘He’s a little thief and burglar. We, too, came to see how the house fared; we were just leaving when we found him camped in the kitchen, little mitcher. Did your job for you, I reckon.’
‘Did your father authorize you to come here?’ I asked sharply.
‘Who are you, Master Hunch-fuck?’
Nicholas put his hand on his sword hilt. ‘You’ll show my master some respect,’ he said.
The boys stood shoulder to shoulder and met his stare, quite unintimidated. ‘Don’t go threatening us, you long streak of piss.’
Nicholas stepped forward, but I clutched his arm to hold him back. I said to the boys, ‘I am Master Shardlake, appointed by Master Copuldyke to represent your father. I am coming to Norfolk next week to help with his defence in the case of your mother’s murder.’ I hoped that by speaking directly of the terrible things that had happened to their parents the boys might be cowed, but they shrugged in unison, as though they could not have cared less. I looked at the little boy on the ground. ‘What were you doing to him?’