Over breakfast John Goodcole told me he had hired four good horses to be available early on Monday morning, to transport Nicholas, Lockswood, myself and our baggage to Norwich. I thanked him gratefully. He also handed me a letter, just delivered by a rider from Hatfield. I opened it. It was from Parry:
Master Shardlake, greetings.
I send this letter to reach you before you depart for Norfolk. I have arranged rooms for you and Master Overton for two weeks from the thirteenth of June, which should be the earliest you will arrive. They are at the Maid’s Head Inn, by the cathedral, one of the best in Norwich. It is in Tombland district, at a little distance from the market square below which stand the castle gaol and the Shire Hall, where the trial will be held. Most of the lawyers will be staying at the market square inns, so you will be away from all the gossip.
Yesterday I had occasion to meet with Master William Cecil, Secretary to the Protector, with whom I know you are acquainted. He is my distant relative and is to be trusted on matters concerning the Lady Elizabeth. I mentioned the Boleyn case to him, and sought his discretion should any rumours reach him. I also mentioned you were going to Norfolk to carry out discreet enquiries.
Please write and let me know when you are safely arrived in Norwich.
Your loving friend,
Thomas Parry
I had not realized that Parry was related to William Cecil. I guessed he had asked Cecil to keep any rumours about John Boleyn from the Protector. And he was lodging me at an inn some distance from where the other lawyers would be. I understood his desire for discretion, but that would be difficult if I were to investigate things properly as the Lady Elizabeth wished. I was conscious of the sealed application for a pardon which Elizabeth had handed me before I left Hatfield, and which was carefully locked away at my house. I hoped I would never have to use it.
I SPENT THE MORNING at Lincoln’s Inn, where, fortunately, I managed to find people to deal with my cases temporarily, then went into my chambers with a list of instructions for Skelly. Nicholas was already there, finishing some work of his own.
‘Looking forward to tonight, hey?’ I asked.
‘I am, sir. It was good of you to ask Master Coleswyn to invite the Kenzy family.’
‘Well, I know you are keen to see the delightful Beatrice.’
Nicholas flushed slightly, and Skelly lowered his head to hide a smile. I reflected again that there was something about Beatrice Kenzy that I did not like, but it was not for me to lay rocks in the path of my assistant, who seemed genuinely smitten.
‘Do you know who else is coming?’ Nicholas asked.
‘I think it is just Philip Coleswyn and his wife, us and the Kenzys. And Philip’s old mother, who lives with them now, to make up the numbers.’
‘Has he not invited a lady to pique your interest?’
‘Not unless the old woman piques it. But I believe she is over seventy.’
Philip was a good friend; I had met him when we were on opposite sides in a particularly unpleasant case, and he had shown himself an honest and compassionate man. He was a strong Protestant, but open-minded enough to mix with people with differing views. Philip knew Beatrice’s father, another barrister, from work, and with typical kindness he had agreed to invite us all to supper so that Nicholas could further his pursuit of Beatrice.
THE SUPPER WAS arranged for six o’clock, and I walked from my house to Coleswyn’s residence in Little Britain Street, off Smithfield. It stood in a row of old dwellings, their overhanging jettied roofs giving welcome shade from the sun, which late in the afternoon was hot still. Summer, it appeared, had arrived at last.
Before setting out I had begun packing for Norwich, and had looked out my last letter from my old servant Josephine. I remember it said that she was pregnant, that she and her husband were in difficulty, and I had sent some money. I realized it was six months since then. The address they gave was Pit Street, St Michael’s Coslany, Norwich. I had no idea where that might be. I thought, Pit Street; Tombland. Neither name seemed to augur well.
I was a little late, the last to arrive. I had dressed in my black summer robe with a brown doublet beneath, silver aiglets on silk cords the only concessions to colour, remembering this was a Protestant house where modesty in dress was favoured. And indeed, when I was shown into the parlour and Philip stepped forward to greet me, he wore a dark doublet beneath his robe, the white collar of his shirt the only contrast. He had grown the long beard fashionable among radicals. He took my hand. ‘Matthew. God give you good evening.’
‘I am sorry to be late.’
‘Just a little, no matter.’
His wife, Ethelreda, came forward and curtsied. She was a fair-haired, attractive woman, like her husband nearing forty. She wore a brown dress, her hair bound under the blue circlet of a French hood. I thought how different she looked from the worn, frightened figure I had first met three years before, when the old king’s final hunt against Protestant heretics was in full swing.
‘Ethelreda. You look well. How are your children?’
‘Growing fast. But we have a good tutor, who keeps them in order.’ Unlike the Boleyn twins, I thought, with whom no tutor would stay. ‘Come,’ she continued. ‘This is my husband’s mother.’ An old woman with white hair under a gable hood, a discontented expression on her plump, wrinkled face, sat in a chair. ‘Mother,’ Ethelreda said, ‘this is Serjeant Matthew Shardlake, our good friend. My mother-in-law, Mistress Margaret Coleswyn.’
The old lady turned a keen, wintry gaze on me, then gave a crooked smile. ‘I see you are an old white-head, like me. Young people are too quick to show off their hair these days, headgear is not as modest as it was.’
Edward Kenzy stepped forward. In his fifties and a fellow-barrister at Lincoln’s Inn, he was a political and religious conservative, a seasoned cynic about both the law and the world, who enjoyed good conversation, food and wine. I had met him several times in the course of business, and despite our different opinions I rather liked him. Under his lawyer’s robe he wore a dark red silken doublet; the collar of his shirt was decorated in elaborate blackwork. Old Mistress Coleswyn, for whom, no doubt, he was too gaudily dressed, frowned. Cheerfully ignoring her, Kenzy shook my hand. ‘Brother Shardlake,’ he said. ‘It is a while since we have seen you in the courts. The Lady Elizabeth must be keeping you busy. Young Master Overton tells my daughter you are off to Norfolk on her affairs on Monday.’
‘Yes, we are.’ I looked across to where Nicholas stood in conversation with Beatrice Kenzy. He was not wearing his robe, but a new doublet of light green satin and a black belt with a decorated golden buckle at his waist. Both looked costly. Beatrice wore a blue dress with a high collar, a jewelled pendant round her neck. She was a pretty girl, black-haired like her father, her face white with powder. She was listening to Nicholas with wide-eyed attention, her small mouth set in a slight simper. It was that simpering expression, I realized, that had set me against her, unfairly perhaps, for I had always favoured strong-minded, intelligent women. Standing just near enough to hear the conversation was a middle-aged woman so like Beatrice that she had to be her mother. She wore a fashionable little hat on her greying hair instead of a hood, and a yellow dress with contrasting black sleeves.