Captain Drury showed that nasty smile again, then bowed and ordered his men to fall in behind him. They marched away. Two constables took the Scotchman under the arms and dragged him off, feet bumping over the cobbles, drops of blood falling from his face. I thought of my old friend George Leacon, who had been a captain in the French wars and had gone down on the Mary Rose. He would have been ashamed to see men under his command act like that. But we had been at war so long, perhaps it had turned men into brutes. I glanced at the blood on the cobbles, glistening bright red in the sun. I wish to God it could have been the last such sight I was to see that summer.
Part Two
NORWICH
Chapter Ten
We were due to arrive in Norwich early in the afternoon of Thursday, the thirteenth of June, five days before the Assizes were to begin. It was a long ride, north through Middlesex and Hertfordshire, then north-east to Norfolk. The weather continued warm and sunny, but the roads were in a poor state after the frosty winter followed by the wet spring. Many times we had to plod slowly through mud. I found the journey increasingly hard on my back, as I had feared, and was in some pain by the time we crossed into Norfolk. Nicholas was solicitous of my condition, though Toby Lockswood was keen to proceed as fast as possible and did not appear to notice. Pride prevented me from ordering him to go more slowly, but Nicholas must have spoken to him on our second day, for afterwards he did go at an easier pace. The only times we all speeded up were when we saw groups of masterless men on the road, of which there were a good many, always heading south towards London.
I had already observed that Toby and Nicholas, who lodged together at the inns we slept at, did not get on well. They spoke to each other little, though with me Toby was civil and helpful, if self-contained; he was quiet, though, with something cold about his manner. Nicholas’s gentleman’s habit of talking down to those of lower station, even if he had to work with them, was reasserting itself with Toby.
We entered Norfolk at Thetford, and at first the road cut through forest and woodland country, with many small farms and areas given over to pasture. Much of the woodland was ancient oak, green and verdant, but we had no time to take pleasure in it, slogging steadily on. Shortly after leaving Thetford, Toby pointed to our right and said the Lady Mary’s palace of Kenninghall lay a few miles off in that direction.
We followed the long straight road through Attleborough and the larger town of Wymondham, names which meant nothing to me then. As we approached Wymondham, Toby referred to it as ‘Windham’, which puzzled me as I had seen the longer name on the route plan we carried.
‘But it is spelt Wymondham,’ I said.
‘We do that sometimes in Norfolk,’ he said. ‘Miss out the middle syllable when a word’s too long. Take the easy way round.’
I smiled at this rare sign of humour.
After Wymondham the nature of the countryside changed. There was less woodland; the flat land stretching to the wide horizon was intensively cultivated, apart from occasional areas of sandy heath dotted with forget-me-nots and rabbit burrows. It was what I had expected, a patchwork of open fields divided into strips, but with a good number of self-contained, enclosed farms carved out of them, some quite large. What surprised me were the large areas given over to sheep, more than I had ever seen. Strange-looking creatures too; they had wool curling down in long braids, rather than the short fleeces familiar from the fields round London. They were penned in by strong wicker hurdles about five feet high, connected to each other with metal braces, which sometimes stretched a mile or more along the roadway, often with ditches outside. On the farms the fields were dotted with people weeding the crops, which had not grown nearly as high as one would expect in mid-June. The sheep-runs, though, were empty of people except the occasional shepherd with a boy or dog. One dog ran alongside us for a while, barking wildly on the other side of the fence, scaring the sheep so the silly creatures ran away, huddling together and bleating in panic.
We passed through several villages. Through open windows I saw weavers at their looms, and many women and children stood in the doorways spinning wool on wooden spindles, turning them endlessly. Many people gave us sour looks, and hardly any doffed their caps or bowed as country people customarily did to gentlemen passing through. At one village a cart full of hay, pulled by a bony nag and led by a man in a smock, turned out of a farmyard in front of us. The cart was in the centre of the road and there was room for him to move to one side to let us pass in single file. I thought perhaps he had not seen us and called out, ‘Please, fellow, let us pass!’
The man ignored me. Nicholas frowned and called out angrily, ‘Out of the way, churl! We’re on urgent business!’ The man set his shoulders firmly and continued to proceed along the middle of the road. Toby gave Nicholas a cold stare. ‘Rudeness won’t help you here, master,’ he said. There was a bite on the last word I had never heard before. He called to the man in front, emphasizing his Norfolk accent, ‘Pardon that fellow’s antrums, bor. Be good-doing and let us through, we’re in a hurry to reach Naaritch.’
The farmer looked round at Toby, nodded, and moved the cart to the side.
On the far side of the village Nicholas asked Toby, ‘What are antrums?’
‘Airs and graces,’ Toby answered tersely. ‘’Tis a good thing neither of you are wearing your legal robes. Lawyers are not popular in Norfolk these days.’
WE SPENT THE night at an inn in Wymondham. My back was now so painful I found it difficult to walk without the stick I had brought with me. In the inn yard, as the horses were led away, Nicholas said solicitously, ‘You look uncomfortable, sir.’
‘I’ll be all right when we get to Norwich tomorrow. No more riding.’ I lowered my voice. ‘I think you would do well to be more friendly to Toby. His local knowledge is important to us.’
Nicholas frowned. ‘I do my best, but he makes it clear he dislikes me. In the evenings he tries to lecture me as though he were my equal, saying the ills of the country are caused by greedy gentlemen. It is boring, and insolent. Dangerous, too, with this talk of trouble in the West Country.’
His talk of trouble there was true. At each inn we stopped at, the talk was of the sudden uprising in Devon, which apparently had now spread to Cornwall, with rumours of troubles in Hampshire, too. Nobody seemed sure whether these protests were against the new Prayer Book, or the abuses of the gentlemen, or both.
‘He’s never spoken like that to me,’ I said.
‘You pay his wages. I understand now why Copuldyke speaks roughly to him.’
I said gently, ‘Well, Nicholas, you have told me your own father is no great example of gentlemanly behaviour.’
‘I seek to do better, to live up to my station,’ he answered proudly.
‘Then humour Toby. You’ll get on better without what he sees as’ – I smiled – ‘your antrums.’
Nicholas did not smile in return; he only said grimly, ‘I’ll try.’
THE NEXT MORNING, we set out early. Some miles from Norwich Toby pointed up a sandy lane. ‘That leads to the Brikewell manors,’ he said. I looked up the lane; in the distance I could see the roof of a two-storey house, perhaps John Boleyn’s.
Around midday we crossed the River Yare. By now we could see the great spire of Norwich Cathedral ahead. As we came closer we saw other spires, and the battlemented city walls, which stretched along a wide area, except where the River Wensum flowed through the city, brown and fringed with reeds.