‘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.’
THE GATEWAY LED into a stableyard. A plump middle-aged man in a fine black doublet appeared and gave us a pleasant smile. He reached up and took my hand. ‘Welcome to the Maid’s Head, sir. I am Augustus Theobald, in charge of the finest inn in Norfolk.’ A mounting block was brought for us. I found it hard to dismount, and then to stand – Nicholas had to hand me my stick, which was tied to the back of the packhorse. I leaned against the pump of a well which stood in the yard, a disabling knot of pain between my shoulder blades. Master Theobald looked concerned. ‘Are you all right, sir?’
‘Yes. It is just that we have ridden from London. If I lie down for a little I will be all right.’
‘Are you sure?’ Nicholas asked. He had never seen me in such difficulty.
‘Yes, don’t fuss!’ I turned to the innkeeper. ‘We have rooms booked by Master Thomas Parry, for three.’
The innkeeper looked embarrassed. ‘I fear he only booked rooms for two.’
‘It’s all right,’ Toby said. ‘I wrote and cancelled my room. My parents’ farm is only three miles off, I can stay with them, and still ride here to assist you every day.’
‘There is no problem,’ I told Master Theobald. ‘Could you have our packs taken to our rooms? And the horses taken to the stables and given a good rub down?’
‘Certainly,’ the innkeeper replied, bowing.
‘Stay with them, Nicholas, and see to things. I would like a word with Toby. Master Theobald, could you show me somewhere I can talk with Goodman Lockswood.’ I grasped my stick. ‘Somewhere I can sit.’
Theobald led us into the building, pointing out the large comfortable dining room and other amenities, and mentioned that in their time both Catherine of Aragon and Cardinal Wolsey had been guests. Then, bowing, he left us in a well-appointed parlour. A servant fetched two cups of beer, and some welcome bread and cheese. I sat in a chair with great relief, my back supported at last. I gave Toby a stern look.
‘You should have told us you planned to stay with your parents. We have much to do, and little time, and need your knowledge of this city.’
‘I apologize.’ He stroked his curly black beard with a large hand, then fixed me with a direct gaze from those keen blue eyes. ‘But my mother is ill, and wishes to see me. I promise I will rise early enough to be here at any hour you wish.’
‘Is she seriously ill?’
‘She is not strong, and lately finds the work on the farm makes her breathless. Not that there will be much profit from the harvest this year, given the size of the crops.’
‘No,’ I agreed.
‘I hope you are not angry with me, sir,’ he added.
I sighed. ‘No, I understand. But I will need you here early tomorrow. I am going to visit John Boleyn in the castle gaol, then try and talk to Edith Boleyn’s parents. The day after, I want to go and visit the Brikewell estates. This evening I have arranged to see Barak, as you heard, so you may go to your parents’ farm now. How far from here is the Blue Boar Inn?’
‘I will draw you a diagram.’ He looked at me dubiously. ‘But will you be able to walk?’
‘With my stick, yes.’ I heard that testy note in my voice again. ‘And I shall lie down for a little first.’
‘You should take Master Nicholas.’
‘I thought I might go alone. There is a – personal – matter I wish to discuss with Barak.’
Lockswood looked at me seriously. ‘A well-dressed stranger with a walking stick would be advised not to wander Norwich alone in the evening. There are robbers about, more than in London.’
‘Very well.’ I looked at him. ‘For all its great buildings, there seems to be much poverty here.’
‘There is. For years the great wool merchants have been moving cloth weaving out to the countryside, to avoid the guilds’ regulations about manufacture. And centralizing the other processes of cloth production in their own hands. Often they ship the cloth illegally to Europe, to the Dutch. The great families we saw earlier today, by the Guildhall, they grow in riches. But for the poor it is different and now, with the number of farm labourers thrown off the land coming to the city, and the great rise in prices, the mood is fierce.’ Toby spoke quietly, evenly, but again with that angry undertone.
‘Perhaps the new enclosure commissions Protector Somerset is sending out soon will mend things.’
‘Do you think so, sir?’
I remembered my conversation with Edward Kenzy last Saturday, and answered cautiously. ‘I think in the little time the commissioners will have, and with the landlords against them, it will be difficult.’