There was another gunpowder bang, and, parting the backcloth curtains, a man dressed all in white, face and hair painted gold, emerged onstage to cheers from the crowd. He went over and lifted up the dead cleric. The four soldiers looked on astonished, the devil shrank away from him, and the angel-woman, who, I realized, was a boy, carried the body of the cleric behind the backcloth.
The golden man addressed the crowd: ‘I am the risen Christ, who will see all men of faith receive their reward! See, brethren, how those who rob and harry true Christians receive their due!’
He went to the men at the tables, and, upending the tables, sent the metal discs clinking and rolling across the stage, while the men grovelled on the floor to retrieve them. Then the devil forced them to rise, using his pitchfork to harry them down the steps leading from the stage towards the fiery pit, still issuing smoke. The money-changers, I thought, forced from the Temple. The devil, who was wearing strong boots, stepped onto the metal grille above the fire, which I realized represented the pit of hell. There was another bang, and a huge cloud of thick red smoke. When it dispersed, the devil and his victims had vanished. The Christ figure approached the stage:
There was a roar from the crowd. A curtain descended as people cheered and clapped.
‘Clever,’ said Barak.
‘That is very radical stuff,’ I said.
‘It’s the giant next!’ someone called out.
Looking round I saw the big white-bearded man I had seen last week outside the butcher’s shop, conversing animatedly with a little group of people. I stared, for I recognized another familiar face – not the man Miles, but the muscular form of Gawen Reynolds’s old steward, Michael Vowell, who had also been at the meeting at the Blue Boar in Norwich. His brown hair and beard were a little longer, and unkempt now, and he wore a countryman’s smock.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘Reynolds’s steward. He said he thought he might find work in Wymondham.’
Barak said, ‘Some juicy stories about that household could be useful if Reynolds is behind Isabella’s eviction.’
We stepped towards the group. They stood just outside the butcher’s shop, black pudding and pigs’ heads displayed on the counter outside. A boy was whisking away flies. The white-bearded man, almost as tall as Nicholas, saw us approaching and nodded quickly at his group, who fell silent. ‘What do you gentlemen want?’ he asked in a deep voice.
‘A word with Goodman Vowell, if we may.’
Vowell said, ‘It’s all right, I know them.’ He led us a few yards away.
‘God give you good morrow, Goodman Vowell,’ I said. ‘I remember you said you were coming to Wymondham. Did you find work?’
‘No, my contact’s household required no more servants. And there is no work in the fields.’ He frowned, looking displeased as well as surprised to see us.
‘You may have heard, Master Boleyn was found guilty, but a request for a pardon has been lodged.’
‘Has it?’ He laughed. ‘That’ll annoy Master Reynolds.’
‘Boleyn’s wife Isabella has been evicted from their home, and the twins put in by their grandfather. Illegally, by John Flowerdew.’ I hesitated. ‘Any information you can give about dark doings in the Reynolds’s household may help us. Help poor Mistress Boleyn.’
Vowell bit his lip, considering. Then he shook his head. ‘Master Shardlake, if I say too much against my old employer, it could hinder me in finding new work.’ He glanced back to where the elderly butcher and the others were watching us. He bowed. ‘I hope you enjoy the Wymondham Fair.’ And with that, he returned to his friends.
‘Well,’ Nicholas said, ‘that’s that.’
Barak looked at the lengthening shadows. ‘Time to get back to Flowerdew’s house.’
WE RETURNED TO HETHERSETT after five. Again Nicholas and I put on our robes, then, with Barak, rode up the avenue, dismounted and knocked at the door. This time John Flowerdew himself answered. It was strange to see him dressed not in robe, coif and cap but a brown doublet, half-unbuttoned to show the fine linen shirt underneath. His hair was receding from his temples, leaving a triangular widow’s peak. His thin, sour face was set in a frown; a worried frown, I thought.
‘Serjeant Shardlake. I was told you called this morning. I thought you had left Norfolk by now.’ His tone was not welcoming, but neither was it his customary sneering rasp. ‘Why do you call on a Sunday?’ His eyes widened a little at the sight of Barak’s hand.
I answered politely but firmly. ‘I come on behalf of Mistress Isabella, who, I understand, was evicted by you from her house this morning.’
