Tombland

by C. J. Sansom

  Toby shook his head vigorously. ‘All the time I worked with young Overton, he did nothing but tell me that gentlemen were the natural rulers. He talked of the poor like dirt.’

  I said, ‘I remember when he helped a poor boy who was unjustly dismissed, while you stood aside. He has a good heart. A good head too, despite his talk. He owns no land, in Norfolk or anywhere else.’ I looked at Toby. ‘And he is not the only one with a fierce mouth.’

  ‘He lectured me like I was a fool.’ A surly note entered Toby’s voice. ‘Got so I couldn’t bear the sight of him.’

  Kett turned on him with unexpected anger. ‘Toby Lockswood, I will not have our noble aims used to serve personal dislikes!’

  Toby flushed, and lowered his head. Kett turned to me. ‘I will consider it,’ he said. ‘While you consider my offer,’ he added pointedly, raising his eyebrows. ‘But Overton is in no danger from those boys; they are well tied and quieter since they were beaten. And now, I must see my brother about meat for the camp. Barak may stay with you tonight, along with Natty.’ With that he left the makeshift tent, Toby following without another word. Natty returned and settled himself down. My new watcher.

  After a while, a man brought bowls of food, and a candle to give light when it got dark. A rich mutton pottage. I wondered how many sheep from the landlords’ meadows had gone into its making. Young Natty said appreciatively, ‘That’s first meat I’ve had in weeks.’

  ‘Is it?’ Barak asked, surprised.

  He looked at us. ‘All our family’s had this spring is bread an’ vegetable stuff out the cottage garden. Odd scrap o’ bacon at lunch from Marster, till I was put off my job. I was a pigman, but with his rent goin’ up, Marster had to lay men off.’

  ‘Have you come far to get here?’

  ‘My family live in a village on the coast, out by the Sandlings. I left last week ter look for work.’ He smiled sourly. ‘Marsterless man on the road, that’s what I’m become. I was near Wymondham, heard about the rising and came to join.’

  ‘You come from the Sandlings?’ I asked.

  He put down his bowl and looked at me, eyes sharp again. He asked, ‘Do yew know anything of an apprentice from there, who lived in Naarwich? Name off Wal Padbury?’

  Barak answered, ‘Walter was a witness in a case Master Shardlake was involved in. He disappeared before the trial. We thought he might have gone home.’

  Natty looked at us narrowly. ‘When you fainted, a man from Norwich said you were the lawyer who saved a gentleman from hanging, how everyone was mardling about that case in Norwich, about the gentleman Boleyn, a locksmith who was involved in the case drowning and his apprentice running away. That’s why I asked to be put in charge of you. Wal Padbury’s name was on all the gossips’ lips at home, just before I left home.’

  ‘Then he’s back?’

  The boy shook his head, ‘You’re too late, Marster. He’s dead. I didn’t know him, he came from another village down the coast. ’E’d gone to Norwich long since, but two weeks ago his body was washed up on the beach near his village.’

  ‘He drowned?’ Barak asked.

  Natty shook his head. ‘The coroner said his head was harf stoved in. Reckon whoever did it put him in the sea an’ got the tides wrong, he’d not been long in the water when he were washed up. Murder, the verdict was, an’ they’re looking for who did it. Folks were gossiping about it up an’ down the coast.’

  I stared at Barak. So Walter, too, had been killed, his head shattered like poor Edith’s.

  Barak said, quietly, ‘So the case follows us here.’

  Young Natty’s eyes still glinted at us fixedly. I said, ‘I am sorry for his death. If he had not run away, perhaps I could have saved him.’ The boy looked me in the eyes, then nodded.

  ‘A third person dead,’ I said to Barak. ‘God help us, what has been going on?’

  Chapter Forty-one

  Next morning, Wednesday, after breakfast under the trees of more mutton pottage with bread and cheese, we set off to march the two miles south to Norwich again. Feeding the men and setting them once more on the march had been well organized, local groups chivvied into place by village leaders and former soldiers. There was some grumbling about having to retrace our steps, but the leaders explained that if the Norwich councillors were faced with our entire force at the gates, they might be intimidated into letting us cross through the city to Mousehold Heath, saving the long march round. One village had brought a banner showing the Five Wounds of Christ, symbol of the religious traditionalists, and its people were told to keep it furled; their religion was their own affair, but the Protector must not think this a rebellion against the Prayer Book.

  The procession stretched along a good mile, and with the rising of the sun more men came over the fields to join us. Barak went back to the rear, while Natty and I took a place near the head of the march, Kett and the other leaders riding ahead. Far behind, with the baggage train, Nicholas and the twins would be with the other gentlemen prisoners.

  The night before, I had said to Barak, ‘Who could have killed that poor apprentice? If only he hadn’t run from us.’

  ‘Same person that killed Edith and the locksmith. Whoever gave the locksmith Snockstobe the key.’

  ‘The apprentice knew who it was.’

  ‘’Course he did.’

  ‘Someone must have followed him all the way to the coast, and caught him just before he got home. It could have been anyone on that list we drew up in Norwich.’

  ‘Yes. I don’t think the case can ever be solved now. Boleyn’s pardon will go through the bureaucracy eventually and either be granted or not.’

  ‘I can’t rest quiet with the killer of three people running free.’ I looked in the direction of Norwich. ‘Probably in the city.’

  *

  THE WEATHER THAT morning was hot as ever. The great procession moved at a slower pace. I had picked up a large branch to use as a stick, and perhaps my muscles were getting accustomed to the exercise, for I felt less pain, though I would have welcomed some shade in the open countryside. I wondered how Nicholas, with his pale skin, was coping with the sun in an open cart; at least I had my hat. I wore only my shirt again; my doublet was in the pack Barak carried on his back, my robe still in the panniers of my horse, for all I knew. My growing stubble, like everyone else’s, was spotted with dust: I must look now much like any other peasant. Yet sometimes I felt a stab of fear at being surrounded by this mass of poor and angry people bent on overthrowing those of my class. I made myself concentrate on the endless slow marching; tramp, tramp, tramp.

  A couple of times the great march stopped, and men stepped aside to pull down hurdles enclosing sheep, killing some of the animals for food. Once, in their panic, a flock of the silly creatures ran straight at us, and men stepped swiftly from the ranks to despatch them.

  Someone began singing. A bawdy song was taken up, and then a different one, which sparked loud cheers:

  Cast hedge and ditch in the lake

  Fixed with many a stake

  Though it were never so fast

  Yet asunder ’tis wraste . . .

  We stopped at the Norwich walls outside St Stephens Gate. Archers on top of the walls had their weapons trained upon us. The Kett brothers and the soldier Miles rapped on the gate; it was opened and Mayor Codd, who looked to be trembling, and a number of other senior aldermen came out. There was a short muttered conversation, which ended with Codd and the others returning to the city, and the gates being closed again.

  Afterwards Robert Kett, astride his horse, addressed the crowd. The words were carried back. The city authorities had refused access again, worried about our size and growing numbers. He said that we would have to take the long march round to Mousehold; we would stop the rest of the day and overnight at Eaton Wood, then on the following day march some three miles north to Drayton Wood before turning south-east to reach Mousehold Heath at its most accessible point.

  We then marched the half-mile or so to Eato
n Wood, and took a rest. Natty was still with me. I stood on a knoll on the fringes of the wood and looked over the sea of heads. How many were there now? Three thousand surely. In the distance a fresh procession of men were approaching, carts rumbling behind, a man with a coloured banner in front; a new village party. Elsewhere, parties of men were setting off to the countryside, no doubt to pull down more fences and find food and weapons. For a second the sheer scale of it all made my head reel.

  For the rest of that day I rested under the shade of a tree, sleeping most of the afternoon away. When I woke Natty told me that Barak had been to visit, but had said not to wake me as I was deeply asleep. He left a message that he was fine, helping to organize things, and although Nicholas was still a prisoner, no harm had come to him.

  That evening, as before, cooking fires were lit with wood from trees which had been cut down, and good mutton and vegetable pottage distributed. Everyone sounded in good heart, despite the fruitless march back to Norwich. I hoped that Barak would come again, but his duties must have kept him away. I thought of asking Natty if I could go and look for him, but I was simply too tired. I slept the night under a tree with the others.

  *

  NEXT MORNING, before we set off, Robert Kett addressed us once more. He reported that while we had a long march ahead, at Mousehold we could build a great camp, collecting others in from all over Norfolk. His speech ended defiantly with the ringing words, ‘For you who have already stirred there is no hope but in adventuring boldly.’ Nonetheless, someone shouted out, ‘We have heard from the city that the Norwich councillors have sent riders to London, to seek authority to put us down! Take them on now!’

  Some shouted agreement, but Kett argued back forcefully that time was needed to make camp, take stock and increase our numbers. Messengers from the camp were being sent to the King to proclaim the assembly’s loyalty and support for the commissioners. Most cheered him.

  *

  THE MARCH RESUMED. Late in the morning we came to the River Wensum, upstream from Norwich. As at the River Yare there was a bridge, but the Wensum was wider and it would have taken even longer to get across than at the Yare. Men were sent to fell some trees which were laid across the river to form another, makeshift bridge. Thus we were able to cross faster than before, though there was time still for the marchers to halt and eat lunch as they waited their turn. Then the march resumed, following the wide flood plain of the Wensum northwards. I had got into a rhythm of walking, trying to copy the military men in keeping erect and swinging my arms, and it helped.

  Shortly afterwards a party of around a dozen horsemen approached us from the north, riding slowly, with numerous carts drawn by oxen behind. A command went down the line to halt. Barak had been allowed to join me and we were marching near the front with the old soldier Hector Johnson and young Natty. I stepped aside to see what was happening, Johnson following. The horsemen halted a few yards from Kett. At their head was a man in a bright gown, a cap with a peacock feather on his head. Johnson said, grimly, ‘Sir Roger Wodehouse. Landowner from Kimberley. One of the really big gentry. My plot of land was near his place.’

  ‘He can’t be hoping to take these marchers on,’ I said incredulously.

  ‘No. It’s something else.’

  Wodehouse rode up to Kett, reaching out a hand. Kett did not take it. Then he and Kett spoke; Sir Roger gesturing back at his carts. Kett abruptly turned his horse round. He shouted down the line, ‘Sir Roger Wodehouse, like Mayor Codd, tells us to disperse and return home! He has brought provisions to make a feast, then says we should depart in good fellowship! I say again, for you who have already stirred there is no hope but in adventuring boldly!’

  There was an answering cry of agreement from the crowd, and numbers of men detached themselves from the group and headed to the front, brandishing weapons. Sir Roger and his party attempted to retreat, but the reins of their horses were soon grabbed, men closing round them like a tide. Kett shouted, ‘Take him alive! Put him with the other prisoners! Let his servants go, but take the carts!’

  I saw Sir Roger and his men unhorsed; Sir Roger struggled and his hat and robe were pulled off before he was thrown into a ditch at the side of the road. Faintly I heard him shout, ‘Wolves! Traitors!’ Then a man raised an axe, poised to bring it down on his head, but one of Wodehouse’s servants grabbed it. There was a tussle, settled by a shout from Kett that there was to be no killing. The man who would have slain him dropped the axe. I could not see clearly from where I stood, but it looked like Toby Lockswood.

  ‘What think you of that, sir?’ Johnson asked, satisfaction in his voice. ‘There it is, one of the great men dealt with. They try bribing us with ale and promises sometimes, if we get out of hand.’ He laughed. ‘There, we’ve taken another step further.’

  *

  THE SUN WAS slowly falling to the horizon, and the heat lessening at last, when we saw a large wood ahead and someone called out, ‘Drayton!’ The weary men picked up their steps now that a destination, and the blessed shade of the large wood, was in sight.

  We found a place under the trees. Nearby, a group of people gathered wood to make a cooking fire. Half a sheep was hauled in and men began butchering it. I looked away, to where Natty sat nearby. Barak joined us. He had taken off his artificial hand and was massaging his arm. He looked morose.

  ‘All right?’ I asked.

  ‘I was thinking about Tammy and the children. Wondering how things are in London, whether people are rising there, too. I’ll try talking to Toby tomorrow, see what the news is from around the country, and whether they’ll let me send a letter telling her I’m stuck in Norfolk, but safe.’

  ‘I think it was Toby who attacked that man with an axe earlier.’

  ‘I didn’t see.’ Barak shook his head. ‘He’s just lost both his parents. He’s consumed with anger.’

  ‘You could leave,’ I said softly. ‘It wouldn’t be that hard to slip away.’

  He shook his head. ‘They’re setting watches round the perimeter. Anyway, I’m staying.’ He spoke sharply. ‘Maybe you didn’t see me at the Hethersett oak, but I took the oath with the others to stand together.’

  I knew he would not be dissuaded. Nothing was more important in England than a man’s oath.

  I rose stiffly. ‘I’m going to try and see how Nicholas fares.’ I turned to Natty. ‘May I?’

  ‘I must accompany you,’ he said a little guiltily.

  ‘I understand. Jack, will you come with us?’

  ‘No, I’ll stay and talk to these people.’ He nodded at the group round the fire. ‘Maybe they’ll let us share their dinner. But listen,’ he added, ‘something you should do. I get funny looks sometimes because of my London accent, but your voice is a gentleman’s, and that may be dangerous here. Try to make your accent more like mine.’

  ‘You’re right. I’ll try.’

  I walked off, carefully memorizing the bright green banner marking the village group, for it would be easy to get lost in this sea of people. The camp stretched far beyond the wood. Somehow pathways seemed to have sprung up naturally, allowing passage to men bearing the sheep and deer carcasses, and sundry messengers. Some men were digging a latrine. I asked someone where the baggage cart was, trying to make my voice more like Barak’s, and was directed to a patch of higher ground beyond the wood.

  Armed men stood guarding the baggage train, where supplies were being distributed. I recognized the soldier, Miles, whom I had seen that night in Norwich. His powerful figure was now encased in half-armour, a solid breastplate with metal guards for his upper arms, a sword at his belt, marks of authority, I guessed. He looked at me with the keen, sharp eyes I remembered. ‘Can I help you, Granfer?’ he asked, and I realized that with my white hair and stubble I did indeed now look like just another old villager.

  ‘My name is Matthew Shardlake. I am a lawyer, advising Master Kett. My assistant, who has a fierce mouth, is a prisoner, though Master Kett said he may consider his release to me.’
>
  To my surprise, Miles laughed, the narrow mouth above his fair beard opening to show many teeth gone. He clapped his thigh.

  ‘God’s death, I took you for a commoner. Aye, Captain Kett has spoken of you. Says you could have betrayed us over Attleborough, but didn’t.’ He reached out a hard, calloused hand. ‘John Miles, late captain gunner in the old king’s army.’

  I shook his hand, glad to have found someone friendly. A captain gunner, I remembered from the Mary Rose, meant someone in charge of a whole group of cannon, expert and high-ranking. I said, ‘Might I speak with my assistant? His name is Nicholas Overton.’

  Miles looked at Natty, who nodded. ‘If you wish. They’re a sorry lot, I fear, the gentlemen prisoners. They’ve been getting abuse and catcalls on the march. But they deserve it, the rogues.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You know those Boleyn twins? They’ve been calling your friend rude names.’

  ‘They are our bitter enemies, Captain Miles.’

  He called over to another soldier in half-armour. ‘Take this man to talk to the prisoner Overton. Just a few minutes, mind.’

  I was led past carts full of barrels of ale, bread and vegetables, and slaughtered sheep and deer. Some of the animals were beginning to stink after a day in the heat. At the very back, surrounded by more armoured men, were high-sided carts – six now – where gentlemen in torn and tattered robes, tied or manacled, sat or lay slumped against the sides. I saw Sir Roger Wodehouse, sitting with his mouth gaping open, unable to believe what had happened to him. Many others looked shocked and fearful, and some had cuts and bruises. As I passed one cart the side shook as someone within grasped the rails, letting forth a tide of abuse: ‘Fuckin’ hunchback, pretending to be a peasant now, are you! Fucking lawyer!’ I jumped back. Gerald Boleyn, wearing a torn and tattered shirt, glared furiously at me from between the slats of the cart. His face was bruised but still full of savage energy. ‘Fawning on these dogs!’ He spat at me, a great gobbet landing on my shirt.