by C. J. Sansom
*
I WALKED TO THE crest of the hill, where a number of older men and women, together with the wounded from the taking of Norwich, had also gathered. Barak was there, but not Josephine; he told me she was in her hut with Mousy, trying to distract herself from thoughts of what might happen to Edward. Hundreds of men armed with spears, halberds and bows appeared and began descending the steep hill. I saw one group led by Hector Johnson. Then came the mounted cannon, the horses steadying the gun carriages from behind while in front men eased the guns across the iron-hard ruts. Simon was among those guiding the horses. A group of horsemen with pikes followed. Then, with set, serious faces, rode Robert and William Kett, to loud cheers, and John Miles. More and more men followed, near a thousand. At the bottom of the hill everyone gathered in formation on our side of the river, waiting.
We stayed there all day. Still nothing happened, and for a while I even dozed off. Josephine came, carrying Mousy, and woke me up, but when I told her I had seen nothing she went away again. A little later Barak nudged me awake and we saw a strange thing – Mayor Codd on horseback, accompanied by some of our men, riding downhill as fast as they could, then crossing Bishopsgate Bridge and entering the city.
*
I LEARNED WHAT had happened in Norwich from Edward Brown, that evening – he came back quickly to see Josephine before returning to the city. He told us the story outside his hut, his arm around his wife, Mousy asleep in Josephine’s arms.
‘I slipped back into Norwich last night where the northern wall is crumbling. All our men were gathered in the abandoned gentry houses. We waited all night and all morning. Then at noon, from a church tower, we saw the army approaching. Fifteen hundred armed men, a fearsome sight, I must admit. I believe it was about that number they sent to fight the Oxfordshire rebels. They stopped about a mile outside Norwich, then sent a man dressed in golden robes, a few others accompanying him, forward to St Stephen’s Gate.’
‘Another Herald?’ I asked.
‘It was. Then there was a to-ing and fro-ing that went on till mid-afternoon. Apparently the Herald demanded that the city surrender, but Augustine Steward, who came to meet him, said the surrender agreement would have to come from Mayor Codd.’
‘I thought he was locked up in Surrey Place, poor half-silly man,’ Josephine said.
‘So he was, but he was taken down to Norwich to agree the surrender.’ Edward smiled. ‘They were playing into our hands, that’s just what we wanted, Northampton’s army shut up in the city as the light began to fail.’
‘We saw Codd go down the hill,’ Barak said. ‘We wondered what was happening.’
‘He agreed to surrender, then Augustine Steward went out and delivered the city sword of state to Northampton – a skinny little redheaded man, the young Earl of Sheffield beside him with his nose in the air, though I heard he disfigured a woman once, a relative’s lover, so he’d have no more to do with her. Anyway, the whole army rode in. I saw several hundred of those Italians, dressed more for a festival than a battle, brightly coloured doublets slashed to show the lining, big morion helmets with peacock feathers. But their horsemanship, in close formation, was impressive.’ His voice became contemptuous. ‘And then all the great landowners of Norwich followed; Sir John Clere, Sir Henry Bedingfeld, Sir Richard Southwell.’
‘Southwell?’ I asked. So he had indeed come.
‘Well, he’s close to the Council, isn’t he, and just about the biggest man in Norfolk now the old duke’s gone. He carried the sword of state into the city before Northampton.’
I remembered Southwell that day at St Michael’s Chapel, being told by Kett of the deal Southwell had done to protect the Lady Mary and his own estates. Southwell would not want that story to get out. Yet he had the cold courage to return with the army.
‘There was no resistance from the citizens?’ Barak asked.
‘No. Northampton and the other leaders went to Augustine Steward’s house to dine, they and their horses were jowered out, riding from London in this heat. As for the resistance – that’s coming soon.’ He hugged Mousy, whom he had taken from Josephine, and turned to his wife. ‘I must return now, my love. But do not worry, all is well planned.’
He left after dining with us round the fire. Josephine took Mousy back to their hut, saying heavily that she would put her to bed and try to sleep herself. Barak, too, was tired, and I returned alone to my watching-post in the early dusk. There, half an hour later, I witnessed the only episode of savage violence which, so far as I know, ever took place in the Mousehold camp. Hearing a scrimmage behind me, and a voice shouting angrily in a foreign language, I turned to see a burly young man in exactly the apparel Edward Brown had described – a brightly coloured doublet and a helmet decorated with peacock feathers – being dragged along by half a dozen camp-men in breastplates and helmets, armed with spears. One was bleeding from the face, another from his arm, which was bound with a cloth tourniquet. Their expressions were savage. I joined a crowd drawn by the noise.
‘Look at this fucker we found,’ a young, fair-haired fellow called out.
A woman asked, puzzled, ‘Who is he? A juggler or something?’
‘Is he shit!’ the young man replied contemptuously. ‘A dozen of us were scouting along the north side of the city, when we found a little group of these Italian bastards. We saw them off and took this one. They’re not the great fighters they’re said to be.’ The prisoner let out an angry stream of Italian, for which he received a sharp prick from a spear. ‘Stop winnicking!’ The spearman pulled off the Italian’s helmet, pulling out the feathers. ‘This’ll do me, gives more protection than that old sallet helmet.’
‘Strip him bare!’ the yellow-haired man said. ‘Their leader’s called Malatesta, they say that means bad balls. Let’s see what his are like!’ There was laughter from his friends, and from some in the crowd, as the Italian’s rich clothes were torn off and thrown to the ground, his sweat-stained linen undergarments following until he stood there stark naked, his powerful body heavily marked with scars from past engagements. He put his hands over his private parts but two men forced his arms away and looked between his legs. ‘Just an ordinary old cock’n’danglers,’ one said, disappointed.
Mistress Everneke had joined the crowd and cried out, ‘For shame!’
‘Shut your mouth, old beldame, or you’ll get a culp you won’t forget,’ the man with the bleeding arm shouted at her. He pointed to his wound. ‘See what he did to me!’ I looked round anxiously, hoping some figure of authority would be drawn to the scene.
‘What are you going to do with him?’ someone asked. ‘Put him in Surrey Place?’
The straw-haired man grinned nastily. ‘No, we’re going to hang him from the walls!’ Grinning at the Italian, he drew the shape of a noose with his hands. The mercenary’s eyes widened.
One of the man’s comrades looked doubtful. ‘We’ll get in trouble!’
The yellow-haired man turned on him. ‘How many good Norfik men have these bastards killed? Don’t go quavery-mavery on us, young Jimmur!’
An old man shouted from the crowd, ‘Captain Kett will be angry. We lock enemies up, not kill them.’
I was reluctant to interfere, afraid of the boiling violence of the Italian’s captors. Nonetheless, I forced myself to step forward. ‘That man was right. Captain Kett has instructed captives should be held prisoner, not killed.’
The man with the bleeding arm shouted, ‘I know who you are, you’re the fucking hunchback lawyer that got my friend Silas kicked out of camp for theft, you’re another gemmun for all you’re dressed no better than us now. So you favour him, do you, this fucking foreigner come here to kill us for money?’
‘Captain Kett will be angry.’
‘Captain Kett’s not here,’ one of the men answered brutally. ‘Hang the bastard!’
They led their prisoner away. A man darted out and stole the Italian’s shoes, another his torn doublet and hose, while a soldier took his steel breastplate
. I could do nothing but follow and watch as the man was led, struggling, to Surrey Place. He and his captors disappeared behind the high walls. Some minutes passed and then the men reappeared, standing on top of the wall. The Italian now had a rope round his neck. The other end was tied to one of the decorative stone figures on the wall, and the naked man was thrown from the top, the noose tightening and breaking his neck at once. It all happened very fast. There were cheers from those who had come to watch. Mistress Everneke said to me, ‘Is this what war does to men?’
‘Some men,’ I answered. I looked downhill, where our men were lighting campfires now. Far in the distance, there was a faint roll of thunder.
Chapter Sixty-four
After what I had seen I could not sleep that night. I sat on a little grassy mound some way down the hill, looking down on Norwich. It was a dark night, cloud covering the half-moon and the stars. Occasionally, one of our guns fired into the city, with a flash and boom. I felt far now from the moment’s peace I had known at Communion that morning. I could just make out a huge bonfire which was lit, so far as I could judge, in the marketplace. And then I heard, rather than saw, the fighting that followed. There was a sudden loud bombardment of Bishopsgate Bridge from our cannon, making me jump, then distant yells as, I later learned, our men stormed across the bridge. I understood what had been planned; in the pitch-dark the men of Norwich would know the streets intimately, unlike Northampton’s forces. I put my head in my hands, thinking of Simon and Natty, Hector Johnson and Edward Brown.
After a while the distant noise ceased. I waited for the summer dawn, which seemed an eternity in coming, as did the threatened storm, for I heard only other, more distant, rolls of thunder. Perhaps it would pass us by this time.
When dawn finally broke, and I looked down the hill, my heart sank. I saw our charge had failed. There was a crowd of our men at the bottom of the hill. Many of us walked down almost to them, to get a proper view. We saw wounded men being tended, and the white faces of the dead laid out on the grass. But I realized that, as with the taking of Norwich, much of our army had been kept in reserve. To the north of the city, at Pockthorpe Gate, I heard a trumpet sound, and a stream of our men descended the hill; suddenly a new bombardment came from our men, mightier than before, aimed from what I could see at the walls of the Great Hospital, which I was near enough to see collapse. Several thousand men then crossed the bridge and ran into the city. I was puzzled at first but then understood the purpose of the bombardment – Holme Street was hemmed in by the Norman walls of the cathedral on one side, the hospital walls on the other. It would have been easy for Northampton’s army to trap us in Holme Street, but with the hospital walls down we had access to the fields beyond. People in the buildings near the hospital walls, though, would not have stood a chance unless they had been warned in advance.
I saw perhaps three thousand men – our reserve – charge down the hill and across the bridge, to be met by Northampton’s forces. Many houses along Holme Street were ablaze, whether fired deliberately or accidentally I did not know. Our men advanced, and I saw the crowd move west, into St Martin’s Plain, where the melee continued a long time. Around midday Northampton’s forces must have given way, for suddenly I saw a great rush of men run to Tombland, then down towards the castle.
*
LATE IN THE AFTERNOON, men began trudging back up the hill, weary and limping, faces and clothes covered in blood and dirt, dragging their weapons. They were fewer than I had watched descend yesterday, and at first I feared casualties were huge, but later Natty told me many men had stayed behind in Norwich with the Ketts, to secure the city and arrange for the wounded to be tended. It was from him I learned that around four hundred of our men had died, and perhaps half that number from Northampton’s army, which, after losing the Battle of Palace Plain, had fled wholesale. As evening fell we sat, with many others, looking down on Norwich. Holme Street was still on fire, and I could see smaller fires elsewhere in the city. I remembered that much of Norwich had burned down thirty years before, and feared the same might happen now. Josephine had joined us with Mousy, and for the first time in days wore a contented expression, for Natty had reported that he had seen Edward, quite safe, together with Michael Vowell and Toby Lockswood, who all seemed unharmed, in a group around Robert Kett outside the cathedral. Edward had called to Natty to tell Josephine he was well, the city secured and Northampton’s army fled.
Mousy had fallen asleep on my lap as Natty told us his story quietly. ‘I wasn’t in the first attack, the night one, that was mostly men with knowledge of the city who could go more easily through the darkened streets. Much of Northampton’s army was camped in the marketplace, with a huge bonfire lit so they could at least see the entrances to the surrounding streets, the rest of his men on patrol.’
I remembered that Isabella Boleyn’s and Chawry’s inn gave on to the marketplace. ‘What of the people in the buildings round the square?’
‘They did what you’d expect – locked their doors and shuttered their windows. From what I heard, nobody there was hurt, Northampton’s army was just yagged by our people in the city crying out, “To arms, to arms!” to scare them, but when we attacked them, despite the darkness in the streets favouring us, we lost many, while they had but few killed.’
While he spoke, Natty kept glancing round at Surrey Place, where the naked body of the Italian still hung. I told him what had happened to the mercenary. He shrugged. ‘They killed plenty of ours.’
Josephine sighed. ‘Fighting changes men, I saw it as a child in France. They become brutal.’ She looked down at the fires in Norwich. ‘And they burn homes, as they did my parents’ village.’ For a moment we were silent. Then Natty resumed his story.
‘This morning we launched the main attack. First, though, friends of ours in the city told Northampton a large group of rebels was gathered at Pockthorpe Gate. We hoped he’d be fooled into sending part of his force there. He only sent a few men, though, with the Herald and his trumpeter. The sound of the trumpeter brought some of our men down from the hill – the Herald offered a pardon again if we’d disperse, but was told we weren’t rebels, we were loyal to the King, they were the ones holding the laws of the realm in contempt.’
‘As they are,’ Josephine said.
Natty grinned. ‘He got a right old telling! Then just afterwards we set off the bombardment to put down the hospital walls, and charged across Bishopsgate Bridge. That was the real battle.’ His voice quietened. ‘Something like I’ve never seen. By God our men were brave; they never flagged. I heard Master Fulke killed the Earl of Sheffield in Holme Street. We battled our way to Palace Plain, the open space by St Martin’s Church. Their main force was waiting there. They fired off half a dozen cannon at us, then it was a pitched battle. The Italians did better than Northampton’s English troops, a lot of those had been mustered by the local landlords, they didn’t have our fierceness.’ He closed his fist tightly. ‘It was that which won the battle for us, that and our numbers and skills with the bow – thank God we spent last week training together.’
He stopped suddenly and took a deep breath. Josephine put her hand on his shoulder, encouraging him to continue. ‘It seemed to go on for hours, the slashing and striking and parrying, I saw a man’s head slashed off with a sword, another got a leg cut off below the knee and went down in a heap.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Then Northampton’s army broke and we were pursuing them through the streets. We chased them back to the marketplace, then down to the castle, and then they all ran through the gates in a mighty huddle, together with some of the rich Norwich people.’ He paused. ‘I killed four men today, and wounded more.’
‘Do you know what happened to Simon?’
He shook his head. ‘I saw him with the horses this morning, not since.’
‘What of Hector Johnson, he led your troop?’
Natty closed his eyes for a moment. ‘He did, and bravely, from the front. Each side aimed first for the other’s officers. I saw a
group of men charge Hector. They were some of Southwell’s thugs, I saw the one with the big mole on his face, Atkinson, that my friend said helped dispose of that apprentice’s body.’ He paused. ‘And I saw those twins a few times this afternoon, always together, fighting mightily, always smiling.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Atkinson and some others surrounded Hector Johnson. He slashed at them mightily with his sword but they got him on the ground, and – and – they hacked him to death.’ He swallowed. ‘That brave old man is gone. He was a real dymox.’
I looked in puzzlement at Josephine. ‘A mighty fighter,’ she explained, then lowered her head.
Natty put his face in his hands and began to cry. Josephine held him to her. I remembered when I had first met Hector, when he had been set to watch me on the march from Wymondham. The years of battle he had told me about, the loss of his family, the way that, in his own rough manner, he had cared for Simon in the camp. I hoped he would be buried with dignity.
*
AS WE SAT and watched the fires burn in the city, Josephine said, ‘After this defeat, the Council will have to settle matters with us, won’t they?’
‘I think perhaps they will,’ Barak replied. ‘Unless the Protector abandons this new assault on Scotland he’s got planned.’
I said, in a voice too low for Josephine to hear, ‘He may do just that, and come to deal with us.’
We had paid little attention to the darkening sky. Suddenly there was a bright flash of lightning which brought several screams from the camp, followed by a mighty roll of thunder directly overhead. Then a mighty downpour, even worse than the one a fortnight before, crashed down on us: it was impossible to see more than a yard ahead. Josephine grabbed Mousy and, holding her tight, fled with Natty and Barak and I, splashing through what was already half an inch of water to the shelter of our huts. Fortunately, the ferocious downpour lasted less than an hour, though it was enough to cause much damage in the camp.