by C. J. Sansom
When I stepped out of my hut afterwards, the skies were clear again, a half-moon illuming the scene. The air was clear and, suddenly, cold. I splashed through puddles to the crest of the hill again. The downpour had been so heavy it had even doused the fires in Norwich, which those loyal to established authority would later take as a sign that God was on their side.
As I stood there I heard the sound of hoofbeats, voices, and heavy wheels approaching. A group of filthy, weary men were guiding heavy horses made nervous by the storm, pulling half a dozen cannon. Among the men I saw Simon Scambler, stroking a horse though his hands trembled and tears rolled down his face. One of the men accompanying him turned to me and called triumphantly, ‘The Marquess of Northampton’s cannon, bor! They’re ours now!’
Chapter Sixty-five
The defeat of Northampton’s army was the high-water mark of the rebellion. Although we had outnumbered them greatly, it was still an extraordinary feat of arms for men who, a month before, had for the most part little or no military training, to send a government army backed by foreign mercenaries fleeing from Norwich. Truly, the men of Norfolk had made themselves free.
But from that day onwards, things turned slowly against us. On the way to Norwich Northampton’s army had successfully put down the camp at Thetford, and refugees from there, some wounded, trailed up to Mousehold Heath. Even the weather changed; after the great thunderstorm of 1 August, it became much colder, with cool winds from the north-west, few sunny days but much cloud and drizzle. As is the way, having complained about the heat people now grumbled about the cold and wet, but it was hard, living in those lean-to huts and working and training outside in such weather.
That first evening after the battle, and the following day, when our exhausted men needed rest more than anything else, they had once again had to clear up after a mighty thunderstorm. Fortunately, the water soaked quickly into the sandy soil. Nonetheless, many huts were flooded, and everything was soaked. Word went around that Norwich market would reopen tomorrow, Saturday, and people hoped they would be able to find dry clothes. The mood in the camp was a strange mixture of triumph and grief – around three hundred and fifty had died, over one in thirty of the camp numbers, which totalled some eight thousand now, and many people were mourning the loss of friends and relations.
For myself, I wanted above all to return to Norwich; I needed to know what had happened to Isabella and Chawry, Nicholas, and John Boleyn. But Edward Brown, who had arrived in camp late on the evening of the battle, advised me strongly to leave it at least another day. He had come from the cathedral, where Robert Kett had set up a temporary headquarters, to spend the night with his wife. He told Barak and me that Kett was making sure that from now on his own men would hold the key positions in the city, although Augustine Steward, who had cleverly passed responsibility for Norwich’s surrender to poor Mayor Codd, was to be allowed to stay in charge under Kett. Edward said many horses were also being stabled in the cathedral, and the wounded, who numbered another three hundred, were being cared for there. Bishop Rugge, apparently, was keeping quietly to his palace. Edward also told me that despite Kett’s orders that only the goods of those who had actively collaborated with Northampton were to be confiscated, people were taking things into their own hands and a good deal of looting was taking place. Kett had sent men down to try and keep order. Meanwhile, there were hundreds of bodies – men and horses – to gather up and bury.
I was sitting by the campfire when Simon Scambler emerged from his hut. He wandered aimlessly around, waving his arms and singing snatches of song. A cry of ‘Shut your fucking clack-box!’ came from another hut. Edward said quietly, ‘He saw too much again, and worse this time. I think when you go down to Norwich you should take him with you; he can help with the horses in the cathedral. Best if he keeps a-doin’.’
Josephine left her hut, drawn by the noise. She had stayed inside, guessing perhaps that Edward and I had been speaking of things she would prefer not to hear. Now, however, she came over to us, rubbing her hands on a damp apron. ‘What ails Simon?’ she asked.
‘He was in Norwich these last two days,’ Edward said. ‘He saw too much fighting.’ His tone was impatient. He could sympathize with Josephine’s fear of blood and battle, she was a mere woman, but Simon was, after all, nearly a man.
Josephine frowned at her husband and went over to Simon. ‘Here, lad,’ she said. ‘Sit you down. What’s the matter?’
He looked at her tearfully. ‘I saw such things again yesterday, men coming all apart again, the blood. And poor Hector Johnson.’ Another burst of sobbing shook him.
Josephine took him in her arms. He seemed a little surprised – perhaps no one had ever hugged him before – but, after a moment, he hugged her back. ‘There, lad,’ she said softly. ‘It’s naught to be ashamed of. I saw the same in France, when I was a girl. But it’s all over now.’ He sobbed at her breast.
Barak’s face set. He rubbed the place above his artificial hand which often hurt him. ‘Over?’ he said quietly. ‘Is it?’
*
FOR THE NEXT TWO DAYS I remained on Mousehold as Edward had suggested, though he himself returned to Norwich. There was no training – the soldiers realized their men needed time to rest. The sky remained grey, and the weather distinctly colder. I went for one of my walks, trying to gauge the mood. I saw the body of the Italian soldier had been taken down. People sat in their doorways, looking out at the cool, cloudy day. I stopped by a group of men sitting round a campfire. A man in his thirties was saying that he wondered how his family would fare, news from the countryside was that this would be the worst harvest for years; the battering the thunderstorms had given the crops had been the final blow. Another man observed gloomily that the government might send a big force now, like the ten thousand reported to have been sent to Devon. He did not know whether we could beat such a force. A third man, a young fellow, was more optimistic. ‘Don’t be so downy! We’re jowered out after the battle, and drouched with the rain. But we had a great victory, and Captain Kett’s sending forces to spread rebellion further. Yarmouth will be ours soon.’
It was quite customary in the camp for strangers to join in others’ conversations; and I ventured to say it was indeed peculiar that the one item of food we had lacked in the camp was the famous Yarmouth herring.
‘We’ll have a great feast of those ere long,’ the young man replied. I noticed spots of blood on his torn, damp shirt; he had been in yesterday’s battle.
The man who had spoken first stirred the campfire with a stick. ‘Whatever happens now, we’ll fight to the end. We’ve come this far, and even if we go down, which I don’t believe we will, this will be remembered forever! What say you, Master hunchback?’
I answered, ‘I don’t know. If they do send another army, it’ll take weeks to organize, and they’ll need to withdraw men from Scotland.’
‘You’re right, bor,’ the young fellow agreed, nodding vigorously.
The older man said, ‘I’m sorry I called you a hunchback.’
I smiled wryly. ‘It’s what I am.’
*
A SMALL NUMBER of desertions began about this time – men who feared what might come, others, perhaps, who wanted to help their womenfolk at home with the harvest, such as it would be. Among the vast majority who stayed, though, reinforced by men from the camps which had been put down, many doubted the Protector would abandon his plans for a new Scottish campaign, which he surely must do if he decided to send a large army to Norwich under a strong leader. They hoped for some sort of settlement. Others believed they could defeat a larger army as they had Northampton’s by again luring their opponents into Norwich and using their knowledge of the city’s narrow streets and difficult topography to win another victory. Then, indeed, they could once more spread rebellion.
The prophets were out in increasing force, preaching that Northampton’s defeat was part of God’s plan for the victory of the common people, that the Lord’s hand would ensure our
victory against the largest army, even as David had destroyed Goliath. From then on, too, I noticed a new type of prophecy. For some time doggerel lines had been circulating, including some that went so far as to predict the overthrow of King Edward, saying such things had been predicted long ago, quoting Merlin and the ancient kings Gog and Magog. Copies of these prophecies were brought by the peddlers who frequented the camp; they were passed around, read out to the illiterate by the prophets, and seized upon by many who feared what might come. I remembered similar stuff from the Pilgrimage of Grace in 1536, predicting the overthrow of King Henry. Possession of such documents had been dealt with particularly harshly.
One in particular I showed to Edward Brown when he came up again that evening:
The country gruffs
Hob, Dick and Hick,
with clubs and clouted shoon,
Shall fill the Vale
of Dussindale
With slaughtered bodies soon
The heedless men within the Dale
Shall there be slain both great and small . . .
He laughed. ‘I suppose it keeps men’s spirits up.’
‘I would prefer good hard strategy to such stuff.’
‘You are an educated man.’
‘Where is this Vale of Dussindale?’
Edward shrugged. ‘Dussin’s not an uncommon name in Norfolk. Could be a number of places. Don’t worry, few take real notice of these things.’
‘If a government army does come, it might influence where we choose to fight.’
Now he frowned. ‘Do you think Miles and his officers such fools? No, if it comes to it, Kett and Miles will indeed look to good hard strategy.’ He went to Josephine’s hut.
*
ON SUNDAY, I walked about the camp, watching the military training, and the representatives from the Hundreds who walked around the camp discussing matters with village groups. I stopped now and then to engage in conversation with people. Despite the general anxiety as to what the Protector’s next step might be, the mood of the people was, as ever, in the main open and friendly. There was a cheerfulness, a sense of something released, about the Mousehold people. Their contentedness in the lean-to huts brought home to me how hard their life must have been before. I heard, as I had before, many stories of lands enclosed and rents increased, often to the detriment of the very poorest, like the small craftsmen who supplemented a meagre income with a cow, a horse, or a few sheep on common land which the landowners had crowded out or appropriated. A constant, and happy, topic on Mousehold was food; how with sheep, pigs, every sort of fowl and even deer held in pens in the camp, few had eaten so well in years.
I remember passing a group of huts where men from Witherington’s estate at South Brikewell had set up a group of huts under their village banner. I remembered the boy whose head had been staved in, whom the twins had referred to as ‘just a serf’. Well, there were no distinctions now between serfs tied to the land and others here. I thought of Kett’s request to the Protector, that bond men be made free. Here on Mousehold, they had been.
*
THE FOLLOWING DAY, 5 August, I finally went down to Norwich with Barak and Simon. I insisted that Natty come, too, for the wound in his arm which he had received during the battle to take Norwich had become itchy and sore, and when, reluctantly, he let me examine it, I saw it was red and swollen. ‘You must get that looked at again,’ I said firmly.
‘It’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘No need to make a tutter of it,’ but I saw anxiety in his large brown eyes and when I insisted, he agreed. We walked down the road, part of a large crowd making their way down into the city. Wages had been distributed around the camp the previous evening, so the men would have money to spend on warmer clothes in the special Monday market. Simon was concerned about Natty – the first time I had seen him worried about someone else, which was a good sign, but he was still nervous. ‘There won’t be more fighting?’ he asked loudly. Nearby, I saw Toby Lockswood in the crowd; he turned and gave Simon a contemptuous look.
‘Of course not. People are just going to market.’ Though I, too, was squeamish by nature, I began myself to feel a little irritated with him. I reminded myself of the life he had led before coming to the camp, isolated and afraid.
Bishopsgate Bridge still stood, though the once-magnificent gatehouse was a wreck; great lumps of stone had been shot out of the central portion by cannon, widening the entrance to Norwich. It was blackened with smoke, where the wooden beams of the interior had caught light, and the lead on the gatehouse roof had partly melted, little gobbets of it lying on the ground. Someone picked up a piece, looked at it curiously, then threw it in the river. What was left of the gatehouse was closely guarded by our soldiers. We followed the stream of people through; I was glad the whole thing did not collapse on our heads.
Beyond, Holme Street was a scene of devastation. The cathedral wall still stood, but the houses along both sides of the street were blackened and burned, the Blue Boar Inn where Barak had stayed was little more than a pile of rubble, while on the other side the Great Hospital wall, and the buildings bordering it, had indeed been knocked to pieces by our cannon. I could not but admire the accuracy of our cannoneers. A crowd had gathered; some looked on the scene appalled; others gloated at the destruction of the houses of the rich on Holme Street. There were red stains on the road, which caused Simon to look away, and more as we passed Palace Plain, as well as the bloated bodies of horses. When we arrived at Tombland, we found the Maid’s Head shuttered and padlocked. The gates giving onto the yard of Augustine Steward’s house had been burned down; beside it several men stood round a cartload of property, likely stolen, examining the contents. For the first time I began to wonder whether Kett was in full control. Near to it Gawen Reynolds’s house was untouched; bribery still spoke loudly.
Barak, Simon, Natty and I crossed Tombland and went through the Erpingham Gate, which was open, into the cathedral grounds. The cathedral door was open, too, with more of Kett’s guards on the door. I showed them my pass and we were allowed through, stepping into the splendid, vaulted space of the cathedral. The floor space was full; to the right of the door four dozen or so horses had been stabled, wooden partitions erected to separate them, most happily munching hay. To the left, dozens of wounded men lay on straw mattresses; some coughing or groaning in pain, others playing cards cheerfully as though they were at home. One mattress had been surrounded by a makeshift screen of sheets and poles and from behind it muffled screams, together with the sound of sawing, could be heard. In this vast echoing place every sound was magnified. Heavily coifed women took jugs of small beer round to the patients, and some men whom I took to be barber-surgeons tended to them. I saw the thin figure of Dr Belys, and two other men in the dark robes of doctors. Any lingering smell of incense was gone, displaced by those of horse-manure and blood. A side chapel halfway up the cathedral guarded by two soldiers seemed to be a focus of attention, men waiting to go in, or coming out and walking purposefully to the doors, footsteps echoing loudly. I guessed Kett was working in there.
‘Simon,’ I said, ‘why not present yourself to the man in charge of the horses? They’re keeping some here, it seems, perhaps to help keep order in Norwich. See if you can assist him.’ Keeping his eyes averted from the wounded men, Simon loped off while Barak, Natty and I stepped carefully between the mattresses, heading for where Dr Belys was rewinding a bandage round the head of a wounded man. The doctor stood up and turned to look at me. The expression on his face was utterly different from when he had taken care of me; worn, tired, frightened, his lips set and eyes angry.
‘So,’ he said bitterly. ‘You are still with Kett and his kitlings.’
I replied quietly, ‘God give you good morning, Dr Belys. My young friend here has a wound in his arm which I fear may be going bad. I wondered if you might examine it.’ I pointed to Natty, but Dr Belys did not look at him, only continued staring at me.
‘By God,’ he said, ‘you dogs have no end
of insolence. This time you have not just taken over Norwich, you have fought the King’s army, bombarded and burned part of the city to ruin and robbed many of our best people. Do you seriously think you have anything to look forward to now but the revenge you deserve?’ His voice trembled. ‘I have been forced to help treat these men, they threatened to burn my house round my ears if I didn’t, but why should I do anything at your command?’
I stared at him. If the experience of rebellion had changed some of the camp-men, it had clearly done the same to the wealthier citizens, even one as well disposed to me as Belys had been just six weeks before. I answered quietly. ‘Only because he is a wounded man who needs medical care, and I would not think you would deny him that.’
Belys’s lips set even harder. He shook his head, and I thought he would refuse me, but he waved Natty forward peremptorily. The boy exposed a muscular arm and Belys ran his fingers over the wound, making Natty wince. Belys grunted. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Poisoned. All you can do is try and keep it clean.’ He indicated an old woman sitting at a trestle table, a large basket full of bottles beside her, doing a good trade. ‘She’s a basket of wayside cures there, some of them are useful – vinegar, for example. Have you barber-surgeons in the camp?’
‘A few.’
‘Look to them, then. Unless you’d like me to stop the risk of infection spreading by taking his arm off, like they’re doing with that fellow behind the sheets.’ He looked at Barak. ‘Then you’ll have two one-armed rebels to follow you around.’
Natty blenched. I said angrily, ‘I thought better of you, Doctor,’ then turned and led Natty and Barak to where the old woman sat. I told Barak, ‘See if you can buy something useful from her. Vinegar. And lavender,’ I added, remembering my doctor friend Guy’s favourite remedy. ‘I’m going to see if I can talk to Kett.’