by C. J. Sansom
‘That was a piece of uncommon luck, unlikely to be repeated.’
As we stood there a boy in his teens, in a tattered wadmol jacket and cheap hose, came up to within a yard of Reynolds, and called out, ‘Greedy old snudge, you should be in Guildhall prison!’ then bent and bared his arse at the old man. Reynolds, crying ‘Rebel filth!’, raised his stick to bring it down on the boy’s head. The lad was too quick, though, jumping away, causing Reynolds to overbalance and fall to the ground, the stick rolling away. The boy yelled with laughter, and the men guarding the cathedral gates smiled. Reynolds, his thin face red with fury, tried to rise but could not. ‘Help me, you stupid old bitch!’ he shouted at his wife. The moment the boy bared his arse she had done something I had never seen before – smiled, just for a moment. Now she looked down at her furious husband. ‘I can’t, Gawen, my hands –’
‘Bugger your hands, help me up!’
With a sigh, I crossed the street to them, Nicholas following. Reynolds did not at first see who we were, and as we helped him to his feet and returned his stick he gasped, ‘Thank you!’ Then he recognized us and his face darkened again. ‘You!’ he snarled. ‘I need your help no more than that time in the Market Square. Why do you haunt me like a pair of devils!’ He lashed out at us with his stick, catching me a blow on the shoulder. Nicholas wrenched it from his hands.
‘Have you no gratitude, sir?’ he asked hotly.
‘Give me my stick, you carrot-haired cunt!’ Reynolds shrieked. ‘You pair of traitors! Do you know where I have just been? To the Guildhall prison, to visit a supplier of mine shut up in there, a vile, dark, underground place stinking of damp. He can no longer run his business, and I have contracts with him! You rebel filth will destroy this city! You two gentlemen are in league with these scabby renegade apes! We’ll hang you in the end – hang you, hunchback!’ His tirade ended in a fit of coughing, which was just as well as a grinning crowd was gathering. Jane Reynolds leaned against the wall of Augustine Steward’s courtyard, now looking at her husband with disgust. I motioned Nicholas to step back. As we walked away, though, I still wished I had been able to tell old Jane her daughter had enjoyed at least some years of happiness before her terrible death.
Chapter Seventy-one
During those middle days of August, it seemed that only bad news arrived from the messengers who came to St Michael’s Chapel. Everywhere in the south-east the smaller camps were going down; there were threats of force combined with promises of pardon to all except the leaders, and offers of money – £67 in Suffolk, more than £100 to the camp outside Canterbury. Those sums were big, though dwarfed by the £500 given Kett by Southwell – but Mousehold was by far the biggest camp. From the West Country came news of a major military defeat of the rebels there. And on the seventeenth of August, the first essay having been rebuffed, a large expedition sent from Mousehold to take Great Yarmouth failed, with thirty rebels and six cannon captured. It seemed all hope of taking Yarmouth was lost, for afterwards a number of poorer Yarmouth citizens, some with their wives, arrived in camp, adding to the refugees from the Suffolk and Essex camps.
There was, though, news of a small uprising in Lincolnshire, and another in Warwickshire. But already, on the eighth of August, France had declared war on England. This had long been in prospect, for French assistance to the Scots was growing, and it was said that, hopefully, the Protector’s forces would now be gathered for yet another attack on Scotland. But, two days later, it was announced publicly in London that a new army was to be sent against us. First it was said the Protector himself would lead it, then it was confirmed that the commander would be the Earl of Warwick, an experienced soldier on land and sea. And for all the size of the camp, and its control of Norwich, it began increasingly to seem like an island in a hostile sea.
Kett, honest as ever, shared all this news from the Oak. In the camp, divisions of opinion began to appear. Some said that perhaps, after all, a pardon should be sought; yet another proclamation from the Protector had pardoned all those guilty of ‘riotous assembly’ who made ‘humble submission’. Others said the size of our camp, the possibility of new risings, and the Protector’s obsession with the Scottish war, meant that if we held on, our demands would be met. A third faction, the largest, said we should await the new army and fight it, despite word that it would be far larger. After all, Northampton’s army had been easily defeated, by men with little intensive training but who now had several weeks’ more. And if we won, we could then sweep on, gathering men from the disbanded south-eastern camps, perhaps move on London. This faction was encouraged by the prophets, both those who spoke of ancient prophecies and those who claimed inspiration from the Bible, claiming to hear the very voice of God. Meanwhile, some in the camp still said this army was not sent from the Protector at all, but by treacherous members of his Council supported by the Norfolk gentry. In reality, all depended on the size and scale of the army the Protector sent.
Another, more practical consideration also weighed with those who wished to fight to the end – after all the humiliations inflicted on the Norfolk gentry, what would they do to the common people if they won? And now, sadly, there was no mention of enclosure commissions or reform in the Protector’s proclamations. With this faction, I had to say, I had some sympathy, causing Barak to say that I was becoming more radical every day.
Arguments about what should be done took place quietly, around the campfires. Robert and William Kett, representatives of the Hundreds and clerics who supported the rebellion, still addressed the camp-men from the Oak and spoke of holding out until our aims were achieved. Meanwhile, military training redoubled. But the atmosphere in the camp was one of deepening anxiety, a far cry from the exuberance of the early days.
*
AS NEWS OF THE Yarmouth defeat filtered through the camp, Barak returned to our hut in a sombre mood. ‘I was approached by one of the Hundred leaders earlier on,’ he said. ‘If we’re to defeat this new army, we need every man who can fight.’ He paused. ‘He said the government army could be here in as little as ten days. He asked me to join in training.’
Nicholas said, ‘But with –’
Barak lifted his artificial hand. He winced a little, it was paining him as it often did in the evenings. ‘Yes,’ he answered quietly. ‘But it’s known I’ve been something of a fighter in the past.’
I looked at him through the gloom of the hut. ‘Do you want to?’ I spoke quietly, for the Swardeston villagers were firmly for holding out.
He shook his head. ‘No. I realize more and more the duty I have to Tammy and the children. I want to see them again.’
‘Is that why you’ve been drinking more?’
He nodded. Then he said softly, ‘There’s another reason I don’t want to fight. I’ve been talking to a lot of people around the camp, watching the training. It’s going well, but this time they’re not sending a ragtag army under a useless commander; they’ll bring together every professional they can find, and there’s word more foreign mercenaries will be used. Swiss landsknechts. From what I hear our strategy is to try and beat them in the Norwich streets like before, but if that fails, we’ll assemble all our forces on the Mousehold escarpment and fight them there.’
‘That sounds like military sense.’
‘I’ll train, and keep my ear to the ground, but’ – he shook his head – ‘this isn’t going to be like last time.’
We were silent a moment. Then Barak said, ‘Kett’s planning a fair, with jugglers and the like, for next Tuesday, to cheer people up. They’re going to have the camping game.’ He laughed grimly. ‘Good preparation for a battle. The northern Hundred against the southern. It’ll be worth watching.’
‘I’ve heard of the camping game in London.’ I smiled. ‘A mixture of football, wrestling and general mayhem.’
‘Goody Everneke says mayhem’s the word in East Anglia. Still, it’ll let the younger men work off some energy.’
*
IT RAINED FOR the rest
of the weekend, but Tuesday, the twentieth of August, dawned fine and sunny. I made my way to the fair with the rest of the Swardeston villagers, Barak and Nicholas and Edward Brown, who had come up with many from Norwich. Josephine walked with him, cradling Mousy in her arms. The little girl, five months old now, looked round her, examining the crowds intently with her thumb in her mouth. I glanced at Nicholas. He had been quiet these last few days. He was still working with the horses and had not yet been asked to join in training for the battle; I feared that if he was, he might refuse. Natty walked with Simon, who was waving his arms and chattering about what there might be to see. ‘He’s over-excited,’ Natty said to me, a little wearily. Goodwife Everneke told Simon to quiet himself, lest people think him a nonny.
The fair was held on open heathland a mile from the crest; it was used for military training and the yellow grass had been cut down. Tents had been brought from Surrey Place, trestle tables erected and a stage built. As ever, I was amazed by the ability of the camp-men to organize so much in so short a time. Stewards guided the thousands gathering for the various events to the viewing places. Michael Vowell, standing with a group of his young friends, gave me a wave.
The fair began with a military display. A hundred archers shot their bows at earthen butts. Most of the arrows whistling through the air reached the circular targets in the centre. People clapped. This was followed by a mock battle between a hundred men in half-armour and helmets, using swords, halberds, spears and half-pikes. The choreography, by men with only the briefest practice, was remarkable.
The final part of the military display was the shooting of a currier, a type of small arquebus, captured from Northampton’s army. Few had ever seen such a weapon, and there were many curious stares at the gun, half as long as the man who held it was tall, with its long barrel and heavy stock. A second man lit a little fire. People peered in puzzlement as a lead ball was dropped into the barrel and the man aimed the arquebus at a heavy piece of armour captured from one of Northampton’s soldiers, set up fifteen feet away. Those standing close enough saw a little pan of gunpowder on the side of the arquebus uncovered, and a lit match attached by the assistant to a fuse. The trigger was pulled; there was a flash, a bang, and a round hole appeared in the armour. Natty turned to me, puzzled. ‘Seems a lot of effort for one shot,’ he said, scratching his head. His hair needed cutting again; I hoped he did not have nits.
‘Imagine a hundred of those facing you,’ Barak said grimly.
Grumbling among the crowd, most of whom had been able to see little, turned to excitement as Robert Kett mounted the nearby stage, with his brother William and Captain Miles. There was cheering and clapping. He raised a hand for silence, then began to speak, his great voice carrying far, his words, as usual, repeated back to those beyond hearing distance. It was a short speech, but every word counted.
‘My friends! You have followed me loyally for six weeks now, you have worked and trained as hard and successfully as any assembly in history! You have built this camp, and lived here in comradeship! You have put down the gentry and the rulers of Norfolk and of Norwich itself – we have taken the second-largest city in England and sent an army of lords and noblemen fleeing!’ There were loud cheers, which, again, he stilled with a raised hand. ‘I have always been open with you, never hidden anything, and you will know we failed to take Yarmouth, and that though some camps remain and there are new stirrings, most camps to the south are put down! Nor do I hide the fact that a great army, with many thousand men, led by the Earl of Warwick, has, according to one report, set out from London today. My friends, we face another, greater battle, but I know the stout hearts and strong arms of the Norfolk people, and in the end we shall win!’ He took a deep breath. ‘Think what will happen then! The end of forced enclosures and the unchecked oppression of the landlords and the great merchants! The end of the corrupt officialdom that has aided them, whose deeds would shame His Majesty if he knew. We shall win, and this time we shall lead the people to London, and present our demands to the King himself, with no earls or landlords to stand in our way!’ The audience cheered louder than ever, some throwing their caps in the air. All the time he spoke, Kett’s face had worked with emotion. Now he cried, ‘God save King Edward!’ and with that, amidst more clapping and cheering, he stepped down. I caught a glimpse of his face as he did so; it was, suddenly, desperately serious.
‘He’s right,’ Natty said quietly. ‘We can win, and bring a new Commonwealth to England!’
‘I hope so,’ I said. Like everyone, I was moved by Kett’s speech, but the image of streets red with blood came into my head.
*
WE SPENT THE NEXT few hours at the various entertainments. There were tumblers, juggling boys and a bear-baiting which Barak, Natty and Nicholas went to see, but which I avoided. I walked away a little with Josephine. ‘What did you think of Captain Kett’s speech?’ I asked.
‘A great speech by a great man. Edward believes we can win. And I feel stronger now, the path is set and we must go down it.’ She gave me a direct look with her clear blue eyes; how far she had come from the timid Josephine I had once known.
‘Yes, it seems we must,’ I agreed.
She smiled. ‘You said, “we”. Does that mean you count yourself fully amongst us now?’
‘Yes, I think it does.’ I answered seriously. ‘Though I do not know what will happen.’
‘Who does?’ She smiled. ‘Sir, you ever foresaw the worst.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Will you hold Mousy a little? I would like to look at the stalls.’
As always, I was happy to hold the child, who smiled at me, said something that sounded like ‘Ellow’, though it was probably just a gurgling, then nestled into my chest and fell asleep. I walked with Josephine among the trestle tables, where pies and beer were for sale, together with objects taken from the manor houses but not valuable enough for Kett’s treasury – a porcelain bowl set with holes, smelling of the lavender within, a tin stork painted gold, once a doorstop, a toy wooden dog which I bought for Mousy.
We walked on. We passed Michael Vowell and his friends again. ‘That was the greatest speech Captain Kett has ever made,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘That will end talk of seeking some sort of pardon.’ His young friends agreed loudly.
Josephine and I began walking back to rejoin the others, making our way through the good-natured crowds. But we had only gone a few yards when a man stepped into our path. Toby Lockswood, looking unkempt and smelling of drink. ‘Master Shardlake,’ he said sneeringly. ‘Taking another man’s wife and child for a walk?’
I made to push past him, but he grabbed my arm. ‘Have a care for the child!’ I shouted. Mousy began to cry, and Josephine stared at Lockswood with horrified anger.
He leaned in to me. ‘I hear you had a letter from the Lady Elizabeth’s Comptroller a while back, insulting our camp.’
‘How could you know that?’
He smiled, a flash of white teeth amid his thick, tangled beard. ‘I heard a lot before that boy of yours lost me my post. I’ve been spreading the news. Telling my fellows you serve one of the richest people in the land. And that you nurse our enemy, that viper Overton, to your bosom as closely as that baby. Watch out, Master Shardlake, word about you is spreading.’ He turned and walked away.
Josephine looked at me. ‘Was that the man who used to work for you?’
‘Yes. I think he is a little mad now.’ I heard a trembling in my voice, for the idea of someone with Toby Lockswood’s connections spreading poison about me around the camp was troubling indeed.
*
THE HIGHLIGHT OF THE afternoon, just before the camping game, was a mock joust. Two lines of hurdles had been set up, small tents at each end. Two competitors on horseback emerged from the tents carrying lances. One was dressed in armour of painted linen, with the arms of the Marquess of Northampton on the front. He looked over the crowd with a haughty expression. His lance was of cloth painted black. In contrast
to the great horses of a real joust, his horse, too, was made of cloth, its painted wooden head sporting a ridiculous grin. Inside would be two men, one the front legs, the other the back. No doubt these things had been brought from village plays. From the opposite tent a young man from the camp dressed in an ordinary shirt and sleeveless leather jacket held up his own painted lance. He sat on a real horse, though, a small placid-looking animal. The crowd laughed loudly, especially at the ‘knight’s’ horse.
‘Mock me not, country blockheads!’ the knight shouted in a put-on aristocratic accent: ‘I am a warrior knight, and shall have this seditious stirrer’s head from his shoulders!’ There were boos and shouts from the crowd, and the painted horse shook its head in disapproval.
We were standing with the Swardeston people just by the pretend ‘knight’. Everyone was laughing, even Nicholas, while Simon laughed so uncontrollably that Barak warned him not to piss himself.
Then Simon did a stupid thing. He leaned over the hurdle and gave the knight’s ‘horse’ a resounding smack on the rear. There was a cry of ‘Hey!’ from inside and it staggered, so that the knight and his mount nearly fell over. The knight turned his head and said, in broad Norfolk, ‘What the fuck are you doing, girtle-head?’ I heard someone nearby say, ‘Sooty Scambler, might’ve known.’ Nicholas took his arm. ‘Oh, Simon,’ he said. ‘You’re so good with horses, why do you always make these mistakes with people?’
Simon lowered his head, and did not see the hilarity that followed as the knight charged the peasant lad, shouting, ‘For lordship, land and money!’ The boy replied, ‘For the common people!’ and urged his horse on. As he approached the knight’s horse, it turned round and ran clumsily back to its tent, finally urged inside by a thrust at its bottom from the boy’s cloth lance. He got off his horse and bowed to resounding cheers. I laughed as loudly as the rest. Simon slowly raised his head. ‘Are people still looking at me?’ he asked.