by C. J. Sansom
‘We saw something down in the Castle Hall, but nobody would tell us what is happening,’ I replied.
Boleyn put a hand in Isabella’s. ‘We will be safe, my dear, we were put here by the authorities, not Kett’s men.’ He turned to me. ‘Have you any more news about Edith?’ He shook his head. ‘That was an extraordinary story you told us.’
‘None, I fear. We know she visited a – distant relation – seeking money early in May, but then nothing, till she was found murdered.’
Isabella said, ‘I have been thinking about that poor creature. It seems her parents treated her harshly.’
John Boleyn said nothing, still resolutely unforgiving of his late wife. I asked, ‘Have you heard aught from Daniel Chawry?’
‘Nothing,’ Boleyn replied angrily. ‘I think he has fled.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Isabella told me what he tried to do to her. Thank God for her strong spirit which prevented it.’ He held his wife’s hand tightly, then his face darkened. ‘God’s death, could he be the killer? If I ever get my hands on him –’ He clenched his fists.
‘He is probably far away,’ Nicholas said.
Boleyn asked, ‘Will Sir Richard Southwell be coming with Warwick’s army?’
I said, ‘It is possible Southwell will be at Norwich with the army. We think he will have stayed with the Marquess of Northampton in Cambridge, looking after the Lady Mary’s interests.’
He looked at me sharply. ‘And his young confederates? Like that rogue Atkinson, and my wretched sons?’
‘Possibly.’
Boleyn paced the room. ‘When Warwick’s army wins, which it will, do you think Southwell and the Lady Mary may get into trouble? After all, she has sat at Kenninghall throughout the rebellion, when she could have fled.’
‘I doubt it. Her political importance as heir is only increased now by France declaring war on us – the Protector needs the support of the Holy Roman Emperor all the more, and he is Mary’s relative.’
Boleyn looked at me. ‘And you – you have been in the camp since the beginning, could you be in difficulty if the rebels lose?’
I sighed. ‘I have tried to be a moderating force. If there is trouble, I must rely on the Lady Elizabeth.’ I looked at him directly. ‘It would help me even now if I could discover who killed Edith that night. It is a pity you did not have a full alibi.’
Anger flashed in Boleyn’s eyes. ‘I have said a thousand times, I never left my study.’
There was silence for a moment. Then Isabella laughed nervously and said, ‘John, let us tell them our news.’
His face lightened instantly, and he grasped her hand. ‘Isabella tells me that, at last, she is pregnant. Three months gone. Now perhaps I may have a son who is not a monster. She has known for several weeks, but did not wish to tell me till we were together again.’
I calculated quickly. Three months ago was May, so she could have conceived just before her husband’s arrest, but if she had conceived after John Boleyn had been imprisoned, he could not be the father. Had she had some relationship with Chawry after all? Yet everything she had said and done indicated otherwise. I looked at her; she smiled at me tentatively. I said, ‘My sincerest congratulations to you both.’ Then she came forward and took my hand. ‘Go to London today, Master Shardlake, while you can. We thank you most heartily for all you have done.’
‘Yes,’ John Boleyn agreed gruffly. ‘May we meet again in happier times.’
Isabella took Nicholas’s hand in turn. ‘And you, young Master Overton, take care of yourself. Find a pretty young woman with a strong and honest spirit, I think that is what you need.’
‘If I can find one as beautiful as you, madam, I shall be well pleased,’ Nicholas said chivalrously. Isabella curtsied to us. We both bowed to her, then shook John Boleyn’s hand and knocked for the guard. He let us out, then shut and locked the door behind us. I thought, It will be a long time before I see John Boleyn again. I could not have been more wrong.
Chapter Seventy-four
When I returned to camp late that afternoon the mood seemed to have hardened; men went about their duties with grim determination. When Barak returned for dinner he told us about the defensive fortifications being set up at the northern edge of the camp, at the place called Dussindale. ‘There’s tons of equipment gone up there. Captain Gunner Miles is supervising; by Jesu, he knows what he’s doing.’ He added in a lower voice, ‘If it comes, we could win after all, especially if we soften them up first in the city.’ He turned to Nicholas. ‘I’m sorry, lad, for trying to make you leave in my place when I thought of deserting. I’d no right, not when I couldn’t do it myself.’
Nicholas smiled and nodded. ‘I know you were in a hard place.’
‘And you’re staying?’
‘I’m going to wait and see what happens next.’
Natty, who had heard the exchange, turned his face – one side now a mass of bruises, thanks to Lockswood – to look at him. ‘Victory,’ he said firmly, ‘that’s what happens next.’
‘Ay, we’ll show them,’ Simon agreed.
I looked around the little Swardeston camp, empty of its women now. We had gristly beef for dinner, undercooked by the men. I thought of Goody Everneke and the other women, now trailing home, and hoped fervently they would be safe. I did not pray, for that part of me which had briefly opened up when I had taken Communion had closed again – like most here I could only focus now on our survival.
*
NEXT MORNING, THE twenty-fourth of August – another of the rare warm days that month – I had taken up my favourite position on the crest of the hill, looking down on Norwich, along with several others. There was, however, nothing to see – if Warwick’s army was approaching from Intwood, there was no sign of it yet. A messenger rode up the hill, spurring his horse to make speed. He dismounted and ran straight to St Michael’s Chapel. A quarter of an hour later Kett himself emerged, his face set and anxious. He stood looking down on Norwich a moment then, seeing me, beckoned me over. He gave me a searching look.
‘Master Shardlake. Tell me what you think of this. That man was my spy in Warwick’s camp.’ He was silent a moment. ‘He tells me Warwick’s army is well armed and commanded. They are only waiting for the Switzer mercenaries to arrive.’
‘And they will try to take Norwich?’
‘I think so. But there is another royal Herald with the army, and apparently he is to be sent to Norwich this morning to talk to the city, no doubt to try and obtain its peaceful surrender. I am going down to Norwich now.’ Kett studied me keenly. ‘And you are staying, whatever comes next?’
‘Yes. Barak and Nicholas, too.’
‘There are rumours going around the camp that you and young Overton are spies.’
‘Set by Toby Lockswood, no doubt,’ I said grimly.
‘The story is you met with gentlemen in Norwich, passed information about our strength to Warwick.’
‘It is evil nonsense, Captain Kett.’
He continued looking at me steadily, then said, ‘Yes, I think it is.’ He turned his face to the city. ‘I shall ride down to Norwich. I will allow Augustine Steward to meet with this Herald, see what he wants. If it is to talk to the men, let them decide.’ He shook his grey head. ‘Though the odds now –’ He broke off.
At that moment three soldiers on horseback drew up, leading a horse for Kett. He mounted, and together they rode down to Norwich.
*
SEVERAL TENSE HOURS passed. I learned only later that day of events in the city. Kett persuaded Augustine Steward and another senior city official to meet the Herald outside the walls. They in turn suggested to the Herald that the camp be offered a pardon on condition of surrender. I never knew whether or not Kett was party to that. In any event, the Herald rode back to Intwood to consult the Earl of Warwick, then returned to confirm he would offer a pardon to all save Kett. He was readmitted to the city, together with a trumpeter and a small party of Warwick’s soldiers, including several men carrying curriers –
small arquebuses – while a man behind brought a container holding the live coals to light them. Some forty of Kett’s men, on horseback, accompanied them across Bishopsgate Bridge. I heard Kett had returned to camp separately.
In the camp we heard the loud blast of a trumpet. This brought a huge number of camp-men, many armed, running downhill to where the Herald’s party stood by the riverside. Barak and Nicholas and I were among those who went down, together with Natty. I saw Simon Scambler some way off, with a group of young men. I recognized those who had tormented him the other day, but they all seemed on friendly terms now.
Most of the camp had assembled in a massive show of force, some on horseback; I saw the Herald, gorgeously robed, ride across the bridge, accompanied by Augustine Steward and the little retinue of soldiers. I recognized the commander of the arquebusiers; it was Captain Drury, whom I had encountered in London; a senior officer in Warwick’s party, he had doubtless come to weigh up the opposition.
At sight of the Herald, many in the vast crowd shouted out, ‘God save the King!’ As ever, I thought, both sides claim loyalty to the eleven-year-old boy in London.
Augustine Steward asked the camp-men to separate into two groups to allow the Herald through, so that his words could be heard by as many as possible. They did so, and accompanied by his soldiers the Herald rode a little way up the hill, then stopped, right in the middle of the sea of rebels. Like his predecessor, he did not lack courage. A large, solid man in his fifties, he had a commanding, haughty expression. He began by commending the men for their declarations of loyalty to the King. Then, with an extravagant gesture, he unrolled a sealed and decorated paper, and began to read, in a loud, resonant voice.
I listened, horrified. The tone of his address was even more savagely insulting than the one inflicted on us by the previous Herald the month before. I saw the expressions on the faces of some camp-men turn from hope to fierce anger, though a small minority also looked scared. The Herald accused them of being a violent, horrible company, guilty of cruelty and despoliation and condemning to prison many worthy and excellent persons – at this there was a discernible murmur of fury. He called his audience men of detestable madness, disloyalty, and mischievous treason. At the end he said the King’s mercy was such that despite all this, a pardon would be offered to those who surrendered now, all bar Kett himself, but if they did not accept, the King had commanded the Earl of Warwick to pursue them with fire and sword.
No sooner had he finished than a chorus of angry shouts rose from the crowd. Men called out, accusing the Herald of being himself a traitor, sent not by the King but by the gentlemen; the offer of pardon was called a lie, and one man shouted that in reality it offered nothing more than the ropes and halters of imprisonment and hanging. ‘He is no real Herald, his robes are sewed together out of old popish vestments,’ another shouted out. It made me think, some still cling to the belief that the Protector is not behind this. Weapons were brandished, and the Herald’s face hardened. I saw Robert Kett ride up; if the tactic had been for the Herald to intimidate the camp-men without their leader present, it had failed spectacularly. Kett joined him, and called to the camp-men to make a space so the Herald could declaim his message to others who had not heard. Reluctantly, the crowd parted to allow the Herald’s party to ride some way further, though angry insults against him and his message followed. Barak said quietly, ‘He’s fucked up any hope of a settlement. If he’d offered some remedy of grievances, spoken to the men like they were adults, he might have got somewhere.’
‘You’re right,’ Nicholas said. ‘You can see from their faces that some at least might have accepted a pardon and redress of wrongs, but now most are enraged.’ He added angrily, ‘Who wrote that damned proclamation?’
I said bitterly, ‘The Protector, of course, just as he wrote the last one. The fool, he hasn’t the political skills of a rabbit.’
Nicholas said, his voice shaking, ‘Whatever they’ve done, these are men with just grievances. How could anyone think talking to them like this would help?’
Barak said, ‘You might have done so yourself two months ago.’
‘Not now,’ Nicholas answered grimly, ‘not now.’ He looked over to where the Herald was still reading his proclamation. He was being heard in silence, but again I saw far more angry faces than frightened ones.
Then it happened, the terrible thing that still haunts my dreams, and which finally ended any remaining chance of a negotiated settlement. My eye had been drawn by movement and, unexpectedly, the sound of laughter. I saw Simon Scambler standing, with some of the boys he had been speaking to, only a few yards from the Herald, who had just finished reading. In the silence I distinctly heard one of the boys say, ‘Go on, Sooty, do it. We’ll throw you a party afterwards.’
Simon looked uncertain, pleased by the apparent friendship of his old tormentors but also afraid. ‘Go on,’ one of the boys urged. ‘Show the cunt what we think of him.’
Simon stepped forward from the crowd, facing the Herald from only a few yards’ distance. Then he turned round, lowered his stocks, and presented his rear to the Herald, who stared in utter outrage as roars of laughter erupted from the crowd. Simon waved his backside slowly from left to right, adding to the insult. Then Captain Drury snapped his fingers at the man holding the container of live coals, who instantly opened it. Drury bent and lit the rope fuse, put the stock of the long weapon against his shoulder, then pressed the trigger. The fuse hit the gunpowder pan, there was a loud bang and a puff of grey smoke, and Simon’s backside exploded in a mess of blood and shit. He screamed, tried unsuccessfully to stand up, then staggered. The bullet had gone right through his body and as he turned I saw blood gushing from his stomach too, and his intestines slowly falling out. He crouched, swaying, for a moment; then fell onto his face. I saw the boys who had encouraged him melt away as I shouted, ‘No!’ and, followed by Nicholas and Barak, elbowed my way through the crowd.
The camp-men, momentarily silenced by the crash of the gun and Simon’s collapse in a welter of blood, now roared their anger and fury. Weapons were pointed towards the Herald’s party. A voice yelled, ‘See, they come not to pardon but to murder us!’ A party of our horsemen rode up to the crest of the hill, shouting as they went, ‘The Herald has come to have us destroyed! Our men are killed by the waterside!’ The Herald stared after them, stupefied by what had happened, though Captain Drury, looking at Simon, had a slight smile on his face.
I reached Simon, lying in the middle of a slowly spreading pool of blood, and bent down, gently turning him over. His face held that expression of puzzled surprise he had worn so often in life, but his eyes were now still and dead. Groaning, on the verge of tears, I gently closed his lids. Barak knelt beside me and said urgently, ‘Get up, it’s not safe here.’ He and Nicholas, their faces stricken as mine, had to pull me to my feet; my clothes were covered in blood.
I looked round me, dazed. The camp-men had closed in around the Herald and his troops, and would probably have pulled him from his horse had Kett not said to him urgently, ‘You must go, I will return with you to the earl.’ He added grimly, ‘Perhaps after what you have seen of our anger, you will advise him to proclaim a remedy for our grievances.’ The Herald and his troop rode away down the hill, the crowd parting reluctantly before them; but they had gone only a little way when a group of Kett’s horsemen rode up, surrounding them again. I heard one of them cry, ‘Whither away, whither away, Captain Kett? If you go, we will go with you, and with you will live and die.’ The man’s tone was angry, suspicious; it was the first time I had heard Kett addressed in tones other than respect. ‘Go back and stay the tumult,’ the Herald told Kett urgently, and at his signal the men began moving back uphill, towards the camp, allowing the Herald and his party, including Simon’s killer, to flee downhill, across Bishopsgate Bridge and into Norwich.
Barak, Nicholas and I were left standing by Simon’s body. A group of men, Natty among them, approached us. Natty said, through tears, ‘
Let’s take him, at least give him a decent burial.’
‘Come, bor,’ one of the men with him said to me gently. ‘Leave him to us.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I will come with you.’
‘We must give him a proper farewell,’ Nicholas said, blinking back tears.
Barak said bitterly, ‘Simon never wanted to be the centre of attention, did he, just to live his life, not harming a soul, but he was never allowed that. He always got the attention, and it was always bad. Shit!’ He kicked a large flint through the air.
I looked at the camp-men walking back up the hill, talking animatedly. I asked angrily, ‘Where are those boys who were with him? They put him up to it, they were too afraid to do it themselves. By God, they’re near as guilty of his murder as that soldier. For murder it was.’
‘There’s nothing to be done there,’ Barak said. ‘Though I’d like to root them out and beat them to a pulp myself.’
I looked down at the city. ‘And what now?’
‘War,’ he answered. ‘Without question, war.’
Chapter Seventy-five
We carried Simon’s body down to what was left of Thorpe Wood, and buried him in a little clearing where the leaves were already starting to yellow. We had only two fallen branches tied together to make a cross. None of us could think of any words, until Natty said quietly, ‘May you find peace at last.’ Then we walked silently back to the camp.
There was much activity there, and approaching the crest I could see why: even from this distance the coiling black snake of Warwick’s army was visible, approaching the western side of the city, and everywhere on the heath men were being ordered to their weapons. A sergeant in half-armour approached us and ordered Natty and Barak to fall in with his company of spearmen. Nicholas waited uncertainly; the serjeant said brusquely, ‘Not you, lad, I know who you are.’
We looked on as men ran to and fro with orders from St Michael’s Chapel, and companies of bowmen, spearmen and crossbowmen, some in half-armour and round sallet helmets, descended the hill under their captains’ leadership. Barak gave me a salute as his company passed. Cannon, too, were being dragged down by horses. A roll of artillery fire reached me from the city, I saw clouds of smoke and then Warwick’s army, marching like some huge and monstrous insect, passed through the gates. Somehow, the enemy was already in.