by C. J. Sansom
Kett called out, ‘We must adjourn the hearings. Back to your huts, men.’ Battered, buffeted and soaked, everyone began to disperse. Then everyone turned at the sound of a loud cry. A group of men, and a middle-aged woman, stepped towards the stage. The woman called out, ‘We have captured Richard Day, lawyer and sorcerer of Bungay! Let the claims against him be heard!’
Peering through the rain, I was astonished to see a man I knew, his arms tied in front of him, held firmly in the midst of the group. In my days representing poor clients at the Court of Requests I had encountered Richard Day several times, acting for East Anglian landlords. A substantial landowner himself, he was skilled in dragging cases out for months or years. In court, he would angrily denounce poor witnesses, already intimidated by appearing in a London court, as liars and cheats. At that time he had been an impressive man, tall, sturdy and grey-haired, a fiercely aggressive advocate who hated losing, and who more than once had berated me after a trial for representing country clowns. I had heard rumours that he threatened tenants who opposed him with the ills of sorcery, and practised black magic at his manor house.
He was a very different figure now; wearing a torn and stained doublet, soaking wet, his face bruised and, like his hands, covered with scratches. He looked at the people on the stage above him, and when he saw me sitting between Kett and Barak his eyes widened in astonished fury.
The group who had brought him forced Day to his knees before the stage. A young man, blinking water out of his eyes, shouted, ‘We’ve been looking for him all week! He ran from his manor house but Mistress Howell here found him hiding in a briar patch the day before yesterday. We’ve come all the way from the Suffolk border to get him tried!’
The woman stepped forward and spoke, loudly but with dignity. ‘He had my husband and me turned off our land because our copyhold could not be found! He had destroyed the manor record book!’
Another mighty clap of thunder sounded. Day, trembling, shouted out, ‘I curse you, Shardlake! All those you care for will die! How can you assist these dogs, these apes and pigs!’ As so often among the gentlemen, he referred to the camp-men as animals.
‘See, he spoke like a sorcerer! Kill him now!’
The whole scene was like a wild dream – the rain pounding on the canopy, the thunder crashing, the sodden crowd, many with weapons raised threateningly. Codd and Aldrich looked on wide-eyed. Kett called out, ‘The villainy of this man is known far and wide! But he will have a trial like everyone else! Not now, this storm will be causing damage in the camp and we must see to that! Take Day to Surrey Place and secure him in chains! We will take him to Norwich Castle tomorrow!’ Someone stepped forward and jabbed Day with a spear. He squealed like a pig. A soldier stepped forward and seized the weapon before it could do any real damage. Day collapsed to the ground and began weeping. The crowd laughed. ‘Enough!’ Kett roared against the hissing rain. ‘Captain Miles, take him! He will be tried at the next hearing! Now go, all of you, before we drown on our feet.’
Miles and a couple of soldiers stepped forward and hauled Day off through the curtain of rain. The crowd began to disperse. As the thunder continued rolling, the deluge became even heavier.
William Kett said, ‘God’s death, Robert, the whole camp will be washed out if we’re not careful! I fear for those camped by Long Valley.’
‘You’re right,’ his brother agreed. ‘We must get back to St Michael’s and organize.’
I looked at them. For a moment I had been shaken by Day’s curse, but the common sense of the Ketts brought me back to reality. I, too, should return to my hut. I rose. Mayor Codd looked out at the rain. ‘Do we have to return to Norwich in this?’ he asked plaintively.
‘Stay if you like,’ William Kett answered. ‘Perhaps you’d like to help clear up,’ he said as he descended the steps from the stage with his brother. They walked away, their solid figures instantly drenched.
Chapter Fifty-one
As Barak and I squelched our way back to our hut, the rain mercifully lessened, and the sun appeared from behind the clouds. The camp was a sea of mud, with potholes full of water. People were baling out their huts, shaking water from sodden possessions. I saw a man, one of the governors probably, calling people to the Long Valley, where a sudden flood had carried away huts, animals and supplies.
The Swardeston camp had suffered too, turf roofs leaking water into the interior, puddles in the doorways. Nicholas was helping with the baling out. Some of the men had just come back from Thorpe Wood with long branches which they placed in the ground. Lengths of rope were tied between them and wet clothes hung out. Barak and I quickly changed into dry clothes, then joined in, taking everything possible into the sun to dry. Dickon, the man who had given evidence against the Swardeston landlords, joined me in slinging wet clothes over a line. ‘Do you think I did well today?’ he asked. ‘Did your man note down the accusations against that rogue?’
‘He did, and I am sure the commissioners and the Protector will follow them up.’
He smiled wryly. ‘We’ve put his sheep off the commons. It’s done already, and we won’t let it be undone.’
A tall, serious-looking man appeared. I had seen him in St Michael’s Chapel; he was another governor. He nodded to us. ‘That’s right, bors, keep a-doin’, get everything dry. Put the top layer of your bedding bracken out as well.’ He moved on.
I looked at our hut. Water dripped from the turf, making a puddle on the mud floor. Barak said, ‘Far cry from your Chancery Lane house, isn’t it?’
I laughed. ‘It is indeed.’
‘Most of these people are probably used to leaking roofs.’
Nicholas shoved past us and began picking up armfuls of wet bracken. ‘Come on, you two,’ he said. ‘Get this stuff moved.’
*
I HAD WORRIED about Scambler finding us in the chaos, but shortly afterwards he arrived, together with old Hector Johnson. I was alarmed to see that Scambler was limping, and had a bruise on his chin. Johnson said, ‘Found him over by the main track, asking for the Swardeston huts, he’d got himself lost. Bit of a hero, this lad.’
‘How so?’
‘There was a great to-do with the horses. A strong wooden paddock’s been built to hold them, but many are nervous and the thunder and hail drove them wild. They tried to escape. One big stallion was kicking at the fence to break it down, and the others would have followed. But this lad went up to it and, God knows how, managed to quiet it, though not before it stood on his foot and butted him with its head. People say he was singing to the animal. If those horses had broken out and gone careering through the camp, you can imagine the damage.’ He patted Scambler on the back. Simon looked down, red in the face.
‘There!’ I said. ‘I told them he was good with horses. Well done, Simon.’
Scambler looked up, and for the first time since I had met him, he smiled.
*
THAT EVENING, as we sat around the cooking fire, damp despite the end of the rain, Scambler told us what had happened to him since his aunt had thrown him out. With nowhere to live, he had joined the ranks of the Norwich beggars. He’d learned how most had once had jobs or families, though some had been beggars from childhood. Most drank strong beer, befuddling themselves to escape their miserable reality, but if Scambler’s aunt’s church had done one good thing, its condemnation of drink had stuck with Simon and he had refused all offers of it. Begging, however, brought in less than enough to eat and once or twice he was set on by his old tormentors from school. Some of the citizens who had dropped a penny into his cap had said, complacently, ‘Knew you’d come to this, Sooty.’
Goodwife Everneke, who seemed to hear everything, passed Scambler an extra plate of mutton, which he quickly devoured. He had been talking quickly, as usual, with wild gestures, but when he had eaten he looked at me and said, slowly, ‘One day I was sitting outside the cathedral, so hungry I felt faint. I feared I’d die soon, and my aunt’s promises of hell kept coming into my head –�
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‘She’s an evil old bitch,’ Barak interjected forcefully.
‘I was sitting there, no coins in my cap, when I heard some drop in. I looked and there were three shillings – three shillings, Master Shardlake! And standing over me was old Mistress Jane Reynolds – you remember, from the court?’
‘Yes. I would not have thought her one for charity.’
‘I was scared, her standing over me, all in black, with that white, lined face. But she just said kindly, “You were at court. Poor boy. I wanted a boy, you know, I needed a boy, not poor Edith.” Then she said, “If you see my grandsons, be sure to run.” There was such a look of sorrow in her face.’ Scambler shook his head. ‘Those three shillings saved me, kept me going until I heard about the camp and came up here.’
I looked at Barak and Nicholas, remembering Jane Reynolds’s words in court – ‘Edith, God save you, I wanted a boy.’ I said, ‘I think she is in mental agony.’ I frowned. ‘Why does she keep saying, “I wanted a boy”?’
Nicholas said quietly, ‘Perhaps the twins killed their mother after all.’
*
WE HAD A DAMP night in the hut, but woke to another hot day. As we breakfasted, the Hundred representative arrived and told us there was still work to be done in areas where dry gullies on the heath had flooded as the water ran off. Barak was asked to go and help. Nicholas rose to join him. ‘Might improve my reputation if I’m seen doing a bit of work,’ he said. Scambler returned to the horses and I went to St Michael’s Chapel. The guard on the door, however, told me Captain Kett was busy trying to return the camp to normal, and there would be no hearings today. He added with a grin that Reverend Watson from Norwich had come up to give a sermon on the flood being a warning against excess pride, and had had an angry reception.
Free for the day, I wandered across to the nearby vantage point looking down on Norwich. The city spires glistened with damp. The main road down to Bishopsgate Bridge was churned up with mud, and a couple of carts had been abandoned. Some way off I saw a gully where water was still draining from the heath down to the Wensum. Along its path lay a great mess of clothing, the planks and turf from ruined huts and people’s humble possessions. I shook my head at the destruction.
A voice at my shoulder said, ‘People who know the heath gave warning not to camp in the gullies. But nobody expected a storm like yesterday’s. I’ve never seen a worse.’
I turned to find myself facing Captain Miles, in a green doublet and, as usual, a metal breastplate. He was older than I had thought, perhaps in his late forties, his face seamed with lines. He stroked his fair beard, looking at me with keen eyes. He extended a hand, which I shook. ‘You’ve done a good job at the hearings,’ he said.
‘Thank you. I understand you are in charge of training the men.’
‘That’s right.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘And appointing under-officers, training people to use all the different cannon without blowing themselves up, not easy since it’s such a specialized trade, and how to use spears and the longbow. Thank God most of the Norwich lads have had longbow practice in the villages; some are very good. And men from the old stonemasons’ guild, which they dissolved when its religious functions were taken away, are making gunballs the right size for the different cannon.’
‘Do you think it will come to fighting?’
He shrugged. ‘Best to be ready. And training keeps the men occupied. None of them have been in a situation like this before.’
‘But you will have experience of campaigning, of large camps, if you are a master gunner.’
‘I started as a boy back in ’twenty-three, with old Henry’s invasion of France that year. It was a mess and gained nothing, like all his campaigns.’ Bitterness entered his voice. ‘But I stayed in the King’s army, I was a poor Norwich boy and it paid well enough, especially when I rose to master gunner. I was in the last French war, and in Scotland until last year. By God, some evil things were done there against the people. Every campaign a failure, leaving nothing but thousands dead. England has little to be proud of.’
I looked at him keenly. ‘A strange view for a soldier.’
‘There are more who think like me than you might imagine.’
I nodded, remembering rumours of deserting soldiers moving from area to area, encouraging the setting up of camps. ‘Why did you stay so long?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘Money. Why else? I have a wife and two children to support, it is safest if I do not say where they are, given there is at least one spy in the camp, who helped those boys escape.’ He looked out over the city. ‘Scotland was the end, the filth and lack of pay, the endless fighting and losing. And now I am captain of all the forces in this camp.’ He gave me a sudden hard look. ‘Captain Kett trusts you. Is he right to?’
‘I made an oath to aid him on legal matters. I shall keep it.’
Miles nodded slowly. ‘Well, there are some cannon taken from the manor houses to be moved to the crest of the hill. To remind the Norwich city fathers what might happen if they change their minds. Excuse me, Master Shardlake. Perhaps we shall talk again.’ He nodded, then turned and marched away, back into the camp.
*
AT LUNCHTIME, I returned to the Swardeston huts. Barak and Nicholas were there with the rest of the men, muddy from their work, having been given an hour’s break to eat. Afterwards, I suggested we take a walk along the crest of the escarpment. I had been thinking about Jane Reynolds. As we traversed the path along the crest, a welcome breeze coming up from Norwich, I said, ‘I have seldom seen a more unhappy woman.’
‘Hardly surprising,’ Barak said, ‘given that husband, her daughter’s horrible death, and those twins as grandsons.’
‘But combining this pity for Edith with the wish she had had a son,’ Nicholas said. ‘It seems to dominate her mind – to tell it to a beggar boy –’
Barak said, ‘Perhaps she thinks that if Edith had been a boy, the twins would never have been born.’
I said, ‘Maybe. Yet – I feel there is more to it. I wish I could talk to her.’
‘Poor Edith,’ Nicholas said sadly. ‘Everyone wished her away.’
‘And someone put her away,’ Barak added grimly.
Our attention was drawn by the sound of shouting and cursing. A crowd of some fifty people were making their way from Surrey Place to the road down to Norwich. Robert Wharton, a lawyer and landowner who had been found guilty at the Oak two days before, whom I remembered seemed to be particularly hated, was at the centre of the group, his arms tied securely in chains, eyes wide with terror as guards in breastplates tried to fend off an angry crowd from the camp, many with pitchforks and spears. Drawn by the commotion, several people had come out of St Michael’s Chapel, including Toby Lockswood.
‘What the fuck’s going on?’ Barak asked.
‘Kett said yesterday they were taking some prisoners to Norwich Castle.’
I looked at the crowd. The soldiers were trying to reach the road, the camp-men to get at Wharton. A man jabbed at him with a pitchfork, making him yell.
Nicholas said quietly. ‘He’s had no trial. Even by camp standards, this is no justice.’
Barak said, ‘He must have done some vile things to be hated so.’
Another young man made to stab Wharton with a spear. However, the guards, who were carrying halberds, had the advantage, and one used his pole to strike the spear, making its owner drop it. The man shouted angrily, ‘Do you act to protect the landlords now you have been made guards? Will you betray the commoners?’
The man leading the guards, a tall strong fellow in his fifties, rounded on him. ‘Don’t accuse me of betrayal, you fucking runt, or I’ll have your balls! I did as much as anyone to spread the word and set up this camp!’
Another shouted, ‘Ay, Master Echard, miller with half a dozen employees, like Master Robert Kett with his tannery! But who did you set it up for? The rich yeomen and traders?’
Red with rage, Echard shouldered his way through the guards and
grabbed the man by the throat. ‘I did it for all the commons of Norfolk. Damn you, did you not hear our demands yesterday, which even now are on their way to the King?’ He pushed the man away; he shouted back, ‘We should not be camping here, we should be marching on London to enforce our demands!’
A crowd was gathering. Some shouted approval, others called the young man a fool. With an angry gesture Echard indicated the guards should move on. They started walking down the road, still accompanied by some hostile men who tried to make jabs at Wharton.
‘Jesu,’ Barak said. ‘They’ll kill him.’
I shook my head. ‘Wharton has enough guards.’
Nicholas walked over to the crest of the hill and looked down the road as Wharton was led to Norwich. To my surprise, I saw Toby Lockswood join him. Words were exchanged – it was too far for me to hear but they were not arguing, and Lockswood’s manner seemed unthreatening. Then he walked away and suddenly shouted, ‘We have a traitor in our midst!’ He pointed at Nicholas. ‘This fine young gentleman has just said Wharton should be freed, Captain Kett locked up, and that we are a commonwealth of rogues! Are we to allow that?’
Nicholas looked stunned, astounded. Barak and I walked quickly over to him. ‘Nick,’ Barak said urgently, ‘What happened?’
He shook his head. ‘Lockswood came up to me and started talking about the clearing-up. I never mentioned Wharton or Kett at all!’
Looking at Nicholas’s honest, astonished face, I believed him. He had said some stupid things, but had learned better, and I believed his views were slowly changing. Barak looked at Toby, who was approaching us together with a crowd of camp-men, already fired up by the melee around Wharton. Barak said quietly, ‘I believe you, Nick, but Lockswood has put you in the shit.’ He unsheathed the knife on his artificial hand. Toby looked me in the eye, a slight smile at one corner of his mouth, and I remembered his last words to Nicholas. ‘I’ll have you, boy.’ This was not about politics, it was personal.