Tombland (The Shardlake series Book 7)

by C. J. Sansom

  I shook my head. ‘I cannot believe it of her. But, you’re right, she has to be a suspect.’ Barak’s eyes had sparked with interest again; I had managed to distract him. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘the twins are gone now, as are Southwell and Flowerdew. But we can keep an eye on the Reynolds household, Chawry and Isabella, too. And it will be interesting to see how Nicholas gets on with John Boleyn.’

  Barak raised his eyebrows. ‘John Boleyn could still be guilty of Edith’s murder himself, of course. And could even have directed the murder of the locksmith and his apprentice from prison.’

  ‘I know. The trail starts with her disappearance nine years ago. Someone held her prisoner, or hid her, probably far from Norwich.’ I frowned, for the memory of the puppet play came back – the landlord’s wife, the puppet woman turned upside down. There was some connection to all this, but it eluded me still.

  ‘What is it?’ Barak asked.

  ‘Nothing – I don’t know – I am still so tired.’

  In the distance, rows of armed men were being led away by officers and Hundred representatives, probably to the less populous parts of the camp to train. Many of the men had metal sallet caps and body armour, no doubt brought up from the town. Barak said, ‘Captain Kett should see Tammy’s letter, he may not know Italian mercenaries have been employed. If I write back now, will you ask him to try and make sure my letter reaches Tamasin?’

  I put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Yes.’

  He returned to the hut. In the distance more men marched away in order, bearing bows and pikes. An army was forming.

  Chapter Sixty-one

  The atmosphere in the camp that week was very different from the one before; then there had been games and shows, gorging of food, the celebration of freedom. But now, despite the victory in Norwich, there was the threat of an army to be sent against the rebels, and the need to train, fast. That afternoon I went to St Michael’s Chapel again and asked to see Captain Kett, but the guard said he was unlikely to return till evening. I left Tamasin’s letter with him, saying there was a reference to Italian mercenaries gathering in London. Then I returned to my hut and slept awhile before returning to the chapel as the sun was going down. The longest days of summer were over, dusk coming a little earlier each day. There was a line of people outside the chapel, waiting to see Kett. I joined the queue, and in due course my turn came.

  Kett was in a serious mood, and looked careworn. ‘Master Shardlake!’ he said. ‘Thank you for passing on that letter.’

  ‘I thought I should.’

  He nodded, studying me. ‘We shall not be holding any trials tomorrow. They can wait a day or two.’ He unfolded Tamasin’s letter. ‘This confirms word we have had that mercenaries are to be sent against us.’

  I handed over the reply Barak had written. ‘Barak asks if this might be sent to his wife somehow. It says only that he is alive and well.’

  ‘I will do what I can, but it is hard to get anything through now. And meanwhile’ – he riffled among the documents on his desk and gave me a signed paper – ‘a pass, giving you access to the castle and anywhere you wish in Norwich.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain Kett.’

  ‘It will make it easier to see John Boleyn and young Overton.’

  ‘I saw many heading down to the town this afternoon.’

  ‘Yes. Norwich market will be open again tomorrow. The men are still paid regularly from the money we have under close guard at Surrey Place. Talking of that, have you any money left yourself?’

  I shrugged. ‘A half-sovereign. I can get by.’

  As I returned to the Swardeston huts, I thought – Kett’s Treasury, Kett’s Court, it was becoming like a state within a state. I remembered what Barak had said about the risks to my future. They were real enough; but I had made my stand, and I shrugged off my worries. After all, who on Mousehold knew what their future might be?

  *

  THERE WAS LESS paperwork now, and the next day Barak was sent to where most of the captured cannons were kept. Both the cannons themselves and the gunballs they fired needed to be checked over closely, to ensure the gunballs for each were exactly the right size. New gunballs were also being made by members of the former Norwich stonemasons’ guild, who had come to the camp in some numbers, and Barak’s job was to check their working hours for payment, and itemize the different sizes of gunballs for Captain Miles and his gunners, mostly other ex-soldiers, to check. Left alone, I decided to seek out Toby Lockswood and try to reason with him. Edward had said he was becoming an important man, and indeed, for most of the day I was told he was closeted in St Michael’s Chapel, but late in the afternoon I found him in his hut – an ordinary dwelling like the others, attached to another village group. He was washing himself, using a pail half full of water. He had a solid body, thick dark hair covering his chest. Like most of us his hair and beard had been cut short because of the risk of lice, making his round face look severe. He narrowed his eyes as I approached. ‘Master Shardlake.’

  ‘Toby. Might we have a word?’

  He towelled himself with his shirt, then put it on. ‘What have we to discuss?’

  ‘It grieves me still to recall how we all worked so closely last month, and now Nicholas is in prison, because of you. His views are far from yours, far from mine, come to that. But that’s no reason to punish him.’

  Toby nodded. ‘That’s exactly why you and Barak have joined the camp, while Overton is in prison.’

  ‘There is more to it than politics; you took a personal dislike to him.’

  ‘I hate him and all his type.’

  ‘But is it fair to use the power you have now to pursue a personal vendetta? Is not your judgement perhaps warped by the grief you feel for your poor parents? That is something I can understand, I have lost my parents, and others close to me as well. But one must separate grief from judgement.’

  ‘Must one?’ He mocked my accent. ‘Is not judgement about revenge, as can be seen on any hanging-day?’ He leaned forward. ‘Do you remember my master in London, Aymeric Copuldyke?’

  ‘I do. My own employer, Thomas Parry, told me at the start of all this that your abilities greatly exceeded his.’

  ‘Remember how he mocked me at our first meeting, my social status and Norfolk accent? I worked for that lazy fat slug for ten years. Jack Sauce, I called him behind his back. He knows far less law than I do.’

  ‘That I believe.’

  ‘So I have no love for those who rule the common people, nor any belief in their ability to rule at all. Look how well this camp is organized by ordinary people.’

  ‘I agree with you,’ I said impatiently. ‘But that does not justify bearing false witness against Nicholas Overton out of spite, which I believe is what you have done.’

  His full mouth narrowed unpleasantly. ‘Master Shardlake, you cannot expect me to discuss a legal matter in which you have an interest. By the way, I understand you are keeping Overton in Norwich Castle, rather than bringing him to open trial.’

  ‘I have my own reasons for that, which Captain Kett knows. But there will be a hearing at the Oak, when you and your witnesses will be questioned. Be careful you do not make yourself look like a man motivated by vengeance before Robert Kett a second time.’

  Lockswood’s face reddened with fury. I turned on my heel and walked away. I hoped that whatever position he held in the camp did not involve command of men, for he was the type who would have favourites – and victims.

  *

  OVER THE NEXT FEW days, serious training was carried out under Captain Miles and the officers – mostly ex-soldiers – whom he appointed. Men went willingly, from what I could see, to the training grounds. The booming of cannon firing practice shots often resounded over the camp.

  Bad news, though, soon reached us. A camp at Hingham, fifteen miles away, intended to harry the flanks of an approaching army, was attacked by forces under Sir Edmund Knyvett of Buckenham Castle, a bulwark which had held out against the rebels. The castle was too strong
for the small force to counter-attack, and they returned to Mousehold. A few days later, on Sunday, 28 July, we learned that the camp at Downham, near King’s Lynn, had been taken by the local gentry. The sight of defeated men from Downham drifting in to the camp lowered the general mood, which was already anxious now. The army was expected, though many still disputed it had been sent by Protector Somerset at all and it was rumoured to be composed merely of Norfolk gentry and their retainers.

  *

  ON THE FOLLOWING DAY, Monday, there were more trials at the Oak. I had been assisting Representative William Doughty to pass judgement on some gentlemen brought in from the countryside, and a dozen thieves who were, save one, found guilty and expelled from the camp. They were few, given the numbers here, but I found it depressing. I suspected many would make their way down to Norwich and become beggars there. By the time the proceedings were over the morning was advancing.

  At that moment a messenger arrived and summoned me to see Captain Kett. I followed him to St Michael’s, walking past the rows of clerks – fewer now – and up to his large table. Captain Miles sat with him. Both gave me penetrating looks.

  ‘Master Shardlake,’ Kett said, ‘I understand that during the old king’s reign you worked for Queen Catherine Parr.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Did you ever meet her brother, Sir William Parr, now Marquess of Northampton?’

  ‘Once.’

  Miles asked, ‘Could you describe him?’

  ‘A thin man, average height, with pointed features and auburn hair and beard. He would be in his late thirties now.’

  Miles and Kett exchanged glances. ‘Then it’s him,’ Kett said, ‘not someone from the Norfolk gentry using his name.’ He turned back to me. ‘The army is on its way, and the man you describe is its commander. The deputy commander is young Lord Sheffield, a local man of no good reputation.’

  Miles asked, ‘What would you say of Parr’s ability to command men?’

  I took a deep breath. ‘He rose to the Council only because he was the late queen’s brother. He is not stupid, but – not greatly intelligent either: his skills were as a courtier. I do not think he has military experience.’

  Miles turned to Kett. ‘By God, they must be short of experienced commanders.’ He looked at me sharply. ‘Would you call him your friend?’

  ‘No. As I said, I met him just once. My only loyalty was to Queen Catherine, and she is dead.’

  Kett steepled his fingers. ‘Northampton’s army is approaching Norfolk, we expect it in perhaps three days. Fortune may have smiled on us. There are indeed Italian mercenaries among them, but no more than three hundred in an army of one thousand five hundred, and they are not as feared as their Swiss and German counterparts. We have over five thousand men ready for battle, as well as the poor citizens of Norwich, who are well organized now, and ready for street fighting. Your friends Edward Brown, as well as Michael Vowell and Toby Lockswood, have done fine work preparing them.’

  Miles continued soberly. ‘There will be bloodshed, no doubt of that, but I believe we can win. There are many Norfolk gentlemen returning with the army – Sir Richard Southwell, Sir Thomas Paston and others, as well as men of the court, all with their own retainers. Few experienced soldiers.’ He gave a bark of laughter. ‘I’ve seen it before, in France and Scotland; they assume that just because you’re an aristocrat you can fight.’

  I thought, So Southwell is returning. That probably meant his associates as well, like John Atkinson. And I had little doubt the twins would return too, for the fight. Flowerdew, on the other hand, I suspected would remain safe in London or whatever other bolthole he had found.

  Miles asked Kett, ‘Any news of the Lady Mary?’

  ‘She remains closeted at Kenninghall. Food is allowed to reach her, in accordance with our agreement with Southwell.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I very much doubt the Protector knows of that arrangement.’

  Miles said, ‘Southwell maybe dead in a few days, along with many others.’

  Kett turned to me. ‘You and Barak are to remain in the camp.’

  ‘I fear I would be of little use, but Barak would fight if he could.’

  Kett looked round at his officers. ‘Do what you can to encourage morale. A good fighting spirit must be fostered. If we defeat this army, the news will resound through the country like a tocsin!’

  *

  THAT AFTERNOON I RETURNED to Norwich. Men from the city and the camp were shoring up the walls and reinforcing the gates. At the castle I found Nicholas and Boleyn playing chess. Like everyone else, they knew of the coming army. Nicholas looked better now he had decent food – the two always checked Isabella’s food packages carefully to make sure that they had not been interfered with. Then I visited Chawry and Isabella – I told her that in view of the coming battle it might be safer to leave the city, but Isabella refused steadfastly to leave her husband, and Chawry said that in that case he, too, would stay.

  In the early evening, Barak and I went for a walk through the camp. We needed something to take our minds off the fact that, according to Kett’s scouts, Northampton’s army was expected to reach Norwich on the morrow or the following day. At breakfast that morning the Swardeston villagers had greeted us warmly; we were accepted now, and Nicholas diplomatically forgotten. Josephine was there with Edward. She looked cast down again, no doubt worried about the approaching battle. Edward would probably be in the fighting. Mousy let me pick her up. Josephine smiled, and Simon clapped his hands.

  ‘Off with the horses again today?’ I asked him.

  Hector Johnson replied. ‘Ay, they’ll be putting him in charge of them before we know where we are,’ The old man was clad in half-armour and sallet helmet; appointed an officer, he was involved in the training. I looked at Natty, who had arrows slung over his shoulder and his longbow at his feet. ‘I can shoot five arrows a minute now,’ he said proudly. Goody Everneke looked at him, and I wondered whether, like me, she was wondering how many would survive the coming battle.

  *

  BARAK AND I WALKED east, to the further reaches of the camp. Horses and cattle were penned in now by wooden fencing – how much work the carpenters had done! – while sheep were contained by the landowners’ old hurdles, although now they were kept for meat, not wool, as were the chickens and ducks, geese and doves we also passed. In the horses’ paddock men were improving their riding skills, Simon Scambler among them. Among the groups of huts, each with its parish banner, pigs rooted. Yet the smell of the camp was not as bad as it might have been, for cleanliness was still rigorously enforced, especially where cesspits were concerned. There had been no signs of disease. We passed a bakery – and the foundry, turning out spears and halberds. Carts were still coming in from the villages with supplies, but fewer now – we were in the weeks before harvest, the leanest time of the year. Kett had done well to ensure the reopening of the Norwich market so goods could be bought.

  We must have walked three miles, reaching the fringes of the populated area. Here, where there was more space, military training was still going on, for all that the sun was setting. We saw a line of fifty bowmen, who, at a shouted order from an officer, sent a rain of arrows hissing through the air. Elsewhere men were charging with half-pikes at straw figures set in the ground, yelling ferociously. Others followed, hacking at them with home-made spears and halberds.

  ‘They’re doing well,’ Barak said. ‘Miles and the experienced gunners under him are also doing a fine job of ensuring our cannon will work.’

  ‘They have still had so little time for training.’

  A little way off an officer was addressing a group of longbowmen. To one side Hector Johnson stood, leaning on a halberd. We approached him. ‘How’re ye diddlin’?’ he asked. I remembered how he had been set to guard me on the march from Wymondham. But he trusted me now, and was always friendly.

  The officer was telling the bowmen that the coming army was full of their old enemies the landlords, aided by Italian mercenaries.
‘Foreigners who kill for money, with loyalty to none, but they will be unable to resist stout Englishmen fighting for their homes!’ he shouted. The men cheered, but Johnson smiled cynically. ‘There are English mercenaries, too,’ he said. ‘Veterans of the French campaign. Stayed in Europe and fought for whoever would pay them – and for much higher wages than the old king paid.’

  ‘People are the same everywhere,’ I observed.

  ‘That they are.’

  We bade him farewell and returned the way we had come. I saw a group of about forty, mostly older folk who could not fight and some women, gathered around one of the bearded prophets. He stood on a box, Testament in one hand, waving the other fervently at his audience.

  ‘This time was prophesied in the Book of Kings, where Josiah, King of the Jews, a most righteous ruler, came to the throne aged eight and put down idols, removed pagan images, and saw God truly worshipped. Now in King Edward we have a second Josiah, who is removing the last vestiges of popery and who seeks true equality among men to establish the righteous kingdom the Bible says will be with us before Christ’s second coming.’ He paused, beating his fist on his chest in a dramatic gesture, while most of the audience cheered wildly.

  *

  THAT NIGHT THERE WAS an argument around the cooking fire amidst the Swardeston huts. We had dined well, and had drunk well, too, for although Kett did everything to discourage heavy drinking, a barrel of strong beer had been obtained and by the time night fell on the company most men, including Barak, were the worse for wear. The only exceptions were myself – my father had been a tippler and I had sworn as a youth only ever to drink moderately – and Simon Scambler, who still cleaved to his church’s belief that drink was sinful. We had been joined by Michael Vowell, whom I had met walking from the meeting at Kett’s Castle, looking tired, and invited to join us. Master Dickon, who had argued for the prosecution of the Swardeston landlord and who was the leader of the village group, was half asleep, head on his chest. Edward Brown was in Norwich, but Josephine sat next to Barak and me. Mousy was asleep in her hut. The other young woman in our camp sat leaning against her husband, and next to them sat three other men who would be fighting when the army came; a blacksmith, a tanner and a labourer, all drinking from mugs which periodically they refreshed from the barrel. Goody Everneke had gone to bed.