Tombland (The Shardlake series Book 7)

by C. J. Sansom

  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.

  *

  ALL NICHOLAS AND I could do that afternoon was stand watching Norwich, though we could see very little. Others unable to fight for whatever reason where also strung along the road, waiting.

  ‘Warwick’s army got in easily,’ Nicholas said. ‘Looks like they had assistance.’ He leaned forward, screwing up his eyes. ‘Seems like a lot of smoke around Tombland. At least I think it’s there.’

  Then, late in the afternoon, our men came wearily back up the hill. That was a bad sign. They brought, however, a whole new train of cannon, which they must have taken from the enemy. Rather than torment ourselves by watching to see whether Barak and Natty had returned, we went back to the Swardeston huts and began preparing dinner. The soldiers straggled in, dirty, clothes torn, some nursing wounds. To our great relief Barak and Natty were among them. Natty was unharmed, but Barak had a long graze on his calf, which had been crudely stitched.

  ‘An arrow grazed me,’ he said. ‘It’s nothing.’

  Master Dickon, the leader of the Swardeston group, was absent. I asked where he was. ‘Slain,’ the man Milford, a blacksmith, answered dully. It was he, I remembered, who had started the argument which Simon ended by singing a beautiful song. ‘Along with Fletcher and Harmon.’ Exhausted, the men collapsed on the ground.

  *

  AS NICHOLAS AND I served food to the men, Barak and Natty told us what had happened. They had reached the city to find the Earl of Warwick already in occupation of the centre of Norwich. He had immediately hanged no less than forty-nine captured rebels. It was believed Augustine Steward had told Warwick that he could enter through one of the weaker city gates; two other gates had been brought down by artillery. Our men had fought mightily, gathering in Tombland and dividing into attack parties, and at first a great rain of arrows looked as though it might drive Warwick’s forces back; but Captain Drury had brought up a company of arquebusiers and a mighty volley of bullets had dispersed our forces. Faced by these new and terrifying weapons and Warwick’s numbers, the order to retreat had been given, though not before a large part of Warwick’s supply train and artillery, which had got lost in the narrow streets, had been captured.

  ‘Hundreds are killed,’ Barak said grimly. ‘We’ve lost the city, except the northern part. We would have joined up with the men there, but Warwick’s forces have control of the bridges over the river, so most of us have come back up.’ He looked at me. ‘I saw Toby Lockswood in the midst of it, leading a company of Norwich spearmen straight at an armoured company of Warwick’s men. Whatever else, he doesn’t lack courage.’

  Natty said, ‘Captain Miles says there’s a new plan of attack, we’re going to take Norwich back tomorrow.’

  ‘You’re going down again?’

  ‘Yes.’ Barak began to remove his artificial hand, which I could see was paining him. He said quietly, ‘Warwick’s is some army. I half wish we’d taken the fucking pardon.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Natty said, his bruised face firmly set. ‘We must defeat them, or they will destroy us all. They think of us as hardly more than animals. Look what they did to Simon.’

  *

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING was clear and sunny again, though cool. It was Sunday, but no church bells sounded in Norwich, and there were no calls to sermons on the heath; everyone was preparing to march downhill to battle. I heard Barak get up and leave the hut. I must have been exhausted, for I fell asleep again at once, and was woken only by the sound of tremendous gunfire from Norwich. I thought with a sudden, terrible guilt, ‘I may never see him again.’ I hastily rose and walked to the crest, shrugging my shoulders to ease my back. Nicholas was already there.

  Looking down, I saw the fresh assault on Norwich had begun. The smoke and noise of cannon fire came from Bishopsgate, and from the area to the north of the city. Our men were attacking on multiple fronts; to the south, I saw a pall of smoke over the southern part of Norwich, and from the staithes by the river where grain was stored.

  ‘Good God,’ I said. ‘That’s Conisford, Josephine’s down there. Why is it afire?’

  ‘Perhaps the rebels have set the fire as a diversionary tactic.’

  We continued watching in horrified silence, as the roar of cannon continued. Then a familiar figure approached us, limping along the crest; Peter Bone, the problems with his feet more apparent now. He bowed to us.

  ‘Master Shardlake. Master Overton.’

  ‘Goodman Bone.’ I took his hand. ‘It seems we are near the climax.’

  ‘I wanted to fight, but again they wouldn’t let me, said I’d be more trouble than I was worth with my dwainy feet. What have you seen?’

  ‘It looks like our forces have fired the south of the city, and they seem to be firing at the north walls as well, from the position of the smoke. But can they retake the centre?’

  Bone said fiercely, ‘If it comes to a last battle on the heath, I’ll join in, even if it is only handing gunpowder to the cannoneers.’ He shifted from one foot to the other, and I realized how much walking hurt him. He sighed. ‘They are all gone now; Grace, Mercy, my wife, Edith – so if I die in battle, I care little.’

  I looked at him. ‘At least poor Edith had those years of happiness with you and your sister.’ I fumbled in my purse. ‘Here, I still have her wedding ring. Her husband refused it. Would you like to take it back?’

  ‘I thank you,’ he said quietly. He took the ring back and placed it gently in his own little purse. Then he asked quietly, ‘Have you any more notion of who killed her?’

  I shook my head. ‘No more than before. Possibly the Brikewell steward, Chawry, who has fled; perhaps Boleyn himself; even his wife Isabella is a suspect. And the twins.’ I sighed. ‘I think I have failed.’

  ‘At least you tried,’ Peter said. ‘At least you cared.’

  We turned to look back at the city, but could see little save that the fires in Conisford still burned. Again I thought about Josephine and Mousy.

  Peter said, ‘But it seems our men are inside and fighting. Come,’ he added, ‘let me show you the preparations made to fight on the heath. Even if Warwick keeps Norwich, we have a good chance up here. Captain Miles and the other soldiers have made great plans.’

  With his awkward limping gait, he led us along a freshly cleared trackway for about a mile, until we reached a point a little north of the city, where the escarpment was less steep and gave onto Magdalen Road, leading north out of Norwich.

  ‘There it is. The place called Dussindale.’

  What I saw impressed me anew. All along the lower slope of the crest, men were digging in large, heavy wooden stakes with sharply pointed tips, close together and pointed outwards, so they posed a formidable obstacle to any attacker. In front, trenches were being dug. Other men were piling up earthworks at an angle, presumably to prevent a flanking action. Some way behind, earth had been dug up to make a wide, level platform; cannon, including, no doubt, those taken from Warwick in the previous day’s battle, had been set in position. And already some were firing, aiming at the gates in the north wall of the city, only a few hundred yards southward, making the ground tremble under us. I could see now that the tactic was to bring the whole of Norwich, north of the Wensum, under our control. Among those digging I saw the tall muscular form of Michael Vowell. This surprised me, for I thought, as a Norwich man, he would be working with our people in the city today. He saw us and came over.

  ‘Well, Master Shardlake,’ he said cheerfully, ‘you see we are making ready for what may come.’ He had recently
had his hair and beard cut short, to discourage nits and lice.

  ‘Impressive preparations,’ I said.

  ‘And we face away from the rising sun,’ Peter Bone said approvingly. ‘But it will shine right in the eyes of the enemy.’

  ‘So it will,’ Vowell agreed. He looked at us. ‘Any news?’

  ‘Only what little we can see from the crest,’ I answered. ‘The south is on fire, I think, and there seems a great melee around the centre.’

  Vowell bit his lip. ‘It may be touch and go.’

  Peter Bone said, ‘If it comes to it tomorrow, I’m ready to give any help I can up here, despite my problems walking.’ Vowell looked at him enquiringly, and Bone explained. ‘I was born with my feet splayed inward, and years working the treadle on the spinning machine made it worse, just as spinning contributed to my – my sister’s swollen hands.’

  ‘Your sister?’

  ‘Yes. She died last winter.’

  Vowell looked at him strangely. And then it hit me, like a lightning bolt, there among all the battle preparations at Dussindale. Something Michael Vowell had said once, which had struck me as inconsistent at the time but which I had forgotten, lost in the mass of detail surrounding Edith Boleyn, and subsequent events at the camp. Yet Peter Bone’s mention of his disability, and of being a weaver, suddenly brought it back. Three weeks ago, the day I visited Norwich under Vowell’s guard, following the defeat of Northampton, we had spoken of Gawen Reynolds and his family, and the bandages which Jane Reynolds wore. I remembered his words quite clearly: . . . a swelling and twisting of the knuckles. It runs in her family. Apparently, her mother had it from late middle age, and so did Edith. The twins will probably get it, too. And it struck me forcibly now: how could he have known that Edith had developed this disability in later life if he had last seen her, at the latest, nine years before? I looked at Michael Vowell, and in my brain cogs turned, connections fell into place, and I realized that I could be looking at one of Edith Boleyn’s killers. And then I realized who the second man must be, who had been with him that night. I had thought there was more than one. And who had killed the locksmith and his apprentice. Something may have showed in my face, for Vowell gave me a long, hard look, before saying, ‘Perhaps you should return to your hut, Master Shardlake. After all, you would not want to find yourself hit by a stray gunball.’

  *

  I SAID LITTLE AS we walked back to the escarpment. The fires in Conisford seemed to have lessened, but there was still smoke over the south of the city. Then I saw a long line of gentlemen, chained by the wrists to each other, being brought up the hill by soldiers. They reached the top and turned towards Surrey Place. There were about twenty of them, and to my horror I recognized John Boleyn, better fed and clothed than the others, but chained, nonetheless. Nicholas and I walked rapidly over to one of the soldiers, whom I remembered as a man who had kept guard at the trials at the Oak, and who might, therefore, remember me.

  ‘Excuse me, what is happening here?’

  ‘Serjeant Shardlake, isn’t it? We’re bringing up the last gemmun from Norwich Castle. It’ll be in the Earl of Warwick’s hands soon; he’s pushing us out of the city centre. We’re taking them to Surrey Place.’

  ‘But why? Why do they matter now?’

  He smiled grimly. ‘You’ll see, if it comes to a battle. They’re all going to be chained together before the front rank of soldiers. That will give Warwick’s men pause.’ I must have looked at him in horror, for he frowned. ‘This is war, Master Shardlake. Things are going badly in the city, we may have to fight outside and we need every possible resource.’ I looked at the gentlemen prisoners, whose dull or frightened eyes told me they knew their coming fate. John Boleyn stared at me pleadingly. I pointed to him and said, ‘That man is not one of the captured gentlemen. He is in prison after a murder trial – a pardon has been lodged on his behalf by the Lady Elizabeth. This is a mistake.’

  The soldier looked at Boleyn. ‘He’s a gemmun, isn’t he?’ he snapped. ‘His name’s enough to tell us that. We were told to bring all their sort from the prison, and that’s what we’ve done. If you’ve a complaint, make it to Captain Kett.’

  I said, ‘All this time, Captain Kett has refused to allow the gentlemen to be killed. Is that to change now?’

  The soldier became angry. ‘We won’t kill them, it’s a question of whether Warwick will. It’s all-out war now, bor. Our men are dying in the city by the hour. Come on, let’s move.’

  As the wretched column clanked on, I fell into step with Boleyn. ‘How is Isabella?’ I asked.

  He looked at me desperately. ‘They threw her out of the castle. She’s down there, somewhere, in the city. The fighting, Matthew, it’s terrible. Please, try to help us.’

  *

  THAT EVENING ONLY wounded men returned from Norwich; the fighting had stopped for the night, and we learned that Warwick was now in charge of most of the city, only the districts north of the river still under rebel control. The blacksmith Milford arrived with a heavy, bloodstained bandage across his side which, he told us, came from a spear thrust. He said grimly, ‘They’ve got control of the marketplace, we can’t get any more supplies. And these Switzer mercenaries arrive tomorrow. Unless we can make an assault from the north of the city, it’s going to be a battle on the heath.’

  Nicholas asked, ‘Did you see any sign of Jack Barak, or young Natty?’

  He shook his head. ‘In a battle you just see what happens around you. I’m sorry, I must lie down.’

  Again, Nicholas and I cooked the evening meal. Then we went to our hut. ‘It’s not looking good,’ he said quietly. ‘What will happen to Boleyn now, and Isabella, and Josephine?’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t know.’ I sighed. ‘But I do think I know who killed Edith Boleyn, for all the good that may do now. Michael Vowell, and his old employer Gawen Reynolds.’

  He looked at me aghast. ‘Her own father? But he’s ancient, he walks with a stick.’

  ‘He does now. He said he hurt his leg some months ago, remember? I think it was while he and Vowell were doing what they did to Edith.’

  ‘But Vowell hates Reynolds.’

  ‘He says he does. I think he is lying. I think he has been lying all along.’ I told Nicholas what I remembered Vowell saying about Edith’s hands. ‘Tomorrow, will you help me get him alone somehow, and confront him? I need the whole story, there are more involved than just those two.’

  ‘Of course.’

  I sighed. ‘Then there’s nothing to do now but try to get some sleep. And await what happens tomorrow. Dear God, I hope Barak and Natty are safe.’

  Chapter Seventy-six

  That night I slept badly again. Someone – Nicholas perhaps – had rearranged our bracken bedding, and made a poor job, and twigs and branches dug into my body. It rained before dawn, and I heard the drip of water through the turf roof, but the morning was clear, though cloudy. With a sense of foreboding, Nicholas and I went again to the crest.

  Wounded men, a good number, were trailing back up the hill to Mousehold. Barrels of small beer had been fetched, and Nicholas and I assisted in passing out mugs to the parched soldiers, who helped each other along, while those with major wounds were carried up on stretchers. We learned that Warwick still held the central area of the city, though further attacks would be made against him that day. He had erected his coat of arms, the bear and ragged staff, on Augustine Steward’s house in Tombland. The one thousand four hundred Switzer landsknechts were expected that day, and we had to try to beat Warwick’s army before they arrived. We asked after Natty and Barak, and a man from their company of spearmen, who had an arm nearly severed, said he had seen Natty resting during a break in the fighting that morning, but had not seen Barak yesterday. Another soldier told us Toby Lockswood was dead, killed in close sword fighting in Tombland the day before. The man had obviously heard the rumours about me, for he said pointedly, ‘He was willing to give his life for the Commons, while the gemmun sit up here.�
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  ‘I never doubted his courage,’ I said.

  ‘He was a good man.’

  ‘That’s another matter.’

  The man spat on the ground in disgust at my words, then walked away, limping badly from a wound in his leg.

  *

  LUNCHTIME ARRIVED. Nicholas and I, depressed by the sights of the morning, returned to the Swardeston camp to eat a meagre meal – there was only stale bread and beer left. We were sitting round the ashes of the campfire when we heard footsteps approaching. Four soldiers carrying halberds appeared. At their head, looking grim, was Michael Vowell.

  ‘What is it?’ Nicholas asked coldly.

  Vowell spoke in a formal tone. ‘Serjeant Matthew Shardlake, Master Nicholas Overton, we have reason to believe you are spies for the enemy, and thieves, too.’

  I rose to my feet, a cold feeling in my stomach. ‘What are you talking about? We are neither.’

  Vowell, his eyes still on me, waved to his men. ‘Search that hut. Turn it inside out.’

  ‘You can’t do that,’ Nicholas protested. ‘Where is your authority?’ For answer one of Vowell’s men levelled the point of his halberd at his chest.

  We had to stand outside while the hut was searched; we heard our bracken bedding pulled apart. Then one of the soldiers reappeared, holding a letter in his hand, as well as the pendant I had admired that day at Surrey Place; I remembered Vowell had been present then. The man handed both to Vowell, who waved the pendant at me. ‘I remember you coveting this. You said it reminded you of a similar one worn by your former employer, the late Queen Catherine Parr – whose brother the Marquess of Northampton led the first attack on us last month.’

  ‘Traitors,’ one of the soldiers said. ‘Kett should never have allowed them here.’

  I looked at Michael Vowell. ‘Take us, then, to Captain Kett.’

  For answer Vowell opened the letter and read it aloud: ‘“Urgent and secret; to the noble Earl of Warwick; 25 August 1549: My Lord, today we managed to study carefully the defences which the rebels have erected against an assault on Mousehold Heath. I have prepared a diagram, which is enclosed. Your Grace’s loyal servants, Matthew Shardlake and Nicholas Overton”.’ The signatures were crude impersonations. The diagram, which Vowell held up, was a rough but accurate representation of the defences we had seen yesterday.