Tombland

‘Our soldiers are for the Commonwealth,’ Kett said stoutly. ‘They are men of ideals.’ He leaned back and crossed his arms. ‘But you are a gentleman, perhaps you fear common people?’

His words struck home. For all my own ideals, my status meant that my whole life I had seen the poor, especially in numbers, as a potential threat, an enemy. As individuals I could advise them, but in the mass, yes, I feared them. I said, ‘I am a man of my background, as are we all. Will you let me consider this?’ I knew if I refused I would end up their prisoner, like Nicholas. But I needed to think, and think hard.

Kett frowned, then nodded slowly. ‘A little time, yes. I see you are an honest man, Serjeant Shardlake; others might agree too quickly, to curry favour, then take the chance to flee later.’ He stood. ‘And now, I offer you a bed in my house tonight.’

That was an offer, I knew, I would not be allowed to refuse. I said, ‘When you get to Norwich, what of the town poor? Their grievances are different. Perhaps some wish not to reform the kingdom, but make all men level?’

He laughed. ‘Like the Anabaptists in Germany, fifteen years ago. How often the gentlemen use them as a bogey to frighten their fellows.’

‘My point is, Master Kett, the Anabaptists were destroyed by the rulers.’

He studied me with those large, piercing eyes. ‘We shall not be destroyed, we shall prove to the Protector that we are loyal.’ He stood. ‘And now, I must return to town. I will arrange something to eat for you.’ He looked at my belt. ‘And for now, at least, you may keep that money. But do not advertise you have it.’

Chapter Thirty-nine

The following morning, I was woken at dawn by the sound of voices and trundling cartwheels outside. The smell of cooking fires wafted through the open window. Heavy footsteps sounded within the house. I had shared a bed with Michael Vowell, and Hector Johnson, an elderly ex-soldier. He was around sixty, thin and stringy with several scars on his sunburned face. Nonetheless, he moved as swiftly as a younger man, jumping from the bed.

I sat up and rubbed a hand over my stubbly chin. Vowell, already lacing up his hose, said I should rise. ‘We shall be on the road soon and must try to snatch some breakfast.’

Downstairs bread and cheese had been set out on the dining-room table, with jugs of ale. A dozen men, including Robert Kett’s son, sat eating as quickly as they could, tearing the bread with their hands. I hesitated, then reached out to grab some bread and cheese. I was used to being served my food, eating slowly. Vowell smiled cynically. ‘Catch as catch can now, Master Shardlake.’

Afterwards, Vowell and Johnson led me outside – no doubt they had been set to keep a watch on me – and we walked to the centre of town, where perhaps a thousand men, and a few women, had gathered, most in workaday clothes and caps or wide-brimmed hats, bags over their shoulders, many carrying weapons. The crowd was quiet; no doubt most were newly awake; many looked tired and some as though they had thick heads after a celebratory night. I looked around for Barak and Nicholas, but saw neither. Hector Johnson walked to the rear of the crowd, where carts were being packed with vittles. Vowell stayed with me. I glanced at him. The well-dressed steward had become a man with tangled beard and hair, dressed in a loose shirt. But his eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.

The crowd’s attention was focused on Beckett’s Chapel, where the Kett brothers stood on the steps with Miles and several other men. Robert waved his arms for silence, then called out in a loud, deep voice. ‘We leave now for Norwich, to erect a great camp at Mousehold Heath! Others will join us by the great oak at Hethersett! Be of good heart and discipline! We are making as great a stir as any in Norfolk’s history!’ There was a chorus of cheers. Then William and Robert Kett, Robert’s wife Alice, and a little group including Toby, the soldier Miles, and some others I did not know, mounted horses, and called for the people to follow. The great concourse – men of all ages, mostly poor but some wearing the richer, deeply dyed fabrics of yeomen, and a few women with their husbands, began marching out of Wymondham. Vowell asked, ‘Will you be all right walking?’

‘I hope so.’ I inclined my head. ‘Easier with my hands untied.’ I looked behind me, where oxen and donkeys drew a long trail of carts, most filled with food, though others contained weapons, helmets and breastplates. At the very back was a cart where five bound men sat; the Flowerdew boys, a pair of gentlemen I did not recognize, fine clothes askew, and Nicholas. His face looked bruised. I drew a deep breath. Somehow I had to get him out of there.