Tombland

I walked off, carefully memorizing the bright green banner marking the village group, for it would be easy to get lost in this sea of people. The camp stretched far beyond the wood. Somehow pathways seemed to have sprung up naturally, allowing passage to men bearing the sheep and deer carcasses, and sundry messengers. Some men were digging a latrine. I asked someone where the baggage cart was, trying to make my voice more like Barak’s, and was directed to a patch of higher ground beyond the wood.

Armed men stood guarding the baggage train, where supplies were being distributed. I recognized the soldier, Miles, whom I had seen that night in Norwich. His powerful figure was now encased in half-armour, a solid breastplate with metal guards for his upper arms, a sword at his belt, marks of authority, I guessed. He looked at me with the keen, sharp eyes I remembered. ‘Can I help you, Granfer?’ he asked, and I realized that with my white hair and stubble I did indeed now look like just another old villager.

‘My name is Matthew Shardlake. I am a lawyer, advising Master Kett. My assistant, who has a fierce mouth, is a prisoner, though Master Kett said he may consider his release to me.’

To my surprise, Miles laughed, the narrow mouth above his fair beard opening to show many teeth gone. He clapped his thigh.

‘God’s death, I took you for a commoner. Aye, Captain Kett has spoken of you. Says you could have betrayed us over Attleborough, but didn’t.’ He reached out a hard, calloused hand. ‘John Miles, late captain gunner in the old king’s army.’

I shook his hand, glad to have found someone friendly. A captain gunner, I remembered from the Mary Rose , meant someone in charge of a whole group of cannon, expert and high-ranking. I said, ‘Might I speak with my assistant? His name is Nicholas Overton.’

Miles looked at Natty, who nodded. ‘If you wish. They’re a sorry lot, I fear, the gentlemen prisoners. They’ve been getting abuse and catcalls on the march. But they deserve it, the rogues.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You know those Boleyn twins? They’ve been calling your friend rude names.’

‘They are our bitter enemies, Captain Miles.’

He called over to another soldier in half-armour. ‘Take this man to talk to the prisoner Overton. Just a few minutes, mind.’

I was led past carts full of barrels of ale, bread and vegetables, and slaughtered sheep and deer. Some of the animals were beginning to stink after a day in the heat. At the very back, surrounded by more armoured men, were high-sided carts – six now – where gentlemen in torn and tattered robes, tied or manacled, sat or lay slumped against the sides. I saw Sir Roger Wodehouse, sitting with his mouth gaping open, unable to believe what had happened to him. Many others looked shocked and fearful, and some had cuts and bruises. As I passed one cart the side shook as someone within grasped the rails, letting forth a tide of abuse: ‘Fuckin’ hunchback, pretending to be a peasant now, are you! Fucking lawyer!’ I jumped back. Gerald Boleyn, wearing a torn and tattered shirt, glared furiously at me from between the slats of the cart. His face was bruised but still full of savage energy. ‘Fawning on these dogs!’ He spat at me, a great gobbet landing on my shirt.

‘Leave it, Gerry, we’ll just get beaten again!’ His twin was slouched beside him, the scar pale in his bruised face. His look, though, was no less full of hate, and he shouted, ‘When forces are sent to destroy these peasants, we’ll cut your fucking liver out ourselves.’

‘Be quiet, for Jesu’s sake.’ Leonard Witherington was with them in the cart, the imperious lord of South Brikewell now desperate with fear. His voice was imploring.

Barnabas said, ‘Shut your mouth, you cowardly old fart.’

The guards were grinning, but one jabbed Barnabas lightly with a spear through the bars. ‘That’s enough from yew, young muck-spout!’ Barnabas glared at us, but the amusement his antics was causing seemed to subdue him more than the spear, and he sank back wearily against his brother. I walked hastily on to the next cart. Again, men who had once ruled sat or lay, looking shocked, angry, and not a little frightened. Finally, I saw Nicholas, his long body curled into a ball, face livid with sunburn, sleeping. His feet were bound. I touched him gently through the bars and he jumped up, green eyes alert.

‘’Tis only me,’ I said gently.

He looked at me. ‘What happened? You look like a peasant.’

‘Fine clothes are no good on this march.’

‘Are you and Jack safe? I thought something had happened to you when you weren’t put in the carts.’

‘I’ve been asked to help Robert Kett give the gentlemen a fair trial when we reach our destination.’

‘You can’t help these rogues!’ he said incredulously.

‘I haven’t decided yet. But I’ve asked Kett to release you into my care, and he said he’d think about it.’

Nicholas stumbled to his knees. His shirt and hose were in tatters, his doublet gone. His face was puffy with bruises as well as sunburn. He leaned forward.