Tombland

Surrey Place was right on the edge of the escarpment, next to the road leading up from Bishopsgate. A little way along the escarpment stood St Michael’s Chapel, survivor of the old Priory, Kett’s headquarters. It was there that messengers riding across the country had headed frequently these last two days.

Barak touched my arm. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Coming up the hill.’

A small party of men was riding up the road from Bishopsgate Bridge. As they approached the escarpment I recognized the short, plump figure of Mayor Codd. Beside him was a thin, white-haired man in aldermanic robes who, for a second, I thought might be Gawen Reynolds come to plead for the twins, until he came closer and I saw that he was more strongly built, his expression one of watchful calm. Behind them rode two surpliced clerics. One was Robert Watson, whom I had seen preaching in the marketplace in favour of social order. They were accompanied by half a dozen men in the uniform of city constables. They looked apprehensive as they reached the crest of the hill, but were obviously expected, for some men from the nearest watch-post approached and, after a word with Codd, led them to St Michael’s Chapel. People from the camp turned to look at these brightly robed city fathers, standing out among the camp-men. One called out, ‘Leeches on the city poor!’ and one of Kett’s guards raised a hand to silence him. The little party passed into the chapel. The constables, left outside with the horses and a couple of Kett’s men, crouched in the shade of the building looking nervously about them.

‘So the city leaders are visiting Kett,’ I said. ‘Not demanding he come to them.’

‘They know the thousands here could come down the hill and take the city if they wanted. And that many in the city support us, too.’

Us, I thought. ‘Well, let’s see what happens.’ I turned back to our group of huts, where a bright green banner showing St Sebastian pierced by swords had been brought from the church at Swardeston, which was dedicated to the saint. Barak had been told he was to start assisting Kett as a scribe the following day: men who could write were at a premium.

A few people sat in the low doorways of the huts, seeking what shade they could. The able-bodied men were absent, most working on chopping down the trees and sawing planks in Thorpe Wood. Only the old woman who had welcomed us at Eaton Wood, a widow called Susan Everneke, who seemed to be the village matriarch, a young woman in the early stages of pregnancy who had accompanied her husband, and a little boy were left. Nicholas sat quietly nearby looking at the ground, near Hector Johnson, who was polishing a rusty sword. We went and sat beside them.

I said, ‘The mayor’s come, to see Captain Kett. We saw him go into St Michael’s Chapel.’

The old soldier grinned. ‘One or two are calling it Kett’s Castle.’

Mistress Everneke lifted her head from her sewing. ‘For shame, bor, to yag like that about Captain Kett that’s done all this for us. He wants no castle, only right-doing for all.’

Johnson shifted uncomfortably. ‘’Twas just in jest, gal.’

‘Have some small beer, and stop talking squit.’ Goodwife Everneke had a large jar at her side, and she passed it around. Everyone took a drink gratefully.

I lowered myself carefully to the ground, resting my back against the wooden door frame of our hut. ‘Are you comfortable, sir?’ Goodwife Everneke asked.

I gave her a sharp look; some in the camp, like the little boy, often looked askance at my back, but I saw only kindness in her eyes. ‘Yes, thank you. I worried sleeping on bracken might bring discomfort, but it seems to support me well.’

There was the crash of another tree falling in Thorpe Wood. Barak said, ‘Those men are labouring mightily.’

‘They are,’ Goodwife Everneke said proudly. ‘They’ll keep a’doing till sunset. And more and more are coming in to help.’

‘Are many come from Norwich?’ I asked.

‘A good few skilled men, but I hear Captain Kett wants the poor of the city to stay to support him there.’

The pregnant woman looked up from her sewing. ‘I saw some women yesterday, tiddidolls that looked like city whores.’ She sighed. ‘Still, it’ll keep the men from getting ruffatory with us few women that are here.’

‘Your husband will protect you, dear,’ Goodwife Everneke said. ‘He’ll be back come sunset.’

‘The amount done in just two days is astonishing,’ I said. ‘The huts, the provisioning –’

The old woman nodded. ‘We country folk can turn our hand to most things. Build our own houses, grow our own crops, tend our animals. Given the chance,’ she added meaningfully.

The pregnant woman looked at me. ‘Perhaps my child will have a chance to live and grow up healthy. Despite the wiles of lawyers,’ she added pointedly.

I smiled ruefully. ‘’Tis true I was a lawyer, but I worked for people like you, at the Court of Requests. Until my job was taken away by Richard Rich.’