Tombland

He frowned. ‘This one has crossed with the one I sent a few days ago. She says I am cruel and thoughtless not to have written, and wonders where I am. She says the children are pining for me.’ His voice shook. ‘God’s death, is it my fault letters aren’t getting through? Hasn’t she the wit to realize the whole country is disrupted?’

‘Tamasin has plenty of wit, as well you know. It is because of the state of things that she is so worried for you.’

‘Well, she’ll either get the letter I sent, or she won’t,’ he answered stubbornly. ‘She says she’s short of money, as though I could do anything about that, up here. She goes on about the atmosphere in London, with talk of the London Corporation petitioning the Protector for weapons, and a great searching for seditious speakers. But London has always been strong on security; I think any rising there would be crushed.’

I looked at him, wishing he would not interpret everything his wife said in the worst light.

Nicholas said, ‘Beatrice has by some miracle received my letter. She says she pines to hear exactly where I am, whether I have seen the rebels, and what they are like. She goes on to say her mother believes they are in league with the devil himself, for they are all heretics, and should I encounter them, I should look for a black figure with horns and hooves stirring them up. Beatrice does not believe that herself, but urges me to take good care, and defy the rebels with my honest sword should I encounter them.’ Suddenly he laughed, and put his head in his hands. ‘Horns and hooves! Defy them with my honest sword! Once I thought her innocence and pretty ways beguiling, but now – how would she fare here, do you think? No fine clothes or scent for her. And the letters’ seals were broken; that letter must have been read, and it will do me no good, as though I were not in bad enough odour already.’ He dropped the letter to the earthen floor. ‘Oh God, for a woman like Isabella, who sees the world straight.’ He reached for the comb he had bought from a peddler the day before, and drew it fiercely through his matted auburn locks. ‘God damn these nits!’

Chapter Fifty

Later that morning, I found a barber a little distance off. He had set up shop outside his hut, while his neighbour had arranged cobblers’ equipment outside his, and called out that he had ‘good clouted shoon’ for sale. As I traversed the tracks between the huts I had a few hostile looks; news of the twins’ escape would be spreading fast and after my appearance yesterday at the Oak I was now a recognized figure, known to represent John Boleyn. A boy turned and bared his arse at me. Once more, in the body of the camp I felt an alien.

The sky was darker than ever, and a cool breeze had sprung up from the west, making the yellow, bone-dry grass rustle. Far off, towards the fens, a silent bolt of lightning split the clouds. A group of men were guiding two large mounted cannon down the lane, the horses straining. ‘From Old Paston Hall,’ one shouted, and onlookers cheered.

The barber was an amiable fellow, and told me how he had come from Great Massingham with his friend Thomas, a rat-catcher whose services were much in demand. He was just finishing his work when I heard my name called. ‘Master Shardlake! I know him! A lawyer, but a good man!’ I turned to see, at the centre of half a dozen men, Simon Scambler, thin and dirty but alive. ‘Thank the Lord,’ I said quietly. I hastily paid the barber and went over to the group. An argument was proceeding and Scambler, on the edge of tears, was at the centre of it. An older man in shirt and doublet watched Scambler curiously as he waved his arms in that frantic manner of his, while the others, mostly younger, laughed. Scambler called out frantically, ‘Master Shardlake, you’ll vouch fer me, won’t you, say I’m fit to join the camp! Don’t, they’ll send me away!’

‘Hush, Simon,’ I said quietly. ‘How did you get up here? I looked for you in Norwich.’

‘I was begging, but got so little I was near clammed to death with hunger.’ Indeed, I could see his ribs through his torn shirt. ‘Then I heard about the camp, heard that here they were good men, who want to help the poor.’

One of the younger men said, ‘I’ve seen this buffle-head in Norwich. Runs about like a madwag.’ He turned to the older man. ‘We don’t want him here, Master Tuddenham, he’ll just be a nuisance. He’s probably sozzled.’

I appealed to the older man, who had been pointed out to me as one of the elected representatives of the Hundreds, and who was stroking his beard thoughtfully. ‘This boy is not drunk. Smell his breath, if you wish. His behaviour can be – odd – but he is neither mad nor stupid. He has a good heart and would serve the camp loyally.’ I had a sudden inspiration. ‘There are horses here, are there not? I have seen them penned behind stout fences. Some were taken from the gentry; perhaps they are hard to control?’

The man called Tuddenham nodded. ‘’Tis true. A man got a nasty bite yesterday.’