Tombland

I went outside for a wash. During the storm the camp-men had laid out barrels and bowls wherever they could and there was a full pail of rainwater outside the hut. For the first time everyone had fresh water. The sun had set, and I looked out over the darkened camp; cooking fires burned, dots of red on the dark heath. A bat, a flittermouse, as they called it here, flew soundlessly past. I walked a little way towards the escarpment; larger fires burned around the guard posts, and in the distance pinpoints of light were visible from Norwich. I thought, Tomorrow, the nineteenth of July, we shall have been on Mousehold Heath a week.

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING , Barak was sent to work cataloguing the large delivery of wood brought in to reinforce the cattle and horses’ paddocks. Under Kett and the governors everything was rigorously accounted for. Simon Scambler went to help with the horses. I had a message that there were again to be no trials today, with much work still to be done after the storm. Left alone, I decided to seek out Michael Vowell and ask what he knew of relations between the Reynolds and Southwell families.

I went to the Oak of Reformation, which had become the main gathering point for the camp. I was almost there when, to my astonishment, I saw Reverend Matthew Parker, his surplice stained with earth, face red with anger, limping towards the road back to Norwich together with another cleric and a couple of attendants. I stared at him, and he glowered at me; with my stained shirt, white beard and hair and broad cap, no doubt he took me for an elderly camp-man.

Arriving at the Oak, I found a concourse of men, some hundreds strong. Apart from a few who looked disapproving, they were in merry mood. I saw the stocky figure of Michael Vowell among them, joking with some of the younger men. He was dressed in a leather jerkin and cap, sunburned now. I approached him. ‘What has happened?’ I asked. ‘I saw Reverend Parker just now. He did not look happy.’

This brought further laughter from the young men. Vowell smiled. ‘Parker came when Reverend Conyers was giving the morning service, and insisted on taking his place. He stood on the stage and went on at us for having a few drinks last night. Then, damn his cheek, he told us to abandon the camp and trust in the King’s emissaries. Wherever they might fucking be,’ he added.

Reynolds’s former steward was very different now from the rather serious figure I had first met in Norwich. He seemed to have chosen younger men to associate with, the natural radicals within the camp. But, like them, he now had, for the first time, liberty to express his true feelings openly. One of his young friends said, ‘Time was we had to bow and tremble to the preachers. Not now! Some of our men went under the stage and pricked Parker’s feet with spears.’

There were fresh guffaws of laughter. ‘You should’ve seen him dance! That put an end to his squitty talk!’

‘We dinged clods of earth at him!’

‘No wonder he looked frampled when you saw him!’

Vowell said, a little regretfully, ‘But then Reverend Conyers led this choir of children he had brought from Norwich in singing the Te Deum in English; that quieted everybody and gave Parker the chance to run.’

‘I noticed he was limping.’ I could not forbear a smile, for the story had a humorous aspect and no damage had been done.

One of the men with Vowell looked at me curiously. ‘Ain’t you the lawyer that’s been advising Captain Kett at the trials?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Can tell you’re a lawyer by those inky, womanish fingers,’ he said. ‘How d’you come to be here?’

‘That’s a long story.’

Several looked at me suspiciously, and I saw that some were among those who had called for hangings at the trials. I said, humbly, ‘May I speak privily for a moment with Master Vowell?’

Someone laughed. ‘Listen to that! A lawyer asking permission like we were equals!’

‘We are, now,’ another said forcefully.

I looked at him. This was radical talk indeed. Vowell took my arm and led me away a few feet, still smiling a little. ‘What is it?’

‘A question that has been going through my mind about Edith Boleyn’s murder, and those that followed.’

He looked at me sharply. ‘Do you think there’s a connection to those damn twins escaping?’

‘No. My question was, I know the twins worked with some of Sir Richard Southwell’s men. I wondered whether their grandfather and Southwell were associated at all.’

To my surprise, Vowell laughed. ‘No, Master Shardlake, you’re on the wrong track there. Reynolds and Southwell hate each other. They are both quarrelsome and vicious men. Ten years ago, they had a big argument over the purchase of a house in Norwich. I heard the shouting and threats when Southwell came to visit my master.’ He laughed again. ‘If you think some of the language in the camp is ripe, you should have heard those two.’

‘Who won the argument?’