Tombland

Behind me, one of the self-appointed preachers of the camp was addressing a group of soldiers. ‘Remember, men,’ he called, ‘that what you do is the work of the Lord, and death matters little, for He will receive you in Heaven. The evil rulers must be destroyed before His Second Coming, which is soon now, as the Book of Revelation tells us!’ He held up a Testament. ‘First the end of the great men, then the end of the world, when men who did His will shall sit at His right hand, as all others roast in agony in hell for ever!’

‘What about our wives and children?’ someone shouted out.

‘If you are of the Elect, they are of the Elect!’

I knew my Bible; he was making that up. I looked at him, wondering why – although for a time I had come to have some sympathy with the Anabaptist belief in a society no longer divided between rich and poor – something about the camp prophets repelled me. They were so-called prophets who had picked up smatterings of Anabaptist ideas, but their belief in holding goods in common was a secondary thing – what mattered was that it brought closer the Second Coming, and the Last Judgement.

I turned away, looking down towards Norwich. Our cannon were being taken down the hill by the large horses – no easy task – and I saw Simon among those cajoling the animals. On the opposite side of the river I just made out what looked like men setting up cannon on the city side of the river. Not long after, I saw the two men bearing the white flag ride up the hill again. Word was passed along that they had failed.

* * *

THE HORSEMEN CONFERRED with Miles and Kett. Then Miles addressed the assembled forces. ‘The city cannon have been moved to the Great Hospital fields, and trained on the approach to Bishopsgate Bridge. But we have our own cannon placed to face them. Now, let us take Norwich!’

There were cheers, and men descended the Hill in hundreds. Most were longbowmen, many in half-armour, quivers of arrows over their shoulders. Some of these were half empty, and I realized our supplies of arrows were limited. They were followed by others with halberds and spears. Old Hector Johnson, once set to watch me, gave me a wave as he passed. I felt helpless; there was nothing for me to do now but observe. Barak joined me. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s walk down nearer the city, we can get a better view.’

‘That might be dangerous.’

He shrugged, and I followed him down, stopping not far from the river to sit down on a tussock. I turned to see someone sit beside me; Goodwife Everneke, still fingering the rosary under her dress. Seeing me looking, she laid her hand over it guiltily.

‘Your faith does not matter to me, goodwife,’ I said gently. ‘I have almost none left myself.’

‘Sometimes I feel the same,’ she said unexpectedly. ‘You know one of our Swardeston men left in the night.’

‘No.’

‘Goodman Jackson, the carpenter. He did so much good work in the early days, helped build the platform at the Oak of Reformation, but to fight was too much for him.’ She looked at the ranks of men still proceeding downhill. ‘I thought better of him. But he has a family.’

We watched in silence. I saw our cannon set up on the riverside, firing crews forming under Miles’s direction. Our bowmen faced the gatehouse, the key to the city, on the top of which I could make out the figures of the city’s own bowmen. There were more standing on mounds of earth which had been built during the night on either side of Bishopsgate Bridge. Before our guns could be fully set up there was a roar from within the city, a cloud of smoke rose up, and I saw some of our men run, leaving bodies on the ground. I heard shouts from the officers, no doubt ordering the remaining men to keep their places – these were inexperienced fighters, and if they scattered, all would be lost. But the ranks held, even though a second and then a third cannon shot was fired from within the city, both mercifully landing in the river. Then our cannon fired back, aiming at the gatehouse, but the guns must have been set to aim too high, for the gunballs went over it, bringing a chorus of mocking cheers from the men stationed there.

The cannon fire went on for perhaps half an hour, but with untrained men on both sides little damage was done. Then, at orders from the officers, our bowmen surged onto the bridge, shooting arrows at the gatehouse defenders. Fire was also exchanged between the bowmen standing on either side of the river. I could not help but think, is Nicholas among those on the other side? Men fell from the bridge into the Wensum. Goodwife Everneke clutched my hand.

After a few minutes it was obvious we were losing. The gatehouse was too strong and well defended to be stormed. Our men fell back. A runner came panting up the hill and passed us, his face glistening with sweat. We waited and watched.