Tombland

Barak raised his eyebrows. ‘John Boleyn could still be guilty of Edith’s murder himself, of course. And could even have directed the murder of the locksmith and his apprentice from prison.’

‘I know. The trail starts with her disappearance nine years ago. Someone held her prisoner, or hid her, probably far from Norwich.’ I frowned, for the memory of the puppet play came back – the landlord’s wife, the puppet woman turned upside down. There was some connection to all this, but it eluded me still.

‘What is it?’ Barak asked.

‘Nothing – I don’t know – I am still so tired.’

In the distance, rows of armed men were being led away by officers and Hundred representatives, probably to the less populous parts of the camp to train. Many of the men had metal sallet caps and body armour, no doubt brought up from the town. Barak said, ‘Captain Kett should see Tammy’s letter, he may not know Italian mercenaries have been employed. If I write back now, will you ask him to try and make sure my letter reaches Tamasin?’

I put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Yes.’

He returned to the hut. In the distance more men marched away in order, bearing bows and pikes. An army was forming.

Chapter Sixty-one

The atmosphere in the camp that week was very different from the one before; then there had been games and shows, gorging of food, the celebration of freedom. But now, despite the victory in Norwich, there was the threat of an army to be sent against the rebels, and the need to train, fast. That afternoon I went to St Michael’s Chapel again and asked to see Captain Kett, but the guard said he was unlikely to return till evening. I left Tamasin’s letter with him, saying there was a reference to Italian mercenaries gathering in London. Then I returned to my hut and slept awhile before returning to the chapel as the sun was going down. The longest days of summer were over, dusk coming a little earlier each day. There was a line of people outside the chapel, waiting to see Kett. I joined the queue, and in due course my turn came.

Kett was in a serious mood, and looked careworn. ‘Master Shardlake!’ he said. ‘Thank you for passing on that letter.’

‘I thought I should.’

He nodded, studying me. ‘We shall not be holding any trials tomorrow. They can wait a day or two.’ He unfolded Tamasin’s letter. ‘This confirms word we have had that mercenaries are to be sent against us.’

I handed over the reply Barak had written. ‘Barak asks if this might be sent to his wife somehow. It says only that he is alive and well.’

‘I will do what I can, but it is hard to get anything through now. And meanwhile’ – he riffled among the documents on his desk and gave me a signed paper – ‘a pass, giving you access to the castle and anywhere you wish in Norwich.’

‘Thank you, Captain Kett.’

‘It will make it easier to see John Boleyn and young Overton.’

‘I saw many heading down to the town this afternoon.’

‘Yes. Norwich market will be open again tomorrow. The men are still paid regularly from the money we have under close guard at Surrey Place. Talking of that, have you any money left yourself?’

I shrugged. ‘A half-sovereign. I can get by.’

As I returned to the Swardeston huts, I thought – Kett’s Treasury, Kett’s Court, it was becoming like a state within a state. I remembered what Barak had said about the risks to my future. They were real enough; but I had made my stand, and I shrugged off my worries. After all, who on Mousehold knew what their future might be?

* * *

THERE WAS LESS paperwork now, and the next day Barak was sent to where most of the captured cannons were kept. Both the cannons themselves and the gunballs they fired needed to be checked over closely, to ensure the gunballs for each were exactly the right size. New gunballs were also being made by members of the former Norwich stonemasons’ guild, who had come to the camp in some numbers, and Barak’s job was to check their working hours for payment, and itemize the different sizes of gunballs for Captain Miles and his gunners, mostly other ex-soldiers, to check. Left alone, I decided to seek out Toby Lockswood and try to reason with him. Edward had said he was becoming an important man, and indeed, for most of the day I was told he was closeted in St Michael’s Chapel, but late in the afternoon I found him in his hut – an ordinary dwelling like the others, attached to another village group. He was washing himself, using a pail half full of water. He had a solid body, thick dark hair covering his chest. Like most of us his hair and beard had been cut short because of the risk of lice, making his round face look severe. He narrowed his eyes as I approached. ‘Master Shardlake.’

‘Toby. Might we have a word?’

He towelled himself with his shirt, then put it on. ‘What have we to discuss?’

‘It grieves me still to recall how we all worked so closely last month, and now Nicholas is in prison, because of you. His views are far from yours, far from mine, come to that. But that’s no reason to punish him.’