Tombland

We must have walked three miles, reaching the fringes of the populated area. Here, where there was more space, military training was still going on, for all that the sun was setting. We saw a line of fifty bowmen, who, at a shouted order from an officer, sent a rain of arrows hissing through the air. Elsewhere men were charging with half-pikes at straw figures set in the ground, yelling ferociously. Others followed, hacking at them with home-made spears and halberds.

‘They’re doing well,’ Barak said. ‘Miles and the experienced gunners under him are also doing a fine job of ensuring our cannon will work.’

‘They have still had so little time for training.’

A little way off an officer was addressing a group of longbowmen. To one side Hector Johnson stood, leaning on a halberd. We approached him. ‘How’re ye diddlin’?’ he asked. I remembered how he had been set to guard me on the march from Wymondham. But he trusted me now, and was always friendly.

The officer was telling the bowmen that the coming army was full of their old enemies the landlords, aided by Italian mercenaries. ‘Foreigners who kill for money, with loyalty to none, but they will be unable to resist stout Englishmen fighting for their homes!’ he shouted. The men cheered, but Johnson smiled cynically. ‘There are English mercenaries, too,’ he said. ‘Veterans of the French campaign. Stayed in Europe and fought for whoever would pay them – and for much higher wages than the old king paid.’

‘People are the same everywhere,’ I observed.

‘That they are.’

We bade him farewell and returned the way we had come. I saw a group of about forty, mostly older folk who could not fight and some women, gathered around one of the bearded prophets. He stood on a box, Testament in one hand, waving the other fervently at his audience.

‘This time was prophesied in the Book of Kings, where Josiah, King of the Jews, a most righteous ruler, came to the throne aged eight and put down idols, removed pagan images, and saw God truly worshipped. Now in King Edward we have a second Josiah, who is removing the last vestiges of popery and who seeks true equality among men to establish the righteous kingdom the Bible says will be with us before Christ’s second coming.’ He paused, beating his fist on his chest in a dramatic gesture, while most of the audience cheered wildly.

* * *

THAT NIGHT THERE WAS an argument around the cooking fire amidst the Swardeston huts. We had dined well, and had drunk well, too, for although Kett did everything to discourage heavy drinking, a barrel of strong beer had been obtained and by the time night fell on the company most men, including Barak, were the worse for wear. The only exceptions were myself – my father had been a tippler and I had sworn as a youth only ever to drink moderately – and Simon Scambler, who still cleaved to his church’s belief that drink was sinful. We had been joined by Michael Vowell, whom I had met walking from the meeting at Kett’s Castle, looking tired, and invited to join us. Master Dickon, who had argued for the prosecution of the Swardeston landlord and who was the leader of the village group, was half asleep, head on his chest. Edward Brown was in Norwich, but Josephine sat next to Barak and me. Mousy was asleep in her hut. The other young woman in our camp sat leaning against her husband, and next to them sat three other men who would be fighting when the army came; a blacksmith, a tanner and a labourer, all drinking from mugs which periodically they refreshed from the barrel. Goody Everneke had gone to bed.

Talk turned to the Herald. One of the men said firmly that he had not been a real Herald, but an agent of the landlords, and it was they who had created this army. The Protector, in his opinion, knew nothing about it.

Dickon raised his head. ‘That must be true. Captain Kett has sought to support the Protector from the beginning.’

The blacksmith, a strongly built, square-faced man in his thirties named Milford, shook his head. ‘Master Shardlake, did you not say the man wore a real Herald’s uniform?’

‘Yes. And from his description the leader of the army is undoubtedly the Marquess of Northampton.’

Milford, the blacksmith, looked at me suspiciously. ‘You know

the enemy leader?’

‘I met him once, as I told Captain Kett. It is no secret I used to work for his sister, the late Queen Catherine. I thought you trusted me by now,’ I concluded sadly.

Milford was in an aggressive mood. ‘I see you don’t keep up with us drink for drink.’

‘They say lawyers can’t hold their drink,’ another said.

Barak pointed to the knife on his artificial hand. ‘Watch your mouth,’ he said.