Tombland

‘I slipped back into Norwich last night where the northern wall is crumbling. All our men were gathered in the abandoned gentry houses. We waited all night and all morning. Then at noon, from a church tower, we saw the army approaching. Fifteen hundred armed men, a fearsome sight, I must admit. I believe it was about that number they sent to fight the Oxfordshire rebels. They stopped about a mile outside Norwich, then sent a man dressed in golden robes, a few others accompanying him, forward to St Stephen’s Gate.’

‘Another Herald?’ I asked.

‘It was. Then there was a to-ing and fro-ing that went on till mid-afternoon. Apparently the Herald demanded that the city surrender, but Augustine Steward, who came to meet him, said the surrender agreement would have to come from Mayor Codd.’

‘I thought he was locked up in Surrey Place, poor half-silly man,’ Josephine said.

‘So he was, but he was taken down to Norwich to agree the surrender.’ Edward smiled. ‘They were playing into our hands, that’s just what we wanted, Northampton’s army shut up in the city as the light began to fail.’

‘We saw Codd go down the hill,’ Barak said. ‘We wondered what was happening.’

‘He agreed to surrender, then Augustine Steward went out and delivered the city sword of state to Northampton – a skinny little redheaded man, the young Earl of Sheffield beside him with his nose in the air, though I heard he disfigured a woman once, a relative’s lover, so he’d have no more to do with her. Anyway, the whole army rode in. I saw several hundred of those Italians, dressed more for a festival than a battle, brightly coloured doublets slashed to show the lining, big morion helmets with peacock feathers. But their horsemanship, in close formation, was impressive.’ His voice became contemptuous. ‘And then all the great landowners of Norwich followed; Sir John Clere, Sir Henry Bedingfeld, Sir Richard Southwell.’

‘Southwell?’ I asked. So he had indeed come.

‘Well, he’s close to the Council, isn’t he, and just about the biggest man in Norfolk now the old duke’s gone. He carried the sword of state into the city before Northampton.’

I remembered Southwell that day at St Michael’s Chapel, being told by Kett of the deal Southwell had done to protect the Lady Mary and his own estates. Southwell would not want that story to get out. Yet he had the cold courage to return with the army.

‘There was no resistance from the citizens?’ Barak asked.

‘No. Northampton and the other leaders went to Augustine Steward’s house to dine, they and their horses were jowered out, riding from London in this heat. As for the resistance – that’s coming soon.’ He hugged Mousy, whom he had taken from Josephine, and turned to his wife. ‘I must return now, my love. But do not worry, all is well planned.’

He left after dining with us round the fire. Josephine took Mousy back to their hut, saying heavily that she would put her to bed and try to sleep herself. Barak, too, was tired, and I returned alone to my watching-post in the early dusk. There, half an hour later, I witnessed the only episode of savage violence which, so far as I know, ever took place in the Mousehold camp. Hearing a scrimmage behind me, and a voice shouting angrily in a foreign language, I turned to see a burly young man in exactly the apparel Edward Brown had described – a brightly coloured doublet and a helmet decorated with peacock feathers – being dragged along by half a dozen camp-men in breastplates and helmets, armed with spears. One was bleeding from the face, another from his arm, which was bound with a cloth tourniquet. Their expressions were savage. I joined a crowd drawn by the noise.

‘Look at this fucker we found,’ a young, fair-haired fellow called out.

A woman asked, puzzled, ‘Who is he? A juggler or something?’

‘Is he shit!’ the young man replied contemptuously. ‘A dozen of us were scouting along the north side of the city, when we found a little group of these Italian bastards. We saw them off and took this one. They’re not the great fighters they’re said to be.’ The prisoner let out an angry stream of Italian, for which he received a sharp prick from a spear. ‘Stop winnicking!’ The spearman pulled off the Italian’s helmet, pulling out the feathers. ‘This’ll do me, gives more protection than that old sallet helmet.’

‘Strip him bare!’ the yellow-haired man said. ‘Their leader’s called Malatesta, they say that means bad balls. Let’s see what his are like!’ There was laughter from his friends, and from some in the crowd, as the Italian’s rich clothes were torn off and thrown to the ground, his sweat-stained linen undergarments following until he stood there stark naked, his powerful body heavily marked with scars from past engagements. He put his hands over his private parts but two men forced his arms away and looked between his legs. ‘Just an ordinary old cock’n’ danglers,’ one said, disappointed.

Mistress Everneke had joined the crowd and cried out, ‘For shame!’