Tombland

He stopped suddenly and took a deep breath. Josephine put her hand on his shoulder, encouraging him to continue. ‘It seemed to go on for hours, the slashing and striking and parrying, I saw a man’s head slashed off with a sword, another got a leg cut off below the knee and went down in a heap.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Then Northampton’s army broke and we were pursuing them through the streets. We chased them back to the marketplace, then down to the castle, and then they all ran through the gates in a mighty huddle, together with some of the rich Norwich people.’ He paused. ‘I killed four men today, and wounded more.’

‘Do you know what happened to Simon?’

He shook his head. ‘I saw him with the horses this morning, not since.’

‘What of Hector Johnson, he led your troop?’

Natty closed his eyes for a moment. ‘He did, and bravely, from the front. Each side aimed first for the other’s officers. I saw a group of men charge Hector. They were some of Southwell’s thugs, I saw the one with the big maul on his face, Atkinson, that my friend said helped dispose of that apprentice’s body.’ He paused. ‘And I saw those twins a few times this afternoon, always together, fighting mightily, always smiling.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Atkinson and some others surrounded Hector Johnson. He slashed at them mightily with his sword but they got him on the ground, and – and – they hacked him to death.’ He swallowed. ‘That brave old man is gone. He was a real dymox.’

I looked in puzzlement at Josephine. ‘A mighty fighter,’ she explained, then lowered her head.

Natty put his face in his hands and began to cry. Josephine held him to her. I remembered when I had first met Hector, when he had been set to watch me on the march from Wymondham. The years of battle he had told me about, the loss of his family, the way that, in his own rough manner, he had cared for Simon in the camp. I hoped he would be buried with dignity.

* * *

AS WE SAT and watched the fires burn in the city, Josephine said, ‘After this defeat, the Council will have to settle matters with us, won’t they?’

‘I think perhaps they will,’ Barak replied. ‘Unless the Protector abandons this new assault on Scotland he’s got planned.’

I said, in a voice too low for Josephine to hear, ‘He may do just that, and come to deal with us.’

We had paid little attention to the darkening sky. Suddenly there was a bright flash of lightning which brought several screams from the camp, followed by a mighty roll of thunder directly overhead. Then a mighty downpour, even worse than the one a fortnight before, crashed down on us: it was impossible to see more than a yard ahead. Josephine grabbed Mousy and, holding her tight, fled with Natty and Barak and I, splashing through what was already half an inch of water to the shelter of our huts. Fortunately, the ferocious downpour lasted less than an hour, though it was enough to cause much damage in the camp.

When I stepped out of my hut afterwards, the skies were clear again, a half-moon illuming the scene. The air was clear and, suddenly, cold. I splashed through puddles to the crest of the hill again. The downpour had been so heavy it had even doused the fires in Norwich, which those loyal to established authority would later take as a sign that God was on their side.

As I stood there I heard the sound of hoofbeats, voices, and heavy wheels approaching. A group of filthy, weary men were guiding heavy horses made nervous by the storm, pulling half a dozen cannon. Among the men I saw Simon Scambler, stroking a horse though his hands trembled and tears rolled down his face. One of the men accompanying him turned to me and called triumphantly, ‘The Marquess of Northampton’s cannon, bor! They’re ours now!’

Chapter Sixty-five

The defeat of Northampton’s army was the high-water mark of the rebellion. Although we had outnumbered them greatly, it was still an extraordinary feat of arms for men who, a month before, had for the most part little or no military training, to send a government army backed by foreign mercenaries fleeing from Norwich. Truly, the men of Norfolk had made themselves free.

But from that day onwards, things turned slowly against us. On the way to Norwich Northampton’s army had successfully put down the camp at Thetford, and refugees from there, some wounded, trailed up to Mousehold Heath. Even the weather changed; after the great thunderstorm of 1 August, it became much colder, with cool winds from the north-west, few sunny days but much cloud and drizzle. As is the way, having complained about the heat people now grumbled about the cold and wet, but it was hard, living in those lean-to huts and working and training outside in such weather.