Tombland

That first evening after the battle, and the following day, when our exhausted men needed rest more than anything else, they had once again had to clear up after a mighty thunderstorm. Fortunately, the water soaked quickly into the sandy soil. Nonetheless, many huts were flooded, and everything was soaked. Word went around that Norwich market would reopen tomorrow, Saturday, and people hoped they would be able to find dry clothes. The mood in the camp was a strange mixture of triumph and grief – around three hundred and fifty had died, over one in thirty of the camp numbers, which totalled some eight thousand now, and many people were mourning the loss of friends and relations.

For myself, I wanted above all to return to Norwich; I needed to know what had happened to Isabella and Chawry, Nicholas, and John Boleyn. But Edward Brown, who had arrived in camp late on the evening of the battle, advised me strongly to leave it at least another day. He had come from the cathedral, where Robert Kett had set up a temporary headquarters, to spend the night with his wife. He told Barak and me that Kett was making sure that from now on his own men would hold the key positions in the city, although Augustine Steward, who had cleverly passed responsibility for Norwich’s surrender to poor Mayor Codd, was to be allowed to stay in charge under Kett. Edward said many horses were also being stabled in the cathedral, and the wounded, who numbered another three hundred, were being cared for there. Bishop Rugge, apparently, was keeping quietly to his palace. Edward also told me that despite Kett’s orders that only the goods of those who had actively collaborated with Northampton were to be confiscated, people were taking things into their own hands and a good deal of looting was taking place. Kett had sent men down to try and keep order. Meanwhile, there were hundreds of bodies – men and horses – to gather up and bury.

I was sitting by the campfire when Simon Scambler emerged from his hut. He wandered aimlessly around, waving his arms and singing snatches of song. A cry of ‘Shut your fucking clack-box!’ came from another hut. Edward said quietly, ‘He saw too much again, and worse this time. I think when you go down to Norwich you should take him with you; he can help with the horses in the cathedral. Best if he keeps a-doin’.’

Josephine left her hut, drawn by the noise. She had stayed inside, guessing perhaps that Edward and I had been speaking of things she would prefer not to hear. Now, however, she came over to us, rubbing her hands on a damp apron. ‘What ails Simon?’ she asked.

‘He was in Norwich these last two days,’ Edward said. ‘He saw too much fighting.’ His tone was impatient. He could sympathize with Josephine’s fear of blood and battle, she was a mere woman, but Simon was, after all, nearly a man.

Josephine frowned at her husband and went over to Simon. ‘Here, lad,’ she said. ‘Sit you down. What’s the matter?’

He looked at her tearfully. ‘I saw such things again yesterday, men coming all apart again, the blood. And poor Hector Johnson.’ Another burst of sobbing shook him.

Josephine took him in her arms. He seemed a little surprised – perhaps no one had ever hugged him before – but, after a moment, he hugged her back. ‘There, lad,’ she said softly. ‘It’s naught to be ashamed of. I saw the same in France, when I was a girl. But it’s all over now.’ He sobbed at her breast.

Barak’s face set. He rubbed the place above his artificial hand which often hurt him. ‘Over?’ he said quietly. ‘Is it?’

* * *

FOR THE NEXT TWO DAYS I remained on Mousehold as Edward had suggested, though he himself returned to Norwich. There was no training – the soldiers realized their men needed time to rest. The sky remained grey, and the weather distinctly colder. I went for one of my walks, trying to gauge the mood. I saw the body of the Italian soldier had been taken down. People sat in their doorways, looking out at the cool, cloudy day. I stopped by a group of men sitting round a campfire. A man in his thirties was saying that he wondered how his family would fare, news from the countryside was that this would be the worst harvest for years; the battering the thunderstorms had given the crops had been the final blow. Another man observed gloomily that the government might send a big force now, like the ten thousand reported to have been sent to Devon. He did not know whether we could beat such a force. A third man, a young fellow, was more optimistic. ‘Don’t be so downy! We’re jowered out after the battle, and drouched with the rain. But we had a great victory, and Captain Kett’s sending forces to spread rebellion further. Yarmouth will be ours soon.’

It was quite customary in the camp for strangers to join in others’ conversations; and I ventured to say it was indeed peculiar that the one item of food we had lacked in the camp was the famous Yarmouth herring.