Tombland

The room was full of wooden chests, mostly strong and with locks. Several were open, the contents spread out on tables where a dozen men were carefully examining them, before making entries in makeshift ledgers. There were coins, jewellery, gold and silver plate. Michael Vowell was there; he smiled. I also recognized a man working on the contents of another chest in a corner of the room; Toby Lockswood. He glared at me.

Captain Kett was studying a sheaf of papers. His face had changed in the few days since his great speech. It was more lined, the mouth tighter, the eyes which could blaze so fiercely somehow withdrawn. He said, rather wearily, ‘What can I do for you, Master Shardlake? I imagined you would be at leisure these days.’

‘If you have a moment, I wish to make a request.’

He sighed. ‘If it is quick.’

I told him of the letter Barak had received, his desperation to let his wife know he was alive, and asked whether one of his couriers might take a letter to her.

‘My couriers see only their contacts,’ he said, impatience in his voice. ‘It would be dangerous for both the courier and Barak’s wife were he to be caught. I am sorry, Master Shardlake, but the answer must be no.’ He turned on me in sudden anger. ‘You demand too much! Forever asking for letters to be sent. Have you no idea of the danger my couriers face?’

I sighed. ‘I am sorry.’

He grunted, a sort of half-apology for his loss of temper. I was tempted to tell him Lockswood was passing rumours around the camp, but this was not the time. I bowed to him, and went over to where Michael Vowell was recording items carefully on a sheet of paper. ‘What is happening here?’ I asked.

‘We men who can write and have at least some knowledge of valuables are making an inventory of goods taken from the gentry. Tomorrow we take them to an extra Norwich market, and sell them to buy up all the supplies we can.’ I looked down at his table. There was a beautiful gold necklace, with a locket from which three fine quality pearls hung. I smiled sadly. ‘That reminds me of a necklace I saw Queen Catherine Parr wear sometimes, though this is far less magnificent.’

‘They won’t fetch a fraction of their worth. The Norwich traders know we’re running short of food from the countryside with harvest approaching – the leanest time of the year. And there’s not much money left.’ He looked at me. ‘Perhaps you could come to Norwich tomorrow, help us beat down the traders.’

‘Certainly.’

I left him. I was conscious that I was qualified, better than Vowell, to do work like this. Why had I not been asked? Had Lockswood’s tales made Kett suspicious of me? But he knew Lockswood for what he was now, surely Kett would not listen to base rumour.

The soldier, still waiting outside the room, accompanied me down the stairs. As I reached the door it opened and several more soldiers led in a sorry-looking procession of about twenty men, wearing the remnants of fine clothes. I stared at them as they were led up the stairs. The soldier said, ‘We’re bringing prisoners up from Norwich Castle.’

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘Orders.’ From his smile, I guessed he knew more than he was saying.

I walked back to the Swardeston huts to tell Barak my mission had failed. He took the news quietly, shrugged and said, ‘I wasn’t hopeful.’ He was strapping on his artificial hand. ‘I’ve been asked to help record deliveries up to the north-west of the camp. Natty’s coming too.’

‘Where’s Nicholas?’

He shrugged again. ‘Wandering about somewhere feeling sorry for himself.’

* * *

NICHOLAS RETURNED in the early evening; he had been down to Norwich, which he reported was being fortified, the gates reinforced with earth and wood. ‘Apparently the rebels’ – for so he still spoke of them – ‘are now going to try to bar the army’s entry this time. To begin with, wearying them by beseiging us.’

Barak, who had returned from his work, snorted. ‘It’ll be a short siege. I doubt those gates will hold an army of nine or ten thousand, however they’re shored up; perhaps they’re going to put up what defence they can to weaken them, then fight on the streets. It’ll be a bloody business.’

At the meal round the campfire that evening, the mood was thoughtful, though the food was, as ever, good; mutton in a vegetable pottage, well cooked under Goodwife Everneke’s supervision. Nicholas had returned with a load of stones from the heath, to replace those surrounding the campfire, which had grown blackened and cracked. Dusk was beginning to fall; the evenings were drawing in. Some way off a rowan tree, one of the few to survive the general felling, was red with berries.

‘I’ve never eaten better than here,’ Natty said.

‘My aunt didn’t give me much,’ Simon said, slurping his food down noisily as usual.

‘I wonder if we’ll ever eat so well again.’

‘Or be alive to eat at all, after what’s coming,’ said Ralph Williams, a blacksmith in his thirties.