Tombland

No sooner had he finished than a chorus of angry shouts rose from the crowd. Men called out, accusing the Herald of being himself a traitor, sent not by the King but by the gentlemen; the offer of pardon was called a lie, and one man shouted that in reality it offered nothing more than the ropes and halters of imprisonment and hanging. ‘He is no real Herald, his robes are sewed together out of old popish vestments,’ another shouted out. It made me think, some still cling to the belief that the Protector is not behind this. Weapons were brandished, and the Herald’s face hardened. I saw Robert Kett ride up; if the tactic had been for the Herald to intimidate the camp-men without their leader present, it had failed spectacularly. Kett joined him, and called to the camp-men to make a space so the Herald could declaim his message to others who had not heard. Reluctantly, the crowd parted to allow the Herald’s party to ride some way further, though angry insults against him and his message followed. Barak said quietly, ‘He’s fucked up any hope of a settlement. If he’d offered some remedy of grievances, spoken to the men like they were adults, he might have got somewhere.’

‘You’re right,’ Nicholas said. ‘You can see from their faces that some at least might have accepted a pardon and redress of wrongs, but now most are enraged.’ He added angrily, ‘Who wrote that damned proclamation?’

I said bitterly, ‘The Protector, of course, just as he wrote the last one. The fool, he hasn’t the political skills of a rabbit.’

Nicholas said, his voice shaking, ‘Whatever they’ve done, these are men with just grievances. How could anyone think talking to them like this would help?’

Barak said, ‘You might have done so yourself two months ago.’

‘Not now,’ Nicholas answered grimly, ‘not now.’ He looked over to where the Herald was still reading his proclamation. He was being heard in silence, but again I saw far more angry faces than frightened ones.

Then it happened, the terrible thing that still haunts my dreams, and which finally ended any remaining chance of a negotiated settlement. My eye had been drawn by movement and, unexpectedly, the sound of laughter. I saw Simon Scambler standing, with some of the boys he had been speaking to, only a few yards from the Herald, who had just finished reading. In the silence I distinctly heard one of the boys say, ‘Go on, Sooty, do it. We’ll throw you a party afterwards.’

Simon looked uncertain, pleased by the apparent friendship of his old tormentors but also afraid. ‘Go on,’ one of the boys urged. ‘Show the cunt what we think of him.’

Simon stepped forward from the crowd, facing the Herald from only a few yards’ distance. Then he turned round, lowered his stocks, and presented his rear to the Herald, who stared in utter outrage as roars of laughter erupted from the crowd. Simon waved his backside slowly from left to right, adding to the insult. Then Captain Drury snapped his fingers at the man holding the container of live coals, who instantly opened it. Drury bent and lit the rope fuse, put the stock of the long weapon against his shoulder, then pressed the trigger. The fuse hit the gunpowder pan, there was a loud bang and a puff of grey smoke, and Simon’s backside exploded in a mess of blood and shit. He screamed, tried unsuccessfully to stand up, then staggered. The bullet had gone right through his body and as he turned I saw blood gushing from his stomach too, and his intestines slowly falling out. He crouched, swaying, for a moment; then fell onto his face. I saw the boys who had encouraged him melt away as I shouted, ‘No!’ and, followed by Nicholas and Barak, elbowed my way through the crowd.

The camp-men, momentarily silenced by the crash of the gun and Simon’s collapse in a welter of blood, now roared their anger and fury. Weapons were pointed towards the Herald’s party. A voice yelled, ‘See, they come not to pardon but to murder us!’ A party of our horsemen rode up to the crest of the hill, shouting as they went, ‘The Herald has come to have us destroyed! Our men are killed by the waterside!’ The Herald stared after them, stupefied by what had happened, though Captain Drury, looking at Simon, had a slight smile on his face.

I reached Simon, lying in the middle of a slowly spreading pool of blood, and bent down, gently turning him over. His face held that expression of puzzled surprise he had worn so often in life, but his eyes were now still and dead. Groaning, on the verge of tears, I gently closed his lids. Barak knelt beside me and said urgently, ‘Get up, it’s not safe here.’ He and Nicholas, their faces stricken as mine, had to pull me to my feet; my clothes were covered in blood.