Tombland

He smiled grimly. ‘You’ll see, if it comes to a battle. They’re all going to be chained together before the front rank of soldiers. That will give Warwick’s men pause.’ I must have looked at him in horror, for he frowned. ‘This is war, Master Shardlake. Things are going badly in the city, we may have to fight outside and we need every possible resource.’ I looked at the gentlemen prisoners, whose dull or frightened eyes told me they knew their coming fate. John Boleyn stared at me pleadingly. I pointed to him and said, ‘That man is not one of the captured gentlemen. He is in prison after a murder trial – a pardon has been lodged on his behalf by the Lady Elizabeth. This is a mistake.’

The soldier looked at Boleyn. ‘He’s a gemmun, isn’t he?’ he snapped. ‘His name’s enough to tell us that. We were told to bring all their sort from the prison, and that’s what we’ve done. If you’ve a complaint, make it to Captain Kett.’

I said, ‘All this time, Captain Kett has refused to allow the gentlemen to be killed. Is that to change now?’

The soldier became angry. ‘We won’t kill them, it’s a question of whether Warwick will. It’s all-out war now, bor. Our men are dying in the city by the hour. Come on, let’s move.’

As the wretched column clanked on, I fell into step with Boleyn. ‘How is Isabella?’ I asked.

He looked at me desperately. ‘They threw her out of the castle. She’s down there, somewhere, in the city. The fighting, Matthew, it’s terrible. Please, try to help us.’

* * *

THAT EVENING ONLY wounded men returned from Norwich; the fighting had stopped for the night, and we learned that Warwick was now in charge of most of the city, only the districts north of the river still under rebel control. The blacksmith Milford arrived with a heavy, bloodstained bandage across his side which, he told us, came from a spear thrust. He said grimly, ‘They’ve got control of the marketplace, we can’t get any more supplies. And these Switzer mercenaries arrive tomorrow. Unless we can make an assault from the north of the city, it’s going to be a battle on the heath.’

Nicholas asked, ‘Did you see any sign of Jack Barak, or young Natty?’

He shook his head. ‘In a battle you just see what happens around you. I’m sorry, I must lie down.’

Again, Nicholas and I cooked the evening meal. Then we went to our hut. ‘It’s not looking good,’ he said quietly. ‘What will happen to Boleyn now, and Isabella, and Josephine?’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t know.’ I sighed. ‘But I do think I know who killed Edith Boleyn, for all the good that may do now. Michael Vowell, and his old employer Gawen Reynolds.’

He looked at me aghast. ‘Her own father? But he’s ancient, he walks with a stick.’

‘He does now. He said he hurt his leg some months ago, remember? I think it was while he and Vowell were doing what they did to Edith.’

‘But Vowell hates Reynolds.’

‘He says he does. I think he is lying. I think he has been lying all along.’ I told Nicholas what I remembered Vowell saying about Edith’s hands. ‘Tomorrow, will you help me get him alone somehow, and confront him? I need the whole story, there are more involved than just those two.’

‘Of course.’

I sighed. ‘Then there’s nothing to do now but try to get some sleep. And await what happens tomorrow. Dear God, I hope Barak and Natty are safe.’

Chapter Seventy-six

That night I slept badly again. Someone – Nicholas perhaps – had rearranged our bracken bedding, and made a poor job, and twigs and branches dug into my body. It rained before dawn, and I heard the drip of water through the turf roof, but the morning was clear, though cloudy. With a sense of foreboding, Nicholas and I went again to the crest.

Wounded men, a good number, were trailing back up the hill to Mousehold. Barrels of small beer had been fetched, and Nicholas and I assisted in passing out mugs to the parched soldiers, who helped each other along, while those with major wounds were carried up on stretchers. We learned that Warwick still held the central area of the city, though further attacks would be made against him that day. He had erected his coat of arms, the bear and ragged staff, on Augustine Steward’s house in Tombland. The one thousand four hundred Switzer landsknechts were expected that day, and we had to try to beat Warwick’s army before they arrived. We asked after Natty and Barak, and a man from their company of spearmen, who had an arm nearly severed, said he had seen Natty resting during a break in the fighting that morning, but had not seen Barak yesterday. Another soldier told us Toby Lockswood was dead, killed in close sword fighting in Tombland the day before. The man had obviously heard the rumours about me, for he said pointedly, ‘He was willing to give his life for the Commons, while the gemmun sit up here.’

‘I never doubted his courage,’ I said.

‘He was a good man.’

‘That’s another matter.’

The man spat on the ground in disgust at my words, then walked away, limping badly from a wound in his leg.

* * *