Tombland

The battle had indeed moved away from where we lay, halfway up to the baggage train where the archers had taken position – I saw several lying dead behind the overturned carts, though the majority were still firing. Below, the close-quarter fighting continued, captains shouting at their men to keep formation. Between the fighting and where I lay I saw a huge pile of dead horses and men, many in pieces like slabs of meat. A group of several hundred men was being gathered together by one of Warwick’s officers, Captain Drury, I think, including landsknechts with arquebuses and pikes, while elsewhere on the field a few men staggered around among the bodies, wounded or shocked out of their wits. A group of rebels had surrounded a smaller group of Warwick’s foot soldiers, who fought them desperately, standing back to back. I crawled down again.

‘The rebels are retreating, but still fighting,’ I said to Nicholas and Boleyn, who was still chained to the other men.

‘You sound sorry,’ Boleyn said.

‘I am,’ I replied quietly. ‘Even now.’

Then every man in the earthen pit jumped and looked up as a voice shouted down at us from the top of the knoll. Looking up, I saw to my horror that Gerald and Barnabas Boleyn were standing there, shoulder to shoulder, in helmets and breastplates, carrying swords, filthy and covered in blood. They smiled, their faces happy as though after a day’s hunting. They were disobeying orders by leaving their company to find us – but when had orders ever mattered to the Boleyn twins?

‘Well, Gerry,’ Barnabas said, his scarred face opening into a wide grin. ‘You were right. It was them at the end of the chain.’

Gerald looked at us wolfishly. ‘I recognized the bent shape of the hunchback when we got near the front of the line. And there they are next to him, our dear father and the long stringy lad. Where’s the one-handed freak?’

John Boleyn answered angrily, ‘Down in Norwich, dead, for all we know.’

‘Fighting for the fucking rebels, no doubt.’

‘Yes,’ I answered.

‘We’re all gentlemen here,’ one of the chained men said piteously. ‘Please, free us somehow, help us back to Norwich.’

Gerald gave him a careless glance. ‘We’ve a battle to get back to, my brother and I. But now the fighting’s moved away, we thought we’d come and see where you rats had taken cover.’ He looked at his brother. ‘Now’s the chance to kill them, our father that murdered our mother and his damned lawyers.’ He looked threateningly at the chained men. ‘None of you will say anything, will you? We’re just killing a murderer and a pair of rebel sympathizers.’

‘You wouldn’t want to incur the anger of Sir Richard Southwell,’ Barnabas added. Many of the gentlemen shook their heads, causing the chain to rattle, which made the twins laugh.

The two began descending the knoll, pulling their swords from their scabbards. We had survived the battle by a miracle, only for it to end at the hands of this wretched pair.

‘Start with our father,’ Gerald ordered, in charge as usual. He covered Nicholas and me with his sword while his brother moved towards Boleyn.

‘I didn’t kill your mother!’ Boleyn shouted frantically. ‘We know who it was now.’

Gerald had raised his sword for the killing blow, but hesitated at his father’s words, frowning. That moment killed him for, as he stood, an arrow, aimed from the Norwich walls, hit him in the middle of the forehead. He dropped like a felled log, the sword falling from his hand.

Barnabas stared at him, wide-eyed, seemingly unable to believe what had just happened. Then he let out a yell of misery and despair. He took a step towards his brother’s body, then turned towards the Norwich walls. The soldiers there had seen two men come down and make to attack the chained prisoners; thinking they were rebels, they had shot Gerald. Standing there with raised sword, he had made a clear target. With a scream, Barnabas threw himself on Gerald’s body; there was a clang as his breastplate hit his brother’s. He held Gerald’s face between his hands, not weeping, but letting out cries and gasps of despair. I looked at Gerald’s face – the arrow stuck grotesquely from his forehead: there was almost no blood.

Nicholas lunged forward and picked up Gerald’s sword. As he stepped back another arrow from the Norwich walls thudded into the ground beside Barnabas, who stood up, stared round wildly, then, with a last look of devastated horror at his brother’s body, clambered up the side of the knoll and disappeared onto the battlefield.

Boleyn, lying on the ground, reached out a hand towards his dead son, but stayed it. Then his head sank onto his breast.

‘Who were they?’ one of the gentlemen asked. None of us answered.

‘Rebels, of course,’ another said impatiently. ‘At least now we know we’re safely covered from the Norwich walls.’

‘Unless the battle swings this way again,’ said a third.