Tombland

But it never did. As we lay there, and the sun passed its zenith and afternoon came, the sounds of battle grew more distant. Thousands of flies had been drawn to the scene and settled on the bodies of Gerald, the dead soldiers, and the horse. At length I again dared, this time accompanied by Nicholas, to climb the knoll and look over. The scene beyond was, in its way, more terrible than ever. The rebel lines had all been broken, and men were fleeing wildly from the battlefield, past the now silent gun platform, towards the wide spaces of the heath. They were being pursued by landsknechts and horsemen from Warwick’s army, who cut them down mercilessly with their swords. Hundreds were killed as they fled; the battle was turning into a massacre. Only at one place, the baggage train the archers had used for shelter and where the carts had now been drawn into a semicircle to give more cover, a large body of rebels still fought on, shooting arrows and cutting down those of Warwick’s men who tried to climb over the carts.

‘They’re killing those running like so many beasts,’ Nicholas said.

‘Beasts they are, to them.’

We slithered back down the hill and passed the news on to the gentlemen, some of whom let out a ragged cheer. More had managed to free themselves from the chain, and now they dared to get to their feet. One said, ‘Head for Norwich. We’re safe at last.’ They began running unsteadily towards the city walls, making for a gap blown out by the rebels in the previous days’ fighting. It was protected by Warwick’s soldiers now. Nicholas and I could have gone, too, but somehow we had to see the end.

* * *

THOSE OF US LEFT – perhaps twenty now – lay exhausted where we were. Eventually, Nicholas and I climbed up to look over the lip of the knoll again. The battle between the men defending the baggage train, a thousand or more, and Warwick’s army, had ceased. Several officers from each side stood together, and some sort of parley seemed to be taking place. Everywhere else the battle was over; I saw rebel prisoners being herded into lines.

A horseman rode off towards the rebel gun platform. Glancing over to where Kett and his commanders had stood, I saw no one. Again we lowered ourselves slowly down. My back hurt terribly now. At least the afternoon sun was lower in the sky, the heat beginning to abate. Boleyn still sat crouched over, looking at Gerald’s body as at some strange unknown creature, a dragon or a unicorn, making no effort to wave away the flies that crowded over his dead son’s face. I remembered the brothers baying for their father’s death at the hanging.

Everyone was exhausted from fear and thirst; we lay in a dull-eyed row. I wondered what these men would do to their tenants and servants when they recovered. I remembered someone in the camp saying that the pardon offered to them by the first Herald was nothing more than a barrel of ropes and halters for hanging them.

We all jerked at the sound of jangling harness and voices above us and looked up, dreading what we might see. A group of mounted soldiers, the red cross of England emblazoned on their armour, gazed down at us.

‘So there they are,’ one man said. He laughed. ‘Hiding in a rabbit warren. As sorry a crew as ever I saw.’

Another man rode up and looked down at us. Captain Drury, whom I had first seen tormenting the Scotchman in London near three months ago. He smiled.

‘You are safe, gentlemen of Norfolk,’ he said. ‘The battle is over, the accursed rebels scattered or dead. The earl himself has negotiated a pardon with the last rebel archers. Come, climb up, it is time to reclaim what is yours.’

Chapter Seventy-nine

The soldiers had to help us up. Reaching the top of the knoll and looking over the thousands of dead on the battlefield, many of the gentlemen vomited, to the soldiers’ amusement. Tools were sent for, and the remaining padlocks removed. I looked over at the supply train; rebels from there were being led away by Warwick’s soldiers.

‘They’ve been pardoned, worse luck,’ a soldier said as he removed Boleyn’s padlock. ‘It was their condition for surrender. The Earl of Warwick came and granted it himself.’ On the battlefield the victorious soldiers were searching the bodies of the dead, looking for valuables and removing armour and helmets. I looked for Barnabas Boleyn, but there was no sign of him.

‘What of Robert Kett?’ I asked Captain Drury.

‘He and his brother fled the battlefield when they saw that all was lost.’

‘I witnessed what happened to those who fled,’ I said quietly. ‘How they were cut down.’

It was an unfortunate comment, for one of the gentlemen who had railed against the rebels before the battle pointed at me. ‘That man is not one of us, he is a lawyer, a serjeant-at-law no less, who worked for Kett, helped him at the trials at that accursed Oak of Reformation.’

Drury looked at me with narrowed eyes. ‘You worked for Kett?’