Tombland

‘I was made to,’ I answered. It was a lie, but I realized that many lies would have to be told in the days and weeks to come if I were to survive. ‘I came to Norfolk on a legal case, under instruction from the Lady Elizabeth, to represent Master Boleyn here. I was caught up in the rebellion.’

Another gentleman said, ‘If it wasn’t for the quick thinking of that red-headed lad, his friend, in lifting up the stake that held us between the battle lines, we’d all be dead.’

Drury still looked at me suspiciously. ‘This matter must be for the Earl of Warwick to decide. You’ – he waved at Boleyn, Nicholas and me – ‘come. The rest of you, get yourselves down to Norwich.’

He and two of his soldiers led us away, round the side of the battlefield, past the unbearable stench and the endless buzz of flies. The blood covering the innumerable bodies was drying now, turning black. I saw, too, the quick brown shapes of rats, slipping in among the mounds of dead.

* * *

DRURY TOOK US to the gun platform, which was guarded now by landsknechts. Rebel cannon were being hauled away. The bodies of some who had manned the guns were being removed as well, and briefly I saw the pale dead face of Peter Bone on a wooden stretcher, before his corpse was dumped with the others on the hill below the gun platform. The last of his family apart from the nephew he had never been allowed to know, the only man who had shown poor Edith Boleyn true kindness.

Breathing hard, I looked to where a trestle table had been set on the flat area of the gun platform. There, seemingly oblivious to the carnage all around, a group of senior officers studied a sketch map. They looked up as we approached; among them I recognized the lithe frame and dark-complexioned face of John Dudley, Earl of Warwick; and another – the strong square body and haughty features of Sir Richard Southwell. He stared down at me from under those hooded eyes. With him was John Atkinson, who looked out with a fierce expression. I realized Atkinson’s reminded me of John Flowerdew’s; there was the same determination to possess all he desired, the same conviction he was entitled to it.

Drury and his soldiers bowed to Warwick, as did we. ‘You did mightily today,’ the earl told them in his deep voice. ‘I thought this battle might be over quickly, but those rebels fought hard.’ He turned to one of his officers. ‘We’ll have to start clearing the battlefield at once, or the bodies will bring disease to the city.’

I looked downhill, where soldiers were still busily scavenging the innumerable corpses. I heard a shriek and, turning in the other direction, saw a rebel straggler on the heath, running for his life, pursued by a landsknecht horseman who leaned down and thrust a sword through his bowels. Warwick looked at the scene with cold disinterest; Southwell smiled. Then Warwick looked at Nicholas, Boleyn and me. ‘Who are these three?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Are they rebel leaders?’

‘No, sir,’ Drury answered. ‘All three were among the chained gentlemen. The red-haired lad apparently saved them by pulling the stake which held the chain out of the ground; this one is John Boleyn, in prison at Norwich Castle for the murder of his wife, awaiting the result of a pardon application from the Lady Elizabeth. Apparently, it was great gossip in Norwich before the rebellion. The hunchback’ – he looked at me – ‘is a serjeant-at-law who apparently acted as Kett’s adviser at those childish trials of his, but says he was forced to work at the camp. The hunchback and the boy are Boleyn’s lawyers.’

‘Boleyn returns to the castle,’ Warwick said firmly.

Boleyn protested, ‘My lord, it has been discovered who really killed my wife.’

I said quietly, ‘We have no proof yet.’ As indeed we did not, for Michael Vowell was long gone.

‘Speak when you’re spoken to, both of you!’ Warwick snapped. He looked at me. ‘Name,’ he asked sharply.

‘Matthew Shardlake, Serjeant-at-Law.’

‘You were at the camp under duress?’

I took a deep breath. ‘My assistant and I were taken at Wymondham, at the start of the rebellion. We were on a visit to John Flowerdew, the feodary, about some money taken improperly from Master Boleyn’s wife.’

Southwell snorted. ‘His concubine, you mean. This Shardlake is a pestiferous poor man’s lawyer, well known for his radical views. When you hang the leading rebels tomorrow, he should be there.’ His gaze on me was cold and intent. I thought, Boleyn should not have said Edith’s killer had been discovered, for Southwell was implicated, and would want him – and Nicholas and me – dead more than ever. And he would remember, I am sure, that morning I encountered him at St Michael’s Chapel.

I said to Warwick, in humble tones, ‘I was taken by the rebels, as I said. Robert Kett made me act as an adviser at those trials. I had no choice; I did all I could to mitigate the sentences. My assistant Master Overton vocally opposed the rebellion, and was himself tried at the Oak.’

‘Did you try to escape? Kett’s first lawyer did, Thomas Godsalve.’