Tombland

I felt unable to clamber up the rubble and through the breach in the city walls blasted by the rebels, now manned by Warwick’s soldiers. Although they waved us in, we waved back in thanks but walked along to Magdalen Gate, aiming to follow the road into the city from there. I wish we had not. A great gallows was being erected outside, big enough for hanging five men at a time. Even worse, the naked bodies of defeated rebels from the city were being brought on carts and dumped outside the gate in a heap. Already there were over a hundred. Looking back up the road, I could see other carts coming from Dussindale, the bloodied bare arms and legs of dead rebels hanging over the sides. Nearby, dozens of labourers fetched from the city were starting to dig a great pit under the supervision of soldiers – no doubt a mass grave.

I looked at the bodies, white flesh and great red wounds.

‘Come away,’ Nicholas said.

‘I was looking – looking to see if Barak was in amongst them. Dear God, do you remember three years ago when I had to tell Tamasin her husband had been maimed? Am I now going to have to tell her he is dead? We may not even discover it, how can we find him among all these dead?’ My voice broke.

‘Come on. We can’t stay here. We must make enquiries in Norwich.’

The attention of one of the soldiers standing guard by the piles of dead had been drawn by my staring. ‘What’s your problem, hunchback?’ he asked in an unfamiliar accent, Lincolnshire perhaps. ‘They’re rebels, every one.’ He looked at me suspiciously, lowering his halberd to point it towards me. ‘You’re not rebels escaped from the battle, are you?’ His suspicion was understandable, for two more dirty, smelly, ragged creatures than Nicholas and me would have been hard to imagine. I said, in my most cultivated accent, ‘We are lawyers. We were in the line of prisoners chained before the rebel forces. Look, here!’ I held up my chafed, bloody wrists.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the soldier said, his voice immediately deferential.

‘We are making our way back into the city.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I see they are building a gallows.’

The man smiled broadly. ‘That’s right. The Earl of Warwick’s presiding over trials under military law in the castle tomorrow, and the leaders will be hanged. Drawn and quartered too, some of them, here, in the town and at that cursed Oak of Reformation.’

‘I see. Thank you.’

He nodded at the sword Nicholas carried. ‘But I must take that. Only soldiers may carry weapons into the city.’

* * *

WE MADE OUR WAY down Magdalen Street, towards the centre of the town. ‘Where are we going?’ Nicholas asked.

‘I thought we’d try the Maid’s Head first.’

He looked dubious. ‘We caused them some trouble when we were there before.’

‘We can show them we were chained up, just as we did that soldier. Remember, we’ve both got spare robes there. They may let us clean ourselves up, even take a room while we discover what has happened to Barak, and Josephine and Edward.’ I smiled bitterly. ‘We must become gentlemen again to survive now.’

‘What if we come across someone who was sentenced at the Oak while you were advising Kett?’

‘We say what I said to Warwick, I was there by force and tried to mitigate the judgements, and Warwick himself let me go. Nicholas, we’re going to have to bend the truth a good bit from now on. Come,’ I added impatiently, ‘my back pains me. I would give anything for a bed.’

* * *

WE CONTINUED DOWN Magdalen Street, across the river, and towards Tombland. Everywhere there were signs of the intense fighting that had taken place in the city; some houses had been set on fire, others hit by cannon. The smell of smoke mingled with the stink from the bodies which Warwick’s soldiers, aided by poorer citizens, no doubt requisitioned for the task, were loading onto carts. Each body was stripped, if they were rebel troops. Dead horses were being dragged away in butchers’ carts, although one had already been set on by a pack of dogs and was being ripped to pieces. I looked up at Mousehold Heath – smoke still rose in places from the burned and blackened camp. Few citizens were abroad, but soldiers stood about in groups, some drunk. We crossed Fye Bridge and walked down towards the Maid’s Head. There we saw even more signs of the three days’ fighting for the city – overturned carts, one pierced with arrows, destroyed equipment, shreds of clothing and yet more bodies. In Tombland numerous soldiers guarded the square, the closed cathedral gates, and Augustine Steward’s house, to which the banner of the bear and ragged staff had been fixed. From the many people going in and out I guessed this was Warwick’s headquarters in the city now. A few houses away, Gawen Reynolds’s courtyard was shut and locked.