Tombland

‘So had I.’ I did not mention that she, too, had been among my suspects. ‘Your husband saw him briefly, at Dussindale. I do not know whether he survived. I should tell you, the twins were there. They tried to kill us where we were hiding, but it was your stepson Gerald who died, shot by an arrow from the city walls. It seemed to unman Barnabas, he ran back to the battle. I do not know what happened to him.’

She lowered her head. After a moment she said, ‘I can feel no grief for Gerald, only relief. Is that a sin?’

Nicholas took her hand. He was hollow-eyed and exhausted. ‘No, Isabella, not after what he put you through.’

She looked at his wrist, then touched it with her other hand. ‘Poor boy, what they did to you. And your wounds are the same, Master Shardlake. I owe you both so much.’ She sat down on a chair and began to weep. I got up painfully. ‘It is over now, Isabella, or nearly so.’

She sighed, then stood. ‘Nicholas has arranged a room for me next door for tonight. I should go there, try to tidy myself up, then return to my husband in the castle tomorrow.’ She curtsied, and left the room.

I asked Nicholas, ‘Is there news of Barak or the Browns?’

‘None yet, I fear. Before I looked for Isabella I went down to Conisford. Josephine’s yard, like so many places there, was burned down yesterday. No sign of Edward or Josephine, nor the child.’

‘They will be looking for Edward, as a rebel.’

‘Perhaps they escaped the city. Many must have fled after the fighting.’

‘I hope so.’

‘And nothing of Jack?’

‘I asked several people of the poorer sort if they knew anything of a one-armed man who took part in the fighting in Norwich, offering a little money, but nobody did. I learned that the injured from both sides are being treated at the cathedral; we can go there tomorrow morning and see if he, or Edward and Josephine, are there.’ He added quietly, ‘It’s dreadful in the town. Soldiers celebrating in the streets, telling tales of things they did this afternoon, often given drinks by the wealthier citizens. The mess in the Market Square is terrible – dead horses, piles of shit everywhere, the bodies of the fifty rebels Warwick hung when he took the square still there on the gallows.’ He sighed. ‘Apparently, there will be mass executions tomorrow, but there’s also to be a great service of thanksgiving at St Peter Mancroft, and the city are planning a masque in Warwick’s honour.’

‘He’s probably just allowing his men to let off steam tonight. It’s tradition, after a battle. Like rifling the bodies of the losing side.’

Nicholas sat on the bed. His hands were shaking. ‘One thing I do know. Natty is dead, I saw his body being carried away naked on a cart.’

I put my head in my hands. ‘Oh, no. God save his soul.’

‘They’re going to sell everything taken from the bodies of the rebels in the market.’ Then Nicholas put his head in his hands and burst into tears. ‘This terrible day, and out there – it’s like the city has become a part of hell itself.’

I said quietly. ‘I long feared it might end like this.’

‘By God, though, the rebels put up a good fight, didn’t they?’

‘For commoners?’ I asked, half-jestingly.

‘No.’ He looked up. ‘For men.’

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING , we breakfasted at the Maid’s Head for the first time in near two months. Isabella had gone, leaving us a note thanking us again for all we had done, saying she was going straight to the castle. Her courage and constancy were truly remarkable. My back still hurt, and before we went down, I performed my exercises, long neglected. As we ate I thought of the breakfasts Barak had shared with us back in June, and Toby Lockswood, too, whom Nicholas confirmed had also perished in the fighting round Tombland. He had cruelly persecuted Nicholas, but had been loyal to his cause to the last. I thought of Natty, too, one of so many lost lads come to Mousehold, brave and loyal and kind.

From talk at the tables around us – it was mostly senior army officers staying at the inn now – I learned the Earl of Warwick was already at the castle, passing speedy judgement on the senior rebels. Many officers, apparently, had been detailed to attend executions later in the day in the Market Square, Magdalen Gate, and the Oak of Reformation. Mass graves were still being dug for the dead of Dussindale. I heard, too, though, one officer say that the rebels of Norwich had fought valiantly, and a volley of arrows had nearly killed Ambrose Dudley, Warwick’s elder son. And at one point, I learned, with the rebels still in control of much of Norwich, that because of the destruction the city elite had asked Warwick to give up the city to the rebels; he had refused. Had he agreed, the outcome yesterday could easily have been very different.

A captain entered the room, waved his helmet, and shouted out, ‘Robert Kett and his brother are captured! Robert fled to Swannington, and was taken at a farm!’