Tombland

‘We’re back at the Maid’s Head, at least for this morning. You can get some food there.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Have you heard anything of Edward or Josephine? Could either of them be here, too?’

‘I don’t think Edward’s here. Nor Natty. But you could look. I don’t know who’s in the women’s section.’

I nodded, and gave Nicholas a look to stop him telling Barak that Natty was dead. I continued walking along the ranks of the injured men, some with horrible wounds, but Edward Brown was not there. When I went to the women’s section the pretty, plump young woman in charge, kindly in tone, said nobody named Josephine Brown, nor answering her description, was there, with or without a child. She said herself she was a midwife drafted in to help the women, some of whom had been injured in the fighting or had had – she gave me a steely look as she said this – bad things done to them by Warwick’s soldiers. I thanked her and returned to Barak. We got him up and took him, supported by Nicholas, to the captain, where my explanation was accepted. I felt a little guilty lying to the man, but it had to be done.

* * *

WE RETURNED TO the Maid’s Head. As we approached the entrance I saw the door of the church opposite was half-open.

‘There’s something squealing in there,’ Nicholas said. ‘Can you hear it? Too loud for rats.’

‘It sounds like a child,’ Barak said.

I remembered the woman’s scream I had heard the night before. I said to Nicholas, ‘Take Jack inside. I’m going to look at the church.’ When he looked set to argue I snapped, ‘Just do it!’

I walked slowly in through the half-open door. The sound we had heard was louder now, and it was indeed a child crying, over in the far corner where a dark and bloody heap lay.

Edward Brown was sprawled on his back. His face had been battered to a pulp, and he had been finished off with a knife to the chest. Half on top of him, as though she had died trying to protect him, lay Josephine. She, too, had been beaten and stabbed, but almost worse was to see where her dress had been torn away and her underdrawers pulled off. The bloody mess between her legs showed she had been raped, not once but several times, before she too had been killed, her throat cut. In one dead arm she clutched Mousy, filthy with blood and her own excrement, bawling in terror.

I heard Nicholas’s voice behind me. ‘Oh, dear Jesus.’

I bent, gently pulling away Josephine’s cold arm, and picked up Mousy, holding her to me. I said quietly, ‘This happened last night. Josephine must have taken Mousy to escape the fire, and found Edward. Then some soldiers searching for the leaders must have chased them in here.’ I turned on him, my voice sharp again. ‘Where’s Jack?’

‘Lying down in our room. I came back to see what was happening. Oh, dear God, poor Josephine, poor Edward.’ Tears came to his eyes, as they already had to mine.

Mousy was still bawling mightily. Nicholas stroked her fair hair, so like her mother’s. I turned my eyes from the bodies. ‘We have to get her cleaned and fed somehow, poor creature.’

‘Jack will know what to do. He has two children.’

‘Yes. And we must find a wet-nurse, immediately. Even I know that. Nicholas, tell Barak what has happened then go across to the infirmary and ask the woman in charge of the female patients if she knows a wet-nurse, tell her it’s an emergency. Later we can find one willing to travel with us to London; I’ll pay her well.’

‘You’re bringing Mousy back with us?’

‘Where the hell else has she to go?’ I shouted, then shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, this has – unmanned me.’

‘And me.’ He stood looking at the dreadful scene again for a second, then roused himself. ‘Yes, we must save Mousy.’ He left the church.

I held the child; she clutched at me frantically. Thank God she was too young to understand the horror that had taken place here. I took a last look at my murdered friends, but averted my eyes from what had been done to Josephine. Poor Edith Boleyn came to mind, stuck in a ditch with her bare legs up in the air. Before we left Norwich, I would deal with the man who had done that to her, her own father.

Chapter Eighty-one

I crossed the road and entered the inn, heads turning in amazement at the sight of a white-haired lawyer carrying a filthy, bloody, wailing baby. Mousy was pushing at me now, screaming and wriggling, trying to escape. I shouted at a servant to bring warm water to our room before mounting the stairs; I knew little about babies, but Barak must know what to do.

He was sitting in the middle of our room. He stared at Mousy, looking shocked. ‘God’s death,’ he said. ‘So it’s true, they are dead.’

The child, though becoming exhausted, was slippery in my arms. I said to Barak in panic. ‘Help me, how do we quiet her?’

A servant appeared, carrying a ewer of water. Barak said decisively, ‘Give me Mousy, I’ll clean her up. Put the bowl on the table.’