Tombland

I went into the city as seldom as possible, but got all the news from Barak and Nicholas, as well as gossip at the inn. The Earl of Warwick was staying in Norwich another week, to preside over more trials, set others in train, and put Norfolk back in order. There had been, I heard, an argument between him and some of the gentlemen, who called for a huge swathe of rebel executions such as was taking place in the West Country, where the rebellion was finally over. Warwick had called, though, for a policy of killing the leadership but leaving the rank-and-file alone. Apparently, he had asked them sarcastically whether, if they would kill so many, they would end up walking behind their own ploughs, which settled the matter; though the daily hangings continued.

There had been, it was said, three thousand rebels killed at Dussindale, in the battle and the pursuit of those who fled afterwards – almost half those who had fought. It was given out that the number of dead on Warwick’s side was under two hundred, but having seen the savage close-quarter fighting myself I knew the number must be far greater. On the Saturday, the last day of August, I stayed in all day, avoiding the market, where all manner of goods taken from the rebels’ bodies were up for sale – piles of clothing, shoes and even, according to Barak, wedding-rings pulled from the fingers of the dead. I realized that Edith’s wedding ring might well be among the articles for sale.

I had taken a full deposition from Jane Reynolds in the presence of a notary. She gave some account of her life with her husband, his pursuit and sometimes rape of the women servants, as well as his own daughter. She gave her account in the house in Tombland, in a toneless, unemotional manner, even when relating how her grandson had thrown himself and her husband from the window. Her thin face was always white as a tallow candle. Later, the notary before whom she painfully signed the document told me her miserable life with Gawen Reynolds had been common gossip in Norwich for years, and she was generally pitied. Nothing could be done, of course, he said, to interfere in relations between man and wife.

I said farewell to Jane, telling her I would see her again, as later I must return for the inquests on Reynolds and Barnabas, but there was so much official business to be done in the city that might not be for months. I asked whether she was going to stay in the house. She answered bleakly, ‘Where else would I go?’ Her eyes filled with tears and she turned her head away, dismissing me with a wave of a bandaged hand.

The day before we left, on a mellow early autumn morning, I went to lodge the depositions of myself, Barak, Nicholas and Jane with the court at Norwich Castle. I had to brace myself on the way in, for I knew the heads of several rebels had been placed on stakes along the path to the entrance, as at the Guildhall and the city gates. But what almost unmanned me was that I saw one head was that of John Miles. The crows had taken his eyes, but there was enough left of his face to recognize it, his jaw slack and open, a stinking ooze running from his severed neck. I closed my eyes, wondering what had happened to his wife and children in London. Inside, my hands shook as I deposited the documents with the senior clerk who had had Barak sacked. He acted as though he had never met me. I believed he had a part in the disappearance of the document cancelling Boleyn’s hanging back in June, but I knew that question would never be resolved, though I suspected Southwell was behind that manoeuvre, too.

After leaving the papers I went to say farewell to John and Isabella Boleyn. They were in his cell, Boleyn looking stronger, the marks on his wrists faded to light bruises as they had on me. Once again he thanked me profusely for all I had done. Isabella, ever practical, asked me when I thought the pardon might come.

‘Soon, I would think, when copies of our depositions reach the Protector.’ My smile was a little forced after what I had seen at the gates. ‘What will you do when John is released?’

‘Sell Brikewell and my other estates, and move to London,’ Boleyn answered. ‘That house I bought in London is too large, I shall sell it and buy something smaller.’

‘Will you sell your estate to Southwell?’

Boleyn shrugged helplessly. ‘He has the mortgage. If he wants to connect his other parcels of land together and run sheep, I cannot pay the mortgage off other than by selling him the land.’

‘He will have the tenants out.’

‘It is the way of things.’ He looked away.

There was a moment’s silence. Isabella broke it, asking, ‘Do you still plan to adopt the little girl?’

‘Yes. The wet-nurse is coming with us to London.’

She patted her stomach. ‘Perhaps when my baby is born you can bring the child to visit us in London. In more peaceful times.’