Tombland

The mayor turned to Captain Drury. ‘Your men should be in camp, not wandering the city causing trouble.’

Drury said, ‘This man insulted them. He could be a spy.’

‘A spy would not draw attention to himself.’ The mayor raised his voice. ‘God’s bones, Drury, you may lead the King’s chief company, but I will have no more of these soldiers’ commotions! I warn you, Protector Somerset is aware of them. Now, take your men and get back to your camp at Islington.’

Drury looked at his men, then spoke boldly to Amcoates. ‘And what of this Scotch dog, sir? Should he not be prosecuted for insulting His Majesty’s soldiers?’

Amcoates met his gaze with fury, but Drury did not flinch. The mayor sighed, then nodded to a constable. ‘Take him to the Fleet, hold him for questioning.’

Captain Drury showed that nasty smile again, then bowed and ordered his men to fall in behind him. They marched away. Two constables took the Scotchman under the arms and dragged him off, feet bumping over the cobbles, drops of blood falling from his face. I thought of my old friend George Leacon, who had been a captain in the French wars and had gone down on the Mary Rose . He would have been ashamed to see men under his command act like that. But we had been at war so long, perhaps it had turned men into brutes. I glanced at the blood on the cobbles, glistening bright red in the sun. I wish to God it could have been the last such sight I was to see that summer.

Part Two NORWICH

Chapter Ten

We were due to arrive in Norwich early in the afternoon of Thursday, the thirteenth of June, five days before the Assizes were to begin. It was a long ride, north through Middlesex and Hertfordshire, then north-east to Norfolk. The weather continued warm and sunny, but the roads were in a poor state after the frosty winter followed by the wet spring. Many times we had to plod slowly through mud. I found the journey increasingly hard on my back, as I had feared, and was in some pain by the time we crossed into Norfolk. Nicholas was solicitous of my condition, though Toby Lockswood was keen to proceed as fast as possible and did not appear to notice. Pride prevented me from ordering him to go more slowly, but Nicholas must have spoken to him on our second day, for afterwards he did go at an easier pace. The only times we all speeded up were when we saw groups of masterless men on the road, of which there were a good many, always heading south towards London.

I had already observed that Toby and Nicholas, who lodged together at the inns we slept at, did not get on well. They spoke to each other little, though with me Toby was civil and helpful, if self-contained; he was quiet, though, with something cold about his manner. Nicholas’s gentleman’s habit of talking down to those of lower station, even if he had to work with them, was reasserting itself with Toby.

We entered Norfolk at Thetford, and at first the road cut through forest and woodland country, with many small farms and areas given over to pasture. Much of the woodland was ancient oak, green and verdant, but we had no time to take pleasure in it, slogging steadily on. Shortly after leaving Thetford, Toby pointed to our right and said the Lady Mary’s palace of Kenninghall lay a few miles off in that direction.

We followed the long straight road through Attleborough and the larger town of Wymondham, names which meant nothing to me then. As we approached Wymondham, Toby referred to it as ‘Windham’, which puzzled me as I had seen the longer name on the route plan we carried.

‘But it is spelt Wymondham,’ I said.

‘We do that sometimes in Norfolk,’ he said. ‘Miss out the middle syllable when a word’s too long. Take the easy way round.’

I smiled at this rare sign of humour.

After Wymondham the nature of the countryside changed. There was less woodland; the flat land stretching to the wide horizon was intensively cultivated, apart from occasional areas of sandy heath dotted with forget-me-nots and rabbit burrows. It was what I had expected, a patchwork of open fields divided into strips, but with a good number of self-contained, enclosed farms carved out of them, some quite large. What surprised me were the large areas given over to sheep, more than I had ever seen. Strange-looking creatures too; they had wool curling down in long braids, rather than the short fleeces familiar from the fields round London. They were penned in by strong wicker hurdles about five feet high, connected to each other with metal braces, which sometimes stretched a mile or more along the roadway, often with ditches outside. On the farms the fields were dotted with people weeding the crops, which had not grown nearly as high as one would expect in mid-June. The sheep-runs, though, were empty of people except the occasional shepherd with a boy or dog. One dog ran alongside us for a while, barking wildly on the other side of the fence, scaring the sheep so the silly creatures ran away, huddling together and bleating in panic.