Suddenly, there was a great shout from the top of the hill. Perhaps a thousand men rushed past us down the hill, sending up clouds of dust. I realized Miles and Kett had kept back a large reserve, and were now bringing it into play. As they passed I saw there were relatively few bowmen, and many were armed only with bills and halberds; others had only pitchforks with sharpened tines and other weapons adapted from farm implements. And many, especially those at the head of the crowd, carrying banners and cheering, were achingly young, some still in their teens.
Beside me Goodwife Everneke said, ‘What have we done? Will God forgive us?’
‘It’s what the camp wanted,’ Barak answered.
The great crowd joined the men at the foot of the hill and again Bishopsgate Bridge was stormed. Then, many of the young newcomers cast off their clothes and, clutching their weapons, swam across the river, protected by a volley of arrows from our side.
This assault by overwhelming numbers was too much for the defenders. As our men reached the other side of the river they grappled with them on either side of the gatehouse, and, faced with their numbers, many defenders turned and fled. I saw others leave the gatehouse, apparently at orders which I heard shouted from behind them. It puzzled me at the time. Our men were now in a position to move behind the gatehouse, and in a few minutes I saw the gates opened. There was a mighty cheer, and our men surged through. In a moment the whole mighty force was inside Norwich. They left behind perhaps fifty bodies on the ground, or floating in the river. Cheers sounded from those on the hillside, many of whom began running down to the city. I sat on the tussock a good while, then said, ‘Jack, we should go down, see what has happened to Nicholas and the others.’
‘I will go back to the camp,’ Goodwife Everneke said wearily. ‘That is my place. God knows, I have seen enough.’
I walked slowly down the hill, towards Bishopsgate Bridge. The bodies in the river were floating downstream now. I looked at those on the riverbank, and on the bridge, some dozens of them; the pools of blood on the cobbles took me back to the day before I left London, when vicious Captain Drury’s men had assaulted the Scotchman. My heart was in my mouth, for I dreaded seeing Natty’s among those dead white faces, or even Edward Brown’s, but I did not. Most of the dead had fallen to arrow shots, though some had been literally blown apart by the cannon. I averted my eyes.
Already the upper floor of the gatehouse and the earthworks thrown up round the sides the night before had been occupied by camp-men who stood on guard, bows at the ready. The gatehouse itself was guarded by three men with halberds. We were asked our names and when I gave them, one said, ‘Let them through, they were with Captain Kett at the trials.’ We passed under the gatehouse and into Holme Street. More victims of the fighting, from both sides, lay dead on the street. Again all were strangers. The inn where Barak had stayed during the Assizes was open, and beer was being served to the victorious camp-men. ‘I could do with a good drink,’ Barak said feelingly.
‘Not now, Jack, there are things to do.’ He shrugged, but followed me.
Some wounded men were being helped in the direction of Tombland, and many from the camp seemed to be headed there, too, so we followed them. I wanted to discover what had happened to Nicholas most of all, but I wanted to check on Isabella Boleyn and Edward Brown and then, if I could gain permission, to visit John Boleyn and, if he was still there, Nicholas in Norwich Castle.
There was a shout of, ‘Make way! Make way!’ We moved quickly aside as half a dozen cannon, drawn by heavy horses, trundled along the street; the city cannon, no doubt, being taken to the heath to bolster our defences. The rear was brought up by a cart loaded with barrels, moving slowly, the driver and the men accompanying it shouting, ‘Out the way, it’s the city’s gunpowder supply.’
‘Our friends in the city must have been waiting with information about where all this was stored,’ Barak said.
As we passed St Martin’s Plain with its houses and gardens I saw that some men from the gentleman classes had come out to the street to find out what was happening. The camp-men moving towards Tombland subjected them to abuse such as none of them would have ever heard from commoners before, calling them traitors to Reformation, gilded peacocks and other, coarser names, while some of the younger camp-men bared their arses. A teenage boy ran over to a severe-looking old man in a feathered cap and snatched it, placing it on his own head, to laughter and cheers. The gentlefolk hurried back to their houses. ‘We’ll be coming for you later!’ the boy called after them. ‘We’ll have you all hackled in chains!’ I pulled my cheap felt hat over my head and walked on.
