Kett, honest as ever, shared all this news from the Oak. In the camp, divisions of opinion began to appear. Some said that perhaps, after all, a pardon should be sought; yet another proclamation from the Protector had pardoned all those guilty of ‘riotous assembly’ who made ‘humble submission’. Others said the size of our camp, the possibility of new risings, and the Protector’s obsession with the Scottish war, meant that if we held on, our demands would be met. A third faction, the largest, said we should await the new army and fight it, despite word that it would be far larger. After all, Northampton’s army had been easily defeated, by men with little intensive training but who now had several weeks’ more. And if we won, we could then sweep on, gathering men from the disbanded south-eastern camps, perhaps move on London. This faction was encouraged by the prophets, both those who spoke of ancient prophecies and those who claimed inspiration from the Bible, claiming to hear the very voice of God. Meanwhile, some in the camp still said this army was not sent from the Protector at all, but by treacherous members of his Council supported by the Norfolk gentry. In reality, all depended on the size and scale of the army the Protector sent.
Another, more practical consideration also weighed with those who wished to fight to the end – after all the humiliations inflicted on the Norfolk gentry, what would they do to the common people if they won? And now, sadly, there was no mention of enclosure commissions or reform in the Protector’s proclamations. With this faction, I had to say, I had some sympathy, causing Barak to say that I was becoming more radical every day.
Arguments about what should be done took place quietly, around the campfires. Robert and William Kett, representatives of the Hundreds and clerics who supported the rebellion, still addressed the camp-men from the Oak and spoke of holding out until our aims were achieved. Meanwhile, military training redoubled. But the atmosphere in the camp was one of deepening anxiety, a far cry from the exuberance of the early days.
AS NEWS OF THE Yarmouth defeat filtered through the camp, Barak returned to our hut in a sombre mood. ‘I was approached by one of the Hundred leaders earlier on,’ he said. ‘If we’re to defeat this new army, we need every man who can fight.’ He paused. ‘He said the government army could be here in as little as ten days. He asked me to join in training.’
Nicholas said, ‘But with –’
Barak lifted his artificial hand. He winced a little, it was paining him as it often did in the evenings. ‘Yes,’ he answered quietly. ‘But it’s known I’ve been something of a fighter in the past.’
I looked at him through the gloom of the hut. ‘Do you want to?’ I spoke quietly, for the Swardeston villagers were firmly for holding out.
He shook his head. ‘No. I realize more and more the duty I have to Tammy and the children. I want to see them again.’
‘Is that why you’ve been drinking more?’
He nodded. Then he said softly, ‘There’s another reason I don’t want to fight. I’ve been talking to a lot of people around the camp, watching the training. It’s going well, but this time they’re not sending a ragtag army under a useless commander; they’ll bring together every professional they can find, and there’s word more foreign mercenaries will be used. Swiss landsknechts. From what I hear our strategy is to try and beat them in the Norwich streets like before, but if that fails, we’ll assemble all our forces on the Mousehold escarpment and fight them there.’
‘That sounds like military sense.’
‘I’ll train, and keep my ear to the ground, but’ – he shook his head – ‘this isn’t going to be like last time.’
We were silent a moment. Then Barak said, ‘Kett’s planning a fair, with jugglers and the like, for next Tuesday, to cheer people up. They’re going to have the camping game.’ He laughed grimly. ‘Good preparation for a battle. The northern Hundred against the southern. It’ll be worth watching.’
‘I’ve heard of the camping game in London.’ I smiled. ‘A mixture of football, wrestling and general mayhem.’
‘Goody Everneke says mayhem’s the word in East Anglia. Still, it’ll let the younger men work off some energy.’
