by Tim Holden
Spirals of Fate
by
Tim Holden
2019
1st Edition - Published by Monkey Time Books in 2019
22 Heigham St
Norwich, NR2 4TF, UK
ISBN no: 978-1-9162448-0-1
Copyright © Tim Holden 2019
The right of Tim Holden to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of the publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, inn any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
For more information on this book, and others by the same author, visit:
www.timholden.com
To my father, Anthony,
for his trust and generosity.
Table of Contents
PART 1 1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
PART 2 15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
PART 3 34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
Historical Note
Acknowledgements
PART 1
1 Corinthians 10:13
13 No temptation has overtaken you except what is common to mankind. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can endure it.
1
4th July 1549, Parish of Wymondham, Norfolk
Robert Kett preferred to gamble only what he was willing to lose.
He tipped up his purse and spilt coins onto the dining table, separating out the shillings and setting them in stacks of five. After evensong, he would meet his friends at the alehouse for their weekly game of dice. He selected enough coins to cover his expenses and put the rest back in the purse. This evening’s games were an unwelcome distraction; the summer wool clip had finished this week, and Robert needed to cash in his fleece harvest and make certain his speculation had paid off.
He hid the purse under the loose flagstone beneath the table, standing up just as his wife entered the room.
‘I’m ready,’ Alice declared.
Although her beauty had faded with age and childbirth, she insisted on combing her hair, cleaning her teeth and scenting herself with expensive rose oil before stepping out in public. Everyone dressed up for church, but Alice went to the same lengths whenever she left the house. She had delayed their departure more times than Robert cared to remember, but her devotion to maintaining a good appearance was one of the many things he loved about his companion of thirty years. Many of his peers had mistakenly fallen for the first woman willing to lie with them. One man he knew had prayed for years for his wife to be taken during childbirth, only to spend his later years praying for forgiveness that his wish had been granted.
‘Are you going to church like that?’ asked Alice, frowning with disapproval as she adjusted her shawl.
‘Come along,’ said Robert, leaving the room before she could make further observations. ‘It won’t do to keep the Lord waiting.’ Nor could his business at church wait.
Unlike his wife, Robert liked his leather jerkin. He believed it lucky, which made it essential gambling wear, even if it had grown tatty with the passage of time. Robert was past caring about clothes and even took a certain delight in neglecting his appearance. The so-called good and the great might preen like peacocks, but Robert was as comfortable gossiping with commoners as he was rubbing shoulders with the ruling classes. He was never scruffy, but by avoiding bright clothes and expensive fabrics, he felt he never forgot his more humble roots. Not that those roots were truly humble, but they were at least more austere than his current existence. He kept his once black hair, now streaked with grey, in the simple fashion, cut straight across his forehead and long over his ears, and he rarely covered it with a hat, save for the coldest winter days. Today, as so often, he was unshaven, his thick silver stubble neatly covering his sun-tinted face like an even coating of dust. He was missing only two teeth: the top left eyetooth and one from his lower gum. Not bad for a man of fifty-seven.
Alice followed him into the hallway. Mary, their maid, entered the hall a moment later from the direction of the kitchen, but Robert paid no attention as she scurried past, carrying in her arms a copper pot and a horsehair brush.
‘Mary,’ said Alice, ‘before you finish tonight, can you please scrub the floor of the dairy. I noticed a faint smell earlier and we don’t want the milk to spoil.’
‘Yes, Mrs Kett,’ said Mary dutifully, before going on her way to sweep the ashes from the dining-room fireplace.
Robert took his coat from the hook in the porch and folded it over his arm. He stepped aside to let Alice pass, stealing a kiss as she did.
At the end of their track, a slight man on horseback greeted them.
‘Mr Kett, just who I was looking for,’ he said with some relief.
The man looked familiar, but Robert couldn’t place him. Balding with a squashed face, he was no more than fifty. As Robert got older he frequently found he could recognise faces, but names didn’t come so easily. He said hello and hoped the man would do or say something to prompt his memory to return.
‘It’s that time of year again, Mr Kett,’ the man said. ‘Mayor Codd would like to invite you to discuss your leather goods.’
Robert’s relief at discovering the identity of Mayor Codd’s messenger was soon replaced by annoyance. Every year Robert was summoned to Norwich under the pretence of selling leather to the mayor. There were at least four tanneries right under the mayor’s nose in Norwich, and all of them capable of supplying high-grade leather. Although Mayor Codd might buy a token amount of Robert’s leather every third year, his true intention in dragging him the eight miles into the city was to hear first-hand the gossip and goings-on in and around Wymondham. The mayor had been candid enough to explain previously that he never trusted rumours. By the time they reached his ears they were twisted beyond recognition.
‘You’ve come at a busy time, the height of summer. How much does he actually want?’ asked Robert, making no attempt to hide his exasperation.
‘He’ll discuss that with you in person. He maintains your leather is the best around, Mr K
ett.’ The messenger gave a resigned shrug.
Robert smiled wryly. ‘It’s the festival this weekend. Tell him I’ll come next week.’
‘You are a gentleman, Mr Kett.’ The messenger nodded his appreciation and acknowledged Alice. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to be back before nightfall.’
Robert waved the messenger farewell and wondered to himself what advantage he could recover from next week’s ill-timed journey. Over the weekend, he would draw up a list of things that would make his trip to the city worthwhile.
Robert and Alice rode side by side in silence on the short journey to Wymondham Abbey. Its two great towers dominated the flat landscape like giant tombstones, hazy in the bright summer sunshine. Normally they would walk to town, as Robert had grown portly in recent years, and he liked the exercise. He didn’t miss the labours of his youth – tanning and farming had taken their toll on his body – but hard work had at least served to keep his belly flat. Now he joked that it was where he kept his money. But this evening they rode to the abbey. Alice would want to be home before dark, and Robert’s evenings in the tavern sometimes went on till late.
‘Mary asked me for more money this morning, Robert,’ said Alice, her body gently swaying to the rhythm of her palfrey.
‘Did she?’ replied Robert, not wanting to pursue the subject.
‘When I said she was looking thin, she told me her family are starving. With the price of things, it’s no surprise.’
Robert shook his head. Commenting on their maid’s thinness was an invitation for her to ask for more. Robert continued his policy of silence. When money was concerned, everybody wanted more, but rarely did they consider what else they might do to warrant it.
‘She’s been a good maid,’ said Alice. ‘I have no wish to see her and her children starve. I said I’d ask you, and now I have. You’ll know what to do for the best.’
Robert grunted. This was typical. Alice would introduce a problem then step away, leaving him to resolve it. ‘Who will go without then, if Mary is to have more?’
Alice shrugged. ‘Perhaps your friends can advise you. Or maybe you can win some of their money.’
Robert felt the gentle reference to his hypocrisy, but what Alice didn’t know was all the other demands he’d had to meet over the last seven days. ‘Mary has company,’ he said. ‘Tom the shepherd wants more. Says he’s working harder than ever and has been offered more elsewhere.’
‘Well, it’s true, there’s more to be done now you have nearly a thousand sheep.’
‘Yes, and half still to be paid for,’ he reminded her. Having exceeded the limits of his own capital, he had bought half of his flock on credit. The summer wool clip had come to Wymondham last week, and so his creditors were expecting their money. Not that his labourers or his maid would appreciate the challenges of trying to get ahead under the Tudors. Enormous wealth rested in the hands of so few, and to Robert it sometimes felt as though the deck was stacked against yeomen like himself, who wanted nothing more than to better their lot. But complaining about the hand you’ve been dealt never won the round. You still had to play the game.
Robert ground his teeth. It was always the same: people saw you investing and assumed you must be knee-deep in money.
He had sunk almost everything into growing his flock. At a thousand head of sheep, it was still some way short of the two thousand four hundred permitted under statute, and a fraction of the flocks held by noble landowners, who as members of parliament, granted themselves exceptions to the restrictions in order to monopolise England’s only commodity: wool.
Nonetheless, a thousand sheep was more than Robert had ever owned. After several months, he found himself questioning his bravery in plunging so deep into the wool trade. But he’d seen wool prices continue to rise steadily, and although Robert had responded more slowly than others, he hoped his boldness would help him make up for lost time. He hoped to avoid bad luck, too. With sheep crammed onto every available piece of land, all it would take was one case of rot or scab, and his investment would be slaughtered for meat, which, unlike wool, could only be harvested once. Disease and misfortune never seemed likely before an investment, but once you’d parted with your money – or indeed someone else’s – they loomed large.
‘It’s not just Tom,’ Robert continued. ‘The shearers, the combers and the winders have all demanded more, saying there are more sheep than they can do. I suggested they have a word with their guild and take in some of the wretched poor to bolster their ranks.’
‘What did they say?’
‘They shrugged their shoulders, and I paid them what they wanted. Except for the winders.’
Robert was glad he hadn’t contracted his wool to anyone already. He was free to sell it wherever he liked, and to take advantage of the rising prices. All his expenses had risen, so he would need to achieve a good price, but fortunately English wool was much sought after in the cloth-making cities of Antwerp and Bruges. Robert hoped to meet Billy Badcock, the regrater, at the abbey this evening. Billy was the biggest buyer of wool between Norwich and Thetford. He was renowned for sharp practice and was no stranger to forestalling, but Robert felt he had the measure of him and was happy to be patient and agree a last-minute deal for his wool.
Robert’s mind was taken off his dealings as they arrived in Wymondham. As their horses drew to a halt outside his tannery, Alice discreetly covered her nose. Robert, oblivious to the foul smell, watched his foreman, Master Peter, lock up the tool house and hang the key around his neck. Master Peter was a good man who had worked for Robert all his life and was now fully responsible for the tannery. His blonde hair looked greasy and his face as serious, as ever, but he smiled when he saw Robert and Alice, and he made his way up the path towards them.
‘Peter, when will you prepare some leather so my husband can have a new jerkin?’ asked Alice.
Master Peter smiled at Alice and eyed the garment she wanted to replace. ‘It looks serviceable to me.’
‘Good man, Peter,’ said Robert. ‘Now, can you ready some of our best samples for me to take to Norwich next week? Don’t look too excited – I’m off to see Mayor Codd, so we shouldn’t expect much.’
Master Peter nodded. He would have them ready tomorrow morning.
‘That apart,’ said Robert, ‘is all well?’
‘An apprentice would be timely. We’re due to change the pits tomorrow, and since James Wood died, Mutt and I have been short-handed.’
Robert didn’t like to give in to requests too lightly. He found it encouraged more of the same. But the tannery was his oldest enterprise, and the one on which he’d built all his subsequent ventures, so he was keen to see they had what they needed. Besides, there was no debating poor James Wood’s fate. He’d been struck down by sickness, one day a fine young man learning his trade, the next bedridden, and the day after that saw him commended to God’s care.
‘I’ll see who I can find. Have a good evening.’
‘And you, Mr Kett,’ replied Master Peter. ‘Good evening, Mrs Kett. Enjoy the service.’
Robert twitched his ankles, and his horse walked on down the narrow street leading to the abbey. It was lined on both sides by small houses, some owned by Robert, others by William, his elder brother. Although William had inherited the lion’s share of the family fortune and their late father’s butchery, his wealth had been surpassed by that of Robert’s. As he rode past their investments, Robert was reminded of the path his life had taken. He had worked hard, provided food and shelter for his wife and children, but his fortunes only really changed when old King Henry VIII sold off the land belonging to the old monasteries. Robert had been able to buy several pockets of land around Wymondham as Cromwell and his cronies rushed to raise funds for the late king. Robert had been sad to see the old order change and didn’t like the manner in which it was done, but land was land, and he was unafraid to profit from the church’s misfortune. Even now, he had limited sympathy for the church, which would still demand its t
ithe from the proceeds of the sale of his wool.
The grounds of the abbey were thronged with townsfolk, gossiping in the late afternoon sun. The service was the last before the festival of translation, so the day after next, the surrounding villagers would descend on Wymondham for a weekend’s merriment. This would be Robert’s only opportunity to do any business before the festival. He slid off his horse and helped Alice down, pressing a coin into the palm of his usual stable boy to mind the horses.
The sight of the abbey sparked mixed emotions in Robert. He had been schooled there, and so knew it better than most, but it was a sorry sight compared to the building he had known. His memories of the monks were not fond, but for all the failings of its inhabitants, the building had at one time inspired awe at man’s devotion to God. Now, to Robert’s eyes, it stood as testimony to everything that was corruptible and unworthy about man, from sodomising monks to a king who would stop at nothing in his pursuit of a male heir. The second aisle, which at one time ran east beyond the smaller, octagonal tower, was now gone, leaving the abbey with the appearance of a large church conjoined with a tower belonging to another building. The missing nave’s materials had been plundered and carted away at the king’s pleasure, under the direction of his serjeant-at-law, John Flowerdew. The thought of Flowerdew made Robert bristle.
Arm in arm, he and Alice made their way toward the door at the base of the larger flint tower, exchanging pleasantries and nodding acknowledgements as they went. The conversations around them included the coming festival, the lack of rain, war with Scotland, the rebellion in Cornwall, who would be getting married next, and the scandalous prices of goods at market. Immediately outside the door, gathered in line, were the town’s poorest, hands outstretched. As he had become a leading person in the town, so going to church had become a more expensive exercise. Denied the charity of the monasteries, the wretched poor had become the responsibility of those who could afford to help. A girl at the end of the line offered a clumsy curtsey as Robert and Alice approached. She could not have been more than twelve. Her top lip was all but missing, leaving a curved gap under her nostrils, disfiguring what would otherwise have been a pretty face. She was barefoot, and her clothes were ragged.
