Spirals of Fate

by Tim Holden

  ‘Alms for the needy, Mr Kett?’ The destitute knew who to address their appeals to.

  Robert took a coin from his purse and placed it in her hand. She flashed an unsightly grin and clamped her hand shut.

  ‘Thank you kindly, Mr Kett.’

  ‘Be good and say your prayers,’ said Robert, his charity over. The rest of the line would have to make their claims elsewhere. Robert and the other aldermen of Wymondham had agreed that they would each gift one person as they arrived, to stop church becoming too expensive. It didn’t stop the other beggars from chancing their arms, though. No sooner had the young girl made good her departure, than a tall boy with broad shoulders confronted Robert. Robert couldn’t recall seeing him before: he had the physique of a man but the awkward posture of a boy. His black hair was greasy and uncut, tucked behind his ears and hanging lankly just above his shoulders. His skin bore scars left by pubescent spots. Robert guessed he couldn’t be much more than fifteen. Like the girl before him, his hand was outstretched.

  ‘Lad your age should be working,’ said Robert.

  The boy’s gaze turned to Mrs Kett. Finding no purchase, he returned to Robert. ‘No work, sir.’

  Robert grunted. It wasn’t unusual. At one time the monastery had kept a great many of the townsfolk employed. Since its demise, the demand for stonemasons, lead workers, glaziers, tilers, even carters and casual labourers, had plummeted faster than the Mary Rose. Most of the tradespeople had survived or moved on, but where once they would have taken on apprentices, now they were more cautious. Thatchers, carpenters, and blacksmiths were always in demand, the good ones at least, but it had been the young that had suffered most at the hands of late King Henry’s policies. No doubt this boy was no exception.

  ‘Sorry, lad, you’ll have to make your case to the next man.’

  ‘Have you any work, sir?’

  Alice nudged Robert’s arm. ‘You need a strong lad to apprentice at the tannery.’

  Robert grunted. Why did she put him on the spot like that?

  ‘Surely he would do well?’

  ‘I’ve not seen you before, lad,’ said Robert. ‘Who are you, and where are you from?’

  ‘Alfred Carter. Since my parents died, I now live in Hethersett. I’m not afraid of hard work.’

  Robert wasn’t sure what to make of the lad. He had an honest face, but there was something that gave Robert doubt. As he was trying to work out what that something was, Robert glimpsed Billy Badcock moving swiftly through the crowd. The wool dealer handed a coin to a pauper and entered the abbey. ‘You can start tomorrow,’ said Robert, his eyes still fixed on Billy. ‘At eight o’clock.’ Before Alfred could thank him properly, Robert pulled Alice into the abbey in pursuit of Billy.

  The pale stone of the abbey’s interior shone gold in the glare of the falling sun through the plain glass windows. What once was a riot of coloured glass and golden idols was now a bare, sober offering to God. It was the congregation who brought the abbey to life, exchanging greetings and gossip at the rear of the nave, making enquiries and shaking hands on agreements. Commerce was welcomed in the abbey, and deals struck within its walls were considered unbreakable. God’s watchful eye kept all parties honest. Robert located Billy among the worshippers and stepped away from Alice, ready to broach the subject of wool.

  Robert waited until Billy had finished a conversation, then guided him to the edge of the crowd so they might talk more privately. Billy was a paunchy man, with stubby fingers and oily skin.

  ‘Billy, good to see you,’ Robert said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Not well, Robert. And you?’

  That didn’t bode well for the discussion that was to follow. ‘Well, perhaps I can help you,’ replied Robert, eager to talk trade before they were interrupted. ‘My wool’s in, and I’m ready to sell.’

  ‘Not to me,’ said Billy. His face showed no emotion. Robert frowned. Billy wasn’t a man to turn his nose up at a deal. ‘I’m not buying, Robert.’

  ‘Not buying? Why not?’ Robert’s mind began to race. Perhaps this was just part of the bargaining process.

  ‘I’m just back from Antwerp, where I sold at a loss. I practically had to give it away.’

  ‘A loss . . . why?’

  ‘They’re not buying English wool.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s lost its quality, they say. We’re over-farming our animals, and the fleece is thin and coarse. They can’t work with it. They want Spanish wool now. It’s better, they say, and cheaper.’

  ‘But they’ve been buying up everything we can send.’

  ‘They say that felt hats are the thing, ever since the old king introduced them, but you can’t make a fine hat with worsted wool. You need a broadcloth.’

  ‘Come on, Billy,’ prodded Robert, still unwilling to believe what he was hearing. ‘You must be in the market for something.’

  Billy shook his head and leaned in. ‘I’m in trouble, Robert,’ he said softly. ‘I’ve contracted to buy early, to avoid the summer prices, but now I’ll be lucky to get through this with the shirt on my back.’ Robert had never heard Billy Badcock speak like this; it was clear that this was no brinkmanship. ‘You’ll have to find someone else. I’m sorry.’

  Billy left Robert alone with his thoughts: were his plans really unravelling because some nobles in London had decided on a different style of hat? If he couldn’t sell his wool, how would he pay his creditors? The flock’s value would slump. How would he pay for winter feed? What had once seemed bold, now felt reckless. And if word spread, the scavengers would circle, offering derisory sums for his prize assets.

  Robert was relieved to hear the bells toll for the start of the service, sparing him the need to make small talk. He found Alice, and they made their way down the central aisle. They took their usual places in the second pew from the front on the left, just a few feet from the spot where they had been proclaimed husband and wife years before. Behind them, the congregation hurried to their seats. Robert was oblivious to the nod of welcome from the pastor as he took his place at the front of his own flock. Fortunately, Alice, unaware of their change in fortune, smiled and returned the acknowledgement.

  William, Robert’s brother, appeared at the end of their pew. At sixty-four he was seven years Robert’s senior. Their shared lineage was unmistakable; they would have looked almost identical had William not chosen to hide his more deeply-lined face with a beard. Like his younger brother, William had kept his teeth. The wooden pew creaked as he planted himself beside Robert. As usual, William was alone.

  They nodded, a greeting that might have seemed dismissive to a stranger, but for brothers who had been close their whole lives, it was more than sufficient. William was a widower, and Robert would sometimes tease William about not having a new woman to accompany him to church. Today, Robert had other things on his mind.

  ‘Where’s our friend Flowerdew?’ whispered William as the congregation began to settle.

  Robert shook his head. When you were as unpopular as Flowerdew, there was little point in arriving at church early. Nobody wanted to be seen talking to the king’s extortionist-in-chief.

  The pastor welcomed them to evensong and began to recite the general confession in English, one of the many changes of Archbishop Cranmer’s recent reforms that Robert thought pragmatic. How could you preach to people in a language they did not understand and expect them to learn? The pastor’s introduction was interrupted by the heavy clunk of the main door closing, Robert glanced at William, and a moment later, John Flowerdew swaggered past with his wife and two children. As they took their place in the pew in front of the Ketts, Flowerdew smirked. His pointy nose, short upper lip, freckled cheeks and ginger hair reminded Robert of a fox. He was just as cunning as a fox.

  Robert stared at him, emotionless. If ever there was a man who should be on time for the general confession, he thought. How he had the nerve to show his face in this holy building after his actions ten years before, Robert would never understan
d. Once the monks had been cleared out and the second nave dismantled, the parish had raised the money to secure the building as the town church. Flowerdew, using the full force of his office, seized his opportunity and stripped the adjoining buildings bare. He dragged away the lead, timber and stone of the chapter house, refectory, infirmary and cloisters. The townspeople were outraged, believing that they had purchased the entire abbey. They had looked to Robert to challenge Flowerdew, and he had, but, like the devious lawyer he was, Flowerdew hid behind the trickery of the words in the contract. Robert was no lawyer, but if the material didn’t belong to the town, then it could only belong to the crown, so he threatened Flowerdew that he would write to the king. The looting did stop, but Flowerdew kept everything he’d already taken.

  The people of Wymondham had long memories, however, and nothing had been forgiven. The episode had served to establish Robert as the leading townsperson in civic matters, and in Flowerdew he had acquired a powerful enemy, one who would seek revenge whenever opportunities arose.

  Flowerdew sat down in front of Robert, obscuring his view. The pastor began the absolution.

  2

  Alfred Carter couldn’t believe his luck. Following his chance encounter with Robert Kett, he had work.

  ‘You lucky bastard,’ said his older friend, Fulke, as they slipped out of sight around the back of the abbey.

  Alfred felt light-headed. He’d been sent to beg in Wymondham by his father-in-law, who was too proud to have him do it in their own village of Hethersett. Everyone in the village shared the same plight, but when you were as unpopular as his father-in-law, it didn’t pay to announce it. Alfred had hoped to go home with a penny or two, but would instead be returning as an apprentice tanner. He knew nothing about tanning, but that didn’t matter: he would pay attention and learn the trade. For the first time since his brief and unfortunate marriage, he could hold his head high in what now served as his family home. He would be a tradesman. His father-in-law was only a commoner.

  ‘Looks like you’ll be buying tonight, Alfred,’ quipped Fulke as they sat on the ground, backs against the stone wall of the abbey. Inside, the service was beginning. Fulke thought God a sham and wouldn’t shy away from saying so. Alfred went to church because he had to.

  Fulke had come into Alfred’s life at its lowest point. He’d offered Alfred a tip at a cockfight, and the bet had paid off. They drank together afterwards, and since then Fulke had taken Alfred under his wing. One thing Alfred had learned was that Fulke tended to do as he pleased and people didn’t argue with him. Fulke reminded Alfred of a bulldog: short and squat, with closely-clipped hair. A scar ran down the length of his cheek, and beneath his determined jawline was a vein that looked as though it wanted to escape his neck. Alfred imagined that Fulke was not a man to provoke.

  This evening, having decided not to attend church, they had an hour to pass. Being caught at large during a church service was punishable, and there was no shortage of people in Wymondham capable of taking an interest in your affairs: the justice of the peace, the constable, his deputies, the alderman, the watchman, the bailiff, the reeve or the warden. As they waited, Fulke complained about Master Hobart, the lord of his manor, but his grievances were not new, and Alfred paid little attention. As the early evening sky faded from blue to orange he imagined a brighter future for himself. He saw himself tasting wine and buying clothes other than homespun. Extravagances he had never known.

  The service ended, and people began to file out of church. ‘Come on,’ said Fulke. ‘I’m thirsty.’

  ‘Fulke, I have no money.’

  ‘I’ll pay tonight. You can see me right soon enough, now you’ve got work.’

  ‘But–’

  ‘No buts. Follow me.’

  Alfred heaved himself to his feet. ‘All right, just one.’

  The door to the Green Dragon was propped open, to let the light in and the smell of its patrons out. It was always full after church. The low wooden ceiling made the crowded alehouse feel dark and small. No fire burned at this time of year, but candles cast a faint glow against the whitewashed walls in the dimmer corners of the room. Rush matting that still looked fresh covered the beaten earth. The Green Dragon was a good deal cleaner than the Rose & Thorn, which Alfred had visited before, but its atmosphere was full of the same heady mix of ale and breath. Alfred followed as Fulke pushed through to the taproom and ordered two ales from the middle-aged innkeeper, who filled two leather tankards. When Fulke complained about the price she invited him to try the Rose & Thorn if he wanted cheap swill to drink. Fulke grimaced, handed over the money, and passed a tankard to Alfred.

  ‘There, don’t spill it.’

  Alfred took a sip and caught sight of his new employer stepping through the doorway.

  *

  Robert and William made their way upstairs to the private room made ready for them by Judy, the innkeeper. Their gambling companions followed them up the creaking wooden staircase: Thomas Elmham, Wulfric Smith and Luke Miller were regular players, who met the Kett brothers every Thursday evening for cards or dice, and Anders Marshwell, who occasionally joined them. Set out on the table at the centre of the room were a dozen filled tankards, two bowls of salted fish, a pot for their bets, a deck of cards and an empty tankard containing four dice. The small room was well lit, with windows on either side, and plentiful candles ensured they could play as long as they wished. Judy gave the men every reason to stay late and no cause to go elsewhere.

  Robert hung his coat on the pegs behind the door.

  ‘We might be here late tonight, gentlemen,’ said Wulfric with a broad smile. ‘Mr Kett has bought his coat!’

  Robert ignored Wulfric. After his conversation with Billy, he had little appetite for laughter or games, but after forty years in commerce, he knew how to put on a brave face. He hoped the conversation wouldn’t turn to sheep.

  They pulled out the benches, sat down, three on each side of the table, and passed out the ale. Each man placed his purse on the table.

  Robert looked around the table. ‘So, gentlemen, a game of inn-and-inn to start?’

  ‘Your purse looks a little light, Luke?’ teased Wulfric.

  Luke was thirty-five, and the youngest man present. His hair was mousey brown, his face well-proportioned with tepid brown eyes, his height and build both middling, all of which served to make Luke in every way run of the mill, and so somehow easy to overlook. He’d inherited his father’s fortune, but not his father’s skill with dice and cards. Each week a little more of his inheritance found its way into the pockets of his friends.

  ‘Not for long,’ said Luke. ‘I’m feeling lucky tonight.’

  Robert and Wulfric exchanged a glance. Young Luke would be leaving empty-handed as usual.

  Each man rolled a die to see who would start. Luke rolled a six. ‘I warned you, tonight’s my night,’ he said as they each placed a coin in the pot in the middle of the table. Luke rolled all four dice: a two, a one and two fives. He smiled at rolling a double on his first attempt, put another coin in the pot, and rolled two of the dice again. If he rolled another pair, he would win the pot. Although the pot was still light, winning it on the first attempt would be a good omen. He rolled a one and a five.

  Robert took his first taste of the dry and sour ale. He exhaled slowly and began to relax; his worries could wait until the next morning. Problems never seemed as stark after a good night’s sleep. He took a second mouthful.

  ‘How’s trade?’ Wulfric asked Robert. The two men were in the same guild.

  Robert turned his mouth down and shook his head. He didn't want to encourage the conversation.

  ‘Mine too,’ said Wulfric.

  ‘Trouble is, we’re all taxed to the high hilt, and the money is wasted waging war on the Scots. What is there to show for it?’ said an indignant Anders.

  Although on this occasion Anders was right, Robert never really saw eye to eye with him. He had an air of resignation about him and rarely smiled. He was one
of those people who were happiest being unhappy, but he was worth staying close to. Anders was the reeve of Hethersett and acted on behalf of the villagers in any matters that concerned the lord of their manor, John Flowerdew. Given the lingering animosity between Robert and Flowerdew over the abbey, it paid to stay well informed.

  ‘Now the bastards are going to tax our sheep at the end of the year,’ Anders went on.

  ‘That’s one tax I agree with,’ said Luke. ‘So much land has been turned over to sheep. Now food is short and prices high. How the poor manage, I don’t know.’

  Robert grunted. Luke might be right, but it didn’t help. Once it came into force, the government’s new tax would further depress the value of his flock.

  ‘They can have taxes on half my flock,’ Wulfric whispered. ‘The other half will temporarily vanish. I refuse to see my hard-earned money wasted on more folly against the Scots.’

  Wulfric passed the dice to Robert, who was keen to turn the conversation away from sheep. He rolled the dice – no doubles – and turned to Thomas. ‘What news of the rebellion in Cornwall?’ he asked.

  Thomas had friends in high places throughout the church and was among the first to hear important news, often long before it was altered and distributed for general consumption via the pulpits.

  ‘It rumbles on. Exeter is under siege, surrounded by twenty thousand men.’

  ‘Twenty thousand?’ said William. ‘Twenty thousand?’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Thomas, who was not given to exaggeration. ‘I dare say they have any number of grievances, like any of us, but their complaints seem to be principally the young king’s religious reforms.’