Spirals of Fate

by Tim Holden

  ‘What’s the lord protector’s response?’ asked Wulfric.

  The young King Edward faced an unenviable predicament, having ascended the throne two-and-a-half years earlier, in 1547, at the age of nine. He had inherited a country at war, with no money and no allies, facing a hostile pope, and still stumbling through religious changes that had divided opinion and split families as people argued over the right way to worship. Robert felt sorry for the boy. His father, Henry VIII, had appointed a regency council to govern the realm until Edward came of age, but Henry’s corpse wasn’t even cold before the boy’s uncle, Edward Seymour, appointed himself lord protector and head of the Privy Council. For now, Seymour was the king in all but name. How readily, Robert wondered, would any man give up that power? And given the state of the country, how readily would a young man accept such a chalice? It rather put his own worries into context.

  ‘The lord protector’s tied himself in knots,’ said William. ‘Since he restricted the nobles’ ability to hold armed retainers, they can’t nip any rebellions in the bud. The king is safer from the nobles, but the nobles are at the mercy of the peasants.’

  ‘It’ll take an army to fight off twenty thousand rebels,’ said Anders.

  ‘Aye, and Seymour’s army is in Scotland,’ said Luke, passing the dice to Wulfric. ‘The French must be licking their lips. The pope will back them to reinstate a Catholic on the throne. England is there for the taking.’

  ‘You’d be happier than most with that I’d wager, you old Catholic dog?’ said Wulfric.

  The room fell silent. Luke’s brow furrowed. ‘We were all Catholics at one time, Wulfric. Even you.’

  ‘Aye, and some of us still are,’ retorted Wulfric.

  ‘I’ve converted. I was at church tonight, same as you.’

  Wulfric grunted. ‘Some of us left our conversion to the new faith rather late, and until they had no choice.’

  Luke shrugged.

  ‘Now, now, gents,’ interrupted Robert. ‘Let’s not be picking off scabs from old wounds that we want to heal. If Luke here was in church same as us, I aren’t worried when he changed his beliefs. Now, if you’d be kind enough to pass me those dice Wulfric?’ Robert dropped another coin in the pot and took his turn with the dice. Nothing.

  ‘I hear that Protector Seymour’s enclosure enquiry won’t now come to Norfolk,’ said Thomas, steering the conversation back to less contentious matters as he took the dice. ‘By granting copyholders protection from eviction, he believes he can stop landlords enclosing common land for their own sheep. So it seems that those of us who have taken a share of the common land as our own, can continue.’ He looked directly at Robert. ‘For now.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Robert. Ancient tradition saw pockets of land reserved for the commoners to graze their animals, and he was uneasy at having fenced a parcel of common land for his own use. But too often the local people neglected their commons, and if others were taking commons for themselves, why should he miss out? He had accounts to settle the same as everybody else.

  ‘Did you hear they pulled some enclosures down in Attleborough last month?’ asked William.

  Robert nodded. He had heard and feared the same might happen to him. Why did this conversation keep coming back to sheep?

  ‘There have been minor uprisings across the country,’ said Luke. ‘Seymour has been lenient and pardoned them all. So it’s no surprise that one more should break out. The lord protector’s reaping what he sows.’

  ‘I think he favours the cause of the poor masses,’ said Thomas, ‘however he’s caught betwixt and between. He can’t build an army from starving peasants, and he must feed them or face civil war, but he needs the nobles’ support and taxes to raise armies, and they will meet new taxes through wool sales, which means land is fenced off and commoners go hungry.’

  ‘When the poor starve, they rebel,’ declared Robert. ‘They tear down fences, they steal sheep, and they’re hung for it. But is it their fault they’re hungry?’

  ‘What do you mean to do about it, Robert?’ asked Luke.

  ‘The same as you.’ Robert drank the last of his ale and slammed his empty tankard down on the table. ‘Absolutely nothing! The commission won’t stop enclosure. It’s a ploy to pacify the peasants which will fizzle out, blocked by men far richer than us. If it ever finally makes a recommendation, it will be ignored. Too many powerful people have too much to lose.’

  Robert took the dice and rolled a double two, a five and a six. ‘Look out, gentlemen,’ he said, looking around. He put another coin in the pot, which had been growing as they spoke. He rolled a double six and laughed. The others groaned as he emptied the coins from the pot into his pile. He was well ahead. ‘Let’s get Judy up here with more ale,’ Robert said with a flourish. My round.’ Together, the men stamped their feet on the floorboards, announcing their needs to the innkeeper below.

  ‘So what happens in the end?’ asked Luke, his tone serious. ‘When the poor have starved, where will our bread come from?’

  ‘The Lord will decide that, Luke,’ said Robert. ‘It’s not for me to say. Maybe he will punish the sinners with another plague.’

  The room below was filling up, and the heat and noise were filtering up between the floorboards.

  ‘Luke, be a gentleman and let in some air,’ asked Robert.

  The younger man stood and moved to the window, speaking as he did so. ‘I don’t want to bring down the mood, but you have seen the state of the crops in the field. If you think the poor are angry now, wait till they gather in the harvest and see how little they have for winter. It will be the likes of us they attack.’

  ‘He’s right,’ said William. ‘With nothing to lose, a man has nothing to fear.’

  ‘Why do I come drinking with you lot?’ complained Robert. ‘My maid wants more pay. No doubt after that every other rascal will be at my door begging for more. The only people buying my leather are rich landowners, but you would deny them their wool income, and me for that matter? I come here to forget these worries.’

  ‘Robert, you have my respect, and I am sure I speak for us all,’ said Luke, sitting back at the table. The bench creaked as it took his weight. ‘You might be light-hearted about your worries, you might drink and forget them for a while, but they will be waiting for you in the morning. There are few of us who have the influence to do anything, but I put it to you that in this town you are the person who is best placed to resolve matters. I, for one, would follow you and support you.’

  Robert looked Luke in the eye. ‘Thank you for your opinions, Luke, which are flattering, even though they are unwelcome. You know nothing of my worries, lad, and you must not mistake me for a sheriff. I’m nothing of the sort, so I’ll have no more talk of sheep, enclosures, the poor or any related matter in this room tonight. Now roll the blessed dice.’

  The next morning Robert sat at his table, suffering only a dry mouth and a mild headache. He usually took a small breakfast early before his main meal at eleven, but these days, after a night in the tavern, Robert liked to sleep longer and take an early lunch. Alice had made him some fried eggs and cold ham. He was feeling better with every bite.

  ‘Am I right to imagine that the evening was a success?’ enquired Alice.

  ‘Passable. I at least managed to relieve my companions of their hard-earned money.’

  ‘And spent the rest of the night buying them drinks with their hard-earned money?’

  ‘That’s how it works.’

  ‘You’re all heart, Robert. Did you give Mary’s request any more thought?’

  ‘In truth, no.’ Robert mopped up the remainder of the egg yolk with the last of his ham. ‘Trade is bad, Alice. I have yet to sell my wool, and I confess I am a little concerned. On top of that, our country is in turmoil. Was it like this when we were young?’

  ‘It’s a long time ago, Robert. But no, things were simpler, I think.’

  Robert laid down his knife and fork. ‘People don’t have enough to buy necessitie
s, never mind more. Any rain will be too late to make this harvest a good one. I foresee trouble.’

  Alice sat down beside him. ‘I think you’re right.’

  Robert sighed. ‘That principled little upstart, Luke Miller suggested I do something about it! Offered me his support.’

  ‘He may have a point,’ said Alice.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Who do you know who understands things the way you do?’

  Robert frowned. Alice continued, ‘Who in this parish has more experience of sorting out problems, especially to do with money?’

  Robert wiped egg yolk from his bristly chin.

  ‘It was you who saved the monastery.’

  ‘You talk about me as though I were a king’s official. I’m a merchant.’

  ‘The king’s a child, surrounded by his father’s cronies – all as trustworthy as a sack of adders. What do they know of the people of Wymondham?’

  ‘With the likes of Flowerdew in the king’s pay, I would agree that nobody has our best interest at heart,’ Robert conceded.

  ‘I’m worried, too. Not for us, but for our children and grandchildren. They are not going to grow up in the England we knew.’

  ‘Alice, our children are grown men, ready to fight their own battles. Granted, I also fear for the future, but what would you have me do about it?’

  ‘I am not saying you need to solve anything yourself. However, you could make a difference. Who in Wymondham is more capable of that than you?’

  ‘Have you been speaking to Luke Miller?’

  Alice laughed. ‘No, but think about it. Give that clever head of yours something to wrestle with.’

  As if he didn’t have enough to think about. ‘No. Thank you for breakfast – the food at least was lovely.’ Robert was adamant he wasn’t getting involved. He got up and announced he was going to take in the air and check his sheep.

  Alice called after him, ‘What about Mary?’

  Robert closed the door behind him.

  3

  5th July, Hethersett

  The shrill sound of a cockerel crowing jolted Alfred into consciousness. He forced his eyes open and found himself lying on the beaten earth floor of his father-in-law’s cottage. His mouth was dust-dry, and his head banged like a blacksmith’s hammer. A column of grey light shone through the smoke hole in the thatch, and daylight filtered in under the door and through gaps around the windows. On a straw mattress in the corner of the cottage, Lynn, his wife, lay sleeping alongside her parents.

  Alfred struggled to remember his journey home. After the Green Dragon they had gone back to the Rose & Thorn. He’d made the mistake of trying to keep pace with Fulke, but he was no match for his older friend.

  He managed to swallow and shifted position on the floor. He hadn’t planned on drinking last night. How had he been led astray again? Then he remembered: he started at Mr Kett’s tannery today. He leapt up, cursing his foolishness. His mother would be berating him from beyond the grave.

  Alfred crossed the room, startling the hens that mooched about the floor looking for crumbs. He unwrapped the cheese from its cloth and took a bite. It was dry and hard to chew, so he broke off a corner and tucked it up his sleeve before quickly folding the block back into the cloth. He’d be scolded later, but he didn’t care. He had a four-mile walk to the tannery, then a full day’s work and four miles home again, so he needed to eat. Alfred checked himself: he’d slept in his clothes, and his boots were still laced. He crept towards the door and carefully lifted the latch.

  Outside, he relieved himself on to the dewy grass. The morning sun glowed amber but brought no warmth to his cheeks. He looked down the row of small farmhouses. Nothing stirred. Doors and shutters were closed; no smoke rose from rooftops, and no dogs or cats patrolled the village. Then the cockerel crowed again, and Alfred registered the dawn chorus ringing out from the trees. He sighed with relief: it was still early. He realised how fast his heart was beating. He walked unsteadily to the well outside the neighbouring cottage, pulled up the pail and splashed his face with cool water. His eyes prickled with relief. He washed his hands, then cupped them to drink. The water was heavenly.

  Walking up the slope to the church, Alfred retraced his steps passed his father-in-law’s cottage at the end of the row. It was a hovel in comparison to the other houses. He should have been grateful for shelter but couldn’t help feeling ashamed to be shackled to the Smiths. However, they were his family now. The past month he’d spent married to their daughter Lynn had been among the worst of his life. Sometimes he lay awake at night wishing God would deliver him from them. He longed to see his parents again. Every moment with the Smiths was a brutal reminder of how fast his fortunes had changed. He’d never had wealth, but he had at least had a family and a home, however simple. Then, within the space of a month, his father had died of the sweating sickness, and his mother died an unexpected death that not even the clergy could explain. Forlorn and hopeless, he’d walked to Wymondham to look for work. He’d found none, but had made Fulke’s acquaintance. Soon after that Alfred’s luck deserted him again, when, unhappy and drunk, he’d found himself in Lynn’s arms. She’d ridden him in the churchyard and Alfred, relishing a moment’s pleasure, had thought nothing more of it until three weeks later she turned up, accompanied by her father, Richard, claiming to be pregnant. A week later they were married. They couldn’t afford wedding rings, and since that day Richard had taken his daughter to task for choosing the poorest man in the parish. Alfred reckoned that Richard wanted to be rid of his daughter, but Alfred had no home to offer, no future, no promise of anything better. Instead, he’d moved into Richard’s cottage.

  He shook his head to escape the thoughts that plagued him. He should be grateful, he told himself as he ate the rest of Richard’s cheese. He was surviving, he had a child on the way, and now he had a job. Whatever was required of him at the tannery, he would work hard and succeed. He might be chained to Lynn, but in time, he would save enough to escape his father-in-law.

  As Alfred approached the tall flint church, whose position on a mound gave it a commanding view across the common, he was jolted out of his reverie by an unexpected voice.

  ‘It’s the boy, Carter.’

  Alfred looked up to see George Newell leaning against the oak tree in front of the church. A sack rested on the floor at his feet. The few times Alfred had met George, he hadn’t warmed to him.

  ‘Wouldn’t expect to see you at this hour. Unless, to look at you, you’ve yet to go to bed?’

  Alfred checked his clothing and flicked at the dust and debris that remained from his night on the floor.

  ‘Where you headed?’ asked George. Villagers needing to travel would often meet at the church so they could walk in groups. You could never be sure who was waiting among the roadside trees.

  ‘Wymondham,’ said Alfred. ‘You?’

  ‘The other way. Norwich.’

  That was good news. Wymondham was only a short walk, but George was a man who didn’t keep his thoughts to himself, which made his exchanges with Alfred mostly unpleasant. ‘What are you doing in the city?’ Alfred asked.

  George nodded at his sack. ‘Hats. For the market.’ George was a milliner with a small workshop in the village. ‘Boy like you could use a hat. Keep the sun off you.’

  Alfred shook his head.

  ‘What you doing up so early then?’

  ‘I have work in Wymondham.’

  ‘Oh.’ George made no attempt to hide his surprise. ‘Richard will be pleased.’

  Alfred shrugged. He’d never seen Richard happy.

  ‘What sort of work?’ George asked a lot of questions, but only ever revealed little about himself.

  ‘Mr Kett’s tannery,’ replied Alfred, determined to say as little as possible.

  ‘Working for him, are you?’ George grunted.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  George folded his arms.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Alfred.

  ‘Kett like
s to think of himself as a good man, but–’

  ‘Morning.’

  Alfred and George turned to see who’d interrupted them. It was John Robertson, a bear of a man with tanned skin, black curly hair and a thick beard.

  ‘Either of you going to Wymondham?’

  ‘I am,’ replied Alfred.

  ‘Come on then. I need to be getting on.’

  Alfred turned back to George who was looking out over the common, dotted with grazing sheep. ‘What were you saying … about Mr Kett?’

  George half-smiled, taking delight in withholding his knowledge. ‘Let’s just say I hope he takes better care of his workers than he does the people in his parish.’

  Alfred frowned. What did that mean? Surely Mr Kett was a man of good repute. There were stories of men exploiting their workers, even beating them, and apprentices were often the butt of workplace tricks and humiliations. He shivered. He had been so relieved to find work that he’d given no thought to any possible consequences.

  John was already walking away, so Alfred followed. The main road ran all the way from Norwich to London but had long since lost the stone surface left by the Romans and was now little more than a dirt track, lined with occasional trees and sunken ditches. Cartwheels had rutted the surface and hoof prints ran down the middle. The dry, sandy earth had cracked under the heat of the summer sun.

  As they neared the end of the village common, Alfred asked, ‘What do you know of Mr Kett?’

  John ground his teeth as he thought. From what Alfred had seen of him, John was slowly spoken and thoughtful, and he wasn’t one to talk ill of people. ‘I’d say if you have a job with him, you’ve done well. He looks after his own. Looks after himself too, mind.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘No different to here,’ said John pointing at the sheep to their right. ‘That common’s ours, yet Flowerdew’s sheep are all over it.’

  Alfred had listened night after night to his father-in-law’s anger at John Flowerdew for erecting a fence across the middle of the common. The half left for the villagers was now overgrazed, and disputes had broken out between neighbours. Animals had vanished. Richard had slaughtered his pig early for fear it would be stolen. He’d since salted it, hoping to make it last through winter. If it didn’t, they were in trouble.