by Tim Holden
‘It’s wrong,’ John continued. ‘This land has been there for commoners since God was a boy, but now rich men take it for their own profit, and people are going to starve. Look there.’ John pointed to the flat, hundred-acre field on their left, divided up into a stripy patchwork of furlongs so that the farmers of the village each got a share of the fertile land and a share of the less fertile. Acres of barley for beer grew among acres of wheat and rye, oats and peas. ‘Them crops are stunted,’ sighed John. ‘Weak. Not enough rain. Too late for a good harvest now.’
‘What’s this to do with Mr Kett?’ asked Alfred.
John stared at Alfred as though measuring his trustworthiness. ‘I won’t gossip,’ said Alfred.
‘Well, it’s nothing people don’t already know: Kett’s done the same as Flowerdew. Stolen our common land for his own gain. I thought he were a better man than that, after all he done for the abbey.’
Alfred stayed silent. Stealing common land was bad, but Mr Kett had given him a job, a chance. That mattered most to Alfred.
Despite being a slow talker, John Robertson proved to be a fast walker. They arrived in Wymondham just as the town was coming to life. Dogs barked as people opened shopfronts and called out greetings. Alfred said farewell to John and made his way to the tannery. Nobody needed directions to a tannery: you just had to follow your nose.
The tannery was surrounded by a rough, slatted fence to stop people falling into the pits. Looking around, Alfred couldn't see anyone there – he was early, much to his relief. He was tired from the rapid walk and had a full day’s work ahead, so he found a spot on the riverbank and watched the murky water flow past. As thirsty as Alfred was, the river water wasn’t fit for drinking.
He felt better for the walk, the birdsong and the morning air. His father had always said dawn was the best part of the day. For the past month, Alfred had found solace in ale whenever he could. He woke each morning to another day of helping Richard to farm his acreage, and in return Richard only ever found fault with Alfred’s work. Despite its stench, the tannery promised a new start. His parents would have been proud of him, and Alfred decided he would honour their memory by surviving where they hadn't.
The church bells chimed eight.
‘Who are you?’ called a voice from behind him. Alfred turned to see two men. The one who spoke was tall, with a square jaw and blonde hair, perhaps in his late thirties. The second man, Alfred thought, looked a bit simple.
Alfred stood and introduced himself. ‘Alfred Carter. Mr Kett hired me yesterday. At evensong.’
The blond man looked suspicious. ‘He never mentioned you.’
Alfred shrugged.
‘Well, if you’re lying, you won’t get paid.’
Alfred smiled. He wasn’t lying.
‘How old are you?’
‘Sixteen.’
‘What do you know about tanning?’
Alfred shrugged again but assured the man that he was a fast learner.
‘I’m Master Peter.’ Alfred held out his hand, but Master Peter didn’t shake it. ‘When Mr Kett’s not here, I’m in charge. This is Mutt.’ He inclined his head towards the other man. ‘You’ll replace young James, who died last week.’
Alfred tried not to show fear as he wondered why the boy had died and whether it happened here at the tannery. Master Peter told him to pay attention while he showed him around.
The tannery consisted of twelve brick-edged pits, each the size of a large table. Arranged neatly in four rows of three, the pits were each four feet deep, filled with a foul-smelling liquid. A wooden-framed canopy sheltered the pits from the sun. There were no walls between the oak posts that supported the canopy, just the low perimeter fence. Mutt went to the far corner, nearest the riverbank, where he unlocked a small shed and picked out the hooks for carrying the hides. Alfred stood next to Master Peter at the edge of one of the pits and made an effort to concentrate while Master Peter explained the craft of tanning. When empty, a pit was filled from the river, then animal hides were laid flat across it, and chips of oak bark were scattered across them. Then more hides were placed on top, covered with more oak bark, and so on until the pit was full. Each pit held liquor of a different strength, according to the quantity of oak bark chips it contained, and each month, the hides were moved to a stronger pit. After a year, the hides were ready to come out and be fashioned into workable leather.
‘With me so far?’
Alfred nodded. He sensed that Master Peter resented having to explain how it all worked. He followed Master Peter over to another much larger pit beyond the canopy’s shade.
‘Right, young Alfred, this is pit thirteen. Unlucky for some.’ Master Peter grinned. The pit was full of brown water that made Alfred’s stomach turn. ‘This pit is very important. All the hides go in here first of all to remove the hairs. We’ll be going to see Mr Kett’s brother, William, later – he’s a butcher and supplies our hides.’
‘I know of Mr William Kett,’ interrupted Alfred. ‘My friend Fulke works for him.’
‘En’t that lovely,’ snapped Master Peter. ‘There’ll be no time to stand around talking to your mates. Not when you work for Robert Kett. He’s a good man, and you’re lucky to have a job here. I know lots of folk more worthy than yourself who’d be glad to work here.’
Alfred reminded himself not to speak unless he was spoken to.
‘So pay attention, do what I tell you, and don’t give Mr Kett any cause to regret being charitable,’ continued Master Peter. ‘He has a weakness for stray dogs like you.’
Alfred nodded.
‘We’re emptying pit thirteen today,’ Master Peter went on. ‘While me and Mutt move the hides, your job is to restock the pit with fresh ingredients. Fetch that sack over in the corner.’ Master Peter pointed to an empty hessian sack lying by the tool shed.
As Alfred picked it up, the sack gave off a foul smell. It was filthy and set rigid from never being washed. He gagged and held it at arm’s length.
‘Now walk round town and pick up every dog shit, cat shit, rat shit, and human shit you can find. If it eats meat, we want its shit. Chicken shit works too, but not cow or horse, so you can leave them.’
Alfred looked at Master Peter, slowly realising that he meant what he said. Now he understood why the water in pit thirteen was so disgusting. Master Peter’s expression hardened.
‘The shit in the water makes the hair fall out of the hides. Now go and fill the sack. The town will be grateful to you for cleaning up before the festival.’
Alfred gritted his teeth, turned his head away from the sack and walked into town. He’d always been squeamish with farm animals, even his father’s grass-eating beasts whose dung was not so repulsive. But he couldn’t refuse his first task.
Around noon Alfred returned with his third sack of turds. He was exhausted. It was hot, and his mouth was bone dry. Although he was starving, he was glad he hadn’t eaten much, as he’d been sick behind the smithy. His hands stank, and the idea that he was lucky to have this job had disappeared. He’d vowed to work hard for Mr Kett, but not doing this. He couldn't wait to clean up and put this morning behind him. The thought of sinking a tankard of ale had never seemed more appealing.
He tipped the contents of the sack into pit thirteen, which was now emptied of its hides.
‘Well done, Alfred,’ said Master Peter, patting him on the shoulder, ‘It’s a horrible job, but credit to you, you didn’t complain. The good news is you won't have to do it again for a month.’
Alfred exhaled with relief. Once a month was still too often, but he looked forward to better tasks in the meantime. Master Peter’s approval helped, too. He’d found Master Peter unnecessarily frosty at first, but a compliment always meant more from someone like that. Perhaps if Alfred could stay on his good side, keep his head down and not chatter when he should be quiet, then all would be well.
‘Alfred, it’s time to christen the pit,’ said Master Peter. ‘It’s a tradition. Each time we empty pit
thirteen, we top it up with a contribution of our own.’
Alfred looked around, unsure what was meant. Master Peter and Mutt stood either side of him and unfastened their codpieces. Master Peter looked straight ahead. ‘You can’t make decent leather without a good measure of Wymondham piss,’ and unleashed a steady yellow stream.
Alfred stepped up and untied his codpiece. He caught a brief whiff of urine, but it was soon lost in the heady mixture of the tannery stink. Master Peter and Mutt seemed oblivious to the miasmas that surrounded them, so Alfred hoped that he too would get used to it in time.
Alfred avoided touching himself with his filthy hands. He wasn’t sure he could go, having urinated earlier in the morning. Mutt was peeing, and Master Peter was almost finished. Alfred began to panic – what if he couldn’t go in front of the other men? After a pause that seemed to last an age, he finally managed a feeble dribble into the stinking pit. He exhaled, and just as he relaxed his shoulders, the two men grabbed his arms and threw him forward. Alfred yelled in horror as he hit the stinking brown water. It would have been better to keep his mouth shut.
4
6th July, Hethersett Hall
‘Edward, it’s time you earned your keep,’ said John Flowerdew to his son. ‘Put your riding boots on.’
The excited eleven-year-old bounded up the grand wooden staircase, leaving Flowerdew alone in the hall. Unlike its predecessor, the new hall was an impressive brick pile set outside the village of Hethersett, away from its inhabitants. Flowerdew had bought the property, together with farming rights to the surrounding land, ten years earlier.
While he waited for Edward he gazed at the tapestries that adorned the oak-panelled room. He often indulged himself among the impressive things he’d accumulated: marble fireplaces, furniture crafted from exotic woods, oil paintings, even a portrait of himself. He craved a Holbein for his collection but was yet to fulfil that desire. His wife accused him of avarice, but his possessions reminded him of how far he’d come from his humble beginnings.
Flowerdew liked to attribute his success to his own guile. But even he couldn’t deny he owed a lot to the dissolution of the monasteries. He’d been in the right place at the right time and seized his opportunity with both hands. In the name of King Henry VIII, he’d ruthlessly stripped the surrounding monastic communities of their wealth and property, returning the king a handsome profit, as well as lining his own pockets.
He had looked set for further promotion until the king had Thomas Cromwell’s head cut off. With his ally executed, his fortunes had plateaued. Flowerdew hoped the change in monarch would afford him new opportunities to gain favour, but in the meantime he focused his energies on accruing more land and wealth. Influence and power did not come cheap.
Flowerdew smiled as he checked himself in the looking glass. He thought he looked impressive in his red robe, no matter that his wife had told him the red clashed with his freckled skin and ginger hair. Over the robe he wore a large gold chain with a ruby pendant. He did not normally wear jewellery when riding, but today he wanted to intimidate. He pulled on suede gloves, then slid gold rings on to his fingers.
He started to pace, the floorboards creaking under his weight. Why was Edward taking so long? His gut was fluttering. He wouldn’t admit to apprehension, but today he expected to encounter fear and hostility. His display of finery would remind angry peasants of their place.
Outside in the courtyard the early morning sun cast long shadows. A groom, staring at the floor, held Flowerdew’s horse and Edward’s pony. His three armed retainers, already mounted, waited with stern faces. The tunics of red and green halves they wore were not formal heraldic arms, but Flowerdew had used the pattern long enough that it was recognisable as his livery. Unofficial or not, his colours made Flowerdew look every inch the man he had become.
Edward ran out of the hall in his riding boots, and the groom interlocked his fingers to create a step for the boy to mount his pony. Edward was Flowerdew’s eldest son but was still young to accompany his father on today’s duties. Having lost his own father at an early age, Flowerdew was determined that Edward too should leave his childhood behind as early as possible. He needed to become familiar with the harsh realities of Tudor England.
With the aid of the groom, Flowerdew mounted his stallion. It shivered its neck as he settled into the saddle. He and his son rode across the courtyard, the men-at-arms following behind.
‘What are we doing today, father?’ asked Edward.
‘Wait and see,’ replied Flowerdew.
‘How long need I wait?’ Edward was a precocious child.
‘When I was your age, the man who adopted me would have beaten me for such a question.’
They passed under the brick archway that formed the entrance to the courtyard and Edward tried again. ‘Is it official matters for the king today?’
‘No. Not today.’ John Flowerdew was now one of only ten serjeants-at-law in the country, and so was often required to manage the king’s affairs in the county. ‘We’re doing Flowerdew work today.’
‘What work is it, father?’
Flowerdew told his son to be quiet as they made their way down the track to the village. He reflected on his plans for one last time. Exporting the wool produced by his large flocks of sheep had made him a tidy fortune, all of which he had reinvested into expanding his flock, which had quadrupled in size in the past five years. To sustain this growth he had already turned much of his demesne over to sheep, and then he had taken some of the common land used by the villagers. They had protested, but there was little they could do to stop him. He’d left them enough to survive; he did not want a revolt to quell. Other landowners nearby had been too hasty, taking entire commons for themselves. Faced with starvation, their villagers had had little option but to fight back.
This year’s dry weather presented Flowerdew with a problem. Although he had just about enough land, the grass was dry and growing poorly, so it yielded less food for his sheep. Flowerdew’s response, to sustain both his flock and the villagers, was to ease the pressure on the commons and free up land already in use. To achieve this outcome, it was necessary to make a sacrifice: to reduce the number of mouths there were to feed.
The early morning sun warmed Flowerdew’s cheeks as they rode in silence. The dew would soon dry. The sweet scent, the gentle sway of his horse and the birdsong all distracted from the unpleasantness to come.
In no time they arrived at the edge of the village. He drew his horse to a halt outside a small cottage, which stood next to a line of four small farmhouses, all with mossy thatched roofs. It was too early for cooking fires to be smoking through the smoke holes, and the village was quiet. The inhabitants were still indoors. Early morning was the best part of the day, and yet the peasants slept through it, no doubt sleeping off yesterday’s drink. Flowerdew despised their laziness.
It was the cottage on the end that concerned Flowerdew today. He had chosen well. It was on the edge of the village, so they didn’t need to ride in full view of the other houses. If they were quick, they could avoid announcing their presence and be gone before doors opened and rumours spread.
Flowerdew looked at his retainers, then Edward, and put his finger to his lips. They dismounted, handing their reins to the youngest of the retainers, leaving him to watch the horses. Flowerdew whispered to Edward, ‘Under no circumstances are you to talk or ask questions.’
As they approached, two swallows fled their nest in the thatch. The largest of the two retainers opened the cottage door without knocking. He held it open for Flowerdew, and the party followed him inside.
The room was small and dark. It smelt of peasants. There was no rush matting to cover the earth floor. A mother combed her daughter’s hair, and a young man sat on a stool near the hearth, chewing some food. Their faces registered first shock, then fear. It was the older man Flowerdew was looking for. In the gloom at the rear, Flowerdew saw a man’s silhouette. Richard Smith stood naked at the end of his straw m
attress.
Flowerdew spoke. ‘Good morning to you and your family, Mr Smith.’
‘Good morning, sir,’ they replied in unison, except the young man, whose mouth was still full.
‘Who is this young man?’ asked Flowerdew. ‘I don’t recall seeing him before.’
‘His name is Alfred Carter, sir,’ said Smith, his voice betraying his concern. ‘You recently granted him permission to marry our daughter, Lynn.’
Lynn bowed when she heard her name. She was broad-shouldered with a flat chest and wiry, mouse-brown hair. Her unfeminine appearance was not helped by a downturned mouth and a wart on her chin. Altogether she had a sour look. The young man Alfred finally swallowed his mouthful and bowed his head as courtesy demanded. Flowerdew could not recall granting any permission to marry, but he was prone to forget more trivial duties.
Folding his arms, Flowerdew turned to the matter in hand. ‘I have called early to be sure to find you before you begin your day’s labours. Please sit.’
There was little furniture. Flowerdew waited for Richard to find a stool. He sat down and covered his genitals with his hands, and the women sat on the floor. Flowerdew, his son and his men-at-arms all remained standing.
‘The land you farm, which I lease to you, is no longer at your disposal. I am cancelling your lease.’
The two women gasped. Richard Smith, still half-asleep, took a little longer to take the news in. Flowerdew waited for Smith to catch up before he went on. ‘If you cannot farm the land, you will most likely not be able to provide me with goods or labour in return for the use of this cottage.’
Smith stood up and started to speak. ‘Sit down!’ barked Flowerdew. The two men-at-arms unsheathed their weapons with a sharp, rasping sound. Smith sat down, and the women started to cry. The fluttering in Flowerdew’s stomach had gone now.
