Spirals of Fate

by Tim Holden

  As the marchers made their way down the gentle slope towards the city, a horseman cantered towards them. It was William.

  ‘Did you speak to Mayor Codd?’ asked Robert as William drew level.

  William was short of breath. ‘Yes, but too late. Flowerdew got there first.’ William wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve. ‘When I arrived, he was with the mayor and the high sheriff. He has told them you command a large force and are determined to destroy the city. The sheriff is panicking. He wants to send word to London and is making plans to defend the city.’

  Robert gasped, standing motionless at the head of the crowd as he felt the certainties of his old world melting away.

  ‘I spoke to Mayor Codd alone,’ continued William. ‘He’s trying to calm things down, and I explained your aims, but he’s powerless to defy the sheriff.’

  ‘Is anyone coming to meet us?’ asked Robert.

  ‘No. The gates were being closed as I left. Codd said he would meet you tonight, but in public he must support Sheriff Wyndham.’

  Robert’s legs shook, but the five-hundred-strong crowd behind him continued to press forward, gently but insistently, towards the city’s imposing flint walls. He looked into his brother’s face, willing there to be some sort – any sort – of answer.

  13

  Grazing cattle would have been a common sight on the marshland bordering the river Yare near Bowthorpe, but on hearing news of the approaching commoners, the owner of this stretch of marsh had driven his cattle to safety. The hunger of the horde could easily have ruined him.

  Five hundred marchers paced about in between the thick clumps of tall grass and cow pats, pressing their feet hard into the ground. If no water squeezed out, they claimed their spot for the night.

  Fulke spat. ‘Why is this fool making us camp in the marsh?’

  ‘There’s a dry patch there, I think,’ said Alfred pointing to a slither of space to his right.

  ‘Is your bit dry?’

  ‘Just about.’

  The boy had found a good spot. Fulke toyed with the idea of taking it for himself, then decided against it. Somehow, Alfred had got the whole of Hethersett to turn up this morning. Fulke still didn’t know how but was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt — for now.

  ‘We’ll be bitten to hell by morning,’ said Fulke to himself, going back to the stretch he’d found a moment earlier. He lay down to test the ground. It was mercifully free of lumps. The grass would attract a heavy dew in the morning, but at least that might quench his dawn thirst.

  Fulke stood and looked around. Here the river ran briefly from north to south, marking the camp’s western boundary. Less than a mile to the north, beyond the trees, was the road that ran west from Norwich to King’s Lynn. To the south, were the rest of the marchers, dotted about on the open marsh. Fulke had another look at the copse the Kett brothers had chosen for their camp. The trees stood on a slight mound, halfway down the camp on the eastern edge, raised a foot or so higher than the surrounding marsh. They’ll be nice and dry in there, he thought.

  Since the dispute that morning, Fulke had stayed out of Robert’s way. It had smarted to back down in front of everyone, but the most important thing was that he was here, clear of Constable Jacob Morris’s grasp and under Robert Kett’s protection. He consoled himself that he would, somehow, have the last laugh.

  The marchers foraged for food, firewood or cowpats dry enough to burn. Behind Fulke, Alfred bickered with Lynn, David Fisher and John Robertson talked conspiratorially together, and Geoffrey Lincoln chatted to Adam Catchpole, whose ears, washed clean of blood, appeared to be healing well. Fulke butted in. ‘I reckon I did you a mighty favour yesterday, Adam. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be bent double in the pillory, standing in your own manure.’

  Adam nodded.

  ‘Let’s start with that hood of yours.’

  Fulke was unmoved by Adam’s disbelieving look.

  ‘Hand it over.’

  Adam removed the hood from his neck and gave it to Fulke.

  As they settled down for the night, a whiff of fire-roasted meat danced across their nostrils. It was difficult to see where it was coming from. A few people still stood or walked around, but most were sitting down, partly shrouded by the long marsh grass. Against the background hum of chatter it was possible to hear one or two marchers singing, but overall the atmosphere was sombre. In the greying sky, a V-shaped skein of geese flew peacefully over the camp.

  Fulke took out the cleaver Alfred had retrieved from the field. As he studied the blade, he reflected on an extraordinary day. When they had finally reached Norwich, the city gates were closed. They’d wasted some time waiting for old man Kett to make a decision. Finally, they continued their slow path around the western edge of the city and Robert decided that they should spend the night in the insect-ridden marsh at Bowthorpe. Other than being close to the river for water, Fulke couldn’t see that the area had anything going for it. It was as if Kett wanted the marchers to have the most uncomfortable night possible, Fulke thought. He rubbed his thumb against the blade, testing its sharpness. Good enough to shave with.

  He felt a vibration in the ground and heard the sound of hooves.

  ‘There!’ said Alfred, pointing towards the King’s Lynn road. Fulke sat up. Coming through the trees were five horsemen, slowing to a canter on the small stretch of open ground before halting just ten yards away, at the northern edge of the camp.

  In the dusk there was still enough light for Fulke to see that the leader of the five men wore a fine cloak with a fur trim, and around his neck hung a gold chain inset with jewels. His small, puce face sat upon broad shoulders, making his head look too small for his body.

  ‘I am Sir Edmund Wyndham, High Sheriff of Norfolk,’ the man called out as Fulke approached.

  Somewhere in the grass a marcher wolf-whistled. Several more laughed, and the sheriff’s face went a darker shade of red. ‘On the king’s authority, I command you to disband and return to your homes.’

  ‘Or what?’ asked Fulke as he arrived at the sheriff’s horse. It was a fine creature. Most of the animals he slaughtered and butchered were in such a state they almost longed for the relief of his knife. Not this one.

  Fulke missed the sheriff’s reply. ‘Say again?’

  The sheriff sucked air through his teeth, not accustomed to repeating himself. ‘Or I’ll have you arrested. Now leave. All of you. Go.’

  ‘Arrested? All five hundred of us?’ said Fulke.

  ‘Must be a big gaol in that city,’ said Geoffrey Lincoln, walking up behind Fulke.

  There was a smattering of laughter and applause as more marchers gathered.

  Fulke grinned. He could see the sheriff didn’t know what to say next and was close to losing his temper. The stern-faced men in his retinue stood behind, waiting for orders.

  ‘Don’t argue with me. If I say go home, you damn well go home.’

  ‘Or what?’ asked Fulke.

  ‘Blast you, man. I’ll have you strung up and gutted like a swine!’

  ‘See, I’m a butcher by trade, so I know a thing or two about gutting animals.’ Fulke held up his meat cleaver and flashed the large blade. Several marchers also drew their knives. Alfred followed suit and pulled out his own eating knife. Fulke stepped back, spreading his arms wide to make clear his advantage.

  Twenty paces to the east a voice called out: ‘Stop.’

  Fulke looked across to see a tall, red-haired man, walking clear of the marshes.

  ‘No need for knives,’ continued the red-haired man. ‘My bow and arrow will make less mess.’ He placed an arrow on the string and pulled back, stretching the yew bow and taking aim. He had the sheriff in his sights.

  The marchers retreated, avoiding the archer’s line of sight. Fulke did not move.

  ‘Cooper!’ shouted the Sheriff.

  ‘That’s right, sheriff. Me again.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ The sheriff looked confus
ed.

  ‘You know me, sir. I’ll lend my name to anything that’ll give you a headache.’

  Fulke took a long look at the tall bowman, who had a pox-scarred face and clothes that were of good quality but were unclean.

  ‘Cooper, you’ll hang for this. And the rest of you.’

  ‘Goodbye, sheriff.’

  The sheriff furiously turned his horse and galloped away, closely followed by his men. The archer loosed his arrow, which hissed through the air and struck the sheriff’s horse on its hindquarter. The horse whinnied and stumbled, but had the strength to carry on. The men marchers cheered as the sheriff and his men disappeared into the trees.

  ‘Damn it, lads,’ said the archer. ‘I thought we might have horse for dinner.’

  Any archer worth his salt wouldn’t have missed from there, thought Fulke. ‘You’ll need to shoot better than that if you want dinner,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘John Cooper, though I prefer bows to barrels. Pleased to meet you.’ He held out his hand, which Fulke ignored. ‘I’ve come from Norwich with my friends here.’ He waved his arms around, indicating a group of men who had walked up to join him as the sheriff rode off. Fulke counted nineteen. ‘We heard about your little rebellion and didn’t want to miss out.’

  ‘I hope your friends are better shots than you,’ said Fulke.

  Cooper’s expression hardened. ‘Let’s find out. I’ll give you a head start to the count of twenty.

  ‘I’ve a better idea. Put down your poxy bow and see if you can take me with your hands.’ Fulke paused. ‘Like a man would.’

  Geoffrey glanced at Adam and Alfred, who looked concerned. ‘Fulke, there are nineteen of them,’ said Geoffrey.

  ‘There’s only one of him. Come on, pox-face.’

  The two men stood motionless, each waiting for the other to move. Then, from the corner of his eye, Fulke noticed heads among the onlookers begin to turn.

  ‘Fulke, careful, look,’ said Adam.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Robert Kett hobbled through the long grasses of the marsh. Ten paces behind him came his brother, William.

  ‘Who was that?’ said Kett. ‘What is going on?’

  Fulke quietly put his meat cleaver down on the ground. Kett scanned the faces, his eyes coming to rest on Fulke. ‘You! I might have known you’d be near any trouble.’ Kett strode towards Fulke, ‘What have you done now? I told you to go home.’

  Fulke’s glare remained directed at Cooper. ‘It was him.’

  ‘Him? What?’ demanded Kett.

  ‘Fulke? What’s going on?’ asked William, catching up with his brother.

  ‘I was causing no trouble, sir,’ said Fulke, addressing William, his employer. ‘This fool here’ – he nodded at Cooper – ‘is the one who should answer for his actions.’

  ‘It’s true, Mr Kett,’ said Alfred, addressing his employer. ‘We came over to see what was going on. This man shot the sheriff’s horse.’

  ‘He did what?’ yelled Kett, his cheeks turning red.

  Cooper said nothing.

  ‘You shot at the sheriff?’

  ‘Only his horse.’

  Kett cupped his forehead with his hand.

  ‘I told you,’ said Fulke.

  ‘Fulke,’ Kett gave him a look of such menace that even Fulke twitched. ‘The whole time . . . every time there’s trouble, you’re there, in the mix.’

  ‘Easy, Robert,’ said William, putting his hand on his brother’s arm.

  ‘Mr Kett, sir, really he did nothing wrong. It was this man here.’

  ‘Shut up, Alfred. I don’t want to hear it.’

  ‘Robert, stop,’ said William. ‘Let me deal with this.’

  ‘These men will get us killed! We came to petition the mayor, and these fools – this man – has shot the sheriff’s horse! What the . . . how do we explain that, William?’

  Fulke allowed himself a sly smile. The old man’s losing his grip, he thought.

  ‘Robert, enough. Go,’ said William. Robert Kett turned and stormed off. His temper frayed beyond the point of usefulness. William turned his attentions to Cooper, the rogue archer, but his problem was immediately apparent: Cooper’s men had slowly formed up behind him.

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Norwich,’ replied Cooper.

  ‘This is a peaceful march of country folk. We have no need for city-dwellers.’

  ‘Our commons are enclosed, just as yours are,’ replied Cooper. ‘In fact, we broke down the enclosure at Town Close on our way here. That’s the idea, ain’t it?’

  ‘I have four witnesses here,’ said William, indicating Fulke, Alfred, Adam and Geoffrey, ‘who will testify to what they saw.’

  Fulke grinned at Cooper.

  ‘There are too many of you to take on here, now, but while you may be twenty strong, I have over a hundred from Wymondham alone. Any more trouble or antics to impress your mates, and you’ll pay with your lives. Understood?’

  Cooper nodded slowly.

  ‘Then be gone.’

  William turned to Fulke as Cooper and his companions drifted back into the marsh. ‘Come here. I don’t know what you’ve done, but it’s plain that my brother doesn’t care for your help.’ Fulke was about to protest his innocence, but William carried on. ‘Listen, if you value your work with me, you behave. Don’t bring shame on me or yourself.’

  ‘But–’

  ‘No buts, Fulke. And you watch that man Cooper like a hawk for me. Understood?’

  Fulke nodded.

  ‘Good, then we’ll say no more.’

  At that moment, Robert Kett returned, calmer now. ‘Listen to me, Fulke,’ he said. ‘If anything happens, anything at all, you come and tell me. Nothing happens without my knowing. Next time somebody important arrives and wants to talk, send him directly to me.’

  ‘He didn’t want to talk, sir. He just wanted us to leave,’ said Alfred.

  ‘I don’t care!’ Kett snapped back. ‘Send them to me. That man’s actions have likely compromised our entire purpose. William, we must report him to the authorities. He and his men must answer for their crime.’

  William nodded.

  Robert looked at Fulke. ‘Stay out of trouble.’ Then, turning to Alfred, he said, ‘Anything happens, anything at all, you are to fetch me immediately.’

  Alfred nodded.

  ‘Enough. Back to your . . .’ Robert paused, trying to think of the right word.

  ‘Marsh?’ offered Fulke.

  *

  As darkness enveloped the marsh, the Kett brothers returned to their copse. Fulke, Alfred, Geoffrey and Adam went back to their patches of dry ground and prepared for sleep. It would be a cold, damp night, but Fulke was relieved. He’d done enough to distract anyone who was interested in his misdemeanour with the constable in Wymondham. What came next didn’t really matter to Fulke, but he knew it mattered a lot to the Ketts, and he knew he would find some advantage for himself. He smiled and drifted into sleep.

  Fulke woke to the noise of a horse snorting. He wasn’t sure but didn’t think he’d been asleep long. With all the excitement he’d neglected to empty his bladder before he went to sleep, so he searched for a nearby clump of grass that didn’t have a sleeping marcher beside it and relieved himself. The air was cool, and the three-quarter moon gave enough light to see by. It was then that a brief movement caught his eye – it came from the mound where the Kett brothers were sleeping.

  Fulke peered into the dark. He saw it again. Just a horse flicking its tail. He finished his business, retied his codpiece, and went back to the spot he’d been sleeping on. What had seemed flat before now felt like a ploughed field. As he tried to settle, he thought about the horse he’d just seen. It was white, but William Kett’s horse was chestnut. Somebody must be paying them a visit.

  Fulke got up and tiptoed through the marsh, taking care not to tread on his fellow marchers. Nearer the copse, he crouched down, using the tall grass for cover. All was quiet, but he could hear the faint whispers
of a conversation from under the trees. He slowed as he got closer and moved carefully like a cat stalking a bird. He crawled as close as he could, inching forward, knowing that a single snapped stick could give him away. He looked up: twenty feet from him, a stranger, presumably the rider of the white horse, had his back to Fulke, but still he could not make out their words. He dropped to his belly and crawled again. He was now just six feet from the tethered horses and could go no closer. Fulke lay still, his head raised. The Ketts’ fire smouldered, casting just enough light for him to make out their faces. William Kett had been speaking, and now the visitor replied.

  ‘Since the imprisonment of the duke and the execution of his son, the administration of Norfolk has been dire.’ The man cleared his throat and continued, ‘Nobody is in charge. The county is in chaos. Those left with any authority spend their time jostling for personal gain, and trying to prevent the advancement of others.’

  Fulke could see Robert Kett’s face in the glow of the fire. He was shaking his head. The visitor continued, ‘The affairs of the county are being neglected. I confess that I have become disillusioned, and I would gladly resign the office, but I cannot think of a single man I would trust to take it on. However, I fear my problems are nothing compared to yours, Robert.’

  ‘What is happening?’ asked Kett.

  ‘The enclosures at Town Close, the city common, were wrecked this evening, and I believe those responsible have joined your number.’

  ‘People have been arriving in small groups all day. In truth, Thomas, I am powerless to stop people joining.’

  Thomas? Fulke reckoned this must be Thomas Codd, Mayor of Norwich. The man Kett had set out to meet. The authorities, including the mayor, had refused to meet the marchers and yet here they were, the mayor and the Ketts, gathered in secret in the dead of night. Fulke’s belief that Robert Kett and his brother were not to be trusted was confirmed.