Spirals of Fate

by Tim Holden

  ‘That’s what the city fears,’ said Codd, ‘events taking hold of themselves and chaos descending. The sheriff is worried not only for his position, but, if this goes badly, for his head. Flowerdew visited to warn us and made a show of impressing on the sheriff his responsibilities to execute the rule of law, and the consequences for him personally for failing to do so.’

  ‘Blasted Flowerdew,’ said Robert, looking at his brother.

  ‘In spite of Flowerdew’s meddling, having a rebellion occur on your watch is something Sheriff Wyndham could do without. He’s prone to rash judgements at the best of times, but after today he’s really panicking.’

  ‘He visited tonight,’ said William, ‘and he threatened us. Did you know?’

  ‘No, but it’s well within his gift to make matters worse. He wanted to send a message to the king.’

  ‘The king?’ gasped Robert. ‘We are on a peaceful march!’

  The mayor shook his head. ‘I can keep London out, but only for a day, two days at most. You must stand down and send the rebels home.’

  In the brief silence that followed, Fulke shifted to get more comfortable. He hoped that this might be the moment when Robert Kett showed his true colours.

  Kett scratched his cheek.

  ‘If you do,’ continued the mayor, ‘I think you will escape with only a gaol sentence. For inciting trouble, most likely five years, if you give a decent bribe. Otherwise ten.’

  ‘Thomas, I’m nearly sixty years old. I wouldn’t survive five years in prison.’

  ‘Robert, keep your voice down,’ whispered William.

  ‘These people are desperate and rightly so,’ said Kett, following his brother’s advice. ‘If I told them to go home tomorrow, they’d murder me themselves, and I can’t say I’d blame them.’

  Fulke raised his eyebrows.

  ‘What if Robert stood down and renounced the rebels?’ asked William.

  Robert Kett answered before the mayor could speak. ‘We’re not rebels, William. Calling the marchers that, and renouncing them, would only incite them to riot and destruction, and I would still get the blame.’

  ‘In which case you would face the executioner’s axe for sure,’ confirmed the mayor.

  In the undergrowth, Fulke allowed himself a wry grin.

  ‘We only came to present you a petition,’ explained Robert.

  ‘Mm, yes, but your arrival has, unfortunately, stirred up grievances in Norwich that were dormant. Once word of your ‘march’ spreads, I dare say there will be more uprisings.’

  ‘Then the quicker you give us some assurances and send us home, the better for everyone.’

  Another silence. From behind the trees, Fulke could see Robert Kett’s expectant face, staring at the mayor. When no answer was forthcoming, he tried again. ‘We need a fruitful outcome for all. If the sheriff could agree to end enclosure within the county, I give you my word, we would all go home tomorrow.’

  ‘It’s not that simple, Robert. The sheriff enforces the law. He doesn’t create it.’

  ‘But enclosure isn’t legal.’

  ‘No, but strictly speaking it isn’t illegal either.’

  ‘He has power to do whatever maintains the rule of law, does he not? So get him to end enclosure, and we’ll go home, and the rule of law will be restored.’

  ‘I’ll try, Robert. I’ll talk to him in the morning, but he won’t like having to back down. Like any man of authority, he doesn’t bend easily to the whims of others. Nor will he want the gentry baying for his blood.’

  ‘Reason with him, Thomas. This is not a whim. It’s about our future. Seymour, The Lord Protector, is sympathetic to our cause. He has commissioned parliament to revoke enclosure.’

  The mayor nodded. ‘He has, but so far without success. Robert, I will do everything I can, but the sheriff must not know that I have been here. If he suspects I have betrayed him, I’ll face gaol myself. I have to be seen to support him.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘For the sheriff,’ said William, ‘saying that he’ll end enclosure and actually doing so are two separate things. The first would be enough to send us home.’

  ‘You have a head for politics, William,’ said the mayor.

  Robert Kett shook his head. ‘Then all this would have been for nothing.’

  ‘No,’ said William. ‘Not necessarily. People would half expect the authorities to betray them anyway. If the sheriff says he will ban enclosure, we can go home having served your original aims. Then the authorities can drag their heels and life will return to normal.’

  There was a pause while the men considered William’s suggestion.

  ‘Look,’ said the mayor, ‘if you won’t go home, at least keep your army out of Norwich. Set foot in the city and you are as good as dead.’

  ‘I give you my word,’ said Robert. ‘We don’t want trouble.’

  The mayor stood up and embraced the Kett brothers in turn.

  ‘God bless you for coming here in the dead of night. A safe journey home,’ said Robert Kett.

  The mayor left the cover of the trees and walked towards his horse. Fulke lowered his head into the cover of the grass and cursed himself for not foreseeing the possibility that somebody might leave.

  Just a few feet from Fulke, the mayor grappled in the dark with his horse’s tether. Fulke heard William Kett’s voice: ‘Mayor, let me help you see your way clear of the marsh.’ Fulke could hear the old man’s footsteps as he too stumbled about. Fulke pressed his cheek into the earth, his heart pounding.

  ‘Got it,’ said the mayor.

  ‘Here, let me help.’

  Fulke heard a grunt as the mayor heaved himself onto his horse, then he felt the vibrations of the horse’s hooves in the ground as it shifted position. After they had turned away from the dying fire, William led the horse in Fulke’s direction. Being trodden on by a horse’s hoof was like being struck by a blunt axe. Fulke lay motionless, bracing himself for the impact. He could smell the beast and hear its breathing. Its front feet stepped over his ankles, the white bulk of its body passed over him, and he felt a rear hoof brush his foot. Fulke breathed a silent sigh of relief.

  ‘There, Thomas, you are clear from here,’ whispered William, patting the horse’s rump as it passed him. He watched the mayor ride away, then turned back towards his brother, but he took a slightly different path, and his toe caught Fulke’s heel. William stumbled, took another step, then fell to the ground. He groaned as he landed on his hands.

  Fulke lay stone-still.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Robert Kett called out softly.

  William grunted again. ‘Yes. No harm done. I just tripped over . . .’ He stood up and half-turned to see what had caught him.

  Fulke clenched his fist, ready to strike.

  William studied the still, dark undergrowth beneath the trees. ‘I’m too old to be wandering about in the dark,’ he said to himself.

  He dusted off his hands and, stepping carefully, walked back to the fire.

  Fulke lay still, his heart thumping against the ground. He listened quietly as the brothers planned their actions for the next day. They spoke too faintly for Fulke to be able to hear it all, but he heard enough to give him some ideas of his own.

  Like a snake, he crawled back to where he had come from.

  14

  11th July, Hellesdon, outside Norwich

  ‘Alfred, I’m hungry.’

  Alfred was hungry too. He hadn’t eaten all day. He shifted against the tree that provided some refuge from the midday sun. To his left and right, a line of poplar trees stood tall, with weary marchers competing for resting space in the narrow shade the trees cast across the track.

  ‘Alfred, I have your baby in here,’ said Lynn rubbing her stomach as she lay on the ground. ‘Get me some food, or do you want your child to die?’

  Alfred wondered for a brief moment whether Lynn herself might die during birth. He glanced at her tummy. It hadn’t grown any bigger yet. She returned his star
e, and Alfred thought about moving, but there was no space left in the shade, and clear of the shadow, there was only the sweltering sun. Alfred had a headache – he needed a drink. In the three days since they had left Wymondham, he’d had a little of Adam’s cheese, some raw peas, a few herbs scavenged from the undergrowth and part of a loaf of bread stolen from a market trader on his way home. All washed down with river water.

  He looked down the tree-lined dirt track. Under the next tree was his neighbour, George Newell, lying on the ground holding his belly. If Alfred’s own smell was anything to go by, George Newell’s clothes would want burning after three days under the sun’s heat. George had his eyes closed, and his face wore an expression of permanent strain. Maybe the river water disagreed with him. But it wasn’t only George: the dismal conditions were beginning to exhaust all the marchers’ patience.

  Alfred swallowed. His mouth was dry. He closed his eyes and dreamed of a river, its cool water washing over his hot skin . . .

  ‘Say something,’ said Lynn. ‘Do something, Alfred.’

  ‘Do what?’ His eyes were still closed.

  ‘Other men’s wives have food.’

  Your father’s the one hoarding a sovereign somewhere on his person, thought Alfred. Plague him, not me.

  ‘Alfre-e-e-d,’ said Geoffrey Lincoln in a whiny, mocking voice, ‘my arse is itching!’ He laughed at his own joke as he played cards with Adam Catchpole.

  Alfred shook his head, too tired to respond, even though Adam and Geoffrey’s jokes were wearing thin. He heaved himself up before they could continue, and to get out of earshot of Lynn. Twenty paces away, in the undergrowth beneath the trees, stood Master Peter, arms folded and exhibiting his usual stern expression. Alfred followed Master Peter’s line of sight: he was watching Fulke again. Perhaps Fulke’s suspicion that he was being spied on was right.

  Master Peter nodded to acknowledge Alfred, but his gaze stayed fixed on Fulke.

  ‘What’s happening?’ asked Alfred.

  ‘We’re resting,’ said Master Peter.

  Alfred ground the ball of his foot against the earth, tearing at a nettle root. ‘I thought you might know what Mr Kett has planned next?’

  Master Peter’s blonde stubble was getting long after three days. He stayed silent, staring at Fulke.

  ‘Now the Mayor refuses to see us, and we’re locked out of Norwich, are we going home?’ If Master Peter did know Mr Kett’s intentions, he was staying tight-lipped. Alfred gave up and walked over to speak with the object of Master Peter’s attention.

  Fulke was leaning against a tree, whispering to John Cooper, the man who’d shot the sheriff’s horse. Alfred was surprised that the two of them were talking. At the marsh, Fulke had seemed more interested in fighting. Mr Kett’s brother had told Fulke to keep a watch on Cooper, but now it seemed the two men were becoming friends. Fulke looked over his shoulder, but when he saw it was only Alfred, he carried on. ‘Honestly,’ he said, ‘I overheard them with the mayor the other night, at the marshes.’

  Cooper, standing two feet above Fulke, pursed his lips. He held his bow stave, unstrung, as a simple staff. ‘You’re sure? The mayor was at the marshes?’

  ‘I swear it. On my life.’

  Leaning on his bow stave, Cooper rolled his head from side to side.

  ‘The Ketts are worried for their own skins,’ said Fulke. ‘We won’t be going into Norwich, and we won’t be seeing the mayor. Mark my words.’

  ‘So what are we still doing here?’ Alfred asked, keen to be included. Neither Cooper nor Fulke showed any sign of having heard him.

  ‘What do you think then?’ Cooper asked Fulke.

  ‘My bet is they’re waiting for us to get exhausted and give up,’ said Fulke.

  Cooper shook his head.

  ‘So we have to make it clear to them,’ Fulke continued, ‘that we aren’t going home.’

  ‘Why doesn’t Mr Kett just go home, then?’ asked Alfred.

  They ignored him again. ‘What you got planned, Fulke?’ asked Cooper, scratching at the pox scars on his cheeks.

  Fulke shook his head. ‘I’ve grown a tail.’ He nodded in the direction of Master Peter.

  Cooper looked over. Alfred already knew who Fulke was referring to.

  ‘Kett’s man. Works at his tannery. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me since your run-in with the sheriff. I am getting the blame for you shooting the sheriff’s horse.’

  Cooper grinned, exposing the gaps in his teeth.

  ‘We need more than words,’ said Fulke. ‘We need to act, to prove to Kett we’re not going home. The sooner he realises he’s in shit up to his eyeballs, the sooner we can take the fight to the bastards who steal the commoners’ land.’

  ‘I’m not sure I trust you, Fulke.’

  ‘Fine. If you’re happy to march round in circles all summer, I’ll find someone with bigger balls.’

  Cooper didn’t rise to the insult. There was a stirring noise as marchers nearby stood up. To the north, the marchers were stepping out of the shade.

  ‘Looks like we’re on the move again,’ said Fulke, shifting his weight away from the tree.

  Alfred sighed but decided to stay with Fulke and Cooper for a stretch. Better to be ignored by them than mocked by Adam and Geoffrey. Lynn had been testing his temper all morning, too, so the farther away from her, the better. She would find other villagers from Hethersett to walk with.

  One by one, the marchers shuffled off. The pace was slow. Alfred held out his hand to brush across the tall grass stems beside the track. The gentle strokes across his palm helped take his mind off the gnawing hunger. He picked a seed head and crumbled it in his fingers. He wanted to know where they were going and what the Ketts had planned. The day before they’d left the marshes and walked back in the direction they had come from, to the south of Norwich. They’d stopped at the city’s main gate, and Robert Kett had shouted to the archers manning the gate that he wanted to meet with the sheriff and the mayor. Then they had waited for hours in the hot sun.

  Alfred had wanted to buy some food. He stayed close to Richard in case he tried to spend his sovereign, but the gates were locked all day. A few pedlars had come out to sell their wares, and Alfred heard that one had been beaten and robbed of his food. Since then, the traders were too scared to come out.

  Alfred yawned as he walked clear of the poplar trees.

  In front of Alfred, Fulke and Cooper walked in silence. Everyone was silent. On the first day there had been singing, children laughing and playing, and people had shared whatever they had. Yesterday had been a day of rumours and gossip and opinions about what Mr Kett ought to do. Today, it was just weary silence. Even so, as word of the march spread, more people had been drawn in from surrounding towns and villages.

  Alfred’s enthusiasm, though, was rapidly giving way to the cravings of his belly. Ahead, a smaller, more overgrown track from the west joined the one they were on. On either side of it was the usual patchwork of ridges and furrows in the large fields, and shimmering in the afternoon heat about a quarter of a mile away, were some old barns. Alfred wondered what they might they offer up. It was worth a look. No sooner had he left the main column of marchers than he was followed by Adam and Geoffrey. As they neared the buildings, though, Alfred could see that they were more derelict than they had appeared from a distance. They searched them anyway but left empty-handed.

  ‘Wishful thinking,’ said Geoffrey as they retraced their steps to meet the tail end of the column.

  ‘Hunger gives you false hope,’ said Adam.

  ‘Mm,’ said Alfred, ‘Bit like this march.’

  ‘Lads, look, behind us,’ said Geoffrey pointing back, beyond the derelict barn, to three fully laden carts, each pulled by a single horse, coming towards them along the track. On each cart, large barrels and wooden crates were stacked high behind the driver. Ahead of the three carts was a solitary rider.

  ‘Food?’ said Alfred.

  Geoffrey nodded. ‘But I count four men, and w
e are only three. Adam, run ahead and tell Fulke our dinner is here. Alfred and I will slow them up. We don’t want them to catch up with the marchers before we’ve taken our share.’

  Adam ran on to find the column of marchers. Alfred and Geoffrey stayed on the track and waited for the carts. The man on the lead horse was well to do. He wore fine clothes and a velvet hat, and his clean-shaven face looked unaccustomed to the heat of the sun. His skin reminded Alfred of uncooked pastry, dull and smooth. Also, his animal, unlike the cart horses, was well fed and in good condition. He started to speak, in the accent of the gentry: ‘Good day to you all. I come in search of Robert Kett.’

  Geoffrey delayed them with small talk before offering to lead them to Kett. Alfred eyed the carts, laden with food and what he assumed was a hogshead of ale on each. His stomach rumbled at the sight of it all. He and Geoffrey walked side by side on the track as slowly as they could to hinder the progress of the convoy.

  Soon Alfred saw two men running towards them from the direction of the marchers. One was Adam, and the other had ginger hair: John Cooper, the archer. Alfred wondered why Fulke hadn’t come. Cooper stood, holding his bow stave, at the junction where the overgrown track re-joined the larger one. His feet were planted wide apart. The rider and carts drew to a halt in front of him. Alfred wiped a little sweat from his brow and made his way to the side of the first cart, salivating at the sight of loaves of bread and rounds of cheese in the crates.

  ‘Get back,’ ordered the cart driver.

  Alfred stepped back and smiled at him. He was a giant of a man, more than six feet tall.

  At the front, Cooper was addressing the gentleman rider. ‘I could take you to see Kett if you could spare us something to eat?’

  ‘I’d sooner turn around than barter with you,’ said the pastry-faced man. ‘Now take me to Kett.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Cooper.

  He’d given up rather easily, thought Alfred?