Spirals of Fate

by Tim Holden

  Now he’s got it, I’d wager he wished he hadn’t, reflected Dudley.

  It was two years since the forty-nine-year-old Seymour had snatched the throne of England. He’d aged in that time. His brown beard had greyed, creases like cracks in porcelain lined his face, and now his characteristic indecisiveness had returned with a vengeance. Seymour changed his mind as easily as the wind changed direction.

  The eleven-year-old boy would have done a better job, rued Dudley.

  ‘Regretfully,’ Seymour broke the silence, ‘it appears once again I am left with no alternative but to resort to the use of force.’ Seymour turned to Lord Grey. ‘You will take your soldiers to Oxfordshire and quell the rebellion quickly. Then you will ride west and reinforce Lord Russell to recover the city of Exeter.’

  ‘Your orders for the treatment of the rebels, sire?’ enquired Grey.

  ‘Confiscate their lands in the name of the crown,’ said Seymour.

  ‘Sire, if I may?’ said Grey. ‘Our repeated failure to severely punish the rebels only encourages them further.’

  ‘You would have me hang my own people because they cannot eat, when the likes of you all take their land and starve them. There is not a man around this table that has not helped in some way to agitate my people.’ His voice trembled. He stared blankly ahead and continued his limp tirade. ‘We are at war with Scotland. France threatens invasion. Calais and Boulogne are under garrisoned. How can I raise an army to defend us when the populace would rather fight against me than for me?’

  Dudley sat back in his chair. He commended the lord protector for being so concerned with the peasant’s stomachs, but Seymour was in need of the noble men and their money if he were to prove victorious. Dudley had not yet forgiven Seymour for making an example of him with his agrarian reforms. Seymour’s enclosure commission, which had singled out Dudley’s land, had damaged his hedges and ploughed a furrow through his parkland, only serving to encourage the commoners to revolt, believing they had the support of ‘The Good Duke’. To Dudley’s mind ‘The Reckless Duke’ was more apt. Left to manage the fall out from Seymour’s policy, he’d narrowly avoided having to hang his own tenants, managing instead to quell their anger with threats.

  No matter how noble the intention, Seymour’s cavalier approach to reform was dangerous, and it was costing him allies on the council. Dudley stroked his beard, luxuriant with lavender oil. It made up for his bald pate. The forty-five-year-old former commander of the navy glanced over at the portrait of King Henry VIII beneath whose all-seeing gaze they sat.

  What would he make of this shambles?

  Seymour’s propensity to govern by committee was naïve.

  Men needed a leader.

  Grey continued to speak.

  Dudley knew what was needed. Take back Exeter, hang everybody involved, send a message to the whole country that rebellion would not be tolerated. That alone would scare Oxford quiet. The Scots could wait. Whatever towns they captured, they proved incapable of holding. You couldn’t tackle Scotland until you had England under control. Not that he was offering his advice. Better to watch Seymour flounder like a cat in a water barrel. Drowning slowly. Deservedly so.

  A loud knock at the door interrupted them.

  Without invitation, the household chamberlain walked in, adorned in white robes, a look of consternation on his face.

  ‘Your grace, my apologies for the intrusion, but I bring you urgent news.’

  ‘Go on,’ replied Seymour, sounding hopeful, perhaps for a turn of good fortune.

  ‘Gentlemen, we have received a messenger from the Sheriff of Norfolk. There is a rebellion in East Anglia. A large force has assembled at the gates of Norwich. A thousand men, maybe more.’

  Seymour slumped into his chair with a groan. Around the table, eyes widened, and expressions of alarm were shared.

  Dudley sighed. More insurrection.

  ‘When? Who leads them? Why? What are their intentions?’ said Seymour at last.

  The grey-haired chamberlain didn’t reply.

  That settles it then, thought Dudley. War on two fronts. As the most experienced military man here, it must fall on him to act and save the realm for the king. Rising from his seat to address the room, he spoke with authority.

  ‘Sire, let me crush the Norfolk rebels.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘No. Not until we understand their intentions.’ Seymour looked to the chamberlain.

  Dudley resented this. The time to quash a rebellion was now, at its outset. Quickly and ruthlessly. Was this fool really going to sit here and let the country tear itself apart?

  Members of the council shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. They exchanged knowing glances.

  ‘We must tell the king,’ declared Seymour finally.

  ‘To what end?’ Dudley spoke; challenging him once more.

  Seymour shrunk into his chair. It was painful to watch. Dudley resolved he could no longer waste time. He would canvass support amongst the nobles this evening. They had to act and remove Seymour. It was treason, he knew, but it was for the sake of the country. It was a gamble: his own head the stake, but the prize was equally valuable: command of the realm. The thought came to him: If I could I seek an audience with the king, perhaps I could receive his blessing in advance?

  He would have to do it without raising suspicions. Would the king betray his uncle? If he knew his throne was at risk, maybe.

  Dudley locked eyes with William Parr sitting opposite, the young Marquis of Northampton. He assumed from Parr’s raised eyebrows that he was thinking something similar.

  ‘We will send an educated man, a preacher, to Norwich,’ began Seymour. ‘He must meet with the rebels and attempt to reason with them, such that they are encouraged to disperse.’

  Dudley nearly choked. Another rebellion has started, and he intends to send a preacher? The wide-eyed counsellors sat in mute disbelief.

  ‘Sir, a delay in our response will only encourage them,’ Sir William Paget, the council’s secretary spoke in a muffled voice as if to avoid embarrassing the lord protector.

  ‘What encourages them is the sharp practice of their landlords,’ Seymour insisted. ‘Archbishop Cranmer, please attend to it. A man of persuasion and reason.’ Cranmer nodded dutifully.

  ‘If it is successful, your grace, maybe we should try this new tactic against the French. Nothing like a good sermon to deter the enemy!’ said Dudley, making no attempt to conceal his contempt.

  Seymour banged his fist on the table.

  ‘If that is the only contribution the Earl of Warwick is willing to make, I would prefer that he refrain from interfering.’

  Dudley bowed his head, and Seymour continued, ‘Would you have me murder every man on this isle, just so that they may no longer rebel? How can I deal with a situation until I understand its cause and its aim?’’ His voice trembled before he recovered his composure. ‘We must protect London at all costs. I am declaring martial law in the capital. Curfew at sunset, double the watch, have artillery placed at the gates. When word spreads that London is impregnable, these rebels will be deterred from attempting an assault.’

  ‘Sire, those measures will unsettle people. If it looks like we’ve lost control, you will cause panic…’

  ‘Enough, Dudley,’ interrupted Seymour.

  Dudley gritted his teeth. The only word Seymour would spread with these actions was that he was vulnerable. The taverns and inns would be rife with gossip following these draconian measures.

  ‘Once we have recovered Exeter then we’ll have more options. Gentleman, that is all for today,’ said Seymour, dismissing them from the chamber.

  Dudley caught Parr’s contemptuous smirk beneath his wispy ginger beard. Parr was another one, like Seymour, only here because the old king rutted his sister. It was no qualification for exercising governance. One by one, the councillors stood up and filed out.

  Alone, Seymour moved to the window, which looked south across the Thames as it spark
led peacefully in the afternoon sun.

  He began to cry.

  16

  12th July, Mousehold Heath, outside Norwich.

  Alfred hurled a handful of stones from the collection cradled in his shirt into the bush. ‘Ger on,’ Alfred shouted at the sheep. Daft inquisitive creatures; their inclination was to peel off the track into the undergrowth. His job was to walk at the rear of the flock of sheep and keep them together. So far, he hadn’t lost any. It would have been easier without his left eye being shut, now fully swollen from the cart driver’s punch, or the pain in his ribs where he’d been kicked.

  At the front, leading their sortie to round up the nearest available sheep, was a young man named Luke Miller. Evidently he had inherited a fortune from his father and was known to Mr Kett. With him, walked his companions from Wymondham: David Fisher, Geoffrey Lincoln in his straw hat and Adam Catchpole who stood at either flank of the flock. Alfred’s mouth watered at the thought of eating mutton tonight.

  Today had passed quickly since arriving at the high ground, at the top of an escarpment known as Mousehold Heath. It had a commanding position over the impressive city, but there had been no time to admire the view. Mr Kett had declared it their camp and those who hadn’t volunteered to fetch supplies had stayed to gather wood and build makeshift shelters. Alfred had left Lynn in charge of gathering the wood for their shelter and had placated her protests by promising he would help build it when he returned.

  Two sheep peeled off into the trees. Alfred launched an attack of stones.

  The trees either side of the track gave way to reveal two windmills that marked the heath’s northern edge. On the right was the high flint wall that enclosed Norwich. Along the wall, its gates and towers were quiet. There was no one in sight. It looked deserted.

  They drove the sheep up the wide gully that parted the heath. Since their departure hours earlier, a great camp now covered the heath. In all directions it was covered with hundreds of small shelters and crowds of animated people. A child of about ten-years-of-age staggered past, struggling beneath the weight of the long branches in his arms.

  ‘Oi, lad, watch where you’re going,’ said Alfred.

  The little lad took no notice and struggled on.

  Behind them, more people were turning up. A gathering of twenty men, carrying sacks, looked unsure where they should be.

  A sheep made a break for it, and Alfred threw a stone to no avail. One of the men dropped his sack and headed the animal off. His arms spread wide to drive it back to the flock.

  Alfred thanked him.

  At the top of the gully, they managed to get the sheep into the crude, hastily-erected pen. It was already filling up with hundreds of sheep, raided from the surrounding countryside. Around its edges, men leant on the fence, eyeing their dinner and discussing the merits of this almighty endeavour.

  Alfred felt a sense of pride in having made a contribution to filling the larder, but there was no time to celebrate. He needed to find Lynn and build their shelter. He was tired and thirsty, but if he stopped now, he knew he’d never get started again.

  Adam Catchpole joined him as they made their way through the camp.

  He was hard pushed to find the spot he and Lynn had marked for themselves. He tried to get his bearings but was disorientated by the hammering, shouting, laughter, wood snapping, and a woman appearing with a large clay pot under her arm. ‘Honey for sale, my love?’ Alfred shook his head. Where was Lynn? He thought he had left her vaguely level with the trees. He stood in a small clearing in between tents. It must be close.

  He spotted Fulke putting the finishing touches to his and Adam’s shelter. Just in front was his father-in-law Richard.

  ‘You’re back,’ said Richard, patting turf onto the roof of a small wooden shelter. ‘Should keep the rain out.’

  ‘Looks good,’ said Alfred, relieved to be in the right place. ‘Where’s Lynn?’

  ‘She went down to the river to bathe her feet.’

  ‘Where’s she put our wood then?’

  Richard shrugged his shoulders.

  Alfred struggled to contain his anger.

  ‘Most of the good stuff has probably gone by now. You’ll have to scavenge at the back of the woods.’

  Alfred cursed his wife. She had one job to do. As much as he wanted to complain about her to anyone who would listen, it wouldn’t get the shelter built. He’d have it out with her later, when she’d finally finished washing her feet. Alfred charted a course through the tents and headed the short distance to Thorpe wood, which covered the eastern rise to the heath. He hoped to find whatever the previous scavengers had left behind.

  ‘Surely you don’t expect me to sleep in that, Alfred Carter?’ complained Lynn when she returned from the river to find Alfred lying on his side, adjusting the sticks that formed the canopy.

  He’d made three return journeys to the woods, and unaided, had nearly finished their shelter. The sound of his wife’s disapproval at the end of that was too much to bear.

  ‘What did you expect? A four-poster bed with silk sheets?’

  She stood defiant, her hands pressed into her hips.

  ‘Well, you’re going to have to do better than that. It’s a boy’s effort,’ she said scornfully.

  ‘Why don’t you do something for once?’ shouted Alfred. Only she had the gall to come on a rebellion and complain about her accommodation.

  She stamped on his foot, which was poking out of the entrance to their abode, prompting Alfred to sit bolt upright. He hit his head on the main beam of his wooden tent. The beam slid off its support at the far end and fell, collapsing his construction.

  ‘Told you,’ said Lynn, turning her back to him.

  Alfred emerged from the pile of wood. He picked up a branch that had previously been part of his roof and swung it at Lynn, catching her full on the shoulder. She cried out in pain and fell to the ground. Enraged, Alfred stood above her, raised the branch over his head, and with both hands, swung it down. He aimed for the wort on her chin and struck her square in the face. She screamed in pain.

  Alfred, blushing with anger, brought the branch down again, clubbing Lynn for a second time as she tried to wriggle to safety. Weeks of pent up frustration were coursing through his veins, directed at the women he blamed for falling pregnant and turning his life into a waking misery.

  Fulke fell about laughing.

  Next to him, Catchpole roared.

  ‘Stop, Alfred. I’m going to piss myself,’ said Fulke, struggling to get his words out.

  ‘Oi, stop that!’ shouted Lynn’s father, Richard as he ran towards them.

  Alfred raised the branch again. This time he swung it to the side like a giant pendulum, and Lynn cried as the stroke thumped into her neck. Richard cannoned into Alfred. He was three quarters the size of his son-in-law but hit him with all the fury of a father protecting his daughter. The two of them tumbled to the ground.

  ‘Go on, Alfred,’ shouted Fulke, ‘show the old man what you’re made of.’

  Hearing the disturbance, people began to gather round, forming a circle. Lynn crawled away, leaving the two men on the ground before Richard emerged on top. He threw a punch and hit Alfred on his swollen eye. Alfred howled in pain, swung his fist and missed.

  The onlookers cheered and clapped.

  ‘Stop this nonsense now!’ Master Peter walked into the circle and yanked Richard off his son-in-law, dumping him on the ground.

  ‘Alfred, what in the blazes are you doing?’ shouted Master Peter.

  Alfred held his hand over his injured eye, which throbbed with pain. He knew he was in trouble. Mr Kett had warned them this morning that he wanted no disturbances at their camp.

  ‘What’s this about?’ Master Peter asked.

  ‘He was beating my daughter,’ said Richard pointing to Lynn.

  ‘Alfred, is this true?’

  Alfred spluttered, failing to come up with his explanation.

  ‘Alfred, why is that woman’s face red
and marked? Did you do that?’ pressed Master Peter.

  ‘I think it’s an improvement,’ said Fulke, who laughed at his own joke.

  ‘Alfred, I’m not going to ask you again.’

  ‘Yes. She started it. She stamped on my foot.’

  ‘You cowardly weasel, beating your wife, she’s pregnant,’ protested her father.

  The crowd fell silent.

  ‘Get up, Alfred. You’ll be spending the night at Mr Kett’s pleasure.’ Master Peter turned to the onlookers. ‘The rest of you, get lost. Go back to your duties. We’ll have no more of this.’

  Alfred stood up, and Master Peter grabbed him by the arm. Alfred took one last look at Lynn as she lay, crying on the ground. He felt a strange mix of guilt and relief.

  She’d had that coming for weeks.

  ‘You were warned. You’ll spend tonight locked up.’

  ‘But she…’ Alfred protested.

  ‘I’ll hear nothing of it, Alfred,’ Master Peter interrupted him. You of all people, working for Mr Kett, should be leading by example. He was very clear. He expects decency and discipline in the camp.’

  Master Peter walked him through the camp and didn’t release him until they arrived at a half-flint, half-timber building. Despite looking like the residence of a gentleman, its garden was overgrown, windows dirty and adorned with cobwebs, and the perishing timber gave it a neglected appearance. It perched on the edge of the heath at the top of the escarpment, overlooking a steep slope dotted with spindly trees, and the city beneath.

  ‘In you go,’ said Master Peter, pointing to the door.

  ‘What is this place?’

  ‘Surrey House. It was once a priory, and then it was the home of the Duke of Norfolk’s son, The Earl of Surrey. It has lain empty since his execution, so now it’s Mr Kett’s headquarters, and your home for the night.’

  Alfred felt strangely hopeful as he walked through the large wooden door onto the terracotta tiles of the hallway, but there were no paintings or embroideries, only cobwebs and pigeon droppings. Despite that, it was markedly better than his shelter.