by Tim Holden
On the right of the main wooden staircase was a metal gate. Master Peter stepped forward and took a large key from his belt. He wrestled with the lock, and then the gates clunked as they swung open. ‘Down there,’ said Master Peter pointing to the stone steps.
It was dark, and Alfred inhaled the damp air as he trod carefully, waiting for his one good eye to adjust to the light. He heard the cage door swing closed and lock behind him.
‘You’ll face trial in the morning, Alfred,’ said Master Peter at the gate.
‘Hello?’ said Alfred as he entered the cellar.
In front of him, in the dim light of the stairway, he saw a silhouette of a man sat on the floor. Alfred shivered, it was cold, and there was a foul smell.
‘Who’s there?’
‘I’m Sir Roger Wodehouse.’
He was the rich gentlemen whose carts they’d pilfered yesterday. Alfred didn’t say anything but flopped down in despair. The sharp flints in the cellar walls dug into his back.
That evening when the last of the light had faded, Alfred could hear the faint hum of music. People were dancing. There was singing and laughter. He caught the occasional whiff of roast mutton. They're getting fat out there.
Indoors, the rank odour of faeces lurking in the corner of the room took his mind off his hunger.
This was all Lynn’s fault. If I could just be free of her, I could give my heart and soul to this rebellion, he thought.
He lay down and tried to sleep. The stone floor was as cold, and he went over and over the events of recent months. Lynn had ruined his life. She didn’t love him, nor he, her. Yet now he’d been told he would go on trial in public for beating her. Mr Kett had explained when they arrived that he would hold a court to dispense justice in the camp. She would claim to be pregnant. Alfred knew he faced punishment.
He would likely miss the rest of the rebellion.
He’d probably end up pilloried. What had he done to deserve this? If only he could talk to his father, but he was dead, and nothing would bring him back. Since his parents’ deaths, his life had fallen apart. Alfred’s face contorted with self-pity. He rolled onto his side and curled into a ball. He began to cry, as his body shook, and his heart ached with a pain so deep he couldn’t control his sobs.
17
13th July, Surrey House, Mousehold Heath.
Robert felt the gentle rise and fall of his brother William’s body lying next to him. It had been many years since he’d slept in a bed other than his own, but it was a big improvement on the woods and marshes of the previous nights. The curtains that must have once adorned every window in the house were missing, either reclaimed or looted Robert assumed. Dawn was rising, bathing the room in a faint grey light, sufficient to see the carved gargoyles around the edge of the wooden ceiling. Robert found their snarling faces disconcerting. He thought of Alice: her smile, her laughter, her silver hair. In the dead of night his heart ached to see her. By now she would have heard that Robert’s march had escalated into something much bigger. He hadn’t returned home by sunset as he’d promised. She’d have worked out he was not coming back. She must be worried. He resolved he would send word to her today.
The gentle patter of the first rain in weeks fell on the roof tiles. Too late for this year’s harvest; the crops had stopped growing and were starting to flower. Nonetheless, the rain was a good omen. It wouldn’t be enough to fill up the water butts, but Robert might get enough for a small drink. He cleared his dry throat and offered God a silent prayer of thanks and asked for his wisdom and guidance.
He looked at his brother again. ‘You awake?’
William grunted.
The bed creaked as Robert stood up. The floorboards did likewise as he walked to the sideboard and picked up the chamber jug. It was nearly full, so Robert opened the window and poured out the contents before refilling it himself. Once finished, he rubbed his eyes and looked out of the window at the heath littered with shelters like hundreds of molehills, blurred by the summer rain. The air smelt clean and sweet from the rain, and the camp was quiet. A shadowy figure bolted through the drizzle to relieve himself against a large oak tree.
We must organise latrines, thought Robert, or we’ll be ravaged by disease.
Since they’d arrived, his mind hadn’t stopped. He’d called a camp meeting for this morning. Terrified of chaos breaking out, he was determined to impose some order at the outset. It was essential to find out how many they numbered; well over a thousand was his estimate. With every new arrival, his responsibilities increased, and the burden on his shoulders grew heavier. If he had any doubts as to the strength of feeling that ran through the common folk, it had long since vanished. The authorities couldn’t ignore this protest now. Crucially, any spat between him and Flowerdew was forgotten. That was one worry he was able to shed.
I have to ensure this stays peaceful, he told himself for the umpteenth time.
A few hours later, all the occupants of Surrey House were up and crammed around the dining table. Robert sat at the head, with William to his right, straddling the table leg. The table was large enough for sixteen. Crammed shoulder to shoulder, Robert did a quick count, there were thirty men altogether. Extra chairs had been scavenged from other rooms.
Despite the dark wood panelling, the room was well lit through the large leaded windows, a few of which were broken.
‘Such a window must have cost a small fortune for the lead and glass alone,’ he’d remarked yesterday.
What a shame to see such a room coated in dust and mouse droppings. The absence of women’s work was evident in the filth and squalor: dirty plates from last night’s mutton, mud from the morning’s rain on the tiled floor, the unswept fireplace. He would need to appoint a housekeeper. Living amongst such filth, they would soon risk falling ill to malodourous vapours.
The men tucked into the remains of three sheep carcasses for breakfast.
Robert had decided to use the same system of governance here as was used throughout the county. The men of every hundred, an administrative division of the county, were to elect two men to represent the people of that hundred. This way Robert could ensure his instructions could be relayed consistently to all his followers. By concentrating the concerns of the camp through a smaller number of elected representatives, it would save Robert from having to listen to the opinions of every Tom, Dick or Harry, allowing him to concentrate on maintaining order. A general loss of law and order was Robert’s biggest concern. It would undermine all their best endeavours.
Robert looked on in silence as the men around the table talked and joked as men do in the absence of their wives. He envied their carefree enjoyment of an experience more familiar to soldiers than to laymen. Robert had never been soldier, nor fought a battle. His interests had only ever been commercial. This required a different leadership because unlike a general of an army, he could not have his men killed for disobedience. He needed to reason with them, appealing to their self-interest, though with this many men, it may not be possible. Discipline had to be maintained.
At least I am relieved of the responsibility of returning a profit, he thought.
He took a swig of ale. It was dry and sour, not like Alice’s ale.
‘William.’ He tapped his brother’s arm to get his attention. ‘I’ve been thinking. This camp must stand as an example of government administration done well. We must behave with legitimacy if we are to avoid accusation of rebellion.’
‘It’s a little late for that!’ interrupted John Bossell, a short piggy man with a nose to match.
Bossell was the representative for Holt. The reason for the man’s self-confidence was a mystery to Robert. He disliked earwigging and grimaced as Bossel waved his mutton-greased fingers about.
‘I am consulting with my brother, Mr Bossell.’ Robert turned his back on him, making it clear he didn’t welcome further interruptions.
‘Agreed, protest not rebellion’ confirmed William with a morsel of sheep fat hanging from his bearded
chin. ‘We must avoid conflict with the city. I would suggest nobody enters Norwich without both express permission and good reason.’
‘You’re right. Any violence in Norwich will condemn us. Our followers won’t like that though.’ Robert nodded. ‘What if they want to visit church?’
‘I would forbid it. It’s large groups we must be cautious of. Men are brave together. Send them in twos and threes, and they’ll keep their noses clean.’
‘Then we should make some provision for their spiritual needs in camp,’ said Robert, eyeing the food still nesting in his brother’s beard. ‘Only the king’s religion. Catholic worship will risk his reprisals.’
William leant in and whispered, ‘Man’s other need was being catered for in camp last night. As I walked about to take in the evening air, I saw a band of prostitutes coming from the city, making their way up the gulley to camp.’
Robert stroked his chin. ‘Our plan had been to walk to Norwich and return that night. It is now four days since we left. I fancy some of the women who at first accompanied us have had to return home. There are animals to feed, milk and muck to remove.’ Robert’s thoughts again turned to Alice alone at home.
William brought Robert’s mind back to the present. ‘Whores will corrupt the camp.’
Robert took another swig of ale. Along the table, men were becoming boisterous. The composition of their force had changed. What at first had been almost a family affair was now a male army.
‘The whores stay, William.’ Robert announced, putting his tankard back on the table. ‘Let the men spill their seed, and we quell their aggression.’
Chastened, his brother disagreed. ‘What sort of example is that? You talk about acting legitimately like a government, and you would have the camp turn into a bawdy house?’
‘It’s the lesser of evils. Besides, I defy you to tell me there isn’t a member of our government who isn’t dipping his wick in London’s bathhouses.’
William turned to face his brother. ‘God will punish us. They’ll call you a pimp.’
‘I dare say they’ll call me many things by the time this is over. If pimp is the worst of them, then I’d settle for that now. The whores are welcome, and that’s an end to the matter.’
Robert knew there was little to be gained from debating with William, the more you argued, the more he dug his heels in. Robert stood up and reached over to grab another handful of last night’s mutton.
‘Nothing like a young wench to settle a man!’ said Bossell slapping Robert’s back with his greasy hands.
Robert ignored Bossell. The man was infuriating, but Robert had bigger battles to settle. As the ale settled in his belly Robert reflected that he felt settled at their camp. No doubt sleeping indoors again and fresh food had helped, but something else had changed. Sitting in the filthy dining room, Robert realised that the indecision of the first four days had passed. No longer was his mind wrestling with the do-we-don’t-we of committing to something, which was altogether larger and more serious than that which he had originally intended. For better or for worse, he and William had made the choice, and now it was time to get on with it.
With that, Robert stood up and left the table.
The rain had stopped. The distant church bells sounded eight as the dining table was dragged outside and positioned under the bows of the large oak tree. Around it now gathered the people from the camp as Robert clambered up with all the vigour his fifty-seven-year-old limbs would allow. Any worries he had were quickly dispelled by the cheers and applause that rang out across the heath. He was humbled. He reckoned there must be at least a thousand faces staring back at him. Behind them the tip of the cathedral spire poked up above the treeline that separated the rebels from the city.
Robert cleared his throat.
‘If there be any doubt to the justice of our cause then it must be gone now that the Lord has seen fit to send us rain,’ he bellowed the words, as loudly as he could.
More cheers. The mood was merry. They had full bellies, and he had their full attention.
Once the cheers subsided he continued. ‘I pronounce this fine oak tree to be our Oak of Reformation. It will symbolise our strength, our resourcefulness and the purity of our cause. From this spot, all camp administration will be enacted.’
Going on to explain how food supplies would be acquired, Robert noticed a gang of mud-splattered boys who had pushed their way to the front. Between eight and twelve years of age, with tatty clothing and knives in their belts, they were delinquents one and all. Robert detailed how every day parties would leave the camp bearing a written warrant from himself demanding the supply of provisions so that the occupants of this camp could restore the king’s honour. All local landowners would be obliged to surrender their produce. Food would be distributed orderly and fairly under the oak tree to everyone in attendance. Anyone caught stealing food would face trial here under the Oak of Reformation.
‘Ay ay.’ This declaration was met by nodding heads and gentle murmurs of approval.
Next, he ordered latrines to be dug, and punishments issued for anyone caught defecating in the camp.
‘We could use the abandoned flint quarry on the eastern slope. It’s up-wind,’ somebody suggested.
Now the rub: ‘During our stay, no man will be allowed into Norwich without a permit. I will be making contact with the city officials and asking them to close the gates to us.’
As expected, this prompted open dissent from the onlookers. He was met with a volley of disapproving comments and questions.
‘I understand your concerns, but we must retain good relations with the city at all costs. The alderman will be scared by our presence here. If trouble breaks out, our cause is lost, and you shall starve this winter.’ He paused. ‘I will establish a clerk’s post at this tree.’ He gestured towards his brother. ‘My brother, William will serve as the clerk. Any of you needing permission to enter Norwich must explain your reasons to the clerk, and if acceptable, you will be issued a permit to enter.’
William didn’t look best pleased with his new role.
People were starting to fidget.
Robert knew from his days acting in the Wymondham stage plays you could only maintain an audience’s interest so long. Nonetheless, it was essential they heard his next point, as their only chance of success was if they forged a unified and legal protest. Robert raised his arms and in his loudest voice, demanded that they behave with courtesy and respect to one another whilst in camp. Anyone found causing affray would be put on trial, under the oak. If found guilty, Robert would pass sentence and whilst in camp, his word was that of the king’s.
‘Mr Kett.’ A tall man in the front row spoke up. ‘Sir, I congratulate you on your thorough preparations, but you leave the most important matter of all unattended.’
‘I do?’ Robert queried him.
‘I, like many, if not all here, should be at home mending my barn in this weather. But I came because we want change. Behaving honourably is fine, but how do you propose we achieve our aims?’
There were nodding heads in the front rows. Another man shouted, ‘We must end enclosure of our land.’ Then another voice, ‘We must take prisoners.’ ‘Burn the city.’ Followed by more. Too many to hear. People started to turn to one another, discussing matters between themselves.
Robert was losing them.
‘Quiet please,’ he demanded. ‘We came here to petition the mayor.’
‘That’s not going to cut it,’ replied the tall man. ‘A paper petition will be put on a fire and turned to ashes. We need action.’
‘What if we are attacked?’ shouted another man
‘Silence!’ shouted Robert. His cheeks flushed with anger. ‘I decide what happens in this camp, and if you don’t like it, you can leave.’ He took sense of himself. ‘If you will let me finish, we came to petition the mayor. Our pleas have so far fallen on deaf ears, but I will be inviting the city authorities to parley with us. We will resolve our differences peacefully.�
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People started to murmur.
‘If that is not possible, then we will escalate our tactics in a controlled manner. I repeat my warning: anybody found guilty of violence or disturbing the peace will face trial.’
‘How?’ It was John Bossell’s voice. ‘How will we escalate our cause? People are angry, and they should know what you have planned?’
The tall man spoke again. ‘It should not be us who faces trial. We are not guilty of any crime. It is the rich and powerful who should face justice.’
He had a point.
Thinking on his feet, Robert responded in kind. ‘If our talks are not successful, then we will assume the responsibility of executing the king’s law. We will seek to bring to justice those members of the gentry that have corrupted our fine county. They will be afforded a fair trial, the type denied to many of us, and if guilty, will be imprisoned.’
A cheer ran through the crowd, and Robert sighed with relief. He was angry with himself. He been so preoccupied with attending to the basic needs of the camp that he’d neglected to consider how he would deliver the political change people demanded. It had been rash to promise to try the gentry, but it had pacified the crowd. He was especially angry with Bossell for undermining him. They were supposed to be on the same side. Robert dismissed the crowd. A meeting of the hundreds’ representatives in Surrey house was now due.
*
A short while later the Ketts and the representatives of the hundreds were reunited in the dining room.
‘Robert, you should organise raiding parties for food.’ The suggestion came from Anders Marshwell nominated as the representative for Hethersett. ‘The people are restless. If you keep them fed it will buy you time,’ continued Anders, his large frame filling his wooden chair.
‘Thank you, Anders, we’ll come to that in a moment,’ snapped Robert. He had a more pressing matter to clear up first: ‘Let me be very clear, and I am looking directly at you, Bossell. As part of my committee, don’t ever question my leadership in front of our followers. Is that clear?’
