by Tim Holden
Bossell nodded reluctantly.
‘That goes for the rest of you too. Outside we are as one. Our arguments take place in here and nowhere else.’ Robert looked each man in the eyes. ‘Now to business. Anders made a good suggestion, please kindly see to it. Arrange for warrants for the food parties.’
It was Anders turn to nod.
‘Without delay,’ insisted Robert.
Robert was not going to be dictated to by his own lieutenants.
‘William, issue permits to send parties to Norwich. We need ale and bread.’
‘We have no funds, Robert.’
Robert threw him a look that suggested his brother solve that problem on his own.
‘Then ask for donations. We are here on behalf of everybody. Encourage them in their duty to contribute.’ Robert turned his attention to young Luke Miller. ‘Luke, have a food party sent to Wymondham. Fetch my entire flock of sheep and bring them here.’
There was a gentle intake of breath around the room.
‘Send word to Alice, tell her I am well, and she is to stay at home.’
Luke smiled, then nodded his understanding.
‘Thomas, my apologies, I forget your surname,’ said Robert addressing the representative from the borough of Taverham.
‘Garrod, Thomas Garrod.’
‘Thank you. Go to Norwich, invite the mayor or any alderman to meet and talk with us here. Assure them of their safety.’
‘Should I say we are prepared to take prisoners?’
Robert paused. He wanted justice, and he feared others were out for revenge, but they had to be appeased. He needed the city authorities to be seen here in camp, bending to Robert’s will. It might take the threat of prisoners to do that.
‘If they don’t come willingly, then yes.’
As the words left his lips, Robert knew he had taken another step down a road he wanted to avoid. As if reading his mind, Thomas Garrod spoke: ‘We have Sir Roger Wodehouse in captivity. The crowd may appreciate an early display of justice?’
Robert had forgotten about Wodehouse. He’d planned to release him. If the camp got wind he’d been let out, they might mutiny. He had no choice but to put Wodehouse on trial. It would show the crowd and the authorities he meant business.
Robert agreed. ‘Yes, let’s start as we mean to go on. He’ll face trial tomorrow. There’s too much to do today. He must be treated with dignity and unharmed.’
Robert’s mind was beginning to tire. He needed time to gather himself.
‘Gentlemen, that will be all. Please meet with your hundreds. Remind them of their obligations and our rules. Whatever concerns they have, bring the important ones to me in private. I have no wish to found wanting in public again.’
The assembled men stood up and navigated paths through the discarded plates, knives and bones that littered the floor.
As they filed away, Robert called out, ‘I want our table back, have somebody build a dais under the tree with some steps for me to climb up.’
Robert looked up at the large portrait above the fireplace of the former owner of the house. The late Earl of Surrey, on horseback surrounded by his dogs. He’d been executed by the old king.
‘By the grace of God, I ask for better luck than you,’ said Robert.
Thomas Garrod was last to leave the room, as he reached the doorway, he turned to look at Robert.
‘What do you want to do with our other prisoner in the cellar?’
‘Another prisoner? Who’s that?’
‘A young lad. Goes by the name of Alfred Carter.’
18
13th July, Norwich Guildhall.
Mayor Codd rarely took wine before noon. Returning his beaker to the dresser in his private chamber, he felt the wine fortify his resolve. From behind the closed door he heard the hallway fall quiet as the councillors filed into the council chamber. They were waiting for him. Codd double-checked his beaker was empty before making his way to join them. The council that controlled Norwich was more accustomed to debating the accuracy of weights and measures than hostile rebels camped on their doorstep. Merchants and politicians, none had military experience. They would need to pool their negotiating prowess to talk their way out of harm’s reach. Despite having seen Robert Kett in person, Mayor Codd didn’t believe the man he knew as an alderman of Wymondham could truly be the head of the venomous snake that had coiled around their fine city. In the four days since their clandestine meeting at the marsh, much had changed. London had been informed of the uprising, and they awaited the lord protector’s response. With every day that passed, the stakes piled higher as yet more men flocked to join Robert’s camp.
The church bells rung three. The chamberlain held the carved oak door open for the mayor who entered the chamber.
The door closed with a thud and brought the assembled councillors to a silence.
All turned to Mayor Codd who cleared his throat as he took the chair at the head of the table. It wasn’t his usual seat. Mayor Codd had received a messenger last night. Owing to a sudden illness, the high sheriff was bedridden. He would be unavailable for the foreseeable future. With the Duke of Norfolk still languishing in prison at the king’s pleasure, Mayor Codd had found himself the foremost authority in the county.
His acquaintance’s rebellion was now on his watch.
He scoured the faces at the table. All were present despite the threat at their gates. John Flowerdew wasn’t an alderman, but it was he who had alerted them to the rebel advance and had since taken a personal interest in developments.
As the king’s man in Norfolk, he may prove useful.
‘I also regret to confirm,’ Mayor Codd began. ‘If you hadn’t already heard, other rebel camps have sprung up on the outskirts of King’s Lynn and Bury St Edmunds.’
‘There is talk of men gathering in Suffolk to threaten Ipswich,’ added Thomas Aldrich, the eldest and wealthiest man in the room.
Mayor Codd knew Robert’s intentions were peaceful, and yet the region was falling prey to copycat movements. He clenched his fists to stop his hands from shaking. Short of words, he willed somebody else to talk.
It was his deputy, Augustine Steward, who broke the silence.
Steward purred and leant back in his chair. He was a tall man with a swallow face. Tiny red veins interrupted his otherwise grey complexion. His eyes may have once been blue, but they too had faded grey.
‘Well, that puts you in charge, mayor. What have you planned?’
As Mayor Codd knew only too well, despite Steward’s hawkish appearance, there was nothing dull about his mind, which was as sharp as a knife and equally as menacing. Steward made an arch of his hands and pressed his fingertips against his lips.
To Mayor Codd’s ear, Steward’s exaggeratedly slow speech was plainly cynical. Perhaps today, Steward could afford to be cynical, as the mayor didn’t have a plan and in truth didn’t want one. He enjoyed the ceremony of his office, not the responsibility. However, with all eyes trained on him, he began. ‘I understand the men camped on Mousehold don’t want violence.’
‘And how would you know that?’ snapped Steward.
Mayor Codd hesitated, not wanting to disclose that it was because Robert Kett had told him so.
None of his colleagues in the council were aware of his visit to Bowthorpe marsh, which could be interpreted as fraternizing with the enemy. The council had refused to grant Kett an audience, which rather than driving the rebels away, had instead caused them to set up camp.
‘You certainly seem well informed, mayor,’ continued Steward. ‘But their number grows stronger every day. If your grace favours a military response, the sooner he orders it, the better.’
Mayor Codd was used to Steward’s traps, but this was blatant even by his standards. Attack the rebels and lose, and his career was finished. Steward was a former mayor and coveted the chair again.
‘I have prepared an inventory of our munitions and our fighting strength.’ Steward recounted the weaponry and manpower
at their disposal, making mention of pikes, muskets and cannons.
‘I’m no fighting man, but it seems to me,’ said the elderly Aldrich, ‘the rebels hold the high ground. They would see the city’s men coming a mile off.’
‘If we raise the militia, we outnumber them, and would be better armed,’ countered Steward.
‘Some in the city are sympathetic to their cause. Don’t make the mistake of thinking this is just about enclosure. They live in fear of our justice, our institutions, our wealth.’
‘Gentlemen,’ interrupted Mayor Codd. ‘If we establish a good relationship with them, then cooperation is not beyond the wits of man.’
‘Is that cowardice or treason, Mayor?’ Steward bolted upright from his chair.
Treason made the mayor squirm.
‘I simply seek to stop them destroying our city,’ he countered. ‘I am confident that if we invite violence, it will find us and pay us in kind.’
Steward grunted. ‘And if the rebels attack us first?’
An uneasy silence gripped the chamber.
‘If I may?’ Flowerdew piped up from the end of the table.
The mayor nodded.
‘It would be treason to form an army without the king’s permission, strictly from a legal perspective, you understand, and if I may be forthright, you gentlemen, skilled as you are, don’t strike me as a formidable opposition.’
There was uncomfortable acknowledgement around the table at the wisdom of his words.
‘Don’t give Kett an argument to use against you. It is only a matter of time before chaos breaks out. Sit tight and let him make a false move. When it goes wrong, I’ll see his neck is stretched.’
Further disagreement was spared by a knock on the door.
It was the sentry. ‘Prey forgiveness, my Lords. I have two visitors outside.’
‘Who?’ enquired Codd.
‘One is from London. The other claims to be an emissary from the rebel camp.’
‘Send in the man from London,’ said the mayor.
Moments later the councilmen were greeted by a man dressed in the robes of the clergy. He was slight in build, his hair was greying, and his skin pale from a life indoors. The door closed behind him.
‘I have been sent from London to disperse the rebels,’ he introduced himself.
‘Alone? Have you brought men?’ asked a disbelieving Steward.
‘I am a man of God, sir. I am alone, save for the protection of the Almighty Father.’
Steward laughed. ‘Then how in God’s name do you propose dislodging a thousand men from the gates of this city?’
‘A thousand men?’ The preacher looked confused. ‘I was told to anticipate a hundred?’
The mayor and his deputy exchanged a look. For once even they were in agreement.
‘I am permitted to offer them the king’s pardon. God will do the rest.’
‘Well, preacher, you’ll need the luck of the devil,’ quipped Steward.
The preacher made the sign of the cross. ‘All his majesty’s forces are employed in Cornwall and Scotland. It could be months before an army can be raised. For now, we must trust in the almighty.’
Having established that the preacher needed no further support, Mayor Codd dismissed him. The preacher would be escorted to Mousehold heath where he would be left to work his divine intervention. Mayor Codd sat at the end of the table surrounded by his fellow councillors, but feeling very alone.
He shouted for the chamberlain to show in the rebel emissary.
‘My name is Thomas Garrod,’ said the man who stood before them, his clothes ripped and stained. His boots were muddy from the morning rain, and his jittery hands looked ripe for a wash.
‘I’m here to invite representatives from the city chamber to join Mr Kett and his council on the heath.’
Flowerdew shifted in his seat. His nose creased with disapproval.
‘Mr Kett personally guarantees your safety and would welcome your presence so we can achieve the peaceful resolution of the people’s grievances. He wants no trouble with the city and its people. As a show of good faith he has forbidden the rebels to enter the city without good cause and written consent from himself. He asks that you close the gates to all without the appropriate permit to enter.’
The councillors were dumbstruck. The mayor felt relief. As he’d imagined, Robert was taking every reasonable step to safeguard the city’s people.
Flowerdew broke the silence. ‘This council of Mr Kett’s, of whom is it comprised and what is its aim?’
‘Two men elected by their peers representing each hundred in attendance,’ replied Garrod. ‘They’re to ensure no trouble in the camp and are responsible for carrying out Mr Kett’s orders and to assist with the dispensing of justice.’
‘Justice?’ said Flowerdew.
‘We are taking prisoners,’ explained Garrod, ‘only the rich and powerful, men such as your good selves. They face trial and punishment, unless, of course you cooperate, and then there shouldn’t be any need…’
Mayor Codd coughed. ‘Thank you, that’s quite enough,’ he said. ‘Please, wait outside.’
Steward was the first to speak. ‘Mr Kett is quite the outlaw. Norfolk’s very own Robin Hood,’ he remarked. ‘What say you, Mayor Codd?’
‘I will volunteer to meet with Mr Kett and his men, and I recommend the deputy mayor also join me so we can achieve a peaceful resolution for all.’
Steward disagreed. ‘Should some misfortune befall you during your visit to the heath, then I trust all will agree that I, more than any other man here, have demonstrated that I’m best placed to supervise our defence.’
To Codd’s frustration, everyone consented. He’d hoped by having Steward with him so he’d be complicit in whatever happened, but the politician had wriggled free from direct association with the rebels. Heaven knows what he might attempt in my absence, worried Mayor Codd.
Augustine Steward sat back in his chair. A wry grin spread across his face. ‘The king sends us a preacher, and the rebels send an emissary!’
He shook his head and made a victorious arch of his fingers.
19
14th July, Surrey House Cellar
Alfred sat on the hard floor near the cellar gate, resting his back against the flint wall. His backside was numb, but the throbbing in his swollen eye was starting to ease. So far his day had been uneventful. Master Peter had brought some scraps of food down to them this morning, and Alfred had spent the rest of the morning being quizzed by the preacher Mr Kett had locked up yesterday afternoon. To Alfred’s disappointment, the preacher was concerned only with the salvation of his soul. He made no attempt to understand Alfred’s circumstances before proceeding to lambast him for his sins, promising that he would face judgement in the next life. Alfred had heard it all before. The more the members of the clergy threatened him, the less he cared. He’d closed his eyes and waited for the preacher to fall silent. Around noon Master Peter had called for the gentlemen Sir Roger, whose carts Alfred had helped to raid.
Right now, Sir Roger was facing trial for crimes against the common man. Alfred hoped Mr Kett found him guilty. He had no idea whether he’d committed any crime, but his dismissive manner when Alfred had tried to engage him in conversation had been typical of his type. The gentry were only interested in themselves and wouldn’t be belittled by talking to a commoner. Alfred had resigned himself to missing the rebellion and the opportunities it presented. Worse still, his public altercation with Lynn meant he would most likely lose his job. Mr Kett had made it plain he wanted good behaviour, but Lynn had provoked him.
He heard the lock turn at the top of the stairs. The hinges creaked as the gate swung open. Sir Roger, the gentlemen prisoner, came down the stairs. He passed Alfred without saying a word.
‘Alfred, get your arse up here.’
His legs were stiff as he climbed the stairs to find Mr Kett waiting for him at the top, leaning against the wall, blocking his exit.
‘Alfred, I
don’t know what the issue is between you and your wife…’
‘She…’
‘Nor,’ interrupted Mr Kett, ‘have I the time to put you on trial. I have a hundred things to attend to. People want to see their landlords face justice, not one of their own. Besides, you’re forgotten about already. So, I’m offering you a deal.’
Alfred nodded. He felt wounded to be forgotten about, but a deal sounded promising.
‘I don’t want you going into the camp. From what I hear of your wife it won’t be long before she provokes you again. Stay here in this house, away from her, and act as my page.’
Alfred couldn’t believe his luck.
‘Thank you, Mr Kett, for your kind offer.’
‘Good. There is much work to do, woman’s work. You can start by cleaning up the dining room. Then the kitchen. Scrub everything. Air the beds. Keep us supplied with ale and food. Keep the cellar clean and the prisoners alive. I don’t want disease descending on this filthy house.’
Imprisonment replaced by servitude.
Anything to get out of the cellar, he reasoned, away from Lynn and under Mr Kett’s nose, where he could finally make a good impression.
All at the heart of the rebellion.
Deal.
20
Mayor Codd’s hopes that Robert’s emissary wouldn’t return were dashed when Thomas Garrod arrived at the guildhall in the early afternoon. Would it have been too much for him to get lost or fall waylaid, and spare me this visit into hostile territory? It was wishful thinking.
It had since been confirmed that the rumours of Sir Roger Wodehouse’s disappearance were true, and that he now resided in Robert’s charge. Mayor Codd had managed to delay his visit to the heath by a day. An extra night to compose his troubled thoughts. Today was Sunday, the Lord’s day. A helpful reminder to otherwise law-abiding people that God was watching, judging. With the Lord’s judgment in mind, the mayor had attended the service at St Peter Mancroft church this morning. The only talk amongst the city’s subjects was of the rebellion. After the service Mayor Codd had addressed the congregation, personally reassuring them he was to meet with rebel leaders and negotiate a peace between them. So far there had been no trouble.
