by Tim Holden
Mayor Codd had found strength in another beaker of wine.
Now up on his white horse, the mayor had opted to leave his regalia in the guildhall. His gold chain and ceremonial sword would prove tempting trophies to hungry rebels. His hat and white feather were the only articles that marked him out as a man of office. The short journey through the city meant that they soon arrived at the stone gatehouse that marked the city’s eastern boundary, now the last outpost of the city’s rule. The gatehouse straddled the city end of the stone bridge that crossed the river Wensum, connecting the city to the coast and the cities of Low Countries across the sea.
Normally, by day, the thick oak doors of the gatehouse would be open, but the arrival of Robert Kett meant they were locked and the guard had been trebled. The council had agreed to stop short of raising the militia, but they were on standby should rebel activity threaten attack. Six watchmen stood at the top of the parapet, their longbows visible between the crenulations. The gatekeeper, on a three-legged stool, sat at the base of the tower warming his face in the sun.
‘Asleep at your post?’ asked the mayor.
The gatekeeper opened one eye. On recognising the mayor, he jumped up.
‘Sorry, my lord.’
‘Open the gate.’
‘Mayor, you are not going out there surely?’
‘Do as I say.’
Each day small contingents of rebels travelled into the city sourcing supplies. Some traders, ever opportunistic, had welcomed the arrival of so many new customers for their produce. Others, quite rightly, took a more cautious approach to the men from the countryside. The mayor noticed that his escort Thomas was watching everything the guards did, where the key was kept, how the door was secured, how many people were at hand. It occurred to him just how many people must have seen the state of the city’s defensive readiness.
Kett was issuing permits to enter, but the city had no checks in place to see that they left.
Mayor Codd made a mental note that forthwith he would assume Kett’s spies were everywhere.
The gate creaked open, and the bridge’s flagstones came into view. The mayor reminded the guards to remain vigilant then passed beneath the arch of the gatehouse. The river was low, the water murky. At the bridge’s far end, a man with a hand cart stopped and waited for the mayor to clear the bridge. He nodded as they passed. He was missing an eye. Mayor Codd wondered he had seen the man before. When he saw his cart loaded with flint stones, he remembered: One Eye Wulfric, the flintman, had carried out some repairs to the guildhall in the spring.
‘What are you doing, Wulfric?’ asked the mayor.
‘Your deputy, Mr Steward, asked me to fetch some flints in case the rebels attack.’
‘Why?’ asked the mayor.
‘Scrapshot for the cannons.’
‘What?’
‘To use instead of stone or lead cannonballs,’ Wulfric continued, ‘it’s more deadly against men; the flint blast out the end and cut those in front of it to ribbons. If you ask me that ain’t right to use it against your own countrymen. Against the French of course, but not your fellow Englishmen. Still, I’m just doing what I’m told, and I’ve got to make a living same as everyone else.’
‘Wulfric, tell me, are you sympathetic to the rebels?’
The mayor smiled to reassure him.
‘Well, I don’t support ‘em as such. In truth, I don’t like them being up there either, but I ain’t prepared to kill ‘em. The way I see it, they wouldn’t go to all that strife if they didn’t have something proper to complain about.’
‘How many other’s feel as you do?’
‘Enough. I don’t know for sure. People are scared of course, but how many turn out to fight I couldn’t say, and if they did that would only be to defend their properties. They ain’t gonna fight for the likes of…’ Wulfric came to a halt.
‘Wulfric, my thanks for your trouble. I bid you good day.’
On the other side of the road, beyond the bridge, was a steep slope that led the way to the base of the escarpment. Through the trees that clung to the side of the bank the mayor could make out Surrey House perched at the top, like a buzzard surveying its prey. It didn’t seem that long ago that it was a priory filled with pious monks.
His escort led him along the dirt road that ran parallel to the river before peeling off right into the gulley that led up to the heath. The surface was hard and dusty from the summer heat, and as they neared the top it was dyed red from the blood of slaughtered sheep: an ominous welcome to Robert’s camp. They caught up with some yeoman farmers carrying provisions and hand tools.
‘Where are you from?’ asked Garrod, the mayor’s reins in his hand.
‘Yarmouth,’ said a sunburned man through missing teeth. ‘Our Lord Paston attacked us and smashed our camp up. So, we come here instead.’ He nodded seemingly excited at the prospects that Robert’s camp offered them.
‘How many were at your camp?’ asked the mayor.
‘I heard eight hundred.’
Garrod gave the mayor a knowing look.
At the top, the land levelled out, and the sight of a man on a white horse prompted whistles of alarm from the camp. Dogs barked. A rebel sentry shouted for him to stop.
‘We’re here to meet Mr Kett,’ called out Garrod.
The sentry pointed over to Surrey House on the edge of the escarpment. Mayor Codd was shocked at the extent of the camp: there were sheep pens, a butcher’s yard, hundreds of wooden shelters, and as far as the eye could see, a population of thousands.
An entire city.
Thomas picked a path towards the house, and the mayor continued to take in what he was seeing; young children running around, playing games; people moving with supplies of wood and water; men laughing and women gossiping; fires burning; women cooking pottage, making ale, the smell of food and smoke.
As his horse made its way past a wooden shelter, the mayor heard the unmistakable sound of a fornicating couple. He turned his attention in the other direction, a chicken coup filled with hens, guarded by children calling, ‘Eggs a penny each!’
Ahead was more concerning: A short-haired man with a scar down his cheek was leading a party of men pushing two cannons.
Mayor Codd shuddered. Where the devil have they got cannon from?
Others were rolling powder barrels and carrying plungers and wadding.
Christ, Robert, you promised to spare the city, what the devil have you planned?
Their progress was slowed by the hustle and bustle of this sprawling settlement. Now, as the mayor neared the house, he attracted the attention of a group of men sat on the floor playing cards. They whistled and cheered.
Mayor Codd felt distinctly exposed. The sanctuary of the city was a quarter of a mile away. It might as well have been in Suffolk for all the good it afforded him here.
‘I’ll have somebody guard your horse for you, mayor,’ said Garrod as he looped the reins around the post that held up the porch. The mayor readied himself to enter the lion’s den.
Robert’s a reasonable man, he reassured himself.
As the door opened, he could hear shouting from inside.
*
Robert’s spirits were flagging. Today had seen men from another four districts arrive, all needing to be assimilated into the camp and made aware of Robert’s rules regarding conduct. The new representatives joined their brethren in the dining room, bringing the total to thirty-two people, eager to have their say. Those that didn’t get seats stood against the walls. This alone had been enough for a dispute to flare up. Members who had been with the rebellion from the outset had objected to newcomers beating them to a seat at the table. They reminded Robert of unruly children. The one consolation was that, despite having limited time, the boy Alfred had made the room presentable again.
An argument was underway about food supplies. With their numbers swelling, the pressure to keep everyone fed was mounting. Robert knew only too well that people with empty bellies were soon tem
pted to take matters into their own hands.
He was delighted when the door opened and in strode Thomas Garrod, who introduced Mayor Codd to the assembled company. The mayor looked crestfallen at the sight of so many people, all of them unwashed.
Robert, however, was eager to deal with the cause of this rebellion: the enclosure of land.
‘Let’s clear some space for you, mayor. Bossell, please vacate your seat for our guest.’ Bossell begrudgingly surrendered his place.
‘Gentlemen, please don’t let me intrude. I had hoped for a private audience with Mr Kett?’
A murmur of disapproval rippled across the room.
‘Whatever you wish to say you are free to say in front of my men,’ said Robert.
The mayor looked anxious as he took Bossell’s empty seat near the door.
‘Mayor, let me start by thanking you for accepting our invitation to join us so we can resolve our grievances peacefully and locally, something I know we are all keen to achieve,’ said Robert.
‘Thank you. I think it in our best interests if I come straight to the point,’ said the mayor dispensing with any of the formalities of his usual meetings. ‘I fear that won’t be possible, locally at least.’
Men around the table shifted in their seats and exchanged glances.
The mayor, looking increasingly uncomfortable, continued. ‘For my part I am willing to do whatever is required to prevent violence and bloodshed.’
‘Stop enclosure then,’ demanded one of the representatives.
Robert told the man to let the mayor speak.
‘Your presence here on the heath creates fear in the city. My alderman colleagues would like your sworn assurance that you will not attack the city.’
‘Pah,’ said Anders Marshwell. ‘Once you have that, what do we get in exchange?’
‘You have my word,’ said Robert ‘that your safety is assured, provided you give us a ruling on enclosure, banning it once and for all in the county.’
‘Robert, I don’t have the legal authority to enforce your request. It would be flouted, and we would be powerless to act. The authority to do such a thing rests in London, with the king.’
‘Pox on you, you coward,’ Bossell banged his fist on the table, prompting jeers of derision.
‘And if we attack the city?’ asked William Kett.
Robert shot his brother a look.
‘We are well provisioned with both armaments and men. We are confident we can withstand an assault.’
‘Enough,’ said Robert. ‘What would you propose then, mayor?’
‘Our official position remains to ask you to disband and return home. We are mindful of your grievances and will take what steps we can to encourage London to address them, once you have gone.’
‘Bollocks,’ muttered Anders Marshwell.
‘You are only willing to consider such measures because we are here in the first place,’ said William.
‘I give you my word,’ said Mayor Codd.
Mocking laughter erupted around the table.
‘You have my word that we will debate and address your grievances. But I must make clear to you that if you attack, we shall repel you with all force necessary and in the name of the King Edward VI.’
A chorus of boos and hisses broke out.
Two representatives stood up and left the room, shaking their heads. There was an uneasy silence while others decided if they should follow.
Thomas Garrod spoke for the first time, his arms raised: ‘How can you claim to be operating with the license of the king? We are his subjects. We obey his laws. It is you and your aldermen who abuse his laws to your own ends.’
Thomas recounted what he and his neighbours had suffered.
Robert wondered what card to play next. Their current conversation was going nowhere. To launch an attack wasn’t an option, but the fear of assault might grant them some concession from the mayor. Disbanding without any commitment from the authorities was not an option. He determined that the threat of insurrection would see how far he could push the mayor and buy him some loyalty around the table.
The door opened, and Alfred slipped in quietly. He made his way round the side of the room and whispered in Robert’s ear.
‘Mayor,’ said Robert. ‘We aren’t disbanding. If you are not going to help us politically, then we will attack. I’ve just had word that we have captured two cannon that were destined for your defences.’
Around the room the rebels exchanged glances and a ripple of smiles spread across expectant faces.
The mayor pursed his lips. ‘I have one suggestion which you may see as palatable?’ he said, at last.
‘Go on,’ said Robert.
‘The authorities see you as rebels. If you could legitimise your complaint it might be possible to see you as campaigners.’
The room was silent, the mayor continued, ‘My advice would be to petition the king with your demand to end enclosure. The Lord Protector Seymour is rumoured to be sympathetic to such complaints. Other rebels, albeit much smaller in number, have been pardoned previously.’
‘How could we guarantee it would find the lord protector safely?’ asked Robert.
‘I could see to that. If it were completed today, now even, I could have it with him by tomorrow.’
This was real progress, thought Robert, who nodded at the mayor, sensing a mutually agreeable solution was at hand.
‘But we aren’t here just for enclosure.’ It was Bossell who now spoke. ‘What about the other abuses of the nobility? This is our chance to make a difference. We shouldn’t squander it.’
‘My advice to you is you will fare better if you stick to one demand,’ said the mayor.
‘The people of my hundred have walked forty miles to be here,’ said a man who’d arrived that morning. ‘They won’t be happy when they hear that three-quarters of their complaints are to be neglected.’
‘I agree, this is about more than just enclosure, rivers must be free too.’
‘The lords must no longer be entitled to keep doves or rabbits for their pleasure. They are destroying our crops.’
‘The rent for copyhold land should be put back to the level it was under Henry VII.’
‘That’s enough!’ shouted Robert, silencing their complaints. ‘I came here to end enclosure. Nothing more. Nothing less. It is not within our gift to remedy the entire realm. I agree, we make one demand of the lord protector: no more enclosure.’
The representatives turned on Robert, roaring their dismay.
‘Then I’ll lead!’ declared Bossell.
‘Over my dead body.’ William leapt to his feet.
Arguments erupted across the table as others volunteered to assume command.
‘Enough,’ said Robert, cutting through the discord. ‘I have led this cause, and we protest enclosure, that’s all.’
‘Then what about the church?’ said a short man stood by the fireplace. ‘My chaplain hasn’t even preached one service since the lord of the manor moved him in. He’s nothing but a money-grabbing scobberlotcher. When a shepherd doesn’t even live amongst his flock, what is that a sign of, if not his desire for profits?’ He raised his finger and thrust it forward. ‘We want our old priest back!’
Round the room heads shook, voices raised again. This was like herding cats: impossible. Robert closed his eyes and asked God to grant him the patience to resolve the matter before it was too late.
‘Silence,’ shouted William.
Robert was relieved to hear his brother’s voice.
‘Here’s what we’ll do: Alfred fetch a parchment, a pen and some ink. I will scribe and commit your grievances to paper. Then we’ll send it, courtesy of the mayor, to London.’
Once again heads were nodding as the representatives were appeased. The mayor signalled his consent to Robert, who nodded his approval to William. Alfred returned with writing materials. The demands of the men now poured forth, as William committed them in ink. Robert and Mayor Codd sat in silence throughout.
When they’d finished the list totalled twenty-nine injustices. William passed the finished parchment to Robert for him to add his signature.
Sign this and you’re signing…
As the quill hovered over the page, Robert felt the knot in his stomach twist.
…your life away?
He glanced at his brother. They had committed to the cause the moment they left Wymondham, he thought, there was no going back, and with that he signed the scroll.
‘I have signed our list of demands. This is a legitimate protest and a legitimate document detailing its causes. To give it the legitimacy it requires, I now invite the mayor to sign his name next to mine.’
The parchment and quill were passed around the table until they arrived in front of the mayor, who looked queasy.
‘Robert that would be treason?’
‘I am sure he will not want his subjects disturbed by our protest,’ said William, reminding the mayor he had no room to manoeuvre.
‘Then as an act of faith you must surrender your cannon,’ demanded Codd.
‘Sign the document, mayor,’ insisted Robert.
Thirty-two pairs of eyes bored into the mayor, who shuffled in his seat and adjusted his robes before accepting the quill and signing his name.
‘I shall have it sent to London tonight.’
A round of applause broke out, and Robert bought the meeting to a close. The representatives filed out of the room in a jubilant mood.
‘God have mercy on your souls for trapping me like that,’ said the mayor, as the room emptied, and he prepared to take this leave.
‘Tell me that what we ask for isn’t just and fair?’ said William.
‘Fairness has nothing to do with it, William.’
‘These aren’t reasonable people you are making a request of. They’ll take one look at this,’ he held up the scroll, ‘and place a ransom on your heads for interrupting their hunting, or their tennis.’
‘Enough, both of you,’ said Robert, slapping his brother on the back. ‘We’ve earned a drink.’
