Spirals of Fate

by Tim Holden

  Robert couldn’t hide his delight. This was the best news he’d had since he left. He wondered if his policy of good conduct could be leveraged to endear the authorities to his cause.

  ‘Arms up,’ said Alice, still scrubbing his torso.

  ‘My advice, Robert,’ said Thomas, ‘offer them a quick solution. If Seymour can snatch the frying pan from the fire with no loss of face, he’d be a fool not to take it. Then he can concentrate on Exeter, not to mention all the other protests.’

  Robert heard Mayor Codd’s words ringing in his ears. Were twenty-nine demands twenty-eight too many?

  ‘There is one problem I can foresee,’ continued Thomas, ‘none of this has done Lord Protector Seymour any favours. People are questioning his ability to rule and maintain order. Pressure must be mounting on him.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘If he were toppled, you could expect a much tougher time from somebody wishing to assert their authority.’

  Robert froze.

  ‘Is there really talk of the protector being toppled? He’s the king’s uncle. Surely the king wouldn’t…’

  ‘There’s always talk, Robert,’ interrupted Thomas, ‘who knows, but the sooner your demands are agreed or negotiated, the better.’

  Robert nodded. ‘You are characteristically well informed as always, Thomas. Do you believe we’ll prevail?’

  Thomas pursed his lips, which was his way of showing he didn’t want to comment.

  ‘Events elsewhere have been kind, for now.’

  ‘Now the bottom half,’ said Alice.

  ‘I think I’ll leave you to it,’ said Thomas, sensing it was time to take his leave.

  ‘Thomas.’ Robert looked him the eye. ‘Thank you, for looking after the old girl.’

  ‘My pleasure, you’d have done the same for me.’

  Alice finished scrubbing her naked husband. ‘I brought you a change of clothes. I suggest we have these washed.’

  ‘Alfred,’ shouted Robert.

  Alice took out a boxwood comb from her bag and combed his hair. ‘You have some lice in here, my dear.’

  Alfred appeared at the door. He looked embarrassed to see his master with no clothes on.

  ‘Alfred, please take my husband’s dirty clothes and wash them in the river.’

  ‘Alfred, some ale for us, please,’ added Robert.

  ‘Yes, Mr Kett,’ said Alfred nodding dutifully.

  ‘Oh, Alfred, please could you bring me a light?’ asked Alice.

  Alfred returned moments later with ale and a burning candle. Placing them on the sideboard he gathered up Robert’s clothing. Alice took a looking glass from her bag. With her other hand she picked up the candle and held it underneath the glass. She waited while a layer of black soot formed on the glass then she put the candle down and wiped her finger across the soot.

  ‘Open your mouth.’

  With her finger she rubbed the soot against his teeth, cleaning each one.

  Robert Kett was starting to feel like a new man.

  *

  The camp was subdued, the frenetic activity of previous days over. On his way to the river, Alfred sensed an uneasy heaviness in the air. People were moving slowly, their expressions dour. As he picked his way through the shelters, Alfred conceded that he had landed on his feet; he would be reluctant to swap the hard tiles of the kitchen floor for these hovels. Despite doing women’s work, and not having a moment to himself, he had taken advantage of his circumstances to demonstrate to Mr Kett his diligence in performing his duties. Yesterday, Mr Kett’s elder brother William had winked and nodded his acknowledgement when Alfred cleared away table after supper, unprompted.

  There were no roads through the camp, more a spider web of muddy paths, and Alfred made sure to give Richard and Lynn’s shelter a wide birth.

  ‘Oi oi! Look what the cat’s dragged in.’ It was Fulke, hands on his hips, unshaven, filthier than the last time they’d met, giving him a beady-eyed stare.

  ‘Fulke!’ Alfred stopped where he was, feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

  ‘I thought you were locked up for battering your Mrs? I see your black eye is healing.’

  Alfred filled him in on events since then.

  ‘Is that Kett’s washing?’

  Alfred hugged the load tighter. ‘Yes.’

  Fulke laughed. ‘Alfred, you must have offended a cat to have such bad luck! While you’re scraping the skid marks out of Kett’s underwear, we’ve been stealing cannons, kidnapped the gentry and extorted them too, slept under the stars and bedded as many strumpets as we can afford.’

  Fulke was laughing at Alfred’s misfortune. Alfred felt stupid. Once again his old friend made him feel like a dolt.

  ‘Kett isn’t buggering you, is he, Alfred? I heard he likes boys?’ said Fulke, deliberately mocking him.

  ‘Lay off.’ Alfred turned to go.

  ‘When are we planning to attack Norwich then? You must know.’

  Alfred shook his head. ‘Honestly, Fulke, I have no idea. I’m not privy to Mr Kett’s thoughts.’

  ‘I said he’s too yellow to attack,’ said Fulke. ‘Stop wasting your time and join the rebellion.’

  Part of Alfred was tempted to follow Fulke, but he needed this job. The rebellion wouldn’t last forever, and he had a child to raise.

  ‘I better be getting on, Fulke.’

  Fulke frowned. ‘Suit yourself, pick the lice from Kett’s arse if you’d rather.’

  Making his excuses, Alfred mused on Fulke’s evident enjoyment of outlaw life. Alfred had to be careful not to put himself in a position where he could be pressured for information. Mr Kett wouldn’t take kindly to be spied on. He was a good man trying to do the right thing. He didn’t deserve that.

  Alfred walked down the blood-stained track into the gulley. He shook his head to brush away another fly. Coming up the hill from the river were two women walking side by side, each carried a pair of sheep’s stomachs filled with water over their shoulders. Alfred nodded to them. They smiled back. This small act of civility had the effect of relieving Alfred of his earlier thoughts. There were definitely fewer women around the camp now.

  Opposite the gulley, nestled in the bend of the river, was Cow Tower, a fifty-foot redbrick tower with said cows grazing in the meadow in its shadow. Beyond were large orchards of apple and pear trees, all overshadowed by the giant cathedral.

  As he near the bottom of the gulley, Alfred counted six archers stationed at the top of the tower. Presumably more were garrisoned within, peering through the arrow loopholes. He felt the archers’ eyes on his back as he headed towards the river, praying not to be shot for the sake of Mr Kett’s washing. The edge of the road was littered with shells, broken pottery, scrap wood and loose stones. Not wanting to damage his leather boots, he took the middle of the road. The hillside had been carved out for mining chalk and flint, their entrances overgrown with bracken and nettles.

  A small wherry boat approached from upstream. Aboard, a cargo of dried peat, no doubt destined for a kitchen oven or a furnace somewhere. Alfred watched the elderly pilot struggle to row against the gentle flow of the river with his boat’s load. Beyond the wherry was a stone bridge, framed by another fortified tower. The gatehouse door was closed and guarded by four men. On top of the tower stood more archers.

  Alfred didn’t fancy doing his laundry within their range.

  There was no reason to suspect he’d be shot, but what was to stop a bored sentry shooting a peasant boy for a bet.

  He kept walking downriver until he came across a party of women washing clothes in a shallow gravel area ideal for their task. Bent over to scrub their garments, they presented Alfred with a row of backsides.

  He tried not to stare.

  Alfred didn’t much like water; he couldn’t swim and was wary of rivers. Doing women’s work amongst a party of women risked further ridicule. Catching another whiff of Mr Kett’s clothing, he headed down to the bank, threw down the clothes and proceeded to take off his boots and r
oll up his shirtsleeves. The water was cold and refreshing. The sharp gravel underfoot made him hobble as he slapped Mr Kett’s breeches against the water. He was aware of one of the women exchanging glances with her companion as she held up a shirt she was scrubbing and examined it for stains. Twisting it into a snake, she wrung out the water. Alfred swished his master’s breeches then half-heartedly rubbed the linen between his hands. The water looked murky. He wasn’t confident the clothes would be any the fresher for their wash.

  ‘You’ve never done this before?’ said a young woman who couldn’t have been more than twenty years old with blond hair, piercing blue eyes and a wicked smile.

  Stunned by her beauty, Alfred stuttered, ‘No, I’m not, I’m, I don’t normally do laundry, I..,’

  ‘I can see that,’ she said.

  She was leant forward, furiously rubbing a soap against a pair of breeches. Alfred chanced a glance. Beneath her open-necked linen smock, her breasts shook as she scrubbed.

  His cheeks reddened.

  ‘May I ask your name?’ said Alfred, curiously.

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  Alfred cursed himself. ‘I’m Alfred.’ It was customary for men to introduce themselves first.

  ‘Tiniker.’

  ‘Tiniker? That’s a strange name?’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said sarcastically.

  ‘Sorry,’ he replied recovering his manners. ‘I’ve just never heard that name before.’

  She shrugged without looking up

  Alfred berated himself, Carter, you fool. The first pretty girl you’ve spoken to in ages and you mess it up. At least Fulke wasn’t here to witness his clumsiness. Alfred took his frustration out on Mr Kett’s breeches.

  The other women began to pack up and leave.

  Alfred stood up and swung Mr Kett’s breeches, slapping them against the bank, making a spray of water.

  Tiniker laughed.

  He must look like a clumsy farmer whipping an ox.

  ‘Let me show you,’ she said, making her way towards him. ‘Where’s your soap?’

  ‘Soap?’

  Tiniker picked up an undershirt from the pile.

  ‘Here. Like this.’ She methodically worked the soap over the garment. ‘See?’

  There was something curious about her accent. It wasn’t local, and she had a

  confidence that impressed.

  ‘Where are you from, Tiniker?’

  ‘Flanders.’

  ‘Oh, Flanders, of course,’ said Alfred. He’d heard about Flanders. That was where all the wool was sold to.

  ‘My father, sister and I moved to Norwich two summers ago.’

  Alfred was about to ask what of her mother and then thought better of it. ‘Your English is excellent.’

  ‘You have little choice but to learn when you come to a foreign land.’

  He’d always been told that people from overseas ate dogs and slept with their mothers. The French especially. On the evidence of Tiniker, they were more like him than he’d been led to believe. She went back to scrubbing the clothes, and Alfred watched as she carried on with her washing.

  ‘How old are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Seventeen. You?’

  ‘Eighteen,’ Alfred lied.

  ‘Don’t expect me to do it for you,’ she said. Tiniker passed him the soap and motioned for him to do the same. She rubbed the fabric against itself, working up a lather, before rinsing it in the water.

  ‘Who normally does your washing?’ asked Tiniker.

  ‘My wife.’

  ‘You’re married?’

  ‘No. She, urm, she died.’ He coughed.

  ‘My father won’t let me marry a man of my choosing. I am waiting for him to find me someone suitable.’

  ‘You are still a maiden?’ Alfred smiled.

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ said Tiniker, now inspecting the shirt she’d been scrubbing for Alfred.

  ‘This is too small for you. Why are you washing somebody else’s clothes?’

  ‘These are Mr Kett’s clothes,’ said Alfred with a touch of pride.

  ‘Really? We are washing Mr Kett’s clothing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I work for Mr Kett,’ said Alfred.

  ‘Why does he have a man doing his laundry?’

  ‘If you must know, I’m doing this as punishment. I was fighting another man.’

  ‘That would explain your black eye. Why were you fighting?’

  ‘He’d insulted a woman.’

  ‘Somebody you fancied?’

  The image of Lynn came to his mind. ‘No. Not at all. She was attacked. I saved her,’ said Alfred, lying with ease.

  Tiniker held up the shirt once more, this time to check she had rinsed out all the soap. ‘Captain Mischief’s undershirt.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘It’s his nickname in the city. Everybody says Kett’s a troublemaker.’

  ‘Bah. He’s a good man. If only there were more like him.’

  On the other side of the river a donkey, dragging a small trailer of manure toward the gatehouse, hee-hawed as it was whipped by its driver.

  Then it occurred to Alfred what had been troubling him, ‘You live locally?’

  ‘Ja.’ Tiniker nodded, ringing the water from Mr Kett’s undershirt.

  ‘Then why are you on this side of the river?’

  Tiniker’s eyes flashed down, then up. ‘This is the best place for laundry. Everyone knows. I live there, in the pink house.’ She pointed. Between two white buildings sat a pink timber house, just three along from the gatehouse and the bridge. She was close to home. ‘What’s it like? The camp?’ She tilted her head at him.

  ‘It stinks. Lucky for me, I’m up there, with Mr Kett.’ Alfred pointed to Surrey House.

  She took a moment to finish wringing out the shirt. ‘Will they attack the city?’ she asked, laying out the clean shirt on the bank.

  Alfred laughed. ‘Mr Kett is determined to keep law and order.’

  He watched Tiniker retrieve her woollen kirtle that she’d left on the riverbank and slip it over her head, lacing up the front to support her ample cleavage.

  ‘Walk me back?’

  Alfred, delighted and surprised by her forwardness, beamed.

  Maybe girls were like this in Flanders. If only he could think of a way to see her again.

  They walked side by side, her purposeful stride keeping pace with his gait.

  ‘Alfred.’ Tiniker turned to meet his eyes. ‘Would you take me to the camp? I’ve never seen anything like it. I’m interested to…’

  ‘Sure,’ interrupted Alfred. ‘Now?’

  ‘Why not.’

  With the sun on his face, his feet cool and clean, Alfred smiled to himself, momentarily content. For a brief moment he felt something he hadn’t felt for days, fleeting happiness. On the bridge as they passed, he spotted two men on horseback, speaking to the guards. One, in a black velvet hat with a feather, looked familiar. Where had he seen him before? The other was in a brightly embroidered coat. Alfred had never seen such an impressive garment. It was quartered in red and blue. Three gold lions on the red squares and gold flowers on the blue squares.

  Alfred gulped.

  ‘Tiniker, look.’ He pointed. ‘The man in the hat, that’s the mayor, we ate his last horse.’

  ‘The other man, in the embroidery, I think it’s the king’s standard. He must be important. This must be word from London. Quick, we’d better run. I’ve got to warn Mr Kett.’

  Tiniker nodded, looking awestruck. Together they ran up the hill back to camp. This was the moment they had all been waiting for.

  24

  Alfred barged through the door, Tiniker following him into Surrey House, both short of breath. Anders Marshwell was in the hallway, talking in hushed tones with Thomas Garrod at the foot of the staircase.

  ‘Mr Marshwell, sir, excuse me,’ said Alfred to the reeve of Hethersett. ‘Begging your pardon for the intrusion,’ Alfred collected his breath, ‘where might I find M
r Kett?’

  Anders glanced at his companion Thomas, his eyebrows raised as if to convey some private meaning.

  Perhaps they had been discussing Mr Kett.

  ‘Our leader is in his bedchamber.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Marshwell.’

  Alfred turned his attention to his new friend. ‘Tiniker, you better wait here. I’ll be back down in a moment.’

  Tiniker nodded. Alfred grinned, after days of nothing, this felt important.

  ‘What’s the urgency, Alfred?’ interrupted Anders, laying his gnarled old hand on Alfred’s forearm. Alfred hesitated. ‘Out with it, lad.’

  ‘I believe we have word from London.’

  The consternation on Mr Marshwell’s face made clear the magnitude of what was at stake. Alfred suddenly felt less confident in his assessment of what he and Tiniker had witnessed at the bridge. Nevertheless, he bolted up the stairs, leaving Tiniker alone with the echo of the creaking wooden treads.

  She looked around, keen to take it all in. People pushed past her, she felt invisible, and her palms were clammy. She clenched her fists to stop them shaking.

  Her timing couldn’t be better.

  If this was word from London, she could warn Mr Steward of the rebel’s intentions. She had to find a way to stay in the house, remain inconspicuous and stay close to Alfred. She removed herself from the centre of the hallway and stood in the corner, waiting in the shadows for Alfred to reappear.

  *

  Back from presiding over the trials at the oak tree, Robert was looking forward to a few hours of sanctuary with his wife. As they lay in each other arms on the bed, Robert thought he must ask William, who also shared the room, to leave them be this evening. One night alone would do Robert more good than all the potions of the apothecary.

  ‘Mr Kett, sir,’ said Alfred.

  Robert sat up and was about to scold the intruder for disturbing his peace, but he could see from the lad’s startled face something was up.

  ‘What the devil has got you into such a flurry?’

  ‘My apologies, Mr Kett.’ Alfred was embarrassed at finding Mrs Kett lying next to her husband. ‘I just saw the mayor leaving Norwich.’