by Tim Holden
‘We aren’t. If we stay here, we’ll lose these cannon. They’re buying us time. Let’s get them to safety.’
Miles seemed very certain of himself. How did he know that without being told? Perhaps it was tactical, but Fulke didn’t like the thought of going back up to the heath with his tail between his legs. Miles shouted for help. The remainder of the gun party assembled. Together they pushed and heaved the cannons back up to the safety of the heath.
*
Jan pumped his fist at the sight of the two white flags coming towards him. He’d stationed himself in the most strategically vital position at the top of the gatehouse, grimly aware this would draw the bulk of the enemy’s fire. Fearing a charge, he’d posted twenty archers on the top of the gatehouse, as many as he could fit. Those that had survived the initial bombardment were cowering on the floor. Jan’s eyes strained to see through the distant trees. The rebel cannon appeared to be retreating up the gulley to the heath.
‘Their cannon are withdrawing,’ he announced.
There was a small and unconvincing cheer from his dazed militia as they got to their feet. Now he had a moment’s respite, his first priority was their casualties and to survey the damage. For most of his men stationed at the top of the gatehouse, the worst they had suffered was minor cuts and grazes. They were serviceable. Jan ordered them to tidy the rubble on the floor. He didn’t want them tripping over if the rebels returned.
Some of his men had not been so lucky; sustaining serious injuries. One man cupped his eyes with his hands, blinded by flying masonry. Another lay flat, knocked unconscious when the ramparts in front of him suffered a direct hit and exploded in his face. Worst of all was Jan’s deputy, James, the wheelwright. He had caught a cannonball full in the chest. It had knocked him back into four others behind him, flattening them all. James had ended up laying on top of his stunned friends, shaking and juddering as he fought to hold onto life. Jan had never heard noises like that coming from the human body, not even at hangings. Once James’ tremors had stopped, and he’d slipped into the afterlife, Jan had thrown his body over the side into the river below. He’d needed to clear some space and preferred his men not to have to stare at their dead friend.
No sooner had James’ corpse splashed into the water than Jan realised his mistake. Men not used to battle didn’t fancy their sacrifice being rewarded by a watery burial without prayer, and James’ fate had sent the archers into a panic. Three men had rushed for the spiral staircase that led to the guard room underneath. The third man lost his footing at the top and fell. He tumbled on top of the first two men as they descended the narrow stone stairs. Together they ended up in a pile on the floor of the guardroom. Jan threatened the rest with flogging and hanging to get them to stay. He apologised and promised none of them would suffer the same treatment as James. The men stayed put but made no attempt to conceal their contempt.
Jan descended the narrow staircase and assessed the fallen men’s injuries. Between them a sprained ankle, three broken bowstring fingers and the other unharmed beyond some bruising.
‘That’s what you get for running away. Get back up to your posts,’ barked Jan.
‘But my fingers are broken?’ protested one of them.
Jan’s temper surged. He drew his knife. ‘I’ll cut your fingers off unless you’re back up those stairs.’
The archer avoided Jan’s glare, got to his feet and followed his brethren cowards back upstairs to the battlements.
Their attempted escape would have been in vain. From the guardroom, the staircase continued down to the street level, where Jan had had the good foresight to lock the door at the bottom. There was no flight from the gatehouse.
The men garrisoning the guardroom above the gate were unharmed. They were covered in a layer of dust, but their defences were intact. They were the lucky few, able to hide behind the walls and fire their arrows through the loopholes.
A man was stationed at each of the four narrow slits in the wall, with another in reserve to pass more arrows. They could alternate and rest their arms and backs from the strain of repeatedly firing their longbows.
Jan told them to quench their thirst from the barrel of rainwater in the corner then return to their posts and ready for a counter attack.
Downstairs, he stepped outside, locking the wooden door behind him. The church bells sounded noon. The street was bright but eerily quiet. Norwich was closed for business. Everybody was hiding in their homes. Those that hadn’t were lined up ready to fight. The only things out of place were some cracked wooden roof tiles laying in the street.
More archers and men at arms were stationed behind the earth ramparts on either side of the gatehouse. Last night they had dug a series of defensive trenches in the cow meadows and orchards that formed Norwich’s eastern boundary. At best, all the ditches would do was slow a rebel advance. The defensive bank that flanked the gatehouse for a hundred yards along the riverbank in both directions was shoulder height, so hardly formidable, but it provided a hasty shield behind which a thin line of archers and swordsman were stationed.
From his vantage point, Jan reckoned he had barely five hundred men defending each side. Far fewer than the mayor had promised. What was wrong with the townspeople? Did they not want to defend their homes?
He didn’t understand the English sometimes.
Having inspected his defences there was little else Jan could do. The cannon on the meadow had done their job, halting the rebel approach. From the other side of the gatehouse, Jan heard someone calling,
‘Open up.’
Jan ran to the locked gates and peeped through the open Judas hole. The bridge was covered in large a spoil heap to impede the rebels. He could see a white flag poking over the top of the earth.
‘It’s open, you’re safe,’ he called out.
A rebel scrambled over the top of the earth barricade and met Jan at the gate. He was in his twenties, reckoned Jan, with blond hair. Behind him came another younger man. Both appeared unarmed.
‘State your business,’ asked Jan.
‘My name is Peter, an employee of Mr Kett. I come as an emissary to seek peace.’
‘Well you’ll need to speak to somebody more important than me for that.’
‘Where is the mayor?’ asked Peter.
Jan pointed up the street and sent the rebels towards the guildhall. An hour passed before the two rebels returned, their flags waving high for all to see.
‘What’s the verdict?’ asked Jan.
The blonde man replied. ‘Well you’re not backing down, and so I expect you’ll be seeing us again shortly.’
Jan grunted. He’d feared as much.
‘Good luck,’ said Peter as he passed through the gate back into no man’s land, followed by his younger companion.
Jan closed the gate.
As the younger of the two reached the top of the mound blocking the bridge, he turned and faced the defenders. ‘For every man you have here we have ten more. You will be overrun in no time. Save yourselves, return to your homes.’
An arrow loosed from the top of the gatehouse struck him in the chest. The young rebel collapsed, falling down the other side of the soil heap.
Dead.
‘What’s wrong with you? Can’t you see the white flag?’ shouted the rebel named Peter.
‘Cease firing,’ shouted Jan, ‘Let him leave’.
At least it was one less to fight.
*
The rebels now descended from the heath. Remaining behind the treeline, they ran fast between the trees. There were thousands of them.
It had started.
Let’s get this over with.
‘Take aim,’ said Jan.
A fleeting moment passed before he issued the order to fire.
A thousand arrows made a spine curdling whirr as they flew across the river, before coming to land amongst the trees at the foot of the embankment.
Rebels dropped to the floor. They were soon overtaken by hundreds more.
‘Let them have it,’ shouted Jan.
Another volley of arrows thumped into the rebel line. More men fell. Jan could hear the screams of men dying in agony. In no time the rebels were opposite his position and taking cover behind the trees and in the craters left by the chalk mines that pockmarked the face of the embankment.
The city cannon fired. Six cannonballs smashed into the rebel front line, producing chaos and terror.
Jan shouted to the men.
‘Fire to the front. Keep them away from the bridge.’
There was another hiss. The man next to Jan fell backwards, an arrow lodged in his forehead. An arrowed sailed straight past Jan’s head. He ducked. The rebels weren’t firing in ranks. They’re firing randomly, trying to keep us pinned down, he realised.
He stole a glance over the top of the tower. The earthwork bank had absorbed many arrows. A few of the archers behind it had been hit, and he counted five bodies, then another dropped as he watched.
‘Keep firing,’ he yelled.
Jan heard a cry.
Thousands of men were now pouring out of the woods, screaming bloody murder as they ran.
Jesus, thought Jan, taking the saviour’s name in vain. I hope we have enough arrows to flatten this lot.
‘Keep firing. Let them have it,’ he shouted.
The defenders were crouching behind their bank.
Jan cursed their cowardice. ‘On your feet, you dogs, fire your bows,’ he shouted.
They couldn’t hear him, the rebels war cries drowned out Jan’s orders. He stretched out over the edge of his fortification. ‘Fight back, you cowards!’
Below, nobody moved. Jan felt a searing pain across the top of his shoulder. Dazed, he collapsed on the floor. He tried to move, pain seared through his body. His tunic was turning red.
He was hit.
*
Alfred peered out from behind the tree before the next wave of arrows peppered the air around him. Behind him a small boy wailed in pain as he stared in horror at the shaft of ash buried in his forearm. Alfred tried to take his mind off the boy’s screams. Not wanting to accompany his father-in-law with the Hethersett men, he’d elected to join those from Wymondham for the attack. They were happy to have every extra man they could. William Kett and Luke Miller had briefed them on the plan of attack. Even to Alfred’s unseasoned ears, it had seemed simple in the extreme. The plan relied on the rebels’ superior numbers to overwhelm the defences at the closest point, the bridge.
Alfred, Fulke, Master Peter, Luke Miller, David Fisher, Adam Catchpole, Geoffrey Lincoln and the other Wymondham men had run the gauntlet through the trees at the base of the escarpment, past the bridge, to their rendezvous point opposite the end of the earth ramparts shielding the city’s defenders on the far side of the gatehouse. Here they would cross the river precisely where Alfred had done Mr Kett’s laundry with Tiniker’s help. Alfred crouched down, panting heavily.
All that remained was to cross the open ground, navigate the river and overwhelm the defenders. A battle cry went up, as the men from Attleborough and Hingham charged directly at the bridge. The abundance of moving targets approaching the gatehouse had the effect of drawing the arrow fire away from the trees.
Alfred poked his head round. The view offered no respite from the screaming boy behind. To his right, rebels ran down the slope like water in a rainstorm. The enemy couldn’t fire quickly enough. In no time the rebels were at the bridge and scaling the spoil heap. Their bodies littered the approach to the bridge; arrows stuck out from the ground like spines on a hedgehog. The screams of the wounded turned Alfred’s blood cold. He’d never seen so many men die at once. It was chilling. He wanted to count the bodies, but there were too many. To his left, David Fisher panted, staring wide-eyed at the scene before them. David wasn’t a violent man, and Alfred doubted he’d ever had a fight in his life.
Alfred hadn’t slept well last night, worried about what today would bring.
Some will live, some will die, according to Mr Kett.
Alfred had wondered what fate had in store for him as he lay on the kitchen flagstones, staring into the darkness, waiting for sleep, yet not wanting to miss what may be his final hours alive. In the early hours, he wondered again and again if today would be the day he met his parents in the afterlife or if would he be seeking out Tiniker after the battle. Nothing he could think of made it any clearer, and yet that was all he could think about: his life would hang on the turn of a card or the roll of a dice. Win or bust. He resolved that he would fight as hard as he was able, overcome his fear and do his duty as best he could. That small honour was a much as he knew he could affect. With that small crumb of comfort he slid into a fitful sleep shortly before dawn.
‘Fulke!’
Although he had been an irritant of late, Alfred took comfort in seeing his friend pop out behind David Fisher, a meat cleaver in his hand and a look of bloody murder on his face. ‘Where the hell are they? What’s taking them so long?’
Then came Geoffrey Lincoln, Adam Catchpole, Master Peter and Luke Miller. The Kett brothers weren’t amongst the first wave of attackers, and Luke Miller was in charge of the Wymondham men. Between them they had sickles, knives and hatchets. None had bows. Alfred was handy with a bow but as yet hadn’t got his hands on one. He hoped to pick one up from a dead man. Otherwise, his weapon was a blunt knife he’d taken from the kitchen and an axe handle he’d found in the house.
The rebel archers took positions behind the trees. Their first volley pinned the defenders behind their earth wall. The city cannon boomed.
‘Right boys,’ shouted Luke. ‘I want as much blood spilt today as you can.’
Alfred frowned. Luke’s instruction seemed at odds with Mr Kett’s wishes.
Luke continued: ‘We charge on the count of three.’
This was it. Alfred made the sign of the cross.
‘Three,’ shouted Luke.
Alfred waited, shaking like a man with a fever.
‘Two.’
Time slowed down. He thought of his dead parents, his wicked step-family and then Tiniker. I’ll see you tonight, he thought with a flare of affection.
‘One!’
Together they roared so loudly that the hairs on Alfred’s neck stood on end. The moment he moved clear of his tree and stepped into the open, he felt as alert, calm and alive as he’d ever experienced. His nerves vanished, and he ran with all his strength straight toward their enemy, roaring from the bottom of his lungs.
Men he’d spent his ordinary life with, were today doing something extraordinary, as they ran together like an army. Fulke’s stumpy frame pounded forward, his cleaver raised, ready to chop. Even David Fisher looked like a lion in for a kill as he charged down the slope to the river. Heads appeared above the ramparts on the other side.
The tips of their longbows emerged and raised as the defenders pulled back their bowstrings, one by one they rose above the mound ready to fire.
This is it.
Alfred powered his way towards the threat. He saw a defender on the far side looking at him, taking aim, and he saw a sliver of wood speed towards him. He felt a small gust of air past his right cheek. It had missed. He lived, for now. To his right, he heard a retching noise. He glanced over and saw David Fisher fall, blood spurting from the arrow buried in his throat. To his left, more screams. He didn’t look. Over Alfred’s head a volley of rebel arrows returned fire, destined for the defenders. The man who’d shot at him was hit, the arrow landing square in his forehead. His head snapped back and disappeared from view. All the defenders behind the bank disappeared from sight, hiding behind the earth.
Alfred reached the water’s edge and made for the shallows. He heard the splashes of men barrelling their way into the river. He waded as quickly as he could, the water rising above his legs, and his waist as he lost his footing. He fell forward, put out his left leg and stopped himself from toppling. At the halfway point the water was no deeper than his armpits. On the far bank, th
e earth ramparts loomed. In front an archer was felled by a rebel arrow. His body bent forward, toppled down the rampart and landed on the riverbank. The bow fell into the river, but now the string was wet, it would be no good for this fight.
Alfred reached the far side and crouched down beneath the rampart.
Fulke stooped beside him.
‘David Fisher?’
‘Dead.’
Adam and Geoffrey arrived safely across. Adam grinned like a man who’d won a prize at the fayre. On the bank they had come from, children left the cover of the trees and scurried forward to recover the spent arrows amongst the fallen rebels.
Luke, sickle in hand, shouted, ‘Men, let’s finish this.’
Rather than scaling the rampart, he now ran to its extremity and shouted a blood-curdling cry as he rounded the end of the earth bank to face the defenders. Alfred squeezed the grip of his knife in his left hand. This was about to get grim. He’d never killed a man before. Fulke roared, and Alfred followed him and Luke, his axe handle held high behind his head.
Alfred saw Luke knock the bow from a man’s hand and barge into the next man. Beyond them, stretching to the bridge was a long line of folk facing forwards.
Fulke charged and brought his cleaver down to meet a defender’s neck. His victim fell to the ground. Fulke pulled his weapon free and moved on to the next in line.
Alfred ran up the inside slope of the rampart, the soil shifting beneath his feet, he passed Luke and Fulke ready to attack.
Before him stood an older man in a faded woollen hood that covered his head and shoulders. The face it framed had a look of terror and determination. His bow was drawn, the arrow tip pointed at Alfred. The defender pulled his bowstring back the final two inches, and Alfred lifted his axe handle ready to swing. As the man’s two fingers released the string, Alfred lunged, and his weight shifted, the spoil of the earth defences giving way under his foot. He tumbled forward as the fletching of the arrow glanced against his cheek. The slip had saved his life. The determination on the old man’s face vanished, leaving only terror, as he dropped his bow to surrender his hands and beg for mercy.
