Spirals of Fate

by Tim Holden

  Steward dropped to the floor and with raised arms, cupped his crucifix and repeated Robert’s words. He seemed sincere, thought Robert. The crowd seemed more sceptical.

  ‘This man has, in the presence of God, sworn his allegiance to us,’ declared Robert. Then he turned to Steward. ‘When you return from London, you will meet with me in person.’

  Steward nodded. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Very well, be gone.’

  William touched Robert’s arm. ‘Robert, we’re responsible for what happens here tonight. If we have learned one thing today, it is that we need to think further ahead.’

  Robert nodded. Part of him regretted that his moment on stage had passed. Planning meant arguing, meant details, but William was right. Robert thanked the last of the crowd and promised to free them from the yoke of the gentry. Slowly they dispersed, melting away into the side streets. For the most part they went in the direction from where they had come.

  There was much to be done. With his chest puffed up, Robert followed his captives and his representatives into the guildhall. Tonight, Norwich was his responsibility. If it were to go up in flames, so would his chances of success. He caught sight of Fulke and Alfred standing by the door. ‘Fulke, join us, tonight I have need of a man with your skills.’

  31

  The justice of the peace and his two heavies left the council chamber, followed by a worried-looking Mayor Codd. Robert dropped his head into his hands. The justice of the peace had finally agreed to attend to his duties, but it had taken all of Robert’s persuasion to reassure him he wasn’t committing treason by cooperating with Robert. Robert, supported by the mayor, had explained that the justice’s duty of keeping Norwich safe remained the same, whomever assumed charge of the city, and that he risked a charge of neglecting his duties if he abandoned his post. Eventually, the justice, a man whose physicality exceeded his intellect, had agreed that all parties wanted the same thing. With the aid of the night watchmen that hadn’t been killed in the fighting earlier, he’d agreed to ensure the city gates were locked and a curfew enforced within the walls from sundown to sunrise.

  Earlier, Robert’s representatives had been dispatched to order all the city’s taverns and alehouses to close for the night. By now their drink should have been confiscated and be safely on its way to the heath. Robert and the mayor had come to cross-purposes when Mayor Codd protested that the landlords should be afforded his protection or at the very least compensated for their loss. Mayor Codd had quickly recanted to Robert’s demands when he’d offered the mayor a cell for the night if he disagreed.

  Thereafter, the representatives were instructed to account for their living and see that they remained on the heath.

  The city’s clergymen had not shared the concerns of their civic counterparts. Theirs was a moral duty to carry out the Lord’s work. They had agreed not to follow the example of their bishop, who’d fled, taking with him as many of his valuables as he could fit into his carriage. Instead, they were attending to the dead and the injured.

  Robert racked his brains for anything he might have overlooked.

  The door opened, and William entered, looking haggard.

  ‘Six hundred dead. Five hundred ours.’

  Slumped in the chair at the head of the table, Robert remembered the moment when Alfred had arrived to warn him of his enclosures being vandalised.

  How different things would have been if I’d stayed at home, he thought, wanting nothing more than to be home, sitting by his fire, stroking his dog and chatting with Alice.

  Instead, he was in charge of Norwich, and in open dispute with the lord protector of the realm.

  Too late now to run away.

  ‘How long before we hear from London, do you think?’ asked Robert.

  William did the calculations. ‘Steward left with the herald around two. If they ride fast without stopping, they should arrive in the early hours. What happens then, only God knows.’

  ‘Can we trust him?’ asked Robert.

  ‘Who? Steward?’ William shrugged. ‘We have to. But, where we now find ourselves, brother, I doubt we can trust anyone.’

  Robert nodded.

  ‘Still, at least you've caught up with Flowerdew at last.’

  Even that felt like a hollow victory. After the events of today, the Flowerdew affair felt petty and irrelevant.

  Maybe in the morning, if he were able to get some sleep tonight, he would find some shred of satisfaction from imprisoning him.

  ‘Do you want me to stay?’

  ‘No, no,’ lied Robert. ‘I’ve posted a party of guards downstairs under Luke Miller’s command. We’ve enough weapons to keep out the most determined of assaults. You keep our folks on the heath and out of the city.’

  ‘Don’t go out alone, brother.’

  ‘Give Alice a kiss from me.’ Then from nowhere, his tired thought, ‘Oh, and keep an eye out for Master Peter. I haven’t seen him this afternoon. It’s unlike him.’

  As William went to leave, Alfred appeared.

  ‘The bridge is clear. The earth mound has been moved. They're using it to cover the dead.’

  ‘Very well, Alfred. See to it everything makes it back safely. Lock the prisoners in Surrey House. The mayor can be spared the indignity of the cellar. Give him a room.’

  Mayor Codd had agreed to act as a symbolic prisoner to show the city’s surrender.

  Alfred left the chamber.

  *

  Earlier, Alfred had joined Fulke in the guildhall. Together, they’d found a stash of weapons in the cellar. Mr Kett had ordered them to load up their new weaponry and take it back to the Surrey House. Between him and Fulke, they piled up three stolen carts with pikes, powder, cannonballs and arrows. In the absence of horses or donkeys, the plan was for the prisoners: Mayor Codd, Flowerdew and seven other aldermen rounded up from the comfort of their homes throughout the afternoon, to push the haul up to the heath.

  Mr Kett had explained he wanted people to see the good and the great doing peasant labour.

  Alfred joined Fulke and Miles outside the guildhall. Together with two other rebels, they stood guard over their gentlemen prisoners and the haul of weapons.

  Miles was congratulating Fulke for fighting bravely. Fulke nodded in a way that suggested he didn’t need to be told.

  ‘All clear,’ said Alfred through a yawn.

  The prospect of supervising this convoy of carts back to the heath was tiresome, but he promised himself an ale when he got back to the heath. In fact, having survived today, he thought he should get royally drunk.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Fulke, clapping his hands.

  The indignant-looking prisoners took their places, three to a cart. Miles guarded the lead cart, Fulke the second. With the aid of the sword he’d captured during battle, Alfred took watch over the rear cart, which was being pushed by his former landlord, Flowerdew and two other gentleman prisoners.

  They trundled through the streets, past the cathedral and onto Bishopsgate, which led to the heath. Alfred found little satisfaction in seeing Flowerdew push the cart. After everything he’d caused, it seemed like a trivial punishment. The ginger-haired lord hadn’t given Alfred a second glance all afternoon. Flowerdew didn’t appear to remember him, despite having evicted him only sixteen days earlier.

  ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ accused Alfred.

  Flowerdew stopped pushing and turned to study Alfred. He shook his head. ‘Should I?’

  Flowerdew would take more notice of shit on his shoe than he would me, thought Alfred.

  ‘Perhaps I should give you cause to remember me.’ Alfred drew his sword from his belt, its blade still red from the bloodshed earlier.

  Flowerdew took another step and looked into Alfred’s face. He was a fraction smaller than Alfred. ‘Going to kill me, boy?’

  ‘I should. You evicted my family from our cottage.’

  Flowerdew’s face lifted as he remembered. ‘Ah. You’re the boy who got that ugly Smith girl pregn
ant.’ He grinned.

  ‘How dare you,’ said Alfred, raising the tip of his sword to Flowerdew’s throat.

  Flowerdew’s natural authority wobbled as he felt the blade press against his skin.

  ‘Now now, don’t be silly. If you kill a powerful man you’ll be condemned to an eternity in hell. Once they’ve hanged you.’

  Alfred shook his head. ‘Not now Mr Kett’s in charge.’

  Flowerdew laughed. ‘Do you honestly think Mr Kett is going to make it out of this alive?’ He shook his head. ‘You fools don’t realise what you’ve done. The government won’t let you get away with capturing a city. They’ll come and slaughter every last one of you. Then they’ll string Kett up by his neck, mark my words.’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Alfred, shifting uneasily on his feet.

  Flowerdew pressed his finger against Alfred’s sword and slowly lowered it. Resentment coursed through Alfred at Flowerdew’s nerve. All afternoon the dying faces of the two young men he’d killed had haunted Alfred, and his hand began to shake. He’d learned to kill today, why not add Flowerdew to his tally? Now was the moment.

  The carts had carried on without them. There would be no witnesses. One strike and the lord would be dead. Last chance, thought Alfred. His hand twitched. Could he stomach that same helpless look in Flowerdew’s eyes? That would be killing in cold blood, not the heat of battle. In Flowerdew’s eyes he saw power, control. His arm longed to lunge forward yet his instinct wouldn’t let him.

  Flowerdew pushed the blade to the side. The moment had passed.

  ‘You should be careful about making powerful enemies, boy. I won’t forget you again.’

  Alfred’s muscles were coiled. He read the relief on Flowerdew’s face. The lord had been scared, and for a brief moment they’d been equals.

  ‘What say you and I make a deal, boy?’

  ‘My name’s Alfred Carter,’ he told Flowerdew.

  ‘You want your cottage back?’

  Alfred failed to hide the surprise on his face.

  ‘In return, you let me go, unharmed.’

  Alfred knew it was wrong to be tempted by such an offer. It was a small damp cottage, but it had also been home: a roof over his head.

  ‘How can I trust you?’

  Flowerdew smiled. ‘I give you my word as a gentleman.’

  Alfred shook his head. As if the word of a gentleman counted for anything.

  ‘You don’t rise to the top in life by breaking your promises, Carter. You can have your cottage back. I swear it on my life.’

  Alfred squinted. It was a good offer. He searched for a reason to believe Flowerdew but couldn’t find one. Without witnesses, Flowerdew could easily deny it later.

  Flowerdew appeared to sense Alfred’s hesitation.

  ‘After today, even if this rebellion ended right now, there are enough dead littering that slope that I’d wager I’ve already gained more land than I could by evicting you. I don’t need your family land now. I already have the land of your dead comrades.’

  The nerve of the man.

  ‘If I stick this sword in your belly, then I can have my cottage back regardless,’ countered Alfred.

  ‘But then my estate will be passed down. And a new landlord won’t take kindly when he learns his tenant murdered his lord. You let me go, and I’ll gift you the rights to your cottage.’

  ‘To me?’

  Flowerdew nodded. ‘You have my word.’

  In one handshake, his life transformed for the better. Alfred couldn’t believe his luck. He was as householder. He’d been vaulted from impending destitution to having property of his own. His family had never owned anything.

  He looked up. Flowerdew was gone.

  Alfred ran back down the road to catch up with the carts.

  He couldn’t wait to tell Richard.

  ‘Where’s Flowerdew?’ asked one of the two remaining prisoners left pushing the rear cart.

  ‘He’s dead! Keep pushing, or I’ll gut you too,’ barked Alfred pointing his blood-stained blade towards them.

  They looked terrified and renewed their pushing. Alfred smiled to himself and slid his sword back between his belt and his tunic.

  The front cart drew to a halt by the gatehouse. While they waited for the gate to be unlocked, Alfred noticed the dead had been cleared. Patches of blood in the dirt were the only trace of their last stand, and the place took on a ghostly atmosphere in the twilight. Alfred shivered and turned his head away, eager to bury the memories of earlier.

  On his right he’d drawn level with a pink house in between two white buildings. He jolted as he remembered his conversation with Tiniker at the river. This was her house. He was relieved to see it wasn’t damaged, although the shutters were closed. His heart skipped. He couldn't resist seeing her. He crossed the road and knocked on the door. What better way to celebrate his survival than her smile and big blue eyes? He listened. No noise.

  He knocked again.

  ‘Tiniker!’ No answer.

  ‘Tiniker?’

  Alfred jumped. ‘Fulke! Where did sneak up from? You made me jump.’

  ‘So this fancy woman of yours lives here.’

  Alfred frowned, unsure what to say.

  ‘Let’s have a look at her then. Get her out here. I fancy a play.’ Fulke banged on the door. ‘Does she know you’re married?’

  Alfred flushed. ‘She’s not here. He put his hand on Fulke’s arm and pulled him away.

  ‘Shame. We’ll come back later.’

  ‘Mr Kett wants us to stay at the heath tonight.’

  ‘I don't give two turds what Kett wants. Victor’s privileges: rape and pillage.’

  The gate was open. From behind the front cart, Miles gave the order to push.

  The carts began to roll.

  Alfred cursed himself. How could he have been so careless to disclose Tiniker’s house to Fulke’s attention?

  He followed the last cart across the bridge and breathed a sigh of relief when the gates closed behind him.

  *

  A trench had been dug. A pastor moved along the shallow grave offering prayers for the fallen. Somewhere in that long line of unfortunates would be David Fisher. Alfred, deciding they could manage without him, took the opportunity to pay his last respects to David. He edged his way along the trench, only now beginning to appreciate the true cost of today’s victory. He wasn’t old enough to remember the last plague outbreak, but he could recall his father telling him how it had devastated communities. Every dead man had left a town or village short of a blacksmith, a carpenter, a stonemason, a butcher, a baker.

  Or, as Flowerdew had already remarked, land without a farmer, animals without an owner, homes without a tenant, women without a husband.

  Occasionally he recognised a face: somebody he’d seen in camp, in Surrey House, a face from Wymondham. He’d walked nearly the length of the trench, which stretched out beyond the bridge opposite. Alfred found himself standing where, earlier today, he’d made his charge to the river. Seeing it again now, clear of bodies, free from flying arrows, silent from the shouts of battle, it was at odds with the flashbacks of his memories, sights and sound he knew would never forget. The faces of the men he’d killed popped into his mind: their agony and their acceptance. This was the price of survival.

  He came across David Fisher, lying prone with a peaceful look of resignation on his pale face. His expression at contrast with the violence of his end, thought Alfred. He glanced at the next man in the trench. He blinked hard to ensure his eyes were not deceiving him. His mouth fell open. He stood frozen as his thoughts came to terms with the sight of his father-in-law. Dead.

  He hadn’t liked Richard. He was a petty, small-minded man, but he hadn’t deserved to die. He’d finally taken a stand, and it had cost him his life. It was Alfred who had encouraged Richard to join the march after Flowerdew had evicted them.

  Alfred felt a pang of guilt for that, and for allowing Flowerdew to escape.

  He remembered Flowerdew
’s visit to their cottage.

  How he’d tossed the sovereign coin into the dirt and left.

  The coin, where was it?

  Richard would never have spent it. He’d never let it out of his sight. An uncomfortable thought occurred to Alfred. Was Richard about to be buried with it? A sovereign could feed Alfred for months. There was no point allowing it to go to waste. Glancing up, he saw that the burial gang were a way off yet. He stepped into the trench and knelt, resting one knee on Richard’s stiffened thigh. The aroma of death seeped its fleshy scent into his nose. He patted Richard’s corpse searching for a purse or the coin. His flesh felt dry, not yet cold, and Alfred gagged. Alfred checked him all over again. Nothing. His stomach turned with each moment he spent in the trench. He may have hidden it in his shoes, but they were missing, already looted.

  Would Richard have left it in his shelter on the heath? Alfred thought not, that coin never left his sight. A far ghastlier notion dawned on Alfred: would Richard have hidden the coin up his bottom? There was nowhere safer, coins and purses were often dropped, but nowhere would Richard’s grip be tighter than his own backside. Alfred shuddered at the prospect. He saw in an instant that the decision he faced condemned him to a life or continuous torment, as he would forever speculate on the bounty buried safely in his father-in-law’s arse, or the indignity of having looked. The idea seemed typical of Richard, able to exert one final humiliation to forever sustain the disapproval he had formed of Alfred. Only finding the coin would vindicate Alfred. Then and only then would he have the last laugh.

  He took another deep breath, grabbed Richard’s legs and heaved the rigid body onto its side. He was heavy, and Alfred lost his balance, falling on David’s corpse. He stifled a gag and righted himself. He pulled Richard over. His hose were soiled. His bowels had discharged their contents after death. Alfred felt bile rising in his throat. He patted the cold, damp buttocks in the vain hope that the coin may have been evacuated. He tugged at the top of the hose, fumbling to loosen them before his breath ran out. He yanked them down, exposing Richard’s pale backside matted in his own manure. He leant in to look closely for the glint of gold and grimaced as he parted the buttocks with his palms. He rehearsed in his mind what he would do. A quick and precise insertion of one finger as far as he could reach. Alfred stretched out his first finger and stiffened it.