by Tim Holden
‘Have you had problems here?’
‘Briefly. Usual thing. Commoners protesting. We nipped it in the bud,’ he said proudly. ‘Broke up their party and hung a few of them in the marketplace.’
That was precisely how you handled a rabble.
‘The rest left, headed north to join up with Kett in Norwich.’
The guard showed Dudley to the hall where he left him with a maid to organise refreshment. It wasn’t long before he was greeted by Mary’s lady-in-waiting.
‘Lady Mary is engaged at present, but she will be glad for you to join her for supper shortly.’
Dudley was invited to freshen up first and was shown to a guest room.
He woke with a start to find somebody knocking at the door. It was dark. Having washed his face and body in the clay basin, he’d afforded himself a moment’s rest in a chair and drifted off. He rubbed his eyes and cleared his throat.
‘Coming,’ he said, cross with himself. His head was thick from resting, and the last thing he needed was muddled thoughts when he was about to commit treason. He pushed himself up from the chair, his legs protesting the effort. A chambermaid led him through a modestly decorated corridor illuminated by rush lights. In the small dining room, beyond the empty table was a roaring fireplace in front of which sat the king’s older half-sister Lady Mary, accompanied by a man.
They rose to greet Dudley’s arrival.
‘Lady Mary.’ Dudley kissed her outstretched hand and curtsied. She eyed him with a mixture of charm and suspicion. Her once fair beauty was now strained by her years, many of them spent in partial exile from court. She was too close to the throne, and too attached to the old religion to be allowed in the circles of influence.
Dudley turned his attention to her companion. ‘Ah, Lord Sheffield, how are you, Edmund?’
They shook hands. The young man’s grip was firm, his greeting warm. Mary summoned some wine for Dudley, and they returned to their seats around the fire. Dudley took an empty chair between the two, opposite the flames.
‘John, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure of your company?’ Mary Tudor was always direct.
Dudley cleared his throat. He hesitated. ‘My Lady, I,’ he rubbed his hands down his thighs and adjusted his cuffs. ‘I hoped I might be able to discuss a matter with you in private?’
‘By all means,’ she said, her voice steely.
Dudley looked at Lord Sheffield.
‘Edmund and I are cousins.’ Mary didn’t smile. ‘We have no secrets from each other.’
Sheffield smoothed the thin moustache that sat beneath his hawkish nose, quite evidently a man of confidence, at ease with himself.
Was there more to the relationship than met the eye?
‘How long have you been here, my lady?’ Dudley continued.
‘Only a week. Given the trouble in Norfolk, I thought it best to leave Kenninghall and come here until things settle down.’
Dudley swallowed, his mouth dry. He told himself his plot was for the good of the country as well as his own prospects, but there was no taking back these words once they left his lips. He clenched his fist.
‘My lady, your brother, the king…’
‘How is he, my brother Edward VI? Are the rumours true?’
‘They are. He is a sickly child. Rumours persist about his fate. I understand yesterday evening, Seymour was forced to ride through London with the young king to prove he was still alive and quash a rumour that he’d died.’
Mary nodded. ‘Will he live?’
Dudley shrugged. ‘Some say not.’
‘What would Seymour do then?’ asked Mary.
‘With the way things are, I’m not sure Seymour will outlive his nephew. But regardless of who were to die first, it would leave you next in line to the throne, my lady.’
‘My brother is staunchly Protestant. He would never sanction the realm reverting to Catholicism.’
‘He is. But without an heir of his own what choice does he have?’
‘Lizzy?’
Dudley shrugged. ‘The king is young and impressionable. If Seymour were out of the way, then Edward might be encouraged to see things, differently.’
Mary’s gaze appeared to indicate she was not disinterested.
‘Go on,’ she said.
‘As you know, rebellions are breaking out like a pox. At present, all our efforts have been aimed at the western rebellions. Seymour is making a hash of matters. His actions are responsible for the current strife. Each day he’s delayed, Kett’s rebellion in Norwich has grown.’
Dudley glanced at Sheffield, who was listening intently.
‘Seymour has finally decided to send troops to Norwich. Their numbers are small, but believe me, any experienced and well-armed force is capable of defeating a motley bunch of farmers. He should now be able to quash this uprising and restore order to the realm. If he were successful in putting down these rebellions, his position as lord protector would be consolidated. Unless…’ Dudley paused.
‘Unless?’ asked Mary.
‘Unless, the rebels were to be victorious. Well then Seymour would be finished. No council member would support his rule.’
‘That would still leave my brother as king?’
‘It would, yes. And about that we can do little. But with Seymour gone, I could become lord protector and…’
‘Ah, this isn’t about me is it, John? This is your naked ambition.’ Mary tossed her hands in the air.
‘No,’ protested Dudley, ‘Please let me finish. I would be the king’s representative. I would have unfettered access to him. In time, I could persuade him of your virtues, then should the worst happen, well…’
‘Well?’
‘You’d inherit the throne.’
‘And what of you then?’
‘I’d be at your service.’
Mary turned her face to the flames.
‘It’s all very far-fetched,’ she said, at last.
‘Well, yes, potentially, but if I had told you two years ago that Jane Seymour’s brother would be king in all but name and the country would be tearing itself apart, you might have reached the same conclusion then.’
Mary raised her eyebrows. ‘How can you ensure you’re in charge of the council after Seymour?’
For the first time, Sheffield spoke. ‘I may not be on the council, my lady, but I know the earl commands great loyalty from the members because of his military abilities. He could be confident of their support.’
‘What about the Catholics on the council. John is,’ she looked down her nose at him, ‘of reformed beliefs.’
‘Well,’ said Dudley. ‘If they knew I was going to support your accession to the throne, I am sure they would come round to the idea,’ said Dudley, thinking fast.
‘More wine,’ beckoned Mary, ‘you would have to convert to Catholicism. Do you swear it?’
‘Now?’
Dudley felt cornered. Convert, and she was sure to go with his suggestion. Prevaricate, and he risked a traitor’s death. This was why politicians were better suited to such negotiations. He cleared his throat. ‘My lady, I am a pragmatic man, better suited to fighting. I am not best placed to understand the doctrines. If your brother were to die then it would seem very sensible to convert,’ adding, ‘if you were to be Queen.’
Mary nodded. It was an ugly compromise. ‘So, the only small snag is that Mr Kett’s rebels need to be successful in defeating Seymour troops. Will you fight for them?’
‘No.’ Dudley shook his head. ‘I can’t be seen to side with them and maintain my authority at council. Subtler means are necessary. They are led by William Parr.’ He saw Mary’s mouth turn down with distaste at the mention of the name of one her father’s many queens that succeeded her own mother. ‘He’s inexperienced in command of troops. He could be misadvised to make mistakes.’
Mary nodded. ‘Yes. We need a man on the inside. Edmund,’ she looked over at her friend, ‘would you do me this service?’
Dudley sat ba
ck in his chair, relieved to no longer be doing the talking.
The young Lord Sheffield flashed his charismatic smile. ‘For you, my lady… anything.’
Dudley was relieved. ‘Good, then it’s agreed, join Parr’s forces and see that they are defeated. I have a spy amongst Kett’s ranks by the name of Luke Miller, a good Catholic you can trust.’
Lady Mary held her glass aloft. ‘Gentlemen, a toast, to the success of Robert Kett and his rebels, and the downfall of Edward Seymour.’
‘And, to Queen Mary,’ said Dudley, clinking glasses.
PART 3
Isaiah 40:31
31 but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.
34
31st July, Surrey House
The barber surgeon clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he examined Master Peter’s swollen hand. The tips of his fingers were turning black, and the rest of his arm was a vivid red. The injury he’d sustained to his right forearm when they’d attacked the bridge nine days ago wasn’t healing, and pus seeped from the arrow wound. Alfred put his hand over his nose to guard against the smell that filled the small bedroom that had been cleared for Mr Kett’s foreman. Mrs Kett wiped the fever from Master Peter’s brow as he lay on the bed. The linen of the straw mattress was soaked in his sweat. He’d been in bed for days and wasn’t getting better. The surgeon brushed a fly away.
‘We’ll have to amputate above the elbow. If we go any lower the malady will return.’
Alfred shuddered. He edged closer to the open window. Mr Kett stood at the foot of the bed, looking drawn and tired. ‘What are his chances?’
The surgeon shrugged his shoulders. ‘If you keep the windows open to prevent the build-up of miasmas, bleed his good arm with leeches, apply a fresh poultice of cow manure to his stump each day, then he may live. I’d recommend praying for him at least four times a day.’
‘Very well,’ said Robert, ‘do what you have to do.’
Master Peter groaned.
The surgeon turned to Alfred. ‘I’ll need you to hold him down. First, fetch a bowl for his blood.’
‘God be with you, Peter,’ said Robert, wiping a tear from his eye. Master Peter had worked for him since he was a boy.
Alice kissed Master Peter’s forehead. ‘I’ll pray for you,’ she whispered. She took her husband’s hand and led him away. Alfred returned and placed the bowl by the side of the bed. The surgeon untied his canvass bag, unravelling it to expose the tools of his trade, none of which would have looked out of place in a carpenters’ workshop. Alfred shivered.
‘Tell him to bite on this,’ said the surgeon, passing Alfred a small round shaft of oak wood, the teeth marks of previous patients visible.
Master Peter waved his hand to stop Alfred. ‘Alfred,’ he strained to find the words. ‘You have a good soul,’ he struggled to swallow. ‘Be warned of Fulke.’
‘Come, bite on this,’ replied Alfred.
‘His father was a bad man,’ mumbled Master Peter, his face pale and damp. ‘He beat them. His mother too. Fulke killed them both. Burned their house while they slept.’
‘Sshh,’ said Alfred, unable to think about these revelations just as he was about to assist in removing Master Peter’s arm.
Master Peter gripped Alfred with what little strength he could muster. ‘The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, Alfred.’
Alfred placed the wooden bit between Master Peter’s teeth.
Why are you telling me this now? Alfred thought.
‘Kneel on his arm, and put your weight on his chest,’ instructed the surgeon. ‘He’s weak, but you’ll be amazed how much strength they can find when I hit the bone.’ The surgeon took his saw from the bag, its blade greased, its wooden handle stained red from the blood of his previous patients.
The colour drained from Alfred’s cheeks, and his palms turned cold with sweat.
Master Peter began to scream as the teeth of the surgeon’s saw bit into his flesh. Alfred pushed his weight down to stop the patient from wriggling free. A trickle of blood spattered into the bowl below. Master Peter’s screams grew louder as the saw blade tore its way through the muscle. Alfred’s mouth began to water. He closed his eyes. Beneath him Master Peter fell limp, and his agonising cries fell silent. Alfred heard the rasp of the saw against the bone. The room fell dark.
Alfred passed out too.
*
Next door, Robert heard the thud of what sounded like a body hitting the floor. At least Master Peter’s screams had stopped. Robert was grateful for the peace, no matter how temporary it would turn out to be this time. From habit he put his thumb to his mouth before remembering he had no spare nail left to bite.
‘Have a seat, Robert, your pacing is making me nervous,’ said Mayor Codd. He sat on a small wooden chair, shrouded from sight by the bright sunlight pouring through the window.
Robert ignored the mayor’s comments. Mayor Codd had been with him every waking moment since his capture, and his relentless company was beginning to grate. The thought crossed Robert’s mind again, to have the mayor transferred to the castle or the guildhall to join the other prisoners of the rebellion. Robert had moved his captives out of Surrey House to the city’s cells, and their removal had created some much-needed breathing space around his headquarters. The mayor though, notwithstanding his relationship, was too valuable a piece to surrender his custody. Instead, he lived cheek by jowl with Robert, if not helping the movement, then at least providing it with the image of the legitimacy it required.
The door opened, and Alice entered carrying two jugs and a stick of burning incense. ‘I thought you men might appreciate some ale.’
Thank God for Alice, thought Robert. How right she was. She placed the incense into a small clay pot on the mantelpiece and closed the door behind her.
Mayor Codd raised his jug and said cheers to a peaceful outcome. Without replying, Robert up-ended his jug and sank half its contents, the pewter rim pressing painfully against the sore that had broken on his lip at the corner of his mouth. Against his better judgment he was drinking more heavily than usual this past week. It offered temporary comfort from the problems that faced him on all fronts. Following the herald’s departure there had been nothing but silence from London.
Despite Mayor Codd’s reservations, Robert had met with Deputy Mayor Steward on his return from London. Steward had proved insightful. His prediction of a military response was prophetic. Yesterday, a royal army had been sited quartering at Cambridge. It would only be a matter of time before they showed up at Robert’s door.
He took another mouthful and put his empty jug down on the small table opposite the empty fireplace. His legs were tired and begged to be seated. Robert resisted, whenever he was stationary, he was tortured by his fears. Since he’d captured Norwich any hopes of feeding his followers being eased were compromised by the further swelling of his camp. In the following five days an additional five thousand people had arrived. Some came from as far afield as Essex and Cambridgeshire, keen to experience life free from the clutches of their landlords. What had started as a protest against enclosure had turned into a campaign for justice — an end to feudalism. Not all the new arrivals bore such noble intentions. Young men especially, in the absence of their elders and betters were bent on revelling in the downfall of the traditional powers of state.
Robert stopped his pacing and took in the view from the window. The camp now sprawled out to the other heath beyond the gulley. Totalling fifteen thousand, Robert’s followers now outnumbered the populace of Norwich living in their shadow. Despite Robert’s efforts to keep his people out of the city, the lines between the camp and the city had blurred. Many of his followers had opted to move into more comfortable quarters under a roof, and all the city’s churches acted as dormitories for Robert’s followers. Vacant homes, abandoned by their gentlemen owners, had been commandeered as people fel
l prey to the temptation of sampling the splendour and comfort of those they fought. An irony that was as lost on them as it was apparent to Robert.
The nature of the city had changed. Some of the inhabitants had fled, fearing for their safety. Others with more commercial instincts were attracted by the opportunities that could be realised by meeting the needs of so many extra people in one place, all with loot to spend, bellies and bladders to fill and seed to spill. Some were making a tidy fortune, provided they could stay safe enough to keep hold of their takings.
‘I still think you should keep a closer eye on Augustine Steward,’ said the mayor for the tenth time this week.
‘Thomas, if it weren’t for Steward, I doubt very much that Norwich would exist.’
Having returned from the safety of London the deputy mayor had met with Robert, testified to what he’d witnessed in London and then volunteered to take responsibility for the safety of Norwich. An offer Robert was only too keen to accept as it was one less burden for him to shoulder. On Robert’s first night in charge of Norwich after the attack, sporadic fights had broken out, undefended homes had been looted, some of them set ablaze. Thank the heavens there had not been a wind on which to carry the flames, thereby sparing the city from destruction.
‘You can’t trust him, Robert.’
‘Enough,’ snapped Robert. ‘Steward has one job to do, and he’s proved himself more than capable of keeping order. The last thing I want on my conscience when I arrive at the pearly gates of heaven is having to account for why I allowed a city of God to be sacked and torched.’
‘Well…’
‘Well nothing. I won’t debate it with you further, Thomas.’
The mayor’s constant provocations over Steward seemed to Robert to reflect the mayor’s own failings in his role.
How well would you be coping if you were charged with his responsibilities? Not as well, I’d wager.
