by Tim Holden
‘How will it be to your advantage if the marketplace catches fire, Mr Parr?’
Parr glared at the deputy mayor.
‘I appreciate your comments regarding the law,’ said Steward in a more conciliatory tone, ‘but you have seen for yourself the depleted nature of our tree stock.’
‘Very well, Walgrave, one fire in the middle. Now, Steward, take us to each of the streets leading inwards from the rebels’ position, then,’ he looked at his generals, ‘we’ll divvy up who goes where. Lord Sheffield, you watch over the army in the meantime.’ Parr felt relief that his first briefing had passed without incident. His plan was robust.
*
For Sheffield, it had been a day of mixed fortunes. He’d successfully delayed their departure, which had now reduced their preparation time. Parr had been lured into the city where his cavalry would be ineffective. They were outnumbered. The threat of harrying attacks in the tight maze of narrow and unfamiliar streets had, unfortunately, been defused by Parr who had begun to prove himself a proficient commander.
He had, however, made his first mistake: in his haste he’d neglected to appoint a bodyguard for himself. If Sheffield could send word to Princess Mary’s spy in Kett’s camp, Luke Miller, then perhaps the rebels could happen across the undefended Parr inspecting his defences on foot.
How he might get word to the rebels without arousing suspicion, was uppermost in his mind.
36
There was a knock at the door. Tiniker wiped the flour from her hands on her apron and left the dough resting in the bowl. It was Alfred. She tried not to betray her gladness as she invited him in. Since the death of her father she had come to look forward to his visits more than she was comfortable admitting. He brought sunshine to her otherwise cloudy days. She was frightened that she was starting to rely on him.
Tiniker didn’t want to come to depend on anyone but herself.
Alfred paused as he passed her, but Tiniker looked away. They hadn’t kissed again since the day they met, and he’d led her home through the rebel camp.
Tiniker was adamant she wouldn't fall for him while she was in mourning. Her late mother had warned her not to take risks with her heart when vulnerable.
The room darkened when she closed the door behind him. The only light came from a window that overlooked the orchards and meadows to the rear of the house. There was no glass, only wooden shutters that opened inwards against the wall.
‘Where’s Margreet?’ asked Alfred.
He stopped by the modest wooden table in the centre of the room, its uneven surface pitted with the small holes of woodworm.
‘Sleeping,’ said Tiniker, her eyes motioned upwards. ‘She’s been bad today.’
Alfred nodded knowingly. Without saying much he had a way of understanding what she and her sister were suffering. She’d discovered he’d already lost his parents, as well as his wife. His unspoken empathy had been the only comfort Tiniker had found in the previous week. She noticed he looked paler than usual.
‘You all right?’
‘Hmm, yeah fine, just a sore head,’ he said, dismissing her concern.
‘I’m afraid I don’t have any herbs left.’
Alfred poked his finger through the bars of the wire cage on the table. Piepen squawked and fluttered his little yellow wings. Tiniker had brought him downstairs from the weaving room to keep her company. Alfred was fascinated by the canary, having never seen one before; every day he’d gently tormented it, fed it and studied it.
Tiniker smiled, the house was a better place with life in it. Even the burgeoning friendship between a little yellow bird and an Englishman was enough to briefly take her mind off her father’s death and the circumstances she now faced.
‘Now you’re here, would you help with fetching the sack of flour the next room. I’ve just finished this one.’
Each day, Tiniker made lists in her mind of jobs she could get Alfred to do when he visited. He had lots to do for Mr Kett, but the longer she could keep him here was a moment less lonely. Her nights had become hours of sleepless despair. She couldn’t bring herself to use her father’s mattress, so she still shared her bed with Margreet, who slept soundly every hour of the night and many during the daylight. Tiniker tossed and turned, fretting: how would she find enough money to survive?
Would Mr Steward be good to his word and let them keep the house? She had only heard from the deputy mayor once since the city’s capture.
What would become of Margreet? Should they return to Flanders? Where was home? Her tired mind tried to make sense of matters, always arriving at the same conclusions: without money they would starve, without shelter they would perish. Defeated, she’d finally drift off, sleeping through into the morning. Not that it mattered, it was better she stayed indoors and saw that the house was safe. She’d seen rebels walking past back to the camp with arms full of loot relieved from people’s homes.
Alfred propped the heavy sack of milled flour against the wall away from the fireplace. ‘Have you heard?’
‘What?’ asked Tiniker.
‘There’s a royal army on its way to fight us. They may even be here by now.’
‘Alfred, will you stay here with us, keep us safe?’
‘You’ll be safe. Their fight isn’t with you.’
Tiniker instinctively checked the bolt on the front door.
‘It’s us they’re after,’ said Alfred, proudly.
He was so naïve.
Soldiers routinely took women as a prize. Her house, by the bridge, had been at the heart of the last battle. She wiped tears from her eyes.
‘Please? Alfred.’
He took her in his arms. She felt small wrapped in his embrace —her cheek pressed into his chest. For a moment, she allowed herself to feel safe, loved even as Alfred’s hand smoothed her back.
‘Dank je,’ she whispered.
They heard a noise near the door. Swish. There followed two knocks.
‘What’s this?’ asked Alfred, breaking their embrace. ‘Somebody’s just pushed something under your door.’
Tiniker turned to see a piece of paper, bright against the hard earth floor. Puzzled, she walked over to pick it up. It was folded in half, on the inside a message.
Find out Kett’s intentions. AS.
Tiniker closed it and folded in half again, pressing it between her hands.
‘What is it?’ asked Alfred.
AS… Why did the devil have to pick such poor timing?
‘Tiniker?’
She turned to face him, putting her arms behind her back, clenching the note in her hands. Standing opposite each other with him looking down at her, she felt bare. His frown turned from quizzical to wary.
‘You look guilty? It’s a note from another man, isn’t it?’
Tiniker looked away. ‘No,’ she muttered.
‘What is it then?’
‘It’s a warning,’ she said before adding more confidently, ‘about the army arriving.’
Alfred shook his head. He didn’t believe her. She looked away, desperate to think of something to say.
‘Show me.’
Tiniker shook her head; tears welled in the corner of her eyes.
‘You’re hiding something.’ He frowned. ‘Every afternoon I come here and do everything you ask. It’s another man, isn’t it?’
His accusation stung. ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I love you, Alfred,’ she said, tears streaming down her cheeks.
‘I thought you were too good to be true,’ said Alfred as if resigning himself to his fears. ‘You’re beautiful, and you could have any man. Good things never happened to me.’
‘No,’ said Tiniker, tears rolling down her cheeks.
‘People who love each don’t have secrets,’ he said. ‘Nor do they tell lies.’ He barged past her as she sobbed. ‘Goodbye, Tiniker.’
*
The finality of those words hit Alfred just as hard as he emerged from the gloom of her house to the glare of the grey evening sky.
The street was deserted. Whoever her mystery messenger was, he’d gone. Alfred wiped a tear from his eye. He shouldn’t have come — her arrival in his life coincided too readily with Lynn’s departure. She had been sent to taunt him; it would have been better never to have worked his hopes up. He cursed himself for allowing himself to believe that she could be real.
This wouldn’t do, he said to himself, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. There was much to be done at camp, and then he had soldiers to fight.
37
‘Where the hell are they?’ demanded Robert as he paced the floor tiles of the hallway. ‘They should be back by now.’
His thoughts battled for attention against the hum of the lively discussions taking place in the dining room next door. William looked doubtful. Their scouts had left for the city shortly after the army had arrived, and they were supposed to be back at Surrey House by seven o’clock. It was now a little after eight.
‘Steward will betray you,’ repeated Mayor Codd.
‘Mayor, if you don’t leave this room immediately, I will have you thrown in a cell.’ Robert pointed to the door that led down the steps to the cellar. ‘Indefinitely.’
The mayor shuffled out of the hallway in the direction of the kitchen. Robert felt a surge of relief to have finally rid himself of the presence that had slowly chipped away at his patience.
‘Robert, we may yet need the mayor,’ said William.
‘He won’t be hard to find. He’s spent the past week closer to me than my own shadow.’
The door from the dining room opened, filling the hall with the emboldened rhetoric of the representatives within. Anders Marshwell rested his hand on the knob, and his weight against the doorframe.
‘Are they back?’
William shook his head.
‘I think you two should come back in.’ Anders’ tone suggested things were getting worse.
Robert sighed and followed his brother through to the dining room, determined not to succumb to the blood lust of ignorant men.
*
Parr had expected to face the strongest rebel advance, closest to the heath, at the barricades in the shadow of the cathedral. General Cornwallis had done a thorough job. His soldiers had relieved the neighbouring houses of their tables, barrels, floorboards and together with a fruit cart, dragged them across the street shielding the men at arms that knelt behind them. At the centre of the barricade, amongst the assemble of wooden materials, was a small porthole from which it was just possible to make out the muzzle of a cannon.
‘They won’t see it until it’s too late.’
Parr nodded. ‘Your arquebusiers? ’
‘In position. Out of sight.’
‘Well, if I can’t see them, the rebels won’t either. Good work. The foundries are making you extra shot as we speak.’
‘I doubt we’ll need it, sir.’
‘Well, I am leaving nothing to chance. Small details can make all the difference.’
Cornwallis nodded.
Parr looked beyond the barricade down the street. The flint wall of the cathedral precinct on one side and a row of houses on the other made the perfect corridor into which the rebels would be funnelled as they rounded the corner from Bishopsgate.
The curfew had ensured the streets were deserted. Windows were shuttered. Doors bolted. This desertion had made apprehending Kett’s returning scouts easy.
They would, under torture, be revealing their secrets at this very moment.
The light was fading. A breeze stroked Parr’s face, taking with it the stench of the city. The threat of rain had passed, much to the gunners’ relief; they would not need to worry about their powder getting damp.
‘Anybody passing to the north of the cathedral has to pass through your barricade. Nobody passes you,’ ordered Parr, pointing at Cornwallis.
Parr’s plan was robust, and his forces well prepared. But an ambush was only effective if it was a surprise.
‘Give them hell, general. You have my permission to kill anybody on these streets tonight. The rebels must be kept in the dark. You’ve got Lord Sheffield in reserve if you need him.’
*
‘No,’ said Robert, barely holding his temper as he stood. ‘This is not a violent movement. We must negotiate.’
Around the table sat as many of the camp’s representatives as could be seated, the rest leaning against the wood-panelled wall of Surrey House dining room. Two-thirds of them jeered. The rest exchanged whispers between themselves or stared at Robert. None came to his aid.
‘How,’ exclaimed Bossell, pointing his stubby finger at Kett from across the table, ‘can you say, now, that this isn’t a violent movement when a good number of our men lay buried in the very slope you commanded them to run down into a storm of arrows?’
‘Don’t simplify,’ pleaded Robert.
More jeers. Robert was losing their good faith. He needed a new approach. Behind Bossell, he caught a glimpse of Alfred stood by the door,
‘Fetch us some ale.’
Alfred shook his head. ‘I regret we have run out, sir.’
‘See,’ shouted Bossell. ‘We have no provisions. We will be starving by noon tomorrow.’
Bossell was right. Fifteen thousand people would not wait patiently with their bellies empty. Robert knew he had to get across the table from the army commander before the evening was out.
‘Very well,’ said Robert. ‘We will attack,’
People on both sides sprung from their seats amidst a contradictory chorus of cheers and boos.
‘After,’ shouted Robert making himself heard over their tumult. ‘I have visited their commander in person.’
The room fell silent.
‘I will negotiate our demands. If I am unsuccessful, we will attack.’
The room was still, only the movement of a few heads gently nodding.
Thank the Lord, thought Robert, common sense has prevailed.
‘No!’ came a voice.
Robert looked at him, askance.
‘No,’ repeated William shaking his head. ‘Brother, your intentions are honourable, but as the day is long, I swear you shall not return from the negotiations. Not at least with your head attached to your neck.’
What?
Did William not realise his words were committing hundreds to die and sealing their fate as outlaws?
‘Robert, if they had really wanted to negotiate they would have sent that lousy herald of theirs. Instead,’ he tapped the table with the blade of his hand, ‘they have come and taken positions and readied themselves for battle.’ He raised a finger, ‘If you, our leader, walk into their jaws, even with a thousand men for protection, they’ll take their opportunity.’
An uneasy silence hung in the stale air.
‘If they kill you, the rebellion dies.’
‘You,’ snapped Robert, ‘will take my place.’
‘And we’ll fight anyway,’ said William.
A murmur of agreement rippled through the room. ‘Robert, your death will achieve nothing and prevent nothing.’
‘Precisely,’ added Bossell. ‘Let us negotiate from a position of strength. With our numbers we cannot fail.’
Amongst the cheers and declarations of agreements, Robert was conscious of his failure. He’d lost the room. There was little sense in putting it to a vote. He was outnumbered and had been outmanoeuvred by Bossell, with his own brother to thank for nailing his coffin shut.
‘Very well,’ he said, meeting as many sets of eyes as he could. ‘I am only here because of what I believed was right and with all my heart I cannot find it within me to lead men once more in a course I cannot condone. If I no longer have your support, then I am no longer fit to lead.’ The room listened in stunned silence. ‘I wish you the very best for your attack tonight, but I will have no part in it.’
‘Robert,’ breathed William.
‘No, brother,’ interrupted Robert. ‘You’ve said quite enough already.’
Robert felt the pang in h
is stomach ease as he walked past the shocked faces of his representatives and left the room.
*
‘What will you do, Fulke?’
‘What the hell do you think I’ll do? I’m going, of course. I wouldn’t miss this for all the fools in government!’
Alfred smirked and wondered why he’d asked.
Adam Catchpole slapped Fulke on the back.
‘What about you, Geoffrey?’
Geoffrey Lincoln shook his head. ‘No.’
‘What do you mean, no?’ snapped Fulke ‘You staying loyal to that old windbag, Kett?’
Adam laughed and pointed to Geoffrey’s guts.
Geoffrey nodded. ‘Poor Geoff’s got the trots!’ grinned Adam.
‘Worried about shitting your breeches are you, Geoffrey?’ asked Fulke.
‘Yeah, you’ll never let me live it down.’
‘Ah well, your loss.’
The atmosphere in the camp was noisy, one of confusion and uncertainty, as people debated between themselves what to do. News of John Bossell’s challenge to Mr Kett had been met with mixed reactions. Those that had wanted violence were glad of their chance to act. Those that believed in Mr Kett, which seemed to Alfred to be the vast majority of the camp, were left bewildered. A rumour circulated that a few people were packing up their things and going home. Alfred was past caring what happened. If men far cleverer than he couldn’t make their minds up, how could he know what was right?
He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, tucked into his belt.
It calmed his busy nerves, although they were not as bad as the time before.
He knew he had what it took to fight.
Last time, he’d set off with nothing than a blunt kitchen knife. Now he had the sword he’d scavenged from the battle. He’d cleaned and greased the blade and sharpened it so much he dare not touch it.
He watched Fulke retie his bootlaces and search for his cleaver. Master Peter’s words came back to him, and he wondered if it could be true, would Fulke have murdered his own parents? Alfred imagined his parents trapped in their burning house and shuddered at the thought.
