by Tim Holden
‘You staying here to scrub Kett’s backside, then?’
‘No, I am not,’ replied Alfred, indignant. ‘I’m coming too. It’s what we came here for.’
He wasn’t sure it was, especially since Mr Kett hadn’t sanctioned the attack, but the sight of Master Peter having his arm cut off and the discovery that Tiniker had another man had left Alfred feeling that somebody should be made to suffer for the things he’d witnessed today.
‘Good lad,’ replied Fulke, cuffing Alfred’s arm.
‘Right then, I’m ready,’ said Fulke, ‘Let’s leave these cowards and join with the rest at the oak tree.’
*
The livestock pen had been commandeered to corral the cavalry horses. Most of the horses slept with their saddles on. A few cast their noses about the ground in search of the last of the hay that been spread about their hooves earlier. Parr had retired to Steward’s house for dinner, so Sheffield had volunteered to keep watch in the marketplace. He stroked a horse’s nose as it chewed. As his fingers touched the soft pad of the drowsy beast’s snout, he pondered how it was that a horse could be so docile one moment, then so strong and alert the next. The glow of the bonfire reflected in the animal’s eye. Sheffield watched as hot embers drifted skywards.
An hour earlier he’d followed Parr’s messenger sent to the heath with a note inviting Kett to negotiate. Sheffield had intercepted him and volunteered to take the message himself. When the messenger had refused, Sheffield had stuck the point of his knife into the man’s guts. He’d kept the note to show Lady Mary. It was scrunched up in his purse. Now returning to the door of the guildhall, he saw a string of small, bright flashes coming from the direction of the heath. Moments later he heard the unmistakable faint bangs of distant cannons firing. In the near distance behind the houses surrounding the marketplace, he heard breaking glass and cracking timber as the cannonballs thumped into their unsuspecting targets.
Sheffield stretched out his arms.
Good for you, he thought and went to fetch his horse.
*
The rebels charged, down the bank, over their buried brethren and splashed into the river. Alfred’s heart pounded as he struggled through the water and climbed the far bank, the blade of his sword glistening in the moon’s light. The defences were empty, deserted. They made their way past Tiniker’s house and up Bishopsgate, towards the cathedral.
*
The soldiers, positioned just past the sharp bend at the end of Bishopsgate, sat crouched behind their barricades. The rebel cannon fire had ceased. Now came rebel voices. Through the gaps in the barricade, the soldiers peeked out at the road in front. In the moonlight the rebel’s faces appeared at the end of the street, closely followed by more, carrying burning torches. They poured around the corner, swept along by the momentum of those behind them as they pushed farther into the narrow street. Spotting the barricade, the rebels realised their path was blocked and alarm rippled through their ranks.
The soldiers remained as still as statues.
There was no turning back for the rebels, and their walk quickened to a jog, weapons raised aloft. The night air filled with the roar of their battle cries. Behind the barricade came a short fizz of tinder burning as a flint was struck, a hiss of gunpowder then a bang loud enough to make ears bleed. A bulk of broken flints flew forth. Screams erupted from the rebels as the men at the centre of their approach were cut to ribbons.
Parr’s trap was sprung.
*
In Surrey House, Robert finished his wine and put his empty tankard down on the table. He felt numb. Too tired to think, too ill at ease to sleep. As Wednesday passed silently into Thursday he watched the distant flashes of cannon muzzles briefly illuminate the streets of Norwich, and the cathedral briefly lit by small flashes followed by the crack of gunfire. Wherever Bossell had taken his followers, they would come across an opposition unlike anything to which they were accustomed.
How has it come to this? Robert wondered.
He felt lousy. Beaten. Sick. He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Alice. He hadn’t even heard her come into the room.
‘How is he?’ asked Robert, referring to Master Peter in the next room.
‘Feverish, sleeping,’ said Alice softly. ‘He’s dreaming. Making some funny noises.’
She put her arms around Robert’s waist and leaned to the side to see out of the window. ‘What do you hope for them?’
‘I don’t know. Victory, I suppose. A safe return. Or a quick death.’
Alice said nothing. He knew she would want to know what he planned to do next, but he loved her all the more for not asking him tonight. That was a decision for a different day. He closed his eyes, as another boom punctuated the night air. He heard the shriek of a horse whinnying, the clash of steel, the screams of men.
‘Come to bed, love. There’s no good to come from listening to this.’
She was right. There was nothing more he could do.
It was some time later when their bedroom door flew open, a worried-looking William entering the room. Robert lay awake on his bed. Still dressed.
‘Brother?’
‘Robert, get up.’
Robert heaved himself up from the bed and followed William downstairs. The house was quiet. Mayor Codd stood in the hallway next to a panic-stricken man holding his cap in his hands. His skin was splashed with blood.
‘They ambushed us,’ he trembled.
‘Now, lad, take a deep breath and steady yourself. Tell me what happened.’
‘We crossed the river, no problem. As we got close to the cathedral they’d blocked off the roads, when we got close,’ the man shook, ‘they opened fire, cannon cut right through our lads. They had gunners on the rooftops. We tried to retreat, but their horses charged us from behind. They come out of nowhere.’ Tears welled in his eyes. ‘We was trapped.’
‘Did anyone survive?’
The man’s lip trembled. ‘They were cutting us down as we ran away.’
‘Bossell?’
The man shook his head.
‘Robert, there could be our men still trapped in the city. It will be daylight shortly. They will be killed if they’re caught,’ said William.
Robert nodded and let out a deep sigh.
He would have to lead after all.
38
1st August, Norwich
Fulke woke with a start. His mouth was bone dry. It took a moment to remember where he was. He’d slept tucked up against a wall, under a window. Above him was a thatched roof. He pulled himself up onto his elbows, his body stiff from fighting. Alfred lay fast asleep on the floorboards. Stealing a look through the window, Fulke quickly drew back. They were directly over the enemy barricade. He watched a soldier take a piss against the wall. Behind the barricade rested the cannon, a small barrel of powder and a pile of flints and stone shot. Soldiers crouched against the barricade. Those farther back looked tired but wary. In front of the barricade the street was covered with the bloodstains of rebels.
Fulke thought back over the events of last night.
With the luck of the devil, he and Alfred had been at the rear of the rebel attack. They’d been following the others when the cannon fired into their front ranks, and gunners, posted on the rooftops, began firing from above. Fortunately, he and Alfred had been in the shadow of the buildings. Their problems had started when the cavalry took up the rear, and they had almost been crushed against the wall. In the stampede that followed, Fulke had been winded and had dropped his meat cleaver, but they had managed to push their way clear as the troops on horseback hacked into the nearest rebels. Fulke grinned, remembering picking up a discarded hatchet and throwing it at a horseman, knocking the man forward with a single blow. He’d been unseated by some rebels and killed.
Together, a handful of rebels had retreated down to Bishopsgate, but their hopes of going that way were cut short by the arrival of more cavalry who gave chase.
Fulke and Alfred had run as fast as they could, leavin
g the slowest to be trampled beneath the charging horses. Fulke vowed to kill at least two of the enemy to make up for the shame of running.
Alfred coughed and shifted position.
‘Fulke?’
Startled, he got to his feet.
‘Where are we?’
‘Take a look for yourself,’ said Fulke in a hushed voice.
Alfred walked over to the window, swore and ducked out of sight.
Fulke grinned.
‘What happened?’ he whispered, looking confused.
‘We were chased by cavalry,’ said Fulke in a hushed tone, ‘past the hospital and through the orchards until we got cut off by the river.’
Across the silvery surface of the river, the street on far side had also been barricaded. Cavalry patrolled the road back to camp. They were trapped. They’d crept through some gardens and broken into this house, relieved to find it empty.
Alfred nodded as the images came back to him. ‘What about Adam?’
Fulke shook his head. ‘Didn’t see him.’
‘What’s the plan?’ asked Alfred.
Above them, the thatch rustled, and they heard men talking. Alfred froze. Fulke squinted and put his finger to his lips. The gunners were on the roofs above them.
‘Where’s your sword?’
Alfred shook his head and whispered, ‘I lost it.’
They were unarmed.
Downstairs, the front door creaked open.
*
Lord Sheffield stepped out of the Maid’s Head tavern to be greeted by birdsong. He’d been up all night. Now, after a hearty breakfast of ham, eggs and cheese washed down with local ale, he was tired and uncertain what to do next. The rebels had blindly wandered into Parr’s ambush, and those that hadn’t been slaughtered had been repelled.
No word as yet on the fate of Kett.
If he were dead, then Sheffield’s plot would be a failure. Not a prospect he relished relaying to Princess Mary. His orders had been to remain in the marketplace and reinforce any defences that threatened collapse under rebel attack. The trumpeters had sounded, so he’d sent the smallest number of reinforcement he could, but the rebels had been trapped like fish in a barrel.
After the fighting, he’d counted their corpses. Three hundred had forfeited their lives in the attack.
The new day brought an end to the curfew, but only those with a pressing need would brave the city’s streets. In front of him a few people moved busily through the open area between the cathedral and Steward’s house, anxiously looking over their shoulders as they walked.
Sheffield fetched his horse, tethered to the railings outside the tavern. His limbs were tired from yesterday’s ride, and his sore backside protested as he positioned himself back in the saddle. Sheffield turned his animal and caught sight of the herald running towards him from the east. He looked excited. He must have news, thought Sheffield. He positioned his horse in the middle of the street to block the herald’s path.
‘A party of thirty rebels has arrived at the gate on the other side of the river.’ The herald pointed north. ‘They are surrendering!’
Sheffield concealed his alarm.
‘Is Kett amongst them?’
The herald shook his head. ‘They claim to represent Kett and all the rebels.’
‘Very well, notify Parr. We better go and greet their demise.’
While Sheffield reconciled himself to the opportunity lost, the herald roused Parr and Deputy Mayor Steward from the latter’s home. A short while later, accompanied by twenty knights and as many men at arms, they travelled the short distance over the bridge, past another barricade, which had yet to see any fighting, and at the end of the street, they mounted the tight spiral staircase of the flint gatehouse.
From the top they looked over a posse of rebels gathered on the far side of the ditch.
‘I am William Parr, commander of His Majesty’s Forces. Present yourselves.’
A broad man with a large forehead raised his arm. ‘My name is Miles. I represent Mr Kett and his followers. It is our wish that we might discuss peace with your good selves, such that more men may be spared the loss of their lives.’
Parr’s head gently nodded. ‘You seek a pardon?’
‘A pardon, sir? We maintain we have no need for a pardon as we have done nothing wrong.’
Parr smirked. ‘Are you prepared to surrender your weapons and return to your homes?’
Miles nodded.
‘Yes.’
*
In the sanctuary of their bedroom at Surrey House, Robert hugged Alice as if his life depended on her. Neither spoke. It would only be a matter of hours before he would know whether his gamble had paid off. With so many lives at stake, these promised to be some of the longest moments of his life. He cupped her wiry hair against her head with the palm of his hand, inhaling her scent. With nothing to do but hope and pray, he broke their embrace, and together they knelt at the foot of the small bed. With their eyes closed and their palms pressed together, Robert spoke his prayer out loud. He offered thanks to the Lord and asked for him to grant them and their people safe passage through the day.
When he ran out of words, Alice continued, asking that their children, and that their children, would be granted peace, prosperity and love. She wiped a tear from her eye as she spoke. She reminded the Almighty of two lives lived full of good deeds and asked that he grant their endeavours with his grace.
*
Alfred stood facing the wooden planks of the door that concealed their whereabouts. Slow and purposeful footsteps echoed from the room downstairs.
He heard a man’s voice. ‘Show yourselves if you want the Lord’s mercy.’
The accent was strange.
Fulke pressed his back against the wall and shook his head. He moved toward the door, careful not to make any noise.
The footsteps came up the stairs and stopped outside the door. From the centre of the room Alfred watched the black metal latch rise with a clunk. The door slowly swung open, its hinges creaking as it opened. Alfred trembled at the sight of the soldier. He was short with tanned skin and the beginnings of a beard. He wore a metal helmet and breastplate that covered a scarlet tunic. He had a small knife in a sheath on his belt, and in his hand, a raised sword pointed toward Alfred. He smirked. ‘On your knees, rebel.’
Alfred shook his head. ‘I am not a rebel.’
The soldier spat on the floor. ‘Then I am a lady of the court. On your knees,’ he barked.
Alfred took a step back.
‘Knees, boy.’
Alfred fell to his knees and bowed his head. ‘I beg of you, believe me, this is my house. I am not a rebel.’
As the soldier stepped through the doorway into the room, he rested the tip of his sword against Alfred’s heart.
‘If this is your house, what colour is the tapestry that hangs downstairs?’
Alfred had no idea.
‘Red and green.’ he guessed.
He heard the soldier laugh, and felt the tip of the blade spike his chest.
From behind the open door, Fulke stepped up behind the intruder and whipped the soldier’s knife from his belt, slashing its edge across the man’s throat. There was a gurgling noise, and Alfred found himself covered in a spray of warm blood. The soldier collapsed with a thud. He gasped for air as blood flooded from his neck across the floor into the gaps between the floorboards, surprise etched onto his face. He put a hand over his throat in a vain attempt to stem the blood.
Fulke grinned. ‘One down, one to go,’ he said.
Alfred shuddered. There was noise from the thatch above. The soldiers on the roof shouted. They must have heard their comrade hit the floor.
‘Here, take this,’ said Fulke passing Alfred the knife.
Fulke picked up the dead soldier’s sword and ran downstairs. He bolted the front door closed. Outside, the soldiers on the street shouted as they realised there was a problem. They tried the latch. They banged on the door.
Amid mor
e shouting outside, Fulke ran back upstairs.
Alfred was still on his knees, staring at the dead man.
Fulke patted the body up and down. ‘Come on, help me search him.’
‘What for?’ asked Alfred.
Fulke lifted the body over and dropped it face down, and the corpse twitched as the last of life’s magic vanished. Fulke found a small leather pouch fastened to the soldier’s belt above his backside. Inside, he found what he’d been looking for: a flint, a steel and a small pouch of tinder — essentials carried by soldiers on campaign to keep themselves warm and fed.
Fulke now placed a wad of tinder on the surface of the flint and struck it with the steel. Sparks flew, but the tinder didn’t take.
The banging on the front door grew louder.
Fulke struck again. There were more shouts above their heads from the rooftop. He struck again, and again. This time a spark landed in the fluff of the tinder, which started to glow.
Fulke blew on the small flame. ‘Alfred, you’re taller than me. Put this to the thatch.’
‘But we’ll be burned?’
Fulke snarled, ‘Just do it.’
At the corner of the room nearest the street, Alfred held the flame to the underside of the thatch. The dry stalks of reed smouldered and took the flame, and Alfred blew to fan the flames. He’d blown too hard.
It went out.
‘You stupid leper,’ barked Fulke.
Alfred blew on the tinder and held the flame to the thatch again. This time it caught quickly. He watched as the bright orange light spread across its surface, turning into a soft flicker. He waited, listening to the shouts above and the banging below. He blew, and this time the flame billowed. Fulke unstrapped the dead soldier’s metal breastplate and used it fan the fire, and the room started to fill with smoke. Fulke smashed the window to let the air in, causing the flames to surge. There was panicked shouting from above as the smoke leached through the top of the thatch. In the street, they could hear the soldiers arguing. In no time, the roof was ablaze. The room grew hot as it filled with smoke.
