by Tim Holden
Alfred followed Fulke downstairs.
The front door shook in its frame as soldiers frantically tried to kick it open.
‘What now?’ asked Alfred.
‘We wait.’
They heard a soldier jump from the roof and shout in pain as he landed on the street. The intensity of the fire drew air upwards, creating a draft downstairs, and the roar of the flames grew as the timbers of the roof took.
‘We’ll burn.’
Fulke laughed. ‘I know what I’m doing.’
Fulke’s words reminded Alfred of Master Peter’s warning, moments before his arm was cut off.
‘Fulke,’ said Alfred loud enough to be heard over the fire, ‘is it true you burned your parents?’
An evil grin spread across Fulke’s square face. Above them, a roof timber collapsed, causing the building to shake. The banging on the front door stopped. The window next to the door was shuttered, so Fulke pressed his face against the wooden boards and peered through the gap. He watched as a soldier climbed the barricade in a hurry and lost his footing. He fell and landed on his chin. He lay on the street, doubled up in pain. A lump of burning thatch landed on him. There was a loud bang, and a bright flash as the soldier’s powder purse exploded, showering his smoking entrails all around him. His dying screams sent panic through the fleeing troops as they sought safety behind their defences.
With the soldier’s sword in hand, Fulke unbolted the front door. The last of the soldiers was mounting the barricade. Alfred felt bile rise in his throat as he watched Fulke plunge his sword into the man’s kidney, who screamed in pain and fell in a heap at the foot of the barricade. ‘That’s two,’ said Fulke.
*
Fulke felt the immense heat warm his head and back. He glanced along the street, to see that the fire had spread to the neighbouring houses. A trumpet sounded as the royal soldiers cowered away from the flames farther down the street to the rear of their barricade. He heard a whoosh above him as the blazing thatch fell through, sending a large puff of smoke out from the open roof. He leapt over the barricade and rolled the powder keg against the cannon. Fulke removed the barrel’s lid, leaving the explosive black dust facing the elements. He looked up at the sky filled with floating embers of reeds. Two soldiers dashed towards him and then thought better of it when they realised it was a giant tinderbox they were entering. Fulke leapt back over the barricade and ran back into the smoke-filled house.
‘Let’s go,’ shouted Fulke to Alfred, who was crouched on the floor with his sleeve over his mouth.
Fulke unbolted the rear door to on the back garden. There was a bright flash, as an explosion tore through the house and threw them to the floor. The ground shook, followed by silence. His ears ringing, Fulke regained his footing. He poked his head clear of the front door. The air was thick with the smell of rotten eggs. The barricade had been smashed to pieces, scattering debris across the street. A small crater of scorched black earth was all that was left of the gunpowder barrel. The cannon had been thrown against the flint wall opposite. Thrilled, Fulke felt his senses recovering. Figures at the end of the street were approaching from Bishopsgate. He ducked back in and closed the door behind him, then joined Alfred in the garden at the rear of the house.
They climbed the fence and dropped down into the orchard beyond.
Handfuls of men were running between the fruit trees. ‘Are they ours?’ asked Alfred.
‘They’re carrying sickles and axes. They must be.’
The first party of rebels ran in their direction.
‘What’s happening?’ asked Alfred.
A rebel crouched down beside them, short of breath. ‘Kett’s launched a counter-attack. We’re swarming the whole eastern side. Every man who is fit and able is headed in this direction.
Fulke grinned. Kett had grown a backbone after all.
*
From the top of Pockthorpe gate, William Parr heard the blast of a trumpet. He turned just in time to see a plume of orange flame erupt over the distant rooftops. Then came the bang.
‘That’s your barricade at Bishopsgate,’ said Steward, trepidation carved into his face.
‘Look to the right, they’re moving through the orchards on the far side of the river,’ said Parr. ‘This charade is a decoy!’ He faced the posse of rebels gathered in front of the gate. ‘You’ll hang, everyone one of you,’ he shouted.
Steward placed his hand on Parr’s forearm. ‘Your grace, if we don’t cross the bridge soon, they will cut us off from the body of your forces.’
Parr cursed Kett. If the treacherous tanner were here, he’d gut him himself. He forced himself to suppress his anger.
‘Sheffield, take these knights and men at arms, cross the bridge and drive the rebels back.’
‘Very well, sir.’
‘Now, man, move!’ screamed Parr.
*
Sheffield ran down the spiral staircase, his mind racing as fast as his feet, wondering how he could legitimately fail his orders whilst appearing to comply.
He mounted his horse and shouted to the assembled cavalry, ‘Right men, head for the fire, make haste.’
It was the order the cavalry had been waiting for, and with their lances held aloft they broke into a canter automatically forming ranks of three with Sheffield following to their rear. As they crossed the bridge, rebels appeared to be impaled on their lances. More streamed forward and were trampled by the horses. A sickle flew through the air, piercing a knight in his face, who was pulled from his stead, kicked and beaten. Sheffield passed the rebels, swinging his sword and decapitating one of them. The men at arms followed on foot, over the bridge, and drove their pikes into the huddle of rebels, easily overpowering them.
Sheffield followed the cavalry past a church into the street where their barricade had stood. The street was littered with the blast debris. The houses on the left were burning. The rebels were skirting the walls, moving forward carefully to avoid the heat of the burning houses. The cavalry gave chased as the rebels as retreated. The horses mowed down the men Sheffield was supposed to be helping.
He stopped by the remnants of the barricade and wondered what to do.
*
Fulke moved stealthily through the churchyard, Alfred behind him, as the cavalry charged past. Rebels clashed with soldiers in the open area in front of the church. Beyond the fighting, reinforcements approached from the direction of the marketplace. If he ran into the melee, he and Alfred would soon be outnumbered. He stepped out from the shadow of the church tower and looked down the street where the barricade had been.
The cavalry had cleared the rebels. Only one man on horseback remained. He didn’t wear a helmet or armour, but his clothes were fine.
‘Silly man,’ muttered Fulke, ‘Follow me, Alfred.’
Fulke ran crouched over as he approached the solitary rider from behind. He kept as close to the burning houses as he could manage. He drove his sword point into the horse’s flank, between the rib cage and the rear leg. The hilt hit the animal’s flesh before it had a chance to react. It lurched forward with a howl of pain, unseating the unsuspecting rider who landed on his back with a thud that knocked the air clear from his lungs. The horse landed on its back legs and crumpled in a convulsing mass as it thrashed its front legs, desperately trying to escape the pain of the sword lodged in its belly.
Fulke stood over the fallen rider with a broad smile on his face. He watched the man fight for breath, unable to speak.
‘Alfred, pass me your knife.’
Alfred hesitated. ‘Fulke what are you going to do?’
‘Teach this fellow a lesson he won’t forget.’
Fulke smiled as the man on the floor waved his arms, shaking his hands and his head. ‘Alfred, pass the knife.’
Alfred refused. He picked up the fallen man’s sword instead.
Fulke smiled. ‘Very well, we’ll do this the old fashioned way.’ He dropped to his knees, pinning his victim’s arms to the ground. Fulke brushed the man’
s cheeks and thin moustache with the backs of his fingers and stroked his hair with a tenderness of a parent caring for a child.
‘What is it you’re trying to tell me?’ asked Fulke.
The man gasped for air in short burst. ‘Lord Sheffield,’ he sputtered, ‘don’t kill me,’
‘Oh, you’re important, are you?’ asked Fulke as he placed his hands on the man’s throat.
Lord Sheffield nodded. ‘I am a nobleman.’
‘I know,’ said Fulke, his hands started to squeeze.
The man’s eyes bulged, terror written on his face.
‘Ransom me,’ he pleaded in his strained voice. ‘A fortune for you.’
Fulke smiled. ‘All the money in the land couldn’t buy this.’
‘Fulke, stop,’ said Alfred, horrified.
Fulke tightened his grip as hard as his strong hands could squeeze. He laughed as Sheffield’s face turned purple.
‘Fulke. Stop,’ repeated Alfred.
Sheffield’s eyeballs turned upward like a man falling asleep. He kicked his legs helplessly against the ground as Fulke threatened to squeeze the last of his life out of him. Fulke released his grip allowing in a moment’s air. Sheffield coughed and inhaled, with Fulke’s hands resting limply on his neck. Fulke lowered himself so their noses were nearly touching.
He squeezed again, crushing Sheffield’s throat between his fingers. ‘Goodbye, Lordy,’ he whispered before kissing the lord on the lips as he gripped with one final squeeze and pressed the life from the nobleman’s body. When Sheffield’s body stopped moving, Fulke inhaled, gulping from himself the last of the man’s strength.
Alfred retched.
Fulke stood up and felt power surge through his body. His muscles rippled, and he sneered at Alfred cowering against the wall. ‘Keep your sword then.’ Fulke looked back towards the church. A group of three soldiers on foot headed directly towards them. Fulke faced them, spread his arms wide and roared to invite them to do their best.
He was unarmed and smiling like a madmen. ‘Alfred, how about that sword now?’
Alfred grabbed the knife they had taken from the soldier in the house and threw it at Fulke’s feet.
Fulke waited until the last moment. As the soldiers arrived, Fulke ducked the sword that swung at him, grabbing the knife from the floor. He shoulder-barged the first attacker into the next one as he rose. The soldier nearest the wall swung at Alfred.
Alfred swerved, and the soldier’s sword sparked against the flint wall.
Alfred kicked his attacker in the groin. He buckled over in pain.
Alfred plunged his sword down into the soldier’s back, crunching against his ribs.
Fulke struck his man in the face and bayed the other to take him on. His savageness caused the soldier to hesitate. Fulke leapt forward, his shoulder hitting the closest soldier in the stomach, knocking him off his feet. Alfred sliced his sword across the arm of the other. Fulke grabbed his man and twisted him round into his grip and held his blade to the man’s throat. The remaining soldier took a step back, his arm turning red. He held his sword up in one hand and showed the palm of the other as he retreated slowly.
Beyond, Alfred saw six more soldiers coming. ‘Fulke.’
Fulke, his blade still poised over the soldier’s throat, nodded. ‘Back off, you lot, and I’ll let your mate go.’
The injured soldier continued pacing backwards in Fulke’s grip.
At ten yards distance, Fulke lowered his knife and turned the man he held to the right. With both arms, he shoved the man clear, straight into the burning buildings. The oncoming soldiers gave chase. Fulke was confident they could outrun the armoured soldiers.
Around the bend at the end of Bishopsgate, they came face to face with the returning cavalry. They were pinned, soldiers to their rear, cavalry to their front.
To their left were the hospital and its gardens.
To their right, another wall, waist high.
‘They killed Lord Sheffield, those two,’ shouted a soldier.
Without saying a word, Fulke and Alfred scrambled over the wall and ran for their lives. Glancing over his shoulder, he watched as two horses leapt the wall and galloped after them in pursuit. They ran through vegetables, herbs, over grass patches, night soil heaps between fruit trees, and behind them, the thunder of horses’ hooves grew louder and lounder.
Fulke could hear the panting of the horses’ breath. He twisted round to take another look and heard Alfred shriek as a lance punctured his left arm.
The force knocked Alfred off his feet and slammed him into the ground. He screamed in agony as he tried to stand but collapsed.
Fulke dashed back and wrapped his arm around him.
‘Alfred, quick, get up, they’re coming back.’
Fulke pulled Alfred to his feet as the two cavalrymen circled to resume their charge.
Fulke looked about for a place of safety. The gardens were open, nowhere to hide. Alfred pointed with his good arm. ‘There’.
Fulke looked along the row of houses and saw the shuttered window Alfred was pointing to. It was the house of Alfred’s fancy girl. ‘Come on then,’ said Fulke, taking Alfred’s weight. Alfred stumbled and fell to his knees, screaming as the pain seared through his arm. His sleeve was soaked in blood. Alfred’s head flopped forward. He was passing out. His legs wouldn’t move.
The horses thundered towards them — the riders lowered their lances ready for the kill.
39
On Whitefriars Bridge, Parr watched the fighting from the vantage of his saddle. He cursed the rebels as they poured forward like rats fleeing a fire, blocking his route back to the marketplace.
‘Steward,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘We can’t cross here. Take me back to the marketplace another way.’
Steward kicked his mare and led Parr in a trot up Fishergate and across the river over the next bridge upstream. The royal herald trailed behind, running as fast as he could. As they passed the Maid’s Head and Steward’s house, rebels appeared through the cathedral gates. Parr kicked his horse into a canter. The rebels shouted at the sight of their quarry passing. Parr felt a gush of air just behind his head, and a spade clattered on the ground, just missing him. His horse shrieked in pain and lost its footing. Parr glanced back and saw an arrow buried in the animal’s rump. He kicked it as hard as he could, drawing level with Steward on his inside. The next arrow pierced the horse’s ribs, flattening it and throwing Parr forward. He leapt clear of the saddle and landed on his feet. He grabbed Steward’s leg, leapt up and wrenched the deputy mayor clear from his seat.
Steward was left stunned in the dust as Parr mounted his horse and galloped back towards the marketplace.
*
Alfred heaved himself through the open window, as Fulke pushed him from underneath. He slid through and thumped to the floor, screaming in agony as his landing reverberated through his injured arm. Behind him, the smashed shutters hung limp on one hinge as Fulke’s block-shaped head and hands appeared at the window. He grunted as he flung himself in, using Alfred to break his fall. Outside, the sound of the horses’ hooves passed the window.
Fulke laughed with relief, but Alfred was still groaning from cushioning Fulke’s landing.
He turned very pale.
‘Who goes there?’
A startled young woman stood in the doorway, brandishing a cooking knife in her hand. Her face relaxed when she recognised Alfred, but her mouth fell open when she saw his blood-soaked sleeve.
‘You’re hurt.’ She ran over.
Alfred let out a groan that rose from somewhere deep inside of him. Fulke admired her figure as she felt Alfred’s forehead. ‘You’re cold.’
Alfred leant over and vomited a thick, stodgy mouthful of bile and food onto the rush matting. She wiped his mouth and held back his hair. His body went limp in her arms, and she stroked his hair. ‘Ssshhh.’ She looked at Fulke, who found himself admiring her blue eyes and her blonde hair.
‘What happened?’ she asked.<
br />
‘He was lanced,’ said Fulke as he peeked out of the window for any sign of the final rider. ‘Lucky for him he was with me, otherwise he’d be dead.’
‘I’m Tiniker.’
‘I can see why he likes you,’ said Fulke.
She ignored his compliment, and Alfred groaned in pain as he lay slumped across her thighs.
‘Help me,’ said Tiniker. ‘Let’s lay him flat so I can take a look at his arm.’
She took his legs while Fulke lifted his torso, causing another agonising groan from Alfred. They laid him down, and Fulke caught a whiff of the girl’s scent. Once Alfred was flat, Tiniker used her knife to slice his sleeve. Then she cut his shirt down the side and peeled the material clear of his wounds. The ball of his arm was torn open, leaving a clean slice of flesh hanging from it. She couldn’t tell if his arm was broken. There would be plenty of bruising. ‘I’ve seen worse injuries. He should survive, provided it doesn’t become infected. I need you to pee on his arm.’
Fulke grunted.
‘It will clean his wound.’
Fulke stared at Tiniker, who obligingly turned away as he untied his codpiece and fished for his manhood. His exertions had robbed it of its size, so he turned his back at Tiniker and started to piss.
Alfred groaned as it stung his wound.
‘Wat is er gaande?’ came a feeble voice from the corner of the room.
‘Margreet, Nu bovenaan!’ barked Tiniker.
The young girl at the foot of the stairs was pretty, but awkward-looking. Her sister, Fulke assumed. Alfred’s found himself a right little foreign pleasure nest here, he said to himself.
Alfred groaned again as the young girl scurried away.
‘Please, give me some space,’ said Tiniker as she knelt to examine his wound.
Fulke watched Tiniker as she cared for Alfred. She looked like she knew what she was doing.
From outside, came the shouts of people fighting and screaming. Fulke decided that was preferrable to the sound of Alfred’s whimpering and the smell of his sick. There was still fighting to be had, and he’d been forced to run away again. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
