Spirals of Fate

by Tim Holden

  ‘Very well,’ said Tiniker, ‘show yourself out.’ she said, nodding the in the direction of the door.

  Fulke slid the bolt clear and closed the door behind him.

  *

  Parr had made it back unscathed to the relative calm of the marketplace. At the barricades, Parr’s soldiers fidgeted as they waited for their enemy. Steward’s horse twitched its legs as he decided where to position himself, whilst Parr wrestled with what to do. Finally, he summoned four men to act as runners. They were to inspect each of the remaining barricades and report back. No sooner had they left, than soldiers poured back into the marketplace, bursting through their own defensive lines as they pushed their fellow soldiers out of the way. Parr trotted down the slope, screaming at his men to close the gap. His front line reformed and blocked off the street that led to the cathedral. Parr reached down and grabbed a soldier by the sleeve — his face was splatted with blood and was short of breath. ‘What is happening?’

  ‘There are thousands of them. Too many to hold.’

  Parr released the man’s arm. Around him, exhausted men were bent double from fighting. Now, at the far end of the street were gathered a mass of rebels, filling the street and taunting his troops: beckoning them forward with their hands, mocking, bearing their tails and waving their farm tools.

  Parr watched as one man pushed through the crowd of rebels. He had ginger hair and carried a longbow. He walked forward five paces and put an arrow to his bowstring. The rebels cheered. He drew back his bowstring with a sinister smile spread across his face. Parr felt himself twitch. The arrow flew, and a soldier screamed as it buried itself in his guts. Cheers and laughter rippled up the street from the rebels. The archer put another arrow to his bow, and the front line of soldiers shifted from side to side in a vain attempt to find safety. The archer waved his bow from left to right, imitating a drunk. The rebels put their thumbs in their armpits and flapped their arms like capons.

  ‘Somebody shoot that damned archer,’ yelled Parr.

  The next arrow flew. Another man fell. The line faltered.

  Parr leapt down from his horse. ‘Give me that gun,’ he said as he snatched an arquebus from a soldier who had just finished loading it.

  ‘Make way,’ he barked as he pushed his way to the front. He put the weapon to his shoulder, catching a whiff of the burning taper as it smouldered next to his right eye.

  ‘Five pennies for the man in the blue,’ he heard one of the rebels call.

  The archer took another arrow, but Parr pointed the gun, and the rebels fell silent. He pulled the trigger, and there was a flash as the gun recoiled, slamming into his shoulder, a bang and a puff of white smoke that clouded the street. A young man standing behind the archer fell.

  Parr grimaced at his miss.

  The rebels charged.

  Parr retreated and threw the gun to the ground.

  ‘Hold them,’ he ordered, leaving the soldiers to perform their duty.

  ‘Your grace,’ said William Walgrave, Parr’s elderly general. ‘The men return with tragic news. Lord Sheffield is dead. Murdered in cold blood.’

  Parr’s eyes swelled. All around him came the noise of the side streets filling with rebels. They were being overrun.

  *

  Robert and William stood in silence outside Surrey House in the late morning sun listening to the faint din of fighting in the city below. Their view was obscured by the smoke of burning houses that drifted up from the far end of Bishopsgate.

  ‘Robert!’ The brothers turned to see Luke Miller running towards them. ‘You’ve done it!’

  ‘Done what?’

  ‘Beaten them. They’re routed! You’ve done it,’ his speech was frantic as he drew breath.

  Robert felt his eyes well with tears. ‘Truly?’

  Luke nodded. ‘Oh yes, truly. They have fled like a scolded dog.’

  Robert grinned from ear to ear, raised his arms and shouted with all his might. He leapt up and down like a man thirty years his junior. His brother hugged him, and still he jumped.

  ‘We’ve done it,’ he yelled, his words drifting out over the city.

  ‘Robert Kett, the saviour of Norfolk,’ Luke cheered.

  *

  Fulke looked at the bodies on the street. Amongst them, Adam Catchpole, his shirt stained red around the chest wound that had claimed his life. Fulke carried on, puffing his chest out as he passed the barricade he’d destroyed. The street was still ablaze, but nobody made any attempt to put it out. He thought it was a shame the wind wasn’t stronger; the fire could have really spread. The open area in front of the church was deserted apart from a few people looting the fallen corpses on both sides. As he picked a path through the bodies, the ground was slippery with blood that clung to his soles.

  In Tombland, an angry mob of rebels crowded outside a doorway.

  Fulke approached and asked, ‘What’s going on here?’

  ‘It’s the deputy mayor’s house.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’s one of them, isn’t he?’ said the man, puzzled.

  Fulke snorted and barged his way through the people to try the door handle.

  ‘We had thought of that,’ said a man sarcastically, disgruntled at being barged out of the way.

  Fulke bent his elbow and pulled his right arm tight in against his torso. He sprung forward and barged into the door. There was a crack as the wood holding the bolt to the doorframe splintered. The door swung in and slammed against the wall. ‘Well, you didn’t try that, did you,’ he said, looking back at the man.

  Fulke walked in and gazed around the opulent hall as the rest of the mob piled into the house. An ornately-carved wooden staircase and balustrade dominated the hall. Tapestries and a painted portrait of the deputy mayor adorned the walls. The sideboards displayed clay ornaments, candlesticks and even a bowl of fresh apricots. Fulke headed for the kitchen, where he found a housekeeper trembling in the corner of the room. Fulke beat the man repeatedly round the torso. Satisfied that he’d established his command, he closed the door and ordered the battered housekeeper to prepare him a meal. Moments later, a plate of bread, butter, fried bacon and cheese appeared, which Fulke washed down with some wine.

  He didn’t especially care for wine, but when in Rome, as the saying goes.

  Fulke, having been briefly interrupted by some inquisitive rebels who he deterred from searching the kitchen, finished his meal and belched. His belly was full, and his pains numbed from the wine.

  ‘Clear up this mess,’ he ordered the housekeeper. ‘And I’ll be back this evening for roast meat. If it isn’t ready,’ he stared at the terrified servant who refused to meet his eye, ‘I’ll eat you.’

  He chuckled to himself as he left the kitchen. The other rebels had done a fine job of looting the house. The hallway had been cleared — only the portrait remained, but the deputy mayor’s face had been slashed with a knife.

  Fulke could hear an argument upstairs. Invigorated by his meal, he bounded up the steps two at time. In a large room, adjacent to the top of the stairs, a man in a black gown, who Fulke took to be the deputy mayor, protested that they leave his mechanical clock alone. Ignoring his pleas, a rebel smashed it with his hatchet, scattering brass cogs and springs all over the floor. The deputy mayor closed his eyes and fought for composure. Meanwhile, another rebel rummaged through papers on his desk. Finding nothing of value, he urinated on them.

  ‘All right, boys, that’s enough. Leave the man alone,’ said Fulke leaning against the doorframe.

  There was a moment’s hesitation between the rebels as they decided if they should follow his orders. ‘Come out, there’s nothing here for you.’

  The men ran out of the deputy mayor’s private chamber with bundles of clothes in their arms. Fulke and the deputy mayor were alone.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the deputy mayor.

  ‘Steward, isn’t it?’

  Fulke approached the important man, and Steward squirmed. Fulke stepped even closer. Close en
ough to smell the garlic on the man’s breath. Fulke raised his hand and stroked Steward’s cheek. His skin was cold and dry.

  ‘What is it you want?’ asked Steward.

  Fulke touched Steward’s hair, fascinated by the colour and texture. Grey. Coated in oil.

  Steward shuddered.

  Fulke looked at him. ‘I don’t know yet. But for now, just you remember that I saved you.’

  Steward summoned the resolved to meet Fulke gaze.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ said Fulke, wiping the hair oil on Steward’s gown. He turned and walked out. ‘Bye for now.’

  *

  Steward dashed over and closed the study door. He surveyed the destruction and tried to compose himself. On the floor lay the remnants of his clock. A piece of mechanical genius worth a fortune, smashed to pieces. What had they proved by its destruction? Steward sighed at the futility of it all. Outside his door he could hear the yelps of excitement from the rebels as they left his house, their arms full of his possessions. He hobbled to the window, grimacing in pain from his hip and his ribs. The former from being yanked clean from his horse, the latter from being assaulted whilst he lay on the ground.

  In the street below, a stream of people leaving his front door ran in different directions, clutching their loot. Smoke poured from behind the cathedral close. It had taken him years to accumulate his wealth; a life’s work had been pillaged. He stared at the cathedral spire as he’d done a thousand times before. The sky was filled with smoke and screams, and a heaviness grew in his chest. He’d invested heavily into this city, and the duty of his office demanded he make civic contributions — how many of those assets would be in ruins by nightfall? How much of a city would remain for him to officiate and trade in? He shuddered. The city was going down on his watch. Order must be restored at any cost. Those blasted fools from London cared not two hoots, and their incompetence had only made matters worse. Steward rubbed his face with palm of his hands and wondered what was to be done.

  Where, he asked himself, was the divinity in all this madness?

  *

  Fulke was irritated that the royals had fled so soon. His annoyance was partially eased by his act of mercy and his breakfast; it paid to have friends in high places. Nonetheless, his thirst for suffering had yet to be sufficiently slaked. Fulke entertained himself by taking a burning timber and using it to spread the fire. He torched nearby houses that had so far escaped the burning. He took some satisfaction from torching the hospital. It was a grand building, which roasted nicely once the mattresses and linen took light. Hotter than hell, he thought, as he watched the glass windows shatter.

  Above, the sky blackened with smoke.

  He’d set Norwich ablaze, but still he felt restless. Unfulfilled. He began to wonder why: the houses he’d burned were empty, his work was unopposed and unappreciated, he’d lacked the satisfaction of seeing peoples’ fear. He gave up and walked back down Bishopsgate toward the camp. He thought of Alfred and wondered if the foreign girl had saved him, and that reminded him of another need that had so far gone unfulfilled.

  He tried the door handle. It was still unlocked, so he pushed it open, taking care to avoid the watchful snarl of the gargoyle, its carved teeth bared to keep evil at bay. He walked in. Before him appeared the young foreign beauty, anxious at the sight of him entering uninvited, her cooking knife in her hand.

  ‘How is Alfred?’ asked Fulke.

  ‘Unconscious.’

  ‘Good.’

  Tiniker looked confused. Before she had time to react, Fulke stepped forward and grabbed her shoulders. He swung his leg behind hers and threw her to the ground. She hit her head and lay dazed on the floor. Then he kicked the knife from her hand and knelt down, pinning her arms with his knees. He gripped her throat with one hand and covered her mouth with the palm of his other. He saw the terror in her eyes, as her nostrils flared over the edge of his hand.

  His loins stirred as his manhood start to swell and press against his breeches.

  He grinned at her. ‘You and I are going to have some fun.’

  40

  Tiniker glanced to her right. The knife she’d dropped was out of reach, and Alfred lay unconscious on the floor under the window. The canary hopped up and down in his cage, tweeting. Her nostrils flared, and Fulke could smell her fear. He had her arms pinned beneath his knees. She kicked her legs underneath him but couldn’t dislodge him.

  She’s a fighter this one, thought Fulke.

  Her eyes betrayed the helplessness of her predicament. He wondered if he should let her plead for mercy.

  ‘Now, you need to do exactly as I say. If you don’t, I’ll snap your neck like a chicken. Blink if you understand me?’ Fulke was enjoying himself.

  She blinked.

  ‘Good girl.’

  Fulke let go of her throat, keeping her mouth covered with his other hand. He twisted his shoulders, leaned back and moved her white apron to one side to reveal the lower half of her madder red kirtle. He gripped the fabric between his fingers and inched it back, one fold at a time, exposing her smock. His hand muffled her scream as she kicked her legs frantically from side to side, forcing her pelvis up in an attempt to unseat him.

  ‘I see you’re getting excited too,’ said Fulke, grinning. ‘Has Alfred had his way with you yet? Blink once for yes.’

  Her eyes stayed open.

  Fulke rubbed his hand up the inside of her thigh. He felt the brush of her pubic hair. She squealed. The ceiling above them creaked.

  Fulke looked up. ‘Is that your sister? Is she upstairs?’

  She wriggled with all her might; her eyes scrunched closed. Fulke grinned. He brought his fist crashing down on her chest, driving the wind from her lungs. He released her mouth, and she strained to find her breath. As she writhed on the floor, fighting for air, Fulke stood up and collected the knife from under the kitchen table.

  ‘We don’t want to leave things like this lying around, do we? Somebody might hurt themselves.’

  He took a cursory look at Alfred.

  Still unconscious.

  Tiniker rolled over onto her hands and knees, gasping for air. Fulke walked back and held the knife blade under her throat. She froze.

  ‘Try and escape, and I’ll cut you,’ said Fulke. He twisted her arm behind her back and lifted her to her feet. With the blade against her throat, he whispered in her ear, ‘Upstairs, do anything silly, and you die.’

  She led the way up the narrow staircase, its wooden boards creaking under their weight. The stairs opened into a large room, before carrying on to the weaving room above, its whitewashed walls stained with patches of mould. An open window overlooked the meadows and provided plenty of light. A plain wooden bed frame had on it a straw mattress covered by a blanket and resting on the floor in front of them was another smaller straw mattress.

  ‘This should do nicely,’ said Fulke as he looked about. ‘Now, where is she?’

  Fulke pressed the blade harder into her throat. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Margreet.’ She sobbed.

  ‘Good girl. Margreet, come out wherever you are. Otherwise, your sister will suffer.’

  The room was still. Fulke pinched the skin on Tiniker’s neck between his thumb and forefinger and twisted as hard as he could. She yelped.

  The wardrobe door creaked open, and a delicate, pale leg stepped out.

  Fulke smiled. That was easy, he thought. ‘Good girl, come here.’

  The young girl stepped out of the wardrobe, trembling with fear at the sight of her elder sister held at knifepoint. Tears welled in her eyes.

  ‘Tiniker wat gebeurt er?’

  ‘English. Speak English,’ demanded Fulke as he watched the younger one stop in front of him.

  ‘Take off your clothes.’

  ‘No,’ cried Tiniker.

  ‘Shut up. Do it, or I slice your sister’s throat.’

  ‘Please, no,’ begged Tiniker.

  ‘Take them off.’

  Margreet looked to Ti
niker for reassurance and found none. Her eyes started to stream tears. Fulke reissued his instructions, and slowly Margreet unlaced her dress and let it slide to the ground, sobbing as it landed at her feet.

  ‘Keep going,’ said Fulke.

  Margreet’s hands shook as she tried to unbutton the cream blouse that formed the top half of her undergarment. A wet mark appeared on the front of the fabric and spread outwards. Fulke groaned as he watched her piss trickle down her legs and pond on the floor. The undergarment slid down to her feet. She was too young for fully formed breasts, but she raised her arm to cover them both. Her other hand covered her small patch of hair. Her skin was pale, her body lithe. She looked at the floor, snivelling.

  Tiniker wriggled, the blade slicing at her neck. ‘Please no. Stop this. Take me. She’s a child.’

  ‘Not from where I am standing,’ replied Fulke.

  ‘Please. Please,’ begged Tiniker. ‘I’m a maiden. I’ll do anything you want me to. Just leave her.’

  Fulke had waited long enough.

  ‘You, stand over there in the corner.’ He pointed the knife at Margreet and nodded his head in the direction of the corner. ‘You can watch your sister learn to be a woman.’

  Margeet ran to the corner of the room and sunk to the floor with her back to the wall, as she pulled her legs up to her chin and sobbed onto her knees.

  Fulke moved Tiniker forward and bent her over the end of the bed frame. ‘Try and escape, and I’ll stab you.’

  She buried her face in the blanket and clenched a mouthful of fabric between her teeth as he lifted her kirtle and smock.

  Margreet wailed. Her windpipe bulged in her throat as she howled in misery.

  Fulke grinned. Their sobbing and screaming excited him. He took off his shirt and threw it on the floor. He unlaced his hose, ready. He rubbed his hand between Tiniker’s buttocks. She shuddered and clenched the blanket between her hands.