by Tim Holden
Fulke groaned in anticipation when her body clenched in terror. It was time.
Fulke heard a creak behind him, and as he opened his eyes and turned around, a blow thumped him on the nose. Everything went dark.
Another blow came down on the back of his head.
Alfred swayed on his feet and dropped the kitchen pan onto the floor. Tiniker shrieked at the sight of him and pulled her dress down. She picked up the fallen pan and brought it crashing down on Fulke’s head for good measure. His body didn’t move. Alfred turned and planted his backside on the bed, his torso wavering from the effort of getting up the stairs.
He tried to speak but found no words.
‘Get him out of here. Get this monster out of my house,’ screamed Tiniker.
Alfred slumped backwards onto the bed and passed out.
*
Robert watched the columns of smoke drift upwards peacefully to the heavens. Buildings that had taken months, years, to build were gone. From what he could make out from Surrey House, it was the nearest part of the city that had taken the brunt of the fighting. He watched as two men scurried across the meadows with buckets filled with river water, rushing to douse the flames.
‘It’s no good, Alice. I have to see it for myself.’
Alice had spent the afternoon by the empty fireplace in the sanctuary of an oversized upholstered chair.
‘If you must, then at least take William with you. You shouldn’t walk alone.’
‘I doubt I have many enemies left.’
‘You may have some new ones when people see what’s become of their homes.’
Robert enlisted his brother as Alice suggested, then found the mayor and together they made their way down the gulley to the city. The smell of charred wood carried on the breeze. They crossed the unmanned bridge and walked up Bishopsgate where they chanced upon a man supine in the middle of the road. His bare chest was moving — he was breathing.
‘Is that Fulke?’ asked Robert. He crouched down. ‘His breeches are undone?’
Robert held Fulke’s thick jaw in his fingers
‘He must be unconscious.’
‘Or drunk,’ suggested William.
Robert leaned in. No scent of ale. He blew in his face and tapped his cheek. ‘Fulke, wake up.’
Fulke grunted. Robert tried again, and Fulke’s eyes popped open, startled by his surroundings, he glanced around to get his bearings.
‘You all right?’
Fulke blinked as he gazed up to the sky. He rubbed his head. Robert watched his puzzled expression as he searched for his last memory. Fulke frowned and twisted, stretching his back.
‘What happened?’ asked Robert.
Fulke coughed. ‘I don’t remember.’
‘Why are your breeches undone and your shirt missing?’ asked William.
Fulke frowned and retied his codpiece to his breeches.
Robert said, ‘Come on, you well enough to stand?’ Fulke grunted and with Robert’s help, pulled himself onto his feet, steadying his balance as he rose. ‘Come with us. We’ll find you a drink.’
They walked up the street with Fulke hobbling alongside.
‘It was a proper fight,’ explained Fulke. ‘They blocked the street ahead and ambushed us as we approached. We gave them hell, but they had horses, cannons and better weapons. I blew up their barricade. That allowed us to push them back.’
They passed the smouldering hospital. The thatch and timber of the roof was missing. Two boys dressed in rags were making their way around the side of the building, and they stopped to peer through a window. One pointed to the other something he had seen inside.
‘They’re going to loot the hospital!’ exclaimed an appalled Mayor Codd. ‘You two, come here,’ he shouted.
The two boys looked over their shoulders and fled.
‘This is scandalous,’ said the mayor. ‘Who in their right mind would burn our hospital? Thank God, we evacuated the patients the day of the herald’s visit. They’d have been roasted alive.’
Robert’s pained expression signalled his displeasure. This was not what he’d intended. The hospital was one of the city’s most important civic buildings. It was the embodiment of society’s most noble values, to care for the weakest and sickest.
‘We must stop this,’ he declared.
Fulke nodded.
‘People have been looting all day. I caught several in the deputy mayor’s house earlier.’
‘I haven’t always seen eye to eye with you, Fulke,’ said Robert, ‘but these are extraordinary times, and they call for men of certain, skills. Can I trust you?’
Fulke returned his stare.
‘I need somebody to help keep law and order here. Somebody with your strength and presence.’
‘Me?’ Fulke looked surprised. He thought about it. ‘I’d need paying.’
‘This isn’t about money, Fulke.’
‘I appreciate that, but I need to eat, and I can’t be stealing food to survive and then in the next breath catch people for doing the same.’
Robert nodded. ‘I’m not worried about food theft. I need to guarantee the safety of people and their property.’
‘Agreed.’
‘I’m not in a position to pay you now, but I’ll allow you half a silver coin a day to keep order, reporting to me only.’
‘Deal,’ said Fulke, a grin across his face.
Robert assessed his lieutenant. Fulke was brave and tenacious. He hoped this responsibility would bring out the best in him.
‘In which case, you can start now. Go and see Steward. He’ll give you a key to the castle cells and the guildhall. Anyone you catch burning things or terrorising people, stick them straight in.’
‘No trial?’
‘Not yet, no. There is no time to prosecute. Justice must be swift.’
Delighted, Fulke sauntered off to find Steward.
‘Fulke, you fought well today,’ Robert called out after him. ‘Find yourself a shirt,’ he added.
Fulke didn’t look back. Once he was out of earshot, the mayor confided his doubts. ‘There’s something menacing about that man, are you sure you can trust him to keep order?’
‘No,’ said Robert, ‘but as the saying goes, hire a thief to catch a thief and frankly, mayor, I’d rather have him acting for me than against me.’
William nodded. ‘He’s capable. Damn good butcher too.’
41
3rd August, Bishopsgate
All that remained of the houses between St Martin at Palace Plain and the hospital were charred stumps and burning embers. Thankfully, the Lord had seen fit to send the rains and limit the fire’s reach, although the air was damp and thick with the smell of charred wood. Steward had spent the day locked in his home, wondering why God favoured the rebels. His house had been spared the flames but had been plundered three times, and there was nothing left of any consequence to take. Fortunately, that brutish fellow Fulke had offered to stand guard in exchange for hot meals.
Word reached Steward that the justices of the peace had been attacked and were refusing to carry out their duties. This news enraged him. It was time to act.
On his way to the rebel camp, he banged on the door of the weaver’s daughter’s house. As the door creaked open, a young girl peered through the gap. She looked frightened.
‘Hello, my child. What’s your name?’
‘Margreet.’
‘Hello, Margreet. I’m here to see Tiniker. Is she home?’
The girl shook her head.
‘Is she your sister?’
Margreet nodded.
‘When will she be home?’
‘She has gone to fetch water.’
‘I’ll try later, on my way back.’
The bolt slid back into place.
*
‘Who was that?’ asked Alfred.
Margreet shrugged her shoulders. ‘He’s visited Tiniker a few times. She won’t say who he is.’
Alfred bounded up the stairs, ignoring the pain
in his shoulder as his sling jolted with every step. He peered out of the window and watched the stranger passing under the gate. He was evidently a man of some standing. He was tall and dressed in a black gown that gave him a sinister appearance. Was this the man who’d passed Tiniker a note a few days earlier?
Until now there had been little to gain by mentioning the incident again. He was happy to stay here with them and had little desire to return to the filth of the camp where he risked seeing Fulke. After knocking him unconscious, the girls, between them, had dragged Fulke’s weight down the stairs and dumped him in the street. When Alfred had finally recovered from his exertions, he’d woken in Tiniker’s bed as she cleaned him with a warm cloth. Although his shoulder protested in agony, the sensation of being soaped with a scented clothe was divine and when united with the Tiniker’s aroma on the bed, Alfred, in his drowsy state, was left wondering if there really was a heaven, and if he’d woken up in it.
Tiniker had later demanded to know why he’d brought such a monster into her home, to which Alfred had protested that he hadn’t known the man well, they’d just happened to be fighting alongside one another.
Master Peter’s warning now rang in his ears
Lying back on the bed, Alfred groaned as his shoulder sank into the straw mattress. The pain made him tire quickly. He stared at the ceiling. This room, simple as it was, was preferable to his cottage in Hethersett. He still hadn’t got used to the idea of having a freehold. He hadn’t enjoyed such security since his parents had died. He wondered when would he go back. Then it occurred to him, Tiniker’s father had died and yet she seemed to have no concerns regarding her own security. More questions fell into his thoughts: How would she afford to live here without her father’s income? Was that what the mystery visitor was — her landlord demanding rent? Perhaps the shame of not being able to pay was what had upset her? Alfred cursed himself for his jealousy.
She could live with me, he thought. An image of Lynn came to mind. Even if he could get rid of Lynn and her mother, the rest of the village would know he was married. Tiniker would be an outcast. But if Lynn were to die, as a widower he could do as he pleased. How could Lynn die? His eyelids hovered. This was all getting too complicated for his weak mind. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.
*
‘God rest his soul,’ said Robert.
Alice sobbed at the foot of the bed. Master Peter’s soul had moved into the afterlife.
Standing next to his brother, William made the sign of the cross over his chest and whispered a prayer.
‘Robert, he was of the old faith,’ said Alice, ‘should we not have found somebody to administer the last rites?’
Robert shook his head. Master Peter had chosen his faith, and that was his business, but this rebellion, that was the second time today Robert had caught himself using the ‘r’ word, wasn’t going to be risked further tainting by associating it with heretics. A reformed death was all Robert was able to offer his loyal servant. His death came as a blessing. The poor fellow had suffered for days, and the miasmas in the room threatened to make the whole house sick. Robert had resigned himself days ago to losing poor, wretched Peter. He’d seen people die of lesser wounds and all the prayers in the world weren’t going to save the poor man. With one arm, he’d have been no use to man nor beast, better he made his fortune in the next world.
‘William, could you have someone move the body for me? See that he gets a proper burial in one of the churchyards.’
Robert and Alice followed William out of the room and closed the door behind them. At the bottom of the stairs, Robert thought he should raise a tankard to lift his own spirits and say farewell to Master Peter, and Alice headed for the kitchen to find him a drink.
Alfred had failed to return from the last raid, so was presumed dead, and Robert hadn’t replaced him now Alice was here. She worried less when she had tasks to keep her occupied.
Mayor Codd joined him in the empty dining room, and together they drank ale. What to the outside world looked like a victory felt anything but to Robert. More lives lost. His forces were scattered and no longer at his command, the representatives arguing between themselves. They were out of food, and to top it all, Master Peter his trusted servant of fifteen years, was dead.
Robert took a long swig, and between them they debated the next step in the rebellion. Mayor Codd recommended taking their protest south, marching to London and submitting their protests directly to the council or the king. Robert wasn’t convinced that walking into the lion’s den was the right step, particularly when Mayor Codd admitted he wouldn’t be joining them on the journey south. The mayor’s advice was tinged with self-preservation. Understandably, he wanted the rebels off his patch and to escape further complicity.
Robert dismissed the suggestion. He’d never been to the capital, and by all accounts London was a labyrinth of alleyways and dark corners where a man would kill you for your pocket change or the shirt on your back. Raiding a poorly defended Norwich was one thing, a heavily fortified London quite another. Better for their foe to make the long journey instead, he reckoned.
Alice appeared. ‘There’s a man claiming to be the deputy mayor here to see you, Robert, Augustine Steward?’
He swapped a glance with Mayor Codd, who looked characteristically suspicious. ‘Send him in.’
Steward’s gaunt frame at the door bore the hallmarks of a man deprived of sleep. Robert knew how he felt. Steward bowed his head and then acknowledged the mayor.
‘Mr Steward, welcome to my castle,’ said Robert. ‘We’re not accustomed to seeing you up here on the heath. To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?’
‘May I?’ asked Steward, pulling out a chair from under the table.
‘Of course,’ Robert nodded and offered his palm. An uneasy silence hung in the room. Robert glanced at Mayor Codd, who was frowning.
Steward cleared his throat. ‘Very well. I’ll come to the point.’
‘Please,’ replied Robert. He caught himself indulging in his status, nice to have county officials pay him their respects for once.
‘They are calling you the King of Norfolk.’
Kett grunted his acknowledgement of this fact. The nickname amused him.
‘Well, I don’t claim to be a king,’ continued Steward, his voice sounding strained, ‘only an alderman of Norwich. I have served this city all my adult life.’
Codd snorted. ‘And yourself.’
‘It’s true,’ admitted Steward. ‘I have prospered too, but I have a love of this city and its people. It has been good to me, and I have been good to it. It has taken more of my time than any women or child.’
Alice came back in with more ale. Robert took a swig and returned his tankard to the table with some force.
‘Mr Steward, let me clear one thing up before we start. Whose side are you on?’
Steward cleared his throat and met Robert’s gaze. ‘Mr Kett, for you this past week I have been to London to issue your demands, I have kept order in the city and until recently, prevented your rebels from causing untold damage. I have brought in a succession of the clergy to preach a message of peace and reconciliation, all of which serves to keep the name of Kett from being tarnished, and you ask me whose side I’m on?’
‘And yet William Parr ate dinner at your residence and spent the night as your guest?’
Steward smiled. ‘With whom do you think he would have preferred to stay, the candlestick maker? The baker? Or the nightsoil boy perhaps?’
Robert snorted. ‘I see your predicament, Deputy. But my question remains.’
‘It’s a question I have asked myself, Mr Kett. In the last two days, I have seen my home ransacked, my possessions looted and my servant abused. I witnessed parts of the city burn at the hands of your followers. Your rebels have done untold damage,’ Steward’s voice started to shake with anger.
‘Compose yourself, Deputy,’ ordered Robert, ‘this is regrettable, and should have been avoided. But
the city had refused to cooperate, and by locking their gates they brought this misfortune on themselves. I’ve since taken steps to restore order.’
‘Perhaps you will succeed where I appear to have failed, Mr Kett. I don’t profess to understand it, but it seems that at every turn, God has favoured you and your rebels.’
Robert smiled. ‘It would seem so.’
‘What are your aims, Mr Kett?’
‘I want my demands met. When I left Wymondham, all I sought was to put a stop to enclosure, but in the time I’ve led these people and listened to their stories of evictions, of bribery, of their landowners manipulation of their demense, I have realised that this movement is fundamental to returning us to a time when we were governed fairly. The more I’ve learned in these past weeks, the more I will accept nothing less than a return to all our ancient traditions where a Lord bore as many responsibilities to the men he ruled as they did unto him. No longer can men of power exploit the common man, and so ruthlessly apply the rules to their own gain.’
‘And are you going to get what you want, do you think?’
Robert hesitated.
Steward cleared his throat. ‘You know that one of your followers murdered Lord Sheffield, don’t you?’
Robert froze.
‘You didn’t know, did you?’ Steward pushed him.
Mayor Codd stayed silent, seeking comfort in his tankard.
‘The king’s cousin?’ Robert sank back in his chair. The knot in his gut tightened.
‘You’re supposed to capture the aristocrats, not murder them.’
‘I’ll have to…’
‘To make matters worse,’ said Steward, interrupting him, ‘you’ve buried him in a pit alongside your hoi polloi. I can’t see the king taking kindly to that. Or his sister, Lady Mary; they were reported to be close.’
Steward smirked. ‘It doesn’t make a compelling case for being seen on your side.’ His gazed fixed on Mayor Codd. ‘I hear your rebels also captured a soldier and dragged him up here, tortured him, and then hanged him?’
‘Enough,’ said Robert banging his fist on the table. ‘Who killed Sheffield?’
