Spirals of Fate

by Tim Holden

  Robert was fuming: how could you reason with such bollocks? As he made his way down the passage between the houses, he felt a hand brush his arm.

  ‘Please, sir, alms for an old monk. I am without board, lodgings or my sight.’

  The old beggar dressed in rags, soiled in filth, stank to high heaven,

  ‘Fuck off,’ barked Robert, pushing the beggar too hard. He hit the wall and slid to the floor.

  Robert marched fast, too frustrated to feel guilt. Everybody in hard times claimed to be a monk, another innocent victim of the old king.

  Past the burned houses, he turned on to Bishopsgate. A gentle breeze travelled across the meadows and cooled the anger from his cheeks. He took a series of deep breaths and gathered his thoughts. He’d been victorious at every step, and yet every victory presented new problems that required yet another victory. Yarmouth would do nicely.

  The fate of the Cornish rebels didn’t bode well for London’s mood. What was Seymour thinking right now? Robert wondered. As he walked, Robert thought about how he could get on the front foot. If he was to negotiate peace, he needed the momentum of events on his side. Could he use Steward to send a message to Seymour? Give me enclosure, and you can have Norwich back? Sheffield’s death stood in the way of such a simple deal. Could Robert offer Seymour a perpetrator? Some unlucky swine who could swing for the crime. It would be a small sacrifice that could deliver thousands from the teeth of battle. Whose face would fit?

  A front door opened, and an attractive young girl stepped out onto the street. Robert took a moment to admire her and remembered his first sighting of Alice, her pale skin and lustrous blond hair. He smiled before catching a glimpse of a dark-haired man leaving with her. It was a farther three steps before Robert stopped in his tracks.

  ‘Alfred?’

  ‘Mr Kett,’ he stammered. His arm bound in a sling.

  ‘I thought you were dead?’ exclaimed Robert. The boy’s face turned crimson, and his gaze turned to the dirt of the street. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Kett. I was hurt in the attack. I nearly died, and I couldn’t make it up the hill. I had to rest. I’m lucky to be alive. If it wasn’t for Tiniker here, I might not have lived.’

  Robert glanced again at the girl. He didn’t recognise her. Alfred was still talking nineteen to the dozen. ‘Enough,’ interrupted Robert. ‘Can you work?’

  ‘I am healing. I can’t move my left arm, and my shoulder is stiff, but the rest of me works.’

  ‘Does it?’ Robert looked at the pair of them; they looked like lovers. Yet, Alfred was married. What became of his wife? Robert wondered, remembering she was pregnant. ‘Lynn?’ asked Robert.

  Alfred recoiled, his face frozen like a man who’d just discovered a plague spore in his groin.

  Robert grunted and stared at the boy. He’d offered Alfred every charity, and he’d proved himself undeserving. He’d fled work and was eloping with another women while his wife grew his child in her belly. Moreover, if it weren’t for Alfred alerting him to his fences being vandalised, none of this would have ever happened. Robert smirked. It would be Alfred that would swing for Sheffield’s murder.

  ‘You must come back. I have something in mind. Master Peter died, poor fellow.’

  They stood motionless.

  ‘You too, Tiniker. Gather what you need. I’ll see you both at Surrey House.

  ‘Delighted to be in your service, Mr Kett,’ said Tiniker.

  Robert felt pleased as he headed back. A young girl would brighten the mood in the place, and Alice would be glad of the help. Robert passed under the arch of the gateway and crossed the bridge. Downstream, was a boat in full sail, loaded with men. As the boat drew closer, Robert saw William at the bow. Why hadn’t William stayed in Yarmouth? Robert leant over the brick wall. ‘William, what news have you?’ shouted Robert.

  William shook his head and called up to his brother.

  ‘They wouldn’t open the gates. A navy ship is anchored off the coast. Cannon were fired, a warning to stay loyal to the crown.’

  Robert rubbed his face and gritted his teeth.

  ‘If you want Yarmouth, Robert, you’ll have to fight for it.’

  43

  8th August, Whitehall

  Seymour sneezed. After a few days rest at Hampton Court, today was the first day he’d felt well enough to return to Whitehall and start preparations to raise an army. He’d spent the morning at his desk surrounded by papers and burning incense. He enjoyed the solitude of his study. Here, behind closed doors, he could work methodically through his papers, all of which demanded his uninterrupted attention so he could assess critical decisions. It was only when other people misinterpreted his instructions, or worse still ignored them altogether, that the problems would again resurface like a persistent rash untreated by his salve. If only the noble classes desisted from bending matters to their own will. With these thoughts uppermost in his mind, he’d disbanded his council, preferring to take matters into his own hands.

  He took a sip of spiced wine and dipped his quill in the inkwell, before adding his signature to his order for Lord Russell in Cornwall.

  Dudley was safely out of the way at home in Warwick castle.

  Russell had finally, after weeks of dithering, recovered Exeter. The last of the rebels remained at large, but without a base it was only a matter of days before they were rounded up. The execution of the prisoners was regrettable. Indeed, Seymour had shed a tear in private after hearing the news. They may have been heretics to a man, but they were English heretics, deserving of a more honourable sentence.

  He would take this up with Russell on his return, but for now, he was content to relieve Russell of his reinforcements and ready them for his Norfolk campaign.

  He folded the paper, held a lump of red wax against his desk candle and sealed the order to return half of the eight thousand troops to London.

  Seymour had sent word to his nobility that he’d appointed himself head of the army and would be personally leading them to Norfolk to end the rebellion. The next paper in the pile was a petition from the people of Great Yarmouth, pledging their allegiance to the crown and asking for royal support to protect them from Kett’s rebels. This was the sort of correspondence he enjoyed — one that didn’t require a response but assured him of the loyalty of the people.

  He would show his council, including Dudley and Russell, how to quell a rebellion. He would ride at the head of his forces. He would meet with Kett in person, offer him and his followers a pardon and an end to enclosure, bound in law. In exchange, all he would ask was that they stand down and return to their labours.

  He scratched his chin and wondered if he should challenge himself to finish the insurrection without the loss of a single soul. A bloodless solution. He’d spent many an hour before dawn, lying in bed, pondering the fate of the rebels and their demands. People would always have petty grievances. If he entertained the grumbles of every man, he would be forced to conclude England to be the worst country in the world, and that he knew was far from the truth. The way to an Englishmen’s loyalty was through his belly and his store.

  See that they are both kept full and he will stand in line for you and fight with more ferocity than any continental.

  He’d seen it for himself on repeated campaigns. Man for man, no one was fiercer than an Englishman. But ending enclosure was all it would take to win their hearts and return them to their fields.

  Then a thought occurred to him, the nobility would complain about Lord Sheffield’s death not being avenged. However, killing a thousand peasants wouldn’t bring him back to this life. On reflection, he might have to be seen to string up someone for the crime, but that was all that was required to see justice delivered.

  One life, in exchange for peace and an end to the crime of enclosure.

  Seymour smiled. He was looking forward to resolving it neatly.

  It would be nice to get out of London for a week and enjoy some fresh air.

  He
felt his stomach rumble. Time for some food, he thought. As he stretched his limbs, there was a knock at the door.

  ‘The French ambassador for you, My Lord.’

  Seymour sighed and slumped back in his seat.

  ‘Show him through.’

  Moments later, he could hear the prancing steps of the Frenchman.

  ‘Seymour,’ announced the ambassador as he appeared around the door, wearing a smug grin across his oily face.

  ‘Ambassador, please come in,’ said Seymour, rising to his feet. ‘What an unexpected pleasure. Regretfully, we shall need to be quick as I have other commitments to attend to.’

  ‘Mais oui,’ said the ambassador, gliding across the floor in his sky blue and gold embroidered tunic. ‘You have many problems, n’est-ce pas?’ The ambassador took a seat across the desk.

  ‘Indeed, but I can always find a little time for my good friend. Tell me, what has got you in such a fine mood on this summer’s day?’

  ‘I bring word from my king, Henri.’

  Seymour frowned. There was something menacing in the man’s manner. He appeared conceited. Not that that was unusual for a frog.

  ‘Yes?’

  The ambassador clapped his hands before rubbing them together. ‘He has declared war on England.’

  44

  18th August, Surrey House

  Robert cradled his head in his hands. The afternoon sun shone through the window, warming the back of his neck. He’d been enjoying a rare moment’s peace alone in the solar when he’d heard the commotion outside. A glance out of the window across the heath was enough to sink his spirit: his men were returning. He slumped into the chair and waited for the knock on the door.

  It was thirty-five days since Robert had left Wymondham. In one month, he’d aged ten years. He felt a fraction of the man who’d set off to deliver a simple petition to Mayor Codd. The relentless succession of daily challenges, many he could no longer recall, others he’d never forget, had taken their toll. He’d met every one of them, rising to the occasion, but instead of growing in strength, he was crumbling. Robert knew privately what he was sure others could see for themselves. He was spent. Numb. Willing to make his peace with God.

  The knock on the door came. Robert opened his eyes to find William, Luke Miller and Mayor Codd filing in.

  ‘I’m sorry, Robert,’ said Luke. ‘We tried everything, but—’ he paused while he searched for the right words.

  Robert groaned. His second raid on Great Yarmouth had failed.

  ‘We’d captured the cannon from Lowestoft without any trouble,’ began Luke, ‘but when we fired on the gatehouses at Yarmouth, they were ready for us. They returned fire, and we were losing men,’ now his voice trembled, ‘we had to retreat. They set light to a haystack, downwind of our position. We were engulfed in smoke.’

  The manner of their defeat was irrelevant; it was still defeat. No matter how valiant, it amounted to the same thing.

  ‘They advanced through the smoke and ambushed us.’

  ‘How many dead?’ asked William.

  ‘Twenty-seven — another thirty taken prisoner. All the guns were lost.’

  The room was still, the faint hubbub outside as the story spread through the camp was the only noise.

  Luke puffed out his chest. ‘I’m sorry. Robert. I failed.’ Tears welled in his eyes.

  Robert nodded. ‘You did your best, lad. I can’t ask more of you than that.’

  Luke fought for composure. ‘I hate the swine Seymour for making us do this to ourselves.’

  Robert grunted. He agreed. It was beyond his comprehension that any of this should be necessary.

  ‘Another thousand men wouldn’t have made a difference to our fortunes,’ said Luke, in an attempt to offer Robert some comfort.

  It had the opposite effect.

  ‘Thank you, Luke. Gentlemen,’ said Robert. ‘I’d like some peace now.’

  ‘But Robert, this changes things, our strategy has failed. We must make new plans,’ said Mayor Codd.

  William ushered the mayor to the door. ‘Not now,’ he said softly.

  *

  Tiniker ran the cow horn comb through Alice’s silver hair, tugging through a knot that had snagged its journey. Alice twitched.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Tiniker.

  Alice said nothing. All evening she’d appeared distracted by her worries about her husband.

  Outside the bedroom window, the rain darkened the dusk. Tiniker was grateful for the pitter-patter of droplets against the window. It provided some respite from the agonising silence that echoed through the house ever since the Yarmouth raiders had returned. The mood indoors was crushed between the pestle and mortar of the Kett’s predicament. The rain did nothing to dampen the tension that hung in the air.

  ‘Lice free,’ said Tiniker inspecting the comb in the glow of the candlelight.

  Alice sighed. ‘Thank you, Tiniker. Let me comb yours.’

  They swapped places, Tiniker taking the spot on the bed left warm by Alice. Alice wiped the comb on her sleeve and began to part Tiniker’s hair at the centre.

  Over the past ten days, the only two women of the house had struck up an unlikely friendship. In ordinary times, a young immigrant from the lower orders and an elderly yeoman’s wife, more accustomed to having a maidservant than doing women’s work herself, may have found little in common. Each day since Alfred’s return, Tiniker had spent the daylight hours at the house. She had shared the cooking, cleaning, shopping and errands that their circumstances demanded of them. The two women had quickly seen past their differences, and as the days had passed, an intimacy had developed between them.

  ‘Let us change the mood,’ said Alice forcing a reluctant smile as she summoned the energy to cheer herself up. ‘You and Alfred?’

  ‘What’s to tell?’

  ‘Even a blind man could see he likes you.’ Alice lowered her head for a closer look as she stroked the comb through Tiniker’s hair. ‘He stares at you as you work. He doesn’t even notice that I’m watching him. He has that glaze in his eyes that young men get.’

  Tiniker’s cheeks glowed.

  ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed!’

  Tiniker smiled, picturing Alfred’s endearing face. ‘He’s nice,’ she said, not wanting to admit too much.

  ‘Tiniker, come on. You’re not much subtler yourself.’

  Tiniker purred as the comb ran through her hair, tugging at her scalp, relaxing her. ‘He’s been good to me. After father was killed, he helped with man’s work at my house.’ She paused. The mention of her father brought her attention back to the heaviness in her heart.

  ‘Tiniker, do you blame my husband for your father’s death?’ Before Tiniker could answer, Alice continued, ‘The question has been on my mind ever since you admitted your father had been killed defending the gates. I was too surprised to ask at the time and the moment hadn’t been right since.’

  Alice’s voice was soft and compassionate. Her question aroused no emotion in Tiniker. She shook her head a little,

  ‘No. Robert didn’t kill him. His guild required him to defend the city. He didn’t support the rebels, but that was only because he didn’t want his home damaged or our lives put in danger.’

  Tiniker smoothed the creases of her woollen dress against her thighs, her mind casting back.

  ‘We had similar things in our homeland,’ she sighed. ‘Everybody does what he or she thinks is the best for themselves.’

  ‘Come here.’ Alice turned the young girl’s shoulders toward her. They hugged. ‘You’re wise for one so young.’

  Tiniker closed her eyes, enjoying the embrace. She felt welcomed by Alice, and after the past weeks, she craved the warm touch and love of another. She hadn’t planned to confess that the rebels had killed her father but late one afternoon, talking in the kitchen with a tankard of ale, it had just popped out. She panicked that she might have inadvertently undermined her ruse to infiltrate the Kett’s headquarters. In fact, it had had the
opposite effect, serving only to increase the trust between the two women. Alice had expressed her sorrow for her loss.

  ‘Why it should be necessary for men to kill one another I will never understand,’ she’d said. ‘I think we’d make a better lot of running the country if the men would let us.’

  Tiniker had thought about it afterwards. From what she had seen of them, Robert, Alice and William seemed like lovely people. It was hard to deceive them, and she couldn’t bring herself to tell one more lie than was necessary. It stung to know she was liable to betray them, but she needed to keep a roof over her head. Duplicity was hard. The closer she could keep to the truth, the less chance she had of tripping herself up. She never disclosed Jan’s responsibility for the defences or her arrangements with Steward. Every time Tiniker had misgivings, she thought of Margreet. She couldn’t see that her limited information to Steward had done the Kett’s any harm anyway.

  Alice rose back to her feet and resumed her combing.

  ‘Has he kissed you?’ asked Alice turning the conversation back to Alfred.

  Tiniker hesitated.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re not a very good liar, Tiniker.’ Alice grinned.

  Tiniker froze. She was a spy, living a lie. Her nerves were frayed.

  She took a breath and reassured herself that Alice was only referring to her kissing Alfred.

  ‘I think he has a good heart,’ continued Alice, interrupting Tiniker’s thoughts. ‘I dare say he has his shortcomings, but I see goodness in him.’

  Tiniker smiled to herself. It was nice to hear her innermost feelings confirmed out loud.

  ‘It’s been the highlight of the last week watching you two flirt and laugh.’ Alice sniffed, ‘It’s been nice to have a little dose of love and happiness in this house.’

  ‘We’re not in love!’ pushed back Tiniker as her cheeks turned red.

  ‘Come, Tiniker, I can see it clear as day, even if you choose not to.’