Spirals of Fate

by Tim Holden

  The mood amongst the people was expectant. There was not much chatter as they moved along the road. A young boy with blonde hair pushed past Alfred, brushing against his leg. Alfred instinctively checked his belt to make sure he hadn’t been pickpocketed. Another two boys pushed their way through following their friend. Seemingly oblivious to the consequences of the herald’s visit, they sang a song about how the herald liked to lie with men. Alfred grinned to himself and checked on Tiniker, half a foot behind.

  They queued to cross over the bridge, heading into rebel territory. Over the tops of people’s heads, Alfred could see the herald and his two bodyguards on horseback. Once across, they were just in time to hear the herald’s trumpeter sound a call on his instrument to announce the men’s arrival. Eager to get a view, the crowd behind the herald dispersed across the slope, forming an arc around his party. Moments later, the remains of the rebel camp made their way down from the heath. Several thousand people now circled the herald and his two companions.

  ‘Where’s Robert?’ said Tiniker.

  Alfred looked around. He couldn’t see the Ketts. That surprised him. Why wouldn’t they come down?

  The herald nodded to his trumpeter who blew one sharp note to bring the crowd to silence. The herald straightened his back and spoke, ‘Subjects of King Edward the VI of England. I carry with me here your pardon,’ the herald raised his arm and held a scroll aloft.

  A small cheer rippled through the crowd.

  ‘If you leave for your homes now, no more blood will be spilt,’ continued the herald.

  Alfred looked around the sea of faces. Amongst the nodding heads and smiles were some frowns and expressions of confusion.

  ‘We haven’t done anything wrong?’ shouted a woman to Alfred’s left.

  ‘The king and his protector, the Duke of Somerset, have been most generous in this offer. I urge you, plead with you, go home and return to your lives in peace.’

  ‘What about our demands?’ shouted someone. ‘Have our brothers died for nothing?’

  ‘I remind you that you are not entitled to make demands of the king.’ replied the herald, looking down his nose at the heckler. ‘Nonetheless, the lord protector’s enclosure commission will continue its work to understand the nature of the problem, which you have brought so violently to his grace’s attention.’

  Jeers of derision rang around the crowd. People shouted their complaints but couldn’t be heard. The bodyguard and the trumpeter shifted in their saddles. Alfred shook his head in disbelief. The herald’s going to lose the crowd again, he thought. Tiniker had a worried look on her face. Alfred cursed. Where were the Ketts? What could he do to pacify matters?

  In a break in the chorus of taunts, Alfred shouted, ‘What about Mr Kett, will he receive the pardon too?’

  The herald looked ill at ease. ‘Mr Kett is a criminal. He will face the king’s justice.’

  Boos rang out from the rebels.

  ‘What justice?’ shouted a voice from the crowd.

  ‘Once he is found guilty in a court of law,’ added the herald. The herald nodded to his trumpeter, who blew a note to silence the crowd. Once they had settled, the herald stood in his stirrups.

  ‘You have put a city under siege, you have attacked your own countrymen, you have burned and pillaged your neighbours.’ He raised his voice to be heard over the catcalls and retaliations. ‘I offer you a pardon and promise that, in time, your complaints against enclosure shall be addressed. Can you not see how lucky you are?’

  Why does this man keep threatening people? Alfred thought.

  To one side of the crowd, people began to pull back. A gap appeared as they parted. It was Robert Kett walking through; his arms raised high. When people saw their leader, they began calling out their grievances again.

  Alfred noticed the herald ignored Robert.

  ‘Go home now, and you shall be free. Stay, and you will be slaughtered.’

  While Robert appealed for calm, the herald continued to ignore him and spoke directly to the crowds. ‘I command you, leave and live. Stay, and you shall die.’

  ‘Enough,’ bellowed Robert.

  As the crowd fell silent, the herald stood in his stirrups again and raised the scroll of pardon above his head in both hands.

  ‘Do not listen to this man. He’ll will lead you to the gates of hell.’

  ‘That’s quite enough from you, herald. Once again, your knack of irritating the good people of Norfolk knows no limits.’

  ‘I bring these people a pardon,’ said the herald.

  A small blond boy stepped forward. He tapped the herald on the leg.

  ‘Mr herald?’

  The herald looked down at the young boy, his irritation clear to see. The boy stepped back a few paces. ‘This is what my neighbours and I think of your pardon.’

  The boy turned around and dropped his breeches, exposing his bare buttocks, before proceeding to empty his bowels onto the grass.

  The crowd roared with laughter and clapped.

  The herald, lost for words, turned his head away. The laughter of the crowd was silenced by a sharp bang. The herald’s bodyguard held his pistol aloft, and smoke drifted from the barrel.

  The boy’s body slumped forward onto the ground, and blood trickled from his mouth. He’d been shot in the back.

  The shout rang out: ‘He’s dead.’

  Fury filled the air.

  Alfred pulled Tiniker into towards him and shielded her with his arm. People pressed against them.

  ‘Alfred, we’re going to be crushed,’ said Tiniker.

  The horses of the herald and his companions, spooked by the crowd, reared up, forcing people back. The bodyguard had reloaded his pistol and fired another shot towards the heavens. Alfred gripped Tiniker and fought to hold his footing.

  Where was Mr Kett?

  A stone struck the herald, and a volley of cheers erupted.

  ‘Kill the herald!’

  Men moved forward, bent on avenging the herald for their fallen.

  As Alfred held Tiniker’s head against his chest, he caught sight of Mr Kett spreading his arms and pleading with people not to retaliate.

  Robert grabbed the reins of the herald’s horse. ‘If you want to live, you’ll come with me.’

  With the herald’s horse in one hand, Robert swung his other arm to clear a path towards the Bishopsgate Bridge. Screaming at people to get back, they edged out of their way. Those close enough spat at the herald and his companions.

  ‘Mr Kett, you will hang for your good deeds,’ warned a woman from the crowd.

  ‘Let me worry about my fate,’ replied Robert as he made his way through the ranks of his followers.

  Alfred kissed Tiniker’s head, the golden thread of her hair soft and fragrant against his dry lips. Slowly, they followed in Robert’s footsteps. Rebels poured ahead of Robert and his escorts. Some ran to make it across the bridge before him. Alfred saw a group of men standing shoulder-to-shoulder, blockading the bridge. In their middle, was the ginger-haired John Cooper. Robert drew to a halt in front of them, trapped on the bridge.

  ‘Mr Kett, sir, pray, tell us, what do you plan?’

  ‘Let me pass, Cooper.’

  The gang behind Cooper locked arms, forming a human chain across the bridge.

  ‘I am taking this herald back to his master, where he can do no more harm to our cause.’

  ‘Let us take him, Mr Kett,’ asked Cooper.

  ‘If you go with your longbow, you will be killed.’ Robert said. ‘I will take him, and I will negotiate a settlement so our cause will not have been in vain.’

  Cooper relented. ‘Mr Kett, it is you they want. You are the only man who is not to be

  pardoned. If I will not be safe, what chance have you?’

  ‘Let me pass, Cooper.’

  ‘Only if we, your forces, join you and die with you in your cause.’

  ‘I’m not planning on dying. Come on.’

  ‘People,’ shouted Cooper, ‘we cannot let
our leader risk his life, for then what of our struggle when he is dead?’

  People shouted their agreement. Alfred looked around. People didn’t want Mr Kett to leave the city. He overheard a man saying, ‘The moment he steps out of the walls he’s dead, and so are we.’ Another man shouted, ‘We’ll suffer the same fate as the Cornish rebels. Promised a pardon only to have their throats cut.’ A ripple of fear ran through the ranks.

  Cooper broke the silence. ‘The herald and his men may leave. But you must stay, Robert Kett. Otherwise, we are all dead.’

  Robert looked ashen-faced as he released the reins. Cooper stepped to the side, and his gang parted to let the herald pass over the bridge.

  Alfred whispered to Tiniker. ‘There goes Kett’s last chance of bargaining his way out of this. There’s going to be an almighty fight now.’

  47

  Fulke washed down the last of his scrambled eggs with a swig of ale and belched. He picked up the jug of wine he’d bought and stepped out of the Maid’s Head into the midday sun, feeling ambivalent about what the day had in store. The royal army were camped outside, which invited the prospect of fighting, but Fulke doubted it would happen. He’d seen Mr Kett up close enough times to know the old man hadn’t the stomach for a fight. He’d try and find terms but would settle for anything that saved his own neck. Then they’d all go home, and nothing would change.

  It didn’t matter to Fulke.

  Enough had changed to make a difference. He had some money and more importantly, in Steward, he had connections.

  He wasn’t leaving Norwich.

  After the mayhem of the last few weeks, there was opportunity to be had in this city. Empty homes, damaged buildings, frightened merchants and unclaimed goods, the hard part would be deciding which opportunity advanced his interests fastest. The fighting had taken its toll on the city’s stock of manpower. Widows needed men and the city needed to repair its defences and replenish its guards. Fulke fancied himself as a captain of the watch, or a sheriff even. For the first time in his life, he could envisage a future for himself that didn’t involve chopping up carcasses for William Kett.

  He crossed Tombland to Steward’s house. The wine he carried was a gift for the deputy mayor. They would, in all likelihood, be celebrating the end of the siege this evening. Fulke had proved useful to Steward during the unrest, but once life returned to normal, Fulke couldn’t rely on his service being requested. So tonight, after a few drinks, Fulke planned to share his thoughts on how he could be useful to the deputy mayor: his designs on how they could ensure Codd’s tenure as mayor finished, following his association with the rebels.

  Knowing Steward, his eye was no doubt already on his rival’s station, but if Fulke could become complicit in his plan, he was another step closer to the source of authority.

  Fulke heard the rhythm of cantering horses behind him. Interested to see why somebody should be riding fast, he turned to see the herald and his two bodyguards on their mounts. Fulke studied their panicked expressions as they rode either side of him. They didn’t have the look of men who had just successfully granted a pardon.

  Before Fulke could reach Steward’s door, a stream of rebels had spilt into the open area in front of the cathedral, carrying weapons and shouting for people to ready themselves. Fulke stopped one of them, ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘The herald shot a boy. He was lucky to escape with his life. We’re off to man the gates ready for the fight.’

  He let himself into Steward’s home without knocking and found the deputy mayor coming down the stairs.

  ‘The herald’s made a pig’s ear of his pardon,’ said Fulke putting the jug of wine down on a side table. ‘A gift.’

  Steward groaned. ‘That fool could drown on dry land.’

  ‘Looks like the rebels are making their way to the gates to head off the army.’

  Steward closed his eyes and clenched his fists. He took a deep breath while he composed his thoughts.

  Fulke interrupted them. ‘What do you want to happen now?’

  ‘For this madness to go away,’ snarled Steward. ‘Let’s go to St Stephen’s gates and see if we can’t yet talk some sense into these bloody jesters.’

  *

  The first cannon shots rang out in the early afternoon. Both scored a direct hit on the wooden doors of St Stephen’s gate. The doors cracked. A few more hits and they’ll be in, figured Steward, as he looked on from down the street. The rebels gathered behind the doors, crept back nervously and left a space clear. Men posted on the city walls were crouched down, occasionally peeking their heads above to see what the army was doing. Steward tapped his fist against his chin.

  ‘Do you think they can hold them out, Fulke?’

  Before Fulke could answer, the ground shook, and a tremendous bang erupted into the air. The gates shattered as the full force of Dudley’s twelve cannons was unleashed. Splinters of wood flew into the waiting rebels — they fell and screamed. One door was blown clean off its hinges, and the broken remains of the other hung defiantly to the archway. Through the open gateway, Steward could see the smoke clearing and the soldiers readying themselves. A trumpet sounded, and they charged.

  The air filled with the battle cries of both sides.

  Kett was nowhere to be seen.

  Nobody was in charge of the rebels. Only Steward appeared to have any official authority. Now the first soldiers arrived at the gates. Rebel archers loosed their arrows from the walls. Stones were dropped onto the soldiers from the top of the two round towers that straddled the archway. The clash of steel colliding could be heard amongst the cries of men. Steward found the scene in front of him repellent: the smell of burning gunpowder, blood and spilt bowels.

  This was what happened when ignorant men were left to their devices, he thought.

  He watched with increasing dismay as the gateway began to pile up with corpses. He estimated twenty minutes had passed since the first wave of soldiers, but the rebels kept them out. The fighting was slowed by the gates forming a bottleneck which only a few could pass through at once.

  Fulke spoke. ‘You’re fidgeting, Mr Steward.’

  ‘I’ll take kindly for you to be quiet, Fulke.’

  ‘We need to be on the winning side,’ said Fulke.

  Steward looked at Fulke. He noticed Fulke’s fists were clenched.

  At heart, he remains a thug, knew Steward. Fulke was right though. Steward had to take a side, and it needed to be the winning one.

  It was time to hedge his bets.

  ‘Fulke, I have a task for you.’

  Fulke nodded.

  ‘Slip outside. Find Dudley. Say I sent you. You’re to tell him to send some men to the St Benedict’s gatehouse, two gates farther round from this one. The lock was reported broken, and I never sanctioned the repair. He may find that easier. If he gets in, invite him to lodge at my house. Go.’

  *

  So far it had been a day of mixed emotions for John Dudley. It was always the same with warfare, the ebb and flow of events put even the most seasoned of soldiers to the test. Afterwards, he would only remember the highs, but they would taste sweeter for having had to overcome the lows. The first skirmishes had not gone his way, and he’d begun to fear the loss of the initiative.

  Then fate played her part.

  The arrival of the deputy mayor’s information about the open gatehouse was a godsend. Victory often depended on the smallest of details. He’d left a detachment of his forces battling rebels at St Stephen’s gate while he quick-marched the rest of his infantry two gates farther along. No sooner had they found the doors unlocked and undefended, then he recovered the advantage. He’d trotted alongside his forces as they stormed into the city, taking possession of the marketplace and the guildhall. Next, they had cut off the retreat of the rebels still defending the main gates. He ordered Parr to take a force of three hundred men and capture or kill the rebels that were now trapped at the main gate between their forces.

  Dudley was in.r />
  He would soon face a counter-attack, and the more decisive his early victory could be, the better his chances faired. But Dudley knew, despite all his experience and preparation, in the chaos of war, lady luck had a role to play. So far she’d been on his side.

  An hour later, Parr returned to the marketplace and cantered up the slope to join Dudley on horseback outside the guildhall. Dudley noticed the flush of excitement on the young man’s face.

  ‘Your grace, I report we have control of the gate. We captured forty-nine rebels. The rest are slain or fled.’

  ‘Very good, William,’ replied Dudley. ‘Have your men sweep the streets between here and there to make sure there are no pockets of resistance.’

  ‘Already in progress.’

  Dudley gave his second in command an appraising look. He liked it when a commander showed initiative. ‘Good. Well done. Bring the rebels to the market square and have them make their own gallows. If any of them protest, kill them without enquiry.’

  Parr kicked his horse and left to set about his duties.

  Dudley looked around the marketplace, getting a feel for his surroundings, deserted, with buildings boarded up. He was here to stay. Without supplies, Kett would soon wither. That meant they would risk all to unseat Dudley’s hold on it. He had to be ready. Like Parr before him, he summoned his commanders and instructed them to place a body of guards at each of the streets leading into the marketplace.

  Once they were satisfied the area was secure, they were to send for his cannon and his own supply train. The short, stocky man brandishing a facial scar reappeared.

  ‘Remind me of your name?’

  ‘Fulke.’

  Dudley thought him a thuggish-looking sort. Despite his embroidered jacket, he was unshaven and not what Dudley would expect as the typical company of an alderman. ‘You must thank your master for his assistance today.’

  The man nodded. ‘Thank him yourself. He invites you to join us at his house and offers you our assistance, which you’ll need.’

  Dudley frowned. Now was not the time to take offence at the man’s manner, but he found the fellow’s self-importance as unconvincing as it was rude.