Spirals of Fate

by Tim Holden

  *

  ‘What should we do?’ asked Tiniker.

  Alfred scratched his head. Moments earlier they’d seen rebels pass the window and cross the bridge back to the camp.

  ‘I don’t want to stay here in the house if there’s going to be fighting at the bridge again.’

  ‘Well, there’s bound to be. It’s the only direct route to the camp.’

  ‘I’m not leaving,’ declared Margreet.

  ‘We could go up to Surrey House?’ said Tiniker.

  Alfred shook his head. Being close to the Ketts risked his secret escaping and was almost certainly going to put them in harm’s way if they were caught. ‘It might not be a good idea to be found in the Kett’s service.’ He thought about this logically. ‘We can’t make up our minds when we don’t know what’s going on. You stay here, and I’ll go and see for myself what’s happening.’

  She nodded, but he could see she was reluctant.

  ‘Be careful, Alfred. You promise you’ll come back?’

  ‘I promise. I’m unarmed, so they won’t suspect me.’ He kissed her goodbye, closed the door behind him and listened for the bolt to close.

  The atmosphere was eerie. The street was quiet as he rounded the corner. The farther he got from the safety of Tiniker’s house, the more Alfred queried his decision to come out alone. He could hear a low rumbling noise like carts rattling and creaking under the weight of their cargo, so he paused to listen. Two soldiers appeared in metal plate chest armour, dragging a cannon behind them. They were followed by more men and more cannons. Alfred froze.

  The soldiers had captured the city.

  If he ran, he looked guilty.

  If he waited, he risked confrontation.

  The first soldier saw him as he looked up and wiped the sweat from his brow. The afternoon sun was beating down, punishing them in their labour. They approached as Alfred tried to make up his mind what to do. They must be trying to get to the gatehouse over the bridge, he thought, but why were they not being escorted by men-at-arms?

  ‘Can you help me, young man?’ said the first soldier as he drew level with Alfred. He was short of breath from tugging the cannon. He had an unusual accent, and it took Alfred a moment to work out what he’d been asked for. Before he could reply, the second soldier stood up and loosened the rope over his shoulder. The cannon stopped rolling.

  Another soldier at the rear of the gun shouted, ‘Stop!’ drawing the convoy to a halt.

  ‘I thought it was supposed to be flat around here? Hilliest bloody city I’ve been to outside Wales,’ protested the second soldier.

  ‘We’re looking for the marketplace, young man?’

  Alfred was bemused by their accent, but once he’d made sense of the words he wondered why he was standing face-to-face with the royal artillery. They were a long way past the marketplace. Where were the rest of the army and why were the cannon, the slowest and most vulnerable part, alone?

  Alfred’s mind raced. He didn’t want to endanger the girls, but the soldiers were sitting ducks and most of the way to Mr Kett’s camp.

  ‘Keep going,’ he said, ‘around that corner then it’s left past the hospital.’

  ‘Thanks, lad.’

  With his back to the cathedral wall, Alfred counted fifteen cannon, followed by a trailer of shot and powder. Donkey’s dragged carts full of chests, presumably soldiers’ luggage.

  Beyond the church at St Martin’s, Alfred could see soldiers at the end of the street, by the Maid’s Head. He turned right and went over Whitefriars Bridge. He discovered a group of poorly-dressed men in conference.

  ‘You rebels?’

  ‘Who’s asking?’ said a moon-faced man.

  ‘I work for Mr Kett. I’m his page.’ Alfred was nervous. ‘I’ve just seen all the army’s cannon and luggage. They’re looking for the marketplace, but I sent them towards the bridge.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  Alfred nodded.

  The man grinned. He held out his hand. ‘I’m Miles.’ They shook hands. ‘You little beauty. Come on, boys, let’s go.’ He tapped Alfred on the back of the head like a proud father. ‘You run up to the camp, and get as many down as you can find. We’ll trap the bastards.’

  *

  The day’s light was fading. It soon would not be safe to be out on the streets. Fulke had waited patiently in the background all afternoon, observing Dudley as he battled to control the city. He was a short-tempered man and didn’t suffer bad news well. When his captain had told him they’d lost most of their canon and luggage to the rebels, Dudley struck him in the face, knocking him to the ground. Once he’d finished shouting at him, he’d repeatedly kicked his officer where he lay. The captain obviously deserved his beating. Only a fool would lose his army’s cannons. The captain had protested that he had not been in command of the unit and was only relaying the news. Nevertheless, Dudley sent the man off to recover them, and he’d returned with only three cannon at a cost of thirty soldiers’ lives. All the powder and shot had been lost to the rebels. Dudley had been so enraged he’d made his way to the scaffold where the rebel prisoners patiently awaited their fate with nooses around their necks. The gallows had been hastily built from scavenged wood, and each rebel stood on a chair. Dudley made his way between the gallows, kicking out the chairs from underneath his captives. One by one, they swung by their necks, with their hands tied behind their backs — their feet dancing in the air as they wriggled. Dudley’s frustrations appeared to have been vented after the first twelve men, so he ordered his soldiers to finish the rest.

  The bells sounded eight o’clock.

  The forty-nine rebel corpses hung limply in the dusk light, their eyes bulging. Fulke walked between them to see if there was anyone he knew. He was fascinated by the expressions cast on their cold faces. He felt privileged to stare at the dead, seeing what they themselves would never see. ‘You shouldn’t have surrendered,’ he whispered to himself.

  He turned to leave the gallows.

  Dudley was issuing orders to a party of soldiers. Once he’d finished, he gestured to Fulke. ‘Take me to Steward’s house.’

  Dudley clapped his hands above his head and summoned Parr to follow them. Fulke led them the short walk to Steward’s house in Tombland. The area was teeming with soldiers, and Dudley shouted to his men that he didn’t want a single rebel to pass beyond the Maid’s Head, and if they did, he would hang the section commander at fault.

  That was leadership, thought Fulke. Strike fear into men’s hearts if you want them to fight with all their strength.

  He and Dudley had a lot in common, he mused.

  Fulke banged on Steward’s door. Moments later, the deputy mayor appeared in a linen shirt and velvet waistcoat. Steward looked over Fulke’s shoulder. ‘May I welcome the Earl of Warwick to my house. Do come in and join me for dinner.’

  Steward held out his arm against Fulke’s chest, blocking his passage. ‘Fulke, please let the earl pass.’

  Seething, Fulke allowed the earl to push past him to shake Steward’s hand.

  ‘Fetch my banner and have it strung up above the doorway,’ said Dudley, addressing Fulke. ‘I want the rebels to know I am here, and I am unafraid.’

  Steward welcome Parr back as he followed Dudley inside.

  ‘That will be all for today, Fulke,’ said Steward.

  The door closed, leaving Fulke standing motionless on the doorstep. He heard the bolt slide across, and his cheeks glowed red as his frustration soared. The new life he’d envisaged for himself, one of power and influence, felt like it had slipped through his fingers in as much time as it took to close a door.

  He stalked off, where to, he didn’t know.

  I’ll show them what I’m capable of, he thought. Those stuck up pricks will rue the day they turned their noses up at Fulke.

  *

  The door burst open. Tiniker screamed, and Margreet, mute, ran to her sister’s embrace. The soldiers filed into their kitchen. The captain’s metal breastplat
e and helmet made him look even larger than he was as he surveyed the room’s entrances and exits.

  ‘Fifteen men to a floor,’ he shouted, looking out of the rear window to the meadows and gardens beyond.

  Piepen the canary tweeted in his cage.

  ‘Oi,’ shouted Alfred in vain. ‘What right have you…?’

  The soldiers’ heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs and across the wooden floor above, and Tiniker found the courage to get to her feet, ‘Excuse me,’ she said as the captain approached, ‘this is my house. I am guaranteed safety in this house by the deputy mayor!’

  ‘Does he report to the king?’ The soldier turned to acknowledge her for the first time. She could see the hardness in his eyes.

  ‘I’m…’ she stammered.

  ‘I have orders to take this house and everyone along this street.’

  This was what Tiniker had feared, as their house was on the front line between the rebel camp and the city defences.

  ‘You can stay if you want, but you must keep out of our way, and you should expect fighting.’

  ‘You can get in my way if you want,’ said another soldier. He grinned, rolling the handle of his battle-axe in his palm.

  Tiniker shuddered. She looked at Alfred, who glanced towards the front door. She nodded. This was no place for Margreet.

  ‘Margreet, fetch your coat and some warm clothes. We’re leaving.’

  ‘Come on, Margreet. I’ll help you. Come with me,’ said Alfred.

  Alfred held Margreet’s hand, and they took leave of their own house to the sound of their furniture being rearranged and soldiers’ voices.

  On the street, Tiniker turned to Alfred, ‘Where should we go? Surrey House?’

  ‘No. We need to blend in, and look like Norwich locals.’

  They would have to find shelter. There would be a curfew and anyone found on the streets after dark would be assumed to be a rebel and killed without enquiry.

  As they walked, soldiers busied themselves as they prepared to defend the street from rebel attacks. They listed and dismissed places they could hide.

  ‘I know where we can go,’ said Tiniker. ‘There is a wool warehouse on King Street. It was where my father used to buy his wool. Nobody will need wool tonight. It’s by the wharfs on the river, out of harm’s way. If we could break in there, we should be safe.’

  *

  ‘Robert, you can’t surrender once you’ve started fighting,’ said William.

  ‘He’s right,’ said Alice.

  ‘I didn’t start the fighting. I was trying to agree the peace!’ shouted Robert.

  ‘Be that as it may,’ said William making every effort to stay calm, ‘the fighting has started, and they will hold you to account for it.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Us, then, if you prefer. I am not trying to argue with you, brother, I am simply pointing out that events have overtaken us, and we cannot pretend otherwise.’

  ‘We were so close.’ Robert pressed his fists onto the dining room table, taking his weight off his feet. His eyes were closed. ‘We could have overcome the herald’s manner, but what were the odds of some vagrant child taking a shit in front of him? What’s more, that bloody fool shooting him?’

  ‘The Lord works in mysterious ways,’ said Alice, with a conviction that didn’t fool her husband.

  William massaged his temples.

  ‘It’s simple: we have no choice. We have to win.’

  ‘Thanks to Miles, we have their cannon, but they’re no use when we’re attacking in the streets,’ said Luke Miller, entering the conversation. ‘We’d be better to use them on open ground in a traditional battle.’

  Robert ignored Luke’s suggestion. In time, they agreed their aim must be to capture Dudley. The army would be leaderless, and they would be able to negotiate surrender in exchange for his safe return. They’d heard he was staying at Steward’s. Mayor Codd again pointed out that he had warned Robert that Steward was a snake.

  ‘The bridge, the road to the cathedral and Tombland are all bristling with troops,’ reported Miles, who’d seen things first hand on the streets. A direct approach was impossible. They would have to create a diversionary attack to draw Dudley’s forces away from him.

  ‘What about here? Will they not come for us?’ asked Alice.

  ‘Unlikely,’ said Miles. ‘We can retreat and hide in the darkness. It would be chaos. They’ll take comfort from the defences of the city.

  When the planning was finished, and a course of action agreed, Miles and Luke left to organise their followers who waited outside on the heath for a plan of attack. Robert walked to the far end of the dining room and stared out of the window at the evening sky. He must have watched the sunset a thousand times before, but never had the colours seemed so miraculous. As the light disappeared, the orange gave way to pink, which faded to blue into grey.

  Am I getting closer to you, Lord? Robert asked in his mind. What will we talk about, I wonder?

  Robert crossed his fingers.

  *

  Alfred took one final look down the street. All clear. Then, with a kick, he smashed down the side door to the warehouse. The door creaked. Another kick was enough to force it open. It was even darker inside. He ushered in the girls and refastened the lock from the inside. It wouldn’t hold if pushed, but it would pass a casual inspection from a passing eye. Tiniker drew a sigh of relief and hugged Margreet to reassure her. They were unlikely to be found, anybody unlucky enough to be in Norwich tonight was more concerned with their personal safety than that of their woolstock. Against the walls, the wool packs were piled floor-to-ceiling. It would have been washed once already, but the stale air was thick with the dusty smell of livestock. Margreet stayed below, while Alfred and Tiniker climbed up to fashion out a hiding space by moving the bags.

  It reminded Alfred of playing in the straw after harvest when he was younger. He built two spaces to conceal themselves in. They were soft and warm, and Tiniker helped Margreet into one of the spaces. She lay beside Margreet and held her hand until she drifted to sleep. Ever since the death of their father, her younger sister had been able to sleep at the drop of a coin and for as long as she was undisturbed. Tiniker envied her, as she’d spent more time awake at nights than she had asleep. Now that her father was gone, all the problems were hers to resolve. She was the parent now; bearing the weight of responsibilities she had never before appreciated. Fortunately, she had found Alfred to help her. She owed him a lot.

  She checked Margreet was sleeping before creeping out of the hiding space, slipping down off the woolpacks and finding Alfred, farther along, buried between the stacks. He looked surprised as she squeezed into the small hole he’d fashioned and rested her head on his chest.

  ‘Thank you for keeping us safe,’ she whispered.

  Alfred stroked her hair and said nothing. Tiniker tilted her head so she could see him in the gloom.

  ‘What will you do when this is over?’ She had found herself worrying about this lately. She feared he would return to his village and resume his old life.

  ‘I’d like to stay with you.’

  ‘People would talk. We’d be living in sin.’

  ‘Suits me,’ quipped Alfred.

  Tiniker smiled. She put her head back down on his chest and felt herself relax.

  ‘Will you fight with Mr Kett?’

  ‘I don’t know. If I don’t, people will ask where I was, and why I didn’t fight. I would be a coward.’

  Tiniker gripped his shirt with her fingers. She didn’t want him to fight.

  Alfred paused. ‘I think what he wanted was right and worth fighting for.’

  Tiniker lay in silence. She felt a tear well in her eye. She had lost everything. First her mother, then her country and now her father. She had only just been spared her maidenhead as Fulke had tried to rape her.

  Now her house was jeopardy. She’d betrayed the Ketts in the hoping of keeping it, and now it was occupied by soldiers and would again be in the fr
ont line of the fighting. She doubted it would escape the flames a second time.

  Without Alfred, all she had was Margreet. She couldn’t imagine how she would survive. Even if Steward intended to be good to his word, he wouldn’t rebuild the house for the sake of a weaver’s daughter. The guild wouldn’t help an unmarried woman. Laying in the warm and musty darkness of the warehouse, Tiniker no longer trusted that things would turn out all right.

  Looking at Alfred as he lay peacefully, she now leant forward and kissed his lips. She lingered before parting her mouth. Their tongues touched and slowly began to dance. She felt herself melt. She tingled as his hands travelled over her clothes. She knew it was wrong, but after everything she’d been through, why shouldn’t she blot her pain for once?

  She rolled on top of him and ran her fingers through his hair as they kissed. Her body yearned for more. Her whole life, her father had forbidden her from boys, but he was gone. Alfred’s hands found their way into her linen smock and squeezed her breasts in her undergarment. He wanted her — she could feel his erection swell beneath her. She would have expected to feel nervous, having never gone so far with a boy before, but being with him, she no longer felt like a girl. She wasn’t. She had the responsibilities of a parent, the body of a woman, with the desires to match. She sat up and pulled her smock over her head, exposing her body to the night air. Alfred’s warm hands ran over her flesh. It was dark, but he would be able to see the silhouette of her breasts, and the thought thrilled her as he touched them. She pulled up his shirt, and he wriggled free from its sleeves. He pulled her down beside him. They tried to kiss as they removed his hose. Naked, he rolled on top of her, his weight pressing her down into the wool. She gasped as he entered her.

  *

  Fulke watched the flames of small torches descend from the heath like burning ships on a black sea. He followed their progress from the meadows behind the Flemish girl’s house. In his mind, he could hear her sobs as he pictured her bent over her bed. She would keep for another day. Only Alfred, who he hadn’t seen since, knew it was him who’d killed Lord Sheffield. Fulke was confident that Alfred wouldn’t talk, but a nagging doubt at the back of his mind told him that it was a loose end he would be well advised to tidy up.