by Tim Holden
‘What about you?’
‘I’m old, brother. My time has come. Maybe they’ll be happy with my head.’ William moved his horse alongside Robert’s. He leaned over and hugged him. Robert kissed him.
‘Go!’
Robert kicked his horse. It took all his concentration to stay in the seat. He squeezed the reins between his fingers as hard as he could. He was beaten. He had failed. Thousands had died because of him, and he was going to survive. He knew it wasn’t right. He left the field overtaking rebels fleeing and crossed a hedge into an open field. He picked a path through the crops and rode to the highest point, relieved to be clear of the shouts of dying men. He turned to take one last look at the battle. The last of his forces were being corralled into a ball and enveloped by the troops.
They were finished.
Uncertain what he should do, he decided to pick a direction and see what fate brought. He chose north.
50
Fulke shouted, ‘Fight us, you cowards!’
A pike point was pressed against his chest and quelled his snarl.
The clash of steel was replaced by the groans of the dying.
Alfred struggled to stay upright. The pain in his injured shoulder had returned with a vengeance. Alfred glanced down at his blood-spattered torso but couldn’t see any wounds.
The royal standard appeared over the heads of the enemy. Underneath it, the earl kept at a safe distance.
‘You are defeated,’ he announced. ‘Drop your weapons.’
‘Do as he says, lads.’ Alfred recognised the voice of William Kett. He couldn’t see Robert. He must have been killed?
The gentlemen prisoners were freed from their chains, and the remaining rebels were marched back in two lines to the heath, enclosed on either side by the royal troops. One man had made a dash for it, only to be cut down by a pursuing cavalryman. Thereafter, nobody else tried. Alfred overheard some rebels grumbling that the king had used the Italians and Germans against them, so they’d showed no mercy. Alfred couldn’t see what difference it made who pointed a pike at you. He fought to keep his eyes open with every step of the walk. He was so tired he barely cared what the earl had in store for them.
They stopped near Mr Kett’s oak tree. Alfred watched the earl talking to William Kett, who’d had his horse taken from him and his hands tied together. While they waited, Alfred had a look around to see whom he recognised amongst the remaining rebels. It was hard to tell who was who beneath the masks of blood and dirt. Geoffrey Lincoln held his hand over a slash on his arm that was dripping blood. Miles, the gunner had survived too. Luke Miller must have perished, as he was nowhere to be seen. The earl finished with William Kett and issued orders to one of his soldiers who dashed off.
‘What’s happening, Fulke?’
Fulke’s jaw was clenched shut, and he shook his head. Alfred thought Fulke would have preferred to die fighting than be captured.
Soldiers busied themselves with the earl’s orders. Three returned with lengths of rope. One counted out fifty rebels, touching Alfred and Fulke on the arm as he passed. They were separated from the rest.
‘Take these men to be hung from their so-called Oak of Reformation,’ said the earl as casually as if he were ordering a plate of food from a tavern.
Alfred’s head slumped. He was about to die.
‘You will be hung from the bows of this tree until you are nearly dead,’ continued the Earl. ‘Then your bellies will be slashed and your innards removed. Your heads will be cut from your bodies and placed as a warning to others of the penalty for uprising.’
Alfred felt sick.
The man behind him was splattering the back of his heels with vomit. Fulke cursed the earl out loud. Those separated shouted protests, ‘Why us? What about them?’
‘They will return home. They deserve to die like yourselves, and I would have no hesitation in dispatching them had it not been for the harvest that needs gathering,’ said the earl.
There was uproar amongst the condemned men, but Alfred was too tired to protest. He’d chosen to fight. He had little left to live for. Tiniker was gone. Mr Kett was gone and with it most likely his job. Fulke was his only friend, and he’d led him to a battle he shouldn’t have joined. It wasn’t a pleasant way to die, but it would be over quickly, and he could join his parents in heaven — if there were such a place. As he looked about landscape, he could see nothing that he would miss. Alfred felt strangely calm. Perhaps his next life would be more generous. Death would offer him a chance to close his eyes and sleep for eternity.
Two soldiers pointed at the bows of the oak and debated how best to hang so many rebels from just one tree. The condemned men sat on the ground, guarded closely by soldiers. The other captured rebels, including William Kett, were made to stay and watch the executions. As word spread, people ventured up from Norwich to see the spectacle. No one wanted to miss a good hanging.
The soldiers tested a rope on the tree. Satisfied, they came and took the first ten rebels. The earl was deaf to their protests and pleas for mercy. They were lined up, and one-by-one hoisted by their necks on a rope hung over the largest bow and held aloft by a soldier standing behind. A foot clear of the earth, their legs flayed back and forth, and their hands grasped at the rope around their necks. The spectators recently arrived from the city cheered and clapped their approval at the swift justice being dispensed to those that had plagued their city.
Satisfied that they’d danced the hangman’s jig for long enough, the earl nodded. A soldier walked along the line of men dangling from the tree and with his knife, cut a slit across the underside of their bellies. Their screams were stifled by the rope around their throats. Another soldier followed and inserted a hook into the cut and drew out their intestines. A mass of steaming entrails slopped onto the floor at their feet. One-by-one, the men stopped wriggling and began to sway gently, their lives over. The earl nodded as they were dropped to the ground without ceremony. They landed like sacks of grain thrown from a cart. The soldiers loosened the nooses and carried the bodies away to be decapitated.
A soldier counted out the next ten men, Alfred amongst them. Having witnessed the fate of those before him, his calm evaporated. He retched, and his hands trembled. He told himself to be brave and face death like a man, as they lined up as instructed under the tree. The stinking entrails of the previous victims at their feet made Alfred retch again. He had Fulke to his right and Geoffrey Lincoln to his left. Neither man said anything. The nooses were placed around their necks. The first man was hoisted. Next up was Geoffrey. He rose and began his fight for air. Alfred felt the rope tighten and the fibres press into his neck. His throat was squeezed, and his head felt like it was about to detach as his feet left the ground. His eyes bulged, and his sight went. All he could think of was the last thing he would ever see was the view across the heath. He fought for air as his body used up the last of its reserve. Everything went black.
*
Steward regretted his charity. Whilst her sister slept, the Flemish girl had done nothing but cry. He’d shut them in a guest bedroom, but no matter where he went in his house, he heard her sobs. At noon he decided to fetch her a cup of wine and water, hoping it would numb her sadness. They’d arrived on Sunday, destitute. In a moment of weakness, he’d agreed to house them. It may yet prove worthwhile, Steward told himself as his carved wooden staircase creaked when he made his way upstairs. If she could weave the bombazine cloth she and her father had shown him, Steward could have a monopoly on the fabric. Whatever the outcome, the rebellion had nearly run its course and life would soon return to normal.
He knew he had become too preoccupied with the commotions caused by the Ketts, but the chaos they had brought now presented opportunities for those that were awake to them. As the country continued its switch to Protestantism under Edward VI there would be a growing demand for the dark and sober clothing favoured by the reformers. It would pay to keep the elder girl on his terms.
‘Here, take this.’
He passed the wine to Tiniker, perched at the end of the bed.
Her younger sister was under the covers but awake, staring blankly out of the window.
She thanked him and took a sip.
‘You should eat something.’
She shook her head.
‘What has got you so upset?’ asked Steward as he leant against the window frame of his small guest room on the second floor. Her father had been dead for weeks, and he didn’t believe anybody could be so upset over a house.
She looked at him through bloodshot eyes.
‘It’s a man, isn’t it?’
Young women were prone to such lovesickness. Had he left her? It didn’t fit. She was pretty and intelligent — not a woman that any man would likely walk away from. Besides, ordinary people’s lives had been on hold during the rebellion. There was too much uncertainty for people to address their own affairs when the threat of violence hung over them. Then it dawned on him, ‘Ah, he’s a rebel, isn’t he?’
She shook her head.
‘He was helping her spy on Kett,’ said the younger girl.
‘Quiet, Margreet.’
‘What became of him? Is he dead?’
‘I don’t know.’ She took another swig of wine.
Steward cleared his throat. She’d get over him.
He heard shouting outside. He cast his sight out of the window and saw people running in the street below. He opened the window. They were shouting between them. He heard something about the rebels being defeated. It must be over. He’d better go and see what was happening.
‘It sounds like it might finally be over,’ he announced. She looked pained at the news. ‘Come with me then. Some fresh air will do you good. You can’t spend your life hiding in here. Besides, they might have finished with your house, and, as fabulous company as you have been, people will talk if they believe I am harbouring young girls in my spare room.’ Steward grinned at his own joke.
‘We might even find out what befell this man of yours.’
The younger girl wanted to stay indoors, but Tiniker heaved herself up and followed Steward outside. They walked in silence towards the heath. They passed returning cavalrymen, their armour splattered with blood and their faces portraying jubilant exhaustion. They relayed to Steward how the rebels had been slaughtered and that Dudley was hanging the ringleaders up in the heath. One of the Ketts had been captured, the other unaccounted for.
If justice was being dispensed, Steward must show his face. He was curious to see how Mayor Codd would respond given his association with the Ketts. Again, it presented another opportunity for Steward to oust his rival for good. He hurried on towards the heath with the foreign girl in tow.
Surrounding the oak tree was a curious crowd.
The earl was mounted on horseback and looked to be directing proceedings. Steward looked about and saw William Kett.
‘What happened to Robert?’ he asked a nearby spectator.
Steward pushed through the crowd, eager to find the earl. There was a cheer. A handful of rebels were hoisted up on a tree branch and began to swing by their necks. Their fellow captives looked on with foreboding.
Serve them right, thought Steward as he moved round to the earl.
‘Stop, Augustine, it’s him,’ said Tiniker pointing to a man in the group of men waiting to be hung.
‘Who, your man? Looks like he’s about to pay the price for his poor company.’
There was another cheer as the rebels had their innards drawn out, a practice Steward had always found distasteful and unnecessarily violent.
She tugged his sleeve. ‘We must save him.’
‘What’s he doing here with the rebels?’
‘He’s not a rebel,’ she insisted, her feet planted firmly to the ground.
A soldier came over to the condemned men and pointed at ten of them. The girl’s boy was one of them. They made their way over to the tree.
‘He looks like one from where I’m standing.’
‘If it weren’t for him, you’d have known nothing about Kett’s movements. We have to save him,’ she demanded.
Steward shook his head. He hadn’t come up here to act as an ambassador for some peasant boy.
Tiniker pummelled him in the chest with surprising force. He was lost for words. Her cheeks flared red, and her gaze pierced his skull. ‘Help me save my man, or you’ll not get one yard of cloth from me.’
Steward paused. ‘You’d lose your house.’
‘Keep your bloody house. Save him, or I go home.’
The noose was placed around the boy’s neck.
Steward groaned. ‘I’ll speak to the earl.’
‘I’m coming too,’ she declared as she followed him.
Her boy was hoisted off the ground.
‘Earl, good day to you. May I be the first to offer my congratulations.’
Dudley looked down from his horse. ‘Not now, Steward. I’m busy.’ The earl gave the nod, signalling the knifeman to slit their bellies.
‘I’d like to discuss something with you, your grace. It concerns one of the men hanging from that branch,’ said Steward.
‘I think they have more pressing concerns just now, Steward.’
‘Stop! Stop! Everybody stop what you’re doing,’ shouted Tiniker as she ran out from the crowd.
The knifeman paused as he looked up. Alfred was next. His face had turned purple.
‘What’s the meaning of this, young woman? Do you want to be strung up with them?’ asked the indignant-looking Dudley.
Steward cringed. That wasn’t the way to endear the earl.
‘Let him down. I’ll explain. You’re about to kill a man who has helped you more than you know.’
Dudley frowned.
‘Please!’ she shouted. Steward flinched. She was on thin ice herself now.
Dudley squinted at her. He looked over at the men holding the ropes. ‘Let them down. You might need to make room for a woman in a moment.’
He turned his attention back to Tiniker. ‘This better be good, young woman.’
One man, with a branding on his forehead, relieved of his guts, remained hanging; the rest slumped to the ground falling in the entrails of those before them. Together, they coughed and spluttered as they writhed on the ground, pulling at the rope around their necks. Alfred wasn’t moving. Maybe it was already too late for him. Starve a man of air, and they could be driven mad. Steward had witnessed botched executions in his career.
Tiniker strode up to the Earl. ‘I spied for him,’ she said, pointing at Steward. ‘The only reason I got any information was because Alfred Carter betrayed the Ketts.’
There was an intake of breath from the on-looking rebels, shocked that there should be a traitor amongst them.
‘So why was he on the battlefield today?’ asked the Earl.
Steward shook his head. He couldn’t see how she could answer that satisfactorily.
‘We certainly can’t even ask him when he’s dead.’ Her anger was turning to desperation.
Dudley looked to Steward. ‘Is this true, deputy?’
Steward looked at Tiniker and nodded. ‘Very much so, your grace. He was an integral link in my intelligence gathering.’
The creases in her forehead softened as a glimmer of hope was given.
Dudley sighed, ‘Very well, bring him to me.’
Tiniker ran to Alfred.
Steward walked over to see if the boy had regained consciousness. Tiniker shook him as he lay on the ground.
‘Alfred, wake up, it’s me.’
*
The world came back into view. Was that Tiniker kneeling in front of him? Am I dead and gone to heaven, he thought? His neck burned, and his brain throbbed. The floor was moist. He was lying on something warm that smelt of offal. He checked his guts, they were still intact. What had happened? He looked around, Geoffrey Lincoln hung over him, blood dripping from a gash to his belly — his eyes were vacant.
Fulke lay on the ground. He was breathing. So wer
e the other men.
Tiniker hugged him.
‘What happened?’
‘You’re alive!’ She kissed him. ‘You have to tell the earl that you helped me spy on the Ketts. Come on.’
The earl, looking impatient seated on his horse, beckoned him over. Tiniker put her arm around him to help him up, and he groaned as he struggled to his feet and hobbled over to the earl. Steward followed him. The captured rebels booed him as he walked, and he was spat at. William Kett, his hands tied, also made his way to the earl. As Alfred’s confusion began to clear, it dawned on him what must have happened: Tiniker had given him a second chance, but he would have to admit to betraying Kett. His reputation would be ruined.
‘State your claim, boy,’ demanded the earl, irritated that his proceedings had been interrupted.
‘He worked for the Ketts,’ said Tiniker.
‘I’ll hear it from him, if you don’t mind. Did you?’
Alfred nodded. The earl glanced at William Kett, and he confirmed it.
‘Why do you deserve to live?’
Tiniker implored him with her eyes. Alfred was unsure. Any help he’d given the authorities was inadvertent. He’d never intended to pass on information. He’d been stupid. She had duped him. He looked around. Every rebel’s face wore a venomous expression. They would most likely lynch him themselves. William Kett’s expression was stern.
‘Speak up, lad,’ demanded the earl, growing impatient.
‘I was Mr Kett’s page. I told her everything I knew about Mr Kett’s plans.’
Alfred cringed at the boos and hisses and shouts of traitor.
‘And yet you were on the battlefield alongside the Ketts and their rebels?’
Alfred didn’t know what to say. Usually in these situations he said too much and made matters worse.
‘He lived with me,’ said Tiniker. ‘Your troops commandeered my house. We had nowhere to go. He left me to find out what the rebels were doing and report back. He must have been swept up.’
‘What do you think, Steward?’ asked the Earl.
Steward tilted his head.
