by Tim Holden
‘Tell him,’ demanded Tiniker.
He nodded. ‘It’s true, my lord. There is reason this boy should be spared, and there are others more worthy of execution.’
Dudley summoned a soldier. ‘Replace this one with one from the shelf.’
Alfred shivered. His life had been exchanged for another. He’d just been handed back his future. He should have felt like a man reborn. Instead, he felt sick. Tiniker hugged him.
A commotion broke out over by the oak tree. Fulke had removed his noose and broken free from his guard. He dashed over to where they stood.
‘Steward, what about me?’ asked Fulke. ‘Tell them I work for you? Dudley, you remember me? I unlocked the gates and let you into the city.’
‘Very well, fetch another rebel,’ sighed the earl.
Fulke winked at Alfred.
‘Thank you, your grace.’
Alfred scowled at his friend.
How typical of Fulke. He was the sort to fall in shit and come up smelling of roses. Alfred looked at the faces of the condemned men. Each one, a life cut short. Every dead man left a family condemned to hardship. How had he and Fulke escaped with their heads? Alfred thought back to Wymondham. If Fulke hadn’t beat up the constable, he wouldn’t have led the riots to Morley and Hethersett. He’d taken Flowerdew’s bribe to involve Mr Kett’s enclosures. Without Fulke, none of this would have happened. He tried to rape Tiniker and then pulled Alfred back into harm’s way. The only reason Alfred was standing here was because of Fulke.
‘He killed Lord Sheffield.’
There was a stunned silence.
‘Who did?’ demanded the earl.
Fulke’s mouth fell open.
‘He did.’ Alfred pointed at his friend. ‘In cold blood.’
Fulke lunged forward, head-butting Alfred. Alfred collapsed on the ground, and Fulke kicked him, called him obscenities. Tiniker screamed as Alfred lay prone, suffering the blows until two soldiers dragged Fulke away.
‘You swear it?’ asked the earl.
Alfred couldn’t move. He lay on the ground, blood streaming from his nose. He nodded. ‘I was there.’
‘String him up!’ shouted the earl.
Fulke wrestled against his captors, but more soldiers surrounded him. He cursed and spat as they dragged him to the gallows. He wriggled to the last as the men fought to put the noose over his head. He shouted as two soldiers hoisted him up. Wasting no time, the knifeman slit his belly and emptied his guts on the floor. Everywhere fell silent. Fulke was dead.
Alfred closed his eyes. Whatever the rights and wrongs of recent weeks, there was now one measure of evil less in the world.
51
Robert slid from his horse, fell to the ground, and his legs gave way beneath him. His beast was blowing and in need of water. They had ridden near fourteen miles at full gallop in an effort to put as much ground between themselves and the army. Robert could barely recall the countryside and villages he’d passed through. His mind had been dominated by thoughts of his children, Alice, William and the men he’d led to death. He’d cried for much of the journey, lamenting the hundreds of chance occurrences that had led him to this point. The boy defecating at the herald’s feet. Cooper’s intervention in stopping him speaking to Dudley. Flowerdew’s bribe. Alfred arriving at his house to warn him. As a gambling man, the odds of it all conspiring seemed like a one in a hundred thousand chance, and yet, here he was, collapsed on the verge of the road, fleeing for his life.
His body wanted nothing but to fall asleep, but he couldn’t stop in plain sight. He was the most infamous man in Norfolk and news of his disappearance would spread through the villages like wildfire. He’d already attracted enough unwanted attention; a lone horseman galloping through the villages had not gone unnoticed by local people. Even if they were sympathetic to his actions, they would not resist the opportunity for gossip a sighting of him afforded.
No doubt the crown would offer a reward for him.
He dragged himself up and led his horse to the nearby pond that had caused him to stop. The horse drank the stagnant green water, and Robert looked through the hedges and spied a barn. The sun neared the western horizon. If he could rest there he could continue his journey in darkness. He could be in the small port of Wells on the north coast by mid-morning. From there, he intended to board the first boat leaving the country.
As the horse drank, Robert heard a creak.
A heavy draught horse pulled a laden hay cart out from behind the barn. It was accompanied by two men and a boy. Robert contemplated making a dash for it, but his legs were like goose fat, he wasn’t sure he could mount his horse from the floor. Better to stay and act innocently, he concluded.
He bid them good evening as they approached. He felt their eyes boring into the back of his head.
‘What’s your business taking from my master’s pond?’ asked the cart driver.
‘My mount was blowing. She needed a drink. Thank your master most kindly for me.’
‘Who should I say thanks him?’
Robert’s tired mind couldn’t think of any name other than his own. ‘A man in a hurry.’
‘What’s got you in a rush then?’
Robert cursed. The leisurely routine of farming life meant that those involved always had time to poke their noses into the business of others. To commoners, the small innocuous goings on of others was the wood that fired their daily gossip in the alehouse. Robert ignored them, hoping they would get the message.
They did.
The driver mumbled an insult and slapped the horse’s reins. Once they had moved on, Robert led his horse behind the pond to the barn. Like all farm buildings, the doors were unlocked. To pilfer a meaningful quantity of a crop required too many accomplices, took too long and was too hard to be transported and hidden, all under too many watchful eyes. Robert knew well that this apparent casualness with their supplies didn’t mean that farming people were trusting of one another — they were ever suspicious. He led the horse in and closed the doors. The evening light seeped in through the gaps in the old timbers, casting rays of shining dust like silver needles across the gloom. Robert tethered the horse to an eyelet on the wall. He couldn’t conceal the animal, so there was little to be gained by fashioning a hidey-hole for himself. It would be dark soon. He slumped onto the hay and was asleep before his head fell still.
He woke to a prod in his chest. Robert knew instantly where he was. Two candles interrupted the darkness. He could see the moonlit sky through the open doors of the barn. A pitchfork pressed against his chest.
‘Who the hell are you?’
Robert’s mind was ill-prepared. He felt the tines of the fork press harder.
‘I’ll save you the trouble of lying to me,’ said the man. ‘My money says you’re Kett?’
Robert sighed. ‘I am.’
‘Ride to Norwich, boy,’ said the man with the pitchfork. He was speaking to a younger lad whose face was lit by the glow of the candlelight. ‘Tell them we’ve got Captain Mischief.’
52
14th October, The Tower of London
Seymour slumped onto the bed in his new quarters. He stared at the cell’s stone wall. How many before me have stared at this wall, he wondered: Anne Boleyn, Thomas Cromwell perhaps? How many of them, like him, were related to the king.
He was Edward VI’s uncle, residing in the tower at his nephew’s pleasure, and at the behest of the insufferable Dudley.
That whole business in Norfolk was what had landed him here. If only they could have waited, his enclosure commission was set up to achieve the very thing the rebels claimed to want. All the troubles had filled Dudley’s sails with wind.
Once Dudley had returned from quelling the rebellion, he’d requested a dukedom. Seymour had refused him. Why should a man expect such a reward just for performing his duty to his country? Especially a man who had helped precipitate matters by holding enclosures of his own. Dudley’s motivations were too selfish to see the logic in Seymour’s method. Inste
ad, Dudley had set about forming a rival council in London whilst Seymour was at Hampton Court.
Behind closed eyes, Seymour saw an image of Edinburgh. It was a month since his Scottish campaign of eight years had collapsed. He’d been denied the gift of finishing what Edward Longshanks had started centuries before, all because the people in command lacked the wherewithal to run the Scots through once and for all. On top of that, the French, who’d been in cahoots with the Scots all along, had declared war. The French were laying siege to the English town of Boulogne.
Those territories were rightfully English titles, why could the garlic-ridden French not respect that?
Seymour was too tired to sleep.
He had retired to Windsor for the king’s safety. He’d issued letters to the common people, requiring them to stand up in protest against Dudley’s behaviour and protect their king. None had answered his call to set up camp in Windsor. It seemed the English people were willing to rise and be led by a provisional nobody like Kett, but not willing to take up arms and protect their king and his administration.
Recalcitrants, the lot of them.
Instead, Dudley had arrived and persuaded the king to let him assume the protectorate. Seymour had been led through London to the tower.
At least he’d kept his head.
Seymour woke the next morning and cleaned his face in the water bowl on the table beside his bed. His door was unlocked, so he went in search of something to eat and drink. He was lucky to enjoy some privileges: he was allowed to freely move around the communal areas and corridors at will, provided he was in his cell by sunset. There was no chance of escape as all the staircases leading up to the cells were locked and guarded by two men. He helped himself to a beaker of rainwater from the butt that stood in the middle of the hall.
Then he sat down on the bench next to an elderly gentleman and engaged him in conversation.
*
Robert watched the glistening waters of the Thames from his cell window. He’d never seen a river so wide, teeming with so many types of boats. He passed the time by counting the boats and categorising them according to the purpose for which they were designed; transport, trade, defence, pleasure and so on.
He’d been held captive here since the ninth of September. Having been captured in the village of Swannington, he’d been presented to the Earl of Warwick, who’d been enjoying a thanksgiving service at St Peter Mancroft church in the marketplace when he’d heard of Robert’s capture. Robert had joined William in the dungeons of the guildhall.
At least here he had daylight and a view.
They’d been tied to a cart and driven through the streets of London. Robert had never been to London, and now he’d seen it for himself, he regretted not having visited prior to now, with Alice. The streets thronged with people in a desperate hurry, rushing to get from place to place. He saw men with skin as dark as the night, others in clothes the like of which he’d never seen before. Carts and drays moved about the town, bringing goods to the houses that lined the streets. The air was alive with voices.
He could have made money here, of that he was sure. He understood why his son had wanted to come.
Capture had proved, in a way, a relief. He knew, barring a miracle, it was the end for him, but he realised now what a toll the rebellion had taken on him. Despite the prison food, the knot in gut had passed, and he felt like a weight had been lifted. He tended not to dwell on his fate or that of the men he’d led. He’d striven to give his best and only acted with the best of intentions. Nor had he demanded anything of anyone that they hadn’t been willing to freely give. Even the gentlemen he’d imprisoned and used as human shields at the battle had been unharmed, if not a little inconvenienced.
So it seemed to Robert that God had other plans for him
His regrets were reserved for Alice who he hadn’t seen and was denied the opportunity to say goodbye to. It pained him to think of her going to bed at night on her own.
William returned to the cell.
Robert, as the principal troublemaker, was chained to the wall by his ankle.
‘I have somebody to see you, brother.’ William was followed in by a finely dressed man in a white ruff beneath a purple jacket, the sleeves of which had been slashed to show off the yellow silk lining.
‘Robert Kett?’ said the man.
‘Yes.’
Robert looked at William. ‘This is Edward Seymour, until yesterday, the Lord Protector of the Realm.’
Robert heaved himself to his feet.
‘Mr Kett, you and your brother are the reason that I am in here,’ said Seymour.
‘We could say the same of you, sir,’ said Robert. The man didn’t smile, and Robert detected contempt. ‘Or we could agree that we’ve all been brought here by the same man, John Dudley?’
‘You’ll both hang, you know.’
‘I’ve made my peace with that, sir,’ said Robert. ‘Please, there is little to be gained by us rowing. Given our surroundings, it seems the time for arguing has passed. Will you take a seat and join us? I’m afraid I can’t extend you much hospitality.’
Robert pulled out the chair from the writing desk in the corner of the cell. ‘Have you somewhere else you need to be?’ asked Robert with a smile.
The duke acquiesced. ‘What did you hope to gain by your rebellion?’
Robert now moved to his mattress, dragging the chain across the stone floor. ‘You saw our demands, a simple promise to end enclosure would have done it.’
Seymour grunted.
‘But alas, you and your people had other ideas, so here we are.’
William sat down on his own bed. ‘Are you angry with us, my lord?’
‘Yes. Your actions brought my reign to an end. I was dealing with enclosure. People understood I was against the practice, did they not?’
‘Yes. But people didn’t believe that anyone in your government would comply, all of them being the beneficiaries of the practice.’
‘Did you not enclose commons yourself?’ asked Seymour.
‘Oh yes.’
‘Then what on earth possessed you to do what you did?’
‘Because it was wrong, what I was doing. I saw every day the consequences of my actions, and I wanted to recount for it. I never intended for things to develop how they did.’
‘Are you angry with me?’ asked Seymour.
Robert looked at the duke. ‘I’d have preferred it if you’d agreed to our demands, of course, and we could have all gone home, but,’ Robert couldn’t resist a smile, ‘I’m not angry with you, nor do I wish you any harm. For my part, I am sorry that I have played some small role in bringing you to this place with me.’
‘Some small role?’ replied Seymour indignantly.
Robert interrupted. ‘When you get to my age, your grace, you come to learn that the only person responsible for wherever you find yourself, is yourself. Where you are now is the consequence of every thought and decision you have taken.’
‘I disagree, Mr Kett,’ countered Seymour before Robert could finish. ‘I alone knew what was needed for this country, and I was well on my way to enacting it. If it were not for the greed and incompetence of others, I would have gone down in history as The Good Duke.’
‘You may blame others, sir, and you may believe yourself right, but ask yourself, where has that got you?’ Robert opened his palms.
‘Do you not blame others then, for by your own account, your deeds were noble and well-meaning, and yet you too are here.’ Seymour looked at the ceiling of the cell.
‘What good would it do me if I did? In the time I have spent at his majesty’s pleasure, I have come to see that blaming others for your own situation, whilst understandable, is the same for one’s soul as drinking poison and hoping that it is the other person who gets sick. I hope I don’t die, but if I should, then I aim to meet God with a clear conscience, having forgiven everyone who has ever done wrong by me. As is the Christian way.’
The duke nodded.
&n
bsp; ‘In which case, Robert Kett, I concede you are a bigger man than me, and I fear history will judge you more kindly than it will me.
‘Thank you.’
Robert and William spent a further six weeks at the tower before being taken to trial at Westminster.
The good and the great were assembled in the courtroom. The two brothers were manacled together in front of six judges appointed to oversee the proceedings. Twelve men, good and true, sat in the jury box. The charges were read out.
The lead judge asked them how they pleaded.
‘Guilty. On all counts,’ said Robert.
There was a stunned intake of breath across the courtroom.
‘To save the court’s time, we offer no defence to our actions,’ said Robert.
‘Very well,’ replied the judge. ‘You shall be taken to Tyburn where you will be hung, your guts drawn and burned before your eyes. Your heads placed on London Bridge and your bodies quartered and displayed on the city gates.
‘Thank you, your grace,’ said Robert. ‘In light of our cooperation, may you permit me just one suggestion for the court’s consideration?’
53
20th October, Kenninghall, Norfolk.
Luke Miller removed his hood and waited as instructed in the hallway. His heart pumped a little faster, and his palms were clammy. Sometime later, Princess Mary arrived, accompanied by three ladies in waiting. Her legs were shrouded by the plumpness of her dress, making her petite frame appear to float as she walked over the coloured floor tiles. Behind her pale skin and sombre expression lurked the only traces of her Spanish lineage: thin lips, dark eyebrows and eyes that squinted at Luke. He fell to one knee and bowed his head. Mary offered her hand, her fingers warm and soft. He kissed the back of her hand, savouring her scent before rising to his feet.
Her legal status may have ebbed and flowed since her late father, King Henry VIII, divorced her mother, but irrespective of her standing, Mary’s veins carried royal blood. She was descended from God; in Luke’s mind, she personified perfection. A notion that left him both inspired and a little aroused. Whilst he may have been from good stock himself, he fell a long way short of royalty, so such occurrences to meet the princess were to be savoured.
