Spirals of Fate

by Tim Holden

  Richard looked around. Men were nodding. Damn Alfred, he thought.

  ‘In years gone by,’ said James, ‘at the harvest count we have seen Richard’s yields are often the lowest. Many of us could return from fifteen acres what he produces from twenty. When there is not enough mother’s milk to go round, it is the weakest calf that dies.’

  Richard returned James’s stare. He wanted to speak, to shout back and retaliate, but he didn’t. He sat still and waited, numb.

  ‘If we are to challenge our master,’ said James, ‘let it be for a more worthwhile person.’

  The room was absolutely still.

  ‘John, James, thank you for your summaries,’ said Anders. ‘Are there any questions?’

  ‘What about the king’s uncle, Lord Protector Seymour? Should he not stop these abuses?’ shouted a voice. The question was met with jeers and derision.

  ‘Don’t matter what Seymour says,’ said another farmer at the back. ‘He can sit in London and say whatever comes into his damn head, it don’t make two turds worth of difference. It won’t do us no good.’

  Another man finished the thought. ‘In any case, it’s Flowerdew who would be tasked with carrying out Seymour’s instructions here, and he won’t do anything that don’t line his own purse.’

  ‘Right,’ interrupted Anders. He never encouraged too many questions or too much talking. ‘The day is passing, but I will add one more thing for you to think about. I’ve had the good fortune to live through more winters than any man here. When I was a boy, and my father held the meetings in this very room, there were less than twenty men farming this land. Hethersett has been blessed. God has spared us his plagues, and there’s now twice the number of people living here than when I was the age of some of you. We have many more mouths to feed, yet the manor is unchanged. It troubles me to admit that with every generation we grow a little hungrier–’

  ‘Then how can it be right that the lord of the manor keeps so many sheep for his own needs?’ said Stuart Marshwell.

  At least he’s sticking up for his family, thought Richard, unlike my son-in-law.

  ‘Rich men will always do as they please,’ started another man, ‘until we–’

  ‘Stuart, you may be my son,’ said Anders with some force, ‘but you will obey the ways of this hall the same as any man.’

  Anders turned his attention back to the gathered men. ‘We could talk all day about the lord, his virtues and his failings, but we are here to decide whether we should challenge him for the sake of Richard Smith. If you are willing to lend your name to Richard’s cause, raise your arm,’ said Anders softly.

  This is it, thought Richard. No more waiting. He looked around the room. Would he be condemned to a slow death? He saw hands raised. Several men stood still, hands by their sides. One man wavered, undecided. How many arms were up? Was it enough? Richard couldn’t tell by eye alone. It was close. They would have to count.

  6

  8th July, Wymondham

  Under the overcast sky, the marketplace had been cleared of stalls. The triangular space was filled with long tables and benches, along which people passed their empty ale jugs to be refilled from barrels set at the end of each table. It was day two of the town festival.

  The previous day, a Sunday, people from the surrounding villages had gathered in Wymondham to commemorate the slaying of Thomas Becket four hundred years before. Each year, the people of the hundred, a collection of parishes forming an administrative division of the county watched as the archbishop’s murder was re-enacted, and each year, Becket grew more defenceless, his assailants more savage and the audience’s reaction more outraged. It had become customary that the formal Sunday celebrations spilt over into Monday. Men were excused their labours and a day free of civic ceremony gave them a chance to indulge their favourite pastime: drinking.

  Alfred burped. He was sitting between Fulke and David Fisher, who took no notice, and although Alfred was drunk, he hoped that by concentrating hard he could overcome the tell-tale signs. The air was warm, and a gentle breeze carried with it the mouth-watering smell of capons spit-roasting over an open fire. As the bells struck twelve, Alfred decided he needed to empty his bladder. He swayed on his feet as he excused himself and made his way across the marketplace, surrounded by laughter, chatter and, in one corner, two neighbours settling their differences with their fists.

  The day of outdoor drinking was enlivened by the occasional play, performer or musician, and by gambling: arm wrestling, three-legged races, cockfights, dice, brag, trump or a game of tables. Women were welcome, provided they were willing to drink, be merry and suffer the attentions of the men. Most stayed away on the Monday. The gentry too, were always present on the Sunday, but made their excuses for the Monday.

  Alfred emptied himself against the wall of the apothecary, one of the many timber buildings that surrounded the marketplace. While he was enjoying the numbness the alcohol provided, he was afraid of passing out. The last few days had taken their toll: hard physical work at the tannery, followed by despair and self-pity at home. Unable to face his wife’s anger, he’d spent the previous night under the stars. In a sheltered space in the churchyard he had been able to avoid the attentions of the town watch, who were ever-vigilant during festival time.

  Alfred took his seat on the bench next to Fulke, where a full tankard was waiting for him. Opposite them was Adam Catchpole, a friend of Fulke’s, recounting in a lowered voice how he and several others from his village had destroyed Master Hobart’s enclosures in Attleborough under cover of darkness, freeing the lord’s sheep to wander the Norfolk countryside. Next to Adam sat Geoffrey Lincoln, so called as he hailed from the city of the same name, who added to Adam’s tale his delight at witnessing his neighbour’s fury on finding some of the stray sheep eating his vegetable crop.

  ‘What has Hobart done?’ asked Fulke, keen to hear the whole story.

  Adam shrugged. ‘What can he do? No one saw anything.’

  ‘He must know.’

  ‘Even if he thinks so, he can’t find us guilty without witnesses.’ Adam took a swig of ale. He was rosy-cheeked from the drink and clearly enjoying evading capture. His short, curly brown hair was not unlike a shorn fleece.

  ‘Sod ’em,’ said Geoffrey, who wore a straw hat pulled down to hide the branding scars he’d acquired in Lincoln. ‘All these sheep put me out of work.’ He was an unskilled labourer who had earned a living until recently from farmers whose children were too young to work the fields. But as more farmers replaced crops with sheep, which required little in the way of husbandry, labourers such as Geoffrey had found work harder to come by.

  ‘Best we raise a toast,’ said Fulke. ‘To Hobart – for buying us ale today, for losing his sheep, and for being too stupid to catch the perpetrators!’ The men laughed and took mouthfuls of the ale donated by Hobart, the lord of Morley, a neighbouring parish. Alfred carefully returned his tankard to the table. Being around careless talk made him nervous. You only needed to be overheard by one person loyal to Hobart and harsh consequences would follow. The table wobbled as Adam got up to relieve himself.

  Alfred turned away from Fulke to talk to David Fisher, someone he felt was more sensible.

  ‘I have work, David,’ said Alfred, unable to hide his pride.

  ‘Good for you,’ replied David with sincerity. He was a thin man in his late twenties, with dark hair and the manner of someone who liked to get along with others. ‘Who for?’

  ‘For Robert Kett. Tanning leather.’ Again Alfred sounded boastful.

  David nodded. ‘You’ll need a strong nose.’

  Alfred shrugged. There was no denying it.

  ‘The stink of leather and the stench of hypocrisy,’ added David.

  Alfred frowned. Did David mean Robert Kett, one of the most upright of the town’s aldermen? ‘What do you–?’

  ‘He owns my house. I refused to pay my rent.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Our whole street is united. We wo
n’t pay till he gives back the common.’

  ‘Oh, how . . . what did he do?’ Alfred was amazed at the sheer boldness of the tenants’ action. After all, he had done nothing wrong, and yet Flowerdew had evicted him.

  ‘What can he do? We’re pleading poverty. Can’t throw us all out, or the streets of Wymondham would be littered with his evicted tenants. He’d have to account for his enclosures then. One wrong turn deserves another, in my mind.’

  A passing juggler caught Alfred’s eye and distracted him for a moment. He took a sip of ale.

  ‘He was a gentleman about it, mind you,’ said David. ‘Not one to rant and rave, old Kett. If he forces the issue, we’ll have to pay, but he won’t have it easy.’

  Alfred was amazed. At that moment he caught a glimpse of Master Peter across the marketplace. The tannery foreman wore a sombre frown. Their eyes met, then Master Peter’s gaze moved to Fulke. Alfred remembered Master Peter’s sharp reaction when he’d mentioned Fulke on his first day at the tannery. Perhaps there was ill will between them.

  Alfred’s thoughts were interrupted by Fulke’s laughter. He slammed his ale on the table. ‘Bollocks to the lot of them!’ Fulke declared. Alfred assumed he was talking about the gentry, or maybe the church. As the drink took hold, his friend was becoming aggressive.

  ‘Come on, Alfred, that ale won’t drink itself.’ Fulke slapped him on the back. ‘If you’re going home to your wife, I think you’ll need all the ale you can get!’ Fulke laughed at his own joke and was joined by Geoffrey. Alfred did as he was told, but kept it to a single swig.

  Big John Robertson walked past and offered a friendly wink. Since Alfred started at the tannery, John had accompanied him on the walk into Wymondham most mornings. John was drinking with a group from Hethersett, but Alfred was happier among the Wymondham men. Not only had his family been the centre of discussion in the village for the past few days he, but the vote at the farmers’ meeting had gone against them. The men of Hethersett had offered their sympathies, but they’d voted in favour of Flowerdew’s action. The Smiths, and Alfred, were expendable.

  As he took another swig, Alfred spotted a commotion at the far corner of the marketplace. Fulke stood up to get a better view, then, as others did the same, he stepped up onto the table.

  ‘Constable Morris has got someone by the pillory. It’s Adam!’

  Alfred followed Fulke as he dashed around the tables and pushed to the front of the crowd forming around the constable and his three henchmen. The constable, Jacob Morris, wore an orange tunic and a black velvet hat; his thick beard made him look older than his twenty-eight years. Behind him, the deputies held a struggling Adam Catchpole with his arms pinned behind his back. His eyes were wide with fear as they wrestled him toward the pillory. Once there, they held his neck and wrists down against the low oak beam, and the constable swung the heavy upper beam over them and padlocked it in place. Adam wriggled like a rat in a trap.

  ‘What’s he done?’ Alfred asked Fulke.

  Fulke shook his head. His jaw clenched and the vein in his neck throbbed.

  Adam shouted a protest as the constable drew two six-inch iron nails from inside his tunic. His deputy passed him a mallet.

  As they gathered round, the crowd’s mood was uncertain. For the most part, people enjoyed watching the punishment of wrongdoers, but it wasn’t clear what misdeed Adam had committed.

  ‘What’s this for?’ shouted Fulke.

  ‘Quiet!’ Morris responded. ‘Adam Catchpole is guilty of a crime against his lord, Master Hobart.’

  ‘What crime?’ shouted Adam, his face pointed toward the dirt.

  ‘Quiet!’ snapped one of the deputies, kicking Adam’s feet from under him. Adam choked as he scrambled back to his feet.

  Alfred winced. He’d always found Adam a bit cocky, but he wouldn’t wish this on him.

  Morris held one of the nails to Adam’s ear and swung his hammer. Adam tried to stifle his scream, but he soon gave way and let out a rasping squeal. His ear was pinned to the pillory. A trickle of blood ran down the stained wooden block that held him in place.

  Fulke stepped forward from the crowd. ‘What crime?’ he demanded.

  ‘Catchpole was caught fishing Master Hobart’s stretch of river.’

  ‘I didn’t know it was his,’ protested Adam.

  ‘The master bought that stretch of water one week before, and he doesn’t want your sort robbing it of his fish,’ said Morris.

  ‘He said he didn’t know,’ replied Fulke, slurring his words and with his arms outstretched.

  ‘Those waters were restricted, and ignorance is no grounds for wrongdoing,’ said Morris. ‘If it was, none of you would ever be culpable for your actions.’

  A low buzz of discussion rose from the crowd as people debated the justice they were witnessing.

  ‘Don’t warrant nailing him to the boards. Wouldn’t a fine be enough? It’s only fish.’

  ‘The court determined he should be pilloried,’ said Morris, raising the second nail to Adam’s other ear. The crowd jeered and booed, making clear their disapproval, but no one moved as the hammer swung again and Adam screamed. His tears made dark spots on the dirt beneath.

  It was the sound, not the sight, of Adam’s suffering that made Alfred feel sick. The ale turned in his empty belly

  ‘This has nothing to do with fish!’ yelled Fulke, angrily pointing a stubby finger at Morris. ‘Hobart is taking revenge for his fences being demolished and his sheep escaping.’

  Morris’s eyebrows rose. ‘Well you seem to know about this, so can I take it that Catchpole was involved?’

  Fulke spat on the ground in front of the constable. ‘When was this court in session?’ he asked. Then, turning to the crowd: ‘Who here was present when sentence was passed?’ There were only shaking heads and angry faces among the onlookers. Fulke turned back to face Morris. ‘Why such a harsh punishment?

  ‘Carry on like this, Fulke, and you’ll find yourself in a pillory.’

  Fulke ignored the constable. ‘Hobart is sending us a message. He’s telling us he’s above the law and can dish out punishments for crimes we haven’t been found guilty of.’

  Several in the crowd shouted their support.

  Morris smiled. After a moment he said, ‘Thank you, Fulke. Now we know Catchpole was involved, we should be able to extract the names of the others.’

  ‘The only crime here is that of the man who puts fences up, not those who pull them down,’ shouted John Robertson.

  Morris took a step toward the crowd. ‘I’m the–’ he began, but as he did so, Fulke stepped forward, twisted his foot and stamped it into Morris’s knee. The constable buckled forward, and Fulke smashed his block-shaped head into the constables’ nose. The constable shrieked in pain as blood began to flow down his face. Fulke grabbed his tunic and threw him to the ground, finding time for one final stamp on the man’s fingers before his deputies came to the rescue.

  Fulke glared at Morris and his men, ready to take them all on. John Robertson stepped forward, and without thinking, Alfred did the same. Fulke twitched his fingers, beckoning the deputies to come for him. They hesitated, while behind them the crowd shouted obscenities at Morris. Fulke pulled his eating knife from his belt. The deputies took a step back, unsure what a man who had just committed a capital offence might do next.

  ‘Fulke, put the knife down.’

  Alfred turned. It was Master Peter.

  The deputies retreated, while Morris groaned in pain on the ground. Fulke grinned.

  ‘Put the knife down,’ repeated Master Peter.

  Fulke turned towards him. He was breathing heavily, nostrils dilated, a wild look in his eyes. ‘What’s this to do with you? You’re Kett’s dog, and he’s no better than Hobart.’

  The two men stared at each other. ‘You’ve gone far enough, Fulke,’ said Master Peter, his voice calm but firm. Fulke spat on the floor, and Alfred stepped back a pace, not wanting to be seen to take Fulke’s side against his employer.<
br />
  The crowd parted as Luke Miller pushed his way to the front. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

  Alfred retreated another step and in hushed tones explained to Luke what had happened.

  John Robertson stooped to pick up the constable’s fallen hammer, before he walked between the two men, interrupting the hatred that surged between them. Adam muffled a cry as John grappled to pull out the nails.

  Fulke turned to the crowd. ‘If Hobart wants to send us a message, I say we send him one back. Who’s with me?’

  7

  Only thirteen people had felt sufficiently roused to follow Fulke on his quest for revenge, but they’d put their anger to good use. There was no clearer way of sticking two fingers up to the lord of Fulke’s manor than demolishing his enclosures in broad daylight. At Morley, they’d pulled their shirts up over their heads, dashed to the fence that divided the common, then, in twos and threes, they had wrenched wooden fence posts from the ground. As sections of the fence collapsed, sheep began to seep out like sand in an hourglass

  Fulke’s anger felt temporarily quelled as he looked at the fruits of their labour: a common free of Hobart’s sheep. The grassland was clear for the commoners to graze their animals on once again, if they hadn’t eaten them already. While savouring his victory, Fulke saw a horseman gallop away from the manor house that overlooked the common. It was time to leave.

  Fulke led his small band of followers back towards Wymondham, but the town wasn’t somewhere he could stop. He’d attacked the constable, a crime for which he could expect his neck to be stretched. Fulke had done worse. He had killed before, but never in broad daylight or with so many witnesses. Whatever the justification for his actions, it would only take the testimony of one trustworthy witness to send him to the gallows, and Master Peter was just such a witness. Fulke’s survival depended on turning attention away from his assault on Morris and on to something bigger. The precariousness of his situation made him giddy. Not with fear, but with the thrill of stepping outside the law and putting his life in danger.