by Tim Holden
He shouted for Alfred and moments later they were furnished with a jug of ale. Robert picked up his tankard. ‘I feel a lot better having your name alongside mine.’
The mayor wasn’t amused.
‘I haven’t asked you to do anything I haven’t done myself. Besides, we both want the same thing.’
‘I fear we will both suffer the same fate,’ said the mayor, his voice heavy with foreboding.
‘You can say it was under duress,’ said William.
‘If any of you are still alive to corroborate my version of events. I fear your cause would have been better served if you concentrated your efforts on just enclosure. The other matters are minor.’
‘It gives us more chance of getting something,’ said William. ‘To ask only for one thing means we risk coming away empty-handed.’
‘I disagree,’ repeated the mayor.
‘I remind you, mayor, that a mutiny in our camp doesn’t benefit Norwich,’ said William.
‘It’s done now,’ concluded Robert. ‘You should be glad. We’ve saved Norwich from being sacked.’
‘Pray it be so,’ said the mayor, finishing his drink.
‘Godspeed,’ said Robert, walking him to the door. ‘Don’t fret over the cannon. I will keep Norwich safe.’
‘You’ll be a head shorter if you don’t, Robert.’
Outside, Mayor Codd’s horse was nowhere to be seen.
21
15th July, Palace of Whitehall, London
‘Check.’ John Dudley swapped his bishop for Lord Protector Seymour’s pawn.
Seymour scratched his chin through his beard. Dudley was now in for an agonising wait while Seymour weighed up every option and the consequence of every move. Dudley hated placing chess with Seymour. He was forbidden to talk during the game unless it was his turn to move. He leaned back into the chair, his belly full of pork, and fiddled with his wedding ring. Since his outburst at council, Seymour wouldn’t let him out of his sight, and as the kingdom fell apart, Seymour was becoming increasingly paranoid and had banned Dudley from leaving the palace.
He hated London in the summer, it stank. Fearing for the safety of the capital, Seymour insisted the council remain at Whitehall, rather than retire to the clean air of Greenwich or Windsor.
There was a faint knock at the door.
It was the chambermaid who entered. She curtsied, her eyes trained to the floor, a burning taper in her hand.
‘Carry on,’ instructed Seymour.
She started her way around the room, lighting the candles, leaving a trail of amber flames to illuminate the tapestries, carved furniture and silk drapes. While he waited for Seymour’s next move, Dudley watched the maid. A young girl, no more than sixteen, she was a pretty young thing. Their eyes met, she smiled and looked away. Dudley held his gaze, her rosy cheeks spurring him on. After turning down Seymour’s bed she stole a final glance at the earl before exiting backwards out of the room and closing the door.
Seymour’s private chamber, illuminated by the array of candles, was an impressive room, its grandeur very much at odds with the man who occupied it.
Seymour moved a pawn. Keeping it between his fingers, he moved it back again.
‘Has your grace reached any conclusions with regard to the rebellions in Cornwall?’
‘Ssshh.’ Seymour moved his knight to block Dudley’s bishop.
He cleared his throat.
‘Conclusions? What is there to conclude? People who are hungry, losing their lands and not guided by the correct interpretation of the bible, are prone to take matters into their own hands.’
Dudley hoped his eyes did not betray his contempt for the lord protector. He turned his attentions to the board. His feint had worked. He moved his queen out from behind his pawns.
I’ve got you now.
Seymour took a sip of his wine.
‘Indulge me, what conclusions does the Earl of Warwick draw?’
‘If the land cannot support the people then it is not the land which is at fault, there must be too many people. It is natural that people must die so that there is enough space for others to live.’
‘Dead people do not pay taxes.’
There was another knock at the door. It was the household chamberlain who now entered the room, delivering a scroll sealed with wax.
‘A messenger brings word from Norwich’
‘Send him in,’ said Seymour,
Seymour asked, ‘Good news, I hope?’
The red-headed messenger, his accent typical of the region, was refreshingly candid.
‘No, sire. Quite the opposite. Four thousand rebels camp outside the gates, poised to overwhelm the defences.’
Seymour’s eyes widened.
‘The city’s mayor was summoned to meet the rebels, and they forced him to sign their demands.’ He gestured towards the scroll. ‘Mayor Codd begs that you accept their demands or if not send an army to save the city.’
‘What’s his nature, this Codd fellow?’ asked Dudley.
‘A fair man is Mr Codd,’ said the messenger.
‘A strong man?’ Dudley probed.
‘Fair is a better description, sir.’
‘What is it they demand?’ interrupted Seymour.
‘The rebels, sire? I don’t know. You will have to read the scroll,’ replied the messenger.
Seymour unfurled the scroll. ‘Before I read, let us pick up where we left off. What became of the preacher I sent?’
‘He’s being held prisoner, along with some other gentleman,’ said the messenger.
‘Other gentlemen? On what grounds?’ asked Dudley.
‘Lawyers and Landowners mostly.’
The creases on Seymour’s forehead deepened. ‘I won’t hear of it.’
‘It seems the rebels accuse them of taking the law into their own hands and enforcing it to suit their own needs.’
Seymour offered Dudley a knowing look. As expected, and as elsewhere, laws were created to control such men. Unfortunately, all too often men of resources and poor nature exploited them to their own gain.
Returning to the scroll, Seymour was outraged: ‘They make twenty-nine demands!’
He read each one, shaking his head. Looking up, he asked, ‘Can Norwich defend itself?’
‘The mayor thinks not. Others are more confident.’
‘The city is protected by a curtain wall, is it not?’ asked Seymour.
‘Yes sir, but only on three sides. The river acts as the fourth side. The wall was conceived principally for taxation purposes.’
‘Have the rebels attempted to attack?’ asked Dudley.
‘No. As yet they have committed no crimes against the city nor its inhabitants. Their leader, Mr Kett….’
‘Kett?’’ said Dudley. Where had he heard that name before?
‘A peaceful man. He’s a merchant farmer from the nearby town of Wymondham. He owns the rights to the town’s tannery. He has some properties and farming interests.’
‘Wymondham?’ said Dudley.
‘Has he ever served in the army?’ asked Seymour.
‘Not to my knowledge.’ The messenger continued, ‘Kett’s reputation is that of a fair and reasonable man. You may be able to appeal to his commercial instincts.’
‘I see. Has he been in trouble in the past to your knowledge?’
‘No. To my certainty he is a law-abiding man. Has been all his life.’
‘How old is this Kett?’
‘I am not sure Sire, I would fancy over fifty.’
Dudley took in a sharp burst of breath. Only last year he had sold a piece of land in Norfolk to a fellow named Kett from Wymondham. It must be the same man. His age was about right. He remembered Robert Kett with certainty because he’d tried to re-negotiate the price they had agreed at the eleventh hour. Dudley remembered thinking he was a bit sharp for a tanner. What was he doing laying siege to Norwich?
‘Thank you, that will be all,’ said Seymour dismissing the messenger. ‘Not a word of this to an
yone. Is that clear?’
The messenger nodded.
‘Rest up and stay close at hand. The chamberlain will organise you some board and lodgings in the servants’ quarters.’
The messenger closed the door behind him.
As soon as they were alone, Dudley leaned across the chessboard. ‘Seymour, I beg of you, their numbers have already swelled. Let me take an army and wipe these rebels out so we can quell this nonsense.’
‘I need time to think.’ Seymour put the list of demands on the table and fell back in his chair. ‘This gentleman, Kett seems like a reasonable man. But twenty-nine demands is a lot. Perhaps he wants to negotiate.’
‘This is ridiculous.’ Dudley inspected the scroll: ‘Gentleman shall not be allowed to keep dovecotes unless it is by ancient tradition? Look at this one, prices should be put back to the reign of Henry VII, that was nearly a century ago. Honestly, Edward, don’t indulge this petty nonsense. You’ll only encourage more of it.’
‘These things matter to people, John. The devil is in the detail.’
‘Edward, it is simple: Find this man Kett and stretch his neck.’
‘John, you forget yourself. You also forget we have war to the north, and fighting to the west. If we send what few troops we can muster east, French spies will send word to Paris, and before we know it, we risk war to the south as well. War on all four points of the compass.’ Seymour sounded weary.
‘Edward, forgive me, but I cannot with clear conscience watch our realm tumble into such commotion. If you won’t fight then I must warn the king that his kingdom is at peril.’
‘Clear conscience?’ Seymour banged his fist on the table, sending chess pieces flying. ‘You talk to me of clear conscience?’
He stood up, turning his back on Dudley to begin pacing the room.
‘It is the greed of you and the likes of your kind that put me in this predicament. You take what isn’t yours, you deprive people of their ability to feed themselves and then accuse me of mismanagement.’ He faced Dudley. ‘It’s your neck I should stretch, you and your conspirators on the council.’
‘Conspirators? Edward, you have me wrong. You enjoy my full support,’
‘Pox on you, Dudley. How dare you threaten to speak to the king? I’m the acting king. I will bring this land to order, and what’s more, I will do it without your interference and treachery. I swear on my life you will play no part in what follows.’
Dudley closed his eyes and counted to five. ‘It is a relief to me that my name will be spared any association with your plans.’
‘Out. Get out. Out of my sight. I’ve heard enough.’
Dudley rose to his feet. As he left the room, the door slammed.
Seymour refilled his wine glass from the decanter and savoured the taste. It felt good to stand up to Dudley. The man was a bully with no respect for hierarchy, due process or the law. Seymour paced up and down, enjoying the soft tread of the sheepskin rugs. As he calmed, he regained his thoughts, evaluating his options. He needed a plan. Timing, he knew, would be crucial. Harvest couldn’t wait any longer than a month.
What would Kett do next?
How long would his supplies last? Who else was involved? All this, and yet Exeter still held out against his troops. How much longer could they hold on? How to handle the council? What would Dudley do? How to neutralise him? Should he tell the king?
So much to consider before he could work out a plan and mitigate the risks. He would speak with the messenger again in the morning in case he had neglected to ask something which may turn out to be important.
Despite all his worries, his mind returned to Dudley. The man incensed him. Like too many of the regency councillors, Dudley liked to plough straight into things without taking the trouble to understand them fully. Unlike the thugs of his regency council, Seymour was divined by God to this office. There was a proper way to administer a country, and in time he would show the last king’s cronies on the council how it was done.
He said to himself, ‘Edward Seymour understands his people and the rule of law.’
Too tired to wrestle with the details, but too worried to sleep, he left for the chapel.
Tonight he needed God’s guidance.
22
19th July, 3 Bishopsgate, Norwich
Jan sat down by the window next to his loom; the package he’d just collected on his lap. Piepen, the canary called out a greeting from his cage. Jan carefully untied the string and unwrapped the rough outer layer. He studied the newly fulled black fabric inside, smoothing the soft material and lifting the weave closer for examination. He sniffed it, savouring its fresh, clean aroma. It was perfect. As good as anything he’d made in Flanders. Touching it brought back memories of home and of Katherijn, his late wife. Two years had passed since her death. Home was as remote as a previous life. One he was keen to leave behind. He had no time for nostalgia.
He returned his attention to the weave.
David Fuller had done an excellent job, despite its late delivery. Jan was due to call upon Augustine Steward in an hour’s time and felt the tension of the last week slip away now that the package was here, in his hands. He’d been recommended to David for his workmanship but had been warned to ensure extra time due to David’s poor timekeeping. To fail to honour his first appointment with the deputy mayor would have been a bad start to their relationship.
Tiniker bounced into the workshop, her step full of spring.
‘Is it good, father?’ she asked in her native Dutch.
‘Ja, my little spinster. It’s as good as anything on the continent.’
She smiled. ‘That was a close call, your appointment is on the hour, nee?’
‘Ja. I must get ready, do you want to come?’
She twisted her mouth.
‘Why not? It would do you good. One day I may not be here, and you’ll have to take care of business and your little sister.’
‘I know. But he gives me the creeps.’
Jan frowned.
‘The way he looks at me like he’s undressing me in his mind. It’s horrible.’
Jan shook his head. ‘If I only sold cloth to people I liked we’d be living under a bridge like trolls.’
Tiniker nodded, having heard her father’s expression many times before.
‘Tiniker, you are a pretty woman. Blonde hair and violet eyes, you will always attract attention from men. Wanted and unwanted. You cannot hide here. We came here to rebuild our lives. You must turn your good looks to your advantage.’
Tiniker grunted.
‘Come with me,’ continued Jan, ‘Mr Steward’s a wealthy mercer. If he likes this material, this will be our biggest order since we arrived in England. He has served in their parliament in London. He’s well connected. We should meet him and earn his favour, Ja? Or would you rather go hungry?’
Tiniker nodded again. ‘I know. What about Margreet? Can’t she go instead?’
‘No. You know very well she is too young and far too foolish.’ Jan clicked his tongue in his mouth. ‘Go and put your best clothes on. Be quick.’
‘Ok, first let me see what it is we are selling.’ She knelt and stroked the fabric with her delicate hands. ‘They don’t have bombazine here already?’
‘Not to my knowledge. That’s enough, we need to leave shortly.’
Piepen whistled as she left the room.
Jan folded the package and retied the bow. All his savings were invested in this one silk sample. He held it tighter than was necessary. Tiniker coming was good. Nothing like a pretty girl to soften a man’s bargaining. He knew he was going to impress today. Pull this off, and they would eat for a year, even at the current prices. Or so he kept telling himself.
Tiniker met him at the front door wearing the blue dress she reserved for church.
‘You look nice, my girl. You carry the parcel,’ he passed it to her, ‘hold it out in front, don’t crease it.’
‘I know how to carry a parcel.’ She glared at her father.
/> Tiniker’s younger sister shouted goodbye from upstairs, as Jan closed the door behind him.
Outside, twenty yards to their right stood the imposing tower of the gatehouse of Bishopsgate Bridge. Jan looked up at the heath beyond. He couldn’t see the rebel camp, but they were still there. On the opposite side of the river, a thin column of people were heading up into the camp.
‘Looks like more people joining the rebellion.’
‘Are we going to be safe, father?’ asked Tiniker.
‘Ja, of course,’ he lied.
The presence of so many angry peasants the other side of the river worried him. But Jan had sunk his worries in his work. Weaving was laborious and tiring, but the repetition and solitude afforded him some temporary peace of mind.
They turned left in the direction of the city centre.
A short walk later they stood outside Mr Steward’s narrow half-timbered house, which faced the cathedral gate, overlooking the great golden work of religious devotion.
Jan offered a quick prayer of his own.
He wasn’t yet accustomed to practising his faith in plain view. Doing so at home would have cost him his life. With God on board, he reminded Tiniker, reverting to English.
‘Now remember to smile. Look up. Stand tall.’
She tutted at him.
The large oak door opened and they were ushered in by the housekeeper to Mr Steward’s private quarters on the first floor where the door was closed behind them.
Mr Steward was cloaked in his black gown, sitting at his bureau, facing the wall.
He turned to greet them
Tiniker felt Steward’s gaze undress her.
‘Your lovely daughter is here, I see.’
‘Yes…’ said Jan.
‘Tiniker,’ she curtsied, smiling as she rose.
Mr Steward raised an eyebrow. She saw the corners of his lips twitch. His cadaverous complexion made her blood run cold.
‘Well, Mr Vinck,’ said Mr Steward. ‘Given the current state of the city, my time is short, so let’s see if this cloth is everything you have claimed it will be.’
He motioned them towards the small circular table in the centre of the room. Tiniker unwrapped the parcel and gently pulled back the cover, exposing the black cloth.