by Tim Holden
Jolted by the blast, Fulke regained his footing.
His heart thumped.
Norwich lay sleeping, its kitchen fires smouldering, streets still beneath a veil of mist. Fulke watched as the puff of dust indicated where the cannonball had hit the wall of a house.
‘I wouldn’t want to be in that bedroom,’ he said.
He hadn’t used cannon before last night, but they were simple enough to operate. A measure of gunpowder, a rag to act as wadding, pad them down, roll in the ball, a little extra powder in the hole and boom. The rest was for God and the devil to work out between them.
Fulke’s barrage had started shortly after the city guns had opened fire last night. Apart from the casualties of the opening salvo, the bombardment had done little to injure the rebels. The city’s shots either fell short of the high ground, thudding harmlessly into the face of the escarpment or passed overhead into Thorpe wood.
While everyone else had dashed for cover, Fulke had run in the opposite direction, towards the cannons to begin loading them. He hadn’t waited for orders. He regarded the cannons as his property. He had stolen them after all. His short fusillade had only lasted until darkness fell, by which time Kett had appeared, but Fulke knew that his work had been done; he must have terrified the inhabitants of the city as they turned in for the night, unsure if they would wake up alive.
Fulke hadn’t slept such was his excitement at using his cannon.
With half their powder supply spent, Kett had determined they should wait for the morning. Fulke had waited. He now lit the second cannon’s powder fuse. A loud boom heralded a lead ball sent to tempt the devil to seal somebody’s fate. Fulke dampened the barrels using the sponge, a water-soaked piece of fleece wrapped around the end of a pole. He loaded up another two shots, a measure of powder, rammed into place with some rag to act as wadding, then the cannonball. Prime the powder hole, and he was ready to fire.
His firing had woken up the whole camp and packs of children stood around, fascinated to see the machines in action.
‘Mr, can we help?’
‘No.’ They could watch, but that was all.
Fulke loosed another salvo before William Kett appeared, accompanied by another man.
‘Morning, Mr William,’ said Fulke to his employer.
William Kett looked tired.
‘Fulke, stop that,’ said William.
The distant streets remained quiet; people preferring to take their chances indoors than meet a cannonball head on. The church bells started to peel, a continuous chorus of ringing to warn the inhabitants of an imminent attack, and to summon the off-duty militiamen to join their comrades at their posts.
‘Fulke, this here is Miles, a former gunner in the king’s royal army.’
Fulke mumbled a half-hearted greeting and carried on.
‘Fulke, stop what you are doing right this moment. I am placing these cannon in the care of Miles.’
‘They’re mine,’ said Fulke, furiously, and stood his ground, stick in hand.
How dare you take them away from me? If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have anything but pitchforks to fight with, he thought.
‘My brother and I are grateful for your efforts in securing the cannon. We have limited powder and shot and therefore need to make the most of them. It is practical to see that they are commanded by the most skilled man available.’
Fulke clenched his jaw. He looked at Miles, who was taller than Fulke and just as broad. His forehead looked too big for his face. He returned Fulke’s stare without flinching. This man would be no pushover.
‘Being as you’re here, you may assist Miles during the attack today, but for now, cease the barrage, it is pointless. You’re no more a nuisance to the enemy than a mosquito is to a bull, and we need the shot for some proper fighting later,’ said William, concluding the matter.
‘As you wish,’ said Fulke.
He returned the cannonball to the pile and folded his arms across his chest. He begrudged the return of this hierarchy, but the promise of proper fighting to follow was a consolation he would accept, for now.
‘In the meantime, you men find some breakfast. You’re going to need it today.’
*
Their target was the gatehouse over Bishopsgate Bridge. The gatehouse was well within range, but it sat in the shadow of the escarpment, and they couldn’t point the barrels low enough to hit the tower. At the angle required to fire downhill, the cannonball would roll gently out of the barrel before the shot could be fired.
The iron barrel of the cannon sat in a wooden cradle, on four small wooden wheels, and wasn’t easy to move. Fulke now invited John Robertson, Alfred’s neighbour from Hethersett, to assist. He was strong and could handle himself in a fight. They were assigned twenty other men, under Miles’s command. Fulke appointed himself second in command and was happy to wait for Miles to make a hash of things so he could take over the reins. They manoeuvred their two cannon down from the heath, followed by the powder barrels, balls and other apparatus. Their progress was slow. Carefully they inched their way down the gulley that led from the heath to the river. Two men held each cannon to prevent it rolling downhill.
As they approached the treeline, Fulke could make out Cow Tower, the tower that stood in the bend of the river. He could see the archers at the top.
They shoved the cannon left, keeping tight to the side of the gulley. It was a few more paces before they could slip into the trees at the base of the escarpment slope. Fulke heaved his weight into the second cannon, together with John and another man on each side. As they pushed one of the wooden wheels stopped, stuck against a large flint. John moved forward and knelt down to dislodge the flint.
‘It’s jammed, push the cannon back.’
The two lads at the front pushed, and John knocked the flint clear.
‘Now, move on.’
Whoosh.
The two men in front slumped forward and fell to the ground, arrows in their backs. Fulke heard the cries of agony from other men in their party. He glanced behind and saw fallen men writhing in pain on the ground. His cannon started to roll. Unable to hold it, Fulke felt it slip between his fingers. Before it could gather any momentum, its carriage wedged itself against bodies of the two fallen men in front. Fulke leant sideways to check it would hold. He saw a man’s lifeless face staring back at him, as blood trickled from the man’s mouth.
Miles shouted, ‘Take cover behind the trees.’
Fulke did as he was told and sought refuge behind the nearest oak tree, his back pressed against the bark. John Robertson and another man up-ended the powder barrels so they wouldn’t roll downhill.
Whoosh. The next wave of arrows arrived. One struck his tree with a sickening crack. The man helping John Robertson was struck in the face, fell back and released the powder barrel. John scrambled to reach it, in vain, instead, forced to watch it roll away down the gulley.
Fulke looked on in horror as the small hogshead barrel bounced down the slope and rolled into the river with a splash.
John scrambled for the cover of the trees.
Fulke poked his head around the tree. Another volley of arrows thudded into the ground. Everybody was safe, for now, but they were also trapped, pinned down by the archers. Both cannon were stranded a few feet away on the edge of the gulley at the mercy of the archers’ arrows. The last remaining powder barrel was exposed. Fulke counted six corpses lying on the gulley floor. Another man, an arrow in his leg, crawled desperately for the cover of the trees. That left sixteen men to recover the cannons. Fulke looked up the slope in front of him. He could make out men huddling behind the trees.
Fulke took another peek towards the tower. He reckoned it was three hundred yards away. He saw a glint of light and pulled his head back, as he felt the impact of another arrow hitting the tree, others landed silently and harmlessly into the ground, their long shanks burying themselves into the soft loamy soil.
Fulke composed himself.
A party of
boys, no older than ten, appeared from nowhere, creeping through the undergrowth. They must have been watching the cannon descend from the top of the slope. They rushed around and gathered up the fallen arrows that were reusable. The children, too young or small to fight, must have been tasked with gathering the enemy’s spent arrows, he realised.
The rebels had archers, but precious few arrows.
Fulke overheard Miles saying, ‘We’re pinned down. We need shelter to move the cannons. Doors would be ideal. Anything big enough to hide behind and thick enough to stop an arrow. Two inches minimum. Send archers to cover us.’
With handfuls of arrows the children scarpered up the slope with Miles’ message.
Miles called out, ‘Can everyone hear me?’
There was an assortment of confirmations. Fulke stayed silent.
Miles continued, ‘Once we have cover, we’ll push the cannon into the trees. We want the barrels pointing towards the gatehouse. From this distance, we can hit the bridge once we have clear sight of it. The only archers we need to worry about are those in the tower opposite. Stay out of their sight. If they can’t see you, they can’t hit you. Understood?’
When everybody had acknowledged this, Miles reassured them, ‘Stay hidden. We’ll be fine. They won’t leave their defences.’
Fulke noticed how calm the gunner Miles remained. He wasn’t short of breath. He was able to think clearly. He knew what to do.
Fulke reminded himself that he would be the same given the opportunity to fight like a professional soldier. Fulke couldn’t help feeling a little relieved to know that. He didn’t see himself as easily scared but facing an arrow storm for the first time had unsettled him. He looked at the two dead bodies slumped in front of the first cannon. One moment they had been alive, conscious, full of thoughts and desires, the next they were dead.
I’d rather look a man in the eye, thought Fulke. Better than being shot in the back: a fool’s death.
After what seemed like an age, Fulke heard voices. Men emerged with six wooden doors evidently from Surrey House. Behind them came a posse of archers, at least fifty. Fulke recognised the man at the front. He had red hair and pox scars. It was the man who had shot the Sheriff’s horse when they camped at Bowthorpe marsh, John Cooper.
Cooper was calling out orders as he ran. Once again, the fearful whoosh announced another volley of arrows from Cow Tower. They had targets again. Fulke saw an archer hit in the arm, he shrieked in pain and dropped his bow.
Miles pointed. ‘In front of the cannon. We move while you shelter us.’
Once the doors were in place, he shouted, ‘Right lads, as we were, move the cannon.’
As instructed, Fulke bolted and took his place behind the lead cannon. He heard the whack of arrows hitting the doors. They heaved, and the cannon started to roll, resuming their progress until at last they reached the cover of the trees. They cannons slowed as they sunk into the soil, but they had shelter and were obscured by the trees.
John Cooper’s archers now poured forth using the trees as cover. As soon as the next volley of enemy arrows landed, they stepped clear and loosed fifty arrows in return.
Fulke couldn’t see if they hit their target, but everybody cheered, relieved to be returning fire.
The defenders fired another volley, but fewer arrows landed this time. The rebel archers stepped clear of their trees. In one motion they drew back their bowstrings, but before they could release them there was another whoosh. Ten rebels archers fell to the ground, tricked into thinking they were safe.
Cooper shouted, ‘Watch it lads, no more volleys.’
They took cover.
The cannons crept closer to the bridge. The archers’ exchanges were now limited to the occasional arrow aimed at a careless rebel in plain sight.
Miles set the cannons in position behind the cover of the doors. Illuminated by the morning sun stood the gatehouse, two hundred yards away. From their position on the treeline it was now directly in their line of fire.
Miles adjusted the pitch of the cannons.
‘Load,’ he ordered.
Fulke and Miles lowered their burning tapers to the powder holes. Bang. Bang. Two lead balls were fired. They overshot, clearing the top of the gatehouse and smashing into the roof of the house beyond.
‘Too high,’ confirmed Miles before the thud of arrows hit the doors sheltering their position.
Miles raised the tail end of the cannon by two inches and propped it in place with a stone.
Fulke followed his lead.
‘Load.’
Miles gave the order to fire. A short fizz, an almighty bang, white smoke. This time, they hit. One ball glanced off the front facia, and the other caught the corner of the crenulations. The rebels cheered.
‘Load,’ ordered Miles, sounding composed.
Between them, they discharged another six cannonballs, four of which hit the top of the gatehouse. They had half a keg of powder and nine cannonballs left. They had to make their shots count. John Robertson carried the next cannonball and lifted it into place at the end of the Fulke’s barrel. There was a brief whistling noise, then a boom and John disappeared. All around them, the trees shattered. The wooden doors smashed with splinters flying in all directions. Fulke flinched as he tried to extract a shard of wood buried in his arm.
The two men holding up the door that served to protect his cannon screamed, their faces and torsos were shredded, blood pouring from their wounds.
John lay limp on the ground, his face a pulp of bloodied flesh.
Fulke looked through the smoke and the trees. On the meadow behind Cow Tower he saw white smoke clearing.
He counted six cannons being reloaded.
‘Oh, Christ.’
‘Lads, quick, turn the cannon to our right,’ commanded Miles.
The young boys scarpered back uphill to safety, closely followed by the archers retreating from the firing line.
‘Wait!’ barked Fulke. ‘Cooper, you coward, come back.’
They didn’t look back. The gun crews were on their own.
‘They’re reloading,’ said Fulke, watching the city cannon on the meadow.
‘Move your cannon, Fulke,’ barked Miles.
Fulke rushed to the front, ready to lift the barrel and swing it around.
‘Fulke, don’t touch the barrel, you’ll burn yourself.’
Miles looked calm. He spoke directly to Fulke as if nothing had happened.
‘You have to move it from the rear.’
Miles, with the aid of another man, inched his cannon backwards and forwards. Fulke copied, helped by a man who stepped in to take John Robertson’s place. Together they pointed their gun in the direction of the meadow, their barrel positioned against the side of a nearby tree trunk. Fulke sheltered behind the thin trunk, and his partner went to recover the cannonball John had dropped. Another volley of arrows struck, and Fulke’s partner screamed as he was hit in the shoulder. There was another hiss.
Six more cannonballs bounced past them. There was a cry from Miles’ partner as he fell. A ball had bounced in front of him, travelled up and hit his shin. He lay toppled on the ground, the white tips of his shin bones poking through his breeches.
Fulke’s partner struggled to his feet, his right arm hung limp, the arrow stuck in his shoulder. With his left hand he dropped the cannonball into the muzzle. Fulke heard it roll into place.
‘You’re good to go,’ said the loader. He collapsed to the floor and crawled to the safety of the nearest tree.
‘Right, Fulke, let ‘em have it.’
It was time to light the powder hole.
Where was his taper? He must have dropped it. There was now an almighty bang, and the shock of it nearly knocked him off his feet. Miles had fired. On the meadow, Fulke could see people running.
The ball fell short.
Miles moved over. He checked Fulke’s cannon and touched his taper to the hole. Nothing happened. Fulke had forgotten to charge the powder hole. Miles to
ok his powder bag, looked again into the distance, poured a measure of powder into the hole, moved his hand clear and blew on his taper, which glowed orange. He touched it to the powder hole. Boom. Through the smoke, the two men watched the ball smash into the wooden footings of middle cannon, shattering its carriage. The cannon slumped to the side, the barrel pointing harmlessly down toward the ground.
Fulke cried out with joy, ‘Got ya!’
‘One down. Load up, Fulke.’
More arrows struck the trees and ground around them, one lodged into the wheel of Fulke’s cannon.
The men returning to the enemy cannon were exposed in the meadow. Last night the city cannon had been positioned around the higher ground of the castle keep. They must have moved them in the night, thought Fulke. Fulke cursed all the time they’d wasted waiting for shelters. If the Ketts knew what they were bloody doing, they would have thought this through and made preparations.
Now they were trapped, outgunned five to two.
Miles fired both cannon.
Again, their enemy scattered unharmed. Fulke waited impatiently while someone emptied powder into the cannon’s muzzle, another man stood ready with a cannonball.
‘Fulke, look for your taper,’ ordered Miles.
As he looked about he heard shouts in the distance, ‘Cease fire, cease fire.’
Two men with white flags ran down the gulley towards the river.
‘What the devil are you doing?’ Fulke shouted toward the heath above.
He spat in their direction. People would call him a coward. He may have been terrified, but that was no reason to surrender. They had better positions, more cover, a better rate of fire.
‘Kett, you coward,’ he shouted in vain.
‘Fulke, let’s move these cannon back now,’ said Miles.
‘Why the hell are we surrendering?’