Spirals of Fate

by Tim Holden

  Fulke was in the mood to vent his anger at being snubbed by Steward and Dudley. He didn’t care who suffered. For him, this rebellion had become a way of escaping his past. To have that dream dashed so publically, rekindled all his bitterness to those in power. He had authority of his own now, and he intended to keep it, and to use it. To what end, he was not yet sure.

  The flames didn’t stop opposite the bridge but continued south. Fulke waited behind the last hedge before the wharfs at the waterfront. In the distance, he could see the boom towers. He couldn’t see whether the towers were garrisoned. The rebels stopped short of the tower on the far bank of the river, perhaps trying to work out if it was safe to cross. The towers were linked by a heavy chain that rested above the water line to stop boats from entering the city wharfs until they had paid duty on their goods.

  Tonight the rebels used the chain as an easy method of crossing the water. The first few slid into the water and, holding onto the chain, began dragging themselves across the river.

  The first arrows flew when they were halfway across.

  Fulke heard the twang of bowstrings and the shrieks of men. The rebels withdrew, and he watched them cross farther upstream. Fulke cursed their foolishness. They would have been better to cross the river downstream because now they had to negotiate the gates at the end of King Street, which must also be manned since they were only a few yards inland from the boom towers. The rebels must have feared crossing the river inside the city limits in case they were met by soldiers on the far bank.

  They could not know that Fulke had passed through the meadows unchallenged. Although Dudley’s forces were far superior to those of Parr’s original army, he was still a long way short of being able to guard every inch of the perimeter. Fulke lost sight of the rebels behind the city wall as they crossed the river in the distance. Perhaps it was a good time to get involved? He ran along the hedge line and pushed through, scratching himself against a blackthorn. He emerged on King Street. The piers and warehouses that lined the street appeared deserted. Fulke jogged down the road towards the gates. He was ordered to halt by a sentry. Fulke stopped in the road.

  ‘I am sent by the deputy mayor. I have come to warn you of the rebel plans.’ He spread his arms out. ‘I am unarmed.’

  Satisfied, the sentry invited him to approach, and Fulke ran the final yards. Only two soldiers on the ground guarded the gate. Fulke couldn’t see how many people were in the gatehouse above.

  ‘Here they come,’ shouted a voice from the top of the gatehouse. ‘Ready, lads.’

  ‘What do you know?’ asked the sentry. He had a front tooth missing. There was nothing to identify him as a professional soldier. No armour, no helmet. He carried a hand axe with a dagger tucked in his belt. These were militiamen, Fulke assumed.

  ‘You are about to be attacked by a force of rebels. Prepare yourselves to fight to the death.’

  ‘How many are you?’

  Fulke put his hand on the guard’s arm.

  ‘Be calm, reinforcements are on their way. I will help you until then.’

  A roar erupted from behind the gate. The rebels were charging.

  ‘Hold firm, lads,’ said the sentry turning his attention to the gate. Arrows loosed from the top of the gatehouse.

  Shrieks rang out of shot men. Moments later, the wooden gates shook as the rebels barged into them. Fulke noticed the sentry’s hand shaking. The other guard took a step back from the gates.

  ‘I am unarmed, friend,’ said Fulke. ‘I could be more use to you with your dagger?’

  ‘Here, take it,’ said the sentry, fumbling for the hilt as he drew it from its scabbard.

  Fulke took the dagger and examined its blade. It was tarnished, but sharp. ‘Thank you.’

  The gates shook again.

  The commotion distracted the sentry. Fulke plunged the dagger into the unsuspecting man’s kidney. He fell to his knees and looked in disbelief as he touched his side to see the blood on his hands.

  Fulke stepped towards the other sentry. ‘You’re next.’

  He fled. Fulke laughed.

  He kicked the injured sentry over and picked up his hand axe. He would be dead in no time. Fulke went into the gatehouse and found the key hanging on a hook by the door. He unlocked the doors and removed the bolt, lifted the catch and let the rebels in.

  *

  The cook scurried into Steward’s dining room with a pewter plate in each hand and a third balanced on his arm. He put the plates of roasted partridges down in front of each of them. Steward leant across the table and filled the goblets with the wine left by Fulke.

  Steward raised his glass. ‘Gentleman, welcome. Let us toast to your victory, and Norwich’s safe return to law and order.’ They clinked glasses. ‘Let’s eat.’

  Steward was glad he’d had the foresight to send his cook out to replace the tableware stolen by the rebels, paid for from the funds embezzled from the treasury. If they won’t pay to help us to protect ourselves then they can at least suffer the cost of my reparations, Steward reasoned. Dudley and Parr tucked into their meal with the appetite of men who hadn’t eaten in weeks. Before Steward’s fork had touched his lips there was a furious banging on his front door. This could only be trouble. Conscious of his own safety and fearing if he left the table for a moment, Dudley and Parr may conceivably finish his partridge for him, he shouted for cook to show the visitor in.

  The floor shook to the heavy footsteps of Sir Thomas Paston in a silk-lined, sky-blue doublet. He looked more like a man headed for a party than one involved in the defence of a city. Despite appearances, Paston lived in Norfolk and therefore had a greater stake than most in what was happening.

  ‘Rebels have entered the city to the south.’

  ‘And?’ said Dudley.

  His manner confused Steward, surely this was concerning?

  ‘Well, they’re in the city. Our defences are breached.’

  ‘Of course. What did you expect to happen?’ asked Dudley.

  ‘They have set fire to the warehouses and buildings on King Street.’

  Steward noticed Paston looked confused too.

  ‘Thank you, Paston. That will be all.’

  ‘What should we do, sir?’

  ‘Nothing. Wait for them to come to us. Then slaughter the lot of them.’

  Steward interrupted. ‘Earl, let me explain. That is our warehouse district. It’s a vital part of the city’s trading network. Its destruction,’ Steward hesitated because the thought was unthinkable, ‘would set us back a generation.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ replied Dudley. ‘Paston, you’re dismissed. Stand to and don’t go chasing about in the dark looking for trouble. Let the trouble find you.’

  Paston nodded and left the building.

  ‘But, sir,’ continued Steward, fighting to control his temper, ‘the city’s grain store is in that area. If it were to burn then we could not guarantee we could feed ourselves.’

  Dudley nodded and resumed tackling his partridge. He finished his mouthful and washed it down with some wine. ‘Look on the bright side, Steward. If there is no grain, then there’s no reason for the rebels to recapture Norwich.’

  Parr grinned, and Steward squirmed in his seat.

  ‘No. In fact there’d be no reason for the place to exist at all,’ he said, staring at his host.

  Steward felt a new contempt for the man sitting, enjoying his hospitality, with his oiled beard and his receding dark hair. In his finery, he was every inch the courtier, and his disdain for others was distasteful even by Steward’s standards.

  Dudley put his cutlery down and looked Steward in the eye. ‘My orders, no,’ he corrected himself, ‘my aim, is to put down this rebellion.’

  ‘What about the king’s subjects who live here?’

  ‘It’s a pity, I agree, but what better way to deter rebellions elsewhere is there than for the news of Norwich’s annihilation to spread?’

  ‘Everybody must make sacrifices for the good of the
realm,’ said Parr.

  There were a dozen things Steward wanted to say, but nothing was to be gained by falling foul of the nobility.

  ‘What would it take for you to see things differently?’

  Dudley grinned. ‘Something you can’t afford.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Seymour is a fool, and even a well-intended fool cannot be allowed to ruin our country. Once I have quelled this disturbance,’ Dudley turned his attention to Parr, ‘I will return to London and take the protectorship for myself.’

  Steward saw Parr’s eyebrows rise. ‘And William here will support my coup. If he wants to recover his reputation from his disastrous attempt to recover this city that cost Lord Sheffield his life.’

  Parr put his fork down. ‘You can count on my support, John.’

  Dudley smiled. ‘Thank you. I’m glad we understand one another.’

  Steward put down his cutlery.

  He’d lost his appetite.

  *

  Robert stood on the edge of the escarpment outside Surrey House. Beneath him, the darkness of the night sky was interrupted by the orange glow of burning buildings in the distance.

  ‘I’m not sure what’s worse,’ said William. ‘Being up here, unaware and out of control, or down there amongst the chaos.’

  ‘Do you think we’d be in control if we were down there?’ asked Robert.

  He was certain he preferred the view from the safety of the heath. Behind them, the rest of his rebels waited patiently amongst the shelters. Once Robert knew the flanking manoeuvre had worked and drawn troops to the flames, he’d send the rest of his men over the river. Under cover of darkness, Miles was positioning their cannon opposite the bridge, ready to batter the gatehouse doors down.

  Robert knew he must face trial by battle, again.

  Behind them, there was a rustling. Luke Miller appeared, breathless, carrying a burning torch.

  ‘Robert. They’ve blocked the end of King Street, and despite our efforts to harry them, they won’t put one foot in our direction.’

  ‘Thank you, Luke,’ said Robert. ‘William, stand the men down. There’ll be no attack tonight.’

  *

  Tiniker woke to the sound of people outside. It took her a moment to remember where she was. She realised the air was thick with a smell. She lifted her head from Alfred’s chest. The building was on fire.

  48

  Sunday 25th August, Norwich

  Tiniker wished it were warmer as they huddled together against the wall of the church. Churches were supposed to offer refuge, but this one had locked its doors. They must have feared it becoming a rebel dormitory, like many of the other churches. It wasn’t a very Christian thing to do, she thought; surely the church should practice what it readily preaches?

  She felt flat today; she was tired and cold. They had narrowly escaped being roasted alive as the wool warehouse was enveloped in flames. Alfred had managed to break open the doors that opened onto the jetty over the river, but there were no boats, so they had to wade into the water away from the flames. Her smock and red kirtle were wet, and her leather shoes were sodden and caked in mud. They’d escaped the attentions of the rebels who were busily setting fire to anything that didn’t move, but they couldn’t afford to be found wandering at night after the curfew, so they’d found shelter in the nearest churchyard.

  Alfred returned from emptying his bladder. Margreet was still asleep, her head resting in Tiniker’s lap.

  ‘You should see the damage they’ve done. There’s only the merchant’s hall left.’

  Tiniker wasn’t interested. She’d seen what rampaging men were capable of. Why hadn’t Alfred kissed her this morning? Now he’d taken what he’d wanted, she worried she was going to be tossed aside or taken for granted. She kept having flashbacks to what they’d done last night. At the time, it had been the most intensely pleasurable thing, if a little uncomfortable. In the cold light of day, she began to regret it. She had thrown away the one thing that she’d kept sacred all her life. She wondered if he would stand by her. Would he be bragging to his mates about what they’d done together?

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Alfred.

  I would have thought it was obvious, thought Tiniker. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘I’d suggest we go and see what’s left of your house.’

  She woke up Margreet, and they walked back to their house on Bishopsgate. Tiniker was sore, and the walk was uncomfortable. Margreet cried the whole way. It was some relief to see her house still standing. It didn’t look like any fighting had taken place. Alfred went to check and came back to confirm it was still occupied by soldiers. Seeing her upset, he did at least put his arms around her and hug her. He kissed her forehead.

  ‘I want to go home,’ said Margreet.

  ‘We can’t, Margreet,’ snapped Tiniker.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ cried her sister.

  ‘Alfred, we can’t stand about here waiting for the day’s fighting to begin,’ said Tiniker.

  The streets were all but deserted, bar the patrolling soldiers. They had no money and needed to find safety, so Tiniker considered their options. She could see only one, but it was not without risk. She suggested they walk back towards the cathedral. As they passed the burned-out houses, Tiniker turned over the arguments for and against in her mind: Had she Alfred’s loyalty? However she looked at it, now was the time to test her alliance with Steward, even if it meant testing her relationship.

  ‘I know somebody who will offer us sanctuary.’

  ‘Who?’ frowned Alfred.

  ‘An important man,’ said Tiniker.

  ‘Who do you know who’s important?’ Alfred sounded disbelieving.

  Tiniker smarted. ‘Augustine Steward,’ she said as casually as she was able.

  ‘The deputy mayor?’ scoffed Alfred.

  ‘We sold him some weave.’

  ‘Hang on.’ Alfred grabbed her hand. ‘Was it Steward who called at the house? I wondered how you could manage that house without your dad. You’re rutting Steward, aren’t you?’

  ‘No!’ protested Tiniker, ‘How could you even think that?’

  ‘Was that him; sliding paper messages under your door?’ She hesitated. ‘Margreet said he comes to the house regularly.’

  ‘Alfred. It was him, but not in the way you think,’

  ‘You spread your legs for him?’

  She slapped him, and Margreet started to sob again. ‘I am not laying with Steward.’

  Tiniker couldn’t bear to look at him. The truth was worse. Tears welled in her eyes. She couldn’t face more lies. She’d lived a double life for weeks — it might even be a relief to have the truth out.

  ‘Steward guaranteed my house if I spied on the Ketts.’

  Alfred looked puzzled. She saw in his eyes the moment the penny dropped.

  ‘I thought it was too good to be true. You befriended me to get close to Kett. You’ve lied to me. I thought you loved me. Now I see it’s all a ruse.’

  ‘I do love you.’

  ‘People who love each don’t do that.’ Alfred turned and stormed off.

  Then the cannons opened fire.

  *

  Parr entered Steward’s dining room as Dudley was finishing his breakfast. Steward had invited some of the city’s aldermen to join them. No sooner had the sun risen than the merchants had rushed to inspect the damage by the wharfs and estimate their losses. They’d arrived at Steward’s front door shortly after. Rather than convey their concerns, he’d invited them to join the earl for breakfast.

  ‘I can hear cannons. What’s happening?’ asked Dudley.

  ‘They’re firing at the north wall now, sir. Attempting to open a breach and force entry,’ reported Parr.

  Dudley nodded. ‘Put three hundred men on our side of the wall and make sure they don’t get through. Sound a trumpet if you’re overrun, but don’t retreat. Your country requires that you fight to the death.’

  Parr looked ominous. That must be
the worst type of order to receive, thought Steward, glad he’d never taken up soldiering.

  ‘Steward, how many bridges cross the river in the city?’

  ‘Four,’ replied Steward, his heart sinking.

  ‘Parr, have your men destroy the bridges.’

  Steward leapt to his feet. ‘Earl, I must protest. Your actions are putting us back into the dark ages.’

  Dudley’s face turned puce. He rose to his feet and with a look that would have terrified the devil, drew his sword. Steward’s arse twitched as Dudley pointed his sword at him, raised the blade and kissed the hilt.

  ‘I swear on my life and that of King Edward that I will not retreat from this city while blood flows in my veins. I would sooner lay down my life than retreat before that dog, Kett.’

  Steward sunk back into his chair. There was nothing more to say.

  *

  Alfred was too angry to regret leaving Tiniker to fend for herself because quite frankly, he thought she deserved whatever befell her.

  He wasn’t sure he really meant that, but he felt too betrayed and wounded to see it any other way. He didn’t know where he was walking to, but his back was turned to Tiniker, which was sufficient direction.

  Why hadn’t she come after him?

  She really had used him, he thought, as the river curtailed his walk. He heard noises to his left and stopped on the riverbank to watch as a party of royal soldiers busied themselves on Whitefriars Bridge. They looked to be chiselling holes in the mortar and filling them with what he assumed was gunpowder.

  ‘I don’t think that bridge will be there for much longer.’

  Alfred turned to find a familiar face.

  Fulke.

  He was smiling, which could mean a great many things.

  ‘How are you, mate?’ Fulke had on an expensive jacket.

  ‘Not bad, thanks.’ replied Alfred. It wasn’t true, but it was what people normally said.