Captain Cobbler: The Lincolnshire Uprising, 1536

by Keith M. Melton

Overview

A tumultuous year...

It is 1536, and the kingdom of Henry VIII is in turmoil. King Henry's first wife, Catherine and his bastard son, Henry Fitzroy, have died suspiciously. Henry's second wife, Anne Boleyn, has been executed, and he has married his third wife, Jane Seymour, only a fortnight later.

Meanwhile, Chancellor Lord Cromwell is dissolving monasteries and abbeys, trampling religious traditions, and unsettling the community. Rumours are circulating that Cromwell is about to steal the Church silverware as well, and Nicholas Melton-a shoemaker from the town of Louth-and his friends decide they have had enough. Determined to protect the people's treasure from royal coffers, Melton and his friends take the keys of the church of Saint James from its reluctant churchwardens.

After they secure the building and lock away the town's treasure to keep it safe, their protest quickly gets out of hand, disturbing the peace of the kingdom. Rather than listen to his subjects, King Henry behaves like a tyrant, threatening them with condign punishment. So, the simple act of protecting community treasure turns into a widespread rebellion as Melton, now known throughout the land as Captain Cobbler, risks everything...

Captain Cobbler shares the tale of a Lincolnshire shoemaker as he matures from boyhood to adulthood, and now challenges the might of a tyrant king.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781475997781
Publisher:	iUniverse, Incorporated
Publication date:	08/22/2013
Pages:	558
Product dimensions:	6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 1.24(d)

Read an Excerpt

Captain Cobbler

The Lincolnshire Uprising 1536

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By Keith M. Melton

iUniverse LLC

Copyright © 2013 Keith M. Melton
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-9778-1

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CHAPTER 1

The Blackbird Sings ... Remembering

Tower of London, 1537 – 6.15am: 29th March

Today was the day he was to die – yet he had slept as well as on any night in the last four months despite the permanent aching he suffered in both shoulders, for which a painful 'wracking', months before, was to blame. He had slept better, indeed, than most nights, all of which had been spent in the tight confines of the white Tower of London. Thankfully the weather had warmed a little recently after one of the coldest winters he had known – cold enough to freeze the Thames for a few weeks and add the pain of chilblains to the aches of his tortures.

He passed from sleeping to waking, utterly, without moving and without even opening his eyes. But he knew that a shaft of early spring sunshine lit a small square of the wall opposite the stone bench upon which he slept in the otherwise gloomy cell. He could hear the crystal notes of his friend, the blackbird, perched in the branches of a tree outside the tower which imprisoned his person, though not his soul, declaring the morning to be fine and bright.

Embedded in the dusty comfort of a grubby, straw-filled mattress and pillow and covered with his multi-coloured coat of motley, he allowed his eyelids slowly to open and take in the early morning light. Motes of dust danced in the sunbeams, rising and falling to mimic the sharp notes of the bird telling the story of his last day on earth.

As his eyes opened more he was surprised by a wavering light on the whitewashed ceiling of the cell he had never noticed before. The early morning sun was clearly playing on the water of the River Thames and the reflected light must have been shining on the blackbird because there was a projected shadow on the ceiling of the bird in full voice, beak wide open. Quite magical.

Today was the day he was to die - yet his mind sheared away from the manner of his death, for the image of being hung, drawn and quartered still brought him to the edge of fear. He had, last evening, however, made peace with his maker and he knew a place awaited him in the next life. He also knew from his close friend and cousin, Joseph Waterland, who had been allowed a brief visit to him a few days since, that his wife and young sons were now safe from harm in the northern marshes of faraway Lincolnshire, something he had allowed himself to hope for, yet had not been certain of until Joe's recent visit.

Nicholas quietly but firmly resisted the urging of the normal morning call of nature, so that he could take full advantage of this tranquil moment of relative comfort and peace, for he knew it would certainly be his last in this mortal world. Only when the reflected image of his friend, the blackbird, faded from the ceiling did he sigh and prepare to move.

The sunshine and the birdsong took him back twenty seven years to the first of his three visits to England's capital - or, at least, to the early morning of his departure for the long journey south. He reflected, too, that birdsong had often accompanied key moments in his life. Indeed, family tradition had it that he was delivered into this world as the dawn chorus was at its height, one late May morning at the turn of the century.

So he would be just three months short of his thirty-seventh birthday when he entered the next world – only about half of the three score years and ten promised in the good book.

But he remembered with total clarity the morning he turned nine years old, the sun shining dustily on his excited form - trying so hard not to waken everyone in his excitement. That morning he had wanted to leap from the enveloping comfort of the feathers in his truckle bed in the family home in rural Lincolnshire.

Cousin Eleanor, seven years his senior, had stayed the night before and would soon be on her way to join the priory at Legbourne, just the other side of Louth, as a novice nun. Nicholas was to accompany her and his older brother Robert on the road into Louth. Robert was to act as Eleanor's chaperone and bodyguard for this last short stage of her journey from Lincoln. He was still only sixteen, yet often won wrestling contests amongst the young men of the area. And, anyway, there was little real danger in the few miles from their home to Legbourne

Once they arrived there Nicholas would join a favourite friend of the family - a man he knew as 'Old Uncle Tom', even though he was not a blood relation. Tom was droving twenty or more head of cattle to London, in time for the festivities at the coronation of young King Harry – or, rather, King Henry VIII of England, as he was to become at the end of June. Nicholas had helped Uncle Tom with his droving before, but only ever as far as Lincoln just over twenty miles away, never so far as this journey was to be. This was a special occasion in so many ways.

He knew well enough not to wake his older brother before the dawn chorus had finished, otherwise he would feel Robert's sharp displeasure a'rattling the side of his head, so he kept as still as possible and contemplated what the next few days may bring. So, full of thoughts about the coming trip, he tried to contain his excitement and stayed curled up in his luxurious feather bed, listening to a lone blackbird who had just woken up and who, in turn, would waken the others.

Not that the feather bed indicated his family was rich, they were simply lucky in their neighbours. They lived next to an elderly widow, Widow Foster, her son William (who had also been widowed) and his two sons, Thomas and Richard, who were similar in age to Nicholas himself and his brother Robert – as well as his pretty little daughter, Eliza Jane. Very much a tomboy, trying to keep pace with her elder brothers, Eliza Jane was just eighteen months younger than Nicholas.

Widow Foster was known to all and sundry in Louth and for miles around as 'the egg lady' because she had such a way with chickens and seemed to be able to coax them into laying more eggs than could any two other people in the locality.

So, when the stonemasons, who were employed to build the new bell-tower and spire for Louth church, needed eggs, by the score, on a daily basis to help bind their cement, it was to Widow Foster they were sent. She clearly saw the potential market for her eggs – since they were going to be building the tower for several years yet – so she quickly reared nearly five times the number of chickens as she had had previously. As a consequence of this, Robert and Nicholas got roped in to feeding them and helping to clean out the hen coops, a somewhat noisome task!

Finally, when the birds had reached the end of their laying life, the four boys would help kill them and pluck them ready for the pot – often hindered, rather than helped, by an ever willing but frequently troublesome Eliza Jane.

Inevitably there were feathers by the barrow-full. So, as well as the occasional pot-roast for the Melton family, the boys were paid for their help in feathers, which ended up as mattresses, bed-covers, pillows and cushions, first for Pa and Ma Melton, of course, and then as hand-me-downs to the boys as the feathers kept coming and new mattresses and such were made.

Despite the comfort of his bed, however, on this, his ninth birthday, the anticipation of the discoveries that lay in store on this fine spring day was making Nicholas fidget and fret under the warm covers.

His pent-up excitement had to wait only a few minutes more, though, as his father, one of Louth's eight cobblers, was soon stirring in the morning light and readying the household for the bustling day ahead. And when Pa Melton was up and about, woe betide anyone who thought they could lie-a-bed, feathers or not.

Seizing his chance, Nicholas flew out of bed, relieved himself out in the back yard, ducked his head in the rain barrel, gasping at the sharp coldness of the water in the early morning air, and rubbed himself reasonably dry and clean on the rough cloth Mother kept by the kitchen door for just this purpose.

Ready for his great adventure, he then helped his father chop wood for the fire, wanting breakfast to be over and done so he could set off and be gone. Though he'd been to market in Lincoln before, he'd never yet set foot out of the County and was looking forward to his adventure.

"Happy Birthday, young 'un", mumbled his brother, Robert, as he eventually rolled out of bed, tempted by the smell of frying bacon wafting round the house. Not only were they having bacon for breakfast, but several thick rashers were being wrapped up with fresh bread for them all to take with them for lunch later – and maybe supper, too, if he could make it last that long!

Robert reached under his pillow and fetched out a stick with a rather squashed bow fashioned from dried grass tied round the end of it.

"Here you are", he said to Nicholas, "a gift on your birthday – I only hope it don't make you too much of a nuisance to everyone!" Then he gave Nicholas a friendly clout on the back of his head, and took himself outside to complete his own ablutions.

The 'stick' turned out to have a small number of holes whittled in it along its hollowed out length and as he turned it over in his hands and removed the strands of dried grass he realised it was, of course, a whistle. Robert was obviously fed up with Nicholas borrowing his whistle, so had decided to make him one of his own.

He couldn't wait to try it out and, without further ado, the birthday lad regaled the household with a short dancing jig he had heard in the market place recently. And, although played entirely from memory, it was mostly right too. Mind you, his father screwed his face up a couple of times when the boy missed a note as he tried to master the brand new instrument.

It amused him for a short time, but his impatience to be gone kept getting the better of him as time dragged slowly by. Nicholas had imagined, vainly as it turned out, that their departure that morning would be early and swift. Now the day had arrived he wanted to be on his way.

The extra delay was caused, however, by the arrival of an uncle, aunt and their two daughters who had not been able to get to the impromptu family gathering held on Eleanor's arrival in Louth the previous day. They wanted to say hello and wish her God-speed for her journey today. The uncle and aunt were over half a generation older than his parents; and, thus, the cousins, too, were more than half a generation older than Nicholas. So, he found himself surrounded by adults clucking, fussing, and generally mithering him and Eleanor with good wishes and gossip.

What was worse, however, indeed much worse from Nicholas' point of view, was the hair tousling and 'my, hasn't he grown' comments, which he had to put up with from them all. His uncle Henry was quite a rotund man, who tended to lean backwards slightly to counterbalance his abundant belly. He sported bushy and wiry mutton-chop side whiskers, and was also beginning to go deaf, so he now tended to bellow whenever he spoke.

"What a fine old time you'll have my lad" he boomed, his hands clasped pudgily over his ampleness. "Mind you behave like a gentleman of course – (Nicholas could sense another episode of hair tousling coming up!) – "we don't want the family name dragged into disrepute.... ha, ha, ha!"

The chuckle rumbled across the grass and dislodged a group of twittering sparrows from the thorn hedge, much as if a sparrow hawk had flashed across the grass and swooped over the hedge, sending them into a panic.

Nicholas was pleased and relieved to find amongst the busy throng his contemporary and friend Tom Foster – at least he wouldn't attempt to tousle his hair – and Tom's sister Eliza Jane. Tom, rather less outgoing and adventurous than Nicholas, would not have changed places with his friend for a mess of potage, but little Eliza Jane thought him something of a hero, going out into the unknown world beyond the lane end.

In fact, rather to Nicholas' surprise, she suddenly reached up on her tippy-toes and kissed his cheek, quickly scuttling off to hide behind one of the myriad skirts in the vicinity. Nicholas, startled, but strangely pleased at this turn of events, blushed to the roots of his hair and hoped nobody had noticed the bussing!

Of course, pretty well everyone had, though they all kindly refrained from mentioning it in his hearing. Nevertheless, it would become the stuff of family legend, much amplified and embellished as the years passed by.

He quickly found something inconsequential to busy himself with, making sure his parcel of food rations was securely tied to his stout hazel stick. Of course it was, it had been checked several times already by prudent family adults and he had probably checked it at least six times, himself, in his fretfulness to be gone.

As if he needed yet more to divert attention from his exquisite moment of embarrassment, he also made a point of greeting two of his other friends who were caught up in the general excitement. These were, however, non-human friends and took the form of two dogs which belonged to old Tommy Musgrove who lived a little further down the lane in an ancient ramshackle croft.

Patch was a dog who had seen many years of service when Tommy had been able to work as a shepherd but now both man and dog were slow and very doddery on their elderly legs. But Nicholas' very special friend was a huge Irish wolf-hound who rejoiced in the name Sir Lancelot, because of his assumed high-born origin.

Sir Lancelot had turned up at the Musgrove croft around six years previously and just adopted it as his own. He caused a lot of anxiety at first since old Tommy and others assumed he must have come from a nearby aristocratic household and they would get into trouble for 'stealing' the dog if they were found sheltering him as theirs. After much enquiry round and about, however, it appeared no-one knew of any households which owned such large dogs and no-one wanted to take any responsibility for it, either, so there he stayed.

His coat was ragged when he arrived and he had welts on his back, so had clearly escaped from a place, maybe many leagues away, where he had been seriously maltreated and beaten. He had, perhaps, been wandering the country lanes for weeks looking for somewhere to call his own, and he was welcomed like a long lost brother by the already ageing Patch, and gradually learned to thrive in the locality.

Everyone treated him warily at first; he was, after all, such a big dog, but he was so placid and friendly that he had probably been beaten for not being a good guard dog. Nicholas had been about three when Sir Lancelot arrived and did not even reach to the giant's shoulder but they formed an immediate bond. And the only time anyone heard him bark was when Nicholas was seemingly threatened by something or someone.

Otherwise, the dog's favourite habit was to come up close to you, sit more or less on your foot and then lean against you, panting gently, waiting for a scrap if there was one to be had, but just appreciating your company if there wasn't. If, however, you were too busy to grant him your time, all you needed to do was to say "go home Sir Lancelot" in the gentlest voice and he would look up at you, his moist eyes hooded, sigh plaintively and leave you to whatever you were doing.

Many was the time over those six years, however, that Nicholas had ended up unceremoniously dumped onto his backside just by a friendly wag of the tail or nudge of the big head, though he was now, of course, big enough, and fast enough, to dodge the dog's enthusiasm, or at least survive its consequences!

Gradually the time came when everyone was ready to move off and, indeed everyone did move off at once. Firstly, the travelling party, Nicholas, Eleanor and Robert, who were accompanied by Uncle Henry and his family entourage in their Sunday best, even though it was not Sunday.

Close behind ambled Ma and Pa Melton, Nicholas' mother and father; and then many of the neighbours too. Everyone walked with them, along the lane, until it split, the more significant branch going on into town, towards the church, and beyond. This was the path Nicholas took with his cousin and brother.

The lesser pathway, somewhat overgrown from less frequent usage, was the route lumbering Uncle Henry and family took to their home in a nearby village.

Mother and Father and the neighbours lingered at the fork in the roads, gossiping and waving, and waving and gossiping, until the travellers were all out of sight and then they straggled back to their homes, all of which were now being gently warmed by the hazy spring sunshine.

Sir Lancelot was a little puzzled at the fuss going on today and looked rather forlorn when Nicholas told him to "go home Sir Lancelot" at the fork in the road, but he sat for a while on an uncomplaining adult's foot as the party waved and gossiped, and gossiped and waved, and then sauntered back to find a gulp or two of water at Musgrove croft and sit companionably with the arthritic Patch.

* * *

Now that the journey was actually starting, Nicholas was relishing in full the prospect of his adventure, hugging it to himself, as his brother Robert and Cousin Eleanor were talking about her pending adventure. All this while, they progressed by stages into the market town of Louth, over the river Lud and past the fine church with its extended tower and new spire which was beginning to emerge through the wooden scaffolding.
(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Captain Cobbler by Keith M. Melton. Copyright © 2013 Keith M. Melton. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Contents

Dramatis Personae In Groups....................     xiii     

Glossary....................     xxiii     

Prologue 1: A Dynasty born of blood The last Plantagenets: February 1483
– August 1485....................     1     

Prologue 2: Young Catherine 1497 – Alhambra, Spain....................     13     

The Blackbird Sings ... Remembering Tower of London, 1537 – 6.15am: 29th
March....................     19     

December 1536....................     31     

Protest: Save our silver 1536 – Sunday 1st October....................     37     

Heading for England: From Bride to Widow At sea - 1501....................     61     

A last breakfast: Remembering more Tower of London, 1537 – 7.15am: 29th
March....................     81     

Bonfire: The Morning After Monday 2nd October – 1536....................     123     

Falling from Grace: Understanding truth Remembering ... a Hostelry in
Newark, April 1516....................     161     

On the Road: Rites of Passage The next day, April 1516....................     171     

Onward to London – and beyond: Becoming a man Seeing the world through
new eyes – 1516....................     185     

The Coat of Motley An unexpected excursion....................     199     

"A-huntin' we will go ..." A forest South of London....................     209     

Bubbling Broth: The end of the first day Monday evening 2nd October –
1536....................     221     

Lady in waiting: Bridesmaid to Bride Remembering ... Cousin Eleanor free
to gossip....................     243     

Monday night Tuesday morning 2nd & 3rd October 1536....................     259     

Meanwhile in Caistor – Tuesday Morning 3rd October 1536...................     293     

Captain Cobbler – a sleepless night Taking Responsibility, Wednesday 4th
October 1536....................     317     

An Unhappy Christmas: Christmas 1535 Missing her grandson, missing her
friend ....................     371     

Friday 7th January 1536 – a dark day!....................     407     

To Lincoln: A show of Strength Thursday 5th October 1536; very early
morning ....................     415     

A force to be reckoned with Friday 6th October 1536....................     429     

The Kingdom in Turmoil Westminster Palace, early Sunday morning, 8th
October 1536....................     471     

The King's Letter Lincoln Cathedral Chapter House, Monday 9th October.....     481     

"It's all downhill from now ..." The Rebellion unravels...................     497     

Condign Punishment ... 10am: 29th March 1537....................     519     

Epilogue....................     523