The Great Revolt

by Paul Doherty

  Some of the women began to sob quietly, huddling together for comfort. A barge master, touting for business, approached them, realising that a Dominican friar and a group of women would pose no threat. Athelstan handed over some of his precious coins and they clambered into the barge, the friar insisting the women sit in the canopied stern whilst he squatted with the oarsmen.

  The journey was mercifully short, the barge hugging the riverbank. They could see houses were burning and columns of grey smoke billowed against the sky. Here and there shooting flames created flashes of violent scarlet. Dowgate, the Wine Wharf, Queenhithe and the rest were relatively free of ships. The only people on the quayside were those bent on mischief. Athelstan wondered what was happening deep in the city, places like St Sepulchre outside Newgate, one of the most infamous hunting runs for the wolfsheads of the city. The bargeman tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the approaching quayside dominated by the soaring, gloomy mass of Castle Baynard.

  ‘I will be swift, Brother. I will land you, then take the ladies across to Southwark. The safest place for them will be the Priory of St Overy …’

  A short while later Athelstan climbed the steep steps to the postern door in Castle Baynard’s water-gate. He turned to bless the parish women grouped in the stern of the barge staring mournfully at him. He then continued on until he was challenged by Nettles, the captain of the Cheshire archers. Athelstan pulled back his cowl, and the rough-faced soldier grinned and beckoned him through.

  ‘The King is here,’ he whispered. ‘Poor, frightened boy. His councillors are divided.’

  ‘And Sir John?’

  ‘Good Sir John is in the castle chapel. He is in a strange mood, Brother. He has drawn both sword and dagger and placed them close to the Lady altar. He is kneeling there like a Knight of the Grail.’

  Athelstan pulled a face and hurried into the bailey. Castle Baynard was a grim, dark-stoned fortress, its towers and walls rising sheer all around him. A gloomy place, built for war as well as for protecting the great Wardrobe which housed royal supplies, be it cloth of gold for the court, or weapons, which were stored in the great squat, drum-like barbican. The bailey was busy with archers, hobelars, men-at-arms and knights of the royal household in their resplendent livery. Cheshire archers, master bowmen, weapons at the ready, guarded all entrances. Athelstan walked across the bailey then paused and glanced around. He noticed a group of the King’s own council, some of whom he recognised: Nicholas Brembre, a leading alderman; William Walworth, Mayor of London; and Sir Robert Knollys, a seasoned veteran. Athelstan was pleased to see these experienced soldiers, courageous and of the same mind and temperament as Sir John.

  Athelstan drew up his cowl and continued on, deftly avoiding the grooms and ostlers exercising the great destriers stabled there. He slipped up some stairs and into the chapel royal. The nave was narrow and vaulted. The only light came from narrow lancet windows as well as the stacks of candles burning before this statue or that sacred painting. The altar and sanctuary were cloaked in gloom, the only glow being provided by the tapers flickering in the lady chapel to the left of the high altar.

  Cranston was kneeling at a prie-dieu; on the tiled floor between him and the statue of the Virgin lay his sword and dagger. Athelstan tapped the coroner gently on the shoulder. In the candlelight Cranston’s face looked paler, younger, leaner, the merry eyes now ice-blue hard, the usual full lips a bloodless line.

  ‘Jack!’ Athelstan teased. ‘Sir Jack?’ He pointed down at the coroner’s weapons. ‘What is this? You keep a knight’s vigil before combat?’

  ‘Yes, that is what I am doing.’ Cranston kept staring at the statue of the Virgin. ‘I heard what happened at the Tower earlier today. Poor Sudbury and the others.’ He squeezed Athelstan’s arm and let it go. ‘I am so pleased to see you, little friar. I prayed for you. So, what happened?’

  Athelstan told him. Cranston, kneeling back on his heels, listened intently, shaking his head in disbelief. Now and again he would grip the friar’s wrist tightly, keeping his eyes on the statue before him. Once Athelstan was finished, Cranston rose and led the friar across to one of the wall benches.

  ‘I keep vigil here,’ he whispered. ‘I wish to be God’s true knight and that of His Grace the King. Listen, Brother, when Richard met the rebels at Mile End today he made a hideous mistake. He offered them pardons.’

  ‘I heard of this,’ Athelstan replied. ‘He also told them to hunt down traitors.’

  ‘But there is more.’ Cranston’s voice was a hoarse whisper. ‘Tomorrow, the young king has agreed to meet Wat Tyler and the rebel army at Smithfield. We know, you and I, Athelstan, about Tyler’s sinister designs against the King. I believe tomorrow’s meeting will lead to murderous mischief, and he has the support of other leaders.’ Cranston fished in his belt wallet and took out a scroll of parchment. ‘We intercepted this, a copy of a letter the hedge priest John Ball has sent to other malignants in his coven. Read it, Brother.’

  Athelstan unrolled the manuscript. The message was in English but then translated by a royal clerk. Athelstan read it carefully, mouthing the words. First the original in the common tongue.

  Johon schep some time seynte marie priest of Yorke. and now

  of Colchestre. Greteth well Johan Nameless and Johan the

  Miller and Johon Carter

  he biddeth them that they be wary

  of guile in the borough and standeth (together) in God’s name.

  He biddeth Piers Plowman. go to his work. and chastise

  well Hobbe the Robber.

  Taketh with you Johan Trewman

  and all his fellows and no more.

  Remember Johan the miller hath ground small small small.

  The kinge’s son of heune shall paye for al.

  Be ware or ye be woe

  Knoweth your friend or foe.

  Beneath was the translation: ‘John the shepherd, formerly priest of St Mary’s in York and now of Colchester, warmly greets John Nameless, John Miller and John Carter and bids them to be wary of deception in the borough and they must stand together in God’s name. They must instruct Piers Ploughman to get on with his work and ruthlessly chastise Hobbe the Robber. They have to take with them John Trewman and his companions and no others. Remember, John the Miller has ground exceedingly small and the King, the Son of Heaven, shall pay for all. Be wary lest you be sorry. Know your friend from your foe.’

  ‘What does this all mean?’ Athelstan asked, handing the parchment back.

  ‘Like all such letters, little friar, they are written in cipher. God knows who John the Nameless is, or John the Miller. I am sure the borough refers to London. Hobbe the Robber might be Gaunt or indeed the entire royal family or council. What I find chilling is the reference to John the Miller grinding small. I believe John the Miller stands for the Mills of God. Everything and everyone will be reduced to the same. God knows,’ Cranston murmured, ‘in a perfect world we would have no need for what we have to do now. But I am the Lord High Coroner of London, and that, Brother is the life that I have, the life that I lead. I must act in the situation I find myself. I did not compose the music I dance to any more than you do, Athelstan. However, we have been brought to the ring and dance we must.’ He handed the document back to Athelstan. ‘Look, the royal clerk has translated the line of that doggerel poem as “the King of heaven’s son shall ransom them all …”’

  Athelstan unrolled the scroll and read the transcript, then studied the original in coarse English: ‘The Kinges sone of heune shall paye for al.’

  ‘Yes, I see what you mean,’ he exclaimed. ‘A first reading might make you think it is a reference to Christ the King, but he has already died for our sins. Here, the king of heaven’s son is going to do this sometime in the future.’

  ‘In a way,’ Cranston declared, ‘the business at Blackfriars is relevant here. Richard wants a saint in his dynasty because he truly believes that he rules by heaven’s mandate. This is a reference to Richard, not Jesus. Tom
orrow our boy king, Heaven’s Son to so many, will pay for all the grievances the rebels can muster, and believe me, if they fail, they will keep trying until they achieve their end. Richard is the lamb dressed for sacrifice.’

  ‘And what will you do, Sir John?’

  ‘I shall, with God’s grace, be there tomorrow and, again with God’s grace, I shall do all in my power to stop them.’ Cranston’s face became even more stubborn. ‘Not only will I stop them, I swear I will do all I can to remove the threat forever. I fully intend to kill Tyler.’

  ‘In which case, Sir John, I shall be with you.’ Cranston made to object. ‘No, Jack, my friend. I will be with you, I must be.’ Athelstan let his words hang in the air. The chapel lay quiet and dark around them. Candle smoke, like the souls of the departed, floated in great wisps and swirled through the air. Athelstan was surprised at his own vehemence. He had spoken before he had even reflected, yet he was committed, his decision sprang from the very marrow of his being.

  ‘Will you now, my little friar?’ Cranston whispered. ‘Will you, my closest friend? It will be very dangerous …’

  ‘Not for the first time,’ Athelstan replied tartly, ‘and, I am sure, not for the last.’

  ‘In which case,’ Cranston gave a deep sigh. He went down on his knees and, before Athelstan could stop him, made the sign of the cross. In the close silence of that chapel, Sir John intoned the words of a penitent in confession, ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned …’

  Athelstan could only sit, head bowed, as Cranston spoke from the heart, not so much about any sin he had committed but the good he had failed to do. At the end he sat back on his heels and pointed to his weapons still lying before the Lady Altar. ‘Tomorrow, little friar, I openly confess, I am going to try and kill a man, albeit a criminal whose mind is set, I am certain, on striking down our king, our liege lord, Christ’s anointed.’

  ‘Do you want to?’

  ‘No.’ Cranston half smiled. ‘To quote your good self, I think no man ill. I say no man ill. I do no man ill but I feel I have to. I have no choice in the matter.’

  ‘Sir John,’ Athelstan replied, ‘you are the King’s own officer: the Lord High Coroner of London, a knight of the body who has taken an oath of fealty to our king. Jack, you must follow your conscience and do your duty. Now, is that all?’

  Cranston nodded. Athelstan lifted his hand and gave absolution. When he had finished, Cranston eased himself back on the bench. ‘And my penance?’ the coroner asked.

  Athelstan narrowed his eyes. ‘Bearing in mind what might happen tomorrow, I would say at least three cups of the best Bordeaux and the juiciest meat pie this castle’s cook can muster.’ Crowing with delight, Cranston almost dragged Athelstan out of the church and across to the small refectory where others had gathered. The coroner took Athelstan over to a table in the far corner. He managed to collect two stools and, having slipped a coin to a scullion, ordered the best Bordeaux and a pie with the freshest, spiciest venison mince both for himself and his ‘black monk friend’.

  ‘Friar,’ Athelstan insisted as Cranston slid on to the stool opposite him.

  ‘Who cares?’ The coroner grinned. He licked his lips and rubbed his hands together. ‘Sometimes, Brother, a goblet of wine and hot, diced mince can become the centre of your life. Now,’ he leaned across the table, ‘this business of Blackfriars. I see you have left your chancery satchel behind?’

  Athelstan tapped the side of his head. ‘I have it all up here, everything I have seen, heard and felt is being milled and ground.’ He smiled. ‘John the Miller is not the only one intent on grinding small.’ He paused as a servant brought a tray of goblets, platters, a wine jug and a dish of venison to share, as well as napkins. Athelstan placed his napkin over his arm and insisted on serving Sir John, what he called the ‘royal portion’ of both the meat and the wine. He then sat and waited until the coroner, now cheery-faced and bright-eyed, had satisfied the pangs of hunger.

  ‘First,’ Athelstan began, ‘the death of Edward II. Undoubtedly there are two strands, that he was murdered at Berkeley and lies buried at Gloucester, or that he escaped and some mammet or look-alike was buried in his stead, which is a strong possibility.’

  ‘And secondly?’

  ‘Secondly, my dear coroner, there is this investigation into the death of Edward II being carried out by Fieschi and his companions. The Holy Father wishes to please our king. He is prepared to consider the possible canonisation of Edward II and entrust this matter to Matteo Fieschi, whose ancestor claims to have heard the escaped king’s confession. Moreover, the Fieschi family are prominent, or so I gather, in the area around the abbey of Sancto Alberto di Butrio. So, the papal delegation eventually arrive in this country. They travel here, they travel there before taking up residence at Blackfriars, a logical choice. Blackfriars is the mother house of the Dominican order in this kingdom, and it holds its own archives, a wealth of documents.’ Athelstan rubbed the stubble on his chin. ‘I must remember that,’ he whispered. ‘Brother Roger’s chamber desk is littered with our archives. Of course,’ he continued, ‘the English crown is eager to assist Fieschi and the canonisation process. Documents from the Exchequer, Chancery and King’s Bench are sent to Blackfriars for examination. Fieschi’s party as well as Brother Roger scrutinised these.’

  ‘Now let’s stop there,’ Cranston intervened. ‘You describe the way things are, but what is the real truth of the matter?’

  ‘Undoubtedly the Holy Father wants to please our king. He chose Fieschi as his envoy because of that family’s association with stories that Edward II had escaped. In a word, Sir John, I believe Fieschi is under strict instruction to quash such rumours, to declare that Edward II was martyred at Berkeley and so the process of canonisation can blithely proceed.’

  ‘So what happened? What went wrong?’

  ‘Two things. First, the evidence for Edward II escaping is probably greater than anyone imagined. This has surprised the papal delegation.’

  ‘And secondly?’

  ‘Ah, Sir John,’ Athelstan replied wearily, ‘what I call the dark heart of this affair. Someone, for their own sinister reasons, is trying to impede the investigation, and will do anything, including murder, to block its progress. But why? What does it really matter now if Edward II escaped or not?’

  ‘If it was proved he did, the process of canonisation would falter, even collapse.’

  ‘True, Sir John, so I ask myself, is that the reason for all this murderous mayhem? Alberic stabbed so mysteriously in his chamber, Roger poisoned in his, poor Pernel drowned, her house burnt down. Odo Brecon killed so barbarously. Then there is the murderous assaults on myself.’ Athelstan tapped the table. ‘We must not forget the one common factor in all of this, be it the year 1327 or that of the present year of grace, 1381.’

  ‘The common factor?’

  ‘Dominicans,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Dominican friars were deeply involved in the fate of Edward II, and some fifty-four years later Dominican friars are immersed in that king’s fate and possible sanctity.’ Athelstan paused, fingers to his lips. ‘That’s it, Sir John, that’s the way forward. I will leave the fate of kings to others whilst I construct two paths. The first will be the role of the Dominicans in 1327 and afterwards. The second will be the doings of certain Dominicans over the last few days at Blackfriars. However, that will have to wait for a while.’ Athelstan pushed the platter away and wiped his fingers on the napkin. ‘Sir John, I have asked this before and I ask you again, do you have any news of my parishioners?’

  ‘None.’ Cranston shook his head. ‘I do wonder about their disappearance, and that of Master Thibault and his constant shadow Albinus. I have heard rumours about what is happening in the shires, as you have. The Lords of the Soil are gathering whilst the rebel horde streams through London. They are hanging rebels they find isolated or vulnerable. One rumour describes how, when a dead man’s relatives removed the corpse from the public gibbet, these lords compelled them to re-hang the rem
ains using the same worn chains, even though they were covered in putrefaction. Now that,’ Cranston added grimly, ‘is what Thibault could be involved in. So we have the Lords of the Soil busy in the shires, but nothing, except for me and a few others in London, to afford our king protection. Tomorrow, God willing, such protection will make itself felt …’

  Athelstan rose late the following morning. He celebrated mass at a small side altar in the castle chapel and waited on events. Cranston arrived all freshly barbered, beneath his murrey jerkin a coat of the finest Milanese steel, his war-belt strapped tightly about him, a dagger concealed up the sleeve of his cloak. At about noon King Richard appeared in the castle bailey. He walked up to mount his destrier, finely caparisoned in scarlet, blue and gold. Cranston knelt and helped the King into his stirrups and then up on to the high horn saddle. Richard looked like some angel come down from heaven. He was dressed in royal cloth of gold; his blonde hair, oiled and combed, framed his smooth, delicate face set in a mask of cold serenity, those strange, light blue eyes staring, almost unseeingly, in front of him. Now and again Richard’s bejewelled, leather-gauntleted hand would touch the precious chaplet around his head as if to ensure that it was still there.

  Others of the royal entourage gathered, men sworn to serve the King both body and soul. Cranston, principal amongst these, rode on the King’s right with Mayor William Walworth on Richard’s left. At Cranston’s instruction, Athelstan gingerly mounted a small sumpter pony close behind the coroner. The noise and clamour of the great bailey rose as others saddled and prepared to leave. Heralds unfurled the royal war banners of England, the red cross of St George, the golden lions of England and the silver Fleur de Lys of France against a dark-blue background. Trumpets brayed and horns blew. Men checked their war-belts, the hilts of sword and dagger, to ensure all was well.