by Jean Plaidy
‘They are friendly now … At least Parliament is, but my enemies are there. The people are enamoured of a pretty boy. They love him dearly … and they may well continue to while he is a pretty boy. And the wicked uncle … How they hate the wicked uncle, Catherine! They tried to burn down his palace. Do you remember?’
‘I shall never forget it,’ she said with a shudder.
‘Yes … I have a new role to play: the injured uncle, the honest man who will do nothing until his honour has been proved. It is a new part for me, Catherine. Not an easy one to play, but methinks I shall play it better in the country … away from Court. Say … Kenilworth … Leicester or another of the estates. We shall live together you and I … as the good squire and his lady. How like you that?’
She threw herself into his arms. ‘Oh my lord, methinks I shall be the happiest woman in England.’
Richard was growing up quickly and learning that it was not all glory being a king. People did not remain enchanted for ever with their ruler simply because he was possessed of appealing youth and a handsome face.
For as long as possible the news of Edward’s death had been kept from the French who would most certainly see that their old enemy had become somewhat vulnerable. The old King even when he was becoming senile and the slave of his lust was still the old warrior; his image could only die with him. But now he was dead and there was a young boy on the throne, and the truce between the two countries was coming to an end.
They were not long in showing their intentions. Fleets from France and Castile came to the very shores of England. The Isle of Wight was overrun and pillaged; they even got as far as Gravesend and the smoke of the burning town could be seen from the City of London.
It could never have happened in the old King’s day, said the people.
Richard was depressed. It was not what he had looked for from kingship.
It was not to be expected that John of Gaunt would be content with the quiet life for long. A subsidy was raised for carrying on the war in France and John of Gaunt returned to public life and began to prepare a fleet for action.
He was at the coast while the ships were being made ready and Catherine was with him.
They rode out together; they inspected the ships together; he behaved with her as though she were his legal wife.
The people were aghast. Men in such positions might keep their mistresses – in fact they almost always did – but they were expected to behave with discretion. Yet John of Gaunt snapped his fingers at convention. It was as though he was telling them that he was too important to observe general rules. He did not care that they knew he had married his neglected wife for ambition. He wished to honour Catherine Swynford and so must they.
They resented this; especially as they were expected to pay taxes to help him regain the throne of Castile. He even called himself King of Castile, which was a constant reminder of his cynical approach to marriage. His poor wife was neglected and it seemed suffering from some indisposition which prevented her from bearing children. She had only one daughter, while Catherine Swynford had four bastards, all of whom were treated as though they were royal.
Who is she? they demanded of each other. No better than we are! And there she is riding out like a Duchess!
They did not actively abuse her. They were afraid of the French and the recent raids had startled them. They hoped that John of Gaunt would take his fleet across the seas and rid them of this much-feared enemy.
Any small popularity he might have gained by his behaviour at the coronation and immediately afterwards was lost when part of the fleet was defeated by the Spaniards and the rest came home having completely failed to achieve its purpose.
Then another incident occurred which set the people murmuring against him once again.
There were two squires, Robert Hauley and John Shakyl, who had leaped into prominence after the battle of Nájara. These two had captured an important nobleman, the Count of Denia, and, after the custom of the day, hoped to make a handsome sum from the adventure. It was, after all, one of the reasons why so many knights went to war and one of the most valuable perquisites of battle was what could be obtained from ransoms. And naturally the higher the rank of the captive, the greater the reward to be expected …
The Count had been released when his son was delivered to the two squires as a hostage; and as all that had happened ten years ago, the boy had now become a young man while the Count was still trying to raise the ransom money.
That autumn a representative of the Count had come to England with part of the ransom in the hope that this would be acceptable and his son released. The two squires, however, having kept their hostage for ten years were not going to accept less than their demand and they refused to parley with him.
It was at this point that the government stepped in and Hauley and Shakyl were ordered to surrender their hostage to the Council. After having waited ten years when they lived in expectation of a very large sum of money, the two squires, rather naturally, refused. As this was construed as contempt of the government and they were accused of making a private prison of their house, they were ordered to be sent to the Tower.
When they knew that they were to be arrested, they told their hostage, Alfonso, what was happening. He was a young man of aristocratic lineage, for Count Denia, who was also the Marquess of Villena, was related to the royal family of Castile – a fact which he never forgot and which the two squires had always respected. Alfonso had always been treated well by them and he had long since ceased to regard himself as a prisoner. He was simply a companion of the young men awaiting the day when he would return to his family.
Robert Hauley put it to him succinctly.
‘Your father will not be released from the need to pay the ransom money. He will just have to pay it to the government instead of to us. Do you think this is fair? All these years you have lived with us and we have become friends. You bear us no grudge. Your father was taken in war and according to custom and on account of his rank we should have had a reward for giving him up.’
Young Alfonso saw the point of this. It was true he had not been unhappy. He had grown fond of both Robert Hauley and John Shakyl, and it seemed to him that if people in very high places were coming into the matter a higher ransom could be demanded.
‘Very soon,’ said Robert, ‘they will come to take us. We shall go to the Tower and you will be the prisoner of the government.’
‘I would prefer to be yours,’ answered Alfonso.
‘Well, I have a plan,’ said Robert, who was the more adventurous of the two squires. ‘We shall be taken to the Tower, but why should you not come with us?’
‘How could that be?’ demanded John Shakyl.
‘We shall tell them that Alfonso has gone. He has escaped. They will think we have hidden him. No matter. Alfonso will come with us to the Tower … as our serving man.’
John Shakyl burst into laughter. ‘What a plan! To deceive them right under their very own noses!’
‘Well, Alfonso, we cannot do it without your consent of course. What say you?’
‘Will they allow you to take a servant with you?’
‘It is the custom. After all we have committed no real crime and we are of good family. They must treat us well.’
‘I agree,’ cried Alfonso. ‘It is a matter of honour. It was you two who captured my father and the ransom should be yours.’
‘I knew you would see it that way, Alfonso,’ cried Robert. ‘Now we will prepare. You will have to adopt a slightly less haughty manner now, you know. You are not of the royal house, remember, but a humble serving man.’
To the two men and the young Alfonso the whole matter was something of a joke; and in due course they were lodged in the Tower where, as Robert had said they would be, they were treated well; but they refused to say anything about the whereabouts of their hostage.
The weeks began to pass. Alfonso enjoyed playing the part of the servant and the whole affair was an amusing adventure.
But they were growing restive; and their success so far in deceiving the authorities made them grow bolder and they planned their escape. It was not so difficult. It was not as though they were regarded as important prisoners. A little wine with something in it which could be smuggled into the Tower by a bribe or two and keys taken from the pockets of a guard who had passed into a drunken stupor, and they were free.
They were detected as they passed out of the Tower and the hue and cry went up. They had not planned it that way and it was necessary to decide quickly what should be done. Robert, the most resourceful of the trio, said they must go into Sanctuary at once, otherwise they would be captured and they could be sure that if they were it would not be so easy for them to escape again.
So they went with all haste to Westminster and took sanctuary in the Abbey.
To Sir Alan Buxhull, the Constable of the Tower, who had come to his position through John of Gaunt of whom he was a staunch supporter, it was a reflection on his custodianship that prisoners could escape so easily and he determined to bring them back to the Tower; and even when he heard that they were in the Abbey he decided to follow them there and he set out with Sir Ralf Ferrers, another of John of Gaunt’s men, and armed guards from the Tower.
In the Abbey he talked to them urging them to come out of Sanctuary. Shakyl eventually did emerge because he felt that their case was hopeless, and Sir Alan Buxhull had convinced him that if he would give himself up, he would merely go back to his comfortable room in the Tower and there would be no recriminations.
Robert Hauley was not so easily taken in. He was determined not to come out of Sanctuary and he said so.
‘You cannot harm me here,’ he said. ‘I claim the sanctuary of God’s House.’
‘You are resisting the command of the King and his ministers,’ cried Buxhull.
‘They have been too avaricious and unjust,’ retorted Hauley. ‘We have held the hostage for nigh on ten years. Now you would take him from us.’
The Constable’s patience was running out. He would not be denied. He called to his men. ‘Seize him.’
Hauley attempted to fly before his pursuers and in doing so, ran into the Chapel where Mass was being celebrated.
There was confusion among the startled monks as Robert Hauley ran among them followed by the armed guards. Then one of the guards ran his sword through Hauley’s body and the squire fell dying on the altar steps.
There was a hushed silence in the Abbey then. The monks were staring at the blood-stained body in horror. This was the violation of Sanctuary. The Abbey had been desecrated by murder, and the murderers were the King’s servants.
The matter could not be hushed up, even when it was discovered that the serving man was the son of the Count of Denia.
He was now in the hands of the Government and John Shakyl was released from the Tower for it was hoped that the entire matter would be forgotten.
But it was not forgotten. The Bishop of London was horrified. This was more than a murder of a squire who had defied the Government. He could see in this an attempt to curtail the sanctity of the Church.
Sanctuary had been abused and therefore the laws of the Church had been violated.
There had to be scapegoats.
Sir Alan Buxhull had had no right to bring his armed guards into the Abbey. He and Sir Ralf Ferrers were the offenders. They should be deprived of their posts and made to answer for what they had done.
But they were John of Gaunt’s men; and he did not wish them to be replaced. It suited him to have his supporters in important posts and that of the Constable of the Tower was a very special one.
The matter should be hushed up, said John of Gaunt. What a fuss over a foolish man who had tried to defy the King and the Government. The hostage was now in the Government’s hands and the matter could be satisfactorily settled. One of the squires was free and he should have learned a lesson. As for the other, his had been a more bitter lesson; let it serve as an example to others who might try to take the law into their hands.
The Church hesitated for a while. It was not advisable to enter into open conflict with the State. On the other hand it was equally unwise to give way. It was Courtenay, the Bishop of London, who had shown his boldness on more than one occasion who decided to take action.
In a ceremony at St Paul’s he solemnly excommunicated Sir Alan Buxhull, Sir Ralf Ferrers and all those directly or indirectly concerned in the murder.
The Bishop had openly stated that he was not including the Duke of Lancaster and the Queen Mother in the excommunication and by letting this be known he was implying that they were in measure responsible for what had happened.
It was the battle between Church and State again; and as John of Gaunt was supporting Wycliffe who wanted changes in the Church it seemed in keeping with his views that he should now be supporting one who allowed the Abbey to be defiled.
John of Gaunt had in truth had no part in the murder but as people began to take sides he threw himself into the quarrel. He wanted to go against his old enemy the Bishop of London and while, had he kept quiet, it could have been a quarrel between the Bishop and the monks against the King’s Council, because of his interest in it, it became more significant.
When the Bishop was summoned to appear before the Council at Windsor he refused to attend and John was so rash as to exclaim in the presence of many who would lose no time in reporting what he had said, ‘I will drag the Bishop here in spite of the ribald knaves of London.’
The quarrel had broken out afresh.
Now people were asking what had happened to all the money which had been raised for the fleet and the army. There followed an uneasy period when accounts were examined but John was able to prove that the money had been spent in a proper manner.
More serious still there was trouble brewing throughout the countryside. In the villages men talked together; they were asking themselves why they should work so hard and for so little; why they should be the slaves of their masters?
The Black Death had made them aware of their importance. There had been a time when there were not enough labourers to till the land; then they had asked for higher wages and a law had been made against them. This law had said they must work on the same terms for their masters as they had before the coming of the plague which meant even more hardship, for the cost of living had risen after the fearful scourge had passed over; so instead of being richer, as they should have been since their labour was in greater demand, they were poorer than they had been before.
It seemed to them that the masters worked everything out to their own advantage.
And now because of this war with the French which went on and on, there was a new tax – the Poll Tax which people were to pay according to their incomes. Archbishops and Dukes paid six pounds, thirteen shillings and fourpence each and an ordinary labourer was charged fourpence.
In spite of this order the money was not forthcoming and it was necessary to send collectors through the towns and villages to enforce payment.
The law was that every person over fifteen must pay.
Richard had been four years on the throne, and they had been four depressing years. At the end of them the country was in a worse condition than it had been at the death of the old King. The French were troublesome; the Scots were taking advantage of the situation; the bogey of the nation was John of Gaunt who had failed miserably in his expeditions on the Continent. There was a rustling of rebellion throughout the country and it was growing louder. Discontent was rife among the peasants. They were asking each other why it should be that men were condemned to work for others all their lives. Who decided whether a man should be a villein or a lord?
Those in high places were unaware of what was happening. They could not see the gathering storm until it burst upon them.
Chapter IX
WAT TYLER
There was one man who believed so fervently that there was a great deal wrong with life as it was lived in England that he was determined to
give his life if necessary to change it.
This was John Ball, a priest who had begun his career in the Abbey of St Mary’s in York. He had very soon found himself in conflict with the authorities because not only did he hold controversial views but he would not stop talking about them.
He had seen what had happened after the Black Death and he deplored the fact that although workers on the land had been seen to be important to the well-being of the country they continued to be treated as serfs; and when their labour was in great demand and there was every reason to suppose they might have asked a higher wage for their services, they had been completely subdued by their masters and forced to work at the same wage as they had received when there were plenty of them.
Why, he asked himself and others, should some, merely on account of where they were born, live on the fruits of other men’s labours?
His watchword was:
‘When Adam delf and Eve span
Who was then the gentleman?’
It was his favourite theme. Had we not all come from Adam and Eve? The scriptures told us so. Why then should some of us be favoured above others?
John Ball was a born preacher. He loved to talk and took a great pleasure in expounding his views to others. He would go to the village green and the people would crowd round him to listen to his sermons. They were different from any other sermons they had ever heard. His views on the Church were similar to those of Wycliffe; but in addition to the reform of the church John Ball wanted the reform of society.
After listening to him the villeins would return to their dark hovels and their meagre fare and would think of the mansion close by in which lived the lord of the manor. He was waited on by countless servants; his table was weighed down with good things to eat. Those who served in his kitchens counted themselves fortunate, for a few crumbs from the rich man’s table fell to them. And yet, argued John Ball, how had this happened? They all had the same forebears, did they not? Adam and Eve? And yet some had been born in mansions, others in dark hovels, some under a hedge maybe.
