by Jean Plaidy
‘What has happened?’ the woman asked one of the guards.
‘The wheels are stuck in the mud,’ was the answer.
Joan heard and looked out. ‘Let every man get to work,’ she said. ‘We must get to London with all speed.’
‘Everything that can be done shall be done, my lady,’ was the answer.
They settled down to wait. An hour passed and still they had not moved from the spot for the wheels could not be shifted from the cloying mud.
Just as Joan was wondering whether she should take one of the horses and ride to London with some of the guards she heard the shouts in the distance.
It was too late. The rioters were coming this way.
Her women were afraid. Joan sat still, her hands folded in her lap. They would know her carriage. The royal insignia of the white hart was painted on the hood; moreover it was certain that everyone had heard of this carriage and there was no other like it – and every peasant knew that it belonged to the Queen Mother.
There was a conflict between the rich and the poor and there was no doubt in Joan’s mind into which category she would fall.
An army of a hundred thousand strong – if reports could be believed – was marching along this road and she was here with only a few guards and servants to protect her!
She was not one to show fear however much she felt it. She lived in a violent world where life was cheap. Her father had been murdered – judicially it was said – but murdered none the less. If her time had come, then she must face it. Her great fear was: What will become of Richard if they kill me?
Her thoughts raced on as she listened to the shouts which grew nearer and nearer. She was hardly recognisable now as the frivolous young beauty who had trifled with the affections of young Salisbury and had married Thomas Holland after he and she had become lovers, and then in widowhood had asked the Black Prince to marry her. Perhaps this all showed the strength of her character which had not been recognised when she had flirted even with the King so that there had followed that never to be forgotten garter incident.
She wanted to live chiefly because of her son who was her whole life now. But if she must die she would do so with dignity even as her father had when they had cut off his head outside the walls of Winchester.
Now she could hear the voices of the peasants. They had seen the carriage lying in the mud. They were surrounding it.
She sat tense, waiting for the moment when the curtain should be lifted and she dragged out to die.
Someone shouted: ‘It’s the Fair Maid of Kent. It’s the King’s mother. Stuck in the mud.’
There were shouts of raucous laughter.
Someone said: ‘You’ll need a strong arm to get those wheels out, you fine guards.’
‘They look pretty in their uniform but it takes men to do a job of work.’
‘Show them, friends. Show them.’
Joan sat still, her heart beating fast. The carriage jerked. A shout went up.
‘There we are. You’re free of the mud, fellows. There’s your fine carriage.’
‘Let’s look inside,’ said one.
‘’Tis the mother of the King.’
‘What of that? All are equal now.’
The moment had come. They had freed the carriage but for what purpose? To use it themselves? She had visions of their marching into London with her carriage and her head on a pike.
And Richard … if he should see.
‘God spare him that,’ she prayed.
The curtain was drawn aside. A dirty face with a stubble of beard was thrust in.
She sat very still, her hands folded. She smiled at him with a good show of unconcern.
‘Good day to you,’ she said. ‘I believe I have to thank you for helping to get my carriage back on the road.’
The man was bewildered for a moment. Her beauty, her royal dignity, the splendour of her garments overawed him and temporarily he forgot that all she stood for was the very reason why he and his fellows were in revolt.
The man was pushed aside and another, so like himself that Joan could not have told them apart, was looking in at her.
‘Here’s a very grand lady,’ he said.
She rose then and went to the side of the carriage, and holding back the curtain said: ‘I wish to thank you all for your good services to me.’
There was hushed silence. She was aware of the multitude surrounding the coach. She noticed the primitive weapons, the flails and the bill hooks. There were a few pikes. She thought: It is come. Let it be quick. Let me not forget my royalty. Let me die as nobly as my father did.
‘’Tis the Queen Mother herself.’
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘I have been to pray at the shrine of St Thomas. I am grateful to you for making it possible for me to continue my journey.’
She saw the savage desire for revenge on some faces but they did nothing. They were waiting for an order from the leader. The man who had looked into the coach said: ‘All men are going to be equal now, lady. Each man has a right to his share of the world’s goods. You’re no more lady than a serving-wench to be bussed by any as takes the fancy.’
Joan had one of those inspirations which came to her now and then. One had been when she had refused to marry the man who had been chosen for her and let the Black Prince know that she would accept only him. She was cool; some might say a little wanton. But she acted on impulse.
She held out her face to the man who had spoken.
He put his lips against her cheek and kissed her. A cheer went up. The mood of the peasants had changed. This was the Fair Maid of Kent. They had no quarrel with her. They had no quarrel with the King. He was only a boy. He was only doing as he was told. The real enemies were those such as Simon of Sudbury and John of Gaunt.
‘Let us pass,’ said Joan, realising what an impression her gesture had made. It might not last. There would be some in that crowd who were thirsting for her blood. She must get away quickly. Delay could be dangerous.
Oddly enough the crowd fell back. The riders whipped up their horses. The carriage lumbered forward. A cheer went up from the crowd but Joan heard the undercurrent of growling.
But she was away. She had saved her life.
‘For the love of God,’ she cried, ‘get to London with all speed.’
The Queen Mother’s party had left the peasants’ army some miles behind as it came across London Bridge and into the Tower where the King was at this time.
She burst into the King’s apartment and found him in the company of several of his friends including the Earl of Oxford who had become his almost inseparable companion, and his cousin Henry of Bolingbroke who like the King was in his fifteenth year.
‘There is no time to lose,’ she cried. ‘The peasants are marching to London. They are looting and pillaging as they go. Something must be done at once.’
Neither the King nor his friends had any solution to offer and when Joan heard that the Archbishop of Canterbury was at the Tower she sent for him at once.
Simon of Sudbury was a very old man. He was resigned to his fate for he had no doubt what it would be if he fell into the rebels’ hands. He was, in their opinion, the arch-villain because he had imprisoned their hero John Ball. They had murdered others; there would be no respite for him.
He came to the King and laid the seal of England on the table. He was resigning the office of Chancellor which he had held in addition to that of Archbishop.
‘This is no solution,’ cried Joan. ‘What shall we do?’
She felt angry with these men who had nothing to offer.
‘We shall have to fight them,’ said Henry of Bolingbroke. ‘We cannot let them come into London.’
A boy not yet fifteen. He had the right spirit, but what use was such a child!
Richard was trying to look like a king.
He said: ‘I will speak to them.’
Children! thought Joan. They none of them understand.
A servant was at the door.
&nbs
p; ‘The Lord Mayor asks to see you, my lord.’
Richard said: ‘Send him in.’
Joan’s spirits rose. Here was a man of action. William Walworth, Lord Mayor of London, who was not going to see his City decimated by a pack of rebels.
‘My lord, the peasants are very close,’ he said. ‘We must take action against them. As soon as my lady’s carriage crossed the bridge I had it drawn up and men are now putting a chain across to restrict entry.’
‘Thank you, my Lord Mayor,’ said Richard and Joan smiled her approval.
‘These men are desperate,’ said the Mayor. ‘They have armed themselves with weapons of a sort. They are dangerous but we can outwit them.’
Joan was relieved. Here at last was a man of action.
The peasant army had come to rest at Blackheath. Now that they were within a few miles of London some of the more reasonable men – leaders like Wat Tyler and John Ball – could see that destruction and bloodshed were not their ultimate goal. There were some – like the Archbishop Simon of Sudbury, who must be executed – but they wished no harm to the King. They believed that it might be possible to guide him.
‘We should give the King an opportunity of listening to our grievances,’ said John Ball. ‘He would know nothing of them. How could he? He is only a boy. Let us send a messenger to him and ask for a meeting.’
John Ball had that special kind of magnetism which could sway a crowd. He knew and so did Wat Tyler that many of their followers were not men of ideals but thieves and vagabonds looking for easy pickings such as an adventure like this could provide.
But it was not what John Ball wanted. He wanted reforms. He was a man of God, he told them; and he did not want to see fine buildings destroyed. He wanted to preserve them for the people.
They should parley with the King and they had with them a hostage in the person of Sir John Newton. They also held his family. They had pillaged his mansion and he was their prisoner. They would now make use of him. He should go to the King with a proposition that there should be a meeting between the King and the rebel leaders.
So while the army camped at Blackheath, Sir John rode into London to the Tower. As an officer of the royal household there was no delay in admitting him; and he was soon giving the King the message.
There was a cry of protest from the King’s advisers, chief of them the Earl of Salisbury and his treasurer, Sir John Hales. Richard, though, saw in this a chance to prove himself a King. He was not afraid of his people, he said. He had never heard a voice raised against him. And if he could see these people he was sure he could convince them that he wished them well.
The Archbishop shook his head. ‘You do not understand, my lord. These people are ruffians. They are intent on destruction.’
‘They are my people,’ said Richard with dignity.
He felt a sudden exultation. It was the sort of incident he had dreamed of; he believed that with his gentle smile and soft words he could persuade his people that they had the love and good will of their King.
Strangely enough it was his mother who thought that he might be right. She remembered vividly her own encounter with the rebels on the road and how they had cheered her – admittedly a little ironically – as they had allowed her to ride on after themselves freeing her carriage wheels from the mire.
‘Let the King go,’ she said. ‘He will remain in the barge, and if there is any danger he can escape by the river. Do not let him go ashore if there is any possibility of their harming him. But it would be wrong to ignore this request.’
The King said: ‘It is my decision, and I have decided to go.’
It was true that he was the King. He had never asserted his authority before. But he was certainly doing so now and since he spoke so authoritatively they must give way.
The barge set out. It was unfortunate that Simon of Sudbury with John Hales were members of the party – although of course their position in the country demanded they should be.
As they were rowed along the river and came in sight of the ragged army a great shout went up. There was the King himself – the beautiful fair-haired boy with the innocent smile. They would have given a cheer for him if they had not seen on either side of him the men they hated more than any, Simon of Sudbury the very Archbishop who had sent John Ball to gaol, and Treasurer Hales, the man who had collected all that money which was at the very root of their troubles.
‘Give us Simon,’ they chanted. ‘We want Simon’s head. Give us Simon.’
John Hales said: ‘We cannot parley with such men. They are bent on murder.’
As if in answer to him the people began to shout. ‘There’s Hales. The tax collector. We want his head. We’ll have his head.’
‘My lord,’ said the Archbishop to Richard, ‘you see there is no hope of making these people see reason.’
‘They will not harm me,’ said Richard. ‘Put me ashore.’
‘My lord, they would be aboard the barge if we went to the shore. They would drag out the Archbishop and murder him.
We dare not trust your royal body to them. The Queen Mother would never forgive us.’
Richard wavered. He was uncertain. He would not have been afraid of the mob. He believed they would love him. But they did hate the Archbishop. It would be cruel to hand him to them.
The royal barge turned and went back to the Tower. The shouts of derision from the banks slowly faded away.
But this was the signal. They would march on London now. They would take the City and nothing should prevent them.
William Walworth was an energetic man. He originally came from the north of England but in his youth he had been apprenticed to John Lovekyn, a wealthy merchant who dealt in salted fish and who had been very energetic in promoting trade between England and Flanders. William Walworth had learned a great deal from him; and when Lovekyn became first of all an alderman and then a sheriff and finally Lord Mayor of London, William decided to follow in his footsteps.
London had become his city; the affairs of London were his; he was proving to himself and to others that not only could he compete with his master but excel him.
He had acquired a great deal of property and was one of the richest men in the City and that was saying a good deal. There were rumours about him as there would be about all men who had been as successful as he was. It was true that he owned large areas of land in the district of Southwark on the south side of the Bridge and there were many who said that the activities which went on there should have been investigated. It was also said that William Walworth was not eager for such an investigation for there were those streets where prostitution flourished. It was even said that he had brought women from the Low Countries to inhabit his houses and that because they were fair and fleshy they were a great attraction. In any case there was no doubt that Walworth derived profit from his possession in Southwark.
He was not averse to spending some of his money in the interests of the city of which he was the leading citizen, and now he was determined to defend London against the rebels.
Meanwhile Wat Tyler with John Ball had reached Southwark and found the bridge drawn up. So they could not get into the City. But there was Southwark, and there were those prisons – the Marshalsea, the Clink, the King’s Bench and the Compter. They would attack them and release the prisoners which would have the desired effect of adding to their ranks.
But so far the rioters had been led by men of principle. Now it would be a rabble of criminals.
William Walworth considered this. There would be wanton destruction, pillage and murder. But it was sometimes easier to deal with criminals than with men of ideals. There was no doubt that the cause of John Ball which some might have considered worthy, would no longer be called so.
There were traitors within the City walls. The apprentices, ever ready to join any cause which was dedicated to disorder, were already on the banks of the river shouting to the rebels on the other side. Even certain aldermen who were dissatisfied with a great deal i
n the rule of the country and the heavy taxation to which they had been submitted saw here a chance to reform the laws.
There were many who were ready to lower London Bridge and let the rebels in, and it was not long before they were streaming across it. Meanwhile the Aldgate had been opened and the men of Essex came in to join those of Kent. London was now at the mercy of the rebels.
The army was overseas; the King’s uncles were far away; there was none to defend the King but his immediate circle. Fortunately he was in the Tower and that was a fortress which could not easily be stormed.
In any case the rebels had no quarrel with the King; they did not want to harm him. John Ball had the idea that the King might still lead a country which was given over to equality. He would be a figurehead to follow the guidance of his ministers who would all be men of the people. John Ball would be head of the Church. He did not want anarchy to reign.
But he knew that in that ragged army were men who cared little for principles and were bent on gain. They must be kept in hand. Wat Tyler was a good man. He had a righteous cause and he had only been led to rebellion because of the heavy taxes and the insults levied on his family. Wat Tyler was a man who wanted to restore peace and live in it; but to make a world where men of all ranks could retain their dignity.
That did not seem to be asking an impossibility.
That June day was one which would never be forgotten in English history. The great City of London was the scene of pillage and death. The prisons were all broken into and the convicts streamed out to join the rebels. The Priory of Clerkenwell was in flames; the Inns of Court were ransacked and documents were burned and lawyers killed. The rebels had erected a block in Cheapside and there the heads began to fall.
It was with great glee that coming down to the river’s edge they saw the great palace of the Savoy.
‘John of Gaunt’s treasure house!’ they cried; and the very name of John of Gaunt added a fresh fury in their hearts.
‘To the Savoy!’ they cried. ‘We’ll bring John of Gaunt’s castle tumbling about his ears.’
