by Anya Seton
“Lady!” Cob cried, slapping at her cheeks and shaking Katherine. “Lady, for the love o’ God, awake!”
Still she lay limp, and her head fell back when he released her. She was tall, and he undersized and puny. He could not carry her. He took her by the feet and dragged her towards the brook, then, cupping his hands, dashed her face with water, crying, “Lady, wake, wake!” pleading with her. “Lady, I must leave ye here an ye not wake soon. For sure ye must know that? Ye’d hardly think I’d cause to burn up wi’ ye, now would ye? Tis far from Kettlethorpe we are, lady, and I’ve all but won my freedom. Ye must know that don’t ye?”
She did not move. Cob in desperation pulled at her until she rolled into the little brook. He held her head just above the water, and nearly sobbed with relief as she opened her eyes and shuddered. “‘Tis cold,” she whispered. “What’s so cold?” She moved her hands in the flowing water, lifted them and stared at their wetness.
“Get up, lady! Up! We must hasten or I vow ‘tis not cold ye’ll be.” He hoisted her by the armpits and Katherine slowly rose, dripping, from the brook and stood on the bank, swaying, while Cob held her. She looked down at his matted flaxen hair and the F brand on his cheek, but she did not quite remember him - someone from Kettlethorpe. She turned and stared at the immense roaring furnace across the Strand. A puzzling sight.
“Come! Can’t ye walk?” cried Cob impatiently, propelling her along the field. She moved her feet forward, leaning on him heavily. Cob saw that her wet robe clung to her legs and impeded her. He drew his knife from its sheath and cut her skirt off just below the knee. She watched him in vague surprise, then, bothered by her wet hair that flowed loose, she wrung the water out of it and started to braid it.
“No time for that!” cried Cob. “Hurry!”
The flames now licked through the gatehouse; the lower prongs of the raised portcullis began to smoulder. The wind blew towards them and bore charring embers with the smoke.
“Where are we going?” Katherine said, while obediently she tried to hurry. The sick giddiness behind her eyes was passing, though her head ached.
“Into town,” said Cob, though he didn’t know what he was going to do with her. As soon as he had got her beyond the reach of the fire, he could dump her on some convent, of course, but he knew little about London.
“Oh,” said Katherine. “I’ve good friends in town. The Pessoners in Billingsgate. Master Guy came yesterday to tell me about the rebels. Are we going to the Pessoners?”
“Might as well,” said Cob, relieved.
He dragged her along until they came to St. Clement Danes. The Temple was burning on the Strand ahead of them. He had forgotten that. “Have to go up there, I think.” He pointed up the hill towards Holborn, and turned up the footpath through Fickett’s field. “Road’s blocked here.”
“More fire?” she said, looking at the smoking Temple. “How strange!” The sunny green fields, the fires, the little church were all to her like scenes woven upon a tapestry.
Cob slackened pace, rubbed his sweating face on his sleeve and looked up at her curiously. “Ye don’t remember nothing o’ this morning, do ye?”
“Why yes,” she said courteously. “When I got up and looked out of the window, there were fires on the Surrey bank. I was quite frightened. That was at dawn.” She stopped and, frowning, glanced back at the sun. Through the smoke haze it shone high above and a little towards the west. But it’s afternoon now, she thought in confusion. What happened to the morning? She tried to pierce through the blankness, and gave it up. “Is the peasant army still at Blackheath waiting for the King?” she said.
Cob shrugged and did not answer. A head blow often wiped out memory of all that had gone before it - for a time. And just as well, poor lady. He wondered what had happened to the Damoiselle Blanchette. A fearful thing the little wench had cried out about her mother, but then the lass had gone mad from horror when the Grey Friar’s blood spattered on her and knew not what she said. There had been no sign of her when they carried Lady Swynford out, though Cob had looked. It seemed likely that in her madness the girl had been trapped somewhere back in the Savoy, like those whose screams he had heard. God rest her soul, he thought - she had been a fair sweet little maid once, some ten years ago, at Kettlethorpe.
He and Katherine plodded north through the field and reached Holborn street, where a hundred of the rebels came marching four abreast and singing “Jack Milner.”
A fellow outlaw whom Cob had known in the Essex camp spied him and called out, “By God’s belly - ye little Lincoln cock! What be ye doing wi’ a woman? ‘Tis no time for sport!”
“Nay - true,” Cob shouted back, grinning. ” ‘Tis a poor affrighted country serving-wench has got lost, I but take her to the City; Then I’ll join ye. Where are ye bound?”
Several of the rebels answered him at once. They were off to burn all Robert Hales’ property, his priory at Clerkenwell, his manor at Highbury. Though the base treasurer himself still lurked in the Tower, protected by the King.
The rebels veered off to the left on the lane for Clerkenwell, and Katherine started walking again when Cob did. They entered the City at Newgate, which was open and unguarded. They walked down the shambles past the slaughterhouse with their stench of offal, and on West Chepe came to the edge of a tremendous crowd who were watching what took place on a block in the centre of the crossways.
Some forty Flemings had been rounded up along with two richer prizes, the detested merchant Richard Lyons, who had escaped the justice of the Good Parliament, and a sneaking informer that the mob had dragged from sanctuary in St. Martin’s. They were all tied arm to arm in a line that had reached way down the Chepe, but was now diminished as one after the other was dragged forward and flung to his knees beside the block. A man stood there with an axe, and he worked fast. Already a dozen heads had rolled into the central gutter, which ran crimson. Vultures and kites perched high above on the house gables, watching as intently as the crowd did.
Cob shrank. “We must get out o’ here,” he whispered, grabbing Katherine’s arm. He shoved her down an alley until they reached Watling Street, which was near deserted. Peaceable citizens were all at home behind barred doors.
“Lady,” cried Cob, “where is this Billingsgate to which ye’d go?”
Katherine stopped and stared about her. Those crosskeys on a tavern sign, that bakeshop on the corner of Bread Street, the small squeezed-in Church of All Hallows, all were familiar to her. She had passed through here before, running with someone, running from something, from a great roaring mob. Riots in St. Paul’s - the Duke in danger. Danger. That day long past slid into now. The two states intermingled, shifting.
“Where’s Billingsgate?” repeated Cob, and now his urgency touched her with fear.
“There!” she cried, pointing towards the river. “There’s rioting again. That crowd on the Chepe. Warn the Duke! We must warn him - run to the Pessoners’, Dame Emma’ll help!” She seized Cob’s hand as once she had seized Robin’s, and began to run - around the corner and down Bread Street, beneath the dark overhanging gables.
As they passed through the Vintry they saw three hacked and still-bleeding corpses on the steps of St. Martin’s. “Sweet Jesus,” Katherine gasped, “why does the whole world smell of blood and fire? Why?”
Cob said nothing. He hurried her on. They were not molested again. In Billingsgate she saw near St. Magnus’ church the half-timbered house and the gilded fish that flapped from a pole over the shop. ” ‘Tis here,” she said with a deep sigh of relief and pulled the door-knocker. There was no answer.
Katherine leaned against the oaken door-jamb, and pressed her hand to her head. Cob reached up and banged the knocker again.
The wooden peephole opened and a wrinkle-lidded frightened eye looked out. “What is’t?” quavered an old man’s creaking voice. “There’s no one here. Go ‘way.”
“Dame Emma!” cried Katherine. “Where’s Dame Emma? Tell her Lady Swynford’s her
e, and I’ve need of her.”
“The mistress’s not here - no more the master,” said the voice. “Be off wi’ ye!” The shutter began to slide across the peephole.
“Stop!” Cob rammed his knife between the shutter and its frame. “Nay, don’t squeal like that in there, I’ll not harm ye. But ye must open the door and let us in!”
“I’ll not, nor can ye force me to - the door’s iron-barred,” the old voice rose high and shrill.
Cob cursed roundly while he thought. His lady looked near to fainting, but that was by no means his chief concern. In this prosperous house there would be far better fare than at the rebel camp they had all been told to rejoin in its new position near the Tower. No doubt tomorrow his lust for revenge and rioting would revive, but for now, he’d had his bellyful of wandering the bloody streets.
Then an idea struck him. “Wait, old gaffer!” he cried as he heard shuffling footsteps retreating. “Wait!” He grabbed Katherine’s purse, yanking it from her girdle, and opening it breathed “Holy saints!” as he saw jewels and gold. He fished out a gold noble and waved it through the peephole, snatching it back as a hand reached for it.
” ‘Tis yours an ye let us in!” Cob shouted. “I’ll get it again for ye later,” he whispered to Katherine.
“No,” she said faintly, “it doesn’t matter.”
The door opened. Cob shoved it wider, and palling Katherine with him walked in. Cob shut and barred the door. “Here ye are then,” he said roughly, dropping the noble in the old man’s shaking outstretched bind.’
The old man was called Elias, and usually he worked around the fishhouse as night-watch. He had been left here alone this afternoon to guard the house, for Master Guy had gone to an emergency meeting in Fishmongers’ Hall called by Walworth the mayor, who was also a fishmonger and who had hurried from the King in the Tower to confer with his fellows on the rebel crisis which was getting more serious each moment.
“Where’s Dame Emma?” said Katherine sinking down on the settle. The kitchen fire was unlighted, the low-raftered room that had always shown a homely cheer was now empty and gloomy behind its drawn shutters.
The old man bit the gold noble between his wobbly remaining teeth before slipping it in some hidden cranny of his stained and fishy tunic. “She’s gone,” he said, eyeing the two intruders with bleak suspicion.
Master Guy, alarmed at last, had packed Dame Emma and the maids off to St. Helen’s priory for safety when at dawn the Kentish rebels had poured over the Bridge, but no need to tell this strange tousled wench that - or anything. Elias folded his arms around his shrunken chest and mumbled with feeble malevolence, as Cob who had been rummaging came back with his finds.
“Ye best eat, lady,” said Cob breaking a juicy hunk off a meat pie and holding it out to her. As Katherine shook her head, he thrust out his mug of ale. “Drink then!”
She lowered her lips and swallowed thirstily. Cob held the mug and suddenly chuckled. “Here’s something warms me cockles,” he said, “to see the Lady o’ Kettlethorpe a-drinking from the same mug as her serf - ay, there’s a sight would dumbfounder ‘em back home!”
Katherine raised her head from the mug. “Cob,” she whispered, looking at him wonderingly. Cob, the runaway from Kettlethorpe - -she knew him now. It was no squire had guided her this day, had told puzzling lies for her. It was her own rebellious serf. Yet not long ago she had dreamed that he was going to kill her. She had dreamed that she saw him chopping the emblems from the marble mantel in the Avalon Chamber. He had given her a strange sideways glance when a question had been asked. What question? “Who are you then?” Had someone asked that? There were others there in the dream: men - and Blanchette. But Blanchette was sleeping in the Duchess’ bower - nay, in the! Monmouth Wing.
“Cob?” she said. “Do you know where is Blanchette?”
“Nay, lady,” replied the little outlaw quickly, and crossed himself. “For sure now ye must rest. Old gaffer.” He prodded Elias who was crouching on a stool by the dead fireplace. “Where can the lady rest?”
The old man hunched himself. “On the floor, forsooth.”
“I know where to go,” said Katherine, not hearing him. Why did Cob cross himself? she thought. Behind a flimsy wall a sea of horror surged and pounded, but the wall still held.
“The chamber above the fish-shop,” she said to Cob. ‘Tis where I’ve always gone. Ay - I must lie down a while.” Her head spun as she rose, and she dragged herself towards the stairs.
“Ye can’t go up there, woman!” squealed Elias, jumping up and shaking his fist as he hobbled after Katherine.
Cob gave him a negligent shove and gestured with his knife. “Me whistle’s still dry. Where’s more ale? Ye’ve not earned your noble yet, not by a long shot.” He grinned and pricked Elias on his skinny shank. “I’ll have that flitch o’ bacon too, what’s hanging from the rafter, and I dare say ye know where white bread be stored. I’ve a fancy to taste white bread at last.”
While Cob made himself comfortable in the kitchen, Katherine found her way to the chamber loft. The two great beds and the sliding truckle were all neatly made and covered with down quilts. She lay down on the bed which she had once shared with Hawise. Always when she lay down to rest her longing prayers turned to the Duke. Now for a moment she saw his face but it was far away, tiny; then a hand holding a threatening crucifix thrust up as barrier before John’s face, blocking it off. Her head throbbed agonizingly. She moaned a little, and closed her eyes.
When Master Guy returned home, it was near to sundown and the grave issues of the rebellion so perturbed him that he gave scant attention to the presence of a ragged little knave in his kitchen, or to old Elias’ stammered excuses.
When he understood from Cob that Lady Swynford was sleeping upstairs, having taken refuge here after the burning of the Savoy, Master Guy banged his pudgy hand on the table in exasperation, crying, “By God - why must she come here!” But when Cob had tried to go on and tell him of the gruesome happenings in the Savoy and the dangers they had run in London streets to get here, Master Guy interrupted, shaking his fat jowls impatiently. “Ay - ay, I know there’s been hideous deeds everywhere this day. Well - let her be - let her be - but I canna concern mesel’ wi’ her, one way or t’other. Nor ye neither,” he said to Cob. “Ye can rest a bit, then out ye go. I want none o’ the rebels in here.”
Today at the distress meeting in Fishmongers’ Hall, first, Mayor Walworth had come to tell his fellow fishmongers that all loyal citizens were to be alerted - here he had glanced frowning at the empty chairs of the aldermen who had opened the Bridge and joined the rebels - that since Wat Tyler’s early promises of good behaviour and no violence had not been kept, and since the rebels were now most threateningly encamped around the Tower and besieging the King, a fierce and sudden counter-attack was being planned.
The King’s regiment within the Tower would be joined by Sir Robert Knolles’ huge force of retainers who were quartered in his inn this side of Tower Hill, while all the Londoners who wished to rid their city of the insurrectionists must arm and strike at the same time. It had seemed a good plan to the anxious fishmongers and they had started to organise the runners who would alert the other guilds and burghers while Walworth returned to the Tower.
But no sooner started than the whole scheme had been countermanded. A panting King’s messenger arrived at Fishmongers’ Hall bearing an official missive. There was to be no attack made on the rebels after all, conciliation was to be tried first. The messenger had been present at the King’s Council and amplified his document. He told the fishmongers that the King had ordered the rebel army to meet him at seven in the morning for conference at Mile End, a meadow two miles to the east of town. This would give opportunity for the archbishop and treasurer to escape by boat while the savage mob who howled for their blood were drawn off to parley with the King.
Master Guy lumbered up to look to the fastenings of his house before going to bed, and was reminded of Cob, w
ho lay curled up snoring on a bench. “Out wi’ ye - now,” he cried, shaking him.
Cob did not protest, for the huge fishmonger was fully armed; besides Cob was rested now and full of food, and not ungrateful. “Ay - I’ll be off, thank ‘e, sir.” He yawned and bowed and docilely went out upon Thames Street while Master Guy barred his door behind him.
Cob finished out his sleep on a stone bench in St. Magnus’ church porch and awakened when its bells rang out for Prime. This Friday, June 14, was another fair warm day, and Cob felt revived interest in the great cause which had brought him into London. He munched on the delicious white bread and bacon with which he had prudently stuffed his pockets, and glanced towards the fishmonger’s house where Lady Swynford slept, devoutly glad that he was rid of her and wondering that he had taken so much pains to care for her yesterday. Her and her purse full of jewels and gold! A murrain on her and all her kind, thought Cob, bitterly regretting that he had not taken opportunity to steal upstairs and relieve her of that purse before Master Guy came home.
“When Adam delved and Eva span, who had gold and jewels then?” Cob chanted, raking his fingers through his hair and squashing a louse that ran out of it. He trotted off down the street towards the Tower and the rebel camp beyond it on St. Catherine’s Hill.
Here Cob was swept up by the wild excitement. Their leaders Wat Tyler, Jack Strawe and the priest John Ball, were all a-horseback, galloping amongst their forces, which numbered by now nearly eighty thousand men. “Mile End! Mile End!” they shouted. The King was to meet them at Mile End and listen to their plans in person. “Onward march to Mile End to meet the King!”
Cob surged forward with a great multitude of them, swarming and trampling over the fields until they reached the meadow where the little King awaited them.
