The Great Revolt, page 2
So Tilda never raised the subject again, but that did not stop her thinking about it. Sometimes she would fantasize about being a travelling performer – a juggler or an acrobat. She wondered if she could create an act using her skills with a slingshot – but she quickly realised that wasn’t something that would enthral people in a street circus and get them to part with money. She wondered too about playing a musical instrument. From time to time, wandering minstrels had visited Aylesford and the sound they made always enchanted her. But she had no idea how much a hurdy-gurdy or a crumhorn cost and didn’t have the first idea how she would go about learning to play such a thing. But people told her she had a good singing voice. Maybe she could use that?
The truth was, there was very little she could do that offered her a better life than the one that was mapped out before her. Even if she had been born a boy, the choices were still very limited. One older boy from the village, she remembered, had run away to Rochester to work on the fishing boats. That sounded better than what she had to look forward to here. But no one would allow a girl to become a fisherman – it was bad luck to have women on board a boat, she was told. Tilda hated all that. ‘Women are the ruin of mankind,’ she was always being told. They couldn’t do a thing right in the eyes of some men. In church she had to listen to the story of Genesis and how Eve had tempted Adam with the apple.
Tilda had begun to doubt those stories and could see how they were useful in keeping the villeins in their place. But she dare not share her thoughts. It was too dangerous. Heretics would be sent to hell and Tilda did not want to burn in a lake of fire for all eternity. She didn’t want her friends and neighbours to shun her either, and that’s what would happen if she started to argue with their local priest on a Sunday morning.
Even if she did run away to Rochester, her job would be to wait for the men to return from the sea and then spend the day gutting fish. It was a dreary prospect. Mind you, although plenty drowned on fishing boats no one ever died gutting fish, unless they got into an argument with another fish-gutter that ended in a knife fight.
In her wilder fantasies, Tilda wished she could read and write. If she could do that, she thought, she would never be bored. The mother of her friend Cecily had been able to write. She worked in nearby Maidstone, keeping records for a local brewer who was related to Laybourne. That seemed like a nice life. They even had a book in their hut, a gift from the brewers to their valued employee. It was full of stories about faraway lands.
When Cecily and Tilda were young, they would sit as her mother read them fantastical tales of tribes who had faces on their chests rather than heads, and trees that produced live lambs rather than fruits and seeds. To Tilda, that brown leather-bound book seemed like the most valuable thing in the world, and sometimes Cecily’s mother would let her hold it. And even though those squiggly lines and circles and curves were puzzling now, one day she would learn to read, she told herself.
Tilda missed Cecily. The family had moved to Maidstone with Laybourne’s blessing. One Sunday, when she had an afternoon off, she would try to find her there.
CHAPTER THREE
The work was the same as it always was, the early morning still chill enough for Brownie’s breath to stream like steam from his nostrils. But the breeze stayed gentle and the sky stayed blue and the summer would soon be here. Thomas led the horse as they harrowed the field, churning the soil ready for planting barley. Tilda followed on behind, carrying a bag full of stones and a slingshot. They were not planting yet, but she needed the practice and whenever a bird landed to investigate she would hurl a stone towards it.
Tilda did not like to kill the birds. They were hungry just as she was, and she prided herself on landing her stone just next to her target – enough to frighten it off but not harm it. Thomas hardly ever saw how good she had become – all this was going on behind him, after all – but she was always pleased when he praised her skill with that slingshot.
‘You’re as a good as a boy,’ he would say.
‘I’m better, Father,’ she would reply.
The village boys often teased her about it, telling her such a talent was not ladylike. Tilda shrugged off such nonsense and was happy to thump any boy she felt was getting too cocky. Besides, they didn’t complain when she used her skill to dislodge fruit high up in the boughs of an apple tree.
Mid-morning, she sensed Thomas and Brownie were tiring and waited patiently for her father to declare it was time for a rest. But her attention was drawn to the sound of an angry crowd approaching along the Larkfield road. Shielding her eyes from the bright sun, she squinted into the distance. Peter Fogg, she noticed with a frisson of alarm, was there at the head of the crowd, along with the village blacksmith and several burly farm labourers she recognised. Fogg called ahead, urging any Aylesford villagers within earshot to gather round.
Thomas looked on suspiciously. ‘If Peter Fogg has escaped from prison, then he is an outlaw. If any of Laybourne’s men see him, they would be entitled to slay him on the spot. And it would be our duty to do that too.’
Tilda clutched her father’s arm. She could see the blacksmith carried a heavy hammer, and several of the farm labourers had their scythes and rakes with them. ‘It’d take a brave man to tackle that lot,’ she said.
The arrivals mustered on the village green and several score villagers hurried in from the fields to join them in a large circle. Peter Fogg stepped forward from the crowd and declared, ‘I have been freed from prison by my friends.’ He turned to bow his head. These men had taken the law into their own hands. Now they were just as guilty as he – felons who faced the hangman’s noose. What was going on in the world? thought Tilda. What he said next was even more shocking.
‘The king is led by flatterers and evil-doers at court,’ Fogg declared. ‘It is they who work us to the bone for a pittance and tax us so unjustly.’ There was a half-hearted murmur of agreement from the villagers. What he said was undoubtedly true, but they all knew it was treason to say it. ‘Take heart,’ cried Fogg. ‘News reaches us of other villagers rising up in Essex and Kent, and a great march to London to petition the king and demand justice for us all.’
This was extraordinary news, but Tilda could sense Thomas growing tense beside her. His usually ruddy face had gone almost white. ‘We shall all be hanged as traitors,’ he called out to the crowd.
It was not a popular opinion. The others looked on him with impatience.
‘Rolfe, you’re not like those Coopers – spying on your neighbours for the lord of the manor. Surely you can see the justice of our cause?’ said Fogg.
‘Fairness and decency has nothing to do with the world we live in, no matter what the church says,’ said another man Tilda did not recognise. ‘We have to take a stand.’
Thomas turned to speak to him. ‘My friends and neighbours,’ he said. ‘You know I am no coward.’ There was a general murmur of assent. Tilda looked at her father with pride. He had done so many things to help his neighbours – most recently driving away a mad dog with foaming jaws who was threatening a group of children. And last summer he had dived into the River Medway to rescue a woman who was drowning.
‘But you all know the penalty for rebellion.’ He turned to Tilda. ‘I love my daughter. She has already lost her mother. I don’t want her to see her father hanged. Or, God forbid, have her hang beside me.’ He turned to the broad boughs of an oak tree on the side of the field. ‘They will hang us along those branches. I know they would be cruel enough to do it.’
There was a low murmur from the crowd. Not of agreement, but not of hostility either. Maybe Thomas was winning them round and caution would win the day after all.
‘Here comes Laybourne,’ someone cried out, pointing in the direction of the manor house.
‘And three of his overseers,’ shouted another.
The crowd turned to look. In the distance they saw the lord approaching. But he looked hesitant.
‘Show them you mean business,’ said a voice in the crowd. Clearly no one was in the mood to listen to Thomas Rolfe. They began to shake their scythes and rakes and jeer with surprising venom. Lord Laybourne and his men turned on their heels and began to run back to the manor.
Thomas shook his head, but Tilda clutched his arm and said, ‘If we can talk directly to the king we will make things better.’
‘Tilda, my dearing, what do you know of kingship? These are mortal, dangerous words.’
The crowd around them were roused, emboldened by their little victory over Laybourne. They headed off in the direction of the village of Eccles, hoping to stir up more villeins with their talk of rebellion.
Tilda and Thomas returned to their field and continued with their work. Tilda still felt angry with her father, and not a word passed between them. But she was shrewd enough to know that this was not the right time to discuss it. She thought of the words from Ecclesiastes: ‘A time to keep silent and a time to speak’, which she has heard in church sermons from time to time. As they harrowed the field, she was lost in her own thoughts and another verse from Ecclesiastes popped into her head: ‘And also that every man should eat and drink, and enjoy the good of all his labour, it is the gift of God’. She will mention this when they get round to discussing what they should do.
The sun sank lower in the sky, and just as the air began to cool on the fields, Lord Laybourne reappeared. He was accompanied by two of his retinue who carried swords. ‘What was that calumny, Rolfe?’ he demanded. ‘I can’t have a mob rampaging on my estate.’
‘We were busy harrowing, your lordship,’ said Thomas, his face set in a mask.
‘But who were those villeins?’ demanded Laybourne impatiently.
‘From another village I suppose, I certainly didn’t recognise any of them,’ said Thomas.
‘And where did they go?’ asked one of Laybourne’s men, as if speaking to a simple child.
Tilda pointed in a direction opposite to the one the crowd took. She said nothing.
‘And where are the other villagers?’ said Laybourne.
Thomas and Tilda looked blank.
With a weary sigh Laybourne turned and walked slowly back to the manor house.
*
There was a further interruption late that afternoon too. Hugh Godfrey had been right. The tax collectors did descend on the village.
‘You, villein,’ shouted a thickset young man on horseback. ‘Where are the inhabitants of this village?’
Thomas eyed him with the same plain expression. ‘Village never really recovered from the plague, sir. So it’s just us here today.’
The young man dismounted as two soldiers rode up behind him. The soldiers stayed on their horses, silent and menacing. The fellow circled them slowly, trying to catch Tilda’s eye. But she would not let him. Whenever he looked into her face she looked away.
The young man picked up a short stave resting against a stable wall and Thomas stepped forward. ‘Do you mean us harm, sir?’ he said, letting them know he would not be meek in the face of violence.
The young man gave him a smile that did not reach his eyes. He sauntered close to Tilda and lifted her long skirt above her shins. ‘And how old is this young wench?’ he said.
Tilda looked at him with contempt, anger boiling in her eyes. ‘I am fourteen,’ she said, daring him to disbelieve her. The young man swallowed and she could sense an excitement rising within him. ‘You look older than fourteen to me,’ he said, raising her skirt a little higher.
Thomas Rolfe stood boldly before him, causing him to step back. ‘She is of age. I will pay the tax you have come to collect.’
The soldiers rode their horses closer and the young man gave Tilda a hefty thwack on her backside with the stave, causing her to stagger forward. ‘I could have you punished for lying to an agent of the crown,’ he said. ‘But the day is nearly done. I will record your names and take your tax.’
Tilda was surprised to see her father had already brought the money with him. He took twelve pennies for each of them from a small bag at his waist and made sure the collector recorded their names. ‘And what of your wife, peasant?’ said the young man. ‘Where might she be found?’
‘She is in the churchyard, sir,’ said Thomas boldly. ‘I am sure the crown has not yet resorted to taxing the dead.’
The young man shrugged. Tilda could almost spot his brain whirring, trying to come up with a suitable witty reply. He failed and instead mounted his horse without another word, and the three of them trotted off towards Laybourne’s manor house.
CHAPTER FOUR
Most of the villagers who had left with the rebels returned that night, their eyes wide with excitement. Tilda wanted to talk to them but was anxious not to upset her father. But that night over a supper of potage she did talk to him about what had happened that day.
‘That money you gave them, we could have spent it on a repair for the roof,’ said Tilda.
‘We’ll just have to do it ourselves,’ said Thomas. Then he grew angry. ‘I’m not having them humiliating you, Tilda. I know you’re only fourteen but you look like a young woman now.’
Tilda bowed her head. She was not going to get into an argument about this. She knew Thomas should have told them to look in the parish records to check her age, but she suspected they would have ignored him. And she knew he was only trying to protect her.
His voice softened. ‘Tilda, my dearing, I know this is not right. That’s the third poll tax we’ve had in four years. It’s plain unfairness, taxing everyone, rich and poor, the same money. Last time they taxed us, the rich paid more and the poor were only expected to provide a few pennies.’
He told her a story she had heard before, about how the plague had taken half the village and how those that remained thought their lives would be so much better afterwards. They would be free to demand greater wages and go and work for a lord who would pay them properly, and treat them with respect. But that never happened. Laws were quickly passed forbidding pay rises and farm labourers were not allowed to move from one manor to another in search of better work. The more Thomas spoke, the angrier he felt. Tilda began to feel he might be persuaded to join the rebels after all.
As they ate their oaty stew, Tilda asked her father about the things the rebel villeins had said. Thomas looked pensive. ‘They’re right, in a lot of ways. It’s wrong that we are born serfs and that we’re not allowed to sell our labour for a fair price. Really, we’re slaves to the lord of the manor. I don’t say that people are wrong to protest…’ He looked pained. ‘We live a bearable life here though, don’t we, Tilda? I look after you all right. We’re not starving are we? And we have a roof over our head, even if it is a leaky one.
‘And Laybourne, he’s an arrogant man, to be sure. What lord of the manor isn’t? But he has not been pressing me to marry again. Many a lord would do that to his serfs – they all want us peasants to be fruitful and multiply. But he knew how much I loved my Mary. He’ll be wanting to match you up soon enough though, Tilda. So don’t be too fussy choosing a boy. Or you might find one chosen for you.’
Tilda had been told about this fairly recently. But she had dismissed it as a tease. Then it had slowly dawned on her that her father was being serious. She thought of the local boys with some revulsion and felt a great burst of anger. How could the lord possibly tell her to marry someone she had no wish to even speak to? The thought of it made her want to escape more than ever.
Now, she just stared at the floor, fearful of catching her father’s eye and letting him see what she was really thinking. It was true what Thomas said, but if they were paid fairly for their labour, they would be able to afford to ask the thatcher to repair their roof, and have a constantly burning fire in their living area rather than a brief blaze to cook their food. That Laybourne – he had four fires in his manor house and smoke rose from the chimneys at every hour of the day.
There were so many things they could do if they had a little more money. She could even go to school, Tilda thought excitedly. She was desperate to learn how to read. She particularly wanted to read the Bible. She had long suspected there was knowledge there that was being kept from them. Ever since she was a little girl she had been puzzled about why some catastrophes were the work of the devil and some were because God was angry. God was angry when the plague came, but the devil was responsible for the failure of the harvest. Surely it was the farmer – the lord of the manor and his bad planning – rather than the devil? It was the devil too, who had ensured the war with France had gone on for so long and so fruitlessly. Tilda knew this was nonsense and she wanted to read the Holy Book for herself.
Those squiggly lines couldn’t be that difficult to read. The local priest could read, after all, and he was no cleverer than the rest of them. And she’d seen Laybourne’s three boys with books in their hands since they were children. Being able to read would be a truly wonderful thing, she thought.
‘You’re a funny one, Tilda,’ said her father fondly. ‘Lost in your thoughts… what are you thinking about?’
Tilda smiled. ‘I’m thinking that we live in interesting times, Father. And maybe we have the chance of a better life ahead of us.’
CHAPTER FIVE
June 8, 1381
The week wound on, and in some ways it was as similar as any week in early June. There were no storms and the weather continued bright and fresh. Trees were budding and the fields were full of life. Hawks hunted, birds looked for worms for their young, and rabbits bobbed in and out of the grass. The renewal of the earth filled Tilda with hope, and even though they had the same meal every day for three days she was still happy. But she could sense that a great change was in the air.
What was different were the stories of further rebellion that continued to filter back to the village. Across the Thames estuary, in Essex, tax collectors had been killed, they heard. Eustace Fogg was especially pleased to hear that his brother Peter was still free and prominent among the rebels, visiting neighbouring villages to gain support. In Essex, they heard, a large group of peasants had gathered, almost the size of an army. And it was not just the poorest of the land that had risen up. The clever people, the ones who were not lords but could read and had jobs that made use of their brains rather than their backs, many of them had also joined too.
