The Great Revolt, page 4
But despite it all, he lived in fear of being sent home, rejected by the court. Guy loved his father, a knight in the service of the Earl of Northumbria, and when the earl asked, at Richard’s request, if he could have a bright boy to work in the court as a scribe, Guy was a perfect match. Even at fourteen he spoke four languages: English and French, Latin and Spanish. And he was a sensible, grown-up sort of young man. That’s how he liked to appear to the world, anyway. No one must know how frightened he was of his courtly duties.
Deep in thought, he did not notice the small cloud of dust on the road leading to the castle until the rider was perhaps half a mile away. He was driving his horse on with his riding whip, and clearly in a terrible hurry. Now Guy could hear the rhythm of the horse’s hooves. Below, a grand gate was opened and the rider slowed to enter. Guy hurried to the court, certain that urgent news was about to be delivered to the king. And it was not difficult to guess what it might be. News of various rebellions out in the shires had been filtering through over the last two weeks. The council that advised the young king seemed unconcerned, and were sure the unruly activity would settle down – especially as the villeins knew how fierce the penalties for rebellion would be. But this advice was looking increasingly flawed.
*
The stone-vaulted throne room was flooded with light from great windows on either side. This room was like the side chapel of a grand church, and it was full of the most powerful men in England. On a raised platform at the far end of the room sat Richard in his finery, surrounded by three of the counsel – whose duty it was to advise him until he was old enough to rule alone. Also there was his mother, Joan of Kent. She was fifty now, but still beautiful. There was a distinct resemblance and it was obvious to all that Richard took after her rather than the Black Prince.
The rest of the long room was full of lesser courtiers, further advisors, Joan’s ladies-in-waiting, and servants to tend to their needs. Although it was a warm day, the fires at either side of the room were lit, to keep off the cold from the stone floors and walls. Carpets and rugs covered some of the floor and rich tapestries hung from the small wall space between the windows.
A herald blew a trumpet and a tall military man entered. He bowed solemnly and walked with urgency towards the throne.
‘What news have you?’ enquired the king in his reedy, recently broken voice. Guy noticed there were red spots on his otherwise creamy complexion.
‘Your Majesty, my lord, Sir William Walworth, Lord Mayor of London, sends news of further revolts in the shires, most especially in Kent and Essex.’
Richard shrugged. ‘The lord mayor has sent many messages such as this. Why have these revolts not been suppressed?’
‘I cannot answer that, Your Majesty,’ said the messenger. ‘But these revolts have now taken on a more alarming form. Sir Robert Belknap, arriving to preside over the Dartford Assizes, has been seized by rebels. Justices of the peace, constables, revenue collectors and other representatives of His Majesty’s authority have been foully murdered. Rochester Castle has been seized…’
Richard could not contain himself and broke the deadly hush that had descended on the court.
‘Rochester?’ he exclaimed. ‘But it’s impregnable!’
‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ said the messenger. ‘I understand the guards fled when the mob approached.’
Richard’s mouth tightened to a grimace. He waved his hand to indicate that the man should continue.
‘Rochester has been seized and the castle keeper Sir John Newton taken hostage. Maidstone Gaol has been ransacked and the heretic preacher John Ball has been freed.’
Guy de Clare glanced over at Archbishop Sudbury. The news plainly unsettled him. Ball had declared himself an enemy to the established church and had been stirring up hatred and outrage against its leaders. When his name was first mentioned, the court had dismissed him as an irritating crank. That had been a serious error. Guy saw Sudbury whispering in a courtier’s ear. It was not hard to guess what he was saying. He would wager his favourite hunting dog that it involved hanging, drawing and quartering.
The messenger continued. ‘Canterbury too has been infected by the rebellion. Throughout the two counties of Essex and Kent, manor houses are being ransacked and prisons attacked. Many felons have been released into the country. Disorder reigns. Most serious of all is the news that two armies of peasants are marching on London. My lord, the lord mayor requests your advice most urgently.’
Richard took in this news without giving any further indication of his true thoughts. He called out, ‘Give this man food and water and a fresh horse.’ Then he spoke directly to the messenger. ‘Return to Sir William and tell him we will advise him presently.’
The horseman left the court and Richard announced, ‘We must discuss this matter in more intimate surroundings.’
The king and his advisors, and Guy de Clare, who was charged with recording these matters, shuffled into an anteroom and sat around a great oak table. Guy waited for the meeting to begin, quill poised over parchment, ink at the ready. This time he had prepared well in advance and remembered with almost quivering shame the day last week when he had run out of ink.
For several weeks now these tales of rebellion had been filtering through from the shires. The cause was plain enough. The common people were objecting to the new poll tax being imposed upon them – a shilling – twelve pennies – from every person over the age of fifteen. Richard’s advisors had been recommending a firm enforcement of royal authority. Examples must be made, ringleaders executed. Guy could not help but notice the court’s contempt for the stinking, shoeless rustics. He felt more ambivalent about that. As a boy he had played with the children of peasants at his own family manor outside Northleach. Jack and Sam had been his best friends, hunting and fishing and exploring in the beautiful, undulating Gloucestershire countryside. He knew how different his life was from theirs, and how little they had in this world.
Since he had arrived at the court, Guy had struggled to remember it was not his place to say anything – even as he recorded on parchment, things he knew would lead to trouble and upheaval. The new poll tax, especially, was one where he had to bite his lip. The decision to levy it had happened before he had arrived at court, but the consequences of it had occupied many a council meeting since.
Guy understood how much an extra shilling per head would be resented. That was a week’s wages for most of these people. And he knew they lived hand to mouth – uncertain whether there would be bread on the table from one day to the next. And to ask it equally from all the citizens of the land – regardless of their wealth and status – that was plainly unjust. Surely the council could see that? No one had said what he was screaming to say. That it was obvious why this had caused so much ill-feeling. But then he looked at all the council sitting around the table. Every last one of them wore the finest clothes. Hales wore a tunic lined with pearls, which must have cost more than a mere villein would earn in his entire life. A shilling meant nothing to these people. How could they understand what it meant to the men who ploughed the fields or threshed the corn?
And Guy knew first-hand what happened when you pushed the common people too far. When he was eight his uncle had been killed by disgruntled peasants over in Turkdean village when he had tried to intervene in a dispute over rents and tithes to be paid to the local abbey. Retribution was swift and fierce. Heads and hands were cut off. Families ruined. Guy’s father had worried that his son might be killed in revenge, and for a whole year he had been forbidden to play outside the manor grounds. Guy had seen Jack and Sam at market days in Northleach after that and they had refused even to meet his eye. When he had tried to speak to them it was clear they both hated and feared him and his family.
But now, in this deepening crisis, Guy also wondered if it would be more prudent for the king to address the cause of these rebellions and discover what could be done to bring the upheaval to an end. In Gloucestershire, Guy had felt sympathy for the peasants, protest – knowing how poor they were. Wrong had clearly been done and he was sorry his uncle had had to die for a reason as unjust as that. He dared not say this to Richard of course, although he would do if the young king asked him his opinion. It hadn’t happened yet, but sometimes, during these meetings, he caught Richard looking at him, and wondered if he was going to ask him what he thought.
When all the advisors had arrived, the meeting began. Richard declared, ‘This is all most untimely. With our most valued advisor John of Gaunt away with his army in Scotland, we are facing this uprising with considerably fewer resources at our disposal.’ He paused. ‘But here is what we shall do. We shall head at once to London. We shall seek protection in the Tower. Any rebel army approaching the city shall be locked out. Then we will discover more of what is happening and how best to deal with it. Our inclination is to meet with the leaders of this revolt and determine what it is they want.’
‘My lord,’ cautioned the Duke of Norfolk. ‘Would it not be safer for you to remain here at Windsor, and allow your emissaries to report on the situation?’
Richard was adamant. ‘We may be a boy in years but we have the heart of a king, and a king should lead his people in times of danger. Make preparations to leave at once. What time are the tides today? We shall travel by water.’
The meeting ended. Guy was left with a grudging admiration for the young king. Here he was showing leadership and courage. He was heading straight into danger, rather than hiding from it. If the tides were running in their favour, they should be in London by evening. But then a sliver of fear settled in his gut. Wherever Richard went, he went too. Guy de Clare had never really been in any real danger at any point in his life. He sensed that this was about to change.
*
The royal river party arrived at the Palace of Westminster after a tense and rather tedious journey, battling against the tide. Guy had been here before but he was still impressed by the palace’s sturdy crenellated walls and grand halls. He was pleased to be off the crowded boat. It was the latest in water-borne luxury, to be sure, bedecked with lustrous tapestries to ward off the stiff river breezes. But three hours bobbing about with those breezes was quite enough for him. They stayed at the palace a bare hour, enough to eat and drink and hear the latest news. It was bad and getting worse. ‘Your Majesty, we hear large groups of rustics continue to approach from both Kent and Essex,’ said Lord Treasurer Hales.
Lord Chancellor Sudbury could not hide his anxiety and fretted constantly with the sides of his hat. ‘We are ill-equipped to deal with them,’ he said gravely. ‘With armies away in Portugal and Scotland we have fewer than a thousand men here in the capital.’
Richard appeared peevish. Perhaps, thought Guy, he had found the river journey tiresome too. He seemed especially irritable with his chief advisors, looking at them with hood-eyed contempt when they spoke. He gave the clear impression that it was their fault he was in the mess he was in, although he wasn’t going to say so out loud. Guy wondered if this was because he didn’t want anyone to remind him that he himself had approved both the dispatching of troops to these faraway places and the imposing of the taxes that had caused so much unrest.
Sudbury had a clear idea of what they needed to do. ‘We must leave here at once and go to the Tower – it is the safest place for us all.’
Richard spoke. ‘My Lord Chancellor – these are my very thoughts,’ he said. ‘In the Tower we will be safe from the fury of the mob. But we do not have enough soldiers to take the fight to them. Instead, we must discover what they want. That is why we should go to talk to them and determine what they hope to achieve.’
Guy wanted to speak but knew he was not allowed to. They might kill you, he thought. And as I am going to be with you, they’ll kill me too. But he chastised himself for such unmanly thoughts.
‘Your Majesty is most gallant,’ said Lord Treasurer Hales. ‘But might I suggest our best strategy for now is to wait until we are more fully informed.’
Richard nodded, the contempt he had been showing momentarily on hold. Guy thought he caught a glimpse of relief flash across the king’s face. Richard had said what he thought he ought to say. He was happy to agree with a more cautious approach. ‘Yes. We shall do this. And we shall wait in the Tower. It is much nearer to the mobs.’ He waved a hand in a circular motion, something he often did when he was thinking, ‘Meanwhile, instruct the guardians of London Bridge to raise their drawbridge when the mob approaches.’
‘My lord, that will not prevent the entry of the Essex mob,’ said Sudbury.
Richard looked irritated. ‘Indeed not, Lord Chancellor,’ he snapped. ‘But it will leave us with fewer rebels to deal with. And perhaps some of the Kent mob will drown in the Thames if they attempt to swim across the river.’ He stopped to snigger at this suggestion. ‘And send out messengers to address the crowd. Tell them to go home.’
Richard’s advisors tried to hide their surprise at this final suggestion. They bowed and said this would be done forthwith. Ten minutes later Richard and his entourage were back on the Thames.
Guy had always enjoyed the river trip into the heart of the city, watching with fascination as scattered houses on the riverside became denser and the city began in earnest. There was always something going on right on the bank – from tanners to iron refineries, breweries to blacksmiths. But today he felt too distracted and a chill passed through him as the looming walls of the Tower of London came into sight. But he was also comforted to be there. With its sturdy outer walls and great white inner tower it seemed like the safest place in London.
CHAPTER SEVEN
June 12, 1381
The journey to the edge of London had been hard. Tilda had never walked so far away from home. Her feet ached and she was desperate to wash her clothes and clean herself up. But she was far from unhappy. She had never experienced such a feeling of power in her life. Being part of this large group of people, all armed with a weapon of some sort, was immensely exciting. She felt herself growing taller every day.
The farm workers had taken their scythes and pitchforks, and anyone who was a former soldier or who had such a weapon at home carried bow and arrows, swords and pikes. On the way they had ransacked country manor houses and pillaged the larger homes in small towns to provide them with provisions for their journey. Any lords and ladies, tax collectors and government officers foolish enough to find themselves on their path had been attacked and beaten. Some Tilda heard, had been murdered. But such incidents had been rare. Most of the king’s servants fled before the approaching mob. But there was no looting. The rebels had maintained their promise of good behaviour – they made it plain to all that they were seeking justice, not booty. They had only taken bread and meat from the houses they had attacked, although some had also been burned to the ground. And local records offices, full of manuscripts relating to tax payments, rents and other services demanded of the local population, had been a special target.
Best of all, in every place they had swept through, people had joined them. And not just the farming men and women – the villeins like them. Judging by the conversations Tilda overheard around her, many of these people were learned – people with an education. People who could read. She realised then, with some relief, that this rebellion had every chance of succeeding. The king and his advisors had caused the entire country to rise up against them – not just the lowly peasants. Perhaps her father was thinking as much too. Thomas smiled at her and put a protective arm round her shoulder. ‘I’m glad you persuaded me to come, my dearing,’ he said. ‘This is truly the greatest event of our life.’
Now, on this fine summer morning, they climbed a long hill and found themselves on Blackheath – a flat plain about the size of a large farm. On the way up the hill Thomas told Tilda that this was where the London dead of the plague had been buried. Tilda expected it to be a sinister place, but there in the sunshine it seemed a perfectly pleasant spot to spend an hour resting. Here were thousands of people – more than she had ever seen in her life. It was here that she realised how massive this protest had become. But the crowd was strangely quiet, tired from their journey and perhaps realising that their hour was coming. The quiet hung over them, like a great weight of air.
Tilda sensed something just out of sight, almost like an animal senses danger. She could smell it on the wind, and maybe even hear, just on the threshold of sound, the hum of the great city. She knew her father had been to London before. He had been allowed to go there for his brother’s wedding. Tilda could tell that he was excited to be going back. Now he took her arm and they ran towards the northern side of the heath, detaching themselves from the great crowd.
Here they found themselves on the brim of a steep hill. Tilda had never seen anything like it. Below was the River Thames, narrow enough now for a strong swimmer to cross from one bank to the other. On the far side were small settlements – little groups of houses here and there, but nothing you could call a village. On their side of the river was a hunting lodge – grand enough to be a royal dwelling. But further in the distance was a great grey mass. There were spires, bridges, castle towers, and thousands of tiny houses, all swirling in the heat haze and smoke from innumerable chimneys. One great spire especially stood out, pointing boldly at the sky. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. ‘How do so many people live there all together?’ she marvelled. Then she asked, ‘And why do they need fires on a day like today?’ Thomas shrugged. ‘Blacksmiths, bakeries, lime-burning… all sorts going on down there.’
