Passage to Pontefract (25 page)

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.

It was fascinating to listen to him and that which many had accepted before as God’s will, they now questioned.

It was not long before John Ball was noticed, as anyone preaching such a doctrine must be. Moreover whenever he preached, people flocked to hear him. It was disconcerting. More than that. It was dangerous.

On Sundays he would wait until the people came out from Mass and then start preaching in the market square. He had a magnetic quality and many found it impossible to pass on. Moreover his words were so arresting. They had certainly never heard the like before.

One day he was at his usual place and was soon addressing the crowd.

‘My good friends,’ he cried. ‘Things cannot go well in England or ever will until everything shall be in common, when there shall be neither villein nor lord, and all distinctions levelled, when the lords shall be no more masters than ourselves. How ill they have used us! And for what reason do they keep us in bondage? Are we not all descended from the same parents, Adam and Eve, and what reasons can they give, why they should be more masters than ourselves – except perhaps in making us labour for them to spend. They are clothed in velvets and rich stuffs, ornamented with ermine and other furs, while we are forced to wear poor cloth. They have wines, spices and fine bread while we have only rye and the refuse of the straw; and if we drink it must be water. They have handsome seats and manors when we must brave the wind and rain in the field. And, my friends, it is from our labour that they have the wherewithal to support this pomp. What else should you lack when you lack masters? You should not lack for fields you have tilled nor houses you have built, nor cloth you have woven. Why should one man mow the earth for another?’

If John Ball was aware of strangers in the crowd who listened he gave no sign. He did not care who heard him. What he said was truth.

He would go on saying it because he believed it. No matter what befell him, he would go on telling the truth, before the King, before the Pope, before God.

But this could no longer be called the ranting of a mad priest. It was the rumblings of revolt.

John Ball was becoming a menace to security.

It wasn’t long before he received a command to appear before the Archbishop of Canterbury.

Simon of Sudbury – so called because he had been born in the town of that name in Suffolk – had become Archbishop of Canterbury some four years previously. He was a staunch adherent of John of Gaunt and there could not have been a man less like the priest, John Ball. Simon was not one to allow himself to become involved in doctrines; he had been originally disturbed by the rise of John Wycliffe but preferred to forget about him particularly as John of Gaunt was inclined to favour the preacher. But Courtenay, the Bishop of London, was of a very different mettle. There was a man who was going to stand by what he believed in even if he lost his post in so doing.

Simon of Sudbury could well be without these uncomfortable men and such a one was John Ball.

The man stood before him and had the temerity to repeat what he had been saying in market squares. The Archbishop could sense the fiery fanaticism of the man and knew at once that he was dangerous. Such as John Ball should not be allowed to roam the countryside inciting people to revolution.

The Archbishop realised that it was no use admonishing him. He had already been in trouble before. People had been forbidden to attend his meetings – but that had not stopped them. He had been excommunicated, but no one – least of all John Ball – had cared very much about that.

There was only one thing to do with such a man and that was put him away where he could not preach, so the Archbishop sentenced him to a term in Maidstone prison.

Let him stay there where he could do no harm. The people would soon forget him and his dangerous doctrines.

But people did not forget John Ball. His words were remembered. When men laboured in the fields for a pittance, when they wondered where their next meal was coming from and the children were hungry, they remembered John Ball. Why should it be? they asked. They watched the rich ride by on their fine horses with their fine clothes and their attendants. Why? asked the people. How did it happen? Hadn’t they all begun with Adam and Eve? Who was then the gentleman?

Resentment grew when the collectors came round for the tax. Collecting had come to be a somewhat dangerous occupation and only those would enter into it who were promised big rewards.

There was one baker of Fobbing in Essex – a man of great strength who refused to pay the tax and who so terrified the collector that he did not insist.

This baker was talked of throughout Essex and the people of Fobbing made a hero of their baker and would have followed him if he would have led them. But the baker of Fobbing had no desire but to carry on baking his bread and this he did; but he had given them an indication that resistance was not impossible.

One May day the collector called at the house of a tyler in the town of Dartford and demanded payment of the tax.

The man of the house, Walter, was close by at his work tyling a house, and two women, his wife and daughter, were alone.

The collector demanded the tax not only of the mother but of the girl, at which the woman said: ‘My daughter is not yet fifteen years of age and therefore pays no tax.’

‘What?’ said the collector casting a lascivious eye on the girl. ‘That one not fifteen!’

He approached the girl and took her chin in his hand. He forced her to look at him. She was trembling with fear. Her mother looked on with horror, for she had heard tales of how these collectors could behave and that there was no redress against them because they were working for the government and it was not easy to get men to take on the disagreeable task of collecting.

‘Not fifteen! Why, she’s a fine big girl. I can see that. Not fifteen. Come.’ He had pulled at her gown, tearing at it so that the top part of her body was exposed.

The girl screamed. Her mother ran out of the house calling for help.

The collector laughed and seized the girl.

Within a few moments the girl’s father was in the doorway. In his hand he carried the lathing hammer with which he had been working.

‘Take your hands off my girl, you devil,’ he cried.

The collector turned on him. He carried a knife, for collectors came well armed.

‘How dare you touch my daughter,’ went on the tyler.

‘She’s a ripe wench,’ said the collector licking his lips. ‘Leave us, Tyler. We’ll be pleasant together and who knows I might not demand the tax off her.’

The tyler’s answer was to raise his hammer and bring it down on the collector’s head. In a few seconds the collector was lying on the floor, blood spurting from his body.

‘He’s dead,’ said the girl and threw herself sobbing into her mother’s arms.

The sound of the affray had spread throughout the neighbourhood and people were coming to see what had happened.

The tyler knelt beside the collector. He could see that his daughter had spoken the truth.

The man was dead.

‘What’ll you do?’ they asked. ‘You know what this means.’

‘You must get away,’ said his wife. ‘Wat, they’ll be after you. They’ll refuse to believe what sort of man he was. You’ll be in the wrong, they’ll say. Oh, Wat, you must go away.’

Walter looked blankly ahead of him. ‘What shall I do?’ he said. ‘Shall I run? Leave my wife, leave my family … run for the rest of my life.’

‘You did right, Wat,’ said the one man. ‘I’d have done the same.’

‘And I. And I.’

‘A curse on the tax. A curse on the collectors. What’s it for, eh?’

‘To buy jewels for the rich.’

‘Why should they have what we work for? Why, why, why …? Didn’t we all come from Adam and Eve?’

‘They’ll never give us what we should have,’ said Walter. ‘I reckon the only way we’d get it is to take it.’