Passage to Pontefract (29 page)

It was night. The King had climbed to the topmost turret that he might look down on the City.

He could see the flares, and the people massed on the banks of the river. He could hear their roistering. Many of them were drunk on the wine from the cellars of his uncle’s palace of the Savoy.

A ragged army they were indeed. All the scum of the country, some of them men who had been in prison with no hope of release until the mob came – desperate men, seeking blood and revenge.

These were the men whom he would face tomorrow at Mile End. He thought what he would say to them.

‘I am your King …’

He would not be afraid. The only thing he feared was fear. They could kill him if they would but he must not show fear. He wanted them to say: He is the true son of his father.

He looked away from that tattered army to the dark sky.

‘Fathers,’ he said. ‘My heavenly and earthly fathers, both watch over me this coming day. Let me conduct myself like a King.’

Early on Friday morning the King was up and ready. From the turret he looked out on the rebels and could see that although some of them were making their way to Mile End others remained.

He sent a message to them, telling them that all must go to Mile End for he was about to set out to meet them there.

Then he went down and summoned the Archbishop and John Hales to him.

‘My friends,’ he said, ‘you must take this opportunity to get away while I am at Mile End. I command you to do this.’

The Archbishop embraced him and wept because of his youth and innocence and his belief that he could with a few words put everything right.

‘We shall attempt to do so, my lord,’ said John Hales.

‘Go, my good friends. I trust we shall meet again.’

The Archbishop murmured: ‘Methinks it will not be until we meet in Heaven.’

Richard rode out. He was exultant. He felt brave and noble. There were thousands of rebels whom he had to face and he was just one boy with a carefully selected band of nobles, those who had not incurred the wrath of the people and who would be unknown to them. Sir Aubrey de Vere, the uncle of his greatest friend Robert, had volunteered for the dangerous post of sword-bearer.

And so they set out for Mile End.

There were gathered some sixty thousand of the peasant army, the head of whom were Wat the Tyler and John Ball.

Richard rode right into the midst of them, his handsome face smiling, his voice low and musical.

‘My good people,’ he addressed them, ‘I am your King, and your lord. What is it you want? What do you wish to say to me?’

Wat Tyler answered him. ‘We want freedom for ourselves, our heirs and our land. We want no longer to be called slaves and held in bondage.’

‘Your wish is granted,’ replied the King. ‘Now will you return to your homes and the place from whence you came?’

‘Ah, my lord, we want surety for what you’ve said. We want it signed and sealed that you will keep your word.’

‘Then leave behind two or three men from each village and they shall have letters sealed with my seal, showing that the demands you have made have been granted. And in order that you may be more satisfied I will command that my banners shall be sent to every stewardship, castlewick and corporation. You, my good people of Kent, shall have one of my banners and you also men of Essex, Sussex, Bedford, Suffolk, Cambridge, Stafford and Lincoln. I pardon you for what you have hitherto done. But you must follow my banners and return to your homes on the terms I have mentioned. Will you do this, my friends?’

‘My lord, we will.’

‘Then God bless you all.’

‘God save the King!’ the shout went up.

The King’s courage had won the day at Mile End.

But all the ragged army had not gone to Mile End. There were some who had no interest in coming to terms. What they wanted was loot. They had seen riches in London such as they had never dreamed of. If there was law and order what would become of them? The robbery and murder which they had committed would be brought against them. No. They must take what they could while they could; and there were no pickings at Mile End.

Moreover there were many who had a score to settle.

They knew that the Archbishop of Canterbury was in the Tower and with him the Lord Treasurer, John Hales, whom they blamed for imposing the hated poll tax.

They were not going to return to their homes until those men had paid the penalty which they had decided was their just reward.

The King was no longer in the Tower. They had had a respect for the King and had made no attempt to storm the Tower while he was there. But now he was at Mile End; and they were going to get the Archbishop.

The Archbishop knew that his end was near. That morning he had celebrated Mass before the King and he determined to remain in the chapel and await his fate.

He was prepared for death. He could feel it close. He knew they would never let him go.

They were not long in coming.

He knew they had broken into the Tower for he could hear the shouts and screaming coming closer and closer. They would soon discover where he was.

He was right. They were at the door of the chapel.

As they rushed, a man shouted: ‘Where is the traitor to the kingdom, where is the spoiler of the commons?’

The Archbishop went forward to meet them.

‘You have come to the right place, my sons,’ he said. ‘Here am I, the Archbishop, but I am neither a traitor nor a spoiler.’

‘We have not come to bandy words,’ said one of them and he gave the Archbishop a blow which knocked him down.

They seized him. They dragged him into the street. They took him to Tower Hill where a vast crowd had gathered. There they had erected a block of execution.

He tried to reason with them. ‘You should not murder me, my friends. If you do so England will incur an interdict.’

‘His head. His head,’ chanted the crowd.

They pushed one man forward and thrust the axe into his hands.

The Archbishop saw that the man’s hand trembled.

‘So my son, you will do this to me?’ he said.

‘I must, my lord,’ murmured the man.

‘Tell me your name that I may know my executioner.’

‘It is John Starling of Essex, my lord.’

‘My son, you are more afraid than I. Have no fear. I grant you absolution for this sin, as far as I am able.’

He knelt down and laid his head upon the block, his lips moving in prayer as he did so.

John Starling raised his axe. His hands were shaking and there were eight blows before the Archbishop’s head was severed from his body.

Riding back from Mile End Richard saw the heads of his Archbishop and his Treasurer being carried on poles before the mob.

The rebels had stormed the Tower while their leaders were at Mile End. Their first target was the Archbishop and the Treasurer and having despatched them for execution they turned to others.

They had found the Queen Mother among her women. These men were not of the same mood as those whom she had met on the road from Rochester. These men had one object in view – robbery, destruction, and murder if the mood took them.

And here was the Queen Mother – one of the privileged, of royal connection, and mother of the King. One man snatched at the brooch she was wearing and another tried to take the rings from her fingers.

Joan, who had been in a state of high tension since she had seen Richard set out for Mile End, could endure no more. She fell fainting into the arms of her women.

Her life was in imminent danger but one of the men said: ‘Leave her alone. She’s only a woman. She’s done nothing. Let her go. There are others to concern ourselves with.’

For a moment there was hesitation and then snatching the jewels she was wearing her assailants turned away.

‘We must get out of the Tower,’ said one of the women. ‘Let us get down to the barges. Perhaps we can get away to the Wardrobe.’

Joan opened her eyes and realising what was happening asked where the mob was. She was told that they had left this part of the Tower and it seemed that the women might be allowed to leave.

‘The King will come back here …’ began Joan.

‘He will soon know, my lady, that we have gone. Come, they may change their minds.’

It was surprising how easily they could escape. No one attempted to stop them and in a short time they were in the barge on their way to the royal office which was known as the Wardrobe and which was in Carter Lane close to Baynard’s Castle.

Meanwhile Henry of Bolingbroke had thought his last moment had come. He had heard the shouts against his father and he knew that the Savoy Palace was in ruins. He had heard them cursing because John of Gaunt was not in London. If he had been there they would have taken him as they had the Archbishop. He could hear the shouting of the mob and the sound of battering rams and the crunching explosions as heavy doors gave way.

It could not be long now, he knew.

Then his heart began to beat wildly. There was someone coming towards the room. He stood up very straight, waiting. He would give a good account of himself.

A man was standing in the doorway. He was dressed as a peasant and Henry believed he had come to kill him.

‘My lord,’ he stammered, ‘you are in acute danger.’

‘Who are you?’

‘John Ferrours of Southwark, my lord. I serve your noble father. My lord, when they know whose son you are you will have little chance.’

‘I am ready for them.’

‘You will have little chance against this mob. I have come to get you to safety.’

‘How so?’

‘There is no time for talk. Put this cloak round your shoulders … Take this.’ He thrust a bill hook into Henry’s hand. ‘We are going to run through the crowds. We must look as they do. Shout as they do. It is the only way. I shall get you down to the river. There are barges there … or we may have to make our way through the City. Do as I say. We may be able to deceive them.’

‘I am ready,’ said Henry.

He followed his saviour down the spiral staircase. They came into a courtyard where several peasants were assembled. John Ferrours joined them and shouted with them. ‘No more serfdom,’ he cried; and Henry joined in.

They left the Tower and were in the streets.

‘All well so far,’ said John Ferrours. ‘But keep it up. Run. It looks as though we are bent on some mischief. Shout if anyone looks suspicious. Make sure they believe we belong to them.’

Henry was exhilarated by the adventure. It was something he would remember for the rest of his life. He had come near to death he knew and it would have been certain if he had waited in that room in the Tower. And he owed all this to this stranger, John Ferrours of Southwark.

He wanted to tell him of his gratitude. But they were still in danger.

They came along Carter Street to the Wardrobe. It was the obvious refuge.

‘I shall leave you here, my lord,’ said John Ferrours. ‘The Queen Mother and some others who have managed to escape are here. Keep the cloak. You may need it. And remember … if there is danger again, the safest way is to mingle with them.’

They were let into the Wardrobe. The Queen Mother was almost hysterical with delight to see him, but she was in a state of fearful anxiety about Richard.