Passage to Pontefract (30 page)

Henry told John Ferrours that he would never forget. He would always remember him as the man who had saved his life.

Riding back from Mile End Richard was diverted to the Wardrobe as the Tower was in the hands of the rebels. He was shocked and sickened to see the heads of the Archbishop and the Treasurer and an anger against the rebels surged up in him.

This was quickly replaced by a terrible anxiety. His mother whom he loved best in the world had been in danger. Where was she now? Had she reached the Wardrobe in safety?

‘I must see if my mother is safe,’ he said, forgetting kingship and the triumph he had experienced at Mile End in the fear that his mother might have suffered the fate of the Archbishop.

When he saw her white-faced, her hair in disorder, the jewels torn from her gown, he ran into her arms and for a moment they were both submerged by the intensity of their relief and happiness that the other was safe.

In the Wardrobe Richard heard what had happened. They were all overcome with depression except the irrepressible William Walworth.

‘Some of the rebels have returned to their homes,’ he said. ‘At least we have not so many to deal with.’

There was a further conference and it was William Walworth who made them realise that they must take further action.

News had come in that Richard Imworth, Warden of the Marshalsea, who had fled to the Abbey for sanctuary when the prison had been pillaged, had been discovered there. The rebels had no respect for sanctity and Richard Imworth had been dragged from the shrine of Edward the Confessor to execution in Cheapside.

‘Wat Tyler and his rebels still remain,’ said Walworth. ‘My lords, there must be another meeting between them and the King. Let it take place this time at Smithfield. They must be persuaded to disband. They are not as strong as they were. After the meeting in Mile End many of them have gone back. But we still have this band of robbers, gaol breakers, men who know or care nothing for their rights except that it be the right to rob and murder.’

‘Another meeting!’ gasped the Queen Mother, her eyes on her son.

‘I will meet them again. I know how to deal with them,’ said Richard confidently.

He had changed. The adventure at Mile End had endowed him with new qualities of Kingship. Everyone in the chamber knew that he had stepped out of his boyhood and from now on he would attempt to take command.

‘There is one precaution we should take,’ said Walworth. ‘Every man of us should wear a shirt of mail beneath his clothes.’

They were all in agreement that this should be so.

So with some sixty attendants, at the head of them William Walworth, the King rode out for that fateful meeting at Smithfield.

All that happened since that day when he had killed the tax collector could not fail to have its effect on Wat the Tyler. From a man of no importance living his life in the little town of Dartford tyling roofs for a living and going hither and thither at the command of those who employed him, he had become a leader. This army of thousands obeyed him. He was at their head. He had been a moderately modest man before; now he saw himself grown in stature.

He was as important as the King himself. More so, for the King would have to do what he, Wat the once humble tyler, told him.

It was inevitable that a little arrogance should creep into his attitude. He was a natural orator, something of which he had hitherto been unaware. For a man of no education suddenly to find himself so elevated had unbalanced him. Soon he would be Lord Tyler. John Ball should be his Archbishop of Canterbury. As for the King he might remain as a figurehead. The boy could be guided.

It was invigorating to see how fearful the rich and powerful could be when confronted by an army even though it lacked conventional weapons. The power of the mob was great and Tyler was at its head.

It was with a lifting of spirits that he waited for the arrival of the King.

And there he was, the tall slender figure with the golden hair glistening in the sun. The King with his retinue had drawn up, with their backs to the Church of St Bartholomew the Great.

‘My Lord Mayor,’ said Richard to Walworth, ‘I pray you ride over to them and tell Wat Tyler I would speak with him.’

Wat immediately complied. He was smiling complacently to himself. Wat the Tyler, in conference with the King! It was like something he might have dreamed in the past. Then it would have seemed wildly impossible. Not so now, Wat Tyler was on equal terms with the King.

Before he left his men, he turned to them and said: ‘Do not stir from this spot until I give you a sign to do so.’ He raised his hand. ‘When I do this, come forward. Kill everyone but the King. Then we will put him at our head and ride through England. Thus we shall have the support of everyone when the King is our leader. He will obey us for he is young and we shall guide him.’

Then Wat spurred his horse and rode over to the King. He behaved towards Richard as though he were one of the ragged army and those about Richard were filled with resentment by the manner of this village tyler in the presence of their sovereign. How dare he behave towards the King as though he were more familiar with them than they were.

‘King,’ said Wat, ‘do you see all those men there?’

Richard held his head high, sharing the resentment of his followers for this man’s crude manners.

‘I could scarcely fail to,’ he replied. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because they are under my command and have sworn to obey me.’

‘Why do they not return to their homes?’ said Richard. ‘That is what I wish them to do.’

‘I have no intention of letting them return home,’ retorted Wat. ‘Letters promising our freedom were to have been given us. Where are those letters? Every demand I have made must first be satisfied.’

‘It has been ordered that you have these letters,’ said Richard coolly. ‘Return to your companions. Bid them depart. Be peaceable and careful of yourselves for it is my determination that you shall have all I promised you.’

One of the squires beside the King had moved slightly forward and drawn his sword.

Wat’s eyes were on him. ‘What is in your mind?’ he cried. ‘Give me your sword.’

‘That I will not do,’ replied the squire. ‘This is the King’s sword and you are not worthy to touch it. You are a serf, a tyler of roofs and if we were alone you would not have dared address me as you have.’

Wat, sure of his power, very much aware of his army who at the lifting of his hand would have surged forward, cried out in rage: ‘By my troth, I will not eat this day until I have had your head.’

This was too much for the Mayor. He brought his horse forward and cried: ‘How dare you behave thus in the presence of your King, you scoundrel. You are impudent before your betters.’

‘He is so,’ said the King.

Wat was staring at the Mayor demanding: ‘What affair is it of yours? What have I done to you?’

‘It does not become such a stinking rascal as you are to use such language in the presence of our King.’

Walworth then drew his sword and struck Wat such a blow that he fell from his horse. Wat tried to rise but several of the King’s squires had surrounded him.

At first the peasants could not see what was happening. Some even thought for a moment that the King was knighting Wat Tyler, which would not have surprised them for they had begun to share Wat’s own opinion of himself; and although they were against riches and titles for the nobility they would not be averse to accepting them for themselves.

But there was no doubt now. Wat was dying. Their leader was taken from them; he had gone to parley with the King and they had killed him.

‘They have killed our leader!’ someone shouted. ‘Come let us slay the lot of them.’

In that moment Richard was inspired. It was then that he performed the most spectacular act of his life. He might have reasoned that there was little risk, for to stay where he was would be almost certain death, but he did not pause to reason. He was young; he was inexperienced in the ways of men. All he knew was that some impulse moved him.

He turned his head and cried: ‘I command you all to stay where you are. Not one of you shall follow me. That is an order.’

Then he rode forward.

The ragged army was waiting to attack, but the sight of this slender and most handsome boy riding towards them, godlike, unafraid, had stunned them into silence and inaction.

He pulled up before them. He smiled at them. He cried in his rather high-pitched voice: ‘My liege men, what are you about? Will you kill your King? Heed you not the death of a traitor. I will be your leader. Come follow me to the fields and what you ask you shall have.’

He sat there on his horse smiling at them. He charmed them; they could not fail to be moved by his youth and courage and beauty.

‘Come,’ said Richard. He turned his horse and moved away towards the fields of Clerkenwell.

They followed him.

Seeing what was happening William Walworth rode in all haste back to the City where several of the wealthy merchants had been mustering supporters. Sir Robert Knolles, a soldier of some experience, had kept men at arms guarding his own mansion and he brought these out now to join those who would stand against the rebels. Meanwhile supporters had come in from the surrounding towns and there was a considerable force to march against the mob.

Thus while the King was leading them out of Smithfield the loyal citizens and the men at arms were riding out to attack the rebels.

Wat Tyler’s body had been taken to the market place, his head cut off and stuck on a lance which Walworth carried to the scene of the battle.

To see their leader’s head thus displayed robbed the ragged army of their desire to fight. Some tried to escape, some fell on their knees and begged for mercy.

There were those who would have slain them all but Richard did not wish this. He was still living in the glory of the role he had chosen for himself. Mercy suited that role. Moreover, said the wise Walworth, we shall need men to till the fields and tyle our roofs. They should be sent back to their homes, and made to realise that they would be unwise to attempt such revolt again.

So the rebels went back to their villages. And on that very day William Walworth was knighted, Archbishop Simon’s head was removed from London Bridge and in its place was set up that of Wat Tyler.