by June Francis
‘’Tis a fine time to talk of honour! Fine talk from a man who said he was no saint!’ She threw the words in his face. ‘You talk of love,’ her voice breaking, ‘without talking of sacrifice — unless it is of sacrificing me on the altar of your honour and your brother’s rights! What of me?’ She whirled from him, and before he could prevent her, she had fled among the trees.
Guy stood rigid for a moment before he went after her. Thrusting aside soaking branches that she had dodged beneath, he slithered on the wet grass, yet still he gained. She darted a glance behind, and he saw what was going to happen before he had time to warn her. The low branch caught her cheek and she staggered backwards, clutching her face. He reached out and turned her round.
‘Do — Don’t touch me!’ Her eyes were tear-filled as she tried to pull away from him.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said roughly. ‘I’m not going to hurt you!’
‘I don’t want to go back to your brother. Let me go! You have no right to force me.’
‘I don’t intend forcing you.’
She stopped struggling. Her breath caught, so that for a moment she could not speak, then she said, ‘You expect me to do as you say, then? Without demur?’
A laugh escaped him. ‘Philippa, I never expect you to do anything — without demur! You seem so set on going to Cobtree that maybe there’s … something in your inner thoughts that says — go! So we’ll go, despite the danger.’
‘Oh!’ It was only a thread of sound. She took her hand from her cheek, and there was a long scratch there. ‘What about Hugo, and Rose?’
He shrugged. ‘They will have to wait until we return.’ He touched her cheek, and frowned. ‘That will have to be seen to.’
‘We … shall be returning?’ She pulled a little away from him.
‘Ay! If there is a way for us, it has to be legal and binding. My brother has to know the truth, and there are matters between us that you have no notion about.’
There was a touch of bleakness in the smile he gave her. ‘But now — that scratch!’
‘And — tomorrow?’ She wanted to be sure.
‘Tomorrow we go south.’ He kissed her gently before they turned and made their way back to the inn.
That gentleness was a foretaste of the manner in which he treated her in the following days. The scene in the woods had affected her much more than she liked to admit, and though there were often times when she wished him to make love to her in a more passionate style, she realised his wisdom in not doing so. That she had not told him the truth yet about how she had deliberately set out to deceive his brother teased her conscience, but she judged that it was still not the right time to do so. Besides, they had enough to occupy their minds as their journey took them further south.
Tales of the revolt and its aftermath buzzed in every town and village they passed through. In Leicester they were told how the mayor had called the citizens together after receiving warning that the rebels were returning from London. They had assembled outside the town and waited, all armed, to face them. The keeper of the Duke of Lancaster’s wardrobe had also returned to the duke’s castle in the town and taken his possessions to the abbey for safe keeping. But the abbot, terrified that the rebels would burn down his abbey for receiving the goods of such a hated man, had refused to take them in, and they had been deposited in the yard of the church of Saint Mary of the Castle. As it was, the rebels had never arrived, only news of their leader’s death. This news caused Guy to wonder whether Lancaster still waited the king’s summons in Scotland. There were many who would press for his exile; others might insist that he was a traitor who deserved death.
They arrived in St Albans to find the town alive with expectancy. The king would soon be there to judge the situation after the townsmen and villeins had risen against the monastery. Their leader had gone to London and received one of the king’s letters, the outcome of the meeting at Mile End. It had been given to the Abbot Thomas de la Mare, who had bravely faced the rebels still in the town. At first he had refused to believe the commands in it: to deliver certain charters concerning common, pasture and fishing rights into their hands. The rights had been given to the monastic house in former years, but after several involved and lengthy negotiations with the rebel leaders, some of the charters had been handed over, and the most hated burnt in the market square forthwith. Now it was expected that the king would revoke his own letter and give the rights back to the monastery. The townsmen’s leader, an educated and good man, who had kinsmen in the monastery, was under arrest.
It only proved, as Guy said to Philippa, that the rebellion had gone beyond a struggle of the bound serfs in the fields to a dissatisfaction with the unequalities between those who had and those who had not. How could they better themselves, if charters took away their means of doing so? The guilds with their master craftsmen had regulated matters so that their journeymen could not afford to belong to them and therefore could not set up in business for themselves, but still had to work for the masters. The church, which should have shared what it had with its flock, instead jealously guarded old rights given in the past when the need was there and the monastery was poor.
‘You feel strongly about it, Guy. I remember … ’ Philippa’s voice tailed off.
‘You remember?’ His keen eyes went quickly to her face. ‘I have noticed that you do seem to be remembering more and more when we talk now. I pray that your memory does not return too quickly — and that it is not a harmful awakening.’ They were now only a short distance from London. ‘Do you remember last time we came to London?’ His hand strayed to his horse’s neck, and he caressed it fondly.
‘I — I remember we had to walk.’ Her conscience pricked her painfully again. ‘I remember how your horse broke its leg, and how, later, you rescued me from the attentions of a gaol prisoner, and … ’
‘And how I punished you?’ he said moodily, his smile fading.
She nodded, smiling a little, not adding that it was then she had first given thought to what it could be like to be wedded to him instead of his brother. But it seemed that he still blamed himself for what, to her, now seemed fated.
The way had been busy for some time, but now it became even more crowded as they neared London. Memories crowded in as they approached West Smithfield. They passed the ruins of the priory of Saint John of Jerusalem, and the walls of the city could be plainly seen beyond the fields where the peasant army had met Richard. Was it only last month? Saint Bartholomew’s was on the right, and the Aldersgate ahead. Her fingers quivered on the reins and her throat tightened, and quickly she averted her gaze from the remains of a corpse hanging on a gallows.
Guy glanced at her, and taking hold of her reins, he urged both horses on and into the city. ‘I mean to delay our journey in the city by only an hour or two,’ he informed her briefly as they forced their horses on through a network of crowded and smelly streets. Evidence of the last month’s riots were everywhere, while rebuilding had already started in some places. Vendors had set up stalls in the spaces where once homes had stood; beggars squatted in small hollows, whining that they had lost all in the recent troubles, and thrust out their hands for alms. Clerics could be seen bustling about in their robes, and members of the different guilds in their livery talked at corners. It was a far cry from the sights of her last visit.
‘Where do we go?’ she asked, as they approached the river, wondering if he intended visiting his cousin and her husband — a thought that made her nervous.
‘I must inform the owner of the ship that will be taking the clip to Calais that it is John whom he will have to deal with. I hope that Master Jack will be able to give us news of the situation, not only in London, but in Kent. He is a man who keeps his ear firmly to the ground.’
‘You will not be seeing Master Wantsum?’ she asked tentatively.
‘Not if I can help it. I want no questions asked that would surely prove awkward.’
She smiled her relief, and relaxed a little.
They found Master Jack perched on a barrel, munching his dinner of bread and salted herrings, looking out over the river. He was a jovial-looking man with a ruddy face, a bald pate and eyes that seemed to gaze on the world with a cheerful cynicism. Only by the raising of bushy grey brows did he express surprise at the sight of them as they dismounted.
‘You’re earlier than I thought, Master Milburn. No riots in the north, then?’ He took a swig from his horn cup. ‘Or are they all content with their lot?’ He gave Philippa the barest flicker of a stare.
‘I doubt that all are! Are any of us, Jack?’ Guy wiped a neighbouring barrel with his sleeve and lifted her on it, before resting his back against it. ‘How is it with you?’ They exchanged pleasantries, and Guy told him of his change of plan before passing on to enquire how matters were in the city and in Kent.
‘Settling down now fairly well, from all accounts. The lawyers have come out of hiding, blethering about justice and crying for vengeance, while the other lot went into hiding. Some in the city have been dragged out into the light of day and recognised and quickly hanged.’ He scratched his chin. ‘One lad came from Essex, claiming to have murdered the Archbishop, and persisted that he had come to accept the reward for his deed. They gave it to him: you’ll find his head on the bridge, in company with those of some of the leaders of the commons!’
‘What of the priest, John Ball?’ asked Philippa, her expression sombre.
‘He escaped the city, but rumour has it that he’s been taken by the men of Coventry and will be brought before Master Tresilian, who has been passing judgment on most of them. It’s reckoned he’ll be hanged, drawn and quartered, if the other Chief Justice’s punishments are anything to go by.’ He took a deep gulp of his ale, peering at her, noting that her face had paled. ‘Best you not think on it, mistress. They all knew what fate would be theirs if they failed in their aims — and they would have done the same to the lords and justices if they had won.’
‘What of Kent, Jack?’ Guy’s arm slipped about her shoulders, and she rested her head on it.
‘Is that where you be bound?’ He eyed them with renewed interest. ‘They say that the local justices are dealing with the disputes there. It was told that the peasants were gathering again and that the king had assembled an army to go against them — but he was persuaded to change his mind by the magnates of the county that were with him, and to leave the matter to them. Different from Essex!’ A rumble of laughter shook him. ‘They were still demanding their liberty, saying the king had promised it not so long ago. Buckingham and Lord Thomas Percy were sent into Essex to crush them.’
‘And have they?’ asked Guy with great interest. ‘They say a great number have been slaughtered, but there’s still more who’ve taken shelter in the woods. I reckon there could be trouble there for some time.’ He took a great bite of his bread and fish. ‘Some did come forward when the king was there at Havering, bare-headed and bare-footed they were, and begging the king’s mercy,’ he mumbled.
‘And did they receive it?’ put in Philippa.
‘So they say, but not until they revealed the names of their leaders.’
‘So they have achieved little,’ muttered Guy, frowning.
‘Certainly not what they wished for,’ responded Jack. ‘All that was promised at Mile End has been revoked, although they say that many are being pardoned for their part in the revolt.’
The three of them fell silent. Gulls wheeled overhead and water lapped the jetty a short distant away. Then Guy stirred and lifted Philippa from the barrel. He gave Jack his hand and wished him well, before turning and going over to the horses.
On London Bridge, Philippa kept her eyes on the road ahead, having no desire to gloat over the fate of those who had sought to turn England upside-down by violent means such a short time ago. For a while she had hated and feared them, but now she felt devoid of such emotions. Love for the man by her side had changed her, just as her sufferings had. In some ways she felt stronger than the girl who had fled from Kent, and yet in others she knew herself more vulnerable. Rose’s conversation had made her understand a little of what it was like to be a serf, and it was as the maid had said, an unenviable position.
They were across and out of Southwark as swiftly as possible. How different was this return journey from the one in June! That one had been an ordeal in its way, and yet a time of discovering so much about herself. The nightmares that had plagued her then had barely darkened her dreams since she had heard of Tom’s death. Yet she found them recurring now she was in her own county, but Guy was always there to soothe away her fears.
At last they came to more familiar country. Branches heavy with swelling fruit appeared in orchards on either side of the road. Then, beyond apple and pear and cherry trees, there was a bridge, and beyond that a village.
A dog barked as they crossed the bridge, and some children paddling in the stream looked up. One recognised her and sat down suddenly in the water, seemingly oblivious of the scoldings of his playfellows as he stared. Then he was up, and calling to her.
‘Mistress Philippa, they thinks you’re dead, and they’ve taken my Pa to Canterbury, and they … ’ pointing to the other children, ‘they say they’ll hang him!’ His bottom lip wobbled, and he brushed a wet hand across his eyes.
‘What is this, Matthew?’ Philippa dismounted on the other side of the bridge, years of training reasserting itself. ‘Come, boy, tell me!’ She held out a hand, and he approached slowly, almost cautiously. The other children watched round-eyed, their feet still in the water. Guy also watched, frowning in thoughtful concentration.
‘Ma will tell you. She’s still here, but me brother’s gone with Pa. Not in gaol, but to make sure he gets some food — and to speak up for him.’
‘Who else has gone?’ She lowered herself until her eyes were level with the boy’s. He shook his head, suddenly dumb, and when she would have persisted, he turned and ran away.
‘Best speak to Ma,’ said Guy softly at her shoulder. ‘Do you know who his father is?’
‘It is Adam the smith. He is a freeman, and I met him in London, and it was because of his intervention that I escaped from Tom, Rose’s brother.’
He stared at her. ‘I remember now. It was when you left the house alone.’
She nodded, her face absorbed. ‘Let us go and speak to his mother. I must do something for Adam. I cannot let him be hanged!’
‘If that is what you want.’ He followed her on foot, leading the horses. It was quiet, and only women were to be seen with their children working in gardens. They lifted their heads and stared unbelievingly at Philippa as she approached the silent smithy and the house attached to it. Rapidly they left their toil, and without a word being spoken, gathered about her.
Philippa chose to ignore their silent presence, and rapped on the door. It was opened quickly. Adam’s wife, her long thin face blotchy with tears, gazed at her. ‘He said you had come — and I — I didn’t believe him!’ Her voice was as thin as her face and figure.
‘You should have believed him. Adam — he is in gaol, the boy tells me?’
‘Ay! He said you weren’t dead, but your uncle didn’t believe him.’
‘My uncle?’ cried Philippa in astonishment.
‘He came with a group of men to seek you and your father. They were back from London, then, our menfolk. All but three, who had perished in the fire at the Savoy.’ She folded her arms across her scrawny breasts. ‘Adam told them the truth of the matter, and how it had been Tom who had killed your father. Told them also that he had met you in London, but they didn’t believe him. He fought them, but they overpowered him.’ She fell silent.
‘What of the villagers, Emma? What did they do?’ persisted Philippa. ‘Are they in gaol also?’
‘A couple still hide in the woods, but the rest who ran were hunted down. Peter the cottar was killed, and Gilbert the reeve wounded, but they still carted him off with the rest.’
‘What of Walter, my baili
ff?’ She was suddenly conscious of a great weariness.
‘He is in Canterbury, giving evidence against them. If he and your uncle have their way, you’ll have no workers left on this manor, Mistress Philippa,’ she said with a spurt of sudden fury. ‘They ain’t bad men! Not really! They were swayed by all the talk of freedom and having goods like the masters.’
‘What of my father, Emma? I know Tom killed him, but the others could have done something to prevent it.’
The woman dropped her eyes, and a low murmur went through the group behind Philippa. ‘Most were agin it,’ called a voice. ‘My man wasn’t even there!’ shouted another. ‘He was seeing to the pig. Gone missing, it had!’
Philippa turned, and her eyes swept the huddle of women with an icy disdain that silenced them. ‘I would expect you to say such things to save your menfolk, but justice must be done.’ There was an uneasy murmur. ‘Yet,’ she held up her hand, ‘I shall do my best to save their lives.’ Without another word, she brushed them aside.
‘God bless you, Mistress Philippa!’ Emma darted after her, and seized her hand. ‘May the saints grant you success in all your endeavours.’
‘May they indeed,’ replied Philippa in a dry voice. ‘But I would pray earnestly, if I were you, that I shall not be too late — and that they will heed a woman’s pleadings.’ She reached her horse.
‘Are you certain about this, Philippa?’ asked Guy, helping her into the saddle.
‘No.’ She forced a smile. ‘I know it is late in the day, but I fear I am too late to save Adam, and there are some others I would rather not see hanging from a gallows.’
‘You’ve changed,’ he said roughly, vaulting into the saddle.
She made no reply, only digging her heels into the horse’s flanks. There was no time to spare to look upon the remains of her old home, or to consider that perhaps justice would best be served in letting those who had acquiesced in her father’s death take their punishments. No time for her to rest … or to seek out that which she had travelled all the way from the north to rescue. There was no time at all for such actions, only for the realisation that most of the men who were being tried belonged to her, and that it was her right to have a say in their punishment.