Finally, after Matthew continued pressing him, Ravenne shrugged a half-acknowledgement, before saying, "She would have died of plague, regardless. And I could not have her contaminate me."
Had Ravenne not been married to his kin, Matthew would have challenged him to a wager of battle right then.
What a trial his poor sister had endured these past three decades. If God is good, Matthew thought, you will be welcomed straight to heaven.
Or, mayhap, Lawrence Ravenne would die soon for since the time Matthew had last seen him he'd lost a tremendous amount of weight and perpetually complained of stomach pains and other related inconveniences. However it happened, Matthew hoped that the devil might soon claim his brother-in-law so that his sister might be granted the freedom to tend to family demesnes as she saw fit and to write her poetry and stories, if she still had a mind to do so. Peace. Elizabeth deserved that much.
On Ascension Day, the paschal candle was extinguished in England's churches one last time to remind believers of the darkness of the world without Christ and church bells were rung. While all the ingredients of the rebellion continued moving apace.
Of course few, certainly not those like Margery and Matthew, had any inkling of the impending storm. Instead, focused on her wedding and her journey north, Margery had only one more task to complete.
And that, she feared, would be a most uncomfortable one.
* * *
Thurold was in Maidstone, where John Ball had recently been imprisoned for preaching seditious sermons, and Margery sent word that she must see him. Rather than endure an awkward meeting with Matthew, she and Cicily rented a pair of palfreys and set out at dawn. As the sun rose, they joined pilgrims heading for Boxley Abbey to gawk at a talking Christ upon the cross; merchants laden with pack animals; and workers driving their sheep and cattle to market. Margery noticed a different mood among the travelers—more politics and less piety—and often heard the phrase, "'When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman?'"After that, there would be a sudden silence and then a change of subject. Or was that her imagination? Though she didn't imagine the frequent mention of John Ball or how descriptions of him had changed over time—from fool to nuisance, now to prophet and to some, heretic. When Margery had always known him simply as a good man who ever dreamed big dreams, worthy dreams that would never come to pass.
The day was sweet, smelling of flowers and meadows and fresh-turned earth. Bare-legged boys dotted the fields, using slings with deadly accuracy to prevent scavenging birds from flying away with newly-sown seeds. Herds of cows, hides already summer sleek, grazed in pastures dotted with yellow and orange and purple wildflowers. An occasional maypole still standing in a village green, coupled with drooping garlands tossed atop hedges and fence posts, attested to recent May Day revels.
Margery thought of her smithy. Where might Fulco be? It had been two years since she'd lain in his arms. That time did indeed seem like a dream, though occasionally, when she saw a man with long black hair tied in a thong, she felt her heart lurch and was so relieved when it wasn't him. She was happy with her lord. Which did not mean that she would not keep her tryst close to her heart and privately cherish it and Fulco the Smithy forever.
After reaching Maidstone, they found Thurold and ate bread and cheese in an inn along the River Medway. Then, as sunset stained the sky, Cicily retreated to their lodging and Margery and her stepbrother strolled beside the water. An occasional fishing boat yet slipped along its sluggish surface while others, tied to docks, bumped gently against each other or sprawled like giant beetles upon the bank.
She dreaded telling Thurold about her pending marriage, though she suspected he already knew. He'd given no indication but increasingly, he seemed to have eyes and ears everywhere.
As they walked, they discussed inconsequential things. Inn and shop signs creaked in an intermittent breeze which also brought smells of excrement and decay from the river and endlessly churning waterwheels. Was it her imagination or was Maidstone quieter than normal? Few townsfolk clustered outside doorways or in public areas and something felt... different. Was it an air of expectancy, as if Maidstone and its inhabitants were waiting? But for what? It reminded Margery of the atmosphere before a storm but when she scanned the twilight she saw only the first stars, like candle flames, pricking a cloudless sky.
"I've stumped along so many streets, seen so many villages," Thurold said. "Though most often na like this. In France and Italy 'twas na much more than slaughter and destruction. And, all too often it seemed, we only ended up harming those like us. Ye might part the rich from their coin but somehow 'tis always the poor what suffers."
Rather than defending the natural order of things, which actually meant defending her lover, Margery stayed silent. She'd heard Thurold's lamentation so many times but tonight it was delivered more in contemplation than anger. Was it because of the hedge-priest's arrest? Or because Thurold knew about her and Matthew?
As they walked, she surreptitiously studied her stepbrother. He was still dagger-thin, his face wrinkled as a walnut and burned a permanent brown from suns in countries she could not imagine. When had his hair gone grey? His gait stiffened? He'd begun awkwardly holding his right arm? She had a sudden image of him, graceful as a cat, racing across the fens, luring Lord Lawrence Ravenne away from her during the time of the Great Pestilence. She remembered the night that her stepfather Alf had been killed, when he and John Ball had rescued her from a life of drudgery in a dying village.
"We be a long way from Ravennesfield, aye?" Thurold asked, as if reading her thoughts.
"That we are."
At that moment, Maidstone's bells rang. After they faded, he said, "How many times 'ave I heard bells in how many foreign cities? Did they ever ward off demons? Or did the townsfolk consider us to be the demons?"
Margery didn't know what to say, so she merely nodded in the dark.
"All those nights on all those campaigns I would study the stars, stars like tonight, knowing that our fates be written there—our births, our deaths, the rise and fall of kingdoms. I wanted so bad to be able to unravel their meaning. But I'd no priest or astrologer to show me that particular alphabet."
"Mayhap 'tis best not to know." She opened her mouth to tell him about Matthew but he went on, "Our time be at hand. When Simon Sudbury imprisoned John Ball this time, I knew, we all knew something was different."
Earlier, Margery had seen the Archbishop of Canterbury's palace on the east bank of the Medway, a hulking reminder of the church's power. Was John Ball locked away in its dungeon? Could he smell the river? Did the walls drip, did water seep in with the rise and fall of its flow, was the air fetid with its odor? Was John being starved? Tortured? He'd already been excommunicated and yet he had not ceased his exhortations. The one thing she did not wonder was whether John Ball was afraid.
"'Tis an odd thing, what causes folks to say, 'Enough,'" Thurold said. "We've reached that crossroad."
Margery remembered the criminals she and Cicily had earlier seen swaying like grotesque wind chimes from various gallows along various crossroads they'd passed. Chilled, she pulled her cloak closer.
"...this last poll tax be the worst. And then we be called criminal because so few can comply, for most 'ave not even one thickpenny of their own. 'Tis so clear now that finally, finally, they, the invincible ones, 'ave miscalculated. We must always 've felt that they be wiser than us, as well as richer, but 'tis na so."
"Thurold—"
"This time when they hold out their hands we will bite off their fingers."
Margery shivered. A black dog, which had been padding along beside them, veered off into an alley. Didn't Satan come in the form of such a dog, or a bear, or a raven or a goat or as a multitude of other animals? Evil was omnipresent, as was death. And love and happiness. It all depended on where one chose to look.
"I am going to wed Lord Hart," she blurted and braced for the inevitable outpouring of rage. Instead her confession was greeted
with a sigh. They walked on, their steps barely heard among the other night noises, while Margery awaited a reaction that did not come.
"I admire you and John Ball and his like, I do. But things are simpler for women. I have spent too many years worrying and wondering and doubting and all I want now is to live the rest of my life with M'lord Hart in Cumbria, to enjoy whatever portion is left to me. The other..." she waved an arm into the darkness, "I just canna grasp all of that."
"I've waited forever for this moment," Thurold said, "and now I feel... nothing."
"Because you do not believe that anything will ever change? Think how long we've lived and what we've expected and hoped and longed for. How much ever came to pass? How is it even possible to alter the natural order? The lords could not choose their heritage any more than could we. 'Twas an act of God—"
"And how wonderful that God allowed them to be born in fine warm manors," Thurold said, his temper flaring, "and with nurses to feed and clothe and fuss after 'em so they can grow up to take our food, our clothes—"
Margery rested a hand upon his arm until she felt the tension drain away.
"Someday we will be free," he finished softly, "for ye cannot kill an idea. 'Tis all I can believe, that when we speak this time they will finally hear. But if that canna be, mayhap it will be for Serill's heirs or even mine, wherever they might be."
Margery wondered, for the first time, about Thurold's life beyond John Ball and their cause. Had he ever fallen in love? Begat children? Did he regret forsaking the ordinary for the occupation of a mercenary, the cause of a revolutionary? And what sort of a sister had she been not to have questioned?
"I wish I knew the future." His voice was wistful. "I wish I could read the signs."
In the periphery of her vision she saw what appeared to be the tail of a comet disappearing to the northeast, roughly in the direction of Canterbury. She prayed Thurold had not noticed such an omen, that his attention was elsewhere, upon the ruts and refuse beneath their feet, the sighing stands of reeds and rushes and cattails, the whispering river.
"I've never heard you so melancholy."
"Mayhap the fury's been worn from me."
"So does that mean you will not hate me for marrying Lord Hart?"
Thurold snorted. "We no longer be children, are we? I do na like it but ye've long known that. And we all must follow our paths."
"What is written on the stars?"
"Aye." Thurold turned and placed his hands on her shoulders. In the lantern's glow from a tavern window his expression was troubled. "I know things," he said, his manner urgent. "And I ask ye to heed me. Take Serill and go north with your knight, far away from London. Go soon."
Margery swallowed hard. She didn't ask her stepbrother to explain the meaning behind his cryptic words.
She was afraid she already knew.
Chapter 18
May, 1381 Maidstone and East Anglia
Thirty years past, ominous portents had presaged the time of the Death—earthquakes, pestilential vapors, rivers turning to blood, animals giving birth to malformed young. If you could read the signs you knew that a horror of unimaginable magnitude was about to descend upon the earth, and later, when clergy proclaimed that the Pestilence was divine judgment for man's wickedness, no one disagreed with their interpretation. It was ever thus. When catastrophes were imminent, so were the warnings. Winter in summer, relentless winds howling like banshees, ceaseless rains—or no rain at all. Leaves turning in the wrong season; buds refusing to bloom; trees bearing withered or blackened fruits; stunted or malformed crops.
In 1381, when England was on the precipice of an event about which chroniclers would long ponder, were there omens? Birds flying backwards, the sun standing still or traveling from west to east, new or peculiarly bright stars appearing on the horizon, corpses leaving their graves to haunt once-familiar byways?
Wise men, such as the monk and chronicler, Thomas Walsingham, later claimed the Peasants' Revolt to be the work of God, who was once again punishing His children—this time Londoners—for their sinfulness. But at the time, most Englishmen and women went about their routines with no idea of the gathering violence, with not even a glimmering that in a matter of days their lives would be forever changed. Some could not shake off an uneasy feeling; others were troubled by inchoate nightmares; still others would raise their gaze to sweep the horizon or, like an animal sniffing out prey or predator, seek a certain scent upon the wind. The atmosphere was thick with something unusual, wasn't it, something ominous, foreboding? Or was it only in hindsight that people looked back and said, "Aye, we should have known. The signs were there all along."
One man, for certes, understood. John Ball. On April 28, 1381, when Archbishop Sudbury had ordered the hedge-priest's arrest for "sowing errors and divisions" and attacking the church hierarchy, Ball had calmly asserted, "I have twenty thousand who will rescue me." He'd not added that the time of his arrest, in the period between Easter Day and Ascension Day, could not have been more auspicious had John chosen it himself.
Stupid, stupid apostate, he'd thought, smiling benignly at the Archbishop, while silently sending a weary prayer of thanks to his Creator ending in, Finally! All the seasonal holy days and festivities, which brought with them long periods of idleness and large gatherings, provided the perfect environment in which John Ball's followers could spread word of his imprisonment and instructions for the forthcoming insurrection.
Even now, as John waited in his cell, he knew his army was massing. The message was simple: the lords had finally gone too far, just as he'd known they would. Push and push, take and take, until nothing remained and the villeins must turn upon their tormentors like cornered badgers. After more than two decades of sleeping under hedges, of being persecuted for his message—nay, not his message, but Christ's—after years of hardship, the seeds John had sown, watered, and nurtured, had finally matured. The Bible said, 'Sow the wind, reap the whirlwind.' Soon the harvest would be gathered, and for the oppressors, what a bitter harvest it would be. Throughout the countryside, to all the places John had preached, his followers had already sent their coded messages, telling Englishmen the revolution was at hand.
"John Ball
Greets you all,
And doth you to understand
He hath rung your bell.
Now with right and might,
Will and skill,
God speed every dell!"
Archbishop Sudbury's Maidstone palace stood between the square-pillared church of St. Mary's and the squat prison where John and other offenders against clerical law were incarcerated. The Archbishop's palace was a graceful building made of native ragstone, boasting two Norman towers and a cluster of steeply pitched roofs. The cost of its upkeep would keep a hundred children in wheat and brown bread for years.
'Tis you, Sudbury, who should be excommunicated.
John stared out the high narrow window of his cell, which looked directly out onto Maidstone's main road, the widest in all of England. Upon that highway the first of his peasants, God's children, would arrive to free him. Then they would free England. Soon all goods would be held in common. Soon there would be no more villein and gentlefolk; soon all would be one and the same. When Adam delved and Eve span, there had been no gentlemen.
Nor will there be again, John thought, as he watched and waited.
* * *
On May 30, 1381, a poll-tax commissioner, Thomas Bampton, summoned the men of three Thames-side villages to Brentwood to inquire among them who had evaded their rightful tax. When Bampton demanded that the villagers pay their due, they refused and chased him and his men out of Essex.
King Richard's advisers sent Sir Robert Belknap, Chief Justice of the King's Bench, to restore order. From among the local people, Belknap swore in jurors who were willing to make statements against the offenders. After accusing Belknap of being a traitor to the king, the commons forced him to turn over his list of the treacherous jurors' names. Then they ran the juro
rs down, cut off their heads, and cast down their houses.
On Whitsunday, a great number of common folk—some said fifty thousand—assembled in Essex. The rebels marched to the manors and townships of their enemies and razed their houses or set them afire. They caught three of Thomas Bampton's clerks, cut off their heads and stuck them upon poles as an example to others. They then proceeded to slay all the Black Robes, jurors, large landlords, and servants of the king and John of Gaunt that they could find.
The revolt spread beyond Essex. Gathering in bands, peasants besieged all the roads leading to Canterbury. They compelled all pilgrims to swear to be faithful to both King Richard and the "commons," as they called themselves.
The village of Dartford, on the River Darenth, was the first stop on the Pilgrim's Way toward Canterbury. Here a tiler called Wat, incensed by a poll-tax collector's insistence that his daughter disrobe to prove she was beneath the legal age of taxation, seized a hammer and bashed in the collector's head. He then joined the rebels. Along with a man named Jack-Straw, Wat Tyler took charge. He ordered all available official documents seized and had them burned in Dartford's streets.
All that night the commons continued their pillaging, as well as their march toward Maidstone, a distance of more than twenty miles.
To free their leader.
John Ball saw them early the next morning, swarming across the highway, spilling into the fields, brandishing their homemade weapons. He heard them shouting his name.
"Thank you, Father!" John breathed. After decades God had answered his prayers. After centuries of oppression, God would free England. John had been right when he'd repeated throughout the years, in the same manner as when he would pray upon his paternoster beads, that 'twas impossible to kill an idea. That belief, the belief in a cause so right it could not be obliterated no matter how hard the trying, had sustained him through the darkest of times...
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