"Do you think to threaten us?" someone shouted from the rear.
"'Tis no threat." He surveyed the ruined abbey and the decapitated body of the monk, de Lakenheath, sprawled near St. Botolph's chapel, then raised his gaze as if he might spot Margery atop the roofs, leaning from a shattered window, rising heavenward among the burning embers.
Uneased by the knight's expression, John Wrawe manner became more placating. "I swear by all that's holy we have not seen them."
"You would not mind then that we search the abbey."
Without awaiting a response, Matt returned to Ravenne and the others. "Half of you keep an eye to the rebels. I've no desire to end up with my head on a pike. If they make a false move, kill them all, starting with their leader."
"Why wait?" Ravenne countered. "Why not dispatch them now?"
"Not until we find Margery," Matt said sharply. "They might be lying. If they are holding her and Serill hostage, they could murder them both and we would not even know."
"They would not dare."
"They have already dared plenty. Now, take some men and search the church and the southern part of the grounds. I will search the palace and the rest of the abbey. Do not leave so much as a stone unturned. I do not intend to leave Bury St. Edmunds until my family is with me."
During a haphazard search of the nave, Lawrence Ravenne and his men found two terrified monks huddled on the steps of St. Edmund's shrine. Matthew uncovered several others in hiding about the abbey grounds. Upon checking the stables, he noted that Margery and Serill's mounts were missing, but so were many others.
While returning to the troupe, he tried to formulate a plan. It was obvious that England was in the middle of some sort of insurrection, though to what extent 'twas impossible to say. After so many years of idle talk, some malcontents had acted. How many? Was this the extent or were they part of a larger mob? What had been the catalyst? The poll tax? A poor harvest? Some sort of local dispute with the abbey? If so, the violence might be confined to Bury St. Edmunds. But if that were not so, if all of England was experiencing similar revolt, his first duty was to protect King Richard. Which meant he must head south to London.
But what about Meg and Serill? Since their bodies had not been found, he assured himself they were safe. Perhaps they'd fled on horseback. But a lone woman and a boy on dangerous roads? And where would they go? Would Margery think to travel to Cumbria? But she would be unfamiliar with this part of England and his holdings were weeks away. Would she return to London or to Canterbury? Matthew cursed himself for leaving her, for ignoring what now appeared to be warnings of pending danger.
"We have dawdled long enough," said Ravenne, interrupting his musing. "We must attend to business here and then ride for London and the king."
Matthew nodded. London was three days away unless they rode like madmen and the weather cooperated and they were not met with bands of rebels. His first duty was to their monarch, but still...
He eyed John Wrawe and the rebels, some of whom were drifting away, seemingly done with confrontation. Wrawe did not appear inclined to fight. But they had murdered members of the clergy... And at this moment he did not care. At this moment all he could think of was his family.
"Leave me a handful of men. I will continue my search while you head for London."
A huge black-haired peasant, hair tied back in a thong, impudently grabbed his destrier's bridle near the bit with a massive hand. Matthew gazed down, temper flaring, thinking to challenge him.
The man stepped closer and spoke in a low voice. "Your lady and son escaped on horseback."
Fulco the Smithy did not explain that he'd retrieved their mounts and guided them free of the abbey. "They be London bound."
Matthew gazed into the man's black eyes. "I thank you," he said. Fulco released his grip on the horse's bridle.
Matthew raised a mailed fist and with a sweeping gesture said, "We all ride for London."
Chapter 20
London
On the Feast of Corpus Christi, John Ball celebrated mass upon a makeshift altar at Blackheath, a bleak stretch of land seven miles outside London covered by scrub trees, yellow gorse, and bracken. Blackheath was usually no more than a resting place for trade caravans and a playground for venturesome boys but today thousands of peasants knelt upon the broad chalky strip of commons to pray that God would champion their cause.
After John Ball completed mass he stepped before the altar, which was decorated by a cross and candles and bordered by two rude banners. The peasants stood, their garments making a rustling sound like fallen leaves dancing upon the wind. Behind John the morning sun bathed the bearded faces of his followers in a golden light.
God's light, he thought. As God the Father and His Son would be their leader this day. I am but His vessel. Our cause cannot fail because the Almighty has chosen the time, and 'tis He who will lead us to victory.
Throughout the countryside the rebellion had spread, just as John Ball had known it must. In East Anglia, from Bury St. Edmunds outward to eastern Suffolk where rebels had plundered the houses of tax collectors, justices of the peace, escheators, and other officials. Norfolk and Norwich had been attacked, and in Yarmouth the jail had been opened to release the four prisoners held there.
In the rest of England, the revolt had been more sporadic. Cornwall, Devon, and Dorset had suffered no outright rebellion, but homicides, highway robbery, burglary, and violent gatherings increased. From the midlands, John of Gaunt's Duchess had fled north to the towering fortress of Pontefract—only to be refused admission by the frightened custodian. In Surrey, Middlesex, and Hertfordshire, which surrounded London, villagers had burned manorial rolls and manors, and killed all the Black Robes.
And now all had gathered at Blackheath, before John Ball, the man who would lead them to a new society. King Richard was in the Tower of London, surrounded by his advisors, and he had agreed to travel to Greenwich this morning to meet with them. The rebels were certain His Grace could be persuaded to embrace their vision of a new world.
Not our vision, John thought, his eyes sweeping the crowd and beyond, to the low roofs of London's western suburbs. Our Blessed Savior's vision, my vision. I must sustain their minds, just as their bundles of bread crusts and meager rations have sustained their bodies. I must inspire them so they will approach their lords, not as serfs creeping to the feet of their masters, but as men created equally in the image of God.
John began his speech with the familiar rhyme, "When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman?"
A cheer swelled from the ranks, but it was quickly suppressed. For a long moment, there was only the flapping of the homemade banners interspersed throughout the crowd. Then John Ball launched into his sermon, a sermon all had previously heard in one fashion or another. While he slipped into the familiar pattern of countless past speeches, it contained an added edge and urgency for he was not portraying some nebulous future, clothed in mist like the autumn hills, but an obtainable reality.
"Things will never be well in England so long as there are villeins and gentlemen. They have leisure and fine houses; we have pain and labor, the rain and the wind in the fields. How long we have suffered, back into the darkness of time, and if we do not change it now, our children's children will suffer as have we, as have our ancestors. We have lived as animals, but we are God's creatures, the same as any lord. Servitude was introduced by evil men, against God's will. If it had pleased Him to create serfs, he would have appointed in the beginning those who should have been serf and those who should be lord. The only servants that should be allowed are servants of God."
The rebels listened intently. Now, this moment, everything would be different. They'd suffered enough. Events, their plight, had brought them to this day and they must seize it. If they did not dare, or if they dared and failed would the moment be forever lost? One thing for certain: should they fail, they and most likely their families would all be killed. So they must either act or return quie
tly to their cottages and farms and occupations and hope that the lords would not exact vengeance for the damage already wrought. But when had the upper classes ever forgiven them anything? They had no choice now but to continue along this path.
John Ball concluded, "We must hasten to act after the manner of the good husbandman, tilling his field and uprooting the tares that destroy the grain. We must rid ourselves of the tares of society—all those who have oppressed us."
The crowd chanted, "For King Richard and the true commons!"
Let them believe as they would, John thought. Let them believe that when 'tis over, they will look to the king as their leader.
John knew better. No man above—no man below. And that included Richard of Bordeaux.
* * *
In hindsight, the outcome of the Peasant's Revolt seems inevitable, but not during that fateful summer. Tens of thousands of rebels descending on London, most of Richard's trusted advisers out of the country, many soldiers away at war, while the boy king and his remaining council holed up in the Tower of London?
One of those who rightly feared for his life was Simon Sudbury, Archbishop of Canterbury, who had been responsible for John Ball's imprisonment and was one of the most hated men in London, if not all of England, for the part he'd played in the introduction of the poll tax. After His Grace and his councilors returned from morning mass in St. John's Chapel, Sudbury confronted King Richard on his demented plan to meet with the rebels.
"They could kidnap you or worse." His homely face was a mask of worry; his thick fingers endlessly twisted his ecclesiastical ring. "Anything could happen."
A proud man Sudbury had been, and corrupt, many said. More interested in earthly power than tending his spiritual flock. Aware of the rebels' animosity and perhaps sensing his impending fate, Sudbury had earlier relinquished England's Great Seal and begged to be retired from public office. But when he had laid the seals of his office on the table, not a lord volunteered to assume the responsibilities—or the dangers—that accompanied those seals.
"I must meet with them." Richard's voice cracked and changed octaves. "The commons will not harm me, their true king. I am told they wish to convey their grievances against my councilors and ministers and members of my family. They hold that those around me have mismanaged the land, and I mean to discuss the matter with them. I may not agree with them, but 'tis time to acknowledge them."
Richard's decision greatly vexed his councilors. Though none could agree on a course of action, it was inconceivable that England's sovereign should risk death by meeting with a bunch of rabid dogs.
Matthew watched Richard and Henry of Bolingbroke, both aged fourteen, born within three months of each other. Bolingbroke, John of Gaunt's eldest son, his hair a darker shade than his cousin's and with a stocky warrior's build, was quite a contrast to young Richard, who still retained more of his mother's beauty than his father's bold mien. Young and inexperienced as Henry was, he said little but he was alert and he had a calmness about him that lent him an air of authority beyond his young years. Watching the pair, Richard in command, Henry ever respectful as befitted his subservient position, not even the most adept soothsayer—and certainly not Matthew Hart—could have predicted that two of England's kings, one present and one future, were housed together in the Tower. And that, in less than two decades, one would overturn the other to take the crown for himself. Or that Richard II, who had retreated here for his protection, would someday be imprisoned in this great pile of stone and pain.
For it seemed, that, not only did England's players seldom change, neither did human desires.
Robert Knolles, the famed mercenary, stepped up beside Matthew and followed his gaze. "Let us hope the mob does not learn that John of Gaunt's first born is in the Tower. They'll be screaming for the poor lad's head along with Sudbury's."
Matthew grunted. He was glad Knolles was part of those advising the king. The old mercenary had a mansion in the city which was massive enough to house a garrison of one hundred twenty experienced soldiers. Should the worst occur, that was a comfort. Matthew did not doubt that Robert Knolles could keep at bay a legion of demons with a handful of men.
As far as the rest in the Tower, all the royal uncles were absent. Some of the remaining council had already proven themselves frustratingly indecisive or endlessly bickered among themselves, though several like himself and Knolles were seasoned soldiers harkening back to Poitiers.
I myself am torn, Matthew thought, hovering in the background of those currently imploring the king. He had said very little since his and Lawrence Ravenne's arrival at the Tower two days past. The other barons had apportioned his share of advice, though none really knew what to do. If John of Gaunt had been in London, matters would certainly have been better. As it stood, six hundred men-at-arms and archers against ten to fifty thousand rebels made for discouragingly poor odds. In addition, his mind kept drifting away from the present danger to fears about Margery and Serill. What might have happened to them? His primary duty was to protect his king and kingdom, but when everyone stood around dithering or quarreling, he could barely contain his pacing, his need to be... where?
"I do not intend to see London destroyed by vermin," declared the city's fiery mayor, William Walworth. "I am certain I could raise six thousand men who would easily send the rebels back where they belong."
Matthew tried to shake himself free of the ennui that intermittently plagued him. Over and over, he mentally returned to Bury St. Edmunds Abbey and the trip to London, calling up the buildings and the countryside and the questions he'd asked of various people they'd met throughout, to see what he might have missed. Some clue as to Margery and Serill's whereabouts. Trying to think as they would have thought. Trying not to dwell on the direst possibilities. No denying that the country was in rebellion, but there were still quiet spots. The black-haired man had said they were London bound. But was he telling the truth? And what if Margery and Serill had been captured? They were hearing the most alarming tales, including rapes...
Matthew forced himself back to the matter at hand, which was the ability to raise an effective force against the enemy. Addressing William Walworth, he said, "I do not believe you could raise six dozen men, lord mayor. Do not forget that on our ride from Bury we saw countless rebels, many with their bows slung upon their backs. I need not remind any of you how devastating a long bow can be. We are not up against untrained rabble. I'll wager many of them fought in the French campaigns."
"Aye, and mercenaries can never be trusted," chimed in Lawrence Ravenne. "Look what they did to the Queen Mother when she was returning from Canterbury."
"They did not do anything to the Queen Mother," Matthew snapped, clenching his fists. "They helped her chariot out of the mud." Two days of being confined with a gaggle of contradictory and quarrelsome men—of whom his brother-in-law was the worst—had severely tried his patience.
"They kissed her and rubbed their faces against her!" Ravenne exclaimed. "They near frightened her to death. How dare they take such liberties! They should be strung up for the very thought."
"They are still Englishmen," Matthew countered. "Some of them probably even saved your arse at Poitiers. I think Englishmen should not fight Englishmen unless it cannot be avoided."
"I can understand why you are soft on peasants, when you've spent half your life consorting with one," Ravenne responded. "But you sang a different tune at Bury, when you could not find your whore. You were ready to run through the lot of them."
At his epithet, Matt felt a hatred so fierce that his vision blurred. Ravenne might be his sister's husband and the father of her heirs, but he was a worthless sot who had murdered Margery's mother and created such chaos with his careless brutality...
But I am also a murderer of innocents. Most of us here have blood on our hands. Matthew turned away, lips tight. We must remain united or we will all perish.
The hatred drained away, leaving a weariness that he'd not felt since Winandermere. And h
e couldn't, wouldn't return to that place.
As if ridding himself of a pesky gnat, Matthew shook his head. He would focus on one thing only. He, they all, must protect Edward of Woodstock's son, England's rightful king, and the kingdom over which he ruled.
* * *
The following morning, King Richard and his advisors set out from Traitors' Gate, which opened directly onto the Thames. Richard, Matthew, Lord Salisbury, Ravenne and several others rode in the first barge followed by a large armed guard in four more boats.
The morning was warm and fine, the Thames a reflection of the cloudless sky. It was hard for Matthew to believe that danger awaited them, but Bury St. Edmunds had also seemed safe. The royal barge skimmed toward the royal manor of Rotherhithe with the gaily dressed king standing in its prow.
The sloping banks of the Thames were black with men, wave after wave of rebels. Though some cheered King Richard, more hurled oaths and threats.
"Damme!" Forgetting his earlier animosity, Lawrence Ravenne sidled next to Matthew, as if seeking protection. "We have dug our own graves," he muttered, his face the color of whey. He clutched at his stomach, which had been torturing him for days.
"'Tis like the French at Poitiers," Matthew said. "Remember how they counted more than raindrops and yet we bested them? If need be, we will do so again." Though privately he wondered whether he had survived every battle only to be torn apart by a half-armed mob of his own countrymen.
"They were French, not English..." The rest of Ravenne's reply was lost in the rebels' taunts.
King Richard's boats stopped twenty yards from the shore. From the rail of the royal barge, His Grace addressed the crowd.
"Sirs, I have come to listen. What have you to say to me?"
A thousand rebels screamed an indistinguishable garble of demands.
No matter how Richard tried, his voice was lost in the din.
"We canna hear ye," shouted those on the banks. "Come ashore so we might talk."
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