A Child Upon the Throne

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  Richard turned uncertainty toward Matthew and the others.

  Matthew shook his head. "'Twould be folly, Your Grace. They could hold you hostage."

  Lord Salisbury yelled that an audience was impossible.

  "Aye!" Lawrence Ravenne raised his voice to address the closest rebels. "You are in no fit state nor are you suitably dressed to talk with your king."

  Matt shot his brother-in-law a look of disbelief. "We are in the midst of a rebellion. Think you they care how they're dressed?"

  "They should. If they cannot treat their sovereign with respect, why should we waste our time with them?"

  "Because they outnumber us ten thousand to one."

  How had Elizabeth endured this donkey all these years? How had such a creature been allowed to live when so many fine men were moldering in their graves? Matthew saw the faces of his father, his brother, his prince, his king, so many, and shivered, like a hound shedding water.

  When the rebels realized King Richard would not step ashore, they wrote out a petition demanding the heads of John of Gaunt, Simon Sudbury, the treasurer Robert Hales, and several other highly placed officials, and had it rowed out to him.

  Following a hurried conference, Richard's councilors decided the situation was too dangerous for him to remain, and turned the boats around.

  "Treason!" the rebels cried. Some brandished their weapons; others removed their longbows from their shoulders.

  The barons circled protectively around Richard.

  "They will not hurt me," His Grace said. "Have they not repeatedly sworn they are loyal to me?"

  "But the rest of us were not included in that oath," Ravenne demurred, his eyes apprehensively scanning the shore.

  On either side of Richard's barge the oars dipped and cut through the water, while the peasants vented their rage until it sounded as if the Apocalypse had arrived.

  'Tis all over, Matthew thought. They will cut us down and we'll die like dogs, not warriors.

  The royal barge sped back toward the Tower, past the peasants packed as numerous upon the shore as grains of sand. Not one man fitted arrow to bowstring. Not one man used his weapon against England's king.

  Chapter 21

  London

  Late in the afternoon of June 14th, Margery and Serill caught their first glimpse of London—the needle-spire of St. Paul's Cathedral, thrusting above the treetops. St. Paul's was a comforting sight, for Margery had imagined a city razed to the ground. Throughout their four day journey they had sometimes met with fellow travelers who carried news, while hiding from bands of rebels swarming the area. Most bound for London, she presumed.

  "Soon we'll be home, sweetheart," Margery said to Serill.

  Thanks to Fulco the Smithy, she and Serill had had horses to ride and safe passage out of Bury St. Edmunds Abbey along with instructions as to the safest route back to London. Fulco had argued against their return but Canterbury was overrun and to head north for Cumbria—traveling a good three weeks in totally unfamiliar terrain—would be courting death. An unescorted woman and a boy, even if they were fortunate enough to attach themselves to a travelling merchant or a train? She'd asked Fulco about Kenilworth, which was one of John of Gaunt's residences, but he'd shook his head. "'Twill be a favored target," he said. "The roads there be too dangerous."

  While London might be a primary destination of the rebels, it was a vast city and only a very small part—perhaps the Tower and Westminster and the grand palaces—would be targeted. Not the entire city. She hoped.

  "I will risk London," she'd said to Fulco, not adding that she had a better chance of finding Matthew there. And of course he would return to London to protect his king. Fearful for her father, she'd further queried Fulco for details about Canterbury, in case Thomas Rendell was ensconced at Fordwich Castle. She learned that Canterbury Cathedral, its town hall and Canterbury Castle had all been assaulted. Peasants had publicly burned all the rolls and writs and crippled the related machinery of royal and civic government. Her formerly taciturn lover had provided a surprising amount of detail, once again reminding her how little she'd known her midnight man.

  "Do not fear for your father," he'd said, as if reading her mind. "He be a knight after all." This last was said without inflection so whether he was being sarcastic, sympathetic or merely stating a fact she could not say.

  Even in the midst of danger, even as they reached London's outskirts, Margery found herself remembering her and Fulco's final moments. Serill had been struggling into his saddle and surely she and Fulco had been blocked by her mount so he could not possibly have seen them in one final passionate embrace, could he? But how could they not have behaved thus, when they all might be dead at any moment and he'd saved their lives and he meant so very much to her?

  Please keep them safe, she silently prayed over and over, referring to Matthew and Fulco. Then she added John Ball and Thurold and her father—and King Richard of course...

  "Do you think Father is already to London?" Serill asked, while their mounts plodded wearily along the last stretch of highway.

  "Aye, and let us hope that once there, we will be able to quickly find him." She had gambled that the rebellion would have ended by the time they reached the city, but she'd been wrong. Thurold and John Ball had been proven right, after all. The fissures had run deeper than she could ever have imagined.

  The heat of the afternoon settled upon them. They neared Bishopsgate. No heads on pikes above the entrance, a good sign. In fact, though there were many rebels pouring into the city, others had donned a festive air, as if they were countrymen bound for sightseeing. While there were few women among the press, no one bothered a lone matron and a child, most likely assuming they were attached to others on horseback. But not all were jolly. Some bore the familiar expressions she'd so often seen on her stepbrother and John Ball—set jaws, determined visages with eyes cold and hard or blazing with a fanatical passion.

  "Ah," Margery gasped, heart sinking.

  "What is it, Maman?"

  Above the tree tops and beyond the River Thames, Southwark was on fire. The merry afternoon, the jocular travelers created a macabre contrast to what must be unfolding—for pockets of flame were also flaring in London's suburbs. Hart's Place was in the suburbs. John of Gaunt's Savoy Palace was in the suburbs. If Matthew had retreated to either place he might be dead now.

  They had not escaped anything traveling to London. But, Margery told herself, the Shop of the Unicorn was far away from those places and this was a rebellion against lords, not tradesmen.

  And so she and Serill entered London.

  * * *

  "I am going to Hart's Place," Margery said after she and Serill were safely inside the Shop of the Unicorn.

  "You cannot," said Nicholas Norlong, wringing his hands. "They are attacking Lombards there and putting all the buildings to the torch. Surely, Lord Hart is in the Tower with His Grace the King."

  "I must at least try to find him." Margery had changed her clothes into a rough servant's gown. "And I'll start with his townhouse."

  "Ye canna go wandering around dangerous streets..."

  "I need to know," she said stubbornly.

  "Dame Margery, some of London's apprentices have turned on their masters, hacking them to pieces. While our Shop enjoys a good reputation, what if we meet someone who holds a grievance or decides to settle an old score? Or who is simply caught up in a frenzy of bloodletting?"

  "I will go alone if I have to," Margery countered, reaching for the bar to unlock the shop's door.

  Followed by Nicholas Norlong and an apprentice named Peter Brown as her reluctant escort, she began her search. Parts of London appeared deserted, others normal, yet others manifestly dangerous. Margery collared passersby, who repeated what might have been rumors—that Fleet Prison had been breached and all prisoners released; that churches, hospitals and mansions were being destroyed in specific areas of town, areas where Margery had often visited, shopped in, or strolled through. Besid
e her, Norlong and Peter Brown, whose name suited his dark hair, eyes, and skin, cursed, muttered together, or cast apprehensive glances as they scurried along the streets.

  I would have been better off alone, she thought. They are shopkeepers, not protectors. You might be able to create a dagger but you certainly will not be able to wield one.

  They strode across Holborn, toward their destination. Judging from the wreckage they passed, Margery held out little hope for Hart's Place. Nicholas Norlong was right. This part of London had been decimated. The burning ruins of a dozen mansions, all belonging to other prominent people—lawyers, courtiers, and clergy—lit their way. Flaring up, dying down. Margery imagined the bonfires of hell would be identical.

  "Dame Margery, this is madness," cried Nicholas. "No one remains here, of that 'tis obvious and who knows what may greet us around the next corner?"

  "Whoever was here is long gone," Margery countered. She and Serill had braved far worse on their journey. "The area appears more deserted than anything, but I must see for myself."

  Peter Brown glanced nervously behind, as if death and destruction would appear from the ruins.

  The acrid smell of smoke caught in Margery's lungs, growing even stronger as they rounded the final turn to their destination. She held her breath. God grant Hart's Place had been spared. God grant that, if Matthew and his retainers were there, they had barricaded themselves inside, where they would be protected from the chaos.

  "Oh," she breathed, her hands unconsciously clasping over her heart.

  Hart's Place was rubble, no different from all the rest they'd passed. Tongues of flame licked sporadically at a few foundation timbers, a portion of stone wall still stood, but more Margery could not see. The back, where the garden was located, was out of her sight line.

  Nicholas took her arm. "Dame Margery..."

  She shook off his grasp and circled the ruin, hurrying to the garden. Of a summer, she and Matthew had often lounged here in order to escape the heat where they would read a Romance, eat a light lunch, sip wine and converse, and occasionally make love in some of the more secluded areas. Now it was as deserted as the rest of the property, and possessed of an unnatural stillness, as if all life had departed with the wreckage. Only patches of ground had been spared the rebels' tromping feet. She couldn't even hear the Thames, now visible beyond the burned or trampled hedges and broken trellises. In the mud flat leading to the river she spotted what appeared to be a garden statue, knocked from its perch, but upon closer inspection saw that it was a body sprawled face-down on the ground.

  Margery closed her eyes. 'Tis Matthew. Dread filled her. Norlong and Brown were standing near a half-destroyed fish pond, as if staring at it might return it to wholeness. And allow them to pretend that they had not noticed Margery or the body.

  Gingerly, she approached the corpse. It could not, would not be Matthew. Bending over the figure, she grabbed its shoulder, pulled until it flopped over upon its back and the face was visible. Not her lover at all, but a stranger.

  "Dame Margery, I must insist we return to the Shop."

  Margery started at Nicholas's voice. He'd shaken his timidity long enough to creep up closer behind her, but she knew his insistence on leaving had little to do with a desire to protect her.

  Stubbornly, she shook her head. "The Savoy is close to here. Lord Hart might be there..."

  "Surely he will be in the Tower. Let us make inquiries through other means. I do not want to end up like this poor devil."

  Peter Brown added, "One of the rebels earlier said the king and his men've left London all together; that not a one remains to face them."

  "Return if you must," she said sharply, "but I am bound for the Savoy." She gathered her skirts and strode away from the wreckage. Suddenly she thought of her stepbrother. If he were anywhere, he would be at the destruction of John of Gaunt's palace. And if she could find Thurold, there she would also find answers.

  * * *

  The area around the Savoy was thick with rebels. All day, following their aborted meeting with the king, they had vented their frustration with an orgy of violence and retribution. But no one disturbed Margery or her companions. What the trio did not know was that Wat Tyler, John Ball, Jack Straw, and the other leaders had issued strict orders that neither thievery nor killing would be tolerated. One man caught stealing a silver goblet had been drowned in the Thames. And John of Gaunt's mistress, Katherine Swynford, along with their children, had recently been allowed to leave the Savoy without incident.

  The trio passed through the palace gates, Margery's gaze sweeping the area for bodies, for her stepbrother. She was more heartsick than afraid. Regardless of John of Gaunt's sins, regardless of the legitimacy of the commons' grievances, what was the purpose in destroying such beauty?

  They reached the outer buildings of the Savoy, then the palace itself, and with each step, she felt more off-kilter, as if made dizzy by fever. Impossible to believe that such a faerie castle, filled with treasures so flawlessly beautiful they could have been created by angels, that so much cunningly crafted stone and wood and tile and metal could be as easily obliterated as a child's construction of blocks. Rebels had fallen upon prayer rugs imported from the east, rare weapons and relics from the great hall, tapestries and silver sconces, and tossed them all in bonfires. They broke up priceless ornaments and threw them in the Thames, and smashed jewelry with their hammers. They hacked stacks of gold and silver plate into tiny pieces and stuck remnants under their belts as souvenirs. They ransacked the duke's state chambers, including his wardrobe. They used their torches to burn the napery, sheets and coverlets, beds and head boards. In the Privy Suite, they ripped the red velvet curtains off the duke's bed and slashed it into ribbons. From the Avalon Chamber they smashed a marble mantel that had taken two years to carve. They pitched dainty bancas made from rare oriental woods out windows once covered by stained glass.

  Will John Ball be here? Margery wondered, looking for the flowing robes and massive form that would tower over the others.

  "Thurold Watson? John Ball?" she queried those she passed. Inevitably, she was met with a shrug of the shoulders or shaking of the head.

  Flames from the palace's great hall and the surrounding buildings cast the entire area in garish silhouette. Disregarding the danger from the spreading fire, rebels darted inside to witness first hand its destruction. The blaze strained upward to the intricately carved ceiling beams, toward the pale crenellated towers that had been the Savoy's trademark.

  "Thurold will be here somewhere," she said to Nicholas. "Keep an eye out."

  Norlong's face was the color of the ashes even now being carried away from the roaring, leaping flames. Peter Brown had pulled his hood over his face as if that might hide him from scrutiny.

  Finally, she spotted her stepbrother, standing with several other yeomen who had tied one of the duke's cloaks—of a beautiful Lancastrian blue decorated with pearls—around a tree trunk and were using it for target practice.

  "Thurold!" She yelled and waved, but in the din he could not hear. She ran up to him just as he was fitting an arrow into his bow string and jerked his arm, spoiling his aim.

  Cursing, he turned on her, his expression flitting from rage to surprise.

  "Who is left inside the Savoy? Who have you killed?"

  "What are you doing here? I thought you, at least, were tucked away in the north. 'Tis na safe to be about—"

  "What do you mean "at least"? Have you seen Lord Hart? My father?" Before Thurold could reply, the palace was rocked by an ear-shattering explosion. Barrels of gunpowder had been mistakenly cast on the great hall's bonfire, causing the entire building to erupt. Some peasants, who had been enjoying the duke's wine cellar or were clustered around the bonfire, were caught inside.

  Margery covered her ears to blot out the screams of the dying. Thurold pulled her down next to him, where they crouched until they were certain no debris would hurt them.

  "Is Lord Hart inside? What ha
ve you done?" she yelled into Thurold's ear. His eyes glittered, his expression was so strange that she was momentarily afraid of him.

  "Why do you, even now that our victory is assured, think of him? You chose the wrong side, sister. We are going to win. We are going to crush them all under our heel."

  They both stood. Around them packs of rebels running, yelling, scurrying about, bent on more destruction.

  "This is wrong," Margery cried. "What good does it do to create paradise if nobody remains to enjoy it?"

  Thurold's anger drained away; he reached out to pull her hood over her face as if to protect her. "I should na frighten you. Hart is not here. All of them be in the Tower with the king. I saw your...'im earlier, on the royal barge at Greenwich. And I've 'ad no word of your father which means he's a'right. Now begone from 'ere. Return to the Shop. Stay shut away until 'tis over."

  And how long will that be, she wondered but she did not ask aloud. Instead, taking Thurold's word that Matthew was safe, she did as he bade, and, beckoning to her companions, allowed them to escort her home.

  * * *

  Now that even had descended, Matthew stood on the battlements of London's Tower, facing into the city, where a multitude of fires flared against the night. He had heard of the burning of the Savoy, as well as the Temple, which was the headquarters for England's lawyers, and contained the city archives. He had not heard, but was certain, that Hart's Place was another casualty. With Hart's Place, he had lost memories of his father, his brother, his childhood—and Meg. But that seemed the very least of his troubles...

  Below the Tower, on Tower Hill, many rebels had bedded down, effectively blocking any escape. Some had positioned guards outside the tower walls while others had encamped round St. Catherine's Wharf upon the Thames. The light from their fires created a soft glow against the star scattered heavens. Like the watchfires lit on Midsummer's Eve to keep away faeries and evil spirits.

  Only this evil is flesh and blood, Matthew thought. This evil is English.

  It was still hard for him to comprehend that the commons would revolt. Baronial wars were an accepted way of life, though not so much during Edward IIII's reign. But for peasants to turn on their lords was against God's natural order. They might have a handful of legitimate grievances, but he would never forgive them the destruction of the duke's property—or his own. And if Margery and Serill were dead, he would murder every last one of their leaders, that he vowed. Still, the faces he'd seen along the banks were the faces of fierce and courageous fighters from French campaigns. Matthew sighed. He felt exhausted by the tension of the day and worries about his family. Yet he knew he would not sleep.