A chill raised bumps along Margery's arm. Apparitions often appeared as harbingers of someone's passing. Death had a way of announcing itself in advance if you just learned how to read the signs. A bell might toll without agency of human hand, or an owl might hoot, or one might hear three knocks upon the floor of their room, or an enormous black hound might appear out of nowhere.
Aloud, she asked, "What are you trying to say?" She wanted to cover her ears with her hands.
"While I believe the bad old days be forever gone, the violence is na over. If Alice and Giddy's appearance means my time is nigh..." Thurold shrugged. "We all know how cheap is life. And I do na fear death."
She crossed herself. "You must not speak like that."
"I would rather die swift than rotting away in bed, too weak to rise and lying in me own filth. Death surrounds us, Stick Legs. Especially a soldier like me. 'Tis a tiny thing, really. 'ardly worth bothering about."
Margery thought suddenly of her dead husband, Simon Crull—another she had conveniently wiped from her memory. What was the saying, "He who most resembles the dead is the most reluctant to die?" That had been Crull, hadn't it? She had a sudden memory of her husband in the moments before he'd died, after she'd poisoned him. Her standing over the goldsmith, him gazing up at her, his expression alternating between pain, surprise and hatred; his hand clawing in her direction, as if, even at the last moment, Simon Crull might somehow bully her into saving him. Reveling in every moment, she had watched until he'd drawn his last breath.
Ah, something she dared never confess.
But why think of Crull now?
She misliked this quick tallying of the ancient dead, this intrusion of her mother and sister into the present. Were Alice and Giddy trying to warn Thurold to prepare for death? To offer comfort and support of some sort? Or had recent events simply caused her and Thurold's heads to swim with fevered fancies?
"I want you safe," Margery said, slipping her arms around his waist and nestling against him. "I want Serill safe. I want... all those I love to be safe. For at least a while longer. I will pray for that."
"'Twill be as God wills it," Thurold said.
She drew back so that they could gaze into each other's eyes. She was almost of a height with him, when once he'd seemed so tall. Slivers of memory: strolling down a rutted road, her hand stretched up to grasp his, him teaching her to count in English, "One, two, three," over and over; carving her a spinning top and showing her how to make it stand and twirl; making a game of gathering eggs; playing fetch with their dog—oh, what had been his name? A lifetime together, much of it lost in childhood forgetfulness, but which bound them together all the same.
After a final embrace, Thurold crossed to unbar the door. Margery called his name. He turned to look at her. She had to ask it, the worry that had been there since their parting.
"Have you seen Fulco the Smithy?"
Thurold frowned. Of course he would not know about them for she'd never told anyone and she assumed Fulco hadn't either. He would think it a very curious question.
"I thought I saw him a while ago," she said, rushing on. "Is he safe, do you know? Is he one of the leaders?"
Thurold's frown deepened. He stared at her a long time, as if weighing the meaning behind her words. "I've not seen him," he said finally. "But if any man can take care of himself, 'tis Fulco the Smithy."
And then Thurold was gone.
* * *
On this last day of meetings, when John Ball's worst fears would be surpassed, King Richard issued a proclamation that all commoners still in London should meet him in East Smithfield near the hour of Vespers. Then, believing that violence was inevitable, the young regent and his knights received absolution at Westminster Abbey. Though reports put the number of rebels at half their previous count, two hundred knights were still a poor match for five thousand. King Richard and his men rode out to meet their fates, and all of them, save His Grace perhaps, wondered whether they would survive to day's end.
Chapter 23
Smithfield
East Smithfield was the open space just beyond Aldgate where weekly horse markets were held, familiar to all. Since Smithfield was surrounded on all sides by buildings, it was strategically safer than yesterday's meeting at Mile End. To position themselves at best advantage, Richard's knights gathered on the east side of the wide plain in front of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. The rebels, loosely drawn up in battles, stood to the west. Brightly colored pennons, including the royal banners King Richard had presented at Mile End, dotted the ranks. Though some rebels cheered His Grace, more watched warily or openly taunted the royal party. Others, who had dined in taverns or enjoyed the wine in the houses of murdered Lombards, were drunk and quarrelsome.
A sudden silence settled over the field. Matthew's shoulder muscles tensed; with each breath he seemed to inhale danger as if it were a living thing. He was certain that the last few days, the give and take and concessions were simply a preamble to this moment. Not only their lives but England's future hung in the balance. They could not, would not fail their king. Hopefully, the day would pass without bloodshed, but he was seasoned enough to interpret the expressions, the body language, the feel of the moment to reckon otherwise.
Late afternoon sunlight lightened and shadowed the faces of the rebels. A cooling breeze rustled dozens of banners. The jangling of an occasional bridle bit as a horse tossed its head sounded unnaturally loud in the strained atmosphere.
King Richard was the first to act, beckoning London's mayor, William Walworth, to his side.
"Ask them to send me their leader," he ordered softly.
That would be Wat Tyler. Flushed with the success of these past days, as well as tipsy from the hippocras he'd enjoyed, Tyler received Walworth's message contemptuously.
Before riding to meet King Richard, he turned to his men. "I will talk with HIM, of course, but if I give this sign"—he demonstrated with his arm—"advance and kill them all. Except Richard himself."
Had Tyler foreseen what fate soon held for him, he most certainly would not have earlier boasted to all within earshot that he would "shave the beards"—behead—all who opposed him. Nor that soon the only laws in England would be those he himself imposed.
Dressed in dirty green and astride a small hackney, Wat Tyler crossed the plain to halt before the sumptuously attired king and to set the final act in motion. One other accompanied Tyler—his banner bearer, Thurold Watson.
* * *
Margery crept along Cow's Lane, toward Smithfield. Abutting the open area were the stone walls of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, and beyond, St. Bartholomew's Priory, which was her destination. She'd decided to brave London's streets alone because she felt in her very bones that today would be the beginning or the end of something momentous. And that she must bear witness—for herself, her son, Thurold and John Ball. And for Matthew.
Margery reached the Hospital just as King Richard's party rode past, ten abreast. When she spotted her lover among the others, looking well and whole, Margery slumped against a nearby wall in relief, and sent upward a prayer of thanks. She dared not call out to Matthew or distract him in any way, but rather gazed after until he and the others had disappeared from her line of sight. She then cut across the open field, reaching the priory. Now she had a clear view of the young king, as well as Wat Tyler and Thurold riding forth to meet him.
"By God's bones," she swore upon recognizing her stepbrother. Thurold had not expressed much faith in the tiler, yet here he was, carrying the commons' banner.
An ill omen, for certes, she thought, feeling a strong sense of foreboding. Too exposed... Alice and Giddy... The dream... A foolish fancy...
Margery's attention drifted from Thurold to the press of knights. She finally spotted Matthew, this time closer to the edge of the royal party.
Let this end peacefully. Let us leave London and retreat to Cumbria, far away from politics and intrigue and hopeless causes.
Wat Tyler reined in his
mount next to King Richard. Dagger in hand, he dismounted, half bending his knee to his sovereign. Then, to the horror of the watching noblemen, he seized King Richard's hand and shook it.
"Brother, be of good cheer and joyful," Tyler said. "Within a fortnight you shall enjoy the praise of all true commons. And we shall be good companions."
Richard appeared unaffected by Tyler's boldness. Not even when he gestured toward the assemblage, saying, "All of these men are under my command. They have sworn an oath to do exactly as it pleases me."
"I see naught wrong with that," His Grace replied agreeably. "But why have the commons not returned to their homes? All that you have asked has been conceded."
Wat Tyler issued a coarse oath. "None will go anywhere until we obtain all for which we came." He launched into a rambling catalogue of grievances that made little sense to the king and none to Matthew, who was within hearing distance. Annoyed as he was by Tyler's familiarity, Matthew's attention had been caught by the banner bearer, whom he immediately recognized. Their eyes met, held. Matthew's lips parted. He wanted to call out, "Have you news of your sister? Know you where she might be?" but he must put aside his personal needs and concerns. After the crowd dispersed he would corner Watson, but now he must focus on his king's wellbeing. Still Matthew stared, as if he might read in the yeoman's face some clue as to his beloved's whereabouts.
An indecipherable expression flitted across Thurold's visage before his gaze travelled to Lawrence Ravenne, seated next to Matthew upon a skittish roan destrier.
When had Thurold Watson last seen his former lord? Matthew wondered. Surely, it had been decades ago. Ravenne generally paid scutages to avoid military service so their paths would not have crossed during more recent campaigns. Where else might Watson have seen Lawrence Ravenne? Hard to gauge his reaction, if reaction there was, for Thurold's eyes were in shadow. And Ravenne had greatly changed, particularly with the recent weight loss, which had caused his face to wrinkle and features to blur in the surrounding flesh. But enough to be unrecognizable? Margery had said her stepbrother had vowed vengeance for the death of Alice Watson, but that had been so very long ago. If Thurold did recognize Ravenne, would he consider this his opportunity to settle ancient scores?
Matthew's grip unconsciously tightened on the pommel of his sword before he mentally dragged his attention back to the interplay between King Richard and Wat Tyler, now wrapping up a long soliloquy in which he'd raised every issue from Lollardy to the abolition of the forest laws.
Richard replied, "Such changes as you suggest would require much thought and earnest discussion. I will grant all I have the right to concede, save the regalities of my crown."
An uncomfortable silence passed between the two. The western sky was beginning to darken with the first hint of sunset, the air to cool. Shadows leapt from the first battle of peasants to reach King Richard and the pair positioned halfway between. Stray rays of sun caught coifs, the occasional spear tip, caressed the rich brocade of the king's tabard, his jeweled gloves.
Matthew shivered and leaned forward, every nerve taut. He sensed that the next few moments would determine everything...
"A drink of ale!" Wat Tyler bawled. "I am thirsty!"
From the ranks, a yeoman bearing a flagon scurried forward. After rinsing his mouth, Tyler spat on the ground at the king's feet, gulped down the rest of the ale, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and stared truculently at Richard's men, who angrily returned his gaze.
In full view of the king, Wat Tyler vaulted into the saddle.
"He dares too much," Ravenne muttered. Mayor William Walworth's face flushed red. Robert Knolles muttered, "Bloody hell." The other knights had also endured enough of Tyler's outrageous behavior. Better to risk death than such indignity to their king. Matthew knew the moment had come; Wat Tyler was about to pay full measure for his disrespect, for being the convenient focus of the nobility's hatred, as well as a living, breathing symbol of the commons' treason.
"I recognize the man who calls himself Wat Tyler," Ravenne shouted. "He is a notorious highwayman and robber."
Tyler, who had already begun heading back toward his men, jerked round his hackney. As did Thurold.
"Come forth and identify yourself, liar!"
Ravenne stayed where he was. "I only speak the truth. And 'tis so—you should be hanging from the gallows. You are the greatest thief in all of Kent, nay, in all of England."
"Shut up," Matthew said. "Remember our first duty is the king's safety."
But it was too late. The unraveling had begun.
Wat Tyler flushed; his gaze swept the crowd, seeking the man who had dared humiliate him.
"I know who insulted ye." Thurold Watson pointed toward Ravenne. "The devil 'imself."
"Then 'tis the devil we'll kill."
Matthew unsheathed his sword as Tyler and Watson urged their horses across the separating distance. Passing King Richard, they approached the royal party.
"Fools!" Matthew breathed. So be it. Both men had sealed their fates.
William Walworth planted his horse in the rebels' path. "You are under arrest!"
Wat Tyler swung his dagger at Walworth, slicing through the mayor's tabard—only to have the blade slide harmlessly off the armor beneath. Walworth hacked his sword downward, wounding Tyler in the head and neck. One of the king's squires, John Standwick, dashed forward and ran Tyler twice through.
Meanwhile, Thurold Watson had planted his banner in the ground, and dagger in hand, maneuvered his mount through the struggling men to ride straight toward Lawrence Ravenne. Ravenne remained open, vulnerable. Thurold raised his dagger toward Ravenne's face, toward his unguarded eyes. He felt the yielding flesh as his weapon found its mark; heard Ravenne scream. When he crumpled forward, Thurold plunged the blade between the large links of Ravenne's gorget. Blood spurted outward as the blade severed a carotid artery. Thurold felt a fierce surge of triumph at the sight of Ravenne's blood, its warmth upon his face and fingers.
Thurold did not see, until it was too late, the flash of sword off to his left. He tried to jerk back, but Matthew's blade caught him along his right shoulder and slashed down to his breast bone. He felt a moment of surprise, of searing pain, before crumbling from his horse.
"Kill! Kill!" The rebels screamed. They readied their pikes and fitted notches to bowstrings. Some held up their index and middle fingers with the back of their hand facing outward in the time-honored gesture of English yeomen taunting their enemies.
Maneuvering free of the three bodies, Matthew joined his fellow knights, who had positioned themselves to meet the onslaught. But before they could act, King Richard spurred his stallion toward the oncoming mob, raised his arm and signaled them to halt.
"Sirs, would you shoot your king? Do you seek a leader? I will be your captain, as well as your king. You shall have from me all that you seek. Only follow me to the fields without!"
Lurching to a stop, the rebels hesitated, then, surprisingly, lowered their weapons. First a few, then en masse. Without looking back, Richard walked his horse toward Clerkenwell, north of Spitalfields.
As if hypnotized, the commons followed him. They forgot the mortally wounded Wat Tyler, still alive and calling feebly for help. They forgot Thurold Watson, crumpled on the ground while his frightened mount raced away across the green. They forgot the treachery of the lords, many of whom, led by Mayor Walworth, were already racing back toward London with the intent of commandeering enough volunteers to permanently crush the rebellion.
Matthew and half a hundred trailed Richard and the peasants. Ravenne dead. Now Elizabeth would be a widow; their eight boys fatherless. Because of his position Ravenne's death had to be avenged, but beyond that? He was sorry he'd had to kill Thurold Watson, even thought it had been his duty.
How will I tell Meg? He wished he hadn't been the one. But how could it have been otherwise?
He'd had no choice. And if he hadn't struck the peasant down, someone else would have. Thurold Wa
tson could not kill a lord, no matter how well deserved. And at least Thurold's death had been swift, even honorable in its own fashion.
Matthew continued close to King Richard, watching, waiting for a suspicious movement. Would the rebels, realizing that they were in danger of losing all, take the king hostage? Or worse? And when Mayor William Walworth returned, as he soon would, well, then, Smithfield's green would run red with blood.
London's sky was a montage of color, the light starting to grow uncertain. Something made Matthew dare a glance back at Wat Tyler, Thurold and his dead brother-in-law. Plainly, he could see several figures around the trio, including a woman, seated and cradling the head of one.
Matthew squinted to sharpen his vision. "Meg!" he breathed. Safe. Here. She must have witnessed everything. What would she think? What would she say? Would she understand? Curse him forever?
He hesitated. He could not desert the king. He twisted back around, assessing the situation. Richard was well guarded; the danger at least momentarily lessened. Reining his mount, Matthew galloped across Smithfield, calling Margery's name.
Margery raised her face to his, cheeks shiny with tears.
"Meg."
As outnumbered as Matthew was, he dared not risk dismounting. After addressing her, he had no idea how to continue. "You are alive," he said finally. "I had so feared..."
Margery continued staring at him. Save for the moans and gabble of Wat Tyler and the nervous shifting of bystanders, there was only silence. Matthew saw that Margery's gown was dark with Thurold's blood. He averted his gaze. So much blood I've seen, so much until it means so little.
"I am sorry, Meg," was all he could think of to say. It seemed that he had spent most of their shared life either apologizing for his actions or trying to explain them.
"I wish you had not..." her voice trailed away.
"You know that I had no choice, though I too wish otherwise." There was no explanation, no words. He'd done what must be done and he suspected Thurold Watson, being a soldier, would have agreed. But such an insight would not comfort Margery and he'd not even attempt it.
A Child Upon the Throne Page 24