The Last Plantagenet

by Thomas B. Costain

  All that can be told of the life at Lutterworth is that the dedicated group who worked with him lived very simply. Wycliffe begrudged himself the morsels of food he took, counting it as so much less for the needy poor; bread, vegetables, cheese in great moderation, and a very occasional egg; that was all. There were no complaints, for their thoughts were too deeply immersed in the task at which they labored.

  Little is known of Wycliffe’s appearance. Some chroniclers say he carried himself at a good height; others speak of him as small and wasted of frame. There are some portraits in existence, all of which were painted after his grave had been rifled and his ashes thrown into the Swift, and so are based on nothing more than faint echoes of traditional description. They agree in depicting him as the possessor of an eye burning with zeal, with a Messianic arch to his nose and a flowing white beard.

  In order to realize the enormity of the task that John Wycliffe had taken on himself a glance forward may be in order to consider what happened more than two hundred years later, from 1604 to 1617, to be exact. King James of Scotland had succeeded Elizabeth on the English throne and, being something of a pedant, had eagerly grasped at a suggestion that a better English version of the Bible was needed. Forty-seven men were summoned to aid in the project, theologians, scholars, professors of Hebrew and Greek, nearly all of them from the universities. They were divided into six groups and sections of the Scriptures were assigned to each. The size of the groups was determined by a consideration as set forth later, when the translation had been completed, “not too many, lest one should trouble another, and yet many lest many things haply might escape them.” Each of these learned expounders of the Law and the Prophets prepared his own version of the books and chapters assigned to his group and a final version was decided on between them. Two groups met at Westminster, two at Oxford, and two at Cambridge. They took no particular account of the Latin version but went back to the original sources, Hebrew for the Old Testament, Greek for the New.

  This mighty undertaking was placed under the supervision of Dr. Miles Smith, an orientalist who could speak Chaldaic, Syriac, and Arabic, a stout and worthy scholar who had come up the long and hard way, born the son of a butcher in Hereford. His views tended to the puritanical. His personal participation was with the group to whom the prophetic books had been assigned, but later he was active in preparing a final version of the Old Testament. He prepared also a long and learned introduction, addressed to the Readers. For the competence of his work, he was later made Bishop of Gloucester.

  His chief aide was Thomas Bilson, Bishop of Winchester, who was descended, it was said, from a Duke of Bavaria. Bilson was quite definitely on the traditional side of the fence, having served in the previous reign as a Crown pamphleteer. His selection undoubtedly was to establish a balance between high church and puritanical viewpoints.

  More time was spent in the preliminary steps than in the actual work of revision. It was more than three years later that the forty-seven rolled up their learned sleeves and set to work. After two years and nine months of continuous effort, a final version was arrived at. Nine additional months were needed to prepare the text for the presses.

  It was indeed extraordinary that out of so much conflict of opinion there emerged the noble and much loved King James version which has been almost universally accepted in English-speaking countries, even to the present day.

  What a contrast is presented by the little group which gathered about John Wycliffe, beginning probably in 1381! They were not scholars in the same sense as the learned architects of the King James version and they had to work exclusively from the Vulgate, the Latin Bible, having no means of drawing on Hebrew and Greek sources. There were as many as five of them, but probably not more, and they lived in the house on the glebe, assembling around one table. The pens of these earnest and dedicated men scratched in tireless industry; their voices were muted in the constant discussion of controversial points. They could not have allowed themselves much leisure, because the pressure of time was heavy upon them. One can picture them as going out together in the cool of evening when the last rays of the sun were falling on the high spire of the church and warming the stained glass to new beauty, walking perhaps two and two, their heads nodding in discussion.

  So little is known about this historic labor that the number five, already given, is a guess based on the fact that the manuscript of the final text of the Old Testament carries the imprint of five contributors, differing in handwriting and even in dialect, one possibly Wycliffe himself. The chief aide was Nicholas de Hereford, a subtle and forceful reasoner, who had been with Wycliffe at Oxford. He was such a determined propagandist that he was later excommunicated and went to Rome to plead his case before the Pope, being found guilty of heresy for his pains and committed to prison. After making his escape, he returned to England and became recognized as the leader of the Lollards. Toward the end of the century, when the hue and cry of heresy were on, he was seized and put to the torture. Weakening then, he recanted publicly at St. Paul’s Cross and, strangely enough, became a vigorous opponent of his former associates.

  Two men who served as curates under Wycliffe at Lutterworth, John Purvey and John Horn, were also engaged in the work, the former being given credit for the much improved Later Version brought out in 1388.

  Little is known about the Lutterworth undertaking, but it seems reasonably certain that the Early Version was completed before the death of Wycliffe. He had not devoted himself exclusively to the work for he had felt it incumbent on him to perform at least part of the parochial work. In addition he had put into pamphlet form some severe strictures on Pope Urban VI which so irked that far from gentle pontiff that the writer was ordered to Rome to explain himself. This peremptory invitation had to be declined by the feeble old man at Lutterworth.

  John Wycliffe lived long enough to see the Early Version completed. Then, as if nature had purposely abstained until the last words had been scratched on the manuscript, he suffered a stroke. A partial recovery made it possible for him to proceed about some of his duties but he never again officiated in the church. On December 28, 1384, he was hearing Mass when the attack was repeated. His wasted form seemed to shrink into the plain gray robe he had chosen to wear and his heavy breathing was the only sign that he still lived. He was carried out through the high and noble west arch of the church for the last time.

  Gathered around his couch, his devoted followers watched intently for three days, knowing that he would never recover full consciousness again. It became apparent that he would not survive to see the new year and, in the last moments, the curate began to read from the manuscript of their Bible.

  In the hous of my fadir

  ben many dwellinges—

  And if I go to make ready for you a place

  eftsoone I schal come

  And I schal take you to myself—

  Jhesu seith to him,

  I am weye, treuthe and lyf:

  No man cometh to the fadir,

  No but by me.

  The Wycliffe Bible, copied in large quantities by the hands of willing “poor priests,” was widely received. So widely, in fact, that it continued to circulate throughout England for nearly two centuries, by which time better translations were available. The reverence with which the book was accepted is evident in the fact that 150 perfect copies are still in existence. Clearly the copyists had made them in the thousands.

  CHAPTER VI

  When the Bell Was Rungen

  1

  FOUR years had passed since the little king lost his shoe. He was growing into a handsome and confident boy, and measures were being taken already to find him a princess for a wife. The council governed the kingdom, and the queen mother (who was now a heavy load for any palfrey) governed the council. If the war against France was going on at all, it was going on badly. The treasury, as was always the case with Plantagenet kings, yawned with emptiness. And at this moment, in June 1381 to be exact, there came about one of the m
ost dramatic, significant, and dreadful events in English history—the rebellion of the peasants.

  Historians have found many words to apply to this upflaring of class discontent, including “mysterious.” It is true that it had many elements of mystery, particularly the suddenness with which it began and its almost instantaneous spread across the southern and eastern counties like a stubble field afire. Had the seeds of rebellion been carefully planted in advance? Had it been possible to do this with such secrecy that villeins by the tens of thousands were ready and waiting while their masters had no inkling of impending trouble?

  The discontent was due to the land laws which held a large proportion of the peasants in a state bordering on peonage. They were called villeins and were allowed to cultivate some acres of land belonging to the lord of the manor, paying in lieu of rent by giving a portion of their time to the land reserved for the lord himself. This was called the corvée and it would not have been entirely unfair except for the “boons,” the right of the owner to call on them for extra work without remuneration at any time he saw fit, particularly if rain were expected and he wanted his crops harvested in time. The boon in that event might mean that the poor villein’s own crops would be beaten down by the autumnal storms and go unharvested. There were other class restrictions under which the peasant labored. He was bound to the land and could never leave without his lord’s consent. His children were bound also. Nor were they allowed to marry save with seignorial approval.

  The grim harvest of the Black Death had intensified these conditions. The villeins died in such numbers that it was no longer possible to cultivate all the land. At first this benefited the workmen because they could demand better terms for their labor but it did not take the law long to step in. It was stipulated that a man could not seek new employers and demand what he wished. He must remain on the demesne where he was born and work for his own lord on the terms which had prevailed before the coming of the plague. This was the worst kind of injustice because the shortage of crops had sent up the cost of living.

  It also rankled in the minds of the yeomen that it was the longbow (even the least expert of them might have shot the plume off a French helmet at a hundred yards) which had won the great victories in France, not the armed knight on horseback. Had they not proven their worth? Should the sons of men who had drawn a stout bow at Crécy be subjected to such unfair laws?

  Finally, because of the cost of the abortive struggle against the French, there had come the poll tax. Parliament had decided that a certain number of groats, which the common people called “thickpennies,” should be paid by everyone, the lowest rate being three groats for all over fifteen years of age. The peasants found this an intolerable burden on top of the penny on every hearth which had to be paid for the Romescot (Peter’s Pence). Already on the verge of starvation, they refused to be taxed further.

  It should not be assumed that the peasants were involved in a solidly knit and secret organization. It was more certainly a deep-seated conviction they held in common, a bitterness of desire for full freedom, which led to the sudden outburst. Any discussion of what happened when this discontent reached the breaking point must begin with the story of a hedge priest named John Ball.

  Jean Froissart, the French historian who had held office once at the English court and who wrote of English affairs, dubbed Ball the Mad Monk of Kent. Ball did not come from Kent but from Yorkshire, nor was he mad. Nevertheless, the label has stuck to him for nearly six hundred years. The validity of the causes for which he preached has been confirmed, the rights he sought for Peterkin the Ploughman and Jack Trewman and John the Miller have been granted and the march of social progress has gone so far beyond them that they seem almost quaint in their modesty. But still in most writing on the period he is depicted as an incendiary, a fomenter of trouble, in short, a mad monk. A note of sympathy for the manner of his death is seldom expressed.

  There is no source from which a picture of the man might be drawn and so, in lieu of the contemptuous term tossed off by a toady who knew no more of England than he could gather on the tilting grounds and on the edges of a gay court, it may be in order to quote from a work of pure imagination, the beautifully conceived fantasy by William Morris, A Dream of John Ball. The poet in Morris was convinced that there existed a great sense of beauty among the common men of those faraway days, that they dressed plainly but in the good taste of simple colors, that their voices were musical, that they lived in small homes of their own devising and building, which might have wattled doors and roofs of thatch but still had a certain beauty of their own; and that their husbandry was of such high order that the furrows they plowed were as straight as the road to heaven. And for John Ball, Morris saw him as one who shared with all great minds a dream of the equality of man.

  It has been charged that Ball preached a form of communism and versions of what he said are given in some of the chronicles. None of them agree and all seem garbled and clumsy. Those who think of the years he spent on the road and the memories which remained in the minds of those who heard him, and moreover of certain later evidences of the honesty of his intent, may find it more enlightening to hear the phrases which Morris puts into the mouth of the inspired hedge priest.

  What else shall ye lack when ye lack masters? Ye shall not lack for the fields ye have tilled, nor the houses ye have built, nor the cloth ye have woven; all these shall be yours, and whatso ye will of all that the earth beareth; then shall no man mow the deep grass for another, while his own kine lack cow-meat; and he that soweth shall reap, and the reaper shall eat in fellowship the harvest that in fellowship he hath won; and he that buildeth a house shall dwell in it with those he biddeth of his free will; and the tithe barn shall garner the wheat for all men to eat of when the seasons are untoward, and the raindrift hideth the sheaves in August; and all shall be without money and without price. Faithfully and merrily then shall all men keep the holidays of the church in peace of body and joy of heart. And man shall help man, and the saints in heaven shall be glad, because men no more fear each other; and the churl shall be ashamed, and shall hide his churlishness till it be gone and he no more a churl; and fellowship shall be established in heaven and on earth.

  2

  To say that John Ball was a hedge priest meant that he had no church and no charge, nor any post which linked him to the established order. Neither had he house nor table under which he could place his feet to partake of the loaf, the joint, and the jug of wine to which, surely, every good priest was entitled. It was equally true that he had no bed in which to sleep, no cell in monastery, no snug corner in a deanery. As his feet carried him hither and yon according to what he deemed to be the Lord’s will, he slept for the most part under hedges. Sometimes he preached boldly at village crosses but more often cautiously in thick woods by moonlight.

  For twenty years he wandered over the face of England. Three times he was confined in the prison of the archbishop and finally he was put under a ban of excommunication. This made no difference, for he never ceased to preach what he believed, and what he believed sent his hearers into transports of wonderment and anticipation. His feet deserted early the relatively solid ground of Lollardy and carried him up high into a spiritual world where all men were equal. He always left hope behind him in the minds of those who had hung on his words. They must bide their time and be in readiness. When the right moment came, he, John Ball, would sound the bell.

  This was heady stuff and some word of the gospel of unrest that he was spreading inevitably reached the ears of authority, hence his imprisonments. It is said that only the most courageous among the brawny tillers of the soil committed themselves to taking a part and that they found it wise to maintain strict conspiratorial silence. When one man who was pledged met another, whose sympathies were unknown, he would not resort to any of the usual artifices, a certain gesture, a low catchword, or perhaps a special manner of handshake. Instead he would whisper,

  John the Miller grinds small, small,
small.

  The other, if he also believed in the message of John Ball would answer,

  The King’s son of heaven shall pay for all.

  This may sound clumsy and even nonsensical but it must be borne in mind that this was an age of deep faiths and that men had a hunger for the poetic and the mystical which made such phrases sound warmly in their ears. There is nothing in the records to indicate that the use of these words ever led to any break in the seal of silence which had been imposed.

  It is generally assumed that the messages in rhyme, which were distributed throughout the country, and were clearly the work of the bold hedge priest, did not get into circulation until the rising began. It seems more likely, however, that some of them at least had been used to strengthen the faith of the unhappy villeins through the years when the yoke rested heaviest on their shoulders and the day of reckoning seemed to get no closer. Otherwise the uprising would have lacked the spontaneity which brought the peasants out in tens of thousands in a matter almost of hours.

  When the missives were written, and how they were distributed, must remain part of the mystery. All that can be set down as certain is that they came from the pen of John Ball and that they struck straight to the hearts of the common people.

  “Help truth and truth will help you,” he wrote.

  “Now reigneth pride in price,

  And covetise is counted wise,

  And lechery withouten shame,

  And gluttony withouten blame.”

  A more direct appeal could be found in some of them, particularly the verses signed by such names as John the Miller, Jack Carter, and Jack Trewman. In these missives, or tracts as they soon came to be called, occurred such phrases as “make a good end of that ye have begun” and “now is the time,” which made it clear that these at least were issued after the insurrection had started.