Passage to Pontefract

by Jean Plaidy

  ‘But by the bones of God that head will not be on his shoulders,’ cried another.

  They were at the gates of the Savoy. With the trunk of a tree which they used as a battering ram they forced open the doors and burst in.

  Such richness made them pause with wonder.

  ‘We are not thieves,’ cried Wat Tyler. ‘We have not come to steal. We have come to destroy those who would destroy us.’

  The Savoy was ablaze. It was going to be the end of John of Gaunt’s magnificence. A curse on fate which had deprived them of him. To have marched through the town with his head would have been the greatest of all triumphs.

  Wat saw a man pocketing gold ornaments and thrust his sword through his heart. ‘So will I deal with all thieves. By God’s bones, men, do you not see? We are men with a mission, men with a purpose. Ask John Ball. He is with me in this. We are not here to steal or kill the innocent. We are here to deliver and to win it for us all.’

  Fine words but what effect could they have on men who had never before seen such riches, for whom one small trinket could bring as much as they would earn in a lifetime. Moreover they had been to the cellars and there they had refreshed themselves with wine such as they had never tasted before. They who had drunk only the cheapest ale before were bemused by the wine of the rich.

  They were maddened by the sight of such wealth; they were intoxicated not only with malmsey wine but with power.

  Was this the end? Joan asked herself. Was the mob going to take the crown, the throne?

  If only the Black Prince had lived. She could imagine how he would have dealt with these men. But it would never have happened had he lived. He would have seen revolt coming; he would never have allowed the situation to go so far. What will become of us all? she asked herself.

  There they were, besieged in the Tower. Her little son who was a King. And there were only one or two brave men with them. She had great faith in Walworth, who was frantic with fury to see his city being destroyed, and he was a strong man, faithful to the King and the restoration of law and order.

  But what could they do?

  Poor Simon of Sudbury, he had the look of a man who knows his days are numbered. Temporarily he was safe in the Tower but unless the rebels were quickly subdued he had no hope.

  The King and his mother, Salisbury, Simon of Sudbury, John Hales and a few others of the King’s ministers, conferred together.

  Some action had to be taken promptly and there was only one way of dealing with the situation. The rebels must be dispersed before they could be brought to order.

  ‘How disperse them?’ asked Joan.

  ‘With promises,’ said Walworth.

  ‘What promises?’

  ‘That what they call their wrongs shall be righted, that they shall be freed from their serfdom; that the taxes will be lifted. That is what the rebellion is about.’

  ‘You think they will listen?’

  ‘Men such as Ball and Wat the Tyler will. They are the leaders.’

  ‘Then how shall we convey these promises to them?’

  ‘I can see only one way of doing so,’ said Walworth. ‘There is only one to whom they will listen. The King must speak to them.’

  ‘I will do it,’ cried Richard. ‘I will speak to them.’

  ‘My lord, my lord,’ said the Earl of Salisbury, ‘forgive me but this is a very dangerous situation.’

  ‘I know it well,’ retorted Richard haughtily. ‘I am not afraid. I am their King. It is for me to speak to them, to send them back to their homes.’

  ‘It is too dangerous,’ said Joan.

  ‘My lady, it is a suggestion,’ said Walworth. ‘I can think of no other. The alternative is that we stay here besieged and how long will it take the besiegers to overrun the Tower?’

  ‘It is a strong fortress.’

  ‘They have broken into the prisons.’

  ‘I will go,’ said Richard. ‘I insist. Have you forgotten I am your King? I will hear no more. I will speak to the rebels myself.’

  ‘My lord,’ said Walworth, ‘your bravery moves me deeply. You are indeed the true son of your father.’

  ‘I want to show them that I am,’ said Richard.

  ‘You understand, my son,’ said Joan, ‘that they could kill you. One rebel out of hand …’

  ‘I know it well,’ replied Richard. ‘But my father faced death many times and was not deterred.’

  There was no doubt that the entire company was deeply moved by this beautiful boy who showed himself to be without fear.

  At length it was agreed that a messenger should be sent to Wat Tyler. The King himself was willing to see them. If they would retire to Mile End, a large field where the people gathered on holidays to enjoy open-air sports, the King would meet them there. He would listen to their grievances and would promise to consider them.

  The King was excited. He would show them all that he was a boy no longer. The people had always loved him. He had enjoyed riding through this very City and they had always cheered him. It was the same in the country. They loved him. He was grandson of Great Edward, the son of the Black Prince, their King, Richard of Bordeaux as they still sometimes affectionately called him.

  They would love him all the more when he promised to give them what they asked.

  He said he wanted to go to his apartments. He wanted to prepare himself. He was going to pray that his mission should succeed.

  When he had gone, the Queen Mother said: ‘There is only one thing which will send them home and that is if he promises to give them what they want.’

  ‘That is what the King must do,’ said William Walworth.

  ‘And how can he? Give them their freedom! Who will till the fields? Who will do the menial work of the country? What must we do? Give over our manors to them!’

  William Walworth faced them all smiling. He was no nobleman but he was more shrewd than any of them.

  ‘These promises can never be carried out,’ he said. ‘They are quite impossible.’

  ‘But the King is going to give them that promise.’

  ‘He must. Indeed he must. It is the only way to bring an end to this rebellion. But remember these are only peasants, villeins. What are promises made to them?’

  ‘I like it not,’ said Joan.

  ‘My lady, it is a matter of liking it, or an end to all that we have known in the past. It is goodbye to the wealth which men such as I have earned and which none of these rioters would have known how to earn. It is the end of your inheritance. It would doubtless be the end of your lives. This is the only way.’

  ‘The King will speak in good faith.’

  ‘That must be so. He is too young, too innocent, to understand. He must play his part well and he will only do so if he believes in what he is saying.’

  There was a deep silence.

  ‘My lords,’ went on Walworth, addressing the Archbishop and the Treasurer, ‘you must make your escape while the King is at Mile End. It is your only chance. If you can slip down the river you may be able to find a ship to take you out of the country. Whatever we are able to achieve I fear they are going to demand your lives.’

  Simon of Sudbury and John Hales nodded gravely. They knew that Walworth was speaking the truth.

  It was night. The King had climbed to the topmost turret that he might look down on the City.

  He could see the flares, and the people massed on the banks of the river. He could hear their roistering. Many of them were drunk on the wine from the cellars of his uncle’s palace of the Savoy.

  A ragged army they were indeed. All the scum of the country, some of them men who had been in prison with no hope of release until the mob came – desperate men, seeking blood and revenge.

  These were the men whom he would face tomorrow at Mile End. He thought what he would say to them.

  ‘I am your King …’

  He would not be afraid. The only thing he feared was fear. They could kill him if they would but he must not show fear. He wanted them
to say: He is the true son of his father.

  He looked away from that tattered army to the dark sky.

  ‘Fathers,’ he said. ‘My heavenly and earthly fathers, both watch over me this coming day. Let me conduct myself like a King.’

  Early on Friday morning the King was up and ready. From the turret he looked out on the rebels and could see that although some of them were making their way to Mile End others remained.

  He sent a message to them, telling them that all must go to Mile End for he was about to set out to meet them there.

  Then he went down and summoned the Archbishop and John Hales to him.

  ‘My friends,’ he said, ‘you must take this opportunity to get away while I am at Mile End. I command you to do this.’

  The Archbishop embraced him and wept because of his youth and innocence and his belief that he could with a few words put everything right.

  ‘We shall attempt to do so, my lord,’ said John Hales.

  ‘Go, my good friends. I trust we shall meet again.’

  The Archbishop murmured: ‘Methinks it will not be until we meet in Heaven.’

  Richard rode out. He was exultant. He felt brave and noble. There were thousands of rebels whom he had to face and he was just one boy with a carefully selected band of nobles, those who had not incurred the wrath of the people and who would be unknown to them. Sir Aubrey de Vere, the uncle of his greatest friend Robert, had volunteered for the dangerous post of sword-bearer.

  And so they set out for Mile End.

  There were gathered some sixty thousand of the peasant army, the head of whom were Wat the Tyler and John Ball.

  Richard rode right into the midst of them, his handsome face smiling, his voice low and musical.

  ‘My good people,’ he addressed them, ‘I am your King, and your lord. What is it you want? What do you wish to say to me?’

  Wat Tyler answered him. ‘We want freedom for ourselves, our heirs and our land. We want no longer to be called slaves and held in bondage.’

  ‘Your wish is granted,’ replied the King. ‘Now will you return to your homes and the place from whence you came?’

  ‘Ah, my lord, we want surety for what you’ve said. We want it signed and sealed that you will keep your word.’

  ‘Then leave behind two or three men from each village and they shall have letters sealed with my seal, showing that the demands you have made have been granted. And in order that you may be more satisfied I will command that my banners shall be sent to every stewardship, castlewick and corporation. You, my good people of Kent, shall have one of my banners and you also men of Essex, Sussex, Bedford, Suffolk, Cambridge, Stafford and Lincoln. I pardon you for what you have hitherto done. But you must follow my banners and return to your homes on the terms I have mentioned. Will you do this, my friends?’

  ‘My lord, we will.’

  ‘Then God bless you all.’

  ‘God save the King!’ the shout went up.

  The King’s courage had won the day at Mile End.

  But all the ragged army had not gone to Mile End. There were some who had no interest in coming to terms. What they wanted was loot. They had seen riches in London such as they had never dreamed of. If there was law and order what would become of them? The robbery and murder which they had committed would be brought against them. No. They must take what they could while they could; and there were no pickings at Mile End.

  Moreover there were many who had a score to settle.

  They knew that the Archbishop of Canterbury was in the Tower and with him the Lord Treasurer, John Hales, whom they blamed for imposing the hated poll tax.

  They were not going to return to their homes until those men had paid the penalty which they had decided was their just reward.

  The King was no longer in the Tower. They had had a respect for the King and had made no attempt to storm the Tower while he was there. But now he was at Mile End; and they were going to get the Archbishop.

  The Archbishop knew that his end was near. That morning he had celebrated Mass before the King and he determined to remain in the chapel and await his fate.

  He was prepared for death. He could feel it close. He knew they would never let him go.

  They were not long in coming.

  He knew they had broken into the Tower for he could hear the shouts and screaming coming closer and closer. They would soon discover where he was.

  He was right. They were at the door of the chapel.

  As they rushed, a man shouted: ‘Where is the traitor to the kingdom, where is the spoiler of the commons?’

  The Archbishop went forward to meet them.

  ‘You have come to the right place, my sons,’ he said. ‘Here am I, the Archbishop, but I am neither a traitor nor a spoiler.’

  ‘We have not come to bandy words,’ said one of them and he gave the Archbishop a blow which knocked him down.

  They seized him. They dragged him into the street. They took him to Tower Hill where a vast crowd had gathered. There they had erected a block of execution.

  He tried to reason with them. ‘You should not murder me, my friends. If you do so England will incur an interdict.’

  ‘His head. His head,’ chanted the crowd.

  They pushed one man forward and thrust the axe into his hands.

  The Archbishop saw that the man’s hand trembled.

  ‘So my son, you will do this to me?’ he said.

  ‘I must, my lord,’ murmured the man.

  ‘Tell me your name that I may know my executioner.’

  ‘It is John Starling of Essex, my lord.’

  ‘My son, you are more afraid than I. Have no fear. I grant you absolution for this sin, as far as I am able.’

  He knelt down and laid his head upon the block, his lips moving in prayer as he did so.

  John Starling raised his axe. His hands were shaking and there were eight blows before the Archbishop’s head was severed from his body.

  Riding back from Mile End Richard saw the heads of his Archbishop and his Treasurer being carried on poles before the mob.

  The rebels had stormed the Tower while their leaders were at Mile End. Their first target was the Archbishop and the Treasurer and having despatched them for execution they turned to others.

  They had found the Queen Mother among her women. These men were not of the same mood as those whom she had met on the road from Rochester. These men had one object in view – robbery, destruction, and murder if the mood took them.

  And here was the Queen Mother – one of the privileged, of royal connection, and mother of the King. One man snatched at the brooch she was wearing and another tried to take the rings from her fingers.

  Joan, who had been in a state of high tension since she had seen Richard set out for Mile End, could endure no more. She fell fainting into the arms of her women.

  Her life was in imminent danger but one of the men said: ‘Leave her alone. She’s only a woman. She’s done nothing. Let her go. There are others to concern ourselves with.’

  For a moment there was hesitation and then snatching the jewels she was wearing her assailants turned away.

  ‘We must get out of the Tower,’ said one of the women. ‘Let us get down to the barges. Perhaps we can get away to the Wardrobe.’

  Joan opened her eyes and realising what was happening asked where the mob was. She was told that they had left this part of the Tower and it seemed that the women might be allowed to leave.

  ‘The King will come back here …’ began Joan.

  ‘He will soon know, my lady, that we have gone. Come, they may change their minds.’

  It was surprising how easily they could escape. No one attempted to stop them and in a short time they were in the barge on their way to the royal office which was known as the Wardrobe and which was in Carter Lane close to Baynard’s Castle.

  Meanwhile Henry of Bolingbroke had thought his last moment had come. He had heard the shouts against his father and he knew that the Savoy Pal
ace was in ruins. He had heard them cursing because John of Gaunt was not in London. If he had been there they would have taken him as they had the Archbishop. He could hear the shouting of the mob and the sound of battering rams and the crunching explosions as heavy doors gave way.

  It could not be long now, he knew.

  Then his heart began to beat wildly. There was someone coming towards the room. He stood up very straight, waiting. He would give a good account of himself.

  A man was standing in the doorway. He was dressed as a peasant and Henry believed he had come to kill him.

  ‘My lord,’ he stammered, ‘you are in acute danger.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘John Ferrours of Southwark, my lord. I serve your noble father. My lord, when they know whose son you are you will have little chance.’

  ‘I am ready for them.’

  ‘You will have little chance against this mob. I have come to get you to safety.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘There is no time for talk. Put this cloak round your shoulders … Take this.’ He thrust a bill hook into Henry’s hand. ‘We are going to run through the crowds. We must look as they do. Shout as they do. It is the only way. I shall get you down to the river. There are barges there … or we may have to make our way through the City. Do as I say. We may be able to deceive them.’

  ‘I am ready,’ said Henry.

  He followed his saviour down the spiral staircase. They came into a courtyard where several peasants were assembled. John Ferrours joined them and shouted with them. ‘No more serfdom,’ he cried; and Henry joined in.

  They left the Tower and were in the streets.

  ‘All well so far,’ said John Ferrours. ‘But keep it up. Run. It looks as though we are bent on some mischief. Shout if anyone looks suspicious. Make sure they believe we belong to them.’

  Henry was exhilarated by the adventure. It was something he would remember for the rest of his life. He had come near to death he knew and it would have been certain if he had waited in that room in the Tower. And he owed all this to this stranger, John Ferrours of Southwark.

  He wanted to tell him of his gratitude. But they were still in danger.