John Ball, sometime priest of St Mary’s, York, late of Maidstone Gaol, would sing Sir Idle of Surrey a lullaby:
*
Lollay, lollay, Sir Idle, lollay, lollay, why do you work so hard? Was it not ordained for you to live forever in pleasure, to thrive and prosper, while you lord it over us? Lollay, lollay, cry, wail, because your wicked world of work and war without end is about to fall. The poor are marching for freedom, their long bows strung, their arrows sharp.
*
Lollay, lollay, Sir Idle, lollay, lullow, cry a river if you like. You have eaten the apple that Eve gave Adam, again and again. Your days are numbered. Your war is lost. You are an unrepentant sinner, you stumble blindly in a cloud of unknowing – look ahead! Death the Archer is coming out of the dark to shoot you down as you deserve. The wages of sin are death. Lollay, lollay, the day of judgement is at hand.
*
Lollay, lollay, Sir Idle, whichever way you flee, north or east, south or west, we will be there. The Great Society, risen up in the name of God, our one true Lord. The True Commons will create a new Eden of this England. God created all men equal, equal in life, equal in death. When Adam dug and Eve span, who was then a gentleman? Lollay, lollay, rich Sir Idle, lollay, lollay, the poor are marching on London. By Corpus Christi we will be saved.
Tuesday 11th June, in the Year of Our Lord, 1381.
XIV
Sir William Salle was the second son of a stone mason, but from these humble origins he had grown into a valiant man-at-arms, and with five years of war under his belt, had taken charge of a company of raiders, sixty men strong. In 1361 he had been knighted for bravery by King Edward himself, at Calais. He was proud he had cut his own fortune from the flesh of life. He was thankful his overlords had granted him opportunities to make something of himself in battle. He was six-foot-five, a giant amongst men, outmatched by no other knight in England or France. This was why he rode his finest white destrier out of the gates of his castle in full plate, a one-man army, to meet the band of damned rebels who were threatening to burn down Barking town. His pretty little fief.
They greeted his exit with great cheers, this vast scourge of scum. ‘Sir William is joining us!’ they cried as one.
‘Be gone from this place, scoundrels,’ Sir William told them at the tip of his lance and the top of his voice. ‘Disperse, or die!’
A man with a face unfamiliar to Sir William stepped out of the mass, became its head, a mouthpiece to rail at the pale rider.
Thomas Baker of Fobbing was in contradiction to his trade’s-name, a brewer and hostelier as his father and grandfather had been before him. Or had been, before he had revolted against the Justices nine days ago and incited all of Essex to do so. He had quaffed a few of his family’s special ales already today and in this esteemed company – alongside Jack Straw, leader of the Long-Tails – was feeling mighty wordy. ‘Sir William! Your reputation precedes you. You are a knight but not a nobleman. You are one of us, a True Commoner. We ask you to join us.’
Sir William saw a tall archer, bow strung with hemp, step out of the crowd and stand beside the Barking man. His heart missed more than one beat, memories of many a French knight dying spit with English arrows. He tightened his grip on the reins. ‘You would have me dishonour my name, sirrah, betray my king and my town for the company of knaves?’
‘Sir William!’ Jack slid a swallowtail from his bag, and nocked it – the man was a fool, his horse wore no barding, no crinière on its neck. ‘You will join us, or you will die, and we will seize the town anyway.’
‘Then I will die, traitor. But before I do I swear I will take a score of you with me.’ Sir William spurred his destrier forwards, aiming the tip at the archer’s chest. If he could kill the archer he stood a chance …
Jack drew his bow, took aim. He loosed the swallowtail. The thrum of the hemp cord … a deep note on the string, death. The arrow took the surging destrier in the exposed throat, barbs punching, driving deep, lodging in the lung.
Sir William cried out as his mount gave way underneath him. War-quickened reflexes made him slip his stirrups so he was not crushed by the unhorsing, rather rolling with the fall, having the enormous upper and lower body strength required to right himself in full plate. He drew his Bordeaux, a sword that had served him for twenty years.
Thomas Baker had lost his qualms about killing days back. The nobles thought nothing of it. Why should we True Commons? He gave the order, like a hunter loosing his hounds: ‘Death to all traitors!’
Pikemen charged Sir William … wild thrusts … he clattered his way through the vicious array of stabbing pole-arms, using arcs of steel. Parries and the plate armour protected him from the points, if not the battering blows. Hand-to-hand, he began to cut men down as they came at him. Methodically. Brutally. Anyone who appeared in the slits of his visor died in flashes, vile splashes of red.
‘Fall back!’ Jack ordered. ‘Fall back, you stupid cunts!’
The True Commons drew back, retreated from away from Sir William, all but the one man who was busy dying on the point of the knight’s sword. Four poor men lay dead and dismembered at his feet, spatter of red on his greaves and sabatons. Seven squirmed and squealed away from the knight in the hope of being healed, becoming whole again, somehow.
Jack notched a bodkin and took aim. English knight, Frenchie knight: no fucking difference. He was an archer, made to kill. He had killed well over a hundred men. Numbers beyond knowing. More murder than a man would ever dare confess to a priest – more death than God could ever forgive.
Sir William caught a glimpse of Death, in the form of the archer, poised to strike. ‘You will all hang for this!’
‘You won’t execute another soul, mate.’ Jack released the arrow and in a single breath, notched another.
The arrow pierced Sir William in the chest, below his heart, puncturing his lung. The sucking agony of the wound was profound, like no other he had suffered. He sagged to his knees as his last breath left his huge body like a baby’s gurgle.
The True Commons bayed for blood, for vengeance.
Jack released again, notched another.
This arrow pierced Sir William in the throat, and he felt himself flying backwards into darkness, burning seething pitch.
Jack did not need to shoot again, put the arrow back in his bag. Job done.
‘Death to all traitors!’ Thomas yelled, and his men took up his cry.
‘I could use an ale,’ Jack said. ‘Thirsty work on a hot day is killing traitors.’
Thomas strode up to the knight’s corpse. He drew his knife and knelt. Yanking off the basinet, he stabbed his way into the neck. It took a deal of sawing, gore and gorge oozing out, to sever the windpipe, the tendons, the vessels, and several hacks with a hand axe to sever the bony cord of the neck, but he took the bloody head, and held it up for all to see. ‘Death to all traitors!’
XV
Mayor William Walworth was a wily old street-fighter, a fish-mongering merchant who had schemed to be head of the most powerful and esteemed guild, the Victuallers; was selected as sheriff, then elected Mayor. He had been proposed for the office because of his great love of London and his all-abiding hatred of the champion of the Drapers Guild – John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, who had usurped royal authority and ruled like a tyrant in the long years of King Edward’s mad dotage, and on into King Richard’s minority. Divine right to rule, indeed!
In the Good Parliament the Commons had curbed “King John’s” powers to try to save the realm from ruin, provoking the usurper to seize the Speaker of the House. An unprecedented infamy! Mayor William Walworth had seen off the Duke, and his attack dog Marshal of England, Lord Henry Spencer, and had them chased from the city all the way to the Fair Maid of Kent’s house by good Alderman Horn’s rent-a-bloodthirsty-mob.
The Mayor of London had to be a blood-and-guts orator in the Guildhall, but here at court in the Tower he had discovered over time that if he spoke quietly – measured his words
– the Boy King listened more intently. ‘Your Majesty, I say we should deploy the wards to guard the walls and gates. That is their purpose after all.’
‘We cannot depend on their loyalty!’ Treasurer Hales stated most coldly. His cold had worsened: his chest was tight, his throat full of phlegm. It was no plague thank the Lord, but the ill vapours of the city – the cloying odour of putrefaction beyond description – in summer afflicted him. London in the heat was fit only for wharf rats. His humours were out of balance, and he was most choleric. He needed the royal physician to attend him, a good bloodletting to the point of faint, but there was no time for leeching.
King Richard sat on the wooden, buttock-numbing throne in his chambers and observed the faction fighting in his court, the hawks versus the doves, from above their heads. As the hawkish Sir Robert and the traitorous Mayor decried how best to deploy the wards of the capital in the event of a siege, his mind took flight.
That afternoon, he had fed the Tower ravens, flightless Huginn and Muninn. Their sharp, black beaks had nearly snipped his fingers off in their hurry to gobble down the leftover meat from the kitchens. Thought and Memory. Odin’s birds. Without them the saying went, the White Tower – built by the Normans, those raiding Norsemen on horseback – would fall. He liked feeding them every day when he stayed here. It was a kingly tradition. Some impudent northern falconer had taught Muninn to croak ‘Shit off!’ in the common tongue. Highly amusing. With an inward sigh, he reapplied his mind to the debate raging before him. Dear God, Simon-Says was speaking …
‘My lords, if we sound general assembly and the mob turns against us, we lose control of the city,’ Chancellor Sudbury said. ‘And, if we lose control of the city we have effectively lost control of the country.’
Mayor Walworth might have been raised a commoner, a merchant, but he knew his city – the place he had been born and raised – better than any of these lords. ‘My aldermen and the ranks of the wards will defend the King to the death.’
‘Majesty – we go over the same rutted ground. You have heard both sides of this argument. What say you?’ Treasurer Hales asked, then hacked a great lump of mucus into his mouth and had to spit his distaste into his kerchief.
‘This is a difficult decision.’ King Richard was loath to disagree with the Sir Robert’s faction – this was where his lion-heart lay – but arrayed against him were the Chancellor, the Treasurer, the Earls of Salisbury, Warwick and Oxford, his own dear brother Thomas, and most of the other minor ministers of the government who had no confidence in the Londoners’ loyalty. He composed his answer carefully: ‘We should not call up the men of the wards – unless we are besieged. If it comes to that, we will sound general assembly.’
As the court absorbed the royal ruling, the trumpeters blared a fanfare. Everybody fell silent. A herald rushed in to announce: ‘Majesty. Sir John Newton. With a message from the rebels.’
Sir John Newton marched into the King’s chambers and prostrated himself at the foot of the throne. ‘Majesty. Forgive me? I am not here of my own free will. The villeins hold my family hostage.’
‘Arise and speak, Sir John,’ said King Richard. ‘You are excused.’
‘Majesty. The True Commons of your realm – as they wish to be known – have sent me to entreat with you. It is their will that the King parley with them at Blackheath at Prime. Their captain assures you of his loyalty to you, the true king, and he guarantees that you and your party will have safe passage.’
‘This is an outrage!’ Sir Robert said. ‘The King cannot parley with rabble-rousers.’
King Richard seethed with fury and fear but restrained himself. Other members of the court gave voice to his anger and frustration, a yammer of voices.
Chancellor Sudbury moved to Sir John’s side. ‘Speak on, Sir John. Say what you have to say.’
Sir John nodded and continued: ‘The rebel leaders will present their grievances to you. If Majesty does not come to the parley or agree their terms, they will storm London.’
‘By God, they will not!’ said Mayor Walworth.
Sir John coughed. ‘They have written letters to the Aldermen of London asking for support. I saw it with my own eyes.’
‘Who are these varlets?’ demanded Sir Robert. ‘Their names?’
‘Their captain is called Wat Tyler. He is aided by one Jack Straw and by the Mad Priest of Kent, John Ball.’
‘John Ball?’ gasped Chancellor Sudbury.
‘I told you – you should have executed him when you excommunicated him,’ Sir Robert said. ‘Mercy festers treachery.’
‘Sir John!’ King Richard got up off his throne, and stepped down, to the level of his subjects. He licked his dry lips wet, and held up a hand. ‘Did they tell you what their grievances are?’
‘No. Not directly, Majesty. But I overheard in their camp that they want the heads of fifteen traitors. Your uncle, the Duke, is first on the list – as they call him the False King. Chancellor Sudbury you are next. Treasurer Hales you are on it, along with all the other regents on the council, including you, Sir Robert.’
‘How dare these scum indict me!’ Sir Robert’s teeth gritted together, a ferocious bite, till the tang of blood leeched from his teeth and gums. Never, not in the hottest fury of battle, had his whole body gone ablaze, a human torch of pure rage. ‘Traitor! I am no traitor! I will kill any and every man who accuses me of that!’
King Richard rubbed at his forehead – how the ermine itched under the crown! ‘Sir John. Leave us. I would take counsel with these … traitors, and recall you when we have a response.’
XVI
Charon the boatman had ferried Sir John Newton back down the River Styx to the rebels, or so the silent, hooded figure had seemed.
In the speckling twilight, feeling like he was condemned to Hades, the old knight wandered through the horde of hell gathered on the Blackheath, seeking the brigands Tyler and Ball amongst hundreds of men cast in their infernal images. These common thieves believed they were an army marching to war. An army of archers. Even in the half-light, gimlet-eyed boys were practising their archery on makeshift ranges. Playing bows and arrows. Innocent laughter. Back-slapping. Only there was nothing innocent about this war play. These free men had en masse turned the defence of the realm, what was an obligation to their lords and betters – archery training with the long bow – into a monstrous weapon of civil war.
The Greeks called Apollo ‘the Archer who Strikes from Worlds Away’: his arrows rained plague down on the hubris of King Agamemnon before the walls of Troy. It struck Sir John that this rebellion of Wat Tyler was a great plague of disorder, like a Black Death of the soul, an ill with no cure. When all had become Wat Tyler, wore his leering face, there would no law, there could be no peace, it would be a war of all against all, the end of the world. King Richard might try to play physician tomorrow, minister to his people, but his efforts would be doomed to failure. The contagion would spread in the body public. And spread. And spread.
Sir John found the leaders up on the high ground and performed his duty as herald of the rebels, gave them the news from the King, carefully, without betraying any emotions.
‘So, the King is coming, Sir John?’ Wat asked. The herald seemed dazed and confused since he’d come back, as if he’d been struck hard on the head. He took it as a good sign – that the other nobles would also be reeling from the shock of revolt, thinking the worst, terrified of what might happen. ‘You’ve done your job, Sir Lancenot – go find your family. They are where I said they’d be.’
Sir John nodded. He had not expected his release. ‘Thank you.’
‘The King is coming! Praise the Lord! We must tell the people the good news!’ John climbed up into the back of a wagon to address the crowd. ‘Come on, Wat!’
Wat climbed up, and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with John. He pointed down the slope to where he could see Sophia, Harry and Nick in the front rows, and beyond into a sea of people, far in excess of the size of any English army he had
served in. ‘You ever seen this many folk gathered together before, John?’
‘No.’ John had never preached to more than three hundred before – and that only happened once outside Canterbury cathedral. Now, now on Blackheath there were so many in his congregation, thousands upon thousands, as many as the stars in the sky, or the grains of sand on the beach. ‘Brothers!’ His voice rang out loud and clear and he bade the people be silent by raising two clenched fists high above his head.
A small miracle. The great multitude of folk milling nearby stopped what they were doing, what they were saying. A great hush rushed around the Blackheath: a great silence fell upon them that few had ever known. It was the peace of God. It was awe. They were lost for words.
John Ball, the hedge priest, the ex-communicate, held his fist high, biding his time; gathering his breath; making them wait before he unleashed the Good News. ‘My brothers! My sisters! Brothers! Sisters all!’ he cried out. ‘We are the True Commons! We are the True Commons!’
The mass of the True Commons roared almost as one: ‘We are the True Commons!’
John calmed the crowd, laid on his hands. ‘We are the True Commons, not the False Commons of Parliament!’
‘We are the True Commons!’
‘Brothers and sisters! The King is coming. The King comes to parley with us tomorrow!’
Sophia the front row shrieked in her excitement at the thought: ‘The King is coming!’
‘The King is coming!’ Harry cried, his voice hugely echoed by chanting thousands. The King is coming! He had seen King Edward once. He and his wife cheered their king as he rode through St Albans on a white charger. It was a great day. A day of pageantry, to tell your sons about, and your grandsons.
John laughed out for joy. ‘The King is coming, friends! We will have justice. We pilgrims will have our justice.’
XVII
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