Three Lions of England

by Cinnamond, Patrick

  The two Kentish archers drew their long daggers, stepped over a corpse, and backed their leader up.

  Nobody prowled up to the pair of churchmen, growling menace, snapping at the scent of their fear.

  ‘We yield,’ Archbishop Sudbury said, mortified of the huge dog and its snapping fangs, a bestial death, more than the men with the knives.

  ‘You are my prisoners,’ Jack declared, showing them the cutting edge of his blade. ‘Who are you?’

  Archbishop Sudbury replied: ‘We are mere men of the church sir, on a mission for the King—’

  ‘Really?’ Jack spotted fine clothes under the monkish robes. He grabbed the snivelling man by the collar and held the knife to his bobbing Adam’s apple. ‘That’s a lie, isn’t it? Lying is a venal sin. As a man of the cloth you should know that.’

  ‘Please let me go, sir,’ Prior Hales begged.

  Jack tightened his grip on the monk’s neck and spoke directly to the parson. ‘Tell me your names this moment or I will kill him.’

  Prior Hales squealed with terror.

  Archbishop Sudbury sighed rather than said: ‘My name is Simon Sudbury. He is Sir Robert Hales.’

  Jack let the choking monk go. ‘You really are Sudbury and Hales?’

  Prior Hales nodded, and coughed up a handful of phlegm.

  Jack shouted: ‘We’ve caught us some traitors, lads!’

  Archbishop Sudbury shuddered as the archers on the dock took up the cry: ‘Down with the traitors!’

  ‘How many more named traitors are in Tower? Is Knolles cowering in there?’ He dragged both traitors to their feet and shoved them across the deck to the wharf. ‘Haul them up!’

  Archbishop Sudbury let himself be lifted up onto the dock by the men above.

  ‘Lord have mercy?’ Prior Hales lost his nerve as he was buffeted by the commoners, pushed and spun from one laughing man to another.

  Jack seized a hold of Archbishop Sudbury under the arm. ‘Move it.’

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ Archbishop Sudbury asked.

  Jack did not reply. He led his hostages off St Katherine’s wharf, up to the gate of St Thomas’ Tower and bellowed up to the watchful guards in the battlements. ‘Open the gate – or I will kill Chancellor Sudbury and Treasurer Hales here and now! Their blood will be on your hands, unless you open the gate.’

  None of the guards on duty wanted the death of an archbishop on their conscience. Every man in England knew the damnation of King Henry after he had murdered Saint Thomas a Becket. They opened the gate and the portcullis, offered no resistance.

  V

  King Richard heard the war drums beat – doom-doom, doom-doom – and the horns blare – before he saw the rebel horde take to the field at Mile End. He ran to the flaps of the tent and spied out. Through the slit he watched a host of thousands march in and assemble in good order at the far end of the meadow. The sun shimmered on their armour and glinted off weapons, a dazzling array: three battles of pike-men, flanked by thousands of archers on the wings. He found himself chuckling in the deadly face of this vast company of fools, as if the rebel host was in some way funny and not terrifying, part of the Commedia plays which he and his mother so loved when the Italian players came to court every summer.

  War cries. Battering swords on shields, knives on armour, thunder rippling, rumbling, the rebels gave roars of defiance so loud two of the thirty scribes stopped scribbling pardons and stood up at the tables, fearful for their lives, keen to run away, because Tyler’s men executed anyone who wrote the law. They were taking everything so very seriously. This was all a play.

  ‘Get back to your scribbling, you dolts and dullards!’ Sir Simon commanded them.

  King Richard returned to mount his throne. ‘The stage is set. Time to raise the curtain, Sir Simon. Let the play begin. Send in the jesters.’

  Sir Simon nodded. The household servants took down the canvas at the front of the pavilion, bringing all those gathered into the presence of the King. The thousands of rebels fell near silent trying to get a look at their king.

  In the great hush of the audience, King Richard steeled himself to play the role of Pierrot, the sad-faced zanni. Sweet. Innocent. Sympathetic. Largely silent. He watched the lead party of rebels ride up to the pavilion under a flag of parley: a tall serjeant on a white charger; an evil priest on an old nag; a merchant on a pony. ‘Il Capitan, Il Dottore, and Harlequin,’ he named them in whispers.

  Sir Simon met the rebels in front of the pavilion. ‘Gentlemen. Come in. My name is Sir Simon de Burley. I will be advising the King in these negotiations as he is still in his minority.’

  As the jesters paraded in, King Richard said his first line: ‘Well met, Wat Tyler, Captain of the Kentish Commons.’

  Wat bowed to the young king. ‘My King.’

  ‘And you must be John Ball,’ King Richard said to the priest.

  ‘I am John Ball.’ John did not bow. Instead, he folded his arms.

  ‘And you are Thomas Baker, Captain of Essex,’ King Richard said.

  Thomas Baker bowed low. ‘Majesty.’

  Sir Simon went round the table to sit at the King’s right hand, and gestured at the stools on the other side of the table. ‘Please, good sirs, sit. Let us hear your grievances.’

  ‘We’ll stand,’ John said, opening his scroll. He began to read:

  ‘These are the terms of the True Commons, presented this day, to our King Richard, by the grace of God, rightful king of England and France, and lord of Ireland. Firstly, we the True Commons, declare that we will be ruled by no king called John. We are the loyal subjects of King Richard.’

  ‘The True Commons.’ King Richard nodded. He had been right about John Ball being an Il Dottore – a blatherer of nonsense.

  ‘Item – There shall be no more serfdom in England. All men are to be declared free. All feudal services are to be revoked. All markets and trading made free. Land will be rented henceforward at four pence an acre.’

  ‘We can look at how to achieve this,’ Sir Simon stated in his most earnest tone. ‘It should be possible to commute services to rents over time.’

  John cleared his throat: ‘Item – There shall be no lordship in future, save for that of the King.’

  ‘No lordship?’ said Sir Simon. ‘Who will rule then, the Lord of Misrule?’

  John shot him a dark look, then read on: ‘Item – The land of lay lords is to be divided amongst all men, equally along with all hunting, fishing rights. All this land will become Common Land.’

  Sir Simon had not expected the rebels to be so radical or articulate in their demands. He could see the King – too young, and most choleric in temperament – was losing his sense of humour.

  ‘Item – There shall be no bishops in future, save for the Archbishop of Canterbury, and that is to be an ecclesiastical office.’

  Sir Simon had heard it rumoured amongst the Kentish that John Ball would be their new Archbishop.

  ‘Item – The lands and chattels of the Church shall be seized and divided amongst all men equally, along with all hunting and fishing rights. All this land will be Common Land.

  ‘Item – The King alone shall retain ownership of his royal castles, land and forests. This land will be declared Royal Land.’

  King Richard decided that John Ball was more Punchinella than Il Dottore. It was difficult not to mock him and his straight-faced, puffed-up delivery: ‘How very generous of you to allow the King to hold our own land.’

  ‘Majesty,’ said Sir Simon, and spoke the rest of what he had to say with a hard stare.

  King Richard’s anger got the better of him; he could feel a pulse throbbing in his cheek, the heat of his shame. ‘Does John Ball speak for all of you gentlemen? Do you speak at all Il Capitan Tyler?’

  ‘John will outline our terms,’ Wat stated. ‘I will enforce them.’

  King Richard’s smile vanished. ‘And you Thomas Baker of Fobbing? What does Harlequin say?’

  Harlequin? Thomas Baker didn’t und
erstand. ‘John speaks for all the people, Your Majesty.’

  Bolstered by the show of support from his captains, John continued: ‘Item – The King shall live only with the Great Society of his servants, the True Commons, who shall forthwith be represented in Parliament and in government by selected captains of the counties.’

  ‘So, you propose to replace new lords for old,’ said Sir Simon. ‘This is nothing but bare-faced robbery.’

  ‘Item – The King and his ministers shall grant no more taxation without the approval of the True Commons in the form of said Parliament.

  “Item – All the King’s ministers or officials declared traitors by the True Commons shall have execution of law, without pardon.’

  ‘Without trial?’ Sir Simon looked suitably shocked and aggrieved. The joke was on the rebels: how could they execute Sudbury and Hales if they could not find them.

  ‘Item, Henceforward there is to be no law but the Common Law.’

  ‘Common Law?’ Sir Simon said. ‘There is to be no Civil Law then?’

  ‘Sir Simon,’ King Richard said. ‘Let John Ball finish, deliver his punch-line. You are nearly done, we take it John Ball?’

  John nodded curtly.

  ‘Item – All officers of the law will be appointed by agreement of the King and Parliament.

  ‘Item – The True Commons, every man and woman, shall be pardoned for all offences and crimes committed in the name of freedom and the pursuit of justice.’

  On the reading the last words, John rolled the scroll up, strode over and placed it on the table in front of the King.

  Sir Simon stood up, snatched the scroll up. ‘That is all?’ he asked.

  ‘That is our list of demands,’ John replied. ‘There will be no negotiation of the terms.’

  Sir Simon nodded gravely. ‘I hope you appreciate that given the scope of the changes you propose to the law and customs of the realm, we must have to have time—’

  ‘You have until noon tomorrow,’ John said, ‘to draw up the necessary legal charters in Common English, not Latin or French, which you will hand over to me at Smithfield at ten of the bells. I remind you that we are thirty thousand strong and men are marching on London from every shire in England to join us. We will have what we want or you will have a war like none ever seen before.’

  King Richard sat perfectly still on his throne. He was amused. Very, very amused. More amused than he had ever been. When he had the heads stricken off these common fools he would laugh so long and hard his ribs would hurt.

  VI

  Pax. Jack accepted the surrender of the twenty guards of St Thomas’ Tower prisoner with a broad grin. He had them stripped of their arms and armour and marched them up the killing ground to stand in front Wakefield Tower, shamed and half-naked.

  Holding Sudbury knife-on-throat he shouted up at the defenders. ‘I will kill Chancellor Sudbury, Treasurer Hales and all other hostages unless you open the gate and lay down your arms!’

  Henry Bolingbroke stood on the battlements looking down with utter contempt at the small contingent of rebel archers within the Tower walls. ‘They will not kill their hostages? They are men of God.’

  ‘They will, my Lord,’ said his red-headed squire, William Percy. ‘They were wailing over the walls all last night they will surely kill the traitors. And when they get let in here they will kill you for being your father’s son. Such is their hatred of the Duke. We must find a hiding place for you.’

  ‘Nonsense. The gate is shut. They cannot get in.’

  William Percy knew his master all too well – the chivalrous vanities and infidelities and the downright stubbornness. ‘My Lord, they got in the first ring of defence this way. Under such duress, the men will open the gates.’

  Henry Bolingbroke glared down at the rebels yelling up their threats. Forty strong, if that. He drew his sword. ‘I am not hiding from any rabble. I’ll don my armour. Rally the men to fight.’

  ‘This is no time for heroics.’ William Percy suddenly took a swing at his lord and master and connected, crack, on the chin.

  Henry Bolingbroke sprawled backwards, fell on his arse. ‘Have you lost your mind?’

  ‘Sorry, my Lord.’ William bent low, hit his stunned lord again, where jaw and ear connect, a knockout blow. He picked the body up by the arm, slung the limp torso over his shoulder and made for the stairs, if he could find a wardrobe he could secrete his lord in there, save him from his pride.

  Jack was prepared for resistance. To have a right slanging match with the defenders, the usual siege banter, giving the fuckers the Sign of the Archer – the two-fingers, the old victory V. So, when the gates opened without a word of protest, he felt a little cheated. Then he wised up, and sent a messenger to Wat to tell him he’d only gone and taken the Tower of London.

  VII

  A fanfaronade. In his role as the King’s Sword and Marshal of England, Sir Thomas stepped from the mounting block onto the back of his destrier. It fell to him to be herald this fell day.

  With an escort of the three rebel captains, he rode out over to the rebel’s side of the meadow to address the mob from horseback. Sight of the seething crowds unnerved him. A sea of hideous, yabbering, gabbering faces. Thousands upon thousands. As far as the eye could see. As much as the ear could hear – if one could hear. It was a good day to be partly deaf. There were so many voices he feared his voice would be lost on them. His reedy old voice.

  Another fanfare sounded out from across the field: ignominious ceremony.

  ‘Read it,’ said Wat Tyler.

  Sir Thomas eyed the scoundrel who had disarmed him on the Pilgrim Road down the length of his nose, then swallowed his pride and broke open the seal on the scroll a scribe had just penned. The ink had just dried and the writing was chicken-scratch, but it was still readable. He announced it in his loudest voice:

  ‘Men of Kent and Essex! Richard, by the grace of God King of England and France and Lord of Ireland, has met with your captains, Walter Tyler, John Ball and Thomas Baker, this historic day and listened to your grievances. His Majesty, King Richard, pledges he will address your all these injustices, without fail…’

  Thomas Baker watched as this raised a huge cheer – from those folk who could hear the royal pronouncement. It struck him that most would not hear these words and would take their lead from those who had heard. Deaf, and blind, and dumb. Followers that needed leading for their own good.

  ‘His Majesty…” Sir Thomas held up his hand to quieten them. “His Majesty King Richard gives his thanks to you, the True Commons, for your show of loyalty to your rightful King.’

  More cheers.

  Sir Thomas continued: ‘His Majesty is to grant every village and town a royal pardon for all trespasses and felonies done – up to this very hour. Disperse and go home in the certain knowledge that the scribes of the royal household will draw these papers up forthwith for your Elders to take back with them.’

  There were some shouts of protest. ‘It’s not worth the paper it’s written on!’

  Sir Thomas ignored them, yelled over them: ‘His Majesty assures the good men of Kent and Essex that there will be no poll taxes from henceforth. He has agreed to constitute a commission of enquiry into the misuse of war revenues and any person found guilty of corruption will be punished according to law.’

  Cries of: ‘Death to the traitors!’ filled the air.

  Sir Thomas waited for the haranguing to abate. ‘Finally and unconditionally, His Majesty declares that serfdom is hereby abolished, that all services to lords and masters are to be replaced by a system of fair and equitable rent at four pence an acre. All this is agreed by the King, at the Mile End Conference, Friday 14th June, in the fourth year of his reign.’

  The King’s word was enough for Thomas Baker. Pardon had been granted. He would take his letter, lead the Essexmen home, in spite of all John Ball’s protests and threats, and they would follow and be grateful it had not come to war.

  Richard, by the grace of God, K
ing of England and France, and Lord of Ireland, greets all the bailiffs and faithful subjects whom their letters reach. Know that, by our special grace, we manumit all our lieges, and individual subjects, and all others, in the county of Essex, and all of theirs whomsoever they may be, from all bondage, which we make quit by these present letters; and also that we pardon those same lieges and subjects of all felonies, crimes, transgressions and extortions, committed by them, or by any of them, whatever they have done or perpetrated, and also outlawry or judgements which have been passed on them, or any one of them, and which have or will be promulgated on this occasion; and we grant to all and any of them our entire peace. In witness thereof we have made these letters patent.

  Witnessed by myself at London, on the fifteenth day of June of our fourth year.

  VIII

  A long-toed sabaton slipped out of a stirrup, and Mayor Walworth dismounted outside the royal pavilion. He had ridden to the Mile End conference with all haste, was sweating, trembling from effort of moving in full armour.

  Disaster. How could he break this bad news to the King? Alderman Horn’s herald, the bastard Thomas Farringdon, had confirmed it in a breathless rant. The Tower had been stormed.

  The impossible had happened. How it was a band of rustics could have stormed the Tower, the strongest fortress in the whole of England, with a garrison of two hundred men, was beyond comprehension. Not even the Oracle of Delphi could have foreseen this!

  ‘Majesty,’ Sir Thomas announced. ‘Mayor Walworth is here to see you.’

  ‘Show him in,’ said King Richard. The last thing he needed was another audience with a Commoner.

  The chink-clink of spurs as Sir Thomas escorted the mayor into the royal presence. The man was shaking, as with a fever.

  ‘What is wrong with you, Walworth? Have you brought the plague with you?’ King Richard asked.

  ‘Your Majesty.’ Mayor Walworth prostrated himself at the feet of the King.