‘Get up. Up, Walworth!’ King Richard said. ‘What brings you to Mile End in such a state? Did you want to witness peasants ruling their king?’
‘Majesty,’ said Mayor Walworth. ‘I thought Sir Simon de Burley was with you?’
‘Sir Simon left for London,’ Sir Thomas answered, ‘to practise his black arts.’
King Richard smiled. Sir Simon had requested the King’s permission to ride to the Convent of the Black Friars to help Sir Robert muster a fighting force. The King was in full in agreement.
Mayor Walworth sighed. ‘Majesty, I bring terrible tidings from the city.’
‘Surely not,’ said King Richard, a flail of sarcasm. ‘What else could possibly go wrong today?’
‘The Kentish rebels have taken the Tower.’
‘They have taken the Tower?’ King Richard said. ‘I do not believe my ears. Did you say – they have taken the Tower?’
‘Yes, Majesty. They have forced entry and hold the entire court hostage.’
King Richard swallowed. If they had taken the Tower, the seat of royal power, he had lost his kingdom. And what of his mother? He had left her there. Was nowhere safe? Mother!
IX
The Tower gates were thrown wide open. The sharp-toothed portcullises raised. Wat galloped Sleipnir into the great fortress without stopping, accompanied by John, Abel, and a hundred mounted archers. He headed straight for the centre, the White Tower. In the courtyard before the keep, he beheld an incredible sight – a mere twenty Kentish archers, arrows nocked, strings slack, stood guarding two hundred half-naked prisoners, and overseeing all this, atop the wooden steps, at the raised doorway to the White Tower, were Jack and Nobody.
Wat dismounted and ran up the stairs to the top as fast as his armour would allow him.
‘How the hell did you manage it, Jack?’ Wat asked when got to the top. The dullard of a messenger Jack sent was a little worse for wear, and he was certainly no minstrel: ‘We’ve taken the Tower, Captain. We’ve fucking taken the fucking Tower! We have fucking taken the Tower.’
‘It wasn’t me,’ Jack said, and pointed at the mastiff. ‘Nobody here did it.’
Wat laughed and embraced Jack. Nobody did it! An old joke, to mask a miracle. And it was a miracle! Battle as miracle. Jack had just seized the Tower of London, the White Tower itself. Nobody should have been able to do that. It was an impossible feat. He slapped his mate on the shoulder. ‘What else did Nobody get up to – did he happen to find Bastard Knolles in there by any chance?’
John clomped to the top of the stairs, huffing and puffing with the effort, followed by a red-faced Abel.
‘Knolles, no,’ Jack answered. ‘But Nobody did find Chancellor Sudbury and Treasurer Hales.’
‘I will attend to them myself!’ John said. ‘Where are they?’
‘You’re in fine fettle as usual, John,’ Jack said. ‘Did you not get to preach enough at Mile End?’
John was still boiling hot livid that Thomas Baker had deserted the cause of the True Commons and on this day, the day they had stormed the Tower itself, marching the damned Essexmen home. He repeated: ‘Where are they?’
‘They’re my hostages,’ Jack said. ‘I captured them.’
‘They are traitors awaiting God’s judgement on Tower Hill!’ John said. ‘They must pay the awful price of treason. Where are they?’
Wat said: ‘Put him out of his misery, Jack.’
Jack sighed. ‘They’re in St John the Evangelist’s chapel. Along with a whole heap of other nobles who were holed up in here.’
‘In St John the Evangelist’s? This John will have Sudbury’s head on a silver platter – the way King Herod delivered John the Baptist’s to that dancing slut, Salome.’ John hurried into the keep, followed by Abel.
Jack waited until John was well out of earshot before saying in low tones: ‘Nobody’s gone and captured the King’s Mother as well.’
Wat bent down to pet the big mutt on the ear. ‘Well, Nobody better release the King’s Mother right away.’
X
The host. Archbishop Sudbury pressed the bread onto the tongue of Prior Hales. ‘The body of Christ, given for you…’
‘Where are the traitors?’ John was overflowing with righteous fury as he entered the chapel of St John the Evangelist. The rows of wooden pews were full of a congregation of knights, squires, ladies and their children sheltered in the presence of God. He drew his sword to strike terror into the hearts of his enemies, and Abel followed suit. ‘Where are the despoilers of the realm?’
‘How dare you violate the sanctuary of this chapel in the midst of mass?’ Archbishop Sudbury cried.
‘This is the Feast of Fools! And you are the Arse-bishop! Arse-Episcopus!’ John strode down the aisle, through the rood screen, to the altar and swatted the mitre off Sudbury’s head, seized his crozier and flung it away. ‘But worse than that! You are a traitor, Chancellor. The law of Magna Carta applies. What was good enough for the Barons in 1215 is good enough for the True Commons now. You will come with me to Tower Hill where you will be tried for treason by a court of the True Commons, and if we find you guilty, we will execute you by beheading. Now, move!’
‘He is not a traitor, and he is not Chancellor anymore,’ Prior Hales declared. ‘He is, however, still Archbishop of Canterbury, Primate of all England. Who dares accuse him and by what right?’
‘His name is John Ball,’ said Abel. ‘And his right is might.’
‘You must be Hales.’ John levelled his sword at Hale’s throat. ‘You will be accompanying him to the executioner’s block.’
‘And you will be rotting in hell forever.’ Prior Hales backed away, pursued by Abel.
‘Do you recognise me Sudbury, uh?’ John said. ‘My name is John Ball. I was your prisoner for a time in Maidstone. Now you are mine!’
‘Pardon, I couldn’t see you under all that filth,’ said Archbishop Sudbury, bending to retrieve his mitre.
‘Give that hat to me!’ John tore the mitre from Sudbury’s hands. ‘You aren’t fit to wear it!’
‘And you are fit to wear it?’ Archbishop Sudbury said. ‘The Mad Priest of Kent?’
John thumped Sudbury in the face, grabbed the stunned priest by the sleeve of his vestments. ‘Move!’
‘Get your hands off me!’ Archbishop Sudbury said, ripping the robes out of John’s grip. He would have dignity. He would walk down this aisle, past the rows of frightened faces of his noble peers, smiling, nodding – he would not show his fear of death, he would show his love of God and his desire to see heaven as a man of holy orders should. He would be a martyr like Becket, a saint.
John kicked the legs out from under Sudbury and dragged him one-handed out of the chancel, down the aisle on his ass.
Archbishop Sudbury howled: ‘You have no right!’
‘Let’s go.’ Abel shoved Hales along down the aisle in their wake.
Prior Hales shouted: ‘Whoever harms a hair on the archbishop’s head will burn forever in Hell, John Ball!’
John didn’t even look round, dragging the traitor by his heel, out of the chapel.
XI
‘Get out of here,’ Lady Genevieve cried, sinking to her knees in the middle of the Princess’ private chamber. ‘Guards! Attendez!’
The young tanner she was shouting at, tiara mounted on his scarred head, bounced up and down on the four-poster bed, cackling like a child, and with a hand-axe, hacking at a tree ornately carved into the bedpost.
‘Come on, Genevieve,’ Princess Joan said, taking her lady-in-waiting by the arm, dragging her to her feet. ‘We’re leaving.’
‘Not before you give us a kiss, Princess,’ said the journeyman, grabbing the gold girdle draped round the waist of her black dress. ‘Go on. Give us a peck to tell the grandchildren about.’
‘Go to the Devil!’ Princess Joan screamed and pushed him away.
The gold girdle snapped in the journeyman’s hand and the chains slithered to rattles on the floor.
The f
our-poster bed collapsed under the onslaught of the maddened tanner, the embroidered celour making a ghost of him until he squirmed out from under it, back to life.
Lady Genevieve swooned, pulling Princess Joan down with her, onto a fine Berber rug.
At the crash, Wat hurried into the chambers and shoved the journeyman away from the women sprawled on the floor, away from the golden girdle. ‘Stand down!’
‘Who the fuck are you?’ demanded the journeyman.
Jack answered, over Nobody’s leash-choked snarls: ‘He is Wat Tyler – Captain of the True Commons. And he hangs looters by the neck. Are you a looter?’
‘No, sir.’ The journeyman suddenly looked very sheepish. He had in his hands a souvenir – a fine wood carving that he’d taken a shine to and removed from a plush table. ‘We were just looking for traitors is all, Captain.’
‘Really?’ Wat said. ‘Well, go and look some place else, the pair of you, before we set Nobody on you!’
‘Have it?’ The journeyman tossed the carving to Jack, who scowled as he took it.
The tanner tore off the tiara, dropped it to the floor, and with a whoop of glee, followed his mate out of the chamber sharpish.
Jack held the carving up to have a look . It captured a scene of six foolish creatures, human and animal, laughing their heads off at some tomfoolery. Inscribed in the plinth in Frenchie was NOUS SOMMES SEPT: We are seven. But there were only six fools? Ah! He got it! The wood was yew. He had a giggle at the expense of himself. Good joke. An archer’s joke. He set it down on a table.
Princess Joan held her lady-in-waiting in her arms. Genevieve had fully fainted away. ‘Waken up, Genevieve?’
‘Majesty?’ Wat nodded.
‘All hail the loyal rebel captain,’ Princess Joan said.
‘Pinch her on the cheek, hard,’ Wat said. ‘The pain brings folk round.’
Princess Joan ignored the advice, good though it was, and cradled Genevieve in her arms. ‘Why have you have chosen war instead of making your peace with your king?’
Wat shrugged. ‘We have not declared war. We gave King Richard our terms at Mile End and marched away.’
‘Then why have you assaulted the Tower?’ asked Princess Joan.
Jack answered: ‘Because the traitors tried to escape. And, because I … lack … patience?’
‘There is no war? Richard is unharmed?’
Wat nodded. ‘I told you before Majesty – we are loyal King’s Men.’
‘Thanks be to God,’ Princess Joan said.
Lady Genevieve began to stir from her faint.
Wat squatted down on his hunkers, picked up the two chains of the girdle and handed them back to the Princess. ‘We’re letting you go free, again, Majesty.’
‘You are letting me go again?’ Princess Joan said.
‘He’s generous to a fault,’ Jack quipped. ‘We’ll take you down to the Water Gate and you can float away.’
Princess Joan brushed the hair from Genevieve’s sweat-speckled brow, then looked the rebel captain in the eye. ‘I do not understand you. You have brought England to her knees, and yet you let me go. Tell me, what drove you to this madness?’
‘There is no justice,’ Wat answered, ‘I am trying to get justice.’
‘Tell me what happened to you, truly?’
‘My story is simple: a tax collector tried to rape my daughter and his escort tried to kill the friends who came to her aid. So, I killed them. I would have fled to Flanders but my friends banded together … and here we are.’
‘So, you took the law into your own hands?’
‘He defended his only daughter,’ Jack said.
Princess Joan nodded. ‘That doesn’t seem altogether unreasonable given the circumstances, but now your daughter is in even greater danger. Why didn’t you plead your case with the Justice of the Peace?’
Wat laughed. ‘The man the tax collector worked for is my enemy. He is so war-rich he can buy any Justice, any verdict of guilty.’
‘What is his name?’
‘Sir Robert Knolles,’ Wat replied.
‘Bastard Knolles as he’s known to those who fought for him,’ Jack added.
‘I see,’ said Princess Joan. ‘Do you truthfully seek justice, or vengeance on him?’
‘Justice, what is right,’ Wat replied. But he knew what he would have done if he had caught Knolles at his summer house, or taken him down by the Thames, or at his Inn, or here in the Tower. And in truth, he would still do it in Sophia’s name, in his own name, as much as the cause of justice. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth: a reckoning was owed.
‘If anything, Bastard Knolles should be up on charges for the way his men collected the tax,’ said Jack.
‘If I give you my word to plead your case with the King, for the sake of your daughter, would you lay down your arms this instant and go home? I am sure Richard would be merciful to you – as you have been to me.’
‘That is a gracious offer, Majesty,’ Wat said. His thoughts galloped back to the farm, up to Maggie’s grave. Sophia and him and Nick could live free there again. Jack could come and stay, part of the family. Then, he reined his mind in hard, and said: ‘Thing is, I don’t want mercy for just me and Sophia. We must have justice for all, people should not be treated like this.’
XII
Horns blared out assembly on Tower Hill, until quite a crowd gathered. A few thousand witnesses at any rate. It would do for the trial and the executions, thought John. Enough to spread the word.
Archbishop Sudbury knelt at the foot of the tripod scaffold on Tower Hill, hands tied behind his back. ‘Dear Lord, Grant me the grace to die with dignity,’ he prayed.
Prior Hales had collapsed onto his side, uttering low wails of protest: ‘You have no authority to do this! No right. None. None.’
Two sticks rattled a poor rhythm onto the mouldy hide of a snare drum, and stopped.
‘Men of England! Come to order!’ John bellowed to the people below. ‘This court is now in session!’
The heaving crowd on the slopes shushed to a man and a fearsome, unearthly, solemn silence followed, the shrieking of a gyre of gulls overhead the only eerie mockery.
Jack leant against one of the struts of the scaffold and whispered in Wat’s ear: ‘Who died and made him God?’
‘Nobody,’ Wat said, without the hint of a smile.
Jack yanked the mastiff’s leash. ‘You’re behind everything boy, aren’t you, like a spymaster?’
John thrust the sword of justice aloft, to get the full attention of folk. ‘Friends! True Commons. We are gathered here under Heaven to try Chancellor Sudbury and Treasurer Hales for treason!’
A massive cheer greeted this announcement.
‘This is to be a fair trial. God is their judge. I am the prosecutor. And you, the people will be their jury.’
More cheering.
‘The charge against both ministers is treason. High treason against the King and against the people, abuse of power in time of war. How say you: guilty, or not guilty?’
A unanimous verdict: ‘Guilty!’
John rounded on the prisoners. ‘Chancellor Sudbury. Treasurer Hales. You have been found guilty of high treason by the people of England. The sentence for treason is death. Sentence will be carried out summarily.’
The drum roll began again.
John glared down at Sudbury. He would make him suffer until the last moment. ‘Traitor Hales will face sentence first!’
‘Up you come!’ Abel seized Hales under the armpits and dragged him to the block.
Prior Hales kicked and screamed. ‘The Devil take you all. If you kill us you will be damned to Hell for eternity. England will be placed under papal interdict. All of you will burn.’
‘Hold him down,’ John ordered. As he drew his sword, he thought of St Peter drawing his sword in Gethsemane to protect Christ, striking off the ear of the servant of the High Priest.
Abel beat Hales into a prone position over the block and held him there.
Abel retrieved the head, held it up by the ears for all the spectators to see. ‘Behold the awful price of treason!’
Archbishop Sudbury saw three men drag the headless body of his friend away like an animal carcass. He would not be sick! He would not be sick! The souls of the just are in the hand of God, and the torment of malice shall not touch them; in the sight of the unwise they seemed to die, but they are in peace: like a river, the River Jordan, the chant flowed through the beating chambers of his heart. The words were the rhythm. This beautiful chant from the octave of St Peter and St Paul …
John decreed: ‘Traitor Sudbury will face sentence now.’
Abel lifted Sudbury up – expecting resistance – but the old archbishop went like a lamb. Didn’t have to force him onto the block – he just crouched down and laid his head sideways on it, as if it was a feathered pillow and not the blood-drenched stump.
‘Hold him!’ John ordered and raised the axe.
Archbishop Sudbury looked up at John Ball and spoke aloud the prayer that he wished would take him to heaven: ‘Forgive them father for they know not what they do …’
Wat suddenly admired the man’s dignity in the face of violent death. It was hard to die well.
‘Feel the hand of God, Sudbury!’ John cried and wielded the sword. The edge met the neck with a crack, and glanced off – severing only halfway through the cord.
‘Oh … god … oh … god … oh … god!’ Archbishop Sudbury spouted blood, a font of agony, body thrashing in mortal anguish, hands clawing the wound hewn into the flesh of his neck and shoulder.
John raised the sword and struck again. This time he missed the neck altogether and stove in the back of the skull.
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