Three Lions of England

by Cinnamond, Patrick

  Nick helped Wat struggle back into his armour. It struck him that there was something beetle-like about a man in armour, a fearsome beetle that would bristle when threatened, like a huge devil’s coach horse.

  Jack dismounted. He offered Ruth the dog leash. ‘I want you lot to take care of Nobody for a few days. He’s a great guard dog.’

  Ruth took hold of the leash.

  ‘Nobody? Nobody? Come here, see Ruth.’

  Nobody bounded over, letting Ruth fuss and leash him. ‘Good boy.’

  Jack swallowed hard. ‘Good lad. Good lad.’

  Wat walked over to pet the mastiff. He smiled at Ruth. ‘Wish us luck and we’ll be seeing you soon enough.’

  ‘Luck,’ Ruth said.

  Wat went to where Sophia was standing, arms folded, staring away into the fields in the distance. He laid a hand on her shoulder and she stiffened. ‘I know you don’t want to leave, but there’s blood on the wind.’

  ‘But you are going to make peace with the King?’

  ‘With the King, yes. But we are at war with the nobles. We will have to fight them, and win.’

  ‘War! War! War!’ Sophia turned, face full of tears. ‘That’s all you men do. Aunt Heloise is worse than any war.’

  Wat sighed. ‘This war will pit Englishman against Englishman. Nowhere on this island will be safe for the daughter of Wat Tyler.’

  ‘I will go to Antwerp – if you promise to win the war really quickly, and we can go home.’

  ‘That’s my girl!’ Wat hugged her to him. ‘I will win it, so we can all go home.’

  XX

  ‘Hail Mary. Full of Grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of death.’ King Richard knelt at the foot of the altar in the tiny Chapel of Our Lady, head bowed, hands clasped tightly together in prayer.

  ‘Amen,’ said Princess Joan. ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, we beseech you, deliver my son this day from the hands of these evil men who would destroy his kingdom.’

  ‘Amen,’ King Richard said at the same time as his mother, gazing up at the image of Our Lady that grants miracles to the Kings of England. Hear my prayer …?

  ‘Richard?’ said Princess Joan, biting her under-lip. ‘I have been having second thoughts.’

  ‘Yes, mother?’ King Richard pushed off the cushion and stood up to cross himself.

  Princess Joan followed suit. ‘Whatever Sir Robert says, you cannot hope to kill all the rebels at Smithfield. There are too many of them. Besides, they describe themselves as loyal, and many of them will be innocents – men and women coerced into these mad acts by their captains.’

  ‘Walk with me to the confessional, mother,’ King Richard said, his shoulders stiffening as the weight of his royal robes bore down on his neck. ‘You know I have no desire to massacre the innocent. They are our subjects. They are our taxpayers. They are our archers. That is why I am came to pray to Our Lady for a miracle. If ever a king needed one it is me.’

  Princess Joan walked one step behind the King, spoke over his shoulder: ‘I am glad to see your anger has cooled, Richard. Your father feared you would inherit his terrible temper.’

  ‘I am ice-cold, mother,’ King Richard said. He was in control of his emotions. With God’s help he would regain control of his destiny. He knew exactly what must be done.

  ‘Do you think a show of force would be sufficient to regain control? Might I be so bold as to suggest that if you can rein in Sir Robert, you can still use words as your only weapons?’

  King Richard led his mother over the burial mound and past the shrine of St Edward the Confessor, the King who built Westminster Abbey, a good king well remembered. ‘Every good Christian king would prefer to use words as swords on his subjects.’

  ‘When you parley at Smithfield, it will be with their captain, this Wat Tyler, yes?’

  ‘I would rather talk to him than listen to one more word from that devil-spawned priest!’ replied King Richard.

  ‘Take my advice. Try to win Tyler over.’

  ‘How, mother?’ King Richard passed by the mural of Doubting Thomas and Jesus in the South transept. Talk to this Tyler? Really? He did not think so. Up until the point he had decided to strike he was full of so many doubts as to make an army of Doubting Thomases. But now there was only certainty to contend with. Cold steel certainty.

  ‘Address his grievance,’ Princess Joan said. ‘I told him I would plead with you on his behalf. He is angered at how Sir Robert’s tax collector tried to rape his daughter, forcing him to defend her, resulting in the death of the assessor and two soldiers—’

  ‘I remember this very incident. Sudbury told me of it when I was playing Nine Men’s Morris with Sir Robert!’ said King Richard. ‘So, this all started with his daughter—’

  ‘Tyler claims he does not want vengeance but justice to be returned to England. I honestly believe if he felt he had got this justice for himself and pardon, he would return home in peace with his daughter and lead all the Kentishmen with him.’

  King Richard walked into St Benedict’s Chapel, the abbey’s octagonal chapter house, which was large and grand enough to hold the whole of Parliament, King, Lords and Commons, wondering how he might use this news of Tyler’s daughter to best advantage. ‘After I have confessed, I will ask Brother John to pray for a peaceful resolution of the crisis.’

  ‘I will leave you in the hands of the anchorite.’ Princess Joan embraced her son and kissed him on the cheek. She tried not to look at the paintings adorning the east walls of the Chapter House – scenes from the Last Judgement, and the Apocalypse, Christ rising triumphant over the armies of the Beast at Armageddon. ‘God go with you, my son.’

  ‘And also with you, Mother.’ King Richard smiled at her. In that instant, he could have sworn he saw a golden glow around her head, as if she were an angel – his angel – and he felt the great welling up of love in her heart for the goodness she saw in him. He could not bring himself to tell her that he was here asking for the Lord’s forgiveness in advance of the sin he must commit, the mortal sin of plotting to kill one’s enemy under a flag of truce.

  XXI

  Sir Thomas Holland hoisted his lance high, flying the King’s colours, and left the King’s escort in the middle of Smithfield to ride the rebel horde.

  Today was Sunday so Smithfield was a field of grass, scored brown in patches by muddy cart tracks and thousands of hooves. It surrounded on all sides by the city’s sprawling suburbs, walled in on the east by the high walls of St Bartholomew’s Hospital. On weekdays the field served as a shambles, an open-air butchers full of stalls serving best meat in London – or so the Victuallers would have one believe.

  His fondest memory of Smithfield was from his chivalrous youth, when he had fought in several tourneys on this very ground, and won the joust, twice, wearing the red favour of his new wife, God bless her beauty. It made him strong to think of pageantry and beauty as he rode to meet the rebel captains – to deliver the King’s invitation to a parley.

  Sir Thomas stiffened as he rode into the yowling, mocking teeth of the enemy, steeling himself to be agent provocateur in front of a horde that must number thirty thousand, at least. He had been chased by, if not faced, Frenchie armies of fifteen thousand men. This was double that. English armies rarely exceeded six thousand men for logistical reasons – it was difficult to maintain an effective command of more than that on a campaign. He sighted Wat Tyler and the Mad Priest in the front line of the central battle and rode up to them. ‘Well met, Captain Tyler.’

  ‘Sir Thomas.’ Wat nodded.

  ‘The King has agreed to all your terms. He will hand over the charter, and the pardon for Kent, to you in the middle of Smithfield. He wishes to thank you for granting his mother safe conduct at the Tower. You may bring one standard bearer with you, under a flag of truce.’

  ‘The King will come here and meet with us – on our terms, not his
!’ said John. ‘He will come and humble himself in front of the army of Heaven, and the King of Kings and Lord of Lords. This is the will of God.’

  ‘The King wishes it to be known he will not be intimidated or disrespected by you priest, as happened at Mile End yesterday.’ Sir Thomas enjoyed saying those scolding words.

  ‘Let the King himself tell me that. Not some parrot!’ John was livid. So close to victory, so close to bringing the Kingdom of Heaven down to Earth, he would not be reproached like this by this ignoble False Noble.

  ‘I am the King’s Sword, charged with delivering this message from the King.’ Sir Thomas’s mouth was so dry his lips felt like they were curling back in on themselves into a snarl. ‘What say you, Captain Tyler?’

  ‘Jack – you with me?’ Wat asked.

  ‘I’m with you, Wat. Me, and my bow.’ Jack dismounted to string the bow stave with hemp cord.

  ‘Sir Thomas,’ Wat said, ‘tell the King we’ll meet him halfway for parley.’

  ‘He is riding there already in anticipation of meeting you.’ Sir Thomas nodded, wheeled his charger and galloped off, full tilt, to report to the King.

  ‘How dare you undermine me in front of the nobles,’ John said to Wat.

  Wat’s back was already tightening like a bowstring, and his hamstrings were quivering with battle-rage. The senses heightened when a man, full of fury, rode to war. A farmer would never know how alive a man might feel at a moment like this. Nor would a priest. Never ever! ‘Don’t you see, John – this is a perfect opportunity to seize the King.’

  ‘You are going to seize the King?’ asked John.

  ‘As you said – we have no choice.’ Wat fought Sleipnir for control as the stallion quickened with excitement, itching for a gallop.

  ‘Then God go with you,’ said John, clamping his hands together in prayer, fingers interlacing to make one big fist. ‘Trust in the Lord and you shall prevail.’

  Wat wheeled headstrong Sleipnir round. Waste of breath to invoke God before battle. God stood awkwardly aside like a husband must at birth, while the midwife of Nature got her hands good and bloody. ‘It’s up to you and me Jack. You feeling accurate?’

  ‘Dead-eye Dick, me.’ Jack tested the bow flexion.

  ‘I’ll grab the King. You shoot the horses out from underneath the escorts. Then we ride right back here.’

  Jack mounted up. ‘St George!’ he cried, and they rode out together into the middle of the field to meet the King.

  XXII

  ‘With whom do you hold?’ Ed shouted out of an arrow-hole in the gate-tower, bow nocked and at the ready. A column of troops had ridden up, flying the king’s colours. Numbering in the hundreds. He didn’t need this aggravation, of shooting them, or telling them to go back. He was dog-tired, homesick, and seriously thinking about deserting in the next couple of days.

  ‘With King Richard and the True Commons,’ answered Alderman Horn.

  ‘Lies should always be close allies to the truth,’ Sir Simon said to Alderman Horn, the words hollowed, tinny through a closed visor.

  Alderman Horn laughed dutifully. ‘Never were truer words spoken.’

  Sir Simon was committed to his plan of attack, this great spell he had cast. William Wallace, leader of the Scottish rebellion, died a traitor’s death at Smithfield. Wat Tyler, leader of the Kentish rebellion would die a traitor’s death at Smithfield. This nigredo, this mortificatio would lead to gold, the rebirth of the sun, the philosopher’s stone for the King and his kingdom.

  Ed wound his way down the steep spiralling stairs, out of the gate-tower. ‘Bishop’s Gate is closed, friends.’

  ‘I am Alderman Horn, good fellow. You must open the gates.’

  Sir Simon looked down on the big archer through the slits in his visor, sun lighting his smiling face.

  Ed recognised the Alderman, strode up to the side of his warhorse. ‘I rode with you and Jack Straw.’

  ‘So you did, man. Yes.’ Alderman Horn smiled. He might turn this chance acquaintance to his advantage. ‘Can you raise the portcullis now?’

  ‘Sorry, Alderman Horn. Captain Tyler has ordered the gate kept shut.’ Ed shrugged his huge shoulders. He yawned.

  ‘Strange. Captain Tyler gave me orders to ride to Smithfield through this gate to reinforce him?’

  ‘Wat told me that no one was allowed through Bishop’s Gate,’ Ed said. ‘Not even God!’

  ‘When was this?’ Alderman Horn said, feigning confusion.

  ‘Two hours ago.’

  ‘Two hours, you’re sure?’ Alderman Horn said.

  They had to get through to support the King. Sir Simon stealthily drew a roundel dagger out of its sheath. He sidled his stallion in closer, making it look like the horse had moved towards the rebel.

  Ed nodded, patted the uppity horse on the neck to calm it. ‘I’m as sure as sure can be.’

  ‘Then I am at loss,’ Alderman Horn shrugged. ‘We were to exit Bishop’s Gate, move up the flanks by St Bartholomew’s, and surround the royal party.’ The real battle plan was exit Bishop’s Gate, wait for the signal – a single horn blown three times – to attack the rebels from behind, take them by surprise, confound their archers, and ride them down like dogs.

  ‘Sorry, sir.’ Ed said, scratching the back of his head. ‘Nothing I can do for you.’

  ‘So am I, friend,’ said Alderman Horn.

  Sir Simon stabbed down into the rebel’s face. The blade slid in effortlessly through the nose and eyes, through the brain, grinding on the skull at the back. The falling carcass wrenched the blade out of his hand, down to the ground. He let it lie – Death was the one thief one cannot arrest!

  ‘Raise the portcullis!’ Alderman Horn ordered.

  One of his men from Billingsgate, Michael Kane, dismounted and grumped off to do his bidding. Finding Abel passed out in the wheelhouse, he stabbed the old man in the throat, watched his eyes open bright with surprise, and then fade dull in death. He wiped the blood of his dagger onto Lazybones’ vest, and raised the portcullis.

  XXIII

  It was David versus Goliath. The Kentish host was the largest army ever seen on English soil. King Richard let go the reins of Bucephalus, lifted the crown, and wiped his brow. He was perspiring heavily under his robe, under the weight of the finest Frenchie plate armour he was wearing beneath his doublet. It was pointless, would not save him from an arrow.

  ‘Here he comes,’ Sir Thomas said. ‘His second is an archer.’

  ‘Archer or no,’ Sir Robert said. ‘We must cut the head off this snake. Tyler must not leave this field alive, no matter what the cost.’

  Mayor Walworth and his squire, Ralph Standish – a veteran of many of the Black Prince’s campaigns in France and Spain, a man riding a white horse – nodded.

  Wat rode Sleipnir, snorting and stamping, up to the royal escort. ‘Only four marks for you.’

  ‘I almost pity them,’ said Jack before they stopped, ten yards from the Boy King himself.

  King Richard steadied the unnerved Bucephalus – and himself – with a good pat on the neck. ‘Well met, Captain Tyler.’

  ‘My King,’ Wat replied.

  ‘We thank you for coming to parley with us. You shall have your charters from Sir Thomas forthwith, but we wanted a word with you before those formalities.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We called you out here because our mother was moved by your story. The violation of your daughter by Sir Robert’s taxmen. Your quest for justice. And we wanted to know that your daughter is very much in our thoughts.’ King Richard smiled – a terrible smile, a smile full of hate.

  Wat flinched.

  Jack spoke for him: ‘You dare to threaten his daughter? With this army at his back?’

  ‘No. No. You misunderstand.’ King Richard softened his voice to its most boyish tone. ‘But, if Sir Robert Knolles were here this moment, Tyler – would you fight him for your daughter’s life, man-to-man, trial by combat?’

  ‘Bastard Knolles should pay for what
he has done.’

  ‘Let us fight for your daughter then, Serjeant Tyler!’ Sir Robert said, hands going to his basinet. He removed it and tossed it down to the ground so that Tyler could look him full in the face and see the hatred there.

  ‘Knolles!’ Wat’s hand went to the hilt of his sword, a reflex.

  ‘Bastard fucking Knolles!’ Jack leapt out of the saddle, nocked a swallowtail and drew, trying to mark Knolles, but the King was blocking the shot.

  Sir Thomas cried: ‘To draw a weapon in the presence of the King is treason!’ and he rode at the archer tucked into as small a target as possible in his saddle, using the horse’s head as cover.

  Jack shot for the horse’s chest, and hit.

  Sir Thomas’ stallion crumpled underneath him, pitching him forwards, over the neck, through the air, arms and sword whirling, riding momentum, flying headfirst, mashing into the ground, rolling head-over-heels, armoured edges scouring clods of turf up, and lying there, looking at Heaven, stunned to be alive.

  Jack nocked another swallowtail and took aim at Knolles’ horse.

  Sir Robert took evasive action, jinking left, but the arrow penetrated the hind quarter of the charger. The pain-maddened stallion bucked him out of the saddle, and he crashed to earth.

  Wat spurred Sleipnir towards the King. He rode up and seized the reins of Bucephalus from the stunned boy’s grip. ‘You’re coming with us.’

  ‘I am not,’ King Richard exclaimed.

  Jack took aim at Mayor Walworth’s horse, and shot. The arrow hit it in the withers and all it wanted to do was run from the agony there, carrying its rider away like the wind.

  Squire Standish rode up to Tyler and chopped his sword down into the head of the varlet’s horse.

  Sleipnir staggered as metal cut into bone, and Wat’s grip on the King’s reins faltered. Then the whole world collapsed sideways, felling him, winding him. He struggled to get up but was so deadened in the plate armour, all his limbs turned to lead, lead encased in steel, he could barely raise his head. Through the slits in his visor, he saw the King canter away. Before he had sense to know it, Sir Robert was upon him, stabbing a sword down into the joins about the neck. He screamed as the blade slid in, white fire, beneath his collarbone.