The Great Revolt Read online

  Everyone in the royal party knew this could slip into a day of wrath, a time of slaughter. Royal advisors like Cranston and Walworth were committed. They truly believed the rebel army should be militarily confronted and summarily defeated. It was only a matter of time before the rebel leaders realised they needed to seize the great offices of state, the Chancery and the Treasury at Westminster. Once they had control of these they could begin to dictate orders to sheriffs, bailiffs and harbour masters; all those royal officials in the far-flung shires would see the council seal and act accordingly. Sitting on his gentle palfrey, Athelstan again wondered about his parishioners. He closed his eyes and said a swift prayer. Trumpets brayed again, horse hooves skittered on the cobbles. Cranston turned his mount, standing high in the stirrups.

  ‘Gentlemen!’ he bellowed. ‘We march out to confront the rebel leaders. This meeting could end in sword and dagger play. Blood will be shed, but whose blood is a matter for God to decide.’

  Athelstan’s heart skipped a beat at the coroner’s next words.

  ‘I cannot speak for you, but I give you good advice on what I will do for myself. I do not intend to be taken prisoner. I will not be mocked, reviled and dragged through Cheapside to be taunted by the very rogues I would cheerfully hang. However,’ Cranston paused for effect, ‘this day will be ours. Before that sun sets His Grace the King will have won his city back. God be with us all. St George! St George!’

  ‘St George! St George!’ the royal party echoed back. A last shrill of trumpets. The King, who had sat immobile throughout, lifted a hand and the royal party clattered across the lowered drawbridge, the sharpened hooves of the destriers echoing sombrely like the roll of a drum on the day of battle. They were planning to go to Smithfield, but Richard wanted to visit the Plantagenet mausoleum at Westminster. He needed to pray to the saintly King Edward and draw strength from the spirits of his ancestors. Cranston had agreed, though he had insisted that they ride with all speed and not delay.

  They crossed the stinking Fleet river choked with animal corpses and all the filth of the city. Beneath the bridge the Fleet swirled a black, oozing mass. A place of horror and foul odours where carrion birds, feathery wings touching, almost covered the slime-coated mess, their beaks constantly stabbing for morsels. The summer sun and the breakdown of order in the city meant the midden heaps had been allowed to fester and poison the air more thoroughly. The King and his escort, covering mouth and nose, rode on, following the river road past the grim signs of pillaging and arson. The Temple buildings, ransacked and battered, were covered by a heavy pall of smoke fed by fires still smouldering within. Other houses and inns had been wrecked beyond repair. Walls torn down, gates and fences shredded, their inhabitants smoked out to face degradation, torture and summary execution at different places along the way. They passed scaffolds, gibbets and gallows festooned with corpses or decorated with bloody body parts and severed heads. Mounds of documents had been seized, cut up and cast to the breeze, so the scraps whirled in the air like dirty snowflakes.

  An eerie, brooding silence hung over this usually busy ward of the city, the meeting place for lawyers, clerks and all the royal officials who worked at Westminster. Here and there small bands of rebels, armoured and buckled for war, gathered at the mouths of alleyways. Occasionally Earthworms in their grotesque garb would also appear, but they prudently kept their distance from this well-armed royal party. They continued on into the deserted, stricken village of Charing, where they were met by a party of priests from the Collegiate Church of St Stephen, gorgeous coats and mantles about them, shaven heads bowed in prayer, bare feet slipping on the muddy trackway, softly chanting a psalm and incensing the air with thuribles. The priests accompanied the royal party until they were under the gorgeous mass of Westminster Abbey, now desecrated by the murders which had taken place there recently.

  The royal party dismounted and entered the abbey. Athelstan followed Cranston into the cold, sweet-smelling darkness. In public protest at the outrage perpetrated by the rebels, no candle or taper lit the gloom. No incense bowl glowed, no brazier crackled. The King, now escorted by the abbot, prior and other leading black monks, made his way up the abbey nave and into the royal sanctuary, where the tombs of former kings and queens ringed the splendid shrine of Edward the Confessor. King Richard, on his knees, mounted the steps smoothed by the visit of countless pilgrims over the centuries. The King crossed himself and pressed his face against the cool marble tomb of the Confessor.

  Afterwards he declared he wanted to meet the abbey anchorite whose cell stood in a nearby garden. The royal party then broke up, some going to pay their respects to the shrine, others drifting into the darkness for whispered heated discussion. Cranston was led away by the rubicund, burly-faced mayor, William Walworth. Both men stood, heads close together, arguing fiercely, now and again their fingers dropping to brush the hilt of sword and dagger as they rehearsed for the final time what they intended to do at Smithfield.

  Athelstan, feeling tired, sat down beside one of the pillars, resting his sweaty back against the cool, grey stone and letting his mind return to the murderous mystery shrouding Blackfriars. The true fate of Edward II had to be ignored, he reflected. He must now construct those two paths, two lines of strict enquiry: the attacks and murders recently carried out in and around the mother house; and the close link between the events of 1327 and 1381, namely the Dominican order. He felt a slight nudge and glanced up. Cranston was standing over him.

  ‘Brother, it is time, we must go.’

  They left the abbey. Cranston helped the King back into the saddle and the royal party, bristling with weapons, made their way out and down to the city. A company of White Hart archers joined them at Ludgate and served as a screen around the royal party, hemming them in, so Athelstan could see little of the city they passed through. Nevertheless, it was a heart-chilling experience. The air reeked of fetid smells, smoke and the salty, iron tang of blood spilt like wine pouring from a cracked vat. The usual noise and clamour of London had died to a murmur of voices, an occasional strident yell or a piercing scream. Flames still licked the sky and, when the escort of horsemen parted slightly, Athelstan glimpsed corpses hanging from shop and tavern signs. He wondered how safe the King truly was from any malignant master bowman possibly lurking in an upper chamber of one of the houses they passed. He and Cranston had once feared that Gaunt might arrange his nephew’s sudden, brutal death in such a way, but that threat had now receded. Treasons had a life of their own, and those who plotted them had to change and adapt to the politics of the hour. The revolt had, at least in the city, been grimly successful. Consequently, all the former conspiracies, intrigues, alliances and secret confederacies would have to respond accordingly. The revolt had now turned into a mêlée where anyone could seize power and win victory.

  Cranston urged the royal party to move swiftly. He and Mayor Walworth now rode very close either side of the King. Athelstan felt a cold tension seize him. He could not see Cranston’s face, yet he was certain the coroner was now lost in his own world: he had decided on what to do and nothing under the sun, not even the threat of death, would deter him. To distract himself, Athelstan tried to concentrate on the murderous mayhem at Blackfriars. Alberic, vigorous and strong, a former soldier stabbed in his chamber, the door closed, sealed and locked, no sign of any resistance. Pernel was as mad as a March hare yet canny enough. Just what had happened to her? Or to Brother Roger, poisoned so mysteriously? Odo Brecon, murdered in a place where no one knew he was, except for Prior Anselm and Athelstan himself …

  ‘Be prepared!’ Cranston shouted. Athelstan glanced up. They were approaching Smithfield, breaking free of the city and entering that ancient site, the great open-air trading ground for cattle, horses and other livestock. Smithfield, or Smoothfield as it had once been called, provided the stage for tournaments, markets, festivals and races, the haunt of magicians’ booths who offered all kinds of potions and remedies. Smithfield was also the execution ground
for East London, good use being made of the long-branched elms clustered to the north beyond the horse pool. Here traitors were dragged on sledges to be strangled, castrated and gutted, their bowels burnt before them, their bodies hacked into steaming quarters, to be boiled and tarred like their severed heads before being displayed on London Bridge or above the city gates. A sombre place where numerous Upright Men and Earthworms had been executed. The rebel leaders had chosen well.

  The royal party skirted the soaring towers and gables of the Augustinian priory of St Bartholomew and abruptly paused at what lay before them. They broke up, spreading out into a line. Athelstan’s heart skipped a beat. The rebel army, deployed for battle, was waiting for them only two bowshots away. Long columns of men massed into serried ranks under their floating red and black banners. Many of the rebels were armed with warbows at the ready, stakes thrust into the ground before them to deter any sudden attack by horsemen. Organised, menacing in their silence, the rebel army was a formidable battle array: disciplined under their serjeants the Earthworms, who stood ready to give the order to advance. Many of the royal party were dumbfounded. A few turned their horses to ride away. Cranston and Walworth, however, seemed unimpressed.

  Determined not to be cowed, they gestured at the King to stay as they spurred towards the rebel lines. Athelstan had no choice but to follow, his sumpter pony delicately picking its way over the grassy soil cut by countless horses’ hooves. Closer and closer they drew to the rebel lines. Some of the archers began stringing their bows. Cranston and Walworth reined in. The coroner, standing high in the stirrups, bellowed for Wat Tyler to approach His Grace the King and present his petitions. Athelstan held his breath. Cranston was playing a deadly game of hazard, placing everything on one throw of the dice. Again Cranston made his demand.

  The rebel ranks rippled and broke; a lone horseman emerged, gently urging his small palfrey across the grass towards Cranston. He rode coolly, calmly, leisurely and in open mockery of the hasty royal summons. The rider continued such mummery. He paused to adjust the reins, turning slightly in the saddle, one mittened hand raised to acknowledge the salutations of his followers clustered under their banners. The rider came on. He was dressed simply in jacket, leather leggings and shabby boots, his head and face almost hidden by a deep capuchon. He pushed this back as he approached to reveal a hard-lined, unshaven face, deep-set eyes under beetling brows, his hairlip even more pronounced by the self-satisfied smirk.

  ‘You are?’ Cranston bellowed.

  ‘You know me well, Coroner. Wat Tyler of the True Commons,’ the rebel leader yelled back and his followers roared their approval.

  Athelstan threaded the reins of his sumpter pony through his hands and scrutinised Tyler. This Kentish captain was truly a dangerous man. Trusted by the Great Community of the Realm, the Earthworms and the Upright Men, and, both Cranston and Athelstan suspected, in secret alliance with Thibault – or at least he had been. The storm which now swept London and the eastern shires had led to many changes. Was Tyler considering seizing power for himself, and was this charade a part of it? Tyler was certainly acting. He was dressed simply, posing as the Everyman of village plays, Simple Simon or Piers Ploughman, a true Son of the Soil, a representative of the ground-hacking world of the manor peasant, the honest, upright, rustic litigant seeking justice. Athelstan knew it to be a lie. Tyler was as greedy for the trappings of power as any avaricious clerk at Westminster.

  ‘You, sir, may approach His Grace,’ Cranston roared.

  Tyler arrogantly reined in, swaying slightly in the saddle. Athelstan wondered if the rebel leader had drunk too deeply of London ale. One hand on the hilt of his dagger, Tyler cocked his right leg over and slid arrogantly from the saddle. He carefully brushed himself down then sauntered towards the King, half curtseyed, then lunged forward, grabbing Richard’s arm.

  ‘Brother?’ Tyler rasped. ‘Be of good comfort and stay joyful, for you shall have, in the fortnight yet to come, forty thousand more commons than you have now and we shall all be good companions.’

  ‘Why do you not go back to your shires?’ Richard’s voice betrayed his desperation.

  ‘Neither I nor my companions will return to our shires until we have our charters.’ Tyler scowled, head cocked to one side, like a master reproving his apprentice. He drew close to the King’s horse and began to lecture Richard on the True Commons’ demand: a lengthy but blunt description of the rebel grievances. Richard replied that he would grant everything as long as the rights of the Crown were both protected and respected. After that, silence.

  During Tyler’s harangue, Cranston and Walworth had moved their horses slightly in front of the King’s. Tyler swayed on his feet. ‘I am thirsty,’ he rasped, ‘I need a drink.’ Someone in the King’s entourage hastily fetched a pannikin of water. Tyler took a generous mouthful, swirled it around and spat it out contemptuously in front of the King. A growl of disapproval rose from the royal party. Cranston’s hand had slipped beneath his cloak. Tyler now demanded a jug of ale, this too was brought. Again the rebel leader washed his mouth out and spat it on to the ground, making Richard’s horse whinny and start. Tyler gave a loud sigh. He insultingly turned his back on the King and remounted his own horse. Cranston moved forward, hand still beneath his cloak.

  ‘You, sir,’ Cranston bellowed at Tyler, ‘are nothing better than a low-born varlet, a wolfshead worthy of hanging, a criminal from Kent who should decorate the stocks and gibbet. How dare you insult your king!’

  Tyler drew his dagger, pushing his horse forward.

  ‘Treason!’ Cranston shouted. ‘It is treason to draw your blade in the royal presence.’

  ‘Arrest him!’ Walworth cried, spurring forward, sword drawn.

  Tyler thrust at the mayor but the blade buckled on the chainmail shirt beneath Walworth’s jerkin. Cranston, dagger drawn, now hemmed the rebel in from the other side, pushing him away from the King. Tyler turned to lunge at the coroner. Cranston parried the blow, thrust his own dagger deep into Tyler’s neck, drew it out and struck again, smashing the blade into the rebel’s skull. Tyler jerked wildly, blood splattering everywhere. Others from the royal party now surrounded the rebel leader. Cranston struck again. Tyler, slumped across his horse, managed to turn his mount, spurring it back towards the rebel ranks. The small horse, however, frightened and skittish, stumbled and swerved, pitching Tyler from the saddle. Walworth, joined by others, turned away.

  The rebel ranks, watching in stunned silence, abruptly broke into shouts and yells. Archers, under the direction of the Earthworms, hurried forward. Bows were strung. One line knelt down; a second line stood behind them. Arrows were plucked from quivers, feathered shafts were fitted. The deadly arc-shaped bows swung up, twine pulled back between leather-coated fingers.

  ‘Now, Sire!’ Cranston yelled. He pushed his horse alongside the King’s, whispering heatedly. Richard nodded, spurred his mount forward and, followed by Cranston and a bemused Athelstan, galloped towards the rebel ranks even as arrow shafts ripped through the air.

  ‘Will you loose at your king?’ Cranston bellowed. He reined in, gesturing at Richard to do likewise.

  ‘I am your liege lord,’ Richard, high in the stirrups, proudly proclaimed. ‘I am Christ’s Anointed, your king. I command you as my True Commons to desist and follow me.’

  ‘Follow His Grace,’ Cranston shouted, ‘out of here to Clerkenwell fields.’

  Athelstan stared in utter disbelief. Richard’s courageous action, Cranston’s authority, their leader lying prostrate on the ground and the sight of the royal party, swords now drawn, moving as a force behind their king, froze the rebels’ wits and blunted their hostility. Despite the screamed orders of the Earthworms, bows were lowered, arrows removed and the rebel ranks broke up, becoming more of a milling crowd than an army. Other members of the royal party now took up position. A phalanx of knights and mounted archers surrounded the King, swords drawn, shields at the ready. Messages were hastily despatched to the Tower, Castle
Baynard and Westminster with the startling news that the rebel army was breaking up, and both King and rebels were moving towards Clerkenwell.

  Cranston, however, refused to leave. Clutching the reins of his horse, he stared down at the little friar mounted beside him. Athelstan had never seen the coroner in such a mood. The fat, jovial-faced, wine-swigging law officer was now all hard-eyed, lips half-open, chin aggressively tilted. He continued to peer down at Athelstan as if the friar was a complete stranger. Athelstan glanced around. Smithfield was emptying fast. Like sheep who had found their shepherd, the peasants were now flocking around the King as if he would personally lead them to the New Jerusalem.

  ‘You struck hard,’ Athelstan murmured.

  ‘Yes, I did, and I am not finished.’ Cranston pointed to where a group of Earthworms were now taking the fallen Tyler on a makeshift stretcher through the gates of St Bartholomew’s. Apart from those few loyal followers, the fallen rebel leader seemed to be both forsaken and forgotten.

  ‘In France,’ Cranston muttered, as if talking to himself, ‘we always struck at the leader. Walworth and I decided on the same strategy. Now we have to finish it. Ah, at last …’

  Athelstan turned to follow Cranston’s direction. Flaxwith and his bailiffs were striding across the open field, swords and cudgels at the ready. ‘Good,’ Cranston breathed. ‘Let’s complete what we’ve begun.’

  The coroner led the bailiffs across through the yawning gateway of St Bartholomew’s priory and hospital. Athelstan followed like a dream walker. Deep in his heart the friar accepted what Cranston had done was legal, moral and very necessary. The coroner had defended his king against both abuse and murder. Cranston had kept faith and now he would deal with the consequences of that. Athelstan felt his shoulder shaken. He stared up into the coroner’s icy-blue eyes.