The Great Revolt Read online

  ‘You must stay with me, little friar. I am no assassin but the King’s own officer, Lord High Coroner of London.’ Cranston pointed towards the main door of the hospital. ‘Tyler is a rebel who mocked our king and drew his weapon in the royal presence. We must make an example of him.’ They entered the cool darkness of St Bartholomew’s, Flaxwith and his bailiffs trailing behind. The hospital was in uproar with white-aproned servants hurrying around tending to those brought in from the turbulence in the city. Brother Phillippe, the chief physician, appeared highly agitated. He and Athelstan exchanged the kiss of peace. The master of the hospital immediately began to defend what his brothers had done. According to their charter and their oath, they did not distinguish between rebels and those loyal to the crown.

  ‘Never mind that.’ Cranston grasped the physician by the shoulder. ‘I have come to claim one man only. You know who it is. A rebel and a traitor worthy of death.’ Brother Phillippe, his furrowed face all anxious, his popping blue eyes full of fear, nodded and sank to his knees, hands clasped.

  ‘Tyler is in the common dormitory,’ he whispered. ‘There is little more we can do for him. He is beyond all practical help.’

  ‘But not beyond mine,’ Cranston retorted. ‘Master Tyler is headed for a meeting with God and it is time I hurried him on his way.’ The coroner strode deeper into the hospital, sword and dagger drawn, the good brothers scattering before him. He went up the stairs following the trail of fresh blood which led into the dormitory. Athelstan hurried to keep up with him, fingering the rosary beads he had in his wallet. Tyler lay on a truckle bed just to the side of the door, the wounds to his face, chest and head swilled with blood. The Earthworms had left him there and fled by a different route. Cranston strode over to the rebel leader. He stared down at him for a few heartbeats before gesturing at Flaxwith. ‘Not here,’ he rasped, ‘out in the open.’

  Tyler was lost in his own delirium. The bailiffs dragged him to his feet and pushed him down the stairs. Brother Phillippe was waiting for them in the hallway.

  ‘He is not in sanctuary,’ Cranston declared. ‘He is nothing but a wolfshead. Stand aside, Brother.’ Phillippe did so. Cranston led Flaxwith and the prisoner out of St Bartholomew’s and across to the execution platform in the centre of Smithfield. No one objected. No one resisted as Flaxwith and his bailiffs shoved a gibbering Tyler up the steps on to the scaffold, pushing him down, pressing his head against the execution block. Athelstan approached and whispered words of absolution. Cranston, cloak thrown back, lifted his great two-edged sword. He stood above the kneeling prisoner, now soaked in blood and sobbing at the pain from his wounds.

  ‘For taking arms against the King,’ Cranston intoned, ‘drawing his weapon in the presence of His Grace the King. For this and other manifest crimes and horrible treasons.’ He stepped back slightly, swung his sword and in one clean, scything cut, severed Tyler’s head to send it bouncing like a ball across the planks. Cranston lowered his sword, digging the tip of the blade into the wood as he watched the severed corpse pump out its life blood.

  ‘Judgement carried out,’ the coroner breathed. ‘Justice is done.’ He pointed at the severed head. ‘Flaxwith, put that on the end of a pole and take it to His Grace the King at Clerkenwell.’

  PART FIVE

  ‘Falseness And Guile Have Reigned Too Long.’

  (The Letters of John Ball)

  Athelstan sat on a stone garden bench overlooking the deep carp pond of Blackfriars. A lovely warm summer’s afternoon. The flower beds, herb plots and shrubberies were bright with butterfly colour and pleasantly noisy with echoing birdsong. Athelstan watched a heron float majestically backwards and forwards across the pond, its keen eyes and beak ready to seize one of the fat, golden carp moving sinuously beneath the water lilies. Brother Hugh had noticed Athelstan strolling in the garden and given the friar a stick with a plea that he’d guard the carp pond until the heron grew weary of its siege. Athelstan absent-mindedly shook the cane at the marauding bird.

  Five days had passed since Tyler’s hoodless, severed head had been publicly poled, first at Clerkenwell Fields and then at London Bridge. The death of their leader had led to the sudden and unexpected collapse of all resistance by the rebels to the Crown. The peasantry broke apart. They streamed out of London into the shires, only to encounter troops under manor lords and great seigneurs such as Hugh Despenser, the warlike and aggressive Bishop of Norwich. In the city, loyal aldermen such as Brembre and Walworth had whistled up their rifflers and their roaring boys whilst the guildsmen were also organising their levies. Law and order were being ruthlessly enforced; the gallows, scaffolds and gibbets hung heavy with the corpses of malefactors. Cranston had never been busier in his judgement chamber at the Guildhall.

  Athelstan, left to his own devices, had spent his time reflecting on what had happened at both Blackfriars and the Tower. He had been through most of Brother Roger’s manuscripts, stumbling on to the fact that the chronicler, just before his death, had been busy drawing up memoranda on the Dunheved brothers. He had concentrated on their opposition to Queen Isabella and Mortimer, their seizure and imprisonment in Newgate and the work and intervention of Brother Eadred. The latter was proving most interesting. A former member of Blackfriars, Eadred had served as chaplain in Newgate before being appointed as prior to the Dominican house in Oxford and eventually provincial of the entire order in England. Apparently Eadred had ministered to the Dunheveds when they were in prison: after they had died there, probably of jail fever, he organised the removal of their corpses for proper burial in God’s Acre at Blackfriars.

  Athelstan had also tried to talk to Fieschi and his two henchmen, Cassian and Isidore, but the Italians were more intent on drawing up their conclusions and drafting a letter to both the King and the Abbot of Gloucester about opening Edward’s tomb in Gloucester Abbey. Athelstan was still deeply suspicious about what Fieschi intended. Would they, Athelstan wondered, at the behest of their master the Pope, draw up two reports? The first would suggest that Edward II was martyred at Berkeley Castle in September 1327 and so worthy of sainthood. The second report, however, could argue that, according to the evidence, Edward II had probably escaped from Berkeley. Consequently, his last years and death were shrouded in mystery and so the process of canonisation would have to be adjourned. Would the papacy use these two possibilities to wring recognition and support from the English crown? Certainly it would be a persuasive ploy by the powers-that-be. From what he knew about the papacy in Rome, Athelstan thought such blackmail might well be intended. After all, Richard II would be horrified that his great-grandfather did not lie buried in Gloucester, and the magnificent tomb which he and others had patronised was no more than a sham.

  ‘Athelstan, in the name of God …’

  The friar started as Brother John the gatekeeper swept into the garden, almost stumbling over a flower bed. Behind him his two companions Hugh and Matthias seemed equally agitated.

  ‘Brother Athelstan, you had best come, you have visitors …’

  Athelstan, when he arrived in the bailey, could only stare in absolute amazement at the high prison cart with its narrow bars, pulled in by two great dray horses, the reins held by soldiers, their heads and faces hidden behind gleaming bascinets. Men similarly armed served as the cart’s escort and the great cobbled bailey of Blackfriars echoed to the clatter of their horses’ hooves, the morning air reeking of sweat, leather and horse dung. One of the leading riders swung himself down from his high saddle. Two others followed suit, their cloaks billowing out. Helmets were removed and Athelstan gazed into the light blue, innocent eyes of Master Thibault, John of Gaunt’s Master of Secrets, a man Athelstan secretly considered to be the devil incarnate.

  ‘Well, well, well.’ Thibault, hands extended, a lazy smile on his cherubic face, turned so all could see him. Then, laughing to himself, the Master of Secrets tossed his helmet to Albinus, his perpetual shadow and most willing accomplice in all the mischief his master hatched and plo
tted. Athelstan nodded at Albinus, raising a hand in greeting. He noticed that Albinus’ snow-white hair was closely cropped, his pallid face twisted in a grin, those eerie, pink-rimmed eyes studying Athelstan closely. The other visitor was John Ferrour, who looked as if he was about to attend a royal tournament, his blonde hair all crimped and coiffed, his smooth face gleaming with sweet-smelling nard.

  ‘St Michael and all his angels!’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘The warriors of England have returned. And these?’ He gestured at the heavily armoured men sitting in their saddles like the heralds of Hell.

  ‘My Genoese boys,’ Thibault lisped. ‘Lovely lads. They have been very busy on my behalf. But come, Brother Athelstan, we are so pleased to see you. I know you must have missed us. I can tell that,’ he added sardonically, ‘by your eyes. You must have wondered where I was?’ Thibault pointed at Ferrour. ‘I was never very far, either in the flesh and certainly not in spirit. So greetings, Brother.’

  Athelstan had no choice but to exchange the kiss of peace with all three men. Prior Anselm and the other friars who had been watching proceedings walked forward, curious about the cart. Thibault smiled and raised a hand, and the huge tailgate was unbolted, crashing down against the cobbles. ‘Bring them out.’ Thibault smiled at Albinus. Two of the horsemen dismounted, climbed into the back of the cart and helped the prisoners within to clamber down into the bailey. The men, eyes blinking, hands raised, stumbled out of the prison cage, staring around in surprise and amazement.

  ‘Impossible!’ Athelstan breathed. ‘God’s angel in heaven!’ The friar, aware of Thibault’s mocking laughter, could only stare in amazement as the men of his parish staggered around, rubbing their faces. They were all there: Watkin, Pike, Ranulf, Hig, Crispin, Joycelyn, Moleskin, Merrylegs and the rest, what Athelstan called ‘the motley crew’. They looked unshaven and unwashed, but in good spirits. Athelstan could see no harm or wound had been inflicted upon any of them. The bailey was now transformed into a noisy, bustling throng. Young Isabella appeared with her severe-faced nurse and ran to greet her father, throwing herself into his arms.

  Athelstan’s parishioners, once they realised where they were, crowded around their parish priest asking a spate of questions as they half answered his. At last Prior Anselm imposed some order. The parishioners, along with their escort, were herded off to the main refectory and the ministrations of the priory kitchen. Athelstan led Thibault, who had now gently eased Isabella back into the arms of her nurse, across into the church, Ferrour and Albinus strolling behind. They went up through the hallowed silence of the nave into the Lady Chapel. Athelstan gestured at Thibault to sit on the wall bench whilst he took a stool to face this ‘master of intrigue’ and ‘lord of misrule’. Thibault seemed totally unabashed, his soft, choirboy face wreathed in a simpering smile which never quite reached his eyes. The Master of Secrets undid his cloak and let it slip down. Athelstan glimpsed the Milanese steel hauberk beneath the costly padded jerkin, and the war-belt which Thibault now loosened around his waist.

  ‘You have looked after yourself well, Master Thibault?’

  ‘As I have you and yours, Brother Athelstan,’ Thibault simpered. ‘I am, and I always will be, eternally grateful for your protection of dearest Isabella during these days of bloody storm. She was safer with you than ever with me. So.’ Thibault peeled off his gauntlets. ‘My Lord of Gaunt has taken his army north to the Scottish march. I was instructed by him to leave the Tower and London. I had no choice …’

  ‘Of course, you never do.’

  ‘Quite. I set up house in Castle Hedingham in Essex, a formidable fortress with an impregnable keep. I have secretly, with my Lord of Gaunt’s permission, signed confidential indentures with Alessandro Brescia and his Genoese companions.’ Thibault’s smile widened. ‘The lovely boys came ashore at Orwell on the Essex coast along with their horses and impedimenta.’

  ‘Ah,’ Athelstan interrupted, ‘so you have brought mercenaries in and fortified Hedingham?’

  ‘Oh, we did more than that. I recalled my great debt to you, Athelstan. So one of my tasks before I left London was to arrest every one of your parishioners. My Genoese boys did that. I left no hint of my involvement but, once we had them, they went for a short stay in the dungeons of Hedingham. Now that sounds much worse than it is.’ Thibault slapped his gauntlets from one hand to the other. ‘Ask them yourself, they were well treated. They had good food, some fine ale and even a cask of my favourite wine. And so, Brother,’ Thibault’s smile faded, ‘when the vengeance comes, and believe me it will, all your parishioners, Upright Men or Earthworms, I don’t care, cannot be indicted for rebellion or depicted as traitors to the King. They are innocent because they are not guilty of anything. During the revolt they were detained at the Crown’s pleasure pending certain enquiries. These have now been completed so they are released without charge both to their priest and their families.’

  Athelstan stared at this cunning contriver. Thibault had undoubtedly plotted with that chief of serpents Gaunt about what they would do and now it was evident. During these last few hurling days both Gaunt and Thibault had withdrawn from any active plotting, adopting instead the safest strategy: to withdraw, watch and wait, though, where possible, they would give matters a helping hand.

  ‘Very, very clever,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘My parishioners can’t be indicted and neither can you or my Lord of Gaunt. Oh, you didn’t do anything wrong but, apart from helping my parishioners, you really didn’t do anything right, did you? You just watched and then jumped. And Master Ferrour was one of your helpmates, I assume?’

  Thibault just smiled.

  ‘You used him,’ Athelstan continued, ‘on matters at Blackfriars and, above all, at the Tower, especially amongst those poor unfortunates who were murdered there.’

  Thibault’s face tensed.

  ‘I do wonder,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘yes, I do. I have reflected on what happened. Sir John, Ferrour and myself journeyed there. The coroner managed to escape; I did not, at least not immediately. Now while I was in the Tower somebody, Master Thibault, opened a postern door and let the rebels into the fortress. I suspect it was some forgotten, narrow entrance but wide enough for a group of determined Earthworms. The main gates and doors were eventually forced, the rebels streamed in and mayhem ensued. A number of royal councillors – Archbishop Sudbury, Treasurer Hailes and the tax assessor Legge – were brutally executed. No one could save them, though Ferrour was there to protect Gaunt’s son, Henry of Derby. In the end the rebels did not make a clean sweep. To achieve that, they would need to take your head, Master Thibault, and that of your royal master.’

  Thibault was now as watchful as a hunting cat. ‘You will publicly mourn Sudbury, Hailes and Legge,’ Athelstan continued, ‘but at the same time they were not of your party, your persuasion; all three would often oppose you and my Lord of Gaunt. But they will not do that any more, will they? They have gone to God whilst you, Master Thibault, and my Lord of Gaunt can sweep back into London as the saviours of both King and kingdom, ready to dominate the royal council. Nevertheless, Master Thibault, I warn you, in this sacred place: King Richard will not forget what actually happened during these last few weeks. Who was where, when and who did what. Richard now recognises how close he became to being toppled and how only he, together with my good friend Sir Jack Cranston, Lord High Coroner of this city, saved the day. Remember that, Master Thibault, for if you forget it, you do so at your own peril.’

  Thibault sat on the bench, head down, staring at the floor. When he glanced up all his bonhomie had faded. He simply stared at Athelstan, then nodded, lips moving as if speaking to himself. He called for his henchmen and swept out of the church. Athelstan lit a taper before the statue of the Virgin, murmured an ‘Ave’ and followed suit.

  He crossed to the refectory where his parishioners were regaling Brother Paschal about what had happened at Hedingham. They had eaten well on strips of goose and fresh lamb, soft white bread and fruit from the priory orchard.
They’d drunk even better, downing jugs of Paschal’s rich brown ale, so they greeted their parish priest with raucous shouts of welcome. At first all was confusion as Pike explained that they had first thought their kidnapping had been the work of Athelstan and Cranston, but they had soon realised the plot had been hatched by Thibault. They were all relieved and happy to be free. Athelstan sensed they knew what was happening in Southwark and elsewhere. All was breaking down. The Great Community of the Realm, the authority of the Upright Men and the power of the Earthworms had been shattered.

  There was a mixture of heady relief amongst Athelstan’s parishioners at their escape and a dawning realisation that, as their parish priest had always prophesised, in the end the Lords of the Soil would have their way. No New Jerusalem would arise along the banks of the Thames. The doggerel chants about the brotherhood of men and their equality before God would be brutally swept away and trodden underfoot. The Day of the Great Slaughter had come and gone. They were under no illusion about what was happening. War cogs had appeared on the Thames. Lines of horsemen, dust rising above them, thundered into the city and behind them marched column after column of archers and men-at-arms. Despite their bravura, the men of St Erconwald’s were secretly cowed. Tales of the bloodletting in the city and the eastern shires were sweeping the friary. Any desire amongst Athelstan’s parishioners to be further involved in the unrest had been destroyed. These were family men who, like the thousands streaming back into Kent and Essex, simply wished to be away from it all, at home with their kith and kin.

  Athelstan made sure his parishioners remained well and safe. They were fed, their clothes laundered. Athelstan even managed to secure a small amount from the alms box to help them on their return. Moleskin offered to secure a barge to get them all across to the Southwark side. Athelstan assured them that when they returned home they would find all was well, except for poor Pernel. He described her death, though he gave no hint that she may have been involved in something much more sinister. The men crossed themselves and, when their parish priest questioned them about the old Fleming, they added very little to what he already knew: her foolish chatter and her fondness for a pottle of ale. Athelstan then excused himself, explaining that business at Blackfriars would detain him for some time. He warned them that, once back safely in their homes, they should all lie low, avoid any confrontation, even avoid assembling together in the Piebald Tavern or elsewhere. The friar explained it would be best if the church remained locked and sealed until he returned. He also pleaded with his flock, before he gave them his most solemn blessing, to look out for the great one-eyed tomcat, Bonaventure. Privately the friar cheerfully conceded to himself that Bonaventure, his constant dining companion, possessed more wit and sense than all his parishioners put together.