Courage, cowardice, and betrayal. Nothing new.
Chapter 19
After leaving the abbey
at Saint Alban’s, Richard Perers traded his squire’s livery and fine clothes
for the rude leggings and tunic of a villein. The idiot must have had fleas or
lice, for Perers itched abominably. He hid the body in the bushes by the side
of the road.
Perers muddied his face
and placed two pebbles in his mouth to help him drool. That and the flea-bitten
clothing helped when a patrol of Essexmen happened upon him along Watling
Street, the road from Saint Alban’s to London.
“Hey, you!” the leader
of the Essexmen called.
Perers grunted with a
rising inflection. If he spoke they would know him for what he was.
“Yes, idiot, I mean
you. Who else is there on this road?”
Perers held up his left
fist. He pointed with his other hand at the leader himself. The index finger of
his left hand came up. He pointed then at the next man at arms. Another finger,
then another, until he had used up his left hand.
The patrollers laughed
at his antics. Perers let some drool overflow from his mouth. He hid both hands
behind his back with a flourish, waited a bare second to make sure he had the
attention of all of them, then brought out his right hand clenched into a fist.
Again, he pointed with his free hand until he used up all the fingers available
for counting. He stared at those remaining, held both hands up in front of his
face, and shrugged.
Their laughter came
easily. They were so ready to believe that he had to rein in his contempt and
pretend to smile along with them. The men from Essex had no more intelligence
than those of Saint Alban’s who had guarded the roads leading away from the
abbey. One of those men had given his clothing along with his life to aid
Richard Perers on his journey.
The Essexmen let him
pass. Perers exaggerated the odd, swinging gait he used. Let them think him
crippled as well as foolish and dumb. In a short time, they would think again
what kind of man Richard Perers was.
The encounter with
Grindcob and his woman still rankled, half a day later. She had disarmed him,
and her clerk of a husband had humiliated him before hundreds who knew him.
That, too, would be remedied.
Once out of sight of
the Essexmen, he abandoned his lumbering, uneven walk, spat out the pebbles
that made him drool like a dog, and ran. A horse would draw too much attention;
a man on foot was more likely to be one of the rebels, or of the peasantry they
affected to love. He settled into a steady, confident pace, one foot after the
other striking the beaten earth of Watling Street.
The road itself was
tradition. First built by the Romans when they invaded Britain, it had been in
use for over a thousand years. Tradition made things work. Tradition made
Richard Perers a knight, or would have had his father not run afoul of the
abbot years before. Custom defined him as a man better than most, and he meant
to keep it that way. The rebels who now roamed the cities and the countryside
must be eliminated and order restored. And if Richard Perers made his name
doing it, the family’s place and reputation would be restored.
He left the road as he
neared London. Better to struggle through briars and puzzle out the twisting
lanes than to run afoul of the rebels who must guard London’s approaches. Once
in the city he could blend in, one amongst the multitude, and so it proved.
Countryside blended imperceptibly into townscape. Fields gave way to large
gardens, forest to orchard. Richard Perers poked his tousled head out from
between two apple trees and found himself in a part of London he knew well.
He needed to find the
court, or what remained of it. Saint Alban’s didn’t matter to him nearly as
much as his own family’s status, but that status depended on what happened to
the monks. The abbot would restore his clan to its rightful place, if Richard
could bring aid to the monastery.
The court had to be either
at the Tower or Westminster. The city itself separated the two places. The
Thames was the quickest way. His roundabout escape from the countryside had
brought him out nearer the tower; that would be his starting place.
People clotted the
streets around Tower Hill like curds in cheese. They had no order, and were of
the meaner sort. His rank appearance and dishevelment made him fit right in. He
heard accents from half the realm, which helped his journey. None would
question a stranger where all were strangers.
He took care not to
move with too great an appearance of purpose. The mob acted with holiday
abandon. Much ale and wine flowed. People milled and jounced against each
other. From some distance he smelled the smoke of burning. The wind came from the
west. Someone pressed a pewter mug into his hands. He sniffed—wine, a fresh,
young spirit from Gascony.
“Drink up, friend. It’s
from the archbishop’s palace.”
Perers tilted the cup
and drank deeply.
A hand reached out from
the crowd and stopped him. “Save some for the rest of us!”
Perers let it go. The
anonymous hand took the cup and vanished back into the mass of stinking
villeins. The archbishop had had good taste, but he wouldn’t have any use for
the wine, now.
The movement of the
crowd shifted. He had no choice but to let himself be carried along, a piece of
flotsam on a human tide. It took him through the meaner streets of London, the
press moving with demonic speed, voices roaring all around. They shouted about
this abuse of power, that bit of faithlessness on the part of the clergy or the
aristocracy. Some split off from the crowd when they passed through the
district where Flemish weavers lived and dragged the men and their families out
into the streets to be beaten and trampled by thousands of stinking feet, but
he had no concern for the victims. The mob hurried onward, always onward, the
singular voices merging into a roar like a storm upon the ocean. Perers found
himself shouting with the others, as protective coloring at first, then because
he was caught up in frenzy for its own sake.
Whatever power moved
the horde ceased in an instant. Perers’ own momentum spilled him out the front,
where the king’s court, mounted and armed, surrounded an open space. The
horses’ hooves chewed up the turf. In a no man’s land between the swarm of the
commons and the mounted men-at-arms, Richard Perers fell to hands and knees. A
mailed and mounted man bore down on him. His charger’s hooves stopped scant
feet away and spattered him with clods of earth.
“How’s your Aunt Alice,
boy?” The voice reeked with familiarity. “What are you doing here?”
The knight reached
down, snatched Perers by the arm, lifted him bodily into the air and set him
behind the saddle.
“Hold on! No time to
waste.”
Perers obeyed, still not
knowing who his rescuer was. They galloped across the open space. The line of
troops opened to let them into the armed circle, and in the instant Richard
Perers found what he had sought—the king’s council and the King himself.
The knight lifted his
visor. Perers grunted as he dropped to the ground. Sir Thomas Percy stared down
at him.
“What are you doing
with them, boy?”
Perers rubbed his arm.
The horseman’s gauntlets had left bruises. “Seeking you and yours, Sir Thomas.
I have been sent for aid by the abbot of Saint Albans. He is hard pressed by
the rebels.”
Percy dismounted in a
clatter of steel.
“Hertfordshire crawls
with vermin,” Perers went on. He refused to let the august company he was in
confound him; it took a certain effort. “The villeins have come to the abbey by
the thousands, and they mean to have their way.”
Percy thought for a
long moment. All around them, steel clanged on steel, as if there were a
battle. But no fight took place. It was only the sound of armored men moving
about.
“Come, lad.”
Perers followed. The
knight stood high in the royal councils. The Percies were an ancient family
from the north, a hard-fighting clan never without a place among the king’s
advisors. Perers had seen this one before, a younger scion of the race of
warriors who all had a reputation as hot-tempered men, jealous of their
privilege, ready to quarrel at the drop of a glove.
Percy led him to the
inner circle. Young King Richard sat at a small table, where a group of
grizzled older men all talked at once. Richard was still beardless at fourteen
years of age.
“What do you have?” The
largest of Richard’s counselors spoke first. Sir Hugo Seagrave, his face
scarred from battles long ago, stood the tallest of the retinue. That same face
darkened on recognizing Perers. Seagrave had been counselor to old King Edward,
and conducted many an intrigue against Richard’s aunt Alice. “What do you
want?” His voice was a snarl.
Richard Perers
explained his mission from the abbot. The king’s interest showed on his face.
“This will be an
opportunity for your family to gain redemption,” the boy-king said.
Aunt Alice had been,
years before, the mistress of Edward, Richard’s grandfather. Perers hated the
troubles her existence put in the way of his ambition. Everywhere he turned, he
confronted the shame of her having gone before him. She had poisoned the family
name. The king, bless his soul, understood. Perers wanted nothing more than to
be judged for who he was and what he could do for the crown.
“Tell us your tale,”
the king ordered. Seagrave frowned, but kept silent.
Perers knelt before the
king, five years junior to him. Mud oozed against his knees. “Your grace, not
only London and your court are pressed by these rebels. Your royal abbey is
likewise endangered. I myself have seen the whole commons of Hertfordshire
gathered at the monastery gates, with threats to burn the monks out if their
demands are not met. There are few troops, and many rebels. Father Abbot has
sent me to beg your aid.”
Richard’s unlined brow
furrowed. “We had not heard.”
“There were people from
Saint Alban’s here yesterday, my lord,” Seagrave agreed. “You signed a charter
for the commons.”
“There were so many,”
the king said.
“Your grace—” Perers
said, his heart in his mouth. He had not expected aid from Seagrave. “Your
grace, they have taken the charter you intended only for good and used it to
threaten and terrorize your monks. The abbey’s gaol has been thrown open, the
prisoners set free.” He took a breath. They didn’t know the worst. “And they
have executed one prisoner, pretending that they had the right of punishment,
against your power.”
Seagrave huffed and
puffed with outrage. He had some relation to the abbot. All the aristocracy
were related to each other in some manner, though after Aunt Alice, none would
acknowledge any relation to the Perers clan.
Percy swore from the
edge of the gathering. All eyes, save the king’s, turned toward him.
“That is a royal
prerogative, my lord.”
Seagrave nodded
agreement, as did the other graybeards. Perers allowed himself a small, tight
smile of satisfaction at piercing their self-conceit. He had their attention;
there was no time to waste.
“Sirs, and my liege,”
he said, “if you can spare a force to Saint Alban’s now, we can take the rebels
easily. They have been without sleep since Thursday, save for bits of rest
snatched as catch can. They are exhausted. They must rest, and we could take
them in their snoring.”
The King and all the
graybeards stared at him, as if he had sprouted horns and turned himself into
the green man on the spot.
“A hundred men—” he
sputtered. Incomprehension filled their eyes. Could the old truly be so dense?
They were supposed to be wiser than the young.
“Would you take from
the King a hundred troops that were needed for his safety and the continuation
of the reign?” Seagrave demanded.
“Perhaps later,” the
King said, “when things have settled down here. In the mean time, we may spare
two men to carry word to do as we have done in London. It has not been without
cost, but we still survive to carry on our rule, as the abbot of Saint Alban’s
must do. Our most trusted pair shall go to him, and take him our command.”
The King commanded Sir
Hugo Seagrave and Sir Thomas Percy to the abbey. Percy was young, filled with
eagerness for the fight, but untested. Seagrave, on the other hand, was valued,
but not too much. His presence at Saint Alban’s would give the abbot some
degree of comfort, and his voice would be listened to.
“Master Perers, remain
with us,” the boy-king said. He might be youthful, but he was learning his
craft in the struggle with the commons. And, not to put too fine a point on it,
he was showing courage where many of his nobles were paralyzed with fear.
“We are pleased to
learn that many of our friends remain loyal in Hertfordshire,” the King went
on, “and that one of them is our young Master Perers.” He turned to a younger
knight, who, like Perers, stood at the fringe of the council.
“Sir Walter, take this
bold youth into your charge. See him fed and rested, learn what he has to tell
us. Let us know what may be done for our loyal folk, when the time comes for
setting things aright.”
The king turned away.
Something seemed to bite him, for he slapped at his neck, looked at Perers, and
said, “And get him some clothing not so flea-bitten.”
The King turned back to
his council. Perers felt the sting of dismissal, but it eased as soon as Walter
atte Lee took him in charge and led him to the supply wagon.
Lee was a small man, a
full head shorter than Perers, but he carried himself with a confidence the
messenger from Saint Albans could only envy. Likewise from Hertfordshire, he
came from a family unsullied by scandal, untouched by shame. Like the rest, he
wore an undercoat of padding, but it hung loosely over his slender frame.
“Not the best of
situations, is it?” Lee made a conversational sally as they walked to the
wagon. Smith Field lay within sight. Below and before them, the commons of two
counties, Essex and Kent, plus the rabble of London, gathered before them. Off
to one side of the King’s council, the burgesses of London held a council of
their own, a raucous, crude group of men, their voices raised in dispute.
Overhead, the sun poured its rays over the afternoon’s damp. The air was sticky
and thick.
“Strip,” Lee said.
“Here—in the open?”
Perers asked.
“That was a royal
command,” Lee said. He shouted to one of the nearby servants. “Bring clothing
for my guest—and weapons.” The servant hurried to obey.
Perers was ravenous.
From the area of the wagon, the smells of roasting sausages and royal venison
arose. His hurt pride vanished in the rumblings of his belly.
“When did you last
eat?” Lee asked.
“I don’t remember.”
Lee poured a tankard of
ale and tore a chunk of pandemaigne from a loaf with his own hands. “Here—your
journey was thirsty work, I’m sure.”
Perers’ opinion of the
short little knight rose as he poured the ale down his throat and chewed the
fresh, crusty bread. Eating and drinking made him even hungrier. When Lee
handed him a dripping slab of venison, stinging hot from the flames, Perers
held out his tankard for more ale. The slight knight obliged.
Perers wiped the deer’s
grease from his mouth. His first hunger now assuaged, he looked at Walter atte
Lee again. His companion had a high forehead, a sign of intelligence to be
sure, and clear, pale blue eyes. Freckles dotted his face. His wide gaze and
small mouth gave him the appearance of an innocent, but no innocent would have
risen to grasp the trust of the King.
Lee took the tankard
and refilled it. “I’m rather proud of this little ale. The brewer is on my
manor.”
Perers accepted the
drink. The venison was salty. He cut a slab with the knife he always wore on
his belt. “Where’s that, sir?”
“Quite near Saint
Alban’s, actually. My father may have known yours.”
“‘May have known?’”
“He’s gone,” Lee said.
“The manor is mine, now.”
“Manor?” Perers asked,
his mouth still thick with meat and beer.
“Kimpton.” Lee said.
“It’s not the greatest of our holdings, but they do brew a fine ale. More?”
Perers held up his hand
in refusal, waiting for a belch to relieve the pressure on his belly. Finally
it came.
“Your pardon.”
“I take it as a
compliment to my ale.”
It was odd, Perers
thought, to be eating and drinking as the forces of good and evil prepared to
meet each other on the field of the smiths. The body had its needs, no matter
what great events were in hand.
The servant reappeared
with an armload of clothing.
“Strip,” Lee repeated,
and there was no humor in his eyes now.
Perers itched like a
mangy dog. Heedless now of the servant, Lee, and the others, he slipped the
filthy tunic and leggings from his skin. The servant held out an undergarment.
“Look.” Lee pointed
down to Smith Field, where the commons gathered. It was the place of tournament
and fair, celebration and marketplace. During the market, a buyer could pick
out which pig, cow, chicken or duck one wanted from a flock and the butcher
would slaughter it on the spot. So long had this market gone on that the ground
was soaked in blood.
“Still they pour in,”
Lee said, “like a flood. They would destroy us, you and me. They claim
faithfulness to our King, but he, too, would be washed away with church,
gentry, and law if they had their way.”
The anger that had
driven Perers all the way to London came back upon him, washing away all
thought of food and drink, washing away even the awe he felt at the presence of
the King and council. It was a flood-tide of feeling. Lee spoke only the truth.
The rebellion threatened the whole realm, more than Richard Perers had believed
possible. Perers drew on the tunic held by the servant.
“Who leads them?”
“A tile-layer.” Lee
spat the words. “Walter Tyler, by name and trade. He spoke to the King
yesterday, pretending respect while demanding an end to everything. Even your
men of Saint Alban’s hold with him. I saw them yesterday at Mile End.”
Tyler was like
Grindcob, then—a villein, no more than a tradesman with hope of turning himself
into a leader by turning the world upside down. The servant offered a suit of padding,
meant to cushion between a knight’s flesh and his unyielding armor. Rusted mail
came next; it was so tight he had to accept the servant’s help. Lee himself
handed him a sword, but Perers refused it.
“I have a debt of honor
to redeem,” Perers said, “before I can lift a sword again.”
Lee shrugged and held
out the weapon for the servant to remove.
Again, he pointed at
the great mob below. “Look.” It moved, like a herd of sheep. There were even
sheepdogs of a sort, marshals who rode horseback at the edges of the mob,
guiding it to the center of the field. At the front of the flock a giant rode
atop a huge gray horse.
Perers pointed at him.
“Is that Tyler?”
Lee peered. “It is.” He
checked his sword. “Come—the battle is to be joined. Stay at my side. We guard
the King himself.” All around them metal clanged. Men mounted horses, the
burgesses of London as well as the knights and other men-at-arms. Every man
knew his duty. As they rode down the hill into Smith Field, the gentry
surrounded their King.
Perers rode forward
with the others atop one of Lee’s mounts, an irritable chestnut stallion. At
the head of the column rode Richard the King. Guarding his right were knights
of the realm, warriors clad in mail, helmeted, visors open, gauntleted hands
empty of weapons. At his left hand the chief burgesses of London rode with
swords in hand.
Perers swayed a little
in the saddle and his bladder ached from the drinking of so much ale, but the
ride to the center of Smith Field took next to no time, and Sir Walter atte Lee
let him canter to the front, nearest the King. It was an honor, perhaps given
for the courage of his journey from Saint Alban’s. Perers found himself tangled
with the merchants at the King’s left. He belonged with the nobility on the
right, but it would have to do.
One of the merchants,
William Walworth, London’s mayor, garbed in all his ermine finery despite the
heat, rode out ahead of the royal party, to the ragged lines of the rebellious
mob. They shouted and cheered and catcalled, stamped their feet in excitement
and made the sign against the evil eye at the lord mayor.
A gesture from a single
imposing figure, silenced the mob. Walter Tyler rode forth mounted on a small
dappled gray horse, a pony. His feet dragged on the ground. A single vexillator, a flag-bearer, went before
him. The banner bore the arms of the King himself. The white hart fluttered
against a blue field and led the trio of men across the open space, back toward
the King.
Perers was close to the
principals in the negotiation. He leaned forward the better to hear.
The peasant, Tyler, was
everything Lee had led him to expect. Tall, hairy, astoundingly muscular,
Walter Tyler carried himself as if he were royalty, and the King merely an
appurtenance to his own glory. He stank of garlic and old ale. A family of
robins could have nested in the wild thatch of his hair. Like Grindcob back in
Saint Albans, he smiled incessantly. What was it about these damnable rebels
that made them happy all the time? It must be a sign of their stupidity.
Tyler slid his long
legs from his pony and dropped to kneel before the king, a few yards in front
of Perers. Young King Richard waved the mayor back into the ranks, at Perers’
side, heedless of the danger he put himself in. Perers reached for his sword,
but it lay back in Saint Alban’s, where he had lost it to Grindcob. Worse, to
Grindcob’s shrew of a wife. His hand closed on empty air.
Tyler, rising at the
royal bidding, took the King’s hand between his own callused, meaty paws and
shook it as a dog shakes a rat in its teeth.
“Brother Richard,”
Tyler said, “fear not, for behold I bring you good tidings of great joy, which
shall be to all the people. Within a
fortnight, if all goes well, the commons of England will have good reason to
thank you. We shall be friends, you and I.”
Perers startled at this
familiarity, and he was not alone. Hands touched weapons all around the King,
but Tyler seemed not to notice.
The peasant leader made
his demands. It did not matter what they were; that this craftsman was making
demands on the King himself was sufficiently damning. It was lese-majeste of the highest order.
Perers forced himself
to listen. Tyler made a catalogue of complaint, alike in tone if not in kind to
the whining of the peasants in Saint Albans. He wanted a repeal of the Statute
of Laborers. He wanted all men to be free and equal before the law—an abolition
of rank, in other words. He wanted the aristocracy to give up its position and
its power, and the same for the church.
The King, the only cool
head among the nobility, and he only fourteen, listened to Tyler’s ranting in
silent dignity. When the rebel leader paused, Richard asked, “Is that the list,
Master Tyler?”
“It is, your grace.”
“Nothing to add, then?”
The King’s voice was high, because of his youth, but steady and unafraid.
Perers found himself admiring the child-king. Young Richard had a steady mind
and was not intimidated by the thousands and thousands of rebels ranged across
the gathering place. Perers quite approved of his demeanor.
“Then you shall have
what you seek, Master Tyler. We agree that the commons of England have been
ill-used. We agree that they shall have the rights of hunting and fishing to
feed themselves. We shall call a Parliament to review the laws of the realm. Further,
we grant you an amnesty for all that has passed thus far, on condition that
your people go back to their homes, and leave it to us to sort these things
out. Will you trust us?”
“I’ll have it written
out,” Tyler said. “Can’t trust a nobleman.”
Perers bit his tongue.
The clod had no respect for king or anyone. That Tyler had spoken truthfully
made no difference. What was the point of being noble if it did not give power
to the holder of the title?
“Bring me a drink,”
Tyler demanded. “It’s thirsty work, trying to find a way to agree with you.”
King Richard nodded to
a servant, who dashed to the rear of the party. During his absence, a stony
silence fell. Tyler broke the tense stillness with a braying laugh.
“You’re watching it all
trickle away, aren’t you?” He addressed himself to the gathered nobles of the
court and the burgesses of London. He ignored the King. He let his long stride
pace him back and forth before the witnesses, taunting, threatening. “You’re
thinking now, are you not, how to work around your young king’s amnesty, his
agreement, his honest and plain dealing.” He curled his lip on the final
phrase.
Perers smelt Tyler’s
rancid breath as he first passed by. He lunged, or tried to, but Lee’s hand on
his shoulder stopped him. “Not now,” the young knight whispered. His fingers
pressed hard on Perers’ collarbone.
Tyler ranted up and
down the line of King Richard’s party. Only the arrival of the page quelled him
long enough to raise the proffered flagon.
Tyler rejected the
water with a peasant’s canny suspicion. “Is this what you give me—it’s warm as
piss!” He flung the flagon into the air. Perers caught it, sniffed, and grinned
to himself. Mare’s piss, to be exact, a mare ripe in season. He understood the
game, and awaited his chance to play a role.
“Bring me ale!” Tyler
called. His face flushed red with anger. A vein swelled in his temple. Perers
could count the pulses, even from a dozen feet away.
The page returned
immediately with a foaming flagon. Perers slipped it from the boy’s hand and
stepped forward, out of the line of retainers, into the space where king and
rebel met. Tyler had turned away. Perers slipped between his young lord and the
peasant leader.
“Your ale, Master
Tyler,” Perers said.
Wat Tyler pivoted in
surprise. Perers flung the contents of the flagon into his face.
Tyler spluttered in
shock, then roared in fury. The king’s horse danced away from danger. Perers
waited until the last possible instant, gauging his man’s rage, then spat
straight into Tyler’s eyes.
It stopped the rebel’s
onrush, but only for a moment. Perers used the instant to duck back behind his
own lines. Tyler followed at his heels.
The trap closed as if
rehearsed. Walworth, the mayor, thrust his sword into Tyler’s belly, and jerked
it out again all in one motion. Gut-stabbed, Tyler staggered back into the open
space. He dropped to his knees, the first act of humility he had performed that
day. Blood poured from the wound. Another man, unknown to Perers but clearly
part of the conspiracy, lunged forward and push his dagger into Tyler’s ribs.
It all happened so
smoothly that Perers doubted the evidence of his eyes. Tyler was down and
dying. All around, the loyalists to the crown drew swords, and Perers would
have, too, but that he had none.
It was King Richard,
though, who, unprepared for the aristocratic betrayal of the truce, took
matters in hand.
Across the open space,
the mob realized that something had gone wrong. Shouts and cries rose from the
unlettered bunch as they began to understand that their leader had been killed,
even as Tyler lay quivering on the bloody earth.
King Richard rode
toward them, before any of his bodyguard could react.
“Thus always to
traitors!” he cried to the commons. “Your captain lies on the earth, never to
rise.”
They wailed in grief,
the commons did. Perers took heart from their dismay, but feared for the life
of his king. Young Richard paraded his steed back and forth before the rebels.
“I am your captain
now.” He wheeled the horse in an abrupt turn, the mirror of the turn of fortune
for the uprising. “Did you not pledge your faith to ‘King Richard and the true
commons’?”
He was magnificent. He
glowed in the afternoon sunlight. Radiance sparkled from his crown and the
cloth of gold he wore, from his eyes and his red-gold Plantagenet hair. Never
was king more splendid, not old Edward on the battlefields of France, nor
Alfred facing down the Danes. Young Richard bent the wills of twenty thousand
armed and angry men to his own desires, broke their rebellion, shattered their
revenge, smashed their unity into shards of weak obedience.
And did it all with
words.
Richard Perers saw much
more, but the back of the rebellion was broken in the instant Tyler died, and
he had had a part in it.
Chapter
20
The abbot’s summons
came to Thomas of Walsingham as he was sitting down to his first meal of the
day, sometime near midafternoon. The troubles disrupted everything about the
monastery’s routine, including the infrequent meal times.
Of all the brothers,
only he had ventured outside the walls and gone amongst the rebels. His fellows
avoided him, whether because they thought him a traitor or because they were
afraid to be associated with him, he did not know. Special friendships were
discouraged; he had no trusted companion with whom he could speak. His
confessor had fled to Tynemouth with the Prior.
Thomas shoved his plate
away. The stew had no savor for him, in any case.
Two men sat with the
abbot at the head table, placed on a raised dais at the front of the refectory.
Being singled out from among the other monks drew attention, created
jealousies, which would bring Thomas criticism in Chapter. He made the
requisite stops up the eight levels, said the ritual prayers, blessed himself
and the gathering. It took some time, and he was burning with curiosity before
he reached the seat at the side on a knight he did not know.
“Brother Scriptorius,”
the abbot said, his face uncharacteristically full of good cheer, “you know Sir
Hugo Seagrave, the king’s seneschal.”
Thomas bowed his head
in greeting proper to a religious.
“But you do not know
the news he bears.”
Would Father Abbot
never get to the point? His eyes gleamed with amusement, bright pleasure across
his visage. “And this is his companion, Sir Thomas Percy.”
The scion of the
northern Percies stood and took Thomas’ hand. Thomas returned the greeting like
an automaton. The desire to know that had burned on the way up the steps now
coruscated. His heart beat the faster. Sweat broke out on his brow. He panted.
“Please, Father, be
seated.”
He let go of Percy’s
hand and lowered himself into the chair. A plate was hurriedly set before him
by one of the abbey servants. Wine flowed into a pewter flagon. The special
treatment stirred Thomas. The ordinary monks drank water or ale. He took a sip;
the wine came from the abbot’s own cellar, reserved for use with guests of the
highest importance, a soft, dry red from Gascony.
“Tell my historian what
you have told me,” the abbot said.
Seagrave leaned
forward. Every eye in the refectory was now on Thomas and his august
companions. All the monks must want to know what news the visitors brought, but
it was only fitting that the word must trickle, like a rivulet, from the
greater to the lesser, and with the flight of the Prior and his fellows to safe
haven, Thomas ranked highest among the remainder of the monks. If he felt
scraped raw by the delay, his brothers must be gaping wounds of curiosity.
“Tyler is dead. We saw
him slain ourselves.”
“Tyler could not die;
you can not kill the devil.” The words flew from Thomas’ lips. “It is a
deception.”
“No deception,” the
abbot insisted. “Our own Richard Perers was party to it. These men saw the
fiend breathe his last.”
“Is the rebellion at an
end, then?”
“The King and council
have taken the first steps, but it will be some time before they can effect
their plans,” Percy, heretofore silent, said.
Seagrave favored Percy
with a cold stare. The younger knight returned it with full intensity and
ploughed on—loudly.
“The rebels shall learn
to regret that ever they took arms against you, my lord abbot. Or against any
of their betters.”
The monks broke into a
cheer.
Seagrave frowned, as if
to complain about his youthful companion’s lack of discretion, but did not
voice it. Percy belonged to one of the most powerful families in the realm. The
seneschal lived up to his reputation as a man of discretion and a bit of a
coward.
“My Lord,” Seagrave
said, softly and leaning close to the abbot, so that Thomas had to strain to
hear, “the advice of the king and council is to dissemble with the mob. In
time, we will return, with a host of men-at-arms so great that we shall not
leave a blade of grain standing in the fields.”
“There is no need to
mute your speech, my lord seneschal,” the abbot said. A smile, rare over the
last days, wrinkled his face. “There are no secrets amongst my monks. Were you
to bring this news and tell us only, somehow the rest of the town would know.”
That was true enough,
Thomas thought. The brothers mostly came from the nobility or the gentry,
usually younger sons. They gossiped constantly, even in good times. When
trouble threatened, they were like a flock of old women trading scandals.
Secrecy within the monastery walls was an impossibility.
But word would spread
without the walls soon enough. Servants of the abbey, even those whose
livelihood depended on the abbot’s favor, would talk to their families in town.
Cob and all his friends would know soon enough. Perhaps he could buy some
goodwill with the commons for the monks by going to them before the gossip
spread. Perhaps he could save a life or two if they would give over their
revolt before the force of the crown came into play.
*
Thomas again made his
way down to the mill. He had escaped the meal and the complacent conferences
between abbot, council, and king’s messengers as quickly as he decently could.
The sun was out, and smoke rose from the town, which could only mean that some
of the hotheads among the commons were wreaking havoc. Later, he would find out
what burned, which houses had been destroyed, and add them to the list of rebel
outrages.
The abbey’s enclosure
lay quiet. No one worked while the troubles continued, and he understood. What
point in blacksmithing, in cleaning, in tending the crops while ruin lurked
without? Like the others, he neglected his own customary tasks, the supervision
of the scriptorium and the copying of texts. More important matters occupied
him.
Would Cob know to meet
him? No one would be using the mill, not now. The abbey servants were all
a-twitter with the news from Smith Field. The rebels still crowded Romeland
outside the great gate, those who were not burning church properties. He needed
a quiet talk with Cob.
The mill was deserted.
Thomas dabbled one foot
in the mill race, thinking of Cob’s early years in this spot. The rebel must be
made to understand that his experiment with self-government was ended. If Cob
backed off now, before things went any further, even the abbot might forgive
him enough to let him live. Tyler was dead. John Ball would soon join him. Then
local leaders of the rebellion, unless they recanted their rebellion early
enough.
Thomas was no mystic,
no seer, but it took only memory to see into the future. The King and council
would gather forces, and they would pick off the rebellious commons group by
group. No one but the King could rally enough force, no one but his council
could lead the men-at-arms needed for a fight. It might take some weeks, even
months, but young Richard and old John of Gaunt and the rest of the council
would stand for the old ways with all the might in their possession.
Thomas peered out
through the gaps between the boards. Cob would not come. Cob would not hear his
arguments. Cob would not live. The nearest thing Thomas had to a son would
predecease him. A lump rose in his throat, because the knowledge was sure and
certain, not just one of those sudden fears that beset all who love another.
The best predictor was the past. The King and council would react without
Christian charity, more like the Romans when Spartacus led a revolt of slaves,
and every road leading into Rome from the south was lined with crucified
corpses blackened with crows and ravens tearing out the rotting flesh.
Again, Thomas stared
through the gaps between the boards. No one, nothing moved between the mill and
the abbey. Cob would not come.
Thomas felt like a part
of the mill itself, doomed to perform his function, unable to stop the turning
of the great wheel, no matter what he himself wanted. Cob was lost to him.
Cob would not come.
Thomas gathered his skirts for the steep trek back up to the monastery. Tears
stung his eyes and blurred his vision, but his feet knew the way.
Halfway up the hill he
had a change of heart. Defeat need not be inevitable. The hope of the rebels
poisoned his heart. He thought he could—dimly—see a way through the darkness.
The tears dried as hope took hold on his heart. By the time he crested the hill
and reached the great gate, Thomas was running. The hem of his habit followed
him like the wake of ship.
The gate stood open.
How to defend, when you can not know who might come as foe, who as friend? When
foe and friend might trade places in an instant?
“Cob!” Thomas shouted
at the gatekeepers, both rebel and loyal, and who could know the difference? He
passed through and found himself helping the rebel mob fill Romeland. “Where’s
Cob?”
People he had known all
his life stared at him open-mouthed, as if he had lost his wits in toto. Still, he called for Cob. A
space grew around him, as if he were a blight. The people backed away, still
staring, talking now to each other from the sides of their mouths, staring at
this wonder. Monks did, occasionally, run mad.
He found Cob easily
enough, once he used his eyes. The people opened a path, as if they were the
sea and he Moses, so agitated was Thomas. It felt odd to look at himself from
the outside; perhaps a bit of madness made him stronger.
He stumbled up the last
of the steps to the porch. Cob caught him and prevented him from falling.
“Thomas, Thomas—what’s
the matter?”
But before he could
answer, he saw the bulk of Sir William Croyser. Adversaries crowded each other
in full view of the commons—Cob and Thomas, Dickon and Croyser. Cob found value
in such open confrontation; Thomas thought it foolish.
The abbot had sent
Croyser, then, as Cob had ordered.
“What is it, Thomas?”
Dickon, too, asked.
But in front of
Croyser, who would report straight back to the abbot, Thomas was tongue-tied.
Coward, but he could not voice the warning that he had run like a lunatic to
bring. Croyser’s gaze fell upon him, like a wet cloak. The soldier was too
canny to raise an eyebrow. Word of something odd would return to the abbot.
“I—I—”
“I must tell you,
Thomas.” Cob still held him. “Tyler is dead. We have had word from London. The
mayor himself killed him.”
So Thomas need not tell
after all. Of course the rebels had friends in the City. The news of the
slaying had reached them as soon as it had come to the monks. Anyone could use
the road. He had been a fool to think it could all be kept secret.
Croyser smirked. Thomas
frowned. Smugness did not become the knight. As if Sir William heard his
thoughts, his smile fell away.
“It does not affect our
cause,” Cob said. “The abbot has acceded to all our demands. He has sent this
knight to tell us so. He will accept our charter, and the charters of all the
commons, from all the villages. He says ‘there has been too much rancor among
us.’ He speaks like a Christian.”
“The abbot sends his
greetings to the commons,” Croyser said, “and offers to fix the seal of the
abbot and convent to the charter at your convenience.”
Thomas thought Cob
would rush inside, pleased with the acceptance his demands had found. He was
wrong.
Instead, Cob called to
the crowd. Some ate and drank, some slept, for the days had gone without
interruption, and most were sluggish with sleeplessness. Some threw dice. Some
wrestled, as if it were a festive market day. Mothers nursed infants. Children
of greater age raced around the trees playing tag and hide-and-seek. It was as
if the world had gone on holiday for them.
They all paused. Cob
gave a moment for the sleepers to wake.
“Fellow citizens!” Cob
used a word never applied within the monastery’s demesne. “We have won our
demands. The abbey has seen your strength and determination.” He pulled a piece
of new vellum from his tunic and showed it to the crowd. “Here is our own Magna
Carta, one for the commons this time.”
A cheer rose from the
people gathered. Thomas shuddered at the betrayal taking place before him. He
tried to speak, but Croyser watched him, eyes cold and threatening. He could
tell Cob, he believed, but not now, not under the eyes of the knight.
At that instant, a
mule-drawn cart trundled out from the great gate. Barrels of ale from the
monastery brewery and loaves of bread steaming from the ovens filled it to
overflowing. The crowd murmured and pointed. The poor servant of the abbey
leading the mules had to endure their catcalls and jokes. Cob pointed at the
offering.
“The abbot has sent us
a gift, in token of his peace. Bread and ale for all.”
A cheer interrupted
him. People surged toward the wagon.
“There’s plenty to go
’round,” Cob cried. “Take yourselves to Gunnar’s Stone, where our beating of
the bounds can begin!”
“The seal—” Croyser
said.
“The seal can wait,”
Cob shot back. “The people must be served first.”
“But the seal—the abbot
is waiting!” Thomas objected.
Cob was too filled with
his triumph to observe the courtesies due to rank and position. It showed in
his eyes, his demonic grin, his hurried, jumpy appeal to the commons. He jammed
his so-called “Great Charter” back into his tunic.
The rabble surged
toward the street. Croyser and Thomas were caught up in the tide. Only the
knight’s strength—and the sword he bared as the mob bore down on them—prevented
their being carried away. Croyser spared on arm to wrap around Thomas and
pulled him into the abbey church. Together, they slammed the great door closed.
The man-at-arms dropped
the bar into place and leaned heavily against the great oaken door. Someone
struck the door hard. The sound echoed within the narthex, but in a few
moments, the noise faded away. The promise of ale and bread took the commons
toward their perambulation of the boundaries noted in the charter.
“Just as well they
stayed out,” Croyser said. He panted from the effort of rescuing Thomas.
“I thank you for your
help,” Thomas said. He trembled with release. Outside was every reason for
authority to hold sway. The mob might have killed them without intent, simply
because of the people’s enthusiasm for their so-called freedom. If nothing
convinced Thomas of the evil of the rebellion, that mindlessness was
sufficient.
“We don’t want them
knowing about Seagrave’s visit—that’s what I meant.” Croyser sheathed his
sword. It slid home with a clean, metallic click. “The abbot’s got the right of
it, though—let them think themselves winning and they’ll leave us alone.”
The great church stood
empty. Nothing was as it should be.
“I’m for something to
eat.” Croyser smacked his lips. “Haven’t had anything since breakfast.”
“You go ahead,” Thomas
said. He wanted to be alone. “And thank you once again.”
Croyser climbed the
handful of steps into the nave and strode down the long south aisle. Light
through the stained glass windows made him glow. The sword in his scabbard
slapped against his leg with every stride. Thomas waited until he turned right
into the south transept. The route would take him through the slype. It was the
long way around, but neither man would dare a sole venture into Romeland. Some
of the commons might still be present, waiting.
Thomas waited until the
Croyser’s martial noises faded and he heard a door close, wood upon stone. He
mounted the four stone steps from narthex to nave, feeling every day of his
age. The whole of the great church rose before him. Midsummer midafternoon now,
the light came from the south and west, filtered through the colored glass, and
cut through the building on the bias. Despite the reassurances offered by
Seagrave, the seneschal, and the hot-blooded Percy, he feared that it might all
come to nought.
With all the uproar,
the schedule of the opus dei, the
work of God, had been disrupted. Not until this moment had even Thomas recalled
his obligation. Perhaps Christ would understand. But now that he had
remembered, the obligation stirred in him a sense of missing the normal rhythms
of his day. He walked the great length of the nave, passed through the shafts
of light that broke the church’s darkness, and made his way with echoing foot
steps to the choir.
The dark wood wrapped
around him. Here, only a few days before, he had looked up from his service
book and confronted the intruders. Not since then had the psalms been sung.
Their lack opened a hole in his heart. God was neglected, and must often suffer
disregard, Thomas had enough wisdom to know that the neglect had its effect on
him. He took his place and knelt at his prie-dieu. The oak hurt his knees. To
ease the pain, he leaned back against the misericord, a sort of half-seat to
provide rest for weary monastic buttocks.
The chant welled up in
Thomas unthinking, unwilled, the song and breath of ages. Plainsong filled his
heart and lungs, a prayer to a distant, silent God, a savior who seemed to live
only in the hope of the hopeless. The words came later.
Judica me, Deus… Give judgment for me, O God, and defend my cause
against an ungodly people; deliver me from the deceitful and the wicked....Why
go I so heavily while the enemy oppresses me?
Chapter
21
Tyler was dead, but
Saint Alban’s was filled with life. Cob marched at the front of the procession,
Joan at his side, Ned atop his shoulders. The ale-carts groaned under their
celebratory weight, lightening at every stop.
“Where to now, Da?” Ned
piped from above. His voice almost disappeared in the joyful noise of the
crowd. Cob’s shoulders ached with weariness, but triumph made light of Ned’s
weight.
Cob turned round and
walked backwards. The throng stretched a mile and more along the road, twisting
and turning, a disorderly, joyful procession, led not by priests, for once, but
by the people themselves. His heel caught on something—a loose stone—and he
nearly tumbled, Ned and all, to the ground, but Joan caught them both and
steadied them.
Someone pressed a
flagon of ale into his grasp. He drank it greedily. It was late in a long, hard
day, the time of year when days were longest. Time stretched out ahead, a
shadow of something new.
“Here’s another
marker,” Joan said. Cob had nearly walked right past.
Every twist and turn of
the procession’s route came at one of the ancient spots that marked the
boundary of Saint Alban’s town. They had reached Gunnar’s Stone, near
Kingsbury, a mile and more west and north of the abbey, after stopping at a
dozen and more spots, where, each time, a different member of the commons had
read out the appropriate passage from the charter Cob had written and the abbot
was to seal.
Old Thomas had thought
them mad, to first proceed around the town, before the seals of abbot and convent
were waxed in place on the parchment, but he had not understood and Cob had no
heart to explain that the truth of the matter was not written on vellum but in
the actions of the people. The monks, for all their learning, believed wrongly
that writing was all, that all that mattered could be copied down in chancery
script, set firm and unchanging in letters.
They had proved their
own lie by hiding the gold and azure charter. Later, Cob planned to send to the
cell at Tynemouth, in the north, or to go himself, for all that the prior had
stolen. For now, the commons took possession of their home by seeing, in
common, the points that defined their possession. All would know, not solely
those who could read a bit of parchment.
Gunnar’s Stone lay
between Fishpool Street and Folly Lane. Cob let Ned hop to earth, and gave him
over to Joan’s keeping. South and west lay the ruins of the old Roman city,
covered with the green of growing grain.
The people slowly
gathered. Cob grinned at their unruliness, their release. Victory, even with
the cost of Tyler’s death, made the risks taken thus far seem small and
unimportant. One man’s death would not destroy the hope he saw in their faces.
But one man’s fears
might. Dickon had come along, but his face soured with every advance the
commons made along the route. By this, the last station but one before
returning to the starting point, the merchant looked as if he’d taken a physic
prescribed by the local wise woman.
“Take care of Ned.” Cob
could not take his eyes off his partner. It had never been an easy match.
Dickon needed the recognition afforded by leadership, but lacked the spark that
made people follow him. And, truth be told, he wasn’t quite as bright as he
might have been. Not that Dickon was a fool; no one who traded and bargained
like Richard of Wallingford could be thought foolish. Perhaps he had too much
to lose, too much invested in the buying and selling.
Cob pushed through the
crowd.
“What’s wrong?” he
asked.
Dickon shook his head.
“Don’t play with my understanding,
Dickon. I see your face from afar and know that your mind is disturbed.” He
took Dickon by the arm and led him away from the crowd. Part of Cob’s mind
realized that he was play-acting, performing for those eyes which always
watched a leader. Dickon let himself be led. He trembled, ever so slightly,
under Cob’s touch.
Under the shelter of an
oak thick with summer’s greenery, and out of easy view of the throng, Cob held
Dickon at arm’s length. “Is it Tyler’s death?”
Struck dumb either by
fear or shame, Dickon managed a single nod. He swallowed a sob, nodded again.
“But nothing’s
happened.” Cob patted at Dickon’s arm.
But Dickon would not
speak.
*
Dickon watched through
tear-stained eyes as Cob walked away.
The king would come,
and with him would come his justice. The commons were fools to believe that
their rule could last. Tyler’s killer would be knighted, not punished. Dickon
imagined what it would feel like to mount the gallows, hands bound tight
behind, to feel the coarse rope drop heavy on his shoulders, the hangman pull
the noose tight. Would he even be able to stand up, or would his legs betray
him at the end?
Tyler had seemed a
giant back in London, at Mile End. The thousands of people at his back made
him, Dickon had believed, safe from whatever deception, whatever danger, the
nobles might work against him.
He had been wrong.
Those same twenty thousand had watched him murdered, and lifted not a single
hand in his defense. They were new to government, whereas the aristocracy had studied
deception a thousand years and more.
Cob had climbed atop
Gunnar’s Stone, before the mass of people he led from place to place, in
celebration. They cheered him. Cob lifted a mug to them to return the salute.
And when the time came for the king’s justice, they would abandon him, just as
Tyler’s men abandoned their leader. The commons were not to be trusted.
Dickon needed someone
with whom he could bargain.
He slipped away,
shielded from view by the trees that grew along the river. The cheers of the
commons sounded thin in the summer afternoon. He held to the tree-shaded,
well-worn path. Water flowed, slow and sluggish in the summer’s heat, at his
right. Ducks and geese swam and ducked their heads into the slow current to
dabble for bits of food. Nature did not change, no matter man’s actions.
Dickon walked alone in
the shade. The abbey’s mill race blocked his way. To the right, across the
river, stood Saint German’s church, a small structure built of the same flint
and Roman brick as all the churches of the town. Each stood at the behest of
the monastery. This one, named for the Gallic bishop who had worshipped at
Alban’s tomb hundreds of years before, lifted itself out of the old Roman wall.
Above, northward, the abbey buildings rose as if growing from the hill on which
the town sat.
Dozens of structures,
surrounded by a double wall, littered the visible side of the hill. The great
church, the gate house, the stables, guesthouses, kitchens, dormitory, chapter
house, scriptorium, infirmary, alms-house, the craftsmen’s workshops,
armory—all testified to the power of the monks. The townfolk might overwhelm it
for a time, but behind their liege lord, the abbot, waited thousands of
men-at-arms. Dickon’s vision grew; they were not yet in sight, but those
fighters approached. They made the law, and he depended upon it in his bargains
and his contracts.
Yet he had made an
oath: King Richard and the true commons. Not the commons who met in Parliament.
The true commons, the faithful. What if the king, though, held not with the
commons, but with his nobles, his prelates, his churches? The commons would be
crushed, and Dickon with them.
The river gathered
speed at the mill race. It foamed and burbled past the channel that went under
the great turning wheel. A single grain of wheat had no importance. The mill
stone crushed it to powder, no matter how the grain felt, no matter how many
other grains were crushed along with it.
The guards set by Cob
against the town’s approaches had joined the celebration. No one from the
commons watched. Dickon was as alone as he cared to be.
He left the mill and
trudged by the wall up to the great gate. Romeland stood empty, littered with
the debris of the great gathering of the commoners, the gate still standing
open. The noise of the celebration came to him on the wind; Cob and the others
were finishing the beating of the bounds. Dickon had only moments before they
would reappear, half drunk with ale and half with triumph.
He slipped into the
monastery. It, too, seemed deserted. He skirted around the church. The abbot or
the senior monks might be in the chapter house. The servants of the abbey were
nowhere to be seen. He turned round the corner of the abbot’s residence. A
powerful hand gripped his shoulder.
“What’s this?” Sir William
Croyser peered into Dickon’s face. The knight’s eyes held a contempt Dickon
never wanted to see again.
The gauntleted hand
tightened. Despite himself, Dickon cried out in pain.
“Wait ’til you feel the
rope of the gallows, if that hurts too much,” Croyser said.
“The abbot.” The
pressure on his shoulder doubled in an instant. “I must see the abbot.”
“To what purpose?”
Croyser pushed Dickon to his knees. “More ultimatums? More demands?”
Worse than the pain was
the threat of exposure. Dickon looked around. No eyes were visible, but anyone
might be watching from a hidden place.
“I was—”
“Get out!” Croyser
lifted him from the earth, a hand clutching at his collar and another the waist
of his tunic. Dickon squalled, but the knight snarled a warning. Croyser
carried him across the open ground within the gate and dumped him, like
rubbish, out into Romeland.
He was still nursing
his injured pride when the shouts of drunken men and women, children’s
catcalls, laughter and song, and the creaking of the ale-carts and the grunting
of the men who pulled them signaled the arrival of the mob from Fishpool
Street. Dickon slipped around the edge of the abbey wall, pressed his back hard
against the flint and brick, and waited to see what would happen.
*
Joan Grindcob led her
stumbling husband through the crowd. She held Ned’s hand at one side and Cob’s
at the other. He grinned blearily at her. The last several pints had done for
him.
Cadyndon and Barber,
thanks be, opened a path through the throng. Cob had not slept more than a few
hours since Thursday, and here it was Sunday afternoon. The entire rebellion
had been one long holiday, but she had to take her boys home and get them rest.
She lifted poor, sleepy Ned into her arms, and wished she could do the same for
poor, sleepy Cob.
Others could stand
before the commons for a while. Others could attract the ire and attention of
the abbot and his loyal servants. Perhaps it would made a difference later on.
The little party
reached the thinning edge of the crowd, but the two men did not abandon her.
Barber still limped, from the knight’s blow to his foot. It had only been a
pair of days. But he and Cadyndon supported Cob at the shoulders and hauled him
down Holywell Hill and to their dwelling. She let the two mismatched men tuck
him into bed.
“We’ll come back if we
need him,” Barber said. “But nothing else should happen for a while. The
sealing of the charter can wait a few hours. Everyone’s tired.”
Joan tucked Ned in
beside his father, thanked them, and let herself settle down. Not enough to
sleep, but enough to pause and take a long look at her two men.
In sleep, the pair
looked more father and son than awake. The unruly golden hair, the freckles on
forehead and cheeks gave proof, if any were needed, that they were son and
father. They even lay in the same position, on their left sides, knees drawn up
slightly, as vulnerable as fawns in the forest.
The front room of the
house, where Cob plied his trade as a clerk, was a mess. Too many people had
been in and out. She flattened sheets of vellum where draughts had been written
of the final charter, the one to be sealed by the abbot and convent in the
evening. Let the bloody abbot wait a few hours. It would be a blessing for him
to learn a little patience, to be at someone else’s beck and call for once.
Cob muttered in his
sleep, sat up, then fell back. Poor man. He was asleep again before she could
reach the bed. She would wait a while, then wake him in the best way, if Ned
would stay asleep.
*
Dickon slipped back
into the crowd. Cob was nowhere to be seen. Other voices lifted as men talked
with each other and jockeyed for the favor of the mob. Cob was honest; what he
said, one might believe.
But William Eccleshall
cared more for vengeance than for redress of grievances. He started in small
ways, talking with other men—notably Cadyndon and Barber. Eccleshall had taken
it badly when Cob dismissed him from the conference with the abbot, but the man
had taken the chance to ingratiate himself with the people while Cob and Dickon
were occupied in real work.
Others listened as
Eccleshall spoke. Not once did he mount the steps of the western porch of the
great church to harangue them, tell them what to do. He moved, instead, from
one knot of people to another. He spoke of their courage, their determination,
the wrongs they had long lived with, the arrogance of the gentry and the
church, the long oppression of the people at the hands of the abbey.
Eccleshall found
willing listeners in the throng. With Cob absent, they longed for someone to
tell them what to think. Eccleshall had his own ideas, and John Byker, William
Cadyndon, and John Barber were nearby to add their approval. They agreed loudly
when Eccleshall mentioned the abbey’s wealth, the commons’ poverty. They nodded
sagely when Eccleshall reminded everyone that certain abbatial officials had
houses in the town. They lingered when he moved to another group, and stoked
the fires of the commons’ anger.
Eccleshall finally
mounted the steps, more at the urging of others, it appeared, than from his own
desire. Like so many of the actions Dickon had seen of late, it stank of
pretense. Eccleshall wanted to appear, like Caesar, to reject the crown offered
him.
Three times he started
up the steps, and twice he turned and came back down. The third time, he
claimed them for his own. Cadyndon and Barber stood guard before him as they
had done for Cob just hours earlier.
When he finally spoke
for all to hear, Eccleshall took a step that Cob had been unwilling to make. He
demanded that the abbot surrender the charter of Offa, with the initial
capitals of gold and azure, without further delay, or he would destroy the
great gate itself.
No one of the monks was
present in Romeland, but Eccleshall could depend on someone within hearing his
words. The assembly of half again a thousand folk in the foreground of the
monastery guaranteed listeners.
“One man,” Eccleshall
cried to the commons. “All it takes is one man with the courage to light the
flame. We will burn their gaol house to the earth, and no gateway shall be
built to replace it, and the abbey and every thing in it will be held in common
for the commons. One man’s courage is all that’s needed.”
Dickon was one man. If
this fire were lighted, it would take with it all hope of managing a peaceful
revolt. Once lighted, such a flame could not be extinguished merely by wishing.
It would burn through the monastery—through gate house, stables, guest houses,
cloister, dormitory and all. And when it was done with the abbey, the houses of
the commons themselves lay hard against the abbey wall. Fire respected no rank.
The name of commoner would not stop it.
Dickon mounted the
steps. He pushed past Cadyndon and Barber, who, knowing him, made only token
resistance. Eccleshall’s mouth gaped in surprise. He hadn’t expected
contradiction.
The people waited to
hear him. He stared out at their open mouths, fierce eyes. They were on the
brink of conflagration and awaited only the spark that they thought would come
from him.
“You fools!” The words
leaped from Dickon’s throat like flame from a furnace. The crowd flinched at
his fury. “What are you doing? What deeds do you have in mind?”
He fixed his gaze on
the out of towners, John Frowyk and the others from Barnet, from Luton, from
Rickmeresworth, and all the other villages dependent on the abbey. “You
strangers—do you want to raze these buildings. Do you have the courage to
strike the first blow? It’s a strange courage that will destroy the place
another man has built. This is the home of the saint. The monks are no more
than caretakers, custodians of our shrine.”
An unaccustomed sweat
broke out on his face. Salt water ran into his eyes; he swiped it away, to see
the people more clearly. Their numbers had doubled with the influx of new folk.
Eccleshall grabbed at
his arm. Dickon swung around. Rage distorted the man’s face into the mask of a
gargoyle. Dickon shook him off. Some of the people surged forward, to his aid.
He held up a hand to halt them.
“I am a burgess of this
town, a member of the council,” Dickon shouted, “and this man would tell you I
am wrong. All my life I have lived among you. You know me for a man of fair
dealing. You know Cob, as well, as one of you, a man who has no great love for
the monks. But they are our fellows.
“Stop and think—what
will come of razing the abbey? The King holds Saint Alban’s close to his heart,
as did his father and grandfather, all the long years back to King Offa. The
monks have done badly, yes, but with your help they have already agreed to the
new charter.” He took a breath, his chest heaving. “They have already agreed. You have won more from them than we had
hope of when we—Cob and I—began these few days of freedom.”
He threw out his hands.
Eccleshall had to duck to avoid being struck. Cadyndon and Barber stared up at
him with new respect. Cob was elsewhere, but the invocation of his name had
been enough for the moment. John Byker, unlit torch in hand, crept away while
all eyes were on Dickon.
There was still rage
enough in the commons that Dickon had to lead them away. “I know how deep your
anger is—I feel it, too. But if you fire the abbey, the King’s revenge will
surely follow. Trust me in this, as you have trusted thus far.” A sword turned
in his heart. Trust led to betrayal as surely as fall followed summer.
“They killed Tyler,”
someone shouted from the crowd.
“They did,” Dickon
answered. “And they will kill you, too, if you continue this way.” How to turn
them, with the small authority he owned? “Listen to us who live among you, and
wish you well. We will lead you.”
A crash turned every
eye toward the town. The stink of old wood burning floated over the people.
Dickon searched for sight of Byker and did not find him.
“To the town!” He
pointed, and, surely enough, a thin column of black smoke twisted upward into
the blue sky.
Everyone knew what a
fire might do. Not only the guilty would burn. The entire town might vanish in
the space of an hour, as flame spread from one wood-framed, wood-shingled
structure to another. Dickon pushed through the crowd, which poured from
Romeland towards the thickening column of smoke, eager to see whose house was
afire.
The houses of Richard
the Scrivener and Robert Chamber once stood next to each other, in the better
neighborhood. The flames from those two houses joined hands and leaped across
the narrow lane to the roof, and thence down into the body of the houses of
John the Clerk and Simon the Limeburner. All four men were townsfolk employed
by the abbey, and mainly in the production of legal documents.
Dickon smelled the air.
Something more than burning oak and wooden shingles—a thin, pungent finger of
it reached into his nose. Around him, the people formed bucket brigades and
splashed the homes of the innocent on either side, but let the guilty burn.
The stink proved that
the burning of these four houses had not come by accident. The appreciative
crowd’s roar rivaled the rush and crackle of the fires. Dickon shoved people
aside, heedless of their complaints, their farm implements, their swords and bows.
Of a sudden he found himself through the front of the jeering mob. John the
Clerk’s wife and children stood before him, their faces dark with soot, their
clothing’s edges singed black. Eleanor Clerk, pregnant as usual, stood in mute
shock, her arms locked around her young son and daughter. The eyes of all three
were hollow and empty, wounded, staring not at the flaming house, but at the
mocking crowd surrounding them.
The stench thickened
here, as if the air itself might burst to flame. Dickon felt his stomach twist,
his vision narrow. He took Eleanor by the shoulders—her husband was among those
sheltered in the abbey, for fear of the commons—and pushed back through the
throng. He had managed only a few yards when a man stepped in their path.
John Dene, the painter,
gave off the fumes of his craft, the substances he used to thin his paints and
clean his brushes. He had painted his face blue, like an ancient Celtic
warrior. His eyes were as hollow as Eleanor’s, his clothing singed like hers.
“Make way, John,”
Dickon said. “I’m taking them to a place of safety.”
But Dene blocked their
way. He pointed at Eleanor’s round belly. “That’ll kill you. Keep away from
your husband, should you live through this delivery.”
Dene’s gaze flattened,
as if he had run out of whatever quality was driving him. Dickon slipped around
Eleanor, to move him away. John Byker appeared at the painter’s side. He held a
still-glowing torch in his right hand.
“Now, Master Dickon,
treat this man with some kindness. He’s just lost a wife and child.”
“I’ll take this woman
and her children away from here,” Dickon insisted.
“To her husband, and
him not man enough to watch over his own.” Byker waved the torch in small
circles.
Dickon pushed between
Dene and Byker, but the latter swung his torch. The heat still in the embers
flashed on Dickon’s face.
Dickon warded off the
torch and gained a burn on the arm for his pains. He pushed Eleanor Clerk and
her children from harm’s way, and followed close behind. Byker, his rattish
eyes gleaming with reflected firelight, grinned like a gargoyle and brandished
the flaming brand.
Byker must not have
meant to kill. The woman and her progeny slowed Dickon’s flight more than
enough to allow Byker to keep up his threats and taunts for the whole distance.
“Traitor,” he shouted.
“Coward.” Others followed along, and repeated the cruel words. Dickon tried to
concentrate on the woman and her children, but the accusations were true and
therefore stung the more. He was afraid, and he would betray the commons for
the sake of his life, if only he was given the chance.
A Hanging Offense by Alan David Justice is licensed under a
If you've come to this story in the middle, it begins here.
There's another story, The Communion of the Saint, here.
And also here.
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