

RESURGENCE

The Come-back of the Anglo-Saxons  
after the Norman Conquest

A novel by Phil Tamarr

© Phil Tamarr 2018
Edition, License Notes

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## Contents

Chapter 01: Assault on Limoges Cite- Fortress

Chapter 02: Capture of French Counts for ransom

Chapter 03: The 14th C Army

Chapter 04: Montague and Black Prince confer

Chapter 05: Serjeant Petrie's challenge

Chapter 06: Lancaster and the prince fall out

Chapter 07: Tyler on the rack

Chapter 08: The lord's revenge

Chapter 09: Farewell to France

Chapter 10: Trouble in Kent

Chapter 11: A monk is liberated

Chapter 12: King Richard alerted

Chapter 13: Old comrades from France

Chapter 14: A visit to Beaver

Chapter 15: Master of London

Chapter 16: Capture of the Savoy

Chapter 17: Death of a maiden

Chapter 18: Smithfield

Chapter 19: The end-game

Chapter 20: Escape to St Albans

Chapter 21: Reunion of Lancaster and son

Chapter 22: John Ferrour – mystery man

Chapter 23: Lancaster's curiosity

Chapter 24: Hold-up of a coach

Chapter 25: Normans create own version of events

Chapter 26: Sound advice

Chapter 27: Ferrour honoured by the duke

Epilogue

Appendix

Glossary

Prologue

The Prince habitually took with him on his expeditions a large body of those rough labourers called miners. These were immediately set to work and began driving rapidly forward with their mine.

*Froissart's Chronicle, 1400

##  Chapter 1

Assault on Limoges Cite- Fortress

As the rider dismounted a boy ran forward to take the reins of his mare while the erstwhile horseman walked towards a huge double-door embossed with iron studs and knocked with his fist. One half of the door was opened away from him and a doorman invited the rider to enter. The sound of his boots on the tiles of the corridor inside resounded in the empty hall. He strode towards a table and stopped in front of it set against the whitewashed wall on his left. Seated facing him was a man in a blue velveteen coat adorned with shining silver buttons and the visitor made a cursory bow before speaking:

"Sir Simon Burley!"

Burley looked at the visitor with a scowl and barked: "It's Tyler; as slovenly as ever. Give me your summons and quick about it, Sirrah."

The man addressed drew himself to his full height of nearly six foot before languidly opening the pouch fixed to a wide, brown leather belt and was about to hand it over but then paused to examine it close-up before slowly stretching towards Sir Simon who snatched it and quickly opened it out. He rose directly to knock at another double-door facing him. Within a voice was heard:

"Entrez!"

Listening to the voices the visitor heard a command and Burley reappeared motioning the visitor to step inside. He did so smartly and heard the door close behind him and walked towards what appeared to be a low bed. Seated, covered with an embroidered sheet across his legs, was a man in a light dressing-gown who smiled as he spoke:

"Welcome, Captain Tyler. It's been a long time since..."

"Carcassonne, Your Grace!"

Tyler beheld the speaker, Prince Edward, whose face and features had lost its remembered bloom being somewhat drawn with hollow cheeks though the prince noticing his guest's look of concern roused himself to present a semblance of heartiness that he cannot have felt. He said in a low voice:

"I've sent for you, Captain Tyler because I need your services, badly. Know ye the City of Limoges? No matter! Burley will give you the details. We must do another Carcassonne, Captain. It will be my last because, as you see, how low fortune has deserted me."

He paused to examine his recumbent form and Tyler answered:

"Will you be there, Sire, I mean at Limoges?"

"Nothing will keep me from the place, Captain, though I don't move so quickly these days. Yet, never fear, I shall be there but pray do not go near the Cite until my headquarters have been moved to the English camp."

The prince paused to get his breath as the interview was evidently tiring him; Tyler said:

"I take it, Sire, the French are in occupation."

The prince smiled gratefully, saying: "You always were quick, Captain. You'll hear the full story ere long. In the meantime, here is my warrant."

Then, taking a scroll from a side-table added: "This ring used to sit on my finger but.." In explanation he slipped it on and slanted his hand downwards and the ring slipped off his hand onto the cover. He picked it up and handed the ring to Tyler, explaining:

"Note the 'P' for Plantagenet. My warrant is in French and will be recognised by every Norman in my entourage. So, until our reunion in Limoges, Captain, bon chance!"

\----------0----------0----------

A decade after a peace treaty, concluded between the Black Prince and the French commander Bertrand de Guesclin, in 1360, the latter decided his forces were strong enough to drive the English away from French territory, and, after a short campaign, his soldiers had attacked and taken a number of English-held fortresses. One such was the Cite´ of Limoges commanded by the Bishop of Limoges, a trusted lieutenant of the Black Prince, and godfather to Edward, the Prince's eldest son, but on hearing the latter had died, the bishop felt himself released from his loyalty to the Prince, and surrendered the fortress to a French squadron, commanded by the Duc de Berry.

Enraged by the bishop's treachery, the Prince, then living at La Rochelle, determined, though laid low with dropsy, to travel the forty miles to Limoges and besiege the fortress and win it back. First he sent for Captain Tyler and his company of miners who could perform this feat. Subsequently he requested that they meet him at his camp, near Limoges, and when a messenger told him the miners had indeed arrived, he immediately sent for their captain, Wat Tyler to attend him, again. The prince, no longer able to ride a horse and having to be carried everywhere on a litter, received him this second time in his tent and wasted no time in acquainting Tyler with the task ahead beseeching the miner to gain him and his army an entry, at all costs. He was anxious to know, at once how it was to be accomplished.

He was angered with the defiance of the bishop, and wanted to lose no time forcing an entry into the walled Cite´ but there were some logistical and political reasons driving his agenda forward. The politics of his position was the thousands of French people with whom he had no quarrel. For the greater part they occupied the walled town known as the chateau, which in the thousand years since the Romans had left, had developed into a thriving town at the crossroads of several important trade routes as well as the original crossing point over the River Vienne.

Around 12,000 people lived there, some of whom had moved out and into the neighbouring Cite upon the approach of the Prince's army from la Rochelle, but most had remained hoping the religious significance of the town would spare its destruction as they knew of the piety of the Prince. The town possessed three churches, but the most famous of these, by far, was that dedicated to the 11th century Saint Martial, whose bones were laid to rest within the precincts of the abbey. It was a stopping off place for pilgrims on the way to Santiago del Compestela, in Spain.

Reports reaching the Prince told how du Guesclin, who had prevailed upon the Bishop of Limoges to change his allegiance, was several days march away, so should the siege be protracted, the Prince would face resistance on two fronts, and might be forced to withdraw. Hence his sending for his miners to under-mine the foundations and by various additional means to cause the masonry to collapse and produce the breach through which his soldiers could enter.

The close proximity of the fortified town/chateau and walled Cite´ was common in the formerly Roman occupied Gaul, now France, and more often than not Roman buildings had been plundered in the construction of medieval fortifications. The unique character of Limoges arose out of the town's two-fold importance as an economic and religious centre while the Cite´, not only controlled the trade on the River Vienne but included the cathedral of St Etienne, seat of the bishop of Limoges, within its walls.

Although the town/chateau had refused entry to the Prince the townspeople did not display overt hostility, so he concentrated his investment efforts upon the Cite´, the seat of the bishop in his cathedral of St. Etienne, the bishop who had broken his solemn pledge. Apart from time constraints, the pious prince was never desirous of wantonly damaging religious buildings, and by adopting a proven tunnelling method was confident his miners would soon effect an entry. He would also economise on provisions, having brought only a week's supply with him for his army and though willing to pay for additional supplies, anxious, as he was, to retain the goodwill of people in the surrounding countryside, yet money to pay for them was tight.

All these reasons militated against a long campaign, but he was confident, based on previous projects, that Captain Tyler and his miners would shortly yield him the Cite´. So, on his arrival at Limoges and even before he had set up his tent sent for Tyler and addressed the miner concerning the operation:

"Know ye what must be done?"

To which the miner replied:

"I've reconnoitred the walls of the Cite´, Sire, though keeping my distance as you told me in La Rochelle and in my opinion, we must excavate beneath one of the towers, I would prefer the north, which'll take several weeks." At which, the impatient prince cried:

"So long?"

But Tyler not abashed, replied: "My men will work nights, Your Grace, and at this time of year, they be short. It'll be damnably hot and sweaty, back-breaking work, and.."

His response was interrupted by a commotion outside the tent being put up as they spoke. It was a voice yelling in Norman French demanding to see the prince followed by the sudden entry into the interior of a tall man dressed in a sumptious red surcoat across the breast of which was emblazoned the arms of the Duke of Lancaster, three castles in one corner emphasised by a red and gold slash. He greeted the prince with angry comments who responded in the same tongue with a gentle reprimand:

"Your words and language are wasted on my present company, My Lord. Have a word with Sir Simon, John, as to time and place. Now I beg you withdraw for I have urgent business...."

The duke apoplectic with rage left the tent scattering everybody in his haste and the prince carried on as though nothing untoward had occurred, saying:

"I know something of your task Captain. Were we not there at Narbonne? D'you recall that siege? But tell me, what's this I hear about a black powder?"

"'Tis called gunpowder, Sire. But can be vexatious if not handled with the utmost care. It will greatly hasten the destruction and increase the conflagration."

The prince rubbed his hands which Tyler saw as a sign of satisfaction and smiled at his next words:

"Come Captain, let's have all the details. Men, materials, mechanics; I want to know everything!"

\----------0----------0----------

During those hot days in September the arduous work continued. Tyler had divided his miners into teams, who worked in shifts, stripped to the waist, and who, at first, attracted the attention of onlookers, but they had retreated after a few days because of the danger of missiles from the castle. Subsequently only a few brave soldiers dared to approach near the edge of the semi-circular trench surrounding the miners' works. And, because of this danger, no-one would dare approach any nearer.

Acting under the prince's orders, John Hastings, the Duke of Pembroke, had positioned longbow-men behind a surrounding protective palisade. The whole area was dangerous not only for the miners, and unwary onlookers, but also for messengers who had to cross the no-man's land between palisade and trench. Behind the crennelated walls atop the battlements nothing appeared to move, yet there were still measures the defenders could take to make running the gauntlet across no-man's land a very hazardous undertaking, by day.

Only a day or so before, a messenger had been hit as he ran towards the miners' deep trench. The most dangerous time was early morning and late evening as shadows were longest at these times provoking a shower of bolts aimed into the air on a steep trajectory. The defenders could not aim directly for fear of being hit by Pembroke's ever-present archers who were themselves out of range of crossbows, so the defenders shot randomly into the air the instant a shadow was spotted. The dead messenger had been killed by such a random bolt and had lain there all day, the blood from the head wound attracting hordes of flies.

Tyler had to send another with his spoken message and only at night was it safe to remove the body. He had suggested to his contact, the Duke of Pembroke, whom the prince had designated as liaison officer, that a communication trench be started to enable messages to be carried with less danger from bolts. It seemed the duke could spare nobody so Tyler himself had to detail his own men to do the extra work.

Even so it was only a shallow trench so that a man had to bend low lest he knock his head against the protective timbers laid across the trench to ward off any missiles raining down. Then the defenders tried to ignite the timbers with flaming arrows but the unseasoned timber would only smoulder. The miners themselves, previously protected by a temporary roof, once inside the first layer of masonry, were now better protected from boiling water, pitch or molten lead, which the defenders, using long ladles, let fall.

The hot liquids dropped harmlessly into the earth only occasioning a yelp of pain from a splash onto the bare torsos of miners, dripping in sweat, hard at work in their tasks of undermining the wall. To protect his men against this bombardment, Tyler had rigged up a curtain behind which they worked which, though reducing their light, also protected against the hot sun.

Tyler himself did not work, except to supervise, until it came to making the bore holes to hold the gunpowder-filled grenades, when he personally took charge as a trail to each grenade was prepared, if not actually run, until the time came to fire the mine. Also, he got his miners to let him know the precise location of any reinforcing ironwork they found. Such iron could be the Achilles heel of a thick wall as its expansion set up irresistible forces to cause the masonry to fracture and burst asunder in spectacular fashion, as had been proved at other fortresses.

After several days, Tyler eyed their handiwork, all thirty feet or so of it, with an appreciative eye. He shouted to Filkin, his deputy: "What do you reckon, Morgan?" The Welshman said sardonically: "I've got a job for you, captain, when we've brought this lot crashing down, Caernarfon Castle in north Wales."

\----------0----------0----------

To try to form a mental image of the Cite of Limoges, the reader might recall seeing pictures of Caernarfon Castle in north Wales surrounded by a seemingly natural body of water to form a moat; or, indeed, nearer to London, the photogenic Leedes Castle in its idyllic county setting. The Cite and fortress of Limoges is alas no more as, often in internal conflict, Limoges bore the brunt of royal anger being occupied by the king's subjects, in rebellion. The monarchy took steps to emasculate the castle and eventually its very masonry was removed to form the foundations of arterial roads in that region of France.

At the time of the prince's siege however, the Cite straddled the River Vienne which had been partially diverted to form a moat though the amount of water in the moat depended upon the state of the river. A long, dry spell saw the drying-up of parts of the moat which explains the choice of the site by the Prince and his miners. That part of the wall was almost dry.

From the distance of the mansion the prince had commandeered to overlook his mine, he was disappointed in that soon after erecting scaffolding to enable them to work on the higher reaches of the battlements, the miners had further cloaked their activity by dropping an enormous canvas screen. This was eminently practical as, initially at least, it shielded their bare torsos from molten lead as it splashed against various objects, not least the ground. Pembroke stood down his archers as the defenders saw the futility of their efforts to dislodge the miners.

That did not explain however why the French defenders were significant in their absence from the battlements although Tyler would discover the reason for this later. Perhaps the flinty ringing of hammer and chisel upon masonry of the castle walls interspersed with miners' shouts as they feverishly called for this or that was a constant reminder of the defenders' impotence. Tyler's men were partially protected by their removal of the first skin of masonry, which needed shoring up however to prevent a precipitate crash before they were ready to fire the mine.

Yet five days into the work, Tyler and crew had made a discovery which reminded them of Rochester Castle. In the days of King John one of the towers had been besieged by the king in a successful attempt to dislodge a number of rebellious barons. Being short of money as usual, the king had failed to rebuild the tower to its former strength. The people who had worked on this repair work were, of course, the serfs of Kent, whose sons were now in the service of the Prince, in Acquitaine.

To Tyler and his merry men, this was an opportunity. The miners had been recruited from the ranks of longbow-men many of whom were serfs, or villeins, in the parlance of the age. They had discovered they were the innocent parties to a swindle against the Prince by their masters, lords of the manor, who, while paying them a penny-a-day for their service, charged the royal exchequer fourpence-a-day. The lords, all estate holders, required their skilled yeomen to be working at their trades in England and had discovered that their villeins were as good at archery as the erstwhile yeomen, hence this swindle. The prince won his battles, the lords kept their yeomen where they were needed. Everyone gained – excepting of course, the underpaid villains and of course, the prince.

Yet these same villeins in the service of their country had learned that archery could keep them alive, as for example, in the forests of England, where, evading the gamekeeper to stalk a deer was just another form of warfare, where arrest or capture meant death. So they became adept at shooting off one quick, accurate arrow, and disappear - fast. Indeed villeins, demobilised after service in France, were no longer returning to their manors to resume their bondage. They were moving further afield into other villages, even to towns. Estate owners were at their wits end to stem this tide of desertion, short, as most estates were, of serjeants, shire-rieves, even magistrates. This was largely due to the depradations of the Black Death, decades earlier, for it took years to fully train such people.

Unwittingly the fact that miners were recruited from villein-archers was fortuitous accustomed as they were to back-breaking, arduous labour yet these same miners were not deprived of nous and were always on the lookout for the chance of booty knowing that when their service to the Prince had been discharged, they would be back where they started from. On the other hand, although the prince had come to realise the efforts of his miners were more valuable – and cheaper – than knights, in certain situations, he could not fail to be aware of his lords' resentment to, what they saw as preferential treatment, as, for instance, when to speed up a mine, the prince commandeered accommodation near to the site which some lords saw, not as a practical expedient, but as an indulgence upon a lower order of being. They pointed out frequently to his highness that their squires must sleep in tents, as a result.

Nevertheless the prince was adamant facing as he often was an impudent, defiant enemy barricaded behind walls of seeming impregnability so his ability to demonstrate otherwise was wholly dependent upon such miners. And Captain Wat Tyler, and his lieutenant, Morgan Filkin, saw the way events were going. The prince was sickening and it was rumoured would soon return to England leaving behind his brother, the Duke of Lancaster, who had no love, indeed hated all miners, and archers, generally. Tyler and the others felt constrained to seek opportunities for as much booty as possible before this event; they had to if they were to escape villeinage upon their return to a hostile environment in their native land.

\----------0----------0----------

Six days after the first meeting, the Black Prince invited his brother, the duke, his knights and chosen entourage, who were to break through the gap that the miners had made, to a meeting in a local manor house, commandeered from its French owner. Of course, as always, at such royal events, some nobles turned up to display themselves before the royal personage. Whereas at the first meeting in a tent, makeshift arrangements had been set up for the prince, there was now comfortable French furniture, which helped allay the prince's discomfort. He was still incapacitated, and still had to be carried everywhere by litter, and the hot weather did not ameliorate the conditions, yet he was cheerful knowing the undermining of the castle was proceeding apace.

So, with a feeling of impending triumph, he had invited his brothers, the dukes of Lancaster and Cambridge together with his half-brother, the Duke of Pembroke into the large salon of the manor house. Accompanying these high aristocrats were the lesser lords, of Montferrant, of Chaumont, and gentlemen including, Sir Richard d'Augle, Sir Louis de Harcourt, Sir William de la Pole and others of the lesser nobility.

The prince addressed the assembly:

"Gentlemen! We have been kicking our heels for some days. "

Here the prince looked at his own legs, joking:

"Would that I could!"

Yet the jest fell flat; his brothers chuckled mirthlessly while the Prince continued: "None of you are looking particularly cheerful. It's been damnably hot and dusty; too cursed dusty!"

He stopped to take a sip of water. The eyes which looked upon this simple action also noticed his shaking hand, his pallor. Before resuming he coughed: "None of us has had a decent meal for days; or, tasted a good wine. That's the situation, living off Army stores. And, as you realise, in these circumstances where we need the good opinion of local people, it would be foolish to try to commandeer what we need."

Again the Prince paused but not to drink so much as gain strength. He resumed his address: "So, all of us are in need of good food, drink - and sleep. God help me, sleep." He paused, his head sank but almost at once, he raised it to look at the company who were silent. Seemingly dispirited at the prince's condition, nobody looked back at the prince; many just stared at the carpeted floor.

He spoke again, jocularly addressing his brother-in-law, the Duke of Pembroke:

"Show them John. Show them the prize." The man addressed ordered lackeys to open the double doors of the manor hall, and with an extravagant sweep of his hand, the Prince called, huskily:

"My prize! Our prize! The fortress of Limoges! You all recall the treachery of our one-time cousin, the Bishop, god-father to my late son, Edward. He swore fealty to me by the Holy Mother. He betrayed me. I swore by the soul of my great-grandfather. And you all know.."

Anger had energised the prince but his voice had grown huskier and he might have lapsed into coughing had he not paused. He smiled at the crowd, murmuring: "I don't give such an oath lightly. I swore the fortress would be mine. Mine." He chuckled. "Very appropriate, mine! Eh, Hastings!" His half-brother smiled out of courtesy, not understanding the pun, and the Prince, with a half-mocking glance, once again addressed the assembled peers and gentlemen, exclaiming:

"The man who will deliver the castle will shortly be with us. He has done what none of you, my noble peers and gentlemen, (a bitter note) has been able to do."

Then to John Hastings, the Prince called:

"Ask Captain Tyler to join us!"

Hastings duly obliged the prince, inviting someone, to step inside. There was an uneasy silence waiting for the prince's favourite miner, Captain Tyler, to appear though on entering, the man blinked in the comparative gloom. He seemed reluctant to be there at all, as indeed was the case. At the sound of the prince's voice, Tyler strode over to the prince, bent the knee, bowed the head before looking up to address him:

"Your Grace!"

The prince received him with a smile:

"Comrade, you have already told me about your arrangements. For the sake of my noble company, have the goodness to let everyone else into our secret."

Then, in a lower voice said: "Do your stuff, captain, as you did yesterday. Tell em!" It was meant to reassure Tyler, yet his whole attitude showed reluctance and his words reflected his unwillingness uttered in a low voice:

"I beg leave of your Grace to be excused."

He threw a quick glance at the restless peers and gentlemen, almost whispering:

"They won't listen to me, Your Grace." It was the prince's brother that broke the impasse. Ever impatient, he called peremptorily:

"Come, Sirrah! I promise I won't bite your head off." This invoked laughter and in an undertone to his squire whispered:

"But I'll have his guts for my garters!"

Tyler obeyed the duke and moved to the lectern where he stood unsure of what to say. The prince coaxed him:

"The great day has come at last and..." But the effort proved too much though it did encourage Tyler however for he started to speak quietly, nervously, and it showed how well he had been drilled by Hastings over protocol, as he addressed those assembled:

"Your Grace, my lords, gentlemen."

He paused breathing deeply:

"As you all know, my miners and me have been hard at it these past days undermining the walls of the castle. Just now my men are carrying carcases of swine to the walls where they'll be put at vital spots to help in the burning, like; the wood and all that!"

A voice interrupted:

"Little wonder the camp is short of food when wastrels such as you steal our portions." Tyler did not answer. He did not need to as the prince angrily, hoarsely shouted:

"The captain had my permission to take the pigs; carry on captain. Tell them about the timber and........... gunpowder."

Tyler resumed, after another deep breath:

My men and I have shifted tonnes of masonry from the north tower with one purpose only: To undermine the walls so that soldiers can get inside the castle. We've put timbers in place, but these are only temporary. When his grace gives the signal, we shall set fire to the timbers at several points. The walls will cave in."

Lord Montferrant again interrupted with a contemptuous:

"And if they don't, what happens then! And, if they don't I shall personally stick you on my lance and toast you."

There was a murmur of approval from the impatient nobility who felt it beneath their dignity to be addressed by this low species of being. That there was no overt hostility was out of deference to the prince. Montferrant was not finished. He and others had been denied pork in the past days as he uttered his vexation:

"We have empty bellies on account of you, you churl. If your scheme doesn't work, we shall spit you instead."

He was referring, of course, to carcases of pigs placed for incendiary purposes to speed the burning. It was Montferrant's next remark which, however, infuriated the prince:

"And, what of this burning. How will that bring the walls down?" The prince, seething with anger, said:

"My Lord, if you don't believe it I would suggest you make your toast there. I'll warrant you'll never make toast again."

The prince spoke from experience as it was the intense heat which devastated the walls, and there was a sympathetic if, sniggering chuckle. The prince invited Tyler to continue, who went on:

"The heat from the blazing timber, as His Grace's past experience has shown, will open up cracks within the masonry. The ironwork will expand. This will put the wall under irresistible pressure and the huge masonry blocks, having lost their temporary support, through the burning, will crash down."

"And that is not all." The words came from the prince, who added with enthusiasm,

"Go on, Captain, tell them about the grenades":

Tyler did so:

"We have a load of grenades. Each is filled with explosive powder. I've put them at various places inside the wall. When the grenades explode it will add to the devastation. And, that won't take long."

Here the Prince intervened talking to Pembroke:

"It won't take long brother, to open up a gap in the castle walls. You'll need soldiers to be near enough to pour into the breach."

Then, to the company:

"Gentlemen, if Narbonne is anything to go by, we'll be eating supper tonight off the best silver platters, and drinking the finest Bordeaux in the region." He broke off, turning to Tyler, and declaring:

"You'll be my guest of honour, of course, at the celebrations."

Tyler, knowing from experience, this gesture was made to show up the peers and humiliate the company, protested:

"But Your Grace...." But the prince his face wreathed in a smirk, replied:

"No buts!"

Then Tyler was silent realising the prince had slurred the last words. He noticed a bottle peeping from his couch. By now he stood somewhat apart, just listening to the Prince, who was now addressing Hastings, his brother-in-law:

"Bear witness! On my oath! I swore to take this fortress, and will do so, thanks to Captain Tyler"

Here, the prince addressed the assembly of peers:

"My comrade in arms, Captain Tyler, shall be my guest of honour within the Castle."

He swept his arm over the assembly, saying: "None of you. Just my friend, the captain, here:

Because he has kept my oath for me."

In the short pause, Tyler turned and chipped in:

"And two dozen of my men, Sire." And smiled, but saying no more as the prince addressed him directly:

"Of course! The best Englishmen in France! Return to my side, if you please, Captain."

Tyler did so thankfully although feeling he had acquitted himself well. He heard a commotion to his right as another, inner door opened to let in a succession of smartly caparisoned lackeys. They were carrying trays which they put down upon trestle tables set up and laid with linen cloths. Another servant brought in cutlery. One pushed a trolley laden with drinks and glasses. Tyler looked at the crockery, cutlery and glassware with astonishment feeling decidedly out of place. He would have preferred to go round to the servants' entrance.

However, the prince commanded a table to be set up near his litter and Tyler thought it was for the prince, but not so, as he was invited to be seated and help himself to a selection of viands, breads, cheeses, saucissons and other French culinary delights. A lackey wheeled a trolley over inviting him to partake of wine, brandy, liqueurs. He declined asking for water and the prince begged a glass for himself.

Tyler could not fail to notice however the snide glances and whispered comments by some of the prince's guests. There was hostility but at present it was very much sotto voce. He realised that the prince was using him to belittle the peers who while doing nothing were a heavy drain on the exchequer. His brother, John of Gaunt, had told him that it was his choice to bring a large army from La Rochelle. The fact that it was largely idle was not the army's fault.

Tyler had come to realise that he, and his miners, were safe as long as their services were invaluable to the Prince. Should he depart the scene, they would become vulnerable.

\----------0----------0----------

The prince had not indulged himself for he was under his doctor's orders to refrain from rich food and drink. Yet while resisting food and enjoying company he could be persuaded to neglect his doctor's advice, as on this occasion. People stood around his litter though it was clear that Tyler's presence was inimical to the nobles. Even the squires seemed to deprecate his presence. The company ebbed and flowed.

In between the prince would address himself to Tyler who had absented himself for a call of nature and had reappeared though the prince seemed momentarily irritated he was not there. Also, he was feeling the effects of his occasional nips of brandy, and muttered to himself:

"What was I saying?" A certain gentleman anxious to ingratiate himself, misread the situation. Perhaps he seethed over the prince heaping favour on someone he regarded as a low form of life. This young man, recently losing his father, had assumed the title of his elder, becoming Lord Chaumont.

He shouted:

"You were saying, Your Grace, before this churl made so bold as to interrupt."

He turned hoping for support from his fellow peers, but nobody returned his look, yet, foolishly, he blundered on: "I'd bring him to heel, my liege."

The Prince might not have heard his first interruption because he, a little befuddled, was taking little notice but as he became aware of his presence and the words penetrated, he retorted angrily:

"My lord..." then, stopped as though seeing him for the first time. He said quietly, forcefully:

"Step forward, young man." Chaumont did so, smiling, in evident anticipation of some favour. The Prince ordered:

"Turn around, if you please, my brave one."

As Chaumont turned, glances began to be exchanged among people, who, the repast over, had returned to their places. Most had been longer in France, than Chaumont, and they detected an edge to the prince's voice. He ignored Chaumont, and addressed the assembly, indicating the lone figure of Tyler:

"I would sooner have ten of such men than ten score of such popinjays. Look at him with his peacock hose, one yellow, the other blue. And, those pointed toes laced to the knees! What d'you call 'em? Cracowes! Very pretty, but can you bend a longbow?"

Chaumont now felt foolish and uncomfortable as his peers gazed at him. But the prince was not finished:

"What use are pretty legs to me? To our cause! To England's cause!"

Now, everyone realised the Prince was also referring to the nobility in general, who, at that time, were doing nothing, who ate and drank, however poorly, at the prince's expense, with nothing to show for it.

Yet it was too much for Pembroke, and the room fell suddenly quiet as he spoke:

"May I remind you, my liege. Your archers, and the other commoners need to be defended. Surely...."

The Prince interrupted him:

"Noble brother, I am rightly chastised. Your services as ever deserve merit in that utility, at least."

So saying, he turned from his brother to the assembly, once again, as if determined to finish what he wanted to say:

"Mark you gentleman. At Najera, our left flank was covered by a wood, and it occurred to me, to cut stakes, and drill them into the ground, as a makeshift flank protection." He paused, and went on: "which makes knights somewhat superfluous. The day may come, gentlemen, when the sovereign will owe a duty only unto his trusty longbow-men, and if it came to a choice between flanks.." he turned, addressing Tyler. He smiled and said:

"If it should please you to indulge me, Captain: "Turn towards the window!"

As Tyler took the stance asked of him, nobody could fail to notice the muscular difference between the miner's muscle-contoured black leather hose to the flambuoyant yellow silk of Chaumont's. Hastings standing near leaned over and whispered into his ear, who, gesturing to Tyler to stand easy, turned to Chaumont:

"I'm informed my lord, you are from Gascony."

Then taking a small purse mused aloud:

"It is, just as well, for my purse, you're not from England." Then calling the lord over, handed it to him saying:

"For your journey back home, my lord. This is a field of battle; and no place for such as you."

Pemroke, his brother-in-law, could contain himself no longer. He exploded:

"My liege. Enough! With your leave!"

And he swept out of the room. Chaumont, was also livid with rage as he stared at Tyler, as if his black looks could do the miner an injury, and made a move to follow the departing duke, but the Prince, seeing his rage, told him:

"Stay, my lord! I still have a message for you. It is to do with Captain Tyler and his associates. Should I hear, and, that goes for any of you, as well as for my absent brother John. If any of you does aught to harm my comrade, the captain, or any of the miners, you'll answer to me, he screamed:

"Do you hear? Now get out. Clear the room."

\----------0----------0----------

Then, as the company began to obey, the prince slurred:

"Stay, if you will Captain. And you Hastings! Stay while this rabble clears the room."

As the gathering proceeded to leave the room, each gentleman contrived to avoid glancing at Tyler who stood upright, anxious as they, to avoid catching anyone's eyes. His thoughts might have produced a smile of smugness but he disdained even that confident in his inner satisfaction that he knew something, they did not, and that something had enriched him and his friends by, not a king's ransom, but a count's ransom, and a brace of counts, at that.

He wondered, idly, whether in the mayhem about to unfold anyone would notice the absence of two French nobles, or, for that matter, care. The besieged would soon know, of course, but they were hardly in a position to notify the English that two of their number had disappeared into thin air, at least, were spirited away. Somebody might more positively miss a third person, which also is doubtful, as the wrath of the prince, if it could encompass a bishop, would not demur over the loss of a brace of counts, let alone a 'monsieur'. Somebody might call for a translator and think of Jean, then, were he not found among the dead, it might well be more cause for alarm than the absence of the two counts.

Yet the most chilling pronouncement the prince had made should have cheered him up. It was:

"No prisoners!"

It was spoken to the Duke of Lancaster who had no pity for anyone, let alone innocent women and children, and Tyler was sure, the duke would not query his brother's intentions.

"Come, Captain!" whose thoughts were brusquely interrupted by the Prince who, with brandy glass in hand wanted to drink his health. He was at his side in the instant, met by a princely smile and invitation:

"To you, Captain," and turning to his brother-in-law, admonished him: "Drink up, Hastings!"

Both guests followed his example by downing the draught at one gulp then, they dutifully followed the prince hurling the glasses into the fireplace where they loudly plopped.

"That's a Spanish custom, I do like." quipped the prince.

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In the early hours of the morning Tyler and his crew of miners set to work to prepare the conflagration and bring about the collapse of the wall of the Cite allowing the Prince's soldiers to enter. There was much groundwork to prepare not least by miners digging out the trench to their own height so that the falling masonry would have somewhere to fall into besides the purpose of undermining the foundations themselves.

Enormous amounts of combustible materials had been collected, such as brushwood and dried grass, loads of wood chippings, old and rotten joists from derelict hovels, many hundreds of used scrolls and documents. These materials were laid into and around the wooden framework which the miners had rammed and jammed into the masonry in place of the multiple courses of stones chiselled away and removed. Were anyone to observe the framework they would see wooden joists propped vertically and diagonally supporting lintels left in place for the final act of destruction.

However observation was not possible because the whole area of workings had been previously blanketed to prevent the defenders' liquid missiles such as molten lead poured from ladles which hit the ground and splashed harmlessly onto the covering fabric instead of men's bodies. The effect of the blanket would enhance the drawing effect of the flames much as one uses a sheet of paper to improve the ignition of a domestic fire.

At strategic points carcasses of swine were placed in niches scooped from masonry which when cooking would have the effect of releasing rivulets of liquid fat used in many a previous mine and proven very effective. Tyler had personally laid trails of gunpowder not to explode but to burn its way to the grenades placed within the wall.

So the miners worked away steadily each quietly doing his assigned tasks which would soon be completed yet with an ear for offensive action by the defenders, but, of that, there was no sign atop the battlements hardly needing the longbows of soldiers waiting around for this very purpose. Not a single Frenchman could be seen moving behind the merlons or creeping silently in front of the crenels. Perhaps they were hourly expecting armed relief from the forces of the French Constable, du Guesclin whereas the Prince, aware of the happenings in the surrounding countryside through his many scouts and spies, might have disabused them of any hope.

Had the French defenders been aware of the state of the wall which Tyler and his crew had been working on, it would certainly have given them cause for alarm. Tyler wondered if anyone knew the wall had been damaged in a previous siege, repaired shoddily and, after decades, forgotten about. Yet Tyler had kept the information to himself and Morgan Filkin, his second-in-command, persuaded his men, in their own self-interest, not to blab about the discovery of the gap between inner and outer walls filled in with rubble. Many planks had been needed to bridge this gap so as to allow further access to the upper reaches of the masonry, but also as a precaution against miners falling into the wide precipice they had themselves brought about.

Tyler had, though, let the prince into another miners' secret regarding the increasing use of gunpowder for laying fire trails, remotely detonating conflagrations, generating high temperatures at hot spots, and, its original use, to cause explosions. Tyler was almost disappointed that the blast effect of his explosions would be diminished owing to the gap but it was largely offset by the weakness of the structure which would bring its own reward.

The miners' pyro-technic display did not disappoint.

Early on in the preparations, miners became aware of sounds behind them and looking around the fabric screen were surprised to see the prince accompanied by his stalwarts who had pushed his litter from the manor house and had found a place for him beneath a tree. Tyler noticed they had contrived to adjust his litter so that he was in a sitting position and discovered later it was done by means of a mechanism fixed to the underside of the litter enabling it to adopt a sitting position reverting to its origin within moments.

Tyler waved to indicate acknowledgement and carried on as there was still much to do. There was activity as miners criss-crossed the ground taking materials and tools to and from the mine. On one such errand however Tyler was arrested by the prince's enquiry. He had noticed a projection just below the merlons of the battlements and Tyler explained the purpose of the architects to inhibit the placing of ladders and therefore discourage such attacks. Tyler went on to suggest these had worked to his miners' advantage in that ladles of offensive liquids had reduced impact falling further away from the wall.

Although what the miners were doing was interesting to the prince his stalwarts were soon bored. They began talking among themselves about their favourite topic - home and the prince sought to share in these sentiments by mentioning that he would like some of his many stalwarts to accompany him, not only home to England, but after a sojourn with their families, to be with him at Berkhamsted. He also promised them some improvements in their daily diet once they had broken through the wall of the Cite´ and could get at the large supplies of stores including wine which he expected his soldiers would find there.

In this they were to be disappointed. It was not because the prince was wrong in his supposition but simply that the frustrated soldiery, without the restraining hand of discipline as exercised by his now-dead knights Chandos, Audely and others, ran amok and instigated so much arson as to leave virtually nothing of value whether edible or otherwise. In future meetings with his brother, Lancaster, this alone would make the Prince unbearably tetchy and sink relations between the two men, brothers as they were, to their lowest ebb.

It was getting light as Sir Simon Burley showed up greeting first the prince who was only too pleased to have someone to chat with as behind the screen there was activity only dimly observable. Someone overhearing their conversation might have heard Sir Simon talking about his latest discovery, on this occasion, the tomb of the saint, St. Martial, upon a visit to the chateau situated on the other side of Limoges.

His other former tutor was the next to arrive joining the conversation as naturally as had been their wont when all three shared a classroom, the prince being the reluctant pupil. Sir Guichard d'Augle taught the prince languages and was at home in Latin and Greek as well as in French and English, and he was enthusing over a manuscript the abbot had shown him. It was a copy of the document commissioned by Charles the Great requesting his ministers, Franciscan monks, to draw up a constitution for his citizens; it was written in French and German.

In the course of this eager discussion their attention was caught by a flicker of light behind the flaxen facade and the mine's abandonment by men following shouted instructions by Tyler and Filkin, throwing spades and other tools of their trade above the trench as a preliminary to clambering out themselves and hurrying away. Last to come were Filkin and Tyler who stood a few feet from the trench observing whether their efforts would be enough and needed no further input.

\----------0----------0----------

Newly arrived Lord Montferrant shouted to them:

"You're blocking my view you rapscallions and took some paces in their direction drawing his sword, but the prince, trying to get up, shouted angrily for him to retreat, which he did but not without some rebellious mutterings:

"It is as well Your Grace we enjoy your presence." And, out of earshot, murmuring: "The day will come when I'll have my revenge."

When the two miners decided the conflagration was too intense they both retreated, the prince inviting both men to stand nearby. He shouted with joy as the facade showed ringlets of scorching changing into holes and then bursting into flames before there was a whoosh as the whole lot went up in flames, and by now the incendiarised timber was also burning fiercely.

It was at this point the prince called out for Lord Montferrant, and he appeared, eagerly believing the prince had some special favour to impart, Instead the prince dryly asked him:

"Where is your toast, my lord?. I expected you to have a pile of bread ready. I'd like some too."

But now aware of the titters coming from the watching assembly he withdrew muttering again of revenge.

Despite the flames engulfing the expanse of wall, the Prince was curious, as was everyone, about a large dark hole in the rounded part of the structure, a tower called the 'Tour de Prisons', and he called on Tyler for an explanation. He looked knowingly at Filkin before saying:

"That's where we allowed our enthusiasm to indulge in more destruction than was really necessary as you can see, Your Grace; the entry points will be lower down."

Everyone must have felt pangs of hunger for wafting to the nostrils of the onlookers, now many hundreds of soldiers and mounted knights, including the Duke of Lancaster himself, came the smell of roast pork as hot fat dripped down the exposed masonry and joists of timber which were well alight. Occasionally there was a puff of iridescence as Tyler's caches of gunpowder grenades exploded and burned fiercely like Roman candles making the masonry glow red hot.

Tyler explained to the Prince other hot spots as ends of iron girders were exposed further intensifying the heat which was now being experienced by the soldiers who had injudiciously got too near and spread out. Nobody showed an aggressive mien being too intent upon the spectacle yet many were wondering about the absence of French defenders. There was the crackle of blazing timbers, the smell of burning swine, a huge billowing cloud of smoke. Did the French believe their breakfast was being cooked?

Flames now stretched from the lowest reaches of the mine to well above the upper battlements apart from the sparks and smoke which cascaded upwards in ever increasing clouds above the walls of the Cite and from within came the sound of bells, of panicky shouts, of the running of many feet as if the fire needed attention. There was no appearance of troops on the battlements. Muffled explosions of his gunpowder bombs disappointed Tyler, but they were hardly needed.

There came an enormous crash as one wall of the Cite suddenly collapsed into the deep trench surrounding the wall like an arc. Shouts of the soldiers reached the Prince:

"Good on yer, Tyler! See what the miners can do!"

Lancaster ordered his men to be quiet which was as well for if any French were lurking behind the battlements they might fire off some crossbow bolts at the soldiers.

Then a second rumble followed by a crash as another section of upper masonry no longer supported by the timbers now burnt through, collapsed into its trench. The wall to the left, then the wall to the right had gone, and now everyone was agog watching the blackened central joists burning fiercely. The composition of the wood was standing up well to the furnace of fire raging in the centre. All held their breath waiting upon its imminent collapse but agonising moment followed agonising moment before – crash: the centre plunged to the ground smashing against already fallen masonry. It was curious to see merlons of the fallen battlements at crazy angles on the ground set against the normal horizontal merlons of the undamaged battlements.

One gigantic length of masonry reared up before it also fell down. Now, through and above the untidily stacked slabs of broken masonry could be seen another wall. It was inside the Cite. Orders rang out. Yet nobody could venture near as there was still a raging inferno as support timbers still burned fiercely and rivulets of scorching fat still ran down the broken wall.

\----------0----------0----------

As Tyler and Filkin ran to get buckets of water they were joined by soldiers eager to lend a hand, not waiting for orders, and soon water was deluging over the masonry sending up clouds of steam. As the buckets emptied and Tyler wanted to get more some distance away, the prince turned to his brother:

"What think you John?" he queried, "The stones be still too hot for your soldiers." His brother's response clearly shocked him, but it was typical of him: "They shall go, hot or not, or I'll have them flogged."

Staying his brother's desire to get his troops moving, he turned to order his miners to douse the embers but, by now, Tyler, Filkin, his miners and other soldiers were out of sight on their way to fill buckets and soon enough they were hurrying back and one by one casting their loads of water where it seemed a way through was possible. One brave soldier donned gauntlets and leapt atop a huge block his soles starting to smoke and straightaway leapt onto another on his way into the Cite. His example was followed by another and soon soldiers were almost getting in each other's way in their eagerness to be in the van and got splashed from miners emptying their buckets. In addition to smoke, there was the hissing of steam almost hiding soldiers leaping from block to block.

Muted cheers rose from the phalanx of soldiers still waiting their turn to take the hazardous route pioneered by their mates in the front and it seemed inconceivable that any moment now a party of French chasseurs would appear, but they did not. The Duke of Lancaster shouted orders but his men had pre-empted his commands and soon enough there were several dozen in the Cite´, beyond the tumbledown wall.

An officer took command of about a score and with swords drawn, he pointed to the left and they disappeared followed by stragglers as more and more soldiers now made a continuous stream, even venturing to bestride blocks which had not been doused. In fact the men had come to realise that the faster they moved the less chance was there of getting burnt. It seemed quite amusing to watch shoes smouldering as one soldier waited for another to clear the boulder in front. Risks were taken and slips occurred, as for example when a soldier tumbled between two blocks, arose to cheers, shaken and no doubt bruised, encouraging his following comrades to make greater efforts to reach the other side.

After the first wave of troops had run the gauntlet of hot rocks, other regiments organised themselves to follow. The prince ordered Tyler and his men to try and clear a path through for mounted men, none of whom had as yet managed to enter. So they worked desperately heaving and lifting the enormous blocks, not helped by the duke barking senseless orders, sitting astride his charger as if awaiting a joust. More practical were the shouts of, "Lookout!" as a menhir of masonry was toppled onto timber joists then again lifted and the exercise repeated until soon enough a sort of path was made, which twisted hither and thither but was passable by a horse, and the impatient Gaunt was the first through while barking orders for the knights under his command to follow.

Within a very short time the Duke accompanied by his fellow knights disappeared to the left in the wake of their men from which direction was already being heard pitiable screams of desperate people mingled with shrieks, shouts and soul-destroying cries and piping voices that could only be children. When a last battalion of soldiers made a move to follow their comrades, the Prince ordered the officer in charge to post his men to guard against any attempt by the French to come to the aid of the garrison.

The prince had already been promised by the duke that news of the capture of the Cite´, or of any determined resistance, was to be brought to the manor and he commanded his stalwarts to wheel him back there. One of his last acts had been to congratulate Tyler in the presence of his brother who looked sour. The miners were excused duties for a fortnight.

As the exhausted and tired miners walked back to their billet in the Black Sheep inn, they began to pass columns of soldiers on the march towards the Cite´. Evidently they were to take up position outside the walls and be ready as reinforcements in case the duke found determined resistance.

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A contemporary chronicler of the day recorded: There is no man so hard-hearted that, if he had been in Limoges on that day, he would not have wept bitterly at the fearful slaughter which took place. More than three thousand prisoners, men, women and children, were dragged out for execution. The city of Limoges was pillaged and sacked without mercy, then burnt and utterly destroyed and ever afterwards whenever a castle, fortress or stronghold came under siege, the English commander prior to attack would send an emissary to the besieged with a simple message, "Remember Limoges!" and, as often as not, the stronghold would surrender without more ado'.

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After the siege was over, the Black Prince commanded that his wife, the Princess, join him at his camp, and she arrived together with their second son Richard who was then just three years of age. She left him behind at their lodgings in the camp as she was anxious to avoid the contagion that she suspected had caused the death of their eldest son, Edward, so recently, but the prince had his motive for doing so and when she arrived, at his side, in camp, he addressed her in the presence of his younger brother, John of Gaunt, thus:

"Know you Joan that we return to England through the labour of one man and his crew of miners.."

But he was interrupted by Gaunt's complaint:

"I'll not stay and be insulted." and turning to the Princess, he declared haughtily:

"I beg leave to withdraw, Madam. Do forgive me."

And with that he left though even before he was out of earshot, the prince was saying to his wife:

If my brother was as good a soldier, as he is a courtier.." But Princess Joan exploded: "Shame on you, husband. There is room in this world for both, and I think you'll have need of his services before those of yours when this sorry business is over."

At once the Prince returned to his normal emollient mood when he was with her, praising her vexation:

"Ever the peacemaker, Joan, I durst say you are right. Yes, we do need the services of a peacemaker. Before, there was vexation, French vexation, and betrayal, gross betrayal. But, happily that is all in the past. We can go home."

The Princess rushed to his side and took his hands in hers, gushing words of joy: "Home, husband, can we? You're not just saying that to humour me? "

She looked into his eyes intently: "Let's go home. Back to England! Oh, Husband, if it could be so. I'd even wear these clothes another year."

The Prince laughed: "No need to deprive yourself, sweet one. Just give thanks. We owe it to one man, and his crew of miners." And before she could recover her composure, he had called out: "Captain Tyler! Are you still there? Or have you grown a beard waiting?"

"I've grown a beard, Your Grace, but not through waiting."

Tyler said to the Prince, who retorted:

"Come in, Captain, further into the room. My wife is not as formidable as the castle of Limoges, I'll warrant you." and he pushed against her in jest:

"Eh, my love!"

Her retort came swiftly, after she had quickly glanced towards the door:

"No, Husband. I'm twice as formidable, to judge from the Captain's face." At which Tyler took his cue, bending the knee, lowering his head and murmuring, first to the prince and daring to glance at Princess Joan:

"May I be so bold, Your Grace."

Edward puzzled nodded in compliance as Tyler added:

"I have a standing request from my regiment, if I may be so bold, to offer our felicitations to the princess on the birth of Prince Richard. I am aggrieved it was not done sooner, Ma'am."

Tyler felt the warmth of the Princess's words as she exclaimed:

"Wonderful, wonderful; I thank you Captain; it was heart warming."

Then turning to her husband exclaimed:

"I have a suggestion, Husband."

Edward, looking faintly bemused raised a hand in assent as the princess continued:

"Would you, could you give me the opportunity to present my son to this regiment, Sire?"

Edward beamed at both his wife and Tyler: "What a capital idea!"

Turning to the smiling man he said: "We'll discuss it later, eh Captain?"

"But let it be soon, Husband; time is not on our side."

Then turning to Tyler now dismissed from the tent she thanked him for the early return of Edward to England and outside the tent he reflected on her words. A thought occurred to him as he walked back to his own tents where his men awaited him: a sobering thought. She had thanked him for what, for the destruction of a castle and its inhabitants, enabling her to return to England with her husband, the prince. It seemed out of all proportion. But then they lived in a different world. He stopped and listened. He could hear someone singing. It was his mate Morgan Filkin. He hurried to be in time for the chorus.

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And so, at the princess's suggestion, a field reserved for training manoeuvres by the cavalry, was given over to a picked selection of men from Tyler's regiment. Thoughts on the details of the parade had not crossed his mind at the time as finding people with a clean set of clothes was not so straightforward. His officers lost no time pointing out that mining and parade grounds did not mix well.

Clean clothes were in short supply especially at short notice but following Tyler's return to barracks and his news of the forthcoming parade hasty preparations were put in hand which pleased many women however, French laundresses, who could look forward to an increased income which situation also pleased many seamstresses, tailors and chaussures although these facts alone placed a constraint upon the number of men able to take part in the parade. Yet despite these drawbacks Tyler was very proud of all their efforts even though he and his fellow miners/soldiers were that much the poorer.

Proudly he stood adjacent to the prince's litter as Princess Joan side-saddled aboard her personal charger wearing a flowing white gown and clutching the little prince to herself gently walked the horse along the ranks of soldiers. The little prince clapped his hands with joy and also waved excitedly and it was all the princess could do to hang on to her son in his excited state. And, what a picture of royalty for his waistcoat was a miniature version of his father's royal waistcoat: a trio of Plantagenet leopards quartered with the French royal fleur-de-lys both in brilliant gold on a background of royal purple.

Prince Edward himself tried in vain to catch his son's attention but little Richard was captivated by the sight of so many men drawn up to honour his mother. Once one of the men: it was Ferrour, his French clerk, stepped up to present the princess with a bouquet of roses quickly handed to a squire following the princess.

Too soon the tour of inspection was over and as she steered her mount towards the prince's litter Tyler tensed as, with the prior approval of Edward, he had one more duty to perform waiting for his cue from the prince which given he pronounced rather shouted:

"By your leave, Your Grace! Hurrahs for the Princess, men: One, two three!"

Shouting hurrahs the men all threw their caps into the air catching them deftly.

Both Princess Joan and Prince Edward broke into broad smiles and their son clapped his hands excitedly, once again. Still laughing the prince addressed the ranks of his men:

"We thank you, thank you from the bottom of our hearts for this magnificent parade and your greeting. Long, long, long shall I remember this moment."

Then turning to Tyler spoke a few words who immediately shouted:

"Men! His Grace has just told me that all drinks at La Mouton Noire tonight are on the house. Dismiss!"

As the men walked towards the gate he prepared to follow knowing the prince was ably attended by his litter-lusties though he did steal a glance at the princess who mouthed her words from yesterday, but he, having reflected on her previous words, was as anxious to savour the delights of the inn as any of his men.

So he departed.

##  Chapter 2

Capture of French Counts for ransom

The Cite´ had been taken and the anger of the Prince dissipated. The Bishop of Limoges stood before the prince who, apart from railing at him for his perfidy, returned him to custody to await his pleasure. But, the bishop was left in no doubt by the Prince that what had happened after the English and Gascon soldiers had captured the fortress, the massacre, the looting, the burning et cetera was as much to the blame of the bishop who, by breaking his solemn oath to the Prince, had brought these misfortunes down upon his own head and that of his people.

The prince made a brief visit to the Cite´ after its capture. He had made his point. Bed-bound he may be but, rebellious subjects, take note, there was no future in their defiance; in brief: remember Limoges! The Prince was a virtual monarch in Acquitaine especially after the Peace Treaty of 1360 but his dysentery following the Spanish campaign took its toll affecting drastically his style of living. Royal pomp and presence was hardly reflected in the simple furnishings of the mansion commandeered by the prince, originally, to oversee the investment of the Cite´ of Limoges. A first-time visitor might be forgiven on entering the chamber where he liked to spend his day for not immediately recognising his presence.

Gone was the splendid raiment of yesteryear, the magnificent surcoats bearing not only the coat of arms of Plantagenet, but sumptuous gold adornments of linings, sleeves and shoulders. Now a bed-ridden prince craved simplicity. His low couch, called a litter, also reflected a simple and practical existence. The only adornments pertaining to the litter were four straps, one at each corner, for lifting of the litter by stalwarts always ready to leap into action to convey the prince to another part of the chamber, or, in fine weather, into the open air. On level ground the litter could be wheeled, though there was no springing, as such.

For all that, our visitor would quickly notice the hustle surrounding the litter consisting less of courtiers and more of clerks reading him embassies, petitions, letters of introduction, messages of sympathy, offers of marriage directed towards his two sons, which the Prince found distasteful, not because, his sons were so young, but, because, recently, too recently, he had lost his eldest, and news of it was slow to reach the capitals of Europe.

But what of kingship, the insignia of royalty! A solitary high-backed exquisitely carved chair of state stood afar off although the Prince had never sat on it. Wherever he domiciled his court it went with him, latterly from Bordeaux, but most recently from a chateau initially occupied by him and his court when first he had made the decision to invest the Cite´ and fortress of Limoges. Yet it proved too far from the action, and, one morning early, at dead of dark, he had decamped to his present abode. During the whole duration of the journey, halted many times for the men to rest, he had chuckled at the discomfiture of his courtiers upon waking up once they realised he was not there any longer.

This is one occasion where his 'joke' met with downright disaffection from his stalwarts for he had eschewed the 'comfort' of a wagon as making too much noise, their wheels waking up the sleeping courtiers whom he was intent upon deceiving. His stalwarts complained on this occasion, and the prince was aware of it. They quickly forgave him. Especially, when he footed the bill for ale to allow them to drown their sorrows; he joined them much to the displeasure of his physician.

His throne, such as it was, gathered dust, not that he forbade anyone to sit there. On the contrary, he offered it as a chair to his crowded court, not to courtiers especially but visitors in general, soldiers, of various classes, to discuss their latest campaign, the progress of mining, diplomatic overtures to various countries. The Duke of Lancaster attended one such court or council and his brother called: "Come John, be seated. It's only a chair." But the Duke politely and diplomatically declined as did everyone invited at different times in, at times, the excessive crush, to sit on the throne at the prince's express invitation.

A curious incident is recalled when the child Richard was sought by everyone, the Prince's chamber, being cleaned and empty at the time. A page spotted him nonetheless through the shutters and hurried to tell his father, who asked the page not to disturb his play but to lead him where he could watch his son unobserved. Nobody made a sound as his litter was brought outside where the proud father watched through the half-shuttered window the antics of his son. The child was sitting on the prince's chair, shifting one way then another as if to try and make himself comfortable.

Then at a signal the shutters were thrust aside to allow everybody to see. His brother, John of Gaunt, happened to be there and the prince whispered: "Is it not a portent, brother." Then the young Richard alerted by the commotion, left the throne and ran towards his father, who remarked to his chaplain: "That will be his chair, never mine."

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Inside Le Mouton Noir (the Black Sheep) five men sat around a rough hewn, polished table which reminded them of England, and home, since the grain spoke loudly of elm. They spoke in low voices not to say whispers as they were anxious not to alarm certain parties in an adjacent room listening and understanding what they were saying, for their discussion, not to say, argument, was about them, the counts Brasse and Poucy, and a third gentleman, Jean Ferrure. All three of them had, until two days ago, resided within the Cite and fortress of Limoges, but who, now, were prizes of war, or, to precisely describe their capture and imprisonment, they represented captive money; in short, they were held for ransom.

One of the men Will Shepheard spoke resignedly, bereft of ideas: "Like I said, you should 'ave left them be. Why, Poucy asked for wine! For breakfast!" The others were tired of reiterating their response for it seemed to go in one ear and out the other, and his moan did not change, by even a syllable. To silence his chum, Richard Horseman leaned over leering and trying to suppress a guffaw, saying between clenched teeth: "Hope you filled a tankard with thy pee. That's as good as wine, anyday!" He followed his advice with a guffaw laughing fit to split his sides.

The other three joined in but their laughter was mirthless. One of them, Walter Hall cracked: "Taint no good, Dick, without a drop of his blood. It was red he asked for!" Shepheard took him seriously, remarking: "What if he wanted white!" Horseman, cracked: "They say blanc, hereabouts." Now Morgan Filkin had his say: "Back in Wales we call it plonk." And Horseman joked: "To rhyme with honk, honk, honk..." making piggy noises until a voice shouted: "Shaddap."

It was Tyler who had been dozing but was awakened by Horseman's honks. Filkin turned to Tyler: "How do we feed 'em, Wat? Did you think of that before we set out on this lark?" Tyler frowned: "They must eat what we eat." Filkin replied: "Nobles are delicate souls. We don't want them to die on us." Tyler was about to respond when their other comrade, sent to keep an eye on them, burst open the door, calling out: "One of the prisoners, Ferrure, I think, has asked to talk to you Captain."

He went over to Tyler: "I think we should listen to him. He seems to be in fear of the other two. Don't know why. What shall I tell him?" Tyler's face brightened as he spoke: "Bring him in Thomas! Watch out for tricks! Have your weapon handy!"

Thomas turned to one of the others: "I need some help; one of you lazy bastards. It was Filkin who got up, saying: "Come on, Tom. Lead the way!"

Everybody was now quiet waiting and listening. There was some raised voices in French. Each looked at the other. Then the door opened and one of the prisoners appeared followed by Thomas with Morgan bringing up the rear. Tyler pointed to the chair, but the prisoner stared at Tyler as if he had seen a ghost, muttering a single word over and over:

"Incroyable!"

Tyler turned to: "What is he blabbing about?" Filkin said: "He's just cottoned on to what I've been saying to the lads. You're the spitting likeness of one of the counts. In fact, you could be his double; fancy being a count!"

Tyler a bit bemused pointed to a chair. The Frenchman sat down on one that Filkin had just vacated, and as he did so, Tyler asked him: "You are Faucet, Jean Faucet."

"Oui, monsieur; Je veux vous remercier, mille fois!" The prisoner said with a smile, but Tyler was not smiling he was groaning. He turned somewhat crestfallen to his mates: "So much for my idea of talking to the prisoners. I forgot, at least two of them don't speak any English." But, to his and everyone's surprise, Ferrure said: "Pas de probleme, Monsieur! I speak good ze English. Remember, in ze Cite´! What want you to know?"

Tyler could not help smirking at everyone in turn before turning back to Ferrure: "See monsewer; it's like this." Said Tyler spacing out his words, then confided to the prisoner: "Food." But he got no further. Ferrure said: "You save our life Monsieur. We hear about le massacre.." Filkin said: "Massacre, monsieur?" Ferrure grinned at Filkin: "Je m'appele Jean. As I have said. You save our life. I want to thank you."

Tyler said: "Now you can pay for your life, monsewer. We," and Tyler spread out his hands to include everyone, adding: "took you from the castle to ransom you. Tell me, how much d'you think you're worth?" Tyler was serious. Jean Ferrure's smile was broad. He said: "I can help you ransom ze other prisoners. I can write your ransom letter. Is zat not worth somezing?"

Tyler looked at Filkin, who said: "He has a point. Also he could get food for all of them without raising suspicion." He whispered in Tyler's ear: "Let's talk outside!"

They were gone for some time. A little while later, Tyler resumed his seat. Then Ferrure got up and offered his seat to Filkin, who declined. Tyler went over to Thomas and spoke for a few moments who called the others to him. As they left Tyler stood facing Ferrure. Then he spoke: "You must be one of us. From now on, you are a Gascon. But I want your word of honour." Ferrure understood immediately, saying: "I give you my 'serment de chevalier'" Filkin suddenly a mine of information told Tyler: "That's the highest oath in France. If he breaks that, he may as well be dead."

Ferrure nodded his head vigorously, adding: "You not regret zis, Monsieur." Filkin turned to Ferrure: "You will, w*i*l*l" he said spelling it out. "Say it again, Jean; you will not regret this." Ferrure copied him and Filkin smiled, saying: "Funny language, English. Now if you come to Wales." Tyler interrupted: "By the way, monsewer. What are your plans after, after.." Tyler hesitated, but Ferrure comprehended: "I will go to England to write ze histoire." and Filkin explained that it was their story he wanted to write.

Then Ferrure asked Tyler: "Monsieur!" Tyler stopped him: "No more monsewer, Jean. From now on.." Filkin interrupted saying: "That's the Captain, Jean." He was quick to learn as he used the title in saying to both Tyler and Filkin: "There is one thing which puzzles me, Capitain Tyler, just how did you get into ze fortress?" This time, it was Filkin who interrupted: "Let's leave that for another day, Jean. Right now, you need to meet the others."

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Jean Ferrure put himself to a great deal of trouble to locate the basic clerical materials, always at his elbow in his office within the Cite of Limoges; they were the tools of his trade, parchment of various grades, quills, ink, sealing wax and a hot iron. His daily chores included the composition of letters, deeds, contracts, and all manner of documents of a legal, religious and personal matter. He was formerly in the employ of the abbe´ and despite the confining nature of the siege, the abbe´ kept him busy copying out historical documents. The accoutrements of his office, called the Scriptorium, were the first things he missed after the realisation dawned upon him that the world he had been plucked from was gone for the foreseeable future. Hence his quick assimilation of the idea that his clerical services might well be of service to his new masters, though even when the principle was acknowledged, there still remained the problem of locating these tools of his trade.

Thoughtlessly he had interviewed his fellow prisoner, the nobleman Count Brasse without realising at the close he had nothing to write upon or even the wherewithal to write. It seemed clerical perquisites he had taken for granted in the Cite´ were non-existent among the English, although once he had re-established contact with the abbe´ of the local priory, and explained to him his former function, parchments et cetera were placed at his disposal. It seemed to Ferrure that a priory in the town of Limoges as opposed to the Cite´ was all one as regards the mechanics of administration. Long before the prince had arrived to take over the government of Acquitaine, it was a thriving and efficient province of France and the arrival of the English had made little difference.

In haste he had written down everything discussed with Brasse who held nothing back in his communication to Madame la Contesse including the practical business of how the ransom was to be raised, in what coin it was delivered, to what address a reply was to be sent. It did not embarrass him in the slightest when the count in his over-fondness for the indulgent language of missing his 'cherie', counting the days until they were reunited, and expressing his deepest love to his dearest one. For his part he informed the countess, on behalf of his English captors, that her dear one was safe, well-looked after and yet would not be free to join her, his dear wife, until and unless the ransom money was raised and delivered to his captors who undertook, on their sacred oath, to deliver the count to his family. All these proceedings were time-honoured and normal in the capture and ransoming of the enemy, and it was going on the whole time, in war and in peace in both England and in France.

Another concern uppermost in his mind when interviewing his one-time fellow captive had been his own position. Whereas earlier Ferrure had felt unsafe, confined with his two noble fellow prisoners, whose body language and conversation had excluded him, now he was positively welcomed by both, doubtless being perceived as the means of their release and return to their families.

He handed the completed letter to Tyler translating it as he re-read it. Apart from commenting that the parchment smelled musty, Tyler listened without comment although that observation aroused in Ferrure's mind the memory of his former employment when, after drafting a romantic letter, he would look among his bottles for musk, or lily of the valley, violets, or other such oil which might be expected to arouse a nostalgic memory in the recipient. But he said nothing of this to the Captain who was at this moment rummaging in a pocket. Tyler drew out two rings, asking Ferrure: "Which of these should seal the letter, Jean?"

Ferrure selected the ring formerly owned by the Count Brasse asking Tyler what would happen to the letter expecting a negative response, but the captain took him into his confidence: "The prince, on his arrival, set up a courier service within the province of Acquitaine and we shall be using it to send the ransom note. Among the hundreds of letters delivered who will notice ours. After all we are not at war. The siege of the Cite is a little local difficulty, that's all."

Ferrure knew that Tyler was correct otherwise he, Ferrure could not have gone to the priory, even accompanied by Filkin, as he had seen French townspeople mixing freely with English soldiers, unlike at the siege of Carcassone, before the Peace of Bretigne, when the French besieged, in their Cite and fortress had bombarded their own town, occupied by English soldiers, with flaming arrows, forcing the English out. But that had been war. At this time of September 1369, it was still peace, an uneasy peace which the prince was anxious to maintain. Ferrure hoped it would last long enough so that he could make his way to England.

Ferrure was anxious to know how the counts would be taken to their respective families and Tyler was forthcoming in explanation: "We have discussed it, among us, that is, Morgan, Thomas and I, and have come up with the idea of the counts wearing our livery to make the journey. There's still time before we need to do this. When do you estimate we can expect a reply?"

Ferrure told him, adding: "I like your way. Ze nobles will not be so standing out when zey ride with ze soldiers." Tyler said: "It's bad luck that Count Poucy goes north and count Brasse goes south. That means we need more people. More people is less safe, but that's the way it is." Tyler was silent awhile, before asking: "Why were the two counts there in the castle, in the first place?"

Ferrure answered: "His honour, the Count Poucy was on an embassy from ze Seneschal de Toulouse. Zat is why I was there with the two nobles. I was writing ze marriage contract for ze seneschal's daughter and ze Count of Limoges' son." Ferrure stopped to think, then said: "I was to make a document over some land for the Count Brasse. That is why I was zaire. Perhaps you saw the documents on the table. We were all in ze barbican to, how you say, drink some wine to celebrate."

Tyler said: "Seems you had a good old booze-up!" Ferrure laughed: "Zat is why, you not wake us up, very quickly." The Frenchman added somewhat querulously: "I still rack ze brain how you enter ze fortress of the Cite." Tyler was pensive. He had taken a liking to this former foe. After all, did it matter? He thought, then with sudden decision said: "Yes, what's the harm, but first we need to send this on its way." He waved the ransom note as he strode to the door: "Thomas!" he called, then louder: "Thomas! Are you there?"

He looked back at the Frenchman a moment then there came an answer seemingly from a long way off. They heard feet upon steps then a squeal of hinges. It sounded like the trapdoor to the cellar. A voice said, this time much clearer: "Oh! There you are." Tyler threw back his head in laughter: "Trust Thomas to be in the cellar. Hope you left enough beer for the rest of us!"

"No worries on that score," said Thomas, "There's enough to last out a siege", Tyler showed him the letter: "Take my horse will you, Tom. You know where to go!" Tom replied with gusto: "Too right. It'll be in the abbe's hands in no time. Leave it with me." He was about to close the trapdoor but Tyler stopped him: "Leave it you old drunkard. It's our turn." He threw him the packet. "Off with you, the sooner there the sooner we get our hands on those shekels."

As they heard the clatter of hooves outside, Tyler turned to Jean: "Fancy a beer. Or what's your word, 'une biere'." Jean did not answer right away making for the cellar steps, saying: "I'll show you where ze patron keep his best wine. Mind your foot on ze ladder." There was a candle casting shadows on the saw-dusted floor. Tyler made his way down listening to Jean somewhere in the dark interior of the cellar, light coming from narrow slits to the outside besides the solitary candle. He peered anxiously into the darkness, his hand resting on his new dagger wondering how it would measure up to his old one left behind in the Cite. He heard the clink of bottles and wetted his lips in expectation.

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Jean Ferrure returned. He was beside Tyler, offering him a flagon: "Try this!" And Tyler sipped cautiously, then, said with gusto: "That's sack, or as good as. Better water that down otherwise we'll be nodding off." Seeing Jean also with a flagon and after drinking one another's health, he invited him to sit down on a bench, saying: "We were passing up planks to shore up the wall when we heard voices. Everyone stopped work. They were voices talking to us in French but sometimes in English." Tyler explained that they were soldiers trapped in the Cite when the bishop closed the gates."

Jean suddenly said: "Quelle chance! How you say?"

Tyler answered: "Yes, it was good luck that we tunnelled into the very building where our mates were. They were Gascons but allies. Jean looked puzzled: "Something I not understand. How break you through such thick wall, zey many feet. My arm..." He stopped extending his arm, adding: "So thick and more."

Tyler nodded excitedly: "Hollow!" he said, "Filled with rubble. Our danger was not to fall between the inner and outer walls so we had to build a platform to stand on and carry on hacking at the inner wall. But we had our mates egging us on. Well one, leastways. The noise we were making was deafening, but, of course, the cells deadened the noise. When we did break through, Gaston helped to make the hole bigger by shifting stuff with his bare hands. He helped me climb up into his cell."

Ferrure here expressed surprise at the French sounding name until Tyler told him he was a Gascon, allies of the English at the time going on to say: "The strange thing was he kept stopping to look at me. Then, he carried on without a word wresting more rubble from the hole. Soon we could see each other much better. We were closer, too. Dýou know what he said?"

The Frenchman shook his head and Tyler went on to tell how the Gascon's reluctance had to do with something which Tyler later found out meant the plague. Ferrure was not surprised by the revelation telling Tyler: "I know Capitaine. Zat is why no men are on ze walls. It is La Peste! But, something else, mon Capitaine, rumour has it that new wine help against it."

Tyler started, precious wine leaping from his tankard as he blurted: "That's why everyone was sozzled." He started to laugh and could not stop: "Haw, haw, haw...!"Jean could not help but join in and amidst peals of mirth, Tyler blurted out: "The Frenchies love their Bowjow anyway, but to believe it also wards off the plague..! That is rich! That is really rich!"

"So Gaston help you climb up into his cell?" Tyler replied: "Too right, and it explains the only thing he wanted, because I offered him some of our bread. He didn't want it. Gaston just wanted wine." It seemed however that Tyler was not able to help the prisoner as he had not the tools with him to open the door to release the others. But, Gaston suggested he return before dusk when the prisoners were fed by the guards. They concocted a plan.

As for the hole in the wall there was nothing to be done. If the guard returned before dusk, which was unlikely, he might spot it and raise the alarm. On the other hand, the darker it got, the better the chance of concealment. So Tyler climbed down leaving Gaston with the promise of returning.

"So you go back later!" confirmed the Frenchman. Tyler agreed but Ferrure whistled: "Ze guard. Tres dangereux!"

Tyler said: "If that means what I think it does, too right. After climbing back in, I hid behind the door of the cell. My heart beat like the clappers. I thought the guards must hear it. But there was only one. It was my lucky day! Gaston's was the first for gruel. He stopped outside. I could hear the rattle of his keys and waited. The key turned. I heard a pot clonk on the flagstones. My ticker thudded. The door started to open. It squeaked. Silence! He turned to pick up the pot. Gaston snored. The guard went further into the room to put the pot down. Then, he stopped. He stood still. He felt the breeze from the hole. He opened his cakehole. I put my gloved left hand over it. My poignard into his back. He kicked. I pushed. It wouldn't go in, at first. I forced him back. He bit my hand. And then it went home, to the hilt."

Tyler could have said more: About the strangulated gasp he let out; of his frantic struggles; of his right hand sticky with oozing blood, but he held it back. He halted his narrative. Jean had put his face in his both hands. Even in the gloom of the cellar, Tyler saw the shadows brushing across his ashen face. Jean blurted out: "He was dead!" Tyler nodded, excusing himself: "I had no choice."

He gabbled on about how Gaston took the keys to free his fellow inmates while he, Tyler called to his comrades and helped them up into the cell chuckling when describing how they had to leave Tubby behind for reasons to do with his girth. Ferrure chuckled too. Tyler told him then about their holding a whispered war council.

Ferrure was surprised: "Council! You want to escape, why talk?" But Tyler wagged his finger at Jean, with the words: "Now Jean. You know what's nearest to an Englishman's heart, apart from his booze: the chance for the wherewithal to buy great quantities of booze, in short, plunder." Ferrure shook his head. But Tyler continued: "There's a nasty bit coming." in a warning to his listener. "We decide to creep upstairs to the guardroom. That is, four of us and five soldiers. Morgan's got the crossbow with him. We listen outside but there's not much doing. They're playing with some cards."

"Bezique, mon ami; tres populaire, en France." interrupted Jean and Tyler nods smiling and continues: "We can only see two at a table in the far corner." Tyler stops asking Jean: "Are you alright? I'm sorry, but you did ask for the story, but it's not all killing. You're still alive."

Ferrure commented with derision: "Only because I was part of your plunder" The last word stressed but Tyler ignored the derision commenting: "Plunder, who enjoys his sack like the rest of us. Drink up!" Ferrure smiled at this saying: "Yes, carry on. I have to get used to zis horreur, when I write ze histoire. Especially about ze Anglais."

Tyler thus reassured, said: "I took Morgan's crossbow and stepped inside. It was gloomy in the shadow of the door. My target looked up as I released the bolt. He never knew what hit him. The guard with his back to us was about to cry out but Morgan was across the room by this time and dealt with him."

Ferrure said: "And all ze time I was asleep. I had drunk wine. Ze very best Beaujolais paid for by my host. By ze two of zem." Tyler commented: "You were dead to the world, obviously. But it's just as well. If there had been any noise. We all were jumpy."

Tyler stopped to recall the occasion telling Jean how they explored the guardroom, helping themselves to the excellent bread, cheese and wine. Your wine! It was nice. Bow-jow, did you say?" Jean winced as Tyler went on to tell how they were warming themselves by the fire when Thomas called him over to a door he had found. It was curious as it had two shields nailed to the wood."

"So, you found us!" said Jean. Tyler answered: "Blame the nobles for that. We might have ignored it if Tom hadn't noticed those shields on the door." Jean said, somewhat embarrassed: "Les Francais and zaire vanite." But Tyler comforted him: "Don't be too hard on yourself, or your countrymen. Morgan whispered ransom, and you were safe from then on."

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Tyler mused a bit telling the Frenchman how they opened the door prepared for anything but there the three Frenchmen were, as Ferrure had said, sound asleep, a drunken sleep. It was easy. Looking at someone's girth they speculated on one of them not being able to go back through the hole in the wall.

Jean said: "Le Comte Brasse. C'est lui! You wish to kill him!" Jean looked shocked at Tyler telling how he overheard them talking, but once again Tyler wagged his finger: "You came to his rescue. Your idea to leave via the river was brilliant."

Each looked at the other recalling the circumstances. All at once a voice said: "If you want to hear it as it really was, Jean, listen to a Welshman. Besides, the captain here needs a rest, if only to wet his whistle for a while. So, get me a flagon and pin your ears back. I'll tell you, Jean, how it was. Make it your first histoire! But," and here Morgan Filkin looked pointedly at Ferrure, "No interruptions, unless," and here he gave an impish grin: "unless they're in Welsh."

Filkin, armed with his flagon, sat down to carry on recounting his story of their raid into the Cite´: "Like Tyler here said, your idea to escape by boat was brilliant, but it still had to be done. The captain and me, left Thomas and the soldiers to look after the prisoners, by now gagged and hands bound while we climbed the steps to the casemates. Even at night it was not difficult to identify the barbican and our eyes roved from the merlons above the battlements along and down to ground level where the outer ward extended over the basin of water into a jetty. There were several boats tied up at the stone steps leading from the jetty down to the water which shimmered in the half moonlight. The problem was to get into the barbican without raising the alarm."

Tyler, slightly put out to have his tale taken over, interrupted dismissively: "Jean doesn't want to hear all that. After all, he knows the rest. Didn't he escape with us?"

Ferrure tried to charm Tyler with a smile before turning to the Welshman: "I like to hear your histoire, Taffy. I want to write ze whole zing down." At which, Tyler and Morgan exchanged glances as Ferrure went on to say: "Zose chasseurs in ze barbican, what of zem?"

Once more both captain and Morgan exchanged looks. It was the latter who spoke first: "What about them?"

It seemed from Ferrure's answer that two squadrons of French chasseurs had been left behind by the Duc de Berry who had taken the surrender of the Cite´ to the forces of du Guesclin, weeks before. They were to garrison the fortress until reinforcements could be sent being accommodated with difficulty on the ground floor of the barbican.

Tyler commented dryly: "The strength of French wine!

"Filkin addressing Jean said: "You and the counts weren't the only ones sozzled that night. Just as well we knew nought of them." He went on raising his eyebrows at Tyler before resuming his narrative to Jean:

"Both of us were familiar with this type of barbican having met it at Narbonne some time before. We knew the machine room, where the drawbridge or portcullis lifting and lowering machinery was housed in a separate building to the main guardroom. We made their way there easily even though the moon's dull glow gave little light, so reached the machine room without difficulty. There was no light however in the chamber itself and it was some time before our eyes got accustomed to the blackness and until then we remained motionless fearing to bump into something which might raise the alarm.

Tyler interrupted at this point: "And what was Gaston doing all this time? Sitting on his haunches and patiently waiting?" It was Ferrure, who, agog, listening to the Welshman, now turned in surprise to Tyler, quipping: "Ze Gascons were up to no good, huh!"

"Too right!" Tyler agreed as he continued: "Gaston's original idea to stay rather than escape had one motivation – loot. He swore all they needed to do was to lift the treasure.." He did not finish as Ferrure interrupted to exclaim: "Ah, oui! Le fameux Coucy tresor."

Tyler grinned: "Where loot is concerned, Gascon and Brit are of one mind. So Gaston disappears downstairs in search of the Coucy treasure."

"Alors! Zey found it. I know," an admiring Ferrure confirmed. Tyler looked at his friend, Filkin who said ruefully: "Gaston found it but it was the captain here who was paid a visit by Lancaster disappointed when he raided the abbey and couldn't steal it himself."

Ferrure asked: "You mean ze great duke, himself."

"Great duke, my ass!" retorted Filkin, adding: "He talks. If we had an arrow for every word from the duke, we shouldn't have needed to bring shiploads from England." Tyler said: "That's why the prince sent him on diplomatic missions. With our arrows and his words, what could the French do?"

Filkin quipped: "You mean what could French women do? He was useless against men, French or any other." Ferrure was somewhat aghast at this display of lese-majeste and turning to Filkin said: "Go on with your story, Taffy!"

Tyler and Filkin exchanged amused glances before Filkin did indeed resume his narrative: "I was whispering to the captain as I tried to point out, as much by feel as by sight, the chains running through the wall. My hand came away greasy and his lordship did not thank me when, to demonstrate what I'd found, I daubed grease onto his face. I had to point out the mechanism was greased deliberately to prevent noise, important if you wish to make a clandestine exit. By feel and knowledge of this sort of machinery, we both worked out the mechanism. Brazed to the large cog wheel was a pulley which allowed a thick rope to pull the chain which in turn was fixed to the portcullis.

Having ascertained that everything was in working order, it was agreed I would hang on in the machinery room until Tyler here had made his way back to our comrades. Here Ferrure interrupted: "Ah, oui! I remember. Zey had zis big box. It was so heavy. Gaston and zis other soldier had to carry it." Then turning to Tyler, he added: "Recall how you made zem empty ze box and fill zaire pockets with ze loot. Uzzerwise it would be, how you say: Impossible!"

Tyler agreed: "Too right! What with all those necklaces, bangles, rings, and coins. What were they, gold ecus, I think? No wonder Gaunt wanted it. "

Ferrure turned to the Welshman: "Zaire was so much, ze captain asked us prisoners to fill our pockets, as well." Tyler laughed at this then turning to Filkin, said: "Well, Taff, what are you waiting for. Get on with it!"

But Filkin demurred: "I need a drink. Anyrate you're doing just fine. I'm happy to listen to the expert." Tyler took a draught and then resumed the narrative: "The plan was to make our way down the spiral steps of the Tour de Prisons, where Gaston and the others had been imprisoned, until we reached ground level at the outer ward then to make our way to the jetty. Easier said than done! It was fraught as our prisoners, being gagged and hands tied, could only be got down the narrow spiral steps slowly. The noise we were making was horrific weighed down as some of us were with all that gold and jewellery, but we did it. Perhaps the thick walls absorbed some of the noise.

When we reached the walkway leading to the jetty below the barbican, I heaved a huge sigh of relief, I'll tell you. Looking up I saw this great spire, the cathedral spire towering above us outlined against the dark sky, but I didn't feel it as a menace; it was almost a comfort. Knowing me, you won't be surprised at the number of Hail Marys, I said, under my breath as we stumbled our way to the jetty. There were nine of us plus three prisoners so two boats would be needed. I left Gaston in charge of one boat and Thomas with the other. They were to board the boats while I returned to Filkin here, in the machine room.

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Tyler paused to swallow a draught and wiping his mouth, said: "Now for the fun and games! Filkin here released the rope holding the large cog wheel stationary, but the rope disappeared into the darkness so we hung on to the wheel for dear life turning it with difficulty against the weight of the portcullis. We hoped it was being raised, however slowly, from the bed of the river so as to allow the boats to float underneath, and into the river, and out of the castle. Both of us realised that once we had fully lifted the portcullis, one of us would have to wait behind holding the wheel while the other hurried to our comrades, to tell them to get a move on."

Here the Welshman interrupted Tyler, as if to explain to Ferrure, he was acting under orders. With a nod to Tyler, he resumed the narrative: "Tyler ordered me to escape while he held the wheel, the securing rope, like I said, having disappeared into the darkness." Tyler said: "Look! It had to be, one of us to stay and one to go. Taff went, I stayed." He took up where Filkin had left off: "By now I could see through slits in the wall the dark water of the river, reflecting the moon-glow, but otherwise it was pitch black outside. I had told Gaston he was the first to make his way towards the portcullis so that as it was raised, his boat would be the first to escape. The idea was to rendezvous outside the castle by keeping close to the wall until they reached the curvature of the Tour de Prison, not far from where Tubby would be waiting.

Now I was in a fix looking around for something within reach I could use to jam the small and large cogs of the windlass in a stationary position. Turning around for the umpteenth time, I heard a metallic sound and realised it was my poignard. It was that, or: I drew it from the scabbard, kissing it goodbye. I'd never see it again. So I thought. I placed the haft between the two cogs and waited. Would it hold? It held, but as I was about to leave, a jolt told me the large cog had managed to surmount the obstruction, and then it was held, again. I thought I'd have enough time to make it to the jetty. I had no option? I ran out of the machine room making for the steps.

I felt naked without the dagger but from the casemates, it was down the spiral steps, out onto the outer ward, the walkway leading towards the jetty, but then - disaster. Looming in my direct line of vision was a black figure, wearing a sword. I was about to step onto the jetty, when the figure drew his sword. I reached for my poignard. Then realised I'd left it holding the cogs. But was it? I glanced at the portcullis. I couldn't see a thing. I heard a clunk as it dropped a notch. The boats were away. I was on my own."

And, my position now was desperate. I edged forward thinking to elude the man and jump into the water and swim for it. The man seemed to read my thoughts for he wielded his sword menacingly, shouting: At this point, Filkin interrupted: "Something like, maintenant Anglais! Pas fleches. Pas poignard, eh! Quelle Peche!" Tyler said dismissively: "Thanks Taff, now where was I, oh yeah! Obviously the guy didn't want me to die without knowing my fate in my own language, even broken. His next words sounded like curses: "Venez! venez! I vill kill me un Anglais."

"What could I do! I edged closer to the edge of the jetty. To jump in the water, see! But the guy just swung his sword. Left, right; but not forward, he didn't come forward. I spose he knew I had to come to him. My only escape was the water, see! I thought of that bleedin' hole back in the cell, but who knows what waited for me there. More of the same! Perhaps the alarm had been raised. How many more?

Here was the fourth. There must be more. No, my only escape was the water. Then another notch went. It was now or never. The Frenchie seemed to read my thoughts. He let out a load of abuse. Then, he obviously got tired of the game. He screamed at me in broken English." Then, Taff spoke:

"Venez Anglais!. I spit you. Comme tous les salles Anglais!"

Tyler resumed: "He should have done for me then and there. But, I suppose, he wanted his fun, like a cat with his mouse, I was the mouse!"

Filkin held his hand up, pleading with his friend, saying: "From my viewpoint, it looked a bit different. There was this brawny Frog. I could only see his back view, but I saw him take a step forward, sword in front, challenging the captain with his left hand. I heard him scream: Venez, venez! Je voudrais de..

"I just let fly. In the dark even, I saw how he went rigid. He stopped gabbing, mid-sentence, I saw his legs buckle; his whole body collapsed onto the ground. The captain was onto him quick and kicked him into the water. And, then, I heard another splash. It was the captain, here, jumping into the water.

Coming to the surface, he must have heard me shouting encouragement still waving my crossbow. He's a strong swimmer, but he had to get a move on. The portcullis was still up, but for how long? I was urging my mates to row like hell. Underneath it, Tyler was still twenty yards away. Then it slipped another notch.

Me, in the boat, and the cap'n made a desperate effort to reach and pass under it. And, of course we all made it. We're here to tell the tale. The others on the bank in the dark peered at the water for him."

"There he is, lads!" I shouted. "My sainted dragon! It was close and no mistake. In no time we heard a splash-crash: it was the portcullis slamming down."

Filkin stopped, looking directly at the Frenchman and then at Tyler, who was snoring gently, saying to Jean: "There's our hero. He's not used to good wine, obviously." Then, with a sweep of his foot kicked the stool on which Tyler sat precariously, sending him to the ground where Filkin picked him up, asking innocently:

"Did you have a bad dream, Cap'n?"

Tyler riposted: "You do sing such sweet lullabies, Morgan. But, you know the greatest pleasure for me was telling our own nobility how they could get into the fortress through our mine when we'd walked it the night before."

Jean was astonished: "Quelle braveur! No Frenchman would dare to do what you did." Tyler was equally astonished: "What! Have all our work wasted. And, we'd have had to surrender our prisoners, and lose all that dosh - money to you, Frenchman."

Jean once again looked astonished, muttering: "Quelle braveur! I want to see ze island which make such people."

Tyler lifted his flagon: "Down the trapdoor, Jean. And you Taff! Or, are you going to let an ancient Brit drink you under the table," draining it and his friends followed suit, when both heard hooves in the yard outside. Tyler said:

"That'll be Tom! When he comes back in, we'll be a foursome with some serious drinking to do. Everyone say aye! Or, you're not one of us. Of course, Taffs are founding members, agreed! Anyrate, it'll be a new experience to be sozzled on sack!"

Jean held out his flagon: "Pour mon passeport, mon ami!"

##  Chapter 3

The 14th C Army

Readers: this chapter does not add to the narrative so, if you prefer, skip to next as it's my intention here to try to explain the fraught relationship between the army establishment and the common soldier. In modern times the British Army maintains a well established hierarchy of ranks whereas in the 14th century the nobly-born automatically are the modern equivalent of todays' officer-class. As for the lower ranks in the modern army there is a well established hierarchy from warrant officer on top to the private at the lower end of ranks whereas in the 14th century the serjeant (from the French 'man of serge') takes his orders from his immediate commander and carries them out with orders to the common soldier.

Also completely separate from the army was parliament: both are creatures of the king whereas today the army can do nothing without parliament. In the 14th century the army is in Acquitaine because the French have ceded the province as a result of losing the Battle of Crecy. King Edward IIIrd's son, Prince Edward has been deputed by his father to govern the province. But, the French are resolved to win Acquitaine back and in the 1370s a French nobleman, Bertrand de Guesclin begins his campaign by first persuading the Bishop of Limoges to surrender the Cite to his forces at which point my work starts.

The English ruling elite, the Norman barons see their king's campaign as a first step in winning Normandy back which was lost to the French by King John. Their other objective is to gain as much booty as possible from the affluent French though this aim is in direct conflict with good governance of Acqutaine and the prince, known to posterity as the Black Prince, tries to discourage the noblemen including his own brother, the powerful Duke of Lancaster. The prince's able advisor, Sir Simon de Burley devises a plan whereby the prince can minimise his expenditure by compelling the Normans to pay their own expenses in travelling between France and England and this edict will cost Burley his life after the prince's death.

There is also a critical tension between the Norman nobility and the common soldier. This enmity arises as a direct result of the prince's battle tactics in compelling his cavalry, comprising mounted nobility, to protect his archers' flanks. In the three battles the prince commands he wins through the marksmanship of his longbowmen reducing the significance of his cavalry who make their resentment felt by animosity towards any archer the nobility can capture and punish. One group of archers attracting this hostility is the separate group of men skilled at undermining French castles, fortresses and keeps: in history they are identified as miners.

In 2016 the British establishment are shocked by the 'No' vote in the referendum in June. MPs voted through the PM, Cameron's measure for a vote in parliament because they were convinced of a 'Yes' result such was their ignorance of their constituents' concerns over immigration, loss of sovereignty, Brussels' diktats and a move by the unelected EU Council of Ministers to form a United States of Europe. In the 14th century also the Norman establishment also had not a care for the ordinary subject and in Magna Carta this subject, the common villein, is not mentioned. In the prince's army his men-at-arms, archers and common soldier fight bravely and help win his battles; so, knowing of their hard life back in England he is willing to turn a blind eye to the activities of his soldiers even in capturing French noblemen and holding them for ransom in Acquitaine and England.

These activities are viewed askance by the ruling Norman elite who do not deign even to speak the common language of their subjects, English. However and although slow-moving there are measures in parliament to officially approve the use of English in legal and constitutional documents. Also the nobles themselves accentuate this separation by calling for a discrete chamber for lords little thinking that the despised commoners' chamber will one day become the immensely more powerful House of Commons which is charged with the financial affairs of the kingdom. A member of this House proposes that all discussion, debate, motions etc be recorded by scribes and entered into official parliamentary archives: his name was Hansard. The Commons also elect one of their number to be an official spokesman in deputations, meetings, consultations with the king, the Speaker.

It is to the Commons that King Richard IInd, son of the Black Prince, applies in seeking a loan. He is outraged when the Commons demand that he dismisses an advisor whom they think gives bad advice to the king. He departs in high dudgeon though is soon back agreeing to its terms; and England is still in the 14th century. England is changing but its Norman overlords do not notice, to their cost.

Forward with the story: remember, it's winners who write histories. The Normans are but temporary winners but their narrative becomes official history even though it's a concoction of half-truths. It's for the modern narrator to read 'between the lines'. And, perhaps write how events probably played out.

##  Chapter 4

Montague and Black Prince confer

In the early hours of the morning, he was summoned. There was a clattering of hooves and the creak of wheels in the yard outside; unfamiliar sounds which had already alerted Tyler to something untoward as he threw aside his cosy, comfortable eiderdown unwillingly preparing to rise from bed and hearing ruefully the hard knock on the door below. It was an impatient knock of one, who was not used to be kept waiting. The sleeper put his feet down upon the waiting pantalons as he listened to the clatter of clogs on the flagstones below and listened as someone went to open the door.

"Summons for Mister Tyler."

They were the words he heard from a stranger and then a further clatter as many shod feet resounded on the flags and Tyler realised that whoever had called had been invited in or perhaps had barged inside. He was on his way down before the voice of Morgan called up the stairs:

"Captain Tyler! There's.." not finishing because Tyler appeared and tripped down the flight of creaky wooden stairs coming face to face in the poor morning light with an angry looking serjeant and a soldier holding a pike.

"Mister Tyler!"

It was a statement put to him by the serjeant and he nodded still feeling half-awake but saying cheerfully:

"And good morrow, to you Serjeant! You're bringing fresh bread for breakfast, are you! What an honour!"

"Breakfast!"

The voice barked: "You've no time for breakfast. Where are you going? Get after him, Pikeman!"

Tyler had gone through the door into the yard and was busy pumping water into the fixed basin. As Tyler splashed water over his face to revive himself into wakefulness, the serjeant had followed him accompanied by his scurrying pikeman. Chevrons of rank to the fore the serjeant barked:

"You don't walk away while I'm talking."

Whereupon Tyler walked back inside took a towel and wiped his face while the serjeant strode back, now shaking in fury. Tyler walked back to meet the serjeant halfway, remarking innocently:

"You were saying, serjeant. You mentioned a summons."

The angry man roared at him:

"By gad, Sirrah. You'll have more respect or my name's not Serjeant Petrie. Now, Sirrah, stay where you are or my pikeman will run you through, so help me God."

Tyler did as he was bidden and clutching the towel to his face and stroking his chin with the thought that a beard was not such a good thing. The serjeant spoke:

"What are you doing here while me and my men have to make do with camp beds and tents. You miners live in the lap of luxury. What on earth has the army come to?"

Tyler said nothing and this annoyed the serjeant as much as a reply. He said:

"Well! Are you going to give me an answer?"

Tyler wondered why he was so ignorant of his role, but not quite crediting his ignorance, explained:

"We're still clearing away the rubble from the mine, Sarge."

He did not finish as the last word seemed to touch a raw nerve. He spat, the phlegm barely missing his pikeman, remarking, contemptuously:

"Mine, you call it. Rubble! Just one big skive, if you ask me."

Then, as if suddenly reminding himself of the reason he was there, he thrust a scroll into Tyler's hand then changed his mind, opened it and read:

"You are summoned to wait upon Sir John Montagu at the regimental HQ, not later than seven of the clock."

The man half-smiled, adding:

"My orders are to fetch you, Sirrah. Are you ready to go!" It was not a question really but a statement of intent brooking no argument. In the town the Benedictine Jacquemarts chiming clock began to strike. Tyler counted five. He said, as much to delay things than a serious enquiry:

"Let me see the summons. Is it counter-signed by ..."

"You insolent dog!" and apoplectic, the serjeant ranted: "I'll have you flogged."

Tyler remained cool, in a neutral tone asking:

"Serjeant Petrie, I am under the direct orders of the prince. That's why I'm here. Why we're all here. Has he authorised this summons?"

At mention of the prince the man looked somewhat abashed, opening the scroll and then handing it to Tyler in triumph:

"See for yourself!" Adding in contemptuous tone, "If you can read."

Tyler spotted the tell-tale triple ostrich feather of the Prince's seal and handed it back. Just then Filkin appeared with a flagon, saying:

"Have something warm, Cap'n. You've a long ride ahead of you."

Tyler sipped the hot mead thankfully as the serjeant fidgeted impatiently. Filkin, who had overheard the discourse, said to Tyler:

"Better watch yourself, Wat you can't be too careful where you're going. I've heard there's all sorts of goings on in the camp; all those undesirables. It's a good thing the prince allocated us this tavern."

Tyler finished up the warm mead gratefully, handing the flagon to Filkin saying:

"There's nothing like warm mead to start the day, eh Serjeant!"

But the serjeant was back to his peremptory self, barking:

"Pikeman! Show Mister Tyler up onto the wagon!"

Tyler followed the pikeman and climbed up onto the four wheeled conveyance where there were already four soldiers waiting impassively for them. He sat down on the wooden bench and the pikeman climbed up himself while the serjeant proceeded to the front and clambered up beside the driver telling him to get on with it.

As the wagon lumbered over the cobbles, the shaking began and the men in the back reached up to the long wooden pole above their heads going the length of the wagon. It helped to ease the juddering as their posteriors came off the bench slightly. Tyler, having briefly scrutinised the faces of his companions, thought that with hands thus occupied hanging on there was no scope for any rough stuff, although, from the corner of his eye he observed the pikeman shaking his head to his companions, as if to suggest, they would answer for any back-chat to the serjeant.

Tyler relaxed when they came within view of the tents. Now he had time to compare the countryside with that of Kent, missing the strips of grass, crops and fallow land that be such a feature of his native countryside. Cultivated land here covered a much larger area. As did pasture land, where there were large herds of cattle and up on the slopes above the town sheep grazed in large numbers. There were huge expanses of stubble, a sure sign of a recent harvest...

An hour later, the wagon came to a sudden halt and the pikeman jumped down, lowering the backboard for Tyler. The others followed him. It seems the rest of the journey was to be walked, at least for Tyler and the serjeant, because the others had disappeared. He eyed the scene before him as he waited for the serjeant who was issuing orders. He was struck by the bewildering variety of shields atop long poles hammered into the turf.

He wondered whether the shield of Montagu was in the vicinity as he surveyed the colourful emblems of nobility. There were lions in a variety of heraldic postures, passant, rampant, puissant; there were shields with stripes, chevrons, cantons, bordels, lozenges in a variety of bold and pastel colours, including those of argent and gold. There were quartered shields each quarter boasting a different emblem, an eagle, a rose, a leek for a Welsh house, or, a thistle for a Scot.

While thus engaged, Serjeant Petrie ordered Tyler to follow him, both proceeding along duckboards the length of one street turning left for perhaps a hundred paces, then turning right again. The tents were pitched on grass and as he passed he noticed men in various staged of undress cursing loudly at having to leave their warm bunks for the coolness of the morning. The sun loomed over the camp like a huge menacing melon. There were smells wafting over from the cookhouse that wakened Tyler's taste buds, but doggedly he followed Petrie's footsteps.

The serjeant halted and disappeared inside the flap of a marquee. Tyler waited outside running his eyes over the hundreds of tents. There were surely too many men here doing nothing as the assault upon the Cite, savage as it had been, had employed only a few hundred soldiers and knights, at most. The Prince had over-estimated the number needed for the operation, because once Lancaster and his knights and men-at-arms had plunged through the gap which Tyler and his men had made, when their mine had brought down the north tower, the anticipated battles within the cite had not materialised.

Opposition had been expected from the several hundred chasseurs left by the Duc de Berry, but Tyler had notified the prince of their whereabouts in the barbican, and they had been caught literally with their breeches down, or, in other words, asleep. It was the men-at-arms that had been responsible for the blood-letting. Once inside they looked for loot, or eminent people for ransoms, and finding their hopes frustrated allowed their swords to speak their frustration.

Their work done, Tyler had reported to the Prince who was delighted with the miners' accomplishments and had promptly awarded them leave now being interrupted by this summons. Still, he patiently waited for the serjeant to return taking up, in his boredom, the insignia of the escutcheon outside the marquee. It was quartered, the 1st and 4th having a triple lozenge in blue upon a silver background. He reflected idly upon the motto in latin, 'spectemur agendo'. Yet another shield bore chevrons and he speculated what it signified, but he had no time to wonder unduly as the serjeant was back, handing him over to a guard, who led him into the marquee.

Voices he had heard on the outside were now clearer but being in French he was none the wiser. The guard motioned him to wait as he disappeared through a flap re-emerging to tell him to go into the room before withdrawing himself. He stood there trying to accustom his eyes to the gloom and then dimly made out people seated behind a table, one of them inviting him to come forward.

His glance took in three people but the one who spoke was dressed in a white surcoat over armour who addressed him:

"Tyler, Walter. Correct!"

He answered in the affirmative and the man answered:

"My name is Montagu, John Montagu, knight of the manor of Bow. I have summoned you, Mister, or should I say, Captain," then broke off asking Tyler:

"This is a title denoting rank. Who conferred the title upon you?"

Tyler assumed an air of nonchalance, as he answered:

"His Grace, the Prince, my lord addresses me regularly as such."

Montagu said: "Alright Captain Tyler. We'll say no more."

He turned to the two people that hitherto had not spoken, then, addressed Tyler again:

"These good people, Captain, are the owners of the tavern you and your men are occupying at present. As the assault upon the Cite is through and the place is in our hands, these people would like to know when they will be able to resume possession of their property, the tavern you are occupying."

Tyler looked over at the man and woman. He looked the prosperous farmer whereas she appeared much younger. He turned towards Montagu:

"As you know, my Lord, we are acting upon the Prince's commission, and as soon as he instructs me to vacate the property, the tavern will revert to the owners."

He stopped and looked over at the couple. The man looked down whereas she met his look without flinching, even smiling. She turned away to address Montagu saying something to him in French which Tyler did not understand. Nonetheless he felt weak at the knees; his sidelong glances at her were surreptitious affairs.

At each occasion she glanced in his direction even momentarily his knees suffered yet was sorry when she had finished her discourse with Montagu. He addressed Tyler:

"Madam and Monsieur le Fevre have cooperated with us Captain, and I would like to meet their concerns. What do you say?"

"My Lord", replied Tyler: "I had not realised until now the urgency of the matter. We still have work to do, but as soon as possible, I shall make my report to the Prince."

Madam spoke to Montagu before he could reply and Tyler listened to her every word thinking thereby he might comprehend:

"Pardon, monsieur le chevalier! Il n'est pas possible pour le capitain et ses hommes de mouvrir tout de suite." Then in English: "Is that what he said?"

She noticed his attention and addressing him directly, his face suffusing with crimson, she added:

"Pardon, Monsieur le Capitaine, on va de savoir c'est combien de temps. Votre reponse nous satisfie. Merci mille fois!"

Montagu smiled at Tyler's discomfiture, saying:

"Madam thanks you, Tyler. It seems they want you out but your charm has saved the day. Had I known his grace, the prince, was involved, I would have been more circumspect in consideration of their request."

Tyler knew this was nonsense. He could see Sir John had been as captivated by Madam as he had, but even as the thought flashed, he heard Montagu say:

"You can tell them yourself Tyler at the appropriate time. Their farm is not far from you. I shall be seeing the prince soon, Captain. I hope for your sake, your story is confirmed. Now, if you don't mind."

Tyler knew he was dismissed though as he turned on his heels, he caught her eye again and then he was through the flap and standing on the duckboard he had vacated earlier. He wondered whether he should wander over to the cantina, when a voice behind caught his attention:

"Pardon, monsieur. Il nous donnerait beaucoup de plaisir.."

Monsieur (the landlord) did not finish but pointed to his carriage, saying with a smile: "Venez, s'il vous plait!" (This way please!)

Madam now joined them though she smiled her invitation. The pair sat up front and he made himself comfortable behind and with a command to the horses, they were away. They were soon on the open road with the team hardly noticing his extra presence. Their speedier progress made the trip seem far shorter than earlier and soon they had reached the outskirts of the village. The buggy stopped and he got down and came to the front to thank them both in broken French.

He was surprised when Monsieur le Fevre addressed him:

"Madam et moi monsieur nous vous invitons de prendre le diner, ce soir, chez nous."

He pointed to a farm house where smoke curled from a chimney and made a gesture of eating. He mentioned a time. Although Tyler did understand the time in French and he mumbled his thanks to both of them, again in broken French, he cursed inwardly at his failure in the language.

Before they signalled the horses to continue, Madam turned and gave him another radiant smile, and he was her captive. Yet as he started walking home to the tavern, he was already regretting his affirmative answer to their invitation. What could they talk about?

\----------0----------0----------

Sir John Montagu meanwhile approached the manor house where the Prince was quartered, the near-midday sun flashing upon the Prince's escutcheon, an achievement of arms, out-shining all others. His quartered shield blazoned forth its trio of lions-leopard and fleur-de-lys in contrasting azure blue and royal gold together with its white label denoting the cadence of the king's first-born which was not only a glorious depiction of England's royal house but a beautiful work of art, in its own right.

There was traffic, a lot of traffic outside the Prince's residence and Montagu waited impatiently, not so gently reining his mare to one side while a stream of visitors made their way into and out of the courtyard. At last he spotted a gap and spurred the mare towards it but still bumping horses as several walked inside where grooms dashed hither and thither taking mounts and leading them away. Relieved to hand her over Montagu turned to join the queue for the services of the chamberlain, or, as it turned out, his aide.

It was not Sir Nigel Loring, the prince's chamberlain who listened to his business but he was brisk and businesslike asking him to wait in the ante-room adjacent the courtyard. As he arrived Sir John could not help twitching his nose slightly at the whiff of sweat, not appreciating this place was not a royal court but the working offices of a Prince on campaign. To his surprise and relief the room was absent of knights, the company consisting of men-at-arms standing stolidly by their masters' escutcheons poles planted stolidly on the floor whispering to their fellows. Evidently their masters were in audience inside so he resigned himself to a lengthy wait.

He was pleasantly surprised therefore when his name was called, the announcer telling him the prince would be pleased to grant him an audience directly after the present one's conclusion. As he waited just a few yards from the throne room, he could not help but admire the prince's apparent tirelessness, by ending one audience and seamlessly beginning another.

Now it was Sir Nigel Loring himself who greeted Montagu ushering him into the Prince's presence and there was a welcoming smile upon his face as the prince caught sight of him. There was no mistaking his genuine delight:

"Good morrow, Montagu! What brings you so far out of your way to see a tardy invalid. It's so good to see you."

As he neared the prince's litter he was touched by guilt that he was not there primarily to enquire after the Prince's health but other business. Yet it was pleasant to return the Prince's greeting:

"Good morrow, Your Grace. It was very good of you to see me at such short notice."

"How are things in camp?" enquired the Prince and Montagu was delighted to have an occasion to thank him:

"Very dry, sire, The duckboards were a great idea of yours. We've both experienced the mud baths of previous campaigns."

Reassured, the prince politely thanked Sir John: "Good, very good! But, you have other things on your mind."

Montagu was delighted that the prince got down to business and he revealed his mind:

"A local gentleman and his lady, Sire, French farming folk, have been to see me, Your Grace. They are friends and allies and in accordance with your instructions, I'm dealing with them on a civil basis. The army, it seems, has requisitioned their tavern for accommodation of Captain Tyler and some of his miners. I wanted to discuss with Your Grace the terms of his tenure. May I make so bold to confirm, Sire that he is under your direct command?"

The prince said nothing but smiled and Montagu was concerned he might have said too much, but he was soon reassured:

"Has the captain been getting uppity?"

Montagu was relieved at the tone of question, responding:

"He did exchange words with my serjeant, Sire. Serjeant Petrie was angry and even considered losing his chevrons to give him more than a bit of his mind, if you take my meaning Sire."

Long before Montagu had ended explaining, the Prince was chuckling, and then more soberly:

"A necessary evil, my Lord Montagu; a very necessary ... perhaps evil is the wrong word, though I am amused over his antics, at times."

Then curtailing his humour, the Prince asked: "Is your officer so incensed he wants to issue a challenge, my Lord?"

Montagu affirmed that was the case whereupon the Prince pursed his lips and looked away reflecting upon something, muttering under his breath:

"This might be my last campaign."

Then, he said, addressing Montagu:

"Selfish of me, I know my Lord. Your serjeant has his pride, and you have to maintain discipline,"

Here the prince smiled, "Besides having his welfare in mind, I still don't want to lose the captain's services through some peevish incident. Do you have any ideas to resolve the matter?"

Sir John brightened and made a suggestion:

"Perhaps, a trial of strength, Sire, or something along those lines." He struck a chord with the prince who cried:

"Capital idea, Sir John! I'll leave it to your good sense."

Montagu returned the smile emboldened by the prince's favourable reaction, before saying:

"There was another matter, Sire. Tyler is apt to be called captain by his companions. Is he entitled to this rank? If I think of Sir John Chandos, Sir Percy Knollys and your esteemed chamberlain, Sir Nigel Loring, all famous captains, in their day, Sire."

He stopped fidgeting a little nervously particularly as the prince had gone very quiet. Then Montagu resumed:

"I trust I haven't spoken out of turn, Your Grace."

The Prince maintained his silence and was even pensive. Finally he spoke:

"Consider a problem, Sir John. Our doughty opponent, Bertrand du Guesclin, no mean commander, is a few days march to the north. The Duc de Berry is not a hundred miles to the south. Our army has a week's supply of food. Now, my lord, tell me of a knight most able to get me into the fortress of the Cite within that time scale."

Montagu's smile vanished. For a moment he thought the prince might be discussing strategy. It was clearly not; it was more like a post-mortem. Even so the matter had not crossed his mind, and, at this moment, he had no answers. Meanwhile the prince settled himself more comfortably on his cushions. Aware of Montagu's silence, he said:

"I'm forgetting my manners, Sir John" and clapping his hands, a stalwart appeared. The prince turned to Montagu: "A refreshment, Sir John! I am yours to command!"

Montagu crimsoned, stuttering: "Allow me to share your refreshment, Sire, if I may." The prince smiled warmly saying: "You might well be sorry! Two cordials, Jimmy!"

Montagu could not take in what he was hearing; The prince's warmth to both himself and his lackey. It was almost too much. Montagu was suddenly overcome and went forward, kneeling before the prince. He said humbly:

"I beg Your Grace's pardon. It was foolish, insulting of me to question Your Grace's judgement."

In reply the prince said: "Come drink your cordial," Then, with a smile, adding: "And rue the day you shared my medicine."

As they sipped their cordial, the prince asked him:

"You were at Cormicy, Sir John! You'll remember the difficulty we had to break into the Keep. His majesty, my noble father, was angry. I was in the full flush of campaign vigour. We had all the great captains, Chandos, Knollys, Loring, and you yourself, Sir John."

Montagu smiled saying: "Your Grace is too kind. I'm not worthy to be included in such company, Sire."

The prince disagreed but asked:

"Yet, all of us impotent, unable to act unless the walls of the Keep came down. And, who fired the wall of that Keep! As I already have said, vital, before we could perform."

Montagu expressed his ignorance and the prince told him:

"It was Captain Tyler and his band of miners."

Montagu answered: "I never knew, Sire. We went through the gap like hounds from hell; another great triumph, Sire!"

The Prince ignored the flattery:

"You did not know, Sir John. The king in his wisdom cautioned against letting the French know. As you know, they don't kill archers, simply lop off thumb and index finger. What would they do to rob us of the miner's skills? We could not take the risk."

Montagu tried a little levity:

"Our secret weapon, perhaps Sire?" The prince returned his smile:

"Indeed Sir John. How do I reward such a man - and his comrades? Manumit him perhaps - and the other fellows. I think you'll agree that allowing Captain Tyler this harmless rank serves many purposes."

Montagu was silent thinking of his estates back home:

"It would cause havoc on my estates in England, Sire, were we to manumit these fellows. As free men they can go where they like and would do, no doubt."

The prince nodded: "Precisely, Sir John. In the meantime, in France they have acquired skills which we nobles cannot do without. It is villeins such as he, and sturdy yeomen, of course, who have kept the cream of French knighthood at bay. Do you recall the instance when my dear father, our gracious sovereign, in an over-zealous pursuit of a French host, many times in excess of his meagre number, and on realising the fact, suddenly turned?"

Montagu excitedly interrupted:

"Ah yes, Sire, our sovereign true to his valiant nature, even when the odds against him were so great by several times, even so, egged the French on by his grace's loud calls to them, crying,

"C'est Edward, ici. Allez vite!"

Both men dissolved into laughter at the memory until the prince matter-of-factly, said:

"It was his calls and other shouts that alerted me to his desperate plight, and I hastened to support him. But we knights were useless, sinking into the morass, which condition also plagued the French who could not advance as they too, sank to the horses' knees. It fell to our trusty archers, so light and lithe, the marsh did not bother them, and they, hidden by the tall grass, picked off the French, man by man, knight by knight until their commander decided it was not such an easy victory."

Montagu felt somewhat humbled by the prince's admissions. He said:

"Returning, if I may, Sire, to the question I raised a moment ago, my second thought is to send my serjeant about his business."

Here the prince interrupted, saying:

"By no means, Sir John; the men, serjeants especially," Here both men laughed heartily over the traditional peccadilloes of serjeants." The prince continued:

"They all need to let off steam although no Englishman needs to let blood, unless it be a streaming nose from a well-aimed punch."

"That gives me an idea, Sire," said Montagu, "My men are listless and bored. Mayhap a contest will fire their blood and set their pulses tingling."

"An excellent idea, Sir John! I'faith, I do remember our trials of arms at Smithfield. Nobody lost their life or was injured apart from bruising and sore heads, the latter from the merrymaking thereafter."

Here again the two men rocked with laughter, the prince saying:

"Let's confine our sharp edges to our humour, eh Sir John! at least among Englishmen – and our allies, of course. But before you depart have a word with my chamberlain. Sir Nigel will provide you with a proclamation, already signed and sealed with my badge."

Montagu was puzzled:

"With your famed 'Ich Dien' motto, Your Grace, how can that be! I still have to compose the proclamation."

But the prince smiled wickedly:

So indeed you can, my Lord. They are blank proclamations, you see. I trust you not to make out an order to the Flemish bankers for a thousand livres. It's much the most efficient way, I think you'll agree."

The prince mused a little and Montagu, apart from assenting, did not venture to interrupt his musings, and then placing his flagon which had contained cordial on his side-table, the prince dislodged a paper which Montagu was only too happy to pick up from the floor. The prince thanked him, saying it had been presented to him by his previous visitor, confiding its contents to his guest:

"Just before you came to see me, Sir John, I received this news from my agent at Bordeaux. It's about a lighthouse that I advanced the wherewithal to have constructed at the mouth of the Gironde. It is now giving light and, according to my agent, has already saved lives by preventing ships colliding into rocks at the harbour-mouth. That, my Lord, I trust will be my monument when I leave France."

"Indeed, Sire" said Montagu, "by all accounts the citizens have much to be thankful for." As he said this an aide entered excusing his presence and whispering to the Prince who listened raptly. Then turning to Montagu smiled as he spoke:

"Alas, my dear Lord, affairs of state demand my attention. I beg you to excuse your commander-in-chief."

Montagu was left with the feeling that the prince would have gone on chatting with him all day so it gave him pleasure to thank him cordially for the interview, and each took their leave. His ill humour of days before, forgotten and with much to think about, Montagu went to reclaim his horse.

\----------0----------0----------

"Rat-tat-tat; rat-tat-tat; rat-tat-tat!"

Harsh sounds invading his slumber ultimately penetrated the sleeper's consciousness and he opened his eyes unwillingly peering in the general direction of the sounds and raising himself in bed to get a better view. Again came the rat-tat-tats and he vaguely made out an arm holding a riding stick through the shutters and dimly realised someone was there, and was trying to get his attention. There was also a disconcerting clop, clop of hooves; another summons!

Now awake he placed his feet on the cold floor, grabbed a gown to cover his nakedness and in bare feet crept towards the window, peering through the shutters. It was a woman and she had spotted him, or at least seen a movement in response to her rapping. She called out:

"Allo, allo! L'ouvriez, s'il vous plait!"

He did as bid, releasing the catch and gently pushing one shutter outwards to reveal a female mounted upon a horse. It was Madame le Fevrier: she purred:

"Enfin! Pas diner, monsieur le capitaine. Je viens ici de vous inviter pour le petit dejeuner." And then, "Breakfast, monsieur!"

Tyler flushed conscious at once of his failure to turn up the previous evening having asked Jean Ferrure to go in his place. Now the lady was explaining her presence by inviting him for breakfast and she could only have found out his sleeping quarters through pumping Jean. She even gestured behind her suggesting he ride pillion, but there was no need for that.

He made a gesture to indicate that his horse was below and that he was about to dress and join her in the yard.

"I'll meet you downstairs." Said he which she understood by disappearing from view. He exchanged his gown for a kirtle, next put on a close fitting tunic before his outer cote-hardie in black leather. Discarding his pantalons of yesterday, he opted for riding bootees. Finally he reached for his leather belt from which dangled his poignard, preferring it to the heavier English dagger.

Soon he was below crossing the yard into the stable where his mare, Lady, whinnied upon his approach. With a gesture he tried to show madame his intention to feed and water his horse, which she immediately contradicted:

"Pas maintenant, Monsieur," gesturing towards her farm. As a result he spoke to Lady telling her of their changed plans, and set to work with saddle blanket and other gear for riding out. Lady trusted him and he hoped her confidence was not misplaced.

Mounted he followed Madam out of the stable yard onto the cobbled street outside. She took the road followed yesterday but instead of continuing along it, she left the path for open country. Neither spoke as she led the way along a path between a field of stubble and a crop he failed to identify.

Breathing from their horses became more laboured as they climbed until having surmounted a rise in the ground, she led them along the top of the ridge above the town. Occasionally they passed through clumps of sycamore and ash which were shedding leaves as autumn advanced. The early sun cast long shadows across their path. She pointed towards a cathedral, where in its general area, smoke still rose from the fires, now extinguished, which had raged after the Cite was assaulted and captured a few days earlier.

Her farm was way behind them and he speculated how much further, she wanted to go before turning back. He felt the odd spot of rain and it felt cooler and looking up noticed the sun had disappeared behind black clouds. The drops were now more frequent but she did not slacken her pace and after a time, it began to rain steadily. Only then did she turn in her saddle and point to a monastery ahead slightly adjusting her mount's direction, but then passed it by. Looking directly ahead and past her, Tyler saw where they were headed.

Their pace had slackened as the path had narrowed between ploughed fields. Hooded figures were at work in the fields and one looked up and waved but then once again bent down to his task. Tyler saw a low shed appear from the fall of the terrain and looking back the working figures partly disappeared from view. Madam was making for the shed and when she came abreast of the entrance, slipped from the saddle, leading her mount into the shed just high enough to clear the horse's head.

Taking a cloth she rubbed her horse down and as Tyler led Lady into the shed, her horse whinnied. She spoke comfortingly:

"Tiens, Garcon." Then she handed the rag to Tyler who followed suit wiping Lady down, while Madam disappeared into the interior. The two horses nuzzled and Tyler observed:

"They like each other. What is his name?"

Madam reappeared and translated Tyler's words to herself:

"Comment s'appele? Aha, c'est Garcon."

Then talking to Tyler direct:

"Garcon. That is his name."

Then stroking his mare, she said:

"And, I think, this is Lady. Mm!"

Tyler nodded. She said:

"Monsieur, votre chapeau." pointing to his hat which he surrendered. She smiled and he felt suddenly warmed up inside.

She came close and he felt her warmth. A glow suffused his body. He took off her hat and she shook her head from side to side. He slipped both arms around her shoulders. She pressed against him and he leant down and kissed drops of rain running down her face. Then they embraced.

For a long time his hands pressed her close to him and her arms did the same. She pulled his head back, looked into his eyes, and indicated a stall. Stumbling they both fell into the door which swung in as they pressed forward, falling upon straw as the door clanged shut behind them.

It was gloomy, light penetrating from an open window devoid of shutters. Outside the rain beat down upon the thatched roof and they could hear it splashing as rivulets dropped from the eaves onto the flagstones.

Her cape attached by two buttons dropped away and she started loosening buttons of her gown, but then realising there were too many she urged him to help her lift her gown above her head. Below the gown was a white kirtle which, now breathing quickly, she grasped hastily lifting it above her head while at the same time his cote-hardie was off followed by his tunic and kirtle. Both were now breathing more quickly as writhing they eased themselves onto the straw.

As her restraining kirtle was away, her flattened breasts sprang forth. He turned to kiss each nipple while she buried her head in the hair of his head. Slowly he moved down her belly to her belly button pulling down her close-knit drawers revealing her pale skin which he showered with kisses before moving downwards until his mouth reached her pubic hair. As his lust mounted to fever pitch, she reached down to grasp his manhood and sensing her intention, he straightened allowing his body into the direction she had initiated. In moments the knob of his manhood was touching her crotch. Allowing it to gently massage this erotic region, she, then, with decisiveness guided it towards her clitoris. For a moment it remained resting on the lips of the vulva massaging it in a gentle circular motion. He felt it moistening until, with a thrust, overcoming friction, it slipped inside.

Both were then engulfed in a paroxysm of fevered pleasure as their bodies locked together while an insatiable tide of desire pushed his manhood furthest into her, and out again. His oscillations increased until his manhood, engulfed in an intense burning sensation, exploded releasing a spurt of essence which shot inside her, reaching a vital spot for she cried out in equal ecstasy clawing at his back while his movements subsided and his body became motionless holding her against him, catching his breath. Exhausted both eased themselves from each other, he slipping out of her lying back on the straw. Exhausted they lay there holding hands.

Next door, Garcon moved restlessly while Lady brushed against the wall. In the light cast from the slit window, he gestured outside, but she shook her head. They would not be disturbed. Tyler was aware of the monks back home who would not shelter from the rain believing by so doing they came closer to God.

It was Garcon's movements which decided her to make a move. He felt guilty about Lady who had had no breakfast. Come to think of it, nor had he and now he did feel very hungry. In the half light each put on under-garments falling against each other and laughing as they each took turns in losing balance in the straw. She put on her gown but not her kirtle and told Tyler she was going to feed Garcon, and went to attend him. He watched her dip a cup into a box of oats and transfer it into a bag, repeating the procedure several times before attaching the bag to hooks on the bridle.

Tyler decided to do likewise for Lady and within a short time both mounts were provided with water and oats. While Garcon was feeding she patted him, and rummaged in her saddle-bag. She felt his eyes on her looking up and made a gesture of hand to mouth pointing at the saddle-bags. She passed him some packages and again dug her hand in bringing out a leather bottle.

With the sound of their horses munching away at their oats, she had laid out a cloth upon the straw and undoing the packages, his mouth started watering as cheese, bread, sliced meat appeared. She offered him the bottle with the stopper removed and he drank gratefully, then handed it back and she also took a draught. Then taking a slice of bread and meat, she motioned Tyler to follow suit. He needed no second bidding. When she saw bread and meat in his hand, she took a bite and he followed suit. They munched in silence, looking into each other's eyes and smiling.

He finished his first and she invited him to help himself to meat, cheese and wine. She watched him munching, inviting him time after time to both sate his appetite and slake his thirst. He let out a sigh of satisfaction, placing his hands in hers and thanking her, before kissing them both. She invited him to lean back against the wall while she shook the cloth, folded it before making herself also comfortable.

In the next stall but one Garcon shifted in his stall and his movement spurred Tyler to talk, he said:

"Garcon, eh! That's your horse's name. And what's yours?"

He watched her as she translated his expression into French, before replying:

"Francoise! And you are called le Capitaine Tyler."

He chuckled and said:

"Certain people dispute this. My Christian name is Walter, but most people call me Wat."

He smiled and closed his eyes. A shaft of sunlight scythed through the gloomy interior just as he re-opened them, so he closed them again, but replete with good French viands and fruity wine, he enjoyed luxuriating in indolence.

Francoise observed him trying to assess his age as the sun fell across him. Without the surcoat she could observe his masculine build through the leather tunic. Her gaze furtively glanced at the bulge in his pantalons and she wanted him again, but thought of her own man in his desperate efforts to please her, collapsing from the effort. But, not this man, she was sure. She made up her mind. Would there be another opportunity? He was a soldier. Any day his Prince would march them back to Bordeaux. She blessed the day when the mayor had told her husband the tavern was needed. They would be compensated. Not like the broken promises of her own people. The English had been honourable. They took anything that was movable and burned the rest, in war, but in peace, they paid their debts. Her husband was likely petitioning the prince even now. In the meantime, one of his soldiers might provide what her husband had so far failed to do. Perhaps the seed she already had in her would be enough. Twice would double their chances.

He opened his eyes, squinted and then got up excitedly yelling, and rushing out:

"I see a rainbow!"

She laughed and rose to follow him, slipping her arm about his waist as they both observed the heavens and the multi-coloured arc which towered over the countryside. Just below the horizon, they watched a heavily built horse dragging a harrow at the side of which a Dominican monk held the reins. Tyler realised that it was their oats he had given to Lady and whispered to Francoise:

"Before we leave I must pay some alms."

She looked up at him:

"Nous les donnerons, tous les deux." Tyler confirmed it: "Yes, we shall both do it."

The warmth of desire was beginning to spread through his loins and, she, too, was hot for him and they rushed back inside feverishly tearing at each others clothing.

"Non, non!" she cried as he was about to take off his pantaloons. She expertly undid his front flap while he pulled up her gown, still loose from the previous grapple. Very quickly he achieved penetration and started pumping while she grasped his leather covered cheeks gripping tight and relaxing in beat with his pumping manhood. She squeezed the walls of her vagina to get the most pleasure from his penis feeling her juices rising as never before until at the moment of climax, she achieved an ecstasy, crying out as the wave of pleasure hit its peak.

Too soon she felt liquid running down her leg, but pleased it was straw which was stained without having to worry about maids turning down the bed and finding her emissions. He withdrew. She whispered, pointing:

"L'eau, c'est la, dans le coin!"

He got up taking a chiffon, dipping it and bringing it to her, and accepting it she wiped herself. Tyler copied her at the trough, wetting his hands to clean himself up, before wiping his thighs with the towel.

The ablutions over, they both made themselves presentable. Before he went to fetch Lady he took Francoise's face gently, between his two hands and kissed her tenderly on the forehead. Francoise said abruptly:

"Allons!"

Becoming businesslike, she set about arranging things as they had been before they entered, then led the way out of the stall. Lady whinnied as Tyler guided her outside waiting for Francoise who placed her foot in the stirrup of Garcon swinging herself up into the saddle as if determined to resume the role, temporarily suspended, of Madam le Fevre.

\----------0----------0----------

##  Chapter 5

Serjeant Petrie's challenge

Serjeant Petrie strode along humming to himself. Occasionally he threw a morsel of words to the soldier trying to keep pace with him and who would have taken some comfort from remarks such as:

"You'll get your share too, Sykesie. Make no mistake. By the end of the day we'll all be making merry - and at someone else's expense."

His lowly companion giggled mirthlessly when his mind began to take in what his superiour was saying, retorting:

"You'll show him, Sarge. He won't know what's hit him, when you get going. It amazes me he agreed to it."

"He didn't have much choice in the matter, Sykesie."

Serjeant Petrie replied:

"I'm the challenger so I choose."

Sykes pondered this a moment, then said:

"He could have refused, Sarge."

Petrie let out a contemptuous snort:

"His name would be as black as that ridiculous tunic he wears. And he knows it. No, I've got Tyler by the short and curlies. I'll teach him to insult me, and in front of my men, too."

"In front of me, Sarge. He insulted you in front of me. It might as well have been in front of the regiment, Sarge."

Petrie gave a sidelong glance at his subordinate. There was distaste in that look. It was on account of Sykes that he had felt humiliated when the story hit the mess-tent. It was Sykes who told him the soldiers' opinion that he had to challenge Tyler for the honour of the regiment. Otherwise they'd be a laughing stock.

Yet, when he had broached the subject with his lordship, he had advised caution. It seems Tyler was the prince's man, and he would allow him to be humiliated but not killed or even injured. So it had to be this way. Sykes burst in on his thoughts:

"That was a clever idea, Sarge. How did you come to think of slings? I didn't think anyone still used them."

"Well, Sykesie, they do in Italy. I was a mercenary, there. I doubt whether there's anyone in the English army, at least, anyone in this part of the world that can match me. But Tyler don't know that."

He chuckled: "In a manner of speaking it won't be a duel, Syksie. In a duel each one has a chance, but Tyler has no chance. His money is as good in my pocket, right now."

Sykes could not resist the question:

"How much, Sarge?"

To which Petrie savagely barked:

"Too much for the likes of him; it'll cost him a year's wages and more. He'll be wishing it was a duel to the death because next year'll be like death with me taking all his money. Then we'll hear him singing a different tune. You mark my words."

Sykes enjoyed other people's misfortunes. Chuckling, he said to Petrie:

"What if he can't or won't pay, Sarge?"

Petrie did not like the question because he wanted to impoverish Tyler. That would be his punishment. The other course opened up by Sykes remarks, was what? Tyler was the prince's man, after all. He thrust the thought away concentrating on his own daily pleasure of revenge, not some unjust circumstance. Savagely he answered Sykes:

"He'll pay!"

As he walked, the serjeant mused. He himself had known the workings of the law; about denunciation, arrest, debtors prison. Soldiers did not like to see their comrades ending up like that. Many had joined the army to escape it. He had to hope that the men disliked Tyler as much as he did. But, was it dislike or envy of his privileged position?

Sykes burst in on his thoughts:

"Take a whiff of that Sarge!"

Their mouths had started watering at the smell of roast flesh being carried on the breeze from the direction of the tourney. You had to hand it to the prince. He took any excuse to make a day of it for his soldiers so his, Petrie's, challenge to Tyler would be just one of many in a general get-together. Proclamations had been posted up in camp announcing the tourney for the whole army stationed in and around Limoges.

Not only the smell of basting chicken, beef and pork hit their nostrils but now they could see the tents set up and hear the noise of minstrels and soon they were being invited to hurl balls at coconuts, roll coins into slots, balls into holes. Roll up, roll up, came the call from a square where two lusty lads tried to get the better of each other with stout staves.

Serjeant Petrie made for the smell he most liked, ale, and soon enough both serjeant and soldier were quaffing enormous tankards of beer. Petrie had been looking around and noticed a fenced off, grassy sward where soldiers were already beginning to gather. Many wore armour, the light black leather armour and black rimmed helmets which made his men appear so smart on parade and which the prince had admired so much he had his own made up. People were even calling him, the Black Prince.

As long as it put the wind up the French, he mused. He listened to his subordinate and said::

"What nonsense are you spouting now, Sykesie?"

His second-in-command looked crest-fallen, commenting:

"Apart from the stall holders, Sarge, I don't see any Frenchies here. You were saying the prince forbade archery because he feared the French might learn how to bend a longbow."

Petrie was amused:

"You're right. The prince hasn't got a clue. Why didn't someone tell him that we English bend the longbow from our childhood. No Frenchman is going to learn that in a year, let alone a day. But, who are we to reason why, Sykesie. That's princes for you. They know it all - and nothing."

Sykes lifted his flagon and drained it:

"Like you said Sarge, nothing!"

Petrie and Sykes put down their empty tankards and started to make their way over to the venue they had identified earlier. As they had noticed from a distance, it was a stretch of cut grass where perhaps a length of about three hundred yards had been fenced off. Halfway a post had been stuck into the ground and then Petrie noticed that three ranges had been marked out, just like he had instructed, and, of course, reminiscent of martial training areas in Milan when he had first joined the 'Funditori'. The I-ti's had known nothing of the longbow and he had not funds enough to buy a cross-bow. Besides, they had been banned by the Pope, although not that much notice was taken of that edict. The Italians were, however, short of slingers and over several years he had developed his skill until he had earned the title of 'tiratore', marksman. Then it had made the difference between life and death. Now it was going to enrich him by the sum of someone's wages for a year, and more.

Soldiers greeted him respectfully when he arrived and looked around. A knot of comrades raised their fists in the air on his approach, shouting:

"Good on you, Sarge. Give 'im what for!"

His eyes focussed on a dummy set up on the fifty yard post. He sighed for Italy where the dummy could spin on its axis, whereas here the dummy sat in a trough to catch the stones. At the thought of stones, he looked around for Sykes and asked for his sling, then impatiently saying:

"And the stones, Sykesie!"

Sykes was indignant:

"But I thought you had them, Sarge."

And he realised they had no stones with which to practise. A familiar voice behind him said:

"So pleased I can be of service to you, Serjeant Petrie. I have stones; plenty of them. Be my guest!"

Petrie looked around for his hate figure and finding no sign of Tyler. Instead it was the Welshman, Morgan Filkin, whom he had long regarded with affection ever hoping to prise him away from Tyler and his miners. Perhaps this was the opportunity. Filkin had a pouch attached to his belt and he put his hand inside, bringing some out which fell back through his fingers.

Petrie's mouth nearly watered at the sight of them. They were much better than Sykes had managed to collect but left behind. He took one and loaded it into his sling, which consisted of a leather pocket attached to which were two flyers, one on each side. The technique was to grip both flyers with one hand so that the stone-filled pocket hung down like a pendulum. When Petrie was ready, he slowly swung it from side to side to feel the weight, then with a deft movement, which took Filkin and Sykes by surprise, he whirled the sling around his head, adjusting his foot position, slightly, and suddenly, released one flyer. Onlookers heard a thud, followed by a rattle as the stone, attached by impact to the dummy, then fell off into the trough.

Sykes let out a cheer which Petrie acknowledged with a knowing smirk at Filkin, and then called one of his soldiers over telling him:

"Trooper Straw, go pick up some stones for me, back in my tent. You'll know it by the chevrons.

The sergeant pointed to those on his arm: "Like these!"

The soldier saw not the chevrons but Sir John Montagu's chivalric badge before he disappeared on his errand. Petrie returned to Filkin and resumed practising by borrowing more stones from the Welshman, who was acting as the second to his arch enemy, promising to return them in kind upon Straw's return.

Tyler meanwhile had arrived at the venue but was keeping out of sight amused at the whole scene. He had Francoise with him who had insisted on coming despite his telling her she would witness his humiliation as he had not a hope of winning the contest, having only started to use a sling, in the last three days, and that by coaching from Filkin.

Petrie carried on slinging and hitting the dummy each time. It would have been Sykes's job to collect the stones and return them but with a ready supply from Filkin, he did not bother. In a pause while reloading he thought he spotted Tyler with a lady and wondered whether he would not only humiliate Tyler in front of his comrades, but also before his lady-love.

After some while, Straw returned being called over by Filkin who, with Petrie's approval, was to make up his stones by the number Petrie had borrowed. Afterwards Filkin sent Straw to pick up the stones which had fallen into the trough. Meanwhile the stones themselves attracted his attention; standing apart from Petrie, he took the pouch and examined them closely; he noticed their smooth texture.

There was something odd about them and without being observed by anyone, Filkin took out a handful and slipped them into a pocket sewn inside his tunic where he kept his money. It chinked but there was a lot of noise not least from tumblers, jugglers and musicians clamouring for the crowd's attention. As he looked up, he watched as Petrie continued to show his prowess and his eye wandered fixing on Tyler, who, with a few words to Francoise hurried over to Filkin who spoke to Tyler in an undertone.

He told him that he had no chance of beating Petrie, but not to worry because although he stood to lose a lot of money, he had reason to believe his loss might be compensated. From his own trade back in Wales in the slate quarries, he had learned enough about stones to differentiate between rock and ore.

By now there was a sizeable crowd half-watching the demonstration of accurate slinging, but also by turning their backs to cheer and clap a juggler, who, with four flaming pins was throwing them between his hands and feet with such dexterity a few yards away that Petrie had little chance to catch their attention.

In this relative calm Petrie noticed that Tyler was just yards away talking with Filkin; Petrie addressed the latter aggressively:

"That's Tyler for you, Sirrah. All talk. Is he going to sling a stone, or what?"

Filkin was not put out, telling Tyler:

"Like the man says, Captain, do what the Serjeant says. Here's the sling. It's already loaded."

Petrie bellowed:

"Stand back everyone! Put your armour on."

Then, realising people were still keener to watch the juggler, barked to Filkin:

"So he can't even load the sling himself."

Filkin, never very keen on this duel being aware of Petrie's prowess, and now with his new-found discovery, was prepared to concede so retorted with matching truculence:

"What might you say, Serjeant, if we gave you the match?

Petrie drew himself up in full parade ground bombast and addressed Sykes:

"Did you hear what the horrible little man just said? He concedes. He thinks he is going to escape all the penalties."

"On the contrary, Serjeant! The captain will pay you the total amount as if he had lost. Besides, Sarge, your mates aren't showing much interest, are they? There's so much else a-doing and more watchable, too."

Petrie ignored Filkin's observations and focussed on his first remark, saying:

"As if he had lost you horrible little man, if!"

Petrie was almost blue with outrage. "I want a year's wages; not a penny less."

Filkin drew out a second bag from his jerkin pocket and asked the Sergeant: "A year's wages, Sarge? That's a penny a day; shall we say, four pounds?"

Petrie looked at Sykes evidently taken by surprise but nodded, smiling at the Welshman, saying: "Well, at least the Welsh knows when they're beaten."

.As he was about to hand it over, Filkin allowed his arm to drop as though the bag was too heavy to hold it teasing the serjeant before handing over four sovereigns, retorting with a smirk:

"And, not a penny more, Serjeant!"

Then, before Petrie could recover his composure, the Welshman turned to Tyler wanting to say, let's go, Captain, but he was no longer there. He spotted him strolling along with Francoise, and, beating a hasty retreat from the apoplectic Petrie, he dashed away.

He itched to tear a strip off his mate for not waiting but desisted when he overheard Francoise:

"Mais alors! Tu n'as pas dit que c'est un tel ennui, c'est la." (You told me it was a bore; and it is!)

Tyler turned sensing the irate Filkin and raised his eyebrows which Filkin interpreted as, I'm as innocent Taff as the driven snow; I just had to follow the lady and you know what they are. Then, aloud, he said:

"What say you Francoise we go to the bear-baiting?"

Filkin tagged along behind as they walked and heard Francoise say: "Ennui is French for boring, in both English and French, Monsieur le Capitaine?

Once again Tyler turned and his raised eyebrow suggested, help me, Taff; anything, please! Filkin lost his momentary anger over Tyler's behaviour.

He heard his friend say:

"So you're bored, Francoise. Fine, I'll take you back to your wagon."

Her retort to this made Filkin realise that women everywhere had much in common when she said:

"So you want to get rid of me." Then, noticing Tyler's raised eyebrows were meant for someone behind and spotting the Welshman, she simpered in trying to enlist his support:

Filkin fell, hook, line and sinker, yet there was an element of self interest in his suggestion to the lady. He said:

"Madame le Fevre, there is a performance of Troilus and Crysede by Geoffrey Chaucer at the cathedral."

He meant to say more but she interrupted by clapping her hands and crying out:

"Mon cheri! Quand il se passé?"

Filkin glanced at Tyler as if to say, you did want me to help out, did you not? But, avoiding his reproach he knew he had been too helpful though soon any consideration of his friend's feelings was supplanted by providing madame with date and time and the promise to reserve places for two which he knew would be Madame and Monsieur. Chaucer had made a great impact in French circles possibly because much of his output was in French.

Filkin had been the butt of humorous ribaldry when he vanished from time to time to attend evensong in local churches. More galling to him was the fact that none of his mates ever wanted to take advantage of the perk of free tickets, until now. Madame le Fevre pressed him to return to the cathedral of St Etienne at once to secure the reservations which he was happy to do particularly as he was burning to examine the stones in his pocket. He could do that safely within the sacristy without fear of interference. So he left them.

As he walked back towards the town, he observed Serjeant Petrie telling a hapless soldier:

"Take these stones back to the same tent, Trooper Straw, where you collected them, and hurry back. I'll buy you an ale. Off with you."

Doubtless the soldier would make the same mistake as before replacing the worthless bag of stones in Sir John Montagu's tent mistaking it for the chevrons denoting Serjeant Petrie's tent. Nobody would notice him as everybody was at the Tournament and Fair. Petrie's stones were worthless whereas Montagu's were worth a king's fortune. Were they booty? It was a mystery.

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"Pas so vite! monsieur Je ne puis pas marcher so vite. Pardon, monsieur!"

It was Madame le Fevre calling to her paramour Tyler pleading for him to slow down as her long dress slowed her down. In trying to hurry, she had bumped into a soldier standing in her way. A little of his ale slopped on to the ground; he caught hold of her.

"Not so fast, little lady. You're going to pay me for my spilled beer."

He leered at her and his breath stank as he leaned towards her growling: "Let's have a little kiss, little lady."

She pushed him away looking around for Tyler who had hurried on not noticing the incident. The man tried again and frightened, she cried:

"Ne pas me toucher, monsieur!"

At the sound of the French, the drunk seemd spurred on and by now his fellow drinkers also joined in hoping for some sport, but Francoise was determined to escape. By now Tyler had noticed her absence and came back just in time to see the drunk, have another go at detaining her, grabbing her arm and trying to pull her towards him. Tyler wrestled with him throwing him to the ground, then taking Francoise's arm himself was about to hurry away, when their way was barred.

"Not so fast Mister Tyler!"

The speaker was a big man, dressed in soldier's garb so no different from the many soldiers milling around the fair, for such it was, as the many stalls for amusement and refreshment amply demonstrated. The plain soldier's garb however seemed the reason for his sudden appearance for he looked Tyler up and down, then with a careless gesture, flicked Tyler's shoulder, almost challenging him:

"So, Mister Tyler can go around in his fancy dress. Like the prince's ponce, eh!"

Tyler reddened as his anger rose but he had to think of Francoise. Gently he squeezed her hand before pushing her away and had the satisfaction of seeing her push past the crowd, while he stared at the man. He said: "What gives you that idea?"

For an answer, the man pushed Tyler who, thrown off balance retreated, but could not go further on account of the drunk and his mates who now called out:

"Yeah, he needs a lesson, Jack. Who the 'ell does he think he is!"

With that he pushed Tyler in the back towards Jack, who this time aimed a punch at Tyler who fell back.

There was no room to fall and Tyler might have been pushed and punched until a voice shouted:

"Give way, there. Fall back there. Give them some space."

People did just that for the brawlers, and Tyler was able to get up. He stood there panting a little looking over the heads of people for Francoise whom he saw reach her wagon, but that satisfaction cost him because Jack landed a punch to his jaw which felled him.

Then instinct took over as he saw the boot aimed at his head and grabbed it, and yanked, in desperation, as he was still groggy from the punch, pulling its owner to the ground, and was about to fall upon him though Jack was too quick and rolled over, getting up, as did Tyler. For a while both men, fists at the ready, circled each other throwing punches but not connecting. Then someone pushed Tyler in the back towards his opponent who punched once, twice before Tyler closed with him grabbing at Jack's yellow shoulder-hood and deliberately started falling backwards. Falling with some force he pushed Jack over him who fell on his back, winding him.

But Tyler was also winded and still not recovered completely from the earlier punch; he tried to raise himself only succeeding to rest on one elbow as he glanced warily at his opponent. He was just about to haul himself up when someone restrained him, and spoke:

"Easy now, Captain." Tyler recognised him instantly: "It's you, Thomas."

Thomas was kneeling, looking at him:

"We must do something for that nose."

Tyler felt it and the blood, and put his nose back instinctively to arrest the flow but it had stopped of its own accord. He said:

"I'll be alright. Where's the other fellow?"

Thomas looked where he had been lying. "He's gone. Probably his mates took him away."

"He's gone, but" said someone standing so near only his legs and a broad, round stave could be seen, "you won't get rid of me so quick. Now it's my turn."

Thomas angrily retorted: "Can't you see he's winded. He's in no fit state.." not ending the sentence as Tyler interrupted: "No worries, Tom. I'll take him on and his whole damned army. I'll be alright."

The other said: "I'll give him time for a rest. Then he's for it. And don't think we haven't got any spare staves. See you!"

Meanwhile Serjeant Petrie feeling richer but dissatisfied wandered gloomily through the Fair. Hearing a loud commotion atop the rise, he was stopped by a throng of people. He heard their shouts and catcalls but could not, being small of stature, observe what all the noise was about. He addressed a bystander who pointed:.

"That's it! Give it 'im, Buster."

Yelled someone but in a trice, another shouted: "Catch!"

Petrie saw one of the miners throw Tyler a stave, caught in two hands and just in time, because, had Buster's next whack connected Tyler would have been felled, but the blow came down upon the middle of his stave, and before Buster could recover, Tyler thrust one end of his stave against Buster's solar plexus, which he partly dodged, then Tyler, with a deft manoeuvre followed it up by swinging his stave to catch Buster in the side.

Buster moved away and recovering his stance jabbed the stave at his opponent who jumped back and in a flash, Buster with a two-hand swipe attempted to smash Tyler's ankles who jumped clear and landing before Buster could recover, brought his own stave 'wham' down on Buster's head. He went down, at first, on one knee whereupon Tyler instead of following up with a knock-out blow, simply placed his stave against Buster's shoulder and pushed, and he fell over not getting up.

The crowd started to drift away and Tyler turned looking around for Thomas and just at that moment Buster, who had, meantime, recovered crept up behind Tyler, raising his stave high up in the air with obvious intention. Petrie, instinctively, yelled a warning and Tyler moved sideways but was unable to dodge completely as the stave struck him a glancing blow. He collapsed in a heap but was not dead which had been Busters intention and he moved in for the killer blow and had the stave high above his head clearly intending to finish off Tyler, when he suddenly stopped, as if stunned.

Then slowly as if in slow motion his knee buckled and he collapsed. Thomas looked from his recumbent figure to Serjeant Petrie whose sling hung down from his hand. Thomas yelled:

"You saved him, Sarge. You saved his life!"

Petrie seemed stunned himself; especially, as one of his cronies, Sykes, trailing behind the serjeant had witnessed the whole scene, and was yelling:

"You killed him, you killed him." The two thoughts crowded his mind: he'd killed Buster to save Tyler. What a turn-up. Presently, Petrie walked over to Tyler whose prone figure was being lifted by Thomas. The serjeant had saved Tyler's life with his sling shot which had been a matter of reflex. As the truth dawned on Tyler's consciousness, he reflected that perhaps he had misjudged Petrie. He thought of ways to thank him concluding that his services might prove useful, very useful; perhaps the serjeant himself would not say no to a cut from the Coucy swag After all, there was plenty of it and the more it was distributed, the better..

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Leaving Limoges on the great route which takes pilgrims seeking, for one reason or another, to undertake the journey to the great shrine of Saint Martial in the town, many travellers might share a sense of fulfilment and have mixed feelings as they eye the people going the way they have trod, earlier. Perhaps it is envy of that experience they have in prospect or mayhap, pity over the disappointment they are likely to meet, or a mixture of the two, or none of these things. One traveller who fell into the latter category is a tradesman and his sole purpose in visiting Limoges was as a result of a request to the 'Huis de Lapis' in Amsterdam which, through various agencies and intermediaries, had resulted in his commission to visit the temporary domicile of Sir John Montagu, in Limoges.

He might himself wonder if, in the course of time, he himself might be such a traveller, for Herr Wolff is not irreligious, but has responsibilities in life and his journey will both earn him revenue and perhaps be a stepping stone to newer commissions in the future. By the nature of his clothing he certainly is several steps from the general traveller who is often on foot and wears the smock or tunic of the times topped by a hood for protection against the elements. Hoods, of the day, vary in colour and cut, some cover much of the shoulder and have dagged edges while, at their top end, the hood encloses the hair ending in a point just above the crown and, by the fashion dictates of the age, the hood continues as a long thin tube hanging down the back; this creation in wool is called the liripipe.

Our particular traveller, Herr Wolff, a German from Achen, or Aix la Chapelle, is also clothed in this manner, though by the cut, colour and quality of his overall ensemble, he is clearly a man of means, and, as was customary at the time receives greetings from many of his fellow travellers. He is riding a palfrey, a medium sized horse whose feed, an important consideration in the medieval period, is below the average yet whose stamina is above the average.

Herr Wolff's horse continues her sedate walk along the road. Fortunately it is dry, for Roman roads although reasonably even are notoriously rutted through constant traffic, the ruts filling with rainwater which, when mixed with the inevitable ordure of passing animals, forms a slush, a stinking slush, which travellers prefer to avoid by taking to both left and right of the established way.

In the sunny weather of that particular September, Herr Wolff's hood is pushed back but he has been tempted while kicking his heels in and around Limoges into purchasing a sugar-loaf cap in turquoise green with upturned brim in yellow to match his hood which was the reason the style attracted him. At the same he availed himself of the barber who gave him the latest fringe style setting him back in cash upon the expectation of gain from his present commission.

Herr Wolff had every reason also to admire his boots which were also spotless mentally praising the sensible English who had seen fit to cover the entrances to the marquees with boards, duckboards they were called, but, as a result, the finding of Sir John Montagu's tent had been straight-forward unlike on previous occasions when he had been obliged to wade through fields of mud churned up by, both horses and soldiers, to-ing and fro-ing between camp and the outside world. He had followed instructions and was rewarded by having collected what he had come for. He left a receipt as well as his calling-card: 'Wolff Precious Stones, Amsterdam'.

He reflected upon similar commissions he had undertaken in Flanders and his native Germany. In these places it had not been possible to leave bags of gemstones lying around, but it was possible in the English camp because the peasant-soldiers had no idea of the difference between gems and ordinary stones due to the so-called 'sumptuary laws' which forbade the lower classes from wearing jewelry or fur or any precious ornament. This had led directly to complete ignorance, it was said, among the English, of such things, and he had benefited from their ignorance in this particular undertaking.

Travelling at his present rate would bring him to Paris before nightfall and normally he looked forward to his prospective stay, but on this occasion the time spent might well be better employed travelling to his destination. His thoughts on this matter were relevant as the earlier he arrived, the larger bonus he could expect to earn. Nonetheless Herr Wolff was loath to forgo the comforts of the Paris hostelry where refreshment had been elevated by the French to heights of pleasure so that the gaining of an extra few marks was no substitute. So he decided not to forgo Paris. Yet events had occurred to render Herr Wolff's reflections of little import.

For, unknown to Herr Wolff was the presence of a Welshman in the English camp at Limoges, who, working in the slate quarries of his native Flintshire, had led him to acquire a knowledge of various stones so that when Serjeant Petrie had sent his man to collect the sling stones, Corporal Sykes had collected, and had mistakenly brought the gemstones awaiting Herr Wolff's collection later that day, this Welshman, Morgan Filkin, had looked upon the serendipitous find as heaven-sent, and placed them in his own safe-keeping.

The stones Herr Wolff had packed away so carefully and his reflections upon the length of his journey and the earning of extra bonus as a result of speedier delivery, were of little account, as, possibly, at the very time of his deliberations, seemingly ignorant peasant-soldiers were speculating upon a possible buyer who would pay the optimum price to enable them to share the proceeds and in some cases to escape the constraints of villeinage on return to England, and nobody any the wiser.

Except ultimately Sir John Montagu who would be notified in some weeks that the gemstones he had purchased and commissioned to be sent to Amsterdam were common or garden pebbles. But by this time, the army would be dispersed back to La Rochelle or Bordeaux and the disappearance of the gemstones difficult to trace.

##  Chapter 6

Lancaster and the prince fall out

Present day traffic in Limoges whether on foot, by cycle or driving a vehicle along, on at least, two of the boulevards follows the contours of the former Cite walls which masonry was used in their initial construction. Moreover at the place where medieval engineers diverted the River Vienne to form a moat around the walls, there is now a bridge, the Pont Neuf. As was noted earlier the moat and its extension into the Cite proper carried as much water as the catchment area could sustain and in the winter season when the river was often in flood, it would have been very difficult for Prince Edward's miners to have tunnelled under the wall of the fortress within the time constraints.

On 14th September, 1370 when the English army arrived at Limoges having taken a week to march from La Rochelle, the prince received news that a sizeable French force was at ten days marching distance which might be reduced to seven with forced marches provided du Guesclin had the strength in soldiers and knights to match the Prince's force of 1200 strong.

In the event Captain Tyler, who was charged with undermining the walls, was able to announce his success to the prince; and here we have the corroboration from another chronicler, Jean de Froissart, who records Tyler's words:

"My Lord, whenever you like now we can bring a sizeable piece of the wall down into the moat so that you can get into the Cite quite easily and safely." The prince for his part replies: "Excellent! At six of the clock tomorrow morning show me what you can do."

You saw, reader, in a previous chapter, what the miners actually did.

Yet there was in the aftermath something of a more dramatic turn of events involving John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, who was charged with the task of initial entry. In nominating him for the role the prince must have had reservations for his brother was renowned not for battle honours but for his avarice in collecting the spoils of war. The assault on the Cite proved to be no exception for he had often talked of the Coucy Treasure reputed to be in the Cite and how he might lay his hands on it. Now was his great chance.

Yet that very instinct almost cost him his life. In the Cite, still not completely under his control, he espied a large casket in the vicinity of the barbican and desirous to examine it was not heedful of other activity.

A knight came out of a passageway and charged him. He was only able to parry the chop of his adversary's sword with difficulty. As the two knights exchanged blows each parrying the other's thrust and chop, the horse of his opponent pushed against his own horse's rump causing Gaunt to lose his balance. He fell from the saddle sword in hand and before he could rise the other knight had speedily dismounted, forcing Gaunt's sword arm back before he had the chance to stand. His armoured left foot trod on Gaunt's lower torso keeping him pinned to the ground. Almost at leisure with his left hand, the knight drew his dagger.

It seemed the end had come for that is how Sir John Chandos was mortally wounded. Not far away another French knight had attacked a complacent Edmund Langley in the act of going to the aid of his brother John. Some sixth sense warned him of imminent steel turning abruptly to catch the blade of Hugues de la Roche before it struck home.

The French chevalier's blade broke in two and he was thrown off-balance losing the advantage of surprise. Langley's superior strength began to tell and de la Roche was driven back whilst parrying successive slashes by Langley who was determined to finish the Frenchman off so as to aid his elder brother. His sword described an arc as it turned into a thrust aimed at a weak join in de la Roche's armour.

Unable to complete the thrust against a desperate opponent, Langley in triumph shouted:

"Yield, yield, Sir Knight!"

At that same instant another shout was heard. It was addressed to Gaunt. De Villemur, his adversary, a man of tremendous physique, had the duke at his mercy. Yet, his drawn dagger simply lifted Gaunt's visor not to stab but to demand surrender, shouting:

"Cedez, cedez!"

At that precise moment, appeared John Hastings, Earl of Pembroke, Gaunt's brother-in-law who called out frantically to each of the combatants:

"Attendez, mes amis! L'honneur est satisfie. Come friends put up your weapons." The calls would be obeyed by true chevaliers and knights.

Having been helped to his feet by his adversary, Gaunt learned it was Sir Jean de Villemur and that Langley's opponent was Sir Hugues de la Roche. Hastings was happy to do the introductions and each was full of praise for the others performance. While they were engaged in this chivalrous activity none of the combatants had noted the uneven ring of men-at-arms who were warily closing in on them.

Each had a drawn sword or dagger clearly showing the stains of butchery and slaughter and the knights heard what had been oblivious to them, the sounds of victims as screams rent the air. There was weeping. Occasionally pleading could be heard as plaintive in French as in any language, and suddenly there was quiet.

A man-at-arms who carried his chevrons of rank on his helmet approached the Duke of Lancaster shouting:

"The city is ours, my lord!"

"Montjoie! St Denis!"

Another cry was heard, repeated several times and all heads turned towards the semi-circle of a rampart of the barbican. The assembled company, rooted to the spot, heard and saw a half-armoured soldier shouting:

"Aux armes, mes braves!"

One man was not transfixed by surprise. It was the chevron-ed man-at-arms. He shouted: "Archers!" At first only a dozen came forward as he shouted a second command: "Ready!"

The archers had taken and strung an arrow. Their target was manifest for taking up position on the battlements of the barbican were French defenders who later turned out to be part of the chasseur force stationed in the barbican by the Duc de Berry. Unknown at the time was the officer shouting the battle commands.

Edmund Langley, Duke of Cambridge, victor over Sir Hugues de la Roche called out:

"La Cite est notre. Se rendre!" He was shouting at the Frenchman on the rampart.

The duke called out in French to Villemur: "The City is ours, Sire! Tell your man to surrender. What's his name?"

Sir Jean de Villemur, evidently the senior French officer, called back:

"Monsieur Roger de Beaufort, my lord." Then, as if in support, shouted: "Montjoie et St Denise!" It was the ancient French battle-cry.

Alarmed by this show of defiance the duke reacted by ordering his brothers to withdraw. He shouted to his man-at-arms:

"Calverly! Do your duty!"

Calverly, the chevronned man-at-arms, barked to his archers, now nearly a hundred strong: "Draw!"

The arrows were aimed at Frenchmen whether noble or otherwise. The duke called to Villemur in French:

"Give the order to surrender, Sire, I beg you!"

It would seem the prince's command of, 'No Prisoners' could be ignored provided the prisoner had a ransom value, the duke's Achilles Heel.

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The inability to ride a horse was an almost unbearable deprivation to an active man in the prime of life in medieval times. The prince's condition, known to us as dropsy, meant he could no longer ride across his estates in the peace of rural England let alone a warhorse on a French battle field. Such a limitation upon his freedom of movement affected the prince's temper and in the long run his temperament as was noted by his visitors in his capacity as his father, King Edward's regent in Acquitaine.

His immobility also acted upon his standing among the people who owed his father allegiance especially in the collection of taxes. The Count Foix was reluctant to pay his dues when the prince was in a position to pursue him and now that he was confined to a litter, virtually impossible. Count Foix's refusal acted as a powerful stimulus to other recalcitrant counts.

Such was the situation when Bertand du Guesclin called upon the Bishop of Limoges to renounce his allegiance to the prince. He was also godfather to the prince's eldest son, who, du Guesclin informed him, was at death's door, if not actually dead. Coupled with this were du Guesclin's optimistic reports of a re-nascent France about to wrest control of Guyenne (the French name for Acquitaine) away from the usurping English.

At this time Prince Edward who had made La Rochelle his administrative capital for ruling the province was coming to terms with his handicap and was able to bring some coercion to bear upon the counties, towns and rural areas by means of pressure from a team of able lieutenants who, proven on the battlefield, confirmed their master's trust with energy, skill and the mailed fist in a velvet glove.

Of more immediate usefulness to the prince however were his stalwarts, the men who wheeled or carried his litter around. Their names often changed as the quiet lifestyle was no attraction to men used to an active, hedonistic lifestyle for the peacetime fleshpots of a victor's province was as attractive to common soldiers as it was to their officers.

At this particular time the four stalwarts had names as recalled by Jean Ferrure who records them as Dan Gurney, Roland Trewhella, Peter Williams and Alan Jones. As the names might suggest the first two named were English and the last, Welsh. This was not entirely accidental for the prince was Duke of Cornwall and Prince of Wales.

Jean Ferrure writes of the aftermath of the successful siege of the Cite of Limoges. The soldiers had discovered large supplies of alcoholic drink in the Cite which was not destroyed as it was the custom of the French to lay up their liquor in caves and cellars below ground level. As the whetting of dry throats proceeded - the siege builds up a mighty expectation whilst the actual assault creates dust – it was accompanied by song and as there was a significant contingent from Wales, many Gallic anthems rent the air and one of the incidental listeners was the prince. He ordered his Welsh stalwarts to follow their natural instincts as he felt inclined to join the revelry.

As the prince sank back on his pillow he called out to his puffing stalwarts:

"This tune takes me back to my enthronement at Caernarfon Castle. I heard it then for the first time. Yet it was the return journey to London where the tune jogs my memory. His grace, the king, spoke to me for the first time like a father. Not surprising really for he is my father. He told me tales of his great-grand-father, the first Edward, the greatest of them all, in his opinion. How his father, Henry III, told him to teach the Welsh a lesson. It was a crime you see in his book to rebel.

Jones looked across at Williams, their faces showing exertion, and as their breathing came in ever shorter gasps, Williams, cried out in pain, and stopped. When he straightened, he explained:

"I had this terrible stitch, Your Grace."

While halted, Jones racked his memory as to the likely tavern where their mates were likely to be carousing.

As they set off again the prince resumed his monologue:

"Prince Edward, as he then was, spoke to Llewellyn ap Griffith telling him that he would let him off punishment if he would teach the English the longbow."

Both pairs of Welshmen and Cornishmen exchanged glances which might have said, here we go again. The prince rambled on:

"You cannot guess what Llewellyn replied!"

All the stalwarts could as they had heard the story already a few times; the prince added:

"Sire, teaching the English the longbow is a punishment of itself. Double my penalty, but no teaching, I beg you."

Suddenly the singing stopped and the prince called a halt. The stalwarts eyed each other wondering which way next. The prince said:

"I'll warrant they are all at the Black Sheep, a fitting place for that black-hearted villain Tyler and his chums."

"With respect, Sire, that be two miles distant. The singing sounded nearer."

Emboldened by his partner, his fellow Cornishman insisted: "The camp, your grace, that's where it likely be. It's very near."

The prince was mocking:

"Trewhella, is it not, and bone idle, like all the Cornish. Come, let's go!"

For once Williams backed up his fellow:

"With great respect, Your Grace. The camp's just yards away, and we could always go to the Black Sheep afterwards."

As if to confirm his words, the singing started up again and it seemed to come from the trees to their right and the prince gave orders and so they proceeded through the trees and very soon spotted the tell-tale white canvas on the hillside. The prince said:

"Just as I thought, I was wondering which of you bone-heads would arrive at my conclusion." He was silent then, recalling his tale said:

"My great-grandpa is supposed to have said, punishment eh, I daresay a few crowns will make it worthwhile. That made all the difference, of course."

Ahead of them at the edge of the wood they saw the ground rise and knew they were in for some uphill puff. The prince carried on his monologue:

"You will not believe this, but two years later the two men met again, in Scotland. Edward was touring the encampment to thank his army for their splendid work when he espied Llewellyn who came over to speak to him saying he owed my great-grandpa. Edward was astonished but the man insisted he had taken the crowns under false pretences. How so, exclaimed Edward, and the Welshman told him the English were not dullards as he had claimed. They proved to be as good as his Welshmen.

The stalwarts now came to duckboards which kept the soldiers' feet dry moving around the camp and the litter could be wheeled. However the boards were not wide enough to accommodate all the men so two pushed while the others walked behind. The prince hardly noticed the difference as he carried on:

"Mind you, these Taffs are cunning. Llewellyn was surrounded by English archers but great-grandpa played it straight and called for his chamberlain ordering him to double Llewellyn's crowns."

They would soon arrive at the first tent and the prince told the two stalwarts to turn the litter round and pull not push it. The reason was plain as they approached the sentry for the prince was a bit of a practical joker and this one had the desired effect for the litter had stopped nobody bothering to question them. The soldier on duty suddenly saw the prince's standard and took to his heels into the tent.

He could be heard shouting for the duty serjeant. The stalwarts exchanged amused glances as they heard the sentry, saying:

"It's his nibs, himself, Sarge. It's the Prince."

Moments later a second voice barked:

"Go to his lordship's tent and tell him. Go, pronto!"

The voice appeared himself hurrying over. He raised the barrier himself motioning the stalwarts to proceed. As they obeyed the voice addressed the prince:

"Serjeant Petrie, at your service, Your Grace!"

He went down on one knee and after the greeting added:

"I have sent for my lord, Sir John Montagu, Sire. He should be here shortly. Would you care to enter the tent, Your Grace!"

All this time ears had been assailed by an incessant musical noise amid cries and catcalls reaching them from who knew where but when a powerful voice was heard singing a popular ditty, everybody stopped to listen. His was a practised singing voice enunciating the words clearly:

"The buxom wench was by my side."

Gurney called irreverently to Petrie:

'Where be that sound a-coming from Sarge." Petrie scowled at Gurney but pointed and was surprised by the prince shouting:

"Come on lads."

They raced along the duckboards the second line fresh in memory:

"And, clearly aiming for a ride;"

At which there were more loud and often rude catcalls and ribald shouts but undaunted the singer resumed:

"When up steps Will, that cheeky dill."

The litter skimmed along the route to their target steadily getting louder as they got closer. The next line blasted their eardrums:

"And says I'll have her for my bride!"

They came to a sudden halt before a marquee in and around the entrance of which there were soldiers standing around tankards in hand looking towards the singer their backs towards the litter. The singer saw them and shouted in recognition:

"Huzzahs for the Prince!"

The assembly turned and hollered their welcome at the same time which was succeeded by someone shouting:

"Bis, bis!"

This was a French tradition picked up readily by the troops meaning 'again' or in modern parlance 'encore'.

There were further cheers in all eight which was the going rate for a prince. As the last cheer died away he spoke to them:

"Carry on lads! I like to hear you sing. It's is the reason I'm here."

He gestured towards his stalwarts:

"Look at them. Fagged out, pushing me here, there and everywhere. The prince caught sight of someone and his eyes beckoned him from the throng. A black leather attired man came forward and bent the knee but the prince scornfully bade him rise:

"I might have known it. Wherever there's unruly behaviour, there is that black villain, Tyler! Have you got a tankard for me?"

A foaming tankard was brought and the prince quaffed its white fluorescence and provoked mirth as a white moustache spread across his features. A strange voice called:

"Your Grace, I am sorry not to have been at the entrance when you arrived."

It was Sir John Montague who eyed the prince's beery moustache with some embarrassment. It was rapidly disappearing as the princely hand wiped it away. He called to Montague:

"Will you not join us my lord!"

To do so Montague would have to move among the men he commanded for the prince's litter had moved into the marquee at his command. All were standing upon a dirty looking groundsheet of canvas to prevent the turf being trod into a muddy mess. Even so Montague's footwear would be soiled were he to leave the duckboard on which he now stood.

He prevaricated by asking: "Have you a particular reason my liege to honour us with your visit?"

The prince's reply was a rebuke:

"Does the commander-in-chief of the army need a reason to visit his brave soldiers?"

He gestured with his tankard towards the men looking sheepish and awkward covering their embarrassment by sipping half-empty tankards. The prince noted Montague's stance however declaring in explanation:

"In truth, my lord, I followed their lusty singing, all the way from the town. I envy you for it's on your own doorstep, as it were."

Montague clearly did not agree but acquiesced by saying blandly:

"Indeed My Liege, Their anthems cheer my waking hours."

He might have also added that they kept him from his sleeping hours but further comment was unnecessary for heavy breathing was heard. Montague said:

"Your Grace!"

"Is His Grace, the Prince here?"

The speaker was the Duke of Lancaster and as Montague stood aside a richly appareled figure appeared. He was dressed in a courtly brown robe emblazoned with his badge and tied at the waist by a silken cord. As with Montague he disdained to step off the boards onto the wet and grassy groundsheet. He addressed the litter:

"I have just this moment arrived from the manor, brother."

He wrinkled his brow as he continued: "They told me you had left in search of song."

He grimaced in distaste:

"It seems you found the singers together with their ale."

His eyes swept the assembly but did not apparently find his target. He said:

"Brother, I must speak to you on a matter of great importance."

The prince weighed up his brother's request and quickly decided that it was useless to play with words. He motioned for someone to take his tankard. Looking round he caught Morgan Filkin's eye:

"I beg your pardon, Taff. Would you allow us your tent for a few moments."

It was said with grace and received as a request so not a soul demurred when Filkin called out:

"Right lads! Let's give the gentlemen some space. Who's got a football? We need some sobering up."

Everyone moved towards the flaps of the entrance and as they did so the duke and the prince eyed each other wordlessly. The prince out of the corner of one eye noticed a black clad figure bend his knees to merge with the soldiery and he smiled inwardly. Montague, however, saw him and looked to the prince who did not return his gaze so he said nothing to identify him.

When they had all left, Montague also excused himself though the prince begged him to stay, a decision which Sir John later regretted. The prince spoke sharply to the duke:

"So, brother, what is this pressing matter?"

The duke replied:

"May I invite Sir Jean de Villemur to your presence, my liege. He has ridden over with me and is my prisoner under parole. He has imparted a serious matter to me and I think you also should hear about it before action is taken."

The prince agreed and the duke asked Montague to fetch him and after the introductions were completed, the duke resumed:

"It seems brother a heinous offence has been committed by a man under your command which is fortunate for him for were he under my command he would now be hanging from a tree."

The prince was suddenly grim-faced though he attempted a show of levity:

"Dear, dear brother, you must not upset yourself. We are almost in a state of war though to you everything is a matter of chivalry. I daresay some knight has dismounted without your leave, mm?"

The duke looked back at his prisoner, Sir Jean, as if to say: "You see what I have to put up with."

Sir Jean indicating that he understood English though not to speak it, said: "Cést tres serieux, Votre Grace!"

The duke's glance hinted to Sir Jean that his purer-French would not improve the situation so Sir Jean demurred. The duke turned to the prince again:

"Three of Sir Jean's men were found dead, this morning. Their deaths were a mystery, until now."

The prince clearly perplexed said:

"Three dead, three hundred dead, it makes little difference. You carried out my orders, no prisoners. Or, were there exceptions?"

He studiously avoided looking in the direction of Sir Jean who silently had been joined by another who was Sir Jean's squire whose look from his master gave the squire permission to speak. He also tacitly addressed the duke and in effect the prince. He said:

"If I can present the case, My Liege..." He added something in French to his master who nodded vigorously as he added, speaking now directly to the prince seemingly with the duke's acquiescence, as he spoke:

"My name is Beaufort, sire, Roger de Beaufort. I have the honour to serve my noble master, Sir Jean de Villemur as his esquire."

Sir Jean said something almost under his breath which Beaufort would have ignored. The prince however insisted he explain:

"My noble master rails at the caprice of war, My Liege."

"How so?" Enquired the prince, anxious to delay his brother's matter.

Beaufort looked at Sir Jean and smiling diffidently said:

"My master defeats his adversary but ends up as his prisoner."

The prince saw the conundrum and smiled and tried not to laugh as he spoke directly to Beaufort:

"If I lose a battle, Sire, I end up a prisoner for ransom. My brother, the duke, loses a battle yet ends up with the winner as his prisoner. I have been wasting my time, you see. It is what is called diplomacy."

The duke bridled though not to answer his brother's ironic comment. He said: "Had Sir Jean not yielded, my archers might have killed both Sir Jean and his squire not to mention many another Frenchman. His victory over me was overtaken by events."

"One of these days dear brother when you are railing against my archers, I shall remind you of how some archers, it would appear, saved you from humiliation."

It was a bitter speech from the prince but his brother now anxious to close the subject reminded him of the original theme:

"After preserving Sir Jean's life, I learned of the mystery already mentioned. Will you take up the theme, Squire Beaufort!"

"Sir Jean learned of the deaths of the three guards, Sire, and shortly afterwards discovered that the Coucy Treasure was missing when the empty casket was found."

The prince smiled:

"I might have known it."

He looked sadly at his brother shaking his head but added nothing as the duke turned to Beaufort:

"Tell His Grace about the dagger!"

Beaufort spoke: "We found a dagger, Sire, a strange looking dagger which did not belong to a Frenchman."

The prince shifted impatiently: "Dead men, treasure, daggers. What mystery is this?"

The duke reacted:

"Very appropriate, brother, for if we connect all three items you mention, we find the culprit because one person knows of each."

Triumphantly the duke produced a package and unrolled it and shoved it under the prince's gaze. There was a few moments pause and the duke asked:

"Do you recognise it, brother?"

The prince had indeed recognised it but did not let on. The duke turned to Beaufort and, almost as a prearranged routine, nodded and Beaufort spoke:

"The dagger was found Sire in the barbican. It seems that in the night some renegades invaded the Cite making good their escape via the river which led through the portcullis. To jam the portcullis so that it would not fall the dagger was fixed between the windlass and the pulley."

The prince was amazed at the audacity of the raid and was frustrated that he could not vent his approval. Instead he said:

"Find the owner of the dagger, brother, and question him. Let me know about it."

"We have my liege. On the dagger you can see the initials W T. Do you know anyone with those initials? "

"William Tate, Walter Throgmorton, Welbeck Toms, Wirral Thomas... The list goes on and on. You would hang all the WT's from trees: are there so many trees? And have we so many soldiers we can hang them on mere suspicion, brother. It is as well you do not command an army in the field."

He had enraged the duke when he should have tried to mollify him for the duke pointedly commented:

"There is one W T you have not included, Wat Tyler. Will you allow my officer to verify his alibi?"

"No!"

The prince was now angry. Unabashed the duke persisted:

"This comes of promoting men beyond their class. They get ideas, dangerous yea, murderous, ideas."

Montagu silent till now, said: "The duke is right, Sire. It is unwise."

The prince banged two fists down on his blanket, shouting:

"How dare you question my judgement! Be silent!"

Montague went a deep red and mumbled his apologies though the duke brushed the contretemps aside as he resumed:

"Very soon these upstarts impinge on our rights and privileges; your rights and privileges too, brother."

The prince looked away. In his line of sight was the makeshift counter upon which were kegs of ale, surrounded by tankards and below was the slop tray to catch drips. They were more interesting to him because it was preferable to face his brother who had brought him face to face with the facts of life. He had flirted with common soldiers for a purpose to win battles but he realised that he had no idea what these common soldiers got up to when they were beyond his authority. They would not have dared such a venture as this raid had he been able-bodied and been able to oversee their doings. Yet, he might still need them. He turned to his brother, his voice almost a whisper:

"I need to speak to you in confidence, John."

The duke spoke to Sir Jean then asked Montague to escort Sir Jean and his squire to Serjeant Petrie's guard tent and watched as his instructions were obeyed. When the prince was sure they were out of earshot, he turned to his brother:

"You are correct. It must be Captain Tyler. I did notice he had changed his dagger recently." Then, relieved of a burden he exclaimed:

"What an exploit! To invade the fortress under our noses! I did notice a gap in the upper masonry and put it to Tyler. It must have been where they climbed in, he and his friends. By Jupiter! What audacity! It's worthy of true-born Englishmen, eh brother!"

"But where will it end, My Liege? These men must be kept in their place. We must maintain discipline. This tale must not be allowed to get widely known. We would lose all respect from our peers as well as the lower orders. Enough is enough."

"Disciplined, yes, but not hanged, even if you establish guilt. I want that understood, brother. I want your promise."

The duke had been sitting all the while upon a campaign chair. Now he got up and walked about. He was clearly weighing options, and only resumed his seat when he had weighed the feasible against his interests:

"If I agree brother, I want something from you."

"In a clash of arms I was always your better, but I have to watch my back when it's a matter of deals. What shady deal have you cooked up for me? What else have I got that you could possibly want?"

"The Bishop of Limoges; if you will release him into my care."

"He expects me to cut off his head. I should do. He has offended me grievously. He caused this whole expedition. He deserves punishment."

"As Tyler deserves punishment..."

The duke spoke in some triumph, adding:

"In exchange for his head, the bishop might well be amenable to some concession."

The prince said: "You are a devious one. Agreed, but leave Beaufort with me, as my prisoner."

The duke was puzzled: "Beaufort! I don't understand."

"I've taken a liking to him." answered the prince.

"Your judgement was ever sound." agreed his brother, adding:

"He was one soldier who wanted to make a fight of it and threatened to prolong the battle for the Cite."

"Threatened!" demanded the prince.

"Squire Calvery threatened to kill his master unless he surrendered."

"He surrendered?"

"No, not until Sir John ordered him to."

The prince was silent and the duke believing the interview was at an end got up and was about to leave before the prince brought him back with a doleful woe:

"It's alright for you Brother. You can go when you please. I'm stuck until my stalwarts come. Any sign of them?"

The duke looked beyond the marquee for a moment hearing shouts but no people until he saw a round object sailing through the air turning back to the marquee:

"I can see no one. I hear shouts and I saw a ball such as my children play with being tossed around. Allow me to push you back to the guard tent. I daresay Sir John will have some refreshment. I'm not used to pushing a litter so be warned, in case I push you over the edge."

"I see in that remark brother the beginnings of humour. Nurture it for you will certainly find it useful when I'm gone."

The duke listened shaking his head thinking he would give someone a humour but it would not raise a laugh. As his brother, the Prince of Wales had started consorting with this lower order of the king's subjects not to mention his drinking habits so the rift between the prince and himself had widened. It highlighted the growing gulf between the French speaking Normans and the English indigent people.

In Acqitaine King Edward IIIrd, following the Battle of Crecy, had given his young son the vice-royalty of the former French province which had only partly been brought under control. From the 1340s onwards the prince had come to rely on the middle order of nobility: knights such as Sir Nigel Loring, Sir John Chandos, Sir Alan Cheyne and others who increasingly on their forays into the province had begun to resolve his territorial problems through hostile confrontations and/or diplomatic manoeuvres.

But, the prince thereby upset his brother, the Duke of Lancaster, to whom others of the Norman nobility looked to to add lustre to their chivalric reputations. In Sir Simon Burleigh the prince had found an excellent spokesman to defend his position but even he could not defend stupidity when Prince Edmund, his younger brother had usurped the prince's commission for Sir John Chandos and got himself captured and had to be exchanged for a French count, Count Foix, detained by the prince for tribute evasion.

The Viceroy angrily dismissed Prince Edmund back to England in disgrace which further alienated the prince from the duke. Yet, neither man seemed aware of changes taking place in England where, for instance, in Parliament a law was enacted giving official status to the English language in legal, commercial and parliamentary matters. This law simply confirmed the growing importance of the merchant class which was steadily improving England's prosperity. More significantly the lords demanded their own chamber in parliament separate from commoners: the House of Commons.

And, English became the lingua-franca of the burgeoning middle-class though the Norman nobility and the Church felt threatened by this development. Matters would come to a head in the so-called Peasants Revolt of 1381. When the uprising was re-enacted in the 20th C an historian commented that the recorded timetable of events proved impossible to sustain unless horses were employed to take rebels from one place to another. But, that fact would alter the narrative turning an ostensible revolt of the peasants into a more general uprising.

That would confound the official Norman version of events!

##  Chapter 7

Tyler on the rack

I trust the reader will forgive my lending the plain facts of Ferrure's narrative a more dramatic presentation. It starts not far from the miner's pet tavern, 'Le Mouton Noir' or the Black Sheep. Some distance away a guard, a soldier by name Smith, had been posted to warn of likely hostile visitors from, for instance, of all places, the English camp.

Poor Smith! In the wrong place, at the wrong time, he had been posted as lookout by Serjeant Petrie who was lately distrustful of elements within the ranks of the army stationed in and around Limoges. Perhaps Petrie had good reason to be fearful now that he had acquired riches having been recruited as an ally by Morgan Filkin, and, as a result, he had become almost overnight suspicious as well as distrustful of elements in adjacent regiments. Hitherto he was the envious soldier mindful of his rank and cautious of indulging his former taste for pillage and loot along with his erstwhile mates. Now, as an officer, his obligation to exercise control had been somewhat compromised.

Nonetheless he prided himself on the discipline within his regiment which meant not joining in the chaos of a raid or attack though it meant watching a situation and being able to bring his men away so that the army on campaign was not an undisciplined rabble. For exercising such discipline he was rewarded with perks peculiar to his exalted rank, and, in the event of looting he was entitled to a share of the proceeds.

Now things were altered. He had a share of plunder not through campaigning but by means of his own initiative. Without a second thought he had saved a fellow soldier who in gratitude was giving him a share in plunder of a different order. It would be his pension. However he was aware now of hostile parties and confessing his fears to Wat Tyler and Morgan Filkin, it was agreed he would provide lookouts at the Black Sheep inn. Who better than his two fellow confederates, soldiers Pyke, Brown and a number of others to operate a lookout system working in shifts.

It happened to be Smith' on shift that day and it was fated to be his last as a crossbow bolt struck him down. He had had no inkling of impending attack and had been unable to warn his fellow lookout, Brown, who was however suddenly aware that Smith had vanished from his line of sight. Smith had occupied a position at the corner of the 'rue' where the Black Sheep inn was situated. Brown was actually in the courtyard near the stables and out of sight so that by the time the raiders came within view he had already braced himself for an attack, his longbow loaded with an arrow which struck one of the several raiders who came round the corner within view.

He got off a second which struck woodwork of the post at the entrance before a crossbow bolt killed him. Brown had no chance, they were too many and now the raiders, as if still expecting further opposition, could advance to the door of the inn. There were about a dozen raiders in all and their one casualty, whom Brown had hit with his arrow although disabled, did not impede their progress. Their leader, who wore a cockade in his hat, pushed open the inn door slowly and gesturing to three of his mates went inside.

There was no sound as they stood there listening in the inn's reception area. Cockade held up his hand and gestured. From upstairs came the sound of snoring. Although it was well past dawn, the inside was dark and gloomy and it was with some hesitation that their eyes located the stairs and began to creep up, step by step, silently but the snoring continued at an even level apart from the occasional 'snarching' as saliva gathered in the throat, was swallowed and the even snoring resumed.

Atop the stairs Cockade passed along a passageway to a half-open door which the leader quietly opened further to allow some of his companions to follow him. Someone clumsily knocked over a stool which fell with a clatter but the snoring did not abate a fraction.

"Stand back!" ordered Cockade and as he was given space, he bent down grasping the side of a low bed tipping both sleeper and bedclothes onto the floor. Yet apart from the sleeper readjusting his position slightly on the floor, his snoring carried on as before. Cockade looked around sheepishly with an almost embarrassed grin. One of his men came forward and was about to kick the sleeping form, when Cockade ordered him to desist.

Instead he ordered his men to right the bed and bedclothes which were stripped to reveal a fully clothed Tyler whom Cockade shook with mounting frustration until finally Tyler's eyes opened, and he was alert trying to sit up and being pushed back by Cockade. Someone said:

"Phew! Take a whiff of that! That's sack - and he's had a skinful."

"Carry him downstairs!" ordered Cockade, but Tyler refused to be carried and was upright but held by two men who grasped each arm hurrying him back along the passage they had just come. A man went in front down the stairs. At the bottom they waited for Cockade, who ordered:

"Outside with him; over to the pump."

Then as the two grasped Tyler's arms firmly, another pushed his head under the tap as Cockade pushed the handle up and down several times to cover Tyler's head with water. When it stopped he shook his head to rid himself of the excess.

Cockade came over and spoke:

"Awake, eh! about time, too!" Then he ordered the two to take him to their wagon and the two set off while Tyler although awake, was in no fit state to enquire the reason for his situation or where they were taking him. He might have guessed something when Cockade barked:

"He might look dozy, but watch him. I want no trouble. Any injuries and you'll answer to the duke. He's got to be pristine."

He was manhandled up into the wagon and manacled hand and foot onto bars running lengthways above and below his head. As the men sat down opposite and beside him, Tyler could not help noticing their smart turnout. It was standard soldiers' garb but the material of their tunics was quilted linen. Their hose was cotton, while covering their shoulders was a superiour hood in yellow. Tyler tried to think where he had seen the emblem upon their badges. Of course, it was the castle of Ghent. They were John of Gaunt's men.

As the wagon started to move he espied Cockade riding a horse and other men walking at a steady pace beside the wagon. The wagon kept to the road passing pedestrians who took to the grass verge rather than confront the armed retainers of the Duke of Lancaster. He was a haughty man of 29 years of age and while in Acquitaine was always in the shadow of his elder brother, the Prince of Wales.

It was this shadow which affected his temper, for the duke was not as free as he would like to be in the prince's province of Acquitaine. Moreover the duke was mean and avaricious and always on the lookout for beautiful objects to adorn his Savoy Palace and when having located a work of art such as a beautiful painting, a delicate icon or perhaps a finely turned sword he would not rest until the object was his.

Often this might mean taking from an otherwise poor priory an object of veneration, as for example, a sword left behind by a crusader as thanks for life-saving sustenance at their hands, but, to the duke, it meant nothing, and he would browbeat the abbot into letting him have it for a paltry sum and a vain promise to give alms.

The prince was reluctant to entrust his younger brother with a battle command so the duke was sent often to England to bring fresh troops out for which he was amply recompensed. Nonetheless it galled the high-born nobleman that lesser men, in his view, such as Chandos, Ferrers, Knollys and others, for the most part, mere knights, found greater favour with the Prince when he was distributing commands prior to a chevauchee while he was despatched to a seaport to await new arrivals from Southampton.

It was yet more galling to the duke that his brother had, even after Chandos and Audley had been killed and while other officers were elsewhere, and that only, as a last resort, assigned him to this command, namely to lead knights and men-at-arms through the enormous gap in the castle that Captain Tyler and his miners had brought about, with their successful under-mining efforts. It had enraged the Duke that his brother, the Prince, had the closest dealings with these low-born villeins. Now to cap all his humiliations, a famous and valuable treasure, belonging at one time to the famous Coucy family, and in the care of the abbey in the Cite of Limoges, and which should have fallen to him as commander had been already looted by these same vagabonds. The duke had had enough; these villeins would surrender the treasure, or else.

In the normal run of things, Tyler, along with the rest of humanity, when drunk, did not worry too much whether his head was on his shoulders. At this moment he was well aware his head was there because it ached, it felt twice the size, and he wished somebody would remove it, and soon. Deep thoughts were alien to such a head, yet, as the wagon trundled along and this thing on his shoulders felt like an oversized pumpkin, his eyes began to lose their spots and worrying, if alien, thoughts began to percolate through it, and questions seeped into it. Such as how did I get back to the inn?

Tyler recalled singing along with his mates; he remembered hanging upside-down and quaffing ale and spilling the liquid gold. He recalled more liquid gold pouring from crown to neck and his tongue vainly trying to catch it. He remembered a lot happening in the ale-house, but otherwise nothing. Come to think of it, where were his mates? Where was this wagon going? Outside, men stolidly marched along; horses clipped and clopped. He closed his eyes and tried to doze, difficult with the continual rattle and bumping. But, his head felt less and less like a pumpkin for all the good it did him.

After an age of an age, the wagon appeared to slow and he heard someone yell:

"Where are we?"

And the fainter shout from outside:

"This is the Porte de l'Escudiere."

The name rang a bell, but, how that bell hurt him. The motion of the cart altered slightly and looking up, Tyler realised they had passed from the road into the inner reaches of the Cite. There was no mistaking it if only from the destruction and fire-blackened houses on either side of the route. Walls stood only, not houses, but all were scorched and whisps of smoke rose into the morning air from a few.

Raising his eyes further he caught glimpses of battlements and the concomitant merlons and crenels interspersed with the occasional tower atop which the familiar figure of English soldiers strode about their business. Surprised he also noticed a spire on his right. It must be the cathedral of St Etienne and recalling with difficulty when he had last seen it, again on his right, wondered where this route was taking them. His curiosity was about to be satisfied for directly ahead of him way above his line of vision was the Tour de la Prison from which he, alongside his mates, had escaped earlier. He could not think when. His mental powers would not stretch that far.

He was curious as to why he could see no sign of any damage and concluded that the approaching abbey was blocking from view the fallen masonry of both wall and tower when the battlements had come crashing down so recently. It was disappointing to say the least yet he recalled on arriving at the scene later to observe their handiwork, and climbing over tumbled blocks of masonry, leaping from block to block before jumping to the ground; beyond the wall, the attackers had had to turn right or left past the enormous wall facing them. This wall must be the other side of the abbey which now blocked his view.

Yet how had Gaston made his way to the abbey to steal the treasure? His question to himself went unanswered as the wagon had halted and soldiers were busy undoing his manacles from the bar then with a push and a tumble, Tyler found himself on the ground though still chained and in that state was pushed inside a courtyard.

It looked very like the courtyard in St Bartholomew's in Smithfield, London, he thought, as he was being hustled via a dark alley, turning right then left, glimpsing briefly a portico of columns until finally, by now completely disoriented, he found himself in an enormous rectangular chamber which, although lit by torches and flambeaux on the walls, seemed dark and shadowy, but as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he began to notice things.

Without any warning, there was a crash beside him and he jumped but the object in question had not been directed at him, but as a shock to gain his full attention. An unfamiliar voice said:

"Cast your peepers at that!"

And he did as the voice commanded and was aghast, concealing his surprise although it was so dark he did not expect anyone to notice any change in his pallor. It was the treasure box of the night of the raid. The one he had got his mates to empty. The same voice barked:

"Well!"

Tyler glanced in the direction of the voice and found himself looking at the speaker dressed in a coat-hardie of unknown colour from shoulder to mid-calf. It was buttoned to the crotch. Braid ran from each shoulder to wrist and there was more running from either shoulder down to the hem. Was it gold! It was difficult to be sure. Around his midriff was a dark belt from which hung a jewelled sword which sparkled in the torchlight; a purse completed the ensemble. Tyler tried in the poor light to look the speaker in the eye, saying:

"Never seen it before in my life!"

This answer provoked an instant shove from a soldier who barked:

"You say, Sire, you dog to Sir Simon Burley,"

It was a gentleman whose voice sounded familiar who spoke next:

"You're lying. A Gascon prisoner has told me this box contained the Coucy Treasure, the eve before we, English assaulted the Cite."

Tyler lied:

"That lets me out, Sire. I was never in the Cite. That's the truth! Is it where we are now?"

Tyler's heartbeat went up appreciably upon Sir Simon's next words:

"Don't come the innocent with me, Tyler. We'll see if you're so innocent when the rack begins to stretch you."

To a soldier, he rasped:

"Fit him up!"

Two men virtually lifted and carried him over to what had been a vague shadow in the gloom depositing his body upon a frame, spread-eagling arms and legs to its four corners. As he lay there he heard them complaining. They appeared to lack a key. Sir Simon's voice called impatiently:

"Aren't you ready yet?"

One soldier said:

"Just bind his wrists and ankles. He felt leather thongs biting into his flesh then each wrist was yanked roughly to its corner and bound to a bracket.

The same procedure now caused Tyler pain as with legs and arms stretched out to their fullest extent, he was unable to ease his back which began to ache. He was lying athwart the frame which was in two parts separated by a ratchet one of whose teeth meshed with a pinion of a capstan wheel. As the capstan was turned, its pinion moved the ratchet which in turn forced the two parts of the frame apart.

Tyler saw this at a glance. The mechanics were devilishly simple yet evidently very effective for once the slack had been taken up by the bindings, as the pinion geared into the rack which in turn edged the two halves apart, the only 'give' would come from Tyler's limbs, that is to say, his joints. This anticipated pain made his backache disappear, as if by magic. As his joints were stretched fraction by excruciating fraction apart, he wondered about his likely response.

A slight reprieve ensued as one of the two soldiers on completion of their task went over to report. Tyler heard some whispering, then silent footfalls as someone approached. It was Sir Simon who bent down to address him:

"You have time Tyler to contemplate your misfortune and provide me with the answers I am wanting. The duke is leaving before sunset and wishes me to acquaint him with the full facts. I don't intend to disappoint him so in order for you not to disappoint me, I need the facts. My two soldiers here love to hear people scream Tyler, and I suspect you will not disappoint them. By the way they've earned their nicknames, 'Rackim' and 'Stretchim'. Adieu."

As Sir Simon made his departure, a Jacquard chimed the hour and when it finished one soldier addressed the other:

"Knowing Sir Simon he'll be away hours. One of us can go for a bite. You go George. I want you back by the next Jacquard. Then we can both enjoy his screams as we rack 'im and stretch 'im; ha ha ha!"

Tyler winced as he heard his footfalls resounding upon the flagstones until they receded, and all was quiet.

The other soldier wandered about as Tyler tried to ease his tortuous position and the creaks he made alerted the guard who wandered over and silently contemplated him for some moments. Tyler's feet and hands were beginning to lose feeling. The soldier sucked his teeth. Tyler tried to twist his neck to where he imagined the soldier was standing. His mouth was dry but managed to croak:

"Can you ease these bindings, soldier. They're a bit tight."

Not on your life, miner; not on my life! That's all part of the persuasion." He gave a ghoulish laugh. "Now, if you'll tell me where the treasure is, it'll save you a lot of pain and deny us our pleasure."

He started to chuckle, then to laugh as if he had just heard a funny story. Then still chuckling quietly he moved nearer Tyler and although Tyler could not see his face, the lower part of his body came into view.

The guard stopped chuckling in order to sneer at his victim:

"You'll soon be singing like a canary, if the monks of the abbey are anything to go by. They swore blind they knew nothing, but we two had 'em stretched before Sir Simon believed their screams. Like he said beforehand you can't believe anyone these days, especially monks. It's a pity you weren't here to listen; you might have saved Sir Simon and us a lot of trouble. Eh!"

This last sound was of alarm but whatever he had resolved to say further, it was cut short for he collapsed on the ground. Tyler saw his face for the first time. His eyes just stared, not blinking.

For, beside the prone figure appeared a coil of rope and the sound of swishing, then, he saw feet suddenly appear followed by a familiar voice:

"Hold a while, Cap'n. We'll soon have you out of that contraption."

It was Morgan Filkin. How was it possible! Tyler forced his head up to see the wondrous sight of his saviour.

Filkin was soon joined by another who shouted cheerily to him then got down to loosening the bindings around his ankles. Although he had been freed it was still painful for him and he asked his two friends to lift him to a seating position and just sat there allowing the circulation to filter back into his wrists, hands and feet. Never were pins and needles so welcome as at that time. Noticing the bolt beside the body of the soldier, he quipped to Filkin:

"That's another life I owe to your crossbow," and standing up embraced his comrade: "Thanks, mate!"

Looking at the body gave Tyler an idea and he started stripping off his clothing. Filkin quipped:

"Take no notice, Tom. The rack's unsettled his brain."

But when Tyler acquainted him with his intentions, his face creased with a grin:

"You're a genius Cap'n. It was worth rescuing you, after all,"

As Tyler started unclothing the soldier with some difficulty, he made sure his own gear covered the guard's naked body which Tom and Morgan spread-eagled on the rack binding his limbs to the corners, while Tyler himself tried to squeeze into the other's clothes which were luxurious compared to the normal soldier's uniform. Tyler discovered a truth long suspected that the duke's ostentation extended to his soldiers, who, while despising anyone beneath him, nonetheless was always anxious to ensure his retainers put those of other nobles to shame.

Tom voiced a sentiment immediately sensed by Filkin and Tyler that Sir Simon was going to be disappointed when he failed to get his screams. Tom mimicked Sir Simon barely able to conceal his mirth:

"My! What a mighty brave miner, we're racking. We haven't heard a squeak." On a more practical note Filkin asked:

"What about the other guard?" Tyler reassured him:

"He told George, his mate, to be back by the next chime. Knowing our soldiers, he'll return and think his mate's already gone for his dinner."

Filkin, expressing urgency, was concerned if Tyler felt strong enough after his ordeal to use one of the ropes to climb back to the gallery so, after a quick look around for any loose ends, and placing the guard's possessions into the empty treasure chest, Tyler shinned up the rope, taking it slowly because the ordeal had both shaken and tired him. Yet, gaining strength with every handhold he climbed over the rail into the gallery, before all three of them vanished from view along a passageway leading to the Tour de Prison.

It was from here that Tom in the task of clearing masonry blocks had first heard Tyler's voice after resuming work clearing masonry, believing Tyler was still back at the inn. It was a tempting thought to wait around until Sir Simon had returned and the likely shenanigans, but they had to make distance between here and safety before it dawned upon Sir Simon and soon thereafter, the Duke of Lancaster, the trick played upon them.

Besides they had heard a rumour that the Prince was soon to return to England. Once their protector had left Acquitaine, the area around Limoges would not be safe for anyone who had incurred the wrath of the duke; that is, for longbow-men – but, especially, for miners with the names Tyler, Filkin, Thatcher et al.

\----------0----------0----------

##  Chapter 8

The lord's revenge

Following the successful re-conquest of the Cite and fortress of Limoges, a number of the nobility and gentlemen had come together with a particular objective. Normally after a victorious assault they would be talking, boasting about their prowess and eagerly forecasting the size of their purse once ransoms had been paid. But Limoges had not been very lucrative owing to their prince's orders of 'no prisoners!". There was always, on these occasions, mighty chatter involving gore and blood, and had that occurred here, any slights and insults perceived might have been forgotten.

At the final meeting before the assault, recalled with anger by those present, because of the perceived insults directed against one of their number, the bannaret Chaumont, at the hands of their prince, but, also, in the presence of a singular coxcomb, they expressed other terms of an unprintable nature for a certain lackey calling himself Captain Tyler, and they were determined upon revenge.

The senior noble, Lord Montferrant, had seen distinguished service during the chevauchee leading up to the battle of Poitiers and in the battle itself, but felt that he had not received sufficient thanks for his efforts and had put it down to the fact that he was a Gascon. In fact, of all the gentlemen assembled just one had English antecedents. There was Sir Richard Augle, Sir Louis d'Harcourt, Sir Thomas Percy, Sir William Beauchamp, Sir Eustace d'Aubrecourt, Sir Percy d'Albret from the duchies of Hainault, Gascony and Pointevin, and Sir Michael de la Pole, the latter having been born of an English wool merchant in the northern town of Hull.

The achievement of their rank can certainly be put down to the prince's generosity towards his faithful warriors often knighting scores of gentlemen prior to a chevauchee or battle. Montferrant too had been well rewarded yet that same prince's generosity often did not reflect qualities of leadership. There emerged some outstanding captains who were not only valiant warriors but also inspired their men to heroic efforts, and the prince's success was as much due to the efforts of leaders such as Chandos, Knollys, Loring, whose exploits at Crecy, Poictiers, Najera, besides the chevauchees through French territory, prior to the Peace of Bretigny, were legendary.

Whether the prince had appointed these captains for the qualities mentioned or because he preferred to have his own countrymen nearest him, history does not record, but an irritable comment from the prince may well have upset this Gascon and other allies. He is reported to have said that he did not care a button for any knight, or burgher, and since the term 'burgher' related more to Gascony, the knights of this country might well have felt insulted.

As already explained, Lord Montferrant had witnessed one example of a slight upon his countryman, the bannaret Chaumont, and was determined he would be present to witness, the revenge. He had together, with his accomplices, already apprehended their victim finding it surprisingly easy. It had been their spies who had reported on the movements of English soldiers and Tyler's description had been circulated among them so that when the report had come that Tyler with a few soldiers was on the northern road, presumably on their way to Calais, it had been a matter of hours for the lords to arm themselves, surround the English soldiers and demand that Tyler go with them.

According to Montferrant, they had not been given much choice, and had seen sense. In his opinion, the English soldier, although stupid, was clever enough when it came to saving his skin. On a promise they would be spared on handing Tyler over, without a struggle, they had concurred. The amazing thing about the whole episode was that Tyler did not look too displeased to be taken; that is before a sack was thrust over his head and he was gagged for good measure.

Before being gagged the prisoner's eyes had blazed fire. A spare horse had been brought for the prisoner. He was securely bound then flung across the saddle. Then they galloped towards their rendezvous. Soon, as arranged, Sir Eustace was galloping towards them with Chaumont at his side and after greetings had been exchanged, Montferrant said:

"Good to see you, Chaumont. I can see that you've been told about our prisoner. I sent Sir Eustace on this special errand although everyone wanted the honour of fetching you. How do you feel about witnessing the humiliation of this coxcomb Tyler?"

Without further words they galloped towards their destination and on arriving dismounted handing their reins over to waiting lackeys.

Chaumont assured Montferrant:

"How delighted I am to be here, my lord. When I was told of the purpose of my journey, my heart leapt for joy. Ever since that meeting with the prince, I have seethed with anger. It seems nothing is within my power to discomfit the prince but we can show this lackey, at least, some manners. He may be far away in England, the prince, but we shall get enjoyment thinking of his discomfort when news of his lackey's punishment reaches him."

Montferrant smiled:

"My feelings exactly Chaumont! The news will reach him in England, no doubt, but his frustration at not being able to move against us will be very satisfying."

He turned to the only Englishman among them, Sir Michael de la Pole: "You will also have that satisfaction, Sir Michael, and, doubtless, you will no lose no time in informing our worthy prince."

De la Pole, smirked: "Your pleasure will be mine, my dear Montferrant."

"Gentlemen!"

Declaimed Montferrant addressing everyone:

"Are we all ready! Let's proceed."

The party of lords moved towards the barn where their punishment would be enacted on the prisoner. In the middle of the barn arrangements had been made. They went over to the brazier where a man operated a bellows to maintain the embers of the fire red hot while another man ensured that the various lengths of iron were stuck in the hottest part of the furnace. Montferrant addressed him:

"Show my guests Jacques what the letters spell out on this piece of wood."

Then drawing out the first letter, the lackey held the iron onto the block. There was a tongue of fire and smoke as he burnt the letter V onto the wood, before he thrust the iron back in the fire. He did likewise for each letter and at the end of the exercise the word spelt out: VILLEIN. Having done as bid, Montferrant ordered him to bring their victim into the barn, where they stood.

Montferrant said, smiling:

"Being branded on his buttocks, he won't sit down for a month."

Of a sudden the prisoner though securely tied up began to writhe with some difficulty being so tightly bound which caused the by-standing lords to chuckle. Montferrant looked around at his fellow lords, smiling in contempt. Only de la Pole made any comment:

"What is the point of branding him what he already is!" But Montferrant retorted:

"Tyler is being manumitted, I understand. This will remind him, once a villein always a villein.

Emboldened by de la Pole's comment, Sir Richard d'Augle put his own point to Montferrant:

"His Grace, the Prince will be sore displeased on hearing of this my lord. Did he not specifically warn against the very action we are taking?"

Montferrant was scornful:

"My news, Sir Richard, is that the prince is now in his castle at Berkhamsted, England. He is also a very sick man, and, I venture to suggest that nobody will dare tell him."

He pointed to a specially adapted trestle, normally used for slaughtering sheep, over which the body was awkwardly draped; he was tied by his hands and feet but other binding had been untied to allow removal of apparel.

De la Pole attended to his struggles, declaring:

"Despite his gag he's uttering weird sounds.."

And, he added to Montferrant:

"I suppose that comes of mixing with the Welsh."

That thought made Montferrant laugh and turning to Chaumont said reflectively:

"My Lord Chaumont is looking forward to his screams, no doubt?" whereupon Chaumont nodded his head vigorously flattered to share Montferrant's confidence.

De la Pole shook his head, but said no more and Montferrant ordered the prisoner's hose to be pulled down and his shirt raised. Prior to this, the prisoner was struggling against his gag so much that spittle ran down from his mouth. The noble onlookers smiled at his discomfiture especially when the heat of the brazier hit him. The whole trestle shook violently as the prisoner struggled and Montferrant's lackeys had to hold it in situ to prevent it moving when the iron was applied.

They looked away to avoid looking at the horror to come tough soldiers though they were as Montferrant ordered the letter V to be removed from the brazier. It glowed at the end of a long rod. Everybody stared at it as if transfixed. At that moment running steps made them all turn towards a stranger, who hesitated. De la Pole pointed to Montferrant and the newcomer gave known:

"My Lord, I am commanded to request your presence without. There are urgent despatches for you."

Montferrant impatiently thrust him aside:

"Let him wait whoever it is."

The messenger departed. Then, to the man at the brazier he ordered:

"Proceed!"

His lackey took out the iron and the trestle bodily shifted with the squirming of the victim, terrified seemingly at what was about to happen to him. The iron was planted upon the left cheek of his posterior and the victim collapsed seemingly unconscious. There was a horrible smell of roasting flesh. Everyone apart from Montferrant turned aside in horror.

Montferrant, referring to the slumped body, shouted:

"That's good! Now we'll have no more trouble!"

But he got no further for a second visitor had bounded into the stable. Everyone turned and recognised him, instantly. It was the Earl of Pembroke, the Prince of Wales' half-brother. He shouted:

"What is going on here?"

Montferrant retorted:

"My lord, come and join the fun. We are teaching a lackey manners in front of his betters. After we've finished with him, he'll have more respect for the nobility."

The earl was clearly angry with Montferrant, but said nothing going to look at the slumped body of their victim. He ordered a lackey to remove the sack and then bent down to turn his head and staggered back in shock. Turning to Montferrant, he gasped:

"You fool. You imbecile."

Then Pembroke turned to look at the others who, in turn, looked at each other. For some reason, Montferrant's eyes rested on de la Pole and followed him as he went over to the inert prisoner and also looked a the face. Shaking his head he addressed Pembroke. Quietly, he said:

"My Lord! Tell us the worst."

Pembroke recovered his composure. He answered de la Pole:

"It's serious, my Lord, its Count Poucy. Have you never seen him before?"

The question went unanswered as Pembroke turned to Sir William Beauchamp:

"My Lord, I expected better of you. And you, Aubrecourt! And you, ..." addressing each knight in turn before turning again to Montferrant, but before he could say anything, Montferrant said defiantly:

"So, my Lord, he's a Frenchman! Are we not at war?"

The incongruity of his remark stunned Pembroke who looked at de la Pole, then back at Montferrant. He spoke and this time his tone was icy:

"My lord, only a few weeks ago, you, Montferrant, all of you, swore allegiance to our Prince, his authority coming direct from his majesty, King Edward. You now countermand the direct commands of the Prince, your liege lord. You talk of war. Who the devil are you!"

Unnoticed by any of those in the stable, soldiers had silently entered and taken up station. His face was contorted in anger and had difficulty speaking; he said:

"You are under arrest!" At these words two soldiers marched each side of Montferrant and Pembroke ordered:

"Take him away!" Montferrant gasped and seemed almost to have a seizure as he hyper-ventilated. Then Pembroke ordered:

"Stay!" The arrest process stopped in its tracks and Pembroke addressed Montferrant as he stood flanked by the two pikemen:

"His Grace, the Prince, was due to sail but has been unexpectedly delayed."

Pembroke paused to allow Montferrant to digest this news along with his fellow knights. There was a movement behind him. Pembroke went over to Count Poucy who had been freed from his bindings. He was given brandy and his clothing had been replaced, but he was in no fit state to appreciate what was going on. Pembroke ordered his servants to take him to his own quarters. Turning, he realised, the arrest party still awaited his further orders.

Pembroke turned to de la Pole, his fellow Englishman who said quietly:

"Once the sack covered his face how would anyone know it was not Tyler although someone said his groans sounded rather odd. But the gag stifled even those."

The earl looked at the Gascons, the Hainaulters and shook his head, meaningly. A smile crossed his face as he spoke once again to de la Pole:

"I've been informed that Captain Tyler is on his way to Calais with his ill-gotten gains which includes a ransom of 100,000 crowns."

Both Englishmen watched Montferrant's face covertly. It was livid with suppressed anger; as was Chaumont's; as were the others. Only de la Pole shared a wry smile. Then Pembroke straightened up and issued his orders:

"Take Lord Montferrant into custody!" and the small troop disappeared. His accomplices followed. Pembroke dismissed every one else. The two Englishmen were on their own each with his own thoughts.

De la Pole waited until he was certain he could not be overheard then remarked almost jokingly:

"What a pity you arrived so late, my lord! How are you going to explain that 'V' to Count Poucy? Not to mention the pain of it."

Pembroke playfully chided the knight:

"It's no laughing matter, Sir Michael. To think I waited five minutes."

De la Pole said, smirking: "Five more and the count might have had another letter added."

Neither man could forbear giggling. Pembroke said: "Or six, perhaps, to equal the Roman VI on his sit-upon."

After their childish laughter subsided, Pembroke turned to de la Pole:

"Joking aside, the Prince is in your debt, Sir Michael."

And then in a playful aside, joked:

"I must confess to being less than warm towards that Tyler fellow, hitherto. This is all his doing; unwittingly, it's true."

And he chuckled, adding:

"To see their faces!" And he laughed the more, Sir Michael joining in. Both men, holding their sides, were unable to curtail their descent into mirth.

##  Chapter 9

Farewell to France

##  Contrary winds could delay departure of a ship bound in a particular direction for days, even weeks but what kept the Black Prince for week after long week was superstition allied to a religious devotion that brought smiles to his devoted admirers. He had sailed to La Rochelle in the Grace-Dieu and his bones told him that the Grace-Dieu was the ship for his return to England with his family. Yet waiting was not the purgatory it might have been for a man of a sedentary nature for, although restricted by his confinement to a wheeled litter, he, nonetheless, attended mass as often as he might have done had he his legs. Such were his religious sensibilities.

## Apart from his legendary bravery on the battlefield, he was a charismatic man revelling in the exploits of his friends and going over with them perilous and joyful moments in the field. However it is very likely this bonhomie exacerbated the condition that had invalided him in the first place, generally believed by modern physicians variously as severe gout, chronic dysentery or a combination of the two. Modern life tells us that over indulgence in rich foods and wine leads to the same medical conditions.

## Yet his spirits were always high even when laid low as he was because he was able to delegate. As often as not his most trusted officers were low born, but he had discovered in the hard world of warfare that the difference between life and death often rested upon one individual, and were he low born, the prince saw to it that although low born it would not be a handicap for long. The prince got very angry with his nobles who would not recognise this fact and had taken his brothers to task for refusing to serve under a lower-born captain. Yet this attitude is not only of his age. In the Battle of Britain, there were cases of officers refusing to serve under more experienced sergeant-pilots.

## The prince had occasion to reprimand his half brother, the Earl of Pembroke, who, on a foray against the Duc of Anjou, a few weeks ago, had refused to serve under the highly experienced Sir John Chandos, a bannaret. Pembroke had gone his own way and been captured having to be exchanged for a valuable French nobleman.

## The only happenings which damaged his usual good-humour during these long weeks of waiting were the reports of growing French intransigence affecting his Province of Acquitaine. Dark autumn clouds not only lowered over La Rochelle but black political clouds hovered over his entire government and administration. Bertrand du Guesclin had rekindled the dying embers of French pride and Edward sensed a change in the towns-people's attitude towards him. Nothing overt occurred to place him or his officers in any danger in La Rochelle, or even to allow him to feel his presence was becoming inimical to his subjects, such was the standing of the Prince among the populace. Yet this sensitive man conveyed his misgivings to the only person capable of understanding the situation, his dearly loved and beloved wife, the Princess of Wales, when he told her that the sands of England's hour glass were running out.

## As reports from north and south of the province reached him, it became clear to the prince that the tide was turning in favour of the French, the tide that had swept him and his army to success, was on the ebb. Complete victory for the French was still some way in the future, but the French commander, du Guesclin, like Fabian, in the days of Hannibal who, after a string of successes, threatened Rome itself, was patient avoiding pitched battles, and limited his officers to hit-and-run forays. These French tactics had already cost the English dear losing Sir John Chandos and Sir James Audley, in a matter of weeks.

## Two years after his departure, La Rochelle itself would surrender to pro-Guesclin forces yet that would not entirely surprise the prince who might recall his long waits before recalcitrant counts emerged from their counties to pay him their duty-bound homage, and then only after urging from du Guesclin, who would have told the reluctant count, the time was not ripe for rebellion, and who wanted nobody out of line before he, du Guesclin, Constable of France, made the call to arms but in his own good time.

## La Rochelle for its part was a maverick like the prince himself. It was the first town to hold an election for the post of mayor, establish a mairie, a local townhall, subsequently emulated throughout France. Later, in the 17th century, in Catholic France La Rochelle would stand out as a Protestant enclave, ignoring Louis XIV's purge of the Huegenots. But all this was in the future, beyond the time of the Black Prince, yet he could not help but notice its independent turn of mind when, soon after his enthronement, as Prince of Acquitaine, a deputation begged leave to be excused from military duty in causes beyond the borders of the Prince's domain.

## On a fresh morning of a day in January 1370, the prince might have been informed that with the arrival of the Grace-Dieu and enough other ships to accommodate his entourage weather conditions promised a brisk south-easterly wind so that once the fleet had collected at sea they could set out on the voyage to Dartmouth, and home. Such news must have been manna to the Princess who, unlike her husband, must have found the waiting more tedious although their little boy was very much at home in La Rochelle.

## Already his French hosts clapped their hands with joy when they heard him speak their language. Still only four he took to their church liturgy like a duck to water and he much preferred to be dressed as other French children much to the chagrin of his father to whom French politesse and decorous manners were an irritant to the forthright Prince.

## Once the prince had decided to leave, no time was lost and final packing proceeded apace. Making his way on his usual litter pushed by one or more of his stalwarts the gay bunting might have lost some of its freshness as it had been there some time, a previous trip having been aborted when the wind veered and blew inland. Ships of the 14th century, although occasionally provided with oars, had still not taken on the variable luffing sail, as for example, the lateen, widely used in the Mediteranean.

## At the quayside the mayor had long since been prepared for the Prince's departure. It was he and his mairie staff who had bedecked the harbour with bunting where the red cross of St George was much in evidence. At the masthead of the Grace-Dieu a fluttering St George pennant flapped impatiently in the brisk wind. Had it not been for the waiting upon the Grace-Dieu, the Prince's party might well have been away before Christmas.

## This delay in the Prince's departure from La Rochelle discomfited the mayor not a little as his townhall bore the brunt of tetchy townspeople who, years before, despite impassioned protests to their King himself were handed over to the English as part of the Peace Treaty. To be constantly reminded of their status as subjects of an English Prince by seeing the English insignia was too much for many of them to forbear complaining. Yet the mayor could not remove the bunting without upsetting the prince so it stayed.

## Yet further inland Gascon noblemen, ostensible allies of England, ignorant of the prince's superstitious nature, confident in the belief he was far away in England, had indulged themselves in activities contrary to the Prince's direct commands, and who would suffer, and had already done so, appropriate retribution if not by the prince himself. The Gascon, Lord Montferrant, as shown previously, was one such case.

##  Nonetheless the postponement had brought a degree of pleasure to some among the prince's entourage, for instance, among his soldiers. His presence alone was an inspiration and his reputation had suffered not one jot from his enforced confinement to a wheeled litter. Indeed there was competition among them for the privilege of serving in the elite band of soldiers from whom were drawn his stalwarts, the men who pushed his litter and generally manhandled it, as, for example, up atop a grassy mound or knoll from which the prince could harangue his soldiers prior to battle or to deliver an announcement. There were stone steps to surmount, his litter to be hoisted up indoor stairs or rough ground to cover. Yet, the stalwarts were always equal to the task.

## Four stalwarts were normally with the prince at any one time working in three shifts which were changed over each month, but for the voyage to Dartmouth just four stalwarts were to accompany him and there was the fiercest competition to be among this select quartet. An added bonus was that the chosen four would be going home. Nonetheless for those remaining, there was to be a reward, the reward of manumission which would involve a ceremony, something beloved of the prince, who took delight in ceremony and none more so when it involved the distribution of his largesse.

## Sir Nigel Loring, his Chamberlain, had originally engaged villeins for the campaign, and many, because of their innate cheapness, being paid a penny a day, as against the four-pence a day for the regular yeoman. Subsequently, however, the prince had insisted that in the event of wastage, the replacements were to be drawn from the ranks of villeins. Now they were to get their reward, freedom, for that was the result of manumission, the freedom, on their return to England, to work for themselves or others, as against the restrictions imposed upon villeins who were in bond to their lord, in practice, his slaves. The prince himself had many villeins on his own estates yet none had gone to France though he discovered that many of his lords had recruited villeins, in preference to yeomen and solely because villains were three pence a day cheaper.

## This puzzle became clear when he accidentally found a page of the accounts belonging to his chamberlain, and after study of which, the prince complimented him upon his good business sense to accept 4d a day from the king when he paid only 1d a day to his villeins, thereby making a handsome profit of 3d on every villein he sent to France in the king's service as a soldier. When confronted by the prince, Sir Nigel had shown not a trace of shame claiming the crown was getting the best value.

##  "Yeomen, sire" said Loring, "have too many worries about their farms back in England. Villeins have proved excellent longbowmen, swordsmen and men-at-arms."

## Then with a twinkle is his brown eyes he asked the prince: "Liked you your haunch of venison caparisoned with leeks, at supper last night, Sire?"

## The prince looking amused and bemused, queried:

## "Don't change the subject, my lord. You're fond of doing that when you're cornered. Come now I've no objection to you're using these villeins. But keep to the subject!"

## "But I have," insisted Loring, "my villein-cook roasted that haunch of venison, and with his Welsh wizardry garnished it with leeks." The prince had chuckled:

## "Sir Nigel you have served me well as my chamberlain, the best. But, see to it, that your Welsh cook is not in the front line of Welsh bowmen. We can afford to lose a battle but not our Welsh cook, leeks and all." And both men had laughed heartily.

##  Nonetheless, although the prince had ruefully forgone the good business his lords had indulged in, such business could not be entertained by the king's son, yet, he found a way to turn the tables. And it arose out of Sir Nigel's avarice, when his chamberlain noticed among the list of names down for manumission, four belonged to him raising the question of compensation.

## "Why, my lord, that's easy." retorted the prince chuckling: "Work out how many days they have served me in France, multiply by 3d a day of your good business, and either repay me the difference between that sum and their value, as entered on the rolls, or let me know the sum the Crown owes you."

## The prince never heard another word from his chamberlain nor from any other lord about the costs of manumission. For despite the prince's self confessed ignorance of administration and business matters, his mind was as sharp as any of his advisers, should the situation arise. But for the most part he left such matters to his very able officers.

## After all, Sir Nigel performed his services unstintingly. Perform a service unstintingly to the prince, and, as many of his captains, officers and soldiers had already discovered, the prince was indeed of noble character in his unstinting generosity, as posterity still remembers when the names of Chandos, Knollys, Ferrers and many more litter the roll call of famous men from these times, and down through the ages.

## His Chamberlain understood this particular ceremony now, as he had need to do, in order to execute the orders of his master faithfully and without a hitch. In true administrative style, Sir Nigel outlined the ceremony to the prince whose countenance lit up with the expectation of the forthcoming pleasure, not shared by a group of townspeople who patiently awaited their turn to pay the formal respects of their final farewell to the Prince.

## A particular unhappy, not to say, sour face among these respectable burghers was the mayor, Jean de Marais, who could not fathom the prince's preference for commoners, faithful commoners, but common when he, as mayor, and many of his fellow dignitaries and their wives, were in protocol far above these jacquards, these English yokels, and although their love of France was beyond question yet their sense of their own importance exceeded common-sense, as the French has hitherto so well demonstrated in battle.

##

## Sir Nigel Loring signalled to the trumpeter to sound a fanfare and as the sounds echoed across the harbour accompanied by cheers of crews aboard the various ships riding at anchor, Sir Nigel came forward to address the crowd:

## "Your Grace! Distinguished lords, ladies, gentlemen and gentlefolk! May it please Almighty God, this day of January, in the year of our Lord, thirteen hundred and seventy that we hear pronounce the oath of manumission upon the following persons. Step forward when I call your names: William Beauregard, Walter Butte, William Bithwyn, Richard Horseman, Thomas Thacker, Hugh Cross....."

## The roll call went on some time. Finally Sir Nigel pointed to a table at which two men were sitting and went on:

## "May it please, Your Grace, that I read aloud just one such oath of manumission, that of your loyal servant and soldier, who to our great regret and disappointment was not able to be here today."

## Loring unfurled a document handed to him by a page and smiling at the prince, and casting glances at the waiting people especially those to be manumitted, he began to read:

## "I, Edward Plantagenet, known unto all as Edward of Woodstock, son of his majesty, Edward, the third of that name, make hereby an oath of manumission as follows: This certificate is for the manumission of Renold, son of Alexander Rede of Weybridge, the prince's bondman of the manor of Byfleet, and all his issue, as a reward for his good services in Gascony."

## As soon as he stopped reading, the prince cried out:

## "A noble reading Chamberlain," and clapped both hands upon which everyone followed the prince, and Loring was embarrassed by the general ovation. Then he stopped and turning to his manumitted soldiers, many in their smart black leather psuedo-armour, so much beloved by the Prince that he had had a suit specially fashioned for himself to wear on ceremonial occasions. He motioned his stalwarts to push his litter forward a little and offered his hands to his men, saying:

## "Men, Englishmen.." He stopped and repeated: "Englishmen! How I love that name! Stalwarts! Ye, who have served me so faithfully; my thanks to each of you. Go, get your certificates." After which Sir Nigel took his cue and walked over and handed the list at the table for the prince to read.

## As each man's hand was grasped, he went down on one knee, and the prince said: "No ceremony."

## But no-one heeded his call each feeling honoured by that simple act of homage. Meanwhile as the man appeared at the table and gave his name it was chalked against the name on the list. As the manumitted men diminished so the crowd behind became more visible and the prince seemed intrigued by a pair of legs motioning his stalwarts to push his litter towards the men-at-arms who stood with arm outstretched keeping back the crush of people.

## The prince addressed an individual. His voice was almost sad:

## "How now Captain! My last news was that you were Calais bound. Come, let me look at you." Then to the man-at-arms: "Let him through, Soldier!"

## The black leather-clothed man stood before him, and, went down in homage, and the prince raised him, saying: "Captain, it was your wish not to be included on yonder list."

## The prince jerked his head to where Loring was still standing before adding: "because, you said, otherwise you might be arrested, and here you are." Tyler said in a low voice: "Your Grace, I wanted one last look, one last time." He stopped, his mouth quivering, but the prince chided him:

## "But it wasn't worth a hundred thousand crowns, man!"

## Tyler said: "I think so, Sire." The prince's voice shook: "Be off with you. Scoot! Before my Chamberlain knows you're here." He held out his hand and Tyler went down again before the prince who said: "Goodbye, Captain." Tyler rose and turning hurried away and a moment later the sounds of galloping hooves echoed round the harbour. Sir Nigel Loring was at his elbow.

## But the prince was one step ahead. He was suddenly aware of his ever patient subjects, the burghers of La Rochelle and indicated to his stalwarts to push his litter in their direction. Sir Nigel followed and catching up said:

## "My understanding, Sire is that the mayor has learnt by heart his address to you, in English."

## The prince put up his hand and the litter stopped and turning to Loring said, smiling: "Do you realise my lord that it's taken three hundred years!"

## Sir Nigel, quick to comprehend the prince's meaning, said:

## "Our loyal burghers will be jumping through hoops next, Sire."

## The prince's face darkened: "Is that easier than learning an English address, Loring." But without waiting for an answer, signalled for the litter to move again, then turning to Sir Nigel, declared:

## "Today, the French, my Lord, and tomorrow, the world, what say you!"

## Sir Nigel might have said something had not Princess Joan appeared, and addressing the prince: "My liege lord," curtseying slightly but the prince somewhat embarrassed said:

## "Now, now! No need for that." The princess said to him: "I beg you, husband, a small favour!"

## She turned beckoning her nurse who came over bringing Richard, their son, with her, and next called over a man, who came towards the small group.

## After making a fuss of his son, the Prince looked up, spotting the man. He recognised him: "What have you there, Gilbert?"

## Gilbert looked nervously at the princess who entreated him to come nearer. As he did so he made to do homage but the prince begged him not to inviting him to show him what he was carrying.

## Having done so, little Richard clapped his hands crying:

## "Let me see! Let me see!"

## There was also an appreciative gasp of wonder from the burghers because the object placed on the prince's litter was a montage model of the port of La Rochelle. The town was captured in great detail with its houses, taverns, cobbled streets and, of course, roads leading to the harbour complete with several ships with men working their nets after a night's fishing. There was even a tiny rowing boat on a rippling sea making its way to the jetty steps.

## Once more little Richard clapped his little hands excitedly, dancing around the litter to look at the model from all angles. The burghers too craned their necks to get a closer look. The prince looked appreciatively at Gilbert inviting him to rise from his homage stance and address him. He did so, saying:

## "Sire, my comrades and I have fashioned this model of this beautiful town for your little boy. As a souvenir, you understand, Sire."

## The Prince answered Gilbert: "It's capital, Gilbert, eh my son." addressing little Richard, still only four years of age, who clapped his little hands and giggled, and then turning to address the burghers, called:

## "C'est magnifique!" and the burghers clapped his speech everyone joining in. The prince called Jean de Marais, the mayor, over to his presence to take a closer look at the model.

## The Frenchman, out of earshot hitherto, greeted the Prince:

##  "Bonjour, monsieur Votre Grace!" and made his obeisance, then glancing at the model and, as if anxious not to allow this moment to escape him, declared:

## "Your Gracious Majesty! May it please monsieur Votre Grace to accept the thanks of your loyal subjects of La Rochelle on your sad departure from our town."

## That was it. He knew no more English but added:

## "Mes felicitations a Votre Grace pour vos services vers notre ville. Nous vous remercions pour tous les choses votre majeste. Merci mille fois!"

## And, with his duty done, shot a sideways glance at Princess Joan, who was smiling radiantly, her son tucked beneath her hands which Richard grasped possessively, being now a little subdued. Jean de Marais smiled back at the princess and his glance took in little Richard. The prince evidently delighted to see his family so happy, returned the mayor's greeting:

## "Merci bien, Monsier le Maire. Nous vous remercions pour vos felicitations," adding his wish to be reunited with the town in the near future, "Nous esperons que nous reviendrons a bientot."

## Then the prince got his stalwarts to push him towards the crowd of burghers who eyed the montage, still on the litter, with great interest. As they lifted their eyes to the Prince as he came nearer, he called:

## "A bientot" several times; the wish echoed among the burghers.

## A foghorn blew, but not to warn of fog. A loud voice could be heard. It was Sir Nigel Loring who cupped his hands and fog-horned back. The call had come from the captain of the Grace-Dieu and the prince alive to the need of the captain, cupped his own hands, shouting:

## "All aboard!"

##  Motioning his stalwarts not to move his litter, he gestured to individual courtiers to proceed towards their vessels. All was confusion and crowds of passengers milled around the litter while the prince sank back on his pillows a little exhausted from his efforts of the past hour.

##  Fortunately the harbour's circular pier was well accustomed to embarkation of an army so the prince's party, large as it was, could easily be accommodated. The little cogs soon filled, the barques took somewhat longer while people were still filing up the gangplank of the prince's own carrack, the Grace-Dieu, while one cog after another cast off their lines caught by harbour-men who wound them back around the capstans.

## But at last the prince and his family were all alone on the jetty. He opened his eyes, nodding at his wife who motioned them all to proceed towards the gangway leading to the Grace-Dieu. They were watched by hundreds of eyes lining the sides of the various ships. A rope was attached to the front of the litter and with a push and a pull the litter made its way onto the ship accompanied by the princess clinging tightly to Richard while the nurse brought up the rear.

## On the jetty there were flecks of white among the waiting crowd of burghers which were little strips of cloth used by the women, wives of the burghers, to dab their eyes. Looking up at his mother, Richard saw her do the same. It must have made a great impression upon him for years later he introduced the kerchief into his court upon the death of his father and grandfather within months of each other. In English, we call it a handkerchief.

## Set somewhat apart were hundreds of English and Gascon soldiers and their officers and captains who also did not move even when commands in French, English and Italian rang out. The cogs were already afloat helped by shoves from poles or assisted by oars. But it was a slow business as ships had still not adopted the variable sail. It would take another century of sail development in England.

## But the wind was brisk and in the right direction and by various means the cogs made their way towards the open sea, followed by the barques with reduced sail so as not to jostle the lighter cogs. Then came the graceful carracks, the prince's flagship, the Grace-Dieu to bring up the rear sailing gracefully until, as the channel became wider opening out into the open sea, the ships could take up their allotted stations.

## There were sufficient soldiers aboard to deter any French or Spanish freebooters who might be tempted by the possible presence of noblemen to attack. The prize of capturing the Black Prince would far exceed the ransom demanded of France for the return of King John for at the time the prince was the most illustrious royal wherever chivalry held sway.

## In the course of the long voyage, if the winds held true and no storms occurred to scatter the fleet, the prince would make his landfall in Dartmouth in a few days time. It was not the end however for the Duke of Lancaster though his stay in Acquitaine was all about booty as his Savoy Palace would prove to a certain villein when that fortress would be assaulted though this event was still far-away in the future. Meanwhile the captain of the Grace-Dieu in which Prince Edward sailed hoped for favourable winds to England.

## And so it proved.

## End of Part 1

##

## 

## Chapter 10

Trouble in Kent

Without the presence of Prince Edward, the Black Prince, the English province of Acquitaine surrendered by the French after Crecy has been reclaimed mainly owing to the campaign of the Duc du Guesclin, although it was the lower orders of the English soldiers such as the men-at-arms, the archers and most especially the miners who felt his absence the keenest. Moreover even in England freemen could no longer appeal to the prince for assistance in their hour of need. Evidence for this is recorded by historians describing an incident in August, 1378: two squires having captured a Spanish nobleman at the Battle of Najara brought him to England as their hostage and he was lodged with the prince's leave in the Tower until his ransom was paid.

Yet, within a year of the prince's death, the two squires, Richard Stukely and Robert Hawley had been judicially executed and the Spanish nobleman freed to return to Spain without payment of any ransom. The country was now ruled not by the king, the newly crowned King Richard IInd, but by the Great Council presided over by the Duke of Lancaster who was no friend to the Common People.

The king, his court and the entire nobility still spoke French in government although parliament had conceded that legal contracts could be in both French and English. It was still the rule however that no commoner could enter court, government or parliamentary circles unless he spoke French so commoners were in effect excluded from any say even in local affairs.

It was a decade ago that the former miner, Wat Tyler, together with his former comrades, was in France and it is a far-off memory. Yet the Duke of Lancaster still harbours ambitions in France though his poor military skills lead to humiliation and withdrawal but the duke still manages to salvage something: he orders his soldiers to plunder any valuable artefact such as valuable artwork, gold plate, jewelled swords, costly apparel though not as booty for England but solely for storage at his Savoy Palace on the north side of the River Thames.

It is because of his failed expeditions and his private greed that soon the English Exchequer is in debt to foreign bankers. Even King Richard's crown had to be returned to the money lenders after his coronation. So parliament has decreed that from the year of 1379, an annual national tax be levied on the population. However in the first two years the total revenue will not cover England's debts so for 1381 a national poll tax is decreed for the whole population.

The Poll Tax will be charged to every subject between the ages of 16 and 60 and everybody from common villein to duke will be liable, and, unlike in the previous two years, there will be no exceptions to the flat rate of a shilling. Indeed the Tax Commissioners are given draconian powers even to the execution of anyone resisting payment or causing any obstruction to the King's Commissioners. It is soon evident that this attitude does not bode well and an incident in a Kentish village takes its inevitable course.

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Sir Percy Knollys issued his order:

"Put the rope around his neck, Serjeant."

He was accosted by an angry villager:

"He hasn't been shrived. We must fetch Father Jeremy."

But, Sir Percy brushed him aside speaking to his officer: "Never mind the priest. I want him dispatched."

Yet still the villager made his point:

"But Sire, hold awhile, I pray you. Be a man's life worth no more than unpaid tax?"

Which, Knollys again ignored with a contemptuous: "Out of my way, villein! Serjeant, do your duty. Get Serjeant Pyke to assist you. I'm going to my carriage. Let me know when all is ready."

As Knollys walked from the scene to the track along which he and his officers and clerks had arrived earlier, Serjeant Stone grimaced knowing where his master was headed: to his brandy bottle, without a doubt, leaving him and Pyke to do the dirty work.

They were here to check on the inhabitants of this and other villages, the clerk checking names against his register. The Poll Tax of 1380 had caused widespread avoidance when first announced. It was three times the first tax of 1379, and, unlike last year's, when it was levied according to status, this year's charge was universal, applying to all from age fourteen. It was going reasonably well until the eager scribe noticed a girl hiding behind her father and demanded to see her. The fool ordered her to lift her smock no doubt to check whether she had reached puberty. Her father, Robert Hale, objected, and when the clerk insisted, he knocked the scribe off his chair and springing at him would have throttled the scribe had he, Serjeant Stone, not

intervened calling his master over from the chariot, parked fifty yards away, who, on arrival at the scene of Hales's resistance, took umbrage expostulating loudly:

"Interfering with the King's Commission; that's a hanging offence."

Serjeant Stone knew his master was a fool, but it was not for him to point that out. He called over to his colleague, Serjeant Pyke who was busying himself, setting up the place of execution. People had started to leave their houses and now quite a crowd had gathered at the fringe of the village square. They seemed to be waiting for something or someone. Stone called over to his colleague:

"Are you not ready? We had better hurry," Pyke answered him:

"Bring the miscreant, over."

Sergeant Stone nudged his prisoner, who looked at him and at his gleaming halberd, and obeyed. While they walked there appeared a group of men from the surrounding woods. It looked as if they had been looking for firewood. One of them took in the scene at a glance, and retaining a long, thick stick in his hand, moved across to the hanging tree. Serjeant Pyke stopped him coming any further by threatening him with the halberd, calling to his fellow serjeant:

"Put the noose round his neck!" glancing towards him. That instant was enough for the man with the stick. He crashed it down on Pyke's wrists; he dropped the halberd uttering a yelp of pain. Then, all the villagers rushed the two serjeants, who both hesitated, then stood motionless.

At the commotion, Sir Percy left his chariot and walked over. Reaching the scene, he called out:

"Stop this. How dare you interfere with the King's Commission!" With brandy-dulled senses and speech, he unwisely, if instinctively, placed a hand on his dagger, which the villager spotted. He grabbed Knollys' arm, forced it around, wrestling him to the ground, with difficulty, as he was heavy. The serjeants looked at each other, uncertainly. Someone shouted:

"Hold him Wat! I'll get some rope, but already a woman had left her hovel and was running over fencing twine in hand which the man, Wat, used to tie both wrists, then his feet. The trussed Knollys lay there protesting:

"You will answer for this all of you to the King." Then, turning his attention to his two serjeants-at-arms, he called:

"Serjeant Pyke. Serjeant Stone. Help me!"

The villager, his face sun-tanned as walnut, spoke to him:

"They cannot help you, Sir Percy." The two serjeants, both disarmed, and surrounded by the villagers, looked relieved. Meanwhile the Poll Tax clerk had not moved from his chair. He sat staring at the table where the register still lay, hoping no blame would be directed his way.

By this time all the villagers had gathered in a crowd and were talking heatedly together. One bolder than the rest called out:

"Let's hang him. Use the same noose." pointing at the rope meant for

the miscreant . Still lying on the ground Sir Percy cried out for anyone to listen:

"The King shall hear of this. I'm here on the King's Commission. Let me go at once!"

The man called Wat addressed him:

"You're wrong, kind Sir. We, the villagers, are for the King and his true Commons. Ain't that right?" So saying he spread both arms to encompass all the villagers, shouting:

"We are for the King and his true Commons. Death to traitors!"

In response, people shouted back:

"For the King and his true Commons!"

Someone shouted: "Hang him! Like he were going to do to our Robert," and, to back his outburst, he strode over to the recumbent figure, kicking the soles. It was the first suppliant to Knollys and smirking, said:

"Boots on other feet, now. Eh! And, you won't need a priest, eh!"

Sir Percy eyes showed fear as they darted in various directions before alighting on the man addressed as Wat, and, after a pause, saying in a voice used to command:

"What is your name, Sirrah?" And the man thus addressed, did not answer but returned strolling slowly towards the fearful knight, and stopped, hitching his black leather trousers to squat nearby. He gave his reply:

"Tyler, at your service. Perhaps you'll put in a good word for me," and,

pointed skywards, adding: "when you meet your Maker."

Sir Robert stared, speechless, as Tyler rose, ordering Knollys to be taken to the tree where the rope still dangled.

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It was just one of the incidents that was ongoing in southern England: At Brentford in Essex representatives of towns and villages threatened with arrest by serjeants-at-arms, as described above, had closed ranks against them whereby the visiting Commissioner, unlike Knollys, forseeing imminent trouble quietly removed himself from the scene. In St Albans the townspeople at news of Tyler's action set about to resurrect a seething complaint of injustice of 1327 when burgher's rights granted by Henry II were revoked by the Church. The unrest reached other villages such as Watford who hurried to join the rebellion. Elsewhere areas of resistance

were York, Bridgewater as well as in East Anglia and Middlesex.

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Rumour that day of June 11, 1381 was worth an army of messengers. The surrounding countryside was buzzing with resentment and outrage resulting in the action being taken by commoners in desperation in order to counteract the injustice of the tax as well as to right some of the wrongs heaped upon commoners from time immemorial. It was the reason Wat Tyler and his rebel-comrades were advancing

along the old Roman road still in tolerable condition a thousand years after the last Roman had left. The campaign had got an enormous boost from their liberation of John Ball, which had repaid the 40 miles diversion to Maidstone to attack the dungeons where he had been held since his conviction for preaching against the Poll Tax. Ball soon made his presence felt by his intimate knowledge of pigeons. He had sent messages to priories and monasteries sympathetic to their cause and had got messages of support in response, and had done another good turn by warning them against attacking a building used as a leper colony.

Tyler had also posted messages to the coast warning them not to denude the defences against a sneak French attack. The threat of invasion was a standing menace, and Tyler knew it was useless to win concessions from the King only to find the coast in French hands upon their return. People from his village, were soon joined by others who accepted Tyler as their leader aware of his leadership in France a decade before. He had nominated some of the men as scouts and sent them ahead to warn of any kind of obstruction ahead, or about a change of countryside, as when Robert had warned him they were leaving open country for forest. It was the reason their pace had slowed. Where in the open young men had kicked a football to one another, in the trees there was too much undergrowth. And not everyone could trudge the narrow forest pathway as he was doing because, by now, they were several thousand strong, he estimated.

It had been raining earlier, then the sun warmed them and dried their sodden clothes, but in the forest a chill settled over all. Still he was pleased he wore his leather jerkin and pantaloons formerly covering the spare frame of a French Jacque whom he had killed while a member of the Black Prince's Free Company. He looked back over his time in France with mixed feelings. He had learned how to shoot a longbow; how to undermine a French castle. How many innocent women and children had died by his hand! And, supposing the French had invaded England and did all the things that he, and his fellow soldiers, had done to them. It did not bear thinking about. For what! He was not much richer than when he had crossed to France so many

years ago having spent his share of booty paying for safe-houses to stay.

A villein not returning 'home' was hunted as an outlaw so he had been continually on the run and the wealth from booty and ransom he had gained in France was soon dissipated. It was time to put his warlike skills to help himself, and his comrades. The government was not going to. Far from it, they wanted, demanded that he must return to serfdom; but they had to catch him first. He wondered how things might have turned out had the Black Prince survived. He had been his lord but also a comrade sharing their bivouacs, their food, their beer and he wondered if their lifestyle had affected the prince's constitution. They, Wat Tyler and his mates, were used to it. Sleeping rough was a way of life, and he remembered the occasion after a drinking frenzy, when, only the prince still lay there after he and his fellows had gotten up, and were about their work. The Prince's aches and pains got worse unto the

dreaded dropsy until eventually he had to be carried in a litter.

His thoughts were interrupted by shouting ahead and he saw Robert Hales, one of his scouts, making for him. By the time he tried to speak he was panting with exhaustion, and Tyler waited for it to subside. "At the bridge", Hales at last managed to blurt out:

"There's a mounted nobleman and several men stopping everyone. It's the only way across the river...."

He stopped as Tyler asked if there were any casualties. It seems the men preventing the crossing had crossbows and the villagers had retreated to the trees, which were the only protection. Hales had warned them to keep out of sight.

"D'you think we can rush them?" asked Tyler, to which Hales responded in the negative: "It's too late for that." And Tyler nodded. He cursed himself that he might have forseen this. He knew the lay of the countryside only too well. Then he made his decision. Some of us will swim the river where it bends. If we chase through the trees, unseen, we can catch them in the rear. Call Walter, John Syre, Peter Taylor.", he barked: "Get them here, fast".

When they arrived, he told them his plan. They were excited. Tyler turned to Robert:

"You had better come with us too, Robert, to the edge of the forest as I'll need to give you a signal when we're across the river."

He beckoned to the other three to join them as he led the way racing through the trees to the river. Each was armed with longbow and dagger. Soon they could see the sparkling water and Tyler told them not to break into the open. He sent them in both directions with the purpose of looking for a trunk or branch they could use to transport their gear. Soon one of them let out the fox's mating call, and the others hurried towards him. It was Walter who pointed to a coracle, a small hide covered frame just big enough for a sole fisherman, but excellent for holding their weapons and other gear.

Tyler took the string from his longbow and rolled it around two fingers putting the bunch of string into his hat ramming it down over his forehead. The others did likewise as well as placing their bows, arrows and weapons into the boat. Tyler spoke to Robert then, lying down, he slithered towards the water's edge, slipped the mooring rope and entered the water. He signalled to the others to follow him. All three were experienced swimmers having learned their skill crossing the Somme, the Garonne, the Seine as the Companies criss-crossed Acquitaine, Gascony and Burgundy on campaign. He swam with sidestroke as he still held the mooring rope in one hand while nudging the boat along. Soon the others were ahead but that was no matter. He looked upstream to the bridge but it was too far distant to see anything much except

the back of the upper breastplate of the mounted knight, which glinted in the late afternoon sun.

The current was stronger than he had experienced before and he was unable to maintain a straight crossing, but nor were the others even unencumbered, but soon he saw Walter's shoulders rise as his feet struck sand. Soon he and the others were crawling onto the river bank anxious to arm themselves and strike out towards the bridge. Yet there was still need for caution and after retrieving their gear, they slipped quickly into the trees and briefly re-strung their bows, fastened belt with dagger, and waited while their leader discussed tactics. Then, at Tyler's signal they struck out through the trees in the direction of the bridge, half a mile away, so they needed to do a fast trot to arrive there in good time.

Yet having closed the distance it was still too far to shoot accurately, as the parapet of the bridge would shield their quarry from their arrows. They had to get to the track leading onto the bridge. So they had to move fast. Coming to the end of the trees they spotted the track. There were people on it but they did not look military. Tyler stopped and drew an arrow from the sheaf across his shoulders; the others followed suit. He found the notch at the quarrel and drew back a fraction holding both arrow and bow between thumb and index finger with one hand. When Tyler saw each was ready, he waved his right for the men to follow close. At the edge of the forest he

pointed at two armed retainers stopping people from going onto the bridge.

They were clearly not expecting an attack from this side of the river. He waited till a party of monks turned back to join other travellers held up. Then, said tersely:

"Walter! You and me shoot first; stand by you two in case we miss."

He braced himself and drew. He paused a moment to calm his heavy breathing then snapped:

"Now!"

He and Walter shot. There was an audible zing as both men released their arrows. Tyler saw heads about to turn before the arrows struck.

"Come on!" He shouted.

They raced towards the bridge, each clutching an arrow and stringing it while running. Reaching it Tyler recognised the azure blue tincture on the fallen soldiers. They were the retainers of the Earl of Danby. He looked round waving at Walter and John to follow him across the bridge. As he breasted the rise in the centre, he saw two more soldiers. A crossbow fired, its bolt zinging past him. He heard a dull thud and a scream, cut short, and dreading what he would see glanced over his shoulder. A bolt

had smashed into John and brought him down. Tyler shot at a soldier and saw how one of three arrows glance off a man's helmet. He shouted:

"Sir Robert D'Isnay!"

He turned in his saddle and, pulling a third time, Tyler aimed for the strip of

chain mail between breastplate and chin. The arrow struck home, but the knight stayed in the saddle, and at that moment Robert Hayes pushed him in a flying leap, which made the knight lose his balance and others pulled him off his horse. There was a metallic crash as the knight fell to the ground. The villagers swarmed forwards, and it was over.

"The bridge is ours!"

Tyler shouted excitedly. Then, suddenly remembering John, he shouted to Walter who shook his head. Tyler groaned inwardly, then ordered:

"Give me all the casualties."

The villagers were cheering him and shouting:

"A Tyler! A Tyler! A Tyler!"

They lifted him aloft and as he was paraded around, he returned their calls, cheers and greetings. He felt proud. These shouts of his supporters reminded him of campaigning in France and the shouts directed by the men at their victorious leaders after a successful skirmish: "A Chandos! A Ferrers! A Warwick! "

Now it was Wat Tyler accorded the honour by his followers. After all what was nobility but the accolade of your peers! He raised his arms returning their salutes and

shouted:

"That was the Lord D'Isnay, "we've just despatched. We're aiming high lads. Next time perhaps it'll be the Duke of Lancaster himself."

His followers gave a loud hurrah as they believed the Duke to be the main source of their troubles. Tyler spoke to them again:

"Lads you've shown today what you're made of. As if there was any doubt! Those of you who were my comrades in France know that we, the villeins, were the real victors at Crecy, Poictiers, Najara. Now we'll show these so-called noblemen just what Englishmen are made of, and Kentishmen at that!"

There were loud and prolonged cheers both at the words Englishmen and doubly so when Tyler mentioned their county. He continued:

"Who is spending our taxes on their banquets and tournaments but the Duke of bloody Lancaster, the archbishop and their hangers-on giving bad advice to our beloved king, Richard of Bordeaux! Remember him lads, the son of our friend, the Black Prince. As we cherish his memory, so must we honour his son, our king. He'll listen to our complaints and understand, like his father, of blessed memory."

The men were silent now awed by memories of what might have been had the late king Edward's eldest son survived to become Edward IV. Tyler now raised his voice in anger:

"We've got to spill blood lads. There's no other way these noblemen

understand, but blood. But our aim is justice, not spoil...." He stopped and directed his gaze at two men rifling the Earl D'Isnay pockets. People edged back and both men got up dropping their booty. Tyler continued:

"Lads! Comrades-in-arms. We've got to have rules. Will you hear me?"

The crowd was silent then suddenly they were shouting:

"A Tyler! A Tyler! A Tyler! A Tyler! Let's hear it, Wat!"

Tyler rested his eyes just for a moment on the faces of his comrades sweeping them over the throng, including some women. They were like himself anxious yet fired by the excitement of action, and to be part of it. A sea of people was pouring over the grass sward interrupted by the odd tree or large bush. One or two men gave him the archer's salute of two fingers and he waved in acknowledgement. Then he saw her. She stood close to another man who looked up to her and smiled. She smiled back, then, looked directly at him. Their eyes met. He felt a stirring in his loins, and desperately sought a diversion and began to speak:

"Any man caught looting will be executed. At once! We're on a pilgrimage, not a campaign trail of plunder. We must impress the King of our demand for justice, not for bags of gold. Traitors must get their just desserts."

His voice rose to a crescendo:

"Why are we still slaves? Why can't we bargain our own wages? We want fair rents for the land; and, the right to buy? There must be no law but the Law of Winchester!"

As he spoke the last words, a loud tumult arose among the crowd. Tyler held up his hand to still the cheering. He had caught sight of the tonsured scalp of Father Ball whose good news about the pigeons would cheer his followers a treat.

"Lads! Father Ball has some good news for us all. But let him tell you himself. Make way please."

The priest accepted Tyler's hand to lift him onto the bridge.

"Brethren!" Ball shouted,

"When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman? In the Beginning, all Mankind were equal in the sight of the Lord. When the people elected Alfred, he not only beat off the Danes, but also brought them into the Christian faith..."

Ball stopped his peroration as the crowd looked skyward, for homing in on the

people grouped around the bridge, were two pigeons. John Ball also saw them and stretched out his right arm upon which the pigeons settled; he cried:

"Even the pigeons are rallying to our cause." Cried Ball to loud laughter; through these messages:"

He pointed to the runic script on the wooden tally attached to a pigeon's leg, continuing:

"We've learnt that the men of Essex are also marching on London."

Father Ball continued talking but Tyler was not listening as his mind was preoccupied with the maiden whose eyes had locked onto his and had awakened an ardour he had not experienced since... Then his reverie was broken by someone telling him about his fallen comrade, John, and he tried to drag his mind into thinking of John's wife, Agnes, now bereaved. Another gloomy thought brought him back to reality. Agnes would lose her best animal to the lord of the manor, as heriot. Lose her man then her livelihood. That was the grim reality of life, but that was another reason for this rebellion, to bring an end to such iniquities. Tyler turned to Robert:

"It's too late to start investing Rochester castle this night. We'd best be a-foraging."

Yet he had hardly uttered these words when he saw, then heard a man in a white smock say to nobody in particular:

"Who's in charge?" And when he was pointed out, Tyler met the man's

eyes, shouting:

"What's the problem?"

"No problem!" said the man, "except to find men with empty bellies."

Tyler replied:

"If you've ought to fill 'em. I'm your man." The man pointed: "I've a shop full o'bread that'll go stale unless you lads can find a use for it."

Then, Tyler his face wreathed in a broad smile, replied: "Thanks, comrade, I'll get one of my men to go with you."

He asked Robert to follow the white-smock, then turning to nobody in particular:

"Somebody find a grog shop. Look for a butcher. A fishmonger!

Anything you can find, lads."

Tyler watched as the men went about their errands, and thought: 'So much for day one. How many more days like this, I wonder?'

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##  Chapter 11

A monk is liberated

Father John Ball watched in admiration as Wat Tyler went about the business of organising the setting up of braziers and tripods. Men energised themselves on his say-so. He watched as tables were set up in the market square and laden with trays of meat, fish, bread, and the putting of people in charge. He heard Tyler's instructions to the effect that nobody was to get more than one slice of this, one cut of that, one dollop of the other. He wondered if Tyler was using skills learned in France when often shortage of vitals meant rationing, otherwise it was starvation. As the smells of roasting flesh wafted towards him, he was tempted to proceed in its direction, but resisted it as his greater need was to pray so he made his way to the nearby church which stood somewhat back from the square.

Inside he went towards the altar and sat down at a pew. He was alone. Even the silence seemed to have its own echo, and he was reluctant to break it. Yet felt constrained to do so as he wanted to offer not only his thoughts to heaven, but also his words of contrition. As his words echoed around the church, he became aware of another person approaching, who stopped beside the pew saying nothing. When he

opened his eyes, he heard the other say:

"Father Ball. It's my pleasure at last to meet you. Long have my parishioners told me of your sermons. Yet I could not hear them myself as I had the needs of my own flock to consider." He proffered his hand in greeting:

"Murdoch, Father, at your service."

Father Ball did not answer right away, then observed:

"You could not hear them, Reverend Father, unless you had a mind to visit St Mary's or later perhaps the dungeons of Maidstone. Even then, it would be a brave priest who would defy our holy father, the archbishop."

As he looked up and exchanged glances, the thought occurred to him that this priest might be a liar or a charlatan but he might be keen to hear his message. Murdoch had recognised him so surely must have attended St Mary's at some time, or heaven forbid, he had seen him in the dungeons of Maidstone. Yet, he longed for debate even with an enemy, and admitted:

"I was imprisoned, Father Murdoch, because I read the Holy Book in the language of the People."

Father Murdoch said:

"That's no crime, Reverend Father, surely there is more to it than that!"

And the other agreed, adding:

"The crime was to read the Bible aloud to my parishioners. What do you think of that?"

Murdoch pursed his lips, before saying:

"Since the earliest days of the Christian Church it was thought wrong to confuse people and this is why we priests are trained to interpret the Word and pass on the essential message of our Good Lord."

At these words, Father Ball grimaced before answering:

"I believe in that too because simple people can become confused. Unfortunately by restricting the Holy Book to the Church, or those who understand Latin, people are denied the basic right to be able to read the Word in their own language."

The other priest said:

"If there was such a Bible, I would read it."

And Ball, expecting a negative reaction, replied:

"You would read the words of John Wyclif?"

It was the other's turn to grimace in distaste:

"That you mention that name in Holy Church!"

"Why!" exploded Ball, "He only translates the Word of our Lord."

And, then knowing he would shock Father Murdoch the more, said:

"Was that why our Lord was crucified? Because he preached the Word not only to the privileged but to ordinary Jews, to Gentiles, to the common people?"

Father Ball got up to take his leave and the other murmured:

"You're a dangerous man to listen to, Father. I pray you, go in peace!"

\----------O----------O----------

Tyler saw his dream-girl from far away as the firelight flickered shadows across her countenance. Then, his view was suddenly blocked, and he put his hand up to push the offender aside for obstructing his line of vision. He heard his name:

"Mister Tyler, Sir!"

And Tyler felt compelled to listen as he recognised his face from the action at

the bridge; it was her companion. He went on to say:

"I pray you Mister Tyler," nodding his head towards the fire, "Before you meet her, I need to talk to you."

Tyler hesitated and the man whispered:

"It's about..." nodding in her direction, "my sister, rather, my half-sister.

There be things you should know."

At that Tyler made up his mind inviting his companion to follow him making his way towards a quiet spot where he and Father Ball had conferred earlier, where a confidence might be exchanged without fear of interruption. Reaching the spot he sat down on a grass verge inviting his new companion to follow suit. He did so, and began:

"My name's Ralph Echeman. I'm from Chatham. It's like this, I was a seaman crewing a ship ferrying soldiers across to Calais in March of 1376. In the course of my normal duties I prevented a certain gentleman from falling overboard. It was pure chance. Or mischance, more like it."

He stopped noting Tyler puzzlement:

"I'll get to the point soon, I promise you. It's like this. One day weeks later, someone tapped me on the shoulder, and I turned round. It was that gentleman. Turns out, 'twas Sir Richard Lyon. To be brief, he asked me what service he might render, by way of gratitude. I was taken aback as I'd forgotten the incident......"

Tyler interrupted, asking him:

"Was he offering money as a reward for saving of his life?" to which Echeman's reply was:

"No, sir. Not in so many words, but as things turned out, that might have been better."

"How d'you mean?" said Tyler.

"Bear with me, Sir" replied Echeman and went on with his story:

"I asked him if his offer could include my family, and he agreed." Tyler said:

"I take it this involves your sister?" as he was beginning to sense the

revelation to come. Echeman looked relieved replying:

"Yes. She was betrothed to Gilbert Bisuthe, at the time though there was money problems. You know the score, chevage, if she wanted to live outside the messuage. Then, there was merchet and, of course, the dowry."

He stopped; then said apologetically:

"All monies, Sir, which has to be paid out. Which is why Alice, that's my sister, wanted to enter service. And then came Sir Richard's offer. Seemed like manna from heaven. There 'tis out. D'you follow me?"

Both men were silent. Tyler was the first to break in:

"Did your sister go to work on the estate, or in the household?"

Echeman's face clouded over. He said:

"That were the problem, I think. She being in the manor house as a live-in

servant."

Tyler said, half-knowing the answer: "She got into trouble?"

Then Echeman, holding his head in both hands, blurted: "Sir Richard

exercised his seigneur's rights, as he said it. Against a freeman's daughter, it

would be rape. But as a villein......."

He stopped. "What about you?" said Tyler abruptly, "You're a freeman."

Echeman sobbed, as he complained:

"I tried to appeal to the King's Bench. But they threw it out. The steward said it was not in the king's jurisdiction."

Tyler guessed the rest: "I suppose her betrothed ditched her."

Echeman nodded:

"If only I'd asked him for money. It would have saved us all a lot of trouble."

Both men stared at each other. In the flickering light from campfires and braziers only one side of each face was illuminated. They maintained a silence as the tinkling tones of a mandolin came to them. Each smiled at the other as they recognised the tune. Echeman broke the silence:

"She likes you, Cap'n."

Tyler half-smiled back saying comfortingly:

"I like her. I like her a lot."

Echeman looked relieved, saying gently: "Be kind to her!" Tyler began to rise grimacing with pain as muscles protested: "Be kind to her, he says, and I've not even been introduced to the lady."

Echeman looked pleased on hearing the other man's words and placed his

hand across to Tyler's shoulder:

"Come on then. I've wasted enough of your time. Let's go over!"

Tyler returned the friendly grin, saying:

"By all accounts, it's been time well spent, comrade. Let's go meet your

Alice."

Ralph Echeman ran in front of Tyler like an excited urchin as soon as he had spotted the tripod where his sister still sat on a log engaged in toasting a doorstep of bread. Using the dark shadows to approach her from behind, he reached out and placed his hands on her shoulder whispering:

"See who I've found!"

With that she looked behind her to acknowledge his re-appearance while at the same time swivelling her gaze towards the lanky figure emerging out of the gloom with long strides. A thumb rested nonchalantly on his dagger belt while the other waved to comrades. As he reached the circle of light made by the fire, Ralph made his introduction:

"My sister, Alice!"

Meanwhile Tyler made a detour round the tripod. Reaching her, he took her elbows in each hand and kissed her briefly on each cheek. Her response caught Tyler by surprise as she threw her head back in laughter:

"Gold ain't the only thing you brought from France," she declared, and Tyler quickly riposted:

"I've precious little gold left so must make do with kisses." To which her

repartee was just as quick, when she said:

"If only they'd taken such in lieu of the Poll Tax." At which he remarked

gallantly:

"Oh no! After all without the poll tax I wouldn't have met you, would I?"

They all laughed, then, suddenly she joked:

"By the time this is over you'll wish you'd paid the blooming poll tax."

Ralph stopped laughing enough to ask Tyler to take some food, but he'd scarcely said it when Father Ball appeared, as if from nowhere, greeting everyone with a friendly laugh before turning to Tyler:

"Shall we have our council now, Brother! It's late and tomorrow promises to be as busy as today."

He pointed towards a tree just adjacent the south wall of the castle.

"That seems a good spot." Tyler, still chuckling and chewing a spare rib

in one hand and a crust of bread in the other, replied:

"Have some food Father. I'll warrant this meat'll be grist to your prayers."

It was an allusion to Father Ball's known preference for the hair-shirt of hunger.

And Ball showed he could be humorous and hungry when he said:

"That spare rib wasn't much fun for Adam, I'll warrant."

"Ho, ho, ho." roared Tyler. Then turning to Alice, he whispered:

"You'll come with me, I trow? Keep me company!"

Whereupon Alice turned to her brother: "You too, Ralph?" but he declined saying, with a chuckle:

"No, you go. I've got some eating to catch up on."

More laughter at this as the trio of Father Ball, Wat Tyler and Alice walked away from the fire towards the tree, which Ball had indicated earlier and which they kept in view despite the darkness by pointing their feet in its general direction just visible as a shadowy splash against the comparative whiteness of the castle.

\----------O----------O----------

Alexander de Walsham was a troubled man especially so as he looked through a loophole over the town of Rochester, but particularly by the sight of glowing braziers and tripod fires, and the men who sat or stood near them. He knew they were not bivouacking solely for the night and then moving on in the morning. On the morrow - it may have already started - the inmates of the castle, he and his fellow warders, would be aware, would be made aware of preparations to invest the castle pursuant to freeing one, Robert Belling, a villein held on the orders of Sir Simon Burley.

De Walsham entertained no illusions about Rochester castle. The south tower had been successfully undermined by King John, two centuries earlier, and the whole corner had collapsed taking one of the walls and supporting buttresses with it. Repairs had been carried out most recently by the late King Edward, but, the replacement wall was hollow having been filled with rubble of the local Kentish ragstone, and the locals knew it because they had provided the labour.

Since the rebels had arrived in the town hours earlier, his men had spoken of nothing else but the danger they were in. He himself had overheard Edmund Patel whispering to his fellow warder, Richard Horseman. The name he had overheard struck terror in his heart, Wat Tyler, one of the most feared miners of England, let alone Kent. His name would ever be associated with Limoges, the impregnable fortress in France, which Tyler and his miners had undermined in very quick time allowing the Black Prince to gain an entry. By comparison, Rochester would fall in hours not days, of that he was sure.

Making his way on the same floor to the sleeping quarters he motioned the guard to silence before pushing open the heavy wooden door which led to his sleeping men. He would wake just three of his warders, and put the situation to them. As he moved the deep straw rustled, but the heavy breathing of his men drowned the sound, and with the aid of the guard's candle, he grasped a recumbent man by the shoulder and gently shook him.

He followed the same procedure for the three men selected motioning each

to don their footwear and hooded jacket against the dankness of the night. Soon the three men were following him out of the room and he cautioned each to silence and gesturing them to follow him. He intended to hold his moot in the prayer meeting room adjacent the chapel and made their way there. Each took a chair as indicated whereas he stood at the end of the table, and addressed them:

"Men! I've called you to this moot with one objective, to put the situation to you, and agree a course of action."

For a moment he waited for their reaction, but nobody ventured to speak, and he continued:

"As warders we're well away from messuage and manor house, and the chores of hedging, ditching, bundling withies, tiling rooves, in other words the backbreaking labour which these people have to accept as their lot. We did all these things ourselves before we got taken on as warders, but....."

Now he put heavy emphasis on his next words:

"To those poor villeins we, the inmates of this castle, are the enemy. I repeat the enemy." He looked at each one of them without further word, then, addressed one by name:

"What about you Edmund! What dost thou think?"

Patel looked at his mates, then at de Walsham:

"Their cause be my cause. Thee all do know about my wife who refused Sir John and when my babby were born, we were charged childwyte, as being out of wedlock........"

Patel stopped and de Walsham held up his hand, the gesture putting Patel at ease, then pointing to his neighbour:

"What dost thou say, Dick?

The latter drew himself up, and took a deep breath. He had a reputation to sustain as the castle's barrack-room lawyer, so let rip:

"A mate of mine, a freeman, had to pay scutage to Sir John for missing military service 'cause his wife was in the family way. But Sir John was paid for his services by the king, but sent a villein in his place. That's downright knavery, and....."

He got no further as de Walsham impatiently told him:

"I'm not concerned, here and now, with what Sir John gets up to,"

Then, turning to the third man:

"Nick! You're still having to pay merchet, aren't you?"

Nicolas Groche shook his fists at the ceiling, shouting:

"Merchet, leyrwite, childwite and a frankenpledge warrant served against my wife for being sick...."

He stopped, threw up his hands and said wistfully: "Things must get better. They can't get any worse."

"They will not," said de Walsham grimly, "unless we make contact somehow with the rebels and promise our support. Does anyone know Tyler, by sight?"

Patel piped up:

"You don't need to know Father Ball. Just look for a man with a tonsure,

or, so I hear."

They all laughed easing the tension. Groche joked: "I don't know. My old man is as bald as an egg. He'd have a fit if someone shouted Father to him."

Eager to laugh at anything in the tense situation it was brought to a sudden conclusion on hearing someone hammering on the door. The guard burst in and spoke to de Walsham:

"There's some sort of meeting going on outside. It's dark but I can

make out a bald pate even from the third storey. And I heard someone shout

for Tyler."

De Walsham eyed the guard suspiciously. He'd obviously been eavesdropping, but it had come in useful. He followed him out the door: "Show me!" he said, and a few moments later as he watched the scene below, he wondered how he could make contact. Shouting to the rebels might arouse the guards on the first storey whom he hadn't had time to talk to. At all costs he had to keep the Constable in the dark until it was too late. At the thought an idea came to him. The guard pointed:

"There's the priest! Is that Wat Tyler?"

He asked de Walsham pointing to a man standing by a tree with a young woman. De Walsham nodded uncertainly, and decided, there and then, as an experienced archer, what he had to do. Returning to his room, he framed the message in his mind, and on reaching it put pen to paper, then grabbing his bow and sheaf of arrows, hurried back to ensure the group were still in position beside the tree. This was not the first time Alexander de Walsham had used this method

of silent embassy, and a tree was a perfect recipient of such. He chose the spot with care, smiling in anticipation at the forthcoming reaction.

..........0..........0..........

Approaching the town after nightfall, an observer might view an azure blue of a night sky following hard on the heels of a sun-blessed, cloudless day. And, if that same observer were on the road to Rochester on that night in June, he might espy far off the outline of Rochester castle's brooding presence, and, when nearer become aware of it's menace, the castle having been deliberately sited there to control the inhabitants of the town and its surroundings. A silent observer that evening was none other than the Constable of Rochester, though he was not on the road to the town but observing the castle from the vantage point of a local manor house.

Sir John Newton, veteran of the wars in France, had a pressing and immediate problem, namely, how to attain the inside of that same Rochester castle and marshal the king's forces against his enemies, being the duty of the Constable. He cursed his intelligence network not to have been forewarned. He cursed English workmen for taking so long to complete his, the constable's, official accommodation within the castle, and he cursed his comfortable lifestyle forced upon him by the rebuilding work, which in any case, had been suspended by the death of his former master, the late King Edward, who had made him Constable as reward for meritorious service in

France.

He turned from the window and crossed his solar-bedroom, occupied by a large double four poster bed complete with drapes hanging from the ceiling. But just now his thoughts were not on sleep but in talking to his faithful steward. He opened the door to the passage and called:

"Steward! William!"

Getting no answer he went along the passage to steps leading down to the front hall. He looked and listened but heard nothing and so proceeded to descend the staircase. The hall was deserted, and proceeding to his right he walked between the large front windows, to the left, and, on his right, a huge fireplace, at present, with heaped up logs, but no fire. At the other end were stone steps leading to the kitchens, and now he heard voices, or, listening, more closely, the voice of his steward.

The cold from the flagstones penetrated through his indoor shoes to his feet, but he ignored it as the voice got louder. Then at the bottom he was met by a waft of warmth from the kitchen, which encouraged him further, and then he saw his steward, at least his back view. He seemed to be haranguing the kitchen staff, but now, as scullions, kitchen maids, serving wenches turned their attention onto him, the voice stopped, and the steward turned round. It was Sir John who spoke first:

"There you are William! What is going on?"

His steward ignored the roughness of tone accustomed to his master's abrupt manner. He answered evenly:

"Master!"

And, after the briefest of pauses went on:

"Everyone wants to know what'll happen when, if the rebels come."

"D'you think that's likely to happen, Steward?" queried Sir John.

"I do Sire", answered Blund, "It won't take the rebels long to work out you're not at the Castle and once that happens, they'll be searching the town, asking questions and then the surrounding parts. Strood's a village so it won't take long to search. I'm just preparing...."

Sir John interrupted:

"But surely that won't happen till morning. In the meantime, why aren't you waiting on Lady Newton. It will be prayer-time soon."

"Did she not tell you Master?" said Blund: "Lady Newton begs your indulgence as she's been called away to the hospital by.....", but he was cut short by his master's piqued outburst:

"My wife seems to think more of strangers than attending ....", he stopped not wishing to comment on his wife's charitable activities in front of servants. Blund adopted a pained expression, yet spoke softly to his master:

"Sir John, is there somewhere we can talk in confidence. It is urgent."

"Alright," he replied, "Upstairs."

As he turned and headed towards the stairs, Blund called after him:

"The dairy, Sire, should be free. I'll just bring a light." He spoke to a boy:

"Get a tallow John and follow me." So saying, he followed Sir John upstairs.

In a room occupied by tubs, vats, paddles and all the paraphernalia of a dairy, both men wrinkled their nostrils at the slightly sour tang which pervaded the room. Blund took the tallow from his boy and used it to light a torch on the stone wall, then dismissing John back to the kitchen, asked his master if he'd like some hot mead, and receiving a shake of the head, sent the boy finally away with a friendly wave of his hand. He turned to Sir John who had found himself a high stool, and sat awkwardly on it:

"What's on your mind, William?" He said.

Blund looked him directly in the eyes, saying gently:

"For these past years, Sir John, it's been my privilege to have been your steward. Do you ever think of those days in France?"

His master looked away, and lied: "I try not to, William. Otherwise I'd be tempted to go back. Life was so much simpler. Stay alive! Mind you!" he looked at Blund ruefully: "You helped me there."

Blund looked pained:

"Now Sir John; that was nothing. We all loved you. And I still hanker for the lads as we all shouted your name after a successful skirmish. Yet, like you say Sir John, life was that much simpler. Stay alive!" And, then went on:

"I think you're in great danger, now, Sire. From what I hear, these rebels are angry. They're angry with lawyers, with churchmen, with the so-called Parliament."

Blund paused again, and then said:

"I'm fortunate, more than fortunate, but from what I can gather, Sir John, these rebels are more than angry with their lords."

His master did not speak and Blund thought he might have offended him. Finally, he said:

"I know Blund. Some of my fellow nobility do not deserve their place. I'm ashamed sometimes. I was so proud when our noble Edward asked me to

kneel. 'Twas after Crecy. It seems an eternity away." Then bringing himself back to the present, he asked his steward:

"What are their main grievances, with the Church, for instance?"

Blund said:

"People believe the Church owns a third of England, and since tax is based on landholding, they ask, why the church doesn't pay a third of the taxes."

Newton smiled remarking almost jocularly: "So simple. If only things were that simple, William."

Blund smiled back:

"Only lawyers make it complicated, Sire. Take the case of Robert Belling. I'm sure Sir Simon Burley would have released him until his lawyer whispered he could make some money, and demanded three hundred pounds, Sire. I ask you, for a villein!"

Sir John's mouth twisted but held his lower lip firm when he declared:

"I'd have paid three hundred pounds for my villain; and more."

It was time for emotion from Blund:

"You gave me something priceless, Sir John. My freedom!"

He wanted to embrace this stern man, but held back. Instead, he declared:

"Villeins, like I once was, are leaving the land in droves, Sire. Men who fought in France alongside me. They saw a better life and wanted out of the drudgery of ploughing, trenching, bundling withies.... I know a man who left his demesne for another asking for forty shillings, was reported, and was fined because the parliament had said ten shillings be the maximum wage. Why, that would only buy a year's supply of gruel and watery beer."

"It does seem unfair, I agree William. But if we only obey what laws we choose to, there will be anarchy. Then it will be the poor who suffer the most, William, I assure you."

Blund conceded the point, yet made one other grumble on his mind:

"If only they wouldn't send the bailiffs to arrest the men like common criminals.

Where are the villeins? they clamour, Why, the name villein has become a

term of abuse, Sire."

"One day there'll be no more villeins, William. Every villein will be manumitted like yourself. Until that day....."

Sir John was interrupted by his steward who declared excitedly:

"That be one reason, Sire, for this rebellion, Nobody gives you nothing for

owt."

Sir John smiled good-humouredly: "Why William, I think you'd like to be with them right now. I can hear them shouting, A Blund! A Blund! A Blund!"

Blund smiled weakly:

"Don't mock me, Sire. Not you of all people."

Sir John was touched, and was silent. They both were silent. Each looked at the other. It was Sir John who broke the silence:

"What's that?"

In response Blunt turned for the door and hurried to the window. He could see lights and hear the noise made by a large crowd. He turned excitedly to his master:

"It's them, Sire. It's the rebels, I'm sure of it. I told you it wouldn't take them long. Though, it's a lot sooner than even I expected. I will admit."

He went back into the dairy and said earnestly to Sir John:

"Sire, I beg of you. Go up to the solar for the time being."

By this time, Sir John was off the stool and beside him. He answered

robustly:

"Hang you man. I'll face them myself. This is my manor. They've no right. Did we not stand together against the French?"

But Blund stayed his ground: "Think on Lady Newton, Sire. I beg you, withdraw, for her sake, if only temporarily." Blund was pleading.

Sir John smiled ruefully:

"You're right, William. As ever, hang you."

Sir John ascended the staircase whilst Blund went to the kitchen downstairs, shouting:

"Everyone stay where you are. I'll handle it."

Then he took a torch, vaulted the stone steps at the double and went out into the yard, and now the mob was almost at the gate. Then he heard a voice he could scarcely credit. It issued a command:

"Men, spread out. Surround the manor house. Let nobody leave."

The voice came nearer and he realised the portal would only allow two or three through at a time. He went towards the portal to give light to the man approaching. When the man came through and set eyes on Blund. And Blund set eyes on Tyler, both laughed in relief and surprise. Blund cast his torch to the ground and threw his arms around Tyler like a long lost comrade-in-arms, which indeed they were.

Blund said to Tyler:

"You've gone up in the world, you rascal." To which Tyler riposted:

"And you've gone down in the world, you old scallywag. What on

earth are you doing earning an honest living!"

He was laughing then noticed Blund's eyes turned sideways, and explained:

"Alice! Alice! My best mate, in France. And let me introduce Father Ball. It's time you were shrived, you son of the soil."

There was the sound of shutters opening above their heads. A disjointed voice shouted down from the darkness:

"Steward! Tell these people this is private property."

Blund turned to Tyler: "His bark's worse than his bite. Remember him, Wat? Sir John Newton; I'm his steward."

"Steward, eh," said Wat, "Aren't they the fellows that give out beer. Mine's a tankard, me old matey. And," he added with a wink, "a barrel for my mates. Two would be even better."

Blund looked up again but Sir John had disappeared. With a serious mien, he turned to his former comrade:

"You'd better come in, Wat; we've a lot to talk about."

Blund raised his arm and in an encompassing sweep, included both

Alice and Father Ball in greeting them: "Come on in! Make yourself at home."

He told them, and Tyler replied:

"Have no fear, you rascal, we shall. It'll be like France all over again."

\----------0----------0----------

Upon entering the solar cum bedroom upstairs, the sleeping quarters of Sir John and his lady, it would not be immediately apparent that the occupants were not the owners themselves. Only by pulling the drapes aside could, a maid, for instance, realise that it was occupied, not by a long-married couple, but by two people blissfully aware of each other and their bodies. The steward, William Blund, had already promised them privacy. A state possible in a well ordered manor like Sir John's but utterly impossible in the habitation of the average villein. Being rebels they would enjoy its advantages, however temporary.

Alice nudged her lover who continued snoring and displaced her hand from his shoulder to reach up gently to tug at a lock of hair resting lightly on the nape of his neck. There was no reaction and she let him be and her thoughts turned towards home, the habitation of her granny, as she speculated on what she would think of her, at this moment, snuggled against a man whom she had met for the first time just hours ago.

Yet in that brief time her world had been turned upside down, and, even in the last few minutes she had experienced an ecstasy that had reached the innermost core of her being. And, it persisted, this bliss that hitherto had not even entered her wildest dreams. She ached for a recurrence tweaking every so often the locks that fell over his divine temple, but to no avail: He was sleeping that of the dead, at

least, a man exhausted by the frenetic activity of the day.

She heard the jangle of a distant bell marking a quarter-hour wondering at the time. How many more hours of bliss! She even resisted the ache of her bladder's insistence to be emptied for copious amounts had been imbibed as Wat toasted Walter, Ralph toasted Walter, and she toasted Walter. Fortunately all the toasts were in beer because of a discovery by Belling, the villein sprung from the castle He discovered the barrels had left his brewery just weeks before; it had been stolen so were rightfully his.

Yet, she recalled, in a cold sweat, how tensions can so quickly arise. Some of the rebels in a frenzy had chased through the captured mansion coming to a door barred against them. They began banging and shoving it and the sound reached Tyler's ears. He dashed upstairs quickly pursued by Blund reminding Tyler of his master's presence.

Sir John Newton, as Constable of Rochester Castle, was in grave danger for the Belling case had aroused passionate protests from high and low in the Kent countryside. He had left his demesne for another whereupon Sir Simon Burley had taken out an act of attainder against him which could only to be revoked on payment of three hundred pounds in silver, a huge amount for a villein which he could not raise, so was imprisoned in the castle.

As she lay there in bed on the knight's silk sheets, Alice compared his fate to hers, and came to the realisation that both their fortunes had changed by the actions of the man snoring sonorously beside her. In a moment it petered out, and he was silent. Alice looked up to try to glimpse his face and she imagined his pupils dancing like hers as she strained to make eye contact. Removing her left hand to scratch it bumped into a hard object and she smiled in delight. He was not only awake but rampant.

Too briefly, their love play and passion was over as she collapsed onto his chest, and, as she lay there experienced the panorama of her life flashing through her mind, and thought she would not change the slightest thing in her life, whether pain or pleasure, for this moment. She was jolted into reality by her lover who said reflectively:

"He has to come with us."

She was puzzled, saying: "Who! Walter?"

"No, he can do what he wants; Sir John, my love. We can't leave him

behind; too dangerous."

"Wat, my love!" Alice purred.

"Yes, peach o' my heart," squeezing gently her left nipple. He mused, "Freeing that man Belling was a happy chance." She mused in turn, "Hmm!"

Her lover changed one breast for the other twirling its nipple before commenting:

"No wonder Sir Simon demanded such a high sum because Belling's ales are the best in Kent, in England, likely."

They were both silent for a while then Tyler said:

"Pity I raised the subject of beer. I need the chamberpot."

With that he raised an elbow whereupon she pushed him back down whispering:

"Me, first!"

\----------0----------0----------
Chapter 12

King Richard alerted

In the cool, clear light of early morning of Tuesday, the eleventh, of June, 1381, the demesne lands surrounding Strood House to the north of the river Medway were thronged with men, and not a few women, including Alice. Many had passed the night before in the houses of Sir John Newton's villeins, his serfs tied to their lord's land by the bondage of feudalistic laws. The villeins did not own the land nor did they pay rent. That was the privilege of freemen. The feudal system saw to it that the villeins worked for their lord in general but were allowed by him to plant their own crops on a subsistence basis. But all corn gleaned must be ground at his mill for which he charged a fee. Produce taken to the lord's market must be carried in his cart for which use he charged a fee.

Yet these same villeins living on a subsistence basis in the knowledge that poor weather might cause they and their families to starve, readily offered their poor dwellings to the rebels. The rebels were villeins like them and many would join the rising knowing that on their return, there would be no work for them, and that, their fate for themselves and their families was likely, starvation. Others were fortunate to have found a place to sleep in the outhouses of the manorial hall, a few had been accommodated in the warm kitchen where Sir John himself had spent the night, under guard, finding out, at first hand, the sleeping arrangements of his serfs.

The noble knight now sat on a donkey wondering about his fate. He was alive. He owed his salvation to his steward, and to the fact that he might prove useful to the rebels in their relations with the king. He would find out more later on. He looked around him at the men getting ready for the march towards London, but did not count his blessings that he was riding while most would walk, including a few women. Waiting! Waiting! He was not used to waiting. People waited upon him, even his wife. Yet he offered up silent prayers that she had been detained at the local hospital overnight where she had gone to help the nuns. Last night he had cursed her charity work, but today was different, for she was not witness to his present humiliation.

For, he was waiting upon a common villein, albeit a special villein, the rebel leader Wat Tyler, who had occupied his bed last night. It did not bear thinking about, yet he was alive. Many knights like himself were either in the next world or soon to be consigned. Their crime: they were lords of lands granted by their monarch in return for services of knighthood, of military service, when the king needed them for war. Feudalism worked well, in Sir John's opinion, but then he occupied the upper echelon of the system. And, as his steward said, it did seem unfair that these villeins, heroes of the French wars, indeed without their skills as longbowmen, the wars were likely lost. It was little wonder that returning villeins replete with coin earned from plunder in France found little pleasure in returning to their messuage, to a former life of repetitive routine.

As he shifted in his saddle vexed at waiting, he caught sight of his steward, Blund embracing Tyler in the yard outside the front portal of Strood House, his family seat. He could not hear the exchange of farewells, but there was no mistaking the respect, even adoration of his followers, as he strode among them with a word here and a cheerful greeting there. Chagrined Sir John listened to cries of "Over here, Captain!", "Good morrow, Wat", or a ribald: "Didst thou sleep, Wat?"

From a group armed with longbows came the battlefield chant:

"A Tyler! A Tyler! A Tyler!" and more than once Sir John heard the password: "For the King and the true Commons!"

So Tyler made his way through the throng accompanied by the lovely Alice Street who looked fetching in an open-sided short gown with half-button belt which pulled in the garment to reveal a slender waist unusual for a villein-maid. It was clear why Sir Richard Lyon had found her so attractive, even in her sack of a shift, in which she had arrived the evening before. And he thanked his own idea of suggesting to his steward, he should find the maid one of his wife's many gowns now that she had given up the world to devote her time and energy to the succour of others. Not that the maid might not have taken the clothes anyhow, but by offering them, she might put in a good word for him.

Having finished the rounds of his fellow rebels, Tyler started towards where Sir John sat greeting him, cheerfully:

"I bid thee Good Morrow, Sir John."

And Sir John gave his own greeting in return. Tyler called to one of the men:

"Bring over the standard, Will!"

And Will duly brought a long pole covered to a third of its length by a cloth tied with thongs which Tyler tried to undo but failed.

"Allow me Wat,"

Offered Alice Street whose nimble fingers soon undid the thongs returning the pole to Tyler, who with a flourish unfurled a flag, the flag of St George handing it to Sir John, commenting:

"Just like old times, eh Sir John? Ye shall be our standard bearer of the noble St George."

The knight looked no longer diminutive but seemed to grow in stature as he firmly held the banner whose bold red cross against a chalk-white background flapped as a gust of wind took it. Tyler looked in the saddle girth for a flag support and finding it thrust the end of the pole into it, saying:

"There Sir John, your arms will not ache so much as we've a long march to

Gravesend."

Another waft of breeze caught the flag and, for a moment, it unfurled and flapped and invoked a mood of exultation and optimism engulfing the throng and a cheer went up to be echoed across the waiting mass of people. Again the battle-cry was heard:

"A Tyler! A Tyler! A Tyler!"

And the cries reverberated round the mass of people and even Sir John caught

the tang of the moment in his throat, and swallowed. But Tyler after waving his arms aloft in salutation mounted his own horse swept Alice up to join him, and then with a grandiloquent slap to the rump of Sir John's ass, shouted:

"Forward, my brave lads. Forward, to London!" And the march got

underway.

Sir John ruminated on the morning's events as he rode along which had begun by his, at Tyler's behest, sending a message carrying his, the Constable's seal, addressed to his deputy in Rochester Castle confirming, officially, the release of Robert Belling; he had had little choice. He thanked his favourite saint for having taken on William Blund as his steward for it was thanks to his friendship with Wat Tyler that his house and estate was so little affected by the depradations of the rebels, who, apart from some bawdy singing, after raiding his cellar, rolling his barrels of beer out and emptying them, they had good-naturedly found a place to sleep, and before too long had promptly done so. It was he himself who had raided his wife's wardrobe inviting his steward to offer the attire to the beautiful Alice, in whatever she liked.

Blund had acquainted him with Alice Street's woeful story reflecting just how many villeins were of noble blood having been seigneural victims. It was a rich irony, he mused that the exercising of this practice, enshrined in custom if not in legality, would ultimately spell the dilution of noble stock. Was that such a bad thing? Was Tyler one such offspring? In argument he had not raised his voice but quietly stated that the Great Charter, the so-called Magna Carta, held nothing for villeins, as they were not even mentioned.

Ahead of them the ground rose and it was not difficult to ascertain the composition of the ground over which they rode. Outcrops of rock flashed in the morning sun and he realised why they passed so few arable farms for chalk was not conducive to fertility. To his left covering the slope and level ground as far as he could see were trees and on his right the marchers pressed towards the pathway trying to avoid the wet conditions which worsened towards the Thames as it constituted the flood plain.

Earlier he had been able to see the Roman road, Watling Street, but the forest now hid this view. Soon the ground dropped away again as they approached the town of Gravesend. Before descending however, Sir John had seen the shimmering reflection of water and knew they must be approaching their immediate destination. He listened to Tyler addressing a comrade:

"Robert. Not a mile yonder beyond the forest lies Watling Street. It will be much

drier underfoot if the men take that route. We'll all join up in Gravesend."

He was ever the watchful captain, mindful of the welfare of his men. Sir John was witnessing a natural leader. And he understood the motives of the Black Prince in employing such a man in France. Tyler suddenly turned to Sir John:

"As one knight to another, Sir John, one might expect having given your word not to escape, you would not do so."

Tyler smiled at Newton, who could not but smile back, somewhat amazed that the fellow was a mind reader, for it was precisely at that moment he had thought of that very thing. He answered severely, perhaps even somewhat pompously:

"My word of honour is just that, Captain."

Tyler thought awhile, and said:

"I'd like to believe you, Sir John. Yet, it's not me that finally decides these things. You'll understand, I hope, that should precautions be taken, you won't take it too much amiss." He added with acute understatement:

"After all few of us rebels be knights, and unlikely ever to be."

Then with a sudden spur to his horse, Tyler galloped ahead shouting to his comrades:

" Race you to the next tavern, lads." And his mounted comrades galloped after him trying their best to keep his horse's tail in view.

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News of sporadic Poll Tax outbreaks of resistance had reached Richard then in residence in Windsor Castle. He had called his ministers together to discuss what to do over the financial crisis, which had deteriorated to the extent that the Crown Jewels were in pawn pending payment to the king's creditors. When news of the rebels' march to London reached him, he decided to leave Windsor immediately and orders were put in hand for the royal barge to make ready for the return journey to the Tower, from where he had departed, weeks earlier. Accompanying him were his uncle, Thomas, Duke of Somerset, the Duke of Buckingham, the earls of Kent, of Oxford, of Warwick together with the senior Earl of Salisbury.

More barges were laid on for the king's financial advisers, his courtiers, men-at-arms, and others and it fell to Salisbury to organise this royal barge procession. On the way to London some fifty miles distant, it was to be hoped the financial administrators would reflect upon the strong arm tactics which had led to first resistance, and then, outright rebellion. Was it necessary, for instance, that the serjeant-of-arms arrest and imprison local councillors who refused to indict local citizens? The earl of Salisbury put the case to the meeting:

"Do you betray your friends? And if not, is that an indictable offence?"

Nonetheless it had shocked the young king that such small resistance had led to a full-scale rebellion. But now that it had taken place he empowered his senior and most experienced earl to find out what was happening in London, and to make contact with the rebels and find out what were their aims. Accordingly Salisbury suggested to Richard that emissaries be dispatched to look for the rebels. In the meantime, the earl commandeered a fast skiff to enable him to row ahead of the royal procession so as to leave messages at staging points along the route to London. In this way he managed eventually to organise a two-way traffic between the rebels' leaders and his sovereign using his emissaries to carry messages between the parties involved.

It was thanks to Salisbury's organising that contact was first established, and, although it was chance that brought the royal barge to the Chiswick stage, while the crew were exchanged, it was thanks to the earl's arrangements that the king's messenger intercepted them with news from Wat Tyler himself. Salisbury ordered grooms to take his horse while he ushered the messenger into the king's presence. Richard was pacing the state-deck anxious, on the one hand, to reach London, yet, nervous about what to do when he had reached his destination. He hardly seemed to notice the barge rising up and down in the water, or the smack it made as waves from passing boats rocked it gently. A man-at-arms offered a steadying hand to the messenger as he hurried towards the king who looked towards him at his approach.

He would have made the customary obeisance but the king bade him with a gesture to deliver his message, where he stood, on the rocking boat:

"Your Majesty", he said, "I come to you direct from the leader of the rebels, Wat Tyler, himself."

The king listened to him as he delivered the gist of Tyler's message, before

asking: "What's your name, sirrah?" to which, coached by Salisbury, he replied:

"John Blyton, Sire; your most humble servant."

At that moment another man intervened, almost brusquely. He looked at the king, then at Blyton:

"Where are they headed?" he asked, to which Blyton replied, though not recognising the Earl of Warwick:

"That was my question to the leader, myself, Sir."

Then turning toward the king, he said: "He disdained a reply, Your Majesty."

"Very good, Sirrah; you have done well. Go, get some rest and refreshment. I may have further work for you ere long."

With that the king, waved his hand in friendly manner at Blyton, but turned his

back on Warwick and walked away.

\----------0----------0-----------

The most vital and recurrent task for the leaders of the revolt on arriving at stopping places, apart from the times when the rebel army just needed a breather, for an overnight stop, was to provision the men with food, drink and a covered place in the event of inclement weather conditions, and the mood of the rebels and the popularity of the leadership was often simply a measure of how well they succeeded in seeking out supplies. On one occasion they found only flour to be handed over to a baker; it was better to have ready-made loaves that could be more easily handed around. Meat was never a major problem as many villeins were able to slaughter, skin and chop up carcasses of pigs, which were widely available, into suitable pieces for roasting.

The sub-soil of the country through which the men tramped from Rochester was the source of many springs being chalk, often already tapped into by the locals, so that

refilling water containers never really posed a problem. Often the problem for the leadership was the smell of cooking which activated the taste-buds of even disciplined leaders such as Tyler himself who would be very unpopular for a while when he ordered the skirting of a manor from which the most succulent smells arose. He appointed foraging parties to seek out sources of food and it was with this explanation that persuaded his men to carry on, getting the benefit from such raids during a short pause for rest, or, to avoid a heavy downpour.

Once, outside Gravesend, however, these avoidance measures had no effect. They were passing a brewery which the men knew had to be raided there and then. On this occasion all discipline broke down as the rebels overwhelmed the brewery by sheer weight of numbers and before long barrels were being trundled out of the warehouse, and their contents tapped and imbibed. Surprisingly to Tyler this incident did not impede their progress at all. Probably the men were re-invigorated by the ale, which was not very strong. By and large, Tyler was pleased that no major incidents had occurred to detract from the rebels' cause for unpopularity and bad feeling towards the rebels would not help their cause.

Southwest of Gravesend the rebels rejoined the Roman road. This went straight into Blackheath, and straight was the word for the road could be seen into the far distance even when breasting a mound such was the precision of Roman engineers over a thousand years ago. But the countryside was open without forest or swamp though it formed a flood plain of the Thames to the north of them, and Tyler imagined that his fellow rebel, Jack Straw, across the river, proceeding on a parallel route to his army, might have more difficulty without the benefit of a well-paved Roman road.

There was a rider approaching. Yet it was far distant and Tyler consulted Robert who thought he could make out a standard. Tyler rode back to Sir John asking him to join him in the van of the army. The rider was now plain to see. Sir John called out:

"It is Plantagenet, the banner of Plantagenet. I trow he be the king's messenger."

The king's man reined in his horse as Tyler approached. Both horses snorted at each other, as if in disdain. Tyler called out:

"State your business, Sirrah!"

The rider eyed Tyler, and his apparel, significant for a black leather surcoat and matching black pantaloons. He was clearly impressed and must have realised that facing him was Tyler himself:

"I am on the king's business, Sir. His majesty sends greetings and desires to know why you have assembled an army to march on the king's capital."

Tyler did not answer for a moment but swept his left arm from right to left embracing his men who were watching the confrontation. He was silent letting the man take in the menace of his situation. Then turning again to the messenger, he barked:

"Take a look! No tricks! I have ten thousand archers ready to drill you to your saddle. Now! Your name, Sir! As we'll meet again, I warrant."

The messenger, unabashed by Tyler's brusque tone replied:

"John Blyton, Sir,"adding instinctively: "At your service."

Tyler's horse snorted impatiently and he had a little difficulty bringing it under control before he could answer:

"Tell his majesty, Sir, Wat Tyler returns greetings. We are for the king and the true Commons. The Commons desire a meeting with his majesty."

John Blyton listened intently and when Tyler had finished, he ventured:

"May I tell his majesty your intentions, Sir?"

Then, added quickly, "for the purpose of convening a meeting, you understand."

Tyler was short: "The less you know of that, Sir, the better. We come in peace and want no soldiers to know where we are headed. You shall know ere long. Pray return to the king. Yet, hold a moment."

Tyler beckoned and Sir John urged his nag towards him. Tyler pointed him out to the messenger saying:

"Advise his majesty that his Constable's safety depends upon the actions of his advisers. I trust that is clear; now, farewell!"

The messenger taken aback by the implication of Tyler;s remark for a moment recovered, and nodded to Tyler. He took the reins of his horse gently whereupon they turned to face the opposite direction. Tyler heard him coax his horse:

"Come on, my Beauty."

And soon the messenger was away cantering back along the way he had come. Tyler watched him for a minute then took off his hat and threw it into the air, shouting:

"Hurrah, hurrah..."

While the rebels followed suit, and for a time everybody cheered Tyler who suddenly turned to his mounted companions:

"What dost make of that, eh Robert? Eh, Sir John? We have made

contact with the king."

Sir John riposted soberly: "Aye, with his messenger."

Scarcely had the exchange ended when two riders approached the party. One called out: "Wat Tyler!"

Who wants him," replied Tyler, and the rider introduced himself:

"I'm William Grindcobbe. We've been riding since this morning." It was Robert who spoke:

"Whence came you?"

"From St Albans." was the reply.

"And where be that, Sirrah?" asked Robert, and Grindcobbe told him:

"From the shire of Hertford."

Tyler then had a go:

"What is it you want, Grindcobbe? Or, dost thou come to give us thy support. Where are your men?"

The man laughed, and gestured to his companion:

"Here is one, but we left behind many in St Albans who sent me to give you support. Yet our main quarrel is with the Abbott of St Albans. He claims we are his subjects whereas we owe allegiance to the king, and to no other."

"So much have we in common," answered Tyler, "but our business is against the Poll Tax? Bring your men to London," he added grandly:

"We have business with the king, and bid you farewell."

Grindcobbe was unabashed, telling Tyler:

"May we paint your name on our banners, Sir Tyler." And Tyler riposted:

"Do as you wish. Mayhap your abbott will give me his blessing, too!"

Both Robert and Grincobbe joined in the laughter. In that mood they parted good friends, if not, as yet, true allies. Robert shouted to Tyler:

"You're very popular all of a sudden. Tis another party, and in a few moments a voice shouted:

"I am John Grayston from the county of Cambridge. I'm sent to tell you we are all up in arms. May we ride with you awhile?"

So saying, he and another rider cantered along with Tyler and Robert; Grayston told them about their assault on the University. It seems lawyers were no more popular in Cambridge than in Kent or elsewhere.

"On the way here," said Grayston, "We met men from Suffolk and Norfolk. They will help you by causing diversions, and thereby divide the forces which the nobility try to marshal against us."

With these words Tyler and Grayston rode on for a while until the latter bade him farewell:

"In a few days we'll send riders to London to find out how you are all faring. Good luck."

He waved to all, and with his companion, rode off towards the river crossing point where a ferry would take him back across the water.

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Approaching Blackheath it became clear to Tyler that unless he could persuade the keepers of the Aldgate to open its gate and for London Bridge to lower their drawbridge to allow his men through into the City, there would be mayhem, which he wanted to avoid, as the support of Londoners would not only reinforce their grievances, but with the ever present need to re-victual his army daily it would be far better done on a voluntary basis. Besides they should be able to find common cause with the sturdy, independent Londoners, many of whom, he knew, from his experiences in France shared the same problems.

Through his recollections of campaigning in France he dwelt pleasurably on the times he had spent with former comrades and tried to recall exactly from what part of London they had come. The trades they had followed might give a clue so he called up two of his young followers, William Wauncy and Richard Qualm and gave them instructions as to where his former comrades might be located. But first they would have to find their way across London Bridge as normal travellers and then to search out the whereabouts of the tanners for one particular former comrade, and also, along the wharves beside the Thames being the haunts of dockers and stevedores, many of whom had served in France alongside the men of Kent.

Sir John Newton had been listening to Tyler briefing his men on the likely pitfalls they might encounter, and approached Tyler. He said grimly:

"I'm pleased with your message about me to the king. At least his majesty will know that my stay with you is not of my choosing. But see here Tyler.."

Tyler scowled:

"Captain Tyler. We both saw service in France and I warrant mine was as worthy as thine; and my lads, all of them."

He swept his arm around to encompass the multitude; then, turned to state vehemently:

"How else, but through our services, would our lord, the prince, of blessed

memory, get into Carcassonne and Limoges castles? Think on that, Sir John!"

Then, he spurred his horse fiercely and was away to catch up with the people in front. He would remind them to scout ahead for the normal signs of a fish, a pig, a wheat-sheaf showing the shops of fishmonger, butcher, baker. He spotted the wagon carrying their makeshift bivouacs, being rolled-up hides, tied at corners with strong hemp to be fixed to pointed stakes with hooks to accept the tightly drawn ties, pointing out to the wagon driver, they set them up on the Common on the lower slopes for drainage in case it rained. He shouted merrily:

"Come over to the grog shop, after. For a flagon, you've earned it.'

Then just about to trot off on another errand, he spotted Alice and was about to stop and chat, but she was listening intently to her companions, so contented himself with a smile and a wave before setting off to look for Father Ball to whom he offered his horse, but, deep in thought, the priest seemed anxious to pursue to a conclusion his train of thought. At last he said to Tyler:

"I was thanking the Holy Saints for giving us such a leader as you, Wat Tyler. Whatever the outcome of our venture, your name will sound an echo a hundred years from hence, but, back to practical matters, thanks for your offer to ride, but I'm well content as I am. Mayhap you'll need to cover a lot more ground than I before this day is over."

He extended his arms to right and left to encompass their walking comrades spread out over the countryside, adding:

"For my part I shall be content to catch sight of the sign of a Crusader, or some such, not that I'm partial to grog, simply that it'll be a sign of our journey's end for our compatriots, for today at least."

Then changing the subject and looking directly at Tyler:

"I'm told the king has made contact with you through a messenger. Have you thought on a possible meeting place?"

Tyler dismounted, saying confidentially to Ball:

"It's not a decision for me alone, Father. The king, it seems, is travelling by barge from Windsor in company with his court and senior nobles. We have to be sure we shall not be at a disadvantage. Somewhere on the river, perhaps! What say you, Father?"

The priest did not respond directly yet stopped walking, and Tyler spoke to his nag:

"Whoa-up, my beauty."

Ball spoke in a low voice:

"Would it not be an idea to take the king prisoner? There would be less need for prudence as they'd be afraid to harm him, by attacking us."

Tyler, thought awhile then, shook his head:

"No, Father. Gaunt might only be too happy to abandon the king. Then where should we be?" Tyler paused a moment adding:

"Besides I still feel honour-bound to his father. What would he think of his best miner were something to happen to his son, by my hand?"

Then, seeing they were falling behind, he said chuckling: "We've already lost sight of the stragglers, Father."

Ball eyed Tyler intently and said: "For the sake of a prince, a dead prince, you would pass up an opportunity to bring pressure to bear on the people causing us such misery. That's what this, this.... rebellion is all about, surely!"

Tyler remarked ruefully:

"My first argument was the better one. Suppose Gaunt on hearing Richard had been taken prisoner by us, hurried back from Scotland to persuade Parliament that they had to assume the king was dead, and that he was next in line."

Ball answered: "Then we'd deliver up the king for all to see."

But Tyler replied vehemently:

"But we wouldn't know, Father. Gaunt would keep everything secret, and in a few days, keeping us in ignorance, it would be announced that King John II was on the English throne."

With a sigh, Ball acquiesced: "And even if we were to produce Richard, they'd say he was an imposter. You're right, it wouldn't work."

Tyler was pleased he had won over the priest saying:

"By the same token, if we deal only with the king, we shall sideline the nobility, and later they'll be so angry with Richard for dealing with us, they'll shut him up themselves. By that time, they won't be able to touch us."

For some moments they walked side by side in silence, Tyler occasionally giving a sidelong glance at the priest striding along, dressed as ever in his hooded gown and sandals. At last he plucked up courage to speak:

"Something many of us don't understand, Father, is what you gave up to join our rebellion."

Ball looked surprised: "You freed me from those dreadful dungeons."

Tyler agreed, but there was still doubt when he said: "Presumably those dungeons you bore with the same patience as you've shown on the march, but you had a roof over your head, food and drink, your garden, your dovecote; you've given up so much."

Ball disagreed:

"No, my son. I was in torment. And I vented my torment from the pulpit."

He looked at Tyler and said:

"I was a villein like you and decided to devote my life to the Church. My lord let me go on the promise of salvation. Ha!" He laughed loudly: "You see the Church makes fools of everyone from lord and lady to the commonest serf."

He stopped and both continued in silence. Then Ball said: "At first it was wonderful to learn to read. It was fun too although there wasn't a great deal of laughter in the monastery."

Tyler smiled doubtfully saying: "You didn't find it a chore?"

Ball replied: "Goodness me, no. It was hard work but I performed it with a will. But knowledge brings pain as well as joy."

He was silent for a minute then continued: "I read about people who died for their beliefs. Arnold of Brescia was hanged because he preached that it was wrong for the Pope and his cardinals and bishops to have property, whereas, Jesus Christ told his disciples to sell all their belongings, and follow him."

Listening to his fellow rebel, it struck Tyler that what this priest really missed was not shelter or food, but company. And not just people, but the stimulant of lively talk. He thought that although his fellow priests had informed on him to the archbishop, Ball missed their reactions to his outlandish views. Although his chatter was over Tyler's head, he let him ramble on. Ball was reminiscent about his work in the monastery, saying:

"One of our main tasks was copying documents, such as letters from figures in history you've probably never heard of. There was such a one from Cicero who lived in antiquity writing to his friend Atticus about what people a thousand years hence would think of him. And we're into the second thousand years since he died and the monks still find it worthwhile to copy him."

Wrinkling his nose against the flies that buzzed around the horse, Tyler sighed:

"So that's how the Church spends it's time and our money."

Yet not wanting to carp at his friend, Tyler added:

"Nothing against you, Father, it was our lucky day when we sprang you from the Dungeons of Maidstone. What think you we get rid of Simon Sudbury, the archbishop

and put you in his place? There are too many prelates in the Church. How say you?"

"Amen, I say!" Said the priest laughing, "Though I daresay in another decade you'd be up in arms against Archbishop Ball for spending his time, rather, wasting his time and your money, copying antique letters."

Tyler protested: "Never!" He laughed, and then serious, said:

"Maybe you could even get married. My feeling is that the Church lacks something which a few good women would put right."

Ball agreed: "You're right, but it is the celibacy of the Church that has weakened the Normans, our oppressors."

Tyler was puzzled: "How mean you, Father?" he said, and Ball answered:

"William the Conqueror outlawed the English tongue which upset the Pope because English had become a sacred language, so, to mollify him, William decreed that second and subsequent sons should join the Church, which being celibate, meant that, although it took just four generations, the Normans didn't have enough people to rule both England and Normandy. So the French simply took their land back. You heard of King John. He was nicknamed Lackland, and was a laughing stock throughout Europe."

Tyler intervened saying:

"Aha! So we're in France to win it back, eh Father?" to which Ball nodded

his assent, adding:

"Before I was imprisoned, it had been announced in the monastery, that henceforth English, along with Latin, would be the language of confession, of prayer, of requests.. "

Tyler suddenly guffawed loudly:

"Hah! The Normans conquered the English, but ended up needing the

English to fight their battles."

"Because the Normans lost their homeland," explained Ball, "they've got nowhere else to go. They had no option. We, the English, must take advantage of that."

Tyler thought for a moment, before he said:

"I rather fancy living like Sir John when we've settled their hash."

He thought a moment, then, asked his friend:

"What are conditions like in French monasteries?" Ball answered:

"The lesser nobility, I hear, fare somewhat better in England. But, the French too have no means to express their grievances. Like here, the commoners are held in contempt. Their peasantry, the Jacques, rose up against their lords many years ago."

"What happened?" said Tyler, and Ball answered:

"The usual story, they tricked the leading rebel by offering to parley, but, he was a fool for trusting his enemies to honour the code of chivalry. He was seized, and executed. And the other Jacques were hunted down like hogs."

Tyler might have listened, but he was impatient to be gone:

"I see a barn, Father, over there on the left. Perhaps I can find some feed and water for my nag, here."

With that he mounted his horse and waving his free arm in farewell, he spurred it to a gallop; and the horse, glad to be free, was away so Tyler did not hear the priest's final blessing:

"Go in peace, my son!"

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Beauty seemed to sense the impatience of her master who had another thing on his mind besides hay for his mount and now breasting the ridge, Beauty's snort alerted a young woman in front some way off. It was Alice Street who turned around her face wreathed in an expectant smile while his countenance was distorted by effort yet managing a wide grin of seeming triumph, yelling:

"What a beautiful surprise, Alice!" slipping quickly to the ground and taking the bridle sauntered quickly towards his lady wrapping his free left hand around her shoulders. Their lips met in a soft kiss of welcome followed by one of passion stirring both their ardour.

They were now within easy reach of the barn Tyler had sighted earlier while chatting with Father Ball and it loomed in front of them although some distance from a farm cottage just discernible in the distance. Tyler made for a post hoping to tie Beauty to it but her whinny of protest led him to lift a post over a wicket gate. Once through she pulled him towards pasture of lush clover, away from anywhere to tie her so he spoke in mock severity:

"You stay there, Beauty, alright!"

He looked at the low hedge which might inhibit cattle but shrugged his shoulders looking up to find Alice laughing, holding her hips and having a loud chortle over his forbearance:

"He, he, he!" she went on, "when she's wandered off and we have to walk to Greenwich, you'll' realise that horses, or mares, don't understand English."

Tyler replaced the post and jumped over the fence, stopping her mockery with a kiss and prolonging it while his hand slipped through the slit in her gown. When she felt his hand on her thigh she put her own round his bottom and pinched which made him wince. Then as his hand still explored she undid his draw-string and dropped the flap covering his crotch which persuaded them both to seek the inside of the barn into which they staggered falling, laughing into the welcoming hay releasing a mass of insects which buzzed around them though they scarcely took any notice of them as they wrenched each other's clothing free of their lusting flesh.

Alice's gown was crumpled under her chin as Tyler buried his face in her belly's soft white flesh kissing her navel in his progress upwards his nose nuzzling against her left nipple which he circled with it before kissing and feeling it hardening under his nuzzling caresses and kissing between her soft breasts then repeating his caresses with her right breast.

Meantime Alice's hands wrapped around his back pushing her fingers beneath the sweaty leather, feeling the pulsing muscles and sinews before slipping both hands down to his buttocks pulling his manhood towards her pubic hair and pushing his glans sideways to gently touch her labial lips before centring its tip above her vulva, and pulled with precision.

He slipped inside her and she held him gently rocking his lower torso until she felt her own juices rising, then, pulling him again, he slipped further inside her as she strained to contract her hip muscles, rocking him gently, until he broke free. He continued to thrust and sensing his presence, she further contracted her hips to maximise their pleasure. He felt his essence rising at source, and as it rose, passing out of his scrotum until in a crescendo of passion, his hot essence spurted, at the instant of his ecstasy, inside her. Momentum caused him to continue to gain the uttermost vestige of pleasure, at which instance, Alice achieved orgasm emitting a scream of pain-delight as her pleasure points were splattered.

Then it was over. Both relaxed and fell back against the soft hay. A thought struck him and he put it into words:

"How did you suddenly appear like that? You know, on the way." She looked at him with a curious smile before answering: "Waiting for you lover-boy. I pretended to have a stone in my shoe. I didn't have long to wait, did I?"

He looked at her for a moment as if for the first time, then he smiled: "Was it worth the wait?"

She mocked him: "Dunno why I bothered!"

He was going to rib her when they both heard a sound. It came from above. "Look!" Alice whispered, "In the corner!"

He saw a nest of straw covered with clay, and wondered aloud:

"How many mouthfuls of mud did that nest take to build?" It was a wonderful work: the nest resembling a cornet. Odd whisps of hay protruded from the bottom of the nest but atop of it was another wonder, three gaping mouths of young martins waiting expectantly to be fed, and making the devil of a racket which is what they had heard.

"Lookee there!"

Alice whispered again and squeezing through the eaves appeared a parent martin which took off for the opposite wall and her waiting brood. They watched in awe as, on the wing, she thrust a worm into a chick's gaping mouth and regurgitating a second morsel thrust it down a second throat, then the third mouth got its morsel. Then executing a turn the parent dived down towards the open barn door. They watched it and then started in horrified realisation as their gaze centred on two men fast approaching the barn with every intention of entering.

Tyler looked at the door and for the first time realised it had been left ajar as though somebody had stepped out intending to be back shortly. Both had barely enough time to adjust their clothing and being ready Tyler stood up. His movement attracted one of the two men because he stood framed in the doorway like a black silhouette against the strong light from the sky. Tyler noticed he was armed and a shiver of fear went through him. The visitor spoke:

"Here John, quick. We have a villein all to ourselves."

The man addressed as John pushed past him and spotting Alice cried:

"Two villeins, but I'll take the prettier one."

Alice had got up and stood behind Tyler, leaning slightly upon his muscular back while Wat scarcely altered his position through fear that a sudden move might provoke them. Inwardly he was relieved he had adjusted his pantalons and drawn the strings tight again, feeling the knot press comfortingly against his waist.

Both men still stood away from him as if they were expecting someone else to join them awaiting his instructions. Or, perhaps they believed, more like it, that Tyler's army was not far away. This hesitation afforded time for him, however fleeting, to take in their apparel and it flashed through his mind that the sumptuary laws did not apply to them for they were dressed in the manner of country noblemen.

The older man wore a tunic reaching down to his knees, drawn in at the waist its hems at collar, knee and wrists crocheted with gold braid. Around his waist a black leather belt was adorned with scabbard and sword in black and gold; also a black and gold lined purse hung from it. The pommel of the weapon was encircled with gold fillets. On his head was a countryman's brown, felt hat trimmed once again with gold thread. Somehow its tone matched his bushy moustache and cropped beard.

In contrast the other, younger looking, was handsome, even pretty and wore a loose, low-waisted tunic in green, with a brown leather belt and pouch and across his shoulders a cape wide enough to encompass his shoulders with dagged edges, just becoming fashionable at the time. Whereas the other's legs were all but hidden, the young man wore gold-coloured tights on his left leg and green on the other circled by handsome filleted gold garters.

Only their shoes were identical each having tongues covering the ankles front and back with slots to take laces tied at the front for the older though at the rear on the

younger man's shoes, which was the only difference, one of fashion, perhaps. From his garters swung tassels suggesting he preferred 'cracow' shoes whose points were so long they needed support, hence the garter tassels.

They looked like brothers and confirming that impression was an elongated letter in gold on each scabbard. Tyler felt his cheeks go crimson as he speculated what that letter stood for as appearing starkly in his memory was his encounter with an armed knight of the Scrope family. As the realisation dawned fear mixed with embarrassment at so needlessly exposing Alice Street and himself to the threat these men posed especially as he had already been promised lodging for the night. His ardour had not for the first time landed him in big trouble.

"Your name, Sirrah!"

It was the older man who spoke immediately reproved by the younger: "What need we of names, Peter, when I'm in the mood to skewer the one and spit the other."

But disregarding his brother, Peter repeated the question and when he heard the name Tyler, let out a whistle. Then he barked: "'S' stands for Scrope. Mean anything to you, Sirrah?"

It did mean something to Tyler, and that fact already surmised and not coming as a complete shock, afforded him time to weigh their options. He was unarmed which might count in his favour as the elder Scrope showed signs of scruples while the younger seemed touched by hubris so their deaths were not imminent. Perhaps, he thought, the Scropes had in mind a little play being in order, before he was dispatched. As for Alice! He shut that fact from his mind. As if she had read his thoughts he felt her closer proximity, her body trembling with suppressed anxiety. He had the urge to encircle her with his arms but dare not for the moment.

John, the younger man, broke into his fleeting thoughts with a harsh:

"What would these riff-raff know of a noble family?"

Tyler was relieved as neither, for the moment, had connected him with their brother's demise – did they even know of it? Yet, John drew his sword with a menacing glare. Tyler eyed the weapon apprehensively and Peter commented with a chuckle:

"He fancies your weapon, brother." and John answered tersely: "He'll get it in his guts soon enough, like so," and lunged towards Tyler who recoiled involuntarily.

Peter said evenly: "Fear not, villein! When he means to, you'll know it."

"His guts will, more like it." retorted the younger savagely.

"But there's no room in here; outside!"

The peremptory order took Tyler aback but he readily complied being watched hawk-like by both. Alice followed but the older Scrope detained her by gripping her shoulders, remarking on her gown with:

"That's a fine dress you're wearing, maiden. Aren't you breaking the law with such finery?"

By now Tyler was outside in the open air. He heard a rustle behind the barn then the sound of hooves and his heart dropped. Alice said without thinking:

"That's Beauty gone!"

Tyler felt how irrelevant it was and the older Scrope bruised him further saying:

"Never mind, Maiden; you can ride me."

And bravely Alice ran to Tyler's side which provoked the younger to sneer: "He won't be around for much longer, Maiden."

Anger suddenly rose in Tyler for the first time. It was his turn to sneer:

"Very brave of you, my lord." But in response the young Scrope slashed the air with his sword from side to side which again provoked Tyler:

"Do you fancy yourself a swordsman, my lord?"

The young man looked at him, then at his brother: "Am I a swordsman?"

His brother said contemptuously: "Perhaps you'd care to give him a lesson,

brother."

Both brothers laughed at this seeming joke until the younger suggested to his brother: "I'll give this bumpkin a lesson brother, and have some fine sport. What say you?"

The older man commented: "You wouldn't do such a thing brother, would you?"

He called to Tyler: "My sword for your sister, villein!"

Tyler looked at Alice. Their eyes momentarily met, then squeezing her, coaxed her, whispering:

"It's a chance; our only chance." Then with resolution: "Give me the sword."

Pushing her gently, but straining to catch the proffered sword in his left hand, hurled by the elder Scrope.

The young man called mockingly: "Are you ready, Villein, for your first lesson - and your last?"

Tyler eyed the young man and thought. He may be a swordsman, but he has never been to France recalling a remark from Sir John Chandos to the Black Prince at the Limoges siege of having spared a knight's life though the ruse of exploiting a weak point in English swords, and, finely turned as they appeared to be, the swords of the Scropes did not look Italian or Spanish. He hoped he was right.

Scrope came at him with a flourish, slashing from right to left and vice-versa

employing a standard exercise in weapon training and Tyler tried not to flinch. Then Scrope made a few passes which became increasingly difficult to parry and Tyler felt his arm-strength being sapped. He eyed his opponent's blade warily and thought he must make his move soon as it needed arm-strength, above all. But the young Scrope was coming at him determinedly twirling his blade around Tyler's who saw his opportunity.

He first retreated before Scrope's onslaught, then, of a sudden, dashed forward aiming, not at his opponent's body, so staying out of reach of his opponent's sharp edge, but, at his sword, in particular, the point where the cross-guard met the blade, and, with a savage upper cut struck it feeling the handle vibrate. With both hands, this time, again, he struck the same spot, with a harsh clang, and the sword flew from Scrope's hand, upwards.

All four of them watched it's flight, but the older man pushed Alice aside and went for the descending weapon which had struck the open barn door and was slithering down to stick into a piece of projecting wood. The older Scrope reached for it but suddenly an arrow went through his neck pinning him to the barn door. Then hooves were heard and Tyler watched as Beauty trotted towards them, yet as it was about to approach Tyler, the young Scrope made a flying leap onto its saddle and spurring it made off towards the ridge.

Tyler watched in amazement as the newly-arrived John Syre, coolly took an arrow from his back, placed string into slot and gently drew. By now Beauty had reached the ridge and was about to descend when Syre released the arrow. They watched as it sped unerringly to its target, at Scrope's fast receding back, and saw the arrow strike with a sickening fleshy sound, saw as Scrope slumped then fell to the ground, as Beauty disappeared below the ridge. A few minutes later, she reappeared trotting towards them.

In the silence that ensued everyone turned towards a moaning sound. It was the older Scrope. He was still alive. Tyler, Syre and Alice rushed over noticing the little blood. Scrope croaked, pleading: "Somebody remove the arrow, pleeeease."

Syre looked the way he had come and told Tyler: "We should wait for Father Ball; he was just behind me, but I was aboard Beauty and got here first. When I got off Beauty trotted away. Moans still came from Scrope:

"Please, please!" he begged and then puffing towards them came Father Ball and they made way for him.

He told Tyler: "Hold him, steady!" Then to Scrope: "This might hurt."

He broke off the quarrel from the arrow and smoothing it of splinters, grasped Scrope by the shoulders, saying to him: "This is the hand of God, my lord. You refused to enter the order as King William promised the Pope and this is the result, but the good lord had pity on you."

Scrope complained: "Free me and sermonise later, if you please, Father!"

Ball addressed Tyler: "Are you ready?"

He nodded and moving in tandem they gently eased Scrope away from the door, lifting him so as to prevent the arrow causing any further hurt. Fraction by fraction Scrope was eased away and Tyler saw the shaft disappear into his neck, but still they lifted the man's weight and brought him sideways.

Ball asked John Syre: "Hold the arrow head steady, John while we ease him a bit more", and so at last Scrope was freed from the arrow, and Ball got Tyler to help him lower his weight to the ground where he examined the punctured skin from which oozed a watery liquid mixed with a droplet of blood.

Ball removed his satchel and was soon applying soft cloth, smeared with an

antiseptic herbal cream dispensed from a small box, to both sides of his neck. Scrope looked at Father Ball, saying:

"You're a good man, Father. You're a good man. I shall not forget this."

Ball smiled: "Just think on what I said a moment ago. An arrow through the neck! Did you see the like Captain Tyler?"

Scrope turned at mention of his name: "We should have killed you. Where's my

brother?"

Tyler confirmed the priest's expectation: "I never saw the like in France, Father, and I saw a good few men shot, I can tell you. For sure he was a goner. He was saved for some reason."

Father Ball said: "I nearly forgot. Sir John was asking for you, Captain. You get along with Alice on Beauty. John Syre and I can handle things." At mention of his name, Syre blushed with pride.

Alice hugged him and kissed him: "You're our life preserver, John and no mistake." Tyler was next clasping the young man in his arms:

"I owe you, John Syre. I shan't forget. Thanks!"

Beauty wandered over from munching hedgerow and nuzzled him and Tyler reciprocated, saying: "Here's the one to thank. My old Beauty!" and at the sound the mare lifted her head and whinnied, and everyone laughed. Even Scrope managed a chuckle.

Tyler mounted helping Alice up beside him. He buried his nose in her hair:

"Hawthorn!" he said. "Off with you!" commanded Ball and slapped Beauty's rump, playfully, and so they trotted away looking back and waving, before they disappeared from view.

Beauty having taken her feed of hay and slaked her thirst, Tyler's horse seemed also now to be full of gratitude towards her rider taking the extra weight of Alice in her stride, as she trotted over Blackheath tirelessly. Even when her master took her to the high ground overlooking Greenwich, she did so with a will. The reward for Tyler and Alice was the magnificent vista of the Thames snaking towards the City of London from which vantage point an observer on London Bridge or upon its defensive wall could also view the rebel army to advantage, were anyone interested.

He pondered upon his immediate plans. The rebel army would overnight in Blackheath. He would post guards to warn of any possible attacks. Even now late in the evening, the formidable wall surrounding London could easily be seen interrupted, at points, by a barbican and gate, at one time, strongly defensive positions, but at present simply entry points into the City, the main ones being Aldgate, Bishopsgate, Moorgate, yet, should the enemy take steps to keep them out of London, they might well be packed with crossbows. So his mind turned towards entering the City by way of London Bridge, though even here their enemies would be aware of its defensive strength. It was a problem with no easy solution. As he mulled over the problem, turning his horse towards the river then backing towards the heath, he spotted Sir John Newton.

Everything left his mind as he turned his thoughts towards Sir John's offer of accommodation for the night. Once more the smell of hawthorn in Alice's hair awakened memories, then with a sudden decisiveness, he cantered in Newton's direction, and having heard his approach, the knight turned and awaited Tyler's arrival.

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##  Chapter 13

Old comrades from France

Four people from the City were travelling towards Blackheath with the objective of trying to persuade the rebels not to enter London. They were aldermen steeped in the self-importance of being leading wool merchants and financiers, which gave them prominence among the London merchant community. It was not a comfortable ride and each doubtless might have wondered whether horseback would be more comfortable - coaches at this time were unsprung - as the severe jolting over rutted and stony roads was only slightly absorbed by sumptuous cushions. Yet the matter on their minds might well have been a distraction their intention being not only to dissuade the rebels from entering the City but even to buy them off as the prospect, were they to fail in either aim, of uncouth rebels disgorging themselves on London's streets filled each of them with horror.

The alderman had a horror at the thought of Cheapside, Poultry, Threadneedle Street being overrun with common serfs disrupting the exchanges, the dealing, trading, money-lending that was constantly going on. Music to these men was the chink, chink, chink of silver and gold pieces striking the mounds of silver and gold from previous transactions. To them a public holiday was a bad enough hiatus to this amassing of wealth, but the looming prospect of day-after-day missing their favourite music was almost unbearable to contemplate. So they would endure the unbearable roads to meet and negotiate with the rebels and their leaders.

Their common purpose was to prevent the rebels from entering the city yet none among the company had elected for the one sure way to prevent this happening; that was to talk to and persuade the keepers of the London Bridge drawbridge or the guardians of the Aldgate, Moorgate, Cripplegate and other potential strong-points to take measures against the invasion. Likely they believed the gate-keepers would sympathise with the rebels. Without their cooperation towards forming a common front, their embassy to the rebels ran the risk of the rebels accepting their bribes yet still following their purpose.

Why was this? An answer might lie in the person of Sir Richard Lyon, the self-appointed leader of the quartet. He was originally a citizen of Flanders who had come

across to England when the late king Edward III had taken Phillippa of Hainault as his bride. Part of the marriage settlement was to foster closer ties between the English wool producers and the Flemish weavers. The wool of English sheep was deemed the best in Europe and so was a lucrative export. Yet Edward wanted to diversify into weaving and invited plain Dick Lyon to set up weaving schools in England, knighting him as further encouragement. However the English had felt a sense of disgruntlement for a decade as the Flemish were reluctant to disclose to them the 'mystery' of weaving.

It was rumoured that Lyons had been heard to remark on the dullness of

Englishmen on several occasions; this was his reason for not being able to fulfil his side of the 'bargain'. Such a reason might explain his reluctance to approach the common-born gatekeepers of the London Wall. Nonetheless despite his failure to introduce weaving into England, Sir Richard had become very rich through financing trade between the two countries and much of his wealth had been invested in property. He had purchased various estates in the City and in the neighbouring counties of Kent, Essex, Hertfordshire and elsewhere. Indeed a snatch of conversation has come down to present generations running as follows: "Didst thou say Sir Richard Lyons? I did hear he hath an estate in Barking." To which the reply was: "Where hath he not an estate?"

The mission entrusted to Sir Richard Lyons and his fellow aldermen, at this

stage of the uprising, was not considered too risky to undertake as the wrath against the Flemings, and other foreigners, did not materialise until on the morrow. Sir Richard had probably forgotten the woman whom he had once employed in his kitchens, and upon whom he had exercised his supposed 'seigneurial' right. Unaware of his peril, he was on his way to meeting Wat Tyler who had sworn to avenge the rape of his beloved, Alice Street.

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The two young men, William Wauncy and Richard Qualm had been given the task to enter the City of London with a view to making contact with their captain's former comrades in France whom Tyler was confident had returned to their erstwhile occupations. It was a delightful jaunt and a welcome break from locating baker's shops, finding fuel for braziers, trundling barrels of beer into the rebels' tents, and the many tasks attendant upon victualling and accommodating thousands of men on the march. Now they were free for much of the day, and it wasn't long before they were dodging around their fellow travellers finding it too tedious to march sedately towards their destination.

Still, their leader believed they were level-headed enough to entrust them with

this enterprise, although to judge from their antics it might be difficult to concur with Tyler's assessment. They were ever on the lookout for new sights, but it was an 'old' sight that was to dampen their high spirits. It could be seen from afar, but only in close-up could the grisly remains of heads sticking up on poles atop the barbican above the entrance to London Bridge actually bring a chill to their very marrow. They stood rooted to the spot when they beheld a head that was actually recognisable, that is, before the crows had pecked its eyes out.

"Jesus in Heaven," cried a man wearing an apron, "have ye not seen him afore. That's John Kirkeby who was HDQ only yesterday. Did ye not see it? 'Twas a wondrous sight, and no mistake. Well, can't be hanging 'round talking all day."

And the speaker went on his way.

"Don't worry yourself, Dick." Jested William to his friend, "they can't feel a

thing." Dick playfully pushed his mate in reply, "But, you'll feel it, you joker!"

Nonetheless both shivered as they continued their way through the barbican and over the drawbridge, paying a penny for the privilege.

"Watch out for your purses and pockets!"

Warned the gatekeeper, but neither worried on that score not fearing the knife or scissors, the well-tried method employed by so-called cut-purses to part people from their money. Nonetheless although they had no money each had a satchel slung across his chest. In William's were pieces of parchment and a penicilis, a length of charcoal, given him by Father Ball who, seeing him carving pictures on a tree, had stopped to talk William discovered that the inside of a monastery was not just a place of

prayer, fasting, labour and such like activities.

Father Ball ruminated on other matters and William learned of the special glass discs used by Ball to better his poor eyesight and how he had made his writing charcoal by burning wood slowly. The end product, charcoal, made a black mark upon parchment. The trainee monk enclosed and named the long stick of charcoal, his 'penicilis', the Latin word for brush. William, for his part, loved to practise using his new drawing materials. He carried the items with him in his satchel, so hugged it close to him wary of the throng which pressed them all around. This was London and they were actually about to walk its streets, but before they left the bridge, each of

them looked round alarmed at the sound of chains.

"I see the men at the windlass for the chains," said Richard, "but who gives the orders?"

Whereupon, William replied: "That's what the captain wants us to find out."

However they could not dawdle as the press of people coming and going soon pushed them forward, jostling them along even preventing their change of direction for they found themselves in Crooked Lane although it was only by asking as they were unable to read a sign.

"I'm surprised it ain't called 'fishy lane' " Said William wrinkling his nose at the still fresh smell of the morning's catch mixed with the stench of the previous day's leftovers being devoured by numerous cats and dogs along the waterfront. Being country folk neither recognised the fish although they noticed some had silvery scales, others were red, and yet others had shells and legs which waved in all directions.

"Look! They're still alive" they said to each other, and laughed at themselves for making the same observation.

"Look at they with them long arms," cried Richard. "That's an octopus, Dick!"

William mocked his friend. But there were also crabs, lobsters, crayfish and many another, which was a feast for their eyes if not for their stomachs. Soon they found themselves surrounded by satins, silks, velvets. They were in Eastcheap and for the first time found themselves the object of attention as passers-by eyed their dusty apparel askance, so, quickly they dodged into a side alley and found themselves walking alongside shops displaying pots, pans, cauldrons and yet further still there were plates, cups, dishes. Unknown to them they were in Candlewick Street.

The two young men were not quite so conspicuous yet the sight of so much ironmongery made them feel restless and at the first opportunity they escaped into a side road. Yet they worried once more their appearance might attract unwelcome attention as it was a street lined with mostly smart houses with red tiles and striped awnings, but then relief: they had come into an open space in the middle of which a fountain of water gushed into the air and sprayed onto a large, circular stone bowl. It felt cool, and they looked around for some place they could sit, but could only find a horse trough on the side of which Richard collapsed. After a few moments, and seeing no horses likely to disturb them, William began to draw:

"Eh, Willy! This ain't no pleasure trip. We've work to do."

Complained Richard, to which his friend retorted: "This might well be work. Perhaps a sketch or two might help the captain."

Richard having nothing to keep his mind occupied, began to feel the pangs of hunger especially coming from a particular direction, and speculated to Will exactly from which direction it came, but the answer came not from his friend, but from an urchin who saw them, too shouting in a shrill voice

"Tis the Poultry, that's where it be from!"

Both friends turned towards the speaker. Will asked: "So how far is it?" and the urchin pointed straight ahead to the market place, where it branched into another thoroughfare.

Richard spoke with a resigned air: "It don't matter how far 'tis. We've no money.

"William spoke to the urchin cheerfully:

"That's our Dick. He always looks on the bright side."

But the urchin almost expected their reaction: "Go awn. Ya don't need money. Not if ya do things the raht way," and before either could respond, the urchin was away: "Follow me," he gestured, and without more ado, they did.

It was not easy to keep up with him as they dodged passers-by. From time to time, they dodged from a pig, of which there were a few, in the streets, grubbing at apples cores or other refuse thrown down on the ground. As they hustled along, Will asked him: "What's thy name, young un?"

"I don't rahtly knows," the urchin said: "everyone calls me Nipper."

The trio were already in the street called the Poultry, which like its name sold all kind of fowl, duck and geese. Occasionally they saw a swan, which surprised them as in their part of the world, it was a forbidden animal. Here and there were shops selling eggs, and here Nipper stopped his headlong rush inviting both to watch a juggler as he tossed eggs into the air.

Richard spoke for them both when he said: "Mother scolds me just for tossing crab apples in the air. Can you imagine what she'd say to this sight?"

But Nipper was unimpressed: "Come on!" he said, "I'm 'ungry."

They went more slowly now almost sauntering and dodging barrows and carts, women with baskets atop their heads until Nipper stopped dead. The two friends followed his gaze. They saw a woman turning a spit on which was impaled several fowl. A second ladled hot fat from a separate pan. There was the sound of spitting as drips from the basting fowls plunged into the hot coals sending up licks of flame.

But it was the third woman, which held their attention. Her job was to dismember the basted fowl from a separate pan. The heat from the coals must have been intense as sweat poured from her forehead, which she wiped away with a dirty apron. It was so hot they could feel it from where they stood across the street with people hurrying to and fro in front of them.

Nipper's plan was simple. Dick was to talk to the woman turning the spit while Will engaged the other two with comments about how well they were doing. Nipper wasted no time for the two had scarcely opened their mouth when a squealing pig ran into the open alcove with Nipper chasing it with blood-curdling screams. The place was in uproar and in the confusion Nipper snatched pieces of basted fowl and disappeared. Dick and Will should have followed but it all happened so quickly that their delayed reaction was fatal for when the inevitable cry went up:

"Thief!" "Thief!"

They were seen as the only guilty parties when the hue and cry went up. The cry of: "Thief!" prompted a barrow boy to stand in their way while the barrow itself proved too much of an obstacle and soon both were on the ground where many hands were ready to grasp them to prevent them making a getaway, no matter how hard they struggled.

"It's the stocks for you two thieves." Said a portly man with whiskers, adding:

"I'll teach you to steal my goods."

He addressed the bystanders holding them: "Alright, let them stand up."

Both Dick and his friend got to their feet trying to free their arms still pinioned.

"That's alright," he said to those holding the two friends, "they won't run,

will you, eh!." More in pity than anger, he shook his head, with the comment:

"Youth of today; what shall we do with you?"

A bystander echoed his admonition:

"They need to be taught a lesson. Let's put them where they belong, in the stocks. Shall we take them to the stocks, Mister Thacker?"

Both looked towards the man addressed, and he nodded, and soon both were being hustled back to the market square near to the horse troughs. The stocks were adjacent, and at the sight of horse droppings all around, it was clear to the young miscreants that ammunition for pelting victims in the stocks was not difficult to find. They both groaned. What would they look alike, and smell like when they returned to Blackheath. What's more they had let down Wat Tyler who had entrusted them with this mission.

Thacker was issuing orders: "Lift the top beam." And they saw how the upper beam of a pair was hinged apart.

"Put them in. Make sure it's their lower leg otherwise it won't close."

Each of them was roughly handled so that they were sitting on the ground with their legs athwart the lower beam each in a circular cut-out. Then the upper beam was lowered with cut-outs matching the lower beam, so they were held loosely able to move slightly, with their feet and upper torso preventing escape. It was the medieval version of short, sharp shock.

Mister Thacker looked upon them saying:

"Now, my lads; you stop there for a few hours. It'll teach you to take

what's not yours."

It was Will who spoke first: "But Sir, we haven't stolen anything. Search us!"

Then Dick started: "Maybe we wanted to, but..."

Then taking his satchel with a free hand invited Thacker to look inside. The man directed someone to bring it over, and when he had looked inside and found nothing ordered the other from William's shoulder to be brought over. He took the parchment from Will's haversack, and looking at it, was suddenly agog with interest. He came over to the stocks and looked down at Will, pointing to the sketch said:

"Where is this man, now?"

Will could not answer immediately being stunned by Thacker's intense

gaze. It was Dick who spoke:

"That's our leader, Wat Tyler, Sir. He's over at Blackheath. He sent us here

to look for his comrades. Are you one?"

Thacker barked an order "Remove the bolt. Lift the beam. Get them out immediately."

He addressed another man: "Run to the Goose and Gridiron. Tell Molly to prepare two dinners. Off with ye!"

Then talking to the two friends, he was almost in tears:

"To think I.... Can you ever forgive me!"

Will and Dick looked at each other stunned by the sudden turnaround in their fortunes. In a few moments they were walking towards the tavern of the Goose and Gridiron from which just a short while since they had tried to rob. Meanwhile Nipper, who had dined very well that day on the basted pieces of fowl meant for all three of them, had afterwards watched the whole proceedings, at first unhappy for his new found friends, and then dumbfounded at the sudden turn of events. It was a dog-eat-dog business surviving alone in London yet he thought that had he made an appearance to back up his friends' story he might also be a guest at the Goose and Gridiron. In the meantime he could only watch and wait.

\----------0----------0----------

Today's visitor to Blackheath is able to view the heights of Greenwich from Blackheath Vale much as Wat Tyler and his rebel army did in June 1381 swarming over the seemingly endless grass sward, in many places occupied, at the time, by grazing sheep and cattle, which probably pleasured their tastebuds as, in that company of peasants, was the capability of quickly turning a slaughtered beast into appetising steaks not to mention practical items of apparel. Although it is still possible to view the hill on the Greenwich skyline, overlooking the river Thames, an arterial road, the A2, now crosses our line of vision, which in Tyler's day, would be the continuation of an old Roman road.

The road lead the traveller via Shooters Hill to New Cross, Peckham and Kennington, and a bit further on, across the Thames, somewhat higher up, at the

present day Vauxhall bridge crossing point. Nonetheless the modern pedestrian can still follow the rebels' progress along Blackeath Avenue. Today the hill is occupied by the former observatory whereas in June, 1381, it was still possible to clamber over what was left of a Roman lookout tower, which in Saxon times, had been plundered for local building masonry.

Yet the small coterie that formed the rebel leadership, including Tyler, Jack Straw and Father Ball made their temporary headquarters here. The view was breathtaking as looking towards the city of London, the river Thames imposed its crystal translucence upon the onlooker emerging from the horizon, on their right hand. It was fascinating to follow its progress by watching the many and varied ships plying up and downstream, by all accounts, like a heavenly causeway.

All were intoxicated by the vista before them and under the influence of this everyday wonder were loath to tear their attention away, but a shout from someone that a wagon was making its way along an avenue lined with trees at the bottom of the rise caught the eye. They all watched as the wagon was surrounded by their comrades. One of them pointed in their direction atop the hill, and then one man started running towards them, slowing his pace as he started to climb the hill.

He paused to recover his breath, then looking upward where they stood, came closer stepping gingerly to avoid outcrops of rock and fallen masonry, and at last, gained the presence of his leader:

"Cap'n sir," he called, "a message from Sir Richard Lyons."

He pointed downhill where several strangers were walking towards them, albeit some distance off. Tyler bade the man recover his breath who then said:

"We advised them to get out and walk up the hill. And that's them, Cap'n." Tyler's face set grimly, but he managed a joke:

"Thanks, Rob. By the look of their girth, it'll take them a bit longer than you."

They both laughed while Father Ball called over:

"Most exercise they get is tearing braised capons apart."

Then Straw piped up: "I shouldn't wonder if they've just put a few into their

fat bellies."

They all guffawed loud, so loud that the four walkers were seen to look up, regard each other, as if thinking: "Do they mean us?" before resuming their

laboured progress.

Father Ball called over to the man addressed as Rob:

"What do they want? Did they say?" Rob looked over to the priest but

spoke to Tyler:

"Sir Richard has come, Cap'n, to speak to you before ....." he hesitated,

having forgotten the exact words, then temporised, saying: "before we go any

further, I s'pose." Tyler said:

"Go back, Rob, and guide them. We wouldn't want them to get lost."

The man did as he was told and Tyler watched as he plunged down the hill.

Father Ball was at his elbow:

"Sir Richard Lyons, eh? I wouldn't mind a word with him myself."

Tyler turned and looked directly at the priest whose eyes pierced him like gimlets. Tyler said:

"You've read my thoughts, Father. Take him. You're more than a match

for this Fleming."

The last words were almost spat out though the priest said gently:

"You're wise not to allow your feelings to rule your head. I take it he's come to buy you off. Such a man has no grasp of the human spirit, except when he can exchange it for lucre."

Neither spoke as each turned to look down the hill at the approaching quartet accompanied by their comrade, Rob, who looked positively ragged and unkempt when set against the opulence of the aldermen. Tyler felt a sense of guilt that he had so embarrassed his compatriot all the time studying the attire of Sir Richard. He noticed the absence of jewellery reflecting he had left it behind, as a traveller might before setting out on a journey conscious the byways of the kingdom were beset with footpads. All the travellers, he reasoned, appeared to wear their third or even fourth best, apparel aware they, in meeting with these rebels, or brigands, were in mortal peril of being stripped naked.

Even so, beside their guide, they looked extravagant, even opulent. Occasionally as his scarlet cape slipped his shoulders, Sir Richard would toss it back revealing a full yellow gown reaching down to fashionable, suede leather bootees, and as he began to tackle the steeper slope, his chest heaved bringing its green buttons, running down his chest almost to the waist, to popping by his exertions. To complete his ensemble a wide leather belt, dangling from which was a large, leather purse, except for his headgear which reminded Tyler of the Moorish turban, he had last seen in Granada, where one end was left loose, a-dangle by his left ear, as was fashionable, in his circles.

His companions also wore gowns but their aim, it seemed, was to dress down rather than emulate, and heaven forbid, surpass their distinguished leader. As they came nearer and before Sir Richard lifted his head to look towards them, Tyler retreated beyond the walls of the old tower leaving Father Ball to receive the visitors, conduct them to a suitable place, and conduct whatever negotiations he saw fit to indulge them. In fact Father Ball did not wait for Sir Richard to breast the rise of ground with its obstacle, but went towards him with a beckoning smile:

"Greetings, Sire. Greetings, Sirs!"

He called out, at which Sir Richard stopped, appraising the cassocked figure in front of him with narrowed eyes, all the time heaving with the exertions of getting thus far. At last, his breath partially recovered, he reciprocated:

"Greetings, Father,"

He called, and his three fellow aldermen followed suit.

Father Ball turned and gestured Sir Richard and his trio of companions to follow an easier route, saying:

"Let me guide you to our meeting place. It's not very far."

The monk indicated a path below the crest of the hill, avoiding by many yards the precincts of the tower leading via a gentler slope to where a table had been set up complete with benches and a couple of logs upended to make improvised seats. It had been set up as a makeshift alfresco dining area, but looked very welcome to the quartet of aldermen despite the hewn, rather than shaped, nature of its furniture, functional rather than stylish. Ball motioned the guests to elect where they wanted to sit, and, for his part, waited while each made himself comfortable, smiling inwardly, in realising that protocol and formality so dominated the lives of these aldermen that the others waited while their leader made himself comfortable before daring to venture to seat themselves.

The priest simply swept aside his cassock and sat on one of the upended trunks nearest Sir Richard, and spoke to introduce himself:

"My name is Ball, Peter Ball, late of the Dungeons, Maidstone, from which place I was happily released a few days ago."

A scowl crossed Sir Richard's face as he glanced at his companions, as if to say, how does one address an escaped convict, but the others kept their peace, so the knight turned again to face Ball. He said:

"We have made this journey....." Ball intervened saying: "You haven't

introduced yourself, or your companions. It would be nice to know whom I'm

addressing."

Once more Sir Richard's face darkened seemingly reluctant to look at the priest, and, it appeared to the priest, as if the knight expected someone else was about to appear, but, looking around, saw nobody, so reluctantly making up his mind, he declared:

"Lyon, Sir Richard Lyon, your humble servant."

Ball thought to himself, humble my eye, but kept silent. Lyons words were

uttered as a social grace in exalted company, but evidently the knight was feeling somewhat demeaned in the present circumstances.

The priest waited for Sir Richard to go on, which now he did:

"I have, we have come to try to persuade you to enter London via another gate. It will be for your own advantage, I assure you, because the streets of the City are too narrow for many people, and you will feel yourselves constrained, too confined...."

He broke off at a loss for the right words. Father Ball had already had the

same thoughts, as had Tyler, yet had already decided these space considerations were outweighed by the overriding fact of likely mass support from the Londoners, who had the same problems as the Kentishmen. A more likely reason not put forward by the Fleming was the disruption of trade that would be a consequence of an invasion.

The aldermen were going to return empty-handed although the priest wanted Sir Richard to retire in high dudgeon and there were a number of themes where this desired objective might be achieved. Disregarding the alderman's request, he said:

"Much dissatisfaction in the counties might have been averted had you Flemings brought over the mystery of weaving, as was agreed, as the dowry, at the marriage settlement of Philippa of Hainault, our late king Edward's bride.

Why has this not been done, Sir Richard?"

The knight looked at his companions exchanging meaningful, yet silent glances. Finally he looked down at his feet seeking a form of words no doubt to get him off the hook. He rubbed his hands but not from cold as if possibly his thought process might be enhanced. He said:

"You'll understand Holy Father, the mystery of the weft and the warp is not

easy to export into England..."

The priest interrupted in a vexed tone:

"Why not? You are making fortunes exporting your textiles. We want to choose the materials, the colour, the texture ourselves which you deny us. And by us I mean the monasteries of this fair isle."

But Sir John was not put out, saying: "But Father, all these things are done exactly as English merchants have requested..."

Once again the priest interrupted: "At a price. Woven goods are much more expensive in England than they are in Flanders, but it does not need to be if you had kept your side of the bargain. And had Edward not been involved in campaigning, we should have had you singing a different tune, such as the French nobility learned to their discomfort."

It was an opening the Fleming could not resist and he took it:

"We all do Holy Father, what we are best at. The longbow is suited to the

English. It is weaving for the Flemish."

It was the priest's turn to scowl. He realised the man was not without wit and sought to change the subject. He was helped by Sir Richard looking towards the derelict tower from where Alice Street had just emerged. Father Bal addressed the knight:

"What is your view of 'droit de seigneur', Sir Richard?"

The priest watched as his cheeks spurted colour, the colour of acute embarrassment, yet it was a short-lived triumph as the man got up, saying:

"We came to dissuade you from entering the City via the Aldgate or London Bridge for..."

But then broke off and looked again as the figure of Wat Tyler emerged

from the tower, came up behind Alice Street, and held her all the time burying his face in her hair as both ostensibly looked out at the vessels which continually plied up and down-river. Both Wat and Alice were oblivious of anyone else.

Sir Richard suddenly addressed Father Ball:

"My house in Eastcheap, Father, is at your disposal. Anyone will tell you where it is situated. You cannot mistake it."

The priest conscious of the bribe laughed at him taking in his companions, and in mocking tone said:

"Let me see! Red tiled roof, shuttered windows, tulips in the garden? Oh! And

servants dressed in cloches and clogs? Dear me, Sir Richard. Rest assured we shall have no problem finding it."

For the first time, the priest observed the other aldermen almost imperceptibly smile. Yet Sir Richard was not amused. In a stern tone, he observed:

"So you would mock an alderman of the city of London, priest. Have a

care!"

But it was the wrong remark, in the wrong tone, in the wrong place. The

priest looked to where Tyler and Street had been, but they were gone. He stuck

his hands in his wide sleeves standing while his erstwhile companions got up and

retreated the way they had come without a word of leave.

Ball called after them: "My shriving services are at your disposal, Sir

Richard. Use them, I suggest, while you have the chance."

But, if Sir Richard heard him, he made no sign.

\----------0----------0----------

William Wauncy and Richard Qualm sat at an oaken trestle table facing empty platters and tankards of ale which each was in the process of draining, and Qualm finished first wiping his mouth and heaving a sigh of satisfaction. He grinned at his friend:

"Beat you to it, Dick. Mind you if 'twere twice as big, I'd have beat you. I was so parched."

And Will retorted:

"That didn't stop you filling your belly with braised fowl. If you were so thirsty you'd have a full platter. You're just a greedy guts."

And with that Richard Qualm put his own tankard down with a contented crash. People from other tables looked up at them, which gave his friend the opportunity to quip in retaliation:

"At least I'm not making an exhibition of myself. You'll 'ave a bill for new tankards, if you're not careful."

While all this banter was going on, Mistress Thacker appeared, and was about to speak, when Will addressed her:

"Coming to find out who's making all the noise, eh mistress. You don't have to look far." eyeing his friend, meaningly, "My friend here will be owing you a new tankard, and no mistake."

But the woman reproved him:

"Go on you worry-guts. They've got a few dents already and I daresay another won't hurt. You ought to be here of a Saturday night. You won't just see dented tankards, they take off and fly through the air."

She was laughing which emboldened Will to retort:

"Just as well they ain't made from that new fangled glass, Mistress."

She eyed them both saying: "Another tankard, or have you done?"

Neither spoke, and she hastened to quell their doubts: "It's on the house, you know. But, on second thoughts, perhaps you've both had enough."

Will said to her:

"It ain't that, Mistress, I just wish I could repay you in some way."

"Well now," she said, "there's an offer. Perhaps there is something you could do for me 'specially when Mister Thacker told me about yon likeness of your Mister Tyler. Do you think you could do one for me?"

Will was overjoyed and prepared to open his knapsack which made Dick

turn to the barmaid: "Is there summat I could do?"

To which her retort came quickly:

"Yes, you can clean the kitchen. I don't get offers like that every day."

But Dick's face fell though he soon recovered spying another empty tankard making three which he was quick to pick up. The woman watched speechless though Will, at the back of his mind, had his suspicions, but before it could be articulated, Dick had thrown one into the air followed by the first then the third, and was juggling with increasing difficulty when Mistress Thacker snatched one thereby saving him the ignominy of dropping it. She said with a flash of laughter which also illumined her pretty face:

"I get the message, Mister Qualm. If you do that with my crockery, I shall

have none left."

Everyone joined in the laughter which followed applause at Dick's

juggling skill. Will, on the other hand, did protest but only for his model to resume

her pose, which she did her face suffused with laughter, now caught by Will's charcoal. Soon after, Mister Thacker appeared with cheery messages for all and greetings from everyone in the tavern and he was overjoyed over his daughter's likeness. When Mistress Thacker went back inside the tavern to fetch a tankard for her thirsty father but also anxious to show the kitchen staff, the likeness Will had just completed, her father sat down with the two young men, having not been able to resist stirring up the age-old argument:

"Away with you daughter!" he called heartily, "and leave us men folk to

talk business in peace, except we'll 'ave three more tankards. How can we talk

with a dry mouth?"

Thomas Thacker turned to Will and Dick:

"We had a bit of luck as the aldermen giving the orders are away to some meeting with you rebels at Blackheath so I was able to talk to the gatekeepers without them breathing down my neck."

Dick asked the landlord about the gatekeepers' identity so as to report back to his leader and was given the names of Walter Sibley and William Tonge for London Bridge and the Aldgate respectively. He also demonstrated on their table with the aid of various kitchen implements the layout of London pointing out significant buildings and streets. The landlord's plan was for Tyler and half of his men to be rowed across

the river opposite the river Fleet. Once into the Fleet the rebels would clamber onto the bank and be in a superb position to attack the Temple, but more important than that was the gaining of Fleet Street thereby taking the defence in the rear, and with total surprise. They might also be able to free the prisoners from the Fleet prison besides gaining access to the Bishop's palace, close by. As to the question of boats, Thacker himself would organise it by marshalling the many ferries, which regularly plied between the banks.

After this long explanation and exploration of the possibilities, Thacker took a long draught of his tankard, when a thought crossed his mind:

"Tell 'em the bishop keeps one of the finest wine cellars in all England, and excellent kitchens, where they wouldn't starve were they to stay a year." Then he took another long draught, emitted a deep sigh, placed his tankard on the table, saying:

"I do envy you my beauties, but I've also got my own beer cellars to mind."

Yet, as one final gesture, he was most insistent that his guests should return to Tyler with Thacker's message of solidarity with his cause. His voice shook with emotion:

"Tell him," and here, old campaigner, though he was, his voice couldn't help stuttering a little: "where I am, and looking forward to see my old comrade in arms."

And with that he was away, just pausing briefly to wave farewell. Both men finished up their flagons, and having already bade farewell to the hostess, and not wishing to upset their host, they got up and chose to pass into the street walking quickly away from the Poultry, each excited over the news they were to bring back to their comrades – and, of course, the Captain. Thacker had also organised their return accomplished in a fraction of their earlier trip.

\----------0----------0-----------

It was early evening of Wednesday, 12th June 1381 as Wat Tyler stood chewing a cutlet of mutton his left foot balanced on an upended log used as a trunk seat and a short while ago occupied by Father Ball. His guests had long since disappeared and he was also at the table where Sir Richard Lyon had sat. The priest had earlier entertained the notion that through his persuasive powers, his comrade had overcome his hatred for this Fleming, but he now knew it was the love of a woman, not love of God, that had allowed the Fleming to escape his revengeful wrath. He gnawed at his chunk of black bread, but though refusing meat had been persuaded to accept a tankard of ale in preference to his normal water. After all there was much to celebrate and Tyler considered him to be the source of their good fortune. He took a long draught of ale before he spoke:

"Young Wauncy, it seems, Father, owes the success of their little adventure into London directly to you. When he drew my likeness t'other day, I little thought it would bring us into contact with a former comrade in France. This time tomorrow, Father, we shall be in the heart of the City. All thanks to your giving the lad the wherewithal to draw."

"That young man hath a better use for it than I, just lately." Responded the priest adding:

"Do you know, I've heard more confessions in one day than I did in a whole lifetime at St Mary's? Truly Wat there is more religion among our comrades than ever I found in the Church."

Tyler looked appreciatively at the priest: "What would we have done without you these last few days? I just cannot understand the Church. You were wasted, Father, truly. And to put you in prison! Still, we did the 'habeus corpus', did we not?"

The priest smiled at his comrade:

"It's good to be appreciated. These last few days among simple country people makes me regret having gone into the Church, at all. I was so discontented. And I used the facilities of the monastery to produce tracts about the iniquity of paying tithes. About the injustice of the Church owning so much land, but paying so little tax. People asked for my sermons. I never realised just how many people had learned to read especially when learning among the common folk was forbidden."

The priest stopped as he noticed Tyler's attention had drifted. He was watching his comrades, but turned to his companion:

"Does the fruity language bother you, Father; seems we added a lot to English from our campaigning in France."

"And your mates would sooner play football than discuss tactics, it seems." responded the priest, but Tyler still chewing commented:

"There's not a lot to discuss. We've made contact with the king. He'll be coming to Greenwich together with his entourage. The more, the merrier. While you lot are entertaining him and his nobles we'll be making merry in London."

Father Ball looked alarmed: "You're going to miss this meeting at Greenwich?"

But Tyler reassured him:

"You'll have an excellent view as the royal barges come into view. And I doubt whether they'll come ashore. They'll think it's too dangerous. They haven't the men you see. I happen to know the two biggest contingents of men are hundreds of miles away. Gaunt's army is in Scotland, and the rest in Dartmouth waiting to embark to France. The nobles think we are simpletons. By the time they get back from Greenwich, there'll be a few changes."

The priest thought a minute, then, he said:

"But suppose the river trip is just a ruse and Warwick, Arundel, Salisbury etc

take us in the rear."

But Tyler responded immediately:

"I have thought of that possibility, and this is the reason for attacking London, early. They won't know what hit them. From what those lads have told us, London Bridge and the Aldgate will be waiting for us. I've told Jack Straw to take his men through the Cripplegate and Bishopsgate while I and my men will cross the river and get into London via the Fleet. We'll get into the City from the West: Fleming will expect us from the opposite direction."

Ball perked up at the mention of the Fleet, he said: "The Bishop of Lichfield's Palace is nearby, Don't miss it!"

With a worried frown said: "But what shall I say to the king?"

But Tyler put his arm around his shoulders before he replied:

"At this first rendezvous, another word picked up in France. You'll see the

barges but the nobility will be too frightened for their own safety to allow the king ashore."

Tyler could see the priest was puzzled but hastened to reassure him:

"If the king goes ashore with you, the nobles will feel exposed without his protection. So they won't dare. D'you see?"

Father Ball's load of worry seems to have lifted and his face brightened as

he observed: "After the meeting or rendezvous, shall we follow you into town?"

In answer to which Tyler thought a moment, then remembered what Wauncy and Qualm had told him earlier:

"Send a message to the Goose and Gridiron, it's a hostelry in the Poultry, one of the main thoroughfares in the City. Better still, go there yourself. Bring Alice! You'll look after her, I know."

Both men embraced. They had become firm friends these last few days. Yet, once more the priest put on a worried look and Tyler looked at him concerned:

"You are a real worry-guts, Father."

Yet not unkindly added: "So, what ails thee?" The priest answered:

"Should the king and his court disappear into the Tower, what then?"

Tyler looked at him with laughing eyes:

"The final campaign in France, Father, was the siege of Limoges. It was thought to be impregnable but the Black Prince reduced it in days. Me, and my miners were also there. Besides, many of our compatriots are in the Tower, for sure. It will be in our hands, if not tomorrow, the day after, for certain."

Father Ball did not ask how it was to be accomplished because everything this formidable man had predicted had come true. Relaxed he lifted his tankard:

"Here's to tomorrow." and drained it. Tyler did likewise.

\----------0----------0----------

##  Chapter 14

A visit to Beaver

It was daybreak on Thursday, June 13th, 1381 that Tyler and a chosen band of followers set off along the Blackheath Road in the direction of south London. Their companions left behind would later make their way across Greenwich Park towards the Thames where the King and his entourage were due later. As yet there was no hint of daylight but the open nature of the countryside and the clear moonlit sky gave sufficient if dim light for the men to proceed at a fast pace with little treading on each other's heels. Many knew the road already through attending regular Southwark markets and fairs.

Within little more than an hour the rebels had reached the outlying village of New Cross proceeding swiftly past the familiar manorial smallholdings until excitedly realising they had reached the Kent Road, now the Old Kent Road, which led directly to Southwark. Tyler had sent a few of his knowledgeable men ahead as pathfinders as there were many false paths, but as the main body reached the outskirts of Southwark, they picked up the sound of pots banging on walls, and the cacophony got worse.

Then everyone realised whence the sounds came: It was the Marshalsea Prison

directly ahead and the inmates were becoming aware of the rebels' imminent arrival and the anticipation of being set at liberty. And on reaching the walls of the enormous complex of buildings making up the Prison, there reached the rebels' ears the gruesome sounds of a struggle going on as inmates took their chance to attack and overpower their warders.

Tyler ordered his men to bring up fallen tree-trunks as battering rams which soon smashed down the gates and doors. Freed inmates joined in the fray, and within a short time, the warders had been overpowered. The inmates streamed out of the main gates, and on entering the prison, Tyler's nose wrinkled at the fetid smell of hundreds of unwashed prisoners, made up of men, women and children confined without the means for ridding their environment bodily fluxions whether hard or liquid.

One of the prisoners told Tyler where the food supplies were kept and soon doors were being wrenched off walls as both prisoners and rescuers clamoured to get hold of bread, meat and beer. Soon a cook was found and a huge pot of porridge made, and shared out amongst rebels and prisoners alike. It was at this breakfast that Tyler got acquainted with the offences that had brought many of the prisoners to this terrible place. Many of the crimes were little worse than drunkenness, absence from work, unruly children.

A number of debtors were there for the common felony of non-payment of messuage, childwyte, merchet levied by manorial courts, or, perhaps, held until a frankenpledge was paid. Scutage was another common felony for missing military service. Before leaving the scene Tyler ordered a bonfire of all the records

that could be found and, before letting the prisoners escape to where they wanted to go, they needed little persuasion to tear down the roof and walls of the prison.

An especial object of hatred was the personal residence of John Imworth, the Marshal of Marshalsea, and it was fortunate for him that he was away that day, though his warders, for the most part, did not escape from the anger of the prisoners. It was the inmates who decided their fate based on the way they had treated their charges. It was at this point that pent-up anger suddenly released resulted in brutality as two unrepentant former warders were decapitated.

Most of the former prisoners joined the rebellion. Two of the warders were set at

liberty by inmates as a reward for past kindness. One of the prisoners knew where files were stored and showed himself useful in ferreting out the secret hiding places that lawyers and officers of the law were wont to use. Where Tyler did have difficulty was in collecting all his men together to resume their onward progress but it was the searing heat of the flames as the Marshalsea was put to the torch which impelled them away from the scene. Some had been scorched and needed no encouragement

in making for the river.

It was now daylight which aroused fears in Tyler, mindful that flames and smoke could easily be seen from across the river that the rebel army would be spotted and trailed by their enemies. It would not be difficult for an observer to divine their intentions and frustrate or hinder their crossing of the Thames. In view of this he posted archers to defend the crossing points, but in the event, they were not needed.

And once the boats had crossed and entered the Fleet tributary they disappeared from view. A fear in Tyler's mind of his men being swamped in the middle of the river through overfilling the boats and coracles proved unfounded. First across was Robert who had his orders to keep the men who landed first from not drifting away until everyone had crossed. Even so it took over an hour to make the crossing and having all disembarked on the left bank of the Fleet, Tyler, having crossed in the last boat, assembled his men together before striking off in a westerly direction along the aptly named, Fleet Street.

Their target was the Temple which according to their former Marshalsea inmate,

was not only the repository for the hated manorial rolls for all England, but also the buildings which housed a well equipped refectory with its own cellars full of the

costliest wines and brandies as well as the choicest viands, ancient cheeses and other food delights. There was also a bakery and kitchen which whetted the appetite of the rebels who had had nothing but porridge since morning, and that, badly burnt.

Once again the former inmate proved his worth by locating mountains of documents which were heaped in the inner courtyard, called a quadrangle, and set alight. There were no protestations from clerks, lawyers or any other officers of the law for the rebel army's intentions had been all too evident from afar, and everyone employed at the Temple had escaped and could be still be observed running for dear life because lawyers, along with churchmen and nobles were of the trio of hate figures of the establishment viewed by the common people as causing them so much misery.

Although nobody apparently was left upon whom the rebels could vent their anger, yet a single ancient clerk, too old or too sick to escape was captured, and Tyler was unable to prevent a few of the rebels beheading him, sticking his head upon a lance, and displaying it above the entrance. It was fortuitous for Tyler as his anger caused them so much shame that all listened to him explain the bigger prize that was within their grasp.

The most hated figure in England was the John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster

whose profligate squandering of men and money had led to the imposition of

the hated poll tax, and their present rebellion. The object of their spleen was in Scotland, and his most prized building, one of many in England, his principal residence in London, the Palace of Savoy, was situated on the north bank of the Thames. Tyler, having shared an impromptu feast with his comrades now decided to address his men.

He chose the upended barrel emptied of its contents of ale getting to his feet whereupon those closest to him guessing his intention lost no time in lifting him up. Two men held the keg whilst he got his balance and looked around him waving his arms to invite people to come closer, and began to speak:

"Lads! Comrades! Tis barely noon and already two hated buildings

are in your power."

There was cheering and some shouted, 'A Tyler, a Tyler, a Tyler! And he

held up a fist, and they were silent awaiting his next words:

"Not far from here.." and he pointed behind him, "Not far is the Savoy Palace, John of Gaunt's Palace..." and again the mob erupted with jeering but fell silent as he opened his mouth again:

"I see by your faces, you're up for it. No plunder! We travel light..."

With a gesture he indicated his leather-clad torso whose only adornment was belt and dagger. He resumed:

"We travel light, but we're full of fighting spirit, eh lads!"

Once again erupted a huge roar and he shouted above the tumult:

"Let's away lads! To the Palace!"

The men started to run in that direction and Tyler held back as individuals touched him in passing as if for good luck, and when most had passed, he followed. But not all left: a few men stayed behind at the Temple destroying records which seemed endless in their number. The rebels had been triumphant up to this point.

Yet, it was at this moment of hubris that the rebels received their first setback. The Palace proved to be a fortress well defended by crossbowmen whose bolts did not need to travel far because to reach the palace the rebels had to cross open ground. For two hours successive ramming gangs charged the gates of the forecourt which was the first obstacle, and, they were in range of the battlements. One by one a rebel would drop either struck down with a bad injury or killed outright by a well-aimed bolt.

After one of many such fruitless charges, Tyler called his men together. He was in a more sombre mood. He did not shout so as not to allow the palace defenders to overhear, but said quietly:

"It was not unexpected lads. But, we had to try. Never fear, the palace will be yours. Have no doubt. Have I failed you yet!"

As the rebels marched to return to the Temple Tyler went among them with a cheery word here and a joke there to keep up their spirits. All the men assured him they were not disheartened vowing to get their revenge at the next building of hatred, the Fleet Prison. Tyler mulled over a problem of his own concerning Sir John Newton whom he had confined to his house although he had had no difficulty finding volunteers to guard him.

One attraction had been undoubtedly the fleshpots of his comfortable house.

Tyler resumed his talk with a former prisoner, Bill Gates who told him, he had had some connection with the Palace. It seems for a year he was the Duke's 'chef de livre-de-comptes', in modern parlance, his bookkeeper.

Gates said: "You would know as a combatant in France and Spain that the Duke is not a good soldier. He is more into books than arms. He keeps his 'livres-de-comptes' in the library which is where I worked entering figures into ledgers. He was wont to read an illuminated book and I commented on its beauty which pleased him enormously. It was a record of the travels of Marco Polo..."

Tyler said impatiently: "What has this to do with getting into the place? D'you know anything about that?"

Gates unabashed explained about a building next to the Palace and a roof with red tiles: "That is the library. I watched the tiles being laid. They are heavy red Spanish things. Once on the roof one can get to the belfry of the church of the Bishop of Carlisle. If someone could climb into the belfry, it would not be too difficult to gain access. Or, he could lift the tiles and gain entry; it's not easy, but possible."

Tyler said bleakly: "By night, I suppose."

He did not look forward to telling the womenfolk about their men. They would be on the warpath when they discovered their fate, felled by crossbow bolts, and no good news in compensation. For their part the men remembered the fleshpots at the Temple and they did not take long to return.

Even Tyler hoped that there would still be some sparkling wine left and in the

event he was not disappointed. There was little need to remember the road as the place was visible by smoke arising from burnt out buildings, and on arrival Tyler and

Gates found many of their fellow rebels: they buried their disappointment in quaffing the fine Bordeaux and other wines.

Those still on their feet seemed surprised to see their mates again. It seemed once their appetites had been sated, they were only too glad to rejoin Tyler's depleted ranks. The rebels, after filling their bellies, struck out once again along Fleet Street making for the bridge across the Fleet River, then turning sharp left along the Bailey towards the infamous Fleet Prison.

It had been constructed by Richard I to hold people who had refused him loans. It was a form of duress, of persuasion as the cells were damp, dank and dark, and only a few days, if that, were necessary for most, if not all, of Richard's potential creditors to sign away his forced loans. Such was the way of the Normans in raising money. Yet there were people even worse off, those who could not, or would not pay.

Unlike the rebels' experience at Marshalsea, there was no rebellion inside the prison. Now, some rebels wore off their drunkenness by wielding their axes as more trees were felled and the trunks used as battering rams against the massive gates of the Fleet prison. The rebels mindful of the Savoy made strenuous efforts to gain entry. That difficulty did nothing to lessen the rebels' anger when they eventually forced their way inside. There were many bloody confrontations with warders. Yet there would be few recruits among the inmates as all were in a woeful condition, the victims of starvation and all manner of gruesome torture.

One individual did find the energy to throw himself at Tyler's feet in heart rending gratitude. Richard Qualm identified him:

"Nipper. Is it you? What have they done to you?"

Whereupon Nipper lifted his head and recognising him threw himself into Richard's arms like a long lost friend. In just 24 hours of imprisonment in that hell-hole, the lively, ebullient boy had been reduced to a shadow of his former self. It seems he was paying for the stolen chicken once Mayor Walworth had learned of the

escapade. Nipper was arrested, accused and imprisoned in the Fleet until payment was forthcoming.

Many of the prisoners had to be carried out being unable to walk. Some were even dead, the warders not having got around to removing the bodies. But news of the Fleet Prison attack soon reached the local people and they poured out of their homes to look for relatives, friends, acquaintances and Nipper got the benefit of their kindness emerging soon after scrubbed and presentable, and, something of his former

cheeky self, which lifted everyone.

Nonetheless Tyler ordered the destruction of the Fleet Prison which proved more formidable than the Marshalsea since it was built into the ground rather than above it. But eventually huge slabs of masonry filled the subterranean cells, and whatever would take fire was incendiarised. Nobody seemed sorry for the demise of the prison and as Tyler prepared to resume their onward progress into the City, they were surrounded by well-wishers so their progress was more by invitation than an invasion.

It did not take long to flood the streets of the City with the men of Kent. Tyler was even meeting comrades from Greenwich and as he hurried along Paternoster Row alongside St Paul's cathedral, his feet hastened to Westcheap which seemed to strike a chord in his memory, and as he entered the Poultry, he knew where he was, and at that moment of recognition, he came face to face with Tom Thacker, his one-time comrade-in-arms from the wars in France, and they fell upon one another in rapture.

So the Goose and Gridiron was filled with song and sang-froid as the two men

toasted each other in joy. It seemed news of his invasion of the west of London had taken everyone by surprise, although Tyler still harboured misgivings about the

whereabouts of the king, and more especially, the nobility. Thacker tried to reassure him he was in no immediate danger. From what reports he had heard, the King had retreated to the Tower along with the nobility.

"Listen!" Thacker said, "Can you hear anything?"

Tyler looked puzzled, answering in puzzled vein: "I can hear the noise of the City. What am I supposed to hear?" Thacker smiled:

"Trumpets! Do you know of a lord in town who doesn't love to blow his trumpet. Or, have his trumpets blown for him."

He smiled at Tyler: "You know what they're like. Their trumpets say: I'm here! Pay attention!"

Tyler agreed with his former comrade. There was a complete absence of

trumpets which meant the nobility had gone to ground, but Tyler still harboured misgivings. Thacker invited his pal to drink up, saying:

"You might get a better view from Beaver. On a clear day like today you can see for miles."

Tyler was about to respond when he put down his flagon with a thump and was away. Thacker watched him run towards a beautiful woman who had also seen him judging by her radiant smile. He lifted her off the ground, hugging her to him, and a cheer went up. For seconds he held her before speaking her name:

"Alice. How I've waited for this moment,"

He placed her gently on the ground and kissing her passionately, at which another cheer went up. Almost shyly he took her hand and brought her towards Thacker who stood beaming. After introductions Thacker pressed some refreshment on her and then excused himself. He told his daughter, Bess, to prepare their best room for them, and was about to return when he espied a tall man with a tonsure bearing down on the two lovers.

It was Father Ball and Alice was quick to acquaint Tyler with his exertions on her behalf during a very trying day at Greenwich. It seems the king and his entourage had sailed down the Thames in a convoy of barges remaining in mid-stream as the nobles hurled insults at the rebels. Father Ball hailed the king respectfully inviting him ashore for a conference but from the loud remonstrations made to him, especially by the Earl of Warwick, whose banner Ball had recognised, the nobility refused to allow him to issue the necessary commands to the steersman.

"We were in danger of falling into the river," declared Alice excitedly, "if Father Ball hadn't pushed me through the throng and back onto the higher ground."

Tyler smiled at the priest in appreciation slapping him affectionately across his broad shoulders. It dawned on him why the rebels were not attacked at their most vulnerable time for, it seemed, they were all on the barge. No individual had emerged to take the rebels on, but it was only a matter of time, surely.

For a timeless moment all three basked in the aura of good fellowship as they sat there amidst the clamour and general bonhomie all around. It was a moment to savour. How long would it last!

The Tower of London looks formidable from a distance. It possesses all the classical features which castles were supposed to possess if they were to fulfil the role their builders intended, starting with the Keep, now known as the White Tower, built by William the Conquerer. His successors had added further walls and concomitant baileys interspersed with vital strongpoint towers. Edward I built the outer wall and extended the original moat, which surrounded the Tower on three sides, whereas the fourth tower, facing south-west, is protected by the Thames. Entrance was barred to all by a formidable barbican fitted with drawbridge raised or lowered to deny or permit access.

The sole route of entry used to be via a causeway, which was overlooked by the casemates manned by archers. One might assess the Tower as impregnable, and so indeed it was in Edward I's time, when manpower to man it was readily available.

Once England had been secured by the Normans, and invasion posed less of a threat, the defence of the Tower was scaled down in terms of manpower. Yet the Tower was still regarded as an impregnable fortress long after it began to be used as a temporary dwelling for monarchs awaiting their coronation, as it was a short journey away via the river from Westminster.

Even when, during the Hundred Years War, French castles, as impressive in

reputed defence as the Tower, were successfully assaulted and taken, the thinking did not change. It was to be Richard II who was brought face to face with the fact that in London there was nowhere a king could hide to escape his subjects, the lowliest of subjects, the villeins of Kent, Essex and elsewhere.

Unfortunately, because of military commitments, to defend the border and to supply troops abroad in France for a projected military campaign, the necessary manpower available to the king was limited. Such was the situation in June 1381 when the Duke of Lancaster took an army north to defend England's frontier against the Scots, and when, Dartmouth in the southwest, was to be the embarkation port for a large contingent of soldiers bound for France.

Consequently there were few soldiers available when Wat Tyler and his rebel army entered the City of London. Retreating to the Tower was a virtual admission by the royal party that nobody knew what to do next, least of all the most able advisors to the king. At Greenwich the barges had included, besides the king himself, personages

as high as the Duke of Somerset, the king's uncle, the senior Earl of Salisbury and the earls of Warwick, Richard Beauchamp, and of Oxford, Richard de Vere, besides many knights and other gentlemen of the royal court, not to mention men-at-arms, serjeants, archers and others.

One or two nobles had actually traded insults allowing their retainers to pass ribaldries from the safety of the royal barges. Yet one noble had given thought to the wider picture, namely the Earl of Salisbury, the senior earl of the realm, who had despaired of his fellow nobles who seemed not to consider the safety of their monarch faced with an army of hostile rebels. Although he had commanded the steersman to keep clear of the pier and the riverbank in general, yet it was becoming ever more clear to the earl that but for the reverence in which the sovereign was held, very little

stood between the royal barges and disaster.

Among the rebels were longbowmen experienced in the campaigns in France where, the earl himself had witnessed, armoured knights, one hundred yards distant, brought down by an arrow from a longbow. Structures of wood not much different to the barges used on the river the previous day, had been set on fire and destroyed utterly by flame-arrows from crossbows such as those he saw that day. Yet not a single arrow had been fired, and Salisbury admired the discipline of these men. Or should he admire their leaders.

Yet, here was a puzzle, their leader, Wat Tyler, could not be seen. Spies had told the earl of his activities yesterday. Base villain he may be but he had demonstrated more general-ship these past few days that any or all of the so-called nobility. It struck him, like an ice-cold shower, that this common villain held the fate of England in his grasp. Yet, they, the nobles still had a master card. A favourite pastime for the earl was the game of Piquet. He considered that whoever held the Jack, played at the right time, usually proved the winner. The king was, surely, their Jack.

Then the incongruity of his comparison was not lost on the aged earl. He rued his choice of card game, but nothing better came to him. Truly the king's name among these country rustics, these villeins, who were little freer than serfs, had been more highly venerated than it had been, in his recent memory, at various council meetings, from any noble he could think on. And, he condemned himself for not raising the king's safety with his fellow peers during the encounter at Greenwich.

He might have scolded his erstwhile friend, Richard Beauchamp who, in contempt of a rebel's suggestion that the king should go ashore and talk to them in person, had scornfully told one of them:

"Sirrahs, you are not in a fit condition for the king to talk to you now,"

As if they had chosen their unkempt appearance deliberately instead of being in the unfortunate position of having left their homes days earlier, sleeping in the open, without access to facilities for grooming or even washing. As a former campaigner in France he well remembered his own disreputable appearance after a long route march, and having to report to his sovereign, and he Edward, of blessed memory, understood the lack of quarters and the wherewithal for the normal civilities of life.

Why, they had not even a tent until the baggage train could catch them up. From this perspective he considered it churlish of his fellows in the royal party when they

had all the advantages of luxurious accommodation to hand for the benefit of their toilette to lambaste the impoverished upon the march. At first light he would seek out the king and acquaint him with the facts. Yet he knew that the momentum of events was passing him by.

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In the tavern of the Goose and Gridiron, Thomas Thacker had made his

preparations and hurried out to rejoin his friends inviting the company to follow him explaining he had promised his comrade Wat a better view of the City but they were all invited to come along, pressing upon Father Ball a thirst quenching flagon beseeching his friends to force it down if he came over again with his hair-shirt excuses.

In laughter he led them up the lane alongside the inn into a yard, calling into the stables for someone who appeared asking what the master wanted. He then disappeared again and in a few moments they heard the clop, clop of hooves as a beautiful, brown shire horse was led out. Without saying anything more he coaxed the horse by reversing it between the shafts of a large covered wagon placing a harness over the horse. Thacker looked impatient as this was done but to the other three watching intently looked on fascinated.

As the old groom worked he talked to the mare: "Come now Duchess. Let's be having yow! Now, now. Hold it Duchess!"

Soon he had turned to Thacker: "There y'are, Maister."

And, turning, retreated into the stables while Thacker holding the reins invited Ball to join him on the seat beside him whilst motioning the other two into the wagon proper. When all were ready Thacker coaxed Duchess to do his bidding, and they clop, clopped out of the yard into the lane.

"This is the Old Jewry Lane," said Thacker as they proceeded north, and addressing Ball told him about the present monarch's great, grandfather who had exiled Jews from the kingdom. But on hearing Tyler yawn, turned his head briefly inside the wagon to tell Alice and Tyler about the cot which they were welcome to:

"Twere installed for my Bess and her mother. We went up to Beaver twice a week.."

He stopped his chatter to attend to where they were going. From either side of the road leading to the Moorgate could be heard the accents of Kent, but interspersed here and there came the burr of Hertfordshire, Norfolk and Essex. Alice compelled the protesting Tyler into the cot, placing a blanket over him and a pillow beneath his head, and he was soon asleep.

Silence might be said to have awoken him. They were through the Moorgate having been waved through by the guards who were more on the lookout for richly attired aldermen making a getaway. Alice listened to the birdsong in rapture, the only other sounds coming from scythes cutting hay, the occasional chirp, chirp of crickets, the long drawn out cry of the vixen, and the noise of the wheels over rutted tracks hardened by weeks of rainless summer. Ball looked up as a gigantic shadow crossed their path. It was a windmill.

"That's Beaver," explained Thacker, adding: "See up there." He pointed to a window set high up below the dome.

To Ball the whole thing looked like an upended bell, and he said as much to

Thacker, who answered: "That's the whole idea. The whole mill can be lifted and turned so the sails face into the wind. But, we're in luck as the window already faces the south-east."

He stopped the carriage casting the reins over a post inviting and helping Father Ball down from his seat. Alice and Tyler had emerged from the rear and Thacker led the way inside. They climbed a spiral staircase, Thacker pointing at the central post:

"That's a tree trunk and the mill is built round it. These spiral stairs are fixed into those stanchions attached to the trunk itself. And the joints get firmer as the trunk ages."

Although well into his fifties, Thacker was ascending the steps displaying the agility of a much younger man, and Ball had difficulty keeping up. At last they reached the top platform and Thacker immediately went to the window seen from the ground. As Thacker had promised, the view was breathtaking. Ball saw the late afternoon sun glinting on the Thames. Thacker pointed and Ball followed his arm. It was the Tower of London.

By now Tyler had also reached the top and Thacker made way for him as there was insufficient room for three people at the window, their rear being the apex of

the tree trunk . Tyler watched Ball as he unfastened the top of his cloak and

withdrew a tube whose smaller end he put to his eye, while, at the same time,

adjusting the other end. Then he handed it to Tyler who copied his action. Ball

swung the tube towards the Tower asking his friend:

"What can you see?"

Tyler removed the tube handing it to Ball while shaking his head, exclaiming:

"I cannot believe what I see. It's Richard. The last time I saw him was years ago. Was it in Harbledown in Kent?"

He hesitated trying to remember as Ball resumed his gaze through the tube.

"Yes you're right. It's the king on the battlements. Warwick is with him and Salisbury. The king looks angry. He's pointing towards the west."

Tyler, in a state of confusion still, said: "We started a few fires at various places. He can probably see the smoke better than we can."

Ball handed him the instrument: "Take another look." Tyler did so calling out:

"If the king and his nobles are in the Tower, we have nothing to fear until tomorrow."

He handed it back to Ball saying: "What do call this thing Father? It's a like having another, or third sight." And the priest laughed:

"That's it exactly, so I call it my 'Tervisum'

Alice called over: "We had an excellent view from the mound, didn't we Father! We saw the king and all his nobles. It's a pity we couldn't hear what they said. That's

your next discovery, Father."

But, Thacker put a damper on things when he commented:

"People will see it as magic, Father. You'll not do the church any favours. People will say if the Lord had wanted us to see that far, He would have given us the eyes to do it."

Tyler was more sanguine: "They talk about having second sight. That's more like witchcraft than your gadget Father, to me at least."

That brought a laugh, and Thacker asked if they would all join him below where they could enjoy a jar before returning to the Goose and Gridiron. As Father Ball dallied showing Alice the view enjoyed by the others, Tyler hurried below to join his comrade. He had a proposition to put to him.

To a casual observer, of which there were, happily, none, that eve, in that part of the countryside, the two people gambolling in the static millpond, throwing water at one another while shouting incomprehensible nothings, might have been considered as escapees from the local madhouse.

"I can't swim", shrieked Alice at her lover, "and I shall lose my clogs. See where they float away!"

"Trying to distract me, my angel, is a waste of your lovely time," shouted Tyler in response, adding: "I'll recover them anon. They'll not get far in this current."

"What current?" retorted Alice, "the mill is stopped for many a day it

would seem. Think ye the water be rather stagnant."

Tyler agreed: "You have a point my angel. We've had our fill of its freshness..."

"And wetness," replied Alice, dashing water over her lover as she made a dash for the bank, and throwing herself onto the grass, shouting:

"Fetch my shoes before they are lost, you idiot!"

Tyler did as commanded striking out with a leisurely sidestroke whereby he retrieved her footwear, then made for the bank himself, throwing himself out of the water to land bottom down on the grass trailing his bare feet in the water. From there he contemplated his lover while she contemplated him, sitting with knees drawn up underneath her chin. Each noticed and remarked the stillness, without even the sound of a scythe breaking the quiet.

Yet, within a short time they were both being besieged by buzzing insects to whom wet skin seemed an irresistible attraction and soon their inertia was overcome as they upped and ran taking footwear with them as they sought the refuge of the windmill dashing inside and closing the door upon the ravenous gnats, flies, mosquitoes and more.

A few minutes later each was wrapped in linen and lying upon a simple yet practicable divan with which the first storey of the mill was furnished. As they lay silently together, both with their own thoughts, Tyler spoke:

"There was another occasion when I bathed in a millstream and it was even more uncomfortable, but that time the little beasties were eels."

Alice shivered before she uttered a shriek: "Eels! How horrible! Was it in this same pond?"

"Oh, no!" replied Tyler, "Twere in a monastery. We were hiding...."

He stopped, and Alice quickly conned his embarrassment, saying ruefully:

"Who was she?"

But the interruption enabled Tyler to recover and in teasing mood, he

said: "You're not the only woman I've led astray,"

But Alice simply leaned over him saying: "Leading me astray, eh!" kissing him and breathlessly adding: "Every woman envies me, I can tell you, Mister Tyler, and, sitting up shook her index finger at him at him and saying with conviction tinged with

emotion: "It was the Holy Spirit which brought misfortune on me else how else

could I have met you, my darling."

She buried her face in his chest and sobbed with emotion. Her sobs made Tyler also feel the same way, but swallowing hard, he continued his story:

"I was hiding in the millpond from the abbott of the monastery. He was walking by telling a visitor that he was agreable to Llewelyn to look for apprentice slaters in the villages in the area."

Alice recovered and sat up listening to his tale. She said: "That's how you ended up in Wales!"

Tyler looked at her serious looking face and placed his hand on one cheek which she took in hers kissing the open palm. He smiled at her innocent statement, before saying:

"It was when he mentioned the longbow that I took heed of what he was saying. It seems he had the king's commission to travel England looking for recruits."

"And you ran away from the monastery. May I ever be thankful to the Holy Spirit that you did."

Then, she eyed him quizzically, saying: "How come you're a tiler and not a slater?"

He laughed aloud and long, then said: "Have you seen any houses, anywhere, with tiles, my lovely?"

Alice thought about it before saying: "So you became a tiler. What a tiler! My Wat Tyler", simpering at her own pun, "then put a proposition to him:

"Father Ball told me about how that Fleming treated you. That's why you didn't want to meet him again, at Greenwich, hmm!"

"I didn't want him to recognise me, just then. That's all! Now, I want his

head. And it's not just his injuries to you, or even to me. The Fleming has

broken faith with English people in general."

Alice said: "What hurt did he do you? I mean you, not the English people. Is it true he whipped you through the streets of .."

Tyler interrupted: "I'll tell you the whole story. Then you can judge for yourself. I had finished tiling his house with those red tiles, which the Flemings use to mark

them out from the common people, and was fooling round with the tiles left over. One of them smashed to the ground near where he stood, and he got struck by a fragment. It was an accident. But he would not heed what I said.

He ordered me down from the roof. I had to come down. There were two

crossbowmen threatening to put a bolt into me. Those Flemish brutes would have done it too. I came down toute-suite, as the Frenchies say."

He stopped in his narrative and Alice went and sat beside him. She put her arms around him. She said:

"I know the rest from Father Ball. He humiliated you. I know my love how you feel. How you felt. I'll not defend him, but."

They looked into each other's eyes, perhaps mutually feeling the unspoken sentiment. He said bluntly:

"Say it! But for him, we'd never have met." Alice said simply: "Tis true,

dear heart."

Tyler felt humbled by her compassion, and his eyes sought hers, but was not able to face her steady gaze for long sweeping her into his arms, and then tightening his hold onto her body, kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her lips, and then tearing away the towels, kissed the smooth, white skin of her shoulders, and then her breasts in a crescendo of rising passion.

Aroused herself, Alice threw away the remaining towels revealing her full womanhood placing it gently but firmly upon her lover's erect manhood rubbing in a circular motion until he slipped inside her whereupon she rocked gently back and forth until he had achieved full penetration waiting in growing excitement for the burst of hot essence which she knew was seconds away and when it came letting out a scream as it hit her apex of pleasure.

She oscillated gently to get the most from the moment of ecstasy, then slumped slowly down to lie beside him where he had twisted to face her as his manhood slowly shrank and slipped out of her. She tried to keep her eyes open but was overcome by a blissful lethargy, which her lover shared and soon both lovers were in deep repose.

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Tyler was the first to open his eyes but was happy to lie in the arms of his lover who occasionally trembled but did not wake, and Tyler wondered whether she was dreaming. Looking across the room he noticed the candle had burned down somewhat but could not figure how long he had slept nor by the position of the moon in the sky what hour it was. Perhaps they should have extinguished the candle before sleep, and then he recalled his excitement. To repeat that he would sacrifice another candle and his manhood seemed to be remembering too, as it stirred uncomfortably.

And then he heard something. It was familiar that sound. It was approaching. And then it struck him. It was the sound of wheels on rutted tracks. Wagon wheels! the wagon wheels of Thacker's coach. And he forgot his earlier yearnings. The sound grew louder and he wondered whether to wake Alice. He decided not to and tried instead gently to remove her enfolding arm from around his torso, placing it gently down before swinging his legs from the bed onto the floor. As he did so, he felt a numbing ache in his left thigh and looked at the spot.

He had been bitten where it showed a red mark, which throbbed slightly? He recalled the stagnant water of the evening before. He thought of France where such bites were viewed with dread in case it brought on the shivers, the bane of campaigning along the river Somme. Then another sound he heard put insect bites out of his head.

He heard Thacker's voice and smiled inwardly at his pleas the previous evening to be allowed to make their own way back to the Goose and Gridiron such was his urgent need for lonely communion with Alice. Clearly Thacker had come to fetch them despite his protestations of independence. Yet as he listened, it became clear that Thacker's companion was not Father Ball. The voice was shriller sounding, and he vaguely remembered it from the day before, but could not place it.

He dressed and quietly descended the ladder to the ground floor grasping the outside door handle and was about to turn it when the door was jerked open and he nearly lost his balance. Steadying himself he peered round the door in the pitch black night, but was brought upright by a voice from the night:

"Wotcher!"

He heard the wagon and the clop, clop of the horse coming closer from the left, but it was the shape now in front which intrigued him. Again the shrill voice came:

"Give over, Cap'n. It's me, Nipper. Don't you remember?"

Before he could answer, Thacker cried: "Whoa up, Duchess!" bringing horse and wagon to a stop. Then Tyler came face to face with his young acquaintance of yesterday in the shape of the boy they had rescued from the Fleet. And Tyler gave him reply trying to ape his accent:

"Wotcher! Nipper, aint it!"

"Not arf. it ain't", was the sharp retort and Tyler chuckled. Nipper said:

"Come to fetch yer. Me, and Mr Thacker, here."

Thacker meanwhile had tied up the horse, greeting Tyler and, as if in explanation of his presence, said:

"Couldn't sleep, Wat so here I am." But Nipper had a different explanation:"

He couldn't sleep, my fanny. I wouldn't let him, more like it. That's what he said himself, didn't you Mister Thacker?"

Thacker clapped Tyler on the shoulder saying: "It's true. The boy was beside himself when we got back without you, last night. He was all for doing the trip on foot to Beaver."

Tyler was mystified, scratching his head in puzzlement: "But why?"

Thacker said solemnly:

"He wanted to thank you, Wat, That's why. And he wouldn't take no for an answer. I had to promise to fetch you and take him along."

Nipper exploded:

"That's more like it, Mister Thacker."

Then turning to Tyler, the boy looked serious: "Sir. Captain Tyler! Let me be your servant. I promise from now on to be the goodest boy in all creation. Please, Sir."

Tyler was glad it was still dark as he swallowed hard and spontaneously giving the boy a hug, he felt choked unable to speak.

A voice from behind rescued the situation as Alice commented:

"My, you do smell sweet, Nipper. You and someone's soap have been making friends."

At which Nipper releasing himself from Tyler said contemptuously: "I don't make friends with any soap."

They all dissolved in laughter except Nipper himself who felt ashamed for

allowing his wit to mock his new found friend, but Thacker rescued him by inviting everyone to get in the wagon for the return trip.

"Will you join me up front, Wat!"

And then removing the bag of oats from the mare, Thacker released the restraining rope and climbing up to the driver's seat, uttered a comforting: "Giddy-up Duchess!" and the wagon started its return journey with Alice and Nipper safely aboard in the back.

Tyler turned in his seat to pull the flap over to peer inside the wagon. Both Alice and Nipper were curled in each other's arms asleep, and he let the flap go. He sank back against the hard seat, and nodded off, then awoke with a start, then nodded off again. Neither man spoke as Duchess clop, clopped steadily towards the approaching Moorgate, and home, barely five miles distant.

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King Richard sat in an upholstered box armchair happily engrossed in Chaucer's Troilus and Crysede when he heard a knock and his concentration faltered slightly but his servant is on hand to usher in his expected visitor so Richard does not get up from his comfortable box even when his servant, Bowyer announces, his visitor, Sir Simon Burley. He comes fully into the room and is puzzled when his former pupil is not anywhere to be seen, and still perplexed he walks a little further and only then does Richard poke his head around the box, and mischievously says:

"Thanks to you, Sir Simon, I am at home in French or English." He showed Burley the cover of his book, and not allowing Burley to speak, and adds: "If you knew how many times I have thanked almighty Providence for my uncle's recommendation to my father over your appointment."

Richard mused a while and Burley ventured to say: "If you'll allow me, Sire, it is not my language skills needed at this moment. What wouldn't I give for a hundred archers!"

Burley might have said more or the king to have replied had not a young man suddenly appeared at whom Richard smiled warmly, saying: "Robert, meet my former tutor, Sir Simon Burley. I hope you'll be friends."

Both men nodded to each other, but Robert de Vere evidently was displeased to find his friend with company, saying coldly to Burley: "We had no need of archers, my lord, had you not got a Royal Warrant by gross deception."

"My lord!"

Burley exploded and Richard was shocked saying evenly to his friend: "Dear Bob, I told you before. You should not interfere."

But Robert de Vere, earl of Oxford, was unabashed: "Your dear majesty, Burley should be made aware of the great peril his action has placed our dear friend, Sir John Newton."

At whose name the king became sombre, nobody speaking in the tense atmosphere, Finally de Vere broke the silence, addressing Burley in a truculent manner:

"Did you know that Rochester castle is now in rebel hands. Your three hundred pounds will cost his majesty ten times that sum before it is restored."

Burley said nothing realising now the purpose of the interview and the affair flashed through his mind. His intention had been to embarrass the bailiffs at Gravesend by wresting from custody one of his former villeins, Robert Belling, who claimed he had bought his freedom. Burley had wanted him as his warder, but he had turned him down. It rankled that a villein had the impertinence to refuse his offer, he, Knight of the Garter, Sir Simon Burley.

Richard turned to him and said gently: "Just give me your explanation, Sir Simon, why you demanded such a sum."

But de Vere was more caustic, rasping at the luckless Burley: "Such a sum, and for a villein!"

He almost spat out the words, contempt towards the villein as well as for Burley. Sir Simon flushed. He felt wounded but he demurred saying what was on his mind as de Vere was the Kings favourite. Remaining cool, he addressed the king:

"'Twas a lawyer's device, Sire, to stop him getting bail. I feared he would abscond were the bail any lower and his friends made up the sum."

Richard's voice rose a quaver when he piped: "That lawyer's trick cost them their Temple, my lord."

Burley was quick to sense the king's displeasure, but de Vere got there first. Addressing his soul-mate, he reminded Richard: "And it will cost you the Tower, dear Dick, once the rebels discover that Uncle is inside. Or, perhaps he'll offer them three hundred pounds for his life."

That was too much for Richard. He turned on de Vere, saying coldly: "That is enough, Robert. Sir Simon is my subject, not yours."

Then having silenced his friend, Richard held out both hands to Burley,

and said: "No, no Sir Simon, you shall not stay here. It is too dangerous. I forgive

you. 'Tis a tiny speck compared to the beam of your services to me over the

years."

Richard still holding Burley's arms in his smiled then detached himself to pull a silken cord dangling from the ceiling. There was another silence until moments later, the outer door opened and Richard impatiently called out: "Bowyer, convey my compliments to Sir Michael de la Pole and ask him to spare me some small measure of his time."

But before Bowyer had left, Burley called: "I last saw him in the guardroom in the Wakefield Tower,"

Then, turning to Richard as the door closed on Bowyer, Burley said, smiling:

"With Your Majesty's leave!"

De Vere friendlier now, addressed Burley: "My lord, what think you on these rebels. Why are they so angry?"

But before he could answer, the king intervened: "You should ask that of me, dear Robert. My father, Prince Edward promised them manumission. He told me so himself. He could not keep his promise, alas."

Richard's voice had a catch and he might have burst into tears, but Burley came to his aid: "No, no, Sire. Do not chide yourself or your father. Your family are not to blame. Why, these fellows are angrier with the Pope than with you, Your Majesty. And, the rebels are more angry with the lawyers, as I can testify."

Burley's deprecatory chuckle was interrupted by a knock and de la Pole appeared and there was a flurry of introductions as Richard, the consummate host, surrounded by friends, anxious to please, delighted in the courtly plaisance. All were at ease. The king addressed de la Pole:

"Dear Michael, my friend, I am desperately concerned for the safety of the ladies in my uncles's palace of the Savoy. Of all the nobility the rebels' mad rage has been directed at my uncle and I fear for the safety of his governess, Mistress Swynford as well as her sister, the Lady Chaucer, and anyone who might be visiting them. You'll need to engage a sizeable ferry but let no expense be spared to that end. For the time being they can reside at Blackfriars. I'll give you a message to my mother who is, at present, staying there. Take Sir Simon Burley with you. Can it be tonight?"

De la Pole beamed at the king: "Of course, Sire. We shall leave via the wharf around midnight."

At this de Vere clapped his hands and cried: "Good my lord! How exciting! Would that I could come!"

At which remark, Richard hurriedly spoke, almost petulantly: "No, Bob, no! You must not. Who will play ludo with me?"

De Vere felt a little embarrassed, and to cover up, addressed de la Pole: "The rebels would be freemen, Sir Michael. What do you think?"

De la Pole frowned and glanced at Burley, before saying: "If they become free men, my lord, you are looking at a pauper. How say you, Simon?"

Burley nodded: "Aye! Were my villeins free men, their wages would have me in the poor house, tomorrow."

De Vere recalling what his friend, the king, had said earlier, continued to argue:

"They gave good service in the wars. Freedom is their reward."

De la Pole answered: "They're Englishmen first. What price freedom when the Frenchies are at their door."

But de Vere was still not convinced showing a depth in his argument: "My father told me the French nobility said as much to the Jacques before their rebellion. They were savagely cut down. That's why at Crecy there were Genoese and Bohemians, but precious few Jacques. They refused to fight."

De la Pole did not answer. He simply said: "This rebellion began with the Poll Tax. If Parliament did away with it, the rebels might well go back home."

Richard said: "You make good sense, Michael, but it's no use heeding what I say.

Nobody listens to me."

De Vere chuckled: "Nobody listens to dear Dick, here. He's the king, and nobody listens to him."

He was laughing which infected Richard who began to chuckle and his laugh infected de la Pole who also started chuckling, then laughing and Burley joined in at last. The sounds of laughter reached the Barbican and the two warders looked at each other thinking possibly, things cannot be so bad after all.

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##  Chapter 15

Master of London

John de Montagne, the Earl of Salisbury, had slept very badly, up most of night pacing his bed-chamber in the Tower debating with himself how to acquaint the young king with the dire situation in which the realm found itself. Had not Richard only yesterday entrusted him with the task of finding the rebel leadership! Yet it had not gone his way. The rebel leader had used him as a go-between keeping from him until the last moment when and where he was prepared for a meeting. It galled him, this ancient warrior of France, that a base villein, had out-manoeuvred him.

While the King and the nobility were parleying in the Reaches of Greenwich, Tyler had advanced south of the Thames, crossed the river into the Fleet and run wild attacking the Temple, releasing inmates from several prisons, and raiding the Bishop of Lichfield's Palace. One bright thought occurred that the rebels had failed in their attack of the Savoy. The Duke of Lancaster would never forgive him were the rebels

to sack the Savoy in the same way they had ravaged the Temple. Yet the rebels still held the initiative. Whereas he wondered what would happen next, Tyler seemed to be able to pick his moment, just like the Great Alfred of yore in his life and death struggle with the Danes.

As he made his way to the Council Chamber, the old earl hoped for better news but was not sanguine about the prospects. Once inside the chamber, his heart sank as he looked around him. Here they were again, his fellow nobles, in this chamber looking gaudily smart in their parti-coloured jackets with jewelled belts and their hair pomaded and combed as though they had just appeared from their lady's bedchamber. Little thought did they give for the parlous state of the kingdom.

Yet campaigning in France had given him a sense of detachment and now it came to him. He forgot his woes in gazing about him. It amused Salisbury to observe the young de Vere as he prepared to sit down, but first having to sweep his cape aside so that the silky plush did not crease. The young Earl of Warwick entered wearing two coloured hose, topped by a short, silk jacket decorated with mythical beasts. His headgear reminded him of a dunce's cap though Warwick's was of shiny silk.

Others for the meeting arrived and took their places. Not long after the last of his party the king himself appeared accompanied by his closest courtiers. For some reason he appeared tetchy and waved them away when they became too solicitous, and it must have impinged itself on the brain of all those, except the most wooden dullard, of the young king's immaturity, for he was just fourteen years of age.

After dismissing his entourage Richard walked to the Archbishop of Canterbury to wish his grace good morning, then it was his lord treasurer's turn, thence to his uncle Thomas, and dutifully to the Earl of Salisbury. His subsequent greetings were as the mood came to him without regard to precedence. Clearly the king by following his fancy in this way was disinclined to look for support among the nobility for his course of action. His peers could follow him if they wished, but, he, Richard, God's anointed, would follow his destiny.

It was the morning of Friday, 14th of June, 1381. The King had spent his first waking hours in the Chapel of St John in the White Tower, and having breakfasted was attending this meeting arranged the previous day. Yet the Earl of Salisbury must have realised by the king's demeanour that nothing determined here would alter his course of action. In short he was going through the motions of compliance with his Council's wishes, but should matters be raised beyond his mental brief, he would curtail discussion and close the meeting.

Outside, an incessant murmur appeared to increase in volume as the minutes went by. It was apparent to the entire complement of the Tower that the rebels had arrived en masse and from the direction of the sound, later confirmed by eye witnesses: St Katherine's Square was thronged with rebels.

Above the clamour of that crowd a trumpet sounded its note a relief amidst the gathering menace beyond the walls of the Tower. It rang out twice followed by the sound of running feet. The door to their chamber shook as it was roughly knocked. At the open door, a man-at-arms declaimed his purpose:

"An emissary for the king!"

He made way for a doubletted man to enter. At the sight of all the nobles, he hesitated, but the king's boyish voice put him at his ease:

"Come forward, Sirrah! Let me see your embassy!"

At once the tension seemed to drain from the young man's face as he broke into a smile, but then remembered the protocol and fell down on one knee, then looked up to address Richard:

"Your Majesty! I have been sent to deliver this message," And so saying opening the pouch to reveal a folded parchment with a waxen seal, and handing it over to Richard, who took it, saying:

"Rise, Sirrah. What is your name and rank?"

The young man drew himself up proudly, before answering: "Harold Watson, Sire; yeoman," then, this time bowing, declared: "Your most humble servant, Sire."

The king looked pleased smiling at Watson, then waving de Vere aside, who had taken a pace forward, ostensibly, it seemed, to perform that service for the king, who slid his fingers between the folded paper breaking the seal. There was a piece of paper within which the king took to read first, as, it seems, had been intended. But the king's reaction on reading it took everyone by surprise. He visibly blanched, dropping the note to the floor, and stepped backwards into the waiting hands of two courtiers.

There was silence and the young messenger also seemed stunned. Then Salisbury stepped forward and picked up the paper noting the king still held the main parchment. After picking it up, he asked:

"May I read it Sire?"

To which the king waved his hand which Salisbury took as meaning assent. Warwick and Oxford both came up to him asking in unison: "What is it?"

Salisbury said nothing handing the note to whoever would take it. It was Warwick who took it, and he read, the two words in large Gothic capitals, whispering:

"Remember Limoges!"

De Vere looked quizzically at, first Warwick, then Salisbury who simply yawned addressing Warwick, the older man: "You'll know of course, my lord, that Limoges was the last castle to be besieged by his majesty's father, Prince Edward, who was angered by the bishop, his eldest son's godfather, for betraying him in turning the castle over to de Guesclin, the French leader. What happened then......"

He suddenly stopped remembering Richard's presence. He said nothing more and after a moment de Vere turned to Warwick as if to speak but Salisbury losing patience took the note from Warwick explaining to the young Earl of Oxford:

"It's like this de Vere: Limoges fortress was destroyed by Prince Edward's band of miners, the leader of which was, one, Wat Tyler."

He paused a moment, then added: "Compris?"

The king meanwhile had recovered his composure and asked Salisbury to peruse the second letter, which was also in the packet. He left his courtiers and came over to the grey-haired earl:

"To save time, noble Salisbury, just, read the essential details."

Salisbury asked the king if he would like to be seated, and at once, the entire company still standing offered their seat. But Richard sank into one provided by a courtier, the king waving everybody to do the same. Then turning to the archbishop he apologised for forgetting his advanced years. Salisbury meanwhile had scanned the message deciding to omit the ungainly greeting, realising that no lawyer could have composed it. He read:

"Be it known to your majesty that your loyal Commons do desire you to know the terms of our manifesto. One, that His Majesty may grant His loyal commons the ending of serfdom and villeinage from this day forward. Two, that Your Majesty may ordain that the tenure of land be granted at the fixed rental of four pence per acre. Thirdly, may it please Your Majesty to ordain that contracts between lord and tenant be freely entered into and wages shall not be limited but concluded by free negotiation between master and servant. And that it shall please your majesty to affix the Great Seal of the realm, and that having been thus ordered, any miscreant to the order may

be deemed a traitor. Furthermore, that any lawyer not agreeing to such proceeding shall be deemed traitor. Death to all traitors! That this manifesto be the will of the King and his true Commons. Given unto writing this day of our Lord Wednesday the twelfth of June, thirteen hundred and eighty-one, by the names, hereunder: Wat Tyler, Father John Ball, Jack Straw, Robert Hales, William Johnson, Richard Pomfret, Nicolas Goche, Ralph Echeman. God Save the King!"

The earl stopped declaiming and turned to Richard who said nothing. During the earl's reading aloud, there had been suppressed smiles as the schooled among the company listened to the quaintness of the language used. The senior earl however considered it a fine effort undertaken by men who distrusted lawyers and learned men. It was the earl of Warwick who broke the silence, by warning:

"We shall hang their manifestos around their necks before they are hung, drawn...."

The king turned to look at the earl who suddenly stopped, and looked to have been taken aback at the king's rebuke: "In the safety of this Tower you speak boldly, my lord. What have you done ere now to rescue my kingdom?"

Richard then turned to address all present: "Your Grace," referring to the Archbishop of Canterbury, then nodding at Richard Hales: "Lord Treasurer!"

And, taking in all and sundry, suddenly impatient with the stultifying protocol:

"Noble earls, gentlemen! In a short time, your sovereign shall depart this Keep, cross the inner and outer Baileys, towards the Lions Tower, and thence via the Causeway to the Barbican where the rebel leaders shall meet with the royal party. Thence we go to their prescribed meeting place."

He turned towards the archbishop and his treasurer: "Once I leave the Tower Your Grace, my absence will put your lives in jeopardy. I beg your forgiveness Holy Father, because the safety extended to my person, and.." Here the king included his courtiers, but then deliberately lowered his eyes to the ground, as if purposefully to exclude everyone else, before continuing, "selected courtiers, and cannot include...."

He stopped his voice lost in emotion and Salisbury noted his lips quivering recalling his own youth, and the hard struggle to control his feelings.

Warwick said somewhat impatiently: "But, Sire. We can defend the Tower."

To which Richard retorted: "With your few retainers, milord. My father told me two hundred archers were needed to defend the walls alone."

Then, turning to his erstwhile companion, the same-aged, Earl of Derby, scion of Lancaster, the king said bitterly: "Had your father not taken an army to Scotland, we should have enough, and more to rout the rebels ere now."

His uncle jumped up to defend his elder brother: "That is not fair, My Liege. Would you have your kingdom invaded by Scots as well as by rebels."

Thomas, Duke of Somerset, may well have said more, but Richard said acidly:

"Lancaster wants my crown and when I am dead, the duke will put his son in my place."

At this rebuke, directed at his absent father, the young Earl of Derby hung his head, and Richard increasingly irate suddenly noticed the emblem of the House of Lancaster, not on Henry, but on the gown of William Appleton, crying out in his young piping voice:

"I should divest myself of that red rose, noble friar. The Duke's retainers have long since neglected to wear his livery in public for fear they be set upon, especially in this City of London."

Then, once again turning to the archbishop: "Your Grace, I humbly beg your forgiveness, as I go now to meet my lowliest subjects. Please," he implored, "do try to find some means of escape."

Finally, addressing everyone not of his entourage, the king said: "The protection of your sovereign will be in the hands of a common villein, Wat Tyler. Yet I trust him gentlemen because my father trusted him."

So saying the king invited his courtiers to keep close to his person as he left the chamber leaving his erstwhile council of ministers silent, and heads bowed.

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"You are master of London," were Father Ball's opening words when they had gained the street outside of Thomas Thacker's Goose and Gridiron hostelry. It was the morning of Friday, 14th of June and Wat Tyler reflected upon a momentous four days starting with the march to Canterbury on Monday. By this time they were sitting in a whirlicote, but before Father Ball pulled the reins and uttered his normal 'clickety-click' with tongue and teeth to the horse, he turned to Tyler:

"Your embassy was delivered to the Tower within the hour. I chose young Watson to carry it. He's a sensible fellow and well turned out. He won't let us down."

Tyler said: "If he's your man there's no doubting that. It's as well I shall be on the Causeway of the Tower to await events."

At which the priest issued his command and they were off. As the whirlicote flew along the Poultry, Eastcheap, Walbrook the priest had to negotiate his way past other vehicles, narrowly missing passers-by who shook their fist with shouts of 'road-hog' among the printable curses which the priest heard with a smile, and doubtless muttered under his breath, some choice epithets in retaliation. And after some time when they were clear of the commercial quarters and the priest allowed the horse to trot, they entered a residential part of London, and the priest could turn his mind to

other matters. He addressed Tyler:

"Our rebels have gathered in St Katherine's Square."

At which Tyler replied: "Then drive there, Father. I must tell them about the meeting with the king at Mile End. It's as well you make your way there after dropping me off in the Square."

The priest picked up the word 'you', protesting: "Won't you be there?"

And, to further questioning about his plan, Tyler simply responded:

"The men trust you Father. The king knows our mind. I can trust you to receive the manumissions. But, I need to be here at the Tower. Should the king agree to our plan, we shall have separated him from the nobility. My next task is to separate the nobles from their retainers."

Once again, Ball could only wonder at the audacity of his leader. He said:

"You mean to execute them?"

But Tyler demurred: "No, Father, not unless I have to. Old Salisbury has proved useful, and the young sprouts de Vere and Warwick will not be a problem. At present, it's a case of divide and rule. The first ones to the block will be from the Church. That will send a powerful message to all the high and mighty in this kingdom. If the archbishop himself is not safe, what price an earl or even a duke."

They had reached the precinct, just yards from the Tower. The cobbles were much more uneven than the City roads. While the priest had to concentrate on his driving, Tyler scanned the walls of the Tower. Neither spoke. The whirlicote turned into the lane leading to St Katherine's Square, and Tyler asked to get out.

He was to rejoin his men. There were some two thousand of his picked archers already assembled. In the next few hours the rebel leader would stamp his authority on this impregnable fortress, as he had done on the City of London. And he would not lose a man in the process. He would do something the best of nobility had failed to do, but then, as England's history amply demonstrates, cometh the hour, cometh the man.

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When the last of Richard's entourage had left and the door had been closed by the man-at-arms there was scarcely a sound apart from the cracking coming from the fire lit to take off the early morning chill within the stone walls of the forbidding Keep. Its flames were reflected in the gleaming silver tableware atop the table on which the king had leaned earlier on reading that chilling message 'Remember Limoges". The Earl of Warwick turned a basilisk stare at the bringer of that message, Harold Watson, the yeoman, who had not moved from the position where he had addressed the

king. Warwick looked around at each of his fellow nobles. Finally he spoke hostility in every word:

"What shall we do with him, this coxcomb, who brought our lord such bad news."

Watson himself spoke not a syllable and his eyes were downcast not daring to look at any of the assembled company. It was the Earl of Salisbury who took up the question posed by his fellow earl:

"Do with him, my lord. He is a messenger, and should be accorded the normal respect for such."

But Warwick scoffed at this notion:

"My lord, these courtesies are for the nobility, not lowborn jackanapes such as he."

But Salisbury would have none of it: "My lord, you are not yourself. Would you honestly expect the king to countenance such discourtesy."

And then turning to the yeoman, said: "Go, lad; but first stay and take some refreshment."

The last word was scarcely uttered when Warwick spoke again: "Refreshment!"

He almost spat the word out, adding spitefully: "He shall have refreshment anon when I have finished with him. Seize him!"

This latter to his bodyguards, Warwick pushing the old Earl of Salisbury back in his chair, with the words of contempt: "Take some rest uncle. You need it."

His two bodyguards pinioned Watson's arms who remained silent, until Warwick approached him using threatening language, then asking:

"Where is this Tyler, you miserable wretch?" and when Watson said nothing, added: "You'll regret ever coming near the Tower by the time I've finished with

you."

Then to his men: "Take him to the lower floor where the thumb-screws are. We mustn't do anything here. It might offend uncle. We wouldn't want that."

His men took Watson to the door, and Warwick ordered his fellow earl, de Vere to open it. But scarcely was the door ajar when an arrow thudded into the woodwork of the door jamb. A second arrow followed and de Vere slammed it quickly.

Then Watson spoke, addressing the Earl of Warwick: "My lord, if I am harmed, none of you will leave the Tower alive. The Tower is ours."

Then the old earl spoke quietly from where Warwick had shoved him:

"Now, my lord, perhaps you will talk sense, or not at all." Whereupon Warwick scowled and was silent while Salisbury turned to Watson:

"What do you want us to do, Yeoman? Our lives are in your hands."

Watson, now free of Warwick's men, addressed Salisbury: "If you'll allow me my lord."

And the old earl gestured whereupon the yeoman went to the door and made five distinct knocks upon it and it was opened by a man-at-arms. He stepped outside and showed himself, then reappeared:

"I'm leaving now gentlemen. You will remain here until word comes. As far as I

know, only noblemen will be permitted to leave. Their retainers, including those in

the Beauchamp Tower and other towers, must stay."

And then addressing the old earl: "Thankyou, my lord."

Then turning on his heel he was about to leave when there came a piping voice from the corner. It was the Archbishop of Canterbury, he said: "Forgive my noble friend, yeoman. He meant no harm." He gave the sign of the cross whilst Warwick sat silent his face black as a thundercloud as Watson left the chamber.

Outside the White Tower and having made his dispositions, Tyler waited on the stone causeway observing the activity at the drawbridge controlling the Lion Gate. The drawbridge was in a permanent raised position on his orders as there was a great deal of activity from his men taking up positions along the casemates, but, more importantly, to know the moment when, by a signal from his lookout, king Richard was spotted leaving the Tower via Coldharbour Gate

Nervously he glanced towards the Wakefield Tower the umpteenth time where, upon its ramparts his keen-sighted lookout would have the best view of anyone leaving or arriving, but there was also a quiet satisfaction that the men in green doublets standing around on the casemates were his followers. The whole operation had proceeded far better than he had dared to hope although he had not anticipated the widespread defection of the Tower's defenders.

It seemed the news from the City had made a great impression and whereas his plan had been to browbeat the king with dire warnings of what might happen, the fact of the defections had emasculated the power of the nobility to marshal what meagre forces they could. In fact the rebels had managed to separate the nobles from their retainers who were already fearful of what might befall them once their masters were no longer in a position to dictate events.

All escape routes had been covered, as far as Tyler could know from what he could discover from the Tower's defenders, although he had only been able to post a woman at the bottom of St Thomas' Tower where there steps leading down to a small creek with direct connection to the river. What was the king doing? Would he try to escape? Anxiety swayed his judgement.

He would wait no longer. He strode over the short drawbridge of the Lion Gate and mounted the circular steps onto the ramparts. From here he could view the Bulwark Gate and beyond the stables where grooms were readying horses for the king's expedition to Tyler's intended meeting place, Mile End. He would not be there, but he trusted Father Ball to put their demands, which, the King was already aware of.

Having decided to go into the Tower, Tyler walked across the semicircular tower, named Lion Gate, shading his eyes from the sun to peer over to the Wakefield Tower, which was in direct line of vision with the nearer Middle Tower beyond the Byward Tower. He waited awhile wondering whether to let the lookout know his changed position, and decided against by withdrawing back the way he had come. Yet, at that moment, his archers, blocking his view, calmly moved to one side allowing him to observe his lookout, who was now frantically signalling with both arms akimbo that the king was on his way.

His uncertainty, at last, was over and having regained his former position on the Causeway, he anxiously now looked for the size of the king's party as that would determine just how many horses to fetch, and would there be sufficient? Was that a woman with the king? Then he thought he recognised her; it must be Princess Joan. This was a surprise but he still had a whirlicote available, and he sent his boy to notify the stables that it should be brought to the precinct.

There was still plenty of time as the king and his entourage had to negotiate the labrynthine passages, the circular steps, and the raising and lowering of internal drawbridges at various points between the central keep and the external walls. Heaven help them in an emergency. He congratulated himself, thinking, just like this moment which very fact had enabled him to secure the Tower so quickly.

Tyler thought about his boy just posted to the stables, smiling at the way he had lead his two messengers astray yesterday. When he had recalled their mentioning a boy called Nipper, it didn't strike him as being the same boy whom they had rescued from the Fleet Prison. How useful he had made himself by offering to hold the reins of their horses tempered by having found him curled up asleep in a whirlicote. Yet, now he was proving a God-send.

When he returned from his errand, Tyler addressed him: "Got another errand for you Nipper," and the boy responded:

"You sure like giving orders, don't ye," which piece of cheek confirmed Tyler's guess. He said: "Tell you what. There's a slap-up breakfast in it, and it ain't far to go,"

slipping easily into the boy's vernacular:

"Oh, yeah!" retorted Nipper: "I've 'eard that afore; where to?"

Tyler told him to post to the Aldgate and notify the warden, Walter Sibley, to expect a large party soon. The king was going to be one of the party. The boy was on his way, but could not resist turning round and shouting:

"If the king be by, I deserve supper too."

Then he was away and Tyler laughed at the boy's native brazenness recalling his own dark memories of boyhood. He was joined in the laughter by many of his archers who had taken up station around the precinct, clearly ready for any trouble which might arise from anyone in the king's entourage. On seeing the king leave the Lion Gate, he called the groom to bring up his majesty's charger from the nearby stables.

He had given orders that everyone with the exception of the king himself was to unbuckle any weapon about their person. They were also on their honour not to attempt escape. So he felt less apprehensive when he began to feel surrounded by strangers, but then any unease lifted when he observed these courtiers whose sole interest in life seemed to be to cut a dash. He looked at their foppish clothes with disdain although their looks betrayed fear, fear of the bronzed, black-leather clad man, and, through what they had been told of this man, a man who had, alongside his fellows, cut down some of the aristocratic nobles of France.

The courtiers parted an instant, and then Tyler noticed the boy, dressed in a simple surcoat, bearing the lilies of France. He looked diminutive looking up at him with a shy smile. Both boy and man had recognised each other instantly. It was the Richard of Bordeaux Tyler recalled meeting in France alongside his mother, Princess Joan. Yet he did not forget protocol, and bent his knee, dipping his head in submission. As he rose he heard Princess Joan's voice:

"So Captain Tyler! You haven't lost your love of command." For an instant he was taken aback and could only mutter:

"We saw better days in France, my lady,"

Standing up to address Richard: "We have your horse ready, Sire."

He motioned the groom forward, who helped the king onto his horse. Tyler turned to the king's mother: "If you would care to ride in a whirlicote, m'lady?"

He asked the groom to lead the vehicle towards the lady. As Tyler signalled his men, posted in front and behind the royal entourage, to move which they did, he felt her eyes upon him. Then he was distracted by seeing Richard say something to a courtier, who now approached Tyler:

"His majesty would like to know his destination, Sirrah,"

The man's truculence irritated Tyler who answered: "My men know the way, and will guide his majesty. Return to your horse, Sirrah," the last word stressed leaving the courtier in no doubt of his irritation, and he hurried back to the king, who waved him away.

Tyler said to Robert Wales: "Father Ball will be waiting at Mile End, Rob. I've given you a hundred men, but you won't need to bring them back. Get them to Mile End, and your job's done."

But Rob was still concerned about the wagon load of people who had been specially recruited to accompany the king's party. They were the clerks who would draw up the charters, one for each county. However Tyler reassured him they would pose no problem, and to allow them to find their own way back to the City. As the mounted party got under way, he noted with amusement, the people appearing with pans and sacks sweeping the horse droppings into them. It would be a bumper harvest for the gardens around the area, and proved Father Ball's contention that it was an ill wind, which blew nobody any good.

He was distracted by someone trying to catch his attention from the path leading to the wharf. It was Sally, his spy, and she seemed excited, so he waited until she came near enough to hear her words:

"A geezer in a long gown and a funny 'at was standing on the steps below the Tower, and I 'eard 'im 'ollering for a boat, like the fiends from 'ell were after 'im."

Tyler looked at her with a broad smile creasing his face, and said: "I'm one of 'em, Sally?"

The woman stared at him, as he added: "Because I'm what he wants to escape from. And when I catch up with him, he'll know it."

"What are you on abaht, Mister Wat" She said dumbfounded, and Tyler told her:

"That's some archbishop likely with his funny hat and long cloak. So how did you spot him?" She replied:

"I were on the wharf, like I 'eard someone calling softly, 'boatman, boatman', and I goes over and shouts to 'im. I can only see 'is feet at first, and tells 'im" there'll be a boat ere long, and 'e bends down to try and see who 'tis, an' then I sees 'is funny 'at, but 'e don't seem to 'preciate it, an' disappears like."

Tyler gave her a hug: "Good work, Sally" He said, kissing her on the cheek, which elicited the response:

"Can't you do better than that?"

"Yeah! Keep the grass warm and I'll be along in a jiffy."

He riposted, but, not believing him, she kissed him full on the lips, shouting:

"That'll do for nah!" And she hurried away. Tyler wondered about himself. Once he'd have done like he had promised Sally, but now his heart was elsewhere. Without

more ado, he hurried into the Tower pleased he would be busy for hours. He strode over the drawbridge into the Lion Tower and from there he was soon across the moat via the Byward Tower up the circular stone steps towards his sentinel on the Wakefield Tower. He had seen him shoot an arrow towards the stateroom of the White Tower, hearing the thud as it hit the woodwork. A voice shouted:

"Someone trying to leave without your say-so, Cap'n."

It was the sentinel; he added: "A couple of arrows soon made him change his mind."

Tyler stayed by his lookout awhile. The man-at-arms guarding the prisoners in the White Tower had his instructions and soon saw the first part of his plan operate as he watched Tyler's emissary, Thomas Watson, leave. He waved up at his captain before making his way along the route Tyler had just used into the Tower. It would not be long before the senior nobles followed once they realised they were no longer calling the shots. He saw his man-at-arms enter the stateroom, and soon after people started to leave. They were dressed much as the courtiers, except that more jewellery was on display.

They wore it confident in the knowledge that he had forbidden theft among

his men. He saw the earl of Warwick point to the Beauchamp Tower and Tyler

turned to his sentinel:

"He doubtless wants his retainers to go with him. Now he can find out, like the rest of us, what it's like wandering around London without an armed guard."

Tyler watched while the earls of Warwick, of Salisbury and others, formerly in the White Tower, disappeared towards the Lion Gate leading to the exit before he hurried himself whence they had come. He had business with their retainers, but not just yet. Standing on the Causeway, he basked for a while not only in the sun but also in the knowledge that for the first time in its thousand plus years of history, the Tower had fallen to its attackers; not only that but it had fallen to an attack commanded by a commoner, a common villein. He, Wat Tyler had performed what dukes, princes, earls had failed to do. He was in command of the Tower, and now, he was indeed, Master of London.

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##  Chapter 16

Capture of the Savoy

It rankled, as with a festering sore, Thomas, Duke of Somerset that his life had been spared on the say-so of a commoner, and not just any commoner, but a common villein, a serf, one whom he, the Duke of Somerset, had not only oppressed, but regarded as his right to do so. No less rankled were the likes of the proud Thomas Beauchamp, earl of Warwick, and even the benign earl of Salisbury together with the other nobles, knights, and gentlefolk who were allowed to leave the Tower, by Tyler's permission. They were permitted horses but not their retainers and felt naked as their horses trotted along the streets leading away from the Tower.

They felt themselves exposed and vulnerable unlike any experience in their lifetime. Everywhere they looked seemed hostile, especially menacing being the palls of smoke hanging over the City in every direction they looked, and in particular, from the direction of the river, the blackest pall being where the Temple had once stood.

Their ears were assaulted with bad news not only concerning the Inns of the Temple, but also the ancient property of the Order of Hospitallers, the Priory of St John, the bishop of Lichfield's Palace as well as several prisons, all of which had gone up in flames. And not only were the fires a virulent reminder of danger and menace, but on both sides of the streets along which their horses walked were people whose very looks betrayed hostility and suspicion.

As ever, the ageing but experienced earl of Salisbury's advice proved to be prudent which was to take their time and await the coming of the king's party returning from Mile End. To one earl in particular this advice though prudent served only to increase his resentment, but this time, directed not at the rebels, but at the king himself, who innocently provided sanctuary for his nobility, including Thomas Beauchamp, in allowing them to join his entourage.

Richard had earlier himself seemed unaware of this resentment, dealing usually with the earl of Salisbury whose requests were always polite and deferential. Moreover the king, on leaving the Tower was observed returneing the greetings of the townsfolk with salutes freely given with a smile, as were also salutations coming from the whirlicote where the dowager queen had waved cheerily to the passers-by.

Whereas, now the earls' party, at the rear, where Warwick found himself, the bystanders were heard to utter oaths and threats directed towards them, whereupon Salisbury entreated them to do as they had witnessed the king do, otherwise, they might not reach their destination, unscathed. Thomas Beauchamp was going to make someone pay when, in defiance of Salisbury's advice, he faltered in his salutation, provoking the remark: "That noble thinks himself too proud to greet us does he?"

This comment prompted Salisbury's entreaty: "Raise your arm, my lord, or we are all undone. And smile, for pity's sake!"

But Thomas Beauchamp was not of the smiling sort. The earl was then thirty-seven years of age and some years earlier had been in France with Edward of Woodstock, a fourth royal Edward, that was never to be, though he was not sorry on that score as the legendary Black Prince had never treated him with the respect that he deemed his rank demanded. He recalled one dreadful day when the prince had ordered him and his company of knights to a position on the battlefield protecting one flank of the army from attack.

On querying this disposition, the prince had told him that in his battle plans the knights were to be used for 'mopping-up'. Mopping-up, indeed! That he, a scion of the house of Fitzalan, was commanded that his primary role was to guard these common rustics, the so-called longbowmen, in whom the prince had entrusted the task of breaking the charge of the French aristocracy, nobles such as he. He wondered whether his father would have borne such indignity.

Therein lay the bitterness which had rankled for years and the feeling that perhaps he was not in the same league as his father. The earl had no idea of the streets they rode along, and Eastcheap, Walbrook, Poultry, Westcheap, Paternoster Row were ridden and left behind and all the time, the earl was compelled to raise his arms high in salutation and fashion his features to smile at these gaping townsfolk.

They were not all peasants, but the earl had no concept of the value of people other than his own class, and even among his peers was considered haughty. When the party reached St Paul's the passers-by thinned and Beauchamp was able to devote

his limited intelligence to schemes whereby the nobility might regain the upper hand, and he would come to be regarded as their saviour. But, in whom could he entrust his confidence?

Only Salisbury seemed to have experience in the field, but Warwick was reluctant to divulge his scheme to him. He recalled something his father had recounted about a similar occurrence in France among the Jacquerie, the French peasantry, and how the French commander had regained the initiative by agreeing to a meeting with the rebel leader.

Under a flag of truce a conference had been arranged between Charles of Navarre and Guillaume, the Jacquerie leader, who went to meet the noble without a bodyguard on the assumption the proceedings were governed by the laws of chivalry whereupon Charles had ordered his arrest, and in the very same hour, had him executed, and the rebels were soon hunted down, and the uprising crushed. Warwick's father had commented on the injustice of it all rejecting Charles' excuse that chivalry was null and void between knight and commoner.

Surely their present predicament was similar and the earl speculated whether such a scheme would work in the situation the nobility found itself in. Warwick had to discuss the plan with somebody, but with whom? He was interrupted in these thoughts by shouts of salutation. It was the advance guard of the king's party which had returned from Mile End. He looked in the direction of an approaching rider who, after greeting the Earl of Salisbury, took his leave as Warwick discovered their party

was proceeding to the Wardrobe where the king would be along

with his mother.

Meanwhile the rider came nearer and he heard Salisbury exchanging salutations with him, and as he heard the rider's name, his heart missed a beat. Whereas Salisbury had earlier blocked his view, Warwick was now able to set eyes upon him, and knew he had found his man. It was the earl marshal, Richard Fitzalan, a kinsman, more often known as the earl of Arundel. Now, Thomas Beauchamp smiled with the enthusiasm of someone who had just seen a gold coin on the ground, which nobody else appeared to have noticed, and who was about to claim his prize.

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The seemingly impregnable fortress of the Tower had through a combination of threats, intimidation, massive force and fortuitous guile, masquerading as luck, was, as a consequence, in the power of a common villein, whose first objective, along with that of all the rebels, it seemed, was to secure the death of a particular figure of hatred, one responsible, as the rebels saw it, of much of their woes, centred upon the Poll Tax. This figure of hatred and contempt was the leading cleric in England, namely Simon Sudbury, Archbishop of Canterbury. While the latter was the figurehead for Parliament in the collection of the tax, its chief executor was the Treasurer, Sir Richard Hales.

These two men had been charged by Parliament to levy the Poll Tax upon the whole community, and had elected the archbishop because he was the head of the

Church, which had the most efficient administrative system, and, in Hales, a leading financier to make use of the City's banking facilities. But these facts were lost on the rebels who vented a double wrath on these two leading people because they were seen to lead in imposing the hated Poll Tax.

Other hate figures were lawyers, serjeants (seen as lawyers' lackeys) and friars who were suspected of seeking to undermine the faith of poor people. The rebels' plan was to seize these people, left behind in the Tower, when Richard had departed for Mile End, place them in a wagon, and parade them through the streets of London. To this end a chariot was being fetched from the stables. Tyler meanwhile needed to make haste into the White Tower in order to prevent his men from an understandable anger in executing these people out of hand. He was about to leave the precinct where earlier he had seen off the king escorted by his rebel troop to Mile End, when he was stopped by the woman, Sally:

"I caught this ragamuffin in the stables when you sent for the chariot. Jumped down he did."

At the sight of Tyler, the ragamuffin, tried desperately tp escape calling out:

"Tell 'er, cap'n. I'm workin' for you."

And, to Sally's astonishment, she heard Tyler: "That's right. That's our Nipper. He's been doing great work for the cause."

Sally protested:

"Then wassee doin skulkin' in the back o' this chariot for?"

Nipper exploded: "That's easy to say. I was just catchin' up on me sleep after runnin' errands for Cap'n Tyler. Ain't that right Cap'n?"

Tyler laughed at Nipper's outrage, and asked him: "Had a good breakfast, Nipper? Hope we'll see fewer on those ribs of yours before many days are past."

Then turning to Sally, said: "He's one of my best soldiers, Sally. In fact, I've got another job for him."

And turning to the boy, said: "Are you game Nipper?" And the boy answered:

"Too right I am. What is it?"

Tyler told him to return to Eastcheap and keep an eye on the movements of Sir Richard Lyon, which invoked a typical Nipper interjection:

"That Fleming woolsack!" And Tyler caught Sally's eye dancing like his with merriment at the boy's zest. He told him:

"I'll be along to Stocks marketplace shortly Nipper. Bring me word."

And as the boy ran off, Tyler turned to Sally: "Without your help, the archbishop might have escaped. That's where I'm off now to see him get his just desserts!"

Sally was sombre: "He'll get his desserts alright, just or otherwise; just like he gave the likes of us."

Then, in farewell, adding: "Now, I'm back to the kitchen. Send Nipper along soon. Don't let 'im watch any executions anywhere, Mister Wat, promise me!"

Tyler promised to send the boy back to the stables and bade farewell to Sally who returned to her stables from which a chariot emerged, the driver shouting to Tyler where he wanted him to wait, and he told him anywhere and disappeared through the Lion Gate of the Tower where he was greeted by archers standing guard on the casemates and men-at-arms who both operated the portcullis, drawbridge of the inner towers and acted as sentries. Many were new men who had gone over to the rebels.

The normal work of the Tower had gone on as before because besides being a fortress, the Tower had long since been a royal residence especially for monarchs about to be crowned, as Richard had a few short years ago, which is why he regarded the Tower as a second home. Many of the staff both men and women carried on under the new management as though, for practical purposes, nothing had happened. Food still had to be cooked, bedrooms were still tidied, the cleaning carried on as before.

Tyler passed through Coldharbour Gate and was greeted by Thomas Baker, second-in-command of the Essex rebels, who told him he had great trouble preventing the men from executing people on the spot in contravention of his, Tyler's orders. But Tyler was not alarmed, saying:

"Tom, Keep the archbishop and treasurer. That'll please Straw, I take it."

And taking his arm, said: "Come on, let's go find them. I've got a chariot outside waiting to take them to the marketplace."

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It is often said, especially by those without it, that property is held in higher

esteem within the law than life itself. Yet outside the legal profession among the common people, what, one might ask, is the value, to a thief, say, of a victim's life when that life stands in the way of the theft of that property? Take another case, when 'destruction of property' and 'a life' is weighed in the balance, it proved the former was given greater weight. Such was the experience of Henry, Earl of Derby, scion of the House of Lancaster, when caught by rebels in the Tower one day in June, 1381.

At that time, Henry was fourteen years of age, the same age as Richard II, his sovereign, and they had much in common. They were known to enjoy French love songs and both held Geoffrey Chaucer in like esteem. Evidence of their mutual fascination is, on Henry's part, in awarding Chaucer a tun of sack annually after having listened to a recital of the Canterbury Tales, at a London hostelry although that was far in the future. We know of Richard's fascination because he paid for some of his works to be copied in glorious Gothic script.

Yet despite their love of the arts, their identical age and their mutual family ties, as cousins, their paths diverged to become an unbridgeable gulf. History tells us that Henry usurped Richard's crown, and the first step towards that act may lie in their shared experience of the Peasants Revolt. It is known that both were in the Tower when Richard left to meet the rebel leaders. He was in mortal danger himself, yet seemed to have little concern for his protégé, the eldest son of his uncle, John of Gaunt, at that fraught time, as Henry was left to the mercy of his peers, and the rebels.

It was that same dissident army of rebels that wanted to chop off the heads of Simon Sudbury, Richard Hales, respectively Archbishop of Canterbury and lord treasurer, and others. Many were dragged to the execution block outside the White Tower upon the sward of grass known today as Tower Green. Sudbury, Hales, serjeant-at-arms, Legge and the rest were vilified as the arch exponents of the hated Poll Tax. All the men had attended Richard's meeting in the White Tower, and although the rebels intended no harm to Richard, as they had repeatedly promised, there was no similar guarantee extended to others in the Tower at that time.

Many of the victims were apprehended in the Chapel of St John, as if they believed the rebels would afford some deference to religious institutions. They were clearly out of touch with the common people, as was the Church, who along with lawyers and nobles, formed part of the odious trio that the common people believed was causing them so much misery. Henry was surrounded by the rebels who had not, at first, recognised him as the eldest son of another hated figure in England, namely, the Duke of Lancaster.

The reason for this special odium lay in the fact that the Poll Tax had been levied as a result of Lancaster's failed campaigns in France. Also some people believed he was conspiring against Richard II, their lawful king. And that he had been behind the iniquitous Parliamentary statute that had forbidden commoners increasing their wages, and had placed penalties upon lords whom the villains, through bargaining, had seen fit to grant them higher wages.

They were angered that he seemed to be beyond their reach having departed to the north on a specious excuse of fighting invading Scots, and so were anxious to find some means of giving him pain. Learning from the young Henry himself that he was from the hated Gaunt family, they began dragging him out of the Chapel. It was the fortuitous presence of John Ferrour, yeoman, that had halted the proceedings until the rebel leadership had decided the matter. Tyler greeted his former comrade in France, John Ferrour being over-the-moon at their reunion but too soon their rapture had to wait awhile though Tyler remembered his strong trust in Ferrour's judgement.

Tyler listened to Ferrour having great respect for his argument that the rebels should use Henry as an open-sesame into the Savoy Palace. Yet, there were other voices raised against the boy, and one of them made his views known very quickly. By now the rebel forces from Essex and Kent had coalesced, and weight had to be given to the men of Essex. When Jack Straw, the Essex men's leader, heard that Henry had been caught, he strutted towards John Ferrour and his prisoner.

Seeing Tyler, Straw demanded Henry, shouting: "Away with him to the block. Then we can send his head to the duke himself. What are we waiting for?"

From the murmur of the men he had struck a vengeful chord from those who had already tasted blood and wanted more of the same.

"My idea is better," retorted Ferrour, turning to Tyler: "We can get back at Lancaster through his property. It seems you tried once before to raid the Savoy Palace. This boy will give us entry with no more of your comrades getting killed and injured. Then, once inside, we can burn it down."

Straw was scornful: "We can do both," he argued to Tyler: "We can chop him, and burn the Palace."

Tyler turned to Ferrour: "He's right!", yet Ferrour insisted: "Not without losing a lot of men. Remember, yesterday. He's your passport."

Then turning to the boy: "This is your only chance, lad."

And the boy pleaded with Tyler: "I'll do it, Sire. I'll do it."

Tyler mused unperturbed by the raucous catcalls from Straw's followers: "Twixt his pocket and his loins."

Ferrour intervened shouting to everyone who would listen: "Where do we hit Lancaster where it hurts?" He laughed at his own joke to come: "Through his pocket."

Tyler joined in, and his infectious mirth got the others going. It broke the tension. Tyler spoke to Ferrour: "We'll give it a go."

Ferrour took the boy by the shoulders telling him: "I've saved your skin m'lad; what d'you say?"

"I'll do it, Sire. I'll do it", the boy said close to tears, and burying his head in

Ferrour's cloak. "You'd better" said Straw grimly. Tyler eyed Straw and used a persuasive argument:

"We haven't the time for another long battle. They'll let the boy in, and we'll rush the gate. The Palace is otherwise only accessible from the river. It's the only way."

Straw answered unconvinced: "If you say so, Tyler. Or, we'll have your head."

So saying, he gave Tyler a playful punch. It hurt and Tyler winced. To the fretful boy, Ferrour took his chin saying:

"Henry, you're father has many possessions, but only one son."

The boy nodded vigorously, bravely through his tears. They were all distracted by a shout from the pulpit: "Who have we here?"

Straw was there in an instant. There was another shout: "Come out of there you varmint." Then, again: "Out of there!"

What appeared was the grey head of an old man: "Who are you?" a voice asked, and the old man answered: "William Templeton. I'm just a simple friar."

He would have been well advised to keep quiet about that as friars were as badly regarded as preachers. He looked around for sympathy and finding none cast his eyes to the ground. Straw then shouted triumphantly:

"Look he wears the red rose ...." and a chorus echoed him: "of Lancaster."

Then the old man spotted Henry and humbly pleaded: "Young Derby, Sire. Wilt thou not protect me?"

"He can't protect himself," sneered Straw, adding: "No use looking his way."

The future king hung his head. Then Straw shouted, excitedly: "We can't shave his son, but we'll give Lancaster's friar his very own tonsure. Away with him! To the block!"

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Studying the successful commanders of previous centuries, one salient fact emerges, that of ensuring they have the latest information to hand so that an accurate picture can be formed as a necessary precedent to making, often vital, decisions, and varying a decision as later information emerges. The main reason for Thomas Beauchamp feeling himself hemmed in was because he was not getting any information about events. He was subject to circumstances, out of his control, as it was the same for most of the nobility.

The Earl of Salisbury, meanwhile, had decided to await the king's party, yet once safe within the protection afforded by the king's presence, he had no idea of the whereabouts of another safe house. London's streets were filled with hostile elements, there were many residences in flames or occupied by the rebels. Moreover there was no intelligence reaching him where the nobility could go for safety. The Earl of Arundel's sudden appearance providing them with such a haven was fortuitous yet it only afforded a temporary respite.

Wat Tyler in contrast had the latest information and was making use of it in thinking well ahead. The gates of London's defensive wall were either occupied by his men or those whom he knew and he could trust the gatekeepers, and the latest message was that William Grindcobbe, whom he understood was back in St Albans, had returned to London and had put his two thousand rebels under Tyler's command. Men were needed as the huge residences taken over by the rebels for their accommodation had first to be attacked in force and Grindcobbe was given the north-east of the city so that the rebels' grip on the City was maintained in all parts.

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Unlike the Marshalsea and Fleet prisons, the Savoy was heavily defended and had already successfully resisted the rebels' first attempt, the previous day. But now, the rebels, through the guile of John Ferrour, with the approval of Tyler, had secured the person of the fourteen year old Henry, the duke's heir, captured in the Tower, and who now would provide them with access to the Palace without rebel casualties.

Once the boy, fulfilling his promise to Tyler, but also, pressed by the menace of rebel longbows, had shown himself to the guards and the gates had been opened to allow him inside, it was a simple matter to rush the gate, and the guards had been quickly overpowered.

Wat Tyler found himself back in Granada, and wandering through the Wardrobe he recognised immediately the provenance of much of what was displayed there. The sheer scale of the plunder amassed by the duke also had to be transported from Spain and Tyler recalled that often Gaunt's own fighting men had been denied a place aboard a ship to make way for his plunder, charged, of course, to the government.

Tyler ordered his chosen leaders to organise the rebels in such a way they were not hampering themselves. Robert and his men would search the Wardrobe, which in the 14th century, was a repository of artefacts, such as armour, weapons, pictures, vestments, chandlery of all kinds.

They were all carried outside into the courtyard or gardens for the purpose of disposal, which was to prove very difficult. A gang ascended the stairs to strip the solar bedrooms of their four-posters, covers, sheets, headboards, personal clothes etc. Another gang concerned itself with the state rooms where there were arrays of gold, silver and gilded vessels of all kinds, ornaments, carpets, statues, precious books. Other rebels wandered downstairs into the cellars and kitchens and did not need to look far for carcases of meat, storerooms of flour, vegetables, fruit, dairy products.

The cellar held not only enormous tuns of wine, but thousands of bottles of wines from all over Europe, which was to lead to catastrophe. As stated earlier, it had been stressed to all the rebels that plunder was forbidden, yet, carried out to the letter, this command was to show its Achilles heel. In the circumstances of the bountiful wine cellars, and most rebels' being unused to wine, their metabolism was soon under its influence, and rebels sank to the floor where they were.

In a state of stupor, oblivious to the damage wrought by their axes on the tuns of wine seeping out and filling the cellars as high as the sixth or seventh step with the inevitable result that some of the rebels were drowned, not without a struggle as when a casual caller found the wine lapping at his feet, he shouted for assistance and then waded in but by then the victims had been under wine too long for recovery and when the dead weight of their bodies were finally heaved out into the open air, they were past reviving.

A problem manifesting itself all too often was the difficulty of destruction. Walter, a rebel in Rob's team, showed Tyler a vestment interlaced with gold fillet and precious stones brought back from Spain. It was so closely woven that hacking with daggers and swords simply served to blunt the blades without having much visible effect upon the garment.

A ceremonial lance was stuck in the ground and the vestment draped over it while archers attempted to pierce it, but it proved impervious even to this treatment. In the end it was laid across a table to be hacked with axes which did so much damage to the table as to the vestment.

Alice Street did sterling work in the kitchens but not in an orgy of destruction which they could hear going on in the upper floors. She and her mates made it their job to comfort the many women and girls who cowered there in fear for their lives.

She organised the evacuation of the kitchens, laundry rooms, store-rooms at first into the gardens, but, as they became frightened at the increasing level of violence, she conducted them outside advising them to slip away as best they could. It was not just the immediate violence, which upset them but their future employment was in jeopardy.

They might for the most part be villeins without rights, but the Savoy for many meant a full belly and somewhere to sleep. Now they had neither. They were innocent victims of the rebellion, a fate they shared with both villein and free adults and children of all the palaces, inns-of-court, prisons, residences of, and belonging to, the nobility, wealthy lawyers, churchmen and any person of rank or wealth incurring the enmity and wrath of the rebels in those few days of the rebellion.

Other occupants of the palace were the guards who were given a sharp choice, join the rebels or else; in any case, they had to divest themselves of the hated red Lancastrian rose. In this occupation Jack Straw thrived. He had never served in France so blood, gore, entrails, his normal stock-in-trade of butcher, had been from animals, and it seemed, to Tyler, he had difficulty in separating one from the other.

His Essex crew also seemed to have little imagination or the capability to put their brain in motion before their hands or feet. On one occasion more fuel was needed for a fire when Tyler stopped Straw from throwing on a barrel:

"Not those!" he had said, laughing, to which Straw grimaced always sensitive to being stopped from anything he had set mind to, retorting:

Why not? You want it for your fire, I suppose."

Tyler's retort: "Not unless you want to send us all to kingdom come."

But Straw was quick with his retort: "Not a bad notion provided you're in the middle."

He still had not twigged, until Tyler remarked dryly: "They're full of gunpowder, that's why!"

Straw scowled telling his men to trundle them back into the store-room, out of harm's way until they could be exploded later.

Tyler thanked his luck he had managed to get hold of the boy Henry, Gaunt's son, and keep him from Straw. He had intended to pass him onto his lover, Alice Street, with instructions to take him to the Goose and Gridiron by whirlicote, but he was nowhere to be found nor was John Ferrour and he formed the strong suspicion that both had escaped from the Savoy during the mad rush to storm through and occupy the palace.

Yet trouble was brewing for although the Essex men recognised Tyler as overall leader, Straw seemed to harbour resentment which surfaced in verbal exchanges as the one already described. Tyler's rule about booty seemed to rankle especially in this palace surrounded by opulence beyond their wildest dreams yet be barred from taking advantage of it due to Tyler's single-minded view that the rebellion was about rights whereas the latter, in Straw's view, included the right to plunder.

It came to a head, as inevitably it must, when Tyler, unwisely, called attention to an Essex man: "Is that one of your men, Straw?"

He pointed to someone whom he had just seen stuffing away a straw covered flagon. Straw, unaware of the man's action, retorted truculently:

"Yeah, what of it?" Tyler eyed the man then said, addressing Straw:

"You know what we agreed!"

And Straw went over to his comrade and said: "What you got there, Jeb?"

He grumbled that it was wine for his supper, later on and Straw turned on Tyler to leave them alone, and mind his own business whereupon, in a rage, Tyler snatched a scabbard from a pile of arms, and brought it with some force against the bulge of Jeb's body. There was a crash, leaving Jeb standing there with red wine running down his leggings and onto the ground.

"You'm supposed to drink it, Jeb, not bathe in it."

Yelled Straw going over to Jeb and pulling him away:

"Come on, Jeb. Let's get away from this madman, else I won't be responsible for what I might do."

He whispered something in Jeb's ear and then they disappeared into a colonnaded walkway which surrounded the gardens. Tyler said defiantly to nobody in particular:

"I told 'em no booty."

But, nobody was listening. They had told each other there was as much gold and silver coin in this palace that would set them up for life. Yet even here Tyler had had experience. Along with his comrade Thomas Thacker he had brought French coin back to London which had been immediately recognised by the bullion merchants in the City. But, the returning soldiers had only been able to spend it because the plunder had been earned in the service of the king. Turning up now with French coin would have aroused suspicion.

So Tyler, perhaps alone among the rebels, knew that no villein, or even freeman, could hope to hide the identity of gold or silver, for their minting marks betrayed their origin. As he helped his comrades load up carts for tipping into the Thames, he listened to their grumbles and tried to explain, but the mystery of coinage was a foreign country to them. As he helped them up-end a cart loaded down with bullion bars, bags of coin, silver tureens, golden statuettes and numerous other items of silver tableware, he realised it could be recovered at a time of very low tides, but it would be a costly exercise, and meantime the duke would suffer some of the deprivations he liked to visit on his poorer compatriots.

He stood on the bank looking back to the palace and noticed the turrets which signified its earlier utility as a fortress. It looked formidable and he wondered whether his mining techniques might be able to reduce it. Yet thinking of Carcassone and Limoges and the damage he and his miners had been able to inflict on these French fortresses, they had had time, which he lacked. This rebellion was about winning rights not reducing palaces. One tower of the place made him shudder being a sheer drop to rocks, a hundred feet below.

He made his way back towards the palace entrance hearing voices raised in argument. It was Straw and that meant trouble. He was accusing Alice Street's half-brother:

"Didn't Tyler say nobody was to take anything. But it's one law for us and another for his majesty's friends."

Tyler came into the arena of argument and Straw spotted him:

"There, Tyler, is your thief!" accused Straw insisting:

"He was trying to pinch that what-is-it? I saw him stuffing it into his sleeve."

Tyler came closer to the scene of the argument, but Straw was at him once more: "Or is it one law for Essex men and another for you Kent mob." He was beside himself and here Echeman spoke:

"It's no use to me. Look, it's a scabbard for a dagger. I was trying to find the dagger; that's all."

Tyler sighed. He knew it meant trouble. No matter the innocence of the appeal, Ralph's action went against the letter of his stricture if not the spirit, but why should Straw see it that way. Just a short while ago, he Tyler had failed to use common sense so why should Straw, who now appealed to his Essex men and some Kentishers who were standing around:

"No booty! right, lads?" He faced Tyler. His blood was up:

"We should string him up."

The situation impacted upon Tyler's mind yet at this very time he became aware of someone at the corner of his right eye handling something familiar which he couldn't quite identify, and in another part of his mind he wondered where Alice might be. Someone tugged at his sleeve. It was Jeb.

"He's dead right." He said adding:

"You didn't let me 'ave that flagon, 's'only fair,"

And, as he turned towards him, the 'something' that puzzled him burst on him with cold fear. It was a cross-bow and it was being wound-up.

Shouts went up to catch Ralph Echeman. They were baying like dogs for blood; and, not just the Essex men. There was a rush towards Ralph who retreated and then just as he was about to be caught, he picked up a sword from a pile of weapons, and pointed it at his pursuers. Then the sight of the cross-bow panicked Tyler who shouted to Straw:

"You wanted rid of me. Now's your chance! It's me, or him." Then, to Echeman:

" Give me the sword!"

As Echeman handed it over, Tyler whispered: "You must run for it!"

In the meantime, Straw gestured to his archer, who lowered the crossbow though it remained shoot-ready. Straw winked at him before addressing Tyler:

"All right, if you want to do it the hard way."

With that he went to the pile of arms for a sword. It did not matter which as he intended his crony to shoot Tyler down before too long.

Tyler glanced momentarily at the double-edged sword handed him, and, where Ralph stood. He hoped Ralph would take his advice and looked to see where he was in relation to the gates through which he might escape, out of harm's way, in case it went badly for him. He briefly caught a glimpse of Alice on the highest battlement. Was she aware of her brother's danger, he thought.

He suspected dirty tricks so needed Straw between him and his archer. He faced Straw, their swords point to point. Then, started the play by pushing Straw's blade up, and lunged at him. Straw retreated, a fountain on his left, and the heaped up pile of arms on his right, so, Tyler reasoned, provided he maintained that position there was less chance of being hit by Straw's crossbow-man.

But, like a cold shower, it occurred to him that Ralph Echeman was not moving. He seemed rooted to the spot. A glimpse of white indicated where Alice also stood on her high vantage point and observed. Straw rushed at Tyler slashing at him from top right to bottom left, then a cross, and more hectic slashing.

Tyler realised that Straw had awoken to his tactics and noticed him try to lean over to allow his archer a good shot so parried the first onslaught but was on the defensive thereafter and retreated to try and get out of range. Whatever Tyler's own agenda was, it was clear Straw's archer would match it for he came closer trying to keep just a few yards from the combat.

Now, it struck Tyler, like an icy shower that he was fighting for his life. He feinted to retreat but rushed forward which caught Straw by surprise as he retreated into his archer who almost fell, and Tyler realised what his tactic might be. He saw Ralph make a move and wondered where he might be.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw an oval of enclosed grass to be avoided so, slashing up and down against Straw's sword thought desperately of some way to disable him without a fatal stroke. It was a tall order.

Meanwhile above him hovered Alice leaning, backing against the crennelated ramparts. He hoped she would notice the gaps for archers. Again, the cold shower struck him, mentally. He heard a movement and in a panic leapt backwards falling over a low edging stone that he had not noticed.

He went backwards and his arms flayed to break his fall losing his weapon making a soft landing on the sward of grass he had tried to avoid, but he was winded. He saw Straw approach, and then, as if in slow motion, watched him, in horror, raise his sword above his head, saw the blade reach its zenith above his head, and start its downward arc to cut him down.

The sun glinted on the sword. He tried to move but could not. He was helpless. The blade was inches away. Above him, the figure of a woman had climbed onto the battlement.

Then, a scream rent the air. But, Tyler did not hear it as the blade, only inches from him, was struck and shattered by a bolt from a crossbow, it made a horrific twang as it struck the steel, ricocheting to graze his temple. Everything went black as he lost consciousness.

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##  Chapter 17

Death of a maiden

The location of Mile End for their meeting with the king was well chosen. It covered a very large area of terrain that was formerly forest but had been cleared for cultivation and the rearing of animals especially sheep, as English wool was prized in Europe. Pasture land had been increased in past decades on account of the Black Death that had blasted not only villeins, but also bailiffs, tradesmen; importantly a number of lords had fallen victim. Their land was often encroached upon, and now, the rebels in their time of need, on the march, were able to find a number of deserted houses and manors to overnight in, as well as, unclaimed animals to slaughter for food.

As the rebels started to assemble for the forthcoming meeting with the king, Father Ball was kept busy administering his various duties of a priest especially confession as, in the general mayhem of the past few days, many were anxious about the state of their souls. The priest, besides being intent on reassuring them on that score was also anxious to address them about the reasons they had started their march in the first place. He found a makeshift podium in an upended tree-trunk and had no difficulty in attracting and holding their attention. He began:

"Good people. Things cannot go right in England and never will, until goods are held in common, and there are no more villeins, and gentlefolk, but we are all unified. In what way are those whom we call lords greater masters than ourselves? How have they deserved it?"

"Speak up, Father! We cannot hear you."

The heckler came from the edge of the crowd and was echoed by 'aye', 'likewise here', or simply, 'here, too'; and the speaker noticed how the people crammed in tighter towards him turning their best ear towards him as he continued:

"Why do they hold us in bondage? If we all sprang from a single father and mother, Adam and Eve, how can they claim or prove that they are more lordly than us except by making us produce and grow the wealth which they spend? They are clad in velvet and Camlet lined with squirrel and ermine while...."

There were cries of 'shame', and one woman in the front shouted: "And fox and stoat which kill our chickens but we're not allowed to kill ourself."

Another voice, a man, shouted: "Aye, even the killing of rabbits for food is denied us. If they catch us they chop off our hands; and, we have to go dressed in coarse cloth,"

Ball held up his hand to continue his theme:

"We are called serfs and beaten if we are slow in our service to them, and, until now we have had no sovereign lord to complain to. The king is, at this very time, on his way to meet us in this place. Let us go unto him and tell him how we are oppressed and show him how we want things to be changed."

Ball fell silent to listen to the murmurings among his fellow rebels, and then he held up his hand at the sight of which their murmuring subsided, and shouting at the top of his voice, declaimed:

"Or else we will change them ourselves!" At which point he jumped down in order to move among them in order to hear their voices, at first hand. There was a loud cheer for a burly man who stepped forward and raised his fist into the air, and shouted:

"Huzzahs for Father Ball," lowering his arm then raising it several times, and

the Huzzahs echoed for several minutes. A lad shouted out:

"Let's sing your song, Father!"

"There were ayes from many quarters so Ball began to sing:

"John the Miller hath ground, small, small, small;

as the King's son of Heaven shall pay for all.

Be ye ware or be ye woe.

Know your ally, know your foe.

Have enough and say: Ho, ho, ho!"

The last line was repeated many times by the crowd, as a chorus, and they would have gone on longer except for one of their number rushing into the throng and telling the priest and everyone that the king had been sighted on horseback. The priest called for his own horse, a sorry looking nag and half-starved, with his ribs showing though the priest was half-starved himself so gave the beast very little burden to carry.

Moreover he remained stationery awaiting the entourage which he followed keenly noting the shining, black charger and the diminutive figure atop it, and despite Richard's small stature, the priest felt nonetheless in awe and not a little anxious about the approaching moment. Everyone now was looking in the direction indicated from where came the thin reedy sound of pipes and the occasional rattle of drums, and the crowd nearest the entourage were seen to draw back a little so as to give the horses more room.

The king had left the road and the horse trotted over firm grass. Father Ball for his part remained near the tree trunk now occupied by many rebels who jostled to get a better view and they saw their comrades outstretched arms pointing to the tree-trunk as denoting to the king that that was the place to which the king should direct his horse. And as he approached, some of the rebels began to draw back leaving the mounted priest on his own.

Meanwhile the king proceeded to walk his horse in front of the crowd, which formed a semi-circle. Although an awesome experience for the young man yet he held his head high, even looking to right and left, above their heads as curious as in wonder, for many of the rebels wore their battle armour, of burnished black leather, others were in brown leather jerkins with archer wrist-guards, although all the men wore doublet and hose.

Yet there was present a degree of menace in the front rank, many of the men armed with a longbow plus a sheaf of arrows across their back. The king seemed to hesitate in studying some of the banners, of, for instance, the Essex men, the men from Hertfordshire, from Kent; although the most popular banner was the vertical red cross of St George on a white background. By now, his courtiers had been left behind, at his command.

The king had made this walk alone while his surcoated courtiers, some

emblazoned with the fleur-de-lys, others with the triple lions of Aquitaine, many also with banners remained ar some distance from their sovereign. Richard, for all his youth, was feeling more at home, among these men. Had he not ridden up and down such lines in France as he accompanied his father, the Black Prince, so-called because he chose to wear the black leather of some wealthy archers? As a child he recalled reviewing his father's soldiers on ceremonial occasions? And, it was clear he knew some of the pennants and may have recognised a former archer, or man-at-arms, as a veteran of recent campaigns in France.

Then, after his third such tour, everyone saw the king hold up his arm whereupon the pipes and drums stopped. The king had halted his horse so that his back was turned upon his entourage and towards the horseshoe of his audience. The only sound came from the horses which snorted, neighed or, manured the grass with droppings. The young king's reedy voice called out:

"Good people! Good people all! I am your lord and king. What do you want to say to me? If you have elected a spokesman, let him come forth."

Now all eyes of the rebel crowd turned towards where they had last seen

Father Ball, but who, because he had felt himself too conspicuous, had dismounted and resumed his place in the crowd. The rebels, where he was standing, fell back and he strode purposefully to the front and towards the waiting king. His tonsured pate shone in the morning sun and his priest's gown, hood down and riding on his broad shoulders, evidently made in the coarsest brown cloth, stood out against even the simple but luxurious surcoat of the king.

He halted a few paces from where the king sat dignified upon his horse and sank to his knee, then rising and crossing himself, he began to speak:

"Good King Richard, your majesty, some import of what we are here for was conveyed to your person in the Tower so you will be aware of the main points of our manifesto."

Richard walked his horse forward nearer the priest, saying: "What is your name, holy Father?" and getting his answer, continued:

"Indeed Father Ball, it was well done and clerks have already been instructed to draw up charters of manumission for each several county. May it please the assembled company that one of these charters be read out."

Then, effortlessly changing to command mode: "Would you address your people and tell them so?"

The priest begged the king's indulgence that he withdraw, and strode back and jumped onto the tree-trunk where he got a round of applause and laughter which broke the tension. He shouted:

"Brothers! Comrades! Good people. One of the clerks in the king's party is

going to read out one of the charters of manumission. Please be silent so that you can all hear it."

Then jumping down and resuming his place before his sovereign, he said:

"If it please you, Sire let the reading begin."

Whereupon one of the clerks, jumped down from his wagon, with his scroll and walked to the same tree-trunk used by the priest. All fell silent as he declaimed:

"Richard by the grace of God, King of England and France, and Lord of Ireland, greets all his bailiffs and faithful subjects whom these letters reach. Know that, by our special grace, we manumit all our lieges and individual subjects, and all others, of the county of Kent, and all of theirs whomsoever they may be, from all bondage, which we make quit by these present letters; and also that we pardon those same lieges and subjects, of all felonies, crimes, transgressions, and extortions, committed by them, or by any of them. In witness whereof we have made these letters patent. Witnessed by myself, at London, on the fifteenth of June of the fourth year of our reign, and anno domini, the thirteen hundred and eighty first year."

When the clerk had finished there was still silence until someone clapped and then another, then a few more until there was a wave of applause which rippled through the crowd. And while this was still in progress, Richard went forward to address the multitude. It was enough to hold up his arm, and there was instant silence. He said:

"Good people. All the charters have been sealed with the Great Seal of England and take immediate effect from today. Send one person for each county to the front to collect your several charters. And now, may I beseech you all to disperse and return to your homes. And may it please you to give your king, my mother, the Princess Joan, and all our party leave to return to London."

Whereupon a great shout was returned from the crowd, and the same fellow that had called for Father Ball to be cheered, now raised his fist in order to salute the king. His call went up:

"Give three cheers for good King Richard. Huzzah, huzzah, huzzah."

And the cheering lasted many minutes whereupon Ball was surprised to see Jack Straw, the leader of the Essex rebels hand the king a paper who handed it to a courtier. Yet the king seemed pleased with the cheering and raised his arm in

acknowledgement, and thus heartened by the applause turned his horse to attend on his mother, the former Princess Joan. He took the bridle of the horse and pulled the whirlicote around to face the way it had come, forcing some mounted courtiers to retreat with difficulty.

Then the king followed the whirlicote inviting his band to resume their playing and so to the trill of pipes and the slow beat of drums, the king's party retreated along the Mile End road, and for a long time the sound could be heard until distance dissipated its sound.

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The news about the rebels' occupation of the Savoy Palace coming hard on the heels of the outcome of the king's meeting with the rebels at Mile End, was the worst possible blow to the old earl of Salisbury. His advice to the King to concede to the rebels' demands had been grudgingly accepted by his peers as the best way forward, but the destruction of Gaunt's Palace seemed to show the concessions at Mile End as craven cowardice in the face of the rebels' increasingly arrogant behaviour and attitude towards the Government.

Salisbury had argued the rebels would gradually return to their homes once

manumission and the other concessions had been granted and many had, but a sufficient number remained, in fact, many thousands who were running riot around the City and were effectively in control of the Tower, the Mint, and, if not

in occupation of Whitehall, by their hassling of members, they were impeding the work of Parliament.

The part played by Henry, the 14 year old son of the Duke of Lancaster was not known principally because few of the guards when the Savoy had been attacked, who had witnessed Henry's role in gaining entry, had survived the onslaught and subsequent slaughter. The young earl himself meanwhile was on his way north with the purpose of rejoining his father, wherever that was likely to be, though he was not alone. He was accompanied by John Ferrour his erstwhile saviour and friend from the Tower and reaching St Albans he would come under the protection of the mightiest noble in the land, the Duke of Lancaster.

Many years later, after the death of the duke, when his son had become Henry IV, having usurped, Richard IIs crown, rumours of Henry's betrayal were for ever scotched when Ferrour, made a prisoner after taking part in an unsuccessful rebellion, was pardoned by Henry, in supposed gratitude for having saved his life.

The capture and destruction of the Savoy Palace was a turning point in the progress of the rebellion. Hitherto the rebel leadership had outmanoeuvred their blue-blooded adversaries. Yet now as the pall of black smoke hung over London, a witness to arson and carnage on a gigantic scale, it focussed the minds of the Government. It became crystal clear, for instance, to Thomas, Duke of Somerset, Gaunt's brother, and now nearest the king, that desperate measures were called for.

Should his elder brother return and not only find his Palace in ruins but no active steps being taken to apprehend and punish the culprits, it would not only be the rebels that would feel the depth of his anger. Not a few of the aristocracy might well come within the compass of his ire.

In this charged atmosphere Thomas Beauchamp sought an audience with Richard, Earl of Arundel, his cousin, through the family name, Fitzalan. The earl had been highly regarded by Richard's warlike grandfather, Edward III, though his son, the Black Prince, judged his friends by their actions, and his star had waned when the earl, admiral of the English fleet, at the time, had failed to rendezvous with his forces at the mouth of the Adour, northern Spain prior to the Black Prince's successful campaign ending with his victory at Najera.

It was not only the failure to make this rendezvous, after all the Prince knew about contrary winds, and winds that were insufficient to fill the sails of ships, however urgently they were needed, it was the manner of the earl's failure. A common seaman had suggested to Arundel that the square-rig of the sails should be altered, in line with his experiences in the Mediteranean, and by this means, the ships could tack against and before the wind, and thus make some progress. The seaman was rewarded by Arundel by hanging him from the same square-rig, until he was dead, for the crime of thinking he was cleverer than his betters. Such was the earl of Arundel's character, insular, unimaginative, and arrogant: a typical Norman inferior to an Anglo-Saxon villein.

He brushed the prince's reported anger aside with his usual disdain, believing himself to be, as England's chief landowner, and owning more land, as 'mightier than the monarch'. "I shall take no lessons from the prince," he was reported to have said, 'whatever exploits he doth carry!' It is not known whether the Earl of Arundel was aware of his cousin Warwick's own contempt for everyone, but himself.

Yet these were desperate times and Arundel listened to Warwick with mounting interest, if not, excitement. He also shared his cousin's contempt for the lower orders of society agreeing that any undertaking, for the sake of expediency, involving the code of chivalry, need not be binding upon a noble, however much a commoner felt himself bound by such a code. More fool he, might have been his verdict.

Arundel confided in his junior cousin, using a nautical term: "We live too much in the backwash of the French campaigns, cousin. Credence is given to any nonentity who happened to have fought in France. Look where old Salisbury has brought us. He is still fighting the French nobility."

Warwick listened avidly. These words found an echo with his own thoughts

on the matter. Arundel continued: "We must treat these rebels as the common peasants they are, not as some adversary deserving our respect. Salisbury would parley and compromise and the rebels depart and return with yet more demands. We will parley and compromise with another purpose."

These words filled Warwick with joy. He said: "You have spoken truly, noble cousin. What should we do next? The matter is pressing."

Arundel leaned over in conspiratorial fashion, saying softly: "One thing, cousin, is the need for secrecy: absolute secrecy. Salisbury, especially, must not hear of this. You might know that I am likely to be appointed one of the official guardians of the king. This gives me the authority to advise who, and who should not, be in close proximity to the king's person."

Warwick replied: "I warrant you deserve this high office, my lord, and it doth seem fortunate that I came to you, and to no other."

Arundel was pleased with his cousin's praise and continued to outline to Warwick his plan:

"We must find someone acceptable to both the king and the rebel leader. Then we need someone to convey a message for a meeting with the rebels."

And Warwick immediately became more cheerful as he had information to impart. He said: "I was present when a messenger brought news from Tyler to the king, himself. It was the first or second day of the rebellion. He is Salisbury's man,

though, this messenger."

"No matter; we can advise Salisbury without revealing our true purpose. Our next task is to find an intermediary acceptable to both the king and this Tyler jackanapes."

This from Arundel but Warwick emboldened by his previous suggestion

finding favour, said: "I hear the rebels are demanding that Parliament ratify their manifesto. Soon they will be making laws themselves."

Yet the contempt in Warwick's tone brought only a smile from Arundel,

who said: "That be the very thing, my lord, a Parliamentarian! Acceptable to both

the king and the rebels with the purpose of ratifying their manifesto, but, instead

of a pen to undersign it, our man will use his sword."

Warwick laughed nervously, as he suggested: "A dagger will be easier to hide, noble cousin, but think you we can get someone from the Parliament to agree to this?"

Arundel was not put out, he said: "If Blyton, our messenger, will tell Tyler that he has been recommended by, say, the Speaker, that should surely be acceptable."

Warwick was doubtful:

"I listened to Blyton delivering his message to the king. It seemed to me that Tyler is not an easy man to persuade."

Arundel said: "We have little time. The king will meet in Council early tomorrow. What think you of William Walworth?"

Warwick brightened: "The Lord Mayor. He'd sell his grandmother for a preferment."

"We can do better than that." said Arundel, "A knighthood should bring

him into our fold; or, whatever it takes."

Warwick was still sceptical: "And further debase the nobility!"

But Arundel was persuasive: "We need him more than he needs us. And it must be soon."

Yet Warwick still had reservations: "What of Tyler's archers! when they see their leader being attacked."

But Arundel interrupted him: "Remember Richard is the son of the Black Prince whom they worshipped. As long as Richard's life is in danger, they won't shoot. Besides, it's their Achilles heel. They'll wait for a command which will never be given because..."

Warwick finished the sentence: "Their leader will be dead."

"Amen to that." Said Arundel, and he became business-like:

"The rebel leadership is, at present, at the Tower. Send old Salisbury my greetings when you request Blyton. They are both in the building. The king is already aware of the Smithfield meeting but not our intent. At the Council meeting, we must find some way to confer without the king."

Warwick said: "Perhaps we could retire for refreshment and then part the king from his other councillors."

Arundel agreed with his fellow earl, saying: "Yes, some such way would be expedient."

Arundel arose with the words:

"Within the space of the next few hours we shall know who governs this realm. I

am resolved, cousin, it will be not be a rebel."

This promise emboldened Warwick, perhaps unwisely, to declare: "In this last week, noble cousin, the king himself, it seems has become something of a rebel."

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In the hectic environment of London, in the unrest of the civil disturbance which

marked out that period, four women found themselves closeted in the others' company. It was an emergency which brought Alice Perrers, aged 41, ex-mistress of the late King, Edward III, Katherine Swynford, aged 31, ex-governess of the Duke of Lancasters children but, at the time, his concubine, Philippa Chaucer, aged 29, her sister and wife of Geoffrey Chaucer, absent in France on an embassy, and still years away from his masterpiece, The Canterbury Tales, and the fourth woman, their hostess, Princess Joan, aged 53, dowager widow of Edward of Woodstock, famed to posterity as the Black Prince.

Many dreadful things happened at that time, but one event was outstanding which the young 14 year old, Richard had anticipated. He had first sent a messenger to the Savoy Palace warning the women whom he thought might be resident there to be ready to leave followed an hour later by a lumbering wagon whose driver had

instructions to collect the ladies and their clothes and other effects and bring them to

the Great Wardrobe, the king's own residence in Whitehall, which was now to be a

sanctuary for John of Gaunt's immediate family.

Within hours of their rescue the Palace had been utterly destroyed by rebels

conscious they were striking a blow at the Duke of Lancaster, who was perceived as

the profligate architect of the Poll Tax. His close relatives had been rescued yet it could not have escaped notice that their escape from harm had not been brought about

by their own friends. It was openly admitted that the nobility were significant only by

their absence. Against the rebels, these dukes, earls, barons, owning most of England,

including armies of retainers, obligated to do their bidding, had proved powerless at the time when firm action had been most needed.

Alice Perrers put the point crudely, even cruelly: "My Eddie had more oomph in his senile willy than the whole pack of pricks put together."

The Fair Maid of Kent, Princess Joan smiled, winsomely, at Perrers saying quietly: "My own Eddie would say outrageous things of the Gascons, and others,

though he used a different turn of phrase. But, I agree our lords and masters have not

proved equal to the task in hand."

This exchange took place in the sleeping quarters where the three ladies had

been settled as a temporary arrangement until more appropriate accommodation was

arranged. On the morning after their removal to the Great Wardrobe, Princess Joan had called on her guests to enquire after their comfort in keeping with her perceived

duties of a concerned hostess after having first sent her personal lady of the bedchamber to their quarters with a warming, and, as it turned out, welcome, cup of

mead, still reeking from the red-hot poker used to heat the liquid. Only after having been assured by her servant, her guests were ready to receive her, the princess duly knocked and entered with her customary cheery greeting to one and all:

"Good morrow, ladies."

To Philippa Chaucer she gushed: "My Lady Philippa, do pass on to your husband," and in explanation of her words, drew out a hefty volume, beautifully illustrated, and read out the title, 'The Good Duchess,' adding, "what a fitting tribute to our late departed sister!"

Alice Perrers seemed visibly to focus her attention upon the recipient of this

praise, saying dryly:

"What a paragon of virtue was the Lady Blanche," and then leaving no doubt at

whom she directed her remark, added: "Are you sure, Lady Katherine, you would want to match her virtue?"

It was a pointed barb which her sister Philippa countered by turning upon Alice's

recent services: "My Geoffrey is writing, The Good Mistress, Dame Alice. Should I suggest he come to you for your story."

Dame Alice was familiar with innuendo, she riposted: "No, I'm the last one to listen to. First he must interview all the lower orders of nobility, dukes, et cetera. I confess to know nothing on such matters. But the Lady Katherine, no doubt, would. Eh, milady!"

Katherine visibly blushed, and the Princess attempted to divert the conversation

by holding up her book in the air then hugging it, exclaiming:

"We still need the Lady Blanche. What a pity, she is gone from us."

But Alice Perrers was scornful: "She was an angel and now she is with her own kind."

Then, addressing the princess direct: "Meanwhile, we normal mortals, have to make do."

Here the princess, thinking to embarrass Dame Alice, commented: "Yes, some with kings, dukes, princes. What know we of the common folk."

Whereas the dame took the remark in her stride, addressing the princess:

"Indeed, what know we of common folk, milady! Knew ye, these rebels, these

villeins, were common folk!"

It was not a question, but a challenge, directed at the princess but intended also to include the company.

But Philippa missed the point entirely leaping to defend the princess. She spoke

directly to Alice: "Shame on you, Dame Alice. What should the Princess Joan know of such commoners; and the princess in mourning for her prince!"

This was too much for Perrers. She laughed and laughed, the other three looking at each other puzzled as to what had been said to excite such mirth, still not comprehending. At last the lady stopped laughing turning suddenly upon the princess

as a wild thought came suddenly to her mind. Impetuously she burst out:

"Prince eh! A black prince, indeed! Or, a black leathered villein, I warrant. There

were tales from Limoges, I trow."

Katherine Swynford sprang to the defence of her hostess, echoing her sister:

"shame on you for scathing the Princess Joan."

She might have said more but Joan herself, said mildly: "It is nothing, dear Katherine," and then addressing Perrers:

"My young Richard would see a miner, that is all, and what better miner than

one such who helped to give my dear Edward, the fortress. It was my Edward,

himself, who insisted, his young Richard should get to know these miners, blackleathered, or not. But, that was another country, another age."

The Dame herself humphed as Katherine exclaimed: "He was not then at the Tower?" referring to an incident when the rebels had invaded Joan's bedroom. Philippa said pointedly to Perrers:

"See, lady. Those are the only villeins, whom the Lady Joan has seen," then

turning to Joan, asked: "Did they really tear your bed apart?"

Yet here Joan simply said: "They meant me no harm, and did me no harm. They tore the sheets and blankets as keepsakes of my dear Edward."

Alice Perrers suddenly felt frozen out. Hitherto she had been welcomed as a

fellow refugee from the danger all three of them had shared, but her snide remarks had rallied the other women against her. It was not an unusual situation for her. Ever since her arrival at Edwards court, as a lowly bedchamber woman, responsible for making beds, emptying chamber pots, preparing meals and all the menial activities associated with that position, she had faced jealously from her fellows for her personality and beauty, and after her elevation to the position of lady of the bedchamber, utter scorn and contempt from her peers.

These thoughts flashed through her mind as she eyed the princess sullenly,

appraising the woman, not her title, her senior by a dozen years, careworn and ageing,

but with an enviable serenity and invulnerability that Alice could not penetrate. She said defiantly:

"I know something of that black-sheathed villain. Know ye that he and his

accomplices had already entered the castle before your prince, and the duke, and all

the distinguished nobles. He was laughing at them, in his heart, as the prince invited

him to boast about the tower and walls he and his men were going to bring down."

Princess Joan turned on the Dame, crying:

: "Mean you the fortress of Limoges, the Cite of Limoges. You mean those devils

had already entered it before my husband, before his soldiers; for what purpose? Why?"

And Perrers, her lips curling in a sneer, confirmed the fact, smiling wickedly:

"For 200,000 crowns. That's why! Those villeins did the best out of the war in

France. No wonder no villein wanted to return to his messuage. When their lords

discovered nobody working the fields, they hired bailiffs to hunt them down. In the end, serjeants-at-arms commanding possesseurs had to be sent to bring them back. You should have heard my Edward laugh."

Joan turned on Perrers angrily: "Why should Edward laugh?"

And Perrers replied: "It was on account of the nobles robbing him during all those years of war. He was enjoying himself over their troubles. For the nobles had thought of a scheme to enrich themselves at the king's expense."

Joan looked at the Roet sisters, but they were as puzzled as she. She turned back to Perrers: "It's a mystery to me; to all of us."

She stopped and thought: "My dear Edward introduced me to many brave men, to the Lord Ferrers, to Sir John Newton, Sir Simon Burley. Sir Nigel Loring. What are you saying? That these brave men are scoundrels and cheating the king; was my Edward involved?"

Perrers said flatly:

"Anyone sending men to France received recompense from the king. The daily

rate for yeomen was four pence per day. The rate for villeins was a penny a day, but

more of the villeins were sent and called yeomen; a nice little earner, what!"

Philippa Chaucer intervened asking: "But how do you know all this? Surely these matters are for the treasurer." And Perrers answered flatly:

"When you can trust 'em."

The Lady Swynford took this as an insult: "My Geoffrey would not dream of such a thing."

Perrers said, patronisingly:

"My dear, how would your Geoffrey even know? He gets the chits from the bailiff. He would check the figures and then pass them to the Kings Exchequer. The only people who would know, would be the bailiffs and of course the lords of the

manor, themselves."

Perrers eyed the three women pityingly:

"You ladies really do not know which side your bread is buttered, do you. I was

in your shoes until my Eddie," She corrected herself: "Until his majesty asked me to

take charge of the treasury. In the end he would only trust me."

Swynford said triumphantly: "Parliament issued writs of investigation even when the late king Edward was alive. The duke told me."

But Perrers was unabashed: "You'll recall I was exonerated."

But Swynford retorted: "The rings on our late majesty's hands are still missing."

Perrers said: "You want to change the subject, I understand, but it's a fact that even though Tyler captured a brace of counts from Limoges and ransomed them, it was a drop in the ocean compared to the embezzlement of your noble friends. To serve their own ends, they had sent villeins from their fields and had been paid for yoemen. But the villeins used their God-given wits. No wonder his majesty laughed at his nobles' predicament. Were he alive today, he would see how useless his nobles were when there is nobody around to tell them what to do, like now."

Katherine Swynford seethed which affected her judgement as she scornfully

told Perrers: "You talk about these villeins as though you are one yourself, which shouldn't surprise anyone."

Perrers looked at Swynford, pityingly. She said: "I can understand how ladies like yourself have no comprehension of financial matters, but you show an ignorance of our society which is why the peasants rebelled. You have absolutely no idea of what a peasant is, do you! For a start, I started at the bottom so many years ago as a woman of the bedchamber, a lowly post, I know. But no villein could aspire to such a position."

She stopped speaking in order to think up a convincing case then resumed:

"You learn at school about when the barons forced good King John to sign the

Great Charter. It was to give rights to everyone in society."

She turned to the princess, then to Philippa and finally to Katherine: "Villeins were not even mentioned," she said, 'because they were not considered as part of our society. They are slaves. They have no rights. It was his late majesty who realised their worth. As did his son,"

And turning to Joan said: "Your Edward, he realised their value. At Najera, he not only won the battle but saved the Exchequer a fortune. It's no mystery why the villeins are incensed with the Duke of Lancaster. King Edward was barely cold in his grave when the duke turned his back on everything learned the hard way at Poictiers and Najera, and promptly returned to saddling the Exchequer with ships and provisions for his knights and nobles, leaving the war-winning soldiers behind.

Result, many lost battles and huge expenditure. Not content with his miserable failure in battle, the noble duke embarks upon a search for art treasures buying them and charging them to the exchequer. You talk about a few missing rings and lay their loss at my door. But it was not me that caused England's crown jewels to be pawned. That was the bloody duke himself!"

At once Katherine Swynford ran over to Dame Alice and might have struck her,

had not the Princess and her sister restrained her. Joan said emolliently:

"Come now ladies. Let's not fall out. Let's save our energies for whatever may

happen."

Then conscious of why her three guests were there, she said: "It were best we all remain indoors until this business is over. The rebels have not attacked women though my footman tells they're asking people strange questions. Dame Alice smiled at the thought of Joan talking with the footman, and could not forbear saying:

"And what pray has her footman to tell our princess."

But Joan ignored her sarcasm, even had she been able to recognise it, responding:

"They're being asked to name something, and if the wrong answer is given...."

"What then?"

Philippa ventured to ask, but Perrers ridiculed her ignorance by saying: "Cheese, of course; kaese, in Flemish."

And turning to the Roet sisters, said: "Don't test the rebels' kindness towards women. It may not extend to Flemish women."

The princess turned to both women: "That decides it. You must not go outside."

And, changing the subject to bring up her sons name, said: "My Richard, I mean, his majesty, says the rebels demands grow each time he sees them. First it's that priest Ball who demands an end to villeinage, then Jack Straw demands a land rent of four pence an acre."

Perrers volunteered: "I can tell you this much. If the king grants either he will bankrupt the nobility. Each villein is worth, well, Simon Burley wanted 300 pounds before he would manumit John Belling. Multiply all your villeins by 300 and you'll see how much the king would have to find from his exchequer to make up the loss."

"Well", said Joan innocently, "Tyler is also demanding an end to lords and ladies. So we shall not need to give any banquets and we shall have no slaves to wait at table, anyway. So long as he doesn't forbid horses, I shall ride and ride and ride. It will be heaven."

At that moment, she turned to catch a servant signalling to her, saying: "I shall leave you ladies to your toilette. I shall send my lady's maid up to you with news of breakfast. Adieu."

So, the Princess Joan took her leave. The other ladies were silent as she withdrew though each no longer smiled contemplating, no doubt, a life without servants.

\----------0----------0----------

##  Chapter 18

Smithfield

## In the early hours of Saturday, 15th of June, Thomas Thacker, landlord of the Goose and Gridiron, was sitting in the parlour observing his daughter shovelling brown coal into the roaring fire, and, at the same time, closing the damper so that the flames died. He heard the crackle as the hot coals attacked the incoming cooler lumps. Despite the fire damping down it was still very warm. He called over to his daughter:

## "Come and sit down Bess. You've done enough, girl!" She responded:

## "I'll just away and see how our guest fares, father, first of all."

## She was away for a few moments and then was at the table seated opposite the landlord. She said:

## "What a time this has been, Father." Bess poured herself a measure of hot mead from a jug, offering the same to her father with the remark: "That knock last night and Father Ball at the door and with an injured man and who it be."

## Her father, a seriously worried look on his face, replies:

## "To think I'd see Wat Tyler on his back. Both the French and the Spanish had a go, and then he gets one from his own side."

## Bess was puzzled: "What happened?" she asked, to which her father grimaces:

## "It's a bad business. It'll end in tears, when they start fighting among themselves."

## He repeated his remonstrance in gloomy tone: "It's a bad business."

## Bess however was adamant in asking: "What happened?"

## Her father grimaced again: "Seems there was a fight between Tyler and one of his pals. Tyler was down, finished; then, just as his pal's about to give him the coup de grace, another rebel fires a bolt to kill him."

## Bess said: "Pal, rebel? What went on?"

## Thacker answered: "I don't know their names but it was a nasty piece of work. Whoever shot the bolt is no archer because it hit the sword, smashed it and deflected it like and struck our Wat."

## "Gawd in Hell!" Said a shocked Bess and frowning asked: "That's why he was unconscious?"

## Then she stopped saying in a puzzled tone: "But how did the woman get killed?"

## Thacker puckered his brow: "Gawd only knows. Seems she was afraid our Wat was going to get killed, and.....what did Father Ball say?"

## Thacker mused a while: "I think she fell from a tower. Yes, that's it. It was her scream that stopped his pal from killing him, else he were a gonner. Can you imagine that, Bess?"

## His daughter thought for a while, then turned to her father. She had tears in her

## eyes. Thacker came around the table and took his daughter in his arms:

## "There, there, girl; I'm sorry to upset you. I shouldn't have said owt."

## Then he sighted Tyler at the door and thought, how much had he heard, but said smiling:

## "Come in comrade. Make yourself at home."

## Bess released herself and disappeared into the next room. Thacker held out his arms to Tyler and they embraced, but it seemed to Thacker, without the customary warmth. For a few moments they clasped each other. Then Thacker broke away looking his former comrade straight in the eye with the words:

## "How much did you hear? You were unconscious when Father Ball brought you in."

## Tyler returned his intent gaze, but seemingly without comprehension. Thacker wondered how much Tyler knew of the events at the Savoy. How bad was the blow to his head?

## For some minutes nobody spoke. Then Thacker eyeing the bandage around Tyler's head, said:

## "How's your head?"

## But Tyler, looking up, seemed puzzled. Thacker, smiling, said: "The Holy Father's idea. Just imagine comrade if he were in France. After his ministrations we'd have looked a laughing stock. Tyler, now felt the cloth around his head, still puzzled. His frown alarmed Bess who had re-entered the room. She said:

## "Can I look at it, Sir?

## And Tyler removed his hand allowing her to examine it. There's a very bad bruise there, Sir, but ..."

## Tyler said nothing still wearing a confused expression, which was beginning to alarm Thacker.

## Bess smiled in saying: "You were lucky. A fraction more and .."

## Thacker interrupted: "And it were curtains for him.. He always were a lucky bastard. Pardon my French! The only thing that'll kill 'im is treachery."

## Bess busied herself with putting a platter in front of Tyler and pouring him

## some mead: "Do eat!" she said. "You've a busy day ahead of you."

## Tyler was silent staring at the food but not touching a thing. Thacker looked at Bess and shook his head to suggest not to press him. Give him space.

## Thacker said: "Did I ever tell you, how we come by this place?"

## And, getting no response carried on: "Last time me and Wat, here, met was in this very tavern."

## Tyler looked up and looked around him. His eyes came to rest on Bess, and she smiled: "How old was I, father?"

## She asked nervously, and her father thought a moment, then said:

## "'Twere in the '70s, weren't it, Wat",

## But Tyler shook his head, still looking glum. Thacker answered his daughter:

## "You were nine or ten, thereabouts. I never could remember ages or years come to that. That's where I miss our Nell."

## He paused, ruminating. Then said: "We wanted to rename it, the tavern after our two lords, you know them Frenchies, we ransomed. Now what were their names, ah yes. Counts Poucy and Brasse."

## Thacker laughed and was silent. "So what happened?" Shouted Bess, adding:

## "Why aren't we called Poucy and Brasse. Or, the Two Counts."

## To which Thacker commented dryly: "Out for the counts, eh!"

## At which Bess chuckled, but Thacker was serious: "The City fathers wouldn't hear of it. They said the locals would soon be calling it:

## "Pussy and Breast", saying it would bring disrepute to the area.

## Bess asked her father: "How much did you get for the ransom?"

##  Amazingly, it was Tyler who answered: "Fifty thousand crowns. Split down the middle. At least your father has something to show for it."

## And once again, he looked around nodding his head in appreciation. But Bess was still curious:

## "And your share?" she said to Tyler, adding: "Whereabouts is your place?"

##  Thinking he had done something similar, but Tyler grimaced as if recalling

## unhappy events. He shook himself before finally admitting: "I went on the run, and it didn't last long."

## Thacker explained to his daughter: "The rhyme goes: villein, get away for a year and a day, be you free as the air to work and play! But, as for me, girl, I was a freeman. Got manumitted; got the paper to prove it. Without it, you're on the run. Not only on the run, but the lords send out their bailiffs looking for you. No wonder the villeins took their arms with them, otherwise..."

## He did not end the sentence on hearing Tyler speak: "Bailiffs started using the word 'villein' as someone with a price on their head. That's one of the reasons many of us scarpered. It's a long story."

## Then he looked over to his friend: "To change the subject, Tom." He said, looking at him quizzically, "Just how did I get here? Did someone bring me?"

## Tom answered: "Late last evening. In a whirlicote, Father Ball brought you here. I helped get you in. You were unconscious, like."

## Tyler was still puzzled: "Where from.. Where did he bring me from?"

## It was Tom who was puzzled. He said: "You don't remember, the Savoy! Seems your friend Jack Straw went berserk. His men found some barrels."

## Tyler repeated the word, 'barrels', as if it meant something. Then he said:

## "Father Ball told you the whole thing. I didn't know he was there."

## Thacker mused, then said: "Mind you, he didn't need say much. We could see from here.."

## "And hear, father," interrupted Bess. Of a sudden Tyler recalled something:

## "Those barrels full of gunpowder!"

## He said in an awed tone of voice, adding: "Gawd help us. Was there an explosion?"

## Bess said: "We didn't know what it was. We heard an almighty bang, but, all we

## could see was smoke and flames coming from somewhere near the river. Then Father Ball told us what had caused it. I never knew where this Savoy place was. I do now."

## When Tyler still did not answer, but was content to listen to her speak, she

## said: "Have you seen the likeness your friend Dick did for me?"

## Bess disappeared to fetch it, and Thacker looked across at his friend: "Seems black leather wears well. You look the same as I knew you in France."

## He had scarcely spoken when there was a knock on the door. He looked

## at Tyler then listened as his daughter called out:

## "Come in Father Ball. Will you join my father and your friend Mister Tyler

## for some breakfast?"

## Thacker rose and giving Tyler a hurried excuse went to intercept Ball sending his daughter into the room just vacated. Greeting the Father, he drew him aside, whispering, conspiratorially:

## "Our friend, Tyler, doesn't know what's happened! He doesn't know about Alice!"

##  \----------0----------0----------

## In a chamber within a building called the Great Wardrobe because of its

##  financial significance to the royal household, situated in Blackfriars, an early morning conference was due to be held. King Richard II stayed there overnight on Friday, June 14, 1381 and it is likely he had a troubled sleep as on the morrow there was to be another confrontation between the King's party and the rebels. Nor were his visitors able to offer him much comfort as most, if not all, were abuzz with the deplorable happenings at the Savoy coming hard upon the heels of their own Tower experience. Then there was the black news of the deaths of the king's chancellor, Simon Sudbury, archbishop of Canterbury, and Richard Hales, the king's treasurer, who had both been tried, condemned by the rebels and roughly dragged to the block where their heads had been struck off, hoisted onto poles and stuck up onto London Bridge, as common felons.

## The archbishop was reported to have cried out after several chops had failed to sever his head, "This is the hand of God". Richard had shuddered at the telling of this grisly detail as his thoughts went to the meeting the previous day when the three of them had discussed the crisis. That such a grisly fate should befall an archbishop, his Archbishop of Canterbury, the highest servant of the English Church, of the most Holy Pope!

## And yet, had not the archbishop himself told him the rebels were using a challenge among themselves, which went: "With whom do you hold?" to which the expected response was: "With King Richard and the true Commons!" And he had breathed a little easier. Now his thoughts focussed upon the present meeting. He looked across to the earl of Arundel who occupied the chair directly opposite him. Other members of his council occupied seats to right and left of the long table.

## Richard began to feel uncomfortable. He was aware of being the focus of attention. Nobody spoke. What were they thinking? Perhaps they believed he was not up to the situation. It was unprecedented: Common country-folk marching on the City. There must have been collusion with the gatekeepers to have allowed them to get inside the walls of the city. He was surrounded by enemies. Whom could he trust?

## Richard thought of his father, Edward, the Black Prince. He would have been in his element. He had not only led his soldiers, but had lived with them, in their own tents. Were the rebels not made up of such men as those country people? What had his father said to him? Give me simple soldiers, any day, young Dick. I'd sooner fight with my trusty battle hardened soldiers than any of these lickspittle lords. As devious as they come! Facing Richard were such lords.

##  Yesterday a rebel leader, Jack Straw, had handed him a document listing more

## of the rebels' demands. Where would it all end? His father, the Black Prince, had told him of his intention to manumit all serfs in the kingdom. This was their main demand. It seemed very straightforward. He had instructed clerks to draw up manumission charters for each county. The rebels had accepted. Or most of them, and they had

##  departed the city. But it had not saved the archbishop or his treasurer. He frowned.

## "Is something troubling you, my liege?"

## The speaker, interrupting Richard's thoughts, was the Earl of Arundel, newly appointed Chancellor to replace the executed archbishop. Richard scrutinised the thirty-three year old earl, his countenance set with steely arrogance. As he tried to speak, his mouth seemed devoid of moisture. Did he sound shrill, even piping?

## "I trust, my lord," he ventured, "your new office will reflect the urgency of the times. Think on our late lamented colleague, the archbishop, and let it not over-awe your mind."

## "I thank you, my liege. 'Twere a pity a military man were not first appointed to the office. But, "he added, dryly "It was not of your doing My Liege. Of that I'm certain."

## Richard smiled conscious of the flattery but aware the earl must know that no decisions over appointments were due to his, the king's prerogative, nor was he a party to them. That must be known to the earl so his compliment was empty rhetoric. It was even patronising. Still, he argued to himself, the earl was correct on one point, and the inference was plain: Had the earl been appointed first, the archbishop might still be alive. He glanced along the table where his Franciscan friar was staring at a scroll of parchment.

## The king wanted to say something, but again his mouth felt dry. He forced himself to address the venerable friar:

## "Sir", he began, lamely "You must have read that paper a dozen times. Are its contents so interesting?"

## "Indeed, Sire", began the friar, "They bear upon our present deliberations yet I hesitate to acquaint you with such demands as are made in the document. Indeed, Sire, the very act of reading them might lead one to suppose they had a vestige of credence. It talks of manumission, of freely negotiable contracts, of ....."

## He was interrupted by:

## "My learned colleague!"

## From the person of Robert de Vere, the very young Earl of Oxford, who

## went on: "Did not your hand, Reverend Friar, compose the words for clerks to write out these very same charters of manumission given unto each several of the rebels according to their counties of origin? "

## The Earl of Arundel brushed his fellow earl's comment aside with his own

##  observation addressing the king: "My liege! Does your royal highness need be concerned with such nonsense."

## He got no further as young Robert de Vere exploded: "Nonsense! Nonsense, my lord! Nonsense it may well be excepting when you are faced with a thousand longbows. Then nonsense might very well make good sense."

## The Earl of Oxford paused so as allow the impact of his words to impress

## the company: "Had the earl been present at Mile End, I dare to think even my

##  esteemed friend.", Oxford turned to face Arundel, "might not consider it such

##  nonsense. Eh, my brave lord!"

## The addressed earl scowled, but said nothing. Another voice spoke: "Gentlemen!"

## The speaker was William Walworth, the mayor of London. He went on: "Clearly we have to mollify the rebels and their leaders."

## Then turning towards Richard, added: "Exactly as his majesty did yesterday at Mile End in issuing writs of manumission written out by the Reverend Friar. Many, indeed, most of the rebels accepted his majesty's bits of paper, and went home. We have fewer rebels to deal with as a result."

## Arundel looked admiringly at Walworth. The man was all he had anticipated. He had chosen wisely. He began to feel much more cheerful. Glancing at the king, he noticed a smile breaking across his face too. Walworth continued in his upbeat manner:

## "We have to assure the rebels of our good intentions. Intentions cost nothing. Yet, we must be circumspect. The rebels out of Kent are no fools, "

##  Thinking but not saying out loud, 'but we can fool them.' Walworth sat back to

## allow his words to sink in. He caught Arundel's eye and both exchanged glances of understanding.

## Then de Vere was off again. His next words were: "No fools, they may be, "he barked, "but they are arrant knaves, and when we catch them, no writ or charter will stop their heads rolling."

## Arundel smiled when someone said: "Before you sell the bearskin for someone's winter coat. It was a riposte from the Earl of Warwick glancing at Arundel with a

## smile, saying gently: "Perhaps you had better first catch your bear."

## There was silence while everyone glowered at each other. The silence was broken by the squeaky voice of Richard: "Gentlemen, this is not the time or the place to talk of rolling heads. It is clear we do not have the soldiers to match the number of the rebels, even though many have returned to their homes."

## The king paused and looked around the table at his councillors. He continued:

## "As our esteemed colleague the mayor has already stated, the rebels left behind are a different breed. They are men of Kent. My father had dealings with such men. The Black Prince drank with them. He played football with them. He slept with them on campaign." The king's voice trailed away.

## "My Liege" comforted Arundel, "And saving your royal person, it would be

## folly to get too much involved with these men. Of course they're good fighters, but they must not take over the kingdom. The citizens of London look to us for salvation, my liege."

## But Arundel was brusquely interrupted by Richard: "Were you ever in France, my lord?". The question turned into a statement of fact when Richard perceived Arundel did not answer his question at once. Richard went on:

## "My father, Edward, the Black Prince had need of such men, and once I heard him declare to one brave soldier, now a rebel that he would be his honoured guest at Berkhamsted Castle."

## Nobody spoke. He went on: "I pray you, if you value my father's honour, act honourably in your dealings with the rebels and especially, to their leaders."

## There was silence. You could hear a pin drop. It was Walworth who

## spoke first: "His majesty is correct. We must still their fears by promising to meet all

## their demands."

## "And no weapons," interposed the king, "In France we parleyed without

##  weapons..." At which the Earl of Warwick muttered to himself, 'we kept them up

## our sleeves'.

## "My Lord! " Queried Richard.

## "Nothing your Grace," replied Warwick, adding fatuously, "I beg Your

## Grace's pardon."

## Richard looked uncomfortable then spoke to Arundel: "My Lord, consult your council as to a plan of action. I will to confession; may it please the company."

## So saying Richard arose inviting the friar by a gesture to accompany him, and left. The king's councillors waited until the king had withdrawn from the room

##  together with the friar. The door clanged shut. Mayor Walworth looked towards the Earl of Arundel. Their eyes met then Walworth rose and addressed the company:

## "Gentlemen! May I take the occasion to offer you some refreshment. It might stand you in good stead as the afternoon wears on."

## Whilst he was talking, he had moved sideways and pulled a rope all ears being attentive to his words and the clanging of a bell in some inner sanctum. All were surprised when a page, smart in red doublet and green hose, appeared at the same door Richard had just used.

## "My Lord Mayor!" queried the page, looking towards him.

## "Conduct my guests to the refectory, master page," so saying he motioned to each man addressing them individually inviting them to follow his page. Once they had joined him, the page commenced to walk back through the open door and down a corridor. The Earl of Arundel remained seated and he waved his hand saying:

## "I shall have the honour of joining you gentlemen in a few minutes. Pray accept the hospitality of our host. None of his fellow councillors responded to this except the Earl of Warwick who cast a knowing glance at Arundel, smiling thinly. Evidently he

## wanted to be the last to leave as he invited the other councillors to precede him. When he had gone through, Walworth went over, not to close it, but to tell a Serjeant Legge still outside to remain there and allow nobody in, then closed it and turned to the earl, remarked:

## "It is as well to get some notice of any visitor." he said, adding: "Your Lordship wanted to say something before I interrupted."

## Before he answered the earl decided to get up, and after doing so walked over to the window inviting the mayor to join him. For a moment both men looked towards the street outside and then Arundel smiled, saying abruptly:

## "You heard Warwick's mutter, a rude one I know, but nonetheless, the fact is if one side has a weapon, and the other not...."

## The earl continued to smile, and then said to Walworth: "Being a commoner is your greatest asset, Sir Mayor. The taint of nobility is absent from your person. But, I can promise you that before this day be over, you could be so tainted along with your lady."

## Arundel waited for Walworth to say something, and when no response came, he went on:

## "This would be an opportune time to solve our problem, at a stroke."

## Both men smiled at the earl's phrasing: "The assailant would be richly rewarded. Tyler will come to the meeting unarmed. Whereas, "he looked at Walworth, closely:

## "You should be able to conceal a short sword up your sleeve."

##  Walworth pretended to be shocked, and said: "These suggestions are not what the king has already agreed to, my lord. Are you asking me to countermand my sovereign?"

## Arundel smiled as he put his own argument, succinctly: "Our sovereign liege is a minor, and though, in normal circumstances, we respect his every wish, nonetheless, it is my view that his very crown is in danger. The rebels say they mean no harm to the king, but would you trust the word of a villein? Against an earl? Have no fear, of countermanding the king. I, we are his Council. What I, we ask, you to do will ensure the safety of the king. I have the Council's authority, Lord Mayor. For my part, nothing else matters. What do you say, Sir?"

## "A knighthood, did you say?" replied the mayor, "But what guarantee do I have? You want me to countermand the king's own express wishes, my lord. You do understand my hesitation?"

## Arundel said: "Would the Earl of Warwick's confirmation convince you, Lord Mayor?"

## So saying he went to the door and spoke to the serjeant-at-arms who minutes

## later ushered Warwick into the room, to whom Arundel spoke, to the point. Then the mayor's words were brief:

## "Count on me, gentlemen!"

##  Excitedly the earl's eyes gleaming, he grasped Walworth by both arms saying excitedly:

## "Depend on it, if everything goes well, the king, in person, will dub you, before the day is over!"

## He stood back as if appraising the mayor's figure then declaring: "Under that robe you could easily wear a breastplate, just in case."

##  Walworth eyed him with a twinkle in his eye, remarking with a laugh: "Just in case the other fellow breaks all the rules of chivalry, eh my lord?"

##  Arundel's face creased into a smile, then began to, laugh. Warwick joined in, and all three were shaking their sides in riotous merriment.

##  \----------0----------0----------

## "Why Smithfield!"

## It was Tyler speaking. A disconsolate Tyler; an inconsolable Tyler; his fellow rebel, Father Ball thought before giving his answer:

## "I was given a choice of three venues. Mile End, which you'd already warned me from, Finsbury Fields is too far and there's little protection against bad weather; it's little short of a wilderness; and finally, Smithfield."

## Tyler said in a dull monotone:

## "Why not here in the Tower?"

## Ball eyed his friend pensively knowing he was not the same Tyler of yesterday. The bounce had gone. He looked bereft. He was bereft. His Alice was dead; and life no longer seemed worth the living. Even the fact that she had died believing his life was in danger was no consolation to Tyler. Ball said, at last:

## "It's a matter of space, my son. Not nearly enough room for our supporters. And then there's the King's entourage."

## Tyler said dispiritedly: "Do as you like! I don't care any more."

## His tone worried Ball. As long as the man opposite him had been actively in charge, it did not seem to matter how things happened, but now everything could easily fall apart. He said, encouragingly:

## "Just one more meeting, my son. Then we can all go home. It was your

## idea, remember."

## At this last, Tyler looked up as Ball went on: "We need the Parliament to ratify the manifesto and the manumissions. Otherwise the government won't accept it. They'll say it was got under duress."

## Tyler said: "And who from Parliament is going to do that?"

## His tone was of plain disbelief, and Ball said quietly: "Have you heard of de la Mare?"

## "Who's that?"

## "He's an enemy of John of Gaunt who imprisoned him for no good reason other than that he reminded Gaunt that by agreement he, the Speaker chooses who speaks next. Otherwise there is pandemonium in the chamber."

## Tyler's tone was now scathing: A gentleman's argument; it'll be a different matter where the likes of us are concerned. So he won't stick his neck out. I can warrant it."

## Ball tried to counter the sceptical Tyler when he said: "He's done the next best thing. He recommended someone who will; and that's William Walworth, the Lord Mayor."

## Tyler looked as if Ball had taken leave of his senses: "He'd sell his grandmother for a preferment. And remember the way he treated Nipper."

## The two friends stared at each other, then Tyler in a resigned air, said: "Do as you think fit. I'm going home."

## Ball was aghast and showed it, and for once his voice began to take on an edge which Tyler had not heard before:

## "You must be there, my son. Otherwise, we might as well all go home. Come now. You owe it to Robert. You owe it to Sally. You owe it to yourself. You owe it to Alice, Did she die in vain?"

## He hated himself for using this last argument, and tried to modify it: "You owe it to me, my son. We've been through so much these past few days. Do not give up, now!"

## At last he saw his friend grin and nod his head and felt relieved. For so long he

## had played a secondary role and was quite happy with that situation, but at this present time, something else was called for: He needed to re-awaken this man's spirit. He said to Tyler:

## "I need you, my son. We all need you. We are as nothing without you. We were nothing before until you became our leader."

## Tyler tried to smile. It was a smile filled with sadness, but smile he did, saying almost in resignation:

## "When is the king expected, Father?"

## And the priest responded with a note of triumph in his voice: "He is expected my son, when you see fit to be there."

## Tyler spoke as if he had not heard: "Tell me again, Father. Where is she buried? There's time to visit her grave, don't you think?"

## The priest himself smiled at Tylers response and replied: "We can go together. Your Alice is in St. Pauls cathedral burial place. We interred her in an open grave reserved for a bishop. Sadly, no gravestone, as yet; but I shall soon put that to rights."

##

## He looked over to his friend who looked back at the priest sadly. Tyler looked almost introspective, unusual for him. When he spoke, it was almost a whisper:

## "I wish I could join her, Father."

## To Ball it was like a premonition, and he inwardly shuddered. He got up

##  inviting his friend: "Shall we go!"

## As he had promised Father Ball walked his friend to St Pauls where he had earlier performed the burial rites when interring the body of Alice Street, and not wishing to intrude on Tyler's private grief, he bade him farewell before setting out towards St Bartholomews Hospital. Its founding by Henry I's jester had always inspired him. And the nuns had ever made him welcome.

## He thought over his friends changed demeanour with foreboding. The forthcoming confrontation with the king would need the utmost care, for by now, he reasoned, the nobility must be looking for means to frustrate the rebels. The news that the military were on the move in the form of Sir Robert Knollys was unwelcome. His reputation in France was fearsome. It was said that news of his impending arrival at a town caused an immediate panic among the usual stolid burghers.

## Passing along Cheapside, Poultry Ball was caught up in the surge of people making their way to the Smithfield open space. He was glad to lose himself in the

## melee being accepted as just another participant in their pursuit of a good time. In this mood he was past the Goose and Gridiron tavern before he realised it when Ball heard a raucous din up ahead and became aware of the sound of many voices in approaching the market-place nicknamed Stocks on account of the array of stocks used to shutter miscreants and wondered idly who they might be on this occasion.

## He was shocked to find they were dressed like himself in dark grey, ankle length robes topped by that most telling of identification, namely bald pates fringed with long, unkempt hair signifying their calling, that of friar, originally identified with St Francis of Assisi, but now so debased because of the friars' lecherous lifestyle as to be the object of contempt, and Father Ball hurried away quickly as much to escape the people pelting the stocks with all manner of missiles, and hoping that he could escape without being noticed.

## He was so intent on hurrying along Threadneedle Street that when he heard someone calling his name, he went faster until he heard running feet and any second expected a missile of horse dung to brown his tonsure when he recognised the voice, and halted abruptly, turning and seeing then exploding in relief: "Oh! It's you, Robert. May the Holy Father be praised!"

## It was Robert Hales who had earlier brought him and Tyler news of having sighted Sir Robert Knollys. The man was still worried about Knollys and

## Ball hastened to reassure him:

## "He's a man like us, Robert. No more, no less! But Hales was clearly

##  worried: "Yes, you're right. He is - was- one of us. He was an ordinary soldier; but

##  Poitiers changed all that."

## The priest frowned, saying: "Everybody seems hung up about the war. Knollys was a soldier, just like you. What's the difference?"

## Hales uttered a gasp of despair: "Father! You've never seen a man cut in twain with a single blow, from helm to crotch. That was Knollys' speciality. It's said the Prince dubbed him, there and then, in the middle of the battle, after single-handed combat with two mounted knights that he, the prince witnessed."

## Hales stopped to catch his breath then said: "One minute he was a commoner like you or me. The next minute he had been dubbed."

## Ball expressed doubt: "Could he do that, the prince?"

## Hales was almost contemptuous in his next utterance: "Father, you're an innocent. After Poitiers the prince could do as he pleased after the king went back home to England. He was left in charge of the whole of Acquitaine. He was dubbing

##  men-at-arms, he dubbed archers; he even tried to dub his favourite dog, in his cups, so I'm told."

## Father Ball smiled:

## "He did despise many that's a fact though, it seems, not his miners."

## And Hales agreed, adding: "He liked his countrymen but not the Gascons, and some minor lords.. He made no bones about it. You should have been there!"

## But Balll was dismissive: "I am pleased to be an innocent, an ignoramus even. The world of war is one of insanity. It's the cause of the Poll Tax; and, this whole rebellion. Where will it all end?"

## Hales wanted to say something else but just then one of his mates shouted to him and he bade the priest farewell:

## "We shall all meet later on, at Smithfield, Father. A Dieu, until then!"

##  \----------0----------0----------

##

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## 

## Chapter 19

The end-game

Smithfield was well-chosen as a site for a meeting to be attended by several thousands of people. Long before it became a market place Smithfield was home to horse racing and jousting. In the reign of Henry Ist, Rahere, a revered minstrel and jester, in the regal court, making a pilgrimage to Rome, and having reached it, caught a malarial fever while residing in the vicinity of the marshes, called by the inhabitants of that city, the Three Fountains. In his increasing descent into delirium attended by high

temperature and intense sweating, his fevered brain hallucinated the image of Saint Bartholomew, a disciple of Jesus Christ, who insisted day after day after day that his fever and delirium lasted that it would only end after he had promised to build a hospital in a 'smooth field' upon his return to his native city and country.

Upon that promise, and upon that promise alone, would the Holy Saint release him from the fatal fever. He, Rahere (from old French meaning 'tickler', a name well suited to a jester), made that promise in Rome, and, on returning to England and

after searching out his 'smooth field' petitioned his master, the king, for permission to build his hospital in the fields he had found and purchased.

The king approved adding the proviso that Rahere build also a church, dedicated to the king, such is the vanity of monarchs, both to be named, after St Bartholomew. In the course of time, the enormous grounds of the hospital dedicated for recreation of patients while convalescing began to be so popular that the site was also used to hold an annual fair.

The hospital and church occupied one very large corner of the Smooth-field site which came to be known as Smithfield. By 1381, June of that year, the remaining three-quarters of the site was attracting traders of livestock so that by the time of the king's third meeting with the rebels, on the Saturday, 15th of June, the open area was circumscribed with stalls for sheep and cattle as well as for the purveying of yeomens' farming paraphernalia and the vending of hot and cold food and drink.

The original 'smooth field' was uniformly level apart from one corner where the ground sloped away in such a way that whatever crowd of people occupied it, their view of proceedings at the centre of the open space, would be imperfect, worsening

with distance, for those further back. Such was the space occupied by Wat Tyler's

rebel army.

The Earl of Arundel had not reconnoitred the site recently but recalled it as a marshalling point for troops prior to marching to the coast there to take ship to France for the campaigning season then underway. He had accompanied his father who, for reasons to do with the management of his estates in Sussex, had forbidden his eldest son's accompanying him onwards to France.

"We must not make the mistakes of the Plantagenets." He had declared, adding,

"Had our martial Edward prevented his son, meaning the Black Prince, from campaigning in France... ", but, then thinking better of it, had not finished the sentence. Now, the present earl reflected upon what his father had intended to say to him, his son who now knew his foreboding had come to pass.

Edward's son, the Black Prince, had succumbed to disease on campaign being forced to return to an early death. He had left the kingdom's sovereignty to a minor, the 14 year old Richard who was the opposite of his father who had, as a young man won his spurs and glory for himself and his Plantagenet House. England was to be adversely affected by his early death.

Although the Arundel had not experienced campaigning in France, he had been appointed Admiral, with his father's approval, though his naval career, before and after his father's death, was one of mixed fortune, if negligence can be counted as bad luck. Nonetheless in his father's time, he had been allowed to accompany the old earl, his father to Smithfield, and remembered proudly sitting on his horse watching the hundreds of soldiers marching past in their regiments and battalions under the banners of Plantagenet, Warwick, Lancaster even their own, of Arundel.

Memories flooded back in all their nostalgic glory. He blessed his father's foresight for keeping him back as he contemplated the task in front of him that of

preserving the safety of his sovereign, and his nation from the dangers of civil

war. As the scion of his house, he had the opportunity to emulate the deeds of a Chandos, a Ferrers or even, to surpass the achievements of his father whose gripping yarns of the fields of Crecy, Poictiers, Najara and other battles and skirmishes, were still as fresh in his mind as if he had only heard them yesterday.

Yet many of those very same exploits were more often than not achieved by commoners with their longbows and the thought sent a clammy chill through his bones as he recalled that it was such men who were, at this hour, threatening the security of the kingdom. They had already whetted their blood appetite on men of nobility, and had not been checked in their bloodlust by the sanctity of Holy vestments, as he recalled the fate of the Archbishop of Canterbury.

Upon his actions in the next few hours rested not only the fate of Plantagenet, but also his own fate and the reputation of his House. Yet, it was not only up to him. Indeed the act of assassination was to be performed by another such Commoner. It was vital therefore to demonstrate to his king, to his fellow nobles, and, to the Duke of Lancaster, on his return from Scotland, that it was he, Arundel, who was the prime mover in the endgame.

Yet, the very peril of the hour exhilarated Arundel. With coolness and logic he contemplated the venue where the king had agreed to meet with Wat Tyler and his rebels. The thousands of rebels could spill over into open country which was doubtless the reason why it has been chosen by the rebels. Still he recalled the time years ago astride his mount watching the marching soldiers disappearing quickly from sight because the land sloped away. Instead of the backs of marching soldiers, the earl from the same vantage point would face a somewhat reduced number of rebels able to draw longbows.

So he reflected that although he had not chosen Smithfield, the lay of the land might be exploited to his advantage - and that of the King's party, of course. He put his hand up to his eyes to shield them from the already hot morning sun and directed them towards the front of the marching column of soldiers and spotted the familiar figure of Serjeant Legge, spurring his horse to catch him up. On coming abreast of the man, he expected him to look up and when he did not, the earl leant down and tapped with his riding stick on his shoulder. He looked at the earl:

"My lord!" He said somewhat taken aback. He mopped his face with a dirty cloth. Arundel's voice was terse:

"At Smithfield, I want your soldiers to make an open space for the king and his party," adding, in afterthought: "And, tell your men to avoid any rough handling. I do not want incidents. Expect some women to be there. Just be careful! If you meet resistance tell them you're doing it on the King's command."

By placing his men at the boundary, Arundel reflected, the rebels' front rank of archers would have a restricted view of what was going on, but the earl did not confide that to Legge. He considered his meeting with William Walworth earlier. Although elected mayor, he had been a fish-monger, so, as he himself had mentioned, being a commoner like most of the rebels, he might allay suspicions as to the planned course of events. And while the king would have a necessary role, Richard was hopefully completely unaware of his, Arundel's, intentions.

It had to be this way. Richard was a young and impressionable fourteen year old boy. Already his kinship with his warlike father, the Black Prince, had shaped his attitude, as expressed in Blackfriars, so he would not tolerate lapses in the chivalric code which was part of Arundel's plan; yet the youthful king's regal demeanour had

impressed Arundel and he had already included the fact in his devious intention to get the better of the rebels. Richard's boyish innocence would lend credence to the viewpoint that everything was above the board.

But all Arundel's scheming was set to nought by the scene which greeted his arrival. He had heard an enormous cheer which harked back in his mind to the time when Smithfield was a marshalling arena receiving the vast contingents of soldiers assembled by royal command. Again an enormous cheer and he stood on his stirrups to get a better view; another cheer resonated across the market place which subsided to a low growl as though the original cheer had been premature. Mystified he looked around for Serjeant Legge who appeared to grin at his puzzlement and without waiting for a question, he bawled:

"Tis the football my lord. Have ye not seen it played before?"

Legge knew he hadn't so continued: "The men have teams, you see. Take a dekko at yon post. It's got a kerchief atop so the men are defending the king's post and they're trying to push forward to that other post draped with the red cross; they're defending St George's flag. When Legge saw Arundel's puzzlement, he ventured an

explanation:

"The object, My Lord, is for each side to try to hit either post with the bal."

And, as if in explanation to the earl, a ball suddenly appeared from nowhere pursued by a raucous mob of men. Serjeant Legge took the only course of action open to him to prevent the object frightening his lordship's horse. He ran towards the ball and kicked it. The mob, Legge and the earl, indeed, everyone seemed to scan the flight of the ball, which was revealed as the bladder of a pig until it was lost to sight far off, beyond where they stood.

Legge pointed to where he saw it come down, shouting excitedly: "You see My Lord the men from each side are trying to kick the ball towards the opposite post. Legge pointed to the St George's flag-draped post which shook as the ball hit it upon which an enormous shout arose in the morning air.

Arundel cried: "What's that they're shouting?"

"Post, My Lord. The king's men have scored a post, by hitting it." answered the serjeant. By now his own men were joining in the excitement, but Arundel turned to Legge, saying glumly:

"And how long is this going on, man. The king will arrive shortly."

Legge frowned, and his frown took in his own men, who looked a bit sheepish. He said:

"These knckabouts sometimes go on for hours.." He did not finish as the same round object hurtled towards him and Legge held up his hand to stop it. As he did so, a cry went up from both teams on the square. Again Arundel asked:

"What is it, Legge?"

But if Legge responded, his answer was drowned in the shouts of protest echoing around the market place. Now the cries manifested themselves as, "Foul" and a player ran towards them addressing Legge:

"Which side are you on, Sergeant?" But Legge turned to the earl, discretely omitting his usual title, saying:

"Which side am I on? The king's men or St. George's men?"

Arundel, ever the diplomat, answered:

"You're for the king. We're all for the king!"

Upon which someone picked up the ball, placed it, and gave it a mighty kick and once again the players surged in the direction of its flight. Arundel shuddered with disgust as men fell to the ground amidst the dried up piles of animal dung, as for one day of the week, Smithfield was an animal market. Indeed it was a well-known saying that if you wanted a horse, the place to go to was Smithfield.

Now the scrumming and attendant rumpus had moved way from them, Arundel started to hear another noise emanating from the vicinity of St Bartholomew's Hospital. He spurred his horse towards the sounds, which sounded familiar but still could not quite place. There was a 'zing' then a thud followed by another 'zing' and attendant thud. As ever he tried to locate Serjeant Legge and watched him lining his men against the high wall of the hospital listening to what he was saying. He heard the words:

"Hot-tempered rebels; boundary posts; coax don't push. Keep your hands off the women!"

The earl smiled as he waved his marshals baton to catch his attention listening to him admonishing his men:

"Now just keep them pikes upright, while I go see what the Marshal wants."

To Arundel's question, Legge repled: "Archery contest, my lord. The rebels have set up target butts t'other side of the wall, here. It's just another way to pass the time."

Legge again took out a cloth from a pocket inside his red buttoned tunic, and wiped his brow, before adding:

"I remember when you'd never see football being played at the same time as archery, Marshal!"

Arundel shared the complete disinterest of his class towards the activities of whom he regarded as inferiors, and was not curious at Legge's conundrum, but humoured his serjeant by allowing him to vent his explanation upon his unwilling ears to his evident chagrin, minutes later, as Legge, clearing his throat for the occasion, now demonstrated the power of his regal recall:

"The late king's father declared, Sire, that forasmuch as there be a great noise in the City caused by hustling over large balls, from which many evils may arise, we command and forbid on pain of imprisonment, such games to be played in future."

By this time, Arundel was walking his horse up and down as Legge intoned while the 'zing', 'zing', thud, thud went on over the wall accompanied by ribald shouts which Arundel was ashamed to listen to, catching the occasional comments, such as:

"Good shot, George!": "Missed by a mile, young 'un!": "Get some practise in, Harry!"

The sounds and raucous calls made the earl angry. He was Marshal of England

yet might as well be the King of France for all the influence he had at this moment. The king's subjects flouted the laws under his nose and he was powerless to prevent it. He thought of his fellow peers. What would their reaction be! Perhaps they were chuckling in their ale. Mayhap he had been made Marshal for just such indignity. The humbling of Arundel! Heaven be praised his father was not alive to witness his son's humiliation.

Then he saw something which froze his marrow, and made him gasp. Arundel almost panicked. Were his plans about to be set at nought? It was Sir Robert Knollys. Yet Knollys was not to be seen. It was his armour: for he was clad from helm to foot in gleaming proof. And, as Arundel hyper-ventilated, a mailed glove touched the visor and it flew up as if on a spring. The same mailed fist was beckoning to him, Arundel, but the earl did not reply.

Instead, he spurred his horse towards the mounted knight not greeting him, as was customary. Instead, he said coldly:

"Only the Marshal of England can grant or withhold permission to attend this regal meeting, Sir Knight. You were not included."

The eyes inside the helmet seemed to smile and the voice to have a steely edge as he spoke to Arundel:

"There are only two parties who give Knollys leave. That mob!"

And he pointed to a crowd of armoured archers, some several hundred of which, were milling around, "and, his royal person, the king."

Knollys did not point, but indicated the direction of his route from the City. He went on: "Where were you lot when that mob threatened King Richard?"

Arundel was beside himself with rage. This jumped up commoner had not even greeted him or addressed him according to his station and position which Arundel felt was due him from king to commonest subject. That he, Arundel, was his object of contempt. Knollys would pay for this. In the meantime, he declared:

"Sir! The king has charged me with the safety of his person. You are to withdraw, otherwise." Then thought better of it by adding:

"The sight of that armour, Knollys, might easily inflame a tense situation. I beg you to remove yourself from sight."

Knollys smiled: "I like to hear an earl begging. Yes, I shall withdraw, but for the king's sake, Arundel. As to your permission, you can stuff it up your ass. Now, out of

my way, Admiral!"

And with that last utterance of contempt Knollys spurred his charger and rode directly at Arundel who was forced to yield ground as he veered away. The earl fumed, but there was nothing he could do. This was the age of the war lord, and Knollys was its embodiment. Arundel promised himself, that age was coming to an end. Abruptly he turned his horse around, at which the beast whinnied in pain, then, began to notice that the men, the football players, were walking, not running, towards the opposite end of the market place.

As they did so, the wooden gates barring entry to the hospital suddenly were opened wide and a stream of men carrying longbows and sheaves of arrows slung across their back, issued forth following in the direction of their comrades, the

erstwhile footballers. Then he observed the reasons for their actions and an instant

later heard the roll of kettledrums. Riding towards the sound, he espied Richard at some distance astride his favourite black stallion proceeding slowly towards him along the approach avenue.

Arundel turned his own horse, more gently, this time with the intention to notify Serjeant Legge but he had anticipated the earl and had already ordered his men to take up their positions around the square-shaped market place. Arundel heard him shouting orders to his soldiers. Again only snatches of commands could he comprehend so he let the efficient serjeant get on with it.

They seemed to do everything at a trot as they fanned out across the open ground, suddenly clear of people. He turned round to trot towards the sound of drums and eventually got near enough to raise his hat to the king. Now, he noticed and nodded at Walworth before once again reversing and cantering after Legge and his men. At the same time he noticed somewhat to the rear a large troop of soldiers and his fellow earls Warwick and Oxford on horseback. He hoped they would stay within earshot but out of sight of the rebels.

He noticed that a large number of vacant market stalls would help to hide their presence. Reinforcements were essential provided their very presence did not provoke incidents which had to be avoided before the business in which they would

soon all be engaged. He noticed on reaching the square that Legge's task had been

facilitated by the organisation of the rebels themselves. Then the earl caught sight of a magnificent individual. He was one of the rebels undoubtedly, but in his bearing stood apart from his fellows.

He was tall and angular although his red felt hat surmounted by a white cockade certainly made him look outstanding. His entire body was simply dressed in black battle-worn leather that ended in polished black boots reaching to his calves. Upon his wrists were black leather bands while a length of bare arm between wrist and biceps was burnt nut-brown by the open air.

Arundel caught a murmur from the crowd which swelled into a crescendo of shouts. He strained his ears to catch their purport. He recognised it and felt disgusted, yet marvelled at the same time that this noble chant hitherto reserved for knights like Chandos, Ferrers, was directed at their leader. The rebels chanted:

"A Tyler! A Tyler! A Tyler!"

On and on went the salutation until the tall man with the cockade lifted a brown tanned arm in acknowledgment, and as quickly as it had begun, the noise died away. Arundel said to himself:

"So that's Wat Tyler."

And now he understood the Black Prince for making common cause with the man. He was magnificent. Arundel had only seen such manly splendour clothed in glinting armour. Tyler wore nothing of the kind, yet the man had a presence. Of that there was no doubt. He felt weak knowing what he had planned for him, and was glad he had had no acquaintance hitherto with the man.

A woman called from a stall and Tyler turned presenting a full face to the earl who noticed the trim moustache on the upper lip in the manner of the Spanish having probably picked up the style fighting with John of Gaunt in Castile. The earl noticed his serjeant having trouble with a woman who was refusing to budge, then heard a call "Meg!" The woman turned in acknowledgement, and Tyler waved back at her, and thereafter Legge had no more bother.

Would that he could order his own household in such a way, he sighed. He was a handsome brute, no doubt of that, and the earl felt a twinge of envy. Then Tyler looked directly at Arundel and the earl saw a picture of the most utter misery, and turned away in embarrassment spurring his horse towards the king's party who were arranging themselves as best they might, wondering why his foe looked so miserable.

"My Lord Arundel!"

The greeting caught him off-guard so busy had he been thinking of other things. It was from William Walworth who was anxious for information, and continued:

"Are the dispositions to your liking, My Lord?"

There was a touch of arrogance in Walworth's words yet it was friendly enough. Arundel looked across at the king who sat astride his polished, black charger waiting patiently for the proceedings to get underway. Arundel proceeded a second time towards the king, addressing him with all the respect he owed his monarch:

"Your Majesty!"

Richard turned saying nothing. The noise was deafening and occasionally a breeze wafted over the smell of sweaty unwashed bodies which turned his stomach. Arundel appreciated why Richard kept his mouth shut as the earl continued:

"May it please you, Sire, that I ask your trumpeters to blow a fanfare."

Richard nodded still silent, and Arundel turned to address the lead musician,

shouting to make himself heard: "We need a brave blast!"

He watched as the bandleader instructed his trumpeters and watched as trumpets were placed to lips and lifted skywards: "Number two fanfare! Blow!"

A strident continuous bray resounded around the square, its note persisting for several seconds. Then silence. Arundel watched as the mayor pointed and gestured to a man with a tri-corn hat who moved towards the centre of the square. In a strong, clear voice his words called for attention:

"Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!"

Waiting for a repressed hubbub to subside before lifting a parchment aloft and declaring:

"May it please Almighty God that he preserve the person of our liege lord, King Richard, the third of that name, and send him long to reign over us. The said King Richard has consented to meet with his esteemed Commons and has vouchsafed to parley with them on sundry matters. May it please the said Commons to send forth their representative forthwith to meet and parley with our liege lord. God save the King!"

As the proclamation was read aloud Arundel heard mutterings from his rear and guessed their purport that no mention was made of the nobility, of gentlemen or ladies etc. Arundel had approved he mayor's draft accepting that mention of any nobility might have caused unrest, and so he had no regrets about their absence. There would be plenty of time to mend fences after the emergency. When the crisis was over he would utter any kind of obsequious fawnings, but until then it was diplomatic to be silent on the matter. He backed his nag away from the centre but to a vantage point where he could observe proceedings.

On the whole Serjeant Legge's dispositions met with his approval. Legge had not wasted his time in placing stout wooden uprights around the square and Arundel noted the eyelets, through which stout rope was threaded. This arrangement separated the royal party from the throng and the barrier was reinforced by the presence of Legge's soldiers every ten yards though, at the same time, someone with intent could duck under the rope.

He looked to where the mounted Walworth had positioned his nag. He fancied the mayor was signalling to someone in rhe crowd but could not be sure. But, he had little time for further thought as he watched the white cockade move away from the throng some distance away from where he was. He moved slowly towards the king astride his horse. Tyler was riding a small palfrey which ill became him. As he watched the strange centaur-like pair trotted gently nearer, Arundel experienced an inkling of pity which ended abruptly as he watched Richard spur his charger in moving to meet Tyler half-way.

Arundel spontaneously shouted: "My Liege!"

It had the desired effect and Richard stopped, quieting his charger who ceased pawing the ground. Meanwhile a second rebel cantered towards Tyler and called on him to stop, which Tyler did. The newcomer handed him a dagger, which Tyler took in his left hand, then passed it to his right, then back to the left all the while standing higher in the stirrups so as to give the throng a glimpse of what he was doing. Then he shouted out:

"No weapons. No weapons; as agreed."

So saying he hurled the dagger to the ground and forbade the donor to retrieve it before resuming his progress towards the king. Arundel heard someone clapping. It was Richard. The earl exchanged glances with the mayor, whose horse seemed to move slightly: was it nearer the king? Then Arundel's concern vanished as he watched Tyler dismount, his feet anyway barely inches from the ground.

But Arundel's fear mounted as Tyler approached the king still mounted with his hands resting on the pommel. Tyler stopped and raised his right hand and touched that of the king while Arundel watched tensely. Tyler took the king's hand gently and bending the knees slightly, not fully, as otherwise he'd pull the king from the saddle, he addressed him without unction:

"My Liege Lord! My King! My master, the Black Prince's, son! Comrade!

Brother-in-arms! Dost remember your former comrade Captain Tyler? All your

former comrades are here My Liege. All forty thousand, and at your command."

Arundel was taken aback. A rebel. A villein was addressing his sovereign as if meeting an old friend not seen for years. What other insult was the fellow capable of? He had not long to wait. He watched as Tyler started shouting instructions to beer stalls at the boundary where they had been shifted for the duration of the parley. Tyler uttered a "Phew!" mopping his brow with an elegant kerchief.

"It's a hot 'un, and no mistake!"

Arundel heard him exclaim: then addressing the king directly, he said:

"I've ordered beer. It'll be just like the old days in Harbledown, eh young Dick!"

Arundel heard Richard say: "No beer, thankyou, Tyler."

Upon which Tyler called over to the stall: "And a krug of water, for his majesty, Nell!"

Arundel could scarcely credit what he was hearing. This banter with common folk shocked him. Yet, he knew Harbledown, in Kent. It had been his father's favourite watering place. Was it possible the Black Prince had also frequented the place? It was famous for its healing spring. Was that why the fellow was being so familiar! The Black Prince must have taken his son, Richard, there too. It was bad business to mix with commoners. No good came of it. It had led to this situation. He looked at Walworth who shifted impatiently in the saddle.

The earl turned away and watched sourly as a woman carrying a tray bearing two pots walked towards the royal party. Tyler motioned to her, addressing the king at the same time, and without a second glance took a stone pot from the tray, and swallowed a draught, then with an explosion of disgust spat it out.

"Water!" he exploded. "Sorry, young Dick. Drank yourn by mistake; must take away the taste!"

So saying he took the other flagon and swallowed a long draught.

"Ahhhh! That's better!" He grimaced wiping his mouth.

Arundel watched horrified at the uncouth display of bad manners. And he noticed Richard's discomfiture also, and sought some way to bring the business to an end. But how? Then his glance at Tyler showed the latter was also aware that his behaviour was not helping his cause. He waved the woman with the tray away, and she left. It was the king who seized the initiative: He said to Tyler:

"Why do you not go back to your homes? You received your charters of manumission yesterday. What more do you all want?"

At the same time Tyler was distracted by shouts from someone to the left of the king's behind the rope. Next, he watched as Walworth raised a baton to the party he had noticed earlier. It was a gesture few noticed apart from himself. Then Arundel heard Walworth actually shout as well as signal to his accomplice:

"Louder you fool!"

So, the calumny was repeated: "Tyler! You are nothing but a thief. You're the worst robber in all of Kent!"

Arundel watched as Tyler's attention was diverted. He rushed over to a group in the crowd and started shouting:

"Who is saying this? It's as well I have no weapon." Arundel strained to hear his words: "Or, it would go the worse with you."

But, as Tyler, approached the cat-caller shut up.

Clearly agitated, Tyler returned to the king, addressing him, thus: "Your Majesty. The purpose of this meeting is for you to authorise Sir John Newton to sign our charter on behalf of the Parliament. Hither have we brought him; can I send for him?"

"Do so!" replied the king, and Tyler once more clapped his hands and cupping hands to mouth shouted to the throng:

"Release Sir John, and send him over."

While this was happening Tyler stood disconsolately alone waiting for the appearance of Sir John. Then once more the king intervened and, it seemed to Arundel, that the King was trying to impress Tyler with argument. He said:

"For the sake of my father whom you say you hold dear, please go home."

The king then put his hands together as if in prayer, saying: "In the name of reason why do you not go back to your home county. You, Tyler, and all of your followers!"

Tyler was now clearly in an agitated state. No longer was he familiar with Richard. Yet he did remonstrate with him, saying:

"Sire, we villeins, like all mankind, are made in the image of Jesus Christ.

Yet, we are treated like beasts. We want redress."

While speaking, Tyler paced, forward and back, waiting for Newton to bring over the charter. He addressed the king:

"When he has signed it in your presence, Your Majesty, we shall be satisfied and return home."

So saying, he turned his back on Arundel looking in the direction where he heard Sir John approaching, and waited for him. Arundel signalled frantically to Walworth meaning, now is a good moment, and was thrilled to see Walworth dismount and hurry towards Tyler; in his right hand was a short sword.

He ran Tyler through who fell with an anguished shout which action partly

dislodged the blade. Walworth drew it back and lunged again at Tyler, a second time. Then a page, Standish by name, ran with a dagger, and plunged it through Tyler's shoulder and withdrew for a second stab. Amazed Arundel watched as Tyler rolled over and over towards his palfrey, then mounting it with difficulty, urged it along all the time screaming:

"I am betrayed. I am betrayed."

He was shouting at the few supporters who rushed forward to help their leader. It was all over in a few moments and Arundel was astonished at the turn of events which had occurred too quickly for him to lend any support. He was astonished at Tyler's constitution which enabled him to shrug off two sword thrusts and a dagger attack that would have felled another man.

Astonished, Arundel watched as Richard took the initiative. Without waiting for anyone to support him, he spurred his charger towards the rebels. Arundel was horrified but gasped in admiration as Richard cantered towards the throng, and motioned as if he wanted to address them. The archers stood man to man with tense strings of their longbows as if waiting for an order.

A piping, if cracked, voice shouted above the clamour. It was Richard's voice:

"Sirs! Sirs! Would you kill your king?"

Immediately, Arundel, who had spurred his horse forward to match the pace of the king's horse, noticed that the archers had released the tension of their strings. Richard went on:

"I," and he pointed at his chest, "I am your king. I am your captain and your leader. Let ME talk to you. Let us go to open country."

Arundel spurred his horse forward and braving the throng of rebels, he took the bridle of the king's horse, and allowed it to wheel around:

"Sire, allow me; this way." The earl was relieved to find them both surrounded by their own supporters. He guessed Warwick and Oxford had appraised the situation and ordered their retainers to protect the king. But, when the duke of Somerset indicated his intention to attack the rebels, Richard restrained him.

"Let them disperse; no bloodshed, please!"

Arundel respected the king's wish. In a flash he realised Richard was resuming acquaintance with soldiers who had served with his father. He felt no fear because he had mixed with these men. And the men themselves, former soldiers in his father's, the Black Prince's campaigns, trusted in him utterly.

Arundel realised that Richard, the king, was never in any danger. Yet, the situation had appeared fraught with deadly peril. And, he also realised that at age 14 his monarch had shown a grasp of political grandstanding that men of twice his experience would never come near. He must watch this young man in future. It's a pity the earl did not remember his own advice; it would be his undoing, but that was well into the future.

Father Ball watched the proceedings of Tyler's meeting with Richard with some trepidation; his earlier gloom-filled foreboding was supplanted even more so by the gut-feeling that something dire was about to befall. He was positioned too far away, outside St Bartholomew's Hospital, to hear what was being exchanged between subject and monarch, yet Tyler's bearing did not exude the confidence that had made him master not only of London but of every situation since the start of the uprising.

His manners too exhibited a crudity with little of the aplomb which had put his friends at ease and his enemies off their stroke. To cap it all, Tyler seemed not to care; was it a death-wish. And, his enemies were now all around him. There was the arrogant Earl of Arundel watching the proceedings from his vantage point yet frequently looking over to the Lord Mayor, whom he recognised from his apparel and chain of office.

Yet, that chain of office did not sit right somehow. Then Ball perceived why: it was because the innocent red silk gown looked too stiff to be silk, and Ball surreptitiously, looking through his home-made visual gadget so useful from Beaver, his 'Tervisum' now revealed the tell-tale rigidity of steel. Against every tenet of civil polity, the mayor of all people, charged with the peace of the City, was wearing proof armour and doubtless had somewhere concealed a sword.

He watched appalled as Walworth dismounted and withdrew it while Tyler stood

hands on hips waiting for Sir John Newton, oblivious of danger, careless of the threat behind him, who was taking his time walking over towards him. Tyler, distracted , did not see the mayor, sword in hand, approach. He wanted to shout a warning as Walworth escaped the cordon of soldiers, and ran at Tyler's back. Horrified, and rooted to the spot, he watched as Walworth plunged the blade into Tyler, but, it being short, for better concealment, that first treacherous stab had not been fatal, and Walworth got a second stab in as Tyler turned round. Then, suddenly there was a second man who struck Tyler in the shoulder with a dagger.

Amazingly Tyler reeled from the triple blow, but recovered. He shouted

what sounded like:

"Treachery, treachery, treachery!"

And, yet he somehow managed to throw himself onto his palfrey which trotted fast away. Ball, impeded by his friar's long gown ran towards the moving beast. He saw Hale also running to help. And, there were others as the sound of Tyler's cry for help echoed across the market place. But, too few raced to meet the trotting palfrey.

Even from a distance Ball could see the blood oozing out of his wounds as he lay on the palfrey his body slumped holding on desperately, arms around the horse's neck.

Ball caught hold of Tyler around the waist and ran with the nag urging it towards the hospital gate. Reaching it he told Filkin to act as lookout while he hurried the beast across the wide courtyard to the hospital entrance, then transferred Tyler aided by a monk onto a stretcher hurrying along a narrow corridor to a private room.

As they, the monk and Ball, took the stretcher into the room and laid it atop a low bed fitted with the standard mataresse, Ball wondered how long would he have before the armoured figure he had espied would invade Holy Sanctuary. The monk stood by the door while Ball knelt by the bed. Tyler's wounds no longer oozed but seeped blood yet Ball having given up trying to staunch the blood now concentrated in trying to catch the words which in ever weaker sounds came from Tyler's lips. Ball knelt down, bending his head to try to catch his words.

He heard just the few, "Alice, Alice, I'm coming!"

Ball heard nothing else. Soon, even those few faded and he was silent. Ball put his thumb to Tyler's neck. The pulse had ceased to throb. He placed his ear near Tyler's chest which no longer rose and fell. Putting his hand over Tyler's heart, Ball knew it was the end.

As he knelt by the body, Ball looked at Tyler and said: "You died from vanity, comrade. If only you had worn the stiff leather armour of your comrades, you'd be alive. Instead you chose this soft French apparel flattering your physique. Oh vanity, vanity, vanity. So, are you un-done!"

Nonetheless, he smiled in relief, and was about to straighten when he heard a clanking sound accompanied by shouting. The door was wrenched open and Sir Robert Knollys burst in. He was in full-armour. He pushed aside the monk guarding the door, rasping:

"Out of my way, priest!"

Without fear Ball screamed in triumph: "He's dead. You cannot harm him."

But Knollys, lifting his sword shouted: "Cannot!" He drove his sword vertically into Tyler's chest, but no blood issued from the wound. Knollys withdrew the sword shouting:

"Now it's your turn Priest!"

Ball had resumed kneeling by Tyler's body expecting a thrust. But it did not come. At the door, a woman's voice called:

"My Lord! Would you defile Holy Sanctuary?"

Knollys was taken aback, glaring at the sister, then, wiping the blade on a blanket, he sheathed his sword, and clanked out of the room. Ball could hear him issuing orders.

"So that is Sir Robert Knollys!" Ball thought. He was bruised but unbowed by the encounter yet it was not the sanctity of the cloth that had preserved his life, but the soft spoken and fearless sound of the nun. Thank Heavens for sisters of mercy, he thought. Yet, knights might fear a sister of mercy but a mob had no such respect

and Knollys had barely left when the baying mob filled the corridor and soon

finding Tyler's body dragged it out feet first out into the market-place.

Now it was the turn of Tyler's body to suffer the dismemberment which had attended Simon Sudbury, and, in seconds, his head was atop a pole while the mob

marched triumphantly round the market square.

The holy sister performed another service to Father Ball urging him, while the mob was distracted, to escape. The abbot added his words of advice giving him directions as to the best route to avoid detection so leaving St Barts, he struck out north walking among hundreds of people who were streaming silently away from Smithfield. There was an excited buzz and the sight of a gowned monk did not attract any comment; Ball thought of his arrival hours before: what a difference! The anarchy of freedom had given way to the servitude of order.

King Richard meanwhile was the hero of the hour feted by the nobility led by the Earl of Arundel who sang his praises at every fresh encounter with a person of rank. The king, on the other hand, kept his own counsel allowing the flood of obsequies to wash over him while giving his now familiar thin smile and saying nothing. Yet, this allowed him space for deep revolving thoughts about his conduct during the crisis trying to pin-point anything whether of deed, or speech which might have betrayed weakness. His most painful encounter had been at Smithfield when he visibly disowned the man whom his father had personally thanked in his presence.

That was politic: that was politics. What counted was now not remembrance of things past. Ordinary mortals could allow themselves this freedom, this luxury, but not kings. His grandfather had taught him that. Keep your distance young Dick. You will be lonely, the loneliest, but it is necessary.

His grandfather had cited his own experience when Mortimer and his Mama were running the country having imprisoned his father in Baynard's Castle. He, the Prince of Wales, had to feign continued love towards his mama and her lover, and, await the moment when lulled by his quiescence, Mortimer would make a mistake.

Now, he, Richard, must bide his time until his opponents fell into the same state of mind into believing, that he, Richard, was harmless. That moment of hubris would be their undoing. In the meantime he must prove to them that Richard can be as hard as they can be and would be, in the future.

The first thing will be to revoke those Writs of Manumission issued at Mile End. For that he must thank Tyler who, by calling for the presence of Sir John Newton to countersign the writs, provided him with a fitting escape from his commitments: the writs had not received the sanction of Parliament, and, so were void. It did not escape the fevered brain of the young monarch that the rebels had felt secure in his presence, and, though flattering, it was not politic to allow that sentiment to continue.

He must convince the nobility that his demeanour with the rebels had been a bargaining stance and did not reflect his true feelings. He would not need to work too hard to re-establish his credentials vis-à-vis the nobility on account of the sanctity in which his kingship was regarded already by the Church.

Unlike his father Richard did not pay lip service to God: he had an innermost conviction that his kingship was blessed by the Holy Father in Rome and, therefore, it was Divine: he was Divine. Therefore anything he had to do to confound his enemies must be approved by God. He could do no wrong. He was the King.

It is not surprising therefore that when some of the rebels disappointed and confounded by the actions taken against them craved an audience with the king who, to their face, condemned them with the words:

"Villeins ye be; and villeins ye shall remain!"

What else might they have expected of a king who ruled his kingdom by Divine Right? Yet, in just a dozen years he would wish for a phalanx of such villein-archers as a bulwark against a young man, by name Henry, who, at this very moment, had escaped the Tower with the help of John Ferrour. In little more than a decade Richard's Divine Right would be no more. Moreover the rebirth of the English language would be cemented through his coronation oath.

End of part 2

##  Chapter 20

Escape to St Albans

They emerged from the enveloping canopy of the forest and their eyes were drawn upwards for there in the distance set on a hill was the inspiring view of a monastery. John Ferrour was sure it was the Benedictine monastery of St Albans. It was surrounded on all four sides by a defensive wall. It was early in the morning though Ferrour had no idea of the time. He looked down at his young companion and smiled; the boy said:

"It seems our long walk will soon be over, eh sir."

He pointed into the middle distance and got the response which lifted his spirits:

"Yes! That be the monastery at St Albans, young sir, and fairly soon we shall espy the spire of St Mary's church."

"Is that where we are headed, sir?"

"Yes, if only as a guide to our ultimate destination. You have heard tell of the monastery of St Albans, have you, young Henry?"

"Of St Albans, Sir. Yes, of course though it will be my first visit. Is there somebody in the monastery that you wish to meet?"

Ferrour did not answer for in truth he was not sure of their reception. He had a vague idea that the monastery lay outside the city itself being part of the earlier Roman settlement. He had also heard of the tensions between the inhabitants of the town and the religious community. Henry looked up at his travelling companion but, somewhat weary, did not repeat his question and the tall, angular man and the lithe, spirited boy continued to trudge in silence.

Nobody would suspect the gulf in rank between the two walkers. The fair-haired Ferrour's lope was down to a spine curvature betraying the hardened longbowman while the boy, at 14 years, had twenty to his advantage compared to his companion. They spoke little, though away from people, their speech was French which reflected each's forbears.

And, now walking free of any surrounding trees the path upon which they trod began to look, free as it was of twigs and leaves, more like the ancient Roman road, Watling Street. To John Ferrour's relief nobody was about as he hoped to approach the actual walls of the monastery without having to ask directions.

He need not have worried because within a few minutes they heard the heavy tolling of a bell and soon after noticed figures emerging from the mist-laden near horizon making out soon enough their dull grey apparel topped by the inevitable cowl which betokened a religious man about his business for all around were fields of barley and wheat with figures moving among the young stalks occasionally stooping to gather a weed. Unknown to them, the two travellers had already entered upon the ecclesiastical estates of the Benedictine community whose tolling bell they had heard moments before.

Within a short time the abbey part of the monastery complex loomed out of the mist ahead and John now was concerned with an impending unknown.

"Now, young sir, you may perhaps know how best to address a man of the cloth, perhaps an elder, hmmm?"

"My father always addressed such a religious man above his station, at least on first acquaintance. Think you we shall meet but monks. How say you to Reverend Sir?"

Ferrour made use of this advice almost immediately when they accosted a figure hurrying from the abbey. "Reverend Sir." He called but the figure paused but momentarily before proceeding on his way.

"Late for the fields, no doubt!" John commented as they approached the huge arched door of the first building. He looked for something to pull and spied a chain hanging down giving it a substantial yank listening to the treble tone of an inner bell. A panel set in the middle of the door was opened and a voice intoned:

"Your business, citizens!"

John Ferrour addressed himself to the door glancing at his companion:

"Two travellers, Reverend Sir, wish to speak to the abbott."

"Many desire such of His Grace's time. About what do you desire an audience?"

Came the response and Ferrour nervously composed his explanation:

"You have heard of the troubles in the City of London. I have important news for the abbot."

There was a grating noise as inner bolts were drawn and one side of the double door edged apart and a voice beckoned them inside accompanied by anxiety-laden words;

"What news sire, what news?"

"All I have to impart must first be told to the lord abbott." John answered pulling his young companion in front then entering inside himself waiting as the door was rebolted.

"This way!"

The trio hurried along several passages dimly lit by tallow lights infrequently sited until their companion stopped before a door and knocked then immediately opened it and entered. Inside was more gloom and as his eyes accustomed to it John heard first then saw a figure kneeling before a plain upright cross. It intoned a prayer. All waited for the prayer to end whereupon the figure rose to his feet and turned towards a desk and then noticing he was not alone said:

"Brother Jonathon, whom have you brought?"

"News from London, Reverend Prior; I shall leave you." So saying, the gatekeeper backed away to the door, opened it and silently was gone. John spoke:

"Reverend Prior. It is not news so much that I bring but here, in the person of the Earl of Derby, may I introduce you to the son of the Duke of Lancaster."

There was silence following Ferrour's words as the prior peered at the boy by John's side. Finally he whispered:

"Come closer, boy!"

"But....." It was Ferrour who spoke but the prior raised his hand inviting silence before he said:

"My dear sirs, have you looked at your persons recently? You ask me to accept someone into the sanctuary of the abbey claiming to be a nobleman. Do noblemen normally look so dishevilled?"

Ferrour blushed as he explained their adventures of recent days ending with the explanation of the earl's ragged looking clothes: his surcoat having been ripped off his person along with all personal jewellery ending his little speech:

"We were lucky to escape with our lives Reverend Prior, but I assure you that his father, the duke, will be much beholden to you upon his return from the north."

After this appeal the prior's face softened inviting them to sit on a bench against the wall adjacent the door, explaining:

"The supplicants bench, but it will be free for a while."

He appeared to have reflected on hearing Ferrour's words making up his mind they sounded true and addressing him, said:

"What is it you want me to do?"

"Horses, Reverend, we need horses."

The prior reflected awhile then said:

"I have a different proposal Sir: that you both remain in the abbey as our guests while I post a rider to the duke if you will give me his last known location."

"May I speak, Sir?"

It was the boy and he was addressing Ferrour. At the sound of his treble voice, the prior smiled as he looked at the man and said:

"May he, Sire?"

Ferrour somewhat taken aback motioned to the boy to say his piece which he did:

"My noble father, the duke, was called to Alnwick, Reverend Prior, in June the first several days before the troubles began. Yet, my Lord of Arundel posted messages to acquaint the duke with news of the rebellion soon after it began. I warrant my father is on the return journey, as we speak."

"Indeed, young Sir; you may very well be correct. What is your opinion, Sir! Pray whom do I address?"

"John Ferrour, Reverend Prior! Clerk comptroller to my lord, the Earl Ferrers."

"And how came you to meet with our noble friend?" The prior indicated the younger one who spoke up for his companion:

"He saved my life, Reverend Prior. I shall be in his debt forever."

"Nay, nay," protested Ferrour, "that will never do. I did my duty, young sir; that is all."

"What say you to my plan, Sir?" enquired the prior diverting John from momentary embarrassment and answering:

"It would seem excellent, Reverend, except we need to find lodgings until the earl here can rejoin his father, the duke."

"You will both stay here and be very welcome." said the prior and added, "We live very simply but you'll not be expected to sleep on bare boards. You are not doing penance, after all."

His little chuckle warmed Ferrour and he reciprocated the prior's evident pleasure when the latter took him by the arm saying:

"Come! I'll show you."

Later, Ferrour found himself back in the prior's office clutching an earthenware pot of mulled wine. He sipped it his nose wrinkling at the sharp tang as he explained what had befallen his erstwhile companion.

"He has not enjoyed a good night's rest for days and that mostly in the open."

"I could see that," confirmed the prior, "the boy had scarcely laid down his head when he fell instantly asleep. Now, Sir, let me explain my course of action. Yourself and I shall compose a letter addressed to his excellency, the duke, and within an hour I shall have a courier posting to the north to seek out the location of the duke's latest whereabouts. What say you?"

"Excellent, Reverend Prior. I have just one misgiving that the duke may already be on his way back and the messenger may miss him."

"There is that danger," agreed the prior, "though the well-worn way from the north is routed through St Albans, and, I'm reasonably certain that his excellency will not forbear to stop if only to change horses. As you may know since good king Henry IIIrd we have the finest stables north of London. So, look..."

The speaker suddenly fell silent as a loud knocking was heard on the outer door of the monastery followed by a muffled command:

"Open in the name of his Grace, the Duke of Lancaster!"

Both men stared at each other momentarily before the prior rose and bidding Ferrour to keep his seat hurried via his door along the passages leading to the outer door and he was a few paces from it when he was confronted by a smartly liveried man, who, in between gasps of heavy breathing, cried:

"Reverend Sir, my noble master, the Duke of Lancaster is but a few leagues behind me. I was sent to warn you of his imminent approach. He is also accompanied by a lady. His Grace seeks accommodation for themselves beside quartering for their entourage of a hundred men and a few horses."

The prior raised his hand in acknowledgement of the message saying:

"Sir! Take your time. Get your breath; follow me.!" So saying the prior indicated to the door keeper to close the outer door and walking invited the messenger to follow, saying in going, "Where exactly left you your party? Do you know?"

The messenger following at the prior's invitation proceeded along the passages back to the prior's room and followed him inside, and, scarcely noticing the other occupant, faced the prior and restated his news:

"His Grace is about half a day's march behind me. His Grace especially requested me to make haste in order to give you as much notice as possible. He was to take the more westerly road but a message from London caused him to change his plans."

"The monastery was not built for quartering soldiers as, I trow, the noble duke well knows, but, if needs must...."

The prior thought a little then turning to the man said:

"Pray! Whom do I have the pleasure to address?"

"My name is Hugh Compton, the noble duke's comptroller, Reverend Sir."

"Mmmm! What a happy co-incidence. You will doubtless have commons with my esteemed friend here."

The prior was about to show the courier when Ferrour stepped towards them and offered his hand to the stranger:

"John Ferrour, sir. My pleasure!"

"It was well that I showed you the refectory, Mister Ferrour. Will you take the duke's courier to the house I showed you earlier."

Then turning to the courier, said:

"Please take some refreshment before returning to your master. I wish his grace and lady a safe journey. We shall endeavour to provide quartering for his soldiers and horses. Assure his grace of our every endeavour to meet his requirements. God save the king!"

The man still hesitated and the prior thinking to have dismissed him said somewhat impatiently:

"Was there something else, Sir?"

"It's my horse, Reverend. Is there a blacksmith?"

The prior smiled: "Of course! You came in via the north gate?"

Compton said: "I'm not sure. The gate-keeper took my horse."

Patiently the prior invited the two men to accompany him as they went outside and pointed to the north gate to be immediately recognised by Compton who nodded his head the prior saying he would find his mount there. Turning to Ferrour he pointed out the refectory which the latter agreed and turning his body he pointed out the newly built lodge and telling the men that the stables were situated to its right. Both Compton and Ferrour thanked the prior warmly and bade farewell.

Compton said: "I did not want to worry the reverend father unduly after all his kindness but my mount needs to be seen first, do you mind?"

Ferrour replied that it was only natural and joined his companion in a brisk walk to the north gate where it was a matter of moments to collect Compton's animal whence both proceeded in the direction the prior had shown them noting that they had to walk the entire length of the nave before arriving at the abbey-gate, adjacent which was the stables. They spotted the blacksmith at once and, at the same time, Compton noticed the horse trough behind the stables and led his mount there who eagerly supped the water while both men approached the blacksmith's shop.

A shower of sparks warned off a close approach but it was fascinating to watch craftsmen at work. Their clothes were protected by thick leather aprons and over one man's head was a visor with slits for viewing his work which glowed red hot. The visorless man set up what appeared to the onlookers to be a block, scored along the centre, with indentations and retreated while the other removed a vessel from a furnace and poured molten metal into the indentations replacing the vessel in the fire.

So intent were they on their work that they had not noticed the two men watching intently though standing back from the entrance. Now they were ushered to approach. It was Compton who spoke:

"Mon cheval a......." He was not allowed to finish for the smith impatiently said, "None of that lingo here. Speak English!"

Compton was taken aback but Ferrour chipped in: "A small matter, blacksmith, of a shoe on my friend's horse just round the corner. May I bring it round. My friend is a messenger, just arrived."

"I'll take a look." So saying he left the forge and accompanied Ferrour to where the horse having drunk stood by the trough. The smith walked the horse and asking, Ferrour to hold the bridle, placed his buttock firmly against the horse's rump and lifted one hind leg.

"Just as I thought, see!"

He showed Compton a loose shoe saying: "Have you summat else to do?"

"We were off to the refectory, eh Mister Compton!" Then turning back to the smith said: "I was intrigued at your previous operation. What was it?"

"Arrer heads. Bodkins for arrers. Need any?"

"No, I left my bow behind in Putney. But, for normal shooting I make my own. Thanks all the same." To Compton, "Shall we go?"

As a passing comment the smith called after them: "They fashion the bows in the stables, next door together with the arrers. Till later!"

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##  Chapter 21

Reunion of Lancaster and son

The clatter of hooves and the squeaking of metal upon stone was heard long before a vehicle could be seen in the fading light of the June evening. A large body of men with vehicles was spotted approaching on the old Verulam Road so as to arrive at the north entrance and the prior saw fit to instruct some of his fellow monks to stand outside the gate to observe the approach of the first vehicle. By then mounted outriders could be seen as the coach trundled along the road eventually slowing to a stop as the driver spotted the reception party in hooded cloaks outside the northern gate of the monastery complex.

One of the outriders dismounted and it was evident to the waiting prior by his blue and yellow topcoat emblazoned with the escutcheons of the House of Lancaster, the fleur-de-lys and crows, that this man was indeed the duke as he dismounted saying a few words to his mount which patiently waited. As he walked towards him the prior plumbed his mental image given him by the abbot that of an overlong bean-pole greying at the temples.

He sank to his knees in greeting the approaching figure:

"Your Grace" May I offer you the hospitality of our humble monastery."

"Stand up, Reverend Prior!

Inwardly the prior breathed a sigh of relief for he had only guessed his rank and listed patiently to the duke's words: "Your presence gladdens all our hearts - and my weary bones."

The duke sighed and added: "Mayhap we have arrived at a peaceful resting place."

All the while the duke had grasped the outstretched hands of the prior. Turning as if to utter directions he chuckled under his breath as another outrider dismounted and hurried to the right side of the coach. The duke commented:

"You read my mind, Robert."

The prior now standing beside the duke watched the man's actions and begging the duke's indulgence said:

"Your Grace will be delighted to hear I trust that his lordship, the Earl of Derby, is at present asleep in the priory."

At his words the duke suddenly faced the prior saying peremptorily:

"My son, my son! What the devil! You say you have Henry, the Earl, in your priory? I don't understand."

"Indeed! your Grace. He arrived here at break of day and was so tired he fell fast asleep the instant his head touched the bolster."

A sudden cry interrupted their discourse. It came from the coach. A woman's voice called out:

"Do I hear aright, Your Grace! Your son is alive and well. May St Agnes be praised!"

Then turning to Robert offered him her hand: "Help me alight, sweet man!"

In the next few moments a slim lady dressed in a purple cloak and wearing a matching cap covering her braided hair for travelling used a short ladder to step down from the coach with Robert's help, with his hand in hers, until she was safely on the ground. The lady meanwhile stood at the duke's side greeting the prior who stood aside while at the same time inviting them inside.

However the duke was held back upon hearing a plaintive voice. He urged the prior to carry on and as they all disappeared inside he said to their backs:

"It can only be Serjeant Iles, my sweet one. Proceed without me for the while."

By now the man referred to appeared in person putting a question to the duke:

"Beg pardon Your Grace. It's the canvas. Can someone suggest a suitable place, a patch of meadow perhaps, where to pitch for the night?"

Fortunately not all the monks had disappeared inside and one of them stepped forward and addressed the duke:

"With Your Grace's leave, may I show your serjeant where he may camp?"

"Of course, Holy Father."

Approaching the man he pointed to a meadow on the right saying:

"Follow the wall of the monastery, Serjeant; the way opens out into a meadow. Beyond the meadow you may spot a bridge over a fast flowing river. Doubtless you will also see a flock of sheep. I pray you hurry to catch the last light. The bridge crosses the River Ver where you can draw water though I pray you take a bucket with a cord for the river flows fast. When we lose a monk or two in the course of the year it's a careless thought that perhaps he slipped fetching water."

By the time he finished this speech he was chuckling and the serjeant joined in:

"Pity 'twere not that fellow Ball we've been hearing about. Was he of this place?"

"He left us years ago." Answered the monk adding, "But do not tarry Serjeant for the day hath but an hour to waste before dark."

"Never fear Reverend. My men can put up their tents blindfold. And we shall mind the sheep." He turned so that the monk could not see his wicked facial gesture but it was his soldier's response which gave the game away: there would be one less sheep on the morrow. With a final cheery laugh the serjeant bade the monk goodnight and the latter heard orders shouted which left all present in no doubt that this man had everything under control.

The prior watched momentarily as he and his soldiers retreated and turned back to the duke:

"Your Grace our humble abode is of course at your service though our accommodation is limited to a dormitory. A message has been sent to my superiour, his Reverend the Abbott, and his answer is expected anytime."

The duke however did not appear discomfited saying:

"We soldiers Reverend Prior are quite accustomed to rough quarters. As long as the ladies are provided for have no qualms about the lodgings for the officers, or myself, for that matter. It is fortunate I left the bulk of the army at Warwick.

The prior frowned: "But, Your Grace, you will surely need your army in London for news tells us that rebels brave the streets."

The duke was distracted momentarily by his companion, who had not left with the serjeant earlier, saying to him, evenly:

"Follow Serjeant Iles, Robert! You are to see that he and his men lack for nothing."

He turned to the prior: "Is it alright to make a fire in the meadow Reverend Prior?"

"Pass the news to the serjeant, Robert, with my compliments. Off you go."

"Brother Anthony, Brother Anthony!"

On hearing the shout the monk turned his head towards a fellow monk waving. He waited for him:

"A message from the Abbott for the prior, Brother; where is he?"

Turning to the duke the monk said: "By your leave, Sire, I'll take my brother to the prior. If you have no further business by all means come with me."

The duke assented and all entered into the vestibule with Brother Anthony in the lead. They walked the corridors in silence. Arriving outside the prior's room he found the door open and spoke to the prior about the messenger who was invited to say his message:

"His Holiness, the Abbott wishes to say that his guest rooms are at the disposal of His Grace and his guests. I, Brother Elijah, am at his disposal to conduct all to the guest house."

The duke took in the new situation directly and spoke thanking the prior and the abbot's messenger and at the sound of his voice, the lady appeared:

"Your Grace! Your son is dressing himself after his sleep."

Hardly had she stopped speaking and a boy appeared; it was Henry. He saw his father and cried delightedly:

"Father, Sir, how fared you in the north? Did you chase those Scots back over the border? Do tell!"

The duke accepted his son's greeting without an outward display of affection. He addressed the prior:

"Thankyou Reverend Prior for your hospitality. Mayhap your brother, the abbot, has more commodious rooms. We shall take our leave."

At his words the lady offered also thanks to the prior and holding out her hand to Henry left the room with Father Anthony who accompanied them back into the corridor. To their right were the prior's personal sleeping quarters where Henry had found rest. The monk explained to Lady Swynford:

"Our reverend abbot's guest house lies at the opposite side of the monastery but the way, though not paved, is easy to walk on."

As they walked the duke taxed his son about a matter that troubled him:

"How came you My Lord to be separated from the king?"

But the lady interrupted:

"I beseech you, Sire, not to tax your son overly with such questions. I'm sure all will be resolved in due course."

As she spoke the duke did not fail to watch her eyes which indicated to him that his son's answers should be left unsaid, at least in public. So they continued in silence until Father Anthony pointed out a portion of the tower on the other side of the monastery where the building had suffered a lightning strike. He did however encourage the party to be patient by saying the phrase, 'not far now'. Then, they had cleared the main building which aisle was reputed the second longest in England and the monk could explain, stopping the party:

"There is the holy abbot's residence while the guest house is on the other side of the main arch. It was only recently completed. You might recall before his late majesty's death that he paid us a visit. The duke said sourly:

"As I recall did his majesty not upbraid one, Hugh Wallingford?"

Father Anthony was silent and the duke continued:

"Yes! The man tried to explain to his majesty about some horologe he wanted to construct. His majesty was none too pleased."

Still no response so the duke added: "His majesty advised him that the work on the church should come first."

The monk stopped and raising both arms in a sweeping gesture said:

"There is the new monastery gateway. The central arch allows the tallest wagon to go through permitting travellers to alight and enter via the east or west wing."

Incongruously the duke suddenly noticed something about his son's dress:

"Where is your surcoat, boy?"

Again the lady interrupted with a little laugh saying she was sure Henry could explain all but that they should first get settled. They had arrived at the east wing and the monk pulled the visitor's bell and soon the party except Father Anthony trooped inside. He stood waiting for the outer door to close before turning on his heel and walking back the way he had come. As he walked he muttered under his breath and heard an upper window close. Doubtless someone had watched the party approach, heard accusations, the monk's silence, and, now might well be thinking:

"Brother Anthony is saying many hail marys no doubt to ask pardon for his unspoken execrable language aimed at the black duke's heart."

_____________________________

At the refectory John Ferrour and Hugh Compton had heard the commotion of the duke's arrival and leaving the building had tried to guess in which direction the main body of the party had gone. Compton told his companion that the normal procedure was for tents to be erected on some convenient sward of grass and both stood trying to guess the direction of the sounds that Compton associated with that of mallets hitting tent spikes into the ground to enable guide ropes from tents to be attached. Pointing to the north-east wall he suggested to his companion that once outside they could determine exactly where they would expect to see the main body of the soldiers.

He was pleased he had not attempted to rejoin the troop and now outside the wall he could see even in the fading light tents the process of erection; each could house six men. For his part Ferrour also watched them and particularly noticed a tall, stout soldier occasionally stepping forward to assist a group of men. His commands mixed with oaths provoked him to comment to his companion:

"Yon serjeant of yours seems to know his business."

"He's been everywhere and it makes little difference to his language whether he's among a group of nuns or a gang of miners."

At the sound of his voice Iles looked up, "So that's where you are, m'lud. The lads reckoned you'd found yourself a skirt and that's the last we'd see of you."

"Oh, yes!" retorted Compton, "loads of skirts here but I don't fancy their hairy legs."

Iles guffawed politely at his officer's quip and said:

"Who's your friend?"

On hearing him pose the question Ferrour stepped forward.

"John Ferrour, Serjeant."

Iles eyed him suspiciously asking if the duke was aware of his presence and Ferrour tried to reassure him:

"I have not seen his grace though by now he is likely to know of my presence."

The serjeant did not appear convinced so Ferrour explained his arrival that morning with the duke's son. He intended to report to the duke and the serjeant muttered approval:

"You had better not disturb his grace tonight. We had a long trek to reach here. I shall inform him on the morrow. I suggest you bed down with us."

Ferrour read these last words to mean that the serjeant wanted to keep an eye on him until his story was confirmed but he did not demur and offered to assist with the erection of a tent after learning of an extra one to house Iles, Compton, Ferrers and himself, saying:

"Did I hear aright, Serjeant? Did I hear the name, Ferrers?"

"What of it?" said Iles.

"His lordship is my master. I was in his entourage in the Tower, in London. The Honourable Ferrers will vouch for me, I'm sure."

At this news the serjeant grimaced and he explained to Ferrour:

"Mister Ferrers, whom the duke posted to me, was last seen, along with three of my men, escorting the horses to the stables. Mayhap he and my men have already found themselves cushy berths among the stable-lads."

"More likely, Sarge, they're in the local boozer tossing back pints." The comment came from one of the soldiers and he got a brusque retort:

"Now then Baker less of your lip and more respect for your betters."

Turning to Compton the serjeant added:

"Soon as all the tents are up we'll get some fires going. I'd have issued orders already if I trusted this lot to do it on their own. Last time we very nearly burnt the castle down. Don't know 'bout you lot but I'm starving."

Compton was happy not to have mentioned the refectory and gave Ferrour a knowing wink and the other smiled. Instead they both set to helping Iles unload another package from the supply wagon which he guessed was their tent. And, approved by Iles, undid the twine and taking care unrolled the canvas making sure the spikes and other items were kept safe in the gathering gloom. Some meagre illumination came from spiked brands stuck into the earth and lit with a naked flame.

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In the abbot's guesthouse the Duke of Lancaster had shed his surcoat with evident relief for the emblazoned, woollen garment was heavy and none too comfortable on a mild day which this day in June had turned out to be. Against the evening chill he accepted an ill-fitting monk's gown with cowl left down, and, on his feet, he had replaced his travelling boots with a pair of sandals once more borrowed from the abbot's wardrobe. The lady with whom he had arrived, the Lady Katherine, was not his wife who was far away in Christian Spain. The duke would marry her a decade hence but just now, for want of a better term, she was his concubine, or, in modern parlance, his mistress.

She was happy not only to have reached the monastery but also that the duke's worries had been removed by the happy reunion with his son. The boy himself was happy too for although this woman was not his mother he recalled many happy memories when she was his nurse even when his mother, the Lady Blanche, was alive. Now, seated on a stool he eyed her as she fetched and carried items of mealware between rooms as a thought came:

"I wonder Ma'am if my mother would do as you are doing. Of course, I was too young to remember her."

"A monastery is very different to one of your father's castles with its host of servants. Did the Lady Blanche ever stay over in a monastery, but, as you say, you were too young? Mind you hunger helps to perform these chores. Nothing on the table means young sir?"

Henry did not answer at once and then grudgingly replied: "No food?" He turned towards the duke seated on another chair to ask, "What says the noble duke?"

From the chair came an almost imperceptible snore and she answered for him:

"Even your father, great lord though he be, must shift for himself on campaign. He has often told me so. There is nothing shameful Henry in good, honest work. Did not our Lord break the bread and pour the wine at the last supper?"

She paused by the table to look again at the mealware already set down, the pewter plates, knives, drinking vessels, and, lifting a jug was about to move to the fireplace when Henry cried out: "Let me, Ma'am, let me!"

So saying he took the jug and going to the fireplace lifted a poker in the heart of the fire, and, wiping the poker against a pad which spat angrily to clean it of ash, he thrust the glowing iron into the jug. There was a loud hiss and a belch of steam which woke the dozing man nearby who suddenly started and said needlessly:

"I fell asleep."

"Of course you were, sweet man, after such a day. Would you care for a small repast? I must fetch the meat and cheese from the larder. Bring your chair as the abbot makes one serve many purposes. In the convent we had only stools."

The lady busied herself cutting bread while the two males placed their chairs at table; Henry chattered all the while about former experiences answered by Lady Swynford to the evident irritation of the duke who admonished:

"Now, my sweet one, let's not rake over old coals. You wisely postponed my quizzing earlier of young Henry but I'm still anxious to know of his experiences."

She looked at him fixedly saying finally: "It must have been a horrible experience." The, turned to look more compassionately at Henry who sat with head bowed as she added, "Do you really want to inflict such painful memories. Surely..."

She hesitated to think a little then resumed, "Did I not hear someone mention another man who actually rescued Henry. Surely, my love, you could call on him. He could give you a much better account."

The older man thought long and hard but he would not be denied, and said:

"The son of a prince of the royal blood must harden himself to such adversity. At age fourteen he has the advantage over me. Now, my Lord Derby, be worthy of your rank. When did you part company with his majesty, the king?"

"His majesty told me to await his return from the meeting with the rebels. Or, some of them because minutes after the king had left the White Tower a host of them burst in through the door from the barbican, I think."

The duke's countenance formerly impassive now took on a frown:

"Did his majesty explain the reason for leaving you behind?"

It was the boy's turn to frown; he answered:

"His majesty believed all the rebels would follow him to Mile End and that I would be safer in the Tower than outside."

The duke turned to the lady: "Shall I say grace, ma'am?"

She nodded and closed her eyes as did the boy and the duke likewise; he uttered a short prayer. Afterwards she said, "Could we not postpone the matter until later?"

The duke accepted a round of bread from Katherine, took a slice of meat and then paused in his actions to consider her request. He smiled but was adamant saying:

"After the meal the boy'll be too tired, he'll retire to bed then no questions until after breakfast, and...." He paused for effect, "..and another day is lost, and, more important, memory fades. I know it. On campaign one must discipline oneself or the battle report is lost, for ever. I do respect your sympathy my dear, believe me, but, needs must...."

He turned to Henry thinking aloud, where were we, oh yes: "So the rebels burst in. Where were you when that happened?"

Henry finished his mouthful then answered: "Father Eliot, your chaplain, took me into the chapel which led off from the room we were in. He wanted to show me the altar, the vestments, candles.."

"Never mind that! You were in the chapel when the rebels broke in?"

"Yes sir. But, some rebels crowded into the chapel and seeing Father Elliot they all rushed towards him, seized him roughly and some of them grabbed me too and then."

The duke interrupted: "Is that when you lost your surcoat?"

"Yes, sir. Someone screamed the blood will spoil his coat; get it off him and they pulled at it but it stuck and then it was off and I fell down..."

The duke held up his hand saying, "How did you know they were rebels and not Warwick's men being boisterous."

The lady was shocked saying, "Sire! Would Warwick's men have done such a thing, surely not!" And, the duke somewhat chastened gestured for his son to carry on:

"They were saying such dreadful things, Sir, really dreadful like kill him. Let's see his head on a spike. Poor Father Elliot! He was dragged out of the chapel and then I saw him come into the chapel."

"Who! Whom did you see?" urged the duke.

"Tyler, the leader himself, Sir, all in black. The other rebels stopped what they were doing and someone said, we may not have the duke to chop but we got the next best thing. Look! This is his cote-hardie, Wat! The boy's his son."

"So saying they waved my surcoat with its beautiful beasts in front of him and he jeered with them; he said, let's have a look at him. It was then I saw someone else tug at his elbow. It was John! It was John Ferrour. He was saying something to Tyler but the noise was so loud I couldn't make out exactly what he said except Tyler turned and nodded his head. He held up his arm. And, suddenly everything went quiet."

"Drink your mead, Henry. It's getting cold." The lady urged.

The duke commented: "I wish my men would be quiet. What on earth is all that shouting!" The lady gave him a withering look but said nothing. The duke waited for the boy to finish the draught, lower his cup, and resume:

"The man called Wat grinned. He grinned at me. I can still see him grinning. He said, my old mate here, my old comrade from France, lads, has made a brilliant suggestion. As we couldn't break into the duke's palace, the Savoy, he suggests we use the boy to gain entry. It's a great idea. How say you, lads?"

One of them let go of me and did a jig singing, we're going to the palace, the palace, we're off to the palace...." Henry suddenly stopped overcome; his head sank and tears ran down his cheeks. Katherine was off her chair in an instant. She came round the table, knelt and put her arm around him looking across at the duke and smiling weakly. She said:

"It's all over. The relief you felt when you suddenly realised you weren't going to die. I felt it; you felt it; we all felt it."

He stood up from the chair and wrapped his arms around her body and she enclosed him uttering soothing words: "It's all over, now. It's all in the past."

She looked at the duke as he sat impassively and all at once the boy broke away from her saying through his tears: "Oh God, oh God! How could I forget poor Father Elliot. He was so good to me and I let those rascals take him away without..." He ran out of words to express his remorse, and, in another twist of remorse cried:

"And John too, I forgot him too. And, I'm still forgetting.."

Turning to his father he said: "He saved me, Papa..." Another hesitation as he stared at his father for he remembered he had spoken a forbidden word, a word only the despised lower orders used; he corrected himself: "Sorry, Father!"

The duke smiled grimly: "Do you know another name for this, John?"

The boy considered: "Yes, I think so. It was Ferrer, ah, Ferrour, I believe. He saved me from that vile crowd. He brought me away after the rebels stormed the palace. We walked away. It was a miracle. Nobody stopped us. He must still be here, I mean, in the monastery, somewhere. I hope."

"The Lay Brother's house?" She suggested and he nodded and might have spoken but the duke raised his hand and he was silent. The duke told the boy to resume his seat and finish his meal. It was evident he wanted to digest the story from his son and try to reconcile it with what he had been told in letters reaching him, for instance, from Arundel. Mention by his son of a man in black brought back painful memories of incidents in Acquitaine, of the low life his brother, the prince, mixed with and frequently allowed in and around his court in Bordeaux.

His mind went back ten years or more to the occasion when the Bishop of Limoges concluded an accord with the Duc de Bretigny in defiance of his brother who ordered that the fortress of Limoges be invested in order to bring the rebel bishop to heel. His brother refused all help from him until such time as he had brought about the destruction of a rampart. Being bedridden at the time he allowed the undermining of the walls to be undertaken by a company of low born individuals called miners.

Katherine watched him. She had an inkling of what he might be thinking. Her late husband had also been in France at the same time and could not help learning about the campaign in France as he and his friends would remind each other of their experiences, some black, some funny, but all too often, grim. Hugh, her husband, she recalled told of the day when the prince had invited a miner to join them in a drinking session boasting:

"We've undermined the wall so much Sire that with one great heave a whole section of the wall will come tumbling down. So, what time do you want to start tomorrow?"

"Six of the clock, my black friend, what say you?"

"Six of the clock it be then, Sire. See you, then!"

At six the next morning he was there and watched as the miners did their work. Huge blackened chunks of wall came down and they turned away from the dust which enveloped them. His brother laughed at him for turning away as the dust swept like a grey mist over everything. Nobody moved because the air was full of dust like in a sandstorm. It was a full hour before the dust began to clear and he could see a clear way into the castle. By now their dispositions were nothing like those an hour before as riders turned their horses away and retreated to escape the dust.

Even then there was no assault but a walk-through as the bishop had told the wall defenders not to use their cross-bows. His horse managed gingerly to climb the tumbled stones but he had to dismount. It was a farce. Inside were several knights drawn up in the courtyard. One was Sir Jean de Villemur and he rode towards him with lance ready and Sir Jean did likewise and was unseated. Another duel engaged Sir Hugues de la Roche with his brother, the Earl of Cambridge. But, the whole thing was a farce for it was evident the knights had instructions from the bishop to surrender after a token fight.

Meanwhile the men-at-arms were doing the real fighting inside the castle with Prince Edward's injunction ringing in their ears: "Let not a soul escape. I'll teach the bishop to defy me; on with the carnage!"

Or so, thought Lancaster, would the prince have the world believe. He came back to the present at the voice of his Lady Katherine:

"Just as your dear father said earlier, Henry, you're feeling ready for bed I warrant."

As if to confirm her words the boy yawned deeply while denying he was tired which both the duke and his lady could understand from long experience.

\----------0----------0----------

At the encampment well beyond the monastery Serjeant Iles and his men had also eaten a supper though whereas the duke's table had borne the best of a selection of the choicest viands and drink available to an abbot the food consumed among the tents was somewhat less refined. There were bread-loaves from their midday repast along with haunches of beef and mutton and cheeses washed down with ale. However, the cook had managed to boil up a potage of lentils which went some way to warm the inside man.

Now, both soldiers and civilians sat around on a limited supply of campaign seats or lay down on their groundsheets within or outside the tents. Iles had forbidden his men to visit the local taverns having been forewarned of past enmity between monastery and town and thereby avoiding possible trouble. Earlier young Ferrers had returned to camp with his three troopers and Iles fancied having spotted a glance of recognition on his seeing Ferrour though the latter had made no reciprocal move which might be explained by a gap between their stations. Iles recalled their earlier contretemps on arriving back from the stable and looking around the various tents and asking truculently:

"I say, Serjeant Iles, where is my tent?"

"Your tent! Why? You're bedding with us."

"I'm what, Serjeant! I'm an officer and should have my own."

"Certainly, Sir, you might find one in the wagon, and, if you ask nicely I might spare a man to help you erect it. Now, that's a fair offer, Sir, is it not?"

Of course he knew it was not and was therefore not surprised at the explosion that followed. He told the young man that it was share a tent with a fellow officer, himself, or erect his own. Following their little tiff Mister Ferrers had sloped off. Iles knew he would get no sympathy from the duke so chuckled to himself that he had put a young Norman in his place. It was time some of them started to make an effort though foresaw much rage and scorn before he was much older.

John Ferrour sat on one of the fold-up chairs reading a book which looked as though it had been through many hands. He looked up as though feeling Iles' gaze who said:

"I fancied seeing a hint of recognition when Mister Ferrers first saw you, Mister Ferrour. Am I right?"

Ferrour eyed him warily as he closed his book and Iles tried to read its title and failed. For his part Ferrour tried not to look at a hole in Iles hose though when their eyes met it was no easier so he spoke if only as a distraction:

"It was no place of mine to assume an acquaintanceship which might not exist. After all it was his father whose accounts I kept."

Serjeant Iles harumphed in sympathy and said: "I've been thinking on what you said earlier though not that in particular. Am I right in thinking you were in France?"

Ferrour smiled and sensed the questions that would follow his admission though he had nothing to hide. He was already well acquainted with the accusations from folk that their presence in France was the reason for all the country's woes, its debts and the subsequent taxes raised to pay off creditors. As far as he was concerned it had been a noble undertaking. It was their masters' reasons for being there that soured everything. He said:

"My last campaign was in Limoges, Serjeant. How about you?"

"No such luck. We heard about the rich pickings there but, no, I was stuck in Bordeaux."

He looked wistfully at Ferrour as though wanting him to reminisce and perhaps deny adventures that he had heard second or third hand from travellers passing through Bordeaux, but, Ferrrour wanted to share a recent experience with a veteran:

"I met somebody in the Tower of London of all places whom I had served with in Acquitaine; his name was Tyler and he was leading the rebels."

"No!" The serjeant looked aghast, "the rebel leader! Best keep it to yourself, man. I doubt the duke wants to hear that name, ever again."

Ferrour looked grim as he spoke: "He probably knows by now because it was his son I managed to rescue from the rebels."

Iles looked pole-axed but soon recovered. After a while he said: "Even so, it's not a name to bandy around; that's my opinion; but, time will tell."

Ferrour looked troubled at Iles' utterance for although from his vantage point he had done something worthwhile, it might not be viewed in quite the same way elsewhere. The duke's son had horrible experiences especially in connection with his father's pastor, Father Elliot, and, later he had learned that the Archbishop of Canterbury had also met a similar fate. So his presence in the Tower however benign might be viewed against him, unjust as it might seem.

Iles interrupted his train of thought: "And, what of the king!"

"Oh, he left the Tower safely with many lords, including my master, the Earl Ferrers, who had journeyed with him by boat the previous day from Windsor."

"How was it?" The serjeant looked at Iles quizzically, "How were you left behind?"

"A fluke, it was!" answered Ferrour, "There was a pieman having difficulty, loaded as he was, with trays of pies approaching the White Tower where we were assembled so I offered to go down and help him. It's the stairs, they're a bugger to climb even unloaded. But, afore I was away up pipes a serjeant-at-arms, just like yourself."

Iles grinned, "I can guess what he said."

He snatched my sash of office grumbling, "Don't disgrace us man by acting a common menial. But that saved my life in a way because, after they'd all left and the rebels arrived on the scene I was taken to be one of them. They just streamed past me almost knocking me down until one, a man in black, arrived. Our eyes locked. He uttered one word."

"One word!" Repeated the serjeant.

"Limoges!"

"Limoges, because you were both there; in France, was it?"

"Mmm; in Acquitaine!"

The serjeant's brow furrowed. He spoke of it almost as a form of admonishment:

"My master's opinion of that place is not high. I warn you as one old soldier to another, comrade. You won't get any sympathy from the duke so, be warned. Acquitaine was not his favourite place in France."

Ferrour looked baffled and frowned: "But, you too were there, weren't you?"

"Maybe." Answered Iles, "Is Bordeaux in that part of Akit... what was it?"

"No idea, Sarge. My knowledge of France is minimal. I seem to recall all our vittals and ale came from Bordeaux. On the coast, I suppose. You were posted there?"

"I was the harbour-master. The prince didn't trust the Frenchies especially with his favourite tipple."

"The Bordeaux red; it was ours too I mean to get pissed on."

"That's another thing." Offered Iles, "Don't mention wine, red or plonk. It's not his pet topic either. So, be warned."

"I'm surprised to find you in the duke's entourage, Sarge. Seems the prince and the duke weren't exactly drinking pals."

"Keep it low, Mister." He tapped his nose, "Walls, or, canvas, know what I mean! Did you hear of the Richmond business?"

From beneath his groundsheet Iles took out a bottle and took a swig and smacked his lips offering it to Ferrour who took it and followed suit. Iles muttered under his breath:

"Part of my loot from Bordeaux." Iles explained and added in a generous mood:

"I can say this about the Frenchies. They're in a different league to us, whether it's food or wine, or, even furniture; your health, comrade!"

Iles took another swig offering it to Ferrour who held up his hands in refusing. Iles took another swig and continued to whisper:

"The young duke was just out of England. I helped unload his stuff. He asked where the prince was and I told him. The rest of the story is what was told me later. Well, it seems he was ever apestering the prince for a job. And the prince kept putting him off. There ain't much call for 'prentice princes. Anyrate, seems his luck is in cos he overhears the prince telling Chandos."

"Sir John Chandos?" interrupted Ferrour.

"The same," agreed Iles, "he was having trouble with this Count Foix so he wanted Sir John to verify some information Foix had told him. Richmond asked the prince if he could tag along. The prince said it was up to Sir John who agreed. The party had scarcely cleared Bordeaux when Richmond told Sir John he, as leading noble, should head the expedition. Sir John disagreed and bowed out. To cut a long story short. The young duke got himself captured by Foix who demanded an apology from the prince and a ransom for the duke in his prison."

Iles took another swig. He smiled archly as if enjoying the tale's retelling:

"Guess the ransom! Go on give a figure!"

Ferrour thought awhile and replied:

"A young inexperienced duke, let's say, a thousand marks."

The serjeant smirked grimly, "A toenail! And, a message."

Ferrour's face also smirked as Iles continued, "The message says you insult me by sending a boy to do a man's work. I don't want your money; I want an apology!"

"But our prince had a trick up his sleeve. He was holding the Count's brother and wanted rid of him. So gave him his apology before he sent him back."

Ferrour said: "That was satisfactory too for Prince Richmond, I imagine.

Iles answered: "Got sent back to England but here's the rub. Our dukie got involved,"

Ferrour spoke: "The Duke of Lancaster, you mean."

"He was none too pleased when he heard. Of course, he sided with Richmond though he is a much younger brother. Now, here's another riddle for you. Chandos as Herald had the best job of all. Who, do you think got it?"

Ferrour grimaced: "I can guess. The Duke of Richmond."

Iles sat back a little put out but said:

"By then, Chandos Herald was no more."

Ferrour spoke in the vernacular: "He bought it!"

Iles nodded: "One frosty morn dressed in full armour he slipped on ice during a raid and the French were onto him in a flash. Stuck a knife through his visor and within days he was dead, from his wounds. Soon after, Richmond was back. You know the rest."

Ferrour explained: "Politics, Sarge. Of course, by now the prince was dying. He needed his brother Lancaster to look after the interests of his son, Prince Richard. That must have been uppermost in his mind."

The serjeant was hardly listening. He had drained his bottle and his eyes were beginning to look watery and to take his mind off a gloomy topic Ferrour pointed to a little folding table next to Iles and said:

"Where did that come from sarge, though I can guess."

"D'avantage mon ami, as the Frenchies say. It was a leaving gift from my French oppo in Bordeaux. Once the prince had left most of us had to follow suit. My post depended on the prince's goodwill. After he left the shutters came down."

Ferrour nodded: "Like mine after that drop of vino, Sarge. I'm only used to ale. So, here's one for some shut-eye, good night!"

"Good night!" Called a weary looking serjeant.

Ferrour felt pleased about his adopted alias. He had fooled Serjeant Iles that he had been sent out from England along with the rest of the army. He hoped he could keep it up. If anyone suspected his origins his life wasn't worth that of a sheep in the pasture not far from where they slept one of which would disappear in the next twenty-four hours.

\----------0----------0----------

Meanwhile Robert Ferrers mulled over his argument with Serjeant Iles getting ever more heated at the supposed insolence to his station. Surely the duke had not meant he should share a tent with such low life as Iles whose manners and speech marked him out as utterly common. It took him some time to discover the duke had changed his lodgings to the gatehouse and thither he hurried. By the time he reached the abbot's guesthouse he discovered the duke and his party had retired for the night although the gatehouse keeper told him that the duke, like the old campaigner he was, was prepared to be disturbed in the event of an emergency.

Ferrers, alive to having no satisfactory accommodation, convinced the monk to alert the duke whom he observed now at the top of the stairs in his night shirt. As he descended the stairs Ferrers perceived to his alarm the duke's irritability. He strove to placate him:

"Your Grace!" He stammered, "I beseech your pardon but I appear to have no lodging for the night."

From deep in the recess of the cowl obscuring his head the young man heard an almost plaintive voice:

"Did not Sejeant Iles offer you accommodation Mister Ferrers?"

The latter sensed by his tone the duke was irked so his sense of outrage was checked. He found himself in almost apologetic mode;

"I reasoned Sire that your officers should not share quarters with the men."

His explanation sounded feeble yet the duke invited him to follow him upstairs. Silently both men ascended the stairs until the duke arrived at an open door within which there was a very large bed surrounded by hanging curtains such as his parents slept in. The duke on stepping a few paces inside turned lowering his cowl:

"You are on campaign, Mister Ferrers, as is Serjeant Iles. You were sent to me by your father to train as a soldier; were you not?"

"Indeed Your Grace but surely even on campaign soldiers and officers have separate tents."

His brother sprang to mind whom he discovered often 'mucked in' to use Edward's, term for it. Instead the duke opted for the classics:

"You studied the Gallic Wars as part of your schoolwork."

"Certainly, Sir!"

"Did not Caesar himself share his soldiers' sleeping quarters. It would seem the son of my good friend Earl Ferrers, who entrusted me with your training, is too proud. Is that it? Do you wish to go back home your training unfinished?"

Ferrers was crestfallen and offered his apologies which seemed to mollify the duke. He went to his bed and felt beneath it and satisfied pointed out:

"Pull the truckle bed out, Robert. It's for the abbot's servant. Sleep in there."

Ferrers did as he was told somewhat ashamed of his behaviour. Meanwhile the duke shuffled round to the other side of the bed murmuring for Robert to close the door which placed them in darkness. He groped his way to the low bed, undid his shoes, took off his cote-hardie and slipped in and with difficulty managed to return the truckle to its former position. Above he could hear the duke muttering:

"You had better not snore."

He lay there rueing his impatient actions but now somewhat exhausted and despite the unusual bed he found himself in fell asleep almost at once. Unlike the older man who did not find it easy to relax or to return to sleep. The duke wondered if he had slept because on opening his eyes he saw flashes of light penetrating the shutters. Mayhap it was the early signs of dawn. But no, that early light was constant not coming in bursts of illumination. The former soldier slowly pushed back the warm blankets and eased himself onto the wooden floor. He padded across to the window peering between the slats.

What he glimpsed through the narrow openings alerted him to possible danger for on the horizon were fackels held aloft by men moving towards his left. The abbey gate where he now resided faced north so the moving lights were moving towards the open ground which his troop had passed on their way here. Had not the prior directed Serjeant Iles to that very open space? Alarm increased when he remembered the tales of strife between the townsfolk and the monastery. It was always over land. The monastery needed fields for cereals and other produce whereas the town's demand was for business and housing land.

His troop had been forced to digress owing to the fence enclosing pasture for the monastery sheep. He recalled the prior asking to stay clear of the sheep. A more alarming scenario formed in his mind. The encampment might well be in the way of people intent on mischief. He moved to the bed and whispered to Robert and not getting a response started to pull the truckle from under the bed. From long experience on campaign he shook the young man silently but firmly and soon got a tired response. But, all at once he was more alive to who was nudging him and tried to sit up. The truckle was only partly free and he hit his head slightly which brought him quickly to his senses.

The duke quickly put Robert in the picture, and, to his credit the young man asked to be allowed to see for himself. Soon both were anxiously peering through the shutters. The duke told Robert about the unrest in London and its possible effect in St Albans which had seen sporadic outbursts of violence between the monastery and the town. But, his concern was for his troop encampment; he said:

"It should be possible for you to warn Serjeant Iles."

Ferrers said:

"I would need to alert the gatekeeper."

Of the two doors to the outside, Ferrers chose the one outside the grounds otherwise he might have had to climb a wall to get beyond the monastery. But, outside he was also more exposed as he followed a track going downhill. He passed some small single-storey houses. The occasional skylark could be heard. After he had gone about a mile he began to make out the vague outline of a barrier. It was an artificial fence made up of stakes set into the earth. He could move to the right or the left in looking for a gate and decided on the more distant one but increasingly a loud hubbub to his right urged him to walk in the opposite direction.

Looking up at the sky long beams of light were succeeding in brightening the dark clouds and he knew dawn was nigh. He stared over the fence and at the horizon trying to separate land from sky or make out any shapes but turning left to avoid a ridge Ferrers spotted something white. Was this the encampment? His problem now was to alert the camp without placing himself in danger. But, his fears were groundless because he spied two figures which he took to be Iles' soldiers walking in opposite directions around the encampment. Iles evidently, being the seasoned campaigner, had posted sentries. Ferrers wished he could whistle to attract attention. An idea came to him. From a pocket he withdrew a piece of cloth which went by the name of kerchief; it was the latest fashion.

He waited until one sentry was walking towards him and held it up and it fluttered in the cool morning breeze. But, first he had to walk past a wagon parked outside the pasture. At last someone seemed to recognise him though alarmingly he pulled his dagger from its sheath. The guard motioned for Ferrers to approach and demanded:

"Password!"

"Don't you recognose me, man? I come from the duke. I've an urgent message for your serjeant."

But the other was not impressed. Instead he signalled to his opposite number to alert Serjeant Iles, who, after a few curses, stuck his head out of a tent.

"What is it, Wickham?"

"A man without a password, Sarge; what was your advice again?"

The serjeant screwed his head around and spotted Ferrers who called out:

"Urgent message from the duke, Serjeant Iles. There's a band of men approaching the camp. They must be only minutes away."

"How many?"

"It was too dark and they were too far away but between the first lighted fackel and the rear I estimated it was a hundred, maybe fewer.  
"Wake them all up Wickham and you Fowles. Get Corporal Piers. Get a move on. Mister Ferrers do you see yon fence! Get you there and as soon as you spot the mob keep out of sight but try to count how many. Off you go!"

Ferrers ran towards the opposite fence in the direction he had just come. He was a bit surprised not to see the leading men but he was looking in the wrong direction because he heard a shout at ninety degrees to the left and there they were. He steeled himself to stand still keeping below the fence which at five feet was not too difficult. He ran down the width of the field to view the mob from a different angle and then began the return to camp. He reached mid-field and a cry went up from the leaders with arms pointing. An arrow whizzed by him and he zig-zagged to put the archer off his aim.

At last he spotted the tents with relief but where was the serjeant. A shout from the opposite fence made him change direction again to make for the gate. He was already out of breath. He turned right and veered to avoid wagons outside. Arrows still zinged but none came as near as the first one. One hit the woodwork of a wagon and quivered.

"Over here!" It was Iles, "Well, Sir, give me your report."

"I'd say about a hundred, Sarge."

"Now listen! They're not going for us, so I want to avoid casualties. We just happen to be here which they didn't expect. Their beef is likely with the abbot. Defend yourself at close quarters but at long range go for their arms or legs. In other words stop them in their tracks but..... Well, you know what I mean."

As he spoke, all eyes peered over the fence at the opposite end of the field. The mob were hacking at it with axes, knives, swords even hammers anything which could destroy the stakes which made up the barrier. Ferrers spoke to Iles:

"Is the purpose of the fence to keep the towns people out; is that why they're mad?"

"That, or the sheep in. Where are the sheep?"

"In the bottom corner of the field, Sarge."

"Corporal Piers!"

"Here Sarge."

"Do the roll call as best you can. Wickham!"

"Here, Sarge."

"Take someone and go down the bottom of the field to locate the sheep. See if there's a way which won't panic the animals. Before you go, give your names to Corporal Piers. Where's my look-out? What's happening?"

"They're tackling it from both sides now, Sarge. Looks like they want to make a thorough job of it. There's somebody pointing towards the tents. They're talking and pointing. Some of them have bows and what's more they've arrered them. Looks like they mean business, Sarge."

Someone touched Iles on the arm: "What is it, Corp?"

"Eight men missing, sarge. They crept out last night. No idea where."

Iles gave him a look of disgust: "That's AWOL, corp. I'll have their guts...."

He did not finish.

There was a shout from the lookout. They're on their way, Sarge and they mean business. Running towards them were the two men Iles posted to look for breaks in the fence. There was a gap made by one of them the previous day to make it look a stolen sheep was taken from outside. Iles looked at the advancing mob armed with a variety of weapons but a few were well-armed with either a sword or a bow though they held back while the poorly-armed mass was in the front. That suited Iles admirably; he barked:

"Wickham! Take your company to the bottom. Get through the fence and when you're over start moving the sheep towards the mob. Then, we can deal with the real trouble-makers. Those with bows! Arrer them, now. The rest stick by me."

Iles looked around to check his deployments and noticed both Ferrour and Ferrers both of whom he had forgotten. "Mister Ferrers! You, stay back and just watch. On no account are you to interfere. What's your preference John?"

Ferrour answered: "Put me anywhere you like, Sarge."

Iles pointed to his men: "You don't need a weapon to chase sheep, eh." As Ferrour disappeared Iles barked, "Come on lads, follow me."  
Ferrers watched as the serjeant and the remainder of his men ran towards the gate where the wagons were stationed using them as cover. Iles' tactics were evident: Ferrers watched as the sheep, baa-ing loudly, slowly at first started running in front of the soldiers who had their work cut out to prevent any sheep from escaping the flock. The gap between mob and sheep was narrowing. Archers at the rear of the mob aimed but Iles' bowmen, from their, as yet, unseen vantage point, were too quick for them. No one managed to fire an effective arrow and soon there were a number of men sporting arrows at shoulder, arm or leg, and, who retired from the fray.

But, Ferrers noticed, once the sheep had scattered the mob which was Iles' intention there still was left the hard men who, armed with swords, looked around for their enemy. Iles positioned behind a wagon, hissed:

"Take care you don't show yourself. We must try to even up the odds. Ferrers saw that Iles' men were outnumbered and fingered his own sword. Slowly he began to creep behind the fence towards the two wagons which until now had served Iles well, but, it was only a matter of time before the town swordsmen rumbled them. One by one they were decimated, and, Iles still had one advantage, surprise. He told the men:

"On my command, come out from behind the wagon and make for the gate but try not to alert the enemy until the last possible moment."

Ferrers through spaces in the fencing watched the attrition of the swordsmen. Once they numbered thirty but now with arrows sticking out from various parts of the body about eight were hors-de-combat. He counted Iles swordsmen: no more than a dozen though now the sheep chasers were running up the field to join Iles. They were shouting, Sarge, Sarge, where are you? to Iles disgust. Sooner or later their hiding place would be rumbled. He pushed the man in front. Pass the word. Make a break for the gate. Now! Go!"

Ferrers could hardly believe what he was watching. As the leader opened the gate and Iles and the rest ran through it they screamed at the enemy racing with drawn swords which took the enemy totally by surprise and a few turned tail and ran for their lives. Iles was, on the other hand, aided in numbers by three of the sheep-chasers. It was Iles whom Ferrers watched in awe.

With a clash of swords Iles feinted with his dagger and followed up with a sword thrust, not at the man's body, but by hooking his liripipe, which took his foe off-balance, and, with a savage kick Iles laid him low. Quick as a flash he snatched the enemy sword and threw it behind him.

Ferrour picked it up and dashed into the fray taking on a foe who had just brought an Iles man to the ground. Ferrers shifted his gaze back to Iles. He was helping Wickham who was having also difficulty but now with Iles help made his foe hors-de-combat. With a catch of alarm Ferrers noted one man, who had been watching the fray, now challenge Iles, and, it seemed to Ferrers that Iles had his work cut out, and, especially so, as another sought to take advantage of Iles pre-occupation by waiting for the right moment to strike.

Ferrers, without a moment's hesitation, swiftly ran through the open gate with drawn sword and challenged the observer who turned round with a snarl, "You young pup. Here's your first, and last fencing lesson."

Both men circled each other. All at once Ferrers heard shouts, and, to his astonishment his foe was lying on the ground. He was surrounded by hooded monks with staves who were flooring all the combatants, both friend and foe until Iles shouted:

"Not him, Father, he's one of ours!"

Iles was laughing fit to bust and soon the ground was littered with fallen men while the monks roamed the field of battle with their long staves looking for another to floor by taking their feet away. Iles advised one of the monks:

"Some need your balm Father not your blow."

The monks had floored many but most of the attackers were seen racing back towards the broken fence which they had dismantled earlier. One of the monks once he was sure there was no further danger came across to Iles:

"We meet again, Serjeant."

"And, well met, Father." He looked around and observed, "Our attackers are scarpering as fast as the sheep. My men will help round them up later. The sheep, I mean."

The monk dismissed his suggestion, saying: "It's the men who need our help, Serjeant, looks like you set out to wound rather than kill. You're a good man."

Iles smiled grimly: "Cut and bruises are a sight easier to deal with than inquests about dead men. I simply wanted to save on the paperwork, Father."

There was a shout from another monk, "Over here, Brother Anthony."

The monk called strode over to a fellow monk: "What is it, Brother Ignatius?"

The latter pointed to a prone figure. It was a monk but dressed somewhat differently and as Ignatius approached, the other turned him over, saying, "He looks familiar."

Ignatius said: "Don't you recognise him? Or, was he before your time? It's Brother Ball. He, who called for an end to the Church, as we know it."

"Indeed Brother, but how came he hither amongst these ruffians?"

Father Anthony advised Iles who was also looking on: "Can you place a guard over him, Serjeant! There's a price on his head. Meanwhile, I'd better organise some stretchers to get these wounded men to the infirmary."

\------------------------------------------------------------

Serjeant Iles saw it as his first duty to report the morning's events to his superiour officer, the Duke of Lancaster, and thither to the gatehouse he hurried to make his report although he would have preferred to have a bite of breakfast at which occupation he had left his men. To his delight the duke had left his abode of the night before and was approaching him and indeed he was the first to speak addressing him cordially:

"Good morrow, Serjeant Iles. As you see I'm anxious to know what's been happening today although I sensed something was amiss which is why I posted young Ferrers to you."

"Good morrow, Your Grace. The warning was most timely." He lied arguing with himself that one must not gainsay a duke adding, "By your leave Sire, may I postpone my report from what seems more pressing. This morning's attack might well be followed up by another especially now the town realises how small a force we have. Is't possible you can tell me when the main body of our force will arrive?"

The duke might well have rebuffed his serjeant but for the arrival of the abbot by his side saluting the duke though ignoring the serjeant. Even so his reply might impress the abbot as he returned his imperious reply:

"These are matters for the high command, Serjeant Iles. I understand you have taken a rebel as prisoner." He turned to address the new arrival, "perhaps his holiness, the abbot, might well be pleased to know his identity."

The chastened Iles made a significant obeisance to the abbot as he gave answer:

"I beg your pardon Your Grace. Perhaps the recent fighting has made me somewhat over-anxious. As to the prisoner, John Ball, you will find him, I trow by now, in the infirmary to be treated for a blow to the head. I posted Mister Ferrers to guard him."

The abbot saw his chance to demonstrate to the duke his superiour know-how:

"Concussion, Your Grace. It may have serious effects on the brain."

The duke recalled a need to talk with the abbot and decided to postpone Iles report:

"I take it Serjeant Iles that you have yet to break your fast."

Watching the departing officer, de la Mere, the resident abbot, tried to think of the most obsequious words to impress his guest:

"May I congratulate the actions of your most gallant officer and men in the recent disturbance. I believe it was the most violent to date. I commend Your Grace!

"I shall convey your tribute to those concerned. May I take this opportunity to say.."

He did not finish his sentence because he spotted someone approaching whose appearance matched his son's description and he said hurriedly to the abbot:

"Something has just occurred Holy Father that demands my immediate attention. Might I speak to you later? Shall we return to the gatehouse?"

He had avoided talking to Ferrour in the presence of the abbot which he deemed inappropriate. Both men returned to their respective lodgings, the duke to the guest chambers and the abbot to his official residence. John Ferrour strode towards the building completely unaware of the contretemps his imminent presence had provoked.

The duke told the gatehouse monk to show Ferrour into the scriptorium and soon a knock heralded his appearance:

Ferrour on opening the door and meeting the duke for the first time was surprised by the bearded man who sat behind a writing desk. Bending the knee he said:

"Your Grace! I had the honour to escort the Earl of Derby from London to this place, the day before last eve. I trust he has recovered from the journey."

The duke said nothing staring impassively at the man before him. Ferrour felt himself blush though maintained his composure and in the continued silence added:

"I had the honour Your Grace to meet with the earl in the Tower and saw at once that he was in grave danger after those vile men had seized the priest whom I found later was your personal confessor. I offer Sire my humblest condolences."

In spite of his disdain the duke was touched but it was an angry oath that took Ferrour aback as the duke barked:

"The villains! But, how was it you escaped the violence? How came you there?"

The duke gave leave for Ferrour to stand before him though offered him no seat:

"My master the Earl Ferrers, Sire. Owing to my absence when his lordship departed with his majesty I found myself adrift just when the rebels stormed the Tower. I had no chance to escape. Indeed I was fearful for my own safety."

The duke nodded pensively and screwing his eyes gave Ferrour a stern look:

"And, what of my son! How came he in harm's way?"

"I know not, Sire. It was the noise of men dragging someone away that caught my attention and I realised it was a child. From the surcoat pulled from his back I realised he must be of your House, your son, in fact. I spoke to someone I took to be their leader. I had served with him in France, Sire."

Ferrour held back that they had embraced as old comrades, continuing his tale, "I had heard that the rebels had failed to storm the Savoy and whispered to Tyler that on seeing the earl, the defenders of the Savoy would surely let him in, and, that would be their chance."

The duke scowled and said angrily: "A scurrilous plot and no mistake." Whereas Ferrour said to himself, it saved your son's life, and you should be grateful. But, he was silent until the duke's mood lightened; he spoke:

"Was my son ill-used? Tell me! Spare no unpleasant details."

"Before my involvement, Sire, his surcoat was ripped off him to stop it getting bloody. Your priest, Sire, had already been dragged to the scaffold. I feared the same for...."

Ferrour stopped and the duke was suddenly alert to Ferrour's stance and told him to take a chair and be seated which he did. The duke was evidently moved because his voice choked a little as he spoke:

"Go on with your story."

"Tyler put my idea to his comrades but it was clear he had made up his mind and he expected them to fall in with my plan. There was a moment when, having wrested him from the grasp of the men holding him, one of them urged Tyler that he march in front of them but Tyler had worked out a better plan that having reached the palace everyone would hide except for two people, your son and me. That way the palace guards would be deceived."

The duke grimaced saying disgustedly: "A foul plan."

Once again Ferrour said to himself, but it saved your son, but as before he kept his opinions to himself saying: "I held on to your son as we followed in the wake of the rebels as they dashed out of the Tower along the river bank until at a certain point, I can't remember where, Tyler told his men to be near enough to rush the barbican but on no account to be seen. Otherwise the plan would not work."

Ferrour paused for breath and breathing deeply drew himself up to his full height. At near six feet, he towered over the duke. He resumed his narrative:

"Tyler approaches us, saying, now, young feller, you know what you have to do, don't you? otherwise it's...." Ferrour paused momentarily, "I'll forbear repeating the vile gesture the man made, Sire."

The duke looked keenly up at the narrator and simply said, "Go on!"

"Well, Sir, you would have been proud of your son. He releases himself from me to confront Tyler boldly saying, I shall do what is necessary, Captain, make sure you do yours, those were his exact words, Sire."

The duke, who up to that moment had maintained a grim countenance, smiled and sat back in his chair with a sigh. He is visibly moved by Ferrour's words. Without a word he gestured Ferrour to continue:

"So, he approached the barbican alone. Atop the battlements men peered down. A few sported crossbows. He shouted at them to lower their bows. He shouted, it's me, Henry, Earl of Derby. I have been too long away with his majesty, the king. Is that you Perce? Don't hide yourself away Pierre. I see you. Then, we watched as the portcullis juddered as the chains got a grip on the cogs. And, slowly it started to rise. Then, cool as copper your son tells the other men just watching to come down so that he can greet them; and, they do."

The duke said: "So, nobody was manning the battlements."

"We heard the men clatter down the stairs shouting as to who would be first. This was a tense moment because had a guard smelled a rat, the portcullis could be dropped but it was up and fixed so as not to slip. Then, I did not hear the signal but the rebels rushed the entrance. It was all over in a flash. I took hold of your son and held him as people rushed past and I managed to push him into an alcove. At one moment men were racing under the portcullis into the barbican and the next we were alone. So, we edged way from the building slowly at first each moment expecting someone to call us back but nobody seemed interested in us any more. And, we got clean away."

The duke held up his hand telling Ferrour he had no further desire for more."

"He... the earl has already given me an account of the painful moment. You have filled in some of the gaps in my son's knowledge. Your throat must be parched."

With these words he stood up and pulled the abbot's summons cord and a few moments later the monk from the gatehouse entrance appeared:

"May I trouble you, Father, for a little reviving wine from His Holiness the abbot's cellar."

"I'll not be troubling the cellar on this occasion, Your Grace; one moment!"

He does not leave the room but pulls aside a heavy curtain and soon two grails of wine are placed before the two men and with a cheery adieu he leaves whereupon the duke picks his up and salutes Ferrour: "Your health Mister Ferrour, and thanks."

The grails clink as they clash and Ferrour feels good inside.

\----------0----------0----------

##  Chapter 22

John Ferrour – mystery man

A monastery, at this time in the middle ages, in the year 1381, was a virtual community, a village having everything to hand that a small town or even a city might be proud of. In other words it was self-supporting. Its purpose was prayer in the presence of like-minded inhabitants whom the outside world knows as monks. Originally a monastery might comprise a building with many rooms each with a specific function but over time and with increasing popularity and prosperity a monastery might expand so that the rooms burgeoned into buildings. Such happened to the monastery of St Albans.

One of these buildings was the infirmary into which the wounded men in the recent incident were either stretchered or having suffered superficial wounds made it by walking there. On the other hand, the prisoner, John Ball, was both stretchered and guarded, and, having heard of the arrest the Duke of Lancaster put in an appearance. He was accompanied by the abbot, Walter de la Mere. They had barely entered the building when shouts were heard and the abbot whispered to his companion that it sounded like a messenger for him. And, as if to confirm the abbot's words a messenger appeared in the doorway:

"A message for the Duke of Lancaster."

A figure in riding apparel shaded his eyes to peer around when the abbot called:

"Here messenger, over here!"

"Your Grace!"

The man genuflected and removing a paper from his sleeve handed it over to the duke which the latter accepted with a curt nod and turning to the abbot said:

"With Your Holiness' permission!"

Holding the message unopened he turned to the messenger:

"Are your instructions to return upon delivery?"

And, receiving assent the duke ordered him with the abbot's leave to proceed to the refectory for some refreshment and finally told him: "Before leaving report to me."

As the messenger retreated the duke broke the seal and opened the missive and quickly scanned its contents and turning to the abbot:

"It seems the rest of my army is at Stony Stratford and should be here in two days."

The abbot looked concerned knitting his brows which the duke perceived as consternation for he laid his hand on the abbot's arm which encouraged the abbot to speak:

"It's the provisions, Sire. We are ill-prepared."

The duke smiled as if to comfort the man and reinforced it by saying the army would call to collect him and did not plan to stay. He said:

"Now, Holy Father, show me the bed where the rebel lies."

Without answering the abbot directed the duke's gaze towards the last bed in the row where three men stood and when the abbot walked towards them one man detached himself and trying also to salute the duke said: "Your Grace, Reverend Father."

The duke, having explained to the abbot, simply spoke to Robert:

"I take it Robert that Serjeant Iles is responsible for your presence and that of the other men."

"Indeed Your Grace!"

"What is the condition of the prisoner? Is it safe to move him?"

A voice came from the low bed: "You have my promise as Jesus Christ is my witness that I shall not escape."

The abbot answered tersely: "As an excomminicant who are you to swear by the son of the Holy Father?"

The duke's response was mischievous: "Your promise then, Ball, on the honour of John Wyclif. That will do for me."

The abbot went white and clutched at the empty air and the astonished duke caught him to stop him falling apologising for his indiscretion:

"My apology, Reverend Abbot, I quite forgot myself. Please accept my sincere regrets. It was remiss of me to mention the name of a recalcitrant in your presence."

The abbot smiled thinly: "Your apology is accepted, Your Grace. Sadly I must leave you to prepare for the second matins. Farewell!"

"Before you leave, Reverend, is there a secure place where my prisoner might be detained. He ought not to take a bed needed for another sick person."

The abbot moved by the duke's consideration thought awhile until saying:

"The Chapter House has also a cell; it is used for meetings held once a week. You may use that for a few days."

After thanking him the duke waited politely for the abbot to walk to the door and not until he had disappeared did the duke turn around to Robert and having ascertained he and the two soldiers had not breakfasted ordered him to the refectory for that purpose. Once again the duke waited until all three had left the infirmary before turning to the prisoner, who spoke:

"By the look of that surcoat, it's the great man himself."

The duke bristled: "Less of your insolence, Priest."

"I have the advantage over you my lord as you cannot punish me more than what is already my fate. So, we can forget the social niceties. Besides, by the mention of the W word, it might seem we have more in common than rank would indicate."

The Duke of Lancaster had vowed at his brother's deathbed to look after his son, Richard. His father, King Edward IIIrd, still living at the time had, by default, virtually surrendered the government to him for the king was both senile and incapable. Now, in June 1381, King Richard IInd, was still a minor, and, by order of the ruling council, the reins of government were in the hands of the council's leader, the duke; he was also the most powerful man in the kingdom.

Just prior to the rebellion he had been called to the Scottish borders to repel an invasion which, partly due to his diplomatic skills, was resolved by negotiation, but, he had made a powerful enemy of the Duke of Northumberland whose letter of complaint was probably already in the hands of both Richard and, more critically, those of the almost as powerful, Earl of Arundel, whom he knew, plotted his downfall. And, now, away from the seat of government, London, he was and felt, isolated.

Into his hands however had fallen one of the trio of rebel leaders, Tyler, Straw, and, in the bed at his elbow, John Ball, the former priest. The earlier incident when he, completely out of character, had upset the abbot, still vexed him, yet, the man who had provoked it was John Ball who had made common cause with John Wyclif, the charismatic opponent of the Church and the Pope because of his published critique which included diatribes against the tenets of the faith namely, the Eucharist, Transubstantiation and more.

However the criticism which had drawn in the duke and other consequential men in support of Wyclif was also against the Church's unseemly and unChrist-like accumulated wealth, luxury and the holding of enormous tracts of valuable land throughout England. Although the pope and the duke were on a collision course in this matter, the pope had to tread warily for the duke was his ally in a very important matter, his opposition to Wyclif's advocacy of an English translation of the Bible. The duke opposed the use of English as the official language of the kingdom which task was made harder by Parliament's approval of the use of English in legal and statutory documents. His rearguard action nonetheless had the support, not only of the pope but also of leading men of the English Church.

His prisoner, John Ball, and he himself had made common cause with some of the teachings of Wyclif which disconcerted the duke. Yet, he might be able to make use of Ball although he must tread carefully in case Ball was subsequently interrogated, perhaps under torture, by his enemies. Nonetheless there were aspects of the uprising upon which Ball might shed some light. He eyed the ex-priest with some distaste and said:

"Connaissez-vous le nom de Ferrour, monsieur Jean Ferrour?"

Ball sat up in some alacrity and declared:

"Now see here, Duke. You ask me in English or you will get no response. Your bastard Norman French is finished; it's dead. Talk the language of the future, or, leave me in peace. See! Your power holds no fear for me."

The duke seethed inside but tried not to show it. He must press on and said in his limited English:

"John Ferrour. Know you he?"

"Never heard of him; what is he supposed to be? One of your friends?"

On hearing Ball's answer the duke changed tack:

"Le Tower, June 13?"

Ball sat up even higher on his bed and placed his hands behind his head to say:

"No! The Captain..."

"Captain?"

Ball grinned at the duke saying gleefully: "Tyler's old rank in France. His old comrades called him that, leastways. Anyway he directed me to Mile End."

The duke's face took on a puzzled mien saying:

"To what purpose?"

"For the manumissions, of course." Ball answered adding, "but, of course, while we waited for his majesty to make his leisurely way to where we waited I did speak to the, the peasants."

The duke's mouth curled in a look of scorn:

"What want these paysans ignorant to hear from you?"

Ball smiled: "Like us all, even you duke, the promise of eternal happiness, but, failing that, a few home truths. You might care to hear one."

The duke sneered: "C'est impossible! What truth?"

Ball answered: "When Adam delved, and Eve span who was then the gentleman?"

The duke stood up with a final sneer: "Il n'est pas meme d'origine."

He might have said more but spotted in the doorway his official courier, Robert Compton, who, after breakfast was returning to his duty guarding the prisoner. He saluted the duke in the normal way and resumed his role while the duke left. Scarcely had he gone when the prisoner called him over:

"Pardon, monsieur, de l'eau s'il vous plait."

He was asking for water and Compton wondered where he should go, and, whether he should leave the prisoner, on his own. Remembering his early oath he said to him:

"You'll recall your earlier promise about escaping?"

"Don't forget the abbot's interjection." Ball teased, "Are you also a Lollard?"

Compton remembered hearing the word used as a term of contempt but recognising Ball was making fun at his expense, he gave no reply but walked through an inside door. Along a corridor to his right was another door on which he rapped and getting no answer pushed it open. There was nobody inside. A search revealed a bucket of water evidently drawn from a well for a rope was attached to the handle. It was half-full. Now he needed a cup or jug. Looking along a shelf, with some relief, he spotted some tumblers. He took one, filled it and drained it down his own throat for he felt parched. He dipped it once more and returned to the ward and offered it to Ball:

"Ici, monsieur, de l'eau."

The ex-priest drained it and handed the tumbler back. Compton might have gone to the larder to return the vessel but at that moment the outer door opened and Serjeant Iles arrived. He came over to Ball's bed and spoke to Compton:

"We have orders from the duke to move the prisoner, Monsieur. I have four of my men outside to escort him to his new abode."

Ball, who had lain back down again, almost spat his words of disgust: "The officer makes it sound as though I'm moving to a new house."

Iles ordered Ball to get up and collect anything which he may have brought with him and Ball did so stooping beside the bed to pick up his prayer book and bible. Iles ordered Compton to lead the way and with Ball sandwiched between the two, he brought up the rear until they had gained the outside when Iles' four men took station around Ball. Iles spoke to Compton who stood aside while the serjeant barked more orders and the gang moved off in the direction of the monastery.

It was as well that Compton dallied outside the infirmary for his orders had been to look for the courier at the refectory and they might have missed each other but heard someone shouting, monsieur, several times. The courier was much relieved when Compton turned around and he hurried towards him telling him that the duke wanted him, the courier, to report to him before he left. Compton guessed the duke had returned to his quarters at the gatehouse and communicating that much to the courier accompanied him in that direction.

On the way he spotted Ferrour who was sitting on a wooden bench enjoying the sun and Ferrour having spotted the duo called out to Compton:

"Good morrow, Monsieur. Where are you headed with such intent?"

Compton had enjoyed supping with Ferrour enjoying his company and did not mind sharing information. Ferrour responded by rising and volunteered to go with them telling Compton he had been intrigued by a clanging sound on the hour and on inquiry was told that it was the bell attached to a horologe which had recently been installed. Both Compton and the courier were intrigued by this news and wanted more details which Ferrour promised though that had to wait because the three had arrived at the gatehouse and Ferrour bade the two adieu. So it was Compton who pulled the chain at the entrance.

The flap opened and Compton stated their business and soon the heavy door swung open. Both men waited for the gatekeeper to close the door and having done so ushered the two towards the room known to him as the scriptorium. Compton knocked and soon faced the duke himself:

"Pardon the intrusion, Your Grace. You wished to see the courier before he left."

The duke smacked his forehead in vexation: "Sacre bleu! I quite forgot."

"Might he take an oral message, Sire?"

The duke eyed Campton thoughtfully: "No!"

Compton hesitated to gainsay the prickly duke but dared:

"The courier tells me he must reach Berkhamsted before nightfall."

The duke did not scowl as Compton half expected but said wearily:

"Tell him I won't be long."

Compton would have liked to take off and leave the courier to take the duke's message himself but he had promised Serjeant Iles that he would escort the man to the stables and see him on his way. While waiting on the duke's pleasure the courier imparted some information to Compton about his new acquaintance, John Ferrour. It seems he was the illegitimate son of the earl and had been brought up in the earl's household as one of the family except his mother was denied the family name. Instead she had opted for the first three digits and 'our' for 'ours', or, in other words, 'our son'. This was approved by the earl.

It was a curious story and Compton wondered whether his new friendship with Ferrour might suffer should he tax him on its verity. What was more important to him was Ferrour's station in society. Was such information to be generally known would it affect his relationship with the man? And, would his other friends mind. However such musings were brought to a halt on hearing a shout from along the passage: "Courier!" He advised the man where to go and waited for him to reappear.

In a few minutes both men were making their way, following Compton's directions, to the stables conscious that any undue delay might jeopardize the courier's return to Berkhamsted. When in sight of the long, low stables, built on the orders of Henry IInd for hunting and for visiting his lady love, Compton pointed out to the courier what to do and urged him to run ahead. Only when the courier was mounted did Compton bid the rider adieu and a safe journey.

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##  Chapter 23

Lancaster's curiosity

Ferrour, after leaving Compton and the courier, decided to proceed to the campsite and search out Serjeant Iles. He was a man with whom he was at ease and perceived that the man reciprocated his feeling. There were few people that he could see apart from a couple who seemed to be the current sentries but then lifting his eyes beyond the tents he saw a round object appearing above the tents and disappearing.

Approaching the fence he heard a shout and searched around for its source:

"Over here!"

There came another shout and then directing his gaze at one of the wagons parked beside the fence, Ferrour spotted the source of the voice. It was the object of his original visit, Serjeant Iles. He posed a question uppermost in his mind: "What's going on in the field, yonder, Serjeant?"

"Tis their favourite activity. They call it football but hands and head are much in evidence and the ball is a sheep's bladder, which days ago was inside the sheep."

"What's the object of it?

"You'll need to ask them that. It looks pointless and it's as well his nibs is not around else he'd order me to set up the butts for arrer practice."

"Oh!" said Ferrour, "Longbow practice."

"And, that is funny, queer, know what I mean!"

Ferrour by this time was invited by Iles to join him on the wagon and from this vantage point got a clearer view of the proceedings. He saw a stake rammed into the ground at one end and the object seemed for a man to aim to hit it with the 'ball' when a general shout would go up and the ball retrieved. Two men stood waiting in the centre of the field for the ball to be thrown up which had to touch ground before the game was resumed. Ferrour said to Iles:

"What is funny about longbow practice, Serjeant?"

"It's the one thing the duke loathed especially when his brother was alive, the prince, I mean. Ever heard of a courtier by the name of Sir Simon Burley?"

"Wasn't he the prince's right hand man?"

"Too true! Well, it seems Sir Simon told the prince that for the cost of bringing over to France the mounted knights, you know, their squires, horses, fodder, armour et al the prince could have four shiploads of archers with bows and thousands of arrers. For food all they wanted was plenty of cheese, bread and beer. So, how think you the prince reacted?"

"Do you need to ask?" Was Ferrour's retort.

Iles grinned as if he knew something that Ferrour did not; he said:

"No! But the sting in the tail is that the prince told Sir Simon that in future the knights could fund themselves; thenceforth he would reimburse only archers."

It was Ferrour's turn to smile coyly; he said:

"I can tell you of a group of soldiers the duke hated more than archers."

"Oh!" Was Iles' response.

"Did you hear tell of the miners who used to accompany the prince on his undermining operations such as was carried out at Limoges."

"I heard something," began Iles, "though I was faraway in Bordeaux. Yet, I knew when the prince had left for Limoges cos my tavern mates vanished with him. So, what was he mad about?"

"It was the report of a French bishop going over to the other side; the same bishop who was his son's godfather, or one of them."

"I don't get it," interrupted Iles, "where came the duke into this business?"

"Ah!" answered Ferrour, "It was like this: The duke thought the prince got too close to these miners. He had to, in a way, if the miners were to carry out his orders to the letter. You can imagine the duke's reaction overhearing his brother, the prince talk anglo-saxon, if you know what I mean."

Ferrour grinned mischievously at the serjeant who was leaning against the side of the wagon. The usual wagon was none too comfortable owing to the basic construction of the vehicle the purpose of which was utility not comfort whereas this one, used by the Lady Katherine, had lengths of padded board fixed so that ladies could lean their bodies and heads against it for extra comfort. Iles was not accustomed to such luxury. He said:

"It sounds like you lived in a different world. There would have been no such goings-on in Bordeaux. Everything above board, and sweetness and light; oh, I nearly forgot, the duke wants to see you later on today."

"When did he tell you?"

"Just after midday, after I had given my report about this morning's events. Do you have a change of clothes?"

Ferrour shook his head whereupon Iles stood up and let himself down from the wagon and climbed on to its neighbour. After a quick rummage he was back holding a kitbag, and, on resuming his seat opposite Ferrour took out a brown cote-hardie, a red shoulder cowl, red hose and a pair of pumps. Iles looked down at himself with a grinning smile:

"I've filled out a bit since last wearing these togs and they no longer fit. Believe it or not I was your size in France. So, you're welcome to my old kit."

Ferrour said: "I also need a bath or at least a strip wash. The duke might wrinkle his nose but it's the lady that concerns me."

"No worries on that score, mate, the lady has already left and took the earl with her. As for a wash the infirmary's the place. Don't go in the front entrance. At the side there's a bath-house."

Ferrour rose and told Iles he had better get a move on. Walking back he thought he heard the toll of the hour made by the horologe and told himself he had an hour before the duke might expect him. One thing on his mind was getting back to Putney and it occurred to him that he might raise the matter with the duke as it might be arranged by joining a party going to London when he might be able to join up with it. Another concern was money. Iles had been notified that Ferrour was on temporary attachment so his immediate bodily needs were supplied.

With these thoughts spinning around his head he was relieved that the monk in the bath-house was so welcoming. It did not take him long to strip and to immerse his whole body in a tub of steaming water and with the bar of soap and brush provided he was glad to give his body a thorough scrub to the evident delight of the monk who applied his upper body and hair with fresh, hot water. He began to hum to himself and as the words of a ditty appeared in his mind to sing though that was quickly nipped in the bud by the duty monk who placed two fingers on a pursed mouth. The vow of silence had occasioned difficulty when, wanting to put on clean under linen, he'd had to use sign language. Nonetheless his clean pants were giving off vapour in the drying room.

On drying himself he was reminded of self-flagellation by the nature of the coarse towel so he was wont to dab rather than rub his wet skin. It gave him immense pleasure to put on clean linen, and, piece by piece, Serjeant Iles' gift of clothes turned him into a new man especially felt as he slipped on the soft, brown leather pumps. The final addition to his toilette was his purse which went on last though it gave him little satisfaction as its clink was so tinny and superficial.

By now the way to his host was almost routine and he was soon giving the door of the scriptorium, the duke's temporary office, a knock:

"Entrez!" was the signal to him to plumb his best Norman-French vernacular:

"Bonsoir, Monsieur, Votre Grace."

The duke smiled and motioned him to take a seat and apart from acknowledging his greeting did not venture a further remark until he had finished writing; looking up he said:

"My son was telling me of your adventures on leaving my palace though not knowing London he was rather vague so that neither the Lady Katherine nor I could make it out. Perhaps you could enlighten me. Are the details still fresh in your mind?"

"As if they had happened yesterday, Sire: where would you like me to start from? There is one important matter to mention, Sire. Although your son had his surcoat stolen from his back he was nonetheless vulnerable."

The above has been spoken in French, Ferrour's native language, so why did the duke not query this fluent French of a yeoman? Possibly, because the duke had already heard of the tale recounted earlier that he was the bastard son of the Earl Ferrers.

The duke knitted his eyebrows: "How mean you, vulnerable!"

"It was no longer the London of the previous day, Sire; I felt in peril. On my own it might have been easier for I can fit into most situations."

The duke nodded: "I understand, carry on."

"I asked the earl to answer to a different name, Sire, in the event of a challenge. We agreed on Simon. On leaving the palace we walked north in the direction of a milestone which read Charing Cross; I believe it was erected on the orders of King Edward Ist where the body of his queen rested overnight."

The duke nodded approvingly and Ferrour continued:

"It was there that we had our biggest fright since leaving the Savoy for as we resumed our journey north we heard a shout from behind us and an English voice asked us a strange question which Serjeant Iles later explained its significance to me. I had not recognised their strange apparel but Serjeant Iles told me they were apprentices. But, the most frightening thing was that their daggers were unsheathed."

The duke sat upright at his words and said in consternation: "My son did not mention this. Why! What did they want?"

Ferrour's voice took on a tremor as he recalled their mortal danger; he said:

"There were three of them. One's question was in English, Sire: What did ye have for breakfast, stranger?"

Fortunately my answer was satisfactory for they put away their daggers. Serjeant Iles told me the wrong answer was, 'brot und kase'. They are Flemish for bread and cheese. It seems they hated Flemings and were ready to kill them. And, as for your son not mentioning it; you can imagine, Sire, how terrible a memory to revive. Would his mind want to?"

The duke looked at Ferrour for a while then indicated for him to continue his narrative. Ferrour breathed deeply a couple of times before resuming his tale:

"We reached Tyburn and were by now fairly tired and his lordship wanted to rest which we did but as for his hunger I was in a quandary." He looked at the duke who was silent seemingly understanding the narrator's problem which related to his only son. He resumed:

"Soon after leaving Tyburn a cart stopped and the cartier invited us both to board his vehicle saying, 'the boy looks tired' and soon after he invited them to share his bread and cheese and beer which, of course, we did gladly. After a few miles he told us he was turning off and that if we were heading for St Albans we had better get down. So, he did us a service, apart from the refreshments, in that alone, for we had some-place to aim for. The cartier let us down near a forest and we soon were surrounded by trees."

At this point the duke smiled saying: "My son had happy memories of the forest. But neither I nor the Lady Katherine could understand the boy. You asked him to look for a depression in the ground."

"Indeed, Sir, in the forest the ground is often very uneven and should one need to spend a night in the open it's as well to find a trench or ditch, or, perhaps a fallen trunk to make a shelter. Did he tell you I sent him to gather brushwood? The idea was to make a rough shelter to keep us both dry should it come on to rain. It's the sort of thing you would be well versed in, Sire, on campaign."

"What sort of campaign?" The duke once again knitted his brows. Ferrour felt animated when he recalled his time over the water and said with enthusiasm:

"Chevauchees, Sire. You did one yourself, I heard."

"My memory of that time tells me we took our tents so had no need of..."

Ferrour was like a small boy and brusquely interrupted the duke:

"Often enough, Sire, we were well in advance of the quarter-master's cart. Come evening we knew we had to bivouac. Even so we could be snug. The QM didn't mind. It was less work for him. And, what was the earl's memory?"

The duke smiled in spite of himself: "Oui, Monsieur Ferrour, he was well pleased. He would have liked some hot food."

"Indeed, Sire, that was my biggest regret. Luckily it was the time for wild strawberries and we had those in abundance. Did the earl mention how he slept?"

The duke nodded: "At first with difficulty. He heard noises of animals that he did not recognise. And, ignorance brings fear, I know that."

Ferrour added: "There was lots of rustling both above and on the ground. I fancy your son knows a few more bird sounds besides the bark of the vixen and the badger. And, in the morning there was the usual dawn chorus. And, of course, the early morning sun shining through the foliage was a welcome sight."

The duke nodded sagely, "I might almost say it was worthwhile for him to have been rescued by your goodself, Monsieur Ferrour, and, were the Lady Blanche here today I am sure, as his mother, she would most sincerely agree with me. You might be pleased to know that in my last letter I have passed on to the Earl Ferrers the news that you are safe."

This was welcome news to Ferrour. Yet, one concern still remained and that was how to return to Putney. He had hoped that the duke might mention something to that effect so the duke's next words answered that very concern. The duke leaned forward:

"On my orders the prisoner, Ball, has been transferred to the chapter house adjacent the south side of the monastery. I have a request to you which I ask you to consider. I would like you to interview him with a view to obtaining his personal account of the recent uprising. You will not be surprised that my knowledge of the English language is not good and I have reason to suppose he will not answer any questions or write anything on the matter in any language other than English. Since you are bi-lingual I would like you to do this for me. What is your will?"

Ferrour observed the man in front of him and for the first time perceived him as a very private man. He was also lonely, and, he realised, apart from Serjeant Iles, that he, John Ferrour, was the sole person in whom he could confide for certainly Ferrour perceived his vulnerability. Unless he got a first-hand account of recent events he was dependent upon his enemies for such. Could he use this to his advantage? Rejecting the notion; he replied:

"Is there any inducement I can offer to persuade the prisoner to play ball?" Smiling as the pun rolled off his tongue he realised it would wash over the man before him and it was confirmed by the duke's straight-faced answer: "His freedom!"

Ferrour was astounded and showed it though it was evident that this was no spontaneous idea for the duke expounded: "After all, who knows he is here? My retainers, the abbot et cetera, and, you, Monsieur Ferrour. I am in your hands."

Ferrour blushed deep red and came to the conviction that, like the prince, here was a man whom one might die for. He said:

"I am deeply honoured, Sire, to serve you in any capacity. I will do as you ask."

The duke had already taken a ring attached by two keys from a drawer of the desk and handed it over. He said:

"You will find parchment, pens, ink et cetera in the chapter house. Oh, and one more thing, I have arranged that you sleep here tonight. Of course it is up to you though you might find it more convenient both to rest and sup here rather than go all the way back to the encampment and the refectory. What do you say?"

"Once again, Sire, I am honoured and shall be delighted to do as you suggest."

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##  Chapter 24

Hold-up of a coach

Upon overnight reflection Ferrour had to admit to himself that his actions and reactions had been almost a matter for prediction on the part of the duke. One of his childhood delights as a child was his mother's dexterity with puppets. Time and time again she had fooled him, yet, now he was compelled to admit to himself that his own movements were at the mercy of that powerful puppet master, the Duke of Lancaster. He could see why his reputation as a diplomat was so highly valued by his brother, the crown prince. At every stage in the previous evening's negotiations he had considered his action was his own, but, in the end he was doing what the duke had evidently predicted he would. It was done with consummate skill; however it had been managed he had committed himself.

So, after breakfast in the solarium he duly made his way to the chapter house and let himself in. After giving the place a cursory look-around noting the place where writing materials were kept he stopped outside the door of the one cell and silently opened the flap. He peered inside and spotted the prisoner at once sitting on a chair reading a text which from his vantage point looked very much like a small psalter or prayer book. Ball seemed unaware he was under observation and Ferrour decided to close the flap and audibly announce his presence upon re-opening the flap.

He did so and greeted Ball: "Good morrow, Father!"

Ball turned round abruptly:

Heavens! How long have you been there?"

Ferrour lied: "It's the first time this morning. May I join you?"

"If you have the key, of course."

He turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open wary of any sudden movement from the prisoner and removing the key reversed it and closed the door, relocking it before facing Ball."

"He repeated nervously: "Good morrow!"

Looking round the small cell for somewhere to sit he suggested the bed whereupon Ball offered him the chair and sat down on the bed. He still wore the grey, hooded gown he had on when Ferrour first saw him which seemed to keep him adequately comfortable though it was well known that religious men bore the cold much better than laymen partly through will which, in time, inured them by force of habit. He came straight to the point:

"You were one of the leaders in the recent unrest, I understand."

Ball eyed him warily: "So what!"

Ferrour had prepared himself beforehand by running over in his mind how he should approach the interview and decided on a frank admission of his intentions. He said:

"His grace, the duke has been notified of the unrest but the details are somewhat vague, and, thinking that he might view the events from another angle asked me to talk to you with the purpose of getting your account. That is the reason I'm here."

The other man eyed him with a grin chuckling to himself:

"You see how much these lords trust each other. And, talking of these so-called noblemen, these jumped-up aristocrats, the past few days have been an absolute eye-opener. They are the most witless numbskulls that Tyler, Straw and I have shaken our heads in disbelief at actions which mongoloid children would be ashamed of. It's as well Gaunt was not in London for his head would surely have graced London Bridge, or, should I say, disgraced. Luck was with him and, it seems, I am further evidence of his proverbial luck."

Ferrour decided to change tack:

"I want your story, Father. Believe me, luck was also with me in the Tower that day and I have no axe to grind except to know the truth. I was caught up in events of which I know so little. But, caught up I am, and, I appeal to you to get the low-down from the time you joined the uprising to when you escaped here to St Albans. I was told by the duke that as an incentive I can offer you freedom. On my own I wish you could be released though your testimony will help me because like you I am not a free agent. Besides, your narrative would intrigue me."

Ball looked at Ferrour earnestly saying nothing and the latter could only guess what was going through his mind. Was this some form of trick to give an excuse to hang him immediately? No, from his experience with people he judged Ferrour to be incapable of such deception. He said:

"Timing is important. My meals are served punctually so that the optimum time to escape would be the evening after my final meal of the day. My other need is ..." He smiled at the incongruity of his thought and finally admitted, "I'll need some small amount of money if only to bribe people to silence until I can reach safety. Could you do that?"

It was the last thing on Ferrour's mind. He had niggled away to himself on the things to take up with the duke. And, now the priest had placed it uppermost on his agenda. For, he would need money himself until such time as a reunion with his friends in Putney. He said with an assumed confidence he did not feel:

"To be frank, Father, I too am short of funds, but, I shall soon have the wherewithal and your narrative will help. Is that your only condition?"

Both men exchanged looks of utmost sincerity. Ball said:

"Naturally I shall need all the requisites for writing. Can you provide these as soon as possible?"

"This chapter house is also the monks meeting place so writing materials are always available. I'll get them."

So saying Ferrour ostentatiously opened the door leaving it ajar and went out to fetch the items returning with them which Ball took and laid out on his little writing table. He said:

"This cell is reserved for monks who, being needed for meetings, change their cell for another in this place. Its proper name is a misericord. Believe it or not it's for monks who are being disciplined. It's just as well. This account of mine will help fill in the time."

Ferrour put a somewhat needless question:

"How long will it take you?"

"How long is the duke's patience?"

Ferrour was well content. He had entered the cell with no great confidence in the outcome but factors entirely outside his reasoning had come into play. Yet, he distrusted the situation for things always happened beyond his expectations so it was in this sombre mood that he locked Ball in again promising to return the next day.

Pocketing the keys after having locked the chapter house door he decided to visit the camp and, in particular, his friend the serjeant. Yet, even while at some distance a misgiving surfaced in his mind for it was the silence that hit him. On his previous visit there had been shouts as the men played their weird game. Today, he could hear nothing. He tried to console himself that Iles and his troop were on an exercise.

Nonetheless his heart taking a cue from his brain began to beat a little faster. And, arriving at the start of the long path leading directly to the field he stopped in consternation. There was not a wagon in sight. He raced to the fence and looked over the gate. Not a tent either in view. He scanned from his right where the intruders had torn down the fence, now repaired, to his left where the sheep had been. They were there once more and to prove their presence one or two lifted their heads from chewing grass and baaaaed. Even the detritus of the soldiers had been removed.

He leaned on the gate feeling bereft. Nobody had said anything but then was it not up to him to have told Iles that he was staying the night at the gate-house? He recalled his feeling of a few minutes back that things were going too well. A thought struck him that they might have gone a short time ago and hastened towards the gate-house. It would now be on his right. Long before he reached it he heard hooves slowing from a gallop to a trot and the sound alone awakened a feeling that he had not ridden for a while.

From afar he watched a rider dismount and someone take his horse and he ran hoping to catch him before he disappeared into the stables. A familiar cry, 'a message for the duke', assailed his ear before he caught up with the monk just before he entered the stables, but, afterwards he was no wiser for apart from having seen the soldiers leave the monk he had no idea where they had gone. Yet, he was loath to leave him and continued to walk alongside him as he led the horse into the stables hoping for any morsel of news to assuage his hurt feelings. After reaching the stables the groom left him but he stayed watching the activity for both enclosure and stables were a hive of activity with grooms performing various tasks to the mounts in their care.

One led his mount by a long lead looped around the horse's neck. Another was inspecting its hooves while another brushed his bay down with long sweeps which the animal evidently appreciated for he whinnied in pleasure. Some horses looked at the proceedings from the confines of their stable where the upper half of the door was open. The horse that had just entered was already enjoying a feed. Nobody paid any attention to Ferrour.

At a loss it occurred to Ferrour that the sole person left appeared to him to be the duke whom he had just left this morning. An icy shower seemed to envelop him. Perhaps he, too, had gone. Now, curiosity overrode his fear. He told himself that the sole purpose of calling on the duke was to confirm his presence. Perhaps he was curious as to his proceedings. He made his way to the gatehouse. Was it such an odd question to know what was happening? He was conducted into his presence by the familiar monk whose name he meant to ask but who disappeared before he had framed his query.

The duke greeted him cordially from his desk in the scriptorium seeming pleased to hear his report of the morning's proceedings so taking heart he managed a jocular comment:

"Taking some fresh air after the closeness of the chapterhouse, Your Grace, I could not help but notice the absence of your soldiers from the encampment. Are they due to return?"

"I told Serjeant Iles to rejoin the main body of our forces which were to converge from Berkhamsted. If our map reading is well-judged they should join up somewhere near Wat's Ford, some distance from here."

Ferrour now appeared somewhat concerned saying:

"Pardon me, Sire, but I was under the impression your humble servant would join the troop so as to be reunited with my master, the Earl Ferrers. Naturally, of course, after the prisoner has given me his details."

The older man now looked sternly at Ferrour:

"Are you so anxious to get away from me?"

Ferrour was quick in reply only too late realising the duke toyed with him, saying:

"You know how it is, Sire, my friends are bound to be worrying about me."

At the mention of his friends the duke nodded in sympathy recalling his own absence in France and missing news before the death of his late father, the king, adding:

"Such happy memories do I have of Ghent where I was born. Indeed, Monsieur Ferour, I can well understand your feelings on the matter and rest assured your reunion with those you love is uppermost in my mind."

"Thankyou, Sir. There is just one urgent request I must make. I am short of funds having been away for an unexpected period of time. Is it possible to advance me a loan in lieu of my wages? Upon my resumption of duties I shall repay, I assure you, Sir."

"Strangely enough, Mister Ferrour, I do have some money by me, though I assure you it is unprecedented. For, normally such matters are dealt with by the quarter-master, namely Serjeant Iles, but, we came into funds from an unlikely source, the prisoner, Ball. You may have that money on loan as in the army everything has to be accounted for."

As he was talking he had rummaged in a drawer and pulled out a leather bag pouring out on the desk its contents. It's not much but may tide you over while I think of something."

Ferrour expressed his thanks rising to take his leave accepting the little bag with its comforting contents. He bade the duke farewell and saw him resume his reading of despatches. As he said his farewells to the gatehouse keeper Ferrour pondered on his next course of action because with money to spend he could take a look at the town. So he made his way towards Cock Row after having been directed from the gatehouse. Although the pleasures of the town were out of bounds to monks some idea of its layout became familiar as their duties took them to individual places as part of their penance.

It was not too difficult to identify his destination, as described by his monk-guide, as he observed from a distance people sitting around tables with pots in their hands occasionally taking a sip as they discussed the latest gossip, the burgeoning price of local produce, or, simply the kind of badinage to be heard outside any hostelry in the land, for he had spotted the first tavern so accurately described back in the gatehouse.

And, before long he, himself, was holding such a pot and quaffing the local brew resisting the temptation to swallow its contents in a single draught. But, soon enough he was returning for a refill unfortunately bumping a drinker in his haste and apologising and finding himself holding two such pots one of which he handed over with a grin that:

"That'll teach me not to be in such a hurry."

"Your loss is my gain, stranger," answered the portly man accepting the proffered pot with a chuckle, "your face looks familiar."

"That's always been the trouble with my mug; it's so common." Replied Ferrour adding, "But, it couldn't be. I only got here this morning."

The lie rolled off Ferrour's tongue with ease as he looked the man in the eyes whose owner said defensively: "I'm too often mistaken. Anyway you'd be stupid to show up so soon afterwards."

Ferrour took another draught before continuing: "What was it all about, then?"

"Same old thing, as always; the abbot thinks he owns the whole roomland around here. He sends his monks out to drive markers into the ground; at night, of course. He puts a fence around an area of roomland, puts a few sheep in and then claims it as his own. The town will not put up with it."

"It seems, you're not the only ones having trouble with the authorities. You've heard of the riots in London?"

The man nodded taking another draught of ale: "But that was over the Poll Tax although we too have a grievance about that."

"It's a shame," said a sympathetic Ferrour, "such a beautiful town, such ugly problems."

He might have spouted more such nonsense had his acquaintance not taken umbrage declaring self-righteously: That shows your ignorance my friend. It's not the town that sows the seeds of discord. It's the Church and that darned abbot and his henchmen."

Ferrour was thinking up more mellifluous nonsense when another drinker stopped by Ferrour examining his sword; he said ominously:

"That pommel, stranger, looks familiar; in fact it looks very much like Peter Saunders' one, the one he said a cursed soldier took. How come you have it?"

Everything went quiet. His former drinking companion now turned on Ferrour, "So, I was right after all." Others neared the trio and began looking at Ferrour and making accusing comments while the first accuser said, "Anyone seen Peter?"

Getting no answer he said menacingly: "I think we are going to take a little walk."

Taking Ferrour's unfinished drink he put it on the table, said: "You're coming with us. You have some explaining to do. Get on his left Fatso!"

Ferrour all the time had said nothing and had made no move to escape though could not help but be aware that he had nowhere to run to except the monastery which was near but not near enough. Besides, he was being marched further into the town, and, he was now surrounded by several people so there was no chance of escape should he make a sudden dash for freedom. He began to tell himself how stupid he had been to wear the captured sword when common sense should have told him to leave it behind. It was too late now.

He stopped when the group stopped beside a building that looked very much like a keep. Its upper structure was crennelated like a castle but its width was no broader than a large mansion. An iron studded door barred the entrance. It was at this point that Ferrour looked around him thinking that he was the centre of attention. He was not. People went about their business as normal. The butcher across Cock Street carried on chopping up a beef carcase. The smell of fresh bread assailed his nostrils making him feel peckish. A greengrocer weighed apples for his customers. He heard the key in the lock.

He was on the move again having been given a push with an oath of impatience from Fatso. Was that somebody watching the proceedings to his right? But, there was no time to speculate further for he was being pushed towards the cavernous interior and soon after into a room with a single shuttered opening for light and pushed into a chair. His sword belt was removed. Several hands strapped him to the chair. Silence reigned.

"My name is Scrimshank, Alan Scrimshank." It was the man who had first spotted the familiar pommel on the hilt of his borrowed sword. Ferrour looked at him intently. He was about his own age and the clothes he wore similar to those given him by Iles. None of them wore outlandish gear. Nobody was making a fashion statement. Everything was ordinary which made his position so incongruous. Scrimshank added:

"Give me your name, profession and why you are here?"

"I am John Ferrour, a comptrolleur in the household of the Earl Ferrers. I am here because I delivered a message to the monastery and am about to return, tomorrow."

"You lie!"

As he spoke, Scrimshank put his right foot on to the chair that Ferrour sat on in order to tower over him with menace and said: "You're no messenger. We have been told that you arrived Friday or Saturday, the 14th or 15th of June, on foot. Am I right?"

Ferrour lowering his head nodded in agreement and the other went on:

"So, why on earth man, do you lie to us? What are trying to hide?" "I want to know, and, damn me, I'm going to know. Aren't we lads!"

He had turned round taking his foot off the chair and people nodded in agreement. So, once again, I ask you: Why are you here?"

"I was running away from the troubles in London and when somebody gave me a lift in his wagon telling me the road led to St Albans that's where I headed."

"Mmm, that sounds more plausible."

The fat man said: "Except that if you're in the earl's household that sounds like desertion. That's a serious business. Yet, you're treated like royalty; even staying overnight in the abbot's guest-house. Is your purse that big? Show us! Hand it over!"

With that last comment Fatso strode towards him and shook his purse, "Come on then, man, let's have it!" Ferrour with a shaking hand dived into the purse and offered up the little change in it whereupon the fat man did his own groping and found the little bag formerly belonging to Ball. The fat man yelled,

"He's a thief. That belongs to Father Ball. I'll swear it."

"That's enough, Jack. Let him explain. Well?"

Ferrour knew he was now in deep trouble but still found some wriggle-room.

"Alright, I admit it. It is Father Ball's. He gave it to me. After all, he said, it's no use to him as a prisoner about to be handed over."

"Mmmm; that sounds reasonable too. Yet, why you man?"

Ferrour answered sharply: "I was the only non-military man." He went on the offensive: "I can tell you that Serjeant Iles told me personally he aimed to avoid deaths. And, wasn't that the case?"

Scrimshank nodded and said: "But, our lads got a few deep wounds from his arrows."

Ferrour agreed: "All treated at the infirmary. How are your men?"

A man who had not spoken said angrily: "This is getting us nowhere. Does he have information or not! That's why he's here. Is it torture, or not?"

Ferrour went cold and now looked at the hooks and the ropes dangling down with fear inside. This chair was a persuader. He said:

"I'm just like you good people of the town. I don't want to injure you or harm your cause. Besides, I was one of the people chasing the sheep to disrupt your formation. I shot no arrows nor did I use the sword given me. Like I said I was non-military so got given both the money and the sword. The belt, you'll see does not belong to the sword owner; it's mine."

Several people looked closely at the belt and one looking at Scrimshank nodded and the latter said: "Come lads do we let him go. Has anyone any objection?"

All shook their heads which Scrimshank interpreted as yes and no, and, said:

"Let's take these straps off lads."

Once free Ferrour stood up and offered his hand to each of the men to indicate he had no hard feeling towards them. Scrimshanks came over and returned the belt and Ball's leather bag and asked him: "So, you'll be off tomorrow, back to London?"

Ferrour grinned sheepishly: "I should have said I'll be off provided my funds turn up. I'm a bit short at present." Pointing to Ball's bag, he added, "This is drinks money. Am I free to go to town without being molested?"

"My word, you're a cool one, Mister Ferrour. You should be one of us, but, like you say, it's not your quarrel. And, I daresay, you have your own problems."

As he walked along back towards the monastery, there was a spring in Ferrour's step, and, while earlier he was woozy from the drink, he now felt really clear-headed and feeling pleased because he had retained one piece of information that might have proved important to the townsfolk. He wondered about his reaction had they applied their torture. It would have to be an unresolved issue. The case had not arisen.

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His first port of call on his return to the monastery was the chapter-house and to see Ball though he was asleep and picking up the batch of parchments which had been used Ferrour scanned the narrative. A place called Mile End was, according to Ball, the venue chosen where the king met the rebels on the second occasion. He turned to another sheet in the narrative where Tyler had made a bold foray across the river into a place called Fleet. On the last page, the next meeting, according to Ball's writing, was to be Smithfield where the final showdown was to take place. Thus apprised of Ball's progress he could see the duke to give a report on progress.

According to the gatehouse monk the duke had also retired for a short mid-day rest but he would see if his grace was ready to receive him and beckoned him from the staircase. On entering the sleeping-room Ferrour noted the duke had risen and was peering through the closed shutters and greeted him with the usual civility and was pleasantly surprised by the duke's demeanour which suggested his presence was welcome and he perceived, not for the first time, that the most powerful man in the land was a lonely man.

He brought the duke up to date by mentioning Ball's manuscript which would be finished on the morrow when Ferrour had given some thought to its translation into Norman French to enable the duke to understand it. This would need money which he did not have. Had the duke any suggestion? He had, and fetched an item from a cupboard. It was a musical box playing a tune that Ferrour did not recognise. However, the duke inferred, Ferrour should get a good price having found a jeweller which should not prove difficult as a short walk in town earlier had revealed many shops purveying a variety of merchandise.

Ferrour's other request was permission to approach the abbot with the duke's leave with a view to borrowing a saddled horse since the business might take Ferrour deep into St Albans. But, on grounds of avoiding concerns for his safety Ferrour kept the recent encounter with Scrimshank to himself. Both men hurried downstairs and the duke quickly gave Ferrour a note addressed to the abbot but which also might be used in the event of the abbot's absence and Ferrour had to go direct to the stables.

It was his plan to secure the authorisation and proceed directly to the stables and he was pleased to be granted an audience so readily though his plans were to go sadly awry for the abbot turned out to be a worried man. It seems the townspeople had secured 'rights' from the king's counsellors at Mile End which superseded those granted to the abbot and he had to endure the humiliation of having his charter burnt before his eyes by his triumphant enemies from the town. One, by the name of Grindcobbe, told him to his face that he had even lost his right to the title of holiness.

"Can you imagine my feelings, Mister Ferrour? There have been disputations with the townspeople from time immemorial but these latest events will deprive the See of income enjoyed for centuries."

Ferrour decided to humour the old boy who was in his seventies:

"What income is this Reverend Abbot?"

"Why from the mill, of course. The abbey has had the right enshrined in law to mill the corn for the parish for hundreds of years. Now, I learn the town has set up its own mills, small mills operated by one bullock, which is sufficient for several households. It's a disaster. Unless I manage to reverse these charters, the abbey will suffer."

"Pardon me, Reverend, when was all this settled?" Asked a bemused Ferrour:

"Why, this morning; I rode out to meet a deputation from the town earlier today. It has been my principle to insist they come to me but that might have endangered the duke. Speaking of whom, how is his grace, today?"

Ferrour welcomed the opportunity to show the abbot his permit to approach him:

"Would Your Holiness have any objection to the loan of a horse?"

The abbot abandoned his lupe, his magnifying glass, to look up at Ferrour waving aside the permit he showed:

"His Grace has been most generous to the abbey. The least I can do is to assist one of his servants. Ask for 'Mathew'; I rode him this morning. We call all our beasts after the angels or apostles. Indeed, young man, you are welcome. Was there anything else?"

Soon he was walking to the nearby stables and soon after sat astride Mathew who seemed to appreciate a second outing in one day by responding effortlessly to Ferrour's slight pressure on his flanks. On this occasion he steered the horse to Dagnall Lane and was rewarded by the sight of the representation of a golden ring, indicating the home of a jeweller, hanging between the eaves of a respectably large house.

He tied Mathew to the post provided and, now somewhat closer to the shop front, began to examine it with interest through the square roundels of glass. Displayed was a variety of jewellery such as rings of various sorts, bracelets, necklaces but no musical boxes which momentarily caused him a twinge of anxiety, but, thinking the jeweller could not show all his stock at once he pushed open the door to the inside of the shop. However the jeweller at the counter did not bother to examine it saying he had no expertise in such things so would not bring himself to assess its value. Disconsolate he turned to leave and for a moment was stationary on the threshold when a woman who was also on the way in and might have brushed past him had she not spotted the box in his hand crying:

"What a beautiful objet, Monsieur. May I see?"

He offered it to her.

"With your permission, Monsieur!" So saying she opened it up and the melody tinkled forth whereupon she clapped her hands with joy saying:

"That's a tarantella, Monsieur. Your wife is from Spain?"

Ferrour shook his head nervously:

"Perhaps my master's wife, mamselle; he needs ready cash. Has it any value?"

She smiled inviting him back into the shop saying: "We understand the need for discretion, Monsieur, especially if your master is, as we say in France, un gentilhomme."

Ferrour said: "When might you make a decision, today?"

"Non, monsieur, perhaps tomorrow though it depends on our clientele. It occurs to me that there is somebody who might be interested. Can you return, tomorrow? C'est possible?"

"Yes! I can return tomorrow for your decision, one way or the other. Au revoir, Mamselle."

"One moment, Monsieur. Where do you live?"

"At the monastery but my logement changes from day to day."

"Tres bien, monsieur; a bientot!"

She not only saw him out but observed him as he remounted waving farewell."

Ferrour had been bowled over by her grace and longed for his next meeting not caring whether she would have positive news or otherwise. Up till now he had been somewhat embarrassed in hawking the musical box, but, in the light of events he was pleased to have been so encumbered. He patted Mathew's neck: "I've been smitten, and how."

On his arrival back at the abbey lodge he cantered round to the stables to ask whether he might leave Mathew to water and feed, and reserve him for the morrow's return journey to town and the groom readily agreed. It was a long walk to the chapter house but decided his legs deserved some respite as, being so long out of the saddle, his inner thighs felt sore. By the time he arrived at Ball's cell to check on progress he was ready to take a seat.

Ball was busy writing which did not auger well for he was anxious that the whole narrative be finished soon for he still had to find a translator which would also take time provided he had the money to pay for it. There were too many imponderables for Ferrour's liking. Yet, on appearing at his cell, Ball let out a cry of pleasure greeting him warmly.

"Yes, comrade, I have finished the narrative apart from some details which you might be able to provide."

It seems Tyler had sent him to Mile End to deal with the manumissions of the villeins most of whom were illiterate, Tyler included. It seemed then a very sensible thing to do though Ball had missed out completely the drama connected with both the Tower and the subsequent dash to the Savoy Palace. So Ferrour enabled him to fill in the gaps. Having been promised the completed manuscript on the morrow, he left.

Next stop was the refectory and he had scarcely stepped inside when his presence was noted, and gestures, in the enforced silence, made for his prompt appearance at table. Friendly hands guided him to a bench and almost at once a bowl of soup was placed before him while many hands ensured the bread basket was within his reach. Without further ado, he whispered grace to be greeted by many faces mouthing amen though not a sound escaped their lips. The thick pea soup and black bread soon began to make an impression on his empty belly.

From nowhere a clang sounded and on cue he was assailed by greetings. It seemed the clang's origin was the new mechanical clock that a former abbot had invented and built, and, was now proving so useful if only to signal the start of the permissible talking period. He listened to the chatter but did not despise its banality realising that shut away in this monastery what could they know of real events happening in the outside world. Recent disturbances in London were a rare event in the monotone of normality.

What he needed now was a vigorous walk and decided to call at the stables to kill some time. Soon he was entering the stable-yard to be greeted by the groom who looked after Mathew. He was exercising a mare and yelled at him:

"Just the man I wanted to see."

He returned his greeting and the groom said:

"Fancy a ride!"

"On your mare, Father Anthony! "

"No, I thought she was lame but I've looked at her shoes and can spot nothing untoward. Still, there's nothing like a ride in the country to verify it one way or t'other. No, you can have Mathew. Could you do something for me?"

Ferrour grinned knowing that there was probably a catch in the offer but he had time on his hands and more riding seemed a heaven sent opportunity so he agreed whereupon the groom handed him the exercise rope and disappeared into an adjoining stable and returned with a longbow and sheaf of arrows. He explained:

"We do all sorts here. After all we've a forge and so many things needing heat can be made here. Longbows are a case in point. They need heat and beeswax. The client's over at Gorhambury. It's not far."

As the groom was talking his mare got skittish possibly thinking she was being deserted to this stranger. He lapsed into his best (or worst) mare-speak with:

"Easy old girl, easy, easy easy; we'll soon have you to rights. Now, now, easy, easy does it; your mate's acoming, see here."

"Try a bit of Norman-speak. Her mother was French, y'see. But, you can let me have her now; fair exchange."

So saying Father Anthony handed over the bow, sheaf and string. Ferrour checked the horn that each end fitted snugly. He held it proudly thinking it was the first time in a while. The groom showed him a long pocket below Mathew's saddle where to stow the bow and sheath, and, without more ado both riders nudged their mounts to ease them into a trot out of the long stables and into the track leading them left towards Gorhambury. Father Anthony called over:

"It's Watling Street mostly; there's a bit of forest and then we veer to the left. How are we doing John, if you don't mind me dropping the patronym? How's your mare coping? Will it last the distance? If you suspect something by all means stop."

The groom added:

"Shall we trot? Then I can determine whether it was a sprain or my imagination."

Once they had cleared the town and were in open country Ferrour stared anxiously at the mare's legs but could discover no sign of any lameness and spurring Mathew to come abreast of his companion reported the same. Now both mounts were snorting as they galloped ever on the lookout for loose stones in the ancient roadway. Ahead were the beginnings of the forest and each looked to the other and grinned but said nothing each enjoying the wind in their faces and both horses seemingly also enjoying their gallop.

Father Anthony's up and down movement of his hand suggested they slow down as they moved under the canopy, the road veering to the left then the right and in the far, far distance Ferrour spotted a coach. It disappeared from sight around another corner and there being no oncoming traffic they eased again into a gentle gallop. Father Anthony ahead of his companion slightly made another up and down hand movement which Ferrour obeyed. All at once he grabbed Mathew's reins as if to warn his friend to stop at once.

"What is it?" Asked Ferrour.

"I suspect a hold-up. The coach was coming towards us, I'm sure, but it has stopped. What's more I spotted two mounted riders."

Ferrour now stationary alongside his companion began to notice the gentle noises of the forest as he peered ahead but like his companion could see nothing much. Butterflies flitted between the trees but that seemed the only other living thing. He looked across at Father Anthony but he shook his head. Ferrour, nearest to the trees, signalled his intention and not waiting for a response dismounted leaving his horse to graze at the roadside taking out from its holster the bow and sheaf of arrows. Quietly he fixed the looped cord at one end then bracing the bow against a trunk strung the other end. Uncovering the arrows he slipped the sheath across his back, and, bow in hand slipped through the trees.

His intention was to get abeam of the coach and the drama ahead by moving at an angle through the forest. Having advanced some hundred paces into the trees he peered at the road to spot the coach. Dissatisfied with his vantage point he moved still further until through the trees, but hidden by them, he could get a clear sighting of the coach. The sun emerged from the clouds and something glinted. From experience he suspected he saw the reflection from the blade of a sword or dagger and, peering intensely through the trees, saw its owner mounted but adjacent the coach inside of which he spotted people. Someone was being held at sword-point.

Again, shone the glint of the blade as it turned in the rider's hand; he had to get closer and did so without detection. Now, not only did he have a clearer view, but, removing soundlessly an arrow from the quiver and loading it, he also had a good firing position. It was a hold-up as Father Anthony had suspected. Having stood stock-still for several seconds he now began to hear another voice. It held menace. But, the voice of the rider overrode it urging his accomplice to hurry-up. A sense of urgency gripped him.

Ferrour made sure he stood firm and drew aiming for the rider's hand. He heard a voice overlaid with menace:

"Make no move to resist my friend or you'll be as dead as your driver. Get that ring off her finger. Cut it off, if necessary"

The words chilled Ferrour to the bone. He released the arrow and in a fractal heard a sharp scream of pain. He saw that his arrow had pinned the rider's arm to the woodwork of the coach. He reloaded and shot another. It hit the hand, and, with a clang his sword fell to the ground. Ferrour raced through the trees which earlier had concealed his presence but now delayed him. Before his last stride he reloaded and looked anxiously for the rider's accomplice. A figure had jumped to the ground and instinctively he aimed and shot at ten paces distant. He fell to the ground writhing and screaming in agony, but soon lay silent.

Ferrour next ran to the middle of the road and waved shouting for Father Anthony whom he could not see. Next, placing one foot on the wheel-hub he stood on the wheel and peered inside. Who was more surprised as he cried?

"Mamselle!" Her answering cry was,

"Monsieur!" And Ferrour recognised the other passenger:

"Monsieur!"

Incongruously he said: "How strange!"

The sound of hooves approaching meant that Father Anthony had heard his calls for help and he jumped down. On the other side of the coach the pinned rider was also hollering from pain and the priest dismounted and ran to look at his predicament. Ferrour watched him pull an arrow out and drag the rider from his horse. He lay face down muttering, 'damn your hide! damn your hide!' Placing a foot on his back the monk pulled off his belt and deftly wrapped it round his legs.

By now, monsieur from the coach had jumped down asking what he could do while Ferrour anxiously looked at the lady and said: "We meet again, mamselle."

"John!" It was the monk, "We'd better put the dead man over his horse and carry him back. Forget Gorhambury. I'll go another time."

Ferrour spoke to monsieur: "Have you cord of some kind?"

The gentleman took off his purse and removing it handed it to the lady giving the string to Ferrour who bound the thief's legs removing the belt which he handed back to the monk who gratefully took it.

Ferrour removed his own purse string using it to tie the thief's horse to the tailgate of the coach. By the time he finished he was bathed in sweat and removed his cote-hardie and placed it on Mathew, his mount. Having finished all these preparations he said to the gentleman:

"Do you want to continue your journey?"

"Non, monsieur! We have had enough excitement today. How say you, ma soeur?"

She nodded saying both to Ferrour and to the monk:

"Shall we introduce ourselves? Our family name is de Ville. Meet my brother, Pierre! I am Honore, Mademoisele Honore de Ville, a votre plaisir."

"Tres heureux. My name is John Ferrour; my friend can speak for himself, eh Father."

The monk did indeed speak: "Anthony Villiers, Mamselle et Monsieur but now known as Brother Anthony, monk of St Albans abbey." He added:

"It is fortunate Monsieur, Ma'am; you were going in the opposite direction."

With difficulty the would-be thief was handed up to the coach nobody wanting to put any trust that he would not try to escape. Fortunately Father Anthony had some medical means with him so applied a tourniquet and bandaged his bleeding hand. The two dead men, one, their erstwhile driver, killed by a sword thrust and the second thief were unceremoniously placed across mounts which were tied to the rear of the coach whose two occupants retook their seats. Ferrour rode Mathew and the monk rode his mare. Thus, the party slowly made its way back to the stables.

As the coach trundled towards the abbey Madam de Ville explained how they found themselves at the mercy of the two thieves. It seems the first anyone knew of the robbery was when two mounted men joined their coach riding either side of it. Each passenger was too interested in their conversation to notice that the rider on their left transferred from his mount to the driving platform of the coach, which stopped. Hardly had they noticed this when the rider on the right thrust his sword at mamselle threatening murder unless monsieur handed over their money and valuables to his accomplice who now appeared in the coach. It was at this point that Ferrour's arrow had struck followed by a second. They heard a loud clang.

"That was when his sword dropped to the ground," interrupted Ferrour, "one of my arrows must have pinned his arm to the coachwork."

"Then everything happened so fast, said the lady, "well, you know the rest."

"But how did our driver die?" asked Monsieur de Ville, "Why did he have to die?"

Ferrour said: "He was stabbed. Could he have been an accomplice?"

"If so, "said, the monk, "it shows there's no honour among thieves."

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##  Chapter 25

Normans create own version of events

When Ferrour looked into Ball's cell on his next visit he closed the flap in some disdain hoping he had not unduly disturbed the prisoner in an intimate moment for evidently the man was having a crap by the sounds and smells which percolated to his nostrils. Soon sounds of movement convinced the caller that the prisoner's ablutions were over. His next look was perfunctory after which he turned the key to enter. The civilities exchanged saw Ferrour asking about progress to be told that Ball had indeed finished his account of the disturbances handing a sheaf of parchments over. Ferrour stuffed the documents into his capacious bag brought with him for that purpose, and, making a plea of business he turned to leave but was brought up short by the prisoner who said:

"Remember, I have your word."

His next duty was to report to the duke and it did not take him long to walk from the chapter house for he had found a short cut. His normal trek was to proceed to an exit with added delay in opening and closing doors and then to walk back towards the gate-house whereas, having discovered a portion of wall demolished, possibly at some time in the past by insurgents from the town, he saved considerable walking distance. So, within minutes of leaving the chapter house he was showing the sheaf of papers to the duke who wrinkled his nose looking at Ball's handwriting, or, was it because his script was in English?

As to translation how would the duke feel about a translation by one of the copyists many of whom were bilingual as it was deemed more suitable by the prior in charge that a copyist understand the document he copied whether it be a letter from Cicero to Atticus, or a translation of Bede's history of the English, or, perhaps Chaucer's Troilus and Crysede in French. After the duke mentioned his concerns Ferrour wondered whether his problem was insurmountable given the worries of confidentiality and the means to pay for it besides the matter of who would actually carry it out. He begged the duke's indulgence and withdrew.

What lifted his spirits was the imminent prospect of sitting astride Mathew and so made his way to the adjacent stables. For once Father Anthony was not there though he knew the monk still had to attend matins or other duty. Without him he had a problem for there were over a hundred stables and being early morning many of the stables were closed. He had an idea. Placing his head next to a closed door he called the horse's name and good fortune attended his efforts for he guessed by an answering whinny that Mathew was behind stable 20 and was not far wrong opening 19 to find Mathew as anxious for action as he.

The goldsmith's shop soon hove into view and within a short time he was tying up Mathew and with the prospect of renewing his acquaintance with the de Villes he entered the shop. In anticipation of his visit promised yesterday both of the de Villes were behind the counter greeting him warmly with, "Bon jour, Monsieur!" He replied:

"I hope your untoward experiences of yesterday did not discomfit you unduly."

Monsieur de Ville answered: "Oh no! We are getting waylaid every day in this land of England. Ah oui, Monsieur, we must get used to such goings-on."

Peels of laughter followed monsieur's sardonic talk and was succeeded by an invitation for Ferrour to join them for their 'apres-midi' and dinner later which he was delighted to accept. He had scarcely finished his acceptance of the invitation when the shop door opened to admit a visitor who could not contain his exuberance:

"How fares our bandit snatcher, today?" It was Scrimshank who added, with a knowing wink, "It's as well we did not damage any fingers, eh Mister Ferrour!"

That remark was made in English and the de Villes' looks showed they were baffled by the comment. However making his apologies to the de Villes in French, he added to the Englishman:

"The local grapevine has it, Sir, that you are in line for a reward. I have it on good authority that the mayor wishes to present an award to you."

"Have you found anything out about the thief?" Ferrour asked aware that Scrimshank with a key to the keep might have an answer. He answered: "Yes, he is a known highwayman along with his former accomplice though the name he gave must be verified. For the time he will stay in the keep. Good thinking on your part, Sir."

At this point Monsieur de Ville interrupted: "My sister and I Monsieur Scrimshank want you to know that we also wish to make a contribution in that regard. Will you kindly inform the town mayor!"

Addressing Ferrour he responded, "If you can spare the time to call at the Guildhall in Dagnall Lane, Mister Ferrour, a good number of citizens would like to express their thanks. So, Mademoiselle, Monsieur, Mister Ferrour I will take my leave. Until later!"

Scrimshanks, accordingly, smiling and with nods to each present departed. Ferrour at once addressed monsieur: "I hope you recovered all your property, Monsieur de Ville. I, myself, did not think to empty out his pockets, of the thief, I mean."

"There was a lot to think about in the circumstances, Monsieur. Do not distress yourself on our account. Believe you me, we owe you our lives. That outweighs all."

Mademoiselle turned on her most engaging smile: "I echo my brother's sentiments, Monsieur. Now, our house welcomes you. Would you care to join us for a mid-morning apertif?"

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Father Anthony was up early the day following the ambush and successful arrest of a highway man though he was the least of his problems. Yesterday, he had persuaded the owner of the coach, the de Villes, to stop off at the abbey because their first port of call had to be the mortuary where the two bodies, the coach-driver and the arrested highwayman's accomplice, were off-loaded and laid out in accordance with Benedictine rules.

Their next stop had been the stables where Ferrour assisted his companion in leading the two spare horses into the stables where a groom was on hand to stable them for the night. Now, came a worrying time; it had to do with the disposal of the arrested thief. Here, Ferrour suggested to the monk where he might be kept for a short while, and, continuing to act as the driver he guided the team to the keep. Father Anthony knocked at the door and to his relief he saw the heavy beam door open and Scrimshank emerge and greeted him.

He explained to the man from his driving seat the situation. As a result, the tailgate was let down and the robber, freed of the binding on his leg, was allowed to walk into the keep where he was soon in a locked room. Advice was sought as to how his arrest might be communicated to the mayor who was nominally in charge of the law in St Albans and here again, Scrimshank volunteered to inform him. He suggested that a notorious highwayman was now safely out of the way and townsfolk would be very grateful.

At last, the coach could be driven the short distance to the house of the de Villes who expressed their gratitude for it had been a trying day: a day that was following its predictable progress, a trip to Gorhambury to visit a client which was not expected to take longer than a half-day. It was to be a jaunt into the pleasant countryside of St Albans but a day that would haunt them in nightmares henceforth as to what might have been. It had also been a busy one for Father Anthony and, moreover, would continue to be for some days. Had he warned Ferrour of such a busy schedule, the latter would likely have offered to help but he did not so they missed each other the next day.

Father Anthony was informed that John Ferrour had already called to collect Mathew and was sorry to have missed him though he knew that on his next visit he would be able to impart some good news to his friend for that morning he had repaired to the gatehouse and the abode of Walter de la Mare, the abbot in order to relate the events of the previous day and to inform him that, as from yesterday, the stables were richer by the addition of two fine horses. Of course there would be the additional costs of feeding and maintenance but the abbot made the point that St Albans' roads were that much safer.

Indeed the new situation cheered Father Anthony for, whereas yesterday he had flattered to deceive, he could, with no concerns for his safety, now set out to Gorhambury to deliver the bow and arrows that had been his original intention. He was sure John would forgive his appeal for his company whereas, in fact, the monk had also the relief to know that he would come under his friend's protection. He went to the workshop where the bow and arrows had been made and spoke to the bowyer, a monk like himself. As usual he sat astride his jig which comprised a firm, wooden cradle upon which a length of yew was clamped, and greeted him:

"You'll be pleased to know Brother Fletcher that one of your bows was used in anger yesterday to great effect by pinning a robber to a coach that he was trying to steal from."

The monk carried on planing the wood but smiled:

"It is good news I grant you, Brother, but should we peace-loving monks be making weapons. It's true they fetch a good price which the abbey can put to good use. Yet, I do have certain misgivings. What is your opinion?"

"My opinion is that horse-flesh may be put to evil use as was the case yesterday. Yet, the horse itself is a power for good. It is the rider, good or bad, who makes the difference."

"You are in the wrong vocation, Brother. Such arguments are the stuff of politics."

On that slightly negative note one brother said farewell to the other as Father Anthony realised that he should pay the mortuary a visit because some information about the identity of the robber's accomplice had come to his knowledge and he should pass it on to the attendant. The identity of the driver was already established by the de Villes for whom he drove the coach on that fateful day. Another problem had to do with jurisdiction: Who was responsible for his burial failing any details of his kin arising? Yet that was up to the abbot who might or might not liaise with the town council.

He recalled his friend John Ferrour telling him about Serjeant Iles' concern not to kill any of the insurgents on account of the lengthy administration involved which he understood well enough now. On returning from the mortuary house the strains of an organ drifted to his ears. He decided it was just what he needed and made his way to the entrance of the abbey and soon was kneeling at his favourite pew and recalling the blessed year-last when Brother John of Yarmouth had visited with a view to overseeing the installation of this magnificent instrument in the chapel of St Mary.

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After his mid-morning apertif of mead and sweet loaf Ferrour excused himself in order to call at the Guildhall in Dagnall Lane greeting Mathew tied loosely to the tether rail like an old friend which in a way he had become. On the way thither while passing a trough the animal strayed sufficiently for the rider to pause and allow it to drink; it was positioned where the street had opened out into a square so there was somewhat more room than along the narrow streets. A puff of breeze welcome on the rather sultry day betrayed the presence of a fish shop and he wondered idly, given the town's distance from the sea, at the variety laid out on a marble slab which he could observe from his vantage point.

There was no mistaking the facade of the Guildhall for it was at least twice as wide as the de Ville residence and there was a deal of coming and going and Ferrour had to squeeze past several animals in order to tie up at the tether rail. Tentatively he entered the building whose double-doors had been folded back and was immediately addressed by a uniformed commissionaire. He gave his name which seemed enough for the time being for he was asked to sit in the reception area while a boy was sent along a passage-way.

Moments later a man emerged from the passage, spoke to the commissionaire who pointed at Ferrour. Stretching out his hand the man approached Ferrour:

"Russbrigger, Sir, mayor of this town, well met, Mr Ferrour. You have rid us of the most evil highwayman who, with his accomplices, has been plaguing the country roads of this parish for these past two years."

"I am most gratified to hear it, Mister Russbrigger. The two men certainly upset two respectable citizens, Monsieur and Mademoiselle de Ville. It was a horrible experience. If other citizens had similar experiences it's not surprising that you are well rid of them. Are the bandits local, or, should I say, were?"

"Local, in a manner of speaking, if you count a nearby town, Watford, as local; it's a pity they were not caught in situ because they stole a great deal of money, jewellery, weapons, and other items during the course of their brigandage. It is to be hoped that by offering the accused some amelioration of his sentence that he might reveal his hideout."

"What sort of sentence attends this crime upon conviction?" Asked Ferrour.

"Hanging, Sir and it would be well deserved. However many councillors, including myself, have been victims of highway robbery so are pressing the case for a plea bargain."

"Is it possible this thief was not solely responsible. Perhaps there are others."

"You have raised an interesting point, Mister Ferrour. We shall not know until he comes up for trial. By good fortune, the local assize will meet tomorrow. Would you care to attend?"

"I'm not my own master, Your Honour, but I shall bear it in mind. Mr Scrimshank mentioned a reward."

"Oh pardon me, Mister Ferrour. A most regrettable omission; here's me talking nineteen to the dozen and the most important topic forgotten, dear me."

He took out the latest fashion with a flourish and wiped his brow which gave him pause to reflect; he said:

"I think we shall repair to my office, Sir."

Seated at his desk he explained that the council had already debated the principle of the reward for a profound service rendered to the community at large by Mister Ferrour's selfless action. Ferrour noticed the quality of workmanship in the desk as the drone of his host's platitudes surged around his ears but was immediately alert when the mayor said:

"If you would be so kind as to appear at the Guildhall on the morrow I shall have the honour of making the presentation. You may well be surprised. Now, Sir, this calls for a little celebration,"

So saying the mayor raised himself from his chair and went to a beautifully constructed trolley which held several flasks. Taking one of them he poured a rich golden liquid into two small tumblers picking them up and handing one to Ferrour saying:

"The monastery's own libation; Sir, your health!"

Ferrour drank as bid and as the liquid seeped past the back of his throat he felt warm inside and generous to the rest of the world and spoke of it:

"Doubtless a Benedictine blessing; I feel suitably blessed and can face a hundred cut-throats armed with multiple swords."

"I would hesitate to offer such sentiments to the abbot but I concur with their spirit in more ways than one."

Half an hour later Ferrour was able to compare the warmth of the de Ville's parlour with the coldness of the mayor's office though the Benedictine effect lasted some time. Benedictine or not Mamselle's warmth was a more than adequate successor in hospitality as she intoned:

"S'il vous plait, Monsieur; would you take a seat at our table!"

Having ascertained his liking for their mid-morning apertif, a warm mead, she instructed the maid to pour some into Ferrour's goblet and as he sipped he also compared the office's plain plaster with the tapestries suspended from a rail running around the room. They depicted scenes from classical legends. One showed a lake surrounded by trees behind one of which was a satyr leering at a maiden emerging from the water, perhaps Diana. All the while their maid, wearing a dun-coloured shift without sleeves and unadorned, went backwards and forwards from a room separated by a corridor carrying dishes of hot foods closely observed by Mamselle de Ville resplendent in a bright silver speckled gown adorned with lace at the neckline and sleeves. Her timing was excellent as the gong sounded to indicate dinner-time when Monsieur de Ville made his appearance with a short bow to Ferrour and he took his place at the head of the table, his sister at the opposite end. Bowing his head he said a grace in French of which Ferrour comprehended snatches and invited his guest to serve himself as the maid had withdrawn.

They ate in silence until Mamselle had assured herself that conversation would not inhibit her guest's appetite and said:

"Any news from the monastery, Monsieur?"

"Eh bien!" She heard him reply, "Perhaps you and monsieur have not heard?"

Monsieur de Ville gave voice looking puzzled towards his sister:

"We are all ears, Monsieur."

Ferrour did not answer at once but looked to right and left fleetingly:

"It seems the Duke of Lancaster was called away urgently if Mr Russbrigger is to be believed. He is on his way north to his castle in Leicester which has been threatened by some rebels. He does not want a repeat of the dire fate which befell his beloved Savoy Palace."

"Did he depart alone?"

"It seems a convoy of soldiers accompanied the steward bringing word from Leicester. You see the duke had earlier despatched his son and his governess to her estate at Swynford where they will be safe. The threatened raid on Leicester took him by surprise; it was a shock."

There was mystifying looks in both his hosts but Ferrour did not trouble himself to enlighten them about the lady's relationship with the duke though his silence on the subject was forgotten as the curious Mamselle said:

"Is it really true his palace in London was burnt to the ground?"

Not replying until he had finished chewing his mouthful of legumes; he was about to open his mouth to answer when Mamselle interrupted:

"From our correspondent we learned that the king watched the flames of the burning Savoy palace from the Tower."

"C'est impossible!" Was Ferrour's explosive comment sitting back in his chair though his initial surprise softened as he gazed upon Mamselle's smile. To balance the look he offered Monsieur de Ville an explanation:

"Your informant has been misinformed, Monsieur. I assure you."

Turning to left and right in turn, he continued: "I was there when his majesty arrived. He had left when the rebels and Tyler their leader arrived and their talk was about how they had failed to storm the Savoy. There was no question then of the palace in flames."

Both hosts exchanged glances. A chime broke the silence. Mamselle said:

"Our horologe tells us that one hour has gone and Monsieur de Ville usually sees if there any callers, don't you, Brother dear?"

Monsieur got up and bowing slightly to his guest left the room; she said:

"That was our horologe you heard, Monsieur, brought from France." Her smile captivated Ferrour and he was at once apologetic: "Please forgive my inopportune words about the events in the Tower. It was not my intention to alarm you."

"By no means, Monsieur; besides, our informant has often got it wrong. Perhaps you may have heard of his chronicles in England: Monsieur Jean de Froissart!"

He smiled benignly saying: "The chronicles are a very amusing set of anecdotes as long as one takes them with en anglais, a pinch of salt, eh bien!"

She chuckled but was then serious: "I beg you, Monsieur, for your... how shall I say it? It does not do to tell a different story than the official line; n'est-ce pas?"

Ferrour smiled grimly and Mamselle noting his demeanour said:

"Why are the paysan... how do you say?"

"Peasants, Mamselle? Or, a word often used is, villein. Have you heard of it?"

"Naturellement, Monsieur, un vilein est un paysan libre en France."

Ferrour repeated her words: "A villein is a free peasant in France. Granted! But, a villein in England is but a bonded servant. That is the difference."

"Ahhhhh! Now, I understand why the French paysan does not want to live in England. He would no longer be free."

While they talked the maid appeared to clear the table of dishes. As she stood there putting dishes onto a tray Ferrour noticed her pleasing form and felt a movement in his groin and was glad to be seated. At last she turned to the hostess and for an instant her eyes swept over him. Warmed by the glance he heard her saying to Mamselle:

"Shall I serve the third course, Ma'am?"

As she left the room Ferrour commented: "Your domestic speaks no French, Mamselle?"

Her face took on a sour note which was unbecoming as she ruefully admitted:

"Her work is excellent but she refuses to speak French. She says with defiance that our tongue is the language of the slave and she is not a slave but from a good home."

Monsieur de Ville reappeared saying as he took his seat: "Marie tells me she is about to serve pears and custard, my favourite. More wine, Monsieur Ferrour?"

Ferrour declined speaking more to the lady: "You perhaps do not know that our parliament passed a law that English was to be used in future for bills and legal documents. It will be difficult for nobles such as the duke because of their steadfast rejection of the English language."

She listened to his comment patiently about the language, but, anxious to drop the subject, she suggested to Ferrour that instead of wine perhaps an infusion might be preferable: "One of my favourite herbs grows here in abundance: C'est la menthe?"

"Mint!" Was Ferrour's version, "It is a bitter but stimulating herb, I thank you."

"Monsieur Ferrour," It was his host who said gravely, "I overheard my sister's warning to you about the government version of events. I beg you also not to repeat your true story in the wrong company. C'est la politique!"

Ferrour concurred smiling thinly:

"Like you say, monsieur, its politics! Say no more!"

On that note he intimated he would have to leave for an appointment. His host and hostess exchanged looks which seemed the signal for monsieur to pick up a package on the sideboard. He offered it to his guest saying:

"It is as well that we could find no client for this exquisite jewel-box. It was lost to that mountebank but was returned to us. Inside you will also find a token of our appreciation, Monsieur, of your rescuing us that day; many, many blessings upon you!"

Blushing, Ferrour took the package and offered his hand to la Ville who shook it warmly whereas his sister was somewhat warmer kissing him on both cheeks. Her final words to him, spoken with a smile, "Au revoir", made his blood tingle.

And, so he took his leave.

He had needed little persuasion to allow Mathew to graze on the sward of grass at the rear of their house and it was thither Ferrour repaired to collect him. As he proceeded along the passageway he was startled by something at the corner of his eye. It was the maid looking at him from the kitchen. He smiled and gestured a farewell which was reciprocated though he had scarcely untied Mathew when he became aware of being hailed:

"Beg pardon, Sir!" Called a stranger somewhat out of breath, "might I prevail upon your time to accompany me to the Guildhall."

"You nearly missed me." said a surprised Ferrour, "I arrived at the front."

"It was your horse, Sir, very distinctive. I do beg your pardon, my name is Smythe, acting deputy mayor."

Agreeing to the speaker's suggestion Ferrour turned Mathew around and accompanied him whither he might lead. It was in truth the Guildhall though on this occasion the stranger led him to the rear of the building inviting Ferrour to tie Mathew to a tether rail before inviting him into his diminutive office at the rear. Once inside he turned to Ferrour saying:

"Something serious, Sir, has come up needing the mayor's attention which will prevent the ceremony tomorrow. He has asked me to present you with the town's mark of gratitude for your recent services."

Without another word he moved to a side table and from a drawer removed two bags, one larger and heavier than the other as it appeared to the fascinated Ferrour. First Smythe handed over the smaller of the bags accompanying the movement by a frozen smile and the words: "Five pounds of English currency in coin, Mister Ferrour."

"I thank you, Mister Smythe." Ferrour's concentration was divided because the image of Marie affected him and his words were somewhat automatic. The other now presented him with the larger bag in tones no less oily and ingratiating:

"This bag represents the proceeds of a collection by the grateful people of the town who got together of their own accord when word reached them of your worthy deed."

Ferrour thought this fellow would win any prize for long-windedness but listened patiently as he droned on. However cynicism drove out other thoughts for although a formal presentation was not to his taste yet he was left with the impression that something had happened between this morning and hours later to make his presence less desirable and a thought occurred to him; he said:

"I fear your esteemed mayor has learned something to my disadvantage, Sir. Would I be correct?"

Smythe was silent for a time studying his guest's face and deciding no harm would come with candour as he answered:

"You know well, I trow, our opprobrium for the nobility which always backs the arguments of the abbot at the monastery whatever the rights or wrongs of the matter. Yet, now we find that a certain Mister Ferrour has known of his presence in the abbey but has concealed the fact from us despite earnest questioning."

Ferrour thought of his fearful time in the keep and the mention of torture and his acknowledged concealment of the truth and sympathised. But, it was too late. Besides, events had rather set to nought all his ideas of acting for the duke for the latter had not cared a tinker's curse whether he did so or not. He flushed with shame but answered:

"The reservations of the mayor are well taken and I offer my apology."

"Oh," said Smythe, I very nearly forgot, "this letter is also for you. It is from the mayor to the abbot recommending you are to be given the horse of the man in custody for it is within the aegis of the court to confiscate it. I understand the animal is in the abbey stables. Well, Sir, I believe our transactions are complete."

"Did you discover the name of the miscreant? I ask because of my possibly meeting some friend of his in future."

"Appleyard, Jack Appleyard, aged thirty seven years from the borough of Watford of this county though I doubt, even with amelioration, whether he will be free again." On leaving the Guildhall, Ferrour retraced his way past the la Ville house and on impulse left Mathew at the roadside and retraced his steps along the passage at the side of their house hoping to steal a quick glance in the back yard but although a line held drying linen there was nobody about. He was about to turn away when he noticed a movement and was suddenly face to face with Marie; he chuckled nervously;

"Miss Marie. May I speak to you for one moment?"

She answered coquettishly: "It depends on what you want to say."

He said: "There is a fair coming to St Albans to celebrate something or other. May I have the honour to take you there?" She smiled: "If you had asked a week ago I would have had to ask my parents but now I can celebrate my freedom. Yes, I would like to go."

Ferrour was so happy he could barely contain his joy. Since his acquaintance with Mathew his fortunes had decidedly changed for the better and a plan was forming in his mind on mounting up, and, as the animal trotted along Dagnall Lane towards the monastery he felt a sense of exhilaration.

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##  Chapter 26

Sound advice

Happy thoughts about his forthcoming tryst with Marie had chased away every other thought but now as he beheld the abbey another idea pushed the happy thought to one side. It was his approaching visit to Ball, the prisoner in the chapter house. It seemed an age since he had last visited him. Having found a way to get clear of the monastery grounds without going through one of the official entry gates he was anxious to pass on that knowledge to Ball for that would be the perfect way for the prisoner to abscond. He resisted the temptation to use it on this occasion as he was reluctant to force Mathew on to uneven ground. As he rang the bell he wondered who the duty gate-keeper would be and his inevitable news.

It was Father Elijah. The two men had not seen each other for a while so Ferrour was all ears to hear about the departure of their noble guest. Doubtless his departure followed on from the arrival just a short time before of a messenger flanked by the accompanying bodyguard for the duke's journey to Leicester. He had come to be aware of army procedures in the past few days. However, it was 'no' to his enquiry about the bodyguard for the latter had decided to stay outside and not enter the grounds. It had remained outside confident in the belief that the men would soon be on their return journey shortly, and so it had proved.

Remounting he made his way straight to the chapter house and let himself in. Inside he felt alone and hurried to the cell and opened the flap to peer into the cell. No light shone. Now, fretting with anxiety he unlocked the cell door. It was clear that it was empty. The bed was made up, the table was free of books and the ablution bucket was empty. Ball had vanished. Had someone let him out? was Ferrour's first thought. Perhaps with the departure of the duke someone had thought it opportune to free the duke's prisoner. He had been looking forward to giving his money bag into his hands plus some cash to help him on his way but that plan had come to nought.

His next port of call was the abbot but he was not there and the gatehouse monk did not know his whereabouts or when he would be back. The mayor's letter addressed to the abbot was in his hands and he showed it to the monk, Father Ignatius by name, whose command of any language other than his native Spanish gave no confidence to Ferrour that he understood his question so he put it away. There was also the question of the money in his saddlebag which he had hoped the abbot might be able to safeguard and he had also wanted to offer money to reimburse the abbey in some way.

Leaving the gatehouse the thought of the nearby stables lifted his spirits and rather than remount he took Mathew's bridle and led him the rest of the way. Opening the double doors normally closed to prevent horses escaping he led Mathew inside and looked around for his quarry. A familiar posterior led him to nudge Mathew to follow him and he stopped short of someone busy shoeing a horse and he waited watching as the figure spat a nail onto his palm transferred it the shoe and nailing it home. The bulge in his cheek got progressively smaller and finlly he spat the remaining tacks out into the pocket of his ample apron and Ferrour spoke:

"Greetings Father!"

The monk half turned chuckling with glee, "Good morrow, John. A quick look is all I need to say you look worried."

"I do not know where to start though my worries have more to do with unresolved matters having found the abbot away somewhere."

The monk got up and faced Mathew: "Yon Mathew looks hungry, eh lad!" He pointed to an empty stable suggesting to Ferrour where he could be watered and fed and as he followed these directions Ferrour said:

"One of my queries is about Mathew whom I've come to love as a friend." He took the letter from his purse saying: "This is addressed to the abbot to say that the mayor has awarded me the horse and saddle of the highwayman. I was wondering...."

Father Anthony held up his hand: "That's quickly resolved. Give me the letter."

After a quick scan he said, "Normally we would cost both animals and gear and come to an arrangement but, in this case, Brother de la Mare, our abbot, take it from me, will raise no objection; next question?"

So, all Ferrour's concerns were listened to with patience and quickly disposed of so that he reprimanded himself for his undue fretting though finally he got to the point which he had been dreading. Perhaps he had imagined worries in order to postpone mentioning the one subject that most bothered him and at last he mentioned it:

"You have helped resolve my frets, Father, except for one. The time is fast approaching when I have to leave. I see no excuse, except a selfish one, to hang around any further. My master has been patient, the Earl Ferrers, although stayed by the duke, but now the latter has left, I'm in a quandary. Should I return to my duties."

Father Anthony shook his head in despair: "John, John, John; I don't know what to say and you a man of the world. How old are you? Let me guess, twenty seven?"

Ferrour looked mystified and the monk told him, "Off to France at sixteen, seventeen in the thirteen-seventies; it's not too difficult. And, as for your master, he has long ago filled your post, and, your worries, dear boy, what can one say? Start thinking for yourself! As an Anglo-Saxon you've a sacred duty to rid this land of our occupiers. Not with the sword. My word, man, you are brighter than any Norman I've met so far, and, that includes the duke. Like I say weapons are in the past. Guile, common sense, acumen you have them in spades. The world's your oyster. I envy you though I've made my life. You can be anything you like and you have the wherewithal to do it. Phew!"

The monk wiped his face with his apron. Ferrour overcome with emotion could not speak for a while in order to master his quivering upper lip. At last he said:

"Thanks Father, so much!" He walked away. He had one idea in his mind as he left the stables. Back in the lay dormitory where he had a bed he went to his locker from which he took out Ball's manuscript and deciding it was too dim inside to read, he returned into the fresh air walking towards his favourite bench and making himself comfortable opened the folder. Soon, he would be on the road either returning to Putney, or, perhaps on a new adventure whose prospects were as precarious as quicksand without knowing the path to bring him to security. Now is the moment to concentrate; time enough to think on his future, later.

\---------0----------0----------

##  Chapter 27

Ferrour honoured by the duke

Snores were omnipresent in the lay brothers' dormitory where he had slept that night though to Ferrour they were neither more nor less than usual and he wondered whether his own might have added to the crescendo moments before he opened his eyes. Perhaps it was the boom of the horologe chiming the hour that woke him. It did not matter for his mind swung back to the narrative he had read the afternoon before on the wooden bench outside placed for monks for contemplation.

It was the penultimate chapter of John Balls narrative which now occupied his mind for the triumph of the rebels in finally succeeding in gaining an entry into the Savoy Palace by subterfuge where previously the rebels had been driven off with many injured attackers had to be tempered by the ensuing tragedy when Alice, Tyler's paramour, had died.

Father Ball's perception of Tyler's state of mind came through strongly influencing his subsequent actions in the final chapter which seemed ordinary in contrast with the genius displayed in earlier dealings with the nobilty in keeping them second-guessing as to his intentions. One could well understand their frustration in deciding, for reasons of loss of face alone, to bring the rebellion to a speedy conclusion by fair means or foul.

Another matter covered by Ball became uppermost in Ferrour's mind, the account of his preservation of Henry, the Earl of Derby's, life. How would that incident be judged by the other members of the inner council, who, in the person of the Earl of Arundel, to name but one, would be censorious. They would not dare to charge the duke's son with cowardice but a whispering campaign might do as much damage especially in contrast with Richard's own conduct.

Both were fourteen year olds yet how different could the duke's enemies present the king's conduct in comparison with that of Henry. Ferrour himself knew that the king had been in no danger whatsoever from the massed ranks of peasants for many of them would have been familiar with the boy presented to them by his father near Limoges in France. Would the duke's enemies consider Henry's defence as justified? Even being the son of the most hated figure in England, the Duke of Lancaster? Was that justification for Henry's escape in the light of the murder of Gaunt's chaplain having been executed?

And, then his mind turned to his own particular problem: That his account differed from the official version recorded at the government's instigation by Froissart, the official chronicler at court. He recalled Mademoiselle's friendly warning to keep his account to himself where it was at variance with the government version. As a servant though free and with an official post he had little standing even at home in the manor of the Earl Ferrers who would follow the duke's lead as night follows day.

Another boom told him he had been an hour in such contemplation and decided that perhaps breakfast might interrupt the strands of negative contemplation. Soon he was breaking bread with monks who smiled but said nothing and, for once, regretted their self-imposed silence for it was diversion he needed. He need not have worried because a monk hurried across from the refectory entrance door to where he sat and began that strange ritual reminding him of miming games played over Noel when some brave soul would stand before them and mime words, forbidden by the rules of the game to speak, which the audience had to guess by mime alone.

He got it; a messenger had arrived with a message for him. What he did not get was, where was to go? Nonetheless he hurried out leaving his unfinished porridge as much in silent sympathy with the miming monk as with his own haste making for the abbot's residence. However he was waylaid by another monk who re-directed him to the stables where the messenger was not difficult to spot and soon the messenger's saddlebag was being emptied to his advantage; there were two items. To his great delight the messenger was Hugh Compton whom he welcomed with open arms.

Yet, his former colleague was distinctly cool and soon the welcoming smile turned to a frown as Compton appeared more interested in seeing to the bodily needs of his mount than exchanging badinage with Ferrour who, after the preliminary exchange, brought up a matter of keen interest:

"What news of Serjeant Iles, Mister Compton?"

"I'm an official messenger, Ferrour, not a purveyor of gossip."

Ferrour felt the dropping of his title more than any negative reaction and broke off a further approach thanking him for the messages, and bidding him a safe journey made his way to his favourite bench to open and study the letters at leisure. His best friend told him that Earl Ferrers' letter would say how much his services were appreciated by both the duke and the earl. But, he knew in his heart of hearts that, in his friend's new post, he must distance himself from his previous existence. One day when he was settled then perhaps he could make the journey north for a reunion.

With a mixture of mounting curiosity and eagerness he tore open that from the Earl Ferrers and would have read it directly had not a paper fallen to the ground which he picked up for study later. The first document read:

Esteemed Sir! His Grace, John of Ghent, Duke of Lancaster, has graciously extended funds to me whereby you may be honoured and raised in rank and I hereby declare that the person, John Ferrour, in my former employ as Comptroller, is henceforth adjudged an ESQUIRE . May I offer you, John, who was ever close to my heart as my son, congratulations on your elevation. You have brought honour to this House and the whole household and I wish you the very best in the future.

signed this day of June, 1381 in the presence of:

Serjeant of the Court of Chivalry: Albert de Toqueville

in the presence of: the Earl Ferrers of Putney, London.

Now, he remembered the other document and opened it out. It was a folded scroll from the duke himself though whereas the conferral was in English, permissible since 1361 for all legal documents, the note from the duke was in Norman French and he had some difficulty deciphering the somewhat archaic message whose purport was that the duke offered him the position of clerc in the office of his good friend and collegiate, the Earl of Westmoreland. The closing date for acceptance of this post was the end of July, 1381, but there was more for a clear margin separated a draft.

The draft was for fifty pounds sterling in marks or pounds at the behest of the draftee to be exchanged at any fiscal agency in England. It also carried the Duke of Lancaster's official seal. At the bottom of the document were the duke's felicitations on his future happiness and thanking him for services rendered.

It was with an enormous sense of relief that Ferrour at last leaned back on the uncomfortable wooden seat and truly contemplated, not niggling worries but, a bright future that he might offer to Marie whom he was due to meet soon. A cloud did make a sudden appearance but only in a way of meeting up with her parents, her father in particular, for the important question a budding suitor might contemplate.

Now, his new status began to sink in, Esquire meant he was officially allowed to own a horse; he was also free now to offer his services to a knight, to consider any profession of his choice and to live anywhere in England. He was also free to travel abroad. He was entitled to the title of Esquire after his name. He thought of confronting Compton and telling him off for his omission, but, as quickly he rejected it; how was he to know? Perhaps a ride to town; he could confide his new status to Mathew. He would both ride and walk tall in the streets and lanes of St Albans although he was forced to admit that in his relations with the towns-people he was already thought of by the mayor as a freeman of St Albans. It was a prosperous borough with few manorial lands.

Soon he was astride Mathew. As he rode along the criss-cross of streets, byways, lanes, avenues and squares he saw the affluence of the town in noting the number of bakers, inns and taverns, butchers, drapers, blacksmiths, and, as his nose acknowledged, fishmongers. Another item that caught his eye was pasted onto a flat surface and he stopped to read a poster which advertised the Fayre in the final week of June. Various offerings such as hoopla, horseshoe tossing, an archery competition, were to take place; it was signed by the order of the mayor. He pictured himself walking among the booths with the fair Marie on his arm and was slightly put out when a voice interrupted his reverie:

"If someone would move that great 'hoss' from my view someone else might get a look-see; eh Mister!" The voice sounded familiar and looking round at the speaker he stared into the fair Marie's pretty eyes and rosy cheeks exclaiming:

"I do beg your pardon, Mistress. Let me lead him away."

So saying he dismounted and led Mathew so that he no longer blocked the view though was forced to the conclusion no apology was needed for she responded:

"The horse was in the way, Sir, but I was pleased to see you atop the saddle. I was shopping and spotted you from the fishmonger."

"Riding around the town I noticed you're well supplied with tradesmen of every kind," he said, adding, "have you more to buy?"

"I was on my way home as I have done my business with all the tradesmen. Are you going my way?"

He needed no bidding to be able to go anywhere with this young woman and was especially pleased to walk Mathew beside her on the return journey. One thing which taxed his mind was how to broach his desire to know where she lived though once again he was in luck for the words that tripped off her tongue were manna:

"We don't get too many fairs, in this town, because usually the abbot, finding out that such an event is due, makes objections and cites some obscure byelaw to get it stopped, but, hail Mary thrice, he has been called away so if you'll call tomorrow at the de Ville residence at around two hours of the clock, in the afternoon?"

"You'll be waiting for me with outstretched arms." He chuckled at his own badinage and she muttered: "Who's a cheeky man but I forgive you?"

\----------0----------0----------

Such light hearted badinage was far from her father's mind when, on the following day, he got his prospective son-in-law to himself. They were sitting in the garden of the Tabard inn when it fell out quite naturally that the women, young and old, gathered to one side and the men arranged themselves elsewhere. The older man's name, Grindecobbe, meant nothing to Ferrour at one time but now most certainly, it did; he talked of his daughter:

"The town will not be too pleasant for Marie in the near future. The holding of this fayre was fortuitous in that the abbot did not object being away yet those of us on the town council tell ourselves his absence bodes ill for the town."

"Were you there that Sunday?" Ferrour said, "or was it at Monday's meeting with the abbot which he spoke to me about; something to do with millstones."

"I dare not tell you too much, Mister Ferrour." Grindecobbe spoke with a frown, "the less you know is for your own good." He smiled, saying: "Speaking of more personal matters, I take it you likes our Marie. And, she likes you. That be plain."

Ferrour smiled too: "Marie is the best thing that's happened to me my whole life."

Grindecobbe responded: "My daughter might soon be in great danger, John, if I may address you as a favoured prospective son-in-law."

"In great danger!" Ferrour's face registered alarm, "Howso, Mister Grindecobbe?"

"Walter's the name. The absence of de la Mare augurs ill, John. I fear he has hot-footed it to London to confer with King Richard, or, the Privy Council. Mark my words he'll be back but with the king, the chief justice and other lackeys who'll dispense their own justice without benefit of a jury."

"You take my breath away, Walter. What on earth would this assemblage of persons, both high and mighty, have to do with St Albans. It's just a provincial town, after all."

Grindecobbe sat back in his chair listening to his companion and smiling ruefully and did not immediately respond to Ferrour's argument. He took out his pocket kerchief and mopped his brow before rubbing it inside his tunic next to the neck before saying:

"Mayhap my kerchief performs such a service a week from now. You see, John, the town may be unimportant but the abbot most definitely figures in the highest councils of the government. We, the townspeople will be a test case especially when 'tis known Walter Grindecobbe harboured one of the leading rebels."

Ferrour could not stop himself blurting out: "You released him from the chapter house, didn't you, Walter?"

"What one school chum will do for another! We were like so..." Grindecobbe made a gesture with his two little fingers adding, "we even acted together like in the Corpus Christi mystery play at the Trinity. But, such a friendship brings repurcussions."

Both men eyed the other. Ferrour blurted: "Let me take Marie away from this. I would marry her tomorrow, Walter, truly I will."

Grindecobbe stood up as did Ferrour and they embraced and Ferrour broke off to look around for Marie. As their eyes met he mouthed silently: "Will you marry me?"

Marie nodded and Ferrour saw her say something to her mother. They both stood up and embraced before coming over to join the menfolk. Walter pointed to the exit and all four people made their way out silently until they were well and truly clear of the tavern. The fayre was still in progress but none of them gave it any further attention. When the four had reached a piece of grass where they would not be overheard, Walter held out his hands to his wife, Harriet and John Ferrour took one of Marie's hands, as his eyes held hers.

Grindecobbe said: "If you two would like to spend some little time together, feel free to do so." But, hardly had he finished when Ferrour addressed both older people:

With your permission!" Then to his love, "Marie!" He began, "I've told your father I love you and wish to marry you. How do you feel?"

"On top of the world, my darling, John."

And, so it was that, not long after, a coach set out on the trunk-road north following the route that Roman soldiers used a thousand years before. It was making quite a lot of noise as trailing behind it were a number of old pots and pans which served a very useful purpose of diverting attention from two lovesick marrieds journeying to take up their first shared abode in the first hostelry they reached later that day but you can be sure as early as possible. However a little dicky bird might have heard John say to Marie:

"How dost feel my love exchanging Grindecobbe for Ferrour?" She answered him with yet another kiss.

One can only hope that their future married life might witness more such banalities and loving responses before they settle down, and, perhaps, it will be a love-match for all-time so there will be no end to them. Amen to that!

\-----------0----------0----------0----------

According to the information which reached him days before at the monastery Squire John Ferrour learned that the Duke of Lancaster had been summoned north but the truth of the matter, as Ferrour learned later, lay in the duke's acute fear that he was vulnerable in St Albans and therefore also the welfare of his son and mistress, the Lady Swynford. His enemies on the Regency Council which had been set up to advise and supervise the king in his minority were hostile towards him. So, prior to continuing his progress to London the duke decided to remove his son from harm's way and accordingly Henry accompanied his father to the latter's castle of Kenilworth, just north of the town of Warwick.

Here the fourteen year old would complete his education. The duke could now embark on his interrupted journey to London and resume the reins of government the main one being to look out for the interests of the king, Richard IInd. Besides his role on the council the duke also had the additional onus as guardian of Richard conferred upon him by his father, Prince Edward, just before he died. Both Richard and Henry were of similar age and their grandfather had conferred upon them the title of knight of the Order of the Garter in a joint ceremony and both shared a common tutor in the person of Sir Simon Burley. Yet, their paths in life inexorably would diverge and it started with the so-called Peasants Revolt when the young King Richard would leave the same-aged Henry in the Tower when he sallied forth to meet the rebels at Mile End, just outside the London Wall.

Five years later in 1386 Richard had reached the age of 20 when he was told that his real age was 21. He was already chafing against the control of the elders on the Regency Council and ensconced and safe as he thought he was sent a message to his supporters in the county of Cheshire. His principal supporter there was his favourite, Robert de Vere, whom he had made Duke of Ireland and who was engaged upon raising funds for an expedition across the water, to Ireland. On receiving the message de Vere enlisted the additional support of the Constable of Cheshire, Sir Thomas Molyneux and others. Within days de Vere had gathered together a considerable force which exceeded a thousand archers and men-at-arms.

However his progress south to London would not proceed unopposed for waiting for his army was the 20 year old Henry, Earl of Derby, whom we last heard from continuing his education in the castle of Kenilworth. By this time his father, the Duke of Lancaster had removed himself to Spain where he had taken up residence at the court of Isabel, the Infanta, or crown princess of Spain; it was his second marriage. Henry, his son, Earl of Derby, had allied himself with the Duke of Gloucester, Thomas Woodstock and the earls of Arundel, Nottingham and Warwick, all members of the Regency Council.

In a concerted plan these earls and the Duke of Gloucester had each taken up a stance at crossing points of the River Thames which formed a natural barrier across the countryside of middle England so that the scouts of Robert de Vere advised him that the only feasible bridge across the Thames was at Radcot Bridge. Here, Henry waited in ambush. But, forewarned the leading soldiers of de Vere's army began to drift away, to desert, so that only Thomas Molyneux would make an attempt to cross the Thames. Robert de Vere would divest himself of his armour and swim the Thames in mid-Winter and make his way to the Continent.

Alone, King Richard IInd in the Tower was compelled to come to parliament by his enemies known in the history of England as the Lords Appellant who persuaded the king to divest himself of advisors who were disagreeable to these lords. In a subsequent account of these events the situation is described as the Merciless Parliament but having made their point the lords involved seem to have run out of ideas although the king, deeply bruised by that confrontation was given space and time to plot his revenge. The Duke of Lancaster meanwhile who had returned from Spain and who is often now referred to as John of Gaunt (a corruption of Ghent, Belgium, where he was born) warned his son of this revengeful king, his former protégé, and advised him to proceed to Prussia.

Gaunt has long entertained a plan for his son to attend the court of the Count of Prussia to receive training in chivalry. He sweetens the pill by allowing his son an entourage of a hundred archers and six minstrels to the total cost of £4,360 (£4 million today). Whilst Henry is in Prussia he makes two pilgrimages to Jerusalem. By the early 1390s he is back in England and discovers, in his absence, that he has been appointed a duke due to the influence of his father, old Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster.

Henry celebrates his new appointment with Thomas Mowbray, the Duke of Norfolk, who has inherited the title from his recently deceased father. An inebriated Henry gets carried away blurting out a story about the early life of King Richard. According to this story the year-old Richard is baptised in France in the presence of Prince Edward, his father, and a French lady who was not his wife, Joan. This utterance is treated as treasonable by Mowbray who immediately notifies the king.

Unlike the version in Shakespeare's Richard IInd, the king brings the two men together and Mowbray is asked to repeat the allegation which Bolingbroke, in his cups, had made but now strenuously denies so the king notifies the two men to prepare for a Trial by Combat which does not take place. Instead the king exiles both men to the Continent with the proviso that the men must not contact each other in their lifetime.

This punishment is one favoured by the king who, several years earlier in the course of his revenge campaign against the members of the Merciless Parliament, has exiled Thomas Arundel, younger brother of the Earl of Arundel who keeps his brother informed of the latest news in England. One particular event is the death of Henry Bolingbroke's father, the Duke of Lancaster, who is remembered in Shakespeare's Richard IInd, as old Gaunt, and who gives a memorable peroration on his deathbed beginning: "This royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle...".

Unfortunately for Richard IInd's fortunes this latter event coincides with his much delayed expedition to Ireland and, short of funds to pay for his favourites, the king confiscates the entire estates of the deceased Duke of Lancaster and proceeds to cross the Irish Sea.

Thomas Arundel apprises Henry Bolingbroke of this fact though Arundel has his own motive in wishing to return from exile to England: to be reinstated as Archbishop of Canterbury. Bolingbroke thus informed and assured that funds would be available from the Earl of Arundel and other disaffected earls, namely the Earl of Northumberland and the Earl of Westmoreland, embarks to England landing on the east coast and collecting support from many influential nobles on his progress across the Midlands to Wales where the king is reported to be.

Here, I would comment to my reader that the author's intention in this narrative is to describe how the English language came to be reinstated as the official tongue of the kingdom when Henry Bolingbroke usurps the throne of England and becomes the first king to be crowned in England swearing the coronation in English. Yet, a further explanation is that the one thing that separates son from father, the earl from the duke, is Henry's preference for the English language rather than Norman French.

As long back as the 1380s, Henry learned English because of his continuous contact with English men-at-arms and archers as, for instance, at Radcot Bridge and on his expedition to Prussia. His mastery of the tongue also enabled him to attend declamations of Geoffrey Chaucer's reading from his Canterbury Tales. Such attendances were criticised by his father, the duke, who strenuously defended the privileges of the Norman hierarchy and who therefore could never have, as Shakespeare would have us believe, made his deathbed speech in English. But, his credo was a-dying: Bolingbroke, on the other hand, nurtured a belief in the England of merchants and yeomen who were transforming the economy from a debt-laden kingdom to one of burgeoning prosperity for all the inhabitants and not just to the Norman feudal magnates. Gaunt's death meant the death of this credo.

Magna Carta was mainly about the barons' privileges and was therefore in French and Latin though not in English until translated post-Caxton. As evidence of England's prosperity deriving from the People as opposed to the nobility witness the call by King Henry Vth for funds for his forthcoming expedition to France to claim its throne. In the Guildhall, London the nobility were seated at a table presided over by the king who gave pride of place to the Lord Mayor of London. When called upon by the king for the City's contribution the nobility were astonished by the multiple bags of coin delivered to the king whereas the nobility could only promise the king by virtue of rents yet to be collected.

Yet, this fact should not have surprised the Norman nobility because of an event in the year of 1341 when in parliament upon the trial of the Earl of Stratford there was a separation of parliament into two: the House of Lords and the House of Commons. Increasingly the latter body of people would form an important role in the governance of the kingdom, not least in the permission to raise money by the king which would lead to the Civil War and the abolition of the House of Lords though that event would be three hundred years, hence.

It's the year 1399, the 30th of September when Henry IVth is crowned. He instructs the Archbishop of Canterbury that the coronation service in Westminster Cathedral is to be performed entirely in the English language, now truly resurgent and from which this work is named. It was William the Conqueror in 1066 who condemned English as the language of the defeated and therefore not to be spoken at court, in law, in trade or in government. A veritable RESURGENCE!

The End

##  Epilogue

At last, you, the reader, will discover Squire John Ferrour's experiences in his adopted country, England, being a natural born Frenchman. You will recall how he entered into our story during the unauthorised raid into the Cite of Limoges by the miners led by Captain Tyler. In the course of liberating their Gascon compatriots and recovering the Coucy Treasure Tyler's raiders came upon two French lords plus a certain scribe who that very night had shared his lords' sleeping quarters. This scribe was of course |Monsieur Jean Ferrure. Whereas his noble friends were safe on account of their ransom value Monsieur's hide was spared after offering to pen the raiders' ransom letters to the nobles' respective families. After all it was the reason he was in the lords' cell in the first place though his missive had to do with a marriage document.

Jean becomes a close friend to one of the raiders, Morgan Filkin, and, when the time comes for the miners' return to England along with their army of compatriots Filkin agrees to Ferrure accompanying him to Wales and both board their assigned cog in Bordeaux harbour to wait upon the readiness of the flagship, the Grace-Dieu, whose last passenger will be the prince himself who, borne upon a litter, will be taken up the gangplank by his team of lusty stalwarts. Naturally this spectacle is observed by thousands: of Frenchmen watching the departure of their erstwhile overlord but also by the prince's comrades-in-arms.

Among these avid sightseers is Ferrure though not his companion who nurtures a fierce resentment in the person of the Prince of Wales who has usurped in Filkin's eyes the role of Owen Glendower, the true Welsh prince. So, his friend Morgan goes below while Ferrure joins his English comrades in watching proceedings. Suddenly there's a splash: man overboard and without a second thought Ferrure has jumped in to the harbour and is soon shouting to the flailing man to desist in his struggles manhandling him to the rear where a seaman throws them a knotted line.

Both men flounder on the poop deck surrounded by disinterested onlookers still agog to see the prince safely stowed aboard his ship before orders are given to hoist sails. Our bedraggled survivors limp their way to a cabin where they are soon divesting themselves of wet apparel, applying towels vigorously and donning dry clothing. Jean has rescued a scion of the Earl Ferrers and the young man urges him to share his small cabin for the voyage to Dartmouth and thence to Morden in Surrey. Ferrure is only too happy to concur though first must warn Morgan Filkin of his change in fortune. He wishes god-speed to his friend telling him his place in Wales is still open in the event of a change of plan.

Jean's new friend, William, does not seem to notice Jean's status even when he recovers his longbow and sheaf of arrows promising him employment in the Ferrers' household and Jean observes how easy it is for a gentleman to purchase horses on the strength of a promissory note stamped with the Ferrers seal in wax. And, as the son vouchsafed the earl insists that Ferrure join their household as comptrolleur of accounts though there's a slight change of name from Jean Ferrure to John Ferrour in which name he enters the story.

John accompanies William on his annual duty to attend the king's court when events cause the two friends to be separated and, whereas William proceeds to Mile End with the king, John, helping a pieman deliver his wares to the kitchens, is suddenly surrounded by rebels who have invaded the White Tower of the Tower of London. Ferrour spots his former comrade in Limoges, France, Wat Tyler, though the suggestion to use Henry as an open-sesame into the Savoy Palace comes from one of the rebels who the day before had failed in their assault by reason of the cross-bow defence on the ramparts by the palace guards. Nonetheless Ferrour supported the suggestion putting it to Tyler who liked the idea and young Henry's life was spared in consequence.

To put it in context Henry was the only son of the Duke of Lancaster who, because of his imposition of the hated Poll Tax, was the chief hate figure of the rebels. Yet, by the quick thinking of John Ferrour Henry's life is spared. Eighteen years later as Henry Bolingbroke he supplants Richard IInd as King of England. Within a short time the new king is marching north towards a confrontation with the Earl of Westmoreland who demands a bigger reward for placing Henry on the throne. The rebellion fails and the earl and his supporters face trial and death though the king running his eye along the list of the earls' retainers orders a man to be freed and his life spared: his name, John Ferrour.

The king has repaid a debt.

##  Appendix

Leaders of the Uprising

Wat Tyler's body has no known burial site and the whereabouts of his earthly

remains is a mystery but his memory lives on. Over seven centuries later, through

the medium of theatre, opera and reference books he merits a mention. He is even mentioned in one encyclopaedia of biography.

Walking north John Ball got as far as Coventry before he was arrested. He was

brought to trial by the Church, which had a particular hatred of him, not least

because he had denied 'transubstantiation', the black art giving priests the

miraculous power to transform bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ.

Handing him to the Church was a prudent political move as the secular powers

feared the ire of John of Gaunt as much as the English Church was in dread of

the Pope's wrath.

The exhortations of John Ball, recorded for posterity, would find echoes among

reformationists, religious and secular pamphleteers, evangelists, Chartists,

Fabians and reformers of succeeding centuries to the present time and, no doubt, into the future for many of his reforms still remain to be realised.

The third leader of the rebellion Jack Straw merits a mention in the eternally

popular work of Geoffrey Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales, thus:-

...Jack Straw and all his followers in their brawl

Were never half so shrill; for all their noise,

When they were murdering those Flemish boys........

Extract from the Nun's Priest's Tale.

William Grindcobbe was tried and executed for leading the St Albans men into

the revolt. According to one source, he begs Tyler to send 20,000 men to his

aid, which, though unfulfilled, is an example of the repute and report of Tyler, at

the time. Grindecobbe comes from Hertfordshire whereas Tyler's county is Kent.

King and Nobility

As with the Jacquerie in France, a half century earlier, the nobility had no

intention of according chivalric rights to commoners so that although Tyler was

neither armoured nor armed for his meeting with the king, Arundel had decided,

as a matter of policy, to bring about Tyler's downfall, by one means or another,

and if the means were less than honourable, so be it.

In an identical manner, the king felt himself exonerated by his belief in Divinity when having sworn his usual oath, by St.John the Baptist, promising his Archbishop of Canterbury, of 1389, that he would deal honourably with his brother, the Earl of

Arundel, that is, that no harm would befall him, the king betrayed the

archbishop's trust. It happened like this:

The Earl of Arundel, Richard Fitzalan along with the Earl of Warwick and the

Duke of Gloucester were invited to a private conference on promises of complete

safety. Yet Richard had already issued royal warrants of arrest for all three. Only

Warwick escaped death and that by a humiliating plea for mercy which drew from

Richard the contemptuous utterance that Warwick's ' .....wailing, weeping and

whining..' was more pleasing than the value of Arundel's and Gloucester's

confiscated lands.

Nonetheless despite this betrayal by the so-called nobility, the King himself must

take the worst opprobrium from posterity. It is expressed admirably in Bryan Bevan's book, 'King Richard II', as follows: The most tragic result of the Peasants Revolt was the destruction of confidence and trust between the king and his people. Ever afterwards he would be blamed as the scapegoat for a gross breach of faith."

His father had been the Black Prince who fought alongside the yeomen, smallholders and villeins who were his common soldiers, and so came to appreciate their qualities, and, as recorded, intended a general manumission. So his son is guilty of the worst expediency of all in ditching the powerless when it was expedient. When a deputation of villeins from Essex were granted an audience with Richard, they

reminded him of his promise to end villeinage, Richard expressed his contempt,

thus: "Villeins ye are, and villeins ye shall remain."

Given his subsequent fate and the time in prison he got to reflect upon the bad

faith of those around him, one is that Richard might have reminded himself of

one of the sayings of the Saviour, he was always fond of quoting: "Do unto

others as you would have done unto you!"

The Rebellion as seen by Society at the Time

Writing prior to the rebellion, John Gower, a poet of independent means wrote:

"It seems to me that lethargy has put the lords to sleep so they do not guard

against the folly of the common people, but they allow that nettle to grow which is

too violent in its nature. If God does not provide His help this impotent nettle will

very suddenly sting us."

Following the end of the uprising, unlike Chaucer, Froissart and other writers of his time, sponsored as they were by kings and nobles, he was able to declare: "Wat Tyler became a king of the ruffians and idol of the rustics." He also allowed Tyler to comment in his Vox Clamantis (Voice of the Protesters): "We are men formed in Christ's image, but kept like beasts."

Repercussions of the Uprising

Whatever the degree of success of such an event partisan historians (among others) do try to take comfort from its outcome. The immediate aftermath of the rebellion was woe to the participants, the rebels who, in their anger and frustration, had dared to challenge the accepted order. Yet none of this anger or frustration seemed to penetrate the dense layer of ignorance and disdain of the ruling classes although, perhaps, it was that very opacity that had enabled Wat Tyler to keep the government on the hop, until the final act of betrayal that had

sealed his fate.

The verdict of posterity points to disaster in the immediate aftermath, it did have long-term effects extending into the Elizabethan era. But, what of the decades thereafter? The aims of the villeins were unrealistic. Villeinage was too profitable to the upper classes to be dispensed with overnight. Even had the King and his Parliament honoured his pledge, it would certainly have been flouted leaving the villein a victim of injustice without means of redress, namely the means to access the law to uphold his rights.

Unlike, when the abolition of slavery had been promulgated throughout the

British Empire the authorities were able to deploy gunboats against transgressors. Place not thy trust in princes would seem good advice after Richard's empty pledges, and things had not much changed by 1575, when history tell us that Queen Elizabeth I sold 300 villeins, now prettily called bondmen and -women, for a price that enabled the buyer to make a handsome profit thereafter.

As RESURGENCE tries to suggest, the villeins' grievances arose out of broken

promises, coming from the top, that there was a way out of their serfdom through

war, by helping Edward III and his son, the Black Prince, to fight and defeat the

French. Not only that, but also by the surrender of their free time in practising

the skill of archery at the butts. And they succeeded.

This is a description of their skill from the pen of historian J H Wylie: Trained from their boyhood by constant practice at the bowmarks that were fixed near every parish church, these quickeyed longbowmen could hit the prick of the oystershell in the centre of the butt with the nicety of the Thames fisherman garfangling an eel......

The villeins had delivered victory. And that was a bitter pill to swallow for

the nobility. Hitherto their philosophy of war was overlaid with the veneer of

chivalry, of honour, of patronage, of admiration directed towards the victor, who,

by his skill alone, won esteem in the eyes of his peers but especially, it was the

way to a lady's heart, and often her dowry. After the battle of Crecy, it became

evident to the Black Prince that victory over the French did not need a huge

expenditure of ships and equipment to transport the knights, horses,

accoutrements not to mention the expensive food and drink they were

accustomed to get back home.

Fewer ships were needed for the transport of commoners, villeins among them, accustomed to roughing it, who needed just enough bread, meat and drink together with thousand upon thousand of arrows. It was the young Edward, Prince of Wales, who made this discovery and he was not slow in conveying his message to the people who mattered, the longbowmen, whom he discovered were, for the most part, villeins.

His armour, fashioned after the well-to-do archer and man-at-arms, dates from this realisation which came early in his military career, and soon after, he is known

not as the Prince of Wales but as the Black Prince, being encased from helmet

to feet in the relatively light, black leather armour changing it, in battle, for proof

steel. His battles of Poictiers and Najara were won on the cheap. Moreover, the

sieges of Carcassonne and Limoges and other strongpoints were only possible

with the help of miners, ie more commoners.

It was Bannockburn that transformed the thinking of Edward III whose

father was nominally commander of the English army which had gone north to

relieve their fellow Englishmen besieged in Stirling Castle. The nobility had

persuaded Edward II to leave the battle to them and had attacked, in the same

manner of the French nobility at Crecy and elsewhere, that is, along a broad

front and directly against the fortified positions of the Scots. The result was

disaster. The English army was annihilated as an effective fighting force. The

part played by archers had been negligible.

It has been said of the Bourbons, a French dynastic royal family, that "They remember everything but learn nothing". The same comment might be employed of nobility, as a class, in either France or England, the meaning being that their blind remembrance of every injury obscures the remedy which is to change tactics.

On the surface nothing changes. Yet another young Prince of Wales hobnobs with the hoi-poloi, his friendship beginning at the age of fourteen when he meets John Oldcastle, a former Welsh longbowman. When he becomes King as Henry V, he is in the same position as the Black Prince, except he is also a politician and realises that with his longbowmen behind him, he can, by defeating France, win back Normandy.

Thus the Dukedom of Normandy, from which England was conquered in 1066 and which was lost to France by the Norman King John (Lackland) by 1205, was regained by an English king in 1415 after the battle of Agincourt. Yet what of villeinage! It peters out. The ruling classes still demand their pound of flesh. Sir Henry Lee who purchased the 300 villeins in 1575 from Good Queen Bess made his profit from their purchasing their freedom.

Like the Bourbons they were a dying force in the increasingly enterprising world of the thrusting Elizabethan whose exploits were transforming England in the 16th and 17th centuries. Men like John Hawkins, Francis Drake, Walter Raleigh were

dubbed for making their backers rich, those backers very often, like the Queen

herself, the nobility who were content to sit back and do nothing and let the

profits roll in. Yet, as the medieval nobility discovered, backers occupy the backseat while the real movers and shakers increasingly lead the country.

A new struggle entered centre stage in the 1640's. Parliament, in its struggle with the King, who might well have listened to an echo from the Uprising of 1381. Charles I certainly saw only one way, his way. He rejected Parliament's 'nineteen propositions' by claiming that it would all end in a chaos of confusion as caused by Wat Tyler and other revolutionaries. How right he was!

Echoes of the Uprising

In 1776, the English emigrants calling themselves Americans, proclaimed

their independence from the mother country, but particularly, from King George

III. One of their propositions demanded the right of every patriot to bear arms.

This is an echo from the Uprising where the rebels demand, from the Statute of

Winchester, 1285, that 'everyman has the right to bear arms to keep the peace.'

The Uprising found an echo in Thomas Paine's The Rights of Man when

he declared: "All (Tyler's) proposals made to Richard were on a more just and

public ground than those ... made to King John by the barons..."

During the Commonwealth, Thomas Cleveland, a royalist historian, writing

in 1654, criticised Oliver Cromwell, by reference to Tyler the Idol, placing him in

the company of Thomas a Becket and Simon de Montfort as a rebel and a traitor.

On the other hand, the Puritans saw themselves, in their republic and the end of

monarchy, as the true inheritors of Wat Tyler who had sought to cast off the

Norman yoke. Even in the 21st century people believe the sword in the City of London's Arms commemorates William Walworth's sword thrust at Wat Tyler though it is, in fact, St Paul's.

##  Glossary

Armour Metal or leather protection against weaponry

Camlet Fine woollen garment

Captain Rank of an officer

Chevage Ancient form of polltax

Childwyte Manorial tax on a new born child

Cite City within fortress of Limoges

Dartmouth Seaport used by English armies

Fleming Citizen of Flanders

Frankenpledge Archaic group guarantee

Gascon Citizen of Gascony (English province)

Heriot Tenant death duty

Liripipe Medieval article of clothing

Merlon Castle battlement

Messuage Outlying structure or grounds of house

Miner Soldier dedicated to undermining a fortress

Portcullis Fortified gate before barbican

Possesseurs Bailiff

Ransom Money demanded in exchange for freedom

Savoy Palace on bank of Thames

Scutage Levy on a vassel in lieu of service

Serjeant Non-commissioned officer

Surcoat Medieval waistcoat

Villein Bonded serf

Wardrobe Storage for armour

Yeoman Freeholder
