As they approached the city walls that bordered an immense field, the size of the crowd took their breath away. Guy had never seen so many people in his life – there were even more people here than on the riverbank at Greenwich. He could not bring himself to believe that there were this many people in England. All at once he feared for Richard and his small entourage. And if Richard’s life was in danger, then surely so was his. He looked at the king and was heartened to see he was showing no fear. Instead, he looked entirely inscrutable. Like a hawk about to pounce on prey.

  Richard’s appearance prompted a strange hush among the crowd. Their silence hung almost like a physical presence over the field. The captain of the guards spoke to the royal party. ‘Good God, there must be thirty thousand people here. I have not seen such a number since the Battle of Poitiers.’

  Guy felt the gaze of that thirty thousand and it weighed heavily upon him. He realised that if the crowd decided to kill them, they would have no chance of surviving.

  The captain said quietly, ‘We must ensure we are not encircled. Instruct the rustics to remain where they are and to send their envoys out to speak to us.’

  A rider was despatched with instructions that the rebels were not to approach the royal party other than in a single small group.

  The city walls and narrow streets were seconds away on a galloping horse. Guy was grateful for the presence of cool-headed, professional soldiers. He kept an occasional eye on what was going on between them and the walls – but no one stood between their line of escape. It did not look like they were being lured into a trap.

  The crowd remained silent and continued to stare. It was almost as if those thirty thousand rebels were all holding their breath. None of Richard’s party spoke either. All looked wary. This was not the time for small talk. Occasionally a gust of wind blew from east to west, carrying the sweat and stale-dishcloth aroma of the huge crowd. It was a particularly unpleasant smell and proof to Guy, if any more was needed, of the malevolence of the crowd.

  A squawking flock of birds circled overhead, transfixed by this extraordinary gathering of people. In the distance dogs barked and occasional cries could be heard – not of distress, as had happened throughout the night, but of workmen going about their usual noisy business, or a child bawling for its mother.

  After an interlude, a small party emerged from the crowd – four rebels on horseback. That intrigued Guy. Plainly there were persons of quality among the rustics here. No peasant would have his own horse, but these men did. He eyed them warily as they approached.

  ‘Do any of you know these men?’ said Richard. No one did.

  The approaching horsemen stopped within speaking distance, clearly anxious not to allow themselves to be murdered by the king’s men.

  ‘Your Majesty, do you assure us of safe passage?’ enquired one of the horsemen. He was dressed in a handsome red tunic with a matching velvet hat – the sort of clothes a respectable merchant or some other such guildsman would wear. His voice also indicated refinement and education. This was no common rustic they were dealing with. The others with him looked like overseers or clerks. Clearly they were men who worked with their brains rather than their hands.

  ‘You are safe as long as your companions do not endanger our party,’ said Richard. His voice was stern, bordering on threatening.

  The four rebels moved a little closer, so they could converse without shouting. The merchant reached for a scroll in a bag on his saddle. ‘My lords,’ he said, addressing the whole party. ‘I have a list of four demands to make.’

  Guy was watching Richard closely. He flinched when the man said ‘demands’ but he did not speak.

  Greeted by silence the man looked unsure what to do. Richard smiled and lifted a hand. ‘Continue,’ he said.

  Then he turned to Guy. ‘Be sure you record every word.’ Guy hurriedly reached for parchment and a pallet, and quill and ink. He had been so transfixed by events he had entirely forgotten why he was there.

  The man opened his scroll and spoke in a loud, clear voice. He was obviously someone used to addressing large gatherings of people.

  ‘My lords, we call for the end of bonded labour. Our countrymen should be free to work for anyone they chose for themselves.’

  Guy scribbled furiously. Good God, he thought to himself. These rebels are calling for the end of serfdom. How will the country hold itself together if the lord of the manor cannot keep his serfs? There will be anarchy. People will starve.

  The man continued. The vast sea of people behind him stayed silent, obviously straining to hear every word.

  ‘We call for the common people to be able to sell the fruits of the labours as they chose, and not to have to give tribute to their lord.’

  Guy bristled at this. Why should peasants be allowed to do this? he thought. The lord owned them and the land they farmed on – so the lord owned the things that grew upon it. Why did they think they owed the lord nothing?

  All the while Richard remained silent. The man was expecting a response and paused to wait.

  ‘Continue,’ said the king.

  ‘We call for land rent to be reduced to four pence an acre, all across the country. No one should be expected to pay more for the land they farm for themselves.’

  Guy could not believe his ears. Surely the king would not agree to this. His father had servants to provide for, houses to maintain, and fine clothes cost good money. These things did not come cheap. This rabble wanted something for nothing, or very little. It was the worst kind of treason.

  Richard nodded.

  ‘Finally, we call for an assurance that no one shall be punished for participating in this demonstration of our discontent.’

  ‘I have heard and understood you,’ said the king. ‘And I agree to all your demands.’

  Guy could barely contain his astonishment. The world around him would change in an instant if this were true. The lords and ladies would be reduced to the rank of common people. Who then would put food in their bellies, and wood on their fires? Would they be expected to give up their grand houses and their legions of servants? Surely the king could not be agreeing to such treason?

  The four peasant representatives looked astonished too. They withdrew out of earshot and hurriedly conferred. The man who had spoken before rode back close to the king’s party. ‘My lord, we ask that you agree to these demands in writing and also give an assurance in writing that no one shall be punished. We also ask that a charter ensuring these new rights shall be sent to all villages represented here today.’

  ‘We shall instruct our scribes to prepare such documents forthwith,’ said Richard.

  The four men lowered their heads and rode back to the great crowd behind them. The one who had read those demands to them then spoke as loudly as he could to the rebels. A huge cheer erupted, so deafening it startled all the king’s horses, so much so that Guy was nearly thrown off his own. His pen and ink and parchment felt to the ground and he had to rapidly dismount to gather the tools of his profession.

  Richard looked on with disapproval. Then he turned to the captain and said, ‘We will wait for a moment and then we shall return to the Tower.’

  Guy peered at the four horsemen, who had now dismounted and were conversing with a stocky fellow who seemed to be arguing very forcibly with them. Was this, he wondered, the real leader of this mob? He looked like a soldier, certainly someone who could fight. Now the men were getting on their horses again. Moments later they were back speaking to the king.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ said their spokesman. ‘We thank you for your understanding.’ Here he paused, as if uncertain of what he was about to say. Richard stared, inscrutable as ever. ‘But we have one more demand to make,’ said the man. ‘We understand that the chief architects of our woes and unjust oppression have been Lord Chancellor Sudbury and Lord Treasurer Hales. We demand that they should be handed over to us to face their just punishment.’

  Guy could not believe his ears. Clearly these rebels were drunk on power. The king’s acquiescence had been a terrible mistake. Where would it all end? Richard’s reply shocked him even more.

  The king thought for a moment then spoke clearly. ‘I understand your position. I can assure you that my lords Hales and Sudbury will face justice.’

  That seemed to satisfy the men. They rode off back to the crowd, shouting the king’s reply before they had even reached the front of the crowd. Another huge cheer sent birds flying from the trees around the field.

  ‘Enough for now,’ said Richard. ‘Let us leave before they start to ask us if they may live in our castles and manor houses.’

  The party turned and began a hasty retreat back to the safety of the Tower.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Catherine knew these streets and just as she had predicted they were back at London Bridge in minutes. ‘I’m so pleased you’re here,’ said Tilda. ‘I’d be completely lost without you.’ She was beginning to feel she had met someone she really liked.

  ‘Who are you staying with?’ asked Catherine. She sounded wary.

  ‘My uncle and his family. They’re nice people.’

  ‘And what do they think of us Flemish?’

  Tilda had no idea. She shrugged. ‘I honestly can’t say. We never talked about it.’

  ‘They hate us because we make cloth,’ said Catherine. ‘We are good at make cloth.’

  Tilda was puzzled by this. She knew weavers in Aylesford – didn’t everyone? But she had never heard them say anything ill about Flemish people. Evidently the London weavers thought differently. ‘My uncle is a builder. I can’t imagine he’ll have any reason to do you harm.’

  The bridge was as busy as ever, and now a few shops along its length had opened for business. Evidently, the urge to make a profit from this huge influx of hungry peasants had overcome the fear of disorder. As they walked past a bakery stall on the bridge the smell of freshly made loaves and biscuits made Tilda weak with hunger and she remembered she had some coins in her purse. ‘Let’s buy something to take home – some gingerbreads.’

  Catherine nodded. Now they were surrounded by people, she didn’t dare open her mouth in case they realised she was a foreigner.

  The shopkeeper was friendly and asked Tilda for two pennies, which she had, although she thought that was very expensive. In Aylesford four gingerbread biscuits would be half a penny. The man turned to Catherine. ‘You’ve been in the wars, my dearing,’ he said. ‘Are you all right?’

  Tilda said, ‘She’s been badly mistreated, sir, and has lost the power of speech.’

  The man looked puzzled, then suspicious. They hurried away. Catherine whispered, ‘Never pay more than penny for gingerbreads.’

  Now she was back in Southwark, Tilda began to recognise buildings and streets and it wasn’t long before they were back at John Rolfe’s house.

  Tilda rapped on the door. ‘Who is it?’ came an angry voice. That was Alice, John’s wife.

  ‘It’s me, Tilda,’ she cried.

  The door flew open. Alice gave her a big hug. ‘Where have you BEEN?!’ she demanded. Tilda realised her auntie couldn’t decide whether to be angry or delighted. ‘Your father and John are scouring the streets, looking for you. They’ve been out since daybreak with our William.’

  The two younger children, Simon and Joan, peered anxiously around their mother’s skirts. ‘And who is this?’ asked Alice, looking suspiciously at Catherine. ‘You’ve been in a battle or two.’

  ‘This is my friend Catherine,’ said Tilda proudly. ‘She helped me find my way back here. I got separated from Thomas and John when they burned the Savoy Palace.’

  ‘Yes, they told me about that,’ said Alice. ‘They thought you would just head for home. But it’s easy to get lost in a strange town, especially one as big as this one. Those streets are a maze. Thank God you are safe.’

  Alice turned to Catherine and said, ‘We are very grateful to you, my dear. You can get off home yourself now.’

  ‘She’s been attacked and nearly killed,’ said Tilda swiftly. She decided she would have to tell the truth about her. ‘Catherine is Flemish. The mob have been killing Flemish people all over London.’

  Alice looked wide-eyed with horror. ‘I heard rumours but I didn’t believe them, although your dad and John saw a few nasty incidents.’ She looked at Catherine. ‘I’m afraid you can’t come in here, dearing.’

  Tilda looked at Alice with astonishment. ‘Why not?’

  ‘We’ve got neighbours who are weavers. They hate the Flemings. “Coming over here taking our jobs…”’ Tilda could tell Alice didn’t like her neighbours by the way she imitated them. ‘But if they knew we were sheltering a Flemish, they’d burn our house down.’

  Tilda spoke firmly. ‘Aunt Alice, if you will not let her stay I will walk her home to Farringdon.’

  ‘FARRINGDON?’ said Alice. ‘By God’s nails, that’s miles away.’

  ‘Please, Auntie Alice,’ pleaded Tilda. ‘We’ll go there when my father gets back.’

  Alice shook her head. ‘Very well.’ The hostility seemed to drain out of her. She decided then and there to be nice and took Catherine by the arm. ‘You poor thing,’ she said. ‘But we’ll have to keep you out of sight.’

  Catherine was made to sit away from the window in the kitchen but Alice did give her bread and cheese, and milk to drink. Tilda bought her a bowl of water to wash in and asked Alice for a needle and thread to repair her smock.

  Just after the church clock struck eleven there was a distinctive rapping at the door. ‘They’re back,’ shouted Alice and rushed to let John, Thomas and William in.

  When Tilda ran to greet him, she saw her father was close to tears. ‘My dear daughter,’ he said. ‘I’ve been so worried. And outside – in the streets… every time we saw the body of a young woman I thought it was you. There are so many of them.’ He sat down and covered his face with his hands. ‘My God, we should never have come here. Who would have thought our journey would cause so much misery.’

  Tilda wished she had never persuaded her father to come, and felt terribly guilty. She changed the subject. ‘I’m sorry, Father. I lost you by the palace. I looked around and you were gone. But I found a friend who showed me how to get back here. This is Catherine.’

  Catherine emerged from the kitchen. Before she could say anything Alice spoke. ‘She’s Flemish. We can’t let her stay here. The neighbours might turn on us too.’

  ‘Thank you, Catherine,’ said Thomas. Then with a nod to Alice, he said, ‘We must get you back home immediately.’

  They ate a hurried meal of barley bread and cheese then headed off before midday to return Catherine to Farringdon.

  John insisted on coming too. ‘Can’t have you getting lost again,’ he said. Tilda was so grateful and relieved that her relatives had decided to help her new friend. They were good people, like her own father.

  But shortly after they crossed the bridge they realised the atmosphere on the streets was just as fetid as it had been the day before. Gangs of prowling young men, obviously looking for trouble, jostled past them. When their paths crossed, they would speak to Tilda and her companions and John would always answer them in a friendly way, making it plain he was a Londoner like them, and they should have no quarrel with them.

  When she wasn’t wondering what the next encounter with a hostile stranger might bring, Tilda marvelled at the variety of the houses and shops and businesses all around her. Most traders had dared to open their shopfronts today and the streets they passed were full of fabrics, spices, leather goods, bread and cakes… If she had the money, she would have stopped and bought something at every one of them.

  There were businesses here too, side by side with ordinary dwellings. The sharp, metallic tang of a blacksmith’s, the bloody stench of a butcher’s… everywhere people were making and selling and struggling and striving to make their living. It was overwhelming but exciting. Everything about London said ‘opportunity’. It was the complete opposite of Aylesford… Harrowing and ploughing fields, then marriage to some oafish village lad, and endless days with suckling children, if she didn’t die in childbirth. The city, crowded, violent and stinking though it was, offered endless possibilities. Here, the future was unwritten. Tilda realised living in Aylesford was never going to make her happy, especially now, when she had seen a glimpse of a different life.

  The further they got from the centre of the city, the further they felt away from danger, although on the edges were the poorest houses. The beggars they had seen when they first arrived, especially the starving children, were much in evidence. But the people here seemed too weak, too listless, to be a threat. Tilda peered down narrow, squalid alleys. She thought the ramshackle hovels, with their cracked tiles and rotten wooden frames, made their own hut back in Aylesford look like the height of luxury. There was something about this part of London that made her think of an animal corpse, its body stuffed with wriggling maggots. It stank just as bad too. Clearly, there were advantages in village life, after all.

  Catherine began to look less anxious as they approached streets she knew well.

  ‘I am living here,’ she said, pointing to a stone and timber house, its front painted in the black and white style. It was quite substantial – one that a successful merchant would own.

  Catherine knocked on the door and a window opened on the first floor. A woman shrieked with joy and ran down the stairs. The door burst open and she covered Catherine with kisses. Both spoke rapidly in a language Tilda assumed was Flemish, and John, Thomas and Tilda stood on the doorstep feeling awkward. Then Catherine remembered who was with her and insisted all three of them come inside. The woman, obviously her mother, spoke. Her English was better although she still had a thick Flemish accent.

  ‘Zis is terrible news. Our friend Agnes, killed by a mob. We dare not go out vile all this is happening,’ she said. ‘But we are lucky. Our neighbours, they are good English people. They have gone to buy us bread and cheese and oats so we can eat. The world has gone crazy.’