*

  Guy de Clare felt safer the further they rode away from the vast mob at Mile End. The narrow streets closed around them and the whole party seemed visibly more relaxed, although the captain of the guard reminded them to be vigilant until they were once again back within the safety of the Tower.

  Richard said nothing and his entourage took that as a cue to do the same. He seemed perfectly calm though, perhaps even rather pleased with himself. Guy was full of questions he knew he could never ask. ‘Did you really mean it when you said you’d grant them all their freedom from serfdom and that Hales and Sudbury would face justice?’ But he knew well enough that this was presumptuous and asking might well see him returned to Gloucestershire in disgrace. He would have to wait and see what Richard was prepared to share with him later in the day.

  But as they approached Whitechapel a messenger from the Tower approached at speed. He spoke with urgency to the captain of the guard who had rode out to meet him. The captain held up his hand to halt the royal entourage and spoke firmly. ‘Your Majesty, the Tower is no longer a safe place. We must travel in haste to Blackfriars and take refuge there.’

  Richard looked alarmed. Guy could tell by the way his air of smugness had evaporated and his eyes were darting to and fro. ‘Ah, the Wardrobe,’ he said, trying and failing to sound nonchalant. That was the nickname they gave to this royal storeroom for clothes and armour. ‘Captain, when we get there, we command you to go at once to the Tower and report on the situation.’

  Guy could sympathise with Richard. He was consumed with fear. The Tower – that royal stronghold with six hundred soldiers to protect them all – had fallen to the rebels. How on earth had it happened? And if the Tower was not safe, then where in London was?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The walk back from Farringdon to Southwark was an exhausting one. Now free of the danger of being accosted with a hated Fleming, and full from the food and drink they had been given by Catherine’s family, Tilda, Thomas and John all felt weary.

  But as they tramped back in silence Tilda began to feel happier than she had been since they first arrived. When they’d left the Flemish house, Catherine had hugged her and told her to come back and visit her. ‘You teasch me schpeak better Englisch. I teasch you reading and writing!’ she had promised.

  Tilda felt she had made a real friend. And she had discovered that her uncle John’s family were brave, decent people. They weren’t the sort of Londoners who would go around killing foreigners, at least. London, she was learning, was full of good and bad people.

  She wondered how many of those who had gone out murdering and raping had been prisoners released from the jails. She hoped in her bones that the violence they had witnessed had passed and order would return to their lives. Walking through the city streets now though, she felt great excitement and curiosity. Now, for the first time, she began to seriously consider whether she should stay here and escape from the life that had been mapped out for her in Aylesford.

  But nothing was simple. Firstly, she was Lord Laybourne’s property and he would forbid her to move. Secondly, her father would be heartbroken if she left him alone in the village. He would surely find another wife, but who knew whether they would love each other as he had loved her mother, and no matter what happened she knew he would miss his daughter terribly. Thirdly, was she cut out to be a London girl? Wouldn’t she forever be a simple country bumpkin always to be charged more than double for bread or biscuits?

  And those were just the simple problems. The ones she would have faced before this whole upheaval. They all paled into insignificance next to the vexed question of whether the Coopers had seen her and her father take part in the ransacking of Laybourne’s manor house. If he came back to Aylesford, he would be keen to take his revenge. Returning home could mean they would end up hanging from a tree.

  Tilda’s troubled thoughts were interrupted by Uncle John. He held up a hand to stop them. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Something’s going on up ahead.’

  Sure enough, there in the distance they could hear shouting and screaming. And the familiar smell of burning filled their nostrils.

  ‘What shall we do?’ asked Thomas. ‘We can only get home across the bridge.’

  John shook his head. ‘We should be all right. We’re English. No one has any reason to attack us.’

  Close to the river, they could see a great commotion further along to the east, around the Tower, which gleamed white in the summer sunshine. But as they turned into one of the wider streets that approached London Bridge a large crowd milled towards them. They were chanting and shouting and seemed dangerously excited.

  As they grew closer, Tilda could see two of the marchers at the front of the crowd were carrying poles with heads jammed on them. She felt sick. ‘What would someone do something like that for?’ she asked. The three of them hurried into a side street to let this grisly procession pass.

  When the crowd thinned out, they continued on their way, but someone was rushing towards them, face flushed, eyes wide and shining. ‘It’s my neighbour, Robert,’ said John. ‘He’s one of them that don’t like the Flemings.’

  The man had the appearance of an overexcited child, desperate to share a great story with them. ‘We’ve all been in the Tower!’ he said.

  ‘We wondered what was happening there,’ said John.

  ‘Yes, we all gathered outside – half of London it must have been. And we all started demanding that the king come out to talk to us. But he wasn’t there. He’d gone to Mile End to meet the Essex rebels. So we milled around a bit, wondering what to do next, then to everybody’s amazement they opened the gates. That drawbridge came down!’

  ‘Why would they do that?’ said John. He looked bewildered.

  Robert shrugged. ‘Maybe them inside liked what we were saying.’

  ‘So then what happened?’ asked Thomas.

  ‘We all poured inside, and before you knew it there must have been hundreds of us in there. Soldiers and servants too scared to do anything. Ha! But that Tower, the luxury inside it. I’ve never seen anything like it. I even went into the king’s mother’s bedroom. Me and my mates bounced up and down on her bed while she cowered in the corner. We wouldn’t harm her – it’s not her fault her son is advised by such greedy charlatans.

  ‘I was wondering what I could get away with stealing when this great hue and cry went up. They’d found Hales and Sudbury hiding in the chapel. Well, God wasn’t going to save their necks, that’s for sure. They dragged them both out and took them to the execution block. That Sudbury, it took eight blows to sever his great, fat neck.

  ‘I almost felt sorry for him,’ continued Robert, although he was laughing when he said it. ‘But the other one, Hales, he died quick enough. Then they put their heads on poles and they’ve been parading round London to show everyone what happens to the snakes that rule our country.’

  Tilda was reeling. Catherine had said the world had been turned upside down. And here she was, right in the middle of a world gone completely mad. She could only hope something good would come out of it in the end.

  ‘Where are you going now?’ said John.

  ‘Off with the mob,’ Robert replied. ‘I’ve not had so much fun since I was in the army.’

  They walked on, shaking their heads. ‘This is getting really out of hand,’ said Thomas.

  ‘I don’t have any sympathy for Hales and Sudbury though,’ said John. ‘They’ve taxed us all half to death over the last few years.’

  Back at the house, Alice was relieved to see them, but she had news herself. ‘It’s all over town,’ she said. ‘Richard has agreed to the rebels’ demands. End of serfdom, people can sell the food they produce, land rent down to four pennies an acre, and there’s a pardon for everyone who took part in the uprising.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Thomas. He was instantly suspicious.

  John readily agreed. ‘It’s too good to be true.’

  ‘Well, that’s what the neighbours who went to Mile End told me, and now I hear they’re all drifting off. Going back home. I think this is nearly over.’

  ‘Have you heard what’s happened at the Tower?’ said Thomas.

  Alice shook her head. She looked wide-eyed with shock when they told her. ‘Well that might put quite a different spin on things,’ she said.

  It had been an extraordinary day. Now it seemed everything was hanging by a thread. Thomas seemed pleased with how it had all gone, but Tilda went to bed that night wrapped with unease for the day ahead.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  June 15, 1381

  Guy de Clare blinked back his exhaustion and ventured out into the street. He did not stray further than the doorway of the Franciscan monastery at Greyfriars. For now, London was quiet and the sound of the church clock at St Nicholas drifted over the still night air. Three o’clock. It would be a while yet before he would be able to take to his bed. The news from the Tower had been deeply disturbing. Hales and Sudbury executed like common criminals. Others of the court also murdered. Richard had taken it all in with his usual detachment. Guy was surprised he had stayed so calm.

  Now, he could not believe the job he had been given. Two years ago he was a boy, playing blind man’s buff with his brothers and sisters on the family estate back home in Gloucestershire. Today, here he was, tasked with recording the very essence of history.

  While Richard and his court had taken up residence in ‘the Wardrobe’ in Blackfriars, he had been despatched, along with a rather intimidating lawyer whom he recognised but did not know, to oversee the production of charters of freedom and pardons for the rebels. The lawyer had worked on Guy’s own written accounts – turning the demands and the promised pardons into official royal documents. Then they had been sent with an armed guard to Greyfriars and the monks there had been given the task of producing many exact duplicates of these charters and pardons – all by dawn.

  Guy had been surprised to see Richard was prepared to go ahead with these concessions after hearing about what had happened at the Tower. But here they all were, squinting under candlelight to produce the documents. Documents based on the very words Guy had recorded! He had never been so frightened in his life, these last few days, but now, with the dangerous moments receding into the past, he had never felt so important. So grown-up. What a story to tell his family back home. How his father would be proud of him.

  *

  Tilda Rolfe woke later that morning to bright sunlight streaming through the window slats up in the attic. She could sense the heat of the day in the room and watched, half asleep, as specks of dust danced lazily in the beams. She loved Uncle John’s house. He had a sturdy slate roof rather than a leaky thatch. And an ‘upstairs’. It seemed like luxury compared to their peasant hut with its single room and mud floor. And outside John’s front door, she had quickly realised, there was a world of great excitement and possibility. At least there usually was, when people weren’t killing their neighbours out in the street and marching around with heads on poles. And even the smell of the city, which had unnerved her when she had first arrived, even that was something she was getting used to. Tilda never felt excited about living in Aylesford. Outside their door there was a cow and a horse. And a big puddle…

  It had been a strange and frightening few days. But now, perhaps something extraordinary had happened. The whole world was balancing on a great wheel and it was slowly turning their way. Everyone in Southwark had heard about the king’s meeting with the Essex rebels. They knew about the pardon and the king agreeing to their demands. They were FREE! It was as deep and profound as the sun coming up in the morning, or the turning of the tides.

  That upheaval with the Tower of London was a puzzle though. Had Richard deliberately ordered the guards to let the peasants in, so they could seize his hated advisors? Or had it all happened without him knowing? The truth was, nobody knew. They could only guess. Like they could only guess how all this would end.

  But for now, she reflected, Thomas Rolfe couldn’t keep the smile from his face. Last night, just before they went to bed, he had hugged Tilda tight and thanked her for her boldness. ‘When we go home, we’ll be able to find work that pays us well. Or that Lord Laybourne will have to dig deeper into his pockets if he wants to keep us working for him. Well done, my lovely girl. Persuading me to come up here and do this bold thing!’

  ‘But Father, we burned down his house,’ she said. ‘If the lord comes back there’ll be hell to pay.’

  Thomas shrugged. ‘The whole world has changed, Tilda. And we’ve been part of it! And anyway, the king has issued pardons. Even if he does come back, we will be safe and a lot happier.’

  Her train of thought was interrupted. Uncle John was shouting upstairs. ‘Tilda! Come for your breakfast!’

  She stirred from the warmth of her temporary bedding and stumbled downstairs. John had been out and returned with a fresh loaf of bread. He looked worried though. ‘Streets are full of rumours again,’ he said grimly. ‘Not everyone’s gone home. That Wat Tyler and a good crowd of the Essex men have stayed at Mile End. They’ve got more demands to make, I hear. Though I don’t know what else they could ask for.’

  Alice was looking anxious too. ‘No offence, you two,’ she said to Tilda and Thomas. ‘But I want everything back to normal now. I want all the country people to go home and settle down. I don’t want any more burning and murder on the streets.’

  John put an arm round her shoulder. ‘Come now, Alice. You can’t blame Tilda and Thomas for that.’

  Alice busied herself in the kitchen and did not reply. Tilda went to help her rinse the breakfast plates in a bowl of water drawn from the street pump. She could sympathise with Alice. She too was wondering how all this would end and whether there would be any more trouble in these narrow, crowded streets.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Richard greeted Guy with a warm smile when he returned from the Greyfriars monastery that morning. Soldiers had been despatched to hand out the pardons and charters to the peasants, Richard told him, and now things would settle back to normal.

  ‘You have done your job well, Guy de Clare,’ said the king. ‘We are impressed. You have not failed us.’

  Guy smiled and tried not to look too excited. He was learning that at court it was necessary to keep your emotions hidden. It was courteous to acknowledge such royal praise of course, most suitably with a low and prolonged bow of the head, but it would not do to gush. You had to give the impression that this was entirely what you did as a matter of course. Not grin and blush, as if the prettiest girl at the tournament had just smiled winningly at you.

  ‘You must rest,’ said Richard. ‘We know you have worked throughout the night.’

  Guy retired to his quarters and was asleep the moment he lay down his head. He was woken seemingly moments later by a chamber boy and instructed to prepare to leave as soon as possible. Guy was too dazed to think. The light on the walls told him it was sometime in the afternoon, but he had to wait until the nearby church clock tolled two o’clock to realise exactly where he was in the day. The chamber boy had told him to accompany Richard on another excursion. It was quiet out on the street, and was judged safe enough for the king to emerge from his hiding place.

  Guy immediately felt uneasy. Was this going to be another encounter with the rustics? Was there another chance that they would be hacked to pieces by a frenzied mob, or beheaded like Hales and Sudbury? Guy had heard about the seven or eight blows it had taken to dislodge Sudbury’s head and the thought of it brought a sour taste to his mouth. He couldn’t imagine how agonising that would be.

  He was instructed to present himself in the courtyard where soldiers and court advisors were waiting on horseback for the king to emerge. Guy was provided with his own horse, and within moments Richard appeared in full kingly regalia. The great oak gates of the Wardrobe were opened and the king and his entourage trotted out into the street. But instead of turning east, back towards the rebels and Mile End, they turned west. It was all a great mystery.

  The entourage continued down the Strand and past John of Gaunt’s ruined palace. The flames had long since burned out, and bodies been taken away, but there were still bloodstains on the ground. Guy shuddered as they rode past. Where they were going remained a mystery but he was grateful there were few people out and about on the streets. There were a handful of catcalls from people, but mainly the king’s party were ignored or met with respectful bows and averted eyes. This was more like the old days and a sure sign that things were getting back to normal.

  Presently, the huge bulk of Westminster Abbey loomed above them. Guy had been here a few times and the massive size and elaborate latticed ceiling of the abbey never failed to astonish him.

  Richard held up a hand to halt his entourage by the great west door. ‘We have come to ask for God’s guidance,’ he declared. They entered the cool interior just as sunlight burst through the vast, stained-glass windows, like a sign from God. Guy could tell Richard thought so too. He smiled to all – as if to say he could feel in his bones that God was on his side.

  The king led them to the shrine of the abbey’s founder, Edward the Confessor. Here he knelt down to pray as his entourage watched over him from a respectful distance.

  Guy watched the hunched figure of the king, and thought how small he looked. It was here Richard had come for his coronation. Guy wondered how overwhelming that grand ceremony must have been for a child so young. All at once he felt something he had never felt previously for the strange young man who ruled his life. He felt sorry for him. To have such terrible responsibility at such a tender age. No wonder he was so cold and capricious. Guy thought he would never want that kind of worry on his shoulders. He was grateful to fate for sparing him.