When they took a break from harrowing the field, Tilda and Thomas were joined by Alan Carter, another neighbour and friend of Peter and Eustace Fogg.

  ‘Every day something happens that shows the world is changing,’ said Alan. ‘A few days ago, a farmhand in Chilmington ran away from his manor, like we’d all like to do, in search of a better position and wage. They arrested him, put him in the local gaol, but a whole mob of his friends came and broke down the door of the gaol and set him free.’ Alan could hardly contain his excitement.

  ‘But aren’t they worried they’ll be punished?’ said Thomas.

  ‘This is happening all over the county,’ said Alan. ‘Look, I heard they broke into Maidstone Gaol, and set the prisoners free.’

  Tilda was all ears. ‘The more this happens the less they’ll be able to punish us for standing up for what’s right,’ she said. ‘They can’t hang us all. There’ll be no one left to till the fields and herd the cattle.’

  Thomas was perplexed. ‘But just going into gaols… that can’t be right. For sure there are good men, Peter Fogg is a good man, I know for myself. But they have men in gaol for terrible things. For killing children, for rape, for highway robbery.’

  ‘Father, the ones who have committed terrible crimes are usually hanged within a week, aren’t they?’ said Tilda. ‘So perhaps most of the men they free are there because they shouldn’t be?’

  ‘If only life were that simple,’ said Thomas. ‘There are bound to be murderers and violators among them. The rebels will have that on their conscience if such men do something terrible.’

  Seeing them talking together, another neighbour came to join them, anxious to learn the latest news. He has his own news too.

  ‘The Kent rebels, they’ve even got their own leader. Wat Tyler he’s called. He’s going from village to village, stirring things up. He’s calling on us all to march to London to talk to the king. Imagine that. A common man, set up as a prince among the common people. Much better than having to obey the miserable maggots who were born into their wealth and power, isn’t that so?’

  Such talk was plainly treasonous, thought Tilda, but it excited her more than she could imagine. It was undoubtedly true, unless you believed God had ordained the leaders personally and it was his will they reign over us. Tilda thought about that for a moment and decided it was too convenient. Bad kings and nobles had been killed and other kings had seized the throne. She had heard enough of those stories. This ‘God-given authority’ was obviously something you could just use to suit your argument.

  The new arrival had something else to tell them. ‘And John Ball has been freed from gaol too.’ For Tilda this was the most exciting news so far. John Ball, the preacher whose words had so inspired her. That was extraordinary.

  ‘The world is changing every day,’ she said to them all. ‘We have to join this crowd going to London.’

  Thomas was still doubtful. ‘But what of Lord Laybourne?’ he said. ‘He and his officers will know we have abandoned our village. He will punish us.’

  ‘Laybourne has gone,’ said Alan. ‘He took his family and servants down to Dover this morning. I saw them leaving with a big cart of furniture and their dogs and a few hens and pigs. There’s been no smoke from the chimneys today. They say he’s sailing up to Yorkshire, where he has further estates.’

  That was extraordinary news too. Today was a day full of wonders. But with nothing else to do, and food to grow to fill their bellies, they all returned to their labours.

  *

  Late afternoon, just when the shadows were growing longer and Tilda and Thomas were thinking of finishing their harrowing and tilling for the day, they were disturbed yet again by the arrival of a large crowd.

  ‘Exciting times, Father!’ said Tilda. She had never seen so many comings and goings in Aylesford in her life.

  At the head of this column of villeins was a hearty, thickset fellow who oozed confidence and intelligence. The new arrivals gathered in the field closest to the village huts and called for all around to come and listen to their message.

  ‘Brothers,’ said their leader. ‘I can see you are all good, God-fearing men. Come and join us! We proclaim our loyalty to the king. We are not traitors and God’s anointed leader of our realm will understand that. Who among you is happy with their lot? Who is happy to be a serf to the lord for the rest of their lives? Who is happy for the tax collectors to come on a whim to take a week’s wages?’

  No one called out to disagree although plenty were smiling and willing the man on to say more. Tilda looked around to see if she could see Walter and Elspeth Cooper. Maybe they too had fled, when they heard Laybourne had gone and they could no longer count on his protection. Tilda doubted anyone would kill them but they might beat them badly. The Coopers had been telling the lord and his constables of petty thefts and derelictions of duty for years. They certainly had plenty of enemies.

  ‘It is not the king we rise against, but his courtiers,’ continued the head of the crowd. ‘He is surrounded by poor advisors who drip poison in his ear. You all know the names – Gaunt, Hales, Sudbury and the rest. Everyone knows they are greedy bloodsuckers. Enriching themselves while we live in rags with never enough food in our bellies…

  ‘This very day we have been to Rochester and the castle opened their doors before us. The guards fled and we set the prisoners free.’

  Here everyone cheered. Thomas looked wary. ‘All the prisoners?’ he said under his breath to Tilda.

  ‘Follow us,’ the man continued. ‘Every village from here to Maidstone is marching to London to protest against our slavery and our overbearing, greedy rulers.

  ‘Come, gather provisions and water to drink and we shall march on London. God will provide – and if he doesn’t there are many manor houses on our way with bursting pantries. They will not dare to deny us food.’

  The crowd cheered these rebellious words, growing bolder by the moment.

  ‘Who is that man?’ Thomas asked. ‘He looks like a soldier.’

  ‘We were talking about him earlier,’ said Eustace. ‘His name is Wat Tyler.’

  Tilda hung on to her father’s sleeve. She was grinning with excitement. Thomas looked stern. ‘It’s our lives we’re risking here, Tilda. If we’re lucky we’ll be hanged. If we’re unlucky we’ll be hanged, drawn and quartered.’

  But Tilda sensed this was not the time to be meek. ‘Father, when will we ever have the chance to do this again?’

  Someone else was calling out, ‘We can be in London in three or four days. And the sooner we get there, the sooner we will be able to feast on the riches of the city.’

  ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’ Tilda said. ‘We’ll be executed. It’s worth the risk for a better life.’

  ‘I’m not going, Tilda. And I shall not let you go either.’

  The man they thought was Wat Tyler declared, ‘You are either with us or against us! Come, swear an oath of loyalty to our cause.’

  One of the rebels standing close to him said, ‘Come, or we shall burn your own huts to the ground. Come, or you will be traitors to your fellow countrymen.’

  Tilda and Thomas looked at each other, horrified. Was this the choice before them? They had to commit treason or be killed by their fellow rebels. They looked at Tyler to see what he would say. But at that moment another of the Rolfe’s neighbours called out, ‘The lord has gone. He’s run away!’

  Tyler’s face lit up. ‘Then we must go at once to his manor house and burn it to the ground. Is that where all your records are kept? Is that where the contracts for your rent and bonds of service are held? Come. You have not an instant to loose!’

  With a great cheer everyone in the village swept at once towards the manor house. As they hurried, Tilda looked at her father. He in turn, looked perturbed. ‘What can we do?’ he said to her. ‘If we don’t come with them, will the rebels regard us as traitors and turn on us?’

  Within minutes there were fifty or sixty people banging on the doors of the great stone building. As they approached, they had seen two people jump from an upper-floor window and run over the field next to the house. Tilda did not recognise them but assumed they must be a couple of servants left behind to ensure the house was not broken into. They might have been effective against a couple of burglars, but were no protection against a rowdy mob.

  The door was too sturdy to yield, so someone smashed the glass window frame next to it. He wriggled into the house and opened the door from the inside.

  Being inside the manor house felt like the wickedest thing Tilda had ever done in her life. All around were things that the Rolfes and their ilk could never dream of having in their homes. There were beautiful tapestries on the walls – so old the colours had faded, but still fascinating to see. There were sturdy pots and pans in the kitchen – silver and pewter, with brass ladles and serving spoons. Nothing like the meagre earthenware pots and wooden spoons that the Rolfes made use of. The great wooden chests and chairs and tables were of the finest quality. Even the candlestick holders were elaborate and beautiful to behold. Tilda wondered what they had taken with them, if these wonderful riches were what they had left behind. She had never felt so unsettled in her life. Any moment now she expected Laybourne or one of his arrogant sons to return and slay them all with a sword for trespassing.

  Ahead lay a polished wooden staircase of carved, dark wood. Mesmerised by its magnificence for a moment she dashed up it, ever conscious of the fact that she was placing herself even further away from the door and a quick escape if anyone should come demanding to know what they were doing.

  At the top of the stairs was a large landing with a beautiful ornate carpet and several rooms running off it. One of them had its door half open and Tilda was drawn inside. The room was obviously Lady Laybourne’s. Beautiful red and green dresses with fur-trimmed collars lay spread out on a plump four-poster bed, with drawn-back velvet curtains on every side. On a table by the window was a looking glass and several colourful bottles. All this glass fascinated Tilda. They had glass in the windows. Imagine that. Looking out over the fields from a high spot and not being able to feel a chill draft.

  It was strange being alone in this room. Downstairs was utter commotion and she could hear banging and shouting and smashing of glass and furniture. Someone had started on the kitchen crockery too, methodically smashing plates one at a time.

  Tilda wanted to steal the looking glass. It was small enough to carry but no villein would have such a thing in their house and it would be too obvious that it had been stolen. In a strange still moment, Tilda held it up. She was fascinated to see her reflection – something she had only seen before looking down into a still pond or a large bowl of water when she had to hold her hair away from her face. Now here she was looking straight ahead at her face, the way others would see her. She liked what she could see. And she did have a magnificent head of curly black hair. She put the looking glass down, feeling a great twinge of regret that she was not able to take it.

  The other bottles fascinated her too. She picked one up and removed the stopper… the smell was literally indescribable. Tilda had heard of the odour of sanctity – the heavenly smell that was supposed to fill a room when someone of saintly virtue died, an archbishop perhaps, or a really pious king. Maybe it was like this? She sniffed again at the bottle and tried to work out what was in this extraordinary scent. There was a strong smell of flowers but something more than that too. She thought of herbs and spices like cloves and cardamom, the sort of things they put in expensive pies. Perhaps it was something of that as well, but sweeter.

  Tilda had never stolen anything in her life but she found herself putting the bottle in her pocket, her hand drawn almost like an invisible force. There was a drawer on the table too, and she opened it guiltily. The Laybournes had left in a terrible hurry it seemed. Lady Laybourne had even left some of her jewellery behind. There in the drawer were several sets of earrings – silver and gold inset with the most beautiful gemstones. I could never wear these, thought Tilda to herself – everyone would know they were stolen. She slammed the drawer shut and tried to put the sight of the beautiful stones out of her mind. Her father called up the stairs, ‘Tilda, come quickly. They are going to set the house alight.’

  Tilda felt a sense of outrage. She dashed to the landing and called downstairs. ‘But this beautiful house will make a home for several of us. This is a cruel waste. And what of these tapestries and curtains and blankets. Surely they will make our lives better in the village.’

  ‘You’ve taken leave of your senses, girl,’ someone shouted up. ‘When Laybourne returns with armed men, and goes from hut to hut with his overseers seeing what has been stolen… he’ll see his curtains and his blankets and you’ll hang for sure.’

  ‘Or have your hands chopped off,’ someone else yelled.

  It was a fair point. All of them in the village, they had so little. Anything with even a hint of luxury would point them straight to the hangman’s noose.

  Now she could smell burning and smoke was beginning to drift up the stairs and catch in her throat. It was time to go.

  On a sudden impulse Tilda rushed back into the bedroom and over to Lady Laybourne’s jewellery drawer. She grabbed a handful of the most colourful earrings – the blue, the green, the red – and stuffed them into her pocket before running down the stairs.

  The mob stood and watched the fire catch, spreading from the kitchen to the rest of the ground floor along the wooden floors and wood-panelled walls. Next to a ground-floor window was a great bonfire of parchment rolls and wooden boxes. These must be the records that showed they were Laybourne’s serfs and how much they had paid him in rent for their humble little hovels. Seeing those burn made Tilda feel light-headed.

  But now she had had enough. She took her father by the hand and they walked back to the village. She could see he was scanning the fields and hedgerows. ‘No sign of the Coopers,’ she said.

  ‘I think I saw them running away when the mob arrived,’ said Thomas. ‘They might have been watching everything from afar.’ Tilda wondered if they’d seen her staring out of Lady Laybourne’s bedroom window. If they told the Laybournes that, they would know she had stolen the earrings. She felt a twisted anxiety. Was it fear or was it guilt? Maybe a mixture of the two. She decided not to tell her father about the jewellery. It would have to be her own little secret.

  By the time they got back home, the burning manor house was blazing from top to bottom and a plume of black smoke reached high into the blue sky.

  ‘I have a confession to make,’ said Tilda as they stood and watched. She took out the bottle of perfume she had taken from the manor house.

  Thomas took the stopper from the bottle, smelt it, then smiled sadly. ‘How your mother would have loved such a heavenly scent,’ he said. ‘But you know we can’t keep it, don’t you?’

  ‘I thought we could leave it at the Coopers – somewhere not too obvious?’

  Thomas grinned. ‘We could!’

  Then his face took on a more serious air. ‘I hate them, Tilda. But they could be hanged or lose a limb for that. I don’t want that on my conscience, do you?’

  ‘I’ll keep it with me, then. It might come in useful.’

  ‘You can’t use it though, dearing. No villein would ever smell like that.’

  That evening, over their usual stew, Tilda was bursting with impatience. ‘We have to join the rebels, Father,’ she said. ‘Especially after this afternoon. It’s going to be terrifying when Laybourne gets back.’

  Much to her surprise he agreed. ‘Very well, we shall go. I shall come with you to make sure you are safe.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  June 11, 1381

  Guy de Clare peered east from the walls of Windsor Castle to the distant spires and smoking chimneys of London. He was enjoying this moment of solitude, alone in a high tower. The sun was hot on his face and a cooling fresh breeze blew in from the north. Guy winced at this hazy view of London – a hot day like this would only increase the miasma of that overcrowded, dangerous place. Guy had grown up in Gloucestershire and he had had an abiding dislike of the stink and bustle of cities ever since he had visited them as a child. He wished he was back home there now, with his brothers and sisters in the security of the family manor house. Today would be a perfect day to go fowling, hunting with his dogs and his bow and arrow. He thought longingly of his childhood friends and how much he missed those simple, uncomplicated attachments.

  Today he had to do again what he had had to do for the last terrifying month. In a moment, he needed to return to the vast vaulted throne room and sit in the court where he was a scribe for King Richard. Here he would be watching the flattering and scheming and cutting remarks. The etiquette of the court, the possibility of humiliation and constant pressure not to do the wrong thing, weighed heavily upon him.

  When he had arrived those long four weeks ago, he had hoped he would like Richard. The boy’s father, the Black Prince, was the stuff of legend. This was the man who had personally captured the King of France in battle, the man who was a byword for chivalric manliness. Guy shuddered at his own naivety, imagining that perhaps his son, the current king, would be cut from the same cloth. Well, maybe the first-born Edward was. But that boy had died aged five, and now second-born Richard had been king for four years, his coronation at a mere ten years old. And whatever Richard was like, he was nothing like his father. This fourteen-year-old king was lanky, blond and boyish, almost like a girl. And his character was entirely not to Guy’s liking. Capricious, imperious, aloof. Guy tried to sympathise, imagining what it must be like to have that power and responsibility at such a young age. It was not difficult for him to do – he was fourteen too, and similarly tall and fair. He wondered sometimes if this was why Richard had chosen him. He also wondered if Richard liked having him close by in case an assassin mistook Guy for himself. That had given him a few sleepless nights.