They walked along the meadows close to the riverbank, the stench and size of London becoming more apparent in the late afternoon light. ‘How can this many people live in one small spot?’ marvelled Tilda. She thought longingly of the fresh air and wide-open fields of Aylesford.

  Tilda had been in towns before, and had even visited Canterbury once, when she was twelve. But she felt overwhelmed whenever she approached such a great collection of houses and people. Aylesford was so small and insignificant in comparison. In a big town or city it was easy to feel like a little ant about to be crushed under the heels of a giant.

  As their tired feet carried them the last few miles towards London, however, she sensed that this was going to be like nowhere else she had ever been. For a start, most towns, and Canterbury of course, had great towering church spires or towers. The towers at Canterbury Cathedral were so vast you could see them a day’s walk away. Here in London there were so many spires and towers it was impossible to count them. And the whole city seemed to be covered in a haze of smoke. There was a great cathedral towering over everything else. Thomas told her it was called St Paul’s. It had a huge, pointed spire that almost touched the clouds. Even from outside the city it looked so big and solid that Tilda could only wonder how it was not swallowed by the earth it rested on. She wondered what it would be like to climb to the top of it and see the world as a bird sees it.

  And the smell was like nothing she had ever experienced in her life. Even on Blackheath they had sensed it in an occasional whiff on the wind, but the closer they got the more intense it became. They were near enough now to notice the ground around them littered with debris – everything from piles of rotten wood and discarded furniture to animal bones. Dogs and pigs rooted around, some eagerly digging their jaws into rotting meat, indifferent to the clouds of flies that had settled there. Great fat rats scurried in and out of the rubble, unafraid of the other creatures around them. There were piles of human waste here too. And worse. Among the debris of the city were human remains. Bodies strung up on gallows, left to rot as a warning to anyone entering the city with criminal intent. Tilda shuddered at their grinning skulls, all that was left of faces picked clean by crows. Some of these dangling bodies were so withered by the elements, you could see the blackened sinews and yellowing bones beneath their decaying clothes. Tilda suppressed an urge to retch and longed for the fresh air and fields of Kent.

  ‘Tilda, my dearing,’ said Thomas, taking her hand. ‘You must keep your eyes on the ground ahead of you.’ She looked down, as stray turds and glistening white animal entrails marked the route ahead. It was difficult finding a path between them and the muddy puddles that dotted the ground.

  Now the buildings on the outskirts of the city were clustered closer together, and all at once Thomas and Tilda were surrounded by urchin children begging for food and money, or demanding to know if they needed a room for the night. Tilda searched the faces of these children, none of whom seemed to be older than seven or eight, and sensed something hard and desperate in their eyes. She had never seen children this filthy and ragged – even among the poorest villeins of her village. Some of these urchins had eyes sunk deep in their sockets and skin stretched tight across their bony faces. They were obviously starving and if she had had any food left from their journey she would have given it to them.

  Not all of London was sewer smells though. There was much here that excited her. There was fresh baked bread and cinnamon cakes and the warm fug of coal fires. There were shops too – still open in this early evening hour, selling all sorts, from pins to hot pies. Strangest of all for Tilda was the sensation of hearing people in the street who spoke another language. That was almost as strange as seeing people of different colour – not many to be sure, but among the bustling throng Tilda saw black faces for the first time in her life.

  ‘We’ve timed our arrival well,’ said Thomas. ‘Soon it will be curfew, and we will need to be indoors by then.’

  Tilda had heard of this – all big towns and cities had a curfew, when all sensible people would retire to their resting places and anyone caught outside who was not known to the nightwatchmen as a person of good character would be arrested and held overnight in gaol.

  For now, shops were still open and street stalls still had their wares on display. Thomas haggled with a baker, eventually paying half of the price originally demanded for a small loaf. But it was still double what you would pay in Aylesford. He shrugged as they walked away. ‘We can’t turn up at John’s house empty-handed,’ he said. Tilda felt a twinge of disappointment – she was so hungry she wanted to eat the bread immediately.

  Thomas pulled Tilda back as a cart lumbered down the road towards the narrowing street that seemed to be the main thoroughfare into the city. Small herds of sheep and even a handful of cattle, together with drivers anxious not to lose them, battled for space among the now cluttered streets. Tilda gripped her father’s hand tightly. ‘It would be a horrible nightmare getting lost in this,’ she told him.

  But there was something amazing about the scene before her eyes. In Aylesford, if you needed something, you had to make it yourself, or walk for a day to the nearest town to buy it. Here, if you had the right money, you could buy everything from a pair of scissors or needle and thread to a pretty red blanket or a bright yellow dress, all within a minute’s walk along a crowded street.

  And there was something else Tilda noticed at once. People were staring at them, sometimes with contempt – or was it pity? – in their eyes.

  ‘They know we don’t belong here, don’t they?’ she said. Their dowdy russet peasant clothes marked them out in a parade of brilliant colours and styles. Tilda had thought only very rich people could afford such vibrant colours, but here were ordinary-looking Londoners with red tunics and blue dresses. And the clothes were cut differently too. She wore a loose-fitting gown; the girl she could see buying a pie from a street vendor ahead of them wore a dress so tight you could see the narrow curve of her waist and the swell of her hips. It was most disconcerting.

  Tilda overheard people say they were expecting a vast human tide from the north and south. The way they spoke she could tell these city people had a low opinion of their country cousins. They were afraid of them, or contemptuous. Would they burn their houses down and murder them? Or would they be able to sell them bread and pies at four times the usual asking price? Looking at those hard, beady faces, Tilda felt a sudden affection for the good-hearted country people she knew. They seemed closer to God and goodness than this greedy lot.

  As the houses loomed above them Tilda noticed how the streets grew darker as the upper floors almost touched from either side of the street. And this was still outside the city walls. She guessed it must be even more crowded beyond the river, in the city itself.

  The bustle in the streets grew more alarming and she was shoved out of the way by one impatient young man. Her father grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and made him say he was sorry for his bad manners.

  ‘Not far to go now,’ said Thomas, who had once or twice led them in the wrong direction. ‘It’s been several years since I visited, and the place has changed a fair bit.’ But around eight of the clock, and there were certainly many church clocks to chime the hour, they stopped right on the south side of the river, overlooking a great bridge.

  ‘We’re here,’ said her father. Tilda looked at the house before them. How had her uncle managed to find himself such a palace? she thought. A door – a proper door with hinges and a lock – stood between two large, shuttered windows. And there was a floor above – and even a floor above that. Uncle John lived in a house that had three floors! Their single room in Aylesford seemed even more of a hovel. She wondered how grand her relatives would be. Should she curtsy and call them sir and madam, as you were supposed to do to the lord and lady of the manor?

  When her father knocked on the door there was no reply. He knocked again and a voice snarled, ‘Who is it?’ Tilda was frightened by the violence in the voice but the tone changed when Thomas told him who he was.

  The door opened and a younger man, but easily recognisable as a Rolfe, opened the door with a smile. ‘My dear brother,’ he said. ‘Welcome to London town.’ He gave Thomas a hug and said, ‘We have heard about the revolt. I was hoping you would come!’

  They were ushered into the house and the door locked firmly behind them. The family assembled to gawp at them – a suspicious-looking woman and three children all under the age of ten, Tilda guessed. She noticed how they were dressed so much smarter than her and her father. The colours and cloth of their clothes were so much brighter and cleaner. All at once she felt terribly dowdy.

  John Rolfe introduced them. ‘My wife Alice, and William, Simon and Joan.’

  Thomas beamed. ‘A pleasure to see you again, Alice. And to meet your lovely children. And this,’ he said with a flourish, ‘is my dear daughter Tilda.’

  Tilda gave a little curtsy and the family smiled politely. The less than warm welcome had made her feel uneasy.

  ‘We heard there was a violent mob coming,’ said Alice. ‘Are you part of it?’

  Thomas told them they had nothing to fear. That they had marched from Aylesford with the rebels and had seen no violence against ordinary people. Only manor houses and records offices had been attacked. The people in the street had nothing to fear from the rebellion.

  This seemed to reassure the household. John asked if they had eaten and when they said they were starving hungry his wife produced a half-consumed pork joint and bread and they sat round the table to eat.

  ‘And what of you, Tilda, what is to happen in your future?’ asked Alice. ‘Is there a boy in Aylesford you have your eyes on?’

  Tilda blushed. ‘There must be someone who likes the look of you,’ teased Alice. ‘You’re a fine-looking girl, and what I’d give for your head of lovely dark curls.’

  ‘All the boys in our village are muck-spouts and scobber-lotches,’ said Tilda, making the children giggle. ‘I want to meet a boy who is kind and clever and can teach me how to read.’

  Alice looked on with admiration. ‘You might have to come to London to find such a rare creature,’ she said. ‘And maybe settle for one or two of those wonderful virtues rather than all three!’

  Thomas laughed. ‘Don’t you go tempting my Tilda away from Aylesford,’ he said. ‘I want her to stay only a short distance from her father. She’s all I have in the world.’

  As they sat and ate their supper, Tilda asked a hundred questions about the mighty city she found herself in. Yes, explained Alice, even though it was over the river from London itself, Southwark seemed to be every bit ‘London’ as the rest of the place. The houses were just as close together. Southwark was famous for its bath houses, they told her. They were usually right next to the river and a plentiful supply of water.

  Tilda liked the sound of that – after the walk to London the idea of soaking in a hot bath seemed like the ultimate luxury. But John rapidly persuaded her that this was a terrible idea. ‘They’re dens of sin,’ he said. ‘Full of Flemish ladies who are all too free with their favours.’ Tilda sort of knew what he meant and began to blush. She would have to take a bath somewhere else.

  Talk of bathing and smelling sweet made Tilda remember the perfume she had stolen. Impulsively, she took the plain glass bottle from the pocket in her skirt and said, ‘Auntie Alice, we picked this up on our travels. I thought you might like it.’

  Her father began to speak. ‘Tilda, this is not a wise…’ But John waved at him to be silent.

  Alice’s eyes lit up and she plucked the bottle from the table and carefully prised off the glass stopper. But after a quick sniff, her face turned stern. ‘Tilda, this is a scent from heaven. But I can never wear it. People will know immediately that I have stolen it – as I know that you too must have done. People know immediately when something isn’t right for a person. It’s the same with the laws concerning clothing… you see a shopkeeper in a fur-lined coat, and you know at once he’s stolen it.’

  John took the bottle and smelt it. ‘It’s beautiful.’ He smiled. ‘Perhaps we’ll just keep it for ourselves…’

  That awkward moment passed but talk about the imminent arrival of the rebels was never far away.

  ‘We are all God-fearing Christians and loyal to our king,’ Thomas said, further seeking to reassure his relatives. ‘We have no quarrel with the ordinary people of London. And we will not be looting and rampaging. We have come to talk to the king, to ask him to stop listening to the corrupt counsel of evil men. We want him to stop sending his tax collectors to fleece us and to free us from servitude and allow us to work for a fair wage.’

  John looked on with incredulity. ‘Well, best of luck with that,’ he said.

  CHAPTER TEN

  June 13, 1381

  Tilda woke the next morning to find bright sunlight streaming through the shutters of her attic room. She knew instinctively it was far later than her usual waking time – all that walking must have tired her out. She opened the shutters and peered down at the busy street below. The city, it seemed, was gripped by anxiety. All around, people were putting up boards on their shops and windows, the sound of hammers banging in nails drowning out the usual cacophony of horses’ hooves and cartwheels on dirt streets, and the bustle of thousands of people.

  The clock struck seven and she listened for any noise inside the house. Everyone else was still asleep so she went back to bed too – something she almost never had the luxury of doing in Aylesford. The evening had ended pleasantly. Tilda had helped Alice clear away and wash the dishes from their meal and then told the children a bedtime story. They had listened intently to the tale about the goose that laid a golden egg. And when they had begged for another she told them about the boy who cried wolf. Her mother had told her these stories when she was tiny and although she could not read herself she had a talent for remembering them.

  It was just after she heard the clock strike ten that Tilda became aware of a distant rumbling – feet, voices – an almost invisible presence to begin with, like a storm brewing – that grew louder every minute. Thomas came up to her attic room and they watched the new arrivals swell into the narrow streets, making it impossible to go any way other than into London itself. Tilda felt safe up there and excited to be part of these extraordinary events. She realised she liked the anonymity of London. If she had done anything bad back in Aylesford someone would have known, someone would have reported her. Tilda was not by nature likely to do anything wicked. But she still liked the idea that here she could go and knock the hat off an archbishop and no one would have a clue who she was. But in enjoying that thought she had a sudden realisation that many among this crowd must be thinking the same thing and that some of them would be prepared to do much, much worse.

  ‘Tilda, look at this,’ said her father. ‘Some of our crowd have proper weapons. I’ll bet we have been joined by soldiers or maybe even runaways from the army.’

  ‘Let’s go with them,’ said Tilda, anxious to see what would happen next.

  ‘No,’ said Thomas firmly, his voice clearly indicating that this was something they were not going to discuss. Tilda was about to raise her voice in protest. But her father said, ‘Ahead is the bridge. Its gates will be bolted and the drawbridge pulled up. If we go out now there will be an almighty crush.’

  Tilda could see the sense in that. ‘So let us wait until the crowd comes to a halt and then decide what to do.’

  *

  Over in the Tower, King Richard and his advisors stood in the high ramparts. Guy had been here on only a couple of occasions before and could quite believe it was the safest place in London. The great walls and heavy drawbridge, and the concentrated presence of soldiers, made him feel well protected. This was something to be grateful for, as their circumstances were growing more dangerous by the hour. Messengers had been visiting all morning with alarming news of mass crowds from both Kent and Essex descending on the city.

  Southwark was not too far from the Tower and now they could clearly see a great crowd massing on the south bank in the summer sunshine. ‘The drawbridge should be up,’ said Richard with alarm. ‘Send word at once to the gatekeepers.’

  But even as he spoke the crowd began to flow across the bridge – too small from that distance to spot individual faces, but easy enough to see en masse. Richard sat down on the floor of the ramparts, quite speechless. Guy thought it an oddly un-king-like posture to adopt. Almost like a cat, sitting resting its back against a wall, back legs splayed apart. Then Richard stood up and looked again. ‘Why has my order been disobeyed?’ he screamed. He sounded almost tearful.

  *

  Tilda and Thomas continued to watch from their attic perch. The crowd kept on flowing through Southwark – there must have been thousands of people now arriving into London.

  John ran up the stairs to join them. ‘The bridge is down and the gates are open!’ he shouted excitedly. ‘London is on your side, brother.’

  Thomas was still cautious. ‘Maybe they have deliberately let us across, so the soldiers can attack us when we are tightly packed together.’

  John was unconvinced. ‘Come on, let’s seize the moment,’ he said. ‘If that was going to happen, it would have happened earlier. There’s thousands that have crossed over now.’

  The three of them rushed out to join the rebels, although John told his wife and children to stay safe inside the house. Alice didn’t argue, obviously fearful of what was to come.

  Outside, the crowd continued to funnel into the narrowing streets, like a great tide of water filling the nooks and contours of a rocky beach. Tilda noticed that although most shops were closed and boarded, a few bakers and other vendors of street food were braving the mob. Their bravery had paid off. Most were almost sold out of their loaves and pies and pastries. That was reassuring to Tilda. It seemed to indicate that people weren’t going to go mad and rob anything they thought they could. As did the fact that many still carried flags of St George to show their loyalty to the king.