The young man howled in anguish then fell back, with a look of drunken astonishment. Tilda realised at once she had done something stupid. Were there others with this youth who would retaliate? He was on the floor now, struggling to get up. But she could see that it was the drink that had incapacitated him, rather than her own strength. The youth did have others with him but they were laughing uproariously at his plight. She had been quite forgotten. All the same she cursed her foolishness, lashing out like that.

  The crowd milled below her, almost like a choppy sea. The youth and his companions might have forgotten her, but she was starting to notice a lot of men staring at her. It was time to move on. But where should she go? Could she remember her way back?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Back at the Tower the day had not gone well, although Richard had regained his kingly manner and his face was now a mask. The hysteria he had shown on witnessing the bridge crossing had gone but his anger was unmistakable. Guy de Clare had not seen him smile all day. Everything he said was terse, abrupt. Servants especially were being treated with withering contempt and petty violence. When one chamber boy came to him with the wrong shoes, Richard clouted the young lad so hard around the head he burst into tears. That annoyed the king even more and the boy was immediately dismissed from his household.

  But what was especially interesting to Guy was the manner of the king’s chief advisors – Treasurer Hales and Chancellor Sudbury. Their usual haughtiness, lofty pronouncements and gestures had gone. Now, they circled the king like wary animal keepers, charged with the care and maintenance of an unpredictable lion. They spoke to each other occasionally in hushed whispers and everything Richard said they leaped on to assure him of their loyalty and duty to the crown.

  Hales and Sudbury both had that pale doomed look about them. They breathed in shallow breaths, and they constantly seemed to be fighting off an attack of the hiccups, or bad indigestion. Guy knew what was going on. He had seen such behaviour in men due to be sentenced before a court for a capital offence. This was naked fear. And Guy could guess what was going through their minds. He knew the rustics had demanded the heads of the king’s advisors. And maybe those very same men knew full well what was going on in their monarch’s head. Were their lives a price he was prepared to pay to get these stinking, uneducated scum away from his capital city? Should he trade their lives in the hope that the mob would spare the life of their monarch? It would be a shrewd move, to be sure. The peasants had assured him that their loyalty still lay with their king. But they were seethingly angry at someone – and that someone was plain enough. It was reported they even chanted the names of the men they were certain were responsible for their unhappiness.

  *

  Sometime after their midday meal, a courier cried in alarm from atop the castle walls. ‘Fire by the river. Fire in the Strand.’

  Richard stood up at the long dining table and ordered his advisors to stay seated. ‘De Clare, come with me,’ he snapped at Guy.

  There were now several fires around London – they had seen the King’s Bench prison set ablaze not long after the peasants had first crossed the river that morning. But this one sounded even more alarming.

  The two of them hurried up the winding stone staircase that led to the highest ramparts of the Tower. Looking along the length of the river, just before the great bend, they could see a plume of black snaking into the sky. Red and yellow flames flickered among the dense smoke.

  ‘That must be the Savoy Palace,’ said Richard coldly. ‘My uncle will be most displeased.’ He gave himself a flicker of a smile – one that did not reach his eyes. ‘When he returns, he will be the perfect gentleman to teach these rustics their place.’

  Guy was still unsure what was expected of him at a time like this. He knew it would be gross impertinence to ask the king for an opinion. But should he offer his own, uninvited? He decided, instead, on observation. ‘Look, my lord, there are fires throughout the city too.’

  There were too – none as big as the Savoy, but everywhere you turned, from the south-side settlement of Southwark to the western edges around Westminster and further north at Farringdon and Clerkenwell, smoke sent oily fingers into the clear blue sky. Down below, in the narrow streets and passageways, crowds of various sizes milled almost as aimlessly, like mist in a breeze.

  Richard looked at Guy with cold disdain. ‘Your king has his own eyes to see,’ he said. Guy stood stiffly to attention and wondered what on earth he was expected to do. Then Richard put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a friendlier smile. ‘Be not so anxious, de Clare.’

  Guy hated this side of Richard. One minute he would be lordly and arrogant, the next like a boy in need of a friend. It was so awkward. Guy liked him when he was nice. But it made the times when he was horrible even more unpleasant. Guy could cope with nonstop lordly arrogance. He knew where he was then. But this constant changing was exhausting.

  Richard stood right beside him, close enough for their shoulders to be touching. Then he put an arm round Guy’s shoulder. ‘What a burden, this kingship,’ he said with a sigh. ‘And what a time the rustics have chosen to descend on our city. We have but six hundred men to defend us. Their loyalty, I think, I can depend on.’ He paused and looked at Guy. This was his cue to speak.

  ‘My lord, I have no reason to fear the Tower guard will side with the mob,’ said Guy. ‘But these two days have brought many surprises.’

  Richard nodded. ‘Yes, that is my concern too. At this moment, we cannot count on anything.’ He looked over the narrow streets and passageways. ‘But these crowds, they are not just the rustics from Kent and Essex. There are Londoners among them – surely. There are too many of them just to be peasants arrived from the shires, and some move with a purpose.’ He pointed at one swarming mass heading north from the Tower. ‘These are not timid newcomers. They know exactly where they are going.’ He gestured to another determined mob. ‘And I imagine these ones are seeking out the Flemish settlers perhaps?’ Richard nodded to himself. ‘I would not want to be Flemish on a day like this. There are scores to be settled. They came here as exiles from their own land, but they have proved too good at their weaving trade to be much liked by the Londoners.’

  Guy detected a morsel of sympathy in his voice. ‘The mob are turning on the outsiders. What can be done to protect them?’

  Richard looked pensive. ‘They will have to protect themselves,’ he said plainly. ‘They will have to claim sanctuary in our churches. We cannot spare our own soldiers. Besides, if we send our few guards into the crowds, who can say how many will turn against us? Either from fear of our impossible situation, or because they have had their foolish heads turned by the anarchy around them.’

  Hearing these words, Guy felt a rising sense of alarm. If the King of England was in fear of his life, then what chance did he have?

  ‘What to do, what to do?’ said Richard. ‘The rustics want my lords Hales and Sudbury. Should I give them to them?’

  Guy felt the colour drain from his face. He was horrified to be asked such a question. To say yes was plainly treasonable. People had been hanged, drawn and quartered for less.

  Richard, sensing Guy’s reluctance to offer an opinion, spoke on. ‘I feel, in some way, those men are responsible for all this. Perhaps this ignorant rabble are not as ignorant as we assume.’

  ‘My lord, an ignorant mob will never be satisfied. If you give them the two highest courtiers in London, who knows what else they will demand?’

  Richard nodded briskly. ‘You answer wisely, de Clare. But we have to give them something. Shall we give them you?’

  Guy felt his legs start to go beneath him. He had seen men executed and even now, the sight of a man kneeling before the executioner filled him with dread. What final thoughts went through their head at a time like that? Did they fall into oblivion the moment the axe severed their head from their neck, or did they feel the agony of the cut and the sharp crack of their head as it hit the paving stone beneath the block? And even more horrible to contemplate, if their head was immediately impaled on a spike to be held aloft, did they feel that too?

  Richard smacked him hard on the back and laughed. ‘They would be no more interested in you than any young lad who wears an ermine cloak and a red felt hat.’ He laughed – happy for the first time that day. ‘Do not worry, Guy de Clare. You are a useful councillor, but we still remain entirely ignorant of how to extract ourselves from this towering folly.’

  King Richard and Guy de Clare descended from the Tower ramparts and returned to the court. The courtiers fell immediately silent as they entered the chamber. With all eyes on them, Richard returned to his throne at the far end of the room and sat down upon it, his eyes coolly appraising the assembled noblemen. Each man, Guy noticed, averted his eyes as Richard’s gaze settled upon him.

  After a minute of uncomfortable silence, Richard spoke. ‘Here is what we shall do,’ he said in his reedy voice. ‘We shall tell the rustics and the London mob that we shall meet them face to face to hear their demands.’

  No one spoke. But Guy could sense fear in the room like an eerie vapour. He gave himself a wry smile. Richard had said nothing of this to him. Guy wondered if he had thought of it on his way back to the throne room. Whatever, it was a sound plan – the best they could do in these difficult times.

  ‘My lords Treasurer Hales and Chancellor Sudbury,’ demanded the king. ‘Present yourself to me.’

  The two chief ministers came forward and stood in front of their king. Both looked pale with fear. ‘I want you to arrange for messengers to go out to the mob. We need to establish who the leaders are. And we need to tell them that I shall meet them face to face.’

  Chancellor Sudbury stood tall. ‘I will take a squadron of my best men and establish this at once, Your Majesty,’ he said.

  Richard gave a half-hearted smile. ‘You will do no such thing, my lord. Send the squadron with your most trusted lieutenant, but do not go yourself. It is far too dangerous.’

  Treasurer Hales spoke next. ‘But Your Majesty, if you go to meet them, will not your life be in equal danger?’

  Richard shook his head. ‘These rustics proclaim their loyalty to me. They are convinced that others have misled me.’ He paused and looked pointedly at his two chief advisors. ‘I feel safe enough.

  ‘Now hurry. Have the messengers return by nightfall and tomorrow we shall see what we shall see.’

  Silence descended on the court. In the distance, the sound of rampaging mobs and burning buildings continued to filter in through the Tower windows.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Tilda tried to keep a grip on the creeping fear rising in her stomach. This was something she seemed to be feeling with an awful regularity. Here she was, alone in a dangerous crowd and a strange city. She was totally lost. She thought again of the leafy byways of Aylesford and the world she knew so well. ‘Come on, Matilda,’ she said under her breath. ‘You can sort yourself out here.’

  The river – it was just the other side of the burning palace. The river was where they had crossed over the great bridge from Southwark. The river would be her way home.

  Tilda pushed her way back into the crowd, buffeted like a small boat in a storm. She held on to her chair-leg cudgel as if her life depended on it, and it did. At several points edging down the side of the street, pushing through the torrent of people, she felt hands grab her body. She dealt with these fleeting attempts to grope her by a swift pinch.

  She had done this several times over the last two years whenever the village had held one of its annual harvest dances. The village boys had been drunk then as well, but they had the whole village watching their behaviour, and no one would do anything too out of the ordinary. This was quite different. Here, as well as the groping hands, she would occasionally be grabbed around the waist and find herself pulled backwards, especially as she crossed little streets leading away from the main one. When this happened, Tilda swung around at once, before her assailant got too firm a grip, and smashed the end of her chair leg into their body. Then she would move away as quickly as she could, not even looking at who had attacked her.

  She fought off two or three assaults as she made her way back. But as she did so, she felt more certain that she was beginning to recognise the route. A side street here, a building there. Shops too, or shop signs at least. Unlike the traders who had greeted the rustics when they first arrived, no one was foolish enough to keep their businesses open with a crowd like this on the street.

  There was a sign for the Swan inn. She remembered that because Thomas and John had both declared they had a powerful thirst and had been disappointed it was closed. Further down from the inn was a sign for an apothecary – earlier on Tilda had been disappointed to see that closed too. She was fascinated by the smells and strange-shaped bottles she had seen in such shops whenever her father had taken her to a local town.

  She repeatedly told herself that if she kept going she would arrive at Uncle John’s house soon enough. She couldn’t remember exactly where that was, but she was confident it would come back to her when she got there.

  The crowd had begun to thin out a little and Tilda breathed easier. There were still sporadic fires along the way but nothing blazed so fiercely as to cause other buildings to catch and build to a great conflagration. As her eyes darted around, seeking further familiar places, she saw something that immediately made her turn around and retch. She had seen such sights before, of course, what other girl or boy had not. Ahead, in the gutter, lay a headless body, a trail of blood colouring the dirt road. The clothing told her it was a man, although she did not want to look close enough to guess his age. The head was nowhere to be seen.

  Tilda covered her eyes and hurried past, trying to supress the urge to vomit. But ahead there were more bodies – men and women by the look of it, and even a child. This was turning into a hideous nightmare. Now the noise of an angry mob caught her attention, and screaming and shouting. Panicky voices filled the air. But this was not a language Tilda knew. These were people from another country. She looked either side, hoping to avoid the murderous scene ahead. But away from the main thoroughfare were sinister, dark alleyways. Tilda knew instinctively that these were places a young girl like her would be molested and possibly murdered. She pressed on.

  Ahead, a gang of fifteen or so London youths – she could tell at once by their clothes – had cornered a man and a woman. They had both of them pressed against a wall and were holding them by the throat. All the Londoners carried weapons – swords, daggers, even axes – and Tilda could see the people they were attacking looked terrified.

  ‘Say bread and cheese,’ shouted one young thug, his face an inch away from the woman.

  Tilda could not help herself. ‘What have they done?’ she said, but everyone ignored her. She began to push her way through the mob. ‘What have these people done?’ she pleaded. ‘They are common people like all of us.’

  An older man pushed her roughly to the ground. Her chair leg skittered out of her hand. ‘Keep out of this, you witless rustic,’ he said. He picked her up by the scruff of the neck, her dress almost choking her, and threw her further on her way.

  Tilda did not need to be told twice. She picked up her stick and ran as fast as her legs would carry her, the screams of the poor man and woman, and their desperate pleading in a foreign tongue, echoing in her ears.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Tilda saw several more bodies on her search for London Bridge, although she was grateful she did not see anyone else being murdered. Some of them had had their heads cut off. Some of them just lay there covered in blood, with everything intact. It was now early evening and she was becoming very frightened. In this part of London, with its narrow streets and sharp, dark smells, it was getting more and more difficult to recognise and navigate. Once again, she longed for the clear air and open fields of Aylesford.

  Up ahead, a building was ablaze. In front of it two young men were tumbling close to the flames in a vicious fight. Others stood around cheering them on, waving flagons of beer and bottles of wine. There were no women among them and Tilda knew in an instant they would make sport of her if she walked past. There were too many dark corners and too much mayhem going on for anyone to notice a country girl being grabbed and dragged away.

  Some of the young men were staring at her, though they seemed so drunk she wasn’t even sure they were seeing her. But one or two had an insolent leer on their face. Tilda instinctively darted up a side street that seemed to be leading somewhere north – somewhere she knew was away from the river – but she could see it wasn’t a dead end, and she thought if she kept her bearings, up for a bit, then turn right, then along, she would surely come back to the great bridge to Southwark, if she turned back down again when she had passed the blazing building.

  But this street offered no greater safety. Up here was busy too – people marauding around in small groups, shouting and carousing. They were all men. Tilda longed to see a group of women she could ask for directions or plead with for protection. Whenever she saw a gang heading her way, she would hide in a narrow alley, back pressed firmly against a porch door or in the gaps between the houses. For once, she was glad her clothes were so drab – the brown hessian blended in well with the fading light. Anything white would have stood out in this dingy backstreet world.

  Now Tilda could hear angry voices inside the house she squeezed away in. London voices. They too had been drinking. They seemed pretty upset about something. ‘Swines taking our jobs.’ ‘Swines stealing our customers.’ There was a woman there too. She seemed to be trying to calm them down. ‘You can’t break the fourth commandment, John. Put that down. Put that down. Thou shalt not kill…’