There was a scuffle, and screaming. Tilda wondered for a moment if the woman was being murdered. But then the door burst open and three men tumbled out. All of them could barely stand and each carried a weapon of some sort – a sword, an axe, a dagger. Tilda pressed herself as far as she could into the shadows. The three men staggered down the street, heading towards the mayhem she was desperately trying to escape. A woman shot out, shouting hysterically after them. ‘Thou shalt not kill. Think of your immortal souls…’ She was so incandescent with rage, Tilda did not immediately think to ask her for help.

  The door slammed shut and she could hear bolts and boards being drawn and attached. She waited until the men were out of sight then knocked on the door. There was no reply. She knocked again. A frightened female voice called out above her head, ‘Who the devil are you? Go away before I get my husband on to you.’

  Tilda looked up. A plump white face stared down at her. ‘Please, Mrs,’ said Tilda. ‘I’m trying to stay safe. I’ve got family in Southwark and I’m completely lost.’

  The face disappeared and Tilda hoped for a moment she was coming down to let her in. But she could hear no creek of staircase footsteps. She looked up to see the woman with a wooden pail and instinctively knew what was coming. Tilda darted away as the foul-smelling waste landed with a splat right where she had been standing. She ran further up the street, laughing at her narrow escape, with the curses of the woman ringing in her ears.

  Now it was close to twilight and it had become increasingly difficult to see. The street came out to another wider one but Tilda felt alarmed as she realised she could not tell one way from another. The streets all had the same ramshackle houses, the same shop signs, the same dirt and debris.

  She looked left and right – this way at least was deserted. Remembering her plan, she darted right down the dirt road, keeping to the darkest shadows and hoping she would not run into any trouble. The more she ran the more she realised she was getting hopelessly lost. Behind, she could hear a scuffle and screams echoing along the empty street. Again, that awful sound of incomprehensible, terrified cries. She knew someone was calling for help, even if the words were meaningless. She thought of the men who had spilled from the house just now and shuddered at what they might be up to.

  Running away from the screaming, she turned a corner and ran right into a scene from a nightmare. Three dead bodies lying in the middle of the street with a small child crying hopelessly in the midst of them. Tilda did not stop to think. She picked up the child and carried him back to the shadows.

  ‘Who are you?’ she said, looking into the face of a boy who could not be more than five or six. He looked terrified and spat full in her face. Instinctively, she dropped him and he ran off. Tilda wiped the spit off with her sleeve and called after him, ‘Come back, you silly boy. I want to help you.’ But he hurried round a corner and was gone.

  Straight ahead, there was another bunch of young men, blades of every description hanging by their sides and glinting in the flames of a street bonfire. Tilda turned and ran again, this time into a narrow alley. At the end there was a blank wall. If they came down here looking for her she would have nowhere to escape.

  Tilda pressed herself into a hollow by the side of a house and hoped her breathless gasping wouldn’t give her away. Thank heavens this was not the season for breath you could see escaping from your mouth. She could hear them approaching and strained against every urge to peer from her hiding place to see if they were coming her way. Drunken voices grew louder, then, she dared to hope, perhaps fainter. She let a long sigh of relief escape from her lips just as a hand encircled her waist and pulled tightly.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Tilda dropped her chair leg as she was pulled back into the alley and began to wriggle like an angry cat. But instead of a lecherous male voice she realised a young woman was speaking to her. The voice was pleading, ‘Pleash, to help me.’ The accent was a foreign one. She sounded like the people Tilda had seen being attacked earlier.

  ‘Let me go,’ hissed Tilda. The arm around her waist loosened its grip. Tilda braced herself ready to run as fast as she could. But the voice spoke again, on the brink of tears. ‘Zey kill my friend, in front everybody. No one help.’

  Realising she was alone with this stranger, Tilda turned around and peered into the gloom. Her assailant was a small woman a little older than her – perhaps twenty years of age – and obviously not a threat. She was also bruised and bloodied. She wore a white smock, stained red from a wound on her shoulder, and torn on the sleeve.

  Tilda held up her hands to show she was not carrying a weapon. ‘How can I help you?’ she said, speaking slowly to ensure she was understood. ‘I am from the countryside and I don’t know my way around here.’

  The woman stared at her, lost for words. Tilda put a hand on her uninjured arm and pulled her further into the alley. ‘Let’s hide down here, and wait for sunrise.’

  ‘Zo you not kill me?’ said the woman.

  Tilda suppressed a snigger. She was feeling light-headed with exhaustion but also relief that she had not been grabbed by a gang of drunken men. ‘Why would I do that?’ she replied.

  The woman could barely contain her anger. ‘Ve liff here ten year – I come here as gurl. Now people turn against. People ve lend money. People ve give present. People ve look after young children.’

  Tilda shook her head. She was feeling bewildered. At the end of the alley was a low wall and beyond that was a larger house with a garden. The wall had dense vegetation nestling up against it. ‘Here is a good place to hide,’ said Tilda. ‘Do you think?’

  They climbed over the wall and hid beneath the bushes. In the house a dog started barking but its owners angrily shut it up. Tilda feared they would let it out into the garden to sniff them out. The woman could read her thoughts and reassured her. ‘Zey keep dog with zem,’ she said. ‘In case any break in houze.’

  They lay there in the dark, the only immediate sound their shallow breathing, but in the distance fires crackled and people were shouting. Every now and then, screams pierced the air and they both shuddered in horror.

  Tilda felt tongue-tied and struggled to think of something to say. The obvious occurred to her. ‘I’m Tilda,’ she said. ‘I live in Aylesford.’

  The woman nodded. ‘I go zere. Five years ago. Buy wool.’ Then she said, ‘I am Catherine.’

  Tilda tried not to laugh. ‘My squirrel’s called Catherine,’ she said.

  The woman gave her a weary smile and shook her head.

  ‘You speak English though, don’t you,’ said Tilda. ‘You can understand everything I say?’

  ‘Yes, but I sound like a Dutch, or a Flemich, whatever you vant to call us. I understand most but I schpeak poor.’

  Tilda reassured her. ‘No – you’re a lot cleverer than I am. I can’t speak any other tongues – can’t even read and write.’

  Catherine smiled. ‘You are brave and kind,’ she said. ‘More important.’

  ‘So what happened?’ asked Tilda.

  ‘We walk out shopping for my father. Me and my friend Agnes, she live next door, come down to market, vere there is always good-quality wool. And ze best bread. And we see all this –‘she paused – ‘commotie… what is your word? Commotion. And we see all the rustics, all the country people, but a lot of London too. And these men, all drunk and angry, grabbing people, asking them to say ‘bread and cheese’. Well those words difficult for Flemish people and when we say wrong they know we not London people.’

  Tilda had seen this with her own eyes.

  ‘They grab us both and hold us against wall. They punch me and rip my clothes. I think they will… verkrachting… you say rape? I break free and try to help Agnes, but they throw me to ground and I see them…’ She ran a hand across her throat. She could barely say the words. ‘They kill her. So I run fast and hide. Then you come and help.’

  Tilda did not know what to say. She realised in an instant that by coming to London they had stirred up events they had never intended. Anarchy had been let loose on the streets. ‘I am so sorry, Catherine,’ she said and put an arm round her. Catherine cried softly into her sleeve. It felt odd for Tilda, comforting someone who was older than her. But she was pleased to have met the girl and it made her feel proud of herself, to be able to offer someone protection.

  The night air was warm and smoky. Within minutes they were both asleep. But later on they were disturbed by jubilant, drunken voices. London youths, judging by their voices, boasting about their night of murder and mayhem. They were just on the other side of the wall.

  ‘We got three of them on Threadneedle Street,’ said one. ‘You shoulda heard them squeal.’

  ‘They done a whole bunch of them at St Martin’s in the Vintry,’ said another. ‘Weasels had hidden in the church so they dragged them out. Killed all thirty-five of ’em! Off with their heads! The ground turned red.’

  They all found that uproariously funny.

  ‘Serve them right, coming over here, taking our jobs,’ said a third. ‘They should go back to their own country.’

  Tilda could see Catherine’s face – the white of her eyes pale in the moonlight. She had never seen such a look of horror on a girl before. She could feel her friend welling up, and prayed she would not start to sob. These boys were clearly up for more murder, and if they heard them they would probably kill them both once they’d asked Catherine to say ‘bread and cheese’.

  ‘Jeffrey’s lot are heading for Bread Street to see what they can find,’ said another voice. ‘He’s got Godwin with him. Them rustics bust into King’s Bench and let him out. Didn’t think we’d see him again until they hanged him at Tyburn. He’ll be out there doing some damage!’

  ‘Here, that Godwin. Is he the one who killed that wench when she wouldn’t marry him?’

  They all laughed, although why it was funny was beyond Tilda.

  ‘Yeah, thasshim,’ said one of them. He sounded so drunk it was a marvel he could stand up. ‘Silly mare. Mind you, I wouldn’t let him near my sister…’

  They raced off. And Catherine let out a great sob. Tilda hugged her as she cried. ‘We’re not all like that,’ she said.

  ‘I am chure they weavers – appretiches,’ said Catherine, when she had managed to stop sobbing. ‘They say we take work from them.’ She let out a sad sigh. ‘We are good at our jobs, but that no reason to kill us.’

  Exhaustion overtook them and once again they slept.

  *

  ‘Look what we’ve got here!’ A harsh voice caused Tilda to start. She opened her eyes to see three men staring at her and Catherine. One was considerably older and Tilda guessed he was the householder with his two sons. They all had swords and they were pointing them half-heartedly at them. A small dog stood obediently by their side. It looked at them attentively, but it was not growling or baring its teeth.

  ‘Trespassers,’ said the eldest man.

  ‘Oh no, sir,’ said Tilda. ‘We are hiding from the mob.’ She spoke to them in the same guarded and respectful way she usually spoke to Lord Laybourne back in Aylesford.

  One of the younger men parted a branch that partly hid Catherine from view. ‘You’ve been in the wars,’ he said to her. There was a hint of sympathy in his voice.

  ‘My friend has been attacked,’ said Tilda. ‘She is so shocked she cannot speak.’

  The men nodded. ‘You are from the country, aren’t you,’ said the oldest to Tilda, his voice rising in anger. ‘You have bought pandemonium to our city.’

  Tilda said nothing. She was not going to argue. Help came from one of the sons. ‘Come, Father,’ he said. ‘A lot of the trouble’s been caused by our own Londoners.’

  There was an ominous pause and Tilda wondered what would happen next.

  The older man said, ‘It’s quietened down now. You best be off.’

  It was all the encouragement they needed. ‘Thank you, sirs,’ said Tilda as they climbed back over the wall.

  They hurried along the alley, Catherine holding on to Tilda’s arm. ‘Zank you,’ she said. ‘I not need to schpeak.’

  ‘I think they were decent people,’ said Tilda. ‘I don’t think they were ready to attack you.’

  Catherine shrugged. ‘You have good Englisch saying – “World Turned Upside Down” – who know what they do.’

  Out on the wider streets, the morning sun lit the rooftops and chimneys and made the church steeples glow gold against the blue sky. It was colder now, in those first minutes of the dawn.

  The streets were almost deserted, although prone figures lay here and there.

  ‘Drunk?’ said Tilda.

  ‘Or dead,’ said Catherine.

  ‘Do you know how to get to Southwark from here?’ asked Tilda.

  Catherine nodded. ‘Yes. Near here.’

  ‘Where do you live?’ asked Tilda, ashamed that she had not thought to ask sooner.

  ‘We have house in Farringdon. It’s long way from here, on norz edge of London.’

  Catherine looked fearful and Tilda could tell she was frightened to go back on her own. ‘You come back with me to Southwark now,’ said Tilda. ‘And then, when we’ve had a rest and cleaned ourselves up, we’ll take you back to Farringdon.’

  Catherine nodded. That seemed to be a good plan.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  June 14, 1381

  Guy de Clare woke early and for a moment he wondered where he was. Since joining Richard’s court he had never travelled so much in his life. Windsor one day, the Tower of London the next, or any one of Richard’s other residences around the country. Some days he had to look out of the window to remind himself where he was.

  He wondered if he would prefer waking up in the same room every day at his parents’ Gloucestershire manor house and decided he would now find that crushingly boring. Then he remembered he was in the middle of a terrifying revolt and there were thousands of peasants roaming round outside the castle walls and that everyone at the court was in so much danger there was a chance none of them would still be alive by sunset.

  ‘Master de Clare,’ a voice was calling. Guy opened his eyes to see one of Richard’s chamber boys standing over his bed. ‘His Majesty requests your presence over breakfast.’

  Guy got up to splash his face and armpits with water from the bowl by his bed. He didn’t want to stink like a rustic in front of the king. The chamber boy took him to an anteroom where the king was already at table, feasting on white wheat bread, eggs and bacon. ‘Fetch breakfast for my friend,’ he called to no one in particular.

  Richard seemed in good humour. He leaned forward and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘We wonder if my lord Sudbury is still with us, or whether he sneaked away in the night. We didn’t let him go out yesterday, when he volunteered to speak to the mob. We think he would have headed away from London as fast as his horse could carry his considerable weight.’

  Guy allowed himself a tight smile. He never knew what to say to Richard. ‘Let us hope the marauding rustics have quietened down, my lord. Perhaps they will all have thick heads from their drinking and today will be much quieter.’

  ‘It is calm on the streets, we hear,’ said Richard. ‘We have sent word out to the rebels that we shall meet them to discuss their demands.’

  Guy looked at the plate of eggs and bacon that had been placed before him and all at once he lost his appetite. ‘Is that a safe thing to do, Your Majesty?’ he asked.

  Richard dropped his devil-may-care manner and looked concerned. ‘Who knows, de Clare. Who knows. But we have to do something. We cannot wait here until the mob breaks down the gates of the Tower and drags us all out to be beheaded like criminals. We have heard there is a large group of peasants camped out at Mile End. We shall go there with a small band of soldiers and some of our best advisors and see what we can do.’

  Guy wondered if Richard meant Guy too. He thought it best to assume that he did.

  ‘Yes, come on and eat your breakfast,’ said the king. ‘We have a busy day today. You must record carefully everything that is said. Today we will be making history.’

  Guy ate as fast as he could, then begged the king gracious permission to retire and prepare himself for the day. He spent the next half hour sitting on a commode, his guts in turmoil.

  *

  King Richard II, Guy de Clare, and a small party of advisors and soldiers rode out on horseback from the Tower at eleven o’clock that morning, the clip clop of their hooves and the jingle of buckles and armour echoing around the streets. Lord Chancellor Sudbury and Lord Treasurer Hales were not among them. Richard had decided the sight of those men would only inflame the mob and their place would be to await the return of the royal party.

  De Clare did not like either man – each was too arrogant to inspire affection. But he felt a whisper of pity for them, having to while away the day wondering whether their king would decide their heads were the price he was prepared to pay for peace and order to be restored to his capital city.

  Riding away from the Tower, Guy noticed that Richard looked especially resplendent in an embroidered cape and golden crown. Despite his young age he was the very picture of kingly magnificence.

  Evidence of the night’s commotions filled the streets of London and the smell of burning wood hung in the air. Small fires yet to be extinguished still smouldered, occasionally spluttering into flame. Dead bodies, some with heads detached from shoulders, were everywhere. Guy tried not to notice the headless corpses. He felt sick and terrified quite enough.

  The journey was punctuated by unexpected exchanges with the ordinary people of London. In previous times the common folk had bowed or cheered upon seeing their king. Now they stared sullenly, and a few impertinent ones, a safe distance from the reach of mounted soldiers and their swords, even shouted abuse. But no one attacked them and no one threw missiles.

  Mile End was a twenty-minute ride away and the closer they got the more they sensed a huge crowd lay ahead. It was almost as if the very particles in the atmosphere changed as they approached. The sour air seemed to hum with a malevolent energy and Guy’s fear of what lay ahead sat tight around his chest.