In the Days of the Roses
In the days of good King Harry the Sixth there was bitter strife in all the land between the houses of York and Lancaster. The adherents of one house oppressed, robbed and even murdered the adherents of the other. Political hatred grew apace and filled the land with civil wars. Houses were burned, churches were robbed and cattle were lifted. No one was sure of his life or property. Landless men were organized as bands of robbers making the highways unsafe. As a direct consequence of this waste of life and treasure the French lands won by Edward the Third, his son, the Black Prince, and Harry the Fifth were rapidly lost by the incapable Duke of Suffolk until only Calais and a strip of territory in the south of France remained.
With all his goodness the sixth Henry was but a feeble king, not ruling but ruled by his imperious wife and rugged, warlike barons. These were the days in which printing was invented, when armor was becoming useless before the advance of gunpowder and the introduction of firearms. The feudal system had entered upon its decay; superstition reigned but Lollardism under Wyckliffe had begun to undermine Roman Catholicism. The results of that terrible scourge, The Black Death, which swept Europe in 1347 carrying off a third of the population, were still felt in the scarcity of labor and higher wages.
Twenty miles northwest of London in the little town of St. Albans a fire broke out one day in June, 1440, in an old house in Dagnal Lane. It was a poor quarter and there was a loud outcry as the inhabitants began carrying their scanty belongings to safer places. The watch came clattering down the street with their leather fire buckets and formed a line to the nearest well which was soon bailed dry. No attempt was made to save the burning house; efforts were confined to keeping the fire from spreading. Suddenly a woman screamed: “there are children in the house!”
“Body o’ me,” said Jed Fenchurch to his wife, “gie me thy apron!” Wrapping it around his face he dashed through the half open door, out of which smoke was pouring and presently emerged, choking, panting and cursing with a child on each arm, both unconscious.
“Thou art surely a brave one,” said his wife, Lisbeth, proudly.
“Pook, woman!” said Jed, “should I let un die? Body o’ me!”
But she was busy with the children, washing their faces with her apron and giving them water to drink. Presently the children struggled back to consciousness and began to cry, first the boy, then the girl. He might be three years old, but the girl was only a baby.
“I wanth mine nurth,” sobbed the boy.
“He hath no hurt,” said Lisbeth, “but, oh Jed, thy poor hands!”
They were, indeed, badly scorched and painful. His hair was singed, his eyebrows gone and his ears blistered but no serious harm had been suffered. When Lisbeth had attended to his burns she picked up the children and carried them to her house hard by.
On the morrow, when the ashes were raked the bones of a woman were discovered. The landlord of the Checquers said he had let the house but the day before to one Mary Smith who had paid a month’s rent in advance. He knew nothing of her nor whence she came. Jed and Lisbeth kept the children; they were childless and well to do. There was no formal adoption. The children were supposed to be brother and sister. He said his name was Don, which was interpreted as John, and that her name was Banch, which was interpreted as Blanche.
Jed Fenchurch was an armorer, which a writer of that day has called the least mean of mean occupations. His shop at the back of the house, in a building entered by a passage way alongside. Here the children delighted to play and John helped as he was able as he grew stronger. Both attended the Abbey school and were well educated for those days, when the scholar was a man who could read and write.
John naturally heard much about feats of arms and was taught at first hand the uses of arms and armor. He learned to use the long bow, and as he developed into young manhood, and his arm grew long and his muscles tough and strong, he drew his arrows to the nock. This weapon was then the arm of most reliance and its development, together with the use of dismounted cavalry, developed by Edward III and the Black Prince, the cause of the English strength.
Neither was Blanche neglected. Her foster mother, Lisbeth, had also been foster mother to the great Earl of Warwick and had learned much of gentle ways in the great castle. Many of these she imparted to Blanche, and was much blamed by her gossips for raising the child in ways above her station.
There came a day when the great Earl visited his foster mother. His visit was marked by festivities given by the holy fathers of the Abbey in his honor, where barrels of beer were broached and beeves were roasted whole. The Earl was a tall, well-built man of handsome presence and kindly mien, much beloved by gentle and common. He first greeted and kissed his old nurse; the children were then presented. John’s height and reach of arm earned his commendation. “I will even take him into my service, an you wish,” said he.
“Right gladly will he come, your highness,” said Lisbeth, “you are good to your old nurse and her ward; God will reward you.”
“Not so,” said the Earl, “I but find a fine bowman.”
“’Tis a fine deed, natheless, John,” said Lisbeth when the Earl had departed, “and but shows the kind heart; but thou art the lucky boy! In all England lives no greater; and he will watch and guard thee; thou art indeed fortunate. Do I not know and love him?”
“Surely,” said John, “I must do my best, more I cannot. Truly, thou art good to me.”
“Alas, and shall I see thee no more? Wilt thou indeed leave us?” said Blanche, tears filling her eyes.
“Not so, sweetheart,” John replied, “when I go I shall soon return. How could I forsake thee, silly?”
The summons to arms was not long delayed. One evening in early May an express arrived at the Checquers and enquired for Jed Fenchurch. He was directed to the house on Dagnal Lane and informed Jed that he came from Warwick with directions to the bowmen, spearmen and men at arms to assemble at Royston and there await the arrival of the Duke of York and his own men.
There were but few Yorkists in St. Albans, but a party of bowmen, including Jed, John and three others were on their way afoot early the next morning, while the messenger continued his journey towards London.
“’Tis thretty good mile,” said fat Steve Balderstone in a thin voice, “I mind me when I walked as much in a day with good King Harry the Fift, but I were young then and light of foot. Truly the Duke moveth but slowly and we needs must wait at Royston. Why then shall we go apace?”
“Pook, thou elephant! the duke moveth at the gallop and the Earl also. Tarry not or ye may rue it,” said Jed. “Listen not to this squeaker. Body o’ me! we mun go apace.”
“I will blow thee to York with one puff, thou pot mender,” squeaked Steve.
“Truly, thou art a fine blower,” said Jed.
“Tarry a bit!” said John to Jabez Stout in a whisper, “see but the birds.”
And, in truth, over a wood to the right the birds were wheeling as the boys fell back and fitted an arrow to the string. From the wood three men on horseback drove rapidly into the road and galloped toward them.
“They are robbers,” said John, “take thou the one on the left” and their bows twanged and the arrows whistled.
The horseman on the right was transfixed by John’s shaft which pierced his right shoulder, and he fell from his horse which turned and fled. Jabez was not so fortunate; his shaft flew not so truly, but it caught the skin of the left leg of the rider and imbedded itself in the horse beneath which screamed and lashed out in agony, throwing the rider. The third horseman turned and galloped away. The rider of the stricken horse crawled into the bushes from which he was quickly hauled and despatched, after which the men gathered around the man desperately wounded.
“Mercy! mercy! Sir John,” shrieked the stricken man looking at John, “Spare me! spare me! I am not fit to die!”
“Thou wilt die, sure enough,” said Steve, “thy right lung is shot through, but why call him Sir John? ’Tis but John Fenchurch.”
“’Tis the ghost of Sir John Jernyngan whom I stabbed at Bordeaux. Mercy! mercy!”
“He raves,” said Steve, “get along, John, out of his sight.”
“Leave him with me,” said Jed. “I would speak with him further.”
“’Tis as he told thee,” said Jed to the dying man when they were alone. “It was John Fenchurch.”
“I tell thee no!” he replied. “’Twas Sir John Jernyngan or his ghost. Thinkest thou I know not mine old enemy who stole my honors and my bride? Did I not see the old Duke of Warwick knight him at Savignies?” This was followed by a gush of blood as his spirit fled. Jed dragged the body to the roadside, rifled the pockets and followed the others, deep in thought.