Blackheath
N a Wednesday, being the twelfth day of June in that year, which was the fourth year of King Richard II., Wat Tyler and John Ball set up two great banners of Saint George on Blackheath, which was a moor that lay to southward of London, distant from the Bridge by the highway five mile. And thither came folk from north and south all that day, and encamped round about those two banners. Calote was there, and Stephen, and Long Will, to see them come in. Now 't was a band out of Surrey, singing as they marched:—
"When Adam delved and Eve span,
Who was then the gentleman?"
Now 't was foresters from the Weald, threescore and more. Anon, the men that had seen the siege and the taking of Rochester Castle came in; and these went about from one to other of the bands, telling their tale, leaping in air and shouting as they were mad. Villeins and free labourers of Sussex by score and by hundred came.
“John Ball hath rungen our bell!” they said; “John Ball hath rungen our bell!”
“H-how shall these men be fed?” Stephen asked John Ball.
“London shall”—John Ball began, but he looked on Stephen and stayed his speech; and quoth he presently: “So 't is thou?”
For, albeit Stephen had donned his tabard and coarse hosen, his hair, which was of a pale brown colour like to the King's, was curled very daintily; and he had a girdle, the which peasants might not wear, and a short sword therein and a dagger.
“Yea, 't is I, Stephen Fitzwarine,” he said. “W-Will Langland shall speak for me that I be ever true man.”
“He saith soth,” Will answered; “'t is a very gentleman and our brother.”
“Yea,” affirmed Wat, who was come up. “Were all the King's servants like to this one, our daughters”—But then he broke forth into cursing and crying out upon God and Christ Jesus very blasphemously, that Calote wept to hear. Long Will went aside with him to speak comfort, and John Ball turned again to Stephen.
“Art thou even now of the household of the King? 'T is very well. We have sent a message to the King to pray him that he come hither to speak with us concerning this Rising and a remedy. Do thou go up and be seen o' the river shore when he cometh; haply he 'll come the more willingly an he see a friend.”
“Let the maid go with me,” said Stephen. “She hath a token from Richard; her word also will he trust.”
So Calote and Stephen went up to Thames by the Rotherhithe shore, and as they went they met a great rout of Essex men come across the river. They had three bloody heads on poles, the which they bore for banners, and these were three clerks that served the tax-collector was driven out of Brentwood the last week in May. Crows flew squawking round about these heads. Meanwhile, the men strode on, chaunting:—
“'Jack Trueman doth you to understand that falseness and guile have reigned too long.'”
And they told Stephen and Calote as how other Essex men were encamped t' other side the river before Aldgate, to keep the city from that side. And these other were Jack Straw's men.
And Calote and Stephen went down to the water's edge and stood with the throng that waited for the King.
An hour they waited, singing, jostling, and in the end the royal barge came down the river with Richard standing in the prow, and that old warrior and very perfect gentleman, the Earl of Salisbury, at his right hand. In the midst of the boat Sudbury stood, and Hales, and when the folk on shore saw these two they set up a shout of—
“Traitors!—Give up the traitors!—The Chancellor!—The Chancellor!—Poll-tax is his!—'T is Simon Sudbury taxed us!—They shall be slain!”
Whereupon my Lord of Salisbury made a sign to the rowers that they should cease rowing, which they did, and the barge stood still in the stream.
“How shall these jack-fools be hushed?” said Stephen. “They spoil all!”
Then Calote wound the King's horn, once, twice, thrice, and in the silence that followed after, Stephen put his hand to his mouth and shouted: “A parley! A parley!” and after: “My Lord King, beseech thee come hither, and alone, to speak with thy people. Shall none harm come to thee.”
“A demand most uncourtly strange, Etienne Fitzwarine,” cried the Earl of Salisbury, “that the King's person be sent unguarded among a pack of rebels. It may not be.”
“My lord, now is no time to be nice in small matters. Moreover, these be not rebels, but loyal, true lovers of the King.”
“Yea,—yea!—God save the King!” shouted the mob. “Let our King come to us that we may advise him of our wrongs.”
From where they stood on shore they could see Richard in the barge, how he laid his hand on my Lord Salisbury's arm and spoke earnestly with him. But my Lord of Salisbury shook his head, and the Archbishop and John Hales came up a little way into the prow, as they were pleading and craving a boon.
“This thing is not possible, that the body of our King should be delivered to ruffians and staff-strikers,” called out the Earl of Salisbury yet again. “We, being his true servants and guardians, dare not do this thing; for if so be any harm come to him, all England will lay it at our door, and rightly. Neither may we come to land with him, seeing ye are so hot to slay certain among us, and one of those the Archbishop of Canterbury. This is scandal and deadly sin. I call upon ye to disperse, in the King's name!”
“We are risen in the King's name,” cried out an Essex man; “how, then, shall we disperse?”
They could see Richard urgent, though they might not hear his words; and the Earl always shaking his head for answer; and Robert Hales with his two hands clinging to the King's cloak as a suppliant. Then the Earl of Salisbury made sign to the rowers, who began to turn the barge backward and rowed up the river again to the Tower, the while the people on Rotherhithe shore cursed and roared for rage.
Now when they were come again to Blackheath they found more men from Kent; and the taking of Canterbury was in every man's mouth; how the mayor had sworn oath of fealty to King Richard and the Commons, and the monks were afeared for their lives.
“Rochester and Canterbury is ours!” they cried.—“London next!”
Those that had a crust shared it, but they were few; a-most men on Blackheath went hungry that night.
“Yea, London next, and that quickly,” said John Ball. “A man may not fill his belly with furze and heather.”
Meanwhile he preached to them that they might forget their hunger. There were so many that all could not come anigh, but those others sang the catchwords and built fires on the heath; and some set off to Southwark to see if they might find food in that suburb.
And presently came riding three aldermen from London to bring a message from Mayor Walworth that the people should come no nigher London, in the name of the King and the city. But when they saw how many were gathered together, so that they might not be counted, and more coming in as it were up from the edges of the world, they were amazed and afraid. Nevertheless, two of them gave their message faithful and rode again to the city; but John Horn spake with Wat and the priest, and revealed to them that London for the most part was friendly, and the prentices all of their party,—and he bade them to come and take the city. Also he told them the name of the man should keep the Bridge next day, and he was friend to them and would let down the drawbridge whether or no Master Walworth gave leave.
“Nay, more,” quoth he: “I will even bring certain of you, three or four, into the city this very night, to tell the good citizens of London of all this cometh to pass.”
“Brother,” said Stephen to John Ball, “prythee let him take the maid into the city, and her father with her. This is no place for a maid at night on the heath. And l-let me also g-go in, that I may get speech of Richard and ad-advise him how to be friend to his people.”
But now was heard a great clatter and trample of hoofs,—and women shrieking, and the laughter of rude men,—and there came a coach close to the banner where John Ball stood,—the horses plunging in a fright, and a score of villeins clinging to their bridles; the coachman fast bound on his seat, a stalward Kentish man sitting in his lap.
“What 's here? Women?” cried Wat, and leapt to the coach door. “Have them out!—Let us see how these nobles will relish to have their daughters rough entreated.” He thrust his hand in, with, “Come out, mistress,—my daughter's debt is but half paid!”
“Goddes dignité!” said Stephen. “'T is the Queen-Mother!”
Wat dropped the lady's hand and stared in amaze, and Stephen thrust him aside.
“Madame, 't is Etienne Fitzwarine,” cried out one of the ladies, which was Godiyeva. “Now are we safe.”
And Etienne opened the coach door and got in to comfort them,—and all they were weeping.
“All England is risen up!” said the Queen. “The hedges are alive with runaway villeins. And this great company,—what 's it to mean?”
“'T is the poll-tax, madame,” Etienne answered her, “and the people is past patience.”
“Where is my son?” she shrieked. “Is he slain? Wherefore art thou here?”
“The King 's in the Tower, madame, whither I 'll presently be your escort. The people is faithful to the King,—they will not harm him a hair,—nor the King's mother neither. I pray you patience, the while I arrange this matter speedily as may be, and we 'll go on our way into the city.”
So he went out and spoke with John Ball and the alderman, and meanwhile, the peasant folk, when they heard who it was in the coach, stood a little way off, silent.
When Stephen came again to the door he had Calote by the hand, and he said:—
“May it please your Majesté that this damosel ride within.”
“An ill-smelling peasant!” cried the Queen.
“Madame,” said Godiyeva, “'t is the little jongleuse; so you give consent, she may sit beside me.”
“Let me sit o' the coachman's seat,” entreated Calote.
“Madame,” Stephen made reply, “this damosel is promised to be my wedded wife,—the night is chill.”
“Thy wedded wife!” screamed all those ladies, and the Queen said, “Is the world up-so-down?”
But whether from fear of all that rout of peasants, or whether from desire to know what manner of maid this might be that should wed Etienne Fitzwarine, they drew aside to make a place for her, and Godiyeva put out a hand to help her in.
“And for the wretch that dared thrust in his hand to take us,” quoth the Queen, “let him be tied at tail of coach and so dragged to London. See to 't, Etienne!”
“Madame, pray you pardon, but this may not be,” said Etienne. “The man is a leader among the people, and beloved.”
He stood aside and looked out on the vast throng, and she, following his eye, grew a little pale.
“The man hath provocation,” Etienne continued; “his daughter was laid hands on roughly by the King's tax-gatherer, not many days past.”
“Let 's begone!” said the Queen hastily. “Christ, Mary, keep us safe! Give me my beads, Godiyeva, and do ye all say a rosary, and be silent!”
So they rode away to London, with Stephen standing on the step on one side, and Long Will and John Horn riding on the other on the alderman's horse. And Wat Tyler sat on the box seat beside the coachman; but Stephen did not apprise the Queen of this.
In Southwark, as they rode, was mischief let loose, for the Marshalsea Prison and King's Bench were set wide open and in a blaze, and all the released prisoners making merry in the streets. Hot cinders fell on the coach, and Wat had much ado that it should not catch fire. To westward was another glow, where the people destroyed Lambeth Palace.
The Queen shut her eyes and said her prayers, but her ladies popped head out of window, this side and that, and whispered, “What 's this to mean?”—and “Who 's yon?”—to Stephen and Calote.
So they came to the Bridge and the drawbridge, and were let pass. And now Calote and Long Will turned them to Cornhill; but Stephen went to the Tower with the Queen.