In the Tower
OW all these things are writ in the Chronicles,—as how the Inns of Court of the Temple was destroyed and records burned, and the Hospital of Saint John of Jerusalem at Clerkenwell burned, and prisons opened; wherefore this book needs not to tell.
So, when night was come and the people a little wearied of their wild work, Wat Tyler sent the squire to Richard to know what the King would do. For this thing was plain, that the most part of the people was loyal to the King, and minded to follow him and obey Calote's hest. And Wat Tyler, being wise, knew that if he would come at his goal, to rule England, he must stand for a little behind Richard's chair.
“Bid the King come to his own,” said Wat. “Thou and I and John Ball, we be as honest men as Salisbury and John of Gaunt and Simon the Archbishop.”
In the beginning the guard at the Tower gate was loth to hold speech with Stephen, but when he had given the word, and moreover thrown off his hood that his face was plain, he was let come in; howbeit there went a soldier at his side all the way.
When he came into the chapel, John Leg was there a-mumbling his prayers, and at sound of footsteps he screeched and ran up the altar-steps, For this John Leg was he that was leader of the poll-tax commission, and he dwelt hourly in great fear of his life.
Beyond, in a large chamber, were gathered together all those that had sought refuge in the Tower. The Queen was there, and her ladies, withdrawn to the dais and whispering. In the midst of the room, at a table, Salisbury sat, and Thomas of Woodstock, Earl of Buckingham, the King's uncle, and the Earls of Warwick and Suffolk, and Simon Sudbury the Archbishop; also Mayor Walworth was there, set twixt Salisbury and the Archbishop. Pages held torches nigh that they might the better mark one another's faces, for the chamber was of a great size and full of shadows. Within a window Robert Hales stood, looking out to north where was a red glare far off without the city; and he knew that this was his manor burning at Highbury. Sir John Holland and the Earl of Kent sat on the dais step with the ladies, but the King was not anywhere in the chamber. There was a young boy of haughty mien and frowning brow that paced to and fro, and anon he halted to listen by the table. This was Henry, John of Gaunt's son; and 't was he saw Stephen and cried out:—
“My lords, here 's Etienne Fitzwarine! Now shall we know somewhat.”
All those about the table turned and looked at Stephen, and the pages held their torches higher.
“Art thou for us, Fitzwarine?” quoth Salisbury. “Art thou come as a friend?”
“I am for the people, my lord,—with the King.”
“The people first!” sneered Thomas of Woodstock, the Earl of Buckingham. “A loyal servant, thou!”
“Doth not the King's self set the people first, afore the King?—May I do less, my Lord of Buckingham?”
“How are we tainted!” groaned Sudbury the Archbishop.
“Tainted, ay!” Stephen cried. “The laws are so rotten that they s-stink. The Statute of Labourers is a plague-spot, festering out of the Black Death. Oh, my lords, cut it out!”
“This is Wyclif! This is John Ball!” Sudbury mourned, his head in his hands.
“For the people?” questioned Salisbury anew; “that 's to mean the rebels,—and against nobilité?”
“Hear the word, my lord,” Stephen said, and never a stammer caught his tongue.
"'When Adam delved and Eve span,
Who was then the gentleman?'
“Against all men am I, merchants, noblesse, lords of manors, that do oppress their brothers, and hold to villeinage. This law of villeins is a dead law shall no longer be hanged about the necks of English peasants. We be free men. Lawbreakers, say ye?—Of a sureté we 'll break that law of villeins, smash and stamp it under foot, till 't is past mending. I am for the villeins,—and the King. I am sent a message to the King from his loyal people.”
“By the rood of Chester!” shouted Thomas of Woodstock, “and thou art come hither red-handed from slaughter and pillage of the noblesse to cast insult in the teeth of the King?—A message from yonder rabble?—A plot, a murder, belike!”
“Dost thou think so?” quoth Stephen very quiet, and drew sword and dagger and laid them on the table.
“My Lord of Buckingham, we are sore tried,” said Salisbury, “and 't would seem we had just cause for anger these three days; natheless, let peasants rage; 't behoves us keep our tongues and tempers. Prythee give again his sword and dagger to Etienne Fitzwarine.”
“Nay, my lord,” Stephen interposed; “'t was I was over-hasty to lay them down. I 'll take them up and bear no malice.—Beseech you, where is the King?”
“Gone above to look forth from a turret,” Henry answered. “I would have borne him company, but he 's in the sulks.”
“My lords, pray you, let me go bring hither the King,” said Stephen, and he went into that corner of the room where a door opened upon the stair. Young Henry followed, plucking at his sleeve, with:—
“An thou canst, make my cousin to see here 's his time to play the man. But he 's a poor thing.”
“My lord, 't is not so simple to be a king,” Stephen answered coldly.
“To know what one will have, and to take it,—is not this enough?” the boy said with scorn. But Stephen left him and climbed the stair.
The dusk of summer came in at the windows of the dark turret, and in one of the windows Richard sat, hugging his knees.
“Go down, cousin!” he said sharply, without turning his head.
“'T is Etienne Fitzwarine, sire,” Stephen ventured.
“Ah, thou!” exclaimed the boy. “Come hither, mignon!” and held out his arms.
“On every hand they thwart me,” he complained. “Mine Uncle Buckingham counselleth one way and Salisbury another. If I speak, they do not listen; and if I rest silent, my cousin Henry hath fixed me with scornful eyes, as who should say, 'Were in thy shoes,'—Christ, but I do hate my cousin Henry!—Etienne, methinks my star hath slipped,—I was not meant to be a king. One day 't will be discovered; then they 'll cry out for Lancaster.”
“My lord,” Stephen soothed him, “hast thou heard how they have cried out all this day in London streets, and at the burning of the Savoy, 'We will have no King called John?'”
“His name is Henry,” the boy answered, “'t is a froward child;” and then passionately: “Natheless, tell me 't is not true! Tell me,—tell me!”
“Look out of window, sire, on Saint Catherine's Hill, where thy people wait thee! So shall these fears and follies be dispelled.”
“Let us to the battlement to breathe,” said Richard. “Is more to see; and I 'm smothered here, walled in with my cousin.”
So they went up; and all around the sky was red, but not with the sun, for that was set three hours past. There was a smell of ashes on the air. Near by, to eastward, on Saint Catherine's Hill, the peasants were encamped. Which is to say, as many as were not lodged in the city; Will Langland had a score and six lying close in his cot, and Dame Emma harboured threescore and ten; there were some slept in Paul's Churchyard, and others in aldermen's soft beds,—that had never known but straw. Nevertheless, the most part of them was on the hill, and this was so close beneath the Tower that Richard, leaning on the battlement, might descry their faces very plain by the light of the camp-fires.
“And dost thou bid me look on these and so be assured I am a king?” he said, and laughed, the better to swallow a sob.
“My lord, these are the honesty of England,” said Stephen. “Truest men on live. Trust them!”
“Yonder 's one with a brand on 's brow,—I see it, T!” cried the boy. Then he covered his face and shuddered.
“They have opened the prisons,” said Stephen. “Oh, sire, judges err, and wherefore not these poor? Do but come out to them and hear what they would ask of thee, and thou shalt see how they 'll be led like little children.”
“And would I not so, an I had my way?” Richard cried. “But old Salisbury saith they 're rebels and 't is not meet the King should bend to their will. And Simon Sudbury lives in fear of his life, and so he saith they seek mine also.”
“They will not have it they 're rebels, sire, being risen in the name of the King.”
“What for a riddle is here?” sighed Richard, but also he smiled. “Shall we say to these, my kinsmen and guardians, that the King hath bidden his people to rise against the kingdom?—Dost think I 'll be called a fool?—Nay!—Neither am I a babe to believe that thou and I and yon ragged rout may rule England in despite of mine Uncle Gaunt, and Earl Percy, and other the flow'r of England's chivalry,—for all Will Langland's Vision of Ploughmen.”
“But these folk do not demand to rule, my lord,” protested Stephen. “'T is to be made free men, no longer villeins and serfs.”
“The Archbishop saith 't is more than this,—for that John Ball and Wat Tyler be desperate men and they have made a plot to slay all nobilité. If they do so shall not I be as truly in bondage as now I am? And how vile bondage! Faugh!—filthy hinds!—Canst smell their stench even now?”
Stephen leaned on the battlement pondering what he would say. At last he spoke, his eyes fixed always on the hill and the restless throng thereon:
“'T is very true,” he said, “that there be certain among them are consumed with the s-sin of envy and lust of power, but the most part of the people m-meddleth not with these subtleties. Freedom is their desire, and not to be called villeins; and when they have obtained these, they will return to their homes. For W-Wat Tyler and Jack Straw and John Ball, they weigh not a fly as against King Richard in the hearts of the people.”
“Sayst thou so?” the boy murmured, and clutched Etienne's shoulder,—“sayst thou so?” Then he flung out his arms on the battlement, and his head on his arms. “Ah, wherefore do I take keep if this people love me or no? Wherefore do I take keep of the love of dirty ploughmen, vermin-ridden,—of branded knaves and silly ragged folk? But I do,—Dieu, ma vie, I do!”
“Then come to them, sire!—Hear them!—Another day and 't will be too late. They will believe thou hast forsaken them,—and what they 'll then do, I dare not think on. They are not so strong as to overturn a kingdom, but”—He swept his arm about, where the sky glowed to the north, and westward the Savoy lay, red embers. “Oh, sire, they have made Cheapside a shambles!”
“Wilt thou have me go out, now, thither?” said Richard, pointing to the camp. Here and there men slept. Others roasted bullocks by the fire that hissed with the dropping of blood. The sound of a catch came up:—
"Help truth, and truth shall help you!
Now reigneth pride in price,
And covetise is counted wise,
And lechery withouten shame,
And gluttony withouten blame.
Envy reigneth with reason,
And sloth is take in great season.
God do bote, for now is time."
“If we do,” the King continued, “we must steal forth secretly, mon ami; for Sudbury and the rest would never let us from the gate of their own will.”
“Nay, we 'll not go to-night, sire; but do thou come down with me to the chamber below and persuade the Archbishop and Salisbury that thou wilt meet the people on the morrow to have speech of them,—else all London is like to be made a desert afore aid come.”
So they went down and, at the foot of the stair, young Henry sat, half-asleep, but he shook himself and followed after them to the table whereon the nobles now leaned elbow in gloomy silence.
“My lords,” said Richard, “here 's Etienne Fitzwarine hath been in the city all day, saith somewhat must be done if we will not have the morrow's sun set redder than to-day's.”
“Must be done!” shouted Thomas of Woodstock, shaking the table with a blow of his fist.—“Have I not said so?—Up!—Assemble the guard and make an onslaught! A sudden sally forth with the guard, at midnight when these rebels be sleeping, and we may rout them and put them to flight. These be village churls, untrained to matters of war,—they 'll fly before a sword. So saith Master Walworth likewise. Peasants and prentices be no warriors. Moreover, Sir Robert Knolles holdeth his own house against them in the city,—he will help us.”
The Earl of Salisbury lifted his head as he would speak, but Richard was before him.
“My lords,” he said, and all they marvelled to hear his voice how it was assured,—“my lords, I am going forth on the morrow to have speech of my people;—to hear what it is they will have. Etienne saith they desire freedom and no more to be called villeins. My lords, I know what this is, to desire to be free. I and my people, we shall be free men on the morrow.”
There was silence throughout the chamber, and every eye was fixed on the King where he stood. Then Salisbury bent his gray head above the boy's white hand that lay clenched on the table.
“Sire,” he said, “if you can appease them by fair words and grant them what they wish, it will be so much the better; for should we begin what we cannot go through, we shall never be able to recover it. It will be all over with us and our heirs, and England will be a desert.”
“Give you good-night, my lords,” said Richard then. “I will go to the chapel to my prayers.”