Smithfield
N the dawn of Saturday London streets were all astir. On all the streets and amid the lanes close by Thames the Flemish widows bewailed their dead. On Cheapside and along Cornhill men were met together; some there were in bands with banners, and some singly. Also there ran up and down certain fellows that cried:—
“Go ye to Smithfield, good folk, 't is the King's will to meet with you in that place.”
Others shouted: “Wat Tyler biddeth you to Smithfield, all the Fellowship.”
Whereat there were a-many laughed; and they said: “Do we the bidding of Wat Tyler, or is the King our liege and lord?”
But there were others frowned.
“Heard ye Wat in Dame Emma's tavern last night?” they said, and their brows bent dark.
“In Norfolk do we dub so proud speech treason.”
Then looked every man over his shoulder hastily.
“Wat was drunk,” quoth one after a little.
“When a man 's drunk he spills more than his victual,” other answered him.
“Wat Tyler biddeth you to Smithfield, all the Fellowship!” bawled the crier.
“Wat Tyler's leader of the Fellowship, what harm?”
“Or John Ball?”
“I 'm of Jack Straw's ményé.”
“Good folk, good folk, to Smithfield,—do the King's bidding!” shouted another crier.
“Afore all I 'm King's man,” said a Kentish villein.
“And I!”
“And I!”
“God keep the King!”
These things, and more after this same manner, the people said one to another in the way to Smithfield. By New Gate they went, and Moor Gate and Alders Gate, for this Smithfield was without the wall beyond Saint Bartholomew's; a market square, wherein butchers slaughtered their beef, a foul, ill-smelling place; and every man that went thither on that June day was in some kind a butcher, with hosen bespattered with blood, and brown patches dried on tabard and courtepy. Neither had they cleaned their knives and knotted bludgeons, but came as they were to Smithfield, dull-eyed with wine and sleep.
“What is to be the end?” they said; and there were some whispered: “'T were well if we had let be the Flemings”—
“Lay not that on us! 'T is the London men shall answer for 't.”
“I saw a-many men from Kent did”—
“Mark ye, brothers, 't is not the Flemings will undo us, but old Simon, the Archbishop. There was a foul deed.” So spake Hobbe the smith, and all they that heard him crossed themselves.
“Who saith we 're undone?” blustered a fellow out of Sussex. “Have we not the King's pardon, and villeinage is dead?”
Nevertheless, 't was a sober company choked the narrow streets and swayed about the gates pressing to Smithfield.
And now the King came forth from the Garde Robe, his white-lipped nobles with him, and rode through Temple Bar and along the Strand past Charing Cross and John of Gaunt's blackened palace to the Abbey at Westminster. Mayor Walworth was with the King, and Salisbury and Buckingham and the other nobles that had sheltered in the Tower, but they were not many, and they were very pale. Stephen walked with his hand on the King's bridle, and this was the last time he should do the King this service, but he was not aware, nor the King neither. Nevertheless, Stephen knew that he must one day reckon with the nobles; and if not with the nobles then with the peasants. Howbeit, in this hour he took no keep of his own soul and body, but pondered how the quarrel should end.
There was little speech among the nobles. These were brave men, but faint with much watching and bewildered. That all England should be turned up-so-down by peasants and common folk was a thing not to be believed; nevertheless, the nobles knew that the Prior of Bury Saint Edmunds was slain by a mob near Newmarket, and also Sir John Cavendish, Chief Justice of England, who was on circuit in Suffolk, but the rioters overtook him hard by Lakenheath. They knew that Saint Albans was up, and already rumours were come up out of Northampton and Cambridge and Oxford. There was fear of Leicestershire and Somerset; what Yorkshire would do might not be determined. 'T was whispered that many lords of manors and noble ladies wandered homeless amid the forests of Kent, bewailing their manor-houses sacked and burned. These things the nobles pondered as they rode from the city to Westminster on Saturday, being the fifteenth day of June in that year, the fourth of King Richard II.
Howbeit, neither at Westminster was found peace, for there came forth of the Abbey a procession of monks, penitents, bearing the cross. Then with groans and tears did these monks tell their tale:—
“O Lord King, the Abbey is defiled!”
“At the shrine of that most holy one, Edward the Confessor, blood is spilled.”
“Sire, avenge us!”
“Richard Imworth is slain, King Richard.”
“Richard Imworth, warden of the Marshalsea, is murdered, sire!”
“His hand was even on the tomb of the Confessor.”
“The people have shed blood in the church!”
“Sire, punish!”
“Who will save us?—The Archbishop is slain!”
Then did Richard light down off his horse and kissed the cross; and my Lord Buckingham, the King's uncle,—that strong man,—burst into tears and ran into the church. And presently, all those great nobles and puissant gentlemen were within, running up and down with tears and sighs to kiss and clasp the shrines and the most holy relics, sobbing and shuddering liker to weak women than warriors; striving as who should kneel more close to holiness,—and all the tombs and sacred places wet with their weeping. King Richard knelt to pray at the Confessor's shrine and bade call a father to confess him his sins, which when he had done, the King went out soberly to his horse. And all this while Stephen stood without the church holding the King's horse by the bridle. So when the King was in his saddle they two waited silent, and one after one the knights and nobles came forth; and 't would seem they were greatly strengthened by those prayers and confessions, for now they spoke together somewhat concerning ways and means.
“If the peasants can be drawn forth of the city and the gates closed, sire,‘ said Walworth, ’methinks we may hold against them. There be many loyal citizens of London, and many more since yesterday, for there begin to be murmurings against Wat Tyler.”
“My Lord Mayor,” said Buckingham harshly, “you will do well to remember that one walketh at the King's bridle who maketh boast to serve these rebels.”
“I am the King's servant likewise,” said Stephen.
“Were the good Archbishop on live,” quoth Salisbury very grave, “I make no doubt he would say a man may not serve two masters.”
“The King and the people are one, my lord.”
There was a murmur, yet none dared speak openly his discontent.
Then said Richard, nor turned his face to right nor left but rode straight forward: “The King is the people.”
Nevertheless, neither Stephen nor the nobles might read his meaning, and 't were marvel if himself knew what he would do.
So they rode again through Temple Bar, but at Lud Gate they turned northward without the city wall and on past New Gate, where peasants followed them. And when they had passed by Saint Bartholomew's they came into Smithfield, and the people were pressed together, a mighty throng, at one side of the open square and beyond. But Will Langland was not with the peasants at this time; he knelt in his cot on Cornhill by the side of his wife, chaunting a prayer for the dead, and his daughter was on her knees at the other side, and there burned tall tapers at head and foot of the bier. It may well be that those deeds which befel at Smithfield had not befallen thus and so if Will Langland and his daughter Calote had been in that company; but as concerning these things, who shall prophesy?
Now what followeth is known right well of all the world, to wit, that part that is writ in the chronicles, as how Wat Tyler came across the square sole alone to have speech of the nobles; and this he did without fear, being upholden by that law of chivalry whereby a herald and a messenger may not be evil entreated of an enemy; and these were knights and gentles, flow'r of chivalry, wherefore though Wat Tyler loved them not at all, yet did he trust them. Nevertheless, he spake too bold, with a brawling tongue and small courtesy. He made plain that he would be master, and the people was minded to rule England.
“Give me the King's dagger!” quoth he curt; and Richard gave his dagger into his squire's hand and bade him give to Wat Tyler; and Stephen did the King's bidding. Good Mayor Walworth, at the King's right hand, swelled purple, and those others, nobles, cursed betwixt their teeth.
Then said Wat Tyler: “I will have the King's sword.”
“Nay, Wat, art mad?” protested Stephen. “This is majesté, have a care!”
“Let him take the sword an he will,” said the King, and Wat Tyler put forth his hand to take it, but the Lord Mayor might not any longer withhold his wrath, and on a sudden he had struck Wat, who fell down off his horse; and, hatred being let loose, those knights and noble gentlemen immediately stabbed him so that he died. Then looked they one on another, and on this man that had trusted them. And into their shamed silence came voices of the peasants across the square.
“What 's to hap?”
“They are making him a knight!”
“Yea, yea!”
“I saw the blow!”
“Nay, hath fallen.”
“Treason!”
“Wat!—Treason!”
“Slain!”
As they were carven in stone those nobles stood, white horror stiffened on their faces, to see a thousand bowstrings drawn as one, and deadly long-bows bent;—'t would seem all England held her breath awaiting chaos. Then King Richard, that fair child, true son of Plantagenet, rode out into that moment's tottering stillness, alone, with his face set towards those thousand straining arrows.
“I am your leader!” he cried, “I am your King!” and came into their midst smiling.
They leaped about him crying and singing, as 't were his valour had made them drunk. A-many broke their bows in twain across their knees. As on the Friday at Mile End, so now they kissed his feet; blessings went up as incense. And he laughed with them and wept and called them brothers.
“This is to be a king!” he cried with arms uplift to heaven. For he knew that he was ruler of England in that hour.
A little while he stayed with them, their eyes worshipful upturned ever to his as he rode hither and yon in the press, their voices, gladsome wild, ever in his ear, till the spell of their love so wrought with him that he was made a lover. In his heart Mercy and Truth were met together, Rightwisness and Peace had kissed. If his people had wronged him, he knew it not; Love sat in the seat of Memory, Suspicion had drunk a sleeping potion.
“This is to be a king!” cried Richard.
"'Then came there a king, knighthood him led,
Might of the commons made him to reign.'"
And John Ball at his stirrup said, also out of the Vision:—
"'Love is leech of life and next our Lord's self,
And also the straight way that goeth into heaven.'"
“Heaven?” murmured Richard, and after very soft, twixt prayer and amaze, “Thy kingdom come.”
So he turned about and rode at a slow pace, as one in a dream, across the square to his nobles, and there was on his face a shining look as of one who seeth a vision.
“This is the bravest man in all England to-day, and he is our King,” said old Salisbury, and Richard smiled, eyes and mouth radiant, flashing as the sun.
Then said Mayor Walworth, who was ever a blunt man, “Now will I ride swift into the city, sire, and man the wards and bring hither Sir Robert Knollys, and his retainers shall surround these fellows and break their pride.”
Richard turned to look on the Mayor, the smile fading. As one that waketh out of a sweet dream and encountereth the old perplexity he had thought was laid, so Richard stared; and there grew in his eyes a look of fear.
“What need?” he said, and drew rein as he would scape anew to his people.
Then came the Earl of Salisbury close, and who had looked in the old man's face the while he spoke to Richard might not fail to see a great pity therein.
“Sire,” he said, and the pity was in his voice likewise,—“sire, 't were not wise these peasants come again into the city. They have wrought too great havoc; we may not trust them.”
As one who strives to gather his wits Richard sat, with dumb eyes fixed on the old Earl. His lip quivered.
Salisbury began anew, very patient and soft, as one speaketh to a creature that is frighted, or to a child: “My lord, the people have obtained that they asked, now they ought to disperse and wend them homeward. To this end 't were well thou lead them out into the fields to speed them on their way.”
“Yea,” Richard answered slow. “Then what need of Sir Richard Knollys and his retainers?”
“The men of Kent must go again through London to cross the river by the Bridge,—bethink thee of yesterday, sire”—
“Yesterday is dead!” the boy cried. “I and my people are at peace!”
“Natheless, sire, hearts are as tinder.”
“Then wherefore set them afire by the steel of armed knights?”
“Nay, my liege, but if these peasants be penitent, wherefore shall they refuse to be escorted thorough that fair city wherein they behaved so ill?”
“I will not betray my people,” cried Richard, a sob in his voice.
“Disperse them only, my lord. Though there be many loyal, natheless we do know of sureté that there be certain among them like to this Tyler, would make themselves King. Thyself hast seen how they are easily led this way and that, for good or ill. Remember the Archbishop, sire.”
There shot a spasm of anguish athwart the King's face. “I will lead them into the fields. They shall be dispersed,” he said with a loud, unsteady voice. “But I have set them free. I will not betray them! I will not betray them!”
And riding away he was presently in the midst of the peasant rout, laughing, leading them to Clerkenwell. But his cheeks were fever-bright, and the look of fear faded not out of his eyes. With quips and merry gests he lured them on, and he bethought him how that Stephen had said that night in the Tower, “They 'll be led like little children,” and so they were.
“Hearken, my people,” said Richard, wistful, “none standeth between us any more. Would ye that Wat Tyler had made himself your King?”
“King Richard!—King Richard!” they shouted.
“None standeth between us any more, mes amis,—neither noble, nor common man”—
“Nor archbishop,” cried one, but a tumult of voices smothered him, with:—
“Nay—'t was Wat slew the Archbishop!”
And when they saw the cloud on Richard's brow, they cried yet more loud, as in a frenzy:—
“'T was Wat!—'t was Wat! Long live King Richard!”
But John Ball was not now in that throng, nor Jack Straw; they had fled away.
And now came Sir Robert Knollys with his knights and men-at-arms, retainers, surrounding the peasants that were as patient as silly sheep, for they looked upon their young shepherd and trusted him. So when certain of those soldiers would have fallen upon the people to slay them, King Richard arose in his saddle and forbade them, saying in anger:—
“These are my children,—mine! mine!—Let not a hair of their heads be harmed. If they had hearts of men, might they not slay me even now, beholding this foul ambush by which they are taken? But they are as babes doing my bidding. They have faith, even though I lead them into bondage.”
Then he burst into tears, very passionate, and screamed loud and hoarse:—
“I have set them free! Do ye hearken?—I have set them free,—free! O Christ, I am not traitor to my people!”
My Lord Salisbury likewise forbade violence, and Richard, when he had dried his tears and got his voice, spoke again to the people and made them to know as how the men of Kent must homeward, and others in peace to north and west. And when they had set forth obedient, Richard rode into the city, the light as of a conqueror in his eyes. Nevertheless, behind this there lurked the look of fear.
Meanwhile in Smithfield Wat Tyler lay dead of his wounds. And when Richard led the peasants out to Clerkenwell, and the nobles rode into the city to bring succour, Stephen only remained. But presently John Ball came forth of a house, and when they two saw that no man hindered, they took up the body of poor Wat and bore it within the Church of St. Bartholomew and laid it decently at the east end of the nave.
“Wat hath lost us London,” said John Ball. “But who might believe that true knights and noble gentlemen would so sin against courtesy! Our hope now is to keep the shires stirring. I 'll not stay in this death-trap, but carry the spark to northward. Yorkshire ought to be up by now, if the message carried, and Cheshire, and Somerset. God keep thee, brother! While the breath 's in our bodies we may fan the flame.” The priest was gone, and Stephen sat him down by the body to watch.
So after the day was won and the peasants scattered, Mayor Walworth bethought him of Wat Tyler and came again to Smithfield to seek him. But finding naught except blood where the dead man had fallen, he searched diligently, as did two aldermen that were with him, and in the end they found that they sought.
“Have him forth!” said the Mayor. “'T is no place for traitors in a church.”
“Good Master Walworth,” pleaded Stephen, “this man was more honest than many. He followed truth,—and we be all stumblers. If he sought to take the King, what did he more than John of Gaunt would do, or others of the noblesse? I have lived with Wat Tyler as he were my brother;—I know him that he sinned being ambitious, but this sin he shareth with John of Gaunt and better men; and not for himself alone did he desire to rule England, but for the sake of the poor that is so down-trodden. But John of Gaunt for power and his own sake only. I know him that he was a wrathful man,—but who so wrathful wild as Earl Percy of Northumberland, natheless men do him courtesy.”
“Master Fitzwarine,” made answer the Mayor, “give up thy sword and yield thee prisoner, for that thou defendest traitors and murderers, disturbers of the King's peace. This man hath slain the Archbishop of Canterbury.”
“'T is very true, if Wat Tyler is traitor then am I likewise,” said Stephen, and gave up his sword. And one of the aldermen bound him with a rope to lead him away. Then did Mayor Walworth take Wat Tyler's body by the heels, and dragged it forth into Smithfield and hewed the head from the trunk. This he did with Stephen's sword. After, he gave the head to that other alderman, not him that bound Stephen, and bade him take down the Archbishop's head from London Bridge and set Wat Tyler's where that one had hung; and these things were done. But Stephen was cast into a dungeon in the Tower.