Chapter Twenty Two.
Richard the Second, the Boy who quelled a Tumult.
A vast, disorderly rabble thronged the great open space of Smithfield, in London, on one side of which stood the venerable Abbey of Saint Bartholomew, now occupied by the hospital of that name. The men who composed it were rough and wild, and, for the most part, shouted and clutched their clubs and bows in a meaningless sort of way, which plainly showed that they were not very clear in their own minds as to the object of their assembling together, but that they came and shouted and threatened because their leaders did so.
These leaders were few in number, and but that they were mounted, and armed with swords and daggers, not to be distinguished from their followers, for they were rough, wild men—men too whose occupation seemed to be more in the way of herding cattle and plying their hammers than leading an army of 20,000 rioters, or brandishing their swords against a government.
Yet, though many of these rebels seemed not to comprehend the why and the wherefore of their demonstration, there were not a few who looked very much—nay, cruelly—in earnest, who talked vehemently and scowled, and seemed, by the way they gripped their arms, determined to enforce their demands against any man, be he noble, or baron, or king. From some of the groups one might have heard excited utterances like the following:—
“We will have our rights or die! Why do our leaders halt?”
“The king is expected!”
“Nay, then, let us slay him, who is the head of all our wrongs!”
“Not so; the king has already granted what we first demanded; and we are gathered now because Wat Tyler demands yet more.”
“God save Wat Tyler! Was it not he who struck the first blow against the tyrant?”
“It was. The nobles demanded a poll tax on every man, woman, boy, and girl in the land; and when one of their collectors would exact it from Wat Tyler, at his place in Dartford, and (disbelieving his word concerning the age of his young daughter) vilely insulted the maiden, he arose and slew the wretch with his hammer. And so this business began.”
“Huzzah for Wat Tyler! Down with the tyrant!”
“Nay, friend; our cause was a good one when it began, but since then Wat and his friends have, to my mind, done us and themselves damage by their bloodthirstiness and their unreasonableness. Have they not demolished palaces and temples? Have they not butchered an archbishop and nobles and harmless citizens? Have they not insulted noble ladies? And now, when their demands have all been satisfied by the young king, they demand yet more, and become themselves the tyrants.”
“A traitor!—a traitor! Who speaks against our brave Wat Tyler? Kill the traitor! Down with tyranny! Death to the king! God save the people!”
With such clamour and angry talk did the crowd agitate itself, till suddenly there arose a cry. “The king comes!”
And there rode up fearlessly, at the head of sixty men, a boy, only fifteen years old, at sight of whom these rebels hung their heads and let their wild clamour die on their lips. A few of the most determined looked black as they regarded the royal boy, and noted the effect his frank carriage had on their followers.
“I am come,” said King Richard, rising on his horse at a few paces from the front of the crowd, “as I promised, to confer with my subjects and hear their grievances. Let your leader advance and speak with me.”
Then Wat Tyler turned to his followers and said to them, “I will go speak with him; do you abide my signal, then come on and slay all save the young king; he will serve us better as a humble captive in our hands, to lead through the land and bring all men to our service, than as a slaughtered tyrant at our feet.”
So he put spurs to his horse and advanced towards the king, whom he approached so close that the flank of the horse touched that of the king’s. Richard, nothing daunted by this threatening demeanour, turned courteously towards him and waited for him to speak.
“Do you see this concourse of people?” began Wat, rudely, pointing towards the now silent crowd.
“I see them,” said the boy. “What have you to ask on their behalf?”
“These men,” said Tyler, “have sworn, one and all, to obey me in all things, and to follow in whatever enterprise I shall lead them, and they will not go hence till you grant us our petition.”
“And I will grant it,” replied the boy, frankly, for the demands to which Wat Tyler now alluded had reference to the rights of the people to hunt and fish on common lands. “I will grant it.”
What followed history does not very clearly record. Among the followers of the king, Wat, it is said, caught sight of a knight whom for some reason he hated. Turning his attention from the king, he glared angrily at his enemy, and, putting his hand on the hilt of his dagger, exclaimed, “By my faith, I will never eat bread till I have thy head!” At that same instant up rode Sir William Walworth, the Lord Mayor of London, who, seeing the menacing gesture of the insurgent leader, and hearing his threatening speech, immediately concluded he was about to attack the person of the young king. Quick as thought, Sir William drew his dagger, and before any one could interpose or hold him back, he struck Wat Tyler in the throat, and his attendants following with repeated blows, the leader of the people fell from his horse a dead man! All this was so suddenly done, and so astonished the onlookers, that Wat Tyler was already dead before a hand was moved or a voice raised on either side. Then there rose an angry shout from those twenty thousand rebels, as they saw their leader down. “We are betrayed!” they cried; “they have killed our leader!” And with that they raised their bows and pointed their shafts at the heart of the young king.
But they lowered them in amazement when, instead of shrinking and cowering behind his knights, they saw the lad put spurs to his horse and gallop, all by himself, up to the very place where they stood. “Men,” he cried, “follow me; I am your king, and I will be your captain! Wat Tyler was a traitor; no ill shall befall you if you make me your leader.”
The brave words disarmed that great crowd as if by magic; the men who had just now shouted, “Long live Wat Tyler!” now shouted with a mighty shout, “Long live our King Richard!”
The insurrection was at an end, the confidence of the people returned once more to their rulers, and they marched that day from Smithfield, under the leadership of their young king, as far as the country hamlet of Islington, there quietly to disperse to their own homes and resume once again their ordinary pursuits.