"Aye, aye, burn the court-rolls—burn the court-rolls!" ran from mouth to mouth. "We defy the lords to claim rent or service then."
"Yes," cried Holgrave, starting up eagerly, "if the court-rolls are burned, who can claim the bondman?"
"Aye, or, as you said just now, Jack Straw, who can say to his vassal 'You owe me this service or that service,'" added the smith.
This proposition was then eagerly adopted and decided upon without a dissentient voice.
The reader may, perhaps, be surprised that all this should pass without eliciting either opposition or remark from the king of Norfolk; but the fact was, that Leicester, although in general a very temperate man, had been so much pleased with the flavour of Wat Turner's wine, and had so often replenished his cup that he had not been, for the last half hour, precisely in a situation either to combat or agree to any proposition. Indeed, had any of the members been bold enough to submit a motion, depriving him of his kingship elect, it is a question if he would have resisted, so much was the natural arrogance and asperity of his temper softened by the genial beverage.
The wine, too, began to exhibit many other of the confederates in colours very different from such as they had at first shewn, but the change generally was not such as was wrought in Leicester;—for vindictive cruelty and selfish rapacity might now be detected in many of those who, at the outset, had spoken only of justice and right. Then, too, were put forth the claims which each fancied he possessed of ranking above his fellows. "Did not I provide so many clubs or spears—or, did not I or my father, or uncle," as the case might be, "give so much corn to make bread—or so much silk to make a banner—or so much leather to make jacks," &c.
"And have not I," said Turner, whom an extra cup had made more than usually a braggart; "Have not I forged as many spear-heads as ye can find handles for? and has not John Tickle, the London doublet-maker, made me sixty as stout leathern doublets as man could wish to wear? and can I not bring the tough sinews of the brave Kentish men to strike down the hirelings of that foul council which has brought all this misery on the people?—and will ye talk of your pitiful gifts? Am not I the right hand of the prophet?——"
"The prophet disdains the aid of the boaster!" said John Ball, walking up to the chair which had stood so long empty, and looking sternly round upon the confederates. "Is it thus that ye talk when ye assemble? Are wine-bibbers, and railers, and boasters, to lead the people to justice? Is the bondman to put off his yoke by means of those who contend for the highest places? Shame!—shame to ye!" and his eye rested upon Turner.
For an instant, as the monk spoke, the smith's cheek glowed, and he thought it was not kindly done to reprove, in so marked a manner, one who, through rescuing him, had been compelled to fly like a felon, and assume a name that did not belong to his father. However, he had been accustomed to pay implicit obedience to the monk.
"Father John," said he, "it was not for the sake of boasting I spoke: what Wat Turner does, he does because he thinks it is right. I ought to have said Wat Tyler," he added, recollecting himself and looking round; "but the truth will out, and there's no use in making a secret. Some of ye do know the truth already, and some do not: but, however, I'll now tell ye, that because in a quarrel I happened to kill one of Lord de Boteler's retainers, I came here to Maidstone and took the name of poor old Wat Tyler, my mother's brother—peace to his soul! and made the folks believe that I was a sort of a runaway son."