London - Edward Rutherfurd [259]
Ducket noticed something else, too. Asked where they came from, nearly all these peasants spoke of themselves proudly as men of Kent, or Kentish men, as if they were a tribe. Had he been across the Thames with the Essex men, it would have been the same. Angles, Jutes, the various groups of Saxons, Viking Danes and Celts – England like every country in Europe was still a patchwork of old tribal lands. And that evening Ducket began to understand what every wise ruler of England knew, that London was a community, but that the counties, in time of trouble, would always revert to a more ancient order.
If the men from Kent meant no harm to the king, as Carpenter assured him, Ducket was not so sure about their other intentions. When he asked one fellow what he thought of the sermon, the man replied: “He ought to be Archbishop of Canterbury.”
“He will be,” said his companion grimly, “when we’ve killed this one.”
Ducket mulled over these words as he went to sleep.
The dawn promised another fine day, but Ducket felt hungry and there did not seem to be any food in the camp. He wondered what would happen next. The sun had not been up long, however, when the whole company, on an order from Tyler, began to move over the edge of the heath and down the broad, handsome slope to the Thames at Greenwich. As they did so, Ducket realized that the huge horde of Essex men was gathering across the river opposite them.
They waited an hour. Another passed, and Ducket was ready to leave when he saw a large and handsome barge, accompanied by four others, being rowed down the stream towards them. It was the boy king. Ducket watched, fascinated, as the barge drew near. It was full of richly dressed men, the great ones of the kingdom, he supposed. But there was no mistaking the tall, slim, flaxen-haired youth who stood at the front for all to see. Richard II of England was fourteen. A few months before, having reached his majority, he had taken the reins of government into his own hands. His council, led by the terrified and hopeless archbishop, had begged him not to go. But the son of the Black Prince had courage. He was a fine figure, Ducket thought, standing there in the morning sunlight.
The roar that greeted him was huge and echoed across the river. The figures in the barge, except for the boy king, looked frightened. The barge was stopped about twenty yards from the bank. Then the young king raised his arm, the crowd hushed, and in a clear voice he called out to them.
“Sirs, I have come. What have you to say to me?” Ducket noticed that he had a slight stammer.
In answer came another roar in which Ducket could make out many cries. “Long live King Richard.” “Bless the king.” And more ominously: “Give us the archbishop’s head.” “Where are the traitors?” After a few moments, Ducket saw Tyler order some men to row out to the royal barge with a petition. He saw the king read it. “Tyler’s asking for the heads of all the traitors,” someone said close by. Then Ducket saw the king shrug, shake his head, and the royal barge turned round.
“Treason,” the crowd now roared. “Treason!” as the barge departed. Then came the cry: “Let’s march.”
English history would have been changed if the men on the bridge had only listened to Bull. Purple in the face, he stood in the middle of London Bridge, watched anxiously from the house by Tiffany, his wife and the servants, and bellowed at the alderman on the horse: “In the name of God, man, do as you were told. Raise the drawbridge.”
He was absolutely correct: the mayor’s instructions had been explicit. Yet as the huge horde from Kent swept through Southwark, this alderman in charge of the bridge refused his orders. “Leave it down,” he said.
Why? Was it treachery, as many later said? The charge made no sense. Fear of the mob if he crossed them? Possibly. But the day before, three of his fellow aldermen had gone out to Blackheath and reported back that Tyler and his men were loyal and harmless. It seems they had persuaded