They were silent. There it was, growing louder.
‘Something is happening in the City,’ said Thomas. ‘I’ll swear it concerns yesterday’s trouble at Wycliffe’s trial.’
‘The people are in revolt,’ said Joan. She had turned pale. She was afraid of the people when they raised their voices and were in protest. Mobs were terrifying. Even when their causes were just they lost all sense of reason when they were massed together. There could be bloodshed.
She was thankful that Richard was here with her.
They stood by the window watching. Thomas pointed out the thread of smoke which was rising to the sky.
‘They are rioting,’ said Joan. ‘Oh, my God, what does this mean?’
‘It must be something to do with Wycliffe.’
‘The people were for him, I am sure.’
‘Look,’ cried Richard. ‘It is my uncle’s barge.’
It was indeed and in it was John of Gaunt with Lord Percy, the Marshal. The speed with which the barge came along the river indicated that they were in flight.
They all ran out of the palace and down to the river steps.
As John of Gaunt leaped out of the barge, Joan seized his hand and cried: ‘What news? What news?’
‘There is a riot. The people have gone mad.’
‘Against Wycliffe?’
‘Nay. They have nothing against Wycliffe. They are threatening to kill me.’
‘You are safe here,’ said Joan.
How strange, thought Richard, that they should hate this uncle who looked so splendid always in his beautiful clothes. Richard could not help noticing his clothes even at a moment like this. His short tunic of rich velvet, the girdle at his waist in which was a dagger, and a purse of leather most beautifully embossed. The tippets which hung from his sleeves reached to his knees. They were most elegant and it was hard to believe that such grace could have suffered the indignity of flight from the mob.
‘They hate me, Joan,’ said Uncle John. ‘They have made up their minds to hate me. Any crime they can think of they accuse me of. They insist on believing that I am some sort of changeling.’
‘No one of any sense believes such lies,’ said Joan. ‘But you are distraught. Did this begin in the church?’
‘It is that stiff-necked Courtenay. I’ll not forget this.’
He is proud, thought Richard. He hates me to see him thus, in flight from the mob.
‘Let us go in quickly,’ said Joan. She is afraid, thought Richard, that they will seek him here.
If they did come he would go out to meet them. He would say: ‘I am Richard of Bordeaux. I shall be your King. Hear me!’ or something brave like that. And when they saw him all their anger would melt away and they would love him and shout blessings on him.
‘Come along, Richard,’ said his mother.
She always looked to him first and had taken him by the arm. She seemed to forget that he would soon be a king.
Later news was brought to Kennington of how the rioters had gone to the Marshalsea and sacked it. Shortly afterwards came the news that they had marched on the Savoy Palace.
John was horrified, but thankful that Catherine had had the foresight to leave with the children.
It was ironical that William Courtenay should have been the one to stop the mob from doing more damage at the Savoy. He must be grateful to the Bishop but even in the midst of his relief he wished it had been someone else whom he must thank.
It had been an ugly scene though. It showed clearly how the resentment of the people was ready to flow over at the slightest provocation.
Nor did the matter end there. This quarrel between the Duke of Lancaster and the City of London could not be allowed to fester. There must at least be some outward sign of reconciliation. If the matter was not settled in a satisfactory manner it would mean that at any moment another riot such as that just experienced could take place.
Joan anxiously discussed the matter with her brother-in-law. How she needed her strong purposeful honourable husband beside her now! Her fears were all for Richard. He was going to inherit a country not only impoverished by the Black Death and the French wars but torn by internal strife.
‘You could help to bring about a reconciliation,’ said John. ‘The people like you. You are the mother of the heir whom they have taken to their hearts. There must be a meeting between myself and the representatives of the City. I must let them know that I wish to be their friend and they must give an undertaking that there shall be no more wanton destruction as that which has just occurred.’
Joan saw the point of this. She did not like the role assigned to her but she realised it must be played for the sake of Richard.
She sent for Sir Simon Burley whom she trusted more than any and asked him what could be done. He saw the point at once. There must be no more riots. It must be made clear to the citizens of London that no encroachment on their liberties was planned.
‘Simon, you could explain this. Select two of my knights. Go to the Mayor and talk to him. Please do this, for my sake … for Richard’s sake.’
Simon set out for London accompanied by Sir Aubrey de Vere and Sir Lewis Clifford.
He was received graciously but was told that London demanded the release of Peter de la Mare and William of Wykeham. They wanted to hear from the lips of the King and from his only that their conditions were acceptable.
Lancaster went with all speed to Westminster where he found the King even more feeble than when he had last seen him.
‘What is this trouble?’ he asked testily.
John explained.
‘You shouldn’t be bothered with these people, my love,’ said Alice.
‘I will see them for you,’ replied John.
‘You’re my good son,’ said the King. ‘I do not know what I should do without you … and Alice.’
John was content. This John Philipot whom the Londoners had chosen for their spokesman would have a surprise when he found that instead of having an interview with the King he was faced with the Duke of Lancaster.
But John Philipot was not to be brushed aside.
He bowed and said: ‘My lord, I came to see the King. My instructions are that I shall see none other.’
‘The King is too ill to see you. I am acting for the King.’
A cynical smile touched the man’s lips. John of Gaunt was certainly not the man to arrange the settlement of the quarrel between himself and the people of London.
‘Then I will return and we will see what the citizens have to say,’ he replied, and he left.
It soon became clear that the citizens were determined. They would see the King and none other.
It was at times such as this that Edward could arouse himself from the lethargy which had taken possession of him.
For a few hours he was like the old King.
He received Philipot and how different was the man’s attitude towards his King from what it had been to John of Gaunt. He might be the sickly lecher, but he was still the great King under whom the country had grown rich and prosperous, who had brought home booty from France – though never the Crown. He was still Great Edward and even now that could be apparent.
He knew how to disarm Philipot; he knew how to placate the Londoners.
Of course de la Mare should have a fair trial. So also should the Bishop of Winchester. They need have no fear of that. The Mayor to be replaced by a Captain! This might have been suggested in Parliament but they could rest assured that that was something he would never give his consent to.
Philipot was overcome by that Plantagenet charm; that ability of Edward’s to cast aside his royalty at the right moment and talk to a man as his equal.
Philipot assured the King that the riot had been started by a few unruly people. The City could not be blamed for that. There would always be such people.