Oddly enough the crowd fell back. The riders whipped up their horses. The carriage lumbered forward. A cheer went up from the crowd but Joan heard the undercurrent of growling.
But she was away. She had saved her life.
‘For the love of God,’ she cried, ‘get to London with all speed.’
The Queen Mother’s party had left the peasants’ army some miles behind as it came across London Bridge and into the Tower where the King was at this time.
She burst into the King’s apartment and found him in the company of several of his friends including the Earl of Oxford who had become his almost inseparable companion, and his cousin Henry of Bolingbroke who like the King was in his fifteenth year.
‘There is no time to lose,’ she cried. ‘The peasants are marching to London. They are looting and pillaging as they go. Something must be done at once.’
Neither the King nor his friends had any solution to offer and when Joan heard that the Archbishop of Canterbury was at the Tower she sent for him at once.
Simon of Sudbury was a very old man. He was resigned to his fate for he had no doubt what it would be if he fell into the rebels’ hands. He was, in their opinion, the arch-villain because he had imprisoned their hero John Ball. They had murdered others; there would be no respite for him.
He came to the King and laid the seal of England on the table. He was resigning the office of Chancellor which he had held in addition to that of Archbishop.
‘This is no solution,’ cried Joan. ‘What shall we do?’
She felt angry with these men who had nothing to offer.
‘We shall have to fight them,’ said Henry of Bolingbroke. ‘We cannot let them come into London.’
A boy not yet fifteen. He had the right spirit, but what use was such a child!
Richard was trying to look like a king.
He said: ‘I will speak to them.’
Children! thought Joan. They none of them understand.
A servant was at the door.
‘The Lord Mayor asks to see you, my lord.’
Richard said: ‘Send him in.’
Joan’s spirits rose. Here was a man of action. William Walworth, Lord Mayor of London, who was not going to see his City decimated by a pack of rebels.
‘My lord, the peasants are very close,’ he said. ‘We must take action against them. As soon as my lady’s carriage crossed the bridge I had it drawn up and men are now putting a chain across to restrict entry.’
‘Thank you, my Lord Mayor,’ said Richard and Joan smiled her approval.
‘These men are desperate,’ said the Mayor. ‘They have armed themselves with weapons of a sort. They are dangerous but we can outwit them.’
Joan was relieved. Here at last was a man of action.
The peasant army had come to rest at Blackheath. Now that they were within a few miles of London some of the more reasonable men – leaders like Wat Tyler and John Ball – could see that destruction and bloodshed were not their ultimate goal. There were some – like the Archbishop Simon of Sudbury, who must be executed – but they wished no harm to the King. They believed that it might be possible to guide him.
‘We should give the King an opportunity of listening to our grievances,’ said John Ball. ‘He would know nothing of them. How could he? He is only a boy. Let us send a messenger to him and ask for a meeting.’
John Ball had that special kind of magnetism which could sway a crowd. He knew and so did Wat Tyler that many of their followers were not men of ideals but thieves and vagabonds looking for easy pickings such as an adventure like this could provide.
But it was not what John Ball wanted. He wanted reforms. He was a man of God, he told them; and he did not want to see fine buildings destroyed. He wanted to preserve them for the people.
They should parley with the King and they had with them a hostage in the person of Sir John Newton. They also held his family. They had pillaged his mansion and he was their prisoner. They would now make use of him. He should go to the King with a proposition that there should be a meeting between the King and the rebel leaders.
So while the army camped at Blackheath, Sir John rode into London to the Tower. As an officer of the royal household there was no delay in admitting him; and he was soon giving the King the message.
There was a cry of protest from the King’s advisers, chief of them the Earl of Salisbury and his treasurer, Sir John Hales. Richard, though, saw in this a chance to prove himself a King. He was not afraid of his people, he said. He had never heard a voice raised against him. And if he could see these people he was sure he could convince them that he wished them well.
The Archbishop shook his head. ‘You do not understand, my lord. These people are ruffians. They are intent on destruction.’
‘They are my people,’ said Richard with dignity.
He felt a sudden exultation. It was the sort of incident he had dreamed of; he believed that with his gentle smile and soft words he could persuade his people that they had the love and good will of their King.
Strangely enough it was his mother who thought that he might be right. She remembered vividly her own encounter with the rebels on the road and how they had cheered her – admittedly a little ironically – as they had allowed her to ride on after themselves freeing her carriage wheels from the mire.
‘Let the King go,’ she said. ‘He will remain in the barge, and if there is any danger he can escape by the river. Do not let him go ashore if there is any possibility of their harming him. But it would be wrong to ignore this request.’
The King said: ‘It is my decision, and I have decided to go.’
It was true that he was the King. He had never asserted his authority before. But he was certainly doing so now and since he spoke so authoritatively they must give way.
The barge set out. It was unfortunate that Simon of Sudbury with John Hales were members of the party – although of course their position in the country demanded they should be.
As they were rowed along the river and came in sight of the ragged army a great shout went up. There was the King himself – the beautiful fair-haired boy with the innocent smile. They would have given a cheer for him if they had not seen on either side of him the men they hated more than any, Simon of Sudbury the very Archbishop who had sent John Ball to gaol, and Treasurer Hales, the man who had collected all that money which was at the very root of their troubles.
‘Give us Simon,’ they chanted. ‘We want Simon’s head. Give us Simon.’
John Hales said: ‘We cannot parley with such men. They are bent on murder.’
As if in answer to him the people began to shout. ‘There’s Hales. The tax collector. We want his head. We’ll have his head.’
‘My lord,’ said the Archbishop to Richard, ‘you see there is no hope of making these people see reason.’
‘They will not harm me,’ said Richard. ‘Put me ashore.’
‘My lord, they would be aboard the barge if we went to the shore. They would drag out the Archbishop and murder him.
We dare not trust your royal body to them. The Queen Mother would never forgive us.’
Richard wavered. He was uncertain. He would not have been afraid of the mob. He believed they would love him. But they did hate the Archbishop. It would be cruel to hand him to them.
The royal barge turned and went back to the Tower. The shouts of derision from the banks slowly faded away.
But this was the signal. They would march on London now. They would take the City and nothing should prevent them.