Freedom from the crippling chains of the angels.
Sudden tears pricked Tyler’s eyes. Freedom for the common man would be so hard to achieve, and Tyler was perfectly aware that the next few weeks could end in his death, as Etienne Marcel’s struggle had ended in his death.
Then he sighed, and pushed away his maudlin thoughts. Better to think of John Ball who had spent the past nine months rotting in Canterbury’s prison.
Time, soon, to set him and his glorious talents free. Tyler smiled grimly, and stepped out down the road.
JACK STRAW straightened, dropping his weeding hook and rubbing his aching back as he did so. A man was walking down the track between the two fields, waving as he saw Jack rise and look.
Jack frowned, squinting. Who was it? Not any of the men from his village … nor any from the neighboring estates.
He was just about to curse, thinking the stranger a wandering friar or priest looking for free board and food, when the stranger lifted the hat from his head and waved it vigorously about.
Jack’s suspicious expression vanished, and he laughed. “Wat!” he called, and strode to greet the man.
THAT NIGHT they sat around the fire in the house of one of Barming’s most respected husbandmen, John Hales. There were some twelve men present besides Tyler, Straw and Hales: eight of these men were from Barming, one was a craftsman from Maidstone, one a villager from Allington just to the north of Barming, and the last two were men from the village of East Farley which lay a mile or so to the south.
The talk was quiet-toned, but rich-hued with violence and resentment.
These were men who had grown to adulthood raised on the stories of their fathers and grandfathers, stories which told of the ancient, and anciently despised, feudal bonds and dues; bridles and manacles designed to keep men from bettering their lot in life. But these men, raised in the labor shortage and subsequent opportunities created by the ravages of the pestilence, had grown to maturity knowing personal freedom lay within their grasp.
Yet every time their lords—whether of the nobility or Church—tried to reimpose the ancient bonds of serfdom, that tantalizing glimpse drifted farther and farther beyond their reach.
“Parliament wants nothing more than to grind us back into the hell of eternal serfdom,”
growled one man.
Just as the angels want to tighten the chains of leaven, thought Tyler.
“Aye. They have their townhouses and fat purses,” said another, “but what do we have? A lifetime of backbreaking labor to wrap them in furs and silks.”
“A lifetime of paying heavy taxes to keep them safe and warm more like,” said Jack Straw. “A lifetime of taxes so heavy that we have no time nor chance to better ourselves.”
“Yet are they not born the same way we are?” said Tyler softly, his eyes shifting from face to face as he fanned the fires of revolution. “Do they not eat and shit and fornicate in the same manner as we? What right do they have to call themselves better men than us? By what right do they hold us in servitude?”
There were growls of assent among the men.
“By the right of the damned Church,” said one. “Every time we beg for a chance to improve our lot, fat clerics heave themselves into their pulpits and tell us that it is God’s will that we work, God’s will that we sleep with the grubs, God’s fucking will that they lord it above us!”
“After all,” mocked Hales, “shall that not get us a place in heaven?”
Someone laughed, and it was not a pleasant sound. “Nay,” the man said, and spat. “Never!
Do not the priests sadly inform us that we are such horrible sinners we shall spend eternity burning in hell?”
“Unless we plan ahead by paying them m heavy gold for an escape, of course,” someone said.
“Are we not all useless fools,” said Tyler, “for sitting about this fire mouthing empty words but doing nothing else?”
Silence.
“In several days’ time two tax collectors will arrive in Barming,” said Tyler. “My friends, all around England this night good men like yourselves are sitting about their fires cursing the affliction of the poll tax that Parliament has added to the already onerous burden of labor and dues we carry through life. All they need, all we need, is someone to make a stand.”
Again, silence.
“Perhaps if we took our grievances to good King Richard,” said Jack Straw. “Perhaps he does not understand the burden good Englishmen labor under. If he knew, perhaps he could set it to rights.”
“Aye!” came a chorus of voices. “If only Richard knew!”
“Perhaps it is time we made a stand,” Hales said.
“We will aid you,” said one of the men from East Farley.
“And we!” said the man from Allington.
“The whole country will rise, my friends,” said Tyler, “for this is a good and just cause.
“What day did you say those tax collectors would be arriving?” asked Hales.
CHAPTER II
The Feast of St. Bede
In the second year of the reign of Richard II
(Monday 28th May 1380)
“MY LORD?”
Neville whipped about from the narrow window he’d been staring through. Sweet Jesu, he’d been so wrapped in his thoughts he’d not even heard the door open.
“Robert!” Neville crossed the cold floor of the cell in three strides and embraced Courtenay in a great hug.
Eventually Neville stood back, although he kept his hands locked on Courtenay’s shoulders.
Neville grinned even as his eyes filled with tears. “My God, Robert,” he said, “I had thought never to see you again, nor any other loved face.”
Courtenay likewise had tears in his eyes. In past months he had come to love his previously dour master, and these previous two months had seen him become gaunt and haggard with his worry.
“Margaret?” Neville said, his grin fading. “Is she well?”
Courtenay nodded. “Aye, my lord, although she weeps for you daily.” He tried to smile, but couldn’t.
“And Rosalind? And the new child?” Neville said.
“Safe, my lord. Rosalind wanders the courtyard and stables looking for you—”
“Sweet Jesu, Robert! You do not let her wander among the horses?”
“No, no, my lord. Either Agnes or myself is with her at all times. But she frets for you, and
seeks you in every shadowed place.”
Neville let Courtenay’s shoulders go and turned away, trying to surreptitiously wipe away his tears. “And the new child grows safe?” he said quietly.
“Aye. My lady says that she is well past her early months of sickening, but lies sleepless at night with the kicking of the child and with her worry for you. My lord, she sends you her deepest love, and wishes that she could come to you as I do.”
Neville took a deep breath, the worst of his worries eased, and turned to face Courtenay again. “And how is it that my gaolers have let you through?”
“Either myself or Roger Salisbury have come to Blackfriars daily, my lord, demanding entrance and a few minutes spent with you. My Lord Bolingbroke, as Lancaster, has spent countless hours seeking aid and explanations as well. But, until today, to no avail. The Prior General,” Courtenay’s voice hardened, “had wrapped you in chains so tight that none could get through.”
Thorseby and Richard, Neville thought, but, as Hal had said to Margaret, he also knew that his life was safer—for the moment—in Blackfriars than it might be somewhere else where Richard could move against him more freely.
“And today … ?” Neville said.
“Today a friar came for me before dawn, saying that I was to bring fresh clothing and a razor.” Courtenay indicated a bundle that he’d dropped at the door.
Neville nodded, also observing the shadow lingering outside the open door. Everything said within this chamber would be noted.
He tipped his head to the shadow, catching Courtenay’s eye, and his squire gave a single nod. I will be careful.
“Well, for the fresh clothes and the razor I am more than grateful,” Neville said, his hand rubbing his full beard ruefully. “The friars have thus far thought it best for me to wallow in my own uncleanliness.”
As if on cue a lay servant of Blackfriars entered the cell carrying a steaming bucket of water and some cloths. He stood the bucket at the foot of the bed, dropped the cloths, and left.
He did not once look at Neville or Courtenay.
“Thorseby has given me plenty and more time to wallow in my own thoughts as well,” Neville said, starting to strip away his filthy clothes.
“They have not questioned you yet, my lord?” Courtenay took Neville’s clothes and folded them with a grimace of distaste.
“Nay, although this sudden desire to make me clean also makes me think that a questioning is not far distant. Thorseby has heretofore allowed himself the pleasure of making me wait.”