‘Did we . . . did we hurt Master Warner?’
‘You wanted to hurt him, didn’t you? Remember how he beat you when it was the other boy he should have punished? He whipped you in front of the whole school. He had to be punished.’
‘But I didn’t want him to be paralysed . . . not for ever,’ Adam protested.
‘You stabbed the nail into him. He can only be as hurt as you wanted him to be.’
Adam turned away from her, feeling wretched. He wanted to ask her how he could make the schoolmaster’s pains stop, how he could make him well again. But he knew before he asked that she’d only laugh and tell him it was too late, far too late.
‘I don’t want to make another poppet,’ he whispered.
‘Then we won’t, but we don’t want Fulk to tell Robert you weren’t at the warehouse, do we?’ She rose gracefully to her feet and smoothed out her green skirts. The sunlight glinted on her long, shining black curls. ‘Fulk is a wicked man, isn’t he?’
Adam took a pace back, gazing at her anxiously. ‘What are you going to do?’
She held out a hand to him and smiled. ‘You’ll see.’
Chapter 45
A witch may take the form of a magpie, for it would not enter the Ark with Noah, but remained outside to cackle in glee at the drowning world.
Smithfield, London
The flames from the blazing torches writhed in the darkness, making the eyes of the great crowd of men glitter like a thousand jewels. Hankin stood in the centre of the track, legs astride, and faced the armed man squarely, though his head came up only to the man’s chest.
‘With whom holds you?’ Hankin demanded.
‘With King Richard and the True Commons,’ the man bellowed, loudly enough to be heard all the way over the city to London Bridge. He punched the air triumphantly to the cheers of all those crowded around him, then broke into hearty laughter, clapping Hankin on the shoulder. ‘Well challenged, lad, well challenged indeed. I see we have a true commoner here, Giles.’
‘That he is, Thomas,’ said a gruff voice behind Hankin. ‘We found him on the road. From Lincoln he is, come all the way by himself. Wanted to join in the fight in Essex, but we told him that was already won. It’s London we take next. Isn’t that right, lads?’
There was another answering cheer from those standing close by.
Giles gave a grin. ‘Meet Thomas Farringdon, lad. He’s the man who leads us.’
Hankin was too awestruck to speak. Farringdon was a name he’d heard uttered many times since he’d joined the Essex men on the march to London, but among so many thousands of men he’d never thought to meet him. He made a clumsy half-bow, but snapped up straight as he heard several men laughing at him. But, to his relief, he saw Farringdon wasn’t among them. Instead, the man gravely nodded his approval. ‘Brave lad. It’s men with your mettle that England needs. Are they rising yet in Lincoln?’
‘They will if you were to go there,’ Hankin said eagerly. ‘I know it. I’ve heard them talking. They’d rise up in a minute if you were to lead them.’
Farringdon smiled. ‘After tomorrow, we may all go back to our homes in peace and there’ll be no more need for any rising in Lincoln or Essex.’
Hankin felt as if his stomach had just fallen into his shoes. All this way, so many men, and they were just going to give up?
Farringdon chuckled. ‘You look as if you were promised roast hog and given burned peas. We’ve won, lad, or we will have by this time tomorrow.’
A murmur of excitement ran through the crowd as his words were passed back to those who weren’t close enough to hear. The men pressed forward, almost trampling Hankin into the ground, so eager were they to hear the news. Giles grabbed him just in time and wrapped a brawny arm around his shoulders to brace him. He turned to face the crowd, shouting over their heads, ‘Make way. Let Thomas through to that old wagon, so you can hear him speak.’
After a deal of confusion the men parted just enough to allow Farringdon to squeeze his way through them. He was lost to sight, until finally Hankin saw his head and shoulders rise above them. Farringdon motioned them to sit, and there was a great deal more shuffling as they each found their own patch of grass. Hankin looked round for Giles. There were thousands camped here at Smithfield and he was desperate not to lose sight of the few men he had come to know.
‘So many here, they’ll never hear him,’ Hankin said.
‘Don’t worry, lad,’ Giles said. ‘Any news he brings will spread through the whole camp quicker than fleas in a pack of hounds.’
Hankin squeezed into a narrow gap and sat down next to him, then wished he hadn’t: he was on a thistle. He quickly rocked forward into a crouching position.
It had been early evening when they’d arrived. They were heading for Aldersgate, one of the great gates in London’s fortified walls, but it was firmly barred against them. At the head of the procession, men were arguing with the watch that the curfew bell had not yet rung and the gate should be open, but it remained shut. Dozens of arrows had suddenly appeared, poking through the slits of the two round bastilles on either side, with the threat that they would be loosed if the Essex men attempted to smash their way in. Not that they could have done, for even Hankin could see that nothing short of a battering ram would force those great gates to yield, but the arrows were real enough and there was panic as those at the front tried to scramble back through the crowd pressing behind them to get out of range.
The men had occupied Smithfield, the great open space behind the Hospital of St Bartholomew. The few trees that stood there were quickly stripped of branches and the smaller ones cut down to provide fuel for the fires the men lit as darkness fell. Sparks rose into the sky and the shadows of the men moving around in the orange glow of the flames made it seem as if a ghostly army was camped with them.
Meanwhile more and more men were pouring into Smithfield. What provisions they’d managed to carry from home or seize on the road they shared among their friends. Raiding parties, each of a hundred or more men, had been sent to the complex of buildings that lay around the field. The grounds of the priories of St Bartholomew, St John of Jerusalem and St Mary Clerkenwell had been stormed and the raiding parties had seized as many chickens, ducks, pigs and milk cows as they could find. Now the creatures were spit-roasting over the blazing fires, made hotter with the wood from the shattered byres and barns that had once housed them.
The smell of roasting meat and woodsmoke filled the air, making Hankin’s stomach growl and his mouth water. He hugged himself with delight at the thought that those who lived in the vast buildings now knew what it was like to have their goods seized. The thought of eating their meat made the prospect even sweeter.
Farringdon began to speak. All those who were close enough to see him at once fell silent. ‘I’ve had word from the men of London who support our cause and from Wat Tyler who leads the men from Kent. Sixty thousand Kentish men are camped south of the river.’
A great cheer went up. Hankin was breathless with excitement. Sixty thousand! He had never imagined there were so many people in the whole of England, never mind here, and all ready to storm London.
‘The Kentish men have already broken into the prison of Marshalsea with the help of men of London and liberated the prisoners held there.’
Another cheer rang out. Hankin thought that only murderers and thieves were confined in prisons, but surely they would not have freed those. ‘Who were held in there?’ he whispered.
Giles shrugged. ‘Poor men, men unjustly accused, no doubt, but whoever they are they’ll be certain to swell our ranks.’
Farringdon was still speaking. ‘They have also entered the palace of the Archbishop of Canterbury, Simon Sudbury, the Chancellor of England, the very man who imposed this vile poll tax upon us and all the other hardships used to beat the honest working man to his knees. Archbishop Sudbury is a traitor to the common people!’
‘Is the traitor taken?’ several men in the crowd shouted, among t
he hissing and cries of hatred.
Farringdon held up his hand for silence. ‘Sudbury was not there. They say he’s fled into the Tower with King Richard. But his palace was ransacked, his vestments torn, every record and document burned on a great fire. Everything he owned has been utterly destroyed. You who’ve had your homes invaded by his men, you who have had your goods seized, you who have seen all you have worked for destroyed, know that you have been avenged!’
A roar went up that brought men to their feet, stamping and clapping one another on the back. ‘Death to the traitors! Death to the traitors!’
But Farringdon clearly had not finished, though it was some time before he could quieten the crowd again.
‘I have saved the best news until last.’ He paused, looking round at the vast ocean of faces. ‘King Richard himself has agreed to meet in person with the leaders of the uprising tomorrow morning, on the south bank of the Thames.’
There were gasps of amazement.
‘God’s arse, I never thought the King himself would come to bargain with the likes of us,’ Giles said. ‘And him barely fourteen, not much older than you are, lad. Think of that.’
Giles said something else, but Hankin’s attention had turned back to Farringdon. In the guttering torchlight, his features continually dissolved and re-formed, so that he seemed to wear the faces of a thousand different men.
‘Wat Tyler will present our demands to the King himself. He will demand death for all the traitors of the common people! Death to John of Gaunt, to Archbishop Sudbury, to Bishop Courtney of London, to Bishop Fordham of Durham, to Robert Hale and all those men who tried to rob us with their taxes. Death to every one of those vipers who surround our brave young king and drip their foul poison into his ears!
‘Wat Tyler will place our petition directly in the King’s hands and he will demand that every man named on that petition shall be surrendered to us, the True Commons. Every man named on that list shall be beheaded in a public execution before us all, and their heads placed on the Great Bridge, as are the heads of all traitors!’
Hankin’s heart thudded in excitement. They were going to execute the Archbishop of Canterbury and John of Gaunt, the most powerful men in all England! And he was going to watch them do it. For the first time since those men had threatened his sister and ransacked his home, the impotent rage that had been burning inside him gave way to wild elation. It was as if all these weeks he had been pinned to the ground, unable to protect himself. But today he had thrown off his assailant and was pounding him to a pulp instead.
Farringdon raised his hands, like a priest at mass. ‘Tonight begins the feast of Corpus Christi. The Body of Christ made flesh. Christ was a carpenter, a working man, a craftsman like many of you. He was forced by the priests and the tax-collectors to labour under the weight of His own cross as He carried it to the place of His execution. Could there be a more fitting day for the common man of England to free himself from his oppressors, to turn upon the tax-gatherers, the bishops and the lords and trample them under his feet? On this day, we will finally overturn the tyranny of serfdom for ever. And in generations to come, the freemen of England will look back and remember that on the feast of Corpus Christi a new parliament was born, the parliament of the True Commons! And each of you will return to your shires and villages with your heads held higher than any lord’s, knowing that you were part of the greatest army in history, the army that set the people of England free for ever!’
If Farringdon intended to say more, he never had the chance. The field of men erupted into roars and cheers that Hankin thought must have been heard in the Tower of London itself, though he had little idea of where that might be. Farringdon was swept down from the wagon and carried shoulder high through the crowd, till Hankin lost sight of him.
Giles grabbed Hankin’s arm. ‘Come on, lad, let’s get ourselves a share of that meat before it all disappears. My belly’s rumbling so loudly I could eat the devil’s arse if it was well roasted.’
But in spite of the best endeavours of the raiding parties, the beasts and fowls they had stolen did not stretch far among the thousands of men who sat around the fires that night. The few slices of meat and morsels of looted bread they received did little to blunt the sharpened appetites of men who’d been several days on the march, but not even hunger could dampen their high spirits. When the food ran out, the singing and dancing began. The men were not dainty maidens and they pounded in circles till the ground shook as if a herd of cattle was stampeding across it.
Hankin looked back towards the dark blur in the distance that was the great city wall. He grinned as he thought of the archers in the bastilles, peering out into the darkness, seeing the hundreds of fires and listening to the great roar of singing and shouting. He bet they were afraid of the rebels, afraid of him, for he was one of this great army and their fear thrilled him more than anything had before in his short life.
But as the camp finally grew quiet and men huddled down on the hard ground to snatch a few hours’ sleep before dawn, Hankin lay awake. They had been talking about going back to their villages when this was over, marching home as victors from the fight. Discussing how they would farm their new land, for King Richard would force the manors and abbeys to divide their lands between the villagers. Craftsmen would be able to set their own prices. Bondsmen would be free to find work wherever they pleased and charge as much as they wanted for their labour.
But where would he find work? After the terrible row he’d had with his mother, after sneaking away in the middle of the night, leaving his father alone to work the river, Hankin knew he would hardly be welcomed back. Where could he go after their victory tomorrow? He had never in his life been among so many people and he’d never felt so alone.
Chapter 46
Children who fall into fits at the sight of a witch will recover if allowed to scratch or cut her and in doing so draw blood from above her breath.
Lincoln
The warehouse on the Braytheforde was quiet. A few cargoes had been dispatched in the cool of the early morning, before the sun’s heat grew too fierce for men and beasts. Only one incoming wagon stood outside the great doors, half unloaded. Two paggers, the sweat running down their bare backs, were rolling barrels down the planks propped against the wagon and into the warehouse. They were taking their time, pausing between each barrel to take long swigs of ale from skins, much to the annoyance of the driver, who evidently wanted to get unloaded and slake his own thirst in the nearest tavern.
Fulk was sitting just inside the warehouse in the shade, where the cool breeze from the river would reach him. Leonia and Adam stood watching on the far side of the quay.
‘There’s another way in, isn’t there?’ Leonia asked. ‘Another door? Catlin took me there once.’
Adam shook his head. ‘Not into the warehouse. There’s a door at the top of those stairs, at the side of the building, but that leads only to the tally room above the warehouse floor. It’s just a loft where they store the records and things that would spoil when the river floods. But you can’t get to the warehouse floor that way. Only way into the warehouse is past Fulk.’
‘I want to see the tally room,’ Leonia said.
‘You can’t. Fulk’ll be furious if he finds strangers up there.’
‘But I’m not a stranger. I’m Robert of Bassingham’s daughter now. The warehouse belongs to him, so I’ve a perfect right to go wherever I like. Fulk daren’t stop me. You wait here and count to . . .’ Her smooth brow furrowed. ‘Count to five hundred. Start when you see me at the top of the stairs. Then you come over. You’ll have to think of a way to make Fulk go back inside the warehouse with you.’
‘No!’ Adam backed away in alarm. ‘I told you what he does. I don’t want to go anywhere near him.’
‘I won’t let him hurt you. I promise. Trust me. You do trust me, don’t you, Adam?’
Leonia gripped his arm, gazing earnestly at him with her huge brown eyes. The gold flecks in them glittered
in the bright sunlight. He’d never seen a lion, except the painted ones on shields and emblems, but he imagined that if he ever did, their eyes would look exactly like hers.
‘Just do as I say and all will be well, you’ll see.’
She smiled and he found himself wondering what it would be like to kiss that soft mouth, not that he would ever dare.
He watched her picking her way around the wharf, stepping daintily over mooring ropes and ducking as men carrying planks and bales swung them perilously close to her head. Finally, she reached the warehouse. He walked a few paces to the side until he had a clear view of the staircase. She ran lightly up the steps, then disappeared through the door at the top. He began counting – One, two, three . . . one hundred and sixty-five, one hundred and sixty-six . . . four hundred and ninety-eight, four hundred and ninety-nine, five hundred. He started walking.
His legs were shaking as he approached the warehouse, and he thought he was going to vomit. He inched up to the open door. Fulk’s eyes were closed and he was dozing, his fat backside spilling over a stool and his feet propped on a box. A bundle of tally sticks lay in his lap.
For a few agonising moments, Adam stood watching him, everything inside him telling him to run before Fulk woke. But just as he was about to turn and flee, Fulk grunted and opened his eyes. He blinked blearily at the boy, squinting to focus in the glare of the sun. Then he lumbered to his feet. Adam had not a single idea in his head about how he might coax Fulk deeper inside the warehouse but, as it turned out, he didn’t need to.