Richard II found
himself under siege not once, but twice in his minority. Crowned king at age
ten, he was only fourteen when the Peasants' Revolt terrorized London. But he
proved himself every bit the Plantagenet successor, facing Wat Tyler and the
rebels when all seemed lost. Alas, his triumph was short-lived, and for the
next ten years, he struggled to assert himself against his uncles and
increasingly hostile nobles. Just like in the days of his great-grandfather
Edward II, vengeful magnates strove to separate him from his friends and
advisors, and even threatened to depose him if he refused to do their bidding.
The Lords Appellant, as they came to be known, purged the royal household with
the help of the Merciless Parliament. They murdered his closest allies, leaving
the King alone and defenseless. He would never forget his humiliation at the
hands of his subjects. Richard's inability to protect his adherents would haunt
him for the rest of his life, and he vowed that next time, retribution would be
his.
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EXCERPT
Richard and his retainers sat astride their horses while
Walworth crossed the distance between the two groups, stopping just outside of
rock-throwing range. He wasted no time.
"Wat Tyler," he bellowed. "The king commands
you to present yourself and submit your petitions in person." Wheeling his
horse around, the mayor trotted back to the royal party.
The rebel leader was standing in the second rank, and he
puffed his chest out when his name was called. "Imagine that," he
boasted to his neighbors. "The king calls me by name." He couldn't
stop himself from bouncing up and down in excitement. "Look at them,
cowering over there like so many sheep. They know we are the rulers of this
city." He stepped out and gestured for someone to bring his horse.
"What say you, lads? Shall I go and address the king?"
"Yes, Yes!" the rebels clamored their
support. Wat mounted his hackney and
rode into the open field, accompanied by a single follower carrying the king's
banner given them the day before. He glanced up at the sky, wanting to remember
this moment. The horizon was slightly hazy in places from the smoke of burning
buildings. The sun warmed his back; his followers cheered him on. Today, Wat
Tyler would make his mark as England's champion. Across the square, the king
waited for him. For him alone. He rode right up to the unsympathetic lords and
quickly dismounted. Just as quickly he bowed, then seized Richard's hand and
roughly shook it, to the astonishment of everyone.
"Be of good cheer," Wat declared. "For you
shall have, in a fortnight, forty thousand more commons than you see right now,
and we shall be good companions."
Richard suppressed a shudder. Pulling his hand away, he
asked, "Why haven't you gone home, since I gave you what you asked
for?"
All elation fled. This wasn't what he wanted at all.
"Upon my soul, I will not go home. Not until we have a charter more to our
liking." He unsheathed his dagger and pointed it up as though to emphasize
his declaration. "There are many different points that need clarifying.
And if you don't you will bitterly rue the day you opposed the commons of
England!"
Sitting behind the king, Robert de Vere grunted in anger.
But Richard held up a hand, silencing him. "And what points are these you
need clarifying?"
Wat started tossing his knife from one hand to the other.
Back and forth the knife went, while he proclaimed each carefully rehearsed
statement. "Well, sire. It's like this. First, we demand that all game
laws be abolished. Every man should be able to hunt his own food without
worrying about getting killed, trying to feed his family. Secondly, there
should be no outlawry in any process of the law." He paused, waiting for a
response but none was forthcoming. Again. Wat took this as encouragement,
resuming his knife toss. "Thirdly, the goods of the Holy Church should no
longer remain in the hands of the religious. Let the clergy have sufficiency to
support them, but let the rest of their goods be divided among the people of the
parish. Lastly, we demand that there should be no more lordships. All the lands
should be divided among the people, except what belongs to the king. There
should be no more villeinage and no more serfdom, but all men should be free
and of one condition." He stopped, wiping his forehead.
Richard nodded briefly. "You shall have all that I can
legally grant, saving the regality of my crown. Now go. Go back to your own
home."
The king and his men sat unmoving on their horses. Not
another word was said. Even the rebels had quieted down, though they were too
far away to hear any speeches. Wat stared at the king; this was not going
right.
Jerking his shoulders, he turned around. "Water,"
he shouted to his follower. "Bring me water." He stared at the king
while he waited, then held out his free hand as he heard someone run up behind
him. He took a deep draught from a jug, swished it around his mouth, and spat on
the ground in front of Richard's horse. The animal stepped away but Richard
nudged it back into place. The king held up a warning hand once again. He
waited. He could tell that Wat was losing his self-control.
"Ale," shouted Tyler. "Bring me ale!"
Once again he waited; once again he quaffed the contents in one long gulp.
Handing the mug to his companion, he remounted his horse, turning his back on
the king.
"You are a common thief and a liar," someone
shouted.
Wat spun around. "What! Is that you John?" he
growled, recognizing the voice of Sir John Newton, his old captive from
Rochester. "Come out here." He shook his dagger threateningly.
"I will not! You are naught but a knave and unworthy of
my sword!"
Wat couldn't believe that his authority was slipping away so
fast. "By my faith," he hollered, "I shall never eat meat again
till I have your head!" Blinded with rage, he pushed his horse into the
royal entourage, intent on striking his challenger.
But Mayor Walworth expected something of the sort.
"False stinking rascal," he shouted, and interposed his own horse
between Wat and Newton. "I arrest you for drawing your blade in front of
the king's face!"
Momentarily distracted, Wat swung around and thrust his
dagger at the mayor's stomach—only to see it turned aside. The steel
breastplate had done its job. He struggled to disentangle his blade from the
fabric, but Walworth was faster; he drew a short sword and slashed it down on
Tyler's shoulder, driving him onto his horse's neck. One of Richard's squires
plunged his sword twice into Wat's side.
The rebel leader was incapacitated but he had enough energy
to pull out of the crush. "Treason!" he cried, urging his mount
toward his followers. The horse took a few running steps but slowed to a stop
and Wat slipped out of his saddle, hitting the ground with a thud.
Nobody moved. From across the field, a groan went up, rising
in volume as though the heart was rent from thousands of breasts. Louder and
louder the cries grew until shrieks of rage shook the multitude. "Our
captain is dead! Our leader has been killed!" Many of them reached for
their arrows and bent their bows, intent on slaughtering everybody they could
reach.
As soon as Walworth had dealt his blow, he turned his horse
and charged away from the king directly toward the city. Richard's followers
were in a panic; everything was happening too fast. They broke their close-knit
ranks; a number of them followed the mayor. Others milled around the king when,
without notice, Richard spurred his horse and galloped across the field toward
the rabble.
"Men," he shouted. "What aileth you? Ye shall
have no captain but me. I am your king! I will be your leader. Follow me into
the fields without!" He pointed north to Clerkenwell and slowed his horse
to a walk.
Bewildered, they hesitated, gawking at each other. All of a
sudden, everything had changed for the worse. From the beginning, they had
claimed their support for the king, and now the king commanded them to follow.
What else could they do? The rebels lowered their weapons and obeyed for lack
of better leadership. Still standing in a semblance of battle order, they kept
their formation as one and followed Richard toward the fields around
Clerkenwell.
Mercedes Rochelle
Mercedes
Rochelle is an ardent lover of medieval history and has channeled this
interest into fiction writing. Her first four books cover eleventh-century
Britain and events surrounding the Norman Conquest of England. The next
series is called The Plantagenet Legacy about the struggles and
abdication of Richard II, leading to the troubled reigns of the Lancastrian
Kings. She
also writes a blog: HistoricalBritainBlog.com to explore the history behind the
story. Born in St. Louis, MO, she received a BA in Literature at the Univ. of
Missouri St.Louis in 1979 then moved to New York in 1982 while in her mid-20s
to “see the world”. The search hasn’t ended! Today she lives in Sergeantsville,
NJ with her husband in a log home they had built themselves.
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