Lady of the Rivers Read online

  ‘There were many in his train who were gentlemen,’ I say. ‘I could see they had good horses and good saddles. Cade himself rode like a man accustomed to command. And there was only one alderman in the whole of the City who did not welcome him.’

  ‘He’s a villain,’ he says rudely.

  I raise an eyebrow at Richard. He shgs as if to say that I have done my best to give this most nervous commander an idea of the enemy, and if he is too afraid to listen then I need do no more. ‘I’ll take my wife to my rooms and get her something to eat,’ he says to Lord Scales. ‘Then shall I come back and we can plan an attack? Perhaps tonight when they have wined and dined? While they are celebrating? Or as they march back to Southwark? We could catch them in the narrow streets before the bridge and push them over?’

  ‘Not tonight! Not tonight!’ Scales says quickly. ‘Besides, I am expecting reinforcements from the king. He will send us men from the Midlands.’

  ‘They can’t come for days, if they come at all,’ my husband says. ‘Surely we should attack them now, before they expect it, while they are drinking.’

  ‘Not tonight,’ Scales repeats. ‘These are not Frenchmen, Rivers. Our experience is no use here. These are treasonous peasants, they fight around back streets and in hiding. We should wait till we have a great force to overwhelm them. I will send another message to the king and ask for his command.’

  I see my husband hesitate, and then he decides not to argue. He throws his cape around my shoulders and takes me to his lodgings. We have our usual rooms near the royal apartments in the Tower, but it feels strange, with the king and queen so far away, and the drawbridge up and the portcullis down and us besieged among the people who are our countrymen.

  ‘It’s damnable,’ my husband says shortly, snapping his fingers for the serving man to leave the tray of food. ‘Damnable. And the very men who should be putting down this unrest are either too half-hearted or too afraid to act. Get you to bed, sweetheart, and I will join you after I have posted a watch. That we should be all but besieged in the Tower of London? At war in England with Englishmen? It beggars belief.’

  We live under siege in the Tower, at war in our own country, besieged in our own capital city. Every day my husband sends out men and even the kitchen girls to get news in the market place and at the City gates. They come back saying that Cade’s army is camped south of the river with more joining them every day. Richard’s great fear is that the uprising will spread and the men of Hampshire and Sussex will join the men of Kent. ‘What about our home?’ I ask him, thinking of the children in their nursery. ‘Should I go back to them?’

  ‘The roads aren’t safe,’ he says, scowling with worry. ‘I’ll send you with a guard as soon as I know what is happening. But I don’t even know if the king is safely at Kenilworth. We have sent messages but heard nothing back yet. If he’s besieged . . . ’ He breaks off.

  It feels like the end of the world. If the common people rise against the king, if they are armed with weapons they have won from us, if they are commanded by a man who has been trained by us and embittered by losses in France, then there is no hope that the world we know can continue. Only a heroic king who could capture the love of the people could save us – and we have only King Henry, hiding at Kenilworth, his beautiful armour laid aside after its one and only outing.

  A message comes from the rebel army. They want Lord Say, the man who was Lord of Kent, sent out for trial. ‘We cannot release him to them,’ my husband sys to the commander, Lord Scales. ‘They will kill him.’

  ‘We are holding him here under arrest for treason,’ the lord says reasonably enough. ‘He could well have been tried and found guilty and then he would have been executed anyway.’

  ‘The king sent him here for his safety, not to charge him with treason, as we both know, my lord. The king would have released him. You know the king would have forgiven him anything he has done.’

  ‘I shall release him to them, and if he is innocent of all they say, then he can tell them so,’ Lord Scales says.

  My husband swears under his breath and then speaks clearly. ‘My lord, if we send Lord Say out to them, guilty or innocent, they will kill him. This is not a release, it is to push him out of safety to his death. If this doesn’t matter to you now, then I ask you what you will do if the rebels ask for me to be sent out to them. What would you like us to do when they ask for you?’

  His lordship glowers. ‘I wasn’t the man who said I would make a deer park out of Kent. I didn’t say they were too good for hanging and should be pushed into the sea.’

  ‘You are advisor to the king, as are we all. They could name any one of us and ask for us to be sent out. Are we going to obey the servants? Are they our new masters?’

  Lord Scales rises from his seat behind the great dark wooden table and goes to the arrowslit window that looks towards the City. ‘Woodville, my old friend, I know you are right; but if they attack us with the numbers they have now, they are likely to take the Tower, and then we will all be at their mercy, your wife as well as us.’

  ‘We can hold out,’ my husband says.

  ‘They have a full-size army at Southwark, and every day more men come from Essex and camp out there. There are hundreds now. Who knows how strong they may become? If they come from Essex, what’s to stop them coming from Hertfordshire? From Nottinghamshire? What if they can raise the whole country against us?’

  ‘Better strike now then, before they grow any stronger.’

  ‘What if they have the king, and we don’t yet know it?’

  ‘Then we will have to fight them.’

  ‘But if we negotiate with them, promise them a pardon, say that their grievances will be resolved, promise them an inquiry, they will go back to their little farms and get the hay in.’

  ‘If we pardon them, we will have taught them that they can take up arms against the King of England,’ my husband objects. ‘And that is a lesson we may regret one day.’

  ‘I cannot risk the safety of the Tower,’ Lord Scales says firmly. ‘We cannot attack, we must prepare to defend. At the worst, Lord Say buys us time.’

  There is a silence as my husband absorbs the fact that they are going to send one of the peers of England out to face a mob that wants him dead. ‘You are the commander,’ he says stiffly. ‘I am here under your command. But my advice is that we defy them.’

  That afternoon they send Lord Say out to Guildhall where those aldermen whoe a full-she stomach for it, and the rebels who are eager for it, create a little court for the day. They persuade his lordship to confess, find him a priest and take him to Cheapside for execution. His son-in-law, the Sheriff of Kent, William Crowmer, thinks himself lucky to be released from the Fleet prison, and steps out of the stone doorway cheerfully, thinking a rescue party has come for him, only to find a scaffold waiting for him outside the gates. They don’t even bother to try him, but string him up without ceremony.

  ‘God forgive them,’ my husband says as we stand on the walls of the Tower, hidden by the parapet, looking down into the streets below. A dancing, singing, chanting mob is weaving its unsteady way through the narrow lanes towards the Tower. My husband interposes his broad shoulder before me, but I peep around his arm and see what is leading the procession. They have the head of Lord Say on a pike, bobbing along at the front of the crowd. Behind on another pike is the stabbed head of William Crowmer, the sheriff who promised to lay waste to his county of Kent. As they come within range of the Tower gates they pause and bawl defiance, and then dance the two heads together. The dead faces bump, the pike-bearers jiggle the pikes so the mouths knock one against another. ‘They’re kissing! They’re kissing!’ they howl and roar with laughter at the spectacle. ‘Send us out Lord Scales!’ they bellow. ‘He can have a kiss too!’

  Richard draws me back into the shadow of the wall. ‘My God,’ I say quietly. ‘This is the end, isn’t it? This is the end of the England we have known. This is the end of everything.’

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