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  Tyler headed the mob. The monks watched aghast as he pushed through everybody and mounted the steps to the pulpit to interrupt the mass. He looked down at the holy men from on high.

  ‘You’re going to have to find yourselves a new Archbishop when this is over,’ he told them bluntly. ‘Simon of Sudbury is a traitor. We’re going to cut his head off when we find him.’

  ‘We certainly are,’ someone else yelled. ‘Sudbury’s the man to blame.’

  The monks weren’t happy about that. They watched uncomfortably as Tyler’s followers wandered around the cathedral. The peasants went to see the Martyrdom first, then crossed themselves piously in front of the ruby at St Thomas’s shrine. They all admired the Black Prince’s tomb nearby. It had become a major tourist attraction since his death, second only to the shrine itself. Everyone in England wanted to see where the Black Prince was buried.

  Wat Tyler joined the group clustered around his tomb. The Prince’s helm, shield and royal surcoat all looked splendid above the tester. Tyler wasn’t the only one who regretted it that the great man had died so young. The Black Prince would have been King now, if he had lived, instead of his teenage son.

  The peasants didn’t linger long in the cathedral, after seeing the tomb. There was too much to do elsewhere. If the Archbishop wasn’t in Canterbury, they could still ransack the town hall and destroy the tax records. They could also burn the tenant rolls containing the names of all the serfs in Kent.

  It was essential to burn the rolls. If they destroyed all the legal documents, the serfs would be set free from their bondage. No one would be able to say that they were serfs anymore, without the paperwork to prove it.

  The peasants wasted no time. Spreading out through the cathedral gate, they quickly made a bonfire of all the legal documents they could find in Canterbury. They forced open the Norman castle, now the county gaol, and set the prisoners free. They also seized three alleged traitors denounced by local people and beheaded them publicly in the street.

  When they had done that, they rounded up the mayor, the city bailiffs and Canterbury’s most prominent citizens and forced them on pain of death to swear a new oath. The men were required to pledge loyalty not only to King Richard II but to the Commons of England as well. It was the ordinary people of England that the mayor and his officials were supposed to serve.

  The townspeople were happy to help the peasants administer the new oath. They were delighted that something was being done at last. They were so enthusiastic that five hundred of them left Canterbury next morning and joined the peasants on their march to London. The remainder stayed behind to continue the good work and spread the revolution to other towns and villages.

  The peasants were going to London because the King was there. They had arranged to gather at Blackheath, just south of the river Thames, while their comrades from Essex approached the capital from the north. Together, the two peasant armies would be a formidable presence when they arrived in London at the same time and combined their forces.

  ‘We’re looking for the Archbishop,’ Tyler told the Kentish peasants, when they reached Blackheath. ‘He’s in London somewhere. We’ll find him, wherever he is. He’ll get what’s coming to him when we do.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Then we’ll talk to the King. Our quarrel is with his officials, not with him. King Richard doesn’t know what is being done in his name. We’ll talk to the King and tell him exactly what’s been happening in his kingdom.’

  ‘Will he listen?’

  ‘Of course he will. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t.’

  The peasants continued to London. It was three days before they managed to track the Archbishop down. Simon of Sudbury had taken refuge in the Tower of London at the first sign of trouble. The Tower’s thick walls were famously impenetrable. He knew he would be quite safe behind them until the revolt was over and the peasants had been dispersed.

  Unfortunately for him, the Tower’s gatekeepers disliked the poll tax just as much as the peasants did. They saw no reason to protect the Archbishop from his enemies. On the morning of 14 June, one of them opened the gates for the peasants and let them all in.

  Wat Tyler was one of the first across the moat. The peasants found Simon of Sudbury hiding in the chapel at the White Tower. He was reciting a prayer for the dying, as they burst in. Seizing him at once, they took him outside and dragged him up Tower Hill for execution.

  Sudbury didn’t go quietly. He tried to talk his way out of it as the peasants hauled him to his death.

  ‘You can’t possibly do this,’ he told them. ‘I’m the Archbishop of Canterbury. You can’t murder the Archbishop of Canterbury. It would be sacrilege.’

  ‘We’re not going to murder the Archbishop,’ one of them assured him. ‘We’ve got nothing against the Archbishop of Canterbury.’

  ‘What are you going to do, then?’

  ‘We’re going to kill the Chancellor of England. The man responsible for the poll tax.’

  A huge crowd gathered to watch. There was no official executioner, so a peasant with a sword volunteered for the task. Stepping forward, he raised the weapon as Sudbury’s neck was bared. Then he swung it hard.

  Only those in the front rank saw how many strokes it took to do the job. In the split second that remained to him after he had finally been decapitated, Simon of Sudbury caught a brief glimpse of the sky spinning round and round and the Tower of London apparently standing on its head. Then everything faded to black.

  ‘So perish all tax gatherers,’ said an onlooker, when it was done. Everyone nodded in agreement. It was the cry of the Englishman through the ages.

  The Archbishop’s body was left where it lay for the moment, but his head was scooped up at once. His episcopal hat had fallen off during the execution, so the peasants got a hammer and nailed it back on before sticking the head on the end of a long pole. Then one of them held the pole aloft for everyone at the back to see.

  ‘This is the predator’s head,’ he told the cheering crowd. ‘Simon of Sudbury. The Chancellor of England.’

  A ripple of applause followed the head as it was paraded through the streets, on its way to London Bridge. Later, reduced to a skull, it was removed from the bridge and returned to the Archbishop’s hometown of Sudbury. His friends there hoped it might become a venerated relic, generating the sort of money that Thomas Becket was getting at Canterbury. When the anticipated revenue streams failed to materialise, the venture was abandoned and the skull was locked in a cupboard in Sudbury church, where it remains.

  The peasants knew they had done it now. There could be no going back, after the murder of the Archbishop. Wat Tyler was acutely aware that he personally had no choice thereafter but to press on regardless, as the peasants’ leader. Either victory or death awaited him as he rode away from Tower Hill to prepare for his meeting with King Richard next morning. There was nothing for him in between.

  The meeting was held outside St Bartholomew’s hospital, on the smooth field where the annual fair took place, and the Friday livestock auctions. Smithfield was also used for jousting tournaments and public gatherings in the summer. King Richard’s advisers had chosen the place because it lay outside the city walls, well away from the crowded streets where the peasants were running riot.

  The peasants were the first to arrive. Thousands of Kentishmen appeared at the appointed hour, carrying swords, pikes and bows and arrows as they assembled outside the hospital. Tyler rode on horseback at their head, a general in command of his troops. With all of London cowering before him, he was full of arrogance as he held up his hand and told his men to wait there for the King.

  Richard II was a boy of 14. He had the mayor of London, William Walworth, and a few dozen horsemen with him as he rode up from Westminster Abbey, where he had been praying for help at the shrine of Edward the Confessor. He too ordered a halt when they arrived at Smithfield.

  The two sides faced each other across the field. At Richard’s command, one
of his courtiers rode forward to fetch Wat Tyler and bring him to his monarch. Tyler saw it as a meeting of equals as he obligingly spurred his horse and went to meet the King.

  He showed no deference when he arrived. When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman? Wat Tyler was the one with a large army. King Richard was just a boy. Tyler saw no reason to doff his hat to a teenager.

  ‘Why won’t you go home?’ Richard ignored Tyler’s bad manners as the peasant seized hold of his horse’s bridle. ‘We have listened to the people’s demands. They have been promised their freedom. You’ve done what you came to London to do. Why won’t you go home now?’

  ‘Not until we have everything in writing. We want all the promised reforms in letters patent before we go anywhere.’

  ‘You should go. The letters will be prepared, in due course.’

  ‘That may be, but we want to see it in writing. If you put it in writing, we’ll know that you mean what you say. Give us the letters and then we’ll go away.’

  ‘How dare you talk to the King like that?’ William Walworth was outraged.

  ‘I’ll talk to him as I please.’ The success of the last few days had gone to Tyler’s head. ‘It’s none of your business how I talk to him.’

  Daggers were drawn at that. Walworth gave the order for Tyler to be arrested. Tyler was preparing to defend himself when Walworth stabbed him in the head and knocked him off his horse.

  Without even thinking about it, one of the King’s esquires jumped off his own horse and finished the job with a sword. One quick thrust through the body was all it took to kill Wat Tyler. He was dead before he even knew what had hit him.

  It was the peasants’ turn to be outraged. Reaching for their weapons, they started forward at once. Their leader had been murdered, right in front of their eyes. They couldn’t allow that to go unpunished.

  But Richard II was their King, ordained by God. He didn’t hesitate for a moment. Spurring his horse, he rode across the field to address his rebel subjects. It was the Black Prince’s son who reined to a halt in front of them and spoke to them from the saddle.

  ‘I am your King,’ he told them. ‘You have no other leader than me. On your loyalty as my subjects, I command you now to leave this place at once. Go in peace and you will all have my pardon for what you have done. Go now, and you will not be punished for your rebellion.’

  The peasants went eventually, with considerable reluctance. A few were hanged or beheaded for particular offences, but the King was as good as his word. Peace returned after a few turbulent months. The reforms demanded by the peasants were not immediately implemented, but it was clear to everyone after the killing of the Archbishop and Wat Tyler that the days of serfdom were numbered.

  Tyler’s head replaced Simon of Sudbury’s on London Bridge. He left a wife and son behind in Maidstone, both of them remembering a man of strong convictions as they mourned his passing. The son grew up to have sons of his own in due course, as did they in turn. Wat Tyler’s descendants continued to live peacefully in Maidstone for the next three centuries.

  It wasn’t until 1723 that one of them, Ned Tyler, decided to try his luck in London again. Central to his thinking was the impending motherhood of a local maidservant, angrily pointing her finger at him. Rather than marry the girl, Ned Tyler left home very early one morning in March and hitched a lift to London with a local carter. The following day, he found himself in England’s capital with no intention of ever returning to Maidstone.

  Ned Tyler had no idea that he was descended from Wat as he paced the very same streets as his ancestor. He had never even heard of the Peasants’ Revolt. All he knew for certain was that London was a very difficult place for a young man without any friends to make a living. A young man could starve to death without anyone even noticing.

  It wasn’t long before Ned Tyler found himself in trouble with the law. Within a week of his arrival in London, the little money he had brought with him was all gone. Within two, he had become a thief. Within three, he had been arrested for stealing a loaf of bread and eating it to hide the evidence. He cut a miserable figure as he stood in the dock at the Old Bailey, awaiting sentence for the crime.

  ‘Prisoner at the bar.’ The judge consulted his notes for the name. ‘Tyler. You have been tried by your peers and found guilty of theft under the value of one shilling. Have you anything to say before I pass sentence?’

  Ned shook his head. No use pointing out that he had been desperate for something to eat. No one would listen.

  ‘Then it remains only for me to sentence you to transportation for seven years. You will be taken from here and transported to Philadelphia. You will remain in the colonies until you have served the full term of your sentence.’

  Ned looked blank. Philadelphia? The colonies?

  ‘And I must remind you,’ the judge continued, ‘that if you are found to have returned to these shores before your time is up, you will suffer the full rigour of the law. The penalty for transgression is fixed by the law. Set foot in England again any time in the next seven years, young man, and you will be hanged by the neck until you are dead.’

  Ned was led away in shock to await the next shipment of convicts. The clerk of the court made a quick note of the case for the Old Bailey’s records as he was taken down:

  Edward Tyler, late of Maidstone in Kent, was indicted for feloniously stealing a Loaf of Bread, val 3d, the Goods of Benjamin Chandler, on the 6th of April last. It appear’d that the prisoner came to the Prosecutor’s shop and went away with the Loaf, which was taken upon him as he tried to eat it. Guilty to the value of 3d. Transportation.

  So it was that the first of Ezra Tyler’s American ancestors left England for ever and arrived most unwillingly in the New World.

  Chapter Seven

  Geoffrey Chaucer and the Harlot of Mercery Lane

  Tourism was booming in Canterbury. Thanks to St Thomas, the city had become the number one visitor destination in England. Several thousand people a week came to see the shrine and leave a donation before spending their money in Canterbury’s taverns and souvenir shops. They were called pilgrims, but most of them were only tourists enjoying a bit of travel and the chance to spend some time away from home for a while.

  They all needed somewhere to stay while they were in Canterbury. The cathedral authorities had decided to meet the demand by rebuilding the tourist hotel on Mercery Lane. It had been there for centuries, but it was no longer fit for purpose. The authorities knocked it down in 1392 and set about replacing it with a massive new hotel to cater for the ever-increasing tourist numbers who needed accommodation while they were in town.

  The work took three years. The Chequers Inn was enormous when it was finished. Including the basement, it stood on four floors grouped around an inner courtyard. There were private bedrooms for the rich and a dormitory for the poor that could accommodate a hundred people in a single room. The inn was built along Mercery Lane, but the main entrance was through a small door on Canterbury’s high street.

  The monks were delighted when it opened. They would be cashing in, once the building and operating costs had been recouped. The income from tourist beds could be put towards the upkeep of the cathedral, perhaps even paying for a new central tower to replace the existing one.

  The management organised a series of events to publicise the new hotel. Chief among the attractions in the first few weeks was a reading of his works by the greatest writer of the age. Geoffrey Chaucer had once been a knight of the shire and the Member of Parliament for Kent. Persuading him to give a reading of his works at the Chequers Inn was an extraordinary coup for the cathedral authorities.

  In fact, the great man was very happy to oblige. It was some time since he had last been to Canterbury, a place he always enjoyed visiting. Chaucer thought the cathedral was looking particularly lovely in the sunshine as he dismounted outside the inn and went in to drop his bags and discuss the arrangements for his talk.

  The innkeeper was there to g
reet him. He came forward at once, full of welcome for Canterbury’s distinguished visitor.

  ‘Lovely to see you, sir. I’m so glad you’re here. Did you have a comfortable ride? We’ve been looking forward to your visit all week.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m glad to be here too. I must say, this is a splendid new inn.’

  ‘It certainly is. We’re very pleased with it. You won’t find a better one in Canterbury.’

  ‘May I see my room?’

  ‘You can, sir. The porter will take your bags. We’ll talk about your reading when you come down again.’

  The porter took Chaucer’s bags and carried them upstairs. ‘I hear you’re an author,’ he said, on the way. ‘Should I have heard of you?’

  ‘Oh I don’t think so,’ said Chaucer. ‘Not everyone has.’

  The porter showed Chaucer to his room and gave him the key. After he had unpacked his things, Chaucer went downstairs again and found the innkeeper.

  ‘About my reading,’ he said.

  ‘It’s all arranged. Four of the clock this afternoon. We’ve got quite a crowd coming to hear you.’

  ‘That’s good news.’

  ‘I’m sorry that we won’t be able to pay you anything for it, but plenty of people will be there. I’m sure you’ll enjoy reading your books to them.’

  ‘I’m sure I shall,’ said Chaucer. He had heard the bit about not being able to pay him many times before.

  Four of the clock left ample time to look around the cathedral beforehand. Chaucer had lunch at the inn first. He ordered a tankard of ale with his meal. It was served by a blowsy barmaid who twinkled at him as she poured his drink.

  ‘My name’s Kit,’ she told him. ‘I’m at your service, sir. Anything you want, just ask.’ She gave him a wink.

  Good heavens. It was a long time since a barmaid had winked at Chaucer like that. He was a little disconcerted.

  ‘That’s very kind,’ he said.

  ‘I have a bed in the taproom. I lie there naked at night. I haven’t had a man friend since my husband died.’