‘No, come with us, Beatrice,’ Robin whispered. ‘And you’ll learn something. You’ll find the power that he denies you.’
Beatrice was about to refuse then she recalled her helplessness as Ralph struggled in the mire and, turning away, she joined the other two in their wild flight along the cobbled high street of Maldon.
The Pot of Thyme’s taproom was filling with customers. Beatrice was acutely aware something was wrong. She had visited the tavern on a number of occasions. It was usually friendly, the meeting place of travelling people, chapmen, tinkers, pedlars, wandering scholars, itinerant friars. None of these was present now. Only peasants, villeins, cottagers, young men from the village and the surrounding hamlets. Taylis coldly turned away anyone else. The men were gathered round the overturned casks which served as tables. Beatrice noticed that the trap door to the cellars beneath had been opened; one of the pot boys was bringing out quivers of arrows, bows, helmets, pikes and hauberks. Martin the miller was there, his face wet with in tears. Others tried to comfort him.
‘Come on,’ Isabella urged. ‘Let’s see what mischief we can cause.’
‘No, no, let me stay here. What’s happening?’ Beatrice sensed the resentment, hatred and grudges curdling in these men’s hearts.
‘It’s only a cauldron,’ Robin whispered. ‘Coming to bubble – it will spill over soon enough.’
Beatrice would not be moved. She stood in the corner. The ugly mood of the gathering was apparent and audible in the muttered curses about the King’s taxmen, the castle, and Sir John Grasse. After Taylis closed and barred the door, he went and stood in the middle of the room, banging his staff against the wooden floorboards.
‘When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman?’
The doggerel lines were taken up in a roar.
‘Worms of the earth, that’s what the great lords of the dunghill call us!’ shouted Taylis. ‘We are tied to the soil, we are heavily taxed and now our young men and women are killed. Fulk in the moat, Eleanora in some filthy dungeon.’
‘Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, life for life!’ an old man chanted, saliva dripping from his gumless mouth.
‘There’s trouble at the castle,’ someone else observed. ‘Fulk and Eleanora are not the only ones to die.’
The words created a moment of silence.
‘What are you saying, Piers?’ Martin the miller demanded.
Beatrice smiled as Piers clambered to his feet. He was a good, strong man, clear-eyed and honest-faced. When she was a child, Piers used to dangle her on his knee and tell her tales about wicked goblins and elves.
‘I think we should take good counsel,’ Piers declared vehemently. ‘Master Taylis is right, the lords of the dunghill oppress us so I do not speak for them. The royal tax collectors are nothing but jackdaws which hunt for anything that glitters. I do not speak for them either.’ His blunt eloquency brought murmurs of approval.
‘But I do think we should be careful and take prudent counsel.’
‘You haven’t lost a son,’ Martin the miller jibed.
‘No, but I loved Beatrice Arrowner. She was a comely, kindly lass. Master Ralph the castle clerk loved her as well. What I am saying is this: Goodman Winthrop’s murder was a mistake. The soldiers will come from London and they’ll not rest until they see two or three of us hang. Have you ever seen men throttled at the crossroads? Do you want to see your sons’ corpses picked and clawed at by the birds of the air?’ He paused, his cold words of warning dousing the anger in their hearts.
‘We will put our trust in our brethren from Essex and Kent!’ a farmer shouted.
‘Oh, aye,’ Piers taunted. ‘And when de Spencer, Bishop of Norwich, comes marching south with his mercenaries, burning our houses, pillaging our goods, raping our wives and daughters, will they come to our help then? This will end in blood and tears.’ He pointed a finger at Taylis. ‘You’re planning an attack on the castle, aren’t you?’
‘At night,’ the taverner replied, ‘we’ll take the place by force, burn it to the ground.’
Piers walked closer. ‘And what will you do with Sir John and Lady Anne? Hang them in Devil’s Spinney? What about Master Ralph? Adam? The soldiers and men-at-arms? They are lads like us. And do you think they’ll give up their lives lightly?’ Piers spread his hands. ‘Brothers, what wrong has Sir John Grasse done to us? He’s a kindly man.’
Beatrice felt relieved at the nods of agreement. Piers was much respected. He had served in the Black Prince’s retinue in France. He knew what he was talking about. Beatrice joined her hands in prayer. If these men attacked the castle, they would show no mercy, leave no witnesses. She joined her hands in prayer. If only she could warn Ralph. She felt so hopeless and frightened. She stared around. That strange bronze light also glowed in the taproom; she was aware of dark shadows, like plumes of smoke, rising, moving in and out among the men. She glanced at her companions.
‘What is this?’
She did not like the expression on their faces, eyes glittering, lips parted as if they were enjoying the spectacle, like people watching a bear being baited.
‘They spit out the slime of Hell,’ Robin declared.
Beatrice looked again but the taproom had disappeared. She stood on the edge of a great forest. She was aware of the trees around her as she stared across a plain whose burning sand could nourish no roots. It was ringed by red hills. Herds of naked men and women were being driven across it, eyes burning with their scalding tears. Some had fallen to the ground, others squatted with their arms about them. The air dinned with their hideous lamentations. Men-at-arms, wielding whips, whirled round this herd like hunters would frightened deer. The sky turned an orange colour then the image disappeared. It was replaced by that freezing snow-filled valley. The pedlar with his jingling bells was drawing nearer. The pack pony was like some giant hare with elongated ears and fiery eyes. The mastiffs loped ahead, their barking like the clanging of some deep bell. On the rim of the valley, the army was more distinct: legion after legion of garishly-garbed soldiers, their cry ringing up: ‘Power and glory! All praise!’ The vision disappeared. She was back in the tavern: Piers was holding forth and winning his comrades over. The taproom had become divided, the majority, particularly the older ones, accepting Piers’s words of caution. Taylis the taverner’s face was mottled with fury as he tried to regain the ground he had lost. A vote was taken: the castle would not be attacked. Martin the miller sprang to his feet.
‘And what about my son?’
‘Leave that to the royal justices,’ Piers snapped. ‘Better still, I’ll approach Sir John.’
And on such words the meeting broke up. Some of the younger men gathered round the taverner; their muttered curses and surly looks showed they had not accepted what had been decided.
‘Come with us, Beatrice.’
Her hands were grasped. Robin and Isabella sped with her across the taproom and up the stairs to a chamber. The room was dark and dingy. An unemptied chamber pot stood in the corner covered by a filthy cloth. A rickety table, two narrow stools and a broken coffer were the only items of furniture in the room. A man was sitting on the bed. A tavern wench, a slattern, was kneeling on the floor before him; it was obvious that the greasy-faced, pockmarked young man was attempting a clumsy seduction. He was dressed in a scruffy brown jerkin with dark-blue sleeves unbuttoned to reveal a wine-stained shirt beneath. His fat legs were encased in blue kersey leggings. On the floor beside him were his scuffed boots and a rather battered war belt from which sword and dagger hung. Against the bolsters were two bulging leather panniers full of yellowing scrolls of parchment. The wench was pretty enough, narrow-faced, with long, black hair which reached to her shoulders. The bodice of her bottle-green dress had been undone, revealing swelling breasts beneath a white chemise.