"Hasten!" called Brother William fiercely as she was plaiting her hair. Her heart jumped and she bundled all the loose bronze mass into a net and bound a white coif over it. She clasped on a woven girdle and attached her blazoned purse, then she ran to arouse Blanchette.
"I know, sweet," she answered as quietly as she could to the girl's sleepy protest. "But Brother William's come. He says we must get dressed."
While Katherine was gone, the friar stood by the rose marble mantel staring down at the hearth, listening for the first sounds that should announce that the London mob had arrived at the Savoy gate. He knew that he had not outdistanced them by long.
He had seen the London prentices and rebels begin to rally. Aldgate had been opened and the Essex men already overran the streets and joined their partisans inside the walls. In the milling throng and darkness no one had noticed the hurrying Grey Friar, while they dragged some wretched screaming Fleming from his bed and butchered him with howls of glee, and the friar had heard other shouts on the fringes of the crowd. "The Savoy first - ay - 'tis Lunnon's right to get there first afore them Kentishmen can do it."
The friar had kicked and pounded his nag to get here in time.
In a few minutes Katherine came back with Blanchette. The girl was dressed in her dove-grey chamber robe, since her daytime clothes had been packed away during her illness. Both women were pale, but the friar saw in one sharp appraising glance how much his little patient had improved: she walked unaided, albeit slowly.
"Good," said the friar. They were both well shod in leather shoes, their wool gowns were practical enough. "Take hooded mantles," he said to Katherine. "Put your jewels in your purse, and have you any money?"
"Two or three nobles," she answered steadily. "Brother William, what is it - what's happening?"
He raised his hand. "Hark!"
From far off on the Strand by the Outer Ward they heard confused noises, a medley of shouts and a dull roaring. As they listened, the sound swelled and rose.
Down Katherine's back ice flowed. She had heard that roaring before as she stood on the step of the Pessoner home five years ago.
"Sweet Christ," she whispered, "what can we do?"
"The sergeant and his men'll hold the gate," said the friar. For a goodish while at least, he thought. But he had seen that the sergeant had had no inkling of the numbers or temper of the rebels. "We've plenty of time to get you away by barge - up-stream to safety, past Westminster. No cause to fear," he said to Blanchette, who gazed at him dumbly.
"The privy stairs," cried Katherine, her mind working fast, " 'tis quicker."
She scooped some jewels at random from her casket and seized two mantles for herself and Blanchette. The friar put his arm around the trembling girl and they went along the passage to the Duchess Blanche's old garde-robe and through the door behind the arras, down the steps to the hidden door that opened behind the empty falcon mew. They stepped into the Outer Ward near the barge-house, and stopped aghast.
The great portcullis of the gatehouse slowly lifted as they stood staring into the court. Roger Leach had ranged himself with his men-at-arms on the inside of the gatehouse. He gave a loud cry of astonished rage as the portcullis lifted and sprang forward with his sword upraised. His bowmen had their arrows notched ready in the thongs, drawn back for shooting. But they had not time to take aim. The mob poured through the gate in a cataract and were on top of them.
The bowmen flung down their useless bows and fought hand to hand with mace and sword.
The sergeant shouted with what breath he had, while he laid on desperately right and left, but this vanguard of the horde were armed Londoners, not starveling peasants. He shouted for help from the Savoy varlets, but only a handful rushed up in answer, and they were soon overwhelmed.
The other servants stayed in their hall, crouching, waiting, some laughing hysterically as they heard the battle rage outside. Like the gate-ward and his helpers who had raised the portcullis, they gibbered with triumphant excitement and chanted, "Jack Milner is grinding small, small, small - John Ball hath now y-rung the bell!"
The Grey Friar and his two charges stood flattened, petrified, across the sunlit court against the plaster wall of the falcon mew. The mob did not notice them. Leaping and shouting, it pounded past the chapel towards the Inner Ward, and above their head the tall friar saw a fountain-spurt of blood spray the buttress of the gatehouse. He saw the sword knocked from the sergeant's hand and another flash of steel as Leach's helmet, was sent spinning from his head. He saw the sergeant's body spitted high in the air on a spear, and twirling before it fell to the paving-stones, where it was trampled by the insurging rabble.
Three of the men-at-arms fought on against some of the London prentices, but the mob - now near a thousand strong - streamed past them indifferently to plunge into the Great Hall, into the chancery, to batter on the Treasure Chamber.
"Christus!" cried the friar, grabbing the two women's arms. "Back! We must get back upstairs!" No hope now of escape by barge. The water gates were closed and there was none to help. He thrust the women behind him towards the little hidden door, and as they stumbled panting into the arch, a sandy shock-haired man in leather helm and breastplate veered away from the main stream of the mob.
It was Jack Maudelyn who had special knowledge of the Savoy and greater personal hate than any of the rebels. His sharp questing eyes had seen the friar and recognised him. Jack charged down the courtyard, flourishing his pike. "Ho!" he shouted, his yellow teeth bared in a wolf grin, his freckled face twisted like a devil mask. "Oh, 'tis the puling friar what sucks gold from the paps o' Lancaster and licks the arses o' the rich! But I'll mend your ways for ye!" He raised his pike.
The unarmed friar stood rigid, barring the archway, where behind him Katherine gasped, fumbling frantically at the door-latch.
"What's that!" cried Jack, catching the shadow of movement behind Brother William. The weaver shoved the friar violently aside and, peering into the archway, cried, "By God, 'tis John o' Gaunt's whore! Here men - -" he yelled, whirling back into the courtyard. "Here's merry sport. Here, here to me!" His cry ended in a grunt.
The friar's great bony fist had shot out and landed full centre of the weaver's face. Jack staggered and lunged forward with his pike. The lance-shaped point slashed down across the friar's chest, it tore through his habit and pierced deep beside the breastbone. The friar's fist hammered out again and caught the weaver on the left corner of his jaw. Jack reeled, spitting out a tooth, and fell down. Bunching his habit with one hand against the welling blood from his torn chest, the friar picked up Jack's pike.
Still the Londoners and Essex men rampaged through the gate following the others. None had heard Jack's cry. The friar turned and ran into the archway, where Katherine had got the door opened at last. They shut and locked it behind them, and stumbled up the privy stairs back to the Avalon Chamber. It was Katherine who from instinct led them back there where she felt safest. The friar and Blanchette followed.
Brother William helped Katherine shoot the great iron bars through the hasps on the oaken door that led to the Presence Chamber. They locked the small door to the Duchess's bower where Blanchette had slept, and pushed the massive table up against it.
"Now we're secure. They can't get in here," whispered Katherine foolishly. She knew not what she said, nor understood quite what had happened. From the shadow of the arch she had seen what a multitude had thundered through the wards.