Eight
The Rising
‘When Adam delv’d and Eve span,
Who was then the gentleman?’
John Ball, 1381
The rain beat hard on the windows of St Andrew’s Priory as Lords and Commons poured into the hall for the opening of another Parliament. Writs were dispatched in early December, ordering Members of Parliament to meet at Northampton. The choice of location was unconventional, but it was necessary, given the tension between John of Gaunt and Londoners that still lingered. The Lords and Commons begrudgingly made the journey to the Cluniac Priory, an important monastic house, but not the impressive and imposing Westminster. After enduring the long journey through driving rain and floods – weather representative of the last Parliament – the grumbling Lords and Commons assembled to hear what Lord Chancellor Simon Sudbury had to say as he opened proceedings.
The news was bad; in fact, the situation was dire. The heavily relied-on wool revenue no longer existed due to civil war in Flanders, seriously damaging a trade that had provided a safe income for England for generations.1 The wool trade was so crucial that it prompted the lasting tradition of the Chancellor sitting on a woolsack in Parliament. Sudbury glumly announced that the French continued to pose a threat, circling in the English Channel and intimidating coastal towns and villages. There was also civil unrest in Ireland and the Scots had once again attacked the northern borderlands – a situation John of Gaunt was currently trying to deal with. Yet again, the Crown was broke and Simon Sudbury was given the awkward task of not only declaring the gravity of the situation, but making a request for financial aid amounting to over £160,000.2
The Commons reluctantly agreed to grant £100,000, accrued by another tax on the people of the realm. This was set at three groats per person over the age of fifteen – three times the usual rate. It was targeted primarily at the labouring classes who, it was believed, were able to bear the brunt of the hike. Once it was decided that the clergy were expected to pay the remaining sum, the resolution was made to implement the new tax in the spring, leading to financial security by the summer.3 With all in satisfactory agreement, proceedings moved on; however, the decision of November 1380 to economically cripple the poor was one of the worst political misjudgements of the Middle Ages. It would result in the largest rebellion the country would ever see.
John of Gaunt was not amongst the men who gathered together in Northampton. In September he was placed at the head of a border commission to forge a truce with Scotland.4 In summer 1380, sailors from Newcastle upon Tyne and Hull set off from the coast to deter pirates who were active around the North Sea and threatened trading ships that worked out of Newcastle. Thomas Walsingham states that on their mission, the crew came across a Scottish ship which they commandeered. Provoked, the Scots retaliated, ‘eager to take vengeance in their turn upon the Northumbrians’ and attacked the borderlands. ‘They entered our land with a large number of their savage race and attacked the people of Westmorland and Cumbria . . . it was said they went everywhere rampaging, everywhere slaughtering and consigning whatever they could to the flames’. The Earl of Northumberland, Henry Percy, was keen to stage an attack in response, but with no funds to support a campaign, let alone a war, John of Gaunt was sent to find a way around the situation. So whilst the Lords and Commons were gathering in wet Northampton, he was receiving Scottish delegates in Berwick-upon-Tweed, carefully managing the precarious Anglo-Scottish relationship to avoid further costly warfare. By the time the decision over the poll tax had been settled, he was on his way to Northampton, having successfully agreed a truce of thirteen months. Gaunt would naturally be expected to attend Parliament and was eager to make it there for a murder trial that was due to take place at the end of the proceedings.
On 25 August 1379, Janus Imperial was standing on the doorstep of his lodgings in Acon Lane in Cheapside when two men walked past and picked a fight. His men were with him and quickly retaliated. One of the antagonists – a man named John Algor, a mercer from a merchant guild – stamped on Imperial’s feet and the other, John Kirkeby, stabbed Imperial twice in the head. This unsurprisingly proved fatal. But this was no ordinary street skirmish; it attracted the attention of the Crown and the assailants were quickly arrested by former mayor John Philipot. Imperial was a Genoese envoy and representative of the Doge of Genoa; he was in England under the protection of the Crown and his murder enraged John of Gaunt, who pushed hard for the charge of treason and the full punishment that went with it – a brutal traitor’s execution. After deliberation in the January Parliament of 1380, the trial was set to take place during the later November Parliament. It is likely this is one of the main reasons that proceedings were to take place in Northampton: to avoid the backlash of Londoners enraged at the prosecution of two of their own men, especially on the orders of John of Gaunt.
The murder of Janus Imperial was the result of ongoing hostility between Gaunt and the people of London, who believed the Duke extended his authority well beyond his remit. Imperial’s unfortunate fate was the result of a rumour that Gaunt, with Imperial’s help, was seeking to move England’s main trading port to Southampton. Such a move would spell catastrophe for London’s merchant oligarchs, stripping them of their authority and wealth and therefore their influence at court. Yet, despite the apparent benefits to this arrangement for Gaunt, there is nothing to suggest this plan was actually in the making: it was all likely rumour and speculation.
In 1380 mercantile London was divided between two opposing factions. Mayor William Walworth was allied with former mayors Sir Nicolas Brembre and John Philipot in staunch support of the Wool Staple and opposition to the government-sold licences that allowed wool merchants to avoid paying tax. These licenses lined the Crown purse but cut out the merchant oligarchs of London in the process. Opposing them was John Northampton, a maverick who promoted the interests of the vulnerable, and radicalised the allocation of power in the City. He wanted the poor to have a say in who represented them in Parliament and to end mercantile corruption. John of Gaunt backed him in both aims, to their mutual benefit; Northampton needed powerful support against Brembre, and Gaunt needed an ally in the City against the merchant elite that had too much power over the Crown. The tension between Gaunt and the London merchants came to head through the trial of John Algor and John Kirkeby.
In order to reach Northampton in time for the trial, John of Gaunt made a swift journey south from Scotland, stopping only briefly at his estates as he travelled. He finally reached Parliament during the last week of November and prepared to sit for the trial of the accused murderers, due to take place in early December. The first defendant called before the jury was John Algor. After originally testifying that the murder was the result of a coincidental argument between the men, Algor changed his testimony to admit that he and John Kirkeby hunted down Janus Imperial in the belief that he sought to destroy the wool merchants in London. Despite Philipot personally arresting both Algor and Kirkeby, this admission provided evidence of a potential coup – with Philipot at its head. John Algor was emphatic he had not killed Imperial, laying the blame at the feet of his accomplice, John Kirkeby – the classic cut-throat defence when two stand accused. Algor remained in prison but Kirkeby was charged with treason and condemned to the gruesome fate of being hung, drawn and quartered at Northampton. To John of Gaunt, justice was done and the Crown’s authority endured.
As John Kirkeby’s butchered body became a feast for crows in Northampton, Parliament rose and the Lords and Commons rode home to begin Christmas celebrations and rest after the arduous month of negotiation and politics. It was believed that the country would be restored and its borders strengthened with the new revenue from the poll tax: the future looked bright.
The Rising of 1381 was cataclysmic for England. It polarised towns and villages and exposed the divisive alliances that tore communities, even families, in two. There was no simple ‘side’, for men and women from various backgrounds and social classes banded together to advocate for change. For some it was a revel, an opportunity for anarchy, and for others it was a revolution. For some it was peaceful and, for others, exceptionally violent.
The year began with the first round of harsh tax collection, as initiated by Gloucester’s November Parliament. Bailiffs and sheriffs around the country were charged with the unrewarding task of extracting extraordinary sums from labourers. By March, the first wave of collection had not achieved the expected sum. The government still desperately needed income so a new treasurer was appointed – Robert Hales, Master of the Hospital of St John of Jerusalem, a military-religious order based in London. It was soon decided that tax collection would no longer be split between January and June, as previously agreed. The entirety would be taken in one crippling deduction, enacted by specially appointed tax collectors around the country. The people were under immense financial pressure, and when they began to avoid the tax collectors, the government dispatched commissioners of enquiry to extort funds by brutal interrogation and threats. With this aggressive strategy, it was not long before the collectors faced backlash and, by April, London sheriffs were refusing to conduct collections, in terror for their lives.
Despite the stirrings of trouble, the nobility continued its daily lives without change or marked concern. John of Gaunt spent a large part of early 1381 mustering an army, to be led by his brother Edmund of Langley, Earl of Cambridge, to aid the Portuguese against the Spanish in an ongoing Iberian war. Gaunt had previously floated the idea of a Portuguese alliance as a way of protecting the English coastline and Brittany, for the Portuguese would be in a position to block any French or Spanish warship from heading through the Straits of Morocco and up towards the English Channel. With the constant threat of attack from the French and Spanish, who had already spent Richard’s reign intimidating the English coastline, an alliance with the Portuguese was of considerable benefit. If Castile could then be taken by Gaunt’s forces, England would be in a powerful position. John of Gaunt soon mustered his military retainers, to ‘serve the Duke in peace and war, and to go with him to war wherever he wishes suitably arrayed for war’. Their payment would be ten marks a year.5
This campaign was Gaunt’s opportunity – sanctioned and funded by the Crown – to claim Castile with the support of the Portuguese; this alliance was crucial to his ambition. The military force assembled for his campaign accounted for a large part of the country’s debt, as exposed by Archbishop Sudbury in the November Parliament. The labouring classes were essentially paying for John of Gaunt’s pursuit of the Castilian throne. Gaunt was enormously invested in the Portuguese campaign, but despite his natural inclination to lead it himself, duty to King and country came first. As ships set sail for Portugal, John of Gaunt prepared for another trip to Scotland, to secure the truce that he had implemented the previous autumn.
In May 1381, John of Gaunt – having spent much of his time at the Savoy Palace gathering forces and orchestrating the administration of the Portuguese campaign– left for Edinburgh, unaware that this was the last time he would see his beloved London home.6
Various chroniclers describe the events that followed in colourful detail. Thomas Walsingham, Jean Froissart and Henry Knighton, as well as the Monk of Westminster, all depict a period of massive civil unrest and an attack on London by the common people. All concur that it was unprecedented and violent. The Anonimalle Chronicle has been considered the most accurate and detailed source for the Rising that took place in the summer of 1381, and it is possible that the chronicler was even witness to the events as part of the King’s entourage.7 Thomas Walsingham describes the start of the uprising as the labourers making an attempt to ‘clamour for liberty . . . a conglomeration of plebeians that no one could remember seeing or hearing of the like’ and only weeks after John of Gaunt’s departure from the Savoy an uprising began in Brentwood, Essex, sparking what later became immortalised as the Peasants’ Revolt.
John Bampton – a tax collector in Brentwood – fled for his life as the people of the town turned violent at his attempts to extort payment. The confrontation between John Bampton and the people of Brentwood snowballed and unrest now bubbled up in Kent. Soon, two vast rebel groups were making their way to London, united in fierce opposition to the brutal tax and those who inflicted it upon them – namely the closest advisors of the King, including the Duke of Lancaster.
‘We may all be united together’, articulated John Ball, a priest of minor orders and protagonist of the Rising, ‘there be no villeins not gentleman . . . the Lords be no greater masters than we be’.8 John Ball was described in the Anonimalle Chronicle as ‘a chaplain of evil disposition’, a type of prophet to the rebels, counselling them that they were equal to those who subjugated them. A band of 60,000 farmers, low order clergy such as parish priests, roofers, reeves, bailiffs, men and women formed a powerful army, collecting followers as they razed towns and villages to the ground, unless the people contributed to the cause. They threatened to kill lawyers, jurors and servants of the crown, and those they did catch met a bloody end. The rebels who emerged out of various parts of Kent gathered together at Dartford where they held counsel. They agreed that ‘there were more Kings than one and that they would neither suffer nor have any King except King Richard’.9 This was a direct reference to John of Gaunt and his assumption of the title King of Castile. The people resented Gaunt’s foreign court, Spanish ambitions and, above all, his influence on the King. It was also still rumoured that Gaunt had designs on the throne of England. As a result, anyone found wearing Gaunt’s livery was mercilessly attacked and their property destroyed.
The rebel groups from Essex and Kent now charged down the old London Road towards Rochester Castle, an imposing Norman edifice that guarded the River Medway. Rochester Castle had already endured one siege, during the Barons’ War of 1215, when King John attacked the rebels garrisoned within. King John did everything he could to conquer the bastion, even blasting the south tower with fire fuelled by boiling pig fat. The siege ended only when the defenders were starved out. On 7 June, over 150 years later, rebels from Kent and Essex also attempted to lay siege to the fortress. By 1381 Rochester Castle was being used as a prison, held by the Constable, Sir John Newton.
The castle was as a prison should be – impenetrable. The rebels had rallied the Medway towns and streamed over the crumbling bridge to the foot of the castle gate. They lacked the sophisticated equipment needed for a siege – trebuchets or siege engines – yet coercion and threats proved enough for Sir John Newton to capitulate and open the gates. As the rebels streamed into the castle, they took Newton hostage and made for the dungeons. Their main objective was to release the prisoners, including a man called Robert Bellyng. This implies that the attack on Rochester was planned specifically to release Bellyng, who probably immediately joined the rebellion. After the attack on Rochester Castle, the Kent faction of rebels elected ‘Watt Teghler’ as their leader, ‘indeed a tiler of houses, an ungracious patron’.10 So the leading protagonists of the Rising emerged as Wat Tyler, the preacher John Ball and a rebel from Suffolk, Jack Straw.11 The rebels now travelled towards London by way of the pilgrims’ road to Canterbury, where they attempted to have the Archbishop of Canterbury re-elected – for ‘he who is archbishop now is a traitor and will be beheaded for his iniquity’.12 Unsuccessful in their attempt, they went on to London where, on the road, they encountered the King’s mother, Princess Joan. Froissart recounts that the Princess was startled and, although they did not harm her, they treated her ‘rudely’.
Kent and Essex rebels arrived at Blackheath, accompanied by various other supporters they had recruited along the way. From Blackheath the rebel force could see the Tower, where the King had taken refuge along with the terrified treasurer, Robert Hales, and the Archbishop of Canterbury, Simon Sudbury – both were wanted by the rebels.
Tyler chose the rebels’ prisoner – Sir John Newton – to deliver their terms to the King at the Tower of London. They stipulated that it was their desire to ‘save him and destroy the traitors to him and the Kingdom’. Richard agreed to hear their grievances at Blackheath the following day, the eve of Corpus Christi (on this year, 12 June), where the rebels – elated and hopeful for their meeting with the King – duly gathered, carrying the banners of St George. As promised, on the day of Corpus Christi, Richard embarked on a royal barge at the Tower and sailed towards Greenwich, where he could address the rebels from the safety of the river. It was a warm June day and the barge glided easily down the Thames, the breeze carrying a stench of smoke in the air. As they approached Blackheath, the scale of the rising became apparent. Thousands of armed rebels provided an intimidating spectacle. On one side of the river were 50,000 Kent rebels; on the other side, another 60,000 from Essex, all united under one cause.13 Unprepared for such a massive confrontation, the King’s councillors implored him to retreat. Shocked by the magnitude of the rebellion, the barge hastily turned about in the direction of the Tower. The rebel commons were aghast: they expected to parley with their King but instead they watched him run away. Richard was back safe in the Tower, but his rapid departure had added fuel to the fire. The march on London continued and thousands now descended on the City, chanting and baying for the heads of the traitors who sought to oppress them.
The Kent Commons, led by Wat Tyler, surged over London Bridge, torching a brothel run by Flemish women before pushing towards the gate at the end of the bridge, where they demanded entry into the City. The mayor, William Walworth, had ordered the gate secured against their entry, but, as the crowd gathered beneath the city walls, the keepers of the bridge, anxious for their lives, conceded to the demand of the mob. They unlocked the chains, lowered the rattling bridge and allowed the rebels to pour into the City.
Many Londoners were sympathetic to the rebel cause, and it provided an opportunity to seek revenge en masse against John of Gaunt in particular, after years of tension and animosity. More recruits were gathered and, together, they stormed Fleet Prison, the property of the Master of the Hospital of St John in Farringdon, and Temple’s Round Church, which was based on the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem – the supposed site of Christ’s burial. The rebels broke in and headed for the treasury where they found ornate manuscripts, scrolls and records pertaining to the sacred history of the church, wealth and privilege and the current legislation that oppressed them. All the parchment and books they could claw from the treasury were brought outside the Round Church and hurled into a furnace.
As the fire cracked and black parchment floated in pieces into the sky, the rebels made their way towards ‘La Straunde’ and their main target: the Savoy Palace.
At around four o’clock on 13 June, the rebels broke into the Savoy Palace with ease. With John of Gaunt absent, the delighted rebels found their way inside his rooms and destroyed cloth, coverlets, books, beds, a valuable headboard decorated with heraldic devices, napery and jewels.14 They found jewellery set with precious stones which they smashed with axes and ground into dust, they threw silverware into the river and shredded garments pulled from chests in the wardrobe.
The rebels were enraged to find that Gaunt was not at home – they had hoped to make an example of the hated Duke. Instead, their revenge was material and they made do with a mock puppet of his person. Having obtained his jakke (jacket), they impaled it on the end of lance and shot arrows at it, before hacking it to pieces with their axes. Gaunt’s belongings were collected and carried into the great hall where they formed a pyre. The point of the destruction was to show the wealthy the limits of their power, but some rebels were tempted by the riches they found inside the Savoy. Arms laden with stolen goods, they tried to escape but summary justice came swiftly: they were struck down and immediately executed; the revolutionaries swore they were not there to steal from the rich, but rather to destroy the rich.
As the great hall was filled with Gaunt’s belongings for the fire, a party of around thirty rebels went exploring in the cellars. To their delight, they came across Gaunt’s supply of wine, barrels enough to keep his household from going thirsty for months. Delighted with their discovery, they began a revel, a Bacchanalian orgy beneath the palace whilst an inferno (fuelled by Gaunt’s property) blazed in the hall above. As the rebels in the cellar became drunker and drunker, two barrels were rolled onto the pyre in the hall. It was believed the barrels were packed with riches but, in fact, they were filled with gunpowder. The inevitable explosion ripped through the building. To the horror of the rebels, the Savoy Palace, ‘unrivalled in the Kingdom for its splendour and nobility’, was consumed in flames that could be seen throughout London.15 All that remained were the ill-fated drunken rebels trapped in the cellars as the Savoy Palace came crashing down above them.16
The best view of the City was from the Tower of London, the imposing edifice built by William the Conqueror that loomed over the streets. From a small window, the King watched helplessly as flames engulfed his uncle’s home and many other great buildings in the City and beyond. It was decided among the councillors who shared Richard’s sanctuary in the Tower that he must meet with the rebels, hear their grievances and put an end to their violence. After he had fled from Blackheath, the brutality escalated into a series of ruthless beheadings in the City. Richard now agreed to meet the rebels at Mile End and on 14 June he left the Tower, accompanied by the Earls of Buckingham, Kent, Warwick and Oxford as well as Thomas Percy, Robert Knolles and William Walworth. His mother followed behind and Richard was escorted by his half-brothers, Thomas and John Holland. Sir Aubrey de Vere carried the royal sword, an emblem of kingly authority that served to remind the rebels whom they were addressing. As threats had been made on the lives of the Archbishop and the Treasurer, it was deemed appropriate that they remain in the Tower for their own safety.
The sword did not have quite the desired effect. As the royal entourage progressed through Aldgate on its way to Mile End, a cabal of rebels met and surrounded the party. One man – the London captain, Thomas Farringdon – even made a grab for the reins of Richard’s horse, demanding justice against the Treasurer, Robert Hales. As the mob became increasingly intimidating, Princess Joan turned and fled back to the safety of the Tower. The King – likely shaken by the altercation in Aldgate – finally reached Mile End, an expansive area of fields, where the road ran east directly through the middle of the green.
The rebels were waiting for him, some eager to finally make terms and request reasonable justice and some seeking violence; others stayed near the City, circling the Tower of London like bloodhounds. Richard was faced with the same rabble that had waited for him on the banks of the river near Blackheath, although this time they sported various heads on spikes, as trophies from their rampage through the City. Those keen to negotiate waved flags and banners overhead that rippled in the breeze and demonstrated some loyalty to the King.
Their terms were reasonable: men should be free from servitude and pay a fixed rent of four pence per acre of land. Richard agreed to this, eager to appease them. However, as the King was speaking to the rebels at Mile End, another party of Kent rebels by the Tower of London soon took justice into their own hands. One of them was a woman named Joanna Ferrour. In a throng of ‘terrifying uproar’ the rebels made their way into the Tower, according to Thomas Walsingham, through the gate. The Tower of London was designed as a prison as well as a garrison and it had never been breached. The keep of the Tower was protected by causeways, drawbridges, portcullises and gates, as well as an armed guard. The only way the rebels could possibly gain entry was if they were let in. The rebels had strength in numbers but they lacked the superior weapons it took to storm a bastion like this. The rebels accessed the Tower by the same method they employed at Rochester – coercion.
Simon Sudbury was kneeling in the chapel of St John, an original part of the White Tower, as the rebels broke into the keep. The eyes of St Edward and St John, gleaming from the stained glass, bore down on the Archbishop as the shouts and chants of the rebels outside echoed through the windows. Simon Sudbury continued to pray until, inevitably, the mob burst into the chapel, delighted to find Sudbury on his knees. ‘Welcome my children’, he said, ‘look here, I am the archbishop whom you seek, but I am no traitor, and no plunderer’.17 His attempt to reason with the rebels was fruitless; they dragged him from the altar outside onto Tower Hill where they struck off his head in eight clumsy, bloody blows. Robert Hales, the Treasurer, was also dragged from the altar to meet the same fate, as was Brother William Appleton, a physician in the service of John of Gaunt.
As the three men were brutally executed, another remarkably survived. When John of Gaunt rode north to Scotland, he left his son, Henry Bolingbroke – aged fourteen – in the company of the King. As Richard rode out to meet the rebels that day, he left Henry in the Tower for his own safety – as the son of John of Gaunt he was a prime target for the rebels. Henry Bolingbroke quietly hid in a cupboard in the Tower and waited for the rebels to leave: miraculously they never discovered his hiding place. The councillors to the King were not so fortunate. Their severed heads were taken to London Bridge, where they were impaled on spikes as trophies of justice. The killing spree continued as rebels dragged men from their homes, from churches and even from Westminster Abbey to be beheaded, until Richard released a proclamation for all men to come and meet with him again, this time at Smithfield.
On 15 June, the rebels gathered and confidently faced the King and his men. William Walworth rode forward from the King’s party and demanded the rebel leader make himself known. Wat Tyler approached the King and asked for liberty and equality, stating that ‘all men should be free’. The day was hot and, as Tyler pleaded his cause to the King and his men, he suddenly became thirsty and requested a jug of water to wash his mouth out. Tyler swilled the water and spat it out in front of the King. To the nobility, this small and seemingly insignificant act was symptomatic of the crudeness and ill manner of Tyler and the rebels he represented. A valet in the King’s retinue scoffed that Tyler was no more than a thief, prompting a violent rebuff from Tyler. In response to his rudeness, William Walworth moved to arrest him, prompting Tyler to lunge forward and try to stab the mayor. Tyler’s attack was thwarted and Walworth ran him through; as the crowd of shocked rebels watched the scene unfurl, Wat Tyler died at the King’s feet . . . and his cause died with him. Some claim Tyler escaped, only to be dragged from his sickbed and executed, but others state that the mayor had him beheaded there and then, and his severed head exhibited as the consequence of rising up against the Crown.
The rebels were poised to attack and they greatly outnumbered the King’s party; however, they hesitated. Richard acted quickly and seized the opportunity to quell the inevitable bloodshed: he rode out before them and spoke as their King. Richard was safe; despite their grievances he was still considered the divinely appointed monarch and their saviour. The fault lay with his advisors and his uncle. Richard believed in his own importance; it was his armour. He performed the role of a benevolent King, merciful to his people and bade them leave peacefully. He swore that he would grant their wishes and no harm would come to them. And so, the Rising was over and the rebels were granted their request. As they swarmed out of the City, London still burned and bodies that lay in the streets were pecked at by hungry birds and gnawed on by stray dogs.
The Rising was over, but had scorched the country. The full extent of the destruction was yet to be revealed and many were still none the wiser regarding the week’s events. Only two days later, John of Gaunt received the news that his home and his property were destroyed.18
As London burned, news of the Rising spread like wildfire. More rebel groups rallied together throughout the country and attacked John of Gaunt’s property. Leicester, as the seat of Lancastrian power in the midlands, was a prime target.
Henry Knighton was in Leicester when news reached its mayor that a mob had taken up arms against John of Gaunt and was fast approaching to destroy his property.19 Over 1,000 citizens collected any weapon they could find – axes, pikes, scythes and swords – and gathered upon nearby Gartree Hill, ready to defend their town and their Duke. A clerk of the wardrobe at Leicester filled a cart with Gaunt’s belongings and had it pulled to Newark Abbey, the structure carefully built by Henry, Duke of Lancaster, to represent Lancastrian piety, wealth and power. The cart arrived as the Abbot was hurriedly preparing the abbey for attack. Unwilling to risk his life to house the Duke’s belongings, he turned the cart away and bolted the door. The desperate clerk had little choice other than to direct the laden cart into the churchyard of St Mary de Castro – a smaller church close to the castle – and pray for divine protection. Despite the panic and preparation for attack, the rebels never came to Leicester. The rumour that had made its way north from London that a band of armed rebels was marching to attack was just that – a rumour. Rebellion did spill out of London and riots ensued in Saint Albans, Norwich, Beverley and Lincolnshire, but Leicester remained unaffected. However false, the myth of an army seeking Gaunt’s blood continued to travel north. Five days after the sack of the Savoy, the news of the Rising reached John of Gaunt at Berwick-upon-Tweed.
The Duke of Lancaster was in the process of finalising a successful negotiation, a three-year truce with the Scots, when he received news of the Rising in London and the attack on his property. The Savoy lay in ashes, the King had sanctioned the rebels’ desire to bring the ‘traitors’ to justice and his loyal servants had been murdered – Brother William Appleton’s head decorated London Bridge. After he absorbed the news, John of Gaunt did not appear surprised.20 He was aware of the malice of Londoners – the Savoy having previously been a target for their rage – but he had underestimated their capability and the extent of their ruthlessness. Gaunt was hurled into a compromising position. With the truce in Scotland – the product of his careful diplomacy and skill – on a knife-edge, news of such significant civil unrest in England could undo everything he had achieved, or, worse, trigger a Scottish attack. He decided to keep the news of the Rising quiet until the truce was concluded. Unfortunately, Scottish spies were quickly informed of the situation and the next day, as Gaunt met with Robert II’s son Carrick at Ebchester to seal indentures, he was forced to lay his cards on the table. With no news from the King, John of Gaunt was left at the mercy of the Scots. To make matters worse, he was informed 10,000 rebels were marching north to seek their revenge against him – the same rumour that initiated the defensive force at Leicester.
John of Gaunt found himself in a precarious situation. He was reliant on the goodwill of the Scots who had been, until recently, enemies of the Crown. Furthermore, with no news from Richard, Gaunt was uncertain of the King’s position towards the rebels who demanded his blood. Both Simon Sudbury and Robert Hales had lost their heads; there was no reason for John of Gaunt to escape the same fate should the King permit it. Responsible for his entire household as well as his mission in Scotland, Gaunt had little time to plan his next move. His initial actions were to order the strengthening of his properties that were under threat of rebel attack. He ordered Sir Walter Ursewyck, the Constable of his castle in Tickhill on the Nottingham/Yorkshire border, to defend it ‘with twenty men at arms and archers [and] buy victuals detailed in the enclosed bill to stock the castle’.21 Gaunt intended to remain in the north – the further away from London he was, the better. His initial plan was to travel to Bamburgh, then on to Pontefract Castle where his household was located, and he dispatched an order for the castle to be stocked with ‘enough wood for the household during the Duke’s stay’ and for goods and wine to be brought up from Leicester – possibly the same goods stuck on the cart at St Mary de Castro. In the end, this did not matter, for Gaunt did not reach Pontefract as he had carefully planned. Instead he was forced to submit to the authority of the Earl of Northumberland, Henry Percy.
As negotiations were brought to a peaceful conclusion with Scotland, John of Gaunt planned to dine with Percy at Alnwick Castle on his way south. In light of the danger he was in, Gaunt needed an ally and travelled to Alnwick in haste with a skeleton of his usually bulging entourage. He had sent most of his men back to their homes to protect their property or assess the damage that had already been done, so his force was far from imposing. As Gaunt’s depleted retinue approached Alnwick, northern Lords Sir John Hotham and Sir Thomas Motherby met him on the road to hand over a letter from Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, clearly stipulating that Gaunt was no longer welcome to dine with him. In addition to this snub, speaking on behalf of the King, Percy forbade the Duke to travel to any other castle in England, including Pontefract – even to collect his belongings. It is uncertain whether Henry Percy was actually following Richard II’s orders, or whether he saw Gaunt in a vulnerable position and seized the opportunity to undermine him. Percy’s refusal of hospitality and aid resulted from the animosity he had harboured ever since Gaunt had been made Lieutenant of the Scottish Marches – Percy’s domain. Leaving the powerful Duke of Lancaster entirely powerless was the best revenge Percy could take.
This came as a significant blow, leaving John of Gaunt with no ally in the north. He was forced to turn his demoralised party around and head back towards Scotland. Sixty miles north they were met at the magnificent Melrose Abbey near Roxburgh by the Earls of Douglas, Moray and Mar and an impressive escort of spears. They had been sent to accompany Gaunt to Holyrood Abbey in Edinburgh, where he would be welcome to stay under the protection of the Scots, despite the newness of the truce. A sojourn in Edinburgh was an opportunity for Gaunt to consolidate, and he was offered remarkably generous hospitality during this time; testament to the Duke’s fairness and diplomatic skills in his consistent negotiations over the years and, possibly, to the respect fostered by having been – for however short a time – a candidate for the Scottish throne.
Whilst at Holyrood, Gaunt began to contemplate his fate, namely questioning what – or who – was responsible for his poor fortunes. After days of no word from the King, he became anxious that God was punishing him and he landed on the most obvious sin, adultery: his blatant infidelity with Katherine Swynford.22
The relationship between Gaunt and Katherine was public. He treated her with admiration, love, generosity and spent considerably more time with Katherine than he did with his wife Constance. During the revolt, Katherine had gone into hiding – possibly in an abbey or convent. She had property and land in Lincolnshire, left to her by her late husband, Hugh Swynford, but as she was known to be Gaunt’s mistress it was unlikely that she fled to the place she was best known. It is possible that Katherine was already at Pontefract with John of Gaunt’s household – where he had intended to travel after completing negotiations with the Scots. Katherine still had responsibility for Gaunt’s daughter, Philippa, and they had four children together – John, Henry, Thomas and the youngest, Joan, who was only two years old. Nonetheless it is clear that the events of 1381 put an end to their love affair. Both Thomas Walsingham and Henry Knighton state its termination was necessary to placate ‘the Lord’s anger’ and, in doing so, John of Gaunt ‘humbled himself in every respect’.23 Henry Knighton recounts that Gaunt vowed to God to ‘remove that lady from his household, so that there could be no further offence’, and it appears that, after 1381, Katherine was no longer in his employ.
The termination of the relationship was not painless for John of Gaunt. He ended their affair out fear of the repercussions if it continued and to restore amity with his enemies and critics – namely, the Church. Continuing their adultery after the violence of the Rising – the murder of his men and the destruction of his property – could invite further rage, attention and attacks on his character, possibly even jeopardising the welfare of Katherine and their children. The priority – following the Rising – was to mend old feuds, not fuel them and according to Henry Knighton, Gaunt did his best to redeem himself in the Church’s eyes. He did, however, offer Katherine his continuing friendship, protection and dutiful care; neither she nor their children would want for anything and she continued to command his respect thereafter. Katherine eventually left her home at Kettlethorpe and took a house in Minster Yard, Lincoln, an isolated and secure home for herself and her children near a monastic community. She and Gaunt remained in contact and she continued to receive gifts and grants from him, such as wine for her household.24 There is a lacuna of information regarding John of Gaunt’s relationship with Katherine Swynford – as there is for most women in the Middle Ages – but it is clear that their separation was sudden. The emotional effect on Gaunt appears in the sources the following month, after the dust of the Revolt had settled. On 23 July, John of Gaunt had a chapel built in Knaresborough. It was dedicated ‘to St Katherine’ – a parting gesture for the patron saint and namesake of the woman he dearly loved.25
As Gaunt terminated his relationship with Katherine, his attention was drawn to the welfare of his wife, Constance, who was waiting for him in a state, ‘smitten in her heart for great fear’ at Knaresborough Castle after a stressful journey north.26 As rebels sacked the Duke’s property in London, Constance fled nearby Hertford to avoid possible capture. As her safety became compromised in the south, the Duchess quickly left for Pontefract Castle – likely knowing that this was where the Duke’s household had assembled. As she reached the gates of the castle after a long and dangerous journey, she was shocked to find her entry barred. Refusing the Duchess of Lancaster would be a punishable offence in normal circumstances. As Constance was vulnerable after fleeing Hertford, it could only be under extraordinary circumstances that she was turned away, suggesting that the guards at Pontefract – on high alert – were expecting an imminent rebel attack. There is no reason why the same rumour that reached John of Gaunt of a 10,000-strong merciless army had not reached his household in Pontefract, terrifying those who were duty-bound to defend it. If the rebels believed Gaunt’s wife to be inside, the defendants would likely lose their lives protecting her. Constance was forced to continue travelling through the night to the nearest Lancastrian stronghold, Knaresborough, with only torchlight to guide her way, until she finally reached the castle and was admitted by its keeper, Richard Brennand.27 Constance was understandably terrified.
As his wife waited in Knaresborough, John of Gaunt, still a guest at Holyrood, anxiously awaited news and reassurance from Richard II, who was achingly slow to send word. Gaunt was exceedingly grateful, humbled by the Scots’ hospitality. He requested wine and spices as well as money from his lands in Lancaster to be sent to him immediately, and gave a golden salt cellar in the shape of a dove to the Earl of Douglas’s son.28 Thankful as he was for Scottish goodwill, Gaunt was eager to remind them that he was also still powerful. The generous gifts he bestowed on his hosts were likely a diplomatic reminder of his position in England – however precarious it seemed in that moment.
Despite the generosity of the Scots, and their persistent offers to support him on the battlefield against the rumoured force moving north, Gaunt was desperate to return to England, and he wrote to the young King for his good grace. According to Walsingham, Gaunt was in such a vulnerable position that he threw himself on the mercy of his nephew, even offering ‘if the King prescribed it . . . to leave the realm and go into exile’. In the end there was no need. Richard finally dispatched a letter to his anxious uncle which stipulated that he was needed in London, putting his mind at ease and assuring him of his goodwill. At the end of July, Gaunt was finally able to travel and, with over 500 men, he set out to collect Constance from Knaresborough. When they were reunited, a penitent John of Gaunt dropped to his knees and begged forgiveness for his adultery with Katherine Swynford. Constance graciously forgave the affair and they spent the evening together, celebrating their reconciliation.
Richard was obviously eager to have his uncle returned safely, for he dispatched orders to all lords north of London to escort the Duke of Lancaster to meet him.29 As John of Gaunt moved south, one of the first lords sent to escort him – as directed by the King – was the bashful Henry Percy.30 Percy’s earlier disdain towards Gaunt had not been forgotten and any opportunity to rebuff the Earl would be relished. When Gaunt was met on the road with an entourage specifically gathered to escort him south, he had the chance to return Percy’s hostility, haughtily thanking Richard for his order to the Earl of Northumberland but declining his aid. Embarrassingly for Percy, he was forced to turn around and take his troops home. John of Gaunt was proud and Henry Percy’s dismissal at Alnwick had dealt him a significant blow. The animosity between the two men started a feud that would rattle the highest echelons of government and threaten the repair of the realm, following the largest rebellion in its history.
As Richard had directed, the nobility flocked to aid Gaunt on his journey towards London, a gesture that may have helped soothe a badly bruised ego. 1,000 spears were dispatched to escort him to Reading Abbey, where he had married Blanche. The King was pleased to see him, and according to Henry Knighton showed his uncle ‘the greatest respect, and did all that he could for his comfort’. Richard may have gushingly welcomed the fugitive John of Gaunt, but his motivations after the Revolt are questionable. Why did he make his uncle, advisor and greatest protector wait in fear and anxiety for his position, even for his life, for so long? After the rebels dispersed, Richard had immediately ridden out to his mother, Princess Joan, before commanding that the lords, nobles and sheriffs of the land enforce the peace by whatever means.31 In London, further rebels were caught and executed and in Essex – the root of the rebellion – Richard personally oversaw a merciless pacification. After rebels were arrested all around the county, some were hung from trees, some drawn and quartered and others beheaded.
At the age of fourteen – in accordance with medieval tradition – Richard had reached the end of his childhood.32 Without the imposing, powerful and authoritative voice of John of Gaunt, Richard saw the wake of the Revolt as an opportunity to exercise his kingship. He was filled with a sense of God-given importance, that self-importance that had given him the reckless courage to stand before an army of angry rebels and trust in their natural worship of him. The moment the rebels surrendered to fourteen-year-old Richard was the moment he began to believe anybody would, and should.
John of Gaunt – under oath to his brother on his deathbed – had protected Richard’s interests and his crown, yet Richard allowed his loyal uncle to stew in Scotland, having lost property and men, under the precarious protection of England’s old enemies who could as easily have murdered the Duke as given him hospitality. It was only after Richard was finally advised to bring his uncle back to London that he acted and sent word. Perhaps this was for Gaunt’s safety, with small-scale rebellions still active throughout lands in the south as minor continuations of the Rising. However, it is more likely that Richard was too distracted managing the aftermath of the Revolt – and perhaps the delay was a way of avoiding Gaunt’s counsel. By 1381, John of Gaunt was aware of what kind of King the young Richard might eventually become and began to lose trust in his nephew. Despite this, he was still bound by unbreakable duty to the Crown – and above all to family.