They stamped and bellowed and waved their St. George pennants. Wat reached over from the stump and seized the King's standard; he raised it high into the sky until all could see the royal lilies and leopards. "And commons be loyal!" he shouted. "Our little anointed King'll be our true liege leader like his blessed princely father was. God rest his soul!"

Wat put the standard down and cupping his hands around his mouth, he roared out, "With whom holdes you?"

In one mighty voice they answered with the watchword.

"With King Richard and the true commons!"

Wat nodded heavily and got down off the stump. He glanced at the preacher, whose face was upturned to the pale new stars, and saw that John Ball was praying, open-eyed, while slow tears ran down his cheeks.

"Christ's mercy, but I hope them aldermen'll soon open the Bridge," Wat murmured.

Even as Wat spoke, a voice cried out, "To the Marshalsea, men!" and another called, "Yea! Burn the Marshalsea and on to Lambeth! When they city cravens see what we'll do on this shore, they'll not tarry in coming to terms!"

The rabble shifted and wavered, a dozen broke away and began to run towards the western road. Others followed brandishing torches, some armed with rusty old swords, with picks and hoes and cudgels; here and there a bowman, but the bows were warped and aged, the arrows nearly featherless.

The crowd grew dense that thundered off towards Southwark, and Wat watched uneasily. "An' they do more harm'n we meant," he growled, biting his lips, " 'twill mayhap hurt our cause."

John Ball started. Hearing the tiler's words, he lowered his head and looked to see what was happening.

"Not so," he whispered hoarsely. "Naught can harm our cause, for it is God's. They'll but root out the noxious weeds that choke our crops - mind ye, tiler, what the Blessed Christ has said! 'I came not to send peace, but a sword.' He will guide us aright."

Wat's misgivings were silenced, and he thrilled to the confidence that John Ball inspired, but Wat was a man of action, and his mind darted to practical matters. "What of Jack Strawe, Sir Priest?" he asked anxiously. "Think ye his men've entered the city yet by Aldgate?"

This was their plan, long a-growing and ripe at last, that the men who had rallied in Essex should broach London by her eastern gate, while the southern army crossed over on the Bridge.

"If they have not, they soon will," answered the preacher with calm certainty. "We shall succeed in all our aims!"

Katherine awoke suddenly and for no reason in the dawn hour of that Thursday, June 13, which was the Feast of Corpus Christi. She listened drowsily for some time to the sound of distant bells and thought that the church processions were starting early in honour of the Blessed Sacrament, and that this day she would certainly go to Mass. She had been lax too long.

Gradually it seemed to her that the rhythm of the bells was somewhat violent and clamorous to be the usual summons to Matins, or yet to signalise the start of a procession. She sat up in bed and pulled the velvet curtains back. Already the brief June hours of darkness had faded; grey light sharpened the forms of the furniture, the gilt carved tables and chairs, the ivory prie-dieu. She glanced towards the window and was mildly surprised to see the sky flushed with redness. It must be later than she had thought if this were sunrise.

She started to ring for Mab, who slept on a pallet in the passage, but instead she slipped out of bed, and flinging her chamber robe around her, padded on naked feet across the tiles and peered curiously out of the window. She blinked and stared again.

Down-river, in the neighbourhood of Southwark, the sky was lurid, and dense smoke billowed up against pale lemon coloured streaks of dawn. While nearer, in a different place to the south past Lambethmoor, she saw high leaping tongues of flame.

"Jesu - -" she whispered. "The Surrey bank's afire!" She flung open the leaded window and thrust her head and shoulders out. Still too dazed by sleep and astonishment to comprehend, she thought, Can it be Lambeth Palace burning, or Kennington? Nothing else to the south could cause so great a fire. She looked again down-river and saw a shower of sparks wing up into a brick-red sky.

She shut the window and turned uncertainly back, staring into the familiar, beautiful room. Her bare feet were cold on the tiles and she shivered, then walked to the bedside, where her brocaded slippers lay. Thank God the fires're safely across the river, she thought. I must send some of our men over to help.

She jumped as there came a banging on her door. It flew back and Brother William stalked in.

Katherine's chamber robe dropped open as she whirled around; the friar averted his eyes from the glimpse of white nakedness, and said, "Dress yourself quickly, Lady Swynford - and the child - there's danger."

She clutched her robe around her. "What's happened?" she whispered. "There's fire out there."

The friar glanced towards the window's ruddy light and said grimly, "There's a deal more than fire. The peasant army's pouring into London. Hasten - don't waste time in chatter!"

She stared into his eyes, saw that his haggard face was as grey as his habit, yet that he breathed fast as though he had been running. She obeyed him blindly, forcing her hands to quietness as she dressed herself in the garde-robe. Where's Mab? she thought, and forgot the woman. She put on a linen shift, and by instinct pulled down from the perch the plainest of her gowns, an old loose one of dark green wool in which she had nursed Blanchette during the worst of the illness.

"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!"