‘Not fifteen! Why, she’s a fine big girl. I can see that. Not fifteen. Come.’ He had pulled at her gown, tearing at it so that the top part of her body was exposed.

The girl screamed. Her mother ran out of the house calling for help.

The collector laughed and seized the girl.

Within a few moments the girl’s father was in the doorway. In his hand he carried the lathing hammer with which he had been working.

‘Take your hands off my girl, you devil,’ he cried.

The collector turned on him. He carried a knife, for collectors came well armed.

‘How dare you touch my daughter,’ went on the tyler.

‘She’s a ripe wench,’ said the collector licking his lips. ‘Leave us, Tyler. We’ll be pleasant together and who knows I might not demand the tax off her.’

The tyler’s answer was to raise his hammer and bring it down on the collector’s head. In a few seconds the collector was lying on the floor, blood spurting from his body.

‘He’s dead,’ said the girl and threw herself sobbing into her mother’s arms.

The sound of the affray had spread throughout the neighbourhood and people were coming to see what had happened.

The tyler knelt beside the collector. He could see that his daughter had spoken the truth.

The man was dead.


* * *

‘What’ll you do?’ they asked. ‘You know what this means.’

‘You must get away,’ said his wife. ‘Wat, they’ll be after you. They’ll refuse to believe what sort of man he was. You’ll be in the wrong, they’ll say. Oh, Wat, you must go away.’

Walter looked blankly ahead of him. ‘What shall I do?’ he said. ‘Shall I run? Leave my wife, leave my family … run for the rest of my life.’

‘You did right, Wat,’ said the one man. ‘I’d have done the same.’

‘And I. And I.’

‘A curse on the tax. A curse on the collectors. What’s it for, eh?’

‘To buy jewels for the rich.’

‘Why should they have what we work for? Why, why, why …? Didn’t we all come from Adam and Eve?’

‘They’ll never give us what we should have,’ said Walter. ‘I reckon the only way we’d get it is to take it.’

‘Let’s take it. Let’s march. Let’s march on London.’

Something had happened to Walter the Tyler. He had been a peaceful citizen until now. But he had killed a man for attempting to deflower his daughter and he felt no remorse. He felt only anger.

He had heard John Ball when the priest had come this way and he had agreed with what the man had said but he had never believed the words of a priest could change anything.

But why should the world go on in one way just because it had for so many years? There was much in what John Ball had said. And no one ever got anything they didn’t fight for.

Here he was at a turning-point in his life – forced to it by a tax collector.

He had killed a man and he would be discovered. Death awaited him – horrible death. But the people were watching him eagerly. They were looking to him. They were asking him to lead them.

More and more were gathering round.

Walter heard himself addressing them.

‘Why should we go on as we have been? Why shouldn’t we change things? The time has come. We’ll march …’

He heard a cry go up. ‘We’ll march. Come on. All you people come. Fall in. Wat the Tyler is going to lead us to London.’


* * *

A fever of excitement possessed the little town of Dartford. Within a few hours after the death of the tax collector they were gathered together and ready to march. There were hundreds of them. They had snatched up anything that could be used as weapons. True these were of the most primitive kind – mostly the tools of their trades such as flails, bill hooks and plough handles. There were a few pikes. But what they lacked in weapons they made up for in the fire of their determination.

This was going to be the end of slavery. No longer would they allow the government to send its servants to their towns to take their money and dishonour their women.

News spread to the surrounding villages and from all directions men were coming in to join what they called Wat Tyler’s army.

Wat had discovered in himself the gifts of leadership, which had been awakened by the sight of his daughter in the hands of the collector. He had a certain gift for oratory and the fact that this ragged army looked to him as their leader was a great inspiration.

He addressed the crowd and he was amazed at the silence as soon as he began to speak, and the manner in which they attended to his words was gratifying.

‘My friends,’ he cried, ‘we are going to right our wrongs. We shall not cease until we have done so. But let us not forget the man who has shown us the way to go. We have all heard his words. He has brought home to us the injustice of our lot. He has shown us that we have as much right to the good things as our masters have. I mean John Ball.’

‘John Ball be a prisoner of the Archbishop, Wat,’ called a man. ‘He be in the Maidstone prison.’

‘I know it,’ answered Wat. ‘So our first task is to free him.’

‘To Maidstone,’ cried the crowd. ‘Free John Ball!’

So the march to Maidstone began. It was a distance of some twenty miles and as they passed through the villages people ran out to see them.

Marching to free John Ball. Marching to London to get their rights. It was a goodly cause and there was scarcely a man who did not want to be part of it. By the time they reached Maidstone their numbers had doubled. They were an army.

They stormed into the town of Maidstone, shouting, ‘To the Jail. To the Jail. Free John Ball.’

The guards were startled to see this wild army descending upon them. ‘Open the gates,’ they shouted. The startled guards looked on in amazement, and did not move.

‘No matter,’ cried Wat. ‘We’ll soon break in.’

There were so many of them and they were men of muscle; their lives had been spent in hard physical labour. It was not long before the gates gave way and they were storming into the prison.

‘John Ball,’ they chanted. ‘Where are you, John Ball? We have come to free you, John Ball.’

The terrified guards were ready to help them. They were men with a grievance too. And there was John Ball standing before them, his joy apparent on his face.

‘At last, at last!’ he cried. ‘The day of atonement has come.’

He must hear what had happened. They told him how they had started out from Dartford under Wat the Tyler’s leadership, and had gathered men on the way.

‘We can gather men from all over England,’ said John Ball. ‘Wat, you are a fine man. You killed the tax collector and it was a righteous killing. God is with you. He has chosen you to lead these men. But it is not enough, Wat. We need more. We will arouse the whole country. There is not a villein in this land who will not join with us when he knows we are on the march.’

‘How …?’ began Wat.

But John Ball silenced him. ‘We will send messengers all over the country as far north as Durham … out to Essex and Suffolk, to Somerset and York. They will ride with all speed. A clarion call shall go through England. John Ball hath rung the bell.’


* * *

There had been trouble in Essex following the affair of the Fobbing baker. In that village and a few others those who refused to pay the tax had been taken to court. A priest calling himself Jack Straw had arisen to lead the people. He marched into the court and the result was that fighting broke out. The officials were no match for the mob and the court was broken up and Jack Straw’s men marched through the town with the heads of officials dripping blood from the pikes on which they had been stuck.

Now the men of Essex were marching to join the men of Kent. The revolt was no longer a local matter.

The first objective was Canterbury where they might come face to face with Archbishop Simon of Sudbury, he who had sent John Ball to prison and would have let him stay there for the rest of his life if his friends had not come to rescue him.

News reached the Mayor of Canterbury that John Ball with Wat Tyler and their army of desperate peasants were marching on the town, their object being to storm the Cathedral and bring the Archbishop to justice.

The Mayor was in a panic. He was aware of what had happened in Fobbing and he was thankful that the Archbishop had gone to London. That was a mercy. He determined to do all he could to save his town.

The marchers came steadily along the Pilgrims Way and they gave a shout of triumph when they saw the grey walls of the city.

‘We shall have to storm our way in,’ said Wat; but this proved not to be the case.

The Mayor was waiting at the gates to welcome them, to tell them that he had every sympathy with their cause, and that he had food for them for he felt sure that was their most urgent need.

‘Our most urgent need is to come face to face with the Archbishop,’ replied John Ball.

‘My friend, he is not in Canterbury. He left some weeks ago for London.’

There were cries of disappointment. But they were not taking the Mayor’s word for it.

They partook of the food which was offered; then they searched the Cathedral and the Archbishop’s palace. It was true. Their bird had flown.

‘We’ll find him yet,’ declared Wat. ‘And when we’ve rested a night it’ll be to London.’


* * *

Joan, the Queen Mother, had been on a pilgrimage to the shrine of St Thomas at Canterbury and was staying at a manor house near Rochester on her way back to Westminster when she heard of the peasants’ rising.