She had been very uneasy lately. The King was growing up but was still very young – not yet fourteen; and she was constantly anxious about him. Each day she more deeply regretted the death of the Black Prince and often thought how much easier life would have been had he lived. She who had been so frivolous in her youth had grown very serious. She tried to guide her son. The uncles were there in the background of course. She looked more to John of Gaunt than the others; but John was so unpopular with the people and there were such evil rumours about him that she felt she must be wary. He was at this time in Scotland – for the Scots could always be relied upon to be troublesome at the most inconvenient times; Edmund was in Portugal and Thomas in the Marcher country – all on missions which she guessed would prove to be fruitless.

She had undertaken this pilgrimage to ask for St Thomas’s help; and now hearing these rumours of the peasants’ activities she told her attendants that they must lose no time in getting back to London.

Travel for Joan had become something of a trial, for she had grown very fat over the last few years and riding a horse was irksome. For this reason she had had a vehicle built for herself. It was a most unusual contraption and when it passed along the roads people ran out of their houses to see it. The Queen Mother was one of the most popular members of the royal family, particularly in Kent, where she was still known as the Fair Maid of Kent, and she was the mother of the young King who, although he was not quite so rapturously received as he had been on the day he was crowned and had so appealingly lost his slipper, was still loved for his youth and beauty. Joan had never been afraid to mingle with the people and her ready smiles had kept her popularity.

Now the sight of this carriage which looked like a wagon of red and gold covered in a white hood with a curtain over it to hide the occupant from view, brought out the crowds to give a smile and a cheer for the Fair Maid, even if in truth she scarcely deserved the name, though in spite of her obesity the remains of her remarkable beauty were still apparent. Moreover although the people loathed John of Gaunt, and had little love for the other sons of the King, they had idealised the Black Prince and retained a certain affection for Joan.

Joan set out from Rochester instructing her servants that they must make every effort to reach London as soon as was possible. She sat in her carriage and made no complaint as they rattled along the roads even though the speed did not add to the comfort of travelling thus.

Then suddenly as they rattled along the carriage gave a sudden jolt and they were stationary.

‘What can this be?’ asked Joan anxiously.

One of her women who had been travelling with her inside the carriage lifted the curtain and looked out.

‘What has happened?’ the woman asked one of the guards.

‘The wheels are stuck in the mud,’ was the answer.

Joan heard and looked out. ‘Let every man get to work,’ she said. ‘We must get to London with all speed.’

‘Everything that can be done shall be done, my lady,’ was the answer.

They settled down to wait. An hour passed and still they had not moved from the spot for the wheels could not be shifted from the cloying mud.

Just as Joan was wondering whether she should take one of the horses and ride to London with some of the guards she heard the shouts in the distance.

It was too late. The rioters were coming this way.

Her women were afraid. Joan sat still, her hands folded in her lap. They would know her carriage. The royal insignia of the white hart was painted on the hood; moreover it was certain that everyone had heard of this carriage and there was no other like it – and every peasant knew that it belonged to the Queen Mother.

There was a conflict between the rich and the poor and there was no doubt in Joan’s mind into which category she would fall.

An army of a hundred thousand strong – if reports could be believed – was marching along this road and she was here with only a few guards and servants to protect her!

She was not one to show fear however much she felt it. She lived in a violent world where life was cheap. Her father had been murdered – judicially it was said – but murdered none the less. If her time had come, then she must face it. Her great fear was: What will become of Richard if they kill me?

Her thoughts raced on as she listened to the shouts which grew nearer and nearer. She was hardly recognisable now as the frivolous young beauty who had trifled with the affections of young Salisbury and had married Thomas Holland after he and she had become lovers, and then in widowhood had asked the Black Prince to marry her. Perhaps this all showed the strength of her character which had not been recognised when she had flirted even with the King so that there had followed that never to be forgotten garter incident.

She wanted to live chiefly because of her son who was her whole life now. But if she must die she would do so with dignity even as her father had when they had cut off his head outside the walls of Winchester.

Now she could hear the voices of the peasants. They had seen the carriage lying in the mud. They were surrounding it.

She sat tense, waiting for the moment when the curtain should be lifted and she dragged out to die.

Someone shouted: ‘It’s the Fair Maid of Kent. It’s the King’s mother. Stuck in the mud.’

There were shouts of raucous laughter.

Someone said: ‘You’ll need a strong arm to get those wheels out, you fine guards.’

‘They look pretty in their uniform but it takes men to do a job of work.’

‘Show them, friends. Show them.’

Joan sat still, her heart beating fast. The carriage jerked. A shout went up.

‘There we are. You’re free of the mud, fellows. There’s your fine carriage.’

‘Let’s look inside,’ said one.

‘’Tis the mother of the King.’

‘What of that? All are equal now.’

The moment had come. They had freed the carriage but for what purpose? To use it themselves? She had visions of their marching into London with her carriage and her head on a pike.

And Richard … if he should see.

‘God spare him that,’ she prayed.

The curtain was drawn aside. A dirty face with a stubble of beard was thrust in.

She sat very still, her hands folded. She smiled at him with a good show of unconcern.

‘Good day to you,’ she said. ‘I believe I have to thank you for helping to get my carriage back on the road.’

The man was bewildered for a moment. Her beauty, her royal dignity, the splendour of her garments overawed him and temporarily he forgot that all she stood for was the very reason why he and his fellows were in revolt.

The man was pushed aside and another, so like himself that Joan could not have told them apart, was looking in at her.

‘Here’s a very grand lady,’ he said.

She rose then and went to the side of the carriage, and holding back the curtain said: ‘I wish to thank you all for your good services to me.’

There was hushed silence. She was aware of the multitude surrounding the coach. She noticed the primitive weapons, the flails and the bill hooks. There were a few pikes. She thought: It is come. Let it be quick. Let me not forget my royalty. Let me die as nobly as my father did.

‘’Tis the Queen Mother herself.’

‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘I have been to pray at the shrine of St Thomas. I am grateful to you for making it possible for me to continue my journey.’

She saw the savage desire for revenge on some faces but they did nothing. They were waiting for an order from the leader. The man who had looked into the coach said: ‘All men are going to be equal now, lady. Each man has a right to his share of the world’s goods. You’re no more lady than a serving-wench to be bussed by any as takes the fancy.’

Joan had one of those inspirations which came to her now and then. One had been when she had refused to marry the man who had been chosen for her and let the Black Prince know that she would accept only him. She was cool; some might say a little wanton. But she acted on impulse.

She held out her face to the man who had spoken.

He put his lips against her cheek and kissed her. A cheer went up. The mood of the peasants had changed. This was the Fair Maid of Kent. They had no quarrel with her. They had no quarrel with the King. He was only a boy. He was only doing as he was told. The real enemies were those such as Simon of Sudbury and John of Gaunt.

‘Let us pass,’ said Joan, realising what an impression her gesture had made. It might not last. There would be some in that crowd who were thirsting for her blood. She must get away quickly. Delay could be dangerous.

Oddly enough the crowd fell back. The riders whipped up their horses. The carriage lumbered forward. A cheer went up from the crowd but Joan heard the undercurrent of growling.

But she was away. She had saved her life.

‘For the love of God,’ she cried, ‘get to London with all speed.’


* * *

The Queen Mother’s party had left the peasants’ army some miles behind as it came across London Bridge and into the Tower where the King was at this time.

She burst into the King’s apartment and found him in the company of several of his friends including the Earl of Oxford who had become his almost inseparable companion, and his cousin Henry of Bolingbroke who like the King was in his fifteenth year.