Free The Last Plantagenets by Thomas B. Costain

dissent he was sentenced to die. They took him out to the gardens where his head was cut off. His naked body was tossed on a dunghill.
    Returning to town, the mob broke open the abbey gates and demanded again that all charters and bonds be turned over to them. The frightened monks produced everything they could find and there was another scene of exuberant demolition.
    The madness was now spreading like a forest fire. The townspeople of Cambridge burned the charters of the university. In Norfolk a man named Geoffrey the Litster, or Dyer (the revival of dyeing was a recent development in England) emerged from the reek of his copperas vats and set himself up as leader of the people. He proceeded to introduce some elements of comedy into the tragic scene. Believing himself inspired to command the movement, he selected for himself the title of “King of the Commons.” Riding a horse, and with bay leaves sewn into his greasy hat, he led the hastily assembled mob to the work of destruction. However, he insisted that none of the nobility who fell into his hands were to be killed. Instead he forced them to serve him at meals;on their knees, no less. One of the barons had to act as official food taster for this self-made master.
    Geoffrey the Litster was one of the maddest of the worthless rogues who inevitably rise to the top under such circumstances. More will be told about him later.
    At St. Albans, also, the uprising was directed against the abbey. One of the prime grievances of the people was that no one was allowed to grind his own corn or even to take the grain to a miller. The abbey held a monopoly and with an eye perhaps to security had set up the millstones within the sheltering shadow of the cloisters. Breaking their way in, the townspeople smashed the stones into such small pieces that each one was able to carry away a fragment as a memento of the day.
    The men of East Kent rose early and laid siege to the tall castle which looked out over the walls of Rochester to the mouth of the Medway. The besiegers had been reinforced by levies from Essex and in some chronicles it is said that they numbered 30,000 men. What happened at Rochester would be duplicated centuries later when the
sansculottes
of Paris attacked the Bastille; sheer mass strength would triumph over high stone walls. The peasants used the trunks of trees to break in the doors and then smothered the garrison in hand-to-hand fighting. The governor capitulated when he found himself and what was left of his men penned in the upper reaches of the Keep.
    And so it went in every part of southern and eastern England. Hatreds of long standing caused instantaneous explosions, in the course of which the common people struck, furiously and blindly, at institutions and people associated in their minds with oppression and injustice.
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    In the meantime the Road of the Pilgrims, running from London to Canterbury, was black with marching men. The doughty Wat, who was showing an unexpected skill in the handling of men, was hurrying with a picked band to the cathedral city to settle a long-standing score with Archbishop Simon. The sons of the soil had three counts against the primate. To vacate the post of chancellor for him, a fine soldier and friend of the people named Richard le Scrope had been removed from office. Simon had always worked hand in glove with John of Gaunt. And, finally, they had never forgiven him that slighting reference to pilgrimages. It was a race against time and only the youngest recruits were included in the fast-stepping band.
    When the tatterdemalion horde (only 500 strong by one report)finished the twenty-five mile tramp, they were hungrier than ever and their beards had grown ragged and long. To their surprise, the gates were thrown open for them. The mayor of Canterbury welcomed them and the townspeople gave every indication of sympathy. And there was food for them, food a-plenty, served in the town square. They visited the cathedral, but Simon was