The 1381 Peasants' Revolt: Fobbing's Own

Words by Gina M. Bright

Art by Sandra Eckert

That filthy bastard. He snatched my little Kat, just like that, up high under her tunic. Court official or not, that’s my only girl. I stood there stirring my piping hot pottage with a bit of bacon in it. I knew if just a ladleful met his snake of a face, I’d be taken in. Lord, I wanted to do it.

I didn’t have to bother too much about that in the end, though, because my very own Thomas started to strangle him. I didn’t want him to stop but I made him. He was going to lead our men to court at Brentwood in the morn. That’s where this Sergeant Legge, the snatcher, was headed but he had to get some of Thomas’s bread that he’d heard so much about.

Now it’s true we weren’t that honest about Katarina’s age when the tax collectors came ’round a few months’ past. But how much more did Parliament think we could cough up? This was the third poll tax we’ve paid out in just three years’ time and it’s been the worst one yet.

If Thomas could’ve sold six more loaves of the new-fangled wheat bread every day for four weeks, we still wouldn’t have had the twelve pence for Kat. So we said she wasn’t yet fifteen and paid the twenty-four pence for me and Thomas. Only a week’s worth of wages, instead of almost two.

But that sergeant had no right to see about her age like that. And then on his way out, he said now we really owed for her because his slimy fingers knew the truth.

The next morn before the day’s light opened the eyes of Fobbing’s women, children, and our village rector, Thomas marched the men to Brentwood. He took along Walterus, my eldest, who I didn’t need to worry about like Kat because he was all grown up with a wife of his own.

Our Fobbing boys were going to let the court know none of us were paying a penny more. That’s when I started to worry. Suppose they arrest my husband and son, or worse kill them both on the spot for refusing to pay? Then all my guilt over wanting to burn that vermin sergeant started to tug at my conscience.

A confession was just what I needed, and I knew Rector Jack Straw, just across Wharf Road at St. Michael’s, would fix me right up. I trust him, to be sure. He’s a good priest and has been with us ever since Kat was born in 1365. He came to us after he trained all the way up in York. That’s where he met John Ball, also a good one. He just can’t hold his tongue when he needs to.

We’ve known Priest Ball for some time now because Rector Straw always helps him out when he needs work. I remember how he needed quite a bit of it after that crooked Sudbury, now Archbishop of Canterbury, ran Ball out of his permanent residence back when Sudbury was Bishop of London and John was preaching too much in the squares about how the wealthy clergy needed to give up their land for the poor.

I found the rector at the altar kneeling, his head buried in his prayers. I always thought his face had a look of desperation when he was like that, as if he was hoping hard for a forgiveness from the Almighty that would never come.

“Alicia, my dear woman, I hope I have not kept you waiting too long,” he said as he stood up and turned ’round.

“Not in the least, Rector Straw. I always feel a bit better when I just stand here in front of the altar.”

“I can see you are worried. Thomas will come home to Fobbing tonight, and Walterus. I promise you that,” he said.

“I’ve been praying for my boys, but I think my own soul needs some purging, as well.”

He nodded and I knelt before him at the altar. I told him about my wicked thoughts when Sergeant Legge hurt my daughter.

“He did what?”

I could see his face turning redder and redder.

“You are forgiven, Alicia. I cannot say the same for this man. Five Ave Marias will take care of you.”

“Thank you, Rector Straw.”

As I stood up I could see his cheeks were not yet ready to give up his ire.

I felt much better walking back across Wharf Road. I was set on Thomas returning to us and just to make sure he did, I cooked pottage with a small piece of mutton in it that he always liked best. Marg, at the far end of our village, gave me the meat for two of Thomas’s wheat loaves.

Thomas and Walterus made it back to us that night, alright, before the sun settled in for good. He was proud of what he did at Brentwood. Walterus told us when the clerk called out our name in court and the amount we owed for Kat, Thomas refused with such a fury never witnessed by my son before.

“And, Mum, you should’ve seen him lead us all in throwing rock after rock at that slimy sergeant and the rest of the officials when they tried to arrest us. We ran them all back to London!” Walterus said.

That didn’t stop them from returning though. Our whole village, on 2 June 1381, headed off to court again at Brentwood, only three days after my own Baker men stood their ground. London sent an armed soldier yesterday to give us the order to go.

Thomas wanted to lead this time too, but he knew we were under Rector Straw’s command now. The villages of Corringham and Stanford came along and our old friend, Bailiff John Geoffrey, led the people from Chelmsford to Brentwood. That’s what the rector asked him to do.

Rector Straw was in battle before, back when he fought in France. That’s what Wat told us when he was here. He said the rector was so fierce with an axe then and couldn’t have lost that skill even if he tried. Wat even asked him to be our captain, but the rector said Wat would be the best one.

We met Wat Tyler in February of this year when he came to work on St. Michael’s roof and, as it turns out, all the problems we commoners have been dealing with for so long now. He tiled away in the sun’s light and prepared for rebellion by the light of our fire, delighting in Thomas’s loaves.

The talking began when the work on the roof did. Taxes needed to stop. Peasants bound to lords needed to be freed. We Bakers have never had much but at least we aren’t slaves, thanks to Thomas’s father buying his freedom from Fobbing’s lord long ago. And then he started the bakery on the farm here.

Thomas was in on the talking right from the start. He never fought in battle like Rector Straw and Wat, but his passion for justice has already made him a good soldier.

Priest John Ball never fought either but he’s the voice for us all. He’s been preaching about what we’ve all needed for so long now and it looks like his words finally caught up with our big cause.

Priest Ball left us here in Fobbing at Eastertide after helping out our rector with some masses and funerals. Last we heard he was in Canterbury spreading the word but got himself into a whole lot of trouble again. On Easter morn, he let loose in front of the big cathedral there and that landed him in the Archbishop of Canterbury’s prison. We know Wat will get him out, though.

We miss Wat. He was only with us a few months but he feels like family. Turns out he really was with his sister married to Thomas’s brother back in Colchester where they all live. We hoped to see him in London, before too long, if we all made it through that day.

Most of us came to Brentwood on foot. It only took us the better part of the morn. Along the way, Rector Straw taught Thomas and the other men how to swing a battle axe. Thomas caught on right quick. I hoped he never had to use one, ever.

Every time I turned ’round to see if the door of the courthouse had opened up yet, hundreds more people appeared, as if that Merlin himself made it happen.

But really it was the magic of Bailiff John Geoffrey. We’d known him a long time. He’d been stopping in for some of Thomas’s best at least once a fortnight. And he always took the time for a nice chat over a cup of ale. My Walterus turned to making it about a year or so ago, and now it keeps much longer on account of the hops he mixes into it.

Geoffrey walked over when he spotted us in the crowd.

“How are the Bakers today?” he said as he kissed me on the cheek and then Kat.

The rector was still giving some axe lessons when he saw Geoffrey.

“You have done quite a job, Bailiff Geoffrey,” Straw said when he reached us.

“It didn’t take much prompting on my end, Lieutenant. They’re all ready for some justice,” Geoffrey said.

“Well, we will certainly see some action today, Bailiff Geoffrey. Tell me, though, do you think anyone caught sight of you bringing all these people here?”

“Not a chance, Lieutenant Straw. I led them down the shortest route and we arrived in town a few hours ago before the soldiers did. I’ve even been able to catch a few winks in that church over there,” Geoffrey said as he pointed to the Chapel of St. Thomas.

Straw then climbed the steps in the front of the courthouse while Bailiff Geoffrey went all the way ’round back to open the door for the officials. The rector’s speech was one for the ages.

“We stand here today as County Essex even though we travelled far and wide from our own villages.

“Behind these doors, we face arrest, and perhaps worse when we resist their demand to pay more taxes.

“Just a few days past, Thomas Baker from Fobbing led our villagers here and they refused to pay one penny more. Then they dissolved the court with their rocks.

“No blood was shed but that may not be the case today. We have mightier weapons to wield and stronger men to strike down.

“Victory will lead us inside and courage will lead us out and guide us to London. Let us pray for justice.”

Heads were lowered, but I just prayed to keep me and my own alive. I was afraid, in truth. There could’ve been a whole army inside for all we knew.

Rector Straw gathered the boys to enter first. Most of them were barely fifteen and looked innocent enough so the soldiers wouldn’t believe they could do any harm. They carried small rocks tucked away in their pockets.

Then he ordered all of us women to go in next to really put the court at ease about any threat coming from us. We also had stones. He told us to stand along the walls and be ready.

“When will that be, Rector?” I asked.

“Oh, you will know, Alicia,” he said in a tone that scared me even more.

Christina stood with Kat and me. She was a good one, married to my Walterus for about a year now. But she was no good for today’s action. She had been without color in her face for a month’s time and kept on fainting any chance she got. She was probably with child and I wanted them both to be safe.

“I’ll be right here in front of you, Christina, just in case you have to kneel to keep yourself from going out on us again,” I told her as we settled along the wall to the left of the table where the court’s clerks sat.

To the right of them were the six jurors to decide our fate. In between was the Chief Justice of the King’s Bench, Sir Robert Belknap. At least that’s how Bailiff John Geoffrey introduced him when he led him into the court a few moments ago.

As the soldiers took their position behind Belknap, our men carrying axes slipped in between the hundreds of us all bunched up in that courtroom, and no one could see their weapons.

The clerks began to read the roll. All six jurors in unison, without a thought of any pretense of justice they should’ve held in their hearts, proclaimed guilty after each name and the amount owed rose up into the air.

“Enough!” Rector Straw shouted from the front of the crowd. “You have gotten all you ever will from our pockets. And we will not accept arrest for refusing these abuses.”

He turned to the boys on each side of him and commanded, “Ready. Now. Aim.”

The soldiers cowered as the shower of rocks hit their bodies and their heads.

One of the clerks pointed to Thomas, who had made his way to the front of the crowd after the rocks were in the air. A soldier took him into custody. That clerk must’ve remembered his face from his last visit here.

As soon as Straw saw the soldier on Thomas he shoved him aside and with one swing of the axe, he had reached for from under his robe, he struck the man’s neck and his head fell to the ground. Then I understood why the rector feared he may not receive forgiveness from the Lord when he prayed like that back home.

The soldier’s body did not register the damage done. It just stood there for a minute until the blood started to shoot out of the neck. Then it fell to the ground.

Two more soldiers reached for Straw and he yelled out to the axe-carrying men to strike.

Thomas found the axe he had dropped when the first soldier tried to arrest him, and he swung it into the shoulder of the soldier behind Straw. Another man, not from Fobbing, tried to behead the soldier in front of Straw but the axe hit his face instead. What a mess that was! When the soldier stood up his nose was gone and the skin on the left side of his face.

It sounded like wood was being chopped in the courtroom. Bits of bone sprayed about everywhere. That was enough to make that Chief Justice flee through the back door. The jurors and clerks still standing followed suit. That’s when Straw yelled over to us wall women.

“Throw them now, ladies, as fast as you can!”

Meanwhile, Bailiff Geoffrey locked the back door so no one else could leave.

Straw must’ve got the heads of three or four more soldiers. My Thomas got at least one and so did Marg’s husband, the one who gave us some mutton a few days past. I always knew her husband was one good butcher.

My son was no good with an axe. But at least he was strong enough to hold down any bastard trying to get away.

Straw was our lieutenant now, to be sure. It was hard to believe his vengeance was as great as his holiness had once been.

Over the next few days, he sent out the Fobbing men to every village they could find within County Essex to gather the people for London. Last Straw heard, Wat had about three thousand and he wanted to at least match that.

I think he did it after only three days. There were so many of us then, filled with the hope we’d get what we set out to do.

But I can’t talk about too much of it anymore now as I stand in front of the gallows in Chelmsford, just one month after all of us walked to London with empty stomachs, bleeding feet, and so much pride in our hearts following our leader.

We don’t have any of them now and no rebellion.

Even worse than all that my daughter’s gone. My poor Kat burned to death inside the Savoy Palace in London. We ruined that rich bastard’s home, the Duke of Lancaster, but at what a cost!

That mad Johannes Blacksmith from County Kent got so drunk on the wine from the cellar we were emptying, he started lighting up whatever he could find. We didn’t know Kat was still down there with dozens of others when he found the barrels of gunpowder on the next level up.

Out on the Strand, as they call it there, I yelled out for her again and again, but she never answered. That’s when I tried to run back inside the palace, but then the big blow came. Then I knew.

I walked through those next few days like a ghost who can’t find its resting place. I know my Thomas punished that Sergeant Legge for what he did to our Kat. I know Wat Tyler was killed by the Mayor of London at Smithfield when all of us stood there before the king. I know I never saw Rector Straw again. I know we were ordered to leave London in the end or face arrest.

I made Thomas take me to the Savoy one last time. I thought if I just waited there long enough Kat would climb her way up out of all those fallen bricks and come running to me. “Mum, I’m so glad you didn’t leave me. I’ve had such a time.”

But she never came back to me.

And now Thomas won’t either. They’re getting ready to hang him on this morn of 4 July, 1381.

Not long after we came back to Fobbing, another sergeant arrested him in our home. We should’ve never opened the door, or maybe some rocks could’ve helped us once again. But it all happened so fast.

He told my husband, “Among other treasonous acts, Thomas Baker, you were seen by a Tower guard beheading Sergeant-at-arms John Legge.”

“Was I then?” Thomas said with a little smile on his face.

And now it’s the hearing, that’s what they call it to make themselves feel better. We all know Thomas isn’t going anywhere except up on the rope and then to heaven.

They got Bailiff John Geoffrey, as well. They’ve just sentenced him for riding within our county and spreading the word of rebellion.

Then he responded to Chief Justice Tresilian’s charge. “It’s the best way I’ve ever served the people.”

That evil punisher of all twelve men here today next came to Thomas. He made him stand there with the rope hung loose ’round his neck. Thomas kept trying to take it off when a piece of parchment peeked through the right sleeve of his tunic.

Tresilian snatched the letter. I knew what it was. John Ball had written some letters a while back to help inspire us all to go to London and get rid of the taxes, free all the peasants, and divide the Church’s land so even the poor could have a bit of their own.

Thomas kept that letter while John Geoffrey shared those words everywhere he rode. Tresilian now ordered the sergeant-at-arms to read it.

“St. Mary’s priest greets everyone and bids all to stand strong together for truth. Truth has not been honored. Now is our time. God will see that through, Amen.”

“What is this madness?” Tresilian asked.

“None at all in that. Those words helped us try and get our Great Society that the likes of you have kept from us for too long,” Thomas said.

“Silence. You speak treason, Thomas Baker. Only death will serve you now,” the bastard said.

Thomas’s eyes found mine in the crowd and his lips made the words, “I love you always” before the rope tightened up.

I wondered how many more could be taken from me before my heart burst wide open.

Walterus and Christina held me in their arms as my Thomas took his last breath up high in the air.

I’ve lost a lot, to be sure, but I’m not sorry for what all of us tried to do.

Maybe next time.

About the author

Gina M. Bright has been a registered nurse for thirty-five years, working with AIDS and cancer patients. Her writing, bolstered by a doctorate in medieval English literature, a non-fiction book, Plague-Making and the AIDS Epidemic: A Story of Discrimination (Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), and a few short stories and articles, embodies her passion for fighting for the rights of underrepresented populations across centuries and across continents.

About the illustrator

Sandra Eckert is a doodler, a dabbler, and a messy and restless individual. An avid naturopath and off-the-road walker, she finds inspiration in the unscenic vistas and hidden places. While her interests currently lie in the world of art, she has been known to tend goats, whitewater kayak, fish for piranha, and teach teenaged humans. She is fascinated by the lessons of the natural world, both seen and unseen. Sandra holds a BFA with certification, and has continued her education both formally and informally, though she is too distracted to gather up her credits. She lives in Allentown with her husband, Peter, and her dogs, Jack and Tobi. Additional works are available here.