‘Better strike now then, before they grow any stronger.’

‘What if they have the king, and we don’t yet know it?’

‘Then we will have to fight them.’

‘But if we negotiate with them, promise them a pardon, say that their grievances will be resolved, promise them an inquiry, they will go back to their little farms and get the hay in.’

‘If we pardon them, we will have taught them that they can take up arms against the King of England,’ my husband objects. ‘And that is a lesson we may regret one day.’

‘I cannot risk the safety of the Tower,’ Lord Scales says firmly. ‘We cannot attack, we must prepare to defend. At the worst, Lord Say buys us time.’

There is a silence as my husband absorbs the fact that they are going to send one of the peers of England out to face a mob that wants him dead. ‘You are the commander,’ he says stiffly. ‘I am here under your command. But my advice is that we defy them.’

That afternoon they send Lord Say out to Guildhall where those aldermen who arhe stomach for it, and the rebels who are eager for it, create a little court for the day. They persuade his lordship to confess, find him a priest and take him to Cheapside for execution. His son-in-law, the Sheriff of Kent, William Crowmer, thinks himself lucky to be released from the Fleet prison, and steps out of the stone doorway cheerfully, thinking a rescue party has come for him, only to find a scaffold waiting for him outside the gates. They don’t even bother to try him, but string him up without ceremony.

‘God forgive them,’ my husband says as we stand on the walls of the Tower, hidden by the parapet, looking down into the streets below. A dancing, singing, chanting mob is weaving its unsteady way through the narrow lanes towards the Tower. My husband interposes his broad shoulder before me, but I peep around his arm and see what is leading the procession. They have the head of Lord Say on a pike, bobbing along at the front of the crowd. Behind on another pike is the stabbed head of William Crowmer, the sheriff who promised to lay waste to his county of Kent. As they come within range of the Tower gates they pause and bawl defiance, and then dance the two heads together. The dead faces bump, the pike-bearers jiggle the pikes so the mouths knock one against another. ‘They’re kissing! They’re kissing!’ they howl and roar with laughter at the spectacle. ‘Send us out Lord Scales!’ they bellow. ‘He can have a kiss too!’

Richard draws me back into the shadow of the wall. ‘My God,’ I say quietly. ‘This is the end, isn’t it? This is the end of the England we have known. This is the end of everything.’

* * *

Next night, at dinner, I see Richard put his head down over his plate and eat steadily, hardly pausing for breath, but drinking no wine at all. Throughout the meal his servants come and whisper brief messages in his ear. After dinner there is never dancing or singing, not even playing at cards, but tonight it is even more hushed and nervous. The remnants of this beleaguered court stand around in groups and exchange fearful whispers. Then Richard stands up on the steps of the dais and raises his voice. ‘My lords, gentlemen: a number of the gentlemen and merchants of London tell me that they are weary of Cade and his men running riot through the City. Also, matters are getting worse and no man can be sure that his home and his goods are safe. Cade has lost control of his men and they are looting the City. The London men tell me that they are determined to push the soldiers out of the City, back to their camp at Southwark tonight, and I have agreed that we will join with them to drive the rebels back, raise the drawbridge and close the gate. They are not going to enter London again.’