"Madame, pray you pardon, but this may not be," said Etienne. "The man is a leader among the people, and beloved."
He stood aside and looked out on the vast throng, and she, following his eye, grew a little pale.
"The man hath provocation," Etienne continued; "his daughter was laid hands on roughly by the King's tax-gatherer, not many days past."
"Let 's begone!" said the Queen hastily. "Christ, Mary, keep us safe! Give me my beads, Godiyeva, and do ye all say a rosary, and be silent!"
So they rode away to London, with Stephen standing on the step on one side, and Long Will and John Horn riding on the other on the alderman's horse. And Wat Tyler sat on the box seat beside the coachman; but Stephen did not apprise the Queen of this.
In Southwark, as they rode, was mischief let loose, for the Marshalsea Prison and King's Bench were set wide open and in a blaze, and all the released prisoners making merry in the streets. Hot cinders fell on the coach, and Wat had much ado that it should not catch fire. To westward was another glow, where the people destroyed Lambeth Palace.
The Queen shut her eyes and said her prayers, but her ladies popped head out of window, this side and that, and whispered, "What 's this to mean?"--and "Who 's yon?"--to Stephen and Calote.
So they came to the Bridge and the drawbridge, and were let pass. And now Calote and Long Will turned them to Cornhill; but Stephen went to the Tower with the Queen.
On the Thursday the peasants came into London. Mayor Walworth might not choose but yield when he saw how many were against him: aldermen, citizens, and prentices. Wherefore he sent word to Wat Tyler to come in with his men, if so be they would pay for bed and board, and do none harm to that great city of London which was pride and glory of all the English. And they came in by the Bridge and by Aldgate, a gaping rabble,--for the most of them knew not London nor any city, and these houses in rows, and Paul's Church, set them to stare. To these the prentices were joined, and every street and every lane in London ran a river of men. They filled the taverns. Dame Emma had no need to cry "Good wine!--Come dine!"--and she did not take keep if they paid or no. She clapped each on back, with "Welcome, brother!" And to them that were young she gave her lips with a smack.