The Shadow of the Pomegranate

“’Prentices and Clubs”

THE FOLLOWING SPRING THERE WAS DISQUIET IN THE streets of London.

During recent years many foreigners had settled there, and these people, being mostly exiles from their native lands—serious people who had fled perhaps for religious reasons—were by nature industrious. Day in, day out, they would be at their work, and so they prospered. There were Flemings who were expert weavers; Italians who were not only bankers but could make the finest armor and swords. The Hanseatic traders brought over leather, rope, wax, timber, nails and tar; and of course since the coming of Katharine to London to marry Prince Arthur there had always been Spaniards in London.

Life was hard for the citizens of London. During the cruel winter many had died of starvation in the streets and there had been rumblings of dissatisfaction all through the year.

With the coming of spring the young apprentices gathered in the streets and talked of the injustice of foreigners coming to their city and making a good living, while they and their kind lived in such poor conditions.

They themselves could not understand the joy some of these cordwainers and weavers, these glaziers and lacemakers found in the work alone. They did not seem to ask for pleasure as the apprentices did. They cared for their work with the passion of craftsmen, and those who lacked this skill were angry with those who possessed it.

They met in Ficquets Fields and near the Fleet Bridge, and talked of these matters.

There was one among them, a youth named Lincoln, who demanded: “Why should we stand by and see foreigners take away our livings? Why should we allow the foreigners to live in our city at all?”

The ignorant apprentices shook their fists. They had a leader; they craved excitement in their dull lives. They were ready.

So on a May morning of the year 1517, instead of rising early to go and gather May flowers in the nearby countryside, the apprentices gathered together and, instead of the cry “Let’s a-maying,” there were shouts of “’Prentices and Clubs!”

The revolt had begun.

The apprentices stormed into the city; there were hundreds of them and they made a formidable company. Through the streets of London they came, carrying flaming torches in their hands; they broke into the shops of the foreigners; they came out carrying bales of silk, the finest lace, jewels, hats, textiles.

When they had ransacked these shops and houses they set them on fire. News was brought to the King at Richmond.

Henry was first angry; then alarmed. The people could always frighten him because he had a dread of unpopularity.

He decided to remain at Richmond until others had the revolt under control.

CHAOS REIGNED in London.

The under-sheriff of the city, Sir Thomas More, pitying the plight of the apprentices and knowing that they would be quickly subdued, went among them, risking his life, for tempers were running high, imploring them to stop their violence.

Wolsey meanwhile had taken the position in hand and had sent for the Earl of Surrey who arrived with troops and very soon had hundreds of people under arrest and others hanging from gibbets which had been quickly erected throughout the city.

Meanwhile Henry waited at Richmond, determined not to go into his capital until order was restored.

It was eleven days after the uprising that he rode into the city and took his place on a dais in Westminster Hall. With him came three Queens—Katharine, Mary—who had been Queen of France and was far happier to be Duchess of Suffolk—and Margaret, Queen of Scotland.

“Bring the prisoners to me,” cried Henry, his brows drawn together in a deep frown, “that I may see these people who would revolt against me.”

There was a sound of wailing from the spectators as the prisoners were brought in. There were some four hundred men and eleven women, all grimy from their stay in prison, all desperate, for they knew what had happened to their leaders and they expected the same fate to befall themselves; they even came with ropes about their necks; and in the crowd which had pressed into the Hall and clustered round it were the families of these men and women.

The King raged in his anger. They had dared rise against his merchants; they had burned the houses of his citizens; they deserved the worst death which men could devise.

His troops were stationed about the city; his guards surrounded him, and he was eager to show these people the might of the Tudor.

Wolsey came close to him. He said: “Your Grace, I beg of you in your clemency spare these men.”

Henry’s little eyes glittered. He hated them, those wild-eyed men and women. They had dared show criticism of his rule. Yet…they were the people. A King must always please his people.

He caught Wolsey’s eye; the Cardinal was warning him: “It would be as well, Your Grace, to pardon these men. A fine gesture…here in the heart of your capital. A powerful King but a merciful one.”

Yes, he knew. But here was the spirit of the masque again. He must play his part as he always had done.

He scowled at Wolsey and said: “These prisoners should be taken from here and hanged by the neck on gibbets prepared for them within the city.”

Katharine was watching the faces of some of the women who had pressed into the hall. They were mothers, and some of these boys who stood there on the threshold of death, the halters round their necks, had been their babies.

It was more than she could bear. Stripping off her headdress so that her hair fell about her shoulders—as became a supplicant—she threw herself at the King’s feet.

“Your Grace, I implore you, spare these prisoners. They are young. Let them grow to serve Your Grace.”

Henry, legs apart, his fingers playing with the great pearl which hung about his neck, regarded her with assumed tenderness and said: “You are a woman, Kate, and soft. You know nothing of these matters.…”

Katharine turned to Mary and Margaret and they, seeing the appeal in her eyes and being moved themselves by the sight of those miserable prisoners and their sorrowing families, loosened their hair and knelt with Katharine at the King’s feet.

Henry regarded them, and his eyes were a brilliant blue.

Three Queens knelt at his feet! What a spectacle for his people!

He appeared to consider.

Wolsey—the great Cardinal who, when he went abroad, rode through the streets in a procession which rivalled that of a king’s—also appealed to Henry.

His appeal was a warning, but there was no need for the warning. Henry was about to make the grand gesture.

“I am not proof against such pleading,” he declared. “And I know full well that these foolish men and women now regret their folly. They shall live to be my very good subjects.”

There was a sudden shout of joy. The prisoners took the halters from their necks and threw them high into the air.

Henry stood watching them—sons rushing into their mother’s arms, wives embracing husbands—a smug smile of pleasure on his face.

As Katharine watched, the tears flowed down her cheeks.