-------
In the days of good King Harry the Sixth there was bitter strife in all
the land between the houses of York and Lancaster. The adherents of one
house oppressed, robbed and even murdered the adherents of the other.
Political hatred grew apace and filled the land with civil wars. Houses
were burned, churches were robbed and cattle were lifted. No one was
sure of his life or property. Landless men were organized as bands of
robbers making the highways unsafe. As a direct consequence of this
waste of life and treasure the French lands won by Edward the Third, his
son, the Black Prince, and Harry the Fifth were rapidly lost by the
incapable Duke of Suffolk until only Calais and a strip of territory in
the south of France remained.
With all his goodness the sixth Henry was but a feeble king, not ruling
but ruled by his imperious wife and rugged, warlike barons. These were
the days in which printing was invented, when armor was becoming useless
before the advance of gunpowder and the introduction of firearms. The
feudal system had entered upon its decay; superstition reigned but
Lollardism under Wyckliffe had begun to undermine Roman Catholicism. The
results of that terrible scourge, The Black Death, which swept Europe in
1347 carrying off a third of the population, were still felt in the
scarcity of labor and higher wages.
Twenty miles northwest of London in the little town of St. Albans a fire
broke out one day in June, 1440, in an old house in Dagnal Lane. It was
a poor quarter and there was a loud outcry as the inhabitants began
carrying their scanty belongings to safer places. The watch came
clattering down the street with their leather fire buckets and formed a
line to the nearest well which was soon bailed dry. No attempt was made
to save the burning house; efforts were confined to keeping the fire
from spreading. Suddenly a woman screamed: “there are children in the
house!”
“Body o’ me,” said Jed Fenchurch to his wife, “gie me thy apron!”
Wrapping it around his face he dashed through the half open door, out of
which smoke was pouring and presently emerged, choking, panting and
cursing with a child on each arm, both unconscious.
“Thou art surely a brave one,” said his wife, Lisbeth, proudly.
“Pook, woman!” said Jed, “should I let un die? Body o’ me!”
But she was busy with the children, washing their faces with her apron
and giving them water to drink. Presently the children struggled back to
consciousness and began to cry, first the boy, then the girl. He might
be three years old, but the girl was only a baby.
“I wanth mine nurth,” sobbed the boy.
“He hath no hurt,” said Lisbeth, “but, oh Jed, thy poor hands!”
They were, indeed, badly scorched and painful. His hair was singed, his
eyebrows gone and his ears blistered but no serious harm had been
suffered. When Lisbeth had attended to his burns she picked up the
children and carried them to her house hard by.
On the morrow, when the ashes were raked the bones of a woman were
discovered. The landlord of the Checquers said he had let the house but
the day before to one Mary Smith who had paid a month’s rent in advance.
He knew nothing of her nor whence she came. Jed and Lisbeth kept the
children; they were childless and well to do. There was no formal
adoption. The children were supposed to be brother and sister. He said
his name was Don, which was interpreted as John, and that her name was
Banch, which was interpreted as Blanche.
Jed Fenchurch was an armorer, which a writer of that day has called the
least mean of mean occupations. His shop at the back of the house, in a
building entered by a passage way alongside. Here the children delighted
to play and John helped as he was able as he grew stronger. Both
attended the Abbey school and were well educated for those days, when
the scholar was a man who could read and write.
John naturally heard much about feats of arms and was taught at first
hand the uses of arms and armor. He learned to use the long bow, and as
he developed into young manhood, and his arm grew long and his muscles
tough and strong, he drew his arrows to the nock. This weapon was then
the arm of most reliance and its development, together with the use of
dismounted cavalry, developed by Edward III and the Black Prince, the
cause of the English strength.
Neither was Blanche neglected. Her foster mother, Lisbeth, had also been
foster mother to the great Earl of Warwick and had learned much of
gentle ways in the great castle. Many of these she imparted to Blanche,
and was much blamed by her gossips for raising the child in ways above
her station.
There came a day when the great Earl visited his foster mother. His
visit was marked by festivities given by the holy fathers of the Abbey
in his honor, where barrels of beer were broached and beeves were
roasted whole. The Earl was a tall, well-built man of handsome presence
and kindly mien, much beloved by gentle and common. He first greeted and
kissed his old nurse; the children were then presented. John’s height
and reach of arm earned his commendation. “I will even take him into my
service, an you wish,” said he.
“Right gladly will he come, your highness,” said Lisbeth, “you are good
to your old nurse and her ward; God will reward you.”
“Not so,” said the Earl, “I but find a fine bowman.”
“’Tis a fine deed, natheless, John,” said Lisbeth when the Earl had
departed, “and but shows the kind heart; but thou art the lucky boy! In
all England lives no greater; and he will watch and guard thee; thou art
indeed fortunate. Do I not know and love him?”
“Surely,” said John, “I must do my best, more I cannot. Truly, thou art
good to me.”
“Alas, and shall I see thee no more? Wilt thou indeed leave us?” said
Blanche, tears filling her eyes.
“Not so, sweetheart,” John replied, “when I go I shall soon return. How
could I forsake thee, silly?”
The summons to arms was not long delayed. One evening in early May an
express arrived at the Checquers and enquired for Jed Fenchurch. He was
directed to the house on Dagnal Lane and informed Jed that he came from
Warwick with directions to the bowmen, spearmen and men at arms to
assemble at Royston and there await the arrival of the Duke of York and
his own men.
There were but few Yorkists in St. Albans, but a party of bowmen,
including Jed, John and three others were on their way afoot early the
next morning, while the messenger continued his journey towards London.
“’Tis thretty good mile,” said fat Steve Balderstone in a thin voice, “I
mind me when I walked as much in a day with good King Harry the Fift,
but I were young then and light of foot. Truly the Duke moveth but
slowly and we needs must wait at Royston. Why then shall we go apace?”
“Pook, thou elephant! the duke moveth at the gallop and the Earl also.
Tarry not or ye may rue it,” said Jed. “Listen not to this squeaker.
Body o’ me! we mun go apace.”
“I will blow thee to York with one puff, thou pot mender,” squeaked
Steve.
“Truly, thou art a fine blower,” said Jed.
“Tarry a bit!” said John to Jabez Stout in a whisper, “see but the
birds.”
And, in truth, over a wood to the right the birds were wheeling as the
boys fell back and fitted an arrow to the string. From the wood three
men on horseback drove rapidly into the road and galloped toward them.
“They are robbers,” said John, “take thou the one on the left” and their
bows twanged and the arrows whistled.
The horseman on the right was transfixed by John’s shaft which pierced
his right shoulder, and he fell from his horse which turned and fled.
Jabez was not so fortunate; his shaft flew not so truly, but it caught
the skin of the left leg of the rider and imbedded itself in the horse
beneath which screamed and lashed out in agony, throwing the rider. The
third horseman turned and galloped away. The rider of the stricken horse
crawled into the bushes from which he was quickly hauled and despatched,
after which the men gathered around the man desperately wounded.
“Mercy! mercy! Sir John,” shrieked the stricken man looking at John,
“Spare me! spare me! I am not fit to die!”
“Thou wilt die, sure enough,” said Steve, “thy right lung is shot
through, but why call him Sir John? ’Tis but John Fenchurch.”
“’Tis the ghost of Sir John Jernyngan whom I stabbed at Bordeaux. Mercy!
mercy!”
“He raves,” said Steve, “get along, John, out of his sight.”
“Leave him with me,” said Jed. “I would speak with him further.”
“’Tis as he told thee,” said Jed to the dying man when they were alone.
“It was John Fenchurch.”
“I tell thee no!” he replied. “’Twas Sir John Jernyngan or his ghost.
Thinkest thou I know not mine old enemy who stole my honors and my
bride? Did I not see the old Duke of Warwick knight him at Savignies?”
This was followed by a gush of blood as his spirit fled. Jed dragged the
body to the roadside, rifled the pockets and followed the others, deep
in thought.