The Man Who Slew Wat Tyler by Laurie Graham

 

William Walworth is remembered chiefly as the man who slew Wat Tyler in an impetuous and possibly unnecessary show of concern for the safety of a fourteen year-old king, Richard II. It earned him an immediate knighthood, on the spot, at Smithfield. That was in 1381.

Ten years earlier, the Carthusian House of the Salutation of the Mother of God, had had less dramatic but nonetheless genuine reason to be grateful to Walworth. He had provided money towards the construction of the first cell for a choir monk.

The establishment of a Carthusian monastery just outside the walls of the City of London was an unusual project. Carthusian houses were traditionally built in isolated locations. But, the idea of a house of constant prayer alongside the place where so many victims of the 1348 plague lay buried was a popular one. It had the approval of the then king (Edward III). The Priory of St Bartholomew donated the land. The next thing that was required was money to start building. And so began a fund-raising campaign among the wealthiest Londoners. 

The driving force was Sir Walter Manny, a courtier and member of the royal inner circle. He had been Queen Philippa’s Esquire Carver and the Keeper of her Hounds. After many bureaucratic delays, Sir Walter recruited William Walworth to be a donor of funds. Walworth was, at this point in his life, on the up and up. He had prospered as a saltfish merchant and member of the Worshipful Company of Fishmongers and had recently become Member of Parliament for the City of London.

Manny and Walworth pooled resources and in 1371, construction began on a cell for the monastery’s first Prior. Not, perhaps, the kind of monk’s cell you might imagine. More like a little two-storey cottage. That became known as Cell A, now lost, thanks to the depredations of the Dissolution of the Monasteries and subsequent repurposing of the site. The following year William Walworth paid for another cell to be built; Cell B, of which remnants - its doorway, tiled threshold and food hatch - have survived in what is now The Charterhouse. The floor tiles are Flemish, as was Walter Manny. Perhaps he gave his friend Walworth some decorating suggestions? 

The monastery took 60 years to complete and during that time Walworth sponsored a further four cells, either directly from his own wealth or by persuading acquaintances to leave bequests.

At the end of May 1381, with the population in revolt against a poll tax and Wat Tyler’s band of Kentish protestors heading to London, young King Richard bolted to the safety of the Tower. William Walworth, at that time Lord Mayor of the City, called out the City Guard, but the men of Kent pressed on and, on June 15th, assembled at Smithfield to make their demands to the King.

 

The meeting seemed to start well. The King was amenable. What happened next is contested. Did Wat Tyler become over-familiar with the King? Did he spit, disrespectfully, in his direction? Did one of the King’s entourage respond by insulting Tyler? In a heated moment someone made the first move, perhaps Tyler, perhaps Walworth who had ridden out to Smithfield with the King.

According to one version of the story, William Walworth despatched Wat Tyler immediately with the thrust of a dagger. Another version is that Tyler, seriously wounded, was carried into St Bart’s hospital, but was soon dragged from there by Walworth’s men and publicly executed. Whatever the actual timeline, Tyler perished and his dispirited followers went home. It was effectively the end of the revolt.

Was Walworth a dagger-happy oppressor of working men or a good citizen and brave defender of his monarch? Whatever the truth, he was rewarded with a knighthood and a pension and is today counted as one of London’s worthies. The north-eastern pavilion on Holborn Viaduct, linking the viaduct to Farringdon Road by stairs, is named after him and bears his statue.

 

And, at the Charterhouse, though his coat of arms has been erased, we still have the doorway to Cell B, whose occupants prayed for the mortal soul and peaceful repose of their benefactor, until 160 years of monastic life came to a bloody Tudor end. 

 

 

 

 

HISTORY ALMOST DAILY by Penny Dolan.

As this is now the second half of August – the downward slope? -  my History Girl post is very much a “staycation” kind of piece. Besides, I have work I need to get on with come tomorrow.

An interest in history does keep you uncomfortably aware of the faults and follies of the past and of the present. However, it also means that you will come across some small “history treat” or another almost every day: some book, or blog, or object, or building, or story, or place that makes the past alive.

For example, last weekend, I saw a view that I love: the wide, grassy stretch of Blackheath, where the roofs of the nearest houses peep up over the edge of the heath. The heath is one of those places in London where you can suddenly see the sky and, for a moment, imagine other times and other travellers. 

A small faded fairground was a useful reminder that Blackheath has always attracted people of various trades.

 

For much of its life, Blackheath was outside London. 

One route across the grass is named Wat Tyler Road after the leader of the Peasant’s Revolt who met the duplicitous boy-king Richard II here. 

The upland was a safe distance from the city then, although not safe for Wat and his followers.

Another road, the A2, follows the old Roman Watling Street as it made its way down to the Thames crossing at Deptford. The wide heathland is not as smooth as it seems at first glance. Plague pits are rumoured to lie beneath the faded grass and small quarries were opened up for gravel and chalk, later becoming ponds. Some of these were filled in with rubble after the WWII air raids. Blackheath is very much a place for necessary purposes.

Dark purposes too; although the A2 is a now trail of nose-to-tail vehicles but I cannot help thinking of all the carriages and horses that have crossed that slightly dangerous space. The infamous Shooter’s Hill was steep enough to slow carriages and horses and so became a favourite place for highwaymen in the 16th & 17th centuries, complete with a gibbet at the crossroads. Ready for quick dispatch of felons, perhaps?

There’s elegance here too:  Blackheath is edged with elegant old Georgian and Victorian houses, their tall windows and occasional balconies peering across the rough summit, observing the road. 

The Southern edge is marked by the mellow stone wall that borders Greenwich Park, This, of course, is home of the Royal Observatory; the sloping lawns lead down to the Queen’s House and the Old Royal Naval College and the bend in a river once full of ships.

This time, driving, we turned down winding Maze Hill, watching the late afternoon sun shine on the proud glass towers of Docklands opposite.  At the foot of Maze Hill, tucked away across Trafalgar Road, was an interesting looking old tower. The A-Z suggested two options: the almshouses of Trinity Hospital or the Greenwich Power station? The latter, we decided as we hurried onward. . . . Oh dear. Barely ten minutes to cross Blackheath but there’s already so many layers of this history to enjoy.

What about other happy “staycation” moments? A book and biography, “Billy Ruffian” that I’ll blog about another day. A local news story: some new streets in a Leeds estate have been named after “Barnbow Lasses” - the 35 young girls killed (and more injured) during an accidental explosion at the Barnbow munitions factory back in 1916.

 

There's always the regular joy of  names on maps: close to my present home are villages like Nun Monkton and Upper Poppleton and Killighall and Kettlewell and Birthwaite and - to the amusement of visitors - even a river with the Pythonesque name of the Nidd.

There’s the joy of objects remembered, things you only have to think about to feel the history tingle, and they need not be nice. Tipu’s mechanical Tiger is a gruesome favourite, first seen long ago on visits to the V&A with a favourite uncle.  Or, near home, William Burgess’s Gothic Revival church in the grounds of the Studley Royal deer park, where stone birds chase the moths and butterflies up the carved columns. Or moments: out on a walk near Ripley Castle, the excitement of finding a moated site hidden within some trees by Saddler Carr. The information board says it is the remains of a 14th Century manor recorded only as Dark Hall. Nothing more, only the strange atmosphere under the shadowy branches.

 I should also offer the distracting joys of new media: the variety of the posts within this very History Girls blog; the positive energy within the Gentle Author’s “Spitalfields Life” blog; the incredible daily saints on the Reverend Richard Coles Facebook page and the amazing myths and legends within Katherine Langrish’s Seven Miles of Steel Thistles blog. 

 And the wealth of  tv programmes about history - not just those on the Great War - including a re-run of Schama’s History of Britain, missed last time around.

 

I could go on with this plenty:  last night I was at a talk by the "Muddy Archaeologist” Gillian Hovell about all the cultures around the Mediterranean. 

The main thinking point I recall is that the art of a culture reveals what's important to the people: Phoenician pottery is decorated with ships and boats but Mycenian art chooses fighting warriors and horses.

In addition, October’s Harrogate History Festival tickets have just been released. Hooray!

This is very welcome news for those who don’t do/can't afford the whole hotel package from the 23rd to the 26th. So I need to start counting my pennies. Especially as History Girl Elizabeth Chadwick will be speaking there! 

 

So how can history be boring when it pops up around us every day and, for a writer, brings the kind of idle thoughts and interesting facts that help to fill the writing well?

Enough from me already - but now I'm wondering what are your current history joys and pleasures? And what history blogs would you recommend?  

Assuming I have some spare time in the forthcoming weeks . . .

Penny Dolan