 Our story is about a villain. Our story is about a medieval villain. The word was spelled V-I-L-L-E-I-N in those days. And it was a word that was neither booed nor hissed. In fact, a villain wasn't a villain at all. He was just a peasant, a serf, living on the land of some lord or gentleman. Then the villain or the serf got tired of being more or less a slave and revolted. It was then that the word took on its shady implications. That's the story we tell this week in We Came This Way. The NBC University of the Air presents We Came This Way, a new historical series for our listeners at home and abroad. With John W. Vander Cook as the narrator, we present Chapter Two, a story of the revolt of the peasants in We Came This Way. Some say the revolt began this way, with a girl singing in her father's kitchen on a morning in spring. He's in the shed, Yonda. That's him hammering. No. Wait. I have business with you. Who are you? Just one of Lottentown Legsmen come to collect the head tax from all defaulters. He said the head tax was unjust, but he paid. He did not pay for you. Why? Because the tax was levied only on men and women. Don't you see? I'm not a woman yet. I see nothing of the sort. I'm not a woman. I'm not. As for that, we shall soon find out. No, no. Keep still, girl. Keep still. So the story goes. Fact or legend, we do not know. But we do know that neither the attack on the Tyler's daughter, nor even the hateful head tax itself, was the sole cause of the rebellion. To understand why, after centuries of dumb suffering, the peasants of England should suddenly have found a voice on a spring day in 1381, we must understand what England of that day was like. Let's go back a bit. It is a country held fast in the grip of feudalism. Its wealth is in land. And the land is owned by the church, the king, the nobles, the landed gentry, and a few freeholders. The serf owns nothing, but may be and ox. And upon his death his lord has the right to demand even the ox. As the right to demand that the widow marry a man of the Lord's choosing. No wonder the serf shivering in his rags should look up from the furrow and ponder as his lord rise by warm in his earning should look up from his black bread and bean. Eat your beans. They grow cold while you stare at nothing. I was thinking of the feasting at the castle tonight. Rich soup made of eels. So brought up from the ocean. Fried almonds. And boar's head larded with sauce. Beef, mutton, pork, swan. Eat your beans. And figs, dates, grapes, filbert nuts and wine. Spiced wine. Eat your beans. Why should I eat beans? Because God made some men lords and some serfs. Then God should have made the serf like an ox. Not given him a mind to question with. It is a time for asking questions. And lots of men are asking them. There's long will Langlin for one. The monk who wrote that poem about peers the plowmen. For some of the best are born rich. And some are beggars and poor folk. For we are all Christ's creatures. And by his coffers are we wealthy. And brothers of one blood. Beggars and nobles. And there's Wycliffe, the great priest and scholar, asking questions down at Oxford. Why should the lords strive with their tenants to bring them in greater thro'ldom against all reason and charity? And at the same time he's asking questions, they say this Wycliffe is putting the Bible into English. So the common people can read for themselves the answers the poor carpenter of nether who has had for things. And here's John Ball, that other priest, always in and out of jail these days for the question he puts into rhyme. When Adam dealt and Eve spanned, who was then the gentleman? That's a question for you. And there is much else that needs answering. The black death has reduced the population by a half and the labourers that are left are able to demand more for their hire because of the shortage. But the king and parliament are determined that nothing shall be changed. So they've put through the statute of labourers that freezes wages and serfdom at pre-plague levels. The prisoner will now stand forth for sentence. Jack Straw, serf. Because you did offer yourself at reaping time for six pence a day and at the same time did make various congregations of labourers in different places and counseled them not to take less than six pence for a day's work. I sentence you to be branded with hot irons and lie a twelve month in Maidstone jail. The sentence is unjust. Water in the court. The rogue in the back of the court who's seen fit to question his majesty's justice will stand forth. Your name. Sir Freeman, my lord, at least I was a Freeman until this evil statute of labourers was passed. Now I'm little better than a slave. What talk is this? Plain talk, my lord. Since the serf Jack Straws forbid to speak in court, I'll speak for it. I forbid you. I'll have my sail bite out my tongue, my lord. If something isn't done to remedy matters, soon it'll be the men and women of England who'll draw the cart and the plow and the horse and the ox will go free. Silence! Tell me, Tyler. Where did you come by these opinions you hold? I've heard a priest himself say these things. Say on. What priest? A priest John Ball, my lord. And do you per chance know, Tyler, where resides your precious priest this moment? In Maidstone jail, my lord. And you'll be keeping him company there along with this villain Jack Straw if you don't learn to know your place and hold your tongue. All over England, men writhed as a statue of labourers while parliament continued to increase the penalties and to devise new measures for the law's enforcement. A slow, sullen, savage anger grew in the people and this anger of men outraged the boy king, the young Richard II, who wore gilded shoes and had thin ankles. This anger he could not fathom. Else he would not have done what he did. But the country was at the fag end of a long and wasteful war with France. The coffers were empty. The royal jewels in porn. Money had to be got from somewhere. So Richard listened to his advisers hails in Sudbury and then lit a match to dry tinder. Across here on the village green his majesty's commissioner of the tax waits to read you a proclamation. Listen well to the reading. Be it proclaimed in the name of his royal majesty, Richard II, they shall be levied upon all lay persons in the realm above the age of fifteen, save beggars and fools, a head tax of three gross. The levy was collected, the results reckoned and the reckoning sends the king's treasurer, Sir Robert Hales, flying to his majesty. Richard sits at ease in his garden, a falcon chained to his thin wrist, with him as his trusted adviser, the tired old Earl of Salisbury. What is it you wish, Sir Robert? Your majesty will pardon the intrusion, but you must know at once that there has been a whole sale evasion of the head tax. Throughout the land, villages have concealed the existence of female dependents. One would think England were a nation of childless couples exclusively. You mean we have not taken in as much money as we expected. Exactly, sir. But you said the tax would solve everything, Sir Robert. You said the war with France could go on and that I should have my jewels out of pawn. Oh, what's to be done now? You tell me, old Salisbury. I should say, sir, that the only course seems to be to force collection. Precisely what I should advise your majesty. Ring the money out of them. But won't they be angry with me? Oh, no, your majesty. As usual, the blame will fall upon myself, the treasurer. Oh, already I'm told the priest John Ball has named to me Hob the robber. Hedge priests and wicklifights, stirring up the people. What they need is a lesson to put them in their place. Your majesty's liquor, John Lake, has proposed that he be sent with collectors into the counties to make a check on every household and punish defaulters. If you will sign this mandate, Sir, he will be on his way tomorrow. And I shall have my jewels back? Yes, Sir. Your jewels will be back in their place. And the people will be back in their place. So John Lake's men go out to ring money out of people already and want of bread. The rumour flies around that his collectors are abusing young girls. And the name of John Lake becomes a curse. And in the village of Dotforth where Watt Tyler is reported to have killed a collector, his name becomes a prayer. Watt Tyler, Watt Tyler, Watt Tyler, Watt Tyler, Watt Tyler, Watt Tyler, Watt Tyler, Watt Tyler, Watt Tyler, Watt Tyler. All over England the people are strung tight as fiddle strings. They wait for a nod, a word, and the word comes from Maidstone Jail. A message from John Ball is smuggled out and circulated by members of the Great Society, a secret organization. At Dotforth, Watt Tyler reads the message to the people. John, the chef, greets you well. By John the chef, John Ball means himself. And he bids John nameless and John the miller and John Carter stand together in God's name and chastise Hob the robber. Down with Hob the robber. And he bids you take with you John Truman and all his fellows and look you sharp to one head and no more. Well, that's John Ball's message to you. What does he mean for us to do? There is, but one man wise enough to tell us what to do. And he lies in Maidstone Jail. Then we'll go to Maidstone Jail. We'll pull the jail down and have John Ball out. And the Serb Jack straw along with him. John Ball will tell us what to do. He'll tell us what to do. You ask me, my fellows, to tell you what to do for your hearts are light with hope and your hands heavy with wrath. I say let us all go together to our king and show him how we are in bondage and how we wish to be free. Show him how all men are sons of one man and one mother forgotten alike of the same earth. Show him how God has intended that no man shall reap the harvest for another while his own kind go hungry. But that tea that souls shall reap and he who builds a house shall dwell in it. Show him how on this earth man shall help man and the saints in heaven shall be glad because men no more fear each other but live in fellowship. All this we shall say to our king in London. The word is spoken. All over England peasants leave the fields. Laborers put down their tools. In London the boy king sleeps peacefully. His majesty sleeps. No Salisbury. Waking at once. Let Salisbury come in. Your majesty. What do you mean no Salisbury waking me up? Is London bridge falling down? No sir. But it will be pounded down if something is not done at once. A courier has just come with word that a peasant army is advancing on us. An army of peasants? That fanatic priest John Ball and a laborer they call what the tyler are leading them. Are they armed? They have no swords. They have a weapon more dangerous. Weapon? What weapon? An idea. The courier says they mean to have you free all the serfs. Free? Well then they'd not be serfs. Impossible. Who'd do the work? Exactly sir. They must be stopped. Turned around. You must go to Blackheath where they are in camp. I face that mob. You can do with them what you will. They will listen to you the son of their beloved black prince. Show them that their interest lies with a crown in the established order. Go on, go on. What else? Turn them against their leaders. Show them that Ball and Tyler are traitors. Perhaps the mob itself will take care of them. We will be saved in trouble. Good. Very good. And they say old Salisbury that you are dead and dug up. I am convinced sir that one man who believes in this fanatic doctrine of freedom is more dangerous to our security than to all our enemies of Europe put together. Then by Gad I'll go to Blackheath and put this nonsense down. Help me out of bed Salisbury and call my lackey to dress me. The king is dressed born on a letter to the royal barge and the barge moves gracefully down the Thames to the meadows of Blackheath where the rebel armies encounter. To Blackheath where young Richard, by the grace of God King of England hopes to hold back the floodtide of history with a crown. Jesu and Mary Salisbury you said a thousand. There are ten thousand on that bank if there is one. Land King Dick, land! That ruffian is Tyler, their leader. No nearer, Portman. Take me no nearer to the bank. Courage sire, we must stand up to him. We want King Dick down with his dukes and lordly. Stand up to them, eh Salisbury? There is nothing to fear sire. You are their monarch. Yours is the power. Power? What is power? I am king yet a swordless army holds me at bay. Your power is tradition. Have not Englishmen been taught that God has given the king a divine right to rule them? Oh, a crazy priest is telling them that God has given them rights too. Land King Dick, land! Salisbury, you speak to them. Tell them, tell them. Oh, heaven help me. Why was I born a king? I'll silence them, Your Majesty. Who are they to give you orders? Shulish ruffians! If you wish to speak to your king then go to your homes and attire yourselves fit to address the king. They call their children shulish ruffians, they Salisbury, then answer me this when Adam tells an east fan who was then the gentleman? What? Who was then the gentleman? Who was then the gentleman? Who was then the gentleman? Who was then the gentleman? Fool! You've overplayed the game, Salisbury! Who was then the gentleman? Who was then the gentleman? So the King's barge moves back up the river to London with more speed than grace this time. The King prepares to take refuge in the tar, and while his lackeys are scurrying back and forth with trunks full of his clothes and royal dishes and royal food, 10,000 peasant feet are hammering the road to London. The leaves stand over them, the gentle man. By dark the rebels are at London Bridge, but the bridge is shot in their faces. So they camp outside on St. Catherine's Hill where the King can look down from the tar upon their bonfires and shudder. All night the poor men and the labourers inside howl for the gates to be open, the peasants let in, and early in the morning the King robs his weary eyes and gives the honour. Open the bridge, let them come in, and may God have mercy on us. The rebels swarm into the city, and the Lord Mayor of London hurries to the tar. Your Majesty, they've broke open the jail. Something must be done, Your Majesty. They've set all the prisoners free. Done it once, Your Majesty. They've burned the temple. We must act. The labourers of London are rising against their masters. Where is our garrison? Where are the knights and retainers of our nobles? They have as much at stake as I. Your Majesty, in all we've been able to muster only 8,000 men. What is that number against this howling mob? Only you can shepherd them, Sire. It is an audience with you they want. And if I give them an audience, I must give them what they want. Promise them anything, Your Majesty. Only get them out of London. We can think of ways to evade our promises. Trick them? We have good precedent for it. Remember John and the Magna Carta? Yes. But remember that the Magna Carta still stands. It was put in writing. Put nothing in writing, Sire. Promise anything but only with your lips. Once a thing is put in writing, then it becomes a fact. And a fact is hard to overcome. I will put nothing in writing, Salvebury. Nothing. You take heed and hear the words of the king. I, Richard, am king. And I will come forth and speak to my people man to man. Long live the king! Out of London to my land, like honest fellows. The king will ride out to you there. And his company ride out through fields that are white with Hawthorne and innocent with the English Spring. My land is a playing field in an open meadow. Just his men draw up on one side and the peasant army on the other. And what the tyler advances to meet Richard the king. Man to man and face to face. The king wears ermine and the tyler wears homespun. The king smells of perfume and the tyler of sweat. And they drink each other's health with bitter ale. Your health, Sire. Yours? What is it you wish of me, tyler? Nothing, Sire. Freedom. But you are free. You are a free laborer, not a serf. I'm called a free man, it is true. But it's also true that no man in England is really free, not even if he's called king, until every man is free. And if I do not choose to grant the freedom, you ask? Then he will fight for it, Sire. And if you lose? He better to be dead than live in bondage. Speak plainly. I'm a plain man. Yet I have been told you would like to be called king what? And wear my shoes. I would change shoes with the lowest serf in England before I change with you, Sire. Why, tyler? Because power is poison to men's souls. Love it caused even the angels to fall. And I'm no angel. Do we get our freedom, Sire? Or do we fight for it? You shall have your freedom. I promise it. Promises can be broken. We want it in writing, a charter for each county. I swear it. And so can odds be broken. In writing, or we fight. You shall have your freedom. In writing. Then let your scriveness set it down. But from this day forward, serfdom is no more in England. That a man may go where he please, give service where he please, grind his corn where he please, marry off his daughter where he please, and pay no fines or harriers to any lord. Neither he nor his children, nor his children's children, nor any coming after him, shall be slaves found to the soil. But that every man shall be his own master and a free man. Thirty clerks burn candles through the night, putting the king's promises into writing. And for three days the men of England are free men. And there is great rejoicing. And it is merry England indeed. Richard the king has ordained that the men of England are their own masters, and every man a free man. The temptation is strong to end the story here, with ringing bells and bonfires and people rejoicing. But the tough and stubborn facts of history seldom fit the pattern of a storybook. When Richard rode home from my land, he found the heads of hails the treasurer and Sudbury the chancellor, grinning down at him from pikes above London Bridge. Part of Tyler's army who'd remained in London had had their vengeance on Hob the robber, and the man who with him they held responsible for the head tax. Now Richard had the excuse he needed to repudiate the charters. Reaction set in. What Tyler was killed. John Ball hanged, adorned and quartered. The peasant armies scattered to the winds and seven thousand rebels executed. And the free men of England were serfs again. Serfs you are, and serfs you shall always be. You shall remain in bondage, not merely as before, but incomparably worse. But because what was written in the charter was also written in men's minds, the battle was not really lost. The revolt of the peasants of England inspired the democratic movement throughout Europe and was the second great milestone, Magna Carta the first, along the way we came. The things what Tyler fought for have long since been accomplished. Serptim in England along with the moat and drawbridge have been relegated to the past. But the world is not yet caught up with the dream of John Ball. And men must fight again to the day for the world he envisioned five hundred years ago. For as an English carpenter named William Morris who built furniture and wrote words to last even longer than his furniture has said. Men fight and lose the battle. And what they fought for comes about in spite of their defeat. And sometimes it is not what they meant. And other men must fight for what they meant under another name. The NBC University of the Air has brought you chapter two of the new historical series, We Came This Way. Next week, We Came This Way will present a story of the fight for freedom in Flanders in the 14th century. A handbook containing background information with suggestions for further reading is now in publication. We shall be happy to send you at cost this valuable We Came This Way handbook especially written for the current series. Send twenty-five cents to cover the cost of printing and mailing to We Came This Way Post Office Box 30 Station J New York 27 New York Tonight's script was written by Frank Wells and directed by Ira Avery. The orchestra was conducted by Milton Catons. Members of the cast were Joe DeSantis, Owen Jordan, Don Morrison, Grace Kedde, Gregory Morton, Rod Hendrickson, Leo Hass, and Walter Epler. The narrator was John W. Vander Cook. This is The National Broadcasting Company.