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.”

“Tarry a bit!” said John to Jabez Stout in a whisper, “see but the birds.”

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.

“Thou wilt die, sure enough,” said Steve, “thy right lung is shot through, but why call him Sir John? ’Tis but 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.

But they were seen, and an arrow found lodging in Jabez’ breast, who fell, while John reached and passed behind a projecting buttress that hid a small doorway. This opened on a stair, up which he passed to a window fronting on Checquers Street where he posted himself and began shooting at the Lancastrians in the street below. He had been closely followed by numerous archers and several men at arms. The archers posted themselves at the other windows while the men at arms broke into the rooms below, killed those posted there and issued forth into the street from the doorway. Presently Richard of Warwick issued forth into the street and led the fighting while other Yorkist archers broke into the houses on the other side of the street and shot from the windows, all the while shouting: “A Warwick! a Warwick!” Here you saw one fall with his brains dashed out, there another with a broken arm, a third with a cut throat and a fourth with a pierced chest, and the whole street was full of dead corpses.^[1]

As the Lancastrians broke and fled in confusion, John remembered Lisbeth and Blanche, unprotected. There was his place of duty. Straightway he descended and pushed his way along the crowded road to the house in Dagnal Lane in time to head the rabble who, crazed with blood and drink, had begun to sack the town.

“Come with me!” he called to the frightened pair, bursting in at the door, “but bring warm clothing; we must even sleep afield this night.” So saying he hurriedly filled a basket, caught up some wraps and started northward toward an angle of the palisade and ditch.

The flight of the vanquished was in three directions: Northwest toward Dunstable, along Watling Street, North toward Harpenden and southwest toward Watford.

Breaking down some palisades, John helped the women over the ditch and the three ran toward the shelter of the forest. This gained, he helped them climb into the arms of an ancient beech, where they lay concealed while the pursued and pursuers thundered by down the road on either side, and a scattering few stole through the underbrush below and around them.

As the night fell it grew colder, and Blanche crept into his arms, laid her head confidingly against his shoulder and slept. The sleep of all three was, however, somewhat broken by the noises made by the peasantry searching with torches for the bodies of the slain.

In the morning, all danger having passed, John helped the women down and the three returned to their home which was in great disorder and bare of everything of value. It was a sad homecoming for the women, but it was useless to repine, so they set to work to clean the house and put it in order. John was informed that the Earl of Warwick desired his immediate attendance. “Is it true,” the Earl demanded, “that you led the archers up the stairway?”

“Yes, your Lordship,” said John, “I knew of the door and the stairway of old.”

“It was a great deed and shall not be forgotten, choose thy reward!”

“To serve your Lordship,” said John.

“Well said,” returned the Earl, “thou shalt be my page.”

“An your Lordship please, I would first bury Jabez Short who was killed beside me.”

“So do,” replied the Earl, “I will send for thee anon.”

John encountered Jed on his return; “do thou look after the women folk,” said Jed, “I must straight to London with the Earl.”

That morning the Duke of Norfolk marched into St. Albans with 6,000 men and the army started for London with the wounded King, who had been struck on the neck with an arrow.

Several days passed by before Jed could reach the Earl who was much engaged. In the meantime he was able to reach the Countess, Anne Beauchamp, who was the daughter of Richard Beauchamp, the former Duke, and sister of Henry, Duke of Warwick, from whom she had inherited.

The Countess informed Jed that she remembered Sir John Jernyngan, who was still living and well. He was a fine, upstanding man, tall, straight, with dark, somewhat curly hair and blue eyes. She remembered well how her father, who was the very flower of chivalry, and a gallant soldier, had knighted him for his gallant deeds on the field at Savignies. Lady Jernyngan was the daughter of Sir Everard Herbert of Bromhill in Hereford. Her hand had also been sought by one Victor Bozen, a soldier of fortune whose description was identical with that of the dead robber. It was true that he had the assurance to demand her hand in marriage, but the lady had openly scorned him, and in revenge he had stabbed her successful suitor who had never harmed him. She rejoiced that his son—for she doubted not John was his son—had unknowingly revenged the foul deed.

Romance, then as now, greatly appeals to the gentle mind. Anne became greatly interested in John and took him under her special protection. She became his advocate with the Earl, where he needed no advocate, and shielded him from the jibes and petty tyrannies of the pages at Warwick—her own castle—where he spent eighteen months perfecting himself in arms and chivalry.

On his first visit home after a six months’ absence, Blanche flew at him, threw herself into his arms and kissed him.

“I have news for thee, sweetheart,” said John, “my Lady has discovered”—

“Well,” said Blanche, “what hath she discovered?”

“I had better not tell thee, ’twill make thee unhappy.”

“Nay, tell me!”

“Give me first six kisses!”

“There then, thou silly. Now tell me!”

“My, thy lips are sweet! She thinks thou art no sister of mine.”

“Oh John, how dreadful!”

“So I thought at first, but not now. We may wed.”

“Oh no! How could we?”

“We may and will. Now give me some more kisses.”

“Not so. If I am no sister why kiss? Too many have I given thee already.”

“My Lady says thou art Blanche Wychyngham, the daughter of Sir Edmund Wychyngham of Norfolk, and that we were stolen and carried off by my nurse who was a sister of that Victor Bozen I slew on the way to Royston. He had a grudge against thy father also.”

“Oh John! how dreadful. I cannot bear it.” And she ran off to her foster mother in tears.

On the morrow came a letter bidding John join the Earl at Calais. Shortly thereafter Blanche left St. Albans to visit her father and sisters.

Among the Paston Letters is one from John Jernyngan to his cousin, Margaret Paston, which is here reproduced with all the quaint spelling of those days:

Unto my ryght wurchipfell Cosyn, Marget Paston, this lettre be delyvered in haste.

Ryght wurchipful and my moste beste beloved maystres and cosyn, I recommaund me unto you as lowly as I may, evermor desyring to here of your gode welfar; the whiche I beseche Almyzthy Jesus to preserve you and kepe you to his plesur, and to your gracious herts desyre.

And yf it plese you to here of my welfar, I was in gode hele at the makyng of this lettre, blessed be God.

Praying you that it plese you for to send me word yf my fadyr wer at Norwiche with you at this Trenite Masse or no, and how the matyr doth betwene my Maystres Blawnche Wychynham and me, and yf ze supose that it shall be brought a bowte or no; and how ze fele my fadyr, yf he be wele wyllyng thereto or no; praying you lowly that I may be recomaund lowly unto my maystres Arblastres wyfe, and unto my Maystres Blawnche, her dowzther, specially.

Ryght wurchipfull cosyn, yf it please you for to her of suche tydings as we have her, the basset [embassay] of Burgoyne schall come to Calleys the Saturday^[2] eftyr Corpus Christi day, as men say v. hondred horse of hem. Moreover on Trenite Sonday,^[3] in the mornyng, came tydings unto my Lord of Warwyke that ther were xxviij^te sayle of Spanyards on the se, and wherof ther was xvj. grete schippis of forecastell; and then my Lord went and manned fyve schippis of forecastell, and iii. carvells, and iiij. spynnes [pinnaces], and on the Monday,^[4] on the mornyng eftyr Trenite Sonday, we met to gedyr afore Caleis, at iiij. at the clokke in the mornyng, and fawz thet gedyr till x. at the clokke; and ther we toke vj. of her [their] schippis, and they slowe of oure men about iiij^xx [four score] and hurt a ij. hondred of us ryght sore; and ther wer slayne on theyr parte abowte xij^xx [twelve score], and hurt a v. hondred of them.

And haped me, at the fyrste abordyng of us, we toke a schippe of iij^c [300] ton, and I was lefte therin and xxiij. men with me; and thei fawzthe so sor^[5] that our men wer fayne to leve hem,^[6] and then come they and aborded the schippe that I was in, and ther I was taken, and was a prisoner with them vj houris, and was delyvered agayne for theyr men that wer taken beforne. And as men sayne, ther was not so gret a batayle upon the se this xl. wyntyr. And for sothe, we wer wele and trewly bette; and my Lord hathe sent for mor scheppis, and lyke to fyzthe to gedyr agayne in haste.

Nomor I write unto you at this time, but that it please you for to recomaund me unto my ryght reverent and wurchipfull cosyn your husband, and myn ownkll Gournay, and to myn awnte his wyfe, and to alle gode maysters and frends where it schall plese yow; and eftyr the writyng I have from you, I schall be at you in alle haste.