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ORone Pieres the Ploughman hath inpugned us alle."
The Vision Concerning Piers Plowman.B. PassusXIII.
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LLthe good people, fresh-blessed, came forth into the churchyard with a great pushing and striving. There was a Miracle Play toward, and to stand at the back of five-and-twenty score of tiptoeing Londoners was to see nothing. Sweating shopkeepers jostled and swore, women squealed, and 'prentices drove their elbows into any fat paunch that was neighbourly. Here and there, above the press, a child rode on its father's shoulder, and if 't was a merry child it kicked off the women's headgear and tweaked the ears of Robyn and Hikke and Jack.
“Stand off,—stand off, a four-foot space from Hell Mouth!”cried Beelzebub, coming to earth unexpected;“there be sparks! I 'll not answer for 't if ay one take fire.”
“Look ye, look ye!”roared Sathanas, thrusting up his head,“here's some thieving fellow hath filched my tail while I was to Mass. 'T is a poor jest. Now, bySt.Christopher, I swear I say no word o' my part if the tail lack.”
There went up a laugh from the company, and one cried:“Give the dumb beast his tail that he may speak!”And, on a sudden, flew over the heads of the people a something red, in shape like an eel, and fell upon Sathanas' head, whereat he grunted and withdrew head and tail together.
And now Hell Mouth opened and spat fire, and after tumbled forth a rout of devils, big and little, that pranced and mowed, the while the people laughed and cast them back jest for jest. Was one brawny fiend, a blacksmith by trade, that came to the edge of the stage and, looking backward, with chin uppermost, through his squatted legs, set his fingers in the corners of his mouth and his eyes, and did so make of himself a monster that a little maid which stood in the forefront of the multitude must needs shriek and start, so that her kerchief fell awry.
Saith a yeoman, blinking on her ruffled hair:“I cannot see for the sun in my eyen,”and laid his great hand on her fair head that perforce she must turn her face would she or no.
“BySt.Jame!”cried the man, thereupon;“here's no ba'rn, but a maid, with a mouth ripe for kissing!”And so bent to taste her lips. But she cried out and struggled to be free, and swift, a gloved hand thrust the yeoman's face aside, and a voice that had a twist of French in it rated him so that he shrank backward glowering.
The blacksmith, meanwhile, being set right side forward, stood nodding a genial horned approval:
“An I had not been so be-twisted, I had given him a crack!”he said, and, turning rueful, added:“Dost not know me, child? I be Hobbe Smith that dwell two doors below thee. I did but mean to make thee merry.”
And the maid gave him a pale smile.
“If thou stand o' this side, out of the press, still mayst thou see,”said he of the gloved hand.
“I came not so close to see the devils,”answered the maid, blushing,“but for that cometh after;”and she followed him apart.
Then come Mercy and Truth across the middle stage, and are met together, and Peace and Rightwisnesse, that kissed the one the other, prating sweetly of Christ risen from the dead. And the devils are begun to make moan, and they have locked Hell Mouth with a great key and laid a bar across. And said this squire that stood beside the maid:—
“By 'r Lady!—who writ this is no common patcher o' miracles, but a true poet!”
“'T is my father,”quoth she.
And he:“Nay, then, I knew thee for a poem. Is thy name Guenevere? Such eyes had Guenevere,—such hair.”
“I am Will Langland's daughter; I am Calote,”she said.
There had lately come two men through the crowd. By their aspect they were not Londoners, yet they seemed acquainted well enough with what they saw. Now one of these, a black-browed fellow with thin, tight lips, large nose, and sallow visage, spoke to the squire, saying:—
“All poets of England do not pipe for John o' Gaunt. This one hath chose to make music for the ears of common folk.”
“Natheless 't is tuned to ears more delicate,”the squire made answer, looking always on the maiden; and then,“Calote, thou sayst? 'T is Nicolette in little, is 't not?”And presently after,“Nicolette had a squire.—I would I were thy squire.”
But Calote had turned her to the Miracle, and the youth saw only a flushing cheek.
“'T is a long while that Mercy and Truth are not met together in England, Jack,”said the countryman to his fellow, sourly.
“Yea, Wat,”the other answered;“and afore Peace cometh War.”
“And afore Rightwisnesse”—said he of the black brows, and paused, and looked about him meaningly, and cast his arms to right and left. And now the Miracle was done, and Christ had narrowed Hell, and sat on high with the Trinity.
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HEbell of Paul's had rung the Angelus an hour past. The gabled shadows of the houses crossed the street slantwise, and betwixt them long pale fingers of evening sunshine brightened the cobbles. Pigeons from the corn market waddled hither and thither in search of dribbled grain,—unreasoning pigeons, these, for of a Sunday no manna fell on Cornhill. The ale-stake above the tavern door rustled in a whisper; 't was a fresh-broken branch, green and in full leaf, set out for this same feast of the Trinity. Calote had caught the withered bough when it fell, and made off with it under the alewife's very nose.
“Little roberd!”Dame Emma cried,“'t would have cooked a hungry man his dinner.”
“And shall!”quoth Calote; whereat the alewife burst out a-laughing and swore she 'd switch her with the new stake. And Calote, like an ant at the end of a long straw, tugged her prize indoors.
The dinner was cooked and eaten by now, and a bit of a supper as well. The long June day was done. Dame Emma came to her tavern door and stood beneath the ale-stake, looking out across to her neighbor's cot, where a yellow-haired maid sat in the window.
“I saw thee in Paul's churchyard, Calote,”Dame Emma called cheerily; and she smiled a sly smile.
“Yea,”said Calote,“methinks all the world was there;”but her colour came.
“He is of the household of the Earl of March; even a kinsman by 's bearing,”renewed Dame Emma.
“I rede not the riddle,”Calote answered her; but Dame Emma laughed.
Then down the middle of the way, to left and right of the runnel ditch, rode three horsemen of sober visage; and though they rode a slow pace, they took no heed of Dame Emma where she stood and cried out:—
“A taste for naught! Come dine! White wine of Oseye! Good ale!”
They held their heads in a knot, speaking soft, and went their slow way down the street.
“They be 'potecaries,”said Calote.“Now the plague is on again we see many such. He of the taffeta-lined gown, with scarlet, is Doctor of Phisick, is 't not so?”
“'T is physician to the Black Prince. Must needs eat at king's table, forsooth!”And Dame Emma flounced her skirts in a huff and turned her indoors.
The shadows faded along with the sunshine. The little maid sat long in the deep window, agaze on the street. Gray were her eyes, dark-lashed, beneath straight brows, pencilled delicately. Slim and small she was, all eyes and golden hair,—the hair that flies out at a breath of wind like rays of light, and is naught of a burden though it fall as far as a maid's knees. A tress flew out of window now, like to a belated sunbeam. The smoke from the tavern turned to rose as it left the chimney mouth. The pink cloud wreathed upward and melted, and wreathed again.
“Oh, father, come and see the tavern-smoke! It groweth out o' chimney-pot like a flower. I mind me of the rose o' love in the Romaunt. 'T is of a pale colour.”
At the far end of the room, in a doorway, his head thrust outward to catch the light, there sat a man with a shaven crown, and thick reddish locks that waved thereabout. His eyes—the long, gray, shadow-filled eyes of Calote—were bent upon a parchment. He wrote, and as his hand moved, his lips moved likewise, in a kind of rhythm, as if he chaunted beneath his breath. A second roll of parchment, close-written, lay beside him on a three-legged stool, and ever and anon he turned to this and read,—then back to the copy,—or perchance he sat a short space with head uplifted and eyes fixed in a dream, his lips ever moving, but the busy hand arrested in mid-air. So sitting, he spoke not at once to his daughter; but, after a space, as one on a hill-top will answer him who questions from below, all unaware of the moments that have passed 'twixt question and reply, he said:—
“The rose of love is a red rose; neither doth it flower in a tavern.”And his voice was of a low, deep, singing sort.
“A red rose,”murmured Calote;“yea,—a red rose. The rose of love.”
Then Calote left the window and went down the dim room. Her feet were bare; they made no noise on the earthen floor.
“Twilight is speeding, father,”said she.“Thou hast writ since supper,—a long while that. Thou hast not spoke two words to thy Calote since afore Mass, and 't is a feast day. Us poor can't feast of victual,—tell me a tale. The tale o' the Rose, and how the lover hath y-kissed it, and that foul Jezebel hight Jealousy hath got Fair-Welcome prisoned in a tower,—a grim place,—the while Evil Tongue trumpeteth on the battlement.”
The dreamer rested his eyes on his daughter's face a tranquil moment, then drew her to his knee and smiled and stroked her hair.
“An thou knowest the Romaunt so well, wherefore shall I tell it thee?”he asked.
“What cometh after, where Reason prateth, I know not. I do never know.”
“Then I 'll not waste raisonable words upon thee,”laughed her father.“Come, tell me of thyself! Was 't a plenteous feast day, or a hungry one?”
“Not hungry,”she cried, with eyes alight.“There was one praised thee. 'T is not every day I taste honey.”
She waited, watching him, but he said nothing; he only leaned his chin upon his hand and looked out of the doorway.
“Thou wilt not ask a share o' my feast? Yet is it all thine,”she coaxed.“If any spake fair words of me, how should I pine to know!”She pressed his face betwixt her two hands and looked close, merrily, into his eyes.“But thou shalt hear, whether or no. Hearken! 'T was in Paul's churchyard where they played the Miracle, thy Miracle, the Harrowing o' Hell,—a yeoman made as he would kiss me,”—
Her father was attentive now; his eyes were sombre.
“I was fair sick with the touch of him. I cried out. And there was one standing by thrust off the yeoman.”
She lost herself, musing. Meanwhile, her father watched her, and presently,“Where is my little feast of praise?”he asked.
She started and took up the tale, but now her eyes were turned from his to the twilight space outside the door, and beyond that, and beyond.
“He was young,”she said,—“he was young; he wore a broidered coat; green it was, all daiseyed o'er with white and pink. He doffed his cap to me,—never no one afore did me that courtesy. He wore a trailing feather in his cap. 'If thou stand o' this side, out o' the press, still mayst thou see and hear,' saith he. And after, he saith 't was no common patcher, but a poet, wrote that Miracle. And I did tell him 't was my father. Then he would have my name as well, and, being told, he must needs recall how Nicolette, in that old tale, had a squire. He saith—he saith—'I would I were thy squire.'”
“Anon?”her father questioned, rousing her.
“Is no more to tell: 't was the end o' the Miracle.”
“A poor maid in a cot may not have a squire.”said Will Langland slowly.
“I know that right well; and yet I know not wherefore,”she answered; and now she turned quite away her face, for that her lip trembled.
He made no answer to her wistful question, and there was silence between them while the twilight deepened. But she was busy with her thoughts meanwhile.
“Father,”she began, and laid her hand upon the written parchment by his side,“father,—here in the Vision, thou dost write that the ploughman knoweth the truth. He is so simple wise he counselleth the king how to renew his state which is gone awry. If the knight do the bidding of the ploughman, wherefore shall not Piers' daughter wed the son o' the knight?”
He looked within her eyes most tenderly, his voice was deep with pity; he held her two hands in his own.
“My Calote,—'t is not King Edward, nor King Edward's son, shall be counselled of the ploughman. 'T is a slow world, and no man so slow as the man at the plough. He hath his half acre to sow. Not in my day, nor in thine, shall the knight bethink him to set the ploughman free for pilgrimage to Truth.”
“But if he read thy Vision, father, he will.”
“The knight is likewise slow, Calote. He believeth not on the Vision. I shall be dead afore that time cometh,—and thou.”
“Yet there be them that say the hour is not far distant when the people shall rise and rule,”she persisted.“Wat Tyler ever threateneth the wrath of the people. He saith the land is full of villeins that have run from the manors, for that the Statute maketh them to labour for slave wage. He saith the people will make themselves free. John Ball goeth about to hearten men to rise against oppression.”
“In my vision I saw neither war nor the shedding of blood,”Langland answered.
“Oh, father!”she cried, and cast her arms about his neck,“art thou content to wait,—so idly?”
“Nay, I am not content,”he said;“I am not content.”
He kissed her and they were silent, thinking their several thoughts, until Calote said:—
“If the knight wed the peasant, and there come a child,—is that a knight or a peasant?”
“Most like the next of kin doth make a suitable complaining to the Pope, and so the child is a bastard.”
“Thou mockest me, father; I see thee smile,”she protested.
“Nay, 't is not thee I mock, my sweet,—not thee. But hark, Calote: this love of knights and damosels is not the one only love. Read thy Reason in the Romaunt,—and she shall tell thee of a love 'twixt man and man, woman and woman, that purifieth the soul and exalteth desire; nay, more: Reason shall tell thee of a love for all thy fellows that haply passeth in joy the love for one. The King's Son of Heaven,—He knew this love.”
“And thou,”whispered Calote.
“I dream more than I love,”he said;“I do consider my passion.”
“Yet is it a very passion, father. Wherefore wilt thou ever humble thyself?”
“And there is a love betwixt the father and the child,”he continued; and those two kissed each other.
“I would know all these loves,”cried Calote.
“Yet wilt thou do well to pray the Christ that no knight come to woo.”
She hung her head; and the long day trembled to latest dusk.
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OWas these two sat silent, the door at the far end of the room, looking on Cornhill, opened, and a man came in and shut it again, and stood in the shadow.
“Wat?”said Langland.
“Art thou he men call Long Will?”asked the man out of the dark.
“Yea, I am he. Who art thou that fearest light? I took thee for Wat Tyler that is my friend.”
“I am another friend,”said the man, and came down the room.“My name is Peter. I have run from Devon.”
“So,—Peter!”quoth Langland, and rose up to meet him.“And for that is thy name, and haply thou art a ploughman, dost thou believe that the truth resteth with thee?”
Calote, who knew her father's voice, saw also the grim smile that curled his lip, but the man could not see because of the twilight.
“I believe thou art a true prophet,”he made answer;“I have heard thy Visions; many read them and tell them again.”
“Even so,”retorted the lank priest;“I did not counsel thee to run.”
“Nay, 't was mine own wit counselled me there,”the man replied;“mine own wit, fed on the Statute o' Labourers.”
“'T is famine fare,”said Langland.“Calote, if there be aught in the cupboard, bring it hither.—And now, friend Peter, wherefore art thou come?”
“Lead us poor!”cried the man.“Arise, and strike down the unjust!”
“I am a prophet,”said Langland.“I abide by my calling. Thou must go elsewhere for one shall do deeds. I only prophesy. 'T is safe; and I had ever a gift for song.”
The man lifted an uncertain hand and scratched his rough head. So, for a moment, he stood irresolute. At last he said:—
“I am a dull fellow; but dost thou mock me?”
Then Langland came to him swiftly, pressing his hands on the bowed shoulders and saying:—
“Thou art my brother.”
“'T is a word one understands,”replied the man;“God and Mary bless thee!”and turned at the sound of a footstep. 'T was a woman came in with a bowl in her hands, and Calote followed her, bringing bread.
“This is thy wife Kitte,”said the man,“and this is thy daughter Calote.”
The poet smiled,—“Thou dost read, Peter?”
“Nay, I have a young son will be a parson one day. Thy Vision concerning the ploughman is meat and drink to him.”
“To us, likewise,”said Kitte.“There be days we taste little else; 't is a dish well spiced. Natheless, for this is Holy Trinité, we've fed on whey and bread; it maketh an excellent diversité. Wilt eat?”
As she passed her husband he turned her face to the light, whereat she smiled on him,—and in her smile was yet another kind of love made manifest.
The man ate his bread and whey noisily the while his host leaned against the door-frame. Kitte withdrew into the inner room, and Calote sat in the window looking on the street. The moon rose and cast the poet's shadow thin along the floor. There was a murmur in the street.
“Father,”called Calote,“there is some ill befallen. Men stand about by twos and threes, so late, and speak low. And now,—oh, father!—Dame Emma hath fell a-weeping and shut her tavern door. Here 's Wat!—Here 's Wat and another!”
Two men ran in from Cornhill, hurriedly. They were as shadows in the room until they came to the patch of moonlight, where shadow and substance fell apart.
“The Prince is dead in Kennington Palace,”said the taller, darker man;“the Black Prince is dead!”And he struck the door-jamb with his clenched fist and burst forth into one loud, sharp cry. There was rage in the sound, disappointment, and grief.
“Art silent, thou chantry priest?”said the other man gloomily.“Here 's occasion to ply thy trade; but where 's thy glib prayer for the dead?”
“Who am I that I should pray for this soul?”cried Langland bitterly.“Here 's the one brave man in all England—dead. Now is it time to pray for the living, Jack Straw; for my soul, and thine, and all these other poor, that be orphaned and bereaved o' their slender hope by this death. Oh, friend Peter, thou art run too late from Devon! The doer o' deeds, the friend o' ploughmen and labourers, he is dead.”
“One told me he did not welcome death. He was fain to live,”said Wat Tyler.
“Doth a good prince go willingly into heaven's bliss if he must leave a people perplexed,—a nest of enemies to trample his dreams?”asked the poet.
“I have heard them that served yonder in the war with France, who say the Prince hath a sin or two of 's own to answer for,”said Jack Straw.“Who shall rest secure o' heaven's bliss?”
“Were I so honest a sinner as he that is gone, e'en punishment and stripes were a taste o' blessing!”Langland exclaimed, and bent his head in his hands.
The rustic had stared at one then another of these men, and now he opened his great mouth, and the words came forth clumsily:—
“I be grieved full sore for this death, and for the King's sake that is an old man. Natheless, 't was no prince led the wildered folk in the Vision.”
“Oh, Piers!”said Langland; and suddenly he laughed, and still with eyes bent upon this rude, shock-headed, and slow creature, he laughed, and laughed again, merrily, without malice, like a child.
But Wat Tyler leapt to his feet and paced the room back and forth:—
“'T is a true word,”he cried.“He that delivereth the poor out of his misery shall taste that misery; he shall be one of those poor. Hath the Black Prince encountered cold and hunger as I have so encountered,—not for a siege's space, but to a life's end and with tied hands? Hath he oped his eyen into the world chained to a hand's-breadth o' soil? Nay, England was his heritage, and he had leave to get France likewise, if he might. Can the overlord rede the heart of the villein that feedeth him? The Black Prince hath died disappointed of his kingdom”—
“And thou wilt die disappointed of thine,”said Langland, gravely intent upon him.
“Nay, but I live in disappointment daily,—and Jack Straw, and this honest fellow, and”—
“Who may the honest fellow be?”queried Jack Straw.
This Jack Straw had lint locks that glistened under the moon; the lashes of his eyes were white. His was a dry utterance.
“'T is a villein hath run from his hand's-breadth o' soil,”answered Langland.“One of many.”
“I plough, I reap, I ditch,”said Peter;“somewhile I thatch. I am of Devon.”
“They have a quaint device of thatching in Devon,”quoth Jack Straw.
“Ay, they set a peak like to a coxcomb above the gable. Art a Devon man?”asked Peter eagerly.
“Nay, but I be thatcher. I learned of a Devon man. 'T was the year next after the great pestilence. Like thee, he had run.”
Wat Tyler had been pacing up and down, but now he stood before his host and asked uneasily, albeit his voice was bold and harsh:—
“Will, what's thy meaning,—that I shall die disappointed of my kingdom?”
“Ah, Wat, Wat!”said Langland,“and wilt thou lead the people? And wherefore?”
Jack Straw edged farther within the moonlight and peered into his comrade's dark and lowering countenance:—
“Now which o' they seven deadly sins doth he call to repent?”he drawled, and with a sudden change to sharp speech, keeping his eye ever upon Wat's face:“A day cometh when there shall be no king, nor no overlord, nor no rich merchant to buy food away from the people, and store it up, and sell it at a price. But every man shall be leader of his own soul, and every man king. There shall not be poverty nor richesse, but one shall share as another, and nothing shall be mine nor thine.”
Peter rested his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands, such fashion that his jaw hammered upward and downward; and the table, that had one leg a bit short, hammered likewise. Said he:—
“Christ came a poor man, poor men to comfort. He suffereth my sorrow. I knew not there was question of any kingdom, but only Christ's. And if Christ is King, how then do ye say there will be no leader?”
Will Langland looked at the other two with a strange smile; but Wat turned to the ploughman and cried:—
“Yet if Christ delay His second coming, must another lead till he come. How else shall folk know His way?”
“Of a surety,”answered Peter;“I am come to Long Will.”
And Long Will covered his face and so remained. And they all sat silent and as it were ashamed, till Kitte put her head in and said:—
“Calote, get thee to bed, child!”
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ALOTEslipped out at the back door into a weedy lane full of moonlight. She set her feet ankle-deep in grass and dew. A muck heap cast a shadow from one side to the other of the lane and filled the air with pungent odour. There was a stair against the wall of Will Langland's cot, and Calote climbed up this to a little gabled chamber that had a window looking on Cornhill. The street was white and silent under the moon. There was no light in any house as far as Calote could see. Even the tavern was dark: Dame Emma had shut out her roisterers and made her house a house of mourning, for that the Black Prince was dead. Calote let slip her strait russet gown and stood at the window in her kirtle, shaking out her hair.
“Such hair had Guenevere,”she said thoughtfully;“yet am I Calote.—A kinsman to the Earl of March?—Mayhap to-night he weeps the death of the Black Prince. Yet, I know not.—Wat Tyler saith these nobles be aye at one another's throat.—When there be so many kind of love i' the world, wherefore do some folk make choice of hating?—So many kind of love!—Wherefore may not I essay all?—Wherefore be there Calotes—and Gueneveres?—Yet, there be a many left for me. I will leave thinking o' squires and knights. I will listen to Dame Reason in the Romaunt,—and Wat, and the ploughman, and my father.”
She crossed herself and said her Pater Noster, then dropped her kirtle and lay down upon her pallet. For coverlet she had a frayed old cassock of her father's. She lay beneath the window, and the moon came about to look on her.
“I will love all I may,”said Calote;“but I will forget to be loved.”
And so she fell asleep.
She did not wake an hour after when Long Will came up to bed, stooping among the rafters. He crossed the room to look upon her where she lay full in the light of the moon. Because the night was close she had set free her arms from the warmth of the old cassock, but the golden mantle of her hair veiled her white breast that rose and fell ever so lightly.
Will Langland beckoned to his wife and she came to stand beside him:—
“'T is now a woman,—and yesterday a child,”said he.“Mayhap I am dull-eyed, noting little that's not writ on parchment, yet meseems I have never seen woman so fair as this my daughter. Is 't true?”
“Yea, Will; it is true,”said Kitte.
Then Calote opened her eyes upon her father and mother, and she was dreaming.
“O red rose!”said she, and shut her eyes again.
And Will Langland and Kitte his wife went down on their knees to pray.
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HEsecond time Calote saw the squire he bore a hooded falcon on his wrist and he rode a little white horse, in the fields beyond Westminster. He sang a pensive lyric in the French tongue; and when he saw Calote he lighted down from his horse and held his cap in his hand. She was gathering herbs.
He told her he had got him a copy of her father's poems, and he kept it in a little chest of carven ivory and jade that his mother gave him afore she died. And Calote, being persuaded, went and sat with him beneath a yew tree. He said that she might call him Stephen, if she would, or Etienne; men spoke to him by the one or the other indifferently, but they were the same name. It was his mother that was cousin german to the Earl of March; his father being a gentleman of Derbyshire, Sir Gualtier Fitzwarine, of a lesser branch of that name. And both his father and his mother were dead, but the Earl of March was his godfather.
But when Calote questioned him of the poem, he could say little, excepting that his man had bought it of a cook's knave in the palace, that was loath to part with it; and it smelled frightful of sour broth, but Etienne had sprinkled it with flower of lavender. Moreover, he had searched therein for Calote and her golden hair and her gray eyes; he marvelled that her father had not made mention of these things.
Then Calote took up her knotted kerchief with the herbs, and gave him good day. And whether she were displeased or no she could not determine, nor could he. But he went immediately to his chamber and read diligently, with a rose of sweet odour held beneath his nose.
The third time Calote saw the squire was on the day when London learned that Peter de La Mare was cast into prison in Nottingham Castle. London growled. London stood about in groups, ominously black-browed,—choking the narrow streets. Certain rich merchants even shut up their shops and barred their doors, for it was not against the nobles only that London had a grievance.
Now this fair child, Stephen Fitzwarine, knew that Peter de la Mare was seneschal to the Earl of March, and, hearing of the good man's imprisonment, he set it down that this was yet another grudge to be fought out 'twixt his godfather and John of Gaunt, and he prayed that he might be in at the affray. But of the Good Parliament, its several victories, and present sore defeat, Stephen knew little. He was of the household of young Richard, son to the Black Prince, and all that household was as yet in leading-strings. In the laws of fence and tourney Stephen was right well instructed; twice had he carved before Richard at table; he could fly a hawk more skilfully than Sir John Holland, the half-brother to the Prince; he knew by heart the argument and plea whereby we made our claim upon the crown of France; he knew by heart also the half of the Romaunt of the Rose, and all of Sir Gawaine and the Green Knight, and more than one of the tales of Dan Chaucer. Richard loved him, and hung upon him as a little lad will on a bigger one. And Stephen loved Richard, and slept before the door of Richard's bedchamber with a naked sword at his side; this for his own and Richard's sake. But at that time there were other warders before this door, that slept not at all; for after the Black Prince died, the guard in Kennington Palace was doubled, and a certain armourer in the city had sent the heir to the throne a gift of a little shirt of mail, the which so delighted him that he wore it night and day; and if by any fortune he forgot it, his mother, caressing him, would say:—
“Where is thy chain coat, Richard? Wilt not wear it to-day to pleasure the kindly armourer?”
Moreover, the little Prince was seldom let abroad, and his household must needs keep him company; wherefore Stephen Fitzwarine might not go into the city except he slipped leash and braved the displeasure, nay, the stripes even, of Sir Simon de Burley, who was Richard's tutor. Nevertheless, on this ill-fated day when London was scarce in the mood to see young gentlemen in broidered coats a-walking her streets, he dropped his lute into a rosebush and went adventuring.
When he came on London Bridge,—for Kennington Palace was t' other side of the river by Lambeth, and who would go to the city must cross by this way,—he found a great crowd of idle people blocking the street; and because none moved to right or left to let him pass, he must needs elbow it like any prentice; and this he did as far as Cornhill. Now, although young Stephen did not yet know the Vision concerning Piers Ploughman so well as the Romaunt of the Rose, one thing he had discovered, namely, that Will Langland dwelt on Cornhill; and he would have slackened his pace to scan the houses. But the unmannerly throng that had followed him across the bridge would not have it so, and pushed and pressed upon him that he must wag his legs briskly or be taken off them altogether. And in this fashion he went the length of Cornhill, and had he been discreet he had gone yet farther in Cheapside and sheltered him inSt.Paul's. But Etienne was a valiant lad, and wilful. He had come out to see a certain cot on Cornhill, and his desire was yet unsatisfied. He turned him back and faced a grinning crew of prentice lads and artisans, some merry, all mischievous, and not a few malicious.
“Give me room, good fellows,”he said.
Then mocking voices rose and pelted him:—
“Yonder 's thy way, flower-garden.”
“Hath missed his road,—call 's nursie!”
“There be no palaces o' Cornhill.”
“Here 's not the road to the Savoy.”
“We harbour not John of Gaunt nor his ilk i' the city.”
“Nay, we ha' not men at arms sufficient to keep him in safety.”
“I am not for John of Gaunt. Give way!”said Etienne.
“Ay, friends,”bawled a six-foot lad with a carpenter's mallet in his hand;“we mistook; the lording hath come hither to give himself as hostage for the safety o' Speaker Peter.”
A part of the crowd laughed at this speech, and others cursed, and some said:—
“Take him! Take him!”
“Yea, take him!”roared the throng, closing in; and above this sea of sound Etienne sent his voice shrilly:—
“Disperse! Disperse, I say! I come a peaceful errand. Who will point me the dwelling of one they call Long Will, I 'll give him three groat.”
“So, 't is Long Will must follow good Peter de la Mare?”shrieked a woman from a window.
“What dost thou with Long Will?”
There were no smiles now.
“Will Langland louteth not to such as thou.”
“Spy!”
“Spill 's brains!”
“Hath none, to come o' such errand.”
“To the river!”
“Ay, take him down Cornhill an he will!”
A brawny smith that had pushed his way inward at mention of Langland stood now in the forefront of the mob, eyeing Etienne.
“So ho!”he said, bracing his back for the nonce against them that would have rushed upon the lad;“so ho! Is 't thou, green meadow? Methought I knew thee.”
Then he set his fingers in the corners of his mouth and eyes, and leered; and the mob, not comprehending, yet laughed.
“Thou wilt see Will Langland, wilt thou?”he resumed.“Yea, I trow thou art a-dying to see Will Langland. He hath long yellow hair, hath he not, and”—
“Scum!”cried Etienne, and drew his sword; and even as he drew it, there went a thrill down his spine; for Etienne had never drawn his sword in wrath before; 't was a maiden blade, had drunk no blood.
At the shine of it the crowd fell a-muttering. Every eye darkened; mockery died; there was naught left but black hatred.
“My way lies on Cornhill,”said Etienne.“Let him bar who dare!”
Then some one laid a hand on his shoulder, and a voice said:—
“Sheathe thy weapon, my lord!”
The squire turned to see a tall man standing at his side, clad in a dingy cassock and carrying a breviary. Long Will was come from saying mass for the soul of a wool merchant.
“What then? Wilt have me soil my hands with such as these?”cried Etienne.
“Nay, my lord, nor thy spirit neither,”answered Langland.
“Let be, Will!”said one in the crowd.“'T is a spy that prisoneth honest men. Is 't not enough that Peter de la Mare is cast in chains, but puppets like to this must play the sentinel on Cornhill?”
“If I mistake not, this gentleman weareth the badge of the Earl of March,‘ interrupted Langland; ’wherefore our grievance is his likewise; for Peter is seneschal to the Earl.”
Heads were thrust forward eagerly, and one and another cried:—
“'T is true!”
“Let me set mine eye o' the badge!”
“Methought one said 't was John o' Gaunt's man.”
“The badge!”
And the six-foot prentice, craning his neck, questioned:—
“Art thou for the Earl o' March, friend? If so be, speak and make an end on 't. I be not one to bear malice.”
The mob roared with laughter, and Etienne, slipping his sword within its scabbard, answered in excellent good temper:—
“I am indeed godson to that most noble earl, and gentleman of the bedchamber to son altesse the Prince Richard, heir to the throne of England and son to our lamented Edward, Prince of Wales, of beloved memory.”And Etienne uncovered his head, as did all them that had caps in that assembly.
“So!”said Langland, looking on him with approval.“'T is spoke in a spirit most prudent, wise, and Christian. And does your way lie o' Cornhill, sir? With your good-will I 'll bear you company.”
The crowd dispersed to right and left, but Hobbe the smith lingered yet a moment to say:—
“'T was with thee the gentleman had business, Will. Zeal to look upo' thy countenance hath brought him hither.”
And after, albeit the squire and Langland paid him no heed, this Hobbe followed on behind, ever and anon voicing some pleasantry, as:—
“That I should live to hear thee sweeten thy tongue to tickle a lording, Will!”
Or:—
“Look out at window, good neighbours, afore the sky fall. Here 's Will Langland, that never lifted his eye to do lordships and rich men a courtesy, walketh London streets to-day with a flowering sprig o' green from the court.”
Or he sang from Long Will's Vision:—