Illustration: Capital O
N a Wednesday, being the twelfth day of June in that year, which was the fourth year of King RichardII., Wat Tyler and John Ball set up two great banners of Saint George on Blackheath, which was a moor that lay to southward of London, distant from the Bridge by the highway five mile. And thither came folk from north and south all that day, and encamped round about those two banners. Calote was there, and Stephen, and Long Will, to see them come in. Now 't was a band out of Surrey, singing as they marched:—
"When Adam delved and Eve span,Who was then the gentleman?"
Now 't was foresters from the Weald, threescore and more. Anon, the men that had seen the siege and the taking of Rochester Castle came in; and these went about from one to other of the bands, telling their tale, leaping in air and shouting as they were mad. Villeins and free labourers of Sussex by score and by hundred came.
“John Ball hath rungen our bell!”they said;“John Ball hath rungen our bell!”
“H-how shall these men be fed?”Stephen asked John Ball.
“London shall”—John Ball began, but he looked on Stephen and stayed his speech; and quoth he presently:“So 't is thou?”
For, albeit Stephen had donned his tabard and coarse hosen, his hair, which was of a pale brown colour like to the King's, was curled very daintily; and he had a girdle, the which peasants might not wear, and a short sword therein and a dagger.
“Yea, 't is I, Stephen Fitzwarine,”he said.“W-Will Langland shall speak for me that I be ever true man.”
“He saith soth,”Will answered;“'t is a very gentleman and our brother.”
“Yea,”affirmed Wat, who was come up.“Were all the King's servants like to this one, our daughters”—But then he broke forth into cursing and crying out upon God and Christ Jesus very blasphemously, that Calote wept to hear. Long Will went aside with him to speak comfort, and John Ball turned again to Stephen.
“Art thou even now of the household of the King? 'T is very well. We have sent a message to the King to pray him that he come hither to speak with us concerning this Rising and a remedy. Do thou go up and be seen o' the river shore when he cometh; haply he 'll come the more willingly an he see a friend.”
“Let the maid go with me,”said Stephen.“She hath a token from Richard; her word also will he trust.”
So Calote and Stephen went up to Thames by the Rotherhithe shore, and as they went they met a great rout of Essex men come across the river. They had three bloody heads on poles, the which they bore for banners, and these were three clerks that served the tax-collector was driven out of Brentwood the last week in May. Crows flew squawking round about these heads. Meanwhile, the men strode on, chaunting:—
“'Jack Trueman doth you to understand that falseness and guile have reigned too long.'”
And they told Stephen and Calote as how other Essex men were encamped t' other side the river before Aldgate, to keep the city from that side. And these other were Jack Straw's men.
And Calote and Stephen went down to the water's edge and stood with the throng that waited for the King.
An hour they waited, singing, jostling, and in the end the royal barge came down the river with Richard standing in the prow, and that old warrior and very perfect gentleman, the Earl of Salisbury, at his right hand. In the midst of the boat Sudbury stood, and Hales, and when the folk on shore saw these two they set up a shout of—
“Traitors!—Give up the traitors!—The Chancellor!—The Chancellor!—Poll-tax is his!—'T is Simon Sudbury taxed us!—They shall be slain!”
Whereupon my Lord of Salisbury made a sign to the rowers that they should cease rowing, which they did, and the barge stood still in the stream.
“How shall these jack-fools be hushed?”said Stephen.“They spoil all!”
Then Calote wound the King's horn, once, twice, thrice, and in the silence that followed after, Stephen put his hand to his mouth and shouted:“A parley! A parley!”and after:“My Lord King, beseech thee come hither, and alone, to speak with thy people. Shall none harm come to thee.”
“A demand most uncourtly strange, Etienne Fitzwarine,”cried the Earl of Salisbury,“that the King's person be sent unguarded among a pack of rebels. It may not be.”
“My lord, now is no time to be nice in small matters. Moreover, these be not rebels, but loyal, true lovers of the King.”
“Yea,—yea!—God save the King!”shouted the mob.“Let our King come to us that we may advise him of our wrongs.”
From where they stood on shore they could see Richard in the barge, how he laid his hand on my Lord Salisbury's arm and spoke earnestly with him. But my Lord of Salisbury shook his head, and the Archbishop and John Hales came up a little way into the prow, as they were pleading and craving a boon.
“This thing is not possible, that the body of our King should be delivered to ruffians and staff-strikers,”called out the Earl of Salisbury yet again.“We, being his true servants and guardians, dare not do this thing; for if so be any harm come to him, all England will lay it at our door, and rightly. Neither may we come to land with him, seeing ye are so hot to slay certain among us, and one of those the Archbishop of Canterbury. This is scandal and deadly sin. I call upon ye to disperse, in the King's name!”
“We are risen in the King's name,”cried out an Essex man;“how, then, shall we disperse?”
They could see Richard urgent, though they might not hear his words; and the Earl always shaking his head for answer; and Robert Hales with his two hands clinging to the King's cloak as a suppliant. Then the Earl of Salisbury made sign to the rowers, who began to turn the barge backward and rowed up the river again to the Tower, the while the people on Rotherhithe shore cursed and roared for rage.
Now when they were come again to Blackheath they found more men from Kent; and the taking of Canterbury was in every man's mouth; how the mayor had sworn oath of fealty to King Richard and the Commons, and the monks were afeared for their lives.
“Rochester and Canterbury is ours!”they cried.—“London next!”
Those that had a crust shared it, but they were few; a-most men on Blackheath went hungry that night.
“Yea, London next, and that quickly,”said John Ball.“A man may not fill his belly with furze and heather.”
Meanwhile he preached to them that they might forget their hunger. There were so many that all could not come anigh, but those others sang the catchwords and built fires on the heath; and some set off to Southwark to see if they might find food in that suburb.
And presently came riding three aldermen from London to bring a message from Mayor Walworth that the people should come no nigher London, in the name of the King and the city. But when they saw how many were gathered together, so that they might not be counted, and more coming in as it were up from the edges of the world, they were amazed and afraid. Nevertheless, two of them gave their message faithful and rode again to the city; but John Horn spake with Wat and the priest, and revealed to them that London for the most part was friendly, and the prentices all of their party,—and he bade them to come and take the city. Also he told them the name of the man should keep the Bridge next day, and he was friend to them and would let down the drawbridge whether or no Master Walworth gave leave.
“Nay, more,”quoth he:“I will even bring certain of you, three or four, into the city this very night, to tell the good citizens of London of all this cometh to pass.”
“Brother,”said Stephen to John Ball,“prythee let him take the maid into the city, and her father with her. This is no place for a maid at night on the heath. And l-let me also g-go in, that I may get speech of Richard and ad-advise him how to be friend to his people.”
But now was heard a great clatter and trample of hoofs,—and women shrieking, and the laughter of rude men,—and there came a coach close to the banner where John Ball stood,—the horses plunging in a fright, and a score of villeins clinging to their bridles; the coachman fast bound on his seat, a stalward Kentish man sitting in his lap.
“What 's here? Women?”cried Wat, and leapt to the coach door.“Have them out!—Let us see how these nobles will relish to have their daughters rough entreated.”He thrust his hand in, with,“Come out, mistress,—my daughter's debt is but half paid!”
“Goddes dignité!”said Stephen.“'T is the Queen-Mother!”
Wat dropped the lady's hand and stared in amaze, and Stephen thrust him aside.
“Madame, 't is Etienne Fitzwarine,”cried out one of the ladies, which was Godiyeva.“Now are we safe.”
And Etienne opened the coach door and got in to comfort them,—and all they were weeping.
“All England is risen up!”said the Queen.“The hedges are alive with runaway villeins. And this great company,—what 's it to mean?”
“'T is the poll-tax, madame,”Etienne answered her,“and the people is past patience.”
“Where is my son?”she shrieked.“Is he slain? Wherefore art thou here?”
“The King 's in the Tower, madame, whither I 'll presently be your escort. The people is faithful to the King,—they will not harm him a hair,—nor the King's mother neither. I pray you patience, the while I arrange this matter speedily as may be, and we 'll go on our way into the city.”
So he went out and spoke with John Ball and the alderman, and meanwhile, the peasant folk, when they heard who it was in the coach, stood a little way off, silent.
When Stephen came again to the door he had Calote by the hand, and he said:—
“May it please your Majesté that this damosel ride within.”
“An ill-smelling peasant!”cried the Queen.
“Madame,”said Godiyeva,“'t is the little jongleuse; so you give consent, she may sit beside me.”
“Let me sit o' the coachman's seat,”entreated Calote.
“Madame,”Stephen made reply,“this damosel is promised to be my wedded wife,—the night is chill.”
“Thy wedded wife!”screamed all those ladies, and the Queen said,“Is the world up-so-down?”
But whether from fear of all that rout of peasants, or whether from desire to know what manner of maid this might be that should wed Etienne Fitzwarine, they drew aside to make a place for her, and Godiyeva put out a hand to help her in.
“And for the wretch that dared thrust in his hand to take us,”quoth the Queen,“let him be tied at tail of coach and so dragged to London. See to 't, Etienne!”
“Madame, pray you pardon, but this may not be,”said Etienne.“The man is a leader among the people, and beloved.”
He stood aside and looked out on the vast throng, and she, following his eye, grew a little pale.
“The man hath provocation,”Etienne continued;“his daughter was laid hands on roughly by the King's tax-gatherer, not many days past.”
“Let 's begone!”said the Queen hastily.“Christ, Mary, keep us safe! Give me my beads, Godiyeva, and do ye all say a rosary, and be silent!”
So they rode away to London, with Stephen standing on the step on one side, and Long Will and John Horn riding on the other on the alderman's horse. And Wat Tyler sat on the box seat beside the coachman; but Stephen did not apprise the Queen of this.
In Southwark, as they rode, was mischief let loose, for the Marshalsea Prison and King's Bench were set wide open and in a blaze, and all the released prisoners making merry in the streets. Hot cinders fell on the coach, and Wat had much ado that it should not catch fire. To westward was another glow, where the people destroyed Lambeth Palace.
The Queen shut her eyes and said her prayers, but her ladies popped head out of window, this side and that, and whispered,“What 's this to mean?”—and“Who 's yon?”—to Stephen and Calote.
So they came to the Bridge and the drawbridge, and were let pass. And now Calote and Long Will turned them to Cornhill; but Stephen went to the Tower with the Queen.
Illustration: Capital O
N the Thursday the peasants came into London. Mayor Walworth might not choose but yield when he saw how many were against him: aldermen, citizens, and prentices. Wherefore he sent word to Wat Tyler to come in with his men, if so be they would pay for bed and board, and do none harm to that great city of London which was pride and glory of all the English. And they came in by the Bridge and by Aldgate, a gaping rabble,—for the most of them knew not London nor any city, and these houses in rows, and Paul's Church, set them to stare. To these the prentices were joined, and every street and every lane in London ran a river of men. They filled the taverns. Dame Emma had no need to cry“Good wine!—Come dine!”—and she did not take keep if they paid or no. She clapped each on back, with“Welcome, brother!”And to them that were young she gave her lips with a smack.
There was set up in Cheapside a block to behead lawyers and all such as were enemy to the people, and there were a-many slain in this fashion, hastily, without shrift. Calote saw this block, and the bodies of men lying on heap; and the prentices played at foot-ball with the bloody heads. And Calote ran down Cornhill as she were mad, and burst into the cot to her father, where he sat a-copying Piers Ploughman. To him she told these horrors, and when she had made an end, he said:—
“Nay,—these be not brute beasts, but men, our brothers. This is the meaning of battle. Haply angels wage war and is no letting of blood; but not so men. Not yet.”
“'T is Hobbe is headsman,”sobbed Calote.“Oh, father,—Hobbe! And shouting a jest with every blow.”
“And thou and I, we know what a kindly man is this Hobbe; and if we know, doth not Christ Jesus know, who shall absolve him? Be sure, if the King's Son of Heaven hath given His work in hands of sinful men, He knoweth to make excuse.”
She lifted her head, bewildered:—
“Methought,—methought thou wert against wars, and this Rising?”
He smiled, amused, wistful, patient.
“I am one of the peacemakers,”he said.“Natheless, in this battle, the word of my Vision is on the lips of them that slay. I am not for battle, 't is true; but these fight on God's side. If He give leave, who am I to say nay?”
“And thou believest we shall win?”she cried.“Thou believest we shall win?”
“What is 't—to win?”he asked.“Christ Jesus died on cross atwixt two thieves; but He is victor.”
This was the day the Savoy was burned, John of Gaunt's palace without the gates twixt Temple Bar and Charing Cross, and all the furniture and rich stuffs therein that were not burned were hewed and all to-tore and cast in the river. Howsoever, John of Gaunt was in the north at that time, and well for him. In the garden, Stephen, who was in the forefront of the mob all that day, came upon a lad hid behind a bush and busied in rending the badge of Lancaster from his sleeve.
“Dieu merci!—then thou art not slain, my lord!”cried Stephen.
But the boy, drawing a sword, ran upon him with,“Oh, thou false traitor!”
“No traitor, my Lord Henry,”Stephen answered, his hand twisting the child's wrist that the sword dropped harmless.“No traitor, but brother to the people and loyal true subject of King Richard. Have I not sought thee this hour and more throughout the palace? Come, thou art not safe till the Tower hold thee.”
“If I were King,”said the lad fiercely,“I 'd burn them all in hot fire, as they have burned my father's house.”
“Come,”said Stephen, and led him hastily by the hand. But to depart from the gardens they must needs pass nigh the blazing palace, and presently they came upon rioters breaking up chairs and tables and carved beds, and among these Jack Straw.
“What boy is this?”Jack cried, barring the way.
“A friend of mine,”said Stephen.
“Then art thou traitor. The people has no silken friends.”
“How often have I heard thee say,”retorted Stephen,“that one day thou and all men shall be clad in silk?”
There was a crowd gathering, men stood about with broken legs of chairs, good bludgeons, in their hands.
“Natheless, to-day our friends go in russet and rags,”said Jack Straw.
“So be it,”Stephen assented, and stripped the child of his silk coat so that he stood in his shirt.“Art a-cold, friend?—Wilt have my courtepy?”
“Nay,”the boy answered, looking about on all those rough faces of men, but with a strange gleam in his eye,—“nay,—the fire warms me.”
They all laughed loud, except Jack Straw, that stooped and set his face close to the boy's face, but the boy did not blink.“Here 's no place for children,”Jack cried, drawing back baffled.
“For that reason do I take him hence,”Stephen explained.
Jack narrowed his eyes:“The boy hath a tongue in 's head, and stout legs; is 't for this cause that thou art received into the Fellowship, to play the nursemaid to lost brats? Thou bawdy waster, false faitour! What knowest thou of brotherhood, that hast not soiled thy fingers this day to serve thy fellows?”
“Nor I will not neither,”cried Stephen. And at this word the men drew yet more close and their faces were awry twixt anger and amaze.
“I say I will not,”he repeated,“if to serve my fellows is to burn and pillage other men's goods.”
“Pillage!”roared all they as with one throat.“We be not thieves!”
“Ye say so,”he answered, and then:“This cause is a righteous cause, and I will not hinder; but 't is not I have suffered at the hands of the noblesse; wherefore I will not wantonly overturn and lay waste. 'T is my part to play messenger.”
“'T is thy part to do whatsoever we bid thee,”snarled Jack Straw.
“I am not of thy ményé, Jack,”said Stephen.
“Nay, for only honest fellows are of my ményé,—thou art a traitor, a liar, a spy”—
“After a little while I w-will kill thee, Jack Straw,—I will s-sl-slit thy throat and c-cut out thy lying tongue,—but not to-day.”
Jack wetted his lips and looked around upon his men; they were drawn close, their faces were full of bewilderment, they watched their leader and waited for a sign.
“And is this treason, brothers?”said Jack.—“He will slay me, in a little while?—Will ye wait,—till he slay me?”—
There was a rustle,—a growl,—every moment the mob grew,—
“Will ye wait?”said Jack Straw again.
Some fellow in the crowd threw a carved bit of a bed cornice at Stephen, but it fell short of him,—a chair leg struck his shoulder. He unbuckled his sword and laid it on the ground at his feet; he unbuckled the boy's sword also. A man with a table-top heaved up on high set it down.
“Brothers,”said Stephen,“kill me an you will; but I am no traitor. Jack Straw and I have a quarrel concerneth us two and no other man. One day we 'll settle it in fair fight,—one day when all men are free. I am loyal true to the Fellowship,—and to the King. Are ye all loyal to the King?”
“Yea,—God bless the King!”they cried.
“Ye come at the King by me, no man else may go in at the Tower. And will ye kill me and leave the King prisoned with the noblesse?”
“Fitzwarine!—Fitzwarine!”cried a voice at the far edge of the throng.“Is 't Stephen Fitzwarine yonder? Wat Tyler hath need of him for a message. Fitzwarine!”
And the mob parted to right and left to let Stephen pass through. As he went, one ran after and gave him his sword.
“And my sword?”said the boy, who clung to Stephen's hand and followed close behind.
“Nay, let it lie,”Stephen answered him.
By Charing Cross they found Wat Tyler, and, by good hap, Calote.
“Thou must seek out John Ball and bid him make a camp to-night on Saint Catherine's Hill, where I will meet him,‘ said Wat. ’When thou hast so said, come to me at the Fleet Prison, where we go to set prisoners free,”and he strode off in a great haste.
“Sweetheart,”said Stephen then, and kissed his love;“here 's work to do, and none may do it so safe and sure as thou. Take this lording by the hand and lead him through the city to the Tower;—do not leave him till he is entered there. Art afeared?”
“Afeared!”she cried,“and all the Fellowship my brothers?—Who is this young lord?”
And Stephen made answer,“'T is John of Gaunt's son, Henry, shall be Lancaster.”
Illustration: Capital N
OWall these things are writ in the Chronicles,—as how the Inns of Court of the Temple was destroyed and records burned, and the Hospital of Saint John of Jerusalem at Clerkenwell burned, and prisons opened; wherefore this book needs not to tell.
So, when night was come and the people a little wearied of their wild work, Wat Tyler sent the squire to Richard to know what the King would do. For this thing was plain, that the most part of the people was loyal to the King, and minded to follow him and obey Calote's hest. And Wat Tyler, being wise, knew that if he would come at his goal, to rule England, he must stand for a little behind Richard's chair.
“Bid the King come to his own,”said Wat.“Thou and I and John Ball, we be as honest men as Salisbury and John of Gaunt and Simon the Archbishop.”
In the beginning the guard at the Tower gate was loth to hold speech with Stephen, but when he had given the word, and moreover thrown off his hood that his face was plain, he was let come in; howbeit there went a soldier at his side all the way.
When he came into the chapel, John Leg was there a-mumbling his prayers, and at sound of footsteps he screeched and ran up the altar-steps, For this John Leg was he that was leader of the poll-tax commission, and he dwelt hourly in great fear of his life.
Beyond, in a large chamber, were gathered together all those that had sought refuge in the Tower. The Queen was there, and her ladies, withdrawn to the dais and whispering. In the midst of the room, at a table, Salisbury sat, and Thomas of Woodstock, Earl of Buckingham, the King's uncle, and the Earls of Warwick and Suffolk, and Simon Sudbury the Archbishop; also Mayor Walworth was there, set twixt Salisbury and the Archbishop. Pages held torches nigh that they might the better mark one another's faces, for the chamber was of a great size and full of shadows. Within a window Robert Hales stood, looking out to north where was a red glare far off without the city; and he knew that this was his manor burning at Highbury. Sir John Holland and the Earl of Kent sat on the dais step with the ladies, but the King was not anywhere in the chamber. There was a young boy of haughty mien and frowning brow that paced to and fro, and anon he halted to listen by the table. This was Henry, John of Gaunt's son; and 't was he saw Stephen and cried out:—
“My lords, here 's Etienne Fitzwarine! Now shall we know somewhat.”
All those about the table turned and looked at Stephen, and the pages held their torches higher.
“Art thou for us, Fitzwarine?”quoth Salisbury.“Art thou come as a friend?”
“I am for the people, my lord,—with the King.”
“The people first!”sneered Thomas of Woodstock, the Earl of Buckingham.“A loyal servant, thou!”
“Doth not the King's self set the people first, afore the King?—May I do less, my Lord of Buckingham?”
“How are we tainted!”groaned Sudbury the Archbishop.
“Tainted, ay!”Stephen cried.“The laws are so rotten that they s-stink. The Statute of Labourers is a plague-spot, festering out of the Black Death. Oh, my lords, cut it out!”
“This is Wyclif! This is John Ball!”Sudbury mourned, his head in his hands.
“For the people?”questioned Salisbury anew;“that 's to mean the rebels,—and against nobilité?”
“Hear the word, my lord,”Stephen said, and never a stammer caught his tongue.
"'When Adam delved and Eve span,Who was then the gentleman?'
“Against all men am I, merchants, noblesse, lords of manors, that do oppress their brothers, and hold to villeinage. This law of villeins is a dead law shall no longer be hanged about the necks of English peasants. We be free men. Lawbreakers, say ye?—Of a sureté we 'll break that law of villeins, smash and stamp it under foot, till 't is past mending. I am for the villeins,—and the King. I am sent a message to the King from his loyal people.”
“By the rood of Chester!”shouted Thomas of Woodstock,“and thou art come hither red-handed from slaughter and pillage of the noblesse to cast insult in the teeth of the King?—A message from yonder rabble?—A plot, a murder, belike!”
“Dost thou think so?”quoth Stephen very quiet, and drew sword and dagger and laid them on the table.
“My Lord of Buckingham, we are sore tried,”said Salisbury,“and 't would seem we had just cause for anger these three days; natheless, let peasants rage; 't behoves us keep our tongues and tempers. Prythee give again his sword and dagger to Etienne Fitzwarine.”
“Nay, my lord,”Stephen interposed;“'t was I was over-hasty to lay them down. I 'll take them up and bear no malice.—Beseech you, where is the King?”
“Gone above to look forth from a turret,”Henry answered.“I would have borne him company, but he 's in the sulks.”
“My lords, pray you, let me go bring hither the King,”said Stephen, and he went into that corner of the room where a door opened upon the stair. Young Henry followed, plucking at his sleeve, with:—
“An thou canst, make my cousin to see here 's his time to play the man. But he 's a poor thing.”
“My lord, 't is not so simple to be a king,”Stephen answered coldly.
“To know what one will have, and to take it,—is not this enough?”the boy said with scorn. But Stephen left him and climbed the stair.
The dusk of summer came in at the windows of the dark turret, and in one of the windows Richard sat, hugging his knees.
“Go down, cousin!”he said sharply, without turning his head.
“'T is Etienne Fitzwarine, sire,”Stephen ventured.
“Ah, thou!”exclaimed the boy.“Come hither, mignon!”and held out his arms.
“On every hand they thwart me,”he complained.“Mine Uncle Buckingham counselleth one way and Salisbury another. If I speak, they do not listen; and if I rest silent, my cousin Henry hath fixed me with scornful eyes, as who should say, 'Were in thy shoes,'—Christ, but I do hate my cousin Henry!—Etienne, methinks my star hath slipped,—I was not meant to be a king. One day 't will be discovered; then they 'll cry out for Lancaster.”
“My lord,”Stephen soothed him,“hast thou heard how they have cried out all this day in London streets, and at the burning of the Savoy, 'We will have no King called John?'”
“His name is Henry,”the boy answered,“'t is a froward child;”and then passionately:“Natheless, tell me 't is not true! Tell me,—tell me!”
“Look out of window, sire, on Saint Catherine's Hill, where thy people wait thee! So shall these fears and follies be dispelled.”
“Let us to the battlement to breathe,”said Richard.“Is more to see; and I 'm smothered here, walled in with my cousin.”
So they went up; and all around the sky was red, but not with the sun, for that was set three hours past. There was a smell of ashes on the air. Near by, to eastward, on Saint Catherine's Hill, the peasants were encamped. Which is to say, as many as were not lodged in the city; Will Langland had a score and six lying close in his cot, and Dame Emma harboured threescore and ten; there were some slept in Paul's Churchyard, and others in aldermen's soft beds,—that had never known but straw. Nevertheless, the most part of them was on the hill, and this was so close beneath the Tower that Richard, leaning on the battlement, might descry their faces very plain by the light of the camp-fires.
“And dost thou bid me look on these and so be assured I am a king?”he said, and laughed, the better to swallow a sob.
“My lord, these are the honesty of England,”said Stephen.“Truest men on live. Trust them!”
“Yonder 's one with a brand on 's brow,—I see it, T!”cried the boy. Then he covered his face and shuddered.
“They have opened the prisons,”said Stephen.“Oh, sire, judges err, and wherefore not these poor? Do but come out to them and hear what they would ask of thee, and thou shalt see how they 'll be led like little children.”
“And would I not so, an I had my way?”Richard cried.“But old Salisbury saith they 're rebels and 't is not meet the King should bend to their will. And Simon Sudbury lives in fear of his life, and so he saith they seek mine also.”
“They will not have it they 're rebels, sire, being risen in the name of the King.”
“What for a riddle is here?”sighed Richard, but also he smiled.“Shall we say to these, my kinsmen and guardians, that the King hath bidden his people to rise against the kingdom?—Dost think I 'll be called a fool?—Nay!—Neither am I a babe to believe that thou and I and yon ragged rout may rule England in despite of mine Uncle Gaunt, and Earl Percy, and other the flow'r of England's chivalry,—for all Will Langland's Vision of Ploughmen.”
“But these folk do not demand to rule, my lord,”protested Stephen.“'T is to be made free men, no longer villeins and serfs.”
“The Archbishop saith 't is more than this,—for that John Ball and Wat Tyler be desperate men and they have made a plot to slay all nobilité. If they do so shall not I be as truly in bondage as now I am? And how vile bondage! Faugh!—filthy hinds!—Canst smell their stench even now?”
Stephen leaned on the battlement pondering what he would say. At last he spoke, his eyes fixed always on the hill and the restless throng thereon:
“'T is very true,”he said,“that there be certain among them are consumed with the s-sin of envy and lust of power, but the most part of the people m-meddleth not with these subtleties. Freedom is their desire, and not to be called villeins; and when they have obtained these, they will return to their homes. For W-Wat Tyler and Jack Straw and John Ball, they weigh not a fly as against King Richard in the hearts of the people.”
“Sayst thou so?”the boy murmured, and clutched Etienne's shoulder,—“sayst thou so?”Then he flung out his arms on the battlement, and his head on his arms.“Ah, wherefore do I take keep if this people love me or no? Wherefore do I take keep of the love of dirty ploughmen, vermin-ridden,—of branded knaves and silly ragged folk? But I do,—Dieu, ma vie, I do!”
“Then come to them, sire!—Hear them!—Another day and 't will be too late. They will believe thou hast forsaken them,—and what they 'll then do, I dare not think on. They are not so strong as to overturn a kingdom, but”—He swept his arm about, where the sky glowed to the north, and westward the Savoy lay, red embers.“Oh, sire, they have made Cheapside a shambles!”
“Wilt thou have me go out, now, thither?”said Richard, pointing to the camp. Here and there men slept. Others roasted bullocks by the fire that hissed with the dropping of blood. The sound of a catch came up:—
"Help truth, and truth shall help you!Now reigneth pride in price,And covetise is counted wise,And lechery withouten shame,And gluttony withouten blame.Envy reigneth with reason,And sloth is take in great season.God do bote, for now is time."
“If we do,”the King continued,“we must steal forth secretly, mon ami; for Sudbury and the rest would never let us from the gate of their own will.”
“Nay, we 'll not go to-night, sire; but do thou come down with me to the chamber below and persuade the Archbishop and Salisbury that thou wilt meet the people on the morrow to have speech of them,—else all London is like to be made a desert afore aid come.”
So they went down and, at the foot of the stair, young Henry sat, half-asleep, but he shook himself and followed after them to the table whereon the nobles now leaned elbow in gloomy silence.
“My lords,”said Richard,“here 's Etienne Fitzwarine hath been in the city all day, saith somewhat must be done if we will not have the morrow's sun set redder than to-day's.”
“Must be done!”shouted Thomas of Woodstock, shaking the table with a blow of his fist.—“Have I not said so?—Up!—Assemble the guard and make an onslaught! A sudden sally forth with the guard, at midnight when these rebels be sleeping, and we may rout them and put them to flight. These be village churls, untrained to matters of war,—they 'll fly before a sword. So saith Master Walworth likewise. Peasants and prentices be no warriors. Moreover, Sir Robert Knolles holdeth his own house against them in the city,—he will help us.”
The Earl of Salisbury lifted his head as he would speak, but Richard was before him.
“My lords,”he said, and all they marvelled to hear his voice how it was assured,—“my lords, I am going forth on the morrow to have speech of my people;—to hear what it is they will have. Etienne saith they desire freedom and no more to be called villeins. My lords, I know what this is, to desire to be free. I and my people, we shall be free men on the morrow.”
There was silence throughout the chamber, and every eye was fixed on the King where he stood. Then Salisbury bent his gray head above the boy's white hand that lay clenched on the table.
“Sire,”he said,“if you can appease them by fair words and grant them what they wish, it will be so much the better; for should we begin what we cannot go through, we shall never be able to recover it. It will be all over with us and our heirs, and England will be a desert.”
“Give you good-night, my lords,”said Richard then.“I will go to the chapel to my prayers.”
Illustration: Capital FALSENESS and Guile have reigned too long,And Truth hath been set under a lock,And Falseness and Guile reigneth in every stock.No man may Truth come to,But if he sing 'si dedero.'True Love is away that was so good,And clerks for wealth work them woe.God do bote, for now is time."
Illustration: Capital F
These were the peasants from Saint Catherine's Hill that clamored beneath the walls of the Tower in the dawn of the Friday morning. Stephen looked out on them from a window above the gate and was 'minded of the waters of the sea, how they lapped about the cliffs of Devon.
“John Ball greeteth you all,”
sang the men,—
"And doth for to understand he hath rung your bell.Now Might and Right, Will and Skill,God speede every dele!"
Some of them were drunken, others white and wild for lack of sleep. Ragged they were, armed with mallets, cudgels, cruel knives. A-many had the long bow which all the English must practise to twang; but there was dearth of arrows, and not all the bows were strung. Of all these the men of Kent were best armed and most seemly clad, and they had arisen to right their brothers' wrong, and to make known that all men should be free.
"When Adam delved and Eve span,Who was then the gentleman?"
they sang; and then because they saw Stephen at the window, they began to cry out to bid the King come to his people. Now the King stood behind Stephen in the shadow.
“If old Archbishop Simon is to scape,”quoth he, musing,“now 's time, the while the people is drawn away hither. Go, one, to the Archbishop, and bid him try the stairs and the water-gate, if so be he may flee in a little boat.”
“The King!—The King!”cried the mob.“Let us in! John Ball hath rungen your bell!”
Stephen leaned out of window and made a sign with his hand that they should cease, and after a little their clamour had sunk to murmurings and he could be heard.
“Ye shall withdraw to Mile End,”Stephen shouted.“Thither will the King come to parley with you. And I make no doubt he shall grant whatsoever ye shall ask in reason.”
Then began the tumult anew:—
“Mile End!—Mile End, to meet the King!”they cried, and there was a surging this way and that; for some would go at once to the meeting-place, others strove to come nigher the walls of the Tower.
“Let us in!—Let us in!”roared these last.“'T is a trap to cheat us o' Sudbury. Mile End, forsooth!—Nay, we 'll parley within the Tower.”
“Tell them there is no room in the Tower for so great a multitude,”said Richard,“wherefore I choose Mile End.—Tell them”—He paused and turned to a page who came in,“Well, didst give the message?”
“Yea, sire; the Archbishop is even now gone down to the water-gate.”
“Tell them,”Richard took up the word anew,“the Tower is theirs to search and to hold after I shall go forth of it to-day. They may enter if they will. But I will not parley with them only at Mile End.”
All this Stephen cried out of window, and presently there began to be a fraying away on the edges of the mob, as a cloud frays.
“Let us go and make ready,”said Richard; his eyes were very bright, he held his head high.
But when he had kissed his mother, and dried her tears, and had bade saddle the horses,—and his half-brothers, Kent and Sir John Holland, were fidgeting, pale, for that he would have them ride with him,—suddenly came into the hall Simon Sudbury, with yellow sweat beading on his brow.
“How now!”cried the King;“methought thou wert scaped by the river?”
“The watch on the hill hath keen eyes, sire. We put forth, but they raised a cry. Was naught for 't but to turn back.”
“But thou must begone!—I say thou must!”Richard exclaimed, stamping his foot.“Christ!—I 've said they may come in and search!”Then he went and caught Simon by the shoulders, and his lip quivered:—
“As regarding that poll-tax, thou wert a fool, my lord,—a fool!—a fool! But thou art a faithful servant, and a true man,—and I love thee!”
His voice broke, and he hid his face in the Archbishop's breast.
“Sire,”said Simon gently, and put both arms about his king as 't were his own son;“do not grieve! I know a way to baffle them. Go thou to Mile End, and leave me here to play my part.”
“Thou wilt surely scape?”Richard questioned.
“Yea,—I shall surely scape.”
Then they went together into the chapel and prayed awhile; and when the King was going out at the door, he looked back to see where the Archbishop stood at the altar making ready the sacrifice of the Mass. John Leg knelt on the steps and Robert Hales,—and there was a certain friar, a friend of John of Gaunt, who served at the Mass.
So Richard rode forth of the Tower, and 't was a Friday in the morning,—and with him Etienne Fitzwarine, and Thomas of Woodstock that was Earl of Buckingham, and old Salisbury, and others,—earls and gentlemen,—and also Sir John Holland and the Earl of Kent, the King's half-brothers; but these, for fear, set spur to horse and departed from the company into the fields.
Meanwhile, in the fields about Mile End the folk came together, a many thousand, with their leaders. Long Will also was there, and Calote. London prentices played at ball the while they waited; country louts sang and cuffed one another; cooks went about crying“Hot pies, hot!”There was a bearward with his beast, making merry. And in the midst of this babel, John Ball and Wat Tyler and Jack Straw were silent. The priest had set his back against a tree, and so stood with folded arms and sunken chin, his eyes gazing out to a vision. Wat paced up and down, restless; anon he lifted his head uncertain, and stood looking down by the way the King must come; anon he gnawed his lip and strode on. Jack Straw, squatting among the roots of a yew, watched those others and bit his finger-nails.
“And what will ye do when the King cometh?”asked Long Will of the three.
John Ball did not hear him, or if he did, he made no sign. Jack leered up at Wat, and Wat stood still.
“How may a man know what he will do till the time come?”he said uneasily.
Will lifted his eyebrows. Jack Straw hacked at the yew tree root with his great knife. Wat walked slow past John Ball and back again to Will, and here he came to pause.
“We shall make certain demands,”he explained in a voice as he were assuring himself,—“we shall make certain demands. 'T is wherefore we are here.”
He shifted from right foot to left.
“And if the King grant all?”quoth Will.
“Richard 's tongue-tied,”sneered Jack Straw.—“No fear!”
“And do not ye desire that he shall grant these requests?”asked Calote.
“Whether the King grant them or no, we shall take them,”snarled Jack Straw.“Are we not here to take them? What is the will of a weakling boy in face of thousands?”
“Wat,”Calote said, tugging at his sleeve,“what is 't thou 'rt minded to do to the King? He is anointed of High God. Oh, Wat, what is 't thou hast in thy heart to do this day?”
“Pshaw!”he groaned, jerking his arm away and clapping both hands to his ears,—“I know not!—I know not! How shall I know till the time come? Leave me in peace!”
And then there came a cloud of dust along the highway, and in the midst of it King Richard, Etienne his squire, and Salisbury, and those others.
When the people saw it they went mad with joy.
“Hath come!—Hath come!”they cried, capering and clipping and kissing.“He is our King, come out to his own people!”And then there went up such shouts as rent the air and could be heard far as London wall. Jack Straw got to his feet and stuck his knife in his belt. 'T would seem the shouting of the people made him dizzy, he staggered. It was a wondrous compelling sound, this cry of joy of ten thousand hearts set at rest. The King had come to them. He belonged to his people.
John Ball and Wat Tyler came and stood with Jack beneath the yew tree, the people surging all about.
“Fools!”muttered Wat.
“Thou fool!”Jack whispered twixt chattering teeth.
“I told thee, truth is better than strategy,”said John Ball.“I would have apprised the Fellowship our purpose to take him.”
Hardly was he heard for the clamour. In the beginning there were only shouts, but after a little there began to be disparted from the waves of sound, words:“Long live the King!—Long live the King!—Long live the King!”—The blessing roared like as 't were a torrent. Calote could see how Jack Straw and Wat spoke one to other, for that their lips moved,—but what they said was lost. They were very white and their hands hanging down helpless. This joy that beat about them, they might not escape from it, and it smothered them.
“How might I tell them?”gasped Wat,—“the maid hath preached love and loyauté.—Is 't loyauté to take him against his will?”
“Wherefore, against his will?”said Jack.
Richard, in the midst of this rapture, laughed wistfully, with arms outspread as to embrace his people, and when they saw this they cried out anew:“God save the King!—Long live the King!—Long live the King!”—And those that were nigh kissed his stirrups and his saddlecloth.
“Mes amis!”he said, and they that saw his lips move began to beat upon that tumult with:“Peace!—Peace!—The King speaks!—Peace!”till the shouting died as the wind drops, and but for a solitary voice cast up fitful now and again, there was stillness.
“What will ye?”Richard cried. "I am here. I have taken Reason and Conscience to be my counsellors:—