Illustration: Capital B
ROTHEROwyn gazed dreamily into the flashing waters of the burn. His fish-basket was empty; twice he had lost his bait. But if the hunger and thirst of a man be in his soul, 't is little he recks if he have not fish for supper. Forty years past, when Brother Owyn was a young man, he had fled into the Church in the hope to escape the world. But he learned that monastery gates are as gossamer; and the world, the flesh, and the devil, all three, caper in cloister. To-day he was in disgrace with his prior—not the old dull prior, but a newer, narrower man—for defending the doctrine and opinions of Master John Wyclif, concerning sanctuary, and the possession of property, and the wrong that it is for prelates to hold secular office.
“Dost thou defend a devil's wight that is under ban of Holy Church,”quoth the prior,“and yet call thyself a servant to God and the Pope?”
“Which Pope?”saith Brother Owyn; for at this time there were two popes in Christendom, the one at Avignon and the other at Rome, and they were very busy cursing each other.
“Such levity in one of thy years is unseemly, brother,”the prior made answer, and turned his back.
Nevertheless, Brother Owyn was sore perplexed. Having that vision of the Holy City ever before his eyes, and his daughter awaiting him on the other side of the River of Death, he was altogether minded to keep him from heresy. He began to be an old man now; haply the time was short till he might enter into that other Kingdom. Was Master John Wyclif the Devil, who taketh the word out of the mouth of Dame Truth? Yet a many of those men, even his enemies who reviled him for his doctrine, revered him for a holy man and a scholar. Some said there was not so great a man in England, nor so good, as John Wyclif. Here, then, was the old perplexity, to know what was truth. But Brother Owyn erred in that he thought to save his soul alive by flight.
“Malvern coveteth a hermit,”he mused;“but if I go apart, and sleep in a cave, and never wash me, nor cut my beard, straightway there 'll be a flocking of great folk to look on me, and to question me of their wives' honour, and of the likelihood of these French wars, for that I 'm a holy man. Alack, my Margaret, my Pearl, now lead me out of this quandary away into a quiet place to pray, for John Wyclif's word draweth. Soon I 'll be a heretic and accursed.”
Hereupon Brother Owyn lifted up his eyes, and suddenly cried out aloud; for, on the other side of the burn, there stood a golden-haired maid.
“Ho! thou hast lost a fine fish, see him!—gone!”cried a merry voice, and the boy that was the King of England came a-leaping and laughing from stone to stone across the sun-flecked water. After him tiptoed the maid, but the squire with the two horses bode on the farther side.
“Nay, climb not to thy feet, good brother,”said the King.“Thy fright hath shaken thee; in sooth, we meant it not.”
“My lord, my lord,”murmured Brother Owyn, and there were tears in his eyes;“methought 't was my young daughter come to take me home,—home where a man sinneth no more, and the walls of the city are jasper, and the gates are twelve pearls.”He covered his face with his hands, and the tears trickled down his beard.
Richard knelt beside him and put his arm about the bent shoulders:“Oh, but I 'm sorry!”he said distressfully.“Don't weep! prythee, don't weep!”
“If I be not thy daughter, yet my father was as a son to thee,”Calote assured him, kneeling at his other side.“'T was thou taught him to sing, and to-day he 's sent his song to thee.”
Brother Owyn had lifted up his face to look on her, and now he touched her bright hair, soft, with his finger, and“Will Langland's voice was wonderly sweet,‘ said he, ’and low. 'T is nigh on thirty years since he went out from Malvern, but his was not a voice to be forgot. His daughter, thou?—He ever did the thing he had not meant to do.”He looked on her with a curiosity most benevolent, staying his gaze a long while at her eyes; and:—
“Doth Will Langland sing at court?”he asked.
Calote laughed, her father's image in the threadbare gown flashing sudden in her mind.
“Nay, he hath not yet; but he shall one day, when Calote cometh again to London,‘ declared the King. ’'T is not so merry a poet as Master Chaucer; but I do love his solemnité. Whiles he jesteth, but his tongue 's a whip then,—stingeth.”
Brother Owyn nodded his head, as he were hearing an old tale; and turned him again to Calote:—
“Will Langland went a-seeking Truth, his lady, thirty years past. Hath he found her?”
“She is here,”Calote answered simply; and unrolled the parchment to set it open before him.
The old man looked on her keenly:“Thou hast a great trust in thy father?”
“More than in all men else,”she said; and the squire on the other side of the burn thrust his foot among the fallen leaves noisily, and jingled the bridles of the horses.
“I am in sore straits to find Truth,”quoth Brother Owyn, with a half-smile.“Many a man will thank Will Langland heartily, if so be he hath found her.”
He turned the pages, slow, reading to himself a bit here and there.
“Give me thy rod, brother,”said the King,“I 'll fish.”
“There 's a-many horns blowing, sire,”Stephen warned him from the other side of the burn.“No doubt they seek thee and are troubled.”
“Cœur de joie! Let them seek!”replied Richard.“'T will give them a merry half-hour to think I 'm come to hurt, or slain. Then would there be one less step to the throne for mine Uncle Lancaster. Look not so sourly, Etienne! I 'll catch but one little fish. Hist!—Be still!”
For a little while there was no voice but the brook's voice, and no other sound but the slow turning of parchment pages. The monk busied him with the poem and Richard looked into the water. Meanwhile, Calote's gaze strayed to the squire and found his eyes awaiting her. Straightway he plucked his dagger from his belt, flashed it in the sun that she might see, and kissed it; after, he took it by the point and held it out, arm's length, as he would give it to her; and so he stood till she might rede his riddle. Presently, her eyes frowning a question, she put forth her hand, palm upward, uncertain. The squire smiled and nodded, and because their two hands might not meet across the brook, he thrust the dagger in the trunk of a tree and wedged the sheath betwixt the bark and the slant of the blade. All this very silently.
Brother Owyn pursed his lips, or shook his head, or turned the pages backward to read again. The King wagged his fishing-line up and down in the water, impatiently. The distant horns blew more frequent.
“My lord,”Stephen ventured once again.
Richard got to his feet and threw away the rod.“Eh, well; let 's be going, since thou wilt have it so,‘ he agreed. ’The holiday is over. On the morrow Gloucester again, and to say whether Urban or Clement is true Pope.”
Brother Owyn's face was grave; rebuke and displeasure trembled in his voice:—
“My lord, and dost thou think 't is England maketh the Pope?”
Richard was halfway across the burn; he laughed, and looked over his shoulder:—
“Ma foy, but I 'm very sure 't is not France!”said he.
After, when he was in the saddle, he felt for his horn, and, remembering, called:—
“Prythee, Calote, blow thrice, that they may know whence I come. Now, give thee good day, sweet maid, and success to thine adventure. I 'll watch for thee in London.”
And Calote had not blown the third blast when king and squire were off and away; and she turned to meet Brother Owyn's disapproving eye.
“'T would seem that thou art well acquaint at court, though thy father is not,”he said.
She opened her lips to speak, then hung her head and answered nothing.
“Now, thanks be to Christ Jesus, the Lamb and the Bridegroom, that my little daughter is dead, and safe away from this world of sin,”said Brother Owyn.“She dwelleth as a Bride in the house of the Bridegroom,—in the Holy City that John the beloved and I have seen in a vision. Thou art so fair that I could wish thou mightst dwell therein likewise.”
“Yea, after I 'm dead, and my devoir is done,”Calote assented to him.“Beseech thee, judge me not, good brother! I carry a message of comfort to all these poor English folk that sweat beneath the burden of wrong. Haply, thy daughter, were she quick, would go along with me this day.”
“Is this thy message?”he asked, pointing to the parchment.
“This, and more. I may not tell all to thee, for thou 'rt a monk.”
“A strange reason,”he averred.“'T must be a most unholy message. Have a care of thy soul, maiden; the pure only shall see the Bridegroom. Here am I sheltered in monastery, yet have I much ado to withstand the Devil, that I may keep me clean and a true believer, and so see Christ and my daughter at the last.”
“I cannot forever take keep of mine own soul, brother, when there be so many other in peril to be thought on. Wilt thou that I hide my head in monastery and sing plain-song, and watch perpetual at the altar lest the lamp go out; and, all the while, without the gate, the poor till the fields that I may have leisure to pray? The poor likewise be anhungered after truth. They cry, 'Wherefore did God make us to be starved of the fat prelates!'”
“So did thy father rail in years gone by,”answered the monk,“and Master John Wyclif would have more preaching. But monasteries are holy; they are ordained of God and the—the Pope. They shall endure.”
“Brother, what wilt thou do, thou and thy monastery, when the villeins all are free, when they need no longer grind at the abbot's mill, nor plough the abbey's fields, nay, nor even pay quit-rent to rid them of service?”
“Free!”cried Brother Owyn,“and who shall set them free?”
“Themselves, and Piers Ploughman, and Christ the King's Son of Heaven, which cureth all ills by love.”
The old man drew away from her:“Surely, thou hast a devil,”he said.
“Then an thou lov'st me, call it forth,”quoth she; and smiled, and spread her arms wide, waiting.
But he cried,“Woe, woe!”and cast up his hands to heaven; and after,“Lord, I 'm content my daughter died at two years old.”
“Had she lived, she might have saved souls other than her own.”
“She hath saved mine, mine most sinful,”the monk interrupted her sternly;“and dost thou think I 'll lose it now to thee? Get thee gone, with thy strange beliefs and blasphemies!”
She got to her feet very slow, and stepped down the bank to the edge of the burn; so, standing close at his knee, she spoke once again:—
“In the city where the wall is jasper and the gates are twelve pearls, will there be any villeins to labour while other men feast?”
Her face was very near to his, her hand was on his arm.
“Nay, but I trow we 'll all be villeins there,”he answered gently;“villeins of one Lord, and bound to the soil; and the streets of that city are as pure gold.”So saying, he made the sign of the cross upon her brow.
She trod the stepping-stones in silence, but on the other bank she turned:—
“Natheless, though bond, yet we 'll be free!”she cried; and, catching up the squire's dagger, was quickly gone.
Illustration: Capital W
HENParliament was come to an end in Gloucester, and on the night before the day that the court set out for London, Stephen craved a boon of his King.
Richard sat on his bed's edge in his shirt, humming a tune and picking it out on his lute with:—
“Went it not this way, Etienne?”or“Was 't thus?”or“A plague on 't, but I 'll have it yet!”And then would he begin again.
The squire was setting forth the morrow's riding-coat and gloves and furred hood by the light of a cresset, for the start was early. A pot of charcoal stood by the window. The night was cold, and Richard, as he played on the lute, tucked his bare feet under him.
“My lord,”said Stephen, on a sudden, coming across to the bed and kneeling down,“I 've a grace to ask of thee.”
“Thou!”cried Richard, throwing away the lute.“Here 's a marvel!”and he leaned out and flung his arms, linked, around Stephen's neck, and so peered, mischievous, into his face.“The others are at it all day long, but when hast thou asked aught of me? Be sure 't is granted or ever 't is spoke, sweet friend.”
“Natheless, my heart doth not so assure me, sweet lord,”made answer Stephen, very sad.“Belike I 'm froward, but I do believe thou lovest me dear, and for that cause 't will go hard with thee or thou grant this boon.”
Richard wrinkled his brow.“What a riddle is here?”quoth he.“I 'll love thee, and yet prove a churl to thy desire?”
Stephen looked steadily beyond him for a moment before he began:—
“Is it fitting,beau sire, that one so young and fair and helpless as Calote should go alone through this realm on perilous and haply hopeless business?”
“Do not many so?”asked Richard uneasily.
“They are but seldom young, my lord, nor never so fair. They go to a shrine to do penance for sins; they are old in the world's ways.”
There was a pause, then Richard broke forth hotly:—
“If 't is not good that she go forth on this emprise, if 't is not true that the common folk is strong enough to put down the nobles, wherefore didst not thou prevent me when I gave consent? Thou art older than I. Is this thy loyauté, to let thy King play the fool?”
“Oh, my lord!”said Stephen, and hung his head; but not for shame of himself. Presently he looked up into the eyes of the sulky boy and spoke on:“I do not know if the people be strong enough and wise enough to do this thing. I do not know the people. I have lived among courtiers since I was a little lad and my father died. But if they do fail, my lord, the world will but wag as it did afore. Thine is not the blame; thou art too young to bear blame for 't; 't is the people that will be blamed.”
Richard flushed slowly, and looked away.
“But I will not be laughed at neither,”he said, with quivering lip.“I wish I had not given her my hunting-horn.”
“Trust me, sire,”said Stephen,“if the people do ever rise up in England against the oppression of the nobles, 't will be no laughing matter,—even though in the end it fail. And mayhap Calote knoweth that she speaketh,—mayhap 't will win.”
“I 'll not tell any one I gave her leave to use the King's name,”half-whispered Richard, shamefaced and scarlet;“nor must thou.”
“Of surety, no; 't would spoil all, to tell,”Stephen assented, but he was so filled with his own thoughts and how he should ask the boon he had to ask, that he failed to see how the King was ashamed.
Richard gave a quick sigh of relief.“Nay,—we 'll not tell,”he repeated.“'T would not be wise for Calote's sake to tell.”Yet his cheeks did not cool.
“Oh, my lord, and my King, this that I would ask of thee is likewise for Calote's sake,”Stephen cried.“Thou dost know well, Calote is my love and my lady. I have tried, but I cannot love no other damosel. And now she is going out to strange peril alone. My soul crieth shame to me, sire; shame, for that I stay behind a-living easefully. Is this knightly demeanour? Is this to be a defender of ladies?”
Richard's hand closed tight upon Stephen's collar, as if he felt him slipping away and would keep him.
“My liege,”the squire pleaded,“my lord, let me go follow my love!”
The King sat up very straight on the bed; there was fright in his eyes. It seemed almost he could not understand that he heard.
“And leave me?”he said at last, in amaze.
Stephen made no answer, and, after astonishment, anger came into Richard's face.
“A peasant maid!”he cried.“How am I scorned!”And then,“I hate thee!—I hate, hate, hate thee!”
He pushed the squire from him. He tore his linen shirt open at the throat and sprang to the floor.
“Hear me!”Stephen begged.
“Nay; I 've heard enough!”screamed Richard, his teeth chattering 'twixt wrath and cold.“Go, an thou wilt! Go now; now! I 'll take Robert de Vere to my love. I 'll make him thrice an earl and give him my jewelled buckle. He 'll not leave me so cruel.”
“In pity, sire,”protested Stephen;“the night is cold; thou 'lt take an ague standing on the stone floor.”
“And if I do, what 's that to thee? Thou dost not love me!”shouted the King, his voice breaking in a sob.“Nay, do not touch me! I 'll not to bed,—I 'll not to bed! I 'll stand all night and shiver. Let be!—Ah, woe, harrow!”
He beat at Stephen with both hands, wildly, when the squire would have wrapped a mantle round him.
“My lord, thy gentlemen will hear.”
“I hope they may!”cried Richard, hoarse with screaming.“Mayhap I 'll die of the cold, and then they 'll behead thee for a traitor, and quarter thee, and hang thee up over London Bridge,—and I 'll laugh.”
Thereupon he did, noisily, with tears.
Stephen looked on him for a space in silence and then went out at the door and left him alone.
When he came again, bringing wine, spiced and honeyed, in a cup, Richard's mood had changed. He lay on the bed, weeping.
“Here 's good clarré will warm thee, sire,—drink!”coaxed Stephen gently.
“No!”said the King, strangling in his sobs,“No!—take away!”and struck the cup out of Stephen's hand so that the wine flew all about. Then on a sudden he was in the squire's arms, shivering, clinging, crying:—
“Etienne, Etienne, methought thou didst love me!”
“And do I not so, my lord?”
“Then stay with me. I am the King. What 's a peasant maid?”
“What 's knighthood, my lord, what 's honour?”
“Is no knighthood in following after a peasant,”sobbed Richard.“Such-like maids be for pleasure of the noblesse. Robert de Vere told me.”
“I do never pattern my demeanour after his Lordship of Oxford,”said Stephen coldly.
“When I was a little lad, they sang me tales of how all the world did love to do the bidding of the King,‘ said Richard; ’but it is not true. O me, it is not true! I hate Calote!”
“Yet 't is she that puts body and soul in peril to do thee service.”
“I 'd liefer she stayed at home, and wedded thee peaceable.”
“God wot, so would I!”Stephen exclaimed.“But she will not.”
“I 'll bid her stay,”cried Richard;“and I 'm the King.”
“The King is a truthteller, my lord; he may not give his word and take it again. The King is pattern to his people and servant likewise; doth not the Vision say this?”
“I 'm sick of the Vision,”whined Richard, and clung more close to his squire.“Thou 'lt not go! Say thou 'lt not go! How alone shall I be, and unloved, if thou go. Etienne, I want thee to stay with me.”
“And how alone will she be, that peasant maid that I have chose to make my lady,‘ said Stephen. ’Think, sire! a kingdom is no plaything. Be sure Christ Jesus, of all men the Judge, will not let thee off of thy devoir to the least man or maid born in England,—when the last day cometh. And when thou and Calote stand face to face, and the great angel a-blowing his trump, and all the world rising up fearful out of its grave, wilt thou say to the Judge: 'Christ, King of Heaven, this was a maid that went out to do me service. My kingdom was full of a quarrel 'twixt peasant and noblesse, 'twixt monk and friar, and merchant. There was no man but had a grievance against his brother. And this maid said, I will bring love out of this hate, and truth out of this lying; the King and the peasant shall kiss the kiss of peace.' And wilt thou say again, 'I had knights and nobles in my court to guard me well and to do my will, O Christ! but I would not give one of all these to go follow the maid and shield her from peril in her lonely pilgrimage. I would not let go even a squire to be her body-guard. If she hath come to harm, it is by me, and in my cause.'”
“No, no, no!”whispered Richard very piteous;“I will not do so.”He had ceased his weeping, but now and again a sob shook him.“Etienne, I will be a true King. Ah, who will learn me to be true when thou art gone!”
“The wisest men in the kingdom are at thy bidding, King Richard,”Stephen answered him gravely.
“But they are too wise,”the boy complained.“They weary me. I love thee best.”
“Natheless, 't were scarce fitting that Master John Wyclif, or Lord Percy of Northumberland, be sent to follow Calote in my stead,”quoth Stephen, half-mischievous.
The King laughed a tearful little laugh. But presently he said:—
“Calote flouteth thee. She will not let thee go with her.”
“She shall not know,”Stephen answered.“Will my lord hear what I purpose? 'T is no wonted adventure.”
“Yea,”Richard agreed.“But do thou first cover me in bed, and give me a tippet; I 'm cold. Is there any of the clarré left in the cup?”
Thereupon Stephen covered him and gave him the cup to drink, and after told him what he purposed to do,—a long tale.
“O Etienne, what a true lover art thou!”sighed Richard.“But I shall miss thee sore.”
“And I 'll lodge in poor men's cots, and take them to be my friend, and learn if they be strong enough to overcome the nobles.”
“I 'd rather be thou than the King,”Richard said wistfully.“Here 's a merry adventure, and 't is dull in the Palace at Westminster. Tell on!”
So they spoke peacefully together, and at the last the King fell fast asleep, and Stephen kissed his hand very soft, and left him.
Illustration: Capital C
ALOTEwas in the south of England that winter, in Hampshire, and Wiltshire, and Somerset; resting, now a week, now a night only, in town or village or lonely hut. She travelled off the highway as much as she might, and slept in poor folks' cots. She bought bed and victual with a ballad or a gest, and because she could spin and bake as well as tell a tale, the goodwives of the countryside harboured her willingly, and sent her on her way with bread in her bag and milk in her bottle, and her head bret-full of messages to distant friends; as:—
“If thou 'lt take yon three fields as the crow flieth, then turn thee on thy left hand, through a wood and up a hill and down again, thou 'lt come, in a good ten mile, to a river and a white thatched house on t' other side; there be three yew trees behind. Do thou go in boldly and call for Cristina atte Ford; she 's my brother's second wife. I 've not seen her this six year and more, but she was a kindly soul at that time. Say 't was Cecily Ayr sent thee; and here 's a piece of new linen for the latest baby and six new-laid eggs. God and Saint Mary keep thee, wench! Yonder 's Roger Stokfisshe in his dung-cart a-going thy way; he 'll give thee a ride.”
When she came into a village, she went and stood by the cross, or in the street before the tavern, and blew a blast on the King's horn; and when the people began to gather round, she sang a song of Robin Hood, or Earl Randle of Chester; and after, of Piers Ploughman; and she said as how she was Will Langland's daughter; and if there were but common folk, or a knight or two in the company, she told of the Brotherhood, and at the last of the young King.
Whiles they were sullen and afraid; whiles they scoffed and would believe but only that 't was a merry gest of a jongleuse; whiles they waited not to hear the end, but drifted away by twos and threes a-shaking their heads. Yet, more often, they stayed by, and crowded closer, and fingered the silver horn curiously. A-many had heard already something of this matter, as how the peasants should arise; and these questioned her of when and where. Others told their grievances loudly and said:“Will this be cured?”—“Will that be done away?”Ofttimes she might not know all that they would say, for that their speech was strange; and they on their part said:“What is 't?”—“What 's that to mean?”for Englishmen spoke a diverse language in that day. Nevertheless, because of the going to and fro of peddlers and merchants and minstrels, of pilgrims and friars, over the land, there began to be a scattering of words from one shire to another; and Calote, being quick of wit, had soon the jargon of the south country and the west at the tip of her tongue.
'T would seem there was a young peddler journeying in these parts about this same time; ever and anon Calote met him in tavern or marketplace. There was never a lonely stretch of road but she found him jogging on before, or looked behind to see him coming after. He spoke not overmuch, and then with a grievous stammer. He was not goodly to look upon, having no eyebrows and black hair very wild about his head; yet, in his company Calote ever found her heart light with a content and surety the which she was at a loss to understand. He wore a tawny tabard, and a bright blue flannel hood of the kind that is cape and hood in one, with a hole to thrust the face out. His hosen were of coarse yarn, twixt white and gray, streaked. He carried a light pack, with pins and ribbons and trinkets in it, and a lute slung under his arm. Twice or thrice he had sat on the steps of a market cross and twanged his lute that Calote might the better sing her ballads, but if she thanked him, he would scowl.
At Salisbury, in the spring, she came upon Wat Tyler a-walking the High Street, and 't would be hard to tell which had more joy of other. He caught her up and kissed her heartily; and she, laughing, with the tears on her cheeks, had well-nigh choked him with her arms around his neck.
He told her as how her father was very silent, and ever busy with the Vision. And her mother said:“If so be thou find Calote,”—for they knew she was in that part of England where she was,—“here is a pair of warm shoes for her feet.”
He told her also how 't was rumoured that a poll tax was toward; because, forsooth, some fool averred that“the wealth of the kingdom is in the hands of the workmen and labourers.”Wat smacked his own empty hands together loudly and laughed so that men turned in the street to look on him.
He lingered around and about Salisbury a month and more, and Calote stayed with him, singing her songs in Wilton and Bemerton, and in the taverns and at the poultry cross. That elfish peddler likewise rested in the town, and ever he was at Wat's elbow, questioning of when the people should rise; and how many shires were already awake to these matters. But when May was come in, Wat set Calote on the road to Exeter and himself turned his face to Londonward. And all that month of May she was a-wandering over the moors of Devon, she and the peddler, for he had never been in these parts and he lost his way.
“I know a man of Devon,”quoth Calote;“he lives by the sea. If we could come at him, he 'd succour us and set us in the right road.”
They went in a circle ofttimes, and twice at nightfall they came back to the same farm-house. Then the peddler bruised his foot, and they stayed three nights under the open sky, in the heather. The silence of the moors wrapped them round, and also the peddler's stammer was a burden to his speech. The third evening a shepherd came upon them, and gave them beans to eat.
It was June the day they came out upon a great red foreland above the sea. The chief colour of the water was a flashing blue, but at the edges it changed to clear green, fringed white with foam; there were cloud shadows of purple lying on that blue, and here and there a wondrous rosy patch, as it might be apple blossoms were melted there.
They followed along the cliffs after this, a dizzy way, and once Calote was fain to lie down and cling to the short grass and cry.
“G-get up,”quoth the peddler;“f-for sh-sh-shame to cry. I-I-I— G-give me th-th-thy hand!”
And so twixt coaxing and comforting he got her to her feet again, and they went on, he walking on the side of the sea as much as he might. Ever and anon they came upon a handful of fishermen's cottages in a wooded coombe, and at one of these hamlets they heard that Calote's friend Peter dwelt some three miles farther on, inland about a mile. So when they were come to Peter's cot, which was wreathed all about with a riot of honeysuckle and wild rose, the peddler gave Calote good-day, and she leapt the dry ditch and went into the yard through the gate; and there was Peter a-sitting on the doorstone, mending a hoe.
“O mistress!”he cried, and she laughed and shook him by the shoulders and kissed him. And Peter's son, that was now a parson, came out of the house with a book in his hand.
When the peddler saw this parson in the doorway, and how young he was, he half turned as he would go back; but then he thought better of it, and went on till he came to the church of the parish. In the churchyard he sat down to rest under an old yew tree, and here the parson found him after vespers, and took him in to lodge in his own house.
Meanwhile, in Peter's cot, Calote went to bed supperless.
“We ate our bread at noon,”said Peter.“The morrow morn I 'll make shift to sell our black cock to the steward of the manor-house. 'T is an ancient bird, but I have heard tell the cook is wonderly skilful to disguise tough meat.”
“Nay, not for my sake shalt thou sell it!”cried Calote.
But Peter answered her:“We also must eat, mistress. I am in arrears to Bailiff for that my plough broke in the furrow three days past; I could not beg no wood to mend it, but Forester found me in the park with mine axe. Wherefore I sat yesterday in the stocks.”
Peter had no shoes, and there were raw rings about his ankles where the stocks had galled him, also his neck was bruised. He was very ragged, his tabard full of holes. Nevertheless, he was not the only one in that village went bare.
So soon as all the people heard that this was Long Will's daughter, who was Peter's friend in London, they came eagerly to see her. They were a big and kindly and simple folk, slow and obstinate. They heard Calote's tales in silence, stolidly; yet they came again and again to hear. Now it was before the door of Peter's cot that they gathered; now it was at the foot of the cliffs when the tide was out; now it was in the churchyard of a Sunday after Mass, the parson sitting by a-copying her words; for his own book of the Vision was a tattered thing, never complete, that he had bought at a Devon fair.
Meanwhile, the parson and the peddler were close comrades. The peddler had to answer many questions; as, how did John Wyclif appear? And was he so learned a man as John Ball? And did William Courtney, Devon's son, still bear him arrogant, now he was Bishop of London? And was it true, what the friars in these parts said, that John Wyclif was a sorcerer and in the Devil's pay? And had the peddler been in Oxford?—this with a lingering sigh. But ever the questioning came round at the last to love, for concerning this matter the parson was very curious; not that love Long Will sang in the Vision, but the more common kind; and throughout whole days of June, as they walked together over the wide rose-blossoming country on the top of the cliffs, the parson to carry comfort to the sick or the aged, the peddler to sell his wares, they discoursed of lovers and loving; and it was the peddler who learned the parson the Romaunt of the Rose.
“And didst thou ever suffer this malady of love, to know it?”the parson queried one day.
“Ay, a-and do suffer,”the peddler answered.“B-b-but she 'll n-none of me.”
“A foolish maid, to judge by the outside,”said the parson; himself was a big, broad, yellow-headed man, might have had any maid in Devon to keep his house for him an he had chose; but of this he was not aware.
“Didst ever essay to curl thy hair?”he continued;“'t would soften thy countenance.”
The peddler smiled as at a memory:“Yea,”he said,“I 've d-done so full oft.”
They were journeying along the edge of the cliff, and the sun was low; on the sea there was one little ship.
“Will Langland married a wife,—and he a kind of priest,”the parson said suddenly.
“Ye-yet 't was not well do-done,”the peddler retorted swift,“for all J-John W-Wyclif coun-coun-counseleth.”
As he talked, his eyes were on the sea and the little ship; but the parson was looking down to the foot of a jutting headland beyond, where a playful wight—was 't a man or a maid?—skipped among the rocks, and ran into the water and out again.
“Nay, I 'm not so sure 't was ill done,”he disputed absently;“we be made like other men.”
The peddler stood still and shaded his eyes with his hand:“Wh-what for a ship is yonder?‘ he asked. ’Methinks 't is sailing in. Is there ha-harbour?”
The parson likewise shaded his eyes, then he said:“Below, there 's a brook flows into the sea, and a kind of rough beach, where—where the maid is playing.”
“What maid?”But now the peddler saw, and though she was no bigger than a brown lark, seen so far, he knew what maid it was, and so did the parson.
“Is that a French ship?”asked the peddler, and never a stammer on his tongue; but the parson was too troubled to be aware of this.
“I fear me,—I fear me!”he answered.
“And now I 'm very sure she 's coming in,”the peddler cried, and flung down his pack and stripped off his hood.“Do thou make the best of thy way to the manor-house, Sir Priest,—yet I fear me the knight 's away,—and I 'll down to the maid. What way 's the nearest way?”
“Not so,”the parson answered.“Thou canst not come to her afore they land, by the way round; and thou canst not go over the cliff; but I can, for I 've climbed these slippery walls up and down since I was six year old.”His blue eyes sparkled like that blue sea below; he was tucking up his gown about his waist.
“To warn the knight and bring aid to thy parish is thy devoir; 't is mine to succour the maid,”quoth the peddler very hot. His eyes were blue likewise, and eerie in the midst of his brown visage.
So they looked each into the heart of the other, angrily; and all the while that French ship was coming in. Then the young parson drooped his head, and“Not for mine own sake, but the maid's, let me go over the cliff, brother,‘ he said. ’Think on the maid! If they find her alone on the shore, or if they take her fleeing up to the village, of what avail were my love then, or thine?”
The peddler put his two hands to his mouth and called out, trying to make the maid hear him. But the wind drove his voice backward over the land; and the ship came on with the wind. Then the peddler groaned and, with never a look nor a word for the priest, he set off to run to where the manor-house was distant two good miles. When the priest looked over the cliff, the maid was already running up the coombe to the mill that stood in the brook's way. Nevertheless, he began to go down the cliff.
So soon as Calote saw that little ship, she knew what was to happen; for the villagers on the coast had told her many tales of how the French were like to come any day and burn and pillage; and how the men of Cornwall had been so harassed that they had demanded fighting men to be sent down to protect them and their coast; and the Commons desired that those lords who had estates by the sea should dwell upon them to succour their people.
Calote stood a moment looking out. This was a little ship, and but one; might not these villagers overcome a few French and take them prisoners? Here would be a tale to tell! Immediately she sped up the coombe to the mill, and:—
“The French are coming,”quoth she breathless.“Bar thy door!”
“And so be burnt like a swallow in a great-house chimney,”said the miller.“Not I,”and calling to his wife and his man, and snatching up his youngest, he made ready to go with Calote.
“But I 'll bring succour,”she protested.“Wilt thou leave all the good corn to pillage?”
“Yea, I will,”answered the miller.“The murderers shall sooner have my corn than my company.”
“'T is not thy corn, 't is thy neighbours',”Calote admonished, but he had no ears for her; and she, to save her breath for running, stilled her speech, and left him.
The sunlight struck level athwart the tree-trunks and along the wood-road that led twixt the mill and the village.
“'T is now about the going down of the sun,”she thought, as she hurried on.“They will be gathered at the cross, Peter, and the parson, and the peddler, and all those others, awaiting till I come to tell a tale and learn them of the Brotherhood.”
She stood still for breath, and heard a cry.
“They have caught the miller afore he 's gone. Now they 'll be busy with the pillage of the mill, for a little.”
She started on, and stopped irresolute.
“When they come to the cross at sunset, they have their hoes, their axes, and hammers with them; some of them will be shooting at the butts with arrows for pastime at the end of the day.”
She put the horn to her lips and blew a long blast.
“There will not be so many men in that ship. Better that ours should come forth to meet them, driving them backward into the sea.”
She blew another blast, and another.
“Better the affray should be here than in the village among the women and children.”
She ran on again, but not so fast. Again she blew the horn. And now in the distance she heard the village folk coming down the coombe.
“They 'll think I 'm calling them to hear tales by the sea,—or that some mishap is befallen me.”
She heard them laughing as they came, and presently three or four appeared among the trees, and more, and more, some forty of old men and young, and little lads. Behind were women.
“The French!”she cried; and at that word the foremost men stood still.
“We 'll fling them back into the sea, that dare to set foot in England! We 'll”—
Something in their faces made her falter.
“'T is but only one little ship,”she added hastily.“We are so many we can—Brothers—brothers!”
For they were moving backward; already those behind had turned tail and run.
“I say we 're two to one,”she shouted desperately.“Come down and drive them back! Peter, Peter, speak to them!”
“Best come away while there 's time, mistress,”answered Peter.“I must to the good wife and the children, and take them to the manor for safety.”
“I 'm a ditcher, and no soldier,”said another.“Let them as know how fight!”
“The French is no plain flesh and blood, but wizards,”grumbled a third.
And always they went backward.
“Cowards!”said the maid.“Is this the way ye 'll take the kingdom out o' the grasp o' the nobles, and are too fearsome to run upon a handful of French?”
“Smoke! Look ye!”cried a man.“They 've set the mill afire. They 'll be on us! They 'll be on us!”
Whereupon panic seized them, and they all turned about and fled; and Calote ran after, calling“Cowards!”and“Shame!”and“Is 't so ye 'd serve the King?‘ and ’Slaves! Oh, coward slaves!”till she had no breath to speak nor run, and so dropped down sobbing by the road and let them go.
After a breathing space, she began to hear voices behind; and she got to her feet and hurried on to the village.
'T was now the French that came up the coombe, and as they came they sang. They had the parson with them. The miller and his children they had slain and cast into the fire; but 't was against conscience to kill parsons. The miller's wife went blubbering betwixt two knights, that quarrelled together very playful concerning her.
In the village every house was empty—every cottage door was wide.
“They 'll rouse their lord, I heard a horn,”said the leader of the band.“Burn, pillage,—in haste,—then back to the ship! We are too few to stay in safety, but we 'll fill our bellies and the ship's.”
Then at the other end of the street he saw a maid running through the dusk; her hair was all unbound, and flew behind her like a golden banner.
They came up with her at the cross, and closed about her in a ring, forgetful of haste in their wonder at her loveliness. The leader was a gallant gentleman, he doffed his bonnet and unlaced his helm, and dropped upon one knee, saying sweet words; and although Calote and the parson were but little versed in the French tongue, they knew right well what this was to mean.
Then the knight rose up off his knee and went and set his finger beneath Calote's chin, and lifted up her face, and stooped his own. And presently the knight and the parson lay both at their lengths on the grass. The knight was stunned only, already he opened his eyes, but the parson had three thrusts of a sword through his body, and he would die.
Out of the stillness that followed this deed there grew a faint sound of horses' hoofs; but the men who stood around heard nothing of this. 'T is not well done to slay a priest, even a priest of the English, whose pope is not the pope of the French.
The knight lifted himself upon his elbow and stared as he were mazed. Calote was kneeling by the side of the parson. And on a sudden there rode up horsemen, and the French turned about in confusion to fight and to flee. In the midst of this battle Calote knelt at the parson's head, as she had been in a hushed chamber, and presently she was 'ware that the peddler came to kneel at the other side.
“How did this hap?”said the peddler, and he had to call out loud, because of the noise of clashing steel, and the groans, and the cries of battle,—“A Courtney, a Courtney!”for these were retainers of the Earl of Devon.
“The French knight”—sobbed Calote.
And now the parson opened his eyes:—
“'Conformen Kings to peace,'”said he, very faint. He was babbling out of the Vision. Calote bent her ear to his lips.
“'And to be conqueror called, that cometh of special grace,'”he said and smiled. After a bit there came blood to his lips, but he sat up joyously:—