"'By Christ, quoth the knight then, thou learnest us the best!Save o' time truly, thus taught was I never!But teach me, quoth the knight, and I shall know how to plough;I will help thee to labour while my life lasteth.'"
As Langland opened his house-door, Stephen saw Calote laying trenchers of black bread on a bare table; a pot bubbled on the hearth, and the room was full of smoke. Calote stood still and rubbed her eyes and stared.
“Sir,”said Langland,“you were seeking me? Wherefore?”
It was a simple question, yet the squire, looking on Calote, found not his answer ready; so Langland waited, glancing from the youth to the maid, until Stephen stammered in a weak, small voice, greatly differing from those bold tones in which he had defied the prentices:—
“I have read thy Vision concerning Piers”—
“I must commend you for an ardent disciple,”said the poet.“'T is not every noble in England would brave the London mob solus for a sight o' me.”
“'T is he that rebuked the yeoman in the churchyard, father,”interposed Calote,“and after praised thee for a poet.”
“Is 't so?”assented Langland. There was a cloud on his brow, but he spoke in kindly fashion.“'T would appear that my daughter and I are alike beholden to you for courtesy, wherefore, I would beseech you, fair sir, since you are come so far and have so manfully encountered perils, will you bide and dine with us,—if a pot o' beans be hight dinner?”
“Nay, I will not so trespass,”protested Stephen.“The Prince refuseth to eat an I be not by to fill his cup.”
“Yet must you bide, I fear me,”said Langland gravely.“How shall I answer to the Prince if one he love go forth to harm? At a later hour, when taverns fill and streets are emptied, you may walk abroad with the more ease.”
And now, with his adventure succeeded past imagination, the ungrateful Stephen stood disconsolate, a-hanging his head.
Kitte came whispering to her husband, with:—
“Dame Emma will give me a fresh-laid egg, and gladly, if she know we have so fine a guest.”
“Nay, wife, we will not flaunt our honours abroad,”Langland answered.“'T were as well Dame Emma do not know.”
So Kitte was fain content herself with a sly smoothing of Calote's hair in the midst of Langland's Latin blessing.
The cook in Kennington Palace was one had learned his trade in France a-following the Black Prince. He had a new sauce for each day of the year. Stephen looked with wonder upon the mess of beans that Kitte poured out for him. His trencher bread was all the bread he had; yet even the trenchers at Richard's table were not such bread as this,—black, bitter, hard. He ate his beans off the point of his dagger, and looking across at the fair flower of Calote's face, he marvelled. He had a little mug of penny-ale, and Langland kept him company. Kitte and Calote drank whey and nibbled their trenchers. The meal was silent and short. At the end none poured water over his fingers nor gave him a towel of fine linen to wipe his lips. Excepting the half of his own hard trencher, and this Kitte set away on a shelf, there were left no crumbs wherewith to comfort the poor. Then Kitte lifted the charred sticks off the fire and laid them aside, and Calote scoured the iron pot, and Langland set himself to discourse to his disciple upon the Vision concerning Piers Ploughman.
“And now the Vision 's ended dost dream a new song?”quoth the squire, but his eyes were on Calote.
“I have but one song,”said Long Will.“I write it anew, it changeth ever as the years run, yet in the end 't is the same song.”
He drew forth two rolls of parchment from a pouch at his girdle and looked on them:—
“Since the death of the Black Prince I have changed the old, somewhat. Here”—and he pointed with his finger—“I have a mind to set in a new fable.”
Calote had come to lean against his shoulder, and now she said:—
“Is 't o' the rats and how they would have belled the cat, father?”
He glanced aside at her with a smile:—
“Calote hath the Vision by heart,”he said.
“This gentle keepeth the parchment in a carven box, father.”
Langland fingered the pages of his manuscript, and presently took a quill from his pouch, opened his ink-horn, and crossed out a word.
“An my father would tell thee the tale of the rats, 't would pleasure thee,”said Calote to the squire.
“Nay, I have hindered enough,”protested Stephen,—“but wilt not thou tell the tale?”
Her father, looking up, smiled, but Calote shook her head, and clasped her hands, and unclasped them, shyly.
From the lane came a snapping sound, as Kitte broke twigs from a brush heap for the fire. Langland, pen in air, studied his parchment. The squire wandered to the window.
“'T is quiet now,”said he;“methinks I 'll set forth.”
“Not yet,”the poet answered;“I will go with you.”
“What danger hast thou braved?”asked Calote in wonder.“What 's the meaning? Methought 't was father's jesting.”
“Thy father saved my life this day from a rout of prentices that would have mauled me as I came hither,—because, forsooth, the seneschal to the Earl of March is cast in prison. But wherefore the good people of London should so concern them about the Earl's servant is riddle too deep for my guessing.”
“The seneschal of the Earl of March?”quoth Calote, wrinkling her brow:“who 's he?”
“A worthy man, one the Earl hath in esteem; 's name's Peter de la Mare.”
“Peter de la Mare!”cried Calote. She stared incredulous, and then her eyes blazed big with indignation.“Seneschal to the Earl of March, forsooth! What didst thou this five month? Hast heard o' the Good Parliament?”
“Assuredly!”the squire made answer, amazed.
“Assuredly!”retorted she.“And yet thou marvellest that the people is angry for the sake of Peter de la Mare? Shall I instruct thee? Hearken: in this same Parliament 't was Peter spoke for the Commons. 'T was Peter dared tell the King his counsellors were thieves, and the people of England should be no more taxed for their sakes. 'T was Peter brought John o' Gaunt to terms, and did fearlessly accuse that rascal merchant, Richard Lyons, and those others. 'T was Peter charged my Lord Latimer with his treachery and forced the Duke to strike him off the council. He dared even meddle 'twixt the old King and Alice Perrers,—and she a witch! But now that's all o'erthrown, for that the Black Prince is dead.—Natheless, when young Richard, thy master, cometh to his kingdom, see thou 'mind him 't was this same Peter de la Mare, with the Commons at 's back, did force the King to make Richard heir to the throne. And this decree—John o' Gaunt dare not overthrow.”
She paused for breath, and the bewildered Stephen, round-eyed, with open mouth, awaited helpless the renewal of her instructing.
“Methought ye nobles were but too busy with affairs of state,”she resumed bitterly;“yet 't would appear otherwise.”
“I am no noble, mistress,”said Stephen, finding his tongue,“but a poor gentleman, owner of a manor there be not villeins enough left to farm. Young Richard is not yet eleven years of age. It suiteth ill the purpose of his uncles and guardians that he and his household should busy themselves in the kingdom. Mayhap, if we could learn our lesson of lips as fair as thine, we 'd prove apt pupils; but the ladies of our household are busied in matters feminine.”
“I am no lady,”said Calote, grown rosy red;“I am a peasant maid. I have no idle gentles to woo me all day long, nor never shall. The poor is my Love.”
“Mayhap I am an idle gentle,”Stephen answered,“yet I woo no lady in Kennington Palace.”He came a step nearer and kneeled on one knee.
“An 't please you, fair sir,”said the voice of Langland,“the time's as fitting now for departure as 't will be an hour hence. Shall we set forth?”
Illustration: Capital L
ANGLANDand the squire made their way to the river by narrow, muddy lanes and unfrequented alleys. The poet, sunk in reverie, sped onward with the free stride of the hill-shepherd, a gait he had not lost in all the five and twenty years of his sojourn in London; and Stephen walked beside him hurriedly, marvelling at himself that he dared not break the silence and ask the many questions that tingled at the tip of his tongue. For this fine young gentleman, who could be pert enough with Sir Simon de Burley, the tutor of Richard's household, or even with his godfather, the Earl of March, yet found himself strangely abashed in the presence of the lank peasant-priest. Although Stephen knew not its name, 't was reverence stirring in him, an emotion little encountered among courtiers. The very silence of this grave, dingy figure seemed to him more pregnant than the speech of other men.
On the middle part of London Bridge, where was the drawbridge, Langland paused and leaned upon the parapet to look in the water.
“'T is the key that unlocketh the city,”he said.“Let the bridge be taken, and London is taken.”
He spoke as to himself,—moodily; but Stephen answered at his elbow:—
“The French are not like to venture so far as London.”
“England hath need to be afeared o' them that's nearer home than the French,”returned the poet, and went on across the bridge.
In Southwark a shorter way led through a street of ill-repute, and here a young harlot plucked Stephen by his hanging sleeve and looked on him, and smiled. Langland, out of the corner of his eye, saw, yet took no notice. But the squire, taking a piece of silver from his purse, gave it into the girl's hand, saying:—
“Thine is a poor trade. I am sorry for thee.”
And the girl hung her head; and presently when they looked back they saw that she sat on a doorstone, sobbing.
“England is in a sad way,”said Stephen,“with an old king far gone in his dotage, and a woman like Alice Perrers to 's mistress. When young blood cometh to the throne, I trow such-like disgrace as this will be swept away.”
“Do you so?”said Langland grimly.“Sir, these stews are owned of the Bishop of Winchester; they are a valuable property.”
“William Wykeham!”cried the squire;“that pious man, friend to my godfather! he that goeth about to found the new college in Oxford?”
“Even so,”said Langland.“Yet I do him a small injustice; a part of these houses is owned of Walworth the fishmonger.”
“Sir, you feed me with thoughts!”Stephen exclaimed sadly.
“I am right glad,”said Langland;“I had been a churlish host to give thee but only beans.”
And his guest knew not whether to laugh or no.
At the gate of the palace Langland gave the squire good-day, and turned him back to London without further pause, and Stephen would have run after him to thank him for his courtesy, but there came down from the gate-house a half score of young gentlemen that fell upon the squire with shout and laughter, and when he had set himself free, the priest was past the turn of the road.
“Ho, ho,—Etienne! So thou art not eaten up of John of Gaunt?”
“What adventure?”
“Here 's a half ell o' mud on thy hosen.”
“What adventure?”
“The Prince kept the dinner cold an hour.”
“The Prince would not eat a morsel.”
“Threw the capon out o' the dish over the floor, and the gravy hath ruined Sir John Holland's best coat of Flemish broadcloth.”
“Who was yon tall clerk, disappeared but now?”
“The Prince hath not ceased to weep these three hours.”
“Sir Simon de Burley hath sworn he will have thee birched like any truant schoolboy.”
“He hath ridden forth much perturbed.”
“'T is thought the Prince is in a fever; the physician is sent for.”
“Tell 's thy tale! Tell 's thy tale!”
“Mes amis”said Stephen,“I dined of beans,—plain beans,—sans sauce, sans garniture. My Lord of Oxford, thou art my friend, and the cook's, couldst discover if the capon was injured by 's fall?”
A shout of laughter greeted the question, and all cried,“Beans!—Tell us thy tale!”
But here a page, running down the courtyard, bade say that the Prince Richard called for Etienne Fitzwarine; and the importunate young gentlemen gave place.
By the Tabard in Southwark, Langland met two horsemen a-riding, and, as was his custom, he passed them by without obeisance. They noted him, for they were scanning earnestly all persons who met them; and one that was seneschal to the Prince said:—
“A rude fellow!”
And the other:—
“Some malcontent. 'T is so with many of these poor parsons, I hear.”
But a voice called to them from behind, and turning, they saw the clerk, who endeavoured to come up with them.
“Sirs,”he called,“if ye seek one Stephen Fitzwarine, I have but now seen him safe at Kennington Palace.”
“Here 's silver for thy courtesy, master clerk,”said the seneschal, and tossed a white piece on the ground, then turned and galloped off with his comrade.
Long Will stood looking at the silver in the mud:—
“Eh, well!—'t will buy parchment,”said he, and picked it up and wiped it on his sleeve.
Illustration: Capital T
HROUGHOUTthat uneasy winter following the death of Edward the Black Prince, Jack Straw and Wat Tyler were much in London. None knew their business, but they hung upon the skirts of all public disturbance and would seem to have been held in esteem by certain of the citizens. They slept, of nights, on the floor of that lower room in Langland's cot, and here Peter, the Devonshire ploughman, kept them company. He had got him a job to blow the bellows for Hobbe Smith, and he stood in a dark corner all day, earning his meat and drink, and biding his time till the law might no more hale him back to Devon for a runaway. For this was the law, that if a 'scaped villein should dwell in any town a year and a day and his lord did not take him, he was free of his lord.
Once, at midnight, Peter awoke with a light in his eyes, and after a moment of blinking discovered Jack Straw and Wat a-sprawling on their bellies, head to head, and a rushlight betwixt them. They had a square of parchment spread out, and Wat drew upon it with a quill.
“Now here I make Mile End,”said he,“and just here i' the wall 's Aldgate,—and they that come by this road”—But here he was 'ware of Peter's shock-head that shaded the light.
“Thou hast spoiled a page o' Long Will's Vision wi' hen-tracks,‘ said Peter; ’and he hath much ado to save 's parchment out of 's victual.”
“'T is a plan of London, fool!”answered Wat, and would have displayed his handiwork, but Jack Straw blew out the light.
Calote did not like Jack Straw. Thrice, of late, he would have kissed her when her father was not by, but she slipped from his hand. At the feast ofSt.Nicholas he gave her a ribbon. Jack Straw was a widower with two little lads.“And their grandam is old, poor soul,”he was wont to say with a sigh, looking on Calote from beneath his white eyelashes.
Calote took the ribbon with an ill grace:—
“I am daughter to a poor man; I do not wear fallals,”she objected. And at night, when she and her mother had come to bed, she spread the ribbon on her knee with discontent.
“He smelleth ever o' mouldy thatch,”she murmured.“I 'll warrant he beat his wife.”
And Kitte answered drily:—
“No doubt but she deserved all she got.”
“My father doth never beat thee,”Calote averred.
“Thy father is no common man,”said Kitte,“but a poet,—and a priest.”
“I 'll not marry a common man,”cried Calote, tossing the ribbon on the floor.
“Thou wilt not find another like to thy father,”quoth Kitte. She laid her hand upon her daughter's shoulder and looked down for a moment on the yellow hair; then, as she had taken resolve, she said,“Natheless, an' 't were to live again, I 'd take t' other man.”
Calote looked up, white; there was a question in her eyes.
“Ah, no!”said Kitte, answering,“'t was thy father I loved, fast eno'. The other man was a lord's son; he did not woo me in way of marriage. But I was desperate for love of thy father. I said, 'What matter? I will give myself to this lord, and forget.' Then my mother watched; and she betrayed me to Will; for that all our women were honest and she feared for my soul. And Will came to me and said, 'Choose! shall it be marriage with a clerk in orders,—a poor sort of marriage and hopeless,—but yet a marriage? Or shall it be the other, with this lording?' And his humilité and sweet pleasure that I had sighed for him so played upon me that I mistook; I thought he loved me. But a priest with a wife is a maimed creature. To marry the man we love is not alway the best we may do for him. Were thy father free, he might be well on to a bishopric by now.”
“Bishops be not so enviable,”answered Calote.“Here 's Wykeham thrust forth by John of Gaunt, all his estates confiscate, and he hunted hither and yon by the king's men. My father envieth not such.”
“Thou art wilful,”said Kitte sternly.“Kneel down and pray that thou mayst never know the bitterness it is to drag down thy best beloved, that was born to mount higher than thou,—be he priest or knight.”
“My father would not be but a poor man, ever,‘ cried Calote. ’Bishops and great abbots they oppress the people and acquire lands”—
“Hold thy tongue and say thy prayers!”said Kitte, and shook her.
“How may I do both?”answered Calote.
“One learns,”Kitte made reply coldly. And Calote, her prayers said, went to her mother's bed and kissed her.
“Thou shouldst marry a prince the morrow morn, had I my way,”Kitte did murmur wistfully.
Nevertheless, on a day in late January, when Jack Straw said he would take Calote to see the Prince Richard and his train ride forth to Westminster, for Parliament was to be opened that day, Calote went with him gladly.
The old King was very sick in Kent; and John of Gaunt, to pleasure the people and so further his cause with them, had obtained that the Parliament be opened by the Prince. This was John of Gaunt's Parliament,—he had it packed; there was scarce a knight of any shire but was his creature. The town was full of lords and their retainers, of knights and burgesses.
'T was in a jostling crowd, and none too good-natured, that Calote and Jack Straw, Hobbe the smith, Peter from Devon, and Wat Tyler stood to see the heir pass. They were by Charing Cross, meaning to follow on to Westminster with the train when it came from the city. All about the people grumbled, and trod upon one another's toes. Prentices sang lewd songs and played vile pranks; anon the babel rose into a guffaw or lapsed to a snarl. Ploughman Peter squatted on the top step of the Cross, within a forest of legs, and slept. Hobbe gave entertainment to himself, and many beside, with mows and grins and gibberings out of the devil's part in the Miracle; yet he was mindful of Calote, and turned him to her now and again with:—
“Yon fellow 's of the household of Northumberland; dost mark his badge?”—or,“See, mistress! the black horse is one I shod yesterday; an ill-conditioned beast as ever champed bit;”and such-like information.
Wat Tyler and Jack Straw whispered together of certain oppression committed of late by Earl Percy and his retainers, and hinted at what should hap when the people claimed freedom for itself, and put down all such packed Parliaments as this was like to be.
“But, Wat,”said Calote, who paid more heed to these two than to Hobbe and his pranks;“in my father's Vision nobles and common folk laboured side by side in amity. Dost not mind the fine lady with the veil, how she sewed sacking and garments, and broidered altar-cloths? And the knight came to Piers in friendly wise to know what he might do. Yet thou wilt have it that the people is to do all, and moreover they will cast down the nobles from their place, with hatred. How can this be when Christ the Lord is Leech of Love? Why wilt thou not have the nobles into thy counsel; speak to them as they were thy brothers, and gain their love?”
Wat Tyler laughed aloud, and Jack Straw set his finger beneath Calote's chin and smiled upon her.
“Sweet preaching lips,”quoth he, and would have kissed her; but she struck him, and Wat said:—
“Let be! Why tease the maid?”
But they ceased their whispering, for the crowd was making a great roar, and some said they could see the Prince. So many rude folk clambered up the steps of the Cross that Calote was pressed upon and well-nigh breathless, and she could see naught but the broad backs of men and the wide caps of women; so Jack Straw made as to lift her in his arms; but she, in haste, cried:—
“Wat shall hold me; he 's taller.”
And Wat, laughing, swung her to his shoulder, for she was but a slip of a child.
“I 've a maid of mine own in Kent rides often thus,”said tall Wat. And Jack Straw smiled; yet, though he smiled, he cursed.
Now there came by trumpeters, and gentlemen in arms, a-many; and this and that and the other great lord. And then there came a little lad on a great horse.
He was all bejewelled, this little lad; he had a great ruby in his bonnet, and three gold chains about his neck, and a broad ribbon across his breast. His little legs stood out upon the back of the great horse, and his long mantle of velvet spread as far as the horse's tail. He had a fair and childlike countenance and a proud chin. His mien was serious, and he bore himself with a pretty stateliness, yet was nowise haughty. And the people cheered, and cheered, and cheered again; men laughed with love in their eyes, and women blessed him and sobbed. On his right hand rode the great Duke, smiling and affable; on his left, but sourly, the Earl of March. Close after came young Thomas of Woodstock. At Richard's bridle-rein there walked a young squire very gaily clad, and when the great horse came opposite Charing Cross and the place where Calote was lifted above the heads of the people, this squire said somewhat to the little Prince; whereupon Richard, forgetful, for the nonce, of Parliament and kingdom, stretched upward, turned his head like any eager child, with“Where?”upon his lips, and looked until he found—Calote.
He looked on her with a solemn curiosity, as a child will, and she from her high seat looked on him. Wat Tyler was moving on with the crowd, so the two kept pace, holding each other's glance. Once, Calote's eyes fell to the squire, whereupon he lifted his cap. All about her was shouting, but she heard only her own thoughts, which were, of a sudden, very loud and clear.—If this little child could learn to love and trust the poor, might not the Vision indeed be fulfilled? Might not the king and the ploughman indeed toil together, side by side, for the good of the people? Oh, if there were some one to teach this child! If she, Calote, might speak to him and tell him how far poverty differed from riches! The squire must have spoken concerning her, else why should the boy keep his eyes so fixed on her face? If she could but speak to him and tell him of the Vision, and what a king might do! He was so little, so noble,—he would assuredly learn.
But now Wat, jostled amid the throng, was not able to keep pace with the Prince, and fell behind. And they were before Westminster, where the Duke lifted his nephew off the horse and led him within the Abbey; and other lords dismounted to follow, and there was confusion and shouting of pages. All this while, the ploughman, being waked when the Prince came past the Cross, had followed on behind Wat, agape on the splendour and forgetful of his own safety. But when the Earl of Devon and his retainers made a stand to dismount, on a sudden a stocky, red-faced knight sware a great oath and, leaping off his horse, came and took Peter by the ear:—
“A villein! A 'scaped villein!”he cried.“'T is mine! Bind him!”
And all the crowd was echoing,“A villein 'scaped!”when Hobbe, thrusting men and women to right and left, laid his hand upon Peter's shoulder and bawled:—
“A lie! A very villainous lie! 'T is my prentice that 's served me faithful this year and more.”
“Hobbe's prentice!”cried the mob.“Good fellows, stand by the smith!”And they closed about the knight, so that he had no room to draw his sword.
But one came riding from the old Earl of Devon to question concerning the affray, and the knight cried:“Justice! Justice, my lord! Here 's mine own villein kept from me by a rabble!”
“Justice!”bellowed the smith.“Oh, good citizens of London, do ye stand idly by and see the rights of prentices and masters so trampled?”
“Nay!—Nay!—Nay!—Nay!”said many voices; and the people surged this way and that.
“Rescue! Rescue!”
“Stand on your rights!”
“Does Devon rule because a Courtney 's Bishop o' London?”
The burly smith and the no less redoubtable knight stood a-glaring, each with his hand upon his claimed property.
“'T is mine!”cried the knight.“He ran not six months agone.”
“'T is mine!”roared the smith.“Hath blowed my bellus this year and six.”
One said the Bishop of London was sent for to quell the mob. A clot of mud caught the knight on the side of his bullet head. It could be seen where Devon consulted with his sons and retainers, for 't was no light matter to wrest away a London prentice, on whichsoever side lay the right.
“The smith speaks truth!”said Jack Straw, lifting up his voice.“When do the lords aught but lie to the people?”
Some one threw a stone.
Then Calote leaned down and laid her hand on Peter's head.“O sir!”she said to the knight,“this is a man. Christ came in his likeness. He is thy bloody brother. Will ye not love one another?”
They that were near at hand stood agape. Others beyond said,“What is 't?”“Who is 't?”—and others again answered them,“'T is Long Will's little maid.”“'T is a maid with hair like the sun.”Those at the edge of the throng thought an angel was sent, and they crossed themselves.
The knight lifted his purple face, and his mouth dropped wide open.
All this while had Peter stood silent, passive, hopeless; but now he spoke:—
“In five months I were a free man,”he said,“but to-day I am this man's villein. He saith true.”
“Fool!”cried Hobbe;“I would have delivered thee.”
“Fool!”cried Jack Straw.
“Fool!”laughed the crowd.“Bind him!”“Give him to 's master!”“Bind him!”“Hobbe 's well rid!”“Bind him!”
So they bound him fast, and two stout knaves set him on the knight's horse, and the knight went into Westminster.
“Take me to him,”said Calote; and Wat carried her to the side of the horse.
“Good-by, mistress,”said Peter;“God bless thee!”
“Good-by, Peter,”said Calote.“'T is very true what my father saith, how that Truth resteth with the ploughman.”
“Heh?”asked Peter; but she was gone on her way.
In a moment she bade Wat set her down, and when he did so she looked in his face, for throughout this hubbub he had uttered nor word nor sound.
There was foam upon his lip.
Illustration: Capital T
HEwinter days that followed were full of stir and strife, and the devil with the long spoon was ever John of Gaunt. 'T was he set the people agog that day John Wyclif was sent for before the bishops inSt.Paul's. For the people were friendly enough to this great preacher; they liked right well to hear him say that abbots and bishops should be landless and dwell in Christian pauvreté. But they did not like that John of Gaunt should be his friend; for in those days the Duke had put it in the old King's heart to take away the rights of the people of London, that were theirs since old time, and set over them a mayor who was none of their choosing. And when the people heard this, is no wonder they made a riot that day inSt.Paul's, and in the streets of the city. And they would have burned John of Gaunt's Palace of the Savoy, that stood betwixt Charing Cross and Temple Bar, but the Bishop of London persuaded them, and they left it for that time.
Jack Straw got a broken head in this riot and lay in Langland's cot three days, and Calote quarrelled with him; for she said, if he and his like went about burning and destroying all the fair palaces and sweet gardens, in the end, when his day came and all men should hold in common, there would be naught left that anybody would care to have.
Said he, her head was turned with seeing so many fine gentlemen about the town, and because the little Prince had looked on her that day of Parliament. She was like all women with her vanity. She would sell herself for a gewgaw.
“Natheless,”answered Calote,“I 've not been in haste to wear the ribbon thou gavest me.”
And Jack Straw swore at her, and cursed his lame head that kept him helpless. 'T was a rough wooing. Calote minded her of the squire, and her heart sickened against Jack Straw.
At Eastertide she saw Stephen again. He was come toSt.Paul's to hear Mass, and she thought peradventure he had forgotten her. But then he looked in her eyes.
She found him awaiting her beneath the north porch when she came out, and he took her hand and begged leave to walk with her. In the beginning she said him nay, but when he told her he was bearer of a message from the Prince Richard, she let him have his way, and they went out through the Aldersgate into Smithfield, under the shadow of the convent wall bySt.Bartholomew's.
“O Calote!”said the squire.“O white flower! At night in my dream thou hast come to me; and when I awoke I thought that no maid—nay, not thyself even—could be so fair as wert thou in the dream. And now,—and now,—behold! thou art more beautiful than thy dream-self.”
“Is 't the message of the Prince?”quoth Calote. She held one hand against her breast, for something fluttered there.
“Sweet heart, thou art loveliest of all ladies in England and in France,‘ said Stephen. ’Since I saw thee my heart is a white shrine, where I worship thee.”
“Hast thou forgotten that day in our cot?”asked Calote, very sad.“There was no lady's bower. Wilt leave me, sir? I may not listen. Betake thee to the palace with thy honeyed words!”
They stood in an angle of the wall, and Stephen knelt there and kissed the ragged edge of Calote's gown. While his head was bent, she put out her hand and had well-nigh touched his hair. But when he looked upward, she had both hands at her breast.
“O rose! O rose of love!”he murmured; and did not rise, but stayed kneeling, and so looking up.
“In that Romaunt,”said Calote,“a maiden opened the gate. She bare a mirror in her hand, and she was crowned and garlanded. Her name was Idlelesse. But I am not she. I am not any of those fair damsels in that garden.”
“Thou art the rose,”he said.
“I do not dwell in a garden.”
“Thou art the rose.”
“O sir!”she cried, and flung her arms wide.“There be so many kind of love in the world! But this one kind I may not know. Do not proffer it. The Lord hath made me a peasant. Love betwixt thee and me were not honourable.”
“'T is true, I am in tutelage,”Stephen answered.“But one day I shall come to mine own. Meanwhile, I serve thee. 'T is the device of my house, 'Steadfast.'”
“I am of the poor,”said Calote.“I will not eat spiced meats while my people feed of black bread. I will not lie in a soft bed if other maids must sleep o' the floor.”
“I will serve thee!”cried Stephen.“My villeins shall be paid good wage. Yea, I have read the Vision. The memory of thy father's words is ever with me.”
“Yet thou canst prate ofthy villeins”she returned.
“But who will till my fields, else?”he asked of her most humbly.
And she answered him,“I do not care.”
So he rose up from his knees a-sighing, and presently he said:—
“This is my motto: 'Steadfast.' And the message of the Prince is that he would fain speak with thee. One day he will send and bid thee to the palace; when the tutor and his lady mother shall be well disposed.”
“Sayst thou so?”cried Calote.“Ah, here 's service!”
But the squire was amazed and sorrowful.
“Art thou of the poor,”he exclaimed,“and wilt none of me? But thou canst clap thy hands for joy of being bid to the palace?”
“Nay, nay!”Calote protested. Tears came to her eyes; she laid her hand upon the squire's gay broidered sleeve.“But when I saw the little Prince a-going to Westminster, methought—'T is a fair child and noble; if he had one at his ear to tell him of the wrongs of his poor, he might learn to love these poor. Piers could learn him much. Mayhap I might wake this love in 's heart. Then would there be neither poverty nor riches, when the king is friend to the ploughman.”
“And if I serve thee faithful? If I bring thee to the Prince? If I make these wrongs my wrongs, and plead to him?—Then—Calote—then—what wilt thou?”
“How can I tell?”she whispered.
Illustration: Capital Y
ETthe days passed, and 't was mid-June when there came to the door of the house on Cornhill a slender young squire on a slow and sober hack, with a stout and likewise sober gentlewoman afore him on the saddle. The youth had much ado to see his horse's head by peering this way and that around the circuit of his lady, the while he kept one hand at her waist in semblance of protection. And the good folk on Cornhill failed not to find, in all this, food for a jest.
A shoemaker's prentice came running to lend an awl, with:—
“An thou 'lt punch her with this and set thine eye to hole, thou 'lt not need wag thy head so giddily.”
“Nay, master, my tools will serve thee better,”cried a carpenter.“What's an awl to pierce three feet o' flesh?”
“Hold, hold! Thy lady's a-slipping!”laughed another.“Lean on him, mistress,—he hath a stout arm!”
“Look how amorously he doth embrace the maid!”
And Hobbe, coming to the front of his shop, cried out:—
“A rape! a rape!—Rescue the damsel!”
“Ma foy, Etienne!”the lady protested, indignant.“Here 's a sweet neighbourhood to bring an unprotected damosel.”
“Nay, madame, but thou dost me wrong,”said the squire.“Am I not here to defend thee?”
He had pulled up his willing steed and lighted down, and now was come to the lady's side to assist her to dismount. Hobbe also was drawn nigh, and heard these words.
“Yea, mistress, thou dost most foully slander this knight,”said he.“I have seen him with his single arm put to rout a two thousand men and mo'. He 's well known i' these parts, and greatly feared.”
They that stood by roared with laughter; and Stephen, crimson, and biting his nether lip,—yet not in anger,—made as to assist the lady from her saddle. Seeing this, Hobbe thrust himself to the fore, and said he:—
“Mistress, though you pity not this stripling, yet pity your own neck,”and caught her by the middle with his two hands and set her on the ground, they both staggering. And the squire hurried her within doors.
When she had caught her breath, she saw a bare, damp room, and a man writing.
“Mother of God! What kennel is this, Etienne?”she gasped.“Didst not assure madame 't was a poet's daughter?”
“Yea, and truly, Dame Marguerite! This is the poet's self.”
She looked on Langland, who was come up the room, and shook her head, saying:—
“I fear me thou hast fallen in evil company, Etienne. 'T will go ill with thee if aught befal me.”
But Stephen had turned away and louted low before the clerk.
“Sir, since that day you gave me entertainment in your house I have many time related mine adventure to the Prince Richard, the puissant and noble. It is the tale he most delighteth in. I have likewise read to him from the Vision; there be parts he much affecteth. These several months he will give madame his mother no peace, but he will see your daughter, and hear from her lips concerning the poor, and the manner of her life.”
“Wherefore my daughter?”asked Langland.
“I—I—sir, I have spoke of your daughter, she is very fair. The Prince, who is walled about with tapestry and richesse, he hath desired to see one, like himself young, who knoweth not these things. To-day, for the old King afar in his manor is mayhap at death's door, and the gentlemen of our household are much occupied, the Prince hath got his way with madame. She is a most gentle lady and a true mother. She sendeth this, her waiting-woman, to bring the maiden safe to the palace.”
Long Will sunk his chin in his breast, and mused, the while the waiting-woman stood with her skirts upgathered off the floor. Then he lifted up his head and called:—
“Calote!—Calote!—Kitte!”
And presently there was a sound of pattering overhead, and down an outside stair, and the two came in from the alley.
“Here 's a message for Calote,”said her father shortly.“She is bidden to Kennington Palace.”
Kitte, just risen from a deep curtsey before the fine lady, showed more of consternation than joy in her visage; but the little maid caught Will's hand in both of hers and cried:—
“Oh, father, I may go?”
He looked gloomily upon her:—
“What wilt thou there?”
“Tell the Prince of us poor, father; teach him the Ploughman's tale; beg him to come on pilgrimage with us to Truth. Let me go!”
“'T is the Prince commandeth, wench,”the waiting-woman interrupted.“Is no need to ask leave.”
“Madame,”said Langland,“you mistake. Is great need. The Prince is not the King; neither is he mine overlord: I owe him no duty. Natheless, the child may go. Yet”—and he turned him to Stephen,“if there come any evil to this my daughter”—
“Sir,”said Stephen,“I pledge my life for to keep the honour of this maid.”
“And of what use is thy life to me?”quoth Langland.
But Calote, who had fled away immediately, came now, walking softly. She had put on her shoes of gray cloth, but she had no stockings. She had smoothed her yellow braids and set a clean kerchief atop.
“I am ready to go with you, madame,”she said, and curtseyed.
Langland and the smith together got the waiting-woman upon her saddle, and Hobbe tossed Calote lightly up afore. So, with Stephen leading the horse, they went out of Cornhill.
Now, though this waiting-woman's soul was strait, her heart was big enough and kind, and when she had perforce to set her arms about Calote, and she felt that slim little body of the child, and the little breasts a-fluttering, because Calote's breath came too quick, and because her heart beat fast,—the Dame Marguerite could not but grow warm to the maid, and wiled the way with tales of the palace, and,“When thou art come into the presence of the Prince thou wilt do thus and so,‘ and, ’Thou art never to sit,”and so with many instructions of court modes and manners.
They found the little Prince in a round chamber in one of the turrets, where he sat on a cushion within the splay of a narrow window, reading a book.
“Ah, cœur de joie!”he cried, slipping down and running to embrace Stephen.“What a lifetime hast thou been, Etienne, mon chéri. See, I have sent them all away, the others, they were consumed with envy. I said I would hold a private audience.”
Still holding by Stephen's arm he turned him to Calote and, looking in her face, was seized with a shyness: wherefore he ceased his prattle and pressed yet more close to his squire. Then, because the hand of the waiting-woman was heavy on her shoulder, Calote made her curtsey.
“I have seen thee,”quoth Richard.“The day of Parliament I saw thee;”and Calote smiled.“I have read thy father's book,—not all,—there be dull bits; but some I like. Come hither to the window and I 'll show it thee.”
Here one came with a message to Dame Marguerite, and she, glancing irresolute at the maid, at last shrugged her shoulders, and muttering,“'T is but a beggar wench,”went out at the door; but in a moment she came again, and admonishing Stephen, bade him see to it that he played no pranks while she was gone. He, bowing, held the tapestry aside for her.
“Etienne, Etienne!”called Richard.“Bring yet another cushion! The maid shall sit beside me in the window where is light, and the sun falls on her hair.”
“I—I may not sit,”stammered Calote.
“Yea, sweet; if the Prince Richard desire it,”Stephen assured her. And lifting her in his arms, he set her on the cushion by the side of the Prince. The colour came into her face at his touch, and he too was rosy. He busied himself with drawing her narrow gown about her ankles.
“Mine Etienne saith thou art his bien-aimée,”quoth Richard, and laid a little jewelled hand upon hers that was bare and roughened at the fingertips.
She was silent. The squire leaned against the wall at Richard's side:—
“Yea, my lord,”said he.
“Did I not love Etienne,”the child continued,“and 't would grieve him, I 'd take thee for mine own. Thou art most wonderful fair.”
“O Prince!”cried Calote,“there be a many maids as fair as I, and fairer; but they go bent neath heavy burdens; they eat seldom; the winter cometh and they are as a flower that is blighted. These are thy people. Are not all we thine own, we English?”
“The book saith somewhat of this,”mused the boy. He took up the parchment and turned the pages.
And Calote said:—