"'One like to the Samaritan and a little like to Piers the Plowman,Barefoot on an asse's back, bootless, came riding,Without spurs or spear, sprightly he looked,As is the manner of a knight that cometh to be dubbed."This Jesus, of his noble birth, will joust in Piers' arms,In his helm and his habergeon—humana natura;In Piers Plowman's jacket this pricker shall ride."'"
“Poor men been greatly honoured, 't is true,”said Diggon.“Behoves us do best, that Christ be not shamed to ride in our armour. Natheless, I find it hard to believe as how Sir Austin will clip me and kiss me and call me brother. Sir Austin 's a proud man,—lord o' the manor,—and I a silly shepherd. Christ knoweth us poor,—for that he came to earth a poor man. He put our garb upon him. Till Sir Austin and his ilk do put them in poor men's weeds and ploughman's weeds and shepherd's weeds, how shall they know what 't is I suffer, or that rejoiceth me? Men know that they live. Small blame to Sir Austin, or to the King.”
“O Diggon,—my brother! This is a true word,”cried the peddler.“Let them don thy russet, and labour with thee, and starve with thee, and they 'll love thee and give thee the kiss of a friend,—even as I do,—O Diggon,—even as I do!”And the peddler cast his arms about the shepherd, and kissed him on each cheek, and they two smiled happily the one upon the other in the firelight.
Then the peddler took up the tale of how Christ Jesus was crucified, and two thieves with him, and after, he began to speak of the harrowing of hell, and of Mercy and Peace that kissed each other.
"'And there I saw surelyOut of the west coast a wench as me thought,Came walking in the way—to—'"
said he, and when he had said it he felt Diggon's hand on his arm.
“She cometh,”whispered Diggon.
And there, on the other side of the fire, stood a maiden.
“I go to Londonward,”she said.“I came hither, for that I knew 't would grieve thee if I set forth secretly. Natheless, is no need that thou follow. I am not afeared of the night, nor no other thing.”
“Wilt thou not w-wait for the day?”asked the peddler, rising up.
“If I wait, there shall be done me a great honour. The lord of the manor purposeth to make me his wife.”
“Saint Christopher!”cried the peddler, and turned in haste to the shepherd:“Diggon, dear brother; fare thee well! This is m-my lady; I must follow her.”
“Hail, maiden!”said Diggon.“Art thou Mercy, or Truth, or Peace, or Rightwisnesse?”
“None of these,—but handmaid to Truth,”the peddler answered for her; and when he had kissed Diggon he took Calote by the hand and led her away. And Diggon was left by the fire with the new-born lamb.
“T-tell me!”the peddler questioned after a little.
So she told him all, and at the end of the tale she said:—
“Natheless, 't is not for his wooing that I 'm ashamed and weary; but they laughed at the Vision. They laughed!—They thought 't was all a jape. Wherefore should they fear the peasants,—the poor rude men,—wherefore should any fear such simple folk? Who is 't knoweth better than I how weak Piers Ploughman is? Were I a lady, with the poor fawning about my heel,—and one sang that these should deliver the land, I 'd laugh too. They 'll fail—Dost thou not know they 'll fail? Ah, woe,—alas!”
“R-Roland of Roncesvalles, though he lost, yet did he win,”said the peddler. "Jesus Christ d-died on cross. Hearken to the Vision:—
"'After sharp showers, quoth Peace, most glorious is the sun;Is no weather warmer than after watery clouds.Ne no love dearer, nor dearer friends,Than after war and woe when Love and Peace be mastersWas never war in this world, nor wickedness so keen,That Love, an him list, might not bring it to laughter,And Peace through patience all perils stopped.'"
Illustration: Capital O
UTof a lonely land of moor and fen and scattered shepherds, Calote came down into the stir and bustle of the eastern counties. Almost, she had come to believe there were no men in England, but two or three; so, for a little, her heart was lifted up when she saw the villages set so close as to join hands and kiss; when she saw the high road and the lanes alive with wayfarers; when she saw men in every field,—idle men for the most part. Yet was her joy soon turned to terror.
If the folk of the north were slow to kindle and loth to learn, 't was not so with them of Norfolk and Suffolk and Cambridgeshire. These men were John Ball's men, and Wat Tyler's, and Jack Straw's. Already they had their lesson by heart. Nevertheless, to Calote's thinking, they had not learned it aright.
“Ah, woe! better the sloth and dulness of west and north than this quick hate,‘ she sighed to the peddler. ’There 's murder in these hearts.”
And this was true.
One day, when she was preaching Piers Ploughman to a great crowd, and how he set straight the kingdom and gave each man work to do and bade the wasters go hungry,—and all that company of an hundred and more men and women stood about, chaunting the words of the Vision till the roar of it might be heard half a mile,—there came by a man-of-law on a hackney, was seen of those that stood at the edge of the throng. He set spurs to his horse, but to no purpose; all that rout was upon him. They beat him, and tore his clothes into ribands. His ink-horn they emptied on his head, and made of his saddle-bags and parchments a very stinking bonfire. And all the while they shrieked:“Thou wilt write us in bondage, wilt thou?”—“We be slaves, be we, bound to the soil?”—“Slit 's lying tongue!”—“Pluck out 's eyes!”
After a little while they left him half dead, and Calote wiped his bloody face, and the peddler caught his horse and set him on it. Then came the sheriff and his men that way and set Calote and the peddler in the stocks, for that they had gathered the people together and made a tumult. But the people hewed the stocks to splinters so soon as the sheriff's back was turned.
Another day, by the side of a pond, they came upon a rabble that ducked a monk of Bury, and but that Calote sounded her horn and so drew the mischievous folk to listen to her message, the unhappy monk had surely come to his death.
Once, when a certain lord was away from his manor, Calote was by when the lord's people burned his ricks. This was in the night, and all the villeins made a ring about the fire and danced, and sang:—
"'When Adam delved and Eve span,Who was then the gentleman?'"
Neither did the bailiff dare come forth of the house to check them, for that they said they would cast him into the fire. And so they would.
The leader of all these Norfolk and Suffolk men was one John Wrawe, and when he heard Calote was come into the country he went to meet her and made much of her, and took her to this town and that, to blow her horn and speak her message. Old women that had seen the plague of '49 came out of their cots to kiss her hand and call her to deliver them. Young mothers held their babes before her face and bade her free them. Here and there, a knight that was for the people, but not yet openly, took her into his house, as Sir Thomas Cornerd, and Richard Talmache de Bently, and Sir Roger Bacon, and she heard how well ordered was this plot.
“'T will be the signal when Parliament votes the new poll-tax,”they said.
For that there must soon be another poll-tax all England was very sure.
“Let us home,”said Calote.“Let us home and find Wat. They must not rise so soon. They are not ready; and 't is Wat can stop it; none other. To rise for vengeance' sake, and hate, and to pay a grudge,—ah, what a foul wrong is this!”
'T was an autumn evening when Calote and the peddler, footsore, sun-browned, in tatters, came through the Ald Gate into London. A-many men stood about in groups up and down the street, as men will stand in a marketplace to chaffer and wrangle and gossip; yet these stood silent. The street was a-flutter with much speaking, but no one spoke; the air pricked. Now and again a man looked out of himself with a waiting gaze and the face of a sleep-walker. There was slow shifting of feet, sluggish moving to one side to let folk pass.
“How changed is London in two year!”Calote half whispered to her companion.
“He-here they are ready,”said the peddler.“Th-they do but wait.”
Presently they met Hobbe Smith, and he, when he saw Calote, grinned and capered, and cried out,“Ho, mistress!”very joyously. And then,“News?”Whereupon other heads were turned to look.
“I am come from Yorkshire, down the east coast,”said Calote.“At Norwich we have many friends. At Bury Saint Edmunds let the monks look to 't. At Cambridge and Saint Albans they wait the word.”
“All this is known,”answered Hobbe, and turned to walk with them.
“Tell me of my father,”said Calote.“Is he well?”
“Yea, well. I cannot make out thy father; he 's a riddle. No man ought to be more rejoiced than he, of”—Hobbe left his sentence hanging and began a new one:“Yet he pulleth a long face.”
“And my mother 's well?”
“Ay, Kitte 's well.”
“And thou, Hobbe?”
He laughed and grew red.“I 'm married, mistress. Thou wert so long away. There 's a little Hobbe.”
Then Calote laughed likewise, and seeing her mother down the street at their door, she began to run.
Kitte kissed her, and crushed her close, and at the last said:—
“How will thy father be rejoiced to know thee safe!”Then,“Who 's this?”quoth she; and there stood the peddler, waiting.
“'T is an honest man hath holpen me in many a sore strait, mother; cannot speak plain.”
“So!”said Kitte, and continued to look at him over her daughter's head thoughtfully.
“G-give you good-even, m-mistress!”said the peddler.
“Good-even, friend!”said Kitte, and added in a voice assured and quiet:“I know thy face.”
“H-haply,”he answered, and albeit he knew that he was found out he did not turn away his eyes from hers.
“Come in, and sup,”said she;“Will 's late;”and she laid her arm about the peddler's shoulder, and kissed his cheek.
They sat late that night. Wat and Jack Straw came in with Langland, and there was clipping and kissing and rattle of tongues.
“Ah, but how 't is sweet to hear again London speech!”sighed Calote,“and thy voice, my father!”
'T was told in the tavern as how Calote was come back, and Dame Emma must needs run across to welcome the maid. After, she sent in of her pudding-ale, the best, that sold for fourpence the gallon, for that Calote's health might be drunk. She was a kindly soul, Dame Emma, a friend to villeins and poor labourers.
Calote sat on her father's knee, and ate and drank, and laughed for joy of home-coming. But presently, when Wat Tyler besought her for news, and Jack Straw smiled and said:“Didst mark our Essex men, how ready they be, like an arrow that 's nocked to the string and waits but the touch to let fly?”with other like boasting,—she grew grave, she fell silent; and Jack and Wat, become aware of their own voices, fell silent likewise; the one, a frown betwixt his heavy brows, the other, his eyes half shut, the white lashes drooping,—his lips drawn tight. Will Langland, with his faint prophetic smile, but eyes all pity, waited, watching his daughter.
“'T will fail,”she said at last, very quiet; but her father felt her heart knock against his arm.“'T will fail, because the spring and soul of it is hate, not love. Go yonder into Essex and Suffolk, where I have been but now, and hear what fate men have in store for the Lord Chief Justice! Go into Bury Saint Edmunds and mark the eyes of the townsfolk when they take the prior's name upon their lips! Give God thanks, Wat Tyler, that thou art not mayor o' Northampton!”
“These men are tyrants,”cried Wat;“they have oppressed the people.”
“What is to be a tyrant, Wat? To hold the people in the hollow of his hand?—What dost thou hope to be one day? I mind me in Salisbury thou didst assure me, 'Time shall be when these rustics shall follow me with a single will,—as one man; and then shall we arise.'”
Jack Straw turned on his comrade a chilly smile, but said no word. Wat swore and shuffled his feet.
“'T will fail,”Calote began anew.“The poor is afeared to fight; do but flash a sword in 's eye, he 'll shake. All they that make up our Great Society be not honest folk, a-many is outlawed men, cut-purses, murderers, wasters; all such is coward in their heart.”
“Here 's what comes o' setting women to men's business, thou fool!”Wat snarled upon Jack Straw, but Jack paid him no heed; instead he crossed one leg over other, leaned his clasped hands on his knee, and set his narrowed eyes upon the maid.
“And this is all to mean, no doubt,”said he coldly,“that thou art sick o' poor folk and their ways, and hankering after palace fare. Ah, well, who shall blame a pretty wench!”He shrugged his shoulders and uncrossed his legs, leaning forward on his elbows to speak the more soft.“I heard tell, a year past, that a certain young squire, Stephen Fitzwarine by name, was no longer about the King's person; 't was said he had gone to Italy on a mission with Master Chaucer. But Master Chaucer 's returned; I saw him yestere'en a-looking out of window in his house above the Ald Gate. Haply, t' other 's to be found in Westminster. Natheless, they do say these Italian wenches be like hotsauce, do turn a man's stomach from sober victual.”
To prove Calote and vent his own spleen Jack Straw said this; but he reckoned without the peddler, who immediately rose up and cracked him with his fist betwixt his insolent white-lashed eyes so that he fell over backward on the floor and lay a-blinking.
“I thank thee, friend,”said Langland.
“Thou 'rt well served, Jack,”said Wat Tyler.“Get up and mind thy manners!”
“I 'll kill him,—I 'll beat out 's brains,”muttered Jack Straw, and scrambled shakily to his knees.
“Thou 'lt touch no hair on 's head,”Wat answered roughly.“Go kill Calote her cowards! this one 's an honest man, shall be kept.”
“Sh-shall I hi-hit him again, mistress?”asked the peddler.
“Nay, prythee, nay!”cried Calote. And to Jack Straw she said:“Thou knowest well that I am not aweary of mine own folk, nor never shall be. Yet, 't were pity if I might wander in England, up and down, two year, and come home no wiser than afore. The people is not ready to rise up. Each man striveth after his own gain, his own vengeance,—'t is mockery to call it fellowship.”
“Thou hast not journeyed in Kent; thou hast not heard John Ball,”said Wat,“else wouldst thou never say 't is hate is the soul and spring of this uprising. What have the Kentish men to gain, of freedom, but here and there the name of 't? They 're freest men in England, no fools neither. 'T is for their brothers' sake they 'll rise; for Essex' sake, where Christen men are sold to be slaves. Small wonder men are slow to learn love in Essex. Come down to Canterbury, come down into the Weald,—I 'll show thee fellowship that is no mockery.”
“Then let 's be patient, Wat! Let 's wait till other shires be so wise and loving as Kent!”
“Wait, quotha!”sneered Jack Straw.“And what hast thou been about, this two year, that thou wert sent to learn them fellowship? I trow there hath been little wisdom, but loving a-plenty,—in corners with stray peddlers and packmen. 'Wait,' sayst 'ou? But I say 't is time! Wherefore is not the people ready?”
Will Langland caught the peddler by the arm, and,“Jack,”said he,“whiles I do more than mouth words. What though I repent after, 't is too late then, if thou art throttled.”
“Nay, let me speak!”Calote importuned, thrusting aside her father.“Wherefore is the people not ready, Jack Straw? Wherefore? For that in so many shires where I came to preach love thou wert afore me and preached hate. Two year is but short space to learn all England to forget to hate, to bind all England in fellowship of love, so that if a man fight 't is for his brother's sake. When this uprising faileth, as 't will surely fail, do thou ask thine own soul where 's blame.”
“Pah!—Have I a finger in this pie or no?”growled Wat.“I say 't will not fail. Do not I know my London? Is not Kent sure, and Essex, and the eastern counties? These men are mine! Whatsoever else they hate, yet do they love me! They 'll do my bidding, I promise thee.”
“I 'd liefer they did Christ's bidding,”said Calote.“Hark ye, Wat, give me another two year, and do thou and Jack meanwhile preach freedom only and forget private wrong. So we 'll be less like to fail.”
“There 's talk of another poll-tax,”Wat answered gloomily.“No Parliament will dare pass 't in London; but I make no doubt they 'll sit elsewhere.—The people will not endure another poll-tax.”
“Yet thou hast said the people love thee,—thou 'lt dare swear they 'll do thy bidding. An idle boast?”
The blood came slow into his swarthy face.“'T will not fail,”he said doggedly, and sat in brooding fashion grinding his heel upon the earthen floor.
“When doth Parliament sit?”Calote asked him.
He got up, overthrowing the heavy oaken bench he had sat upon, and,“So be it!”he cried hoarsely.“They shall not rise yet,”and strode to the door.
Jack Straw laughed.
“Thou white rat!”said Wat, with his hand on the latch;“dost think they 'll follow thee? Do but essay them!”
“Nay,”leered Jack,“I 'm for fellowship, brother! I 'll wait my turn till thou hast stretched thy tether;”and went with him out on Cornhill.
Langland thrust the bolt of the door presently, and bade the peddler lie by the fire, if he would. So they all went to bed. But after a little while, Kitte came down the stair again. She had a rough blanket on her arm.
“'T is not so soft as thou hast slept on i' the King's Palace of Westminster,‘ said she, ’but 't will keep thee from the chill o' the floor.”
“Ah, good mother,”smiled the peddler,“'t is two year I have not slept on a blanket.”
“So long?”she queried—“And the maid so blind!”
“In the beginning I was a sorry wight,”he answered.“Small wonder she knew me not. But of late I have had no money to mend my thatch.”He tapped his rusty pate and laughed.“Moreover, the brown stain hath worn off my face and hands; what 's left is sun only and wind. Neither have I been at such pains to pluck out mine eyebrows this past month,”—he laughed again and his stammer caught him,—“f-f-for Richard's sake, and the court's. Three days since we slept in the fens about Lincoln. When I awoke she sat staring on me:—”
“'Thou art so like—thou art so like,' she murmured, 'but no.'—Thou 'lt keep my secret, mother?”
“Oh, ay! I 'm a silent woman,”she answered.“Thou hast not won her?”
“I have not wooed,”he said.
She lifted her hand and made the sign of the cross betwixt his brow and his breast.“Good-night, my son,”said she.
Illustration: Capital C
ALOTEwas in Kent what time word came that the Parliament of Northampton had passed a new poll-tax. It happened on this wise: Wat Tyler went down into Kent to have speech of John Ball, who was not in prison at that time, albeit hunted by the Archbishop's men,—and he brought Calote with him. And in a little village midway twixt Canterbury and Maidstone the priest met them. They went into the tavern and the alewife set her best brew before them, and presently slipped out to seek her gossips.
“This is the maid,”said Wat.
John Ball's eyes, kindly, keen, smiling, drew her to him, also he held out his hand. She came and stood beside his knee as he sat withdrawn from the table a little way. So they looked each on other, she most solemn, he tenderly amused.
“Long Will's daughter,”he said; and after a little,“So thou hast journeyed in England, south and north, to bring the message of fellowship to the poor?”
“Yea, brother,”she answered him.
“And thou sayest this people is not ready to rise up?”
“Yea, brother, I say so.”
“Wherefore?”
“Two year is not long enough, John Ball.”
“Two year!”quoth he, and smiled.“'T is twenty year I have not ceased to preach this message. Thou wert not born, yet the people had heard these things.”
She flushed very hot and her lip quivered:“Though 't were forty year,—the people is not ready,”she made answer steadfast.
“They say there 's a woman of Siena learns Pope Urban his lesson,”mused the priest, always his eyes fixed smiling on the maid;“God forbid I should be behind Pope Urban in humilité.”
“I am a peasant maid only,”cried Calote,“but I say poor folk is not yet a fellowship. They dream of vengeance. More than they love one another they hate the nobles and bailiffs and the men-of-law, and”—
“And all them that have brought us to this pass,”said Wat Tyler fiercely.
John Ball turned to look at him, and there fell silence.
When the priest spoke again he spoke to Wat, and said:“'T would seem the maid saith soth.”Then, turning back to Calote, the smile went out of his eyes:“I am not so patient as thy father,”he exclaimed,“I am not content to prophesy only; there 's some men must do deeds. A little while we 'll delay. Natheless, 't shall come in my time!—Thou hast warned them in Essex and Suffolk, 't is not yet, Wat?”
“Yea, they know, and they grumble. Norfolk knoweth, and Cambridgeshire; and when we came through Dartford I sent messengers westward to stay the folk in those parts. Here they know it not yet. They will not tamely wait. I fear these Kentish men; and if they slip leash the rest will follow, whether we will or no.”
“Ah, well, if they will, they will! Give me now the names of the Norfolk gentry would cast in their lot o' our side.”He spread a parchment on the table and drew pen and ink from his penner.
“John de Montenay de Bokenham,”said Wat.
“Is 't so?”John Ball murmured, writing.“Methought he 'd come at t' last.”
“Thomas de Gyssing.”
“Anon.”
“Sir Roger Bacon.”
“Nay, I had his name long since.”
“Then thou hast all others,”Wat ended.
Calote, standing by the table, listened.
“Of Bury, now, what new citizens since I was prisoned last?”the priest questioned.
“Thomas Halesworth, John Clakke, Robert Westbron.”
“And these be fit to lead?”
“Yea.”
“And who is messenger to run westward?”
“John Smyth, parson,—hath a horse.”
“Ah! And for the north?”
“John Reynolds of Bawdsey, and Walter Coselere; good runners, both.”
“Where is Jack Straw?”
“In Northampton, hanging at the heels o' Parliament.”
But now came Calote with a question:“Shall the King be warned anew afore the people rise?”
“The King?”said John Ball, staring.
“Yea; I give my message in the name of the King; I have his token.”She drew forth the horn.
Wat Tyler was admonishing the priest, with nod of head and uplift of eyebrow.
“Oh, ay,”John Ball said hastily;“I had forgot. Nay, we 'll wait and let the people rise and seek him out. 'T will be time enough.”
“What was 't thou hadst forgot?”Calote queried. But she got no answer, for the door burst open, and men and women came in and crowded about John Ball and kissed his garment's hem. And in the same moment the church-bell began to ring.
“Ho, my brothers!”laughed the priest,“let be! I have not rung your bell. The Archbishop hath long ears. 'T is not safe.”
“There be espiers set in every lane and the highway,”said the alewife.“They 'll give warning.”
So they carried him, protesting, laughing, up the village street to the cross.
That was a November day, gray, misty, chill. The trees were bare. The earth was wet with the rain of yesternight. Weatherwise folk saw snow in the clouds.
“Come up hither!”said John Ball to Calote, and drew her after him to the top step of the cross.“Have a care, the stone 's slippery.”
So, when she was steadied at his side, he turned to the waiting villagers with:—
“Hark ye, good folk; I have no new thing to say. Hear this maid! 'T is Long Will's daughter of London; hath journeyed far and wide throughout England to learn men of fellowship. She shall speak.”
The people stared at him in wonder, and at her. Then he stepped down and left her alone.
She put the King's horn to her lips and blew a blast.
“My message is from the King,”she said.“He is on your side.”
There was a silence, and after, a shout.
“The King! God save the King!”they cried.“Speak!—speak!”
“The King is young, my brothers. He is a lad only; but he loveth his people. He knoweth what is to be bound; doth not he live in bondage likewise, and to these same nobles?”
“Death!—death!”they shouted, but she lifted up her hands to still them.
“The King is of the noblesse; speak not of death, my brothers. I know there shall be blood shed in this battle, for that the nobles hate us; and when they see us uprisen, there shall be fear added unto hate, and blows shall follow. But when we, being stricken, strike again, for freedom and our brother, we shall remember that there is nor hate nor fear in us. We are for love, my brothers; we are for fellowship; and so it cometh to pass we cannot hate any man.”
They gaped upon her and said nothing. John Ball drew his hand across his lips as to do away a smile; but his eyes were wet.
“Thou, and thou, and thou, and I, my brothers, when we rise up, 't shall be to mean that we have cast off hate; arisen out of that evil, as the soul out of sinful body. Hate 's a clog; shall be no uprising in England till we be set free from hate. We be villeins now, in bondage to nobles and lords of manors; we do affirm we rise up for freedom; but I ask ye, shall that be freedom which is but to turn table and set the nobles in bondage under us?”
“Ay, turn and turn about,”cried a man in the crowd.“Let them taste how 't is bitter!”
Calote's eyes flashed.“Turn and turn about, sayst thou?”she retorted;“and wilt thou be ready to go again into bondage when thy turn cometh?”
He growled and hung his head, and his neighbours laughed.
“Hark ye, brothers; we do not rise up for to bind any man, noble or villein, but for to set all England free. Let the King rule,—let the knight keep the borders of the land rid of Frenchman and Scot,—let the villein till his field for rent,”—
“Ay, ay, fourpence the acre!”said a villein.
“Ay, ay!”the others cried, vehement.“'T is fair in reason, fourpence, ay!”—
And then there came up the village street a clatter of hoofs, a man on a white horse, and the espier running at his side.
“Wat Tyler!—Wat Tyler!”cried the horseman.“Send one to Canterbury and northward shall stop the Rising, or 't is too late. Poll-tax is passed in Parliament at Northampton.”
'T was the peddler.
Calote stared on him bewildered; he looked so strange. She had not seen him since the day after she was come into London. Was this he? Was it not rather,—but no! Her heart began to beat very fast, her eyes were wide. The peddler drew his hood down over his face. Then Calote was 'ware of a tumult among the people, and Wat Tyler's voice upraised to still them, and John Ball standing again at her side on the top step of the cross.
“To London!—To London!”the people clamoured.“'T is time!—London!—The King!”
“Fools! I say 't is not yet!”shouted Wat.“I came to tell ye. We will not rise this time. Word hath gone forth into the north and west to still the people.”
“Traitor!—London! London!”they cried, closing about him.
“Patience, brothers,”he said.“We be no traitors, but wise. Hearken to the maid! She hath been in east and west and north and south. Hear her, wherefore she counselleth patience.”
The roar fell to a growl and anon to a muttering, and they turned their angry faces to Calote.
“Brothers,”she said,“ye of Kent are ready. Yea, 't is very true. Were all men so strong in fellowship as Kentish men, would be little to fear. But in Essex men be not so well-fed, nor so wise. Kind-Wit dwelleth not in their cots.”
The flushed faces that looked up to her grinned broadly.
“'T is true,”said one man, with a chuckle,—this was the espier, and he had forgot to return to his post.—“A-most fools is outside o' Kent.”
“These men of the eastern shires,”the maid continued,“will have it that fellowship is but leave to slay and burn, for sake of privé wrong. They 'll use this word for a cloak to do murder and all those other seven sins. Moreover, in the north there be few that will rise,—and in the west they 're afeared.—Ye Kentish men are fearless, but may Kent alone withstand the power of the noblesse? Willingly ye 'll be slain for your brothers' sake,—oh, ye are brave men!—but what avail to England if ye be slain? Who then shall deliver your brothers? Be patient yet a little while.”
Some of them were sullen, others whispered together with rueful countenance. She watched them for a little, then:—
“'T is for Kentish men to say if the Rising shall avail or come to naught. Wise men are never rash. Moreover,—t' other side o' London, word is already gone forth to stay the Rising. Will ye rise alone,—one shire?”
They hung their heads, foolish, sulky.
Then said John Ball,“Who is this friendly messenger on a gentleman's horse?”
The peddler, as he were abashed, slipped from his steed to the ground. But the crowd, diverted from their own discontent, pushed and pulled him to the foot of the cross where stood John Ball.
“Nay, then, uncover thy face, brother,”said the priest,“'t is well we know our friends.”And with a large hand, courteous but not to be gainsayed, he pushed back the peddler's hood, and there was revealed a mop of light brown hair curled in the fashion of the court, and a fair and gentlemanly countenance that flushed crimson beneath the astonished gaze of John Ball. 'T would seem the peddler had departed on his errand in haste, without one precaution.
The crowd stared, open-mouthed.
“Art thou a man of Kent?”Ball asked.
“N-nay, father,”stammered the peddler, and grew yet more red.
“I 'll be sworn thou 'rt no villein,”said the priest, very grim.
The peddler glanced at Calote and dropped his eyes.
“N-nay!”he murmured.
“Wat!”called the priest; but one said,“Hath but now gone to spread the alarm.”
“Art thou of the Fellowship, stranger?”John Ball questioned, sharp.
Then did the peddler lift up his head, and looked the priest in the eye:“In my heart am I of the Fellowship, but I have not given my hand on 't,”he said.
John Ball laid hand on the peddler's shoulder and turned him about to face the folk.
“Knoweth any here this gentle, that would be of our Fellowship?”he asked.
The rustics pressed close, peered over other's shoulder, but at last shook their heads.
Then was there heard a faint voice, very shy, at the side of the priest:—
“I know this gentle,”said Calote.“If he giveth his hand in fellowship—he will keep faith.”
There went up a murmur of amaze in the crowd, and John Ball looked from Calote to the peddler and back again.
“Is a disciple of my father,”whispered Calote; and now was her face as red as the peddler's.
“What art thou called, friend?”asked the priest.
“I am called Stephen Fitzwarine. I dwell in the King's palace; but I abode one while in poor folks' cots; I know that they suffer. When 't is time, I do purpose to stand by the villein that would be free”—
The Kentish men shouted, and pressed more close.
“Meanwhile I may come at the King's ear. 'T were well there be one in the palace at Westminster may be a m-mean twixt the King and the commons, when peasants are risen up. I am for the Fellowship,—I will keep faith. Here 's my hand.”
“Lay thy hand on this market cross, brother, and swear by the rood,”said John Ball.
So Stephen went up the three stone steps and laid his hand upon the arm of the cross, and:—
“By the Holy Rood, I swear,”said he,“that I will keep faith with the Fellowship and strive to set free villeins. Life and limb, body and soul, give I in this cause.”
And all that throng of villagers burst out a-singing:—
"'When Adam delved and Eve span,Who was then the gentleman?'"
But now, by the way that the peddler had come,—the unwatched way,—there came a band of horsemen suddenly, and rode into the midst of the crowd.
“Archbishop's men!”shrieked a woman.“Save John Ball!”
There was no room to shoot the long-bow.
“Though we rise not yet, we 'll maul 'em now,”roared a man.
But John Ball stayed him, stayed all.—“Not yet,—no blood shall flow. We have need of strong men. Remember!”
So, except a buffet here and there, pushing and hindrance, and loud words, there was no battle. Women clung weeping to John Ball, but he was bound and set on a horse. Then came the faithless espier and cast himself down in the way of that horse, and was trampled and his skull clove in.
One of the soldiers ran to the cross and would have bound Calote, for he said:“This wench also was speaking, exciting the people.”But Stephen thrust him off, and said he:—
“The damosel is in my care, Gybbe Pykerel; I 'll answer to the King as concerning my loyauté and hers.”
“What!—Etienne Fitzwarine!”cried the man.“A frolic?—Eh, well!—I 'm Archbishop's man, 't is none of my devoir to meddle with King's minions.”
And the priest being now fast bound, and all others in their saddles, this soldier followed, and all rode forth of the village. But one villein cried after them:—
“We have chose to let ye have him now, but 'ware the day when we come to take him out o' Maidstone gaol! 'Ware the day!”
Then they went to the espier, where he lay dead, and they lifted him up and bore him within the church.
“My horse!”cried the peddler.“Where is Blanchefleur, my d-destrier?”
“Wat Tyler 's astride and halfway to Canterbury by this, brother,”said a woman.
The peddler laughed,—was naught else to do.
“Eh, well, mistress, thou and I must go afoot,”quoth he to Calote;“'t will not be the first time.”
He took her hand and she went with him meekly, as she were in a dream. A little way beyond the village he led her off the road into a wood, and there made her to sit down under a tree. He thrust a stopple of dry leaves into the small end of the King's horn, and filled it with water from a spring near by, which, when she had drunk, she smiled. Whereupon the peddler cast him down on the grass at her feet and took the dusty hem of her kirtle to his lips and held it there,—a-kissing it; and once he sobbed.
Presently she spoke, slow, softly, as one speaks looking backward into memory:—
“In Devon I said,—he hath a mind, inward, like to Stephen's mind. But if this were Stephen he 'd never cease to speak to me of love; so he 'd be discovered. But thou didst never speak to me of love. In Cheshire I said,—he hath given his all to buy the horn; presently he will ask for my love to repay him. I was afeared. I said, I could love him—were there no—Ah, 't is no matter what I said! At Yorkshire, at the manor-house, 't was lonely. I—I thought on thee, and yet 't was strange, I could not dispart thee from Stephen in my thought. I said,—I know he will presently woo me, and what shall I say? Then I began to see Stephen in thy face—and I was 'wildered sore. When I was wearied with wanhope, 't was thou upheld the quarrel of the people. Ah,—how couldst thou know how to do this if thou art Stephen? Stephen is a squire in the King's palace! I said—what shall I do?—Did ever maid love”—She hushed hastily and the colour flamed to her cheeks; she made as to rise, but the peddler had her hands, he was on his knees before her, looking in her eyes.
“Nay,—m-make an end to 't!”he whispered.“Did ever a maid—what?”
“I will not!”—she answered.“Let be!”
“Wh-which is 't thou l-lovest? Speak!”
“Wherefore wilt thou still mock me?”she cried in sudden anger, freeing her hands.“Have done with thy halting speech!”
He hung his head and knelt mute a moment,—then in a low voice, very sorrowful, and painfully stammering, he said:—
“A-a-alas, mistress!—I c-cannot be rid of 't n-now. T-taketh me unaware. If it of-fendeth thee, then indeed a-am I undone.”
She waited, aghast, watching him, but he knelt silent in his dejection.
“It doth not offend me,”she said at last, wistfully; and he, looking up, beheld her eyes full of tears.
“Wilt thou h-have me?”he cried.
And half laughing, half crying, she asked him:
“Who art thou?”
“Please God, I am him thou lovest,”he answered;“Which is he?”
She let him take her hands again.
“I know not,”she whispered.“But if 't is the peddler, I love him for Stephen's sake,—and if 't is Stephen, for the peddler's sake I love him.”