"'And now I see where a soul cometh hitherward sailing,With glory and with great light, God it is, I wot.'"
And so he fell backward dead.
There were other dead men lying all about. The few French that were not slain were fleeing to their ship, and the English after them pell-mell, hacking and hewing. The peddler lifted Calote off her knees and led her away. They walked wearily many miles, stumbling through the summer darkness. When the dawn came, the peddler made a bed of moss and leaves for Calote, but she would not lie in it. She sat a-sighing, with her head in her hand.
“S-s-sleep, mistress!”said the peddler,“a-and forget!”
“I 'll never forget that they are cowards!—cowards!”she cried passionately.“Is 't these shall save the kingdom to the King?”
“''W-'ware thee from w-wanhope, w-would thee betray,'”said the peddler, speaking out of the Vision.“Th-these men be not w-warriors, but tillers of the soil; peaceable folk. They have been ca-cared for and fought for all their l-life long. Not cowards, but un-un-accustomed. We met them as we rode; they came to c-call the lord of the manor to s-succour them. Peter was sore distressed f-for thee.”
“Natheless, they ran away,”she said.“They were afeared.”
“N-not the parson,”declared the peddler.“He was n-no coward. I did never know a b-better man; and he was one of them. The ki-kingdom 's not to be taken this year. P-patience!”
“Thou art no coward neither,”she assented, a little comforted.“And thou also art one of them.”
But to this the peddler made no reply.
Illustration: Capital I
N late September Calote and the peddler, having got as far north as the ancient city of Chester, fell in with a company of bold outlaws that dwelt in a wood some way without the city walls. Six of these men were villeins that had run from their land; three more had been soldiers beyond the sea and were now loth to lend their great limbs to any peaceful labours; the tenth man was a beggar by trade, yet for some cause best known to himself he would not beg in Chester; and there was yet another, a young lad who had slain his lord's bailiff. He had taken sanctuary and after abjured the realm, so that he was under oath to get him out of England by the nearest way; yet he lingered. Two women were also with this company: the one was light-o'-love to the youngest soldier of the three; the other was sister to the lad that had murdered the bailiff,—they two were orphaned.
After the peddler had come out of Devon, leaving his hood and pack on the cliff, he bought him a new pack in Bristol; but by now well-nigh all his gewgaws were sold, and he purposed to buy other at the October Fair in Chester. Meanwhile, he waited without the town, saving the cost of bed and board, and keeping his eyes and ears open to serve Calote.
These outlaws were no cowards, except it might be the young murderer, who screeched in his sleep of nights and woke up staring, in a cold sweat. They were a merry band; their food was berries and herbs and the small game that ran in the woods. Now and again they ventured on the high road and plundered solitary market-women or a farmer's boy. In winter and spring they dared even set upon a merchant or franklin; but at fair-time the merchants, coming to display their wares at Chester, travelled in so great companies for safety, that 't was but foolhardiness to attack them. So it fell that about the time Calote and the peddler came among them these robbers, were in a mood of discontent more than ordinary, having not so much as a groat wherewith to bless themselves. An Calote's tales had not charmed them when first they caught the couple a-wandering in the wood, no doubt it had gone hard with the peddler. But when they heard how he sang to his lute, and he said he had not peddled for many a day and 't was a poor trade, they looked no further than his pack; the bits of ribbon that were left in it the soldier gave to his wench.
“One eats all that one sells,”quoth the peddler; but when they saw how he did eat that night, they roared and said 't was plain he had sold little of late.
They were wondrous kind to Calote; they crowned her with a garland of green, and gave her of their best. Her tales of the Brotherhood, the Great Society, they heard with passion and impatience. They were for setting out to London without pause. The Vision went to their heads like strong drink, so that they cursed and beat upon the earth, and anon fell on each other's necks with kisses, in a kind of frenzy.
“Ye 'll be no more outlaws,”quoth Calote,“but makers of laws. Ye 'll be your own bailiffs on your own lands.”
The poor lad that had killed the bailiff cast himself on his face, at this, and wept, and his little sister also. And all those others did what they might to comfort him, with:—
“Ho, man! leave off tears; 't was bravely done!”and“Never grieve for a black heart!‘ and ’A pox o' bailiffs!”
The horn they handled greedily, counting the linked jewels in the chain and the pearls that were set about the image of the white hart. Calote kept it in a little bag that she had made of a bit of blanket the peddler gave her. This she wore by a string about her middle, and drew forth the horn willingly when they called for it. She was not aware how they coveted it, nor wherefore; but the peddler knew. He heard them when they sat about the fire of nights, after the women were gone to sleep. He listened the while they wrangled of the pearls. One said there were thirty, another swore by Saint Christopher there were but five and twenty.
“S-seven and twenty,”quoth the peddler;“I-I-I counted.”
They turned and looked on him. There were three awake, the beggar, a villein, and the youngest soldier. They called the villein Symme Tipuppe, and the soldier Nicholas Bendebowe; the beggar was only Haukyn.
Quoth Haukyn to the peddler:“Art thou kin to the maid?”
“N-nay,”said the peddler,“we met by the r-road.”
“Tell me,”said Symme, leaning forward.“Thou 'rt a kind of merchant, is the horn silver, or some baser metal?”
“T-t-true silver,”answered the peddler, and Nicholas Bendebowe, looking on Symme, set his thumb to his nose and wagged his fingers, with“Said I not so? I saw jewels in France, yea, and handled them.”
“'T would bring a pretty penny if 't were sold?”Symme questioned.
“N-no doubt,”the peddler made reply.
For a little while they sat silent, and the soldier laid a fresh bough on the blaze, for that the night was crisp and all these fellows were ragged and brier-torn.
Then said Haukyn the beggar, gloomily:“After to-morrow is the beginning of the Fair.”
“Small joy to such as we be,”snapped Nicholas Bendebowe.
“M-methought 't was the charité of Chester Fair th-that all men might gather there whether outlaw or-or-or runaway villein, and no one should l-l-lay hands on them while the Fair endured,”the peddler queried.
“Yea, 't is so,”assented Symme.“But what boots it me that I may go within Chester wall, if I must go empty-handed? The Rows are lined with spies that hale a man to the court of pie powder if he but stroke with his finger the furred edge of a hood that 's to sell. 'T were against reason to think a man will keep his hands off in midst of plenty.”
“B-but Haukyn 's a b-beggar only, he may ply his trade,”said the peddler.
“Haukyn does not ply his trade in Chester,”the beggar answered for himself.“If he cannot go in to buy like 's betters, he 's safest without.”
“Twenty-seven pearls,”mused Nicholas; and Symme and Haukyn sighed.
The peddler looked across the blaze of the fire to where Calote lay, a little way off at the foot of a tree, asleep. On the ground beside her was the bag with the horn in it, and the string went round her slim body.
After a bit the soldier snored; the beggar twitched awake and in a trice was off again, this time sound; the villein turned his back to the fire and drew up his legs, and presently the peddler heard him grinding his teeth, and knew that he too was asleep.
Throughout the next day the peddler was never far from Calote; thrice the villein had the horn out of her bag and fondled it, and the beggar came and looked over his shoulder. The soldier's wench hung the chain about her own neck one while, and saith she to her love:—
“Deck me in this wise!”
“By Our Lady o' Walsingham, that will I,”he swore,“when Calote and us common folk have put down the noblesse, and all men share alike.”
Again that night those three talked of the Fair after others slept, and the peddler sat beside them listening. On a sudden Symme Tipuppe turned to him and said:—
“If the horn were to sell, what would it fetch?”
“A g-goodly sum,”the peddler answered cautiously.
“Yea, but what 's that, a pound?”
“A pound, sayst thou?”the soldier scoffed.“If 't bring not five times a pound, rend out my guts.”
“H-haply 't might,”said the peddler.
“With the chain?”queried Haukyn.
“With the chain?”Symme echoed, his eyes on the peddler.
“N-nay, but alone.”
“Twenty for the chain, eh, peddler?”said Nicholas.
“N-nearer ten.”
Then there was a very long stillness, till at last Symme said:—
“Fifteen pound!”
“If the King loveth us,”grumbled the beggar,“he 'll never grudge fifteen pound. Hath not the maid said the King 's our friend?”
“Ho, fellows! 'T is our horn as well as the King's,”Nicholas blustered in a whisper.“Doth not the maid say we 'll share with him?”
“'T is the maid's,”said Symme, glancing aside uneasily at the peddler.“The King gave it to the maid.”
“Not so, 't is the King's!”persisted Nicholas.“'T is hers for a token only. Heh, peddler?”
“'T-'t is t-true, 't is the K-King's,”the peddler agreed.
Symme sighed as he were freed of a burden; the beggar moved more close to the peddler; Nicholas shook the peddler by the hand,—“A sober, sensible fellow, thou,”he said.
“The King would give her another token an she lost this one,”the beggar whined in his peevish way.“And though he 's King, he 's Earl o' Chester likewise; he 'd be kind to his own men, if they sold the horn for hunger.”
The soldier loosened his knife in his girdle with one hand, the other he laid on the peddler's shoulder.
“Wilt thou be one with us in this adventure, brother?”he asked.
Symme also drew his knife, and Haukyn laid his fingers up about the back of the peddler's throat.
“G-gladly, brothers,”said the peddler.
“Fifteen pound!”murmured Symme.“Fifteen pound!”
Then the young murderer began to moan and cry in his sleep, and, for a little, all were astir to soothe him; but when the place was quiet Symme said:—
“Who 'll sell it? Haukyn can go to the Fair.”
“'T is no safe token for a beggar to bear,”quoth Haukyn;“hold me excused. Men know me in Chester.”
“Peddler can go to the Fair,”said Nicholas;“he 's no outlawed man.”
“True!”agreed Symme.“And peddler knows to chaffer. Fifteen pound, peddler.”
“Or more,”said Haukyn.
“Who will take the horn from the maid?”asked Nicholas.
“I,”Haukyn answered him.“I found an old cow's horn yester morn; methought 't might prove a treasure. I 'll slip out one and slip in t' other.”
They chuckled.
“When she knoweth her loss, what then?”asked Symme.
“I 'll woo her prettily,”said Nicholas,“till she forget.”
“We 'll all go to Fair with the peddler,”Haukyn declared.
But now the peddler answered:“Nay, n-not so! If I go, I go alone. W-were I seen in your c-company, I 'd never sell it. M-my tabard is whole, m-my hosen are clean, m-my pack beareth me witness I 'm a peddler. Ye are ragged. I-I 'll swear on the horn afore I go that I 'll bring b-back the gold.”
So they gave consent unwillingly, and composed them to a nap.
When the peddler set out to Chester next morning, he had the horn in his pack. Symme, Nicholas, and Haukyn came to the edge of the wood with him and watched him out of sight. Before he went into the city, he stopped in the jousting-field outside the eastern wall; here were the showmen and minstrels, the dancers and jongleurs, and cheap-jacks of all kind. Among these the peddler wandered musing, till he came to pause before a man that sold black stuff in a bottle,“to make gray hair black.”The peddler had a coin or two in his hand, and he bought a bottle of this stuff and stowed it in his pack; but he took out the horn and hid it under his tabard. At the gate he showed his pack empty, with only the bottle in it, and was let pass without toll,—for all who brought in wares to sell must pay toll to the Fair. Within the city he bought a new hood, for he had had none since he came out of Devon, and Calote told him once the sun burned his hair, it grew rusty. He lingered above an hour among the Rows; but he bought no trinkets to fill his pack, neither did he enter any goldsmith's shop to chaffer for the horn. About noon he came out and walked by the Dee till he happed on a quiet, lonely place, screened by the bushes. Here, sitting down, he first rubbed his head well with the black dye, and let it dry in the sun the while he took out from some safe place within his tabard a pouch or bag, very full and heavy. When he undid the mouth of the bag and tipped it up, there plumped out gold and silver coin in a heap,—and he put his hand over it and looked about warily before he set to counting. But there was no one nigh, so presently he had made of one pile florins, and of another muttons, and three rose nobles of another; and the silver he separated likewise, into groats and pence. In the end he found that he had what he knew was there when he set a price upon the chain and the horn,—fifteen pound, odd pence. That the chain was of more value he guessed, but this was all he had,—a goodly sum for a peddler; 't were marvel if he had come by so much in trade. He was loth to part with all, yet he had not dared to offer less, for that the soldier was a shrewd rogue.
He swept all into the pouch and tucked the pouch within his breast; he dropped the horn into the point of his hood and slipped the hood over his head, the point wagging behind; he set his empty pack afloat on the river Dee, for now he had no money to buy trinkets. Except three groat, he was penniless. He laughed, as his thoughts had been new thoughts and amazing.
Meanwhile, in the brown dry woodland there was strife and a discovery.
Quoth the sister of the young lad that had slain the bailiff:—
“Let 's see the horn, Calote; I 've not laid eyes on 't this day.”
“Let be!”said Symme rudely.“How do ye pester the maid! ye 'll wear away the silver with fingering.”
“Nay, but I 'll show it gladly,”Calote protested.“'T is small courtesy I may show for kindness,”and she drew forth the old cow's horn.
“Saint Jame!”cried a villein, not Symme, but another.
“Saint Mary!”gasped Calote, pale as a pellet.
“'T is stolen, mistress!”said Nicholas Bendebowe.
“Stolen!”cried out those others all at once, with loud bluster;“Who stole 't?”—“Not I!”—“Nor I!”—“Nor I!”—“Will any dare say I stole it?”
“Where 's peddler?”asked the beggar.
They looked on one another. The soldier winked.
“Nay”—Calote cried;“he 's kind!”
“Poor wench!”said Haukyn.“Hearken! I saw him go to thee where thou wert asleep, at dawn; he knelt beside thee. When I came nigh he turned, and thrust a bright something in 's tabard.”
“Ah, woe, harrow!”said she.
“Now 't is plain why he 's gone so early to the Fair,”quoth Nicholas, a-shaking his head.
“He 's never gone to the Fair,”said the beggar craftily.“Trust him, he 'll show his face here no more. He 'll take horn to Lancashire or York. He 'll be afeared to sell it in Chester with the maid so nigh.”
Calote was looking from one to another, distressful. When she spoke, her voice was very low.
“I 'll go after him,”she said.“I 'll follow, and find him, or the horn. Oh, cruel, cruel! Good-day, sweet friends; my heart is heavy within me.”
Some of them, the women and the other villeins, and the murderer, went with her to put her on the high road, making loud lament; but Symme and Haukyn and the soldier looked on one another with a wink and a nod, and turned their faces to Chester.
“Best let her go,”said Nicholas.“'T will save the peddler a lie and me the wooing o' two maids side by side.”
“A pretty maid,”murmured Symme.“'T made mine eyes water to see her sorrow.”
The beggar said nothing till he saw the peddler coming up the road; then he laughed and grumbled out:—
“So, he 's honest,—more fool!”
The peddler came on smiling, and they caught him about the neck and looked covetous in his eyes, and thrust their fingers in his breast and his girdle, with:—
“Hast sold it?”
“Ha, ha, good cheap?”
“Fifteen pound?”
He pushed them away, and“Let 's sit,”he said,“wh-where 's shade. Th-the sun 's hot as s-summer to-day.”
So they sat down under a half-naked tree, and when he had taken the pouch out of his tabard, he undid the mouth and let flow out the gold and silver stream.
They sat and stared.
After a little the beggar thrust a dirty hand into the pile and let the moneys slip between his fingers. Symme began to cry for joy, and the soldier to laugh.
“Fifteen pound!”blubbered Symme.
“We 'll give each his share, and then to Chester,”cried Nicholas, shoving the beggar's greedy hand aside.“Come, count!”
“W-what for a t-tale have ye to t-tell the maid of her horn?”asked the peddler, scanning them each in turn.
“Ho, ho!”laughed Nicholas,“'t is already told. Hearken, brother! 'T is a merry gest; thou art saved a sad hour;—and I 'll keep mine old love. I 'm a constant man.”
Symme dried his eyes and snickered.
“The white-faced sister o' the lad must needs see the horn,”Nicholas continued.“Symme here would have hindered; but no, Calote put her hand in the bag and plucked out—ha, ha!”
They laughed, all three, and the peddler knit his brows.
“What next?”quoth he.
“'T was plain the horn was stolen, but who cared lay claim to be a thief?‘ went on Nicholas. ’Thou wert away,—we fixed the theft o' thee.”
“I thank ye of your courtesy,”said the peddler.
“Nay, naught 's to fear,”Symme assured him;“she 's gone.”
“Gone!”cried the peddler, leaping to his feet.
“Yea, to find thee and punish.”
“Which way,—not by Chester?”
“Nay, trust to us; we set her o' the wrong track. She went eastward and north on the highway.”
But ere Symme had said the last word, the peddler was off; and those others sat agape. Then Symme's eye caught the glitter of the gold.
“Come back,—come back!”he bawled.“Wilt have thy share?”
But the beggar choked him and the soldier dealt him a knock in the paunch. And whether the peddler heard or no, he did not turn back.
He took a short way through the wood and came out on the road not so far behind Calote, and she, looking backward, saw him. In the first moment she began to run away, but presently she bethought her how 't was silly to flee from a thief she had set out to take; and because he still came on at a good pace, she sat down on a stone to wait for him. So, at last, he came up panting and wiping the sweat from his face.
“Oh, thou wicked, cruel wight!”she cried.“Thou false friend!—I trusted thee. Alack!—I trusted thee!”
“L-l-lll-l- ww-w-,”said the peddler, striving for his breath.
“Hast sold the horn?—hast sold it, thou roberd?”quoth she very violently, wringing her hands.
“N-nay, nor stole it, neither,”he answered at last; and he took off his hood and shook the horn out of the point into her hand.
She stood in amaze.
“But 't was stole out o' my bag,”she said.
“N-not by me,”he made reply.“An I had chose, I might have s-stole it many a time in a s-solitary place where were no eye to see me take it. I m-might have s-sold it t-ten time over.”
“Then who stole it?”she cried.“Was 't a jest? A sorry jest, God wot! Nor no jest, neither, for they let me go on my way. Did they know?”
“L-let well alone, mistress!”said the peddler.“He-he-here 's the horn.”
“Nay, but I will be told,”she persisted.“What 's this thou 'rt keeping from me? I 'll go back to the wood and bid Symme Tipuppe rede the riddle. He was a kindly man.”
She turned away, but the peddler stayed her with his hand.
“He-hear then, an thou wilt,”said he.“But I warn thee, go not b-back.”
So he told her the tale of how they coveted the horn, and how he made shift to save it for her; and she listened with a still face. At the end she dropped her head upon her arms and wept silently a long while.
“L-look up,—take heart!”said the peddler.“The ho-horn 's safe.”
“But they are thieves and liars,”she answered wearily.“What hope?”
“Thou hast eat st-stolen meat this fortnight,”the peddler declared;“yet didst thou m-make no ou-ou-outcry.”
She lifted up her head and stared on him:“But this is not the same,”she said.“That meat we did eat ought, by right, to be the meat of every man, not lords' only.”
“So said Haukyn o' the horn. ''T is King's, quotha; 'King will sell 't for his people if they will ha-have it.'”
She was silent a little space; then she said:“But they took it away by stealth. Ah, woe,—they did not ask me!—They stole it!—And I brought them a message of love.”
“Th-they had no money in their purse. They saw other men go by to the Fair.”
“'T was not as if 't were mine own,”she protested;“but a token, that I might be known to speak for the King. Ah, bitter—cruel!”
“Th-they said, 'The King can give her another,—he ha-hath a plenty.'”
“Natheless, they are thieves,—roberds,—liars! What hope? What hope?”
“Who made them so?”quoth the peddler.—“The same that m-made them outlaws, and m-murderers;—I begin to s-see 't is the lords of England! Th-these do I blame! Wi-wilt thou forsake thy brothers for th-that they 're sinful? We be all sinful m-men. Come!—th-the message!”
She got up from the roadside stone and dried her eyes, and walked with him, but in a dreary silence. For many a mile they went on in this fashion. At even they came to a farm-house, and Calote went in and sang for her supper. The farmer's wife was alone, and she gave Calote a bed gladly, but she drove out the peddler,—who was peddler no longer,—for that she was afeared of his strange looks.
“But he 'll pay for 's bed,”said Calote.
“N-nay, mistress,”the peddler answered.“I 've n-no money but three groat. Th-those must wait for a r-rainy day. 'T is fresh i' the fields.”So he went out of the house; and she, remembering why he had no money, wept sorrowfully. Nevertheless, she did not know how great a sum he had paid for the horn.
Illustration: Capital T
HEsecond winter of this pilgrimage was a snowy one, and the North Country was a lonely place. Among those thinly scattered villages Calote and the peddler had fared very ill, but for the old-time virtue of hospitality, and the joy of minstrelsy, wherein the northern folk vaunted themselves. The winds that blew across the moors were cold and keen; the sea, whensoever the pilgrims came to the sea, was gray. The peddler's lute cracked; it gave them warmth for half an hour one night, and then the wind scattered its ashes. Once, a shepherd saved them from white death.
Yet, 't was not all silence and snow. There were friendly days and nights by the tavern fire, when Calote sang of William and the Werwolf, of Sir Gawaine and the Green Knight, of Launcelot, of Aucassin and Nicolette. Or, haply, some shepherd, thawing before the blaze, would let loose a roaring voice in one of Lawrence Minot's songs; those songs of the battles of King Edward III., Halidon Hill, and Berwick, and Neville's Cross. Anon, there would be told tales of Earl Percy. And Calote, who had listened while Londoners scorned this great man, for that he was second only to John of Gaunt in craft and hateful wickedness, sat now with open mouth to hear him praised of his own folk, who loved him; neither had they any wish to cast him down from his place and rule by their own wits. For, except it were in Newcastle, Calote found few who hearkened patiently to her tale of the ploughman. So she turned southward, sick at heart; and spring awaking found her on the Yorkshire wolds, very thin and weary and ragged; and the peddler likewise. Here, where John of Gaunt was lord, they found many to listen willingly to their message. Yet was Calote unsatisfied.
“'T is ever their own small grievance that maketh them rage,”she sighed.“The bailiff hath fined this one, or set that one in the stocks, and so they 'll willingly join the Brotherhood to spite the bailiff. No doubt there be certain bailiffs that do their devoir faithful, and there be certain villeins that under these laws do deserve the fine or the stocks. But if a man is friend to the bailiff, and hath enough to eat, how slow is he to see that he 's a slave; how slow is he to take keep if other men starve or no! Alas! Alack!”
“W-Wat Tyler 's one that hath enough to-to-to eat,”said the peddler.
“Yea,”she answered slowly;“but I fear me Wat doth not all for the people's sake. He 's a proud man, Wat.”
“J-J-Jack Straw?”quoth the peddler.
“Talk not to me of Jack Straw,”she cried.“Would that I could trust Jack Straw! He must not come at the King. Where 's a true man to lead the people? Thou might'st, well, peddler,—but for thy stammering tongue.”
He sunk his chin on his breast and strode beside her, dogged, silent.
One day they came to a manor-house, very grim, and moated round about; and as they stood on the edge of the moat, looking in, there rode by three damsels with falcons on their wrists, and a page boy with them who hollaed to let down the drawbridge. Now while as they waited, and the bridge creaked, one of those damsels espied Calote, and marvelled at the colour of her hair which blew about her face.
“Come hither, wench!”said this maiden, whose name was Eleyne.“Art thou a jongleuse?”
“I can sing a many tales, madame,”Calote answered.
“Ah, Saint Mary! bring her in!”cried another of the damsels; the fairest this one, hight Godiyeva.
“Yonder fellow, hath he his wits?”asked the youngest of the three, and she pointed at the peddler.
“His wits, yea, madame; but not his tongue,”said Calote.
“Haply he 'll dance, or leap, or twirl swords on his finger tip?”Godiyeva averred.“We 're so dull; hath been no minstrel nor jongleur, nor bearward even, at our gate for nigh on three moons.”
“Canst thou do any of these things?”Calote asked the peddler; but he shook his head.
“Natheless, mesdames, he 's as hungry as I be. Prythee let him dine,”she pleaded.
“Let him labour, forsooth,”answered Eleyne.“A carl so sturdy, so young, and a beggar? For shame!”
“I 'll gladly sing for two,”Calote protested.
“N-nay, mistress, g-go in,”said the peddler;“I-I-I 'll linger hereabout.”
So the three damsels and the page clattered over the drawbridge, which was now let down, and Calote followed on her feet.
These three maids were daughters of a certain Sir Austin, the lord of the manor, a fat, red old man, a glutton and a widower. Even now, he stood in the hall a-fuming for his dinner, which the steward brought in hot from the kitchen so soon as the ladies came through the door. He rated them harshly for their tardiness, and they passed him by with sullen, haughty faces, stepping to the dais; only the youngest clipped him round the neck and set her lips to his with a loud smack and a merry laugh, so that he was fain to smile at her, and stint his grumbling.
Calote sat below the dais at the long board, betwixt a waiting-woman and a friar; over against her sat the bailiff, and leered at her, and would have fed her sweet morsels on the end of his dagger but she drew backward; whereat they all laughed loud, and the bailiff turned purple and ugly, and the friar twisted on the bench to have a long look at her. This was the first time ever Calote had dined in a great house. She could not but marvel at the strange dishes all spiced and covered over with sauces. When she had drunk to the bottom of her cup of ale, the friar filled it up again to the brim. When she would have eaten her trencher bread, the waiting-woman, with a snort, jerked it from her and tossed it into a basket where were other scraps of broken food. After, when Sir Austin and his daughters had dipped their fingers in water, and wiped them on a white linen towel, a page boy came to Calote and bade her go sing her song. So she went and sat on the dais step, and the youngest daughter, Custance, who sat now on her father's knee a-munching sweets, leaned down smiling, and said she:—
“Whence art thou, not out o' the north, I trow, by thy tongue?”
“I live in London, fair lady,”Calote made answer; and with that all three cried out:—
“London! then haply thou hast a tale o' that poet, Dan Chaucer; he 's in favour with the great Duke.”
“Ay, mesdames; there 's one tale of his I know,”said Calote, and thereupon she told them of the Life of Saint Cecyle, and how she was wedded to a young man, and an angel came down from heaven to twine them with garlands of roses.
“Oh!”and“Ah!”said the damsels, smiling one on another;“a sweet tale!”
And how the governor of the city cut off Cecyle's head, for that she was a Christian. But she had a stubborn neck, would not break in three blows o' the sword.
And“Oh!”and“Ah!”shrieked the damsels, clasping their white throats with their soft fingers.“Tell on, tell on! A grisly tale!”
This was one of those jewels that Dan Chaucer after set in the chain that he called the Canterbury Tales; nevertheless, at that time 't was already cut in the rough, albeit not yet polished for the setting, and Calote had heard it.
“Anon, anon!”cried Custance, when the tale was ended; and her father being asleep, she slipped off his knee and sat down on the dais step by the side of Calote, her chin in her hand.
“Nay, let them clear the hall,”said Eleyne.“'T is late; I 've a gown to mend. What say ye, if we keep the maid and hearken to but one tale each day? So we 'll wile our tediousness.”
So Calote stayed in the manor-house and slept of nights on a sheepskin at the foot of Custance's bed.
The third day after her coming, Sir Austin held his court in the hall. The bailiff was there and the reeve, and certain villeins that would make complaint, or be complained against. And the peddler also was there, set twixt the reeve and the bailiff. Sir Austin sat in his great chair on the dais, and in the other end of the hall, against the lancet windows, Eleyne, and Godiyeva, and Custance sat, sewing a seam. Calote knelt at Custance's elbow, and they all four babbled soft of Sir Gawaine, and drew their needles in and out, and lifted an eye now and again to mark what was toward in the other end of the hall.
When first the peddler came in, he looked about him hastily, as one seeking, but when he saw Calote, 't would seem as he sighed and stood at his ease.
“Yon 's thy beggar, is 't not?”asked Custance of Calote.
And Calote answered her:“Yea, lady!”and henceforth was mindful of him, and of the business.
There was one villein who craved leave to give his daughter in marriage,—and he had brought the money to pay. There was another who would be quit of his service of ploughing the lord's land, and he also brought his pence and counted them out in his hand, and the lord took them and gave him quittance for that time. In Yorkshire there were many villeins might commute service thus, and welcome. There was another had fought with his fellow in a tavern brawl, and both these the lord sent to the stocks. There was a young shepherd come to ask that he might have a lad with him to help him keep his flock; 't was a great flock and strayed over the wolds.
“Hast thou such a lad, bailiff?”growled Sir Austin. There was gold in wool,—'t were best keep it safe.
“Haply, Sir Austin,”said the bailiff, and thrust forward the peddler.“Here 's an idle fellow hath dawdled twixt the manor and the village these three days. He will not go, he will not stay; knoweth not his own mind. There 's enough idlers among them that make pretence to labour, and shall I countenance sloth that 's avowed open?”
“I-I-I 'm a free man,”said the peddler.
“A pox o' free men!”shouted Sir Austin.“No man is free to eat his head off in idleness o' my land. Wilt begone?”
“I-I-I,”stammered the peddler, looking on Calote, who had drawn nigh the better to learn what was going forward.
“Wilt stay?”roared Sir Austin.
Again the peddler looked on Calote.
“'T is a kind man,”said she, going up to the dais.“Hath done me much service in my wanderings. 'S tongue 's slow.”
Sir Austin smiled on her.
“A man plougheth not with his tongue, wench,”said he.“Neither hath he need of 's tongue to mind sheep, but if he whistle. Hark ye, rogue, I 'll give thee another day to gather together thy slow wits; thereafter thou 'lt labour, or get thee gone,—else I 'll make thee free o' the stocks.”
The villeins and other servitors were now lagging forth of the hall, and mid the noise and stir the peddler said to Calote, hastily:—
“D-dost thou bide long i-in this place?”
“How can I tell?”she answered.
“Wh-when thou art ready to begone, thou 'lt find me sh-shepherding on the wolds. Meanwhile, k-keep thy dagger loose in its sheath.”
Then he left her and went to the edge of the dais.
“S-sir Knight, I-I 'll make shift to aid thy sh-shepherd,”he said. And presently he was gone out with the villeins.
Calote walked down the hall to the windows, pondering. She had kept her dagger secret even from this peddler. How should he know? Yet, 't were a simple thing, no doubt; her gown was ragged. But at night, when she lay on the sheepskin a-turning over the day in her mind, she asked herself why the peddler should stay for her.
“Alas,—wehl awey!”she sighed, and her face burned in the dark.
After a little she said again:“Wehl awey!”
The heather was not in blossom, but the breath of spring sweetened the wolds. Diggon the shepherd gave his new man a sheepskin to warm him in, and together they two kept the flock. Out in the lonely open the peddler forsook his stammer as much as he might, for the nonce; yet now and again 't would master him against his will, and so did all his life after. If a man hold his unruly member halting two year, 't will take revenge.
This Diggon, shepherd, was a gentle being, with a mind like to the Yorkshire wolds, filled full of space, and sky and silence. Whiles, likewise, was his mind purple-clad; then he 'd speak slow words concerning God, and the creatures, and life. Last Christmas Eve he heard the angels singing in heaven, he said. The night of Good Friday, three weeks past, he had a vision of the Rood.—The peddler crossed himself.—One day he lost a lamb, and when he had searched from noon till sunset, and the sea mist was coming in, he met a man larger than life, carried the young lamb in his arm.
When the peddler told him the tale of Piers Ploughman, he listened with a great joy in his eyes.
“In that day,”quoth he,“they 'll cease to ride the hunt across the wolds and scatter the sheep.”
When the peddler instructed him of the Fellowship that was joining hand over all England, he rubbed his head, perplexed.
“We been brothers and Christen men ever,”he said.“Here 's no new thing.”
Of new laws and new masters and freedom he took no keep.
“Am I not free?”he asked, and spread his arms out east and west, as to gather in the moors.
“But all men are not so content as thou,”said the peddler.“They are ill-fed, they must work without stint. Wilt not thou join hand to help them that suffer?”
“Yea, brother,”Diggon answered him;“yea!”But then he knit his brows, and,“If all we go up to London to reason with nobilité, who 'll take care o' the sheep?”
The peddler sat silent, abashed; till on a sudden Diggon threw his head back and laughed, with“Who but the Good Shepherd!—Diggon 's a fool!”
So the days passed, and the peddler waited for Calote. She, meanwhile, was taken into favour at the manor-house. Old Sir Austin would chuck her under chin and follow her with his watery eyes in a way that she mistrusted. She wondered that the daughters observed naught; but they paid little heed to their father. The youngest loved him as a spoiled child will, for sake of gain; but the other two were peevish if he spoke to them.
Godiyeva he had thwarted in a marriage with a lord's son, with whom he was at feud, and she could not forget. In truth, he was so quarrelsome that his neighbours shunned his company; and he, on his part, cast gibes upon his daughters, for that they could not get them husbands.
“Is one comfort,”said Eleyne on a day when he had baited them till they wept for rage and shame.“Is one comfort; if no gentlemen will come anigh this house, will no gentlewoman neither. They be all afeared o' thee. If we must dwell here forlorn, we are spared a step-dame. Is none would live thy cat and dog life.”
“Sayst thou so? Sayst thou so, hussy?”roared the knight, and would have struck her; but his eye lighted on Calote,—he let drop his hand.“Sayst thou so?”he repeated more softly, and went out chuckling.
“Thou fool!”said Godiyeva to her sister.“What maggot hast thou put in 's head?”
'T was the day next after this one that Calote chose to tell them the tale of the Ploughman. She had been of three minds not to tell it at all; but then she called herself a coward. Of Richard she had never spoke, nor showed the horn, and she did not now. After supper she told her tale, and she said by way of a beginning:—
“This is the last tale I have to tell, mesdames. To-morrow,—or 't maybe the next day, for 't is a long tale,—I must give you thanks of your courtesy, and begone.”
“Ah, stay, and tell them all again!”cried Custance.“We 've not been so merry since Godiyeva's lover flouted her.”
“Peace!”said Eleyne, and Godiyeva's lovely face flamed red.
The old knight chuckled in the chimney corner. He did not snooze to-night, as was his wont; he sat a-blinking on Calote, and sipping his piment, slow. Calote crouched on a low stool, with her face to the fire.
“In a summer season when soft was the sun”—she began, and at the first she spoke hastily, and with a little quaver in her voice. She knew not how they might take this tale.
They took it for a jape, a jest; they laughed. Lady Mede and her sisours and summoners made them very merry. When Repentance called the Seven Sins to confession, and the tale was told of Glutton in the tavern, Sir Austin doubled him up with a loud guffaw and nigh fell into the fire. When Piers Ploughman put up his head, the damsels squealed for joy. When he, this same Piers, set the ladies of the Vision to sew sacking, and the Knight to keep the land freed of foes, Sir Austin's daughters held their sides, and rocked back and forth, the while mirthful tears fell down their faces.
Then Calote lost her patience and forgot to be afraid. She stood up on her feet and faced them with her head high:—
“Natheless, all this shall come to pass!”she cried.“This is a true word. No Goliardeys, I, but a sober singer. 'T is the ploughman, the poor man, shall lead all ye to truth. The rich shall give of their wealth to the poor, in that day; no man shall go naked and hungry. Fine ladies and maids like to me shall love one another.”
Her voice broke, and she put out her hands to the three fair damsels that sat on a bench and stared:—
“I pray you pardon, sweet my ladies, but this matter lieth close to my heart.”
They laughed kindly, and Eleyne said:—
“We 'll love thee for the sake of thy tales, wench, and forgive thee this once that thou art froward.”
“List, child,”said Godiyeva;“the poor is not so greatly to be pitied. I 'd liefer be a glee maiden, free to wander in all England, welcome in every hall and cot,—I 'd liefer be a houseless wench, say I, than—than this that I am.”And Godiyeva arose, lifted her arms wearily above her head, and paced down the hall into the shadows.
“If thou wert gowned in soft stuffs, and thy hair in a net and a horned cap atop,”—Custance mused idly, looking Calote up and down,—“methinks,—methinks,”—hereupon she clapped her hands and leaped to her feet.“Whyfore no? Come, wench, I 've a gown in my chest is too short for me. Here 's a merry sport. We 'll make thee a lady for the nonce.”
“Ay, do!”cried the knight; and presently slapped his leg, and laughed as at a secret thought.
“Nay, lady,”Calote protested; but Custance had her by the hand dragging her from the room.
“Thou 'lt spoil the wench,”said Eleyne;“is over bold now.”And Godiyeva curled her lip scornfully.
Sir Austin laughed yet more loud, and bade his youngest daughter make haste. So Custance caught a lighted cresset from the wall, and hurried Calote up the stair. And Calote, when she saw the azure gown broidered with gold about the hem, and the pointed crimson shoes, and the high cap of green and rose colour with its floating silken veil, made no more protest; for she was young, and a woman.
When all was done, her tiring maid drew back in dumb amaze; then took her hand and led her down to the hall.
At Calote's heart there was a fierce pain.
“Oh, Stephen!”she cried within herself;“oh, Stephen!”Yet what this was that so hurt her she did not ask.
In the hall there was dead silence for the space of a minute. Then the knight came out of his chimney corner a step:—
“God's bones!”quoth he in a half whisper; and Calote, looking in his face, knew that she must go away from this house as soon as might be. She set her hand to her breast and fingered the hilt of the dagger, where she had thrust it unseen of Custance.
“A common peasant! 'T is amazing!”exclaimed Eleyne.
“I knew she was very fair,”said Godiyeva quietly.
“Doth not my pearl net gleam against her gold hair?”cried Custance, and swept a low curtsey before this new-made lady.
“To-night ye may thank Saint Mary your many wooers be not by, my daughters,”mocked them Sir Austin; and Godiyeva tossed her head.
“Tell me, wench,”he continued,“'t would like thee well to be a lady?”
Calote, her heart aching with the thought of Stephen, answered him proudly:—
“I might be one, an I would.”
But immediately she could have bit out her tongue, for the knight had set his own meaning upon her words.
“So ho!”quoth he.“What a witch art thou! Ha, ha, ha!”
“Sir, you mistake,”she said coldly.“I have been sought in honourable marriage by a gentleman, but I would not.”
“And if once sought, wherefore not again?—Wherefore not again?”he asked with a cunning grin, wagging his head.
His three daughters had drawn close together at one side of the hearth; there was anger, astonishment, and fear in their faces. Suddenly the old man turned on them roughly:—
“Get ye gone!”he said.“Off!—To bed!—I 've a delicate business with this—ha, ha—this lady.”
“'T is shameful!”cried Godiyeva.“I 'll not budge,—a common wench, a stroller.”
“Oh, father, wilt thou so shame us?”moaned Eleyne.
“'T is but another jest, dear father; say 't is thy sport,”Custance pleaded.
But for answer he took up his riding-whip and laid it about their shoulders so smartly that they fled from the hall shrieking and cursing him.
A page thrust his head in at the door, but quickly drew it forth again. An old woman that had been asleep in a corner got up and hobbled out in haste. The dogs put tail between their legs and slunk under the settle. Calote, in the firelight, waited. Her knees shook, yet she was not afraid.
When he had cleared the hall the knight threw away his whip, came back to the fire, took the remainder of his piment at one gulp, and hurled the goblet to the far end of the hall.
“So, my lady; wilt have me on my knees, for the more honour?”said he; and she let him grunt, and crack his old joints, for that she knew he could not readily get up if he were once kneeling.
“Now, hearken!”he bade her.“Wilt dwell here and tame yon proud damsels, and shame 'em? I 'm sick o' daughters; I 'd have a son to lean on in mine age. Come,—I 'll marry thee honest. Thou shalt be the envy of all York. Thou shalt wear silken gowns. Here 's a happy life,—no sleeping under hedge nor in the open. So thou do my pleasure I 'll never harm thee. The one that 's gone had never a harsh word from me till the third daughter came, and that was past any man's patience t' endure. By Holy Cuthbert, I swear thou art lovelier than any court lady ever I saw,—and I 've been in Edward's court,—yea, and in France likewise. Kiss me, wench!—By Saint Thomas, but I will kiss thee whether or no!”
He stumbled and staggered to his feet and came at her with a lurch, for his head was dizzy with wine and pleasure.
“Sir, I will not marry no knight,—nor lord of a manor,—unless he set free all his villeins,‘ she said, and slipped aside. ’Neither will I kiss any man for love, till we be promised together.”
“Free my villeins, pardé,”he cried.“Do I not take quit-rent of the half of them even now? They be as good as freed.”
“But I will have them altogether freed.”
He sat down in the chimney corner and wiped his brow:—
“Pish! Here 's not a matter to be decided without law and lawyers. I must think on 't. Come hither, my lady; give me good-night.”
But when he saw that she moved away to the door, he sprang up heavily and caught her about the middle.
“Sir,”she panted,“methought 't was thy mood to shame thy daughters; yet this shameth only me.”
“True!”he said;“my daughters!”—and let her go.“But I 'll not be so patient another night. We 'll have a priest on the morrow.”
“First, free thy villeins!”she made answer, and slipped through the door.
Above stairs she found the three damsels crouched on one bed, their heads together. Godiyeva hurled a foul name upon her as she entered.
“Peace!”said she.“Your father hath consented to wait till the morrow morn. Now, if ye are not minded to have a step-dame ruling here, make haste to strip me of these fine clothes, and show me a way to depart softly while 't is yet dark.”
“Thou wilt go!”queried Godiyeva.
For answer, Calote took off the bright cap from her head and kicked away the crimson shoes. Then distance set to work hastily to undo the gown, and the dagger fell out and rattled to the floor. Godiyeva carried it to the light, looked at it, and brought it back, but asked no question.
“Why dost thou wear this bag under thy gown?”said Custance.
“For safety, madame,”Calote replied, and thrust her arms into the sleeves of her old russet.
Custance still held the bag, but no one dared ask further.
“I will take her down the other stair to the water-gate and put her in the boat,”said Godiyeva.
“God and Saint Mary bless thee!”whispered Eleyne, and would have pressed silver into her hand, but Calote shook her head and smiled.
Custance kissed her.
At the water-gate there floated a little boat, and Godiyeva got into this with her and sent it across the moat in three strong shoves of a pole.
“Which way is the shepherd's way, where the flock is?”asked Calote.
“To southward of here,”Godiyeva answered; and then,“I repent me of that name I called thee.”
“Dear lady,”said Calote,“I 'll pray Christ Jesus and Mary his mother, that they send thee happiness.”
So she went away into the night, beneath the pale shine of a waning moon, and Godiyeva crossed the moat, and climbed the stair.
“'T was a hunting horn she had in her bag,”whispered Custance.“I felt the form of it under the flannel. Dost believe she 's that chaste fairy lady, Dian, the poets sing?”
“Nay, she 's a woman, like to us,”said Godiyeva, and lay down on her bed.
Out on the wolds Diggon and the peddler had built a fire to warm a new-born lamb. The while they sat with their arms about their knees, looking into the fire, they spoke of Christ's Passion, and death. Said the peddler, out of the Vision:—