'And Reason shall reckon with you if I reign anywhile,And judge you by this day as ye have deserved.'"
And when they had heard the words of Long Will's Vision, they laughed, and not a few wept for joy.
“Persuade him that he come to us,”whispered John Ball.
“Do thou,”Wat retorted, uneasy.“Thou hast a softer tongue and more learning. Cursed be these fools!”
“Let one speak!”said the King,“and say what the people will have.”
There was pause, rustle, a craning of necks to see.
Jack Straw shook as with an ague fit. Wat Tyler started uncertain, looked at John Ball, and drew back.
“Speak thou!”said the priest, low.“I am under ban of Holy Church,—his guardians will not hear me patiently.”
There began to be a murmur:“Speak!—Speak!”and it waxed louder.
“I 'm a rough man; Jack, thou 'rt the crafty one,—oil thy tongue to persuasion.”
“If I speak now, wilt thou be silent hereafter?”asked Jack.“Art thou leader—or”—
“Thou false hound!”said Wat.
“Where is Wat Tyler?—Where is John Ball?”cried the people; and the muttering began to be a roar.“Speak!—Speak!—To be free!—Speak!”
“Rather fall on those others and carry him off to our midst!”Wat exclaimed, fingering his knife and breathing quick.
John Ball caught his arm.
The throng swayed, and Richard's horse reared.
Then out of the press strode Will Langland, the maker of the Vision Concerning Piers Ploughman.
“Sire!”he said, and his voice was heard so far that the muttering and the swaying ceased,—“sire, we ask three gifts of thy grace; and the first gift is to be free men. No longer villeins and serfs, but free; no longer bound to the soil, but free to go and come, to marry our daughters to whom we will, to grind our corn at our own mill,—to be free! The High God, Emperor of heaven, when he set our father Adam upon this earth, who was this man's master?”
Richard turned his head to look on the Earl of Salisbury:—
“Thy will is our will, sire,”said the old man.
And immediately the King stood up in his stirrups, and:—
“Yea,—we will set each other free,”he cried.“Lo, I strike off your fetters, and I too am free!”
For a space of a minute there was silence, awe; and then the cry, hoarse, shaken twixt wonder and terror. Then silence came again, white-lipped, and there were a-many fainted in their brothers' arms. And that was a long silence.
“Speak!”said Richard huskily to Long Will.“Here 's one grace granted,—name other two.”
“That we may pay a rent henceforth for the land whereto we were bound aforetime. We are not thieves, neither would we be lollers,—we be honest men desirous to till the land. Four pence the acre is the rate we would pay.”
“Ay, ay, four pence!”cried a score of men.
“'T is folly!”whispered Thomas of Woodstock and the Earl of Warwick angrily.“'T cannot be done! Fools!—So paltry price is ruinous!”
“Natheless, let it stand, my lords, and patience,”said Salisbury.“A price may well be changed.—Now, 't is wise to grant all. If the people sees that we dissuade the King, hardly shall we escape alive. God knows I be not afeared o' death, but I would serve the King the best way,—and 't is not by dying.”
“Four pence the acre,”said Richard;“this also do I grant.”
“And the third grace, O King,”said Long Will;—“the third is pardon!”And he went down on his knees, and immediately all that multitude fell down, and some on their faces, crying,“Pardon!”—“Pardon for John Ball!—Pardon!—Pardon!—For Wat Tyler!—For all!—For all!”
“It shall be written that ye are pardoned,”said Richard.“It shall be written that ye are free!”
And then they came leaping about him, weeping, singing, blessing; and he sat in their midst with tears rolling down his face.
“It shall be written!”they cried;“it shall be written!—Bring clerks!”And presently there were set down some thirty clerks, and Will Langland among them, a-scribbling. And so they were busied two hours and more in that place.
Stephen came and leaned on Will's shoulder, and,“Eh, well, my father, what th-think'st thou?”he asked, exultant.
Will stayed not his hand, but with head bent above the parchment he said:“Methinks Parliament will have somewhat to say of this matter. Kings of England may not bind and loose at their own pleasure; though 't is the people that ask. Here 's a riddle.”
“But thou?”—Stephen faltered.
“I spake for the people.”—Then he turned to a ploughman, with,“Here, brother, is thy parchment. Keep it dry, and pray God it may serve thee in time of need. Where is Wat Tyler?”
“He went to the Tower an hour past; said he had business therein.”
Now the King gave also of his own banners, to each county a banner, that the men when they returned to their villages might be known to be King's men on the highway, and no rioters. And a-many, so soon as they had their pardon and parchment of freedom, went back to their own home;—and this was what Salisbury desired. Nevertheless, the most part of the people abode where they were, and when the King set out to return to the city, they were with him, singing and shouting, and he in their midst. But when they were come to Aldgate and turned into the way that led to the Tower, there rode to meet them a soldier of the Tower, that said:—
“Sire, we have taken madame your mother to Barnard Castle Ward, and the Garde Robe, hard by Paul's Church. Will it please you go thither. The Tower is taken and no longer safe.”
“No longer safe?”laughed Richard.“How now!”
“Sire,”said the soldier,“the people have slain the Archbishop of Canterbury, and set up his head on London Bridge.”
Illustration: Capital S
YMKINROYSE," said Long Will; and Symkin came and took his papers and thrust them in his breast.
Long Will sat by the window of the cot on Cornhill, filling in the King's pardons and manumissions. Within the house there was a score and more of labourers and villeins awaiting their turn and making merry meanwhile. Without in the street men kissed and sang, and wept for joy, and danced. Beneath Dame Emma's ale-stake they sat drinking, with women on their knees. In the tavern also there were clerks writing.
“Adam Kempe,”said Will; and, when Adam had folded his papers very small in the point of his hood,“Give thee God-speed o' thy homeward way, brother.”
“Nay, not yet!”quoth the rustic.“All 's not ended. I bide the bidding o' Wat Tyler and Jack Straw. Is more work to do.”
“What more?”asked Will, drawing forth a fresh pardon.
The man chuckled.
Presently came Kitte with black bread and beans and a mug of ale, which she set down in the window beside her husband.
“Eat,”she said.“These have waited a lifetime to be free; let them wait now three minutes. Thou 'rt famished.”
He smiled sadly.“Were they in vérité free, I 'd gladly starve,”he said; and Calote heard this, who ever stood near her father.
“The King's seal is affixed to every of these papers,”said she.“What more?”
But Will had filled his mouth with beans, and chewed, the while he wrote.
“Ah,”sighed Calote;“wherefore may I not rejoice?”And on a sudden she had caught her mother by the two hands and danced with her down the long room and into the lane. But there she paused twixt laughter and tears, and:—
“Oh, mother, is 't naught to thee that England is free?”she cried.“Sing!—Laugh!—Kiss me, mother!—Be glad!”
“I 'll kiss thee,”Kitte said, and so did, thrice, smiling tenderly.“When thou and thy father are at peace, I am at peace likewise.”
There came a cloud in Calote's eyes.“But dost thou love none but my father and me?”she asked.
“I love mine own,”said Kitte.“Thy husband I shall love, and thy children. I am glad thy children will be free men.”
Calote clung to her mother.“And I had forgotten them!”she said.“Yet, meseems as every peasant in England were child of mine this day, so doth my heart beat for them. I 'm mother to all free English!—Ah!”She cast her arms above her head, and her face was shining.
“Thou art thy father's daughter,”Kitte said; but then she caught the maid to her breast:“Thy father's daughter,”quoth she,“but I 'm the woman that bore thee. Thou wilt not be always content to mother the world only.”
“There be a-many kinds of love,”Calote mused.“One while methought certain of those were forbidden to me,—but mayhap”—
And now there was a clatter of tongues in the house and they went in again out of the lane. Wat and Jack were come, and many with them. Some of these were roaring drunk, but Wat was sober enough, and Jack.
Will Langland wrote certain words on a parchment and handed to Wat.
“What 's this?”Wat asked;“Piers' bull?”
“'T is thy pardon,”Will answered him.
And Wat took the parchment and tore it across:—
“I ask pardon of no man!”he cried.“That I do is well done. Neither is this the end.”
Will arose from his seat in the window and went and put his hand on Wat's shoulder:—
“'T is time thou wert o' the road to Dartford,”said he,“and all these scattered. Is naught more to do. Let Piers get back to his plough and keep his hand from mischief. He 's free; his house is swept and garnished; 'ware lest other devils enter in. Go home, Wat! Thou hast done well.”
“Then I 'll do bet,”said Wat.“Is thy knife keen, Jack? Who comes with us, my brothers?”
“I,—I,—I!”cried all; and Will thrust pen in penner and went out with them.
“Whither do ye go?”Calote asked Jack Straw.“And wherefore is thy knife keen? Now is peace.”
“We go to kill pigs by the waterside. Hark, and presently thou 'lt hear them squeal,”he answered.
And as they went down the street, she heard them crying out against the Flemings that took bread out of poor men's mouths with weaving of English wool.
“Thy children are unruly,”said Kitte.“But 't is the way of all such. Nay, weep not, my daughter,—weep not!”
“Oh, mother, dost not thou weep that blood is shed?”
“Yea,”Kitte answered indifferent;“but if thy father come to no harm, I shall dry my tears.”
These Flemings were certain weavers from over sea that came to England, the greater number of them in the lifetime of King Edward III. and the good Queen Philippa. And whereas before that time much wool was sent out of England across the Channel to be wove into cloth, now it was more and more woven in this country. But forasmuch as by courtesy of King Edward, Flemings needed not to pay the gild tax, therefore were they hated of the gild of weavers of London; and these persuaded Jack Straw and other peasant folk that if there were weavers in England, they ought to be English weavers; and wherefore should the English go hungry and in bonds when Flemings fed and were free? A-many of these weavers dwelt in the streets by the waterside, and thither went Wat and Jack and Will,—the mob swelling at their heels. This was a London mob, prentices and artisans for the most part.
“What 's to gain?”asked Will.
“Blood!”Wat answered him.
Then, they being come to an open place and beyond was a long street silent, deserted, Will turned him to the mob.
“Go back, brothers!”he cried.“Do not wilfully shed blood.”
“On,—on!”screamed Jack Straw.“Do they not eat your bread and pay naught?”
The rabble shouted and pressed forward. Long Will spread his arms out wide, as he would keep the street.
“Ye are mad!”he said.“Will ye slay innocent folk?”
“Innocent!”yelled a weaver's prentice, and the mob growled, but none put aside Long Will out of the way.
“These are your brothers,”he persisted,—“honest workingmen like to yourselves.”
“Brothers!”sneered Jack Straw.“Hear him, ye men of London! Are we brothers to Flemish hogs?”
“Out of the way, Will,”said Wat.“They 'll trample thee.”
“O men of London, prentices, citizens,”the poet cried anew,“will ye sin against hospitality?”
A snarl answered him.
“Will ye betray the guest that shelters in your house?”
The snarl had sunk to a murmur.
“Will ye betray the bidden guest?”
“'T is a lie!”said Jack.
“A lie! A lie!”yelled a score of throats.“'T was not we bid them.”
“Doth not the King speak the will of the people?”Langland asked.“And King Edward bade them come.”
“Nay!”said Wat,“the King hath not spoke the will of the people in my day ever.”
“Nay,—nay,—nay!”the mob answered him.
“Stand o' one side, brother,”Wat said again.“We would not harm thee.”
“I 'll bide here!”Will answered, and lifting up his voice,“Is enough blood shed in this rising. I say ye shall not murder these harmless strangers.”
“Ho, ho!”roared Jack,“poet looketh to the noblesse for a son-in-law, and we do know English cloth is not fine enough for the court.”
There went up a howl of rage from weavers in the throng. They would have rushed into the street and over Will, but Wat set his back against the press, and also there was another man, pot-bellied, grizzled, withstood them.
“Serfs,—villeins!”cried Will,“ye are not fit to be free! The King hath rent your bonds in sunder, and how do ye repay him?”
“We be men of London, never villeins!”roared the half of that mob.
“Natheless, ye are in bonds to Satan your master, and ye do his work!”Langland answered them, his face flushed.
“Who hath stirred us up this twenty year?”shouted a voice in the crowd.“Thou, Will Langland! Thou, false traitor! Wilt desert thy fellows?—Coward!—Limb o' Satan, thou, if we be Devil's men.”
Then there were many voices:—
“His daughter hath married a lord!”
“Curse him for a renegade!”
“Out o' the way!”
“On, on!—the Flemings!”
Will budged no inch,—his arms were spread wide.
“I say ye do defeat your own end by this slaughter. To-day ye have the victory, freedom, and pardon. Disperse! What will ye more? Hath not the King given all was asked?”
“All thou didst ask!”said a voice.
His face flamed red.“Ingrate cowards!”he cried,—and then on a sudden his wrath was spent. He dropped his arms, his voice was level:“The cause is lost!”he said.“Love is a long way off, and truth.”
Not many heard him, for that the clamour was risen anew; the foremost men lurched forward, thrust upon by those behind. Wat, crying“On, brothers!”flung Will aside, and the pot-bellied man also laid hold on the poet and drew him close within a doorway,—none too soon, for the mob was let loose, and rushing down the street as 't were a torrent. Presently houses began to be burst open, and men flung out of window.
Will sat bowed together on the doorstone.
“A sight not to be soon forgot,”said the grizzled one, breathing quick.
Will lifted his head.“Thou, Master Chaucer!”he said.
“Ay, brother,—well met!”
“No friend of Gaunt is safe in London streets.”
“Who is safe?”asked Chaucer.“No friend of the people, neither.”
Langland groaned and clasped his head in his hands.
“'T was said thou hadst made peace,”said Chaucer.“Methought 't was ended, this rioting.”
“Peace!”cried Long Will.“There shall be no peace so long as men strive to be king. When they have forgot to add glory unto themselves, when they are content to serve their brothers,—then cometh peace.”
“Take heart, brother,”said Dan Chaucer.“Here be two men that do not desire a kingdom,—thou, and I. To be singers is enough,—and this is to serve men.”
“Singers!”Will groaned.“Singers!—Oh!—See what a song hath wrought!”
Then said Master Chaucer, cheerily,“'T is somewhat to die for a song's sake. I have not yet stirred men so deep.”
“I am I, and thou art thou,”Will answered him.
Illustration: Capital S
IMONSudbury's head hung grinning above London Bridge, and young Richard lay at his length, face downward, on the stone floor of his chamber in the Garde Robe, sobbing sick. None dared enter, not his mother, nor Stephen, nor Mayor Walworth, nor Salisbury. Hushed and fearful they waited behind the arras at the door, hearkening to the boy how he wept and cursed and rent his garments. Now 't was the people he railed upon, for that they had so burdened him with bloodguiltiness in recompense of all his benefits:—
“I 'll torture them!”he cried, gnashing his teeth.“Ingrates—Hounds!—Christ hear me!—I will avenge thy servant,—I will avenge old Simon!”
Now 't was Sudbury he cursed for a fool:—
“Is this to serve a king?—To set his soul in peril of hell?—Not on my head the Archbishop's blood, O God, not on my head! I 'm innocent! How should I know he 'd be tamely taken? Fool that he was!—Weak fool!”
And so he wept, blaspheming Christ, and beating with his hands upon the stones.
“I loved them,—I loved them, good Jesu!—I gave them liberty,—and they have betrayed me. Curse them! They shall be bound with new bonds. I 'll have a bath of their blood,—I 'll drink it!—My people,—mine!—and I loved them! Christ, I was betrayed; 't was not of mine own will Sudbury was slain. I swear it,—O God, hear mine oath!—Poor fool Simon! Pity!—pity!—How might I guess? Ah, Emperor of Heaven, all-wise, I am so little while a king! Pity!”
At the last he lay so still they thought he swooned, and the squire came in a-tiptoe.
“Etienne,”said Richard then, lying all on heap,“bring hither a scourge,—a knotted scourge. And bar the door.”
And when the scourge was brought, and the door barred, and the Queen-Mother weeping without, Richard got to his knees, shaking, sodden, and tore his shirt off his back.
“Lay on!”he said.“The people have set their sins on my shoulders; the Archbishop hath laden me with his trespass. Lay on the scourge!”
Etienne lifted his arm as he would strike, then lowered it.
“Sire,”said he,“leave scourging till this business is ended. Is not yet time. Thou must be leader of this people. Already thou hast set them free from their lords and them that held them in bonds; now must they be set free from their own fellows that would make them slaves,—from Wat Tyler and Jack Straw. If thou overturn these, the people is in the hollow of thy hand.”
“Then will I chastise!”snarled the boy.“They shall feel the rod. They have slain a good man and a priest,—the man that stood next the King in this realm of England. These dogs have slain an archbishop,—and shall I alone suffer for it? Ah!”—He cast up his right hand in menace and sobs shook him.“I loved them,—I loved my people, and thus do they requite me! Will scourgings in my body or in their own wipe off this blot of holy blood wherewith they 've stained my soul?”
“Oh, my lord,”said Stephen,“if we bear our brothers' sins, what do we more than Christ Jesus that bore our sins in His Body on rood? Yet was He sinless; and so art thou sinless as concerning the death of the Archbishop.”
Richard put out his hand and plucked Stephen's sleeve:“Dost believe it?‘ he cried, and there went a shudder through him. ’Ah, but—but—when Simon said, 'I know a way,'—I knew what 't was to mean,—and yet—I went forth and left him. Etienne, Etienne,—I am afeared I knew what 't was to mean! I am afeared I knew!—I am so afeared!”
Etienne kneeled down and set his hands on the boy's shivering shoulders, and looked in the frighted eyes:—
“This were impossibilité to know, sire,”he said.“Say it not again,—nor think it. Already I have forgotten thy words. Thou couldst not divine the will of most high God. Thou art not afeared. Stand up and be the King!”
Slowly, his eyes staring in Stephen's eyes, Richard got to his feet.“I—I—could not—know!”he gasped.“I could not know!—I must forget; yes. Even a king could not know. But I shall alway fear I”—He broke off and stood silent.
When he spoke again he said,“What noise is that?”
“The prentices and men of London are killing Flemish weavers, sire, not far away. 'T is a hellish mob.”
“Presently they shall have a glut of blood,”said the boy very quiet.“I 'll see to 't. Go now, and bid them meet their King on the morrow at Smithfield.—Nay,—have no fear, I 'll be gentle with these beasts. I 'm not all fool.”
“Oh, sire, for love's sake be gentle, not for hate! They are thy people.”
“Etienne, Etienne,—did I not love them? I set them free. Ah,—do not, do not,—I shall weep again,—and I 've left weeping.”
Illustration: Capital N
IGHTwas fallen on that unlucky Friday, but the massacre of the Flemings not yet ended, when Stephen came to Langland's cot from the Garde Robe where Richard sheltered.
“Will! Where 's Will?”cried Kitte, searching the squire's face.
“Not here?”
“Ah, woe!”said Kitte, and went and sat down heavily in a corner.
Stephen had with him a torch, and he set it in a ring by the wall. It was all the light in that house. Then he sat on the old chest and Calote came to his side. He was very weary and leaned his head in his hand.
“What is to be the end?”Calote questioned him.
“Christ Jesus answer,”said Stephen.
“But the King hath pardoned and set free!”she persisted.
“Alas, the King!”he cried.
Calote stared on him, and then took him by the shoulder fearfully, saying:—
“What will the King do?”
“No man knoweth what the King will do. Neither doth the King know. But he will follow his mood.—Who can guess what the mood of a king shall be? To-day a blessing, to-morrow a curse.”
“Thou 'rt sick with weariness,”she whispered, and took his head in her arms against her breast.
“Who shall say that this people deserveth to be free?”he mused.
“This is matter of judgment for Christ Jesus,”she answered soft.“What hast thou to do with it,—what hath the King?”
“Is not the King anointed of God?”said he.
A moment she was silent, and when she spoke her voice was slow, uncertain:“I would not blaspheme,”she said,“but whiles I wonder if he be not anointed of men. The King of Heaven hath a most marvellous confidence to give this realm of England into the hands of a little wilful lad.”
“Is 't wiser to set Wat Tyler in his room?—Natheless, on the morrow this may hap.”
“God forbid!”murmured Calote.
“I 'm bidden say the King will meet all peasants and other that have borne a part in this rising, the morrow morn at Smithfield. This is all I know, or any man else in England. Behooves me go forth to find Wat.”
“Nay,—rest here!—He will surely come to this house when his bloodthirstiness is quenched.”
“Calote,”said Kitte,“come to bed! From the upper window I 'll keep watch for thy father.”
“Thou wilt stay?”Calote pleaded with Stephen.
“Yea,”he assented, kissing her good-night.
So Calote and Kitte mounted to the chamber under the roof, but Stephen lay down on the floor of the lower room, and presently he was fast asleep.
The torch went out, but the door into the lane was open and a little moonlight shone on Stephen's face. Without on Cornhill red-handed prentices were going home to their beds. There was fierce mirth in Dame Emma's tavern. After a little the front door of the cot was pushed open and a man came in. When he had stood still a moment, he heard the sound of measured breathing in the room and he knew that a man was asleep there. Then he saw where the sleeper lay, on the edge of the moonlight; and after this he came more close and saw the sleeper's face. But his own face was hid by the darkness. He drew something from his belt and it flashed against the shine of the moon and dripped. Then he came betwixt Stephen and the door, and the light was cut off from Stephen's face. There was no sound in the room but Stephen's breathing,—'t would seem the other held his breath. He kneeled down, and now 't was his own face the moon shone on. He was smiling very evil. He lifted up his hand that held the flashing thing,—and Kitte in the doorway cried“Awake!”in a very loud voice and threw herself upon the man, and he turned his hand and drove the knife into her breast. Then he fled by the door, and Kitte fell across Stephen's knees where he had sat up on a sudden out of his sleep.
When he would have lifted her, he found the hilt of the knife.
“Do not draw it forth,”said Kitte,“not yet. Will—may—come.”
Then Stephen called Calote, who came into this great grief rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“Nay, weep not, child,”said Kitte when 't was told.“What shall thy true love believe,—dost thou grudge him life?”
But Calote sobbed more bitterly, lying on the floor beside her mother.
“Will,”Kitte whispered; and Stephen went to the door and looked out and saw him coming.
“I have been going up and down,”said Will,“praying mercy. But they are mad with blood. One man I saved; but when I came that way again another had slain him and he lay in the ditch. Yonder in the tavern Wat and his demon Pride make merry and proclaim how they will rule England. Poor Wat! Already there be certain of his fellows look askance. Poor Wat!”
“Go in!”whispered Stephen, and told him.
After, the squire pushed him in for that he stood as one in amaze, and shut the door on all that sorrow. But himself remained without, and presently crossed the street to the tavern to give Richard's message to the roisterers.
“Will,”said Kitte,“do not grieve. Thou 'rt—the more—free—to serve thy—lady—Saint Truth.”
“Did that grieve thee?”he groaned.“In the Vision 't is a man, Truth.”
“Calote hath—her—love—and thou—freedom.—Better so!”
“Hush, mother, oh, hush!”sobbed Calote.“Dost thou not love us that thou canst leave us lone so willing? Say thou 'rt sorrowing to leave us! Ah, mother, say 't!”
Kitte looked in Long Will's eyes.
“Love us!”he cried. And then,“Kitte,—Kitte, is this likewise failure? What have I done?—Stay,—and learn me to love! Oh, thou true loving wife!—What have I done,—what have I done?—Forgive me!”
“Draw forth—knife,—the more ease,”she said.
The blood came in a great gush very swift.
“Kiss me,”she whispered.
And when he had done this, she was dead.
Illustration: Capital I
N the dawn of Saturday London streets were all astir. On all the streets and amid the lanes close by Thames the Flemish widows bewailed their dead. On Cheapside and along Cornhill men were met together; some there were in bands with banners, and some singly. Also there ran up and down certain fellows that cried:—
“Go ye to Smithfield, good folk, 't is the King's will to meet with you in that place.”
Others shouted:“Wat Tyler biddeth you to Smithfield, all the Fellowship.”
Whereat there were a-many laughed; and they said:“Do we the bidding of Wat Tyler, or is the King our liege and lord?”
But there were others frowned.
“Heard ye Wat in Dame Emma's tavern last night?”they said, and their brows bent dark.
“In Norfolk do we dub so proud speech treason.”
Then looked every man over his shoulder hastily.
“Wat was drunk,”quoth one after a little.
“When a man 's drunk he spills more than his victual,”other answered him.
“Wat Tyler biddeth you to Smithfield, all the Fellowship!”bawled the crier.
“Wat Tyler's leader of the Fellowship, what harm?”
“Or John Ball?”
“I 'm of Jack Straw's ményé.”
“Good folk, good folk, to Smithfield,—do the King's bidding!”shouted another crier.
“Afore all I 'm King's man,”said a Kentish villein.
“And I!”
“And I!”
“God keep the King!”
These things, and more after this same manner, the people said one to another in the way to Smithfield. By New Gate they went, and Moor Gate and Alders Gate, for this Smithfield was without the wall beyond Saint Bartholomew's; a market square, wherein butchers slaughtered their beef, a foul, ill-smelling place; and every man that went thither on that June day was in some kind a butcher, with hosen bespattered with blood, and brown patches dried on tabard and courtepy. Neither had they cleaned their knives and knotted bludgeons, but came as they were to Smithfield, dull-eyed with wine and sleep.
“What is to be the end?”they said; and there were some whispered:“'T were well if we had let be the Flemings”—
“Lay not that on us! 'T is the London men shall answer for 't.”
“I saw a-many men from Kent did”—
“Mark ye, brothers, 't is not the Flemings will undo us, but old Simon, the Archbishop. There was a foul deed.”So spake Hobbe the smith, and all they that heard him crossed themselves.
“Who saith we 're undone?”blustered a fellow out of Sussex.“Have we not the King's pardon, and villeinage is dead?”
Nevertheless, 't was a sober company choked the narrow streets and swayed about the gates pressing to Smithfield.
And now the King came forth from the Garde Robe, his white-lipped nobles with him, and rode through Temple Bar and along the Strand past Charing Cross and John of Gaunt's blackened palace to the Abbey at Westminster. Mayor Walworth was with the King, and Salisbury and Buckingham and the other nobles that had sheltered in the Tower, but they were not many, and they were very pale. Stephen walked with his hand on the King's bridle, and this was the last time he should do the King this service, but he was not aware, nor the King neither. Nevertheless, Stephen knew that he must one day reckon with the nobles; and if not with the nobles then with the peasants. Howbeit, in this hour he took no keep of his own soul and body, but pondered how the quarrel should end.
There was little speech among the nobles. These were brave men, but faint with much watching and bewildered. That all England should be turned up-so-down by peasants and common folk was a thing not to be believed; nevertheless, the nobles knew that the Prior of Bury Saint Edmunds was slain by a mob near Newmarket, and also Sir John Cavendish, Chief Justice of England, who was on circuit in Suffolk, but the rioters overtook him hard by Lakenheath. They knew that Saint Albans was up, and already rumours were come up out of Northampton and Cambridge and Oxford. There was fear of Leicestershire and Somerset; what Yorkshire would do might not be determined. 'T was whispered that many lords of manors and noble ladies wandered homeless amid the forests of Kent, bewailing their manor-houses sacked and burned. These things the nobles pondered as they rode from the city to Westminster on Saturday, being the fifteenth day of June in that year, the fourth of King RichardII.
Howbeit, neither at Westminster was found peace, for there came forth of the Abbey a procession of monks, penitents, bearing the cross. Then with groans and tears did these monks tell their tale:—
“O Lord King, the Abbey is defiled!”
“At the shrine of that most holy one, Edward the Confessor, blood is spilled.”
“Sire, avenge us!”
“Richard Imworth is slain, King Richard.”
“Richard Imworth, warden of the Marshalsea, is murdered, sire!”
“His hand was even on the tomb of the Confessor.”
“The people have shed blood in the church!”
“Sire, punish!”
“Who will save us?—The Archbishop is slain!”
Then did Richard light down off his horse and kissed the cross; and my Lord Buckingham, the King's uncle,—that strong man,—burst into tears and ran into the church. And presently, all those great nobles and puissant gentlemen were within, running up and down with tears and sighs to kiss and clasp the shrines and the most holy relics, sobbing and shuddering liker to weak women than warriors; striving as who should kneel more close to holiness,—and all the tombs and sacred places wet with their weeping. King Richard knelt to pray at the Confessor's shrine and bade call a father to confess him his sins, which when he had done, the King went out soberly to his horse. And all this while Stephen stood without the church holding the King's horse by the bridle. So when the King was in his saddle they two waited silent, and one after one the knights and nobles came forth; and 't would seem they were greatly strengthened by those prayers and confessions, for now they spoke together somewhat concerning ways and means.
“If the peasants can be drawn forth of the city and the gates closed, sire,‘ said Walworth, ’methinks we may hold against them. There be many loyal citizens of London, and many more since yesterday, for there begin to be murmurings against Wat Tyler.”
“My Lord Mayor,”said Buckingham harshly,“you will do well to remember that one walketh at the King's bridle who maketh boast to serve these rebels.”
“I am the King's servant likewise,”said Stephen.
“Were the good Archbishop on live,”quoth Salisbury very grave,“I make no doubt he would say a man may not serve two masters.”
“The King and the people are one, my lord.”
There was a murmur, yet none dared speak openly his discontent.
Then said Richard, nor turned his face to right nor left but rode straight forward:“The King is the people.”
Nevertheless, neither Stephen nor the nobles might read his meaning, and 't were marvel if himself knew what he would do.
So they rode again through Temple Bar, but at Lud Gate they turned northward without the city wall and on past New Gate, where peasants followed them. And when they had passed by Saint Bartholomew's they came into Smithfield, and the people were pressed together, a mighty throng, at one side of the open square and beyond. But Will Langland was not with the peasants at this time; he knelt in his cot on Cornhill by the side of his wife, chaunting a prayer for the dead, and his daughter was on her knees at the other side, and there burned tall tapers at head and foot of the bier. It may well be that those deeds which befel at Smithfield had not befallen thus and so if Will Langland and his daughter Calote had been in that company; but as concerning these things, who shall prophesy?
Now what followeth is known right well of all the world, to wit, that part that is writ in the chronicles, as how Wat Tyler came across the square sole alone to have speech of the nobles; and this he did without fear, being upholden by that law of chivalry whereby a herald and a messenger may not be evil entreated of an enemy; and these were knights and gentles, flow'r of chivalry, wherefore though Wat Tyler loved them not at all, yet did he trust them. Nevertheless, he spake too bold, with a brawling tongue and small courtesy. He made plain that he would be master, and the people was minded to rule England.
“Give me the King's dagger!”quoth he curt; and Richard gave his dagger into his squire's hand and bade him give to Wat Tyler; and Stephen did the King's bidding. Good Mayor Walworth, at the King's right hand, swelled purple, and those others, nobles, cursed betwixt their teeth.
Then said Wat Tyler:“I will have the King's sword.”
“Nay, Wat, art mad?”protested Stephen.“This is majesté, have a care!”
“Let him take the sword an he will,”said the King, and Wat Tyler put forth his hand to take it, but the Lord Mayor might not any longer withhold his wrath, and on a sudden he had struck Wat, who fell down off his horse; and, hatred being let loose, those knights and noble gentlemen immediately stabbed him so that he died. Then looked they one on another, and on this man that had trusted them. And into their shamed silence came voices of the peasants across the square.
“What 's to hap?”
“They are making him a knight!”
“Yea, yea!”
“I saw the blow!”
“Nay, hath fallen.”
“Treason!”
“Wat!—Treason!”
“Slain!”
As they were carven in stone those nobles stood, white horror stiffened on their faces, to see a thousand bowstrings drawn as one, and deadly long-bows bent;—'t would seem all England held her breath awaiting chaos. Then King Richard, that fair child, true son of Plantagenet, rode out into that moment's tottering stillness, alone, with his face set towards those thousand straining arrows.
“I am your leader!”he cried,“I am your King!”and came into their midst smiling.
They leaped about him crying and singing, as 't were his valour had made them drunk. A-many broke their bows in twain across their knees. As on the Friday at Mile End, so now they kissed his feet; blessings went up as incense. And he laughed with them and wept and called them brothers.
“This is to be a king!”he cried with arms uplift to heaven. For he knew that he was ruler of England in that hour.
A little while he stayed with them, their eyes worshipful upturned ever to his as he rode hither and yon in the press, their voices, gladsome wild, ever in his ear, till the spell of their love so wrought with him that he was made a lover. In his heart Mercy and Truth were met together, Rightwisness and Peace had kissed. If his people had wronged him, he knew it not; Love sat in the seat of Memory, Suspicion had drunk a sleeping potion.
“This is to be a king!”cried Richard.