"'The most needy are our neighbours, and we take good heed:—As prisoners in pits and poor folk in cots,—Burdened with children and chief lords' rent,What they spare from their spinning they spend it in house hire,Both in milk and in meal to make a mess o' porridge,To satisfy therewith the children that cry out for food.'"
“Yea, 't is here!”said Richard, pointing with his finger.“Read on!”
“I do not read, my lord,”she answered. "I have no need to read, I know my father's Vision:
"'Also themselves suffer much hunger,And woe in winter-time with waking of nights,To rise 'twixt the bed and the wall and rock the cradle:Both to card and to comb, to patch and to wash,To tub and to reel, rushes to peel;That pity 't is to read or to show in rhymeThe woe of these women that dwell in cots.'"
“Natheless,”said Richard,“I have heard mine uncle, the Duke, say that the people do not feel these hardships, for that they know naught else.”
“Think you I feel, O my lord?”Calote answered him.“Yet I am of these people. 'T is to-day the first day ever I sat on a cushion.”
The boy stared.
“But thou shalt hereafter,”he said.“Etienne will clothe thee in silk, and feed thee dainties. I will give thee a girdle with a blue stone in it.”
“Nay, not so!”she cried.“How can I take mine ease if the people suffer? Oh, sweet child, wilt thou walk in silk, and the half of thy kingdom go naked? 'T is for thee they suffer. The white bread thou dost eat, the people harvested. They gathered it into thy barns. And yet thou wilt let them go hungry.”
“No, surely I will not when I am King,”he answered with trouble in his voice.
“Hearken!”said Calote; and mindful only that he was a little child who must be made to pity and to love, she took his two hands in her own and so compelled his eyes to hers.“Didst mark, that day thou wentest to the Abbey, how the people cheered thee, and blessed thee, and smiled on thee?”
“Yea,”answered Richard.
“And didst mark how they that were nighest the great Duke in that throng were silent, or else they muttered?”
“Yea.”
“He hath beggared the people, this man. 'T was he gave leave to that thief Richard Lyons and the Lord Latimer to buy away all victual they might lay hand to. And then, what think you, did they give this to the poor? Nay! But they set it forth at such price that no poor man could buy. In the midst of plenty there was famine. 'T is several years gone now, yet I mind me how I sat in our lane and chewed the stems of the rank grass. Our neighbour had a little babe,—and she could not give it suck. So it died. Was no flesh o' the bones at all, only skin.”
Richard's eyes were fixed upon her face with horror. His little hands were cold.
“I hate mine uncle, John of Gaunt,”he said.
“Sweet Prince, waste no time hating. Christ the King, He hated no man, but He was Leech of Love. Learn thou of Him!”
“But I will not love mine uncle,”cried the child.
"Love the people! Love us poor! If Christ is King, and He our brother, art not thou likewise little brother to every man in England? Hearken to Holy Church in the Vision:—
'Wherefore is love leader of the lord's folk of heaven,'
"And this saith Reason, that counselleth the King:—
'If it were soThat I were King with crown to keep a realm,Should never wrong in this world that I might know of,Be unpunished in my power, for peril of my soul.'
“Give the common folk new law! Last Trinité a year, there came to us a countryman had run from his place for that he starved on the wage that the law allowed. Yet that same day of Parliament his master found him out, in open street, and haled him away. Oh, is 't not shame in a Christian kingdom that men be sold with the soil like maggots? Set the people free when thou art King! Set the people free!”
“I have heard my father say, before he died,”said Richard,“that no man is free, not the king even, for the nobles do bind his hands. I hate the great nobles! They come and look on me and chuck me under chin,—and anon they whisper in corners. They shall not bind my hands!”
“My father saith the common folk is three times more than the nobles,”said Calote eagerly.“If thou art friend to the poor, they will serve thee. They will bind the nobles and learn them to love. Oh, hearken to Piers! The Vision of Truth is with him. Take the poor man to thy friend!”
Richard leaped down from the window; his cheeks were red, his eyes were very bright.
“I will swear an oath!”he cried.“Etienne, give me thy sword!”
Now was the tapestry by the door thrust aside and a little page came in, out of breath. Calote sat on the cushion, Etienne leaned against the wall. Richard had the sword midway of the blade in his two hands, and the cross-hilt upheld before him.
“Oh—oh!”gasped the little page.“The old King is dead!”
Richard lowered the sword. The colour went out of his cheeks.
“Etienne,”he said,“Etienne,—am I—King?—What makes the room turn round?”
Then the squire, coming out of his amaze, ran and knelt on one knee, and set his King on the other.
“Imbécile!”he cried to the page,“bring His Majesty a cup of water!”
Meanwhile Calote sat in the window-seat.
“Do not hold me on thy knee, Etienne,”said Richard presently;“methinks 't is not fitting. I will stand on my feet. Where is the maid?”
“Drink, sire!”said Etienne.“'T will cure thy head.”And he steadied the goblet at the lips of the King.
The page stood by, grinning.
“I listened,”quoth he.“I was behind the arras when the messenger spake. I ran like the wind. Why doth yonder maid sit in the King's presence?”
“Mother of God!”exclaimed Calote, and jumped down in haste, very red. And Richard laughed.
But in a moment he was grave again.
“Mayhap I should weep for my grandfather,”he said.“I know he was a great king. But my father would have been a greater than he, an he had lived. I weep still, of nights, because my father is dead.”
“Begone!”whispered Etienne to the page.“Haply they seek the King. Tell the Queen-Mother he is here.”
Calote came and knelt on both her knees before Richard.
“Thou, also, shalt be a great king,”she cried.
But he shook his head.
“I do not know,”he mused.“How little am I! The nobles are great, and they do not love me,—not as my father loved. Men say mine uncle hath it in his heart to kill me.”
“O sire! the people love thee!”cried Calote.“The people is thy friend; they hold to thee for thy father's sake; and if thou be friend and brother to them, be sure they will hold to thee for thine own. Wilt thou be king of common folk, sire? Wilt thou right the wrongs of thy poor? Now God and Wat Tyler forgive me if I betray aught. But hearken! The people has a great plot whereby they hope to rise against this power of the nobles, this evil power that eateth out the heart of this kingdom. If this thing come to pass, wilt thou go with the nobles, or wilt thou go with thy poor?”
“I hate the nobles!”cried Richard passionately.“Have I not told thee? I hate mine uncle the Duke, and Thomas of Woodstock that tosseth me in air as I were a shuttlecock. I hate Salisbury, and Devon,—yea, even the Earl of March, Etienne. They do not love me. Their eyes are cold; and when they smile upon me I could kill them. I will go with the common folk, they are my people.”
“There will not be a king so great as thou, nor so beloved!”cried Calote.“But this that I told thee is secret.”
“Is 't?—Well!”said Richard eagerly,—“I do love a secret. Etienne will tell thee how close I have kept his own.”
He swelled his little chest and spread his legs.
“Now am I right glad. Mine uncles have their secrets. So will I likewise. And I am King.”
Then the tapestry lifted, and there came into the room a noble lady, and two other following after; and all these had been a-weeping.
“O madame!”cried Richard, and went and cast himself into the arms of this lady.“My grandfather is dead, and we are in sore straits. Would God my father were alive this day.”So he began to sob; and the Queen-Mother took him up in her arms and bore him away, and her ladies went also.
But of three young gentlemen that stood in the doorway with torches, for now the day was spent, one only departed,—and he perforce, for the passage was darker than this room, and the ladies called for light. But the other two came in, and:—
“Here 's where thou 'rt hid!”they cried.“BySt.Thomas o' Canterbury, a fair quarry!”
They thrust their torches in Calote's sweet face and set their impudent young eyes upon her. Yet did her loveliness somewhat abash them.
“Sirs,”said Etienne,“ye do annoy this damosel. Pray you, stand farther off!”
“Is 't thy leman, or dost instruct the Prince?”asked he that was elder of these two lads.
“For shame, Sir John!”said Etienne.“Moreover, I beseech you use more reverence toward the King, since he is come to his inheritance.”
“Ah!”cried Calote. The other lording had taken off her kerchief, so that her hair was loosened; and now he knelt to lift her ragged skirt where her white ankle showed, and he touched this little ankle delicately, the while he looked up in her face and said:—
“Shall I kiss thy foot, mistress? Yet, say the word and I 'll kiss thy lips. Wilt play with me? Thou shalt find me more merry paramour than”—
But Etienne caught him by the collar as he knelt, and flung him off, so that his head struck by the wall. He arose with a rueful countenance and would have drawn his sword, but Sir John Holland went to him and they two whispered together and departed.
“Come!”said Stephen,“the street is safer for thee. If I know aught of the young Earl of Oxford, they will return and play some devil's trick. Come! Wilt trust me? I know a way not by the gate.”
She was weeping soft, but she gave her hand into his and let him lead her through dark ways to a garden and a hedge; and so he crawled through a small hole and drew her after him, and they ran across a field to the high road.
“Do not weep!”he whispered.“I will protect thee with my life.”
“I am not afeared,”she answered him;“but, alas! who would be a maid and not weep?”
They came upon the road where it made a turning away from the great gate of the palace, and here was a tall man pacing in the dusk.
“Father!”Calote cried joyfully.
But though the squire made as he were content, yet he sighed. Natheless, when he was come back to the round chamber, he found a white something on the floor, which was Calote's little kerchief. And this he put to his lips many times, and folded it, and thrust it inside his jerkin, on the left side.
Illustration: Capital N
OWRichard was not yet crowned before he—or they that put words in his mouth—had set free Peter de la Mare from Nottingham Castle. And for this there was great rejoicing. Peter came up to London as he had been Thomas à Becket returned out of exile. London gave him gifts; he was honoured of the city; merchants feasted him.
'T was on the night after the merry-making that Wat Tyler and Jack Straw came again to Cornhill, and they were not much elate. They said:“New brooms sweep clean;”and“Well eno' to watch the kitten at play, but 't will grow a cat;”and that this folk was a fool: 't saw no further than its own nose; let it laugh now, but presently there would be more taxing. And so on, of this man and that, in Kent and Sussex and Norfolk, that followed John Ball and would be ready—when the time was come.
Meanwhile Calote sat on her father's knee and listened. This secret that she had discovered to the King was no true plot at that time; nevertheless, it began to be one. Since the year of the first pestilence, which year was the two and twentieth in the reign of EdwardIII., and the third after the Black Prince gained the victory over the French at Crécy,—since this year, the common folk did not cease to murmur. And this was the beginning of their murmuring, because in that dire pestilence more than the half of all the people of England died, and the corn rotted in the field for lack of husbandry.
Now it was an old law in England that the villein, which was bound to the soil where he was born, must till the soil for his lord, giving him service in days' labour; and, in return therefor, the villein had leave to till certain acres for his own behoof. But this law was fallen into disuse in a many places afore the pestilence time, and if a villein would, he might discharge his service in a payment of money to his lord, and so be quit; and the lord's bailiff hired other labourers to till the manor. And this was a good way, for the villein got more time wherein to till his own land, or to ply his trade, and the lord's bailiff got better men,—they that laboured doing so of free-will for hire, and without compelling.
Then came pestilence and knocked at every man's door; and where there had been ten men to till the soil there was one now, and the one would not work for the old wage, for he said,“Corn is dear.”And this was true, there being none to harvest the corn. So every man served him who would pay the highest wage,—whether his own lord or the lord of another manor. But the lords, becoming aware, said,“How shall this be? For by the law the villein is bound to the soil and must labour on the manor where he was born; yet here be villeins that journey from place to place like free men, and barter service; neither will they labour for their own lord except it like them, and for hire.”
After this there was passed in Parliament the Statute of Labourers, whereby it was declared that:—
“Every man or woman of whatsoever condition, free or bond, able in body, and within the age of threescore years ... and not having of his own whereof he might live, nor land of his own about the tillage of which he might occupy himself, and not serving any other, should be bound to serve the employer who should require him to do so, and should take only the wages which were accustomed to be taken in the neighbourhood where he was bound to serve, two years afore that plague befel.”
And this law was amended and made more harsh other years after.
But the villeins, having tasted freedom, were loth to return into bondage. They fled away from the manors; they hid in the woods; they gathered them into companies and would do no work except their demand of wage and liberty were granted. Moreover, certain men of a quick wit went about and preached against kings and lords. They said all men were brothers and free, they must share as brothers. One of these preachers was John Ball, a priest, a good man, fearless and fervent. For a score of years he traversed England calling men to fellowship; and for this he was persecuted of Holy Church. Rich prelates had no mind to share their wealth with villeins. But and because John Ball suffered, the common folk loved him the better and believed on him. Langland knew him and had speech of him many a time; nevertheless, Langland said that John Ball would not make England new. Mayhap 't was by John Ball and his ilk that Langland's Vision came into the countryside and spread among cottagers; and Wat Tyler heard it, and Jack Straw,—and came out of Kent to learn more of this doctrine. So they found Will Langland and loved him; but for understanding of him, that was another matter. There were few men at that time could rede this chantry priest.
So it was that the thought of fellowship grew up out of all these rhymings and prophecies of John Ball and Long Will: and how that one man of himself was well-nigh powerless before unrighteous rule, but if many men were joined together to persuade the King and Parliament, there might be pause and parley; and if all the villeins and artisans and prentices in the wide realm of England were so banded—That was a great thought! 'T was too big for the breast of Wat Tyler and Jack Straw; it must out. Already it spread; it lodged in other breasts. But this was all,—a thought like a thistledown flying from man to man; and one blew it this way, and another blew it that; and if by chance it made as to fall on the earth, there was always Jack Straw, or Wat Tyler, or John Ball, to blow a great breath and set it off again.
“Natheless, in the end, naught will come of 't,”said Long Will, that night.
“Wherefore?”Wat Tyler questioned hotly.
“Who shall lead?”Will asked him.
Wat Tyler looked at Jack Straw and Jack Straw at him, yet neither in the eyes of the other.
“There shall be a many leaders,”said Jack Straw presently.“Of every hundred, and of every shire, a leader.”
“And the grievance of every leader shall differ from the grievance of every other leader; yea,‘ Langland added, ’one only desire shall they have in common,—to lead,—to put themselves in the place of power.”
“For the people's sake,”protested Wat.
“Their leader is God and the king; and wilt thou learn them another lesson?”
“Yea, by”—But Wat Tyler looked on Jack Straw and swore no oath.
“The people of England is a loyal people,”said Langland,“and slow witted, loth to swallow a new thought.”
“'T is no new thought,”cried Wat in a great passion.“Hast thou not sung it like a gnat in our ear these many years? By Christ, Will, but I 'm past patience with thee! Wilt thou blow hot and cold? Cease thy lies, if lies they be; but if thou say soth, act on 't!”
“Though thou art mazed, Wat, yet art thou not more mazed than I,”said Long Will wearily.
“I am not mazed,”quoth Wat;“I see right clear. The nobles are our oppressors, and 't is us poor folk pay. We till their fields, fight their battles, give good money for their French war. Wilt thou tell us to-day a tale of the ploughman that ruleth the kingdom, and to-morrow prate of kings?”
“Thou art no ploughman, Wat,”said Long Will,“but an artisan, well-to-do, able to pay head-money to the bailiff and so be quit of the manor when thou wilt to ply thy trade elsewhere.”
“A quibble! A poor quibble!”Wat retorted.“With copying of charters and drawing of wills thou 'rt tainted; thou 'rt half man o' law; thou 'rt neither fish nor flesh, nor good red herring.”
“I marvel thou hast not found me out afore,”said Langland quietly.“Hast thou not heard me rail right prettily, many a time, against those priests that come to London to earn silver by singing prayers for the dead,—a lazy life; when they might, an they would, be a-starving in country villages for the sake o' the souls o' living poor wights that need comfort and counsel? Let God take care o' the dead, say I, and if a man pray for those, let him pray for love's sake. Yet here be I a chantry clerk in London,—I, that hold it akin to simony to take money for such-like Masses. And there 's silver in my pouch; not much,—for I 've not had the singing o' prayers for the Black Prince,—yet silver: 't comes off black on my fingers.”
“Father!”cried Calote, and clasped him round his neck; but he paid her no heed.
“Am I of those, the disciples of John Wyclif, that begin to go about and whisper that priests may marry without sin? Nay,—though I be in accord somewhat with his doctrines of poverty,—conscience hath not assoiled me that I am married, and my daughter sits on my knee.”
“Ah, Will!”said Kitte, and she arose heavily and went out of the room.
Calote set her finger upon his lips, but he drew away her hand:—
“How have I cried out upon the begging friars! But thrice in the month I sit and feed at my Lord Latimer's table,—my Lord Latimer that betrayeth the poor,—I and a friar we dip our fingers into the same dish for alms' sake. I live in London and on London both. I praise Piers Ploughman for his diligence, yet have I no wish to bow my back to his toil. I live like a loller. I am one of those that sits and swings 's heels, saying: 'I may not work, but I 'll pray for you, Piers.' Yet am I not minded to go hungry, neither. This is thy prophet, Wat. Saint Truth, she is my lady. Bethink thee, but she 's proud o' such a lover?”
Wat Tyler drew his hand across his eyes, there was water in them.“Beshrew me, but I do love thee,”he said.“Natheless, I believe thou 'rt mad; mad of thy wrongs. God! I could slay and slay and slay! I 'm thirsty.”
“Poor Wat—poor Wat!”said Langland.“'T is not all ambition with thee, I know well.—But wrongs? My wrongs? Yea, truly they are mine, for I 've made them.”
“'T is the times makes them!”muttered Wat;“the times that do beset us round with custom and circumstance, till there 's no help for 't but to live lies. Thou canst not scape.”
“Yea, I 'm in a net, but may I not tear with beak and claw? Yet I do not so. And still thou believest on me?”
“Thou art truest man alive!”said Wat.
“Yet I tell thee in one breath the ploughman shall show the people the way to truth,—and next breath, the king's the leader.—What sayest thou; that I 'm mad? Which word is the mad word,—rede me which?”
Then Calote left her father's knee and came and stood in their midst. Her cheeks were of the colour of scarlet, her eyes very bright.
“Hearken!”she said.“'T is both of them a true word. The King is our leader, shall learn of the ploughman. The King and the ploughman is friends together. The King shall right our wrongs, the ploughman leading him to truth.”And she told them of Richard.
Wat Tyler listened with a frown, Jack Straw with a smile that was not near so pleasant as any frown. Kitte, in the doorway, stood open-mouthed. Only Long Will sat unmoved. He had heard this tale.
When it was ended they all looked upon one another. Will smiled, but Jack Straw laughed, a most unkindly laugh.
“An thou wert my wench, I 'd beat thee,”said Wat.“Thou shouldst not walk abroad but with a gag atween thy teeth.”
“Soft—soft!”Jack Straw interposed him.“Milk's spilt: let 's lap it up as best we may! Let 's consider to make the best on 't! Methinks I see a way”—
“Send the maid to her bed, Will, an thou 'lt not lay on the rod,”growled Wat Tyler.“Here 's enough o' long ears and blabbing tongues.”
“Thou cruel Wat!”cried Calote.“Thou art no true man! What care hast thou of the poor? Dost think to be king thine own self? A pretty king, thou”—
“Chut, chut!”Long Will rebuked her.“Get thee to thy mother!”
“Nay, let her bide!”said Jack Straw gently.“Let her bide! She hath brought us into this mishap, so may she help us forth.”
“Thou fool!”cried Wat.“Thou lovesick fool! Wilt come a-courtin', leave me at home!”
“I will,”Jack Straw made answer, with narrow eyes.“But to-night I 'm no lover, nor no fool neither; natheless, the maid shall bide. Never fear, Calote, we 'll mend thy mischief.”
“'T is no mischief,”Calote retorted.“'T is a true loyalty to tell the King.”
“Yea, so! And if thou 'lt hearken, I 'll give thee more news to tell him. Thou shalt never be naught but loyal, Calote.”
“Mark you, Will!”cried Wat Tyler,“I 'm mum! If there 's aught else to be betrayed, 't is he plays tattle-tongue. My rough speech is not fit to be carried to court.”
“So be it!”Jack assented.“Thou hast spoke to no purpose this hour and more; 't is now my turn. Hearken!”
Jack Straw spoke not overloud at any time; yet folk heard him always. To-night there was a half-smile hovering on his thin, long lips. Calote turned her eyes away from his, that sought her; but though 't was against her will, she listened.
“Will is in the right,”said he;“Will is in the right ever. The King is leader of us English. He may ride across our sown fields when he goes a-hunting; he may send forth his provisor to take away our geese and our pigs, our sheep and other cattle, to feed his idle courtiers what time he maketh a progress through the realm; we 'll go hungry, but we 'll cry God save him, as he passeth by. 'T will be a many years afore common folk cease to honour the King. Here a man, there a man, with rage in his heart, will be found to follow Wat Tyler or Jack Straw; but England 'll never rise up as one man but at the bidding o' the King.”
Langland nodded and Wat Tyler ground his teeth.
“And 't is England as one man—the poor as one man—that must rise, if that 's done that must be done to make us free men.—Now, look you! we have the ear o' the King. 'T is a child,—a weakling, but what matter?—the name 's enough. Wherefore may we not one day bid the people to rise, in the name o' the King?”
Will Langland smiled, but he spoke no word, he waited on Jack Straw.
“In good time, we 'll send a messenger from shire to shire shall warn the people secretly of this thing. There 'll be certain knights and gentles, I ken, will cast in their lot with common folk, in the King's name. 'T is not only ploughmen and prentices see truth in John Ball's doctrine and Long Will's dream. We 'll send one shall convince them of vérité.”
“Must be a fair persuading messenger,”quoth Long Will, mocking.“Is 't thou, or Wat, will undertake to convince the cotters of England that ye 're privy to the counsel o' the King? Who is 't we 'll send?”
Jack Straw, sitting on a long oaken chest with his head by the wall, thrust his fingers in his belt and spread his legs.
“Why,—Calote,”said he.
The girl and her father got to their feet in the same moment; also they spoke in the same breath.
“Yea!”said Calote, very soft, as she were gasping.
“By Christ, not so!”cried Long Will, with a strong voice that quenched her little“yea”but not the light in her eyes, nor the tumult in her breast, where she held her two hands across.
The priest took a step toward the oaken chest, then,“Tush!”he said, clenching his hands and stopping still.“Tush!—thou hast no daughter. I 'll forgive thee. Thou canst not know. An 't were Wat Tyler had spoke so foul counsel I 'd—I 'd—by the Cross o' Bromholme—I 'd”—
“Disport thee like Friar Tuck in the ballad, no doubt,”smiled Jack Straw easily.“Calote, wilt go?”
“Yea, will I!”she answered.
“Who will believe a slip of a child?”Long Will asked scornfully, and turned his back and paced down the room.“Moreover, the King hath not given this counsel. Thou wilt not speak a lie, Calote?”
“Yet he shall give it,”pursued Jack Straw.“Calote shall learn him 's lesson, and ask a token of him, whereby men may know that she is a true and secret messenger.”
“Calote goeth not again to the palace,”cried Langland harshly.“'T is no place for a peasant maid.”
“Men will be persuaded if thou show the King's token; if thou speak to them, Calote; if thine eyes shine, and thy voice ring like a little chapel bell,‘ said Jack Straw, ’'t will work more magic than three sermons o' John Ball.”
“Thou cold-blooded snake, hast thou no bowels?”Long Will asked him, coming close.“Wilt send forth a tender maid to such dangers as thou knowest lie by the road? Nay, I 'll not believe 't!”
“Yet, there 's more danger at the palace, and that thyself knowest,—there 's a certain hot-blood squire”—he glanced upon Calote and turned his speech—“One other audience with the King will do 't: then away in villages and ploughmen's huts where she belongs. Mark you, I purpose not to send her forth to-night. 'T is not this year nor next that the men shall rise; 't will take time to go afoot or in a cart throughout the countryside. Then for our plan, to gather all poor men of England around about London town,—and the young King shall come forth to meet them, and they 'll hail him leader,—sweet pretty lad!—Here 's a Vision for thee, Will!”
“Is 't so, thou Judas?”quoth Wat.“Then where 's thy plot to kill the King and all nobles,—and share every man equal?”
“Methought thou wert sworn mum?”said Jack Straw in his dry voice.
“'T is I shall have last word. She is my daughter,”Langland said. So he took her by the hand and led her away, and his wife followed him. But Jack Straw and Wat Tyler whispered together till dawn; and when Kitte came down to go to Mass, she found them lying on the floor asleep.
Illustration: Capital a
NDno word o' this matter to King or common man till thou 'rt bid," admonished Wat Tyler when he bade Calote good-by next day.“If thou keep faith, haply I 'll believe thou art not all blab.”
“Likewise, leave thy father in peace,”counselled Jack Straw.“Thou 'lt not be the first maid that slipped out when the door was on the latch: there be not many go on so honest errand.”
“An thou wert my father, I might do so,”answered Calote.“But thank God for that thou 'rt not!”
“Amen!”said Jack Straw with a grin.
Yet was there little need to warn Calote of her tongue at that time, for a many days were gone by, and months even, before she again saw Stephen or the King. And meanwhile John Wyclif came up to London, and his name was in every man's mouth. Some said his doctrine was heresies, and others believed on what they could understand, which was much or little according as they had wit. But whether they believed on Wyclif or no, there were few men at that day in England who spoke a good word for the Pope. And although the little King Richard was a pious child, and so continued till his life's end, and a right faithful violent persecutor of heretics, yet did he not scruple—or his counsellors did not for him—to require of John Wyclif to prove to the nobles and commons of England—which they needed no proof, being convinced afore—that they ought not to send money and tribute to the Pope, when England was in sore straits for to meet her own taxes, and charity begins at home. And this was a scandal, because Wyclif was then under the Pope's ban; so it was sin for any man to crave his counsel. But of how he played prisoner in Oxford in the midst of his scholars that loved him; and how he came to Lambeth Palace and stood before Simon Sudbury the Archbishop of Canterbury, and Courtenay the Bishop of London, to make his defence; and how the Queen-Mother sent a message so that they feared to do him any hurt,—this Book needeth not to tell, save and to say that time passed. And Will Langland copied his Vision and sang his Masses for the dead, and Calote, his daughter, spun, and wove, and baked, and watched, and waited. Stephen came no more to hear Mass inSt.Paul's, and the King was kept close.
“He will forget,”she said to herself after a long while;“he will forget, and there will be none to learn him more, for Stephen will forget likewise. Why should Stephen remember? Why—should Stephen—remember? He hath forgot already, and 't is all come to naught.”
Ofttimes she would go out of the Aldersgate into Smithfield and stand beneath the shadow ofSt.Bartholomew's wall, and wait, and remember how he had knelt and kissed the hem of her russet gown.
So the winter passed, and the spring, and summer was come. And Calote lay in her bed on Midsummer Eve and heard the merrymakers singing in the street, and thought of other Junes: thought of the day the Black Prince died, and Stephen said he would he were her squire; of the day when she was sent for to the palace, and she sat on a cushion by Richard's side and told him of the poor.
“June is a fateful month for me,”she said.
Then underneath her window a lute tinkled and a voice sang:—
"The birdies smallDo singen all,The throstle chirpeth cheerly to his make,The lark hath leave to carol to the sun:I would I were that joly[1]gentil one,Piping thy praise unchid!I 'd wake,To climb my heav'n or ever day doth break.But I 'm forbid."The birdies smallDo singen all,The trilly nightingale doth tell the moonHis love-longing, nor hush him all the night:I would I were that tuneful manner wight,Within a rose-tree hid!So soonThou wouldst be wishing every night were June!But I 'm forbid."The birdies smallDo singen all,No throstle, I, nor nightingale, nor lark,—Yet fain to twitter, fain to softly peepOf love; and needs must loathly silence keep:Ne never no bird did.'T is dark;'T is sleepy night,—I 'll whisper only, 'Hark!'But I 'm forbid."
"The birdies smallDo singen all,The throstle chirpeth cheerly to his make,The lark hath leave to carol to the sun:I would I were that joly[1]gentil one,Piping thy praise unchid!I 'd wake,To climb my heav'n or ever day doth break.But I 'm forbid.
"The birdies smallDo singen all,The trilly nightingale doth tell the moonHis love-longing, nor hush him all the night:I would I were that tuneful manner wight,Within a rose-tree hid!So soonThou wouldst be wishing every night were June!But I 'm forbid.
"The birdies smallDo singen all,No throstle, I, nor nightingale, nor lark,—Yet fain to twitter, fain to softly peepOf love; and needs must loathly silence keep:Ne never no bird did.'T is dark;'T is sleepy night,—I 'll whisper only, 'Hark!'But I 'm forbid."
Calote lay still as a stone: only her hair moved where it veiled her lips. From the tavern across the way there came sounds of merriment and a banging of doors. The light from passing torches flickered up among the shadows in the gabled ceiling of the little room. Then the footsteps died away. Calote sighed, and made as to rise; and again the lute tinkled. This second song was in the swinging measure that the common folk loved, a measure somewhat scorned in Richard's court; but the squire had good reason for the using of it He twanged his lute right loud and sang:—
"It fell upon Midsummer's Eve,When wee folk dance and dead folk wake,I wreathed me in a gay garland,All for my true love's sake."I donned my coat with sleevès wide,And fetysly forth I stole:—But first I looked in my steel glass,And there I saw my soul."I blinkèd once, I blinkèd twice,I turned as white as milk:My soul he was in russet clad,And I was clad in silk."Now prythee tell me, soul of mine,—Wherefore so sober cheer?—To-night is night of love's delight,And we go to see my Dear."Put on, put on thy broidered gown,Thy feathered cap, thy pointed shoon;The bells have rung eleven past,Let us begone right soon."O Master, Master, list my word!Now rede my riddle an ye may:My ladye she is a poor man's daughter.And russet is my best array."Tilt and tourney needs she not,Nor idle child that comes to woo:But an I might harry her half acre,—O that were service true!"Now prythee learn me, soul of mine,Now prythee learn me how;—And forth I 'll fare to the furrowed field,And meekly follow the plough."And I 'll put off my silken coat,And all my garments gay.Lend me thy ragged russet gown,For that 's my best array,Ohè!For that 's my best array."
"It fell upon Midsummer's Eve,When wee folk dance and dead folk wake,I wreathed me in a gay garland,All for my true love's sake.
"I donned my coat with sleevès wide,And fetysly forth I stole:—But first I looked in my steel glass,And there I saw my soul.
"I blinkèd once, I blinkèd twice,I turned as white as milk:My soul he was in russet clad,And I was clad in silk.
"Now prythee tell me, soul of mine,—Wherefore so sober cheer?—To-night is night of love's delight,And we go to see my Dear.
"Put on, put on thy broidered gown,Thy feathered cap, thy pointed shoon;The bells have rung eleven past,Let us begone right soon.
"O Master, Master, list my word!Now rede my riddle an ye may:My ladye she is a poor man's daughter.And russet is my best array.
"Tilt and tourney needs she not,Nor idle child that comes to woo:But an I might harry her half acre,—O that were service true!
"Now prythee learn me, soul of mine,Now prythee learn me how;—And forth I 'll fare to the furrowed field,And meekly follow the plough.
"And I 'll put off my silken coat,And all my garments gay.Lend me thy ragged russet gown,For that 's my best array,Ohè!For that 's my best array."
Calote sat up, a-smiling, with her golden hair falling about her brightly. So with her hands clasped across her white breast, she waited. Beneath the window there was a footstep, a faint rustle. She could smell roses. And now a third time the lute sounded. In the midst of this last song Calote arose somewhat hastily, a small, slim, fairy creature, cloaked in her golden hair. She caught up the old cassock from the pallet, but always noiselessly, and slipped her two arms in the long sleeves, and after smothered her soft whiteness in the rough brown folds. Yet was she minded to draw out her hair. So she stood within the room, at her bed's head, till the song was ended.
"So soon as I have made mine orisoun,Come night or morn, I 'dress me hastily,T' endite a ballad or a benisounUnto my ladye dear: right busilyI fashion songs and sing them lustily:Each morn a new one and each night a new,And Sundays three,—what more may lover do?"What though I woo her all night long, I guessI 'll never need to sing ay song twice over;And every song bespeaketh sothfastnesse,And every song doth boldèly discoverMy heart, and how that I 'm a very lover.Now, Cupid, hear me, this I swear and say:I 'll sing my ladye two new songs each day."
"So soon as I have made mine orisoun,Come night or morn, I 'dress me hastily,T' endite a ballad or a benisounUnto my ladye dear: right busilyI fashion songs and sing them lustily:Each morn a new one and each night a new,And Sundays three,—what more may lover do?
"What though I woo her all night long, I guessI 'll never need to sing ay song twice over;And every song bespeaketh sothfastnesse,And every song doth boldèly discoverMy heart, and how that I 'm a very lover.Now, Cupid, hear me, this I swear and say:I 'll sing my ladye two new songs each day."
He was looking up, and he saw her come to the window and stand there, very still. He saw her fair face and her shining hair, like a lamp set in the dark window. And she, by the light of his torch which he had stuck upright in the ground at his side, saw him. He was twined all round his head and neck, and across his breast and about his middle, with a great garland of red roses, and the end of it hung over his arm.
“O my love!”said he, and went down on his knees in the mud.
But she shook one arm forth from the cassock sleeve, and laid a finger on her lip.
“Alas, alack!”he sighed, and then:“'T is so many months. And may I never speak with thee? How shall I do thy bidding, and learn the King his lesson, if I learn it not first from thee?”
She stayed by the window looking down, but always she was silent, and she held her finger fixed at her lip.
“I am at Westminster to hear Mass,—I cannot tell when 't shall be,—but I 'll come as often as I may. Dost never come to Westminster? Dost never come? Oh, say—wilt thou? Do but move thy lovely head, that I may know.”
So she moved her head, slow, in a way to mean yes; and he rose up off his knees, and unwound the rose garland very carefully, and hung it looped thrice across the door, 'twixt the latch and the rough upper hinge. Then he took up his torch and went his way; and when the watch came past after a short space,—five hundred men and more, all wreathed with posies and singing lustily, making the street light as day,—the squire was one of these. Will Langland awoke with this hubbub, and his wife also, and they two came to the window, nor thought it strange that Calote already stood there looking out.