Illustration: Capital T
HRICEin June Calote went to the Abbey church, and thrice in July, but 't was not till August that she saw the squire.
There was High Mass in the choir that day, and she knelt a little way down the nave, beside a pillar. Immediately without the choir there was a knight kneeling. He was a most devout person; and near by were two servants of his. These were all that were in the church at that time, save and except the monks in their choir stalls, the celebrant and his acolytes at the altar, and Calote,—until the squire came in.
He looked up and down, and Calote lifted her head, for she knew that some one was come in by the north door. The knight also lifted his head, and his two servants half arose from off their knees, as they were watchful and expectant. But then they all three crossed themselves and addressed them again to their devotions. The squire went lightly down the nave to Calote's pillar, and kneeled by Calote's side; and so, shutting his eyes, he made a short prayer. But presently he opened his eyes again and turned his head;—the monks were chanting.
“I am in so close attendance upon the King that I do never go into the city,”he whispered.
“'T is well,”answered Calote.
“'T is not well; 't is very ill,”said the squire.
“Doth the King forget the wrongs of the poor?”asked Calote.
“Do I forget that thy hair is golden and thine eyes are gray?”the squire retorted.“Thrice in the week, at the very least, he will have me come to his bed at night and read thy father's Vision till he sleeps.”
“Alas! and doth he sleep when thou read'st that book?”murmured Calote.
“Ah, my lady! wherefore wilt thou so evil entreat me?”Stephen pleaded.“I may not open my lips but thou redest my meaning awry. The King hath a loving heart and a delicate fancy, but he is over-young. Thy father's Vision is a sober tale; 't is an old-fashioned music; haply I read it ill. Natheless, Richard is constant. When he is in a great rage with his uncles, or the Council, or the Archbishop, and they require of him what he is loth to perform, I do soothe him of his weeping with the memory of that secret. But of late he groweth impatient; there be stirrings in him of manhood; he is taller than thou, albeit not yet thirteen. He demandeth to know when the people is to rise up. He saith, 'Seek out thy bien-aimée and bid her tell the people I am weary with waiting; I want to be a king,—for I am a king.' Last month he spake to me very lovingly of Walworth and Brembre and sundry others, merchants of London, that come often to the palace. 'I will be friend with merchants,' he saith; 'thy Calote spake truth, they are more loving than mine uncles.'”
“But the merchants be not the poor!”said Calote.“Oh, tell me true, hath he revealed aught to these rich merchants?”
“Nay, I trow not,”Stephen answered.“But how may Richard know aught of the poor, save and except beggars? How may I know, that live in the palace and see the might and wit of nobles? How may I know that this Rising will ever be arisen? Ah, Calote, do they play upon thy pity, these dullard poor? I have seen my father, when I was a little child, quell a dozen of rebellious villeins with but a flash of his eye. They dared not do him hurt, though he stood alone. Power is born with the noble, 't is his heritage.”
“Wilt thou leave thy palace folk and come to us, and we 'll learn thee to believe that the poor he hath virtue also,”cried Calote, and was 'ware of her own voice, for the gospeller stood to be censed.
So Stephen and Calote rose up from their knees to hear the Gospel,—albeit they might hear little at so great distance. And in the midst of the Gospel the north door went wide, and a great company of men, armed, stood on the threshold as they were loth to enter. The knight, which was also standing, for he was very devout, turned to look on these men, and immediately, as it were in despite of his own will, he drew his sword; and then he made two running steps to the choir.
Dogs will rest uncertain and look on the quarry if it stand, but if it turn to flee they are upon it. So now, when the knight ran up into the choir like the hunted man he was, all they at the door forgot their unwillingness to enter, and came on pell-mell.
“Sanctuary! Sanctuary!”cried the knight.
“In the name of the King!”cried the armed men, and some ran to the cloister door and others to the west door, and spread themselves about so that there was no chance to escape, and others went up into the choir after the knight.
There was a great tumult, with screaming of monks, and bits of Latin prayer, and stout English curses,—and“Sanctuary! Sanctuary!”and“In the King's name!”The servants of the knight ran before and after him and got in the way of his pursuers, which once laid hands on him but he beat them back with his sword. Round the choir they went, tripping over monks and over each other. The gospeller fell down on his knees, and the acolyte that held the candles to read by dashed them down and fled away. Round the choir they went twice.“Sanctuary! Sanctuary!”
“O God!”cried Calote;“O God!—what is this they do in the King's name?”
Then she saw how one stabbed the knight, and all those others crowded to that spot where he lay. They panted, and hung over his dead body like fierce dogs. Then they laid hold on it by the legs and dragged it bleeding down the aisle, and so cast it out at the door.
Stephen took Calote by the wrist and led her forth. She was shaking.
“In the King's name!”she said;“O Christ!”
By the altar there was another dead body, a monk, and other monks knelt beside, wringing their hands and wailing.
Stephen pushed through the gaping crowd at the door, past the dead knight, and would have led Calote away into the fields, but she said:—
“Let be! I will go home. I am very sick.”
“'T was not the King's fault; be sure of that!”cried Stephen.“They do so many wicked things in his name. He is but a weakling child.”
“It is time the people arose!”answered Calote.“Ah, how helpless am I, and thou, and the little King! How helpless is this country of England, where men slay each other before God's altar!”
“'T is John of Gaunt's doing,”said Stephen.“'T was concerning a Spanish hostage that was in the hands of this knight and another, and the King's Council said they would take the hostage, for that they might claim the ransom; but the knights hid him and would not say where he was hid.”
“O Covetise!”sobbed Calote.“Of what avail that my father called thee to repent in his Vision! All prophecies is lies. 'T is a wicked world, without love. All men hate one another, and I would I were dead.”
“Nay, nay!”Stephen protested.“I love!—I 'll prove my love!”
“Thou canst not. Thou art bound to the King,—and the King is in durance to the covetous nobles. King and people is in the same straits, browbeat both alike.”
But here they were 'ware of a man that watched them, and when he came nigh 't was Jack Straw.
“So, mistress! Wert thou in the church?”he asked.
“'T is a friend of my father's,”said Calote to Stephen.“I will go into the city with him. Fare thee well!”
“I 'll go also,”Stephen made answer; but she would not have it so.
“Thy place is with the King,”she said.“Go learn him of this new sin; how men defile churches in his name!”
And to Jack Straw, on the homeward way, she would say nothing but:—
“Prate to me not of thy plot, and thy Rising! I 've no faith in thee, nor any man. The people is afraid to rise; all 's words. O me, alas! 'T is now a year, and am I gone on pilgrimage to rouse the people? Do not the great lords slay and steal as they have ever done? Do not the people starve? Ye are afeared to rise up; afeared of the Duke and his retainers. Poor men are cowards.”
“I would have sent thee forth six months agone,”said Jack Straw, soothing her;“but Wat would not. Patience, mistress!”
And a month after, Jack Straw came to Calote and told her the time was nigh.
“The Parliament meets in Gloucester next month,”he said;“for that the quarrel 'twixt the King and the monks of Westminster is not yet healed, and the church is not re-consecrate since the sacrilege.—Now the people will see the King as he goeth on his progress to Gloucester, and this is well. They will see his face and know him in many shires and hundreds. Their hearts will be warmed to him. Do thou follow and get thy token from him, and they 'll believe thee the more readily that thou art seen about Gloucester and those villages in that same time. But have a care not to speak thy message till Parliament is dissolved and the knights returned home; only do thou be seen here and there.”
“When do I go?”asked Calote, trembling.
“I have a friend, a peddler and his wife, that go about in a little cart. They 'll be like to follow in the tail of the King's retinue, for the better protection. Meanwhile, an thou 'rt wise, thou wilt not mingle lightly with the King's household; but with the peasants in the villages 't is another matter.”
“Yea, I know,”she answered.
“That gay sprig—that squire”—began Jack Straw.
“Hold thy peace!”said Calote.“But for him, how had I come at the King?”
And Jack Straw shut his lips and gulped down his jealousy, but it left a bitter smart in his throat.
Illustration: Capital O
NEnight, when Long Will was gone forth to copy a writ of law for a city merchant, Calote sat up to wait for him in the moonlight by their door that opened on the lane. Calote and her father had not spoke together of her pilgrimage since that night, now more than a year past, when Long Will was so wroth with Jack Straw. Nevertheless, each one knew that the other had not forgotten. But now the time was short; there must be unlocking of tongues.
Calote braided her hair in a tress, unbound it, braided it anew, the while she waited and pondered the words that she would speak. In the lane something grunted and thrust a wet snout against her bare foot; one of Dame Emma's pigs had strayed. It was a little pig; Calote took it up in her arms and bore it through the dark room and out on Cornhill. The tavern door was shut, but there was a noise of singing within, and Dame Emma came at the knock.
Hobbe Smith sat in the chimney trolling a loud song, and two or three more men sprawled on a bench by the wall, a-chaunting“Hey, lolly, lolly,”out of time and out of tune. One of these, that was most drunk, came running foolishly so soon as he saw Calote, and made as to snatch a kiss, but Dame Emma thrust piggie in his face; and when Calote turned about at her own door, breathless, she saw where Hobbe had the silly fellow on the floor and knelt upon his belly, and crammed the pig's snout into his mouth; and Dame Emma beat Hobbe over the noddle with a pint-pot, for that he choked her squealing pig. Calote bethought her, sorrowful, that there would be no Dame Emma and kindly Hobbe to take up her quarrel in other taverns. So she went back to the braiding of her hair until her father came in.
Then she said:—
“Father,—they do affirm 't is full time for me to begone on the King's errand. Thou wilt not say me nay? Thou wilt bless me?”
He sat down on the doorstone and took her in his arm. He was smiling.
“Sweet, my daughter; and dost thou truly think that this puissant realm of England shall be turned up-so-down and made new by a plotting of young children and rustics?”
“Wherefore no, if God will?”
“Nay, I 'll not believe that God hath so great spite against us English,”he made answer, whimsical.
“But the Vision, father? If thy ploughman be no rustic, what then is he?”
“I fell eft-soon asleep,”quoth Long Will,—
"'and suddenly me saw,That Piers the Ploughman was painted all bloody,And come in with a cross before the common people,And right like, in all limbs, to our Lord Jesus;And then called I Conscience to tell me the truth.“Is this Jesus the Jouster?”quoth I, "that Jews did to death,Or is it Piers the Ploughman?—Who painted him so red?"Quoth Conscience, and kneeled then, "These are Piers arms,His colours and his coat-armour, and he that cometh so bloodyIs Christ with his Cross, conqueror of Christians."'"
“Who is 't, then, we wait for?”Calote cried.“Is it Christ, or is it Piers? O me, but I 'm sore bewildered! An' if 't were Christ, yet may not Piers do his devoir? Do all we sit idle with folded hands because Christ cometh not? Surely, 't were better He find us busy, a-striving our weak way to come into His Kingdom! What though we may not 'do best,' yet may we do well.”
“Yea, do well,”her father answered.“But now tell me, dost believe Jack Straw and Wat seek Truth,—or their own glory?”
“How can I tell?”she asked.“But for myself, I do know that I seek Truth. To gain mine own glory, were 't not easy to go another way about? May not I wear jewelled raiment and be called Madame? But I will not. And Wat Tyler and Jack Straw, they believe that they are seekers of Truth.”
“Thou wilt not trust thy little body in the hand of Jack Straw, my daughter; and yet wilt thou give up all this thine England into his clutch?”
“'T is the King shall rule England,”she faltered.
“And who shall rule the King?”
“Is 't not true, that the ploughman shall counsel the King? There be honest ploughmen.”
“Peter of Devon is an honest man,”assented Langland;“he cannot read nor write, almost he cannot speak. Wilt thou give over the kingdom into his keeping?”
“Wilt not thou?”she said; and her father made no answer.
Suddenly she arose and stood before him, and laid her two hands on his shoulders as he sat on the doorstone.
“'T is well enough to say, 'Wait!' 'T is well enough to say, 'Not this ploughman,—Not this King,—Not thou,—Nor I.' 'T is well enough to say, 'Not to-day!' But a man might do so forever, and all the world go to wreck.”
“Not if I believe in God,—and Christ the King's Son of heaven.”
“And is this the end of all trusting in God, that a man shall fold his hands and do nothing?”
He winced, and she had flung her arms about his neck, and pressed her cheek to his, and she was sobbing; he tasted the salt of her tears against his lips.
“Father, forgive me! Say thou dost forgive me!—But all my little lifetime thou hast laboured on this poem—when I was a babe I learned to speak by the sound of thy voice a-murmuring the Vision. All the light o' learning I have to light me to Godward and to my fellows, I got it from the Vision. All the fire o' love I have in my heart was kindled at its flame;—yea—for all other love I quench with my tears; I will not let no other love burn. And now, when the fire is kindled past smothering, and the light burns ever so bright, thou dost turn the Vision against itself, for to confound all them that have believed on thy word. Wilt thou light a light but to snuff it back to darkness? Wilt thou kindle a fire but to choke us with smoke? 'T is now too late. Haply 't is thy part to sit still and sing; but I—I cannot sing, and I cannot sit still. I am not so wise as thou, nor so patient. Is 't kind to 'wilder me with thy wisdom, my father? Is 't wise to cover me with a pall of patience, if I must needs die to lie quiet?”
“An I give thee leave, what is 't thou 'lt do?”he asked her, in a level, weary voice.
“I 'll follow the King to Gloucester, and there have speech of him and a token. After, I 'll bid the people to know the King loveth them,—and they are to come up to London to a great uprising, what time John Ball, and Wat, and Jack Straw shall give sign. Then there shall be no more poor and rich; but all men shall love one another, the knight and the cook's knave, the King and the ploughman. Much more I 'll say, out of the Vision; and of fellowship, such as John Ball preacheth.”
“The clergy clap John Ball into prison for such words, whensoever they may.”
“And for this reason is it better that I should be about when he may not; for what am I but a maiden? Clergy will not take keep of me. I 'm not afeared of no harm that may befal me;—though haply—harm may.”
“Knoweth that young squire aught of this journey?”
“Nay, father.”
“Hast thou bethought thee of what folk will say if thou go to Gloucester in the tail of the court? There be many on Cornhill have seen that youth; they know whence he is.—If thou go, and come not again for many months?”
He felt her cheek grow hot against his own, and then she drew away from him and looked in his eyes piteously:—
“Dost thou not believe I must do that Conscience telleth me is right, father?”
“Yea.”
“Then wherefore wilt thou seek to turn me from well-doing?”
“Thou art my daughter,”he answered gravely;“small wonder if I would shield thee from dangers and evil-report. Shall I not be blamed of all men, and rightly, if I let thee go o' this wild-goose chase?”
“All thy life I have never known thee give a weigh of Essex cheese for any man's praise or blame.”
“'T is very true!”he assented in moody fashion; and sat still with his head bent.
After a little she touched him, and“Thou 'lt bless me, father?”she said.
“To Gloucester, sayst thou?”he questioned absently; and then,“That 's nigh to Malvern Priory, and the Hills,—the Malvern Hills.”
She had sat down below him on the ground and laid her chin upon his knee, and so she waited with her eyes upon his face.
“My old master that learned me to read and to write, and unloosed the singing tongue of me, dwelleth in Malvern Priory. He said, if ever I had a golden-haired daughter—Well, thou shalt take a copy of the Vision to him, Calote. Give it to the porter at the gate,—and bide. Thy mother shall say round and about Cornhill that thou art gone to mine old home, to take the Vision to the old master. He is called Brother Owyn.”
“Father, father!”she cried,“I am filled full of myself, and mine own desire. Wherefore dost thou not beat me and lock me behind doors,—so other fathers would do?”
He smiled wistfully, and kissed her:“So! now thou hast thy will, thou 'lt play penitent. Nay,—hush thee, hush thee, my sweet! 'T is time for laughter now, and joyousness. Thou 'rt going forth to learn all men to love one another. Be comforted; dry thy tears!”
“I am a very wicked wight!”she sobbed.“I will not leave thee.”
“Thou art aweary, my dear one, the dawn cometh. Go thou to rest, and the morrow all will be bright. When dost thou set forth o' this pilgrimage?”
“On the morrow!”she whispered; and then with more tears,“But I will not go, father,—forgive me!”
He gathered her into his arms and carried her through the weeds and up the wooden stair to the door of the gabled room.
“Go in,”he said,“and sleep! There are yet a fifty lines lacking to the copy of the Vision that thou wilt take with thee; I must write them in.”
But when he was come back to the long dark room, he lit no rush for an hour or more; instead, he paced back and forth, talking with himself:—
“Pity me, God! I am a weak man!—I did never no deeds but them I thought not to do;—never, all my life long! Count my deeds, O God,—they are so few,—and all of them have I condemned afore in other men. Now, I let my daughter go forth on a fool's errand, and in a child's plot that must fail; mayhap she will meet worse than death on the road; but I give her my blessing. Jesu,—Mary,—guard this my daughter that I have so weakly put forth upon the world! How may a man dare say nay to his child, if she be a better man than he,—an actyf man, a doer o' deeds? How may a man dare forbid any soul to follow Conscience? Good Jesu, I am but a jongleur,—a teller o' tales,—I am afeared o' deeds. I see them on so many sides that I dare move nor hand nor foot. And if I do, I trip. Best never be doing.—If a man might be all words, and no deeds!”
Illustration: Capital A
And I shall apparaille me in pilgrimes wise,And wende with yow I wil til we fynde Treuthe."
The Vision Concerning Piers Plowman.B. PassusV.
Illustration: Capital K
INGRichard stretched himself and yawned, took off his velvet bonnet and thrust his fingers through his long light-brown hair, rubbed his left leg, and looked on his favourite squire with a smile half-quizzical, half-ashamed.
They two stood in the cloisters of the Abbey at Gloucester, in that part of the cloisters that was not yet finished. The workmen carving the fan-tracery—that Abbey's proud boast and new invention—looked aside from their blocks of stone to the young King, then bent their heads and went on chinking. From somewhere about came a kind of clamorous noise that was the Commons still sitting in the Chapter House,—though 't was past dinner time. John of Gaunt strode laughing down the cloisters by the side of a gray-beard Oxford priest who carried a parchment in his hand, and they went together into the church. Lord Richard Scrope, the new-appointed chancellor, stood out in the middle of the cloister garth, under the noon sun, and Master Walworth and Philpot and other merchants of London with him, their heads together, their speech now buzzing low, now lifted in protest, now settling to a chuckle.
Richard whacked his leg smartly and stiffened it.
“My foot 's asleep,”said he.“'T is a most deep-seated chair. An I must listen many more days to mine uncle's long-winded friend from Oxenford, thou wert best get me a fatter cushion. My legs do dangle out of all dignity.”
“'T shall be found to-morrow, sire!”Etienne answered.
“Nay, not to-morrow, mon ami; to-morrow I go a-hunting, and the next day, and the next, if I will.”
“A-hunting!”exclaimed Etienne;“but Parliament sits.”
“Saint Mary!”cried Richard;“and who should know this better than I? Sits!—One while methought I 'd sent forth rootlets and must go through life a-sitting. Almost I 'll welcome old days, and Sir Simon Burley's stinging birch, to start me out of my numbness.”
A stone-cutter laughed, and checked him short in his laughter; whereat Richard smiled in the frank fashion that made the common folk his friends, and went and looked over the man's shoulder.
“What a pretty tracery is this, pardé,”he said presently.“Why do we not make a roof like to it at Westminster?”
Etienne lifted his eyebrows;“Westminster?”he asked.
And Richard coloured and bit his lip, saying,“True,—I had forgot Westminster is not good friends with us. 'T was all mine uncle's doing,‘ he continued angrily. ’Lord knows, I 've fallen asleep or ever I 've done my prayers, each night since the poor wretch was slain. I 've prayed him out of Purgatory ten times over, and paid for Masses. Dost thou not mind thee, Etienne, how I wept that day the murder was done, and would have stripped me body-naked to be whipped for 't in penance; but my confessor said was no need? Natheless, John Wyclif is a wily cleric. Dost mark how he ever passeth over the murder, soft, yet standeth on our right to make arrest in the church? For mine own part I do believe he is in the right; for wherefore is a king a king, if he may not do as him list, but is bound by time and place?”
“Yea, sire!”said Etienne absently; he was looking across, through the open door into the church. In the dim distance there he saw a little kneeling figure, and a gleam of golden braided hair. Almost he thought it was Calote, and his heart leaped; but he remembered that this could not be if Calote were in London. There were other golden-haired maids in England.
“Yet do I not like his doctrine,”the King mused.“For why?—the half on 't I cannot understand. Yesterday I fell asleep, upright, a-listening to the sound of his Latin. My confessor saith this Wyclif turneth the Bible into the English tongue for common folk to read,—and that 's scandal and heresy, to let down God's thoughts into speech of every day. But Master Wyclif's own thoughts be not God's, if all is true the Church teacheth, and I 'd liever listen to him in English.—or better, in French. Etienne, I go a-hunting, I 'm aweary of Latin, and Sanctuary, and all this cry of the Commons concerning expense. How is 't my fault if mine uncles and Sudbury and the council be spendthrifts? By Saint Thomas of Kent, I 'll stop this French war when I 'm a man. Yea, and I 'll stop the mouth of Parliament that talks me asleep.”
The workmen glanced at one another and grinned. Etienne made a step to the church door; the maid within had risen up off her knees and now crossed herself and went away down the nave.
“Sire!”cried Etienne sharply;“methought I saw—Calote.”
One of the workmen looked up at the name, and let his work lie.
“Calote?”said Richard.“Cœur de joie, but she 's in London.”
Etienne shook his head and peered into the dimness of the church, but the maid was gone.
“Ay, me,”sighed Richard wistfully,“I would thou didst love thy King but the half as well as thou lovest this peasant maid.”
“Beau sire,”said Etienne, kneeling,“I am thy loyal servant. Trust me, my heart plays no tricks.”
“Chéri,”then smiled the King, and laid his hand on Etienne's shoulder,“my head aches. Let us to my chamber and thou shalt sing me a little song, and I 'll sleep. We have not spoke of Calote these three weeks. Come, tell me a tale and be merry. To-morrow we 'll ride up to the forest at Malvern, and hunt there the next day; the prior yonder is a courteous gentleman, writes in French, and prays me partake of his hospitality. After All Hallows we 'll come back and hear the end of these great matters. I 'll pray mine uncle; I 'll fret and fume. I 'll go, will he nil be. Come let 's say a prayer in church beside my great-grandfather's tomb. Give you good-day, good fellows,”he said to the workmen, and went away hanging upon his squire's arm.
“There 's a king!”said one of the stone-cutters.“His father's own son!”
“Sayst thou so?”grumbled another.“Didst mark how he would stop the mouth o' Parliament when he 's a man?”
“Pish!—'t was a jest turned in weariness,”a third made excuse;“a child's jest. For mine own part, I 'm none so fond o' Parliament with its throngings, and setting a town topsy-turvy, and forever getting under a man's feet when he 's at his stone work peaceable.”
“They say his mother's done her best to spoil him. I 've heard tell she was a light woman.”
“Natheless, I 'd liever have him than another. He has a merry smile. I could have took him o' my knee and kissed him and rubbed his sleepy foot,—but I minded me he was a king.”
“And well for thee.”
“Now I wonder,”said the workman who had lifted his head at mention of Calote,—“now I wonder what the young squire meant by those words he said? There 's a maid biding in my cot; her name 's Calote. She can sing the Vision concerning Piers Ploughman better than any teller o' tales ever I heard. 'T was her own father writ it. One Jack Straw sent her my way. She goeth afoot to Malvern to-day, to give her father's greeting to a monk at the Priory.”
“Jack Straw? Him that spake of the people's wrongs and these evil taxings, at Tavern in January past?”
“Yea.”
“Will such-like a maid be known to so fine a gentleman as yon squire?”
“Haply not. Yet I 'll swear by Saint Christopher 't was her I saw in the church when he looked through the door.”
“Eh, well,—the little King 's a good fellow, say I,”quoth the man that had first spoken, and added,“So is Jack Straw.”
Whereupon there fell silence upon all of them, and only the clinking of hammer against stone was heard till the Commons came out of the Chapter House with a great clatter.
Illustration: Capital T
HEporter at the gate of Malvern Priory was a very old man, but he had good eyes, and he knew a pretty thing when he saw it.
“Thou wilt speak with Brother Owyn, wilt thou?”he said to Calote in his toothless voice.“By my troth, I 'll have thee to know, hussy, that this is no household of gadding friars, but a sober and well-conducted priory. Our monks do not come and go at the bidding of wenches.”
“Good brother, I come not of myself,”said Calote,“I am sent a message of my father.”
“And thy father, I make no doubt, is the Father of Lies,—Christ give him sorrow!”
“My father was put to school one while in Malvern Priory,”answered Calote.“Brother Owyn was his master and loved him well.”
“Sayst thou so?”the porter retorted, yet with something of curiosity awaking within his bright eyes.“Is no lad hath gone in and out this gate in forty year, but hath one day or other tasted my rod for a truant. How do they call thy father?”
“In London men call him Long Will, and Will Langland 's his name.”
The porter opened wide his mouth, and,“By Goddes Soul!”quoth he,“Will Langland!—Let me look on thee,”—albeit he had done naught but look on her for ten minutes past.“Yea, 't is true; I 'd know thee by thine eyen, that are gray, and thoughtful, and dark with a something that lies behind the colour of them,—and shining by the light of a lamp lit somewhere within.—So! Will Langland hath got him a wench! 'T is a hard nut to crack. Moreover, eyen may be gray as glass, and yet speak lies. What for a token hast thou that thou 'rt true messenger?”
“I have a poem,”she answered.
“Let 's see it.”
“Nay, 't is for Brother Owyn.”
“And how shall Brother Owyn have it, if not by me?”rejoined the porter testily.
“Wilt thou get me speech of him if I show it thee?”asked Calote.
“Shall a lay-brother of Malvern stoop to play handy-dandy for favours?”said the porter, casting up his chin in a way feebly to imitate his prior; yet his curiosity overcame his pride and he added:“Do thou show me first the poem. After, I 'll think on 't.”
Whereupon Calote drew forth the parchment from her breast, and he unrolled it and spread it upon his knee, and“H-m-m, h-m-m!”said he. But he could not read a word, being no scholar.
“Find me a pretty passage,”he bade her presently,“and say it me, the while I follow with my finger.”
So she began;—and neither one of them knew the place in the parchment:—
"'Right so, if thou be religious run thou never furtherTo Rome, nor to Rochemadour, but as thy rule teacheth,And hold thee under obedience, that highway is to heaven.'"
“Tut chut! Thou 'rt a bold wench! Wilt teach thy grandmother to suck eggs?”cried the porter.
Calote laughed, but began anew:—
"'Grace ne groweth not but amongst the low;Patience and poverty is the place where it groweth,And in loyal-living men, and life-holy,And through the gift of the Holy Ghost as the gospel telleth'"—
“Lord, Lord, enough!”cried the porter.“'T is very true that never none but Will Langland writ such-like twaddle.”
“But thou wilt bid Brother Owyn to the gate?”said Calote, rolling up her parchment.
“How may I bid him to the gate when he 's gone forth yonder in the Chase with hook and line and missal to catch fish for supper?”
“Ah! good brother, gramerci,”laughed Calote.
“Then kiss me,”said he.“Nay, what harm? An old man that might be thy father twice over!”
But she shook her head and sprang swiftly from him.
“I 've a long journey afore me,”she said,“and if I kiss every man that doeth me service, there 'll be no kisses left for my True Love.”
So she ran away among the trees, and the old man went into the gate-house and sat chuckling.
All about Malvern Priory was forest, and a part of this was the King's Chase. The woodland climbed the hill part way, thinning as it climbed.
"'I was weary with wandering and went me to restUnder a broad bank by a burn's side.'"
hummed Calote as she went upward.“Belike he 's there catching his fish.”
The day was mild; Saint Martin's summer was at hand; all around trees were yellowing, leaves were dropping. The little haze that is ever among the Malverns dimmed the vistas betwixt the tree-trunks to faintest blue. The voices of the hunt floated upward from the level stretch of forest in the plain,—bellowing of dogs, a horn, a distant shouting.
“Please God I may not meet the King, nor Stephen,”said Calote.“They do say he came hither last night to hunt.”
Even as she spoke, a roe fled across her path, and immediately after, two huntsmen came riding.
“Which way went the—Cœur de joie!”cried a boy's voice.
The other huntsman sat dumb upon his horse. Calote, rosy red, her lips a-quiver, stood with her hands crossed on her breast, that frighted but yet steadfast way she had. Then:—
“Light down, Etienne, thou laggard lover! 'T is thy true love hath followed thee from London town these many miles,”laughed Richard, and flung himself off his horse.
“Oh, me, harrow, weyl a way!”said Calote, covering up her face.“'T is not true! I am not so unmaidenly; my heart is full of other matter than light love.”She turned to Stephen, who was also lighted off his horse, and“Dost thou believe I followed for love of thee?”she cried.
“Alas and alack!—but I would it were so!”answered Stephen.
“Yet thou didst follow,”said the King.“Wherefore?”
She turned her eyes away from Stephen and looked on Richard, and as she looked she sank down on her knees before him.
“Thou art the King!”she gasped,“and I knew thee not!”
In very truth, here was not the little lad she had known. The grace of childhood was gone from Richard. Some of the mystery had gone out of his eyes, though they were yet, and would ever be, thoughtful; all of the shyness had gone out of his manner, albeit none of the courtesy. He was well used to being a king; he was already, at thirteen years of age or thereabout, the most of a gentleman in his very foppish and gentleman-like court. Calote had sat still in the window-seat that time he came to the crown by his grandfather's death, but to-day, before she knew wherefore, she was on her knees. Then only were her eyes opened, and she knew that this was the King.
He looked upon her friendly-wise, half-laughing. Kingship and comradeship were ever a-wrestle in Richard's heart to the end of the chapter. He liked to be a king, none better; he kept his state as never king kept it before in England,—as few have kept it since. But also, he loved to be loved, not from afar and awesomely as subjects love, but in the true human fashion that holds betwixt friends, betwixt kindly master and friendly servant.
Now, he put out his hand to Calote and lifted her up, and when they stood face to face, his eyes were a-level with hers, so big was he;—or haply she so small.
“I am grown tall; is 't not so?”he said.“Very soon I shall be tall as Etienne. No wonder thou didst not know me. But now, see thou tell me true wherefore thou art so suddenly come to Malvern, and I 'll forgive thy forgetting. Nay,—not on thy knees again.”
“Sire, hast thou forgot that I told thee—of a plot? And whether thou wouldst be King of all the people of England, or only puppet to the nobles?”
“I am not so good at forgetting as thou,”he made reply, and she could not but marvel to hear him so froward of speech. She was aware that this was no little child, but a boy that had listened, perforce, a year and more, to the counsels of grown men, some of them wise, all of them shrewd.
“This plot moveth on,”she continued, taking up her tale.“There is forming, and shall be formed, a great society of men over all England. I, and others, we go out across the land, one here, one there, north, south, east, and west, to bind the people into brotherhood. And it is my task to tell the people that the King is one of this brotherhood,—if so be 't is true.”—She paused, but Richard did not speak, so she went on:“It is my task to tell the people that the King approveth this gathering together of the people. And, when the time cometh, he will stand forth and be their leader,—against those that oppress them. If so be 't is true.”
“And the people want?”—
“Freedom, sire! Not to be a part of the land, like stocks and stones and dumb cattle. Not to be villeins any longer, but freed men, with leave to come and go of their own will.”
“But noblesse,—villeinage,—these are fixed,—may not be overthrown.”
“Not by the King?”asked Calote.
Richard looked on her uncertain, then his face flushed and he struck his long-bow vehement into the earth:—
“The King may do what he will!”he cried;“else wherefore is he King? Tell me, will they aid me to put down mine uncle, John of Gaunt, and all these that tie my hands, and the Council that now is the verray governor of this realm? Will they do all these things for me, if I make them free men?”
“This and more than this, sire!”Calote exclaimed;“For they 'll build up a kingdom whereof the foundation is love, and the law will be not to take away by tax, but to see that every man hath enough.”
“Shall it be soon?”asked Richard.
“That I cannot tell. The realm of England is a wide realm, not easy to traverse.”
Richard turned hesitating to his squire:“I would it were wise, this that the maid telleth. In vérité, is 't so? What dost say, Etienne? I—I fear mine uncle and Sudbury would laugh.”
“I say, 't is a wicked and evil counsel that sendeth forth a young maid to encounter perils. No love ruleth the hearts of them that send her.”
“Art thou my true lover, in good sooth?”cried Calote,“and would undo that I have most at heart?”
“Moreover, 't is beside my question,”Richard added fretfully.“I would know but only if an uprising, like to this Calote stirreth, is of power to succeed against nobilité?”
“I am no prophet, sire.”
“Thou thinkest not of thy King, neither of his kingdom, but of thine own self only,”said Richard, in the sulks, driving an arrow spear-fashion into the earth and wrenching it forth with a jerk that snapped the shaft.
“I think of her,”Etienne answered him sadly.
“There is more kinds of love than one,”Calote protested.“Is there not a love for the whole people that is as worthy as the love for one woman? Yea, and more worthy, for 't is Christ's fashion of loving. What matter if I lose my life, if so be the people is free?”
Richard kindled to her words.“So must the King love!”he cried.“Fie, for shame, Etienne! But only yesternight thou wert persuading me how honourable 't is when a man lose his life for the world's sake and Christ Jesu—as crusaders and such.”
“And what is this I preach, but a crusade,”demanded Calote,“to free the people?”
“A crusade?”the King questioned. Then his face came all alight.“A crusade!—And when the preaching 's done I 'll be the leader of the crusade.—And I 'll make all England my Holy Land!”—For if Richard had not been a king, he might have been a poet.
“Now praise be to Christ and Mary Mother!”said Calote joyously.“And what for a token dost give me, sire, that the people may know me a true messenger?”
“A token, pardé!”and he looked him up and down hastily. He had on a green jerkin all embroidered over with R's entwined in a pattern of gold threads, and buttoned with little bells of gold. His one leg was scarlet, his other was green. About his neck, at the end of a long jewelled chain, hung a little hunting-horn of silver, with his badge of the white hart graven upon it and set round with pearls.
“Take this!”he said, and flung the chain over her head.
“By God's will, I 'll call the King's ményé to him with this horn,”quoth Calote, a-kissing it.
The King laughed merrily then, and went and cast himself upon his squire's neck:—
“Etienne, chéri, mignon,—be not so glum! When Richard is King in the Kingdom of Love, not Dan Cupid's self shall dare to cross thy suit to thy lady. Thou shalt be married to Calote, and I 'll make thee chief counsellor. I 'll take mine Uncle John's land and richesse in forfeit and give them to thee.”
“Ah, no, no!”Calote exclaimed.
“But I will if I 'm King?”said Richard.
And then did Stephen laugh.
“Now wherefore so merry?”Richard asked, eyeing him in discontent.
“Beau sire, you bade me be merry,”Stephen made answer, and to Calote he said“When dost thou start a-preaching, and whither?”
“When Parliament is departed,—I go about in the villages to the south and west of Gloucester. Meanwhile, I 'll lodge with a kindly forester's wife in Malvern here. But now I must away to find an old monk, my father's schoolmaster. My father was put to school in Malvern Priory.”
“Why, 't is very true!”cried the King.“The Vision maketh a beginning in the Malvern Hills.”
“I bring the Vision to this monk; and he 's a-fishing hereabout in the Chase, the porter saith. Saw ye a burn as ye came hither?”
“Yea, verily!”Richard answered her.“We crossed it but fifty paces back, and 't was there the dogs went off the scent and back to the pack and the other folk, in the lower chase. Hark to them now! We 've lost the hunt; let us go with the maid, Etienne. If her father's schoolmaster is the same that sat at my side yestere'en and told me tales, he 'll wile an hour right prettily for us. He said Dan Chaucer, our Chaucer, came hither a little lad years agone, afore mine Uncle Lionel died. I 'd rather fish than hunt. Leave Robert de Vere and my brother John Holland to slay the deer.”
So they went through the wood leading their jennets; and Calote, with the King's horn about her neck, walked by the King's side.