"'Then came there a king, knighthood him led,Might of the commons made him to reign.'"
And John Ball at his stirrup said, also out of the Vision:—
"'Love is leech of life and next our Lord's self,And also the straight way that goeth into heaven.'"
“Heaven?”murmured Richard, and after very soft, twixt prayer and amaze,“Thy kingdom come.”
So he turned about and rode at a slow pace, as one in a dream, across the square to his nobles, and there was on his face a shining look as of one who seeth a vision.
“This is the bravest man in all England to-day, and he is our King,”said old Salisbury, and Richard smiled, eyes and mouth radiant, flashing as the sun.
Then said Mayor Walworth, who was ever a blunt man,“Now will I ride swift into the city, sire, and man the wards and bring hither Sir Robert Knollys, and his retainers shall surround these fellows and break their pride.”
Richard turned to look on the Mayor, the smile fading. As one that waketh out of a sweet dream and encountereth the old perplexity he had thought was laid, so Richard stared; and there grew in his eyes a look of fear.
“What need?”he said, and drew rein as he would scape anew to his people.
Then came the Earl of Salisbury close, and who had looked in the old man's face the while he spoke to Richard might not fail to see a great pity therein.
“Sire,”he said, and the pity was in his voice likewise,—“sire, 't were not wise these peasants come again into the city. They have wrought too great havoc; we may not trust them.”
As one who strives to gather his wits Richard sat, with dumb eyes fixed on the old Earl. His lip quivered.
Salisbury began anew, very patient and soft, as one speaketh to a creature that is frighted, or to a child:“My lord, the people have obtained that they asked, now they ought to disperse and wend them homeward. To this end 't were well thou lead them out into the fields to speed them on their way.”
“Yea,”Richard answered slow.“Then what need of Sir Richard Knollys and his retainers?”
“The men of Kent must go again through London to cross the river by the Bridge,—bethink thee of yesterday, sire”—
“Yesterday is dead!”the boy cried.“I and my people are at peace!”
“Natheless, sire, hearts are as tinder.”
“Then wherefore set them afire by the steel of armed knights?”
“Nay, my liege, but if these peasants be penitent, wherefore shall they refuse to be escorted thorough that fair city wherein they behaved so ill?”
“I will not betray my people,”cried Richard, a sob in his voice.
“Disperse them only, my lord. Though there be many loyal, natheless we do know of sureté that there be certain among them like to this Tyler, would make themselves King. Thyself hast seen how they are easily led this way and that, for good or ill. Remember the Archbishop, sire.”
There shot a spasm of anguish athwart the King's face.“I will lead them into the fields. They shall be dispersed,”he said with a loud, unsteady voice.“But I have set them free. I will not betray them! I will not betray them!”
And riding away he was presently in the midst of the peasant rout, laughing, leading them to Clerkenwell. But his cheeks were fever-bright, and the look of fear faded not out of his eyes. With quips and merry gests he lured them on, and he bethought him how that Stephen had said that night in the Tower,“They 'll be led like little children,”and so they were.
“Hearken, my people,”said Richard, wistful,“none standeth between us any more. Would ye that Wat Tyler had made himself your King?”
“King Richard!—King Richard!”they shouted.
“None standeth between us any more, mes amis,—neither noble, nor common man”—
“Nor archbishop,”cried one, but a tumult of voices smothered him, with:—
“Nay—'t was Wat slew the Archbishop!”
And when they saw the cloud on Richard's brow, they cried yet more loud, as in a frenzy:—
“'T was Wat!—'t was Wat! Long live King Richard!”
But John Ball was not now in that throng, nor Jack Straw; they had fled away.
And now came Sir Robert Knollys with his knights and men-at-arms, retainers, surrounding the peasants that were as patient as silly sheep, for they looked upon their young shepherd and trusted him. So when certain of those soldiers would have fallen upon the people to slay them, King Richard arose in his saddle and forbade them, saying in anger:—
“These are my children,—mine! mine!—Let not a hair of their heads be harmed. If they had hearts of men, might they not slay me even now, beholding this foul ambush by which they are taken? But they are as babes doing my bidding. They have faith, even though I lead them into bondage.”
Then he burst into tears, very passionate, and screamed loud and hoarse:—
“I have set them free! Do ye hearken?—I have set them free,—free! O Christ, I am not traitor to my people!”
My Lord Salisbury likewise forbade violence, and Richard, when he had dried his tears and got his voice, spoke again to the people and made them to know as how the men of Kent must homeward, and others in peace to north and west. And when they had set forth obedient, Richard rode into the city, the light as of a conqueror in his eyes. Nevertheless, behind this there lurked the look of fear.
Meanwhile in Smithfield Wat Tyler lay dead of his wounds. And when Richard led the peasants out to Clerkenwell, and the nobles rode into the city to bring succour, Stephen only remained. But presently John Ball came forth of a house, and when they two saw that no man hindered, they took up the body of poor Wat and bore it within the Church ofSt.Bartholomew and laid it decently at the east end of the nave.
“Wat hath lost us London,”said John Ball.“But who might believe that true knights and noble gentlemen would so sin against courtesy! Our hope now is to keep the shires stirring. I 'll not stay in this death-trap, but carry the spark to northward. Yorkshire ought to be up by now, if the message carried, and Cheshire, and Somerset. God keep thee, brother! While the breath 's in our bodies we may fan the flame.”The priest was gone, and Stephen sat him down by the body to watch.
So after the day was won and the peasants scattered, Mayor Walworth bethought him of Wat Tyler and came again to Smithfield to seek him. But finding naught except blood where the dead man had fallen, he searched diligently, as did two aldermen that were with him, and in the end they found that they sought.
“Have him forth!”said the Mayor.“'T is no place for traitors in a church.”
“Good Master Walworth,”pleaded Stephen,“this man was more honest than many. He followed truth,—and we be all stumblers. If he sought to take the King, what did he more than John of Gaunt would do, or others of the noblesse? I have lived with Wat Tyler as he were my brother;—I know him that he sinned being ambitious, but this sin he shareth with John of Gaunt and better men; and not for himself alone did he desire to rule England, but for the sake of the poor that is so down-trodden. But John of Gaunt for power and his own sake only. I know him that he was a wrathful man,—but who so wrathful wild as Earl Percy of Northumberland, natheless men do him courtesy.”
“Master Fitzwarine,”made answer the Mayor,“give up thy sword and yield thee prisoner, for that thou defendest traitors and murderers, disturbers of the King's peace. This man hath slain the Archbishop of Canterbury.”
“'T is very true, if Wat Tyler is traitor then am I likewise,”said Stephen, and gave up his sword. And one of the aldermen bound him with a rope to lead him away. Then did Mayor Walworth take Wat Tyler's body by the heels, and dragged it forth into Smithfield and hewed the head from the trunk. This he did with Stephen's sword. After, he gave the head to that other alderman, not him that bound Stephen, and bade him take down the Archbishop's head from London Bridge and set Wat Tyler's where that one had hung; and these things were done. But Stephen was cast into a dungeon in the Tower.
Illustration: Capital O
Nthe Sunday when Long Will and Calote were come from the burial of Kitte, they were met at their door by Walworth and certain of the King's officers, who said:—
“Knowest aught concerning that arch-traitor, Jack Straw? 'T is believed he lieth hid in the city.—In the King's name, open thy door!”
“Name him not!”cried Will, and crossed himself.“I am a clerk; I may not venge mine own wrong!—Natheless his name breeds murder in my heart.”He groaned and covered his face. Those others stared in amaze.
“Heard ye not?”said Calote then.“'T was Friday he came into our cot by night, and he would have slain one slept there, but my mother ran in between.—My mother was slain.”
“Alack, sweet maid, here 's news!”exclaimed the Mayor.“I 've been busied propping the kingdom.‘ And to the men he said: ’On! he is not here.”
But one of the men answered him:“The fellow was seen o' Cornhill within the hour. Is a most arrant knave. This house were safest in all London, seeing he hath shed blood in it. Let us enter!”
So they went in and threw wide the window and the doors, for that the room was dark. And some mounted to the chamber under the roof. Then the man that craved leave to enter went and stood by the great chest in the lower room; and presently he had lifted the lid and thrust in his hand, and all they heard a terrible squawk. The man had Jack Straw by the leg, and flung him out on the floor.
“O thou vile murderer!”cried Calote.“Coward, without shame! Dost shelter thee on this hearth thou hast defiled? O craven dog!”
There were deep shadows in the eyes of Calote. This horror of her mother's death was yet upon her. Moreover, she knew what it was to fail.
“Do not let the clerk come at me!”Jack Straw prayed the Mayor. He shivered; he was all of a sweat.“Wherefore do ye take me? Thrust thy fingers in my breast, the King's pardon is there. Hark ye,—I 'll say it. I have it by heart. 'Know that of our special grace we have manumitted'—hearken, 'freed him of all bondage, and made him quit by these presents.' I be free man, pardoned of all felonies, treasons, transgressions, and extortions. Look ye, masters,—'t is writ here.—Bind not my hands! Read!—'And assure him of our summa pax.' I 'm free man. Read!—'Dated June the fourteenth, anno regni quarto.' I had it of yonder clerk, learned me the Latin the while he writ. I 'm free man. Will,—speak for me! Will!—Will!—I meant no harm,—she came between and I knew 't not. Will, thou knowest I meant no harm to Kitte. Speak! Is 't for this I 'm ta'en? The Lord is leech of love, Will, forgiveth his enemies. I 'm thy friend, Will;—was ever.”
“Have him forth!”shouted Langland above this din.“Have him forth swift,—else must ye bind me likewise. O Christ—give me leave!—Avenge her, Christ Jesus!”
Then Jack Straw, being 'ware that here was no hope, turned him at the threshold and said:—
“There be others, prisoners, mistress, and thy peddler is one. I saw him borne to Tower yester e'en. Thy fine esquire 's like to lose his head as soon as I.”
“Set a gag twixt his teeth,”said Walworth. So they did, and bore him through London streets. And if any man was his friend, he went and hid himself.
Meanwhile, the King took counsel with his lords in the great chamber in the Tower. His cheeks were pale, his eyes heavy. He pressed his hand oft to his brow, where sat a frown.
“Sire,”said Buckingham,“'t is very certain these knaves ought to be punished, else shall we never have done with uprisings and rebellions that do endanger the kingdom.”
“Where is Etienne Fitzwarine?”asked Richard, fretful.“Let him mix my cup! There 's a fever inward, parcheth my throat.”
My Lord of Buckingham looked uneasy on my Lord of Salisbury. Then Sir John Holland behind the King's back said:“No doubt he consorteth with those low fellows, his friends, and maketh merry that the King is cozened.”
“Ribaude!”cried the boy starting from his seat.“I cozened?—I?—I?”He choked and turned half round, his hand on his sword.
Sir John went backward a pace, nevertheless he would not eat his words:—
“Wherefore should they not make merry, sire? They were fools an they wept. Nay, they have gone home to their wives to tell a marvellous tale. Here 's a king! do they cry. Let us but rise up and burn a manor-house or two, and take London Bridge,—and we may have what we will, even if 't be the King's crown.”
“Who bade me grant all?”cried Richard.“Who fled a-horseback into the fields for fear of that rabble at Mile End? What I did, was 't not done to save your coward skins, as much as to pleasure peasants?”
“O my liege! Who may know this, if not thy loyal servants?”said Salisbury, and bent his old knees. Whereupon those others knelt likewise, and Salisbury continued:—
“Thou hast wrought with a king-craft beyond thy years, sire. Thou hast saved England. But now must stern measures be taken, else are we like to be in worse case. When the people discover that they are—that they—are”—
“Tricked!”shouted Buckingham, laughing loud.“Tricked, my wise nephew! 'T were well to crush them neath the iron hand of fear, ere they find out this. So, I say, fall to!—Beat them down! Let blood flow! 'T is the one way!”
“Tricked?”the King repeated, frowning.“But I was honest.”
“Ay, my lord,”assured him Salisbury.“And so wert thou honest if a madman came to thee and gripped thy throat and said, 'Give me thy kingdom, King Richard,' and thou didst answer, 'Yea, freely I give it thee.' Natheless, the madman might not rule England. Neither may King Richard keep faith with him, for that were grievous wrong to Englishmen.”
The King laughed, as he were uncertain and ashamed; the colour came into his face.“'T is very raisonable,”he said slowly,—“but—I did not give them the kingdom,—I gave them—liberty.”
“My lord hath not forgot that concerning this matter Parliament hath a voice. It may well be Parliament shall give consent,—natheless”—Salisbury faltered, and Buckingham laughed very scornful.
“I am King!”cried Richard haughtily, but there was a question in his cry.
“My lord doth not forget,”said Salisbury,“as how in England the King taketh counsel with his people as concerning the welfare of the kingdom. Since the day of the first Edward, grandfather to my lord's grandfather, this is more and more a custom in England. Through[3]Parliament doth the King receive his grants, taxes, moneys for the King's expending. 'T were not well to make an enemy of Parliament. The court is straitened for moneys.”
Richard bit his lip and paced up and down, clinching his hands.
“Who said the King was free?”he cried. And on a sudden, very fierce:“If I am cozened, 't is not the peasants have cozened me.”
“O sire!”pleaded the old Earl,“think not of noblesse, nor of peasants, nor yet of thine own self,—but of all England, that thy grandfather Edward made a great nation. Wilt have it go to wrack in the hands of crazed villeins? Put down the revolt with a strong hand; then will they wake from their madness.”
“Cure them with blood, sire,”said Buckingham.“'T is the one way. Else were no man's head safe.”
“Beau sire!”cried Robert de Vere, entering,“the Mayor is here with that rebel, Jack Straw, was so fierce against the Flemings on Friday.”
Then came in Walworth, and Jack bound.
“What vermin is this?”asked Richard.“Have him forth,—displeaseth me. Faugh! How the fellow crawls!”
“Sire, I will confess,”Jack whined.“I will reveal all. Let me go free, sire! I went astray. Do but let me go free, and I 'll confess. 'T was not I was leader, sire, but Wat Tyler—and Stephen Fitzwarine”—
The King had sat listless, paying no heed, but at the name of Fitzwarine he lifted his head:—
“Take this liar to the courtyard and beat out 's brains!”he said.“Where is Etienne?”
“Sire, pardon!”now began Walworth,“but 't is very true I took Master Fitzwarine yester e'en by the side of the body of the traitor, Wat Tyler; and he made as to defend the body, and spake against certain great nobles of the realm.”
“Thou hast slain him?”screamed Richard,—“Etienne!—Etienne!”
“Nay, sire; for that I knew the King loved him. Natheless, for safety he is housed close. And here is his sword. With this same sword I strake off the head of Wat Tyler. My lord, I am thy faithful servant.”
“Ay,”Richard assented.“Prythee pardon, friend; I have not forgot that good turn thou did me and all England yesterday. But give me the sword. I will wear the sword that hewed off that traitor's head.”
“Sweet nephew,”said Buckingham,“'t is very certain Fitzwarine was likewise traitor.”
“Wilt thou forget those bold words he spake in this chamber, sire, three days agone?”cried Sir John Holland.
“Wilt thou forget that insult to madame the Queen, who must needs ride with his wanton that night on Blackheath?”sneered Robert de Vere, Earl of Oxford.
“O sire,”said Jack Straw soft,—“is 't known of these gentles as how Fitzwarine traversed England a year and more, in company of this same leman, stirring up revolt?”
There went up a shout of wrath and amaze from all those lordings:—
“Sire!”they cried, and every eye bent on the King craved vengeance.
“Pah!”said he.“'T is not question of Etienne, but of this worm that speweth venom. Let him be despatched forthwith!”
Then Jack Straw cast himself down on the floor and writhed on his belly as far as the King's feet, crying:—
“Mercy!—Grace!—Mercy!—Mercy!—I will reveal the plot. O sire, I will unfold the secrets of this Rising! Give me only my life, my life, sire, my life!”
“Well, take thy life! Thou shalt go free,—if thou tell all,”said Richard, with averted face.“Lift the fellow to his knees, thou,—yeoman guard,—and wipe his slobber off my shoes!”
So when Jack Straw was got to his knees and a stout yeoman on either side holding him up underneath his arm-pits, for that he was weak with fright and lack of food, he began to tell his tale.
“'T was in Long Will's cot o' Cornhill,—the Chantry Priest, him that writ the Vision concerning Piers Ploughman,—'t was in his house this plot was hatched.—Water, my lords!—Pity, my tongue is twice its true size!”
“Verily, I believe it is so,”said Richard; he would not look at Jack Straw, but sat with face turned to one side and eyes cast down.“Give him to drink,”he said.
The Mayor caught a silver flagon from the table and held it to Jack's lips, and when he had drunk, my Lord of Oxford ground the flagon beneath his heel and kicked it shapeless into a corner.
“'T was o' Cornhill, lordings, and Will was there, and the light o' love, his daughter, and Wat Tyler,—and—and—Fitzwarine”—
“And thou,”said Richard.
“But I was no leader in this Rising, sire. Wat would be leader,—a proud, wrathful man. And the traitor Fitzwarine hath evil entreated me oft, for that he would hold second place to Wat.”
“Where was John Ball?”asked Salisbury.
“John Ball also was there,”cried Jack very eager.“'T was he set us all agog in the beginning with his preaching and prating.”
“Get on! The plot!”Richard interrupted impatiently.
“Mercy, sire,—grace!—'T was agreed as how all knights, squires, and gentlemen should be slain, and the King made to lead this revolution. For this cause came Wat to Smithfield yester morn, to take the King. Mercy!—And until all England was risen up, the King should be called leader of the people. Then should we slay all the lords.—Ah, pity, gentles!—And when was none left to succour the King,—Wat Tyler would have had the King slain.—Sire, not I, but Wat!—Grace!—Pardon!”
Richard's face was still as stone. Jack Straw hung limp betwixt the yeomen, and well-nigh swooned, moaning the while.
Thrice Richard moved his lips and no sound came; at last he said,“Anon?”
“The—the—bishops after, sire, and all monks, canons,—rectors, to be slain. When no one survived, greater, stronger, or more knowing than ourselves, we should have made at our pleasure laws by which the subjects would be ruled.”
The room was all a-murmur with rage. Richard arose and signed to the guard to take up Jack Straw:—
“Take him to the place in the courtyard where Archbishop Simon was murdered,‘ he said in a cold voice. ’Rip out his guts, lop off his legs and arms. Let his head be borne throughout the city on a pole, and what remaineth cut in four pieces and send by fleet-foot messengers to north and south and east and west of this foul, traitorous England.”
Jack Straw heard with starting eyes. Then strength came to him and he shrieked and struggled:—
“Thy promise, sire, thy promise!—Thou didst give me life! Mercy!—Thy promise!”
“One thing 't would seem a king is free to do,”Richard answered him.“'T is to break promises.”
And old Salisbury sighed, and hung his head as he were suddenly grown feeble.
So Jack Straw was borne away to his death, and the nobles crowded around Richard, buzzing approval.
“And Fitzwarine, sire?”said Robert de Vere.
The boy pressed his hands against his eyes:—
“Have ye no pity, wolves?”he groaned.
“Natheless, sire, he is a traitor,”persisted Buckingham.“Is no time to set free traitors.”
“I have not set him free,”said Richard.“Let that suffice. If ye are thirsty for blood, go down into Cheapside; Mayor Walworth shall set up anew the block that was there, and strike off the heads of all such as were known to be murderers of Flemings. The widows of the dead weavers may wield the axe an they will. Here 's sport, my lords! Now, pray you leave me! I must make ready for this pilgrimage of vengeance mine uncle Buckingham counselleth.”
“The jongleuse and her father, sire?”ventured Sir John Holland.
“I may not take keep of women and poets,”Richard answered.“'T is my friends only that I betray.”
Illustration: Capital S
TEPHEN'Scell was a narrow place, and there was no window but a slit wherefrom arrows only might take flight. Looking forth with face pressed close to the stone, Stephen saw the gray wall of the inner ward, and no other thing. Nevertheless, by means of this crack he knew light from darkness, and when three days were past he said to the gaoler:—
“How long do I bide in this place?”
“The last man bode here till he died, master,—two-score and five year. My father was turnkey.”
Stephen turned his face to the arrow-slit, and the man went out and barred the door.
“Now will I set my life in order against the day I come forth,”said Stephen;“and whether Death unlock the door, or Life, I shall be ready.”
So he sat close by the crack, with his fingers thrust through, beckoning freedom. And here the gaoler found him night and morn, silent, as he were wrapt in a deep contemplation, a little sad, but hopeful withal, and uncomplaining. The gaoler eyed him in amaze, and searched the cell for rope or knife or crowbar, for written word or phial of poison, whereby this strange calm might be accounted for. But he found none of these things. And in this way there dragged on a fortnight. Then might the gaoler hold his peace no longer.
“Hard fare,”quoth he, setting the black bread and the water jug ready to Stephen's hand.
“Ay,”the prisoner made answer,“but a-many people in England have no better, and a-many go hungry. Wherefore shall I feed fat the while my brothers fast?”
“Thou art the most strange wight ever I saw,”said the gaoler.“For the most part do they ramp and rage, beat head against wall, and curse blasphemously. Others there be lie in swoon, eat not, cry and make moan. But thou!”—
“I look into my past,”said Stephen.“I live over my life. By now I 'm a seven years child, and my mother died yesterday.”
“Lord!—'s lost his wits!”exclaimed the gaoler and fled incontinent.
The next day he pushed the door open very cautious, peered round the edge, and set the bread and water on the ground.
“Come in, br-br-brother,”Stephen called.“I be not mad. I do but muse on life, to discover wherein it may be bettered, and where 's the fault. When I 'm done with time past I 'll think on time to come, and what 's to do if ever I go free. By this device keep I my wits. I do love life, brother, I would live as long as I may.”
“Art thou a poet?”queried the gaoler.
“Nay, but I make rhymes as well as any other gentleman.”
This was before the hour of prime. At sunset, when the gaoler came again he questioned:—
“Dost thou find the fault in life, and wherein 't may be bettered?”
"There be a-many faults, brother, but one is this, that some men do make of themselves masters, and hold their fellows in bonds, and those may not choose,—but they must be bound whether they will or no.
'When Adam delved and Eve span,Who was then'"—
but the gaoler went out, and slammed the door to with a loud noise.
'T was nigh a week after, and now mid July, when he spoke again to Stephen:—
“The King doth not yet stint to kill the men who sing that ribald rhyme concerning our forefather Adam.”
“But the King set villeins free!”cried Stephen, aroused.
“Free as a hawk is free when fowler tieth a thread to 's claw.”
“So?”said Stephen,“then all 's lost!”and very hastily:“Prythee, brother, tell me, was Will Langland, him they call Long Will,—was he taken,—a-a-and a-a-any ki-kinsfolk of his?”
“Nay, he 's loose in London streets, as crazed as ever he was. His wife 's slain in the riot, and now he 's free to mount in Holy Church an he will; but he 's a fool. Knows not to hold 's tongue. By the King's grace only, and Master Walworth, was he spared, and the yellow-haired maid, his daughter.”
“Ah!”sighed Stephen.
The gaoler grinned and grunted.
On the morrow Stephen greeted him with a face so radiant tender that the man said:—
“Eh, well, where art thou now,—in Paradise?”
“At the Miracle in Paul's Churchyard,”answered him Stephen.
“I 'll be sworn there 's a maid in that memory?”
“Yea, a maid,”Stephen assented.
“Yellow-haired?”
But Stephen said no word.
“Yesterday, in Cheapside, one named Calote questioned me, if I were turnkey in the Tower”—
Stephen leaped to his feet, but the man was on the other side of the door and let fall the heavy bar. By the threshold there lay a bit of parchment whereon was writ:—
"Though it be very sour to suffer, there cometh sweet after;As on a walnut without is bitter bark,And after"—
but here was that parchment torn off short, and on the other side was writ:—
"Why I suffer or suffer not, thyself hath naught to do;Amend thou it if thou might for my time is to abide.Sufferance is a sovereign virtue and"—
And when he had read these words from the Vision concerning Piers Ploughman, Stephen spent that day a‑kissing the bit of parchment.
Anon, a rainy eve, the gaoler set down a covered dish, with:—
“My goodwife hath a liking to thee, Master Fitzwarine. Sendeth thee a mess of beans, hot. 'T is flat against rule, but she gave me no peace. Women be pitiful creatures. She weepeth ever to hear the tale of thy durance.”
“'T is joy to serve thy wife, to eat her hot beans. Merci, brother.”
“Nay, thank not me,”said the man gruffly.“When thou hast eaten all, hide the dish in the straw lest the Tower warden enter. 'T is not like he will, but I 've no mind to lose my place for a woman's tears.”
So the days drifted, and the weeks. July was at an end, and August in the third week. Stephen's cheeks were white and sunken, his blue eyes looked forth from shadows, his lips were pale. The fingers that fluttered in the arrow-slit were wasted thin. One morn the gaoler came and found him singing in a faint voice this song:—
"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."
And when Stephen was come to the end of his singing he heard a sound, and there sat gaoler on the floor blubbering.
“Where art thou now?”said that good man a-blowing his nose.
“One while I wandered over all England with one that was messenger to carry news of the Fellowship and the Rising. We bought bed and board with a song. So do I wander now, and I sing.”
“Then 't was a true word, that Jack Straw affirmed concerning thee?”cried the man.
“What said he?”
“Thus and so concerning thy pilgrimage and thy part in the Rising.”
“Is he dead?”
“Ay; and no easy task to gather him together in the Last Day.”
But when Stephen would have asked yet more concerning Jack Straw, and the King, and what was toward, the gaoler shut his lips and hasted forth.
After this, Stephen sang night and morn and midday the songs he had sung—and Calote with him—in the year of pilgrimage. All those old tales of Arthur he sang, and certain other that he had of Dan Chaucer; and a-many he made new, rondels to praise his lady. Also he chaunted the Vision concerning Piers Ploughman, from beginning to end,—which was no end. But more often he sang that story called of a Pearl, that Will Langland would have it was writ by his old master in Malvern. For about this time, what with long waiting, and the heat of summer, little food, and the foul smell of the dungeon, Stephen began to consider what it might signify to die in that place; and the Vision of the Holy City in the poem called of a Pearl comforted him much.
So, as he chaunted one while of the maiden in the glistering garment, that came down to the river's brink,—and in his heart he saw her face how it was the face of Calote,—he heard the bar drawn, and the keys to rattle, and presently the gaoler came in.
“For thy soul's sake I bring thee a priest, Master Fitzwarine,”he said;“'t is long since thou madest confession.”
And behind him in the doorway stood a tall man, tonsured, garbed in russet.
“O my son!”cried Will,“how hast thou suffered!”And he picked up Stephen off the floor and carried him to the window-crack. And the gaoler emptied the water-jug in Stephen's face, and presently went out and left those two alone.
Stephen opened his eyes slow, wearily.
“Steadfast!”he whispered, and smiled.
And then he said:—
“Calote?”
“She waiteth, praying. In the beginning we dared not plead for thee; for that we knew the King was in no mood to hearken, so was he played upon by the nobles, and his pride harrowed. By now there is rumour that he beginneth to sicken of bloodshed. Haply he 'll be in mood to pardon when he is come back to London.”
“Come back?—Where is the King?”
“Sweet son, he goeth up and down the countryside, letting blood. Robert Tressilian, the new Chief Justice, is with him, and his uncle Buckingham. They show no mercy.”
“John Ball?”said Stephen.
“Alack, he was ta'en at Coventry and, the King holding assize at Saint Albans with the Lord Chief Justice, he was sent thither and adjudged.—He 's dead. 'T was in July.”
“And the flame 's snuffed out?”
“It flickers here and there. The King hath made peace with his uncle Gaunt, who is set to keep the peace and stamp out the fire in the north. In August the King came from Reading.”
“What is now? I 've lost count.”
“Now is September, son, and yesterday came word of riot in Salisbury marketplace.”
“I mind me o' Salisbury marketplace,”smiled Stephen, sad.“Calote and I, we were there afore we went down into Devon. Tell me now of Calote.”
“She bade me say to thee, Fitzwarine, think no more o' Calote. 'T is no avail. Thou art gentleman, beloved of the King. Yea, we do believe he doth love thee, else had he slain thee long since. 'T was youth's folly, thy part in the Rising,—Calote saith,—these prisoned months have shown thee what 's to do. Thy place is with gentlefolk. The King shall pardon thee. Forget Calote, she saith.”
“Let Calote forget Stephen Fitzwarine an she will,”he answered,“but I am of the Fellowship.”
“Alas, there is no Fellowship more,”sighed Langland.
“The word hath been spoken, my father, the thought is born. Though the King know it not, yet are we free. By fellowship shall we win in the years to come. A long battle,—but it ends in victory.”
“Not in my day,”said Will,“nor thine.”
“What are days?”cried Stephen.“I 've lost count.”
Then Will Langland kissed Stephen Fitzwarine, and“Even so is it in mine own heart, O son,”he said.“But for the most part folk is sorrowful and faithless.”
“I have set my life in order,”said Stephen.“If ever I come forth of this prison-house, I 'll give to each and every villein o' my manor that piece of land he tilleth, to have and to hold. Likewise I 'll free them severally. This I may do within the law, for that the manor is mine.”
“Calote saith she will never be thy wife,”Will repeated,—nevertheless he smiled.
“Do thou say this to Calote, O my father,—my device is 'Steadfast.'”
Illustration: Capital I
Snaught to do," said Calote.“My life is like an empty house.”
And if her father admonished her that she fill it, she answered him:“I am too poor. My richesse is spent.”
So the summer waned, and Richard's red vengeance began to pale. The people and the King alike sickened of blood. Here and there a man was pardoned. Those two aldermen that bade the peasants come into London by the Bridge and Ald Gate in June were let go free.
“If thou canst come at the King, he will surely set free Stephen Fitzwarine,‘ urged Will. ’'Steadfast' is never Richard's watchword, natheless he doth not willingly harm his friends. He 'll do them kindness in secret, if he may not openly.”
“How may I endure to live out the length of my days to my life's end?”sighed Calote.“Is naught to do.”
Nevertheless, about this time she began to be seen about the gates of the Palace at Westminster, and craved leave to enter; but the guards made mock of her and drove her away. As oft as thrice in the week they did this, but she came again.
One day, 't was October's end and presently Parliament would be met together at Westminster, Calote stood on London Bridge, on the drawbridge, and saw a barge come down Thames. And when the barge was rowed beneath the drawbridge, Calote looked down, and the King sat therein with madame his mother, and certain lords and ladies of the court. One of these was Godiyeva.
The folk on the bridge peered over, and there was muttering, for the people no longer loved the King.
“Goeth to Tower for a night and a day to discover what prisoners be harboured therein and to consider their case,”said one, and spat in the water.
Calote turned about and ran back to London, and so on to the Tower gate. An hour she waited, and then came forth Stephen's gaoler.
“Nay, I will bear no more messages to prisoners,”said that man very rough, when she had caught his arm.“The King 's within. There 'll be a lopping of heads, and mine own wags very loose o' my neck.”
“To no prisoner, good brother,”pleaded Calote,“but to a fair lady; Godiyeva 's her name, madame's waiting-woman.”
The gaoler grunted, and stood uncertain.
“Do but say this,—there 's a jongleuse craveth speech of her, a jongleuse that served her once.”
He grunted yet more loud and went within.
After a little while he came again and a page with him, who led Calote across the outer and inner ward to the keep, and so by narrow ways and steep stairs to a turret chamber where sat the Lady Godiyeva.
“Lady,”said Calote,“hast thou forgot one night in Yorkshire, at thy manor-house?”
“Mine old father is dead,”Godiyeva answered,“and Eleyne, my sister, is lady o' the manor,—but I have not forgot.”
“Lady,—Madame Godiyeva, I would come at King Richard. Have a boon to crave, a token to deliver.”
Godiyeva bent her eyes, thoughtful, stern, upon the maid:“A token to deliver?‘ quoth she. ’In Yorkshire thou didst wear a dagger, I saw 't, that night.”
“Dost fear I 'll kill the King?”Calote smiled, very sad.“Nay,—here 's the dagger; keep it!”
“'T is Master Fitzwarine's crest,”said Godiyeva.
“Ay, lady, he 's my love!—Lies low in dungeon. Here 's my boon.”
“This is a strange matter,”mused Godiyeva,“for that Etienne Fitzwarine is esquire and very parfait gentleman, in all the court was none so true of his word, and so courteous to ladies. But this is a common wench, a jongleuse.—Natheless, I heard him how he said, 'This damosel is promised to be my wedded wife.'—Come, I 'll pay my debt!”
Behind the arras of a little door they stood and listened. There was no sound. Then Godiyeva put her eye to the edge of the arras.
“He is alone,”she said.“Go in!”
Richard stood in a window. He held a little picture in his hand, and looked on it smiling. Calote, barefoot, stepped noiseless over the floor. Godiyeva, behind the arras, coughed.
“Cœur de joie!”cried Richard, staring. But when he saw who it was that knelt, gold-haired, before him, he went white and covered his eyes.
“I would forget!”he said,“I would forget! 'T is overpast!—Shall a king never think on joyful things? Ah, give me leave to tune my thoughts to love! These six months past I 've hearkened to hatred. Was never king so meek. But now there 's a marriage toward. Wilt thou have me think on murders,—and I take a wife in January?”
“Nay,—not on murders, sire,—on pardon and peace.”
His moody face cleared slow,—“Is 't an omen?”he questioned, and, stretching forth his hand with the picture,“See! here 's the lady shall be Queen of England one day,—and queens are merciful. There 's a tale of my grandmother, Philippa, how she saved the burgesses of Calais,—and they were six. Here 's but only one, and he was my childhood's friend.—She hath a wondrous pleading eye,—my lady.—'T is an omen.”He went to a table and wrote somewhat on a parchment; then clapped his hands, and to the page that entered, said:—
“Bear this hastily to the warden of the Tower.”
“Gramerci! Sire!”whispered Calote, and bowed her head on her knees so that her long hair lay on the ground at the King's feet as 't were a pool of sunshine.
“I ever meant to set him free—when the noblesse had forgot,”said Richard huskily.“He must depart in secret, for a little while. And now may I forget murder and turn me to merriment. The Rising 's pricked flat. I will never remember it more.”
“And dost thou willingly forget that day the people blessed thee for thy gifts of freedom and grace, sire? Dost thou willingly forget that day thou wast bravest man in England,—and king?”
“Hush!—Hush!”he cried.“Kings may not hearken to truth,—'t is sure confusion.”
“Here 's the horn, sire, wherewith I gathered the folk into fellowship.”Calote untied the bag that hung from her neck.
“O thou mischief-maker!”said Richard to his hunting-horn.“Thou betrayer unto foolishness! Thou shalt be sold to buy my wedding garment.”
But now was the arras pushed aside, and Stephen came in, and his gaoler that grinned very joyous.
Calote heard. And then she had arisen to her feet, and turned her back upon the King. And Stephen kissed her hair, and her two hands that rested on his shoulders; but her face was hid.
“O my love, my lady!”said Stephen. And presently,“'T is a wondrous fair world!”
She lifted her face to speak, but he was waiting for her lips.
The gaoler made a happy clucking noise.
Richard laughed merrily.“Cœur de joie!”quoth he,“but I 'll kiss also!”and he kissed the little picture.
“'T behooves us give thanks to the King,”whispered Calote. Her face was hid anew, and she spake to her love's heart that leaped against his courtepy.
Then they two turned them, hand in hand, and the King cried out,“A-a-ah!—How art thou pale!—Etienne!”
Stephen bent his knee:“Sire,”he said,“wa-was nothing hid from thee;—thou knewest all th-things ever I did in that Rising. I was true to King Richard.”
“This is thy sword, Etienne,”quoth the King.“These many months it hath hung at my side. Take it again!”
Stephen looked on the sword, sombre, slow.“My forefathers, they were men of might,‘ he said. ’There were three died in the Holy Land doing battle with the Paynim. The Scots slew my grandfather in fair fight. My father fell in France, in the last Edward's quarrel. Next after England, the King, and my lady, I have loved my sword.”
He stretched forth his hands and took it.“Oh, thou bright blade, what hosts of infidels and dastard French, what enemies to Truth and Richard, methought I 'd slay! And thou hast drunk the blood of one man only, a dead man, that gave his life for England's sake and the people. Thou wert maiden, and they dishonoured thee.”
And Stephen had snapped his sword in twain across his knee.
“This is the sword that hewed Wat Tyler's head off his body,”he said.“I have done with swords. Thy Majesté hath noblesse a plenty to serve thee; 't was proven in June, when Wat Tyler fell. I might not count the sword-thrusts at that time. But of common folk, peasants and labourers, there is a dearth in England. And wherefore this is so, none knoweth better than thou, sire.”
Richard stirred, restless:“'T is the old Etienne, was never afeared to find fault with his king,”said he, and would have made a jest of this matter, but laughter came not at his bidding.
“Thou hast need of loyal labourers, sire. So will I serve thee. If Saint Francis set his hands to labour, so may Stephen Fitzwarine, and withouten shame.”
“By the Rood!”cried Richard.“Thou art lord of a manor;—born into this condition. These things be beyond man to change. They are appointed of High God.”
“Natheless, God helping me, these things shall be changed, sire. Presently, o' my manor, mayst thou see a-many free labourers tilling each man his own field. And Stephen Fitzwarine shall be one.”
“Thou 'rt mad!”screamed the King.“Dungeon hath darkened thy wits.”
“So methought, sire,”said the gaoler,“but hath more wits than most,—hath not turned a hair.”
“Now, by Saint Thomas of Canterbury!”Richard shouted,“I—I—nay,—I 've signed thy pardon,—I 'll keep faith,—this once.”
Then his humour changed and he began to laugh very loud:—
“Go free! Turn peasant an thou wilt! But as concerning thy land, King Richard is God's anointed, shall look to his stewardship. I will keep custom for Christ's sake. Wherefore is thy manor confiscate, and the villeins that dwell thereon, to the King.”—He set his lips in a grim smile:“Who saith Richard is not a good provisor, against his wedding day?”
The gaoler pushed Stephen and Calote out of the room and down the stair:—
“Best begone,”quoth he,“hath been known to change his mind,”and he shut them out by a postern.
They went and sat on the side of Saint Catherine's Hill that looked on Thames. A long while they sat there, holding each other's hand, smiling each into other's eyes, saying little. But Stephen said:—
“Thou 'rt mine!”
And Calote said:—
“Methought this love was not for me!”
Her feet were bare, her kirtle frayed, and all their worldly goods was a penny the gaoler had thrust in Stephen's hand. Stephen laughed, and tossed the penny and caught it on the back of his hand. Then Calote laughed also, and said she, shaking her head and smiling:—
“'T is not true that failure lieth in wait all along life's way?”and a question grew in her eyes, and the smile faded.
He kissed her gray eyes where the shadows hovered:—
“What 's to fail?”quoth he.
“So saith my father,”she made answer.“Yet meseems I must ever see the Archbishop's head above London Bridge,—and next day Wat's. Was not this failure?”
“Sweet heart,”said Stephen,“I have been in prison a many months, and concerning éternité I have learned a little. W-Wat Tyler failed to be King of England. But thou and I, and those others, we did not arise up to make W-Wat Tyler king. Dost believe there liveth to-day a villein in England ho-ho-holdeth 't is righteous a man shall be bond-servant to another against his own will? Thou mayst scourge a man to silence,—but he 'll think his thought;—yea, and wh-whisper it to 's children.—We did not fail.”
Then Stephen took his love's face betwixt his hands, and kissed her brow and eyes and lips:—
“I had a dream that I should dress thee in silk, pearl-broidered, and a veil of silver. But now am I a landless man; must labour with my two hands for daily bread. Natheless, am I tied to no man's manor,—may sell my labour where I will. D-dost sigh for the dream, sweet heart, and to be called Madame? Be advised in time,—a man 's ofttimes endurable if his infirmity 's shrouded in good Flemish broadcloth, but if he be naked as a needle, then must he be a man indeed—to pass.”
“Now, prythee, how is 't honour to a maid if her lord lift her up to his estate?‘ said Calote. ’But if he condescend and clothe him in her coat-armour, then is she honoured in vérité.”
“In Yorkshire, mayhap I 'll find shepherding with Diggon. Wilt go thither?”Stephen asked her.
And when she had answered him Yea, he laughed soft, and sang:—