Illustration: Capital W
HENStephen had brought Calote safe out of Kent to the door of the cot on Cornhill, they kissed the one the other and went their ways.
“Another year, and I 'll be mine own man, lord of mine own manor, which the Earl of March shall render to me; then we 'll be wed,”quoth Stephen.
“And the villeins shall be freed?”said Calote.
“Yea, of surety shall they,”he answered.“Meanwhile, 't were wise I dwell at Westminster. I 'm the one only man is King's friend and poor man's friend, true alike to one and t' other. Richard hath need of such an one.”
“Alack! tell me of the King,”cried Calote.“Doth he forget?”
“He 's young,”Stephen made answer, unwilling;“he 's nor boy nor man. He doth not forget, but he doth not any more believe, neither. He will have it as how 't was child's prattle yonder in Malvern Chase. An they 'd give him work to do, he 'd grow to be a king; but the Council and the great lords is afeared to let slip the reins. One day he 'll claim his own, and God grant 't will not then be too late.”
“Child's prattle!”sighed Calote.“Harrow!”
“Nay, be comforted!”pleaded Stephen.“This past month that I am come back to court, he is uncertain. He plieth me with when and how. But Robert de Vere is ever hanging on his neck; 't is not thrice in a week I may come at him. Though he may not rule in vérité, he maketh bold pretense; is naught but feasting and jollité from morn till night; largess and bounty, and wanton dispending of the gold wherefore[2]the people is taxed. He hath in mind to bid thee and thy father to court one day, to sing to him and run a tilt of song with Master Chaucer.”
After this Stephen betook him to Westminster, and November was past and gone, and the blessed Nativité and mummers of Twelfth Night were past; and all this great while Calote was in and out of London, bearing the message and binding the Brotherhood. Wat Tyler bode with her whithersoever she went, in Essex and Norfolk and Suffolk, and southward into Kent, and back again to London. She would not go alone with Jack Straw, wherefore he was very wroth. And what though Calote kept tryst once, twice, thrice, with the peddler, she did not tell him as how she was afeared of Jack Straw; for that she knew Jack Straw had it in his heart to slay the peddler, if so he might take him unaware.
So all that winter the people was making them ready. There were certain aldermen of London also that were of the Great Society. At their houses were met together the leaders, to discover how best London should be taken; and they said it must be when such an one was Alderman of Bridge, for by the Bridge was the surest way to come into the city for to take it.
Now it was marvel that the lords paid no heed, for, albeit these things were done privily, they might not be altogether hid. No man rode the highway half a mile but he happed upon strange adventure, as of a preacher preaching; or of villeins gathered together in a company, clasping hands and swearing strange oaths; or of a bailiff gagged and helpless, his wallet empty. Moreover, it was rumoured at court as how the peasants would rise. But this was not to be believed. If the nobles thought on it, 't was to jest. What though dark looks followed after them when they rode abroad,—was not the peasant ever a sulky churl? What though there was a whispering in tavern and town,—the villein had grumbled these thirty years and more. As they that have eyes and see not, were the lords, and having ears yet they did not hear.
Meanwhile, the tax was a-gathering. But whether 't was true, what the people said, that a-many had died since the last census,—or whether the census was ill-taken, or whether the blame was to the tax-gatherer;—and the people declared this also, that he stole from the King's coffers to fill his own pouch;—whether for one cause or other, 't is certain the money came not in, and there was fret and stir in the King's Council. And about this time, which was the month of March, Will Langland and his daughter Calote had word that they should go to the palace at Westminster to stand before the King.
In the great chamber where the King would come to hear his minstrels, there were two gentlemen, and at the threshold of the door two squatting pages that played at hazard with dice. These, when they saw that Calote and her father were common folk, did them no courtesy, but they stared idly on Calote, and thrust forth a toe to trip the page that showed the way; which, when he had avoided, he said to Long Will:—
“Ye are betimes. The King is shut in the Council Chamber, and the Queen-Mother is gone with her ladies to hear Vespers in the Chapel. 'T is in this place ye shall attend.”
So he left them, and as he went out at the door he kicked the dice to right and left across the room; then took to his heels hastily.
One of the gentlemen stood within the splay of a window looking forth; and if he were a merchant or a scholar 't were no easy matter to tell. He wore a long gown of fine cloth, furred, and a collar of gold about his throat, and a long gold chain, and his hair laid very soft and curling on his shoulders; he had a countenance sober and comely; his eye was not dull, nor mirthful neither. He looked aside indifferent at Long Will and the maid, and again out of window. Presently he took from his girdle a parchment and began to con it. Then Calote turned her to the other gentleman and met his eyes fixed upon her, and immediately he gave her a look that glanced forth friendly-wise, merry and shy, as 't were a finger that beckoned. Anon he had bent his head and was scribbling very fast in a tablet against his knee. This gentleman was not so tall as that other; neither was he slender and slim, but wide in his waist, full-girded. His short gown was gray, and the penner stuck awry upon his breast, black were his hosen, and his shoes gray, but scarlet on their edges. His forked beard was already grizzled, howbeit he was not an old man;—not so old as Will Langland, haply, nor so care worn; but beneath the cap that he wore in the fashion of Italy with the tail of it wound about his neck, the hair above his ears was likewise grizzled.
Long Will had drawn a stool within a niche and was set down to his copying; and Calote stood near him for a little, but the pictured tale on the tapestries drew her away that she must needs leave her place to see, and she walked down the room and up again, marvelling. And when she was come nigh to where the little round gray man sat a-scribbling; nevertheless he was not so busy but he was 'ware of her and looked up sidewise with a smile. Then, on a sudden, he had taken the long rope of her hair, and he shook it gently and laughed.
"Her yellow hair was braided in a tresse,Behind her back, a yarde long I guesse,"
quoth he; and anon,“Saint Mary,—'t is a good line! I 'll write it down.”Whereupon he did, and Calote ran back to her father, rosy-flushed, yet nowise frighted—for this was a friendly wight.
“Who 's yon, father?”she asked.“The gray one; hath so merry and all-seeing eyen?”
Long Will looked up, a-gathering slow his wits:
“Yon 's Master Chaucer,”he said at last.
“Mary Mother!”gasped the maid: and the gray one, looking up across, caught her with mouth and eyes wide, whereat he threw back his head and, though he made no sound, she knew he laughed.
Now came in Master Walworth, Mayor of London, and Nicholas Brembre, sometime Mayor,—merchants these and very loyal true to King Richard. Sir John Holland came in also, and the Earl of Kent, half-brothers to the King, and of other gentlemen nigh a score, dressed very gay in silk and broidery. They loitered up and down by twos and threes, giving good day and tossing jests as light as tennis balls. There was not one but flung a word of welcome right joyously to Master Chaucer where he sat withdrawn. 'T would seem he was friend to all. Calote, behind her father's stool, a-peering over his bent head, marvelled to see all sneers and gleams of malice, all sullen pride, evanished from every face that looked Dan Chaucer's way. As one will smooth his wrinkled heart and countenance if a child draw near, so smoothed these courtiers their visage, inward and outward, to an honest smile, to greet this modest, merry little man in gray.
“He 's a very wizard,”whispered Calote.
“Who?”said Long Will, and following her gaze,“Ah, he!”—
“Thou dost love him, father?”
“Dost not thou?”
“Yea,”she faltered;“but wherefore?”
“'T is God's gift,”he sighed.“This is to be a poet.”
“But thou art a poet, father,”she whispered.
“And men do not love me.”
“They do,—ah,—all poor folk!”
He turned his head to look in her eyes:“What matter?”he said gently.“I 'd liefer be Will Langland. He—yonder—'s missed somewhat.”
But now there was a rustle without the door and a parting to right and left adown the hall. An usher cried:“The Queen!”And Joanna the Fair and her ladies came in with flutter of veils and flirting of skirts. And lo! one of the ladies was Godiyeva from the lonely manor-house in Yorkshire.
Then there began a buzzing of tongues and bowing of knights and squires. The sober gentleman in the furred gown ceased to con his parchment and went and kissed the Queen's hand; so likewise did Dan Chaucer, but thereafter withdrew again to his quiet corner.
“The King not come?”said his mother.
“He 's in Council, madame,”made answer Sir John Holland;“there hath been discovered a flaw in the poll-tax, and they seek a remedy.”
She shrugged her shoulders, and looked about her on the company. Said she:“Is 't a jongleuse,—yonder,—beside the tall clerk?”For, by this, Will Langland was on his feet, as were all they in the Queen's presence.
“Madame!”cried Godiyeva,“'t is a glee-maid dwelt with us in Yorkshire last year at Ascension-tide; told us a tale of Piers Ploughman, and how the peasant should make laws in England.”
“Pah!—I am sick of these peasant tales!”said the Queen.“Gentlewomen may not ride abroad, but they must set a flappet on their ears to smother the foul songs and catchwords of villeins. England pampereth her common folk to her cost. In Gascony, when the Black Prince was alive, 't was not thus we ruled. Saint Denys! 't is said these churls do beat and maul the King's officers that come to do the King's business and gather his moneys.”
“Wilt thou that I put forth the wench, madame?”questioned Sir John.
His brother of Kent laughed and clapped him on the back.
“Nay, pray you pardon, madame,”said a chamberlain;“the damsel, and the clerk her father, is sent for of the King. 'T is whispered the tall fellow will tilt with Dan Chaucer.”
The Queen and all her ladies laughed, and Calote, marking their eyes cast scornful upon her, drew back to hide behind her father.
“This is Etienne Fitzwarine's doing,”said the Queen.“I cannot abye him since he 's returned from pilgrimage.”
“Natheless, 't is a maid hath a kindly heart,”said Godiyeva.“Did me and my sisters a good turn I 'll not forget.”
“Wilt speak with her, mistress? I 'll bring her,”quoth Sir John.
But the Queen stayed him with a frown and“Let be!”and when she had looked beyond Calote she saw the sober gentleman that stood not far off, and to him she beckoned, smiling:—
“A ballad, Master Gower,—nay, leave excuse; thy French is not of Paris,—'t is a fault forgiven long since and thrice o'er;—abate!”
So this sober gentleman that was Master Gower sat him down lowly at the feet of Joanna the Fair, and having thrust his finger in his gold collar, as it choked him, anon he began:—
"Au mois de Mars, u tant y ad nuancePuiss resembler les douls mais que j'endure:"
“Saint Denys!”cried the Queen,“if we must endure the winds and woes of March in vérité, yet may we escape them in song. Shall not the poet defy the calendar?”
“Yea, madame, shall he,”assented Master Gower, very humble,“an his lady will. He 'll sing of May.”
“Ay, do!”said the Queen.
Calote looked on Master Chaucer and caught his eyes a-twinkle; but immediately he had bent his head to stare on the ground; and John Gower was begun anew:—
"Pour comparer ce jolif temps de Maii,Jeo le dirrai semblable a Paradis;Cars lors chantont et Merle et Papegai,Les champs sont vert, les herbes sont floris,Lors est nature dame du paiis;Dont Venus poignt l'amant au tiel assai,Q'encontre amour n'est qui poet dire Nai."
The King stood by the door, with finger on lip to still the chamberlain, but now he came into the hall betwixt Robert de Vere and Etienne Fitzwarine, and he hung upon Etienne's arm:—
“Mes amis, I crave pardon of my discourtesy,”he said, laughing;“but what would you? Robert Hales did threat me he 'd have this my new cote hardie in pawn to the Lombards for to pay England's debt, but if I would not give ear to this folly of the poll-tax. And if treasury 's empty, 't is Robert Hales must know, he keeps the key. Natheless, Simon Sudbury hath took pity on me, and I 'm scaped with the coat on my back.”
This cote hardie was of velvet, white, thick encrusted with jewels,—pearls and blue stones. Richard's hosen were azure, and his shoes cloth-of-silver with Paul's windows carven on them, the toes of them turned upward and clasped to golden chains that hung from his knees, for the more ease in walking. He greeted his mother and bent above her hand, then sat him down in his chair beside hers on the dais, and Robert de Vere unchained his shoes.
“Etienne,”said the King. Stretching forth one leg and the other to de Vere, he spoke behind his hand to Stephen, who presently, but with a sour visage, strode down the hall to the place where Long Will stood, and Calote sheltered behind his skirts.
“Thou must to the dais; 't is the King's pleasure,”said Stephen.
“Nay, not I,”she pleaded,“not in this company. 'T is my father shall tell a tale to the King.”
“Sweet, we may not gainsay the King in this matter,”Stephen made answer, sad.“Have no fear; shall none harm come to thee.”
So she went with him and kneeled down before the King, and Richard, when he had lifted her up, said:—
“Look ye,mes doux amis, this damsel, when that my grandfather Edward lay dead, was first in England to do me homage.”He bent his head as he were musing, and then:“She told me I should be a great King.”His mouth and eyes smiled whimsical; anon, looking to the door of the Council Chamber whence he was come, he flung forth his arm:“Yonder 's the King!”he said.“Hath as many heads as old dragon, and every head gnaweth other.—Natheless,”—and now he set his chin defiant,—“natheless, I have not signed Richard's name to this remedy of the poll-tax.”Then, swift, defiance melted, and his lips curled to a rueful smile,—“Not yet.”
“Alack, for the cote hardie!”murmured de Vere; but Richard turned on him:—
“Have it, thou!”he cried.“I am anoint; what though I rule England body-naked,—I 'm a king.”He made as to do off the coat, but when the Queen said:“Sire, my Lord of Oxford can wait; 's not a-cold,”he laughed and buttoned it again.
“Tell them who 's a-cold,”he said to Calote.“Tell them, as thou hast told me that day long since,—as Etienne hath told me this seven month he 's come home. Last night in my dream I heard a bell tolling, out of the midst of jollité; and one said that King Richard had betrayed his people and was dead.”
“Richard, sire, sweet son!”the Queen protested.“How dost thou abash this fair company with thy mournful speech. Is 't for this cause we are met together, to prate of pauvreté? We be bounteous almsgivers, all. Here am I foiled of the ending of good Master Gower's ballad,—and Dan Chaucer bretful of new tales.”
“I pray you pardon, madame, I had forgot,”Richard said soberly, and sat him down again at her side.“This business of the tax hath fretted me. 'T is weary waiting, to sit by the while counsellors wrangle. But if they knew that that I know!”—He clenched his right hand, then shook himself with an impatient sigh:“Where is thy father, maiden,—he that writ the Vision concerning Piers Ploughman,—is he here? Let him come hither, Etienne.”
“Nay, Richard, 't is a mournful Vision,”the Queen began;“Master Chaucer will tell us a merrier tale. Let us have done with sad thoughts.”
“Madame, though I may not rule England but by the will of my Council, I pray you give me leave to be so far a king that I may choose mine own minstrels and mine own thoughts. Give you good day, friend; so, thou art Long Will,—well named.”
Langland was come by now to the dais and kneeled down; but presently he arose and stood a little way off in the midst of the hall, where was a space cleared. And all the court eyed him curiously; for many knew him, having seen him in London streets. So he began to tell the fable of the rats that would have belled the cat.
Calote went pale, then red. Stephen bit his lip. Up and down the hall men stirred with covert smiles and drooping eyes that glanced secretly at the King. There were not a-many folk in England, noble or peasant, but they had heard this fable. Nevertheless, now was the first time ever a minstrel had made bold to tell it at court. Richard's eyes laughed; he sat with his elbow on the arm of the chair, his chin in his hand, looking out upon his courtiers. Of these, Dan Chaucer only stared open on the singer, and he with a frown betwixt his brows, as he were knocking at memory's door.
“For a cat of a court came when him liked,”
said Will Langland,—
"And overleapt them lightly and caught them at his will,And played with them perilously and pushed them about."
As it had been the Gospel at Mass, very solemn he said it and all that came after: as how these rats took counsel together to rid them of the cat, and in the end was found none so bold to hang the bell about the cat's neck.—And of all that company none laughed, excepting it were Dan Chaucer, and he silently, that his belly shook, and not at the tale neither, but to see this threadbare clerk making a mock of England afore the King's face. For all they knew well the cat was to mean old Edward; and for the kitten, he also was known.
Said Will:—
"'Where the cat is but a kitten the court is very miserable;'Witness of holy writ who so can readUe terre ubi puer est rex: Salamon."
“Natheless, Sir Poet,”Richard said soft,“when the kitten is grown to be a cat, haply he 'll mend his ways.”
“Sire, a cat is a cat,”quoth Will.
The King flushed and tapped his foot on the floor, but when his mother would have risen up in anger, he stayed her with:—
“Patience, Madame; Dan Chaucer shall have his turn.”And to Will he said:“So, friend, what though thou tweak my tail, I 'll not use my claws,”and held out his hand, the which Will Langland kissed and returned to his place by the wall, with a smile, very sad, a-shining out of his eyes.
“Sire,”said Chaucer,“I 've a fable; 't is not yet told in this company, nor writ neither.”
Thereupon he began to speak concerning a poor widow that had a barnyard and a cock,—
"His comb was redder than the fine coral,And battled as it were a castle wall."
Anon, Master Chaucer was this very Chaunteclere, a-strut in barnyard. And immediately that uneasy silence that held the court was lifted, and all men tiptoed to see,—and had well-nigh drowned the voice of Chaunteclere in their laughter. Then was the poet suddenly transformed unto Dame Pertelote, the hen,—
"... discreet, and debonnaire,And companable,"—
that hearkened the dream of her lord and counselled him to eat elderberry and ivy and other such herbs for to cure his digestion.—And the Queen and her ladies might not stint the tears that rolled adown their faces for joy of this tale.
But when Sir Chaunteclere was cozened to sing for Dan Russel the fox,—
“And on a Friday fell all this mischance,”—
then leaned those courtiers one upon another with groaning and gasping of mirth to see how Master Chaucer—
"... stood high upon his toes,Stretching his neck, and held his eyen close,And gan to crowe loude for the nonce."
And in the chase, not Chaucer only but all they must needs roar,—
“Out! harrow and wayleway!”
And Richard a-slapping his leg and crying,—
“Ha, ha, the fox!”
Now, in the end the fox was undone,—for he opened his mouth to speak,—and
“This cock brake from his mouth delyverly”—
Then saith Reynard:—
"God give him mischaunce,That is so undiscreet of governaunce,That jangleth, when he shoulde hold his peace."
And all men turned to look on Will Langland. But when Master Chaucer saw this, he put up his hand in a protest, and laughing he said:—
“Nay, lordings, lay not this at my door that I should trespass o' John Gower's launde, which is to meddle with my brother's mote.”And he went up to Long Will, and saith he:—
“Thou and I are old friends. Thou 'rt that singer of Malvern. Dost remember me, who I am?”
“The lark,—art thou,”said Will gently.
“Cuckoo, cuckoo!”quoth Master Chaucer, and stretching a-tiptoe he kissed Will Langland o' both cheeks.
But now were they 'ware of Richard's voice; and he sat scowling in his chair, with Simon Sudbury—that was Archbishop of Canterbury—bending above, a parchment in his hand.
“Let the Council wait,”said Richard.
“Sire, I have here the paper and a pen; do but sign thy name and I 'll no longer trouble thy merry-making;”urged the Archbishop.
The King took the pen very peevish, and,“Bring hither a stool, Etienne, or tablets,‘ he fretted; ’how may I sign on my knee?”
Then he began to read the paper, and anon he cried,“Etienne, Etienne, shall we sign?—I like it not.”
“Nay, Richard,”the Queen admonished him,“hast thou not able counsellors, that thou must make a jest of so weighty matters with popinjays? My Lord Archbishop waits. Make an end, sweet son, and let us sup.”
But the boy was in no mood to be ruled by his mother.
“Master Chaucer 's a gray-beard,—hath done me good service,”he said.—“What sayst thou, Poet?”
“Sire,—these five year I 've been about thy business in France and Flanders and Italy; I may not speak with sureté concerning what hath happed,—or shall be to hap,—in England. Natheless, of all peasant folk in all lands ever I saw, our folk of England is most sturdy, honest, true. Take them to thy friend, King Richard.”
“Which is to say,”quoth Richard,—and made as he would rend the parchment.
“My Lord!”cried Simon the Archbishop, and took it hastily out of his hand.
Richard laughed and kicked over the stool; then turned he sudden on Will Langland with:
“Prythee, Master Clerk, what will the people do if we send again to Essex and Kent to protest that the poll-tax be paid?”
“Sire,”said Long Will,“they will do that God or the Devil putteth in their hearts to do.”
“But what is 't? Art not thou a prophet?”
“Of God, sire,—not of the Devil.”
“Thy silence commendeth thee, Master Clerk,”said the Archbishop.“This stubborn people is surely ridden of the Devil.”
“Nay, my lord,”Will answered,“I did not say so.”
“A plague take thy riddles,”exclaimed the King.“Speak plain!”
Thereupon came Long Will forth to the dais, and out of the midst of a silence he said:—
“O Richard the Redeless, who am I to give thee counsel? Pity thyself, that thou knowest not thyself. How may a man rule a kingdom, that knoweth not to govern his own soul?”
No man dared breathe. Richard sat gripping the arms of his chair; his eyes were fixed wide open upon Langland, and tears came up in them, so that they shone very large.
“How!”—he assented huskily.
Then at sight of those tears and that white young face of his King, Will Langland groaned, and a rage seized upon him so that he turned about, and lifting up his arm in menace of all that company, he cried out:—
“Cursed be ye, defilers! Cursed, cursed,—betrayers of children!—Ye that corrupt kings! I hear ye weep and pray for mercy,—and the people shall pour out your wealth like water, the river shall swallow it up. The sky is red!—Lo, fire,—fire!—And the riches of the nobles, and the thievings of the merchants, are smoke and ashes! Woe unto you, lawyers,—your wise-heads shall hop, but your feet shall lie still upon the stones. Woe unto you, priests, bishops,—the people have found you out!—Cursed”—
“Blasphemer!”cried the Archbishop; and at this word there broke out a torrent of sounds; men crying,“Madman!”—“Seize him!‘—’Traitor!”—and women screaming.
Calote came up close to her father and clasped her hands about his arm; and he, shaking as with a palsy, drew one hand across his eyes as he would dispart a mist.
“I have spoken,”he said, and swayed uncertain.
Then Calote was 'ware of Master Chaucer on his other hand, who steadied him that he should not fall.
“Sire,”said the Archbishop,“this man hath cursed Holy Church and impeached the counsellors of the King. He is a traitor to God and to England. He is mine to”—
But now Mayor Walworth was come in great haste to the dais, and kneeled down, and“Pray you, mercy, sire,”he cried.“This man is well-beloved in the city; and is this a time to stir up London? He is a little mad, but I know him for an honest fellow,—the prentices will not brook”—
“Peace!”said Richard.“Wherefore shall I bear him malice that is become my champion? Peace, gentles! My Lord Archbishop, let 's chaffer:—do thou give me thy blasphemer, and I 'll sign the parchment.”
For answer Simon, still red and breathing noisily, knelt and gave up the roll, whereupon the King set it open on the stool again and dipped pen in penner. Afore him kneeled Etienne Fitzwarine, and steadied the stool, for that one leg was shorter than other two. Then said Etienne, very low:—
“My lord, d-do not sign this paper.”
“And the man is father to thy lady?”quoth Richard.
“Though he were mine own f-father and his life hung on 't, natheless, sire, for England's sake must I beseech you, d-do not sign. 'T is to be f-feared the people will be wroth if men be sent into Essex and Kent to require this tax anew. They declare they have paid once, and they will not pay ag-g-gain. They will rise. O sire,—have a care!”
“Cœur de joie!—Rise, sayst 'ou?”Richard cried.“Rise!—Do I not await this Rising these three year? Ha, ha!—'T is full time to sign my name! So be it.—My lords, do ye believe this people is so bold?—Nor I!—Ha, ha!—They 'll never do 't, Etienne.—But if my pen shall prick them on, why, there 's the King's name!—Rise!”
He flung the parchment to the Archbishop, and gave his hand to his mother to lead her forth to sup.
In the doorway Master John Gower awaited that Long Will came forth.
“Tell me, friend, dost know aught of this rising whereof men prate?”said he.“If 't is true,—but how were that to be believed,—I have manors in Kent, 't behoveth me”—
“What I know 't were long to tell,”Will answered, and left him standing.
Illustration: Capital N
OW, Richard the redeles reweth on you-self,That lawelesse leddyn your lyf and your peple bothe."
Richard the Redeless.B. PassusI.
Illustration: Capital W
HOso wil be pure parfyt mote possessioun forsake."
The Vision Concerning Piers Plowman.B. PassusXI.
Illustration: Capital S
Oit came about that the Council bade search if any had not paid the tax, and to compel him. And around and about London there arose a muttering, waxed louder and yet more loud. Nevertheless, April was past, and May was well-nigh past; but then the men of Fobbing in Essex drove the collector of the tax out of Bampton town. And, after this, the people began to rise by little and little, as it were a fire creeping in the grass. And what man soever laboured to appease the people, 't was not Jack Straw. When June was begun, he came to Cornhill bringing news. Quoth he:—
“The people is gone forth to take Rochester Castle.”
Calote stayed the twirl of her distaff; Kitte leaned on her besom; Long Will pushed away parchment and fixed his eyes on Jack Straw.“'T was Sir Simon de Burley came down to Gravesend,‘ said Jack; ’had a man in the town,—a runaway. The folk of Gravesend are friendly,—they would have bought him free. 'Three hundred pound,' saith Sir Simon.—Three hundred pound!”
“And this man was not worth three hundred pound?”Will questioned.
“Pah!”said Jack Straw, and spat on the floor.“Misread me an thou wilt.—Sir Simon 's off to Rochester with his man. Hark ye,—the people is up! The people is up, I say!”
“Wat Tyler hath not given the sign,”said Calote.
Jack laughed softly.“And if Wat lag, shall there not be found others, leaders?”he asked.
“I hate thee, Jack Straw!”Calote cried out.“I hate thee!”
He went up to her where she stood, and thrust his face down close to her face:—
“Methought 't was loving was thy business. 'Wait till all England hath learned to love,' quotha.—Jack's patient, mistress; hath awaited these three year and more. Now 't is thou must learn. Jack shall teach thee.”
Will Langland had arisen and strode swift to Jack, and he laid hand on his neck and shook him to and fro that his teeth chattered; and in the midst of this shaking the door burst open, and there came in Hobbe and a young rustic that panted to take breath.
“Here 's one seeketh Calote,”said Hobbe.
Then the runner cried between gasp and gasp:
“Thus saith Wat Tyler to the maid Calote, 'It is an end. Now let the people arise. I have given the sign!'”
“Ah, Christ!”said Calote.
“Thus saith Wat Tyler to him men call Long Will, 'Thou hast a daughter. What wilt thou do if she be mishandled?'”
Will thrust Jack Straw from him that he fell on his knees by the wall.
“'What wilt thou do?'”cried the runner.“'Wilt not thou—even thou—slay the man? And what shall Wat Tyler do that is no clerk, but one itching for war? And I have a daughter,' saith Wat Tyler, 'but she is avenged. The man is slain. This man came in to gather the tax,—and I heard my daughter cry out.—Prate no more of love. I have slain the man. I have given the sign.' This is the word of Wat Tyler.”
Calote flung up her two arms with a cry, and there was joy and the sound of a sob in that cry:—
“Father, father!”she said;“'t has come,—'t has come! O Jesu, Mary, forgive,—but I am glad;—I 'm glad!—I 'm glad!”
And with her face in her father's breast she began to shake and to cry and to laugh, all in one breath.
But now there came in another man, running, and—
“Will Langland,”said he,“here 's letters from John Ball. Of these shalt thou make a fair copy, and they shall be sent forth into the villages to north of here and west, to be read in taverns and churchyards.”
“Where is John Ball?”asked Will, and took the letters.
“Yestermorn he was in Maidstone jail, but by now,—eh, well,—Wat Tyler 's gone thither hastily. I had these of the priest out of window, when I told him Rochester Castle is ta'en.”
“Is ta'en!”cried all they together.
“Yea.—'Bid Wat come quickly to set me free,' saith John Ball,—'and for the letters, Long Will shall copy.'”
“Read!”said Hobbe.
So Will read:—
“'John Schep, sometime Saint Mary's priest of York, and now of Colchester, greeteth well John Nameless and John the Miller and John Carter, and biddeth them that they beware of guile in borough, and stand together in God's name, and biddeth Piers Ploughman go to his work, and chastise well Hob the Robber, and take with you John Trueman and all his fellows and no mo; and look sharp you to one-head and no mo.'”
Then in that company all, as with one voice, chaunted the end of this letter, which was:—
"'John the Miller hath y ground small, small, small,The King's son of heaven shall pay for all.Be ware or ye be wo,Know your friend from your foe.Have enough and say 'ho!'And do well and better and flee sin,And seek peace and hold therein.And so bid John Trueman and all his fellows.'"
They looked one on another with faces a little pale:—
“'T has come,”they said.“Read on, Will!”And anon he read the second letter:—
“'Jack Milner asketh help to turn his milne aright. He hath grounden small, small. The King's son of heaven he shall pay for all. Look thy milne go aright, with the four sails, and the post stand in steadfastness. With right and with might, with skill and with will, let might help right and skill go before will and right before might, then goeth our milne aright. And if might go before right, then is our milne misadight.'”
“John Ball hath rungen our bell,”said Hobbe.“I 'll go beat a ploughshare,”and went out.
Also the two messengers kissed either other and clipt close, and after, departed.
Will Langland took from his pouch a fresh parchment and made ready to copy the letters, his daughter leaning against his knee. By the wall sat Jack Straw a-sulking, his legs sprawled wide, his chin in his chest, his eyes watchful. Kitte took her besom and swept the floor.
And now there came in another from Cornhill; he wore the badge of the white hart on his sleeve.
“Rochester Castle is ta'en!”he said.
And Calote ran to him, and“O Stephen!”she cried,“the message is gone forth! The people is rising!”
They stood agaze, each on other, joy of the coming battle in their young eyes. Then they kissed.
Jack Straw got to his feet with a bound:—
“Thou,—thou,—thou!”he gasped.—“Spy!—Cokenay!—Thou?”
So he began to laugh his soft laughter, and turned him to Calote with:—
“Two year!—And this was his pilgrimage,—to lie under hedge with”—
But Stephen had sprung upon him and they clinched, rocking this way and that, the while Calote wrung her hands.
Long Will would have meddled in that mêlée to thrust apart those two, but Kitte caught his arm:—
“Let be!”she said.“The squire 's better man! he 'll win.”
And so it was, for Jack Straw knew not to wrestle; he was a lean, pale wight. He had a bodkin in his belt, but was not time to draw, and presently he lay on the floor, face down, and Stephen on his back, kneeling.
“Now say thy prayer!”said Stephen.
“Nay,—for Jesus' sake!”cried Calote.“Bethink what shall befal if this man is slain. He hath a ményé to follow him in the Rising. Let not confusion come upon them. Remember the Rising! Stephen, Stephen,—now is no time to 'venge privé wrong! We have need of men shall lead.—What though this man hath evil in him,—yet do the people follow him in a good cause.”
“'T is very true,”Stephen answered, thoughtful.“If he be slain, how shall the people understand? Eh, well,—sweetheart,—for Piers Ploughman and all our brothers' sake,—I 'll be patient.”
And when he had arisen he kicked Jack Straw:“Get up, carroigne!”he said.
Jack Straw crawled to the door.
“Never fear, wench,”said he,“I 've no mind to marry and be cuckold.”