THE FALCON IN GRACECHURCH
It was Midsummer Eve in the year 1344, and the citizens of London
were celebrating the festival of St. John the Baptist, when I, then
a stripling of fifteen, with a tall figure and a dreamy eye, like
that of one indulging much in internal visions, mounted on a little
black horse of great speed and high mettle, trotted by the side of my
aged grandsire, a tall and still vigorous man, into the capital of
England, and alighted at the hostelry known as the Falcon, situated in
Gracechurch, and kept by Thomelin of Winchester.
I had journeyed with my grandsire from his homestead at Greenmead,
on the border of Windsor Forest, and my eyes were, for the first
time, gladdened with a sight of London. Hitherto I had been reared in
obscurity; and, except on the occasion of a rare visit to the little
town of Windsor, I had seen nothing of life. I was well aware of the
disadvantages of my position; for, though brought up in obscurity, my
ambition was ardent; and, while seeing little of life, I was constantly
regaling my imagination with stirring scenes, in all of which I enacted
a conspicuous part.
My excitement on entering a city I had often longed to behold was
naturally high; and, as we rode along, I was much impressed with the
novelty of the scene. London and the Londoners were that evening in
holiday attire, and everything wore a gay aspect. The houses were
lighted up; the streets were crowded with the populace; and an unwonted
degree of jollity appeared to brighten every face. Even the beggar and
the outcast began to think their condition tolerable, as they watched
the kindling of the great fire which was to typify the saint of the
day, who has been described as "a burning and shining light."
It is not wonderful, indeed, all things considered, that such should
have been the case at the period of which I write. During the long and
prosperous reign of the first Edward, Englishmen, while enjoying the
blessings of freedom and order vigilantly guarded by law, had learned
to speak their minds without fear, and with little hesitation; and,
albeit nearly forty years had elapsed since the great king had been
laid at rest in Westminster Abbey, they had not yet unlearned the
lesson that an Englishman's words should be as free as his thoughts.
Nor, so far, was public order in any danger from the utmost freedom
of speech; for the House of Plantagenet was still so popular, that,
had the reigning sovereign deliberately gone among his subjects in
disguise, to learn what they thought of him, he would probably have
heard nothing more offensive to his ear than complaints as to the
rapacity of the royal purveyors. The day which I have lived to see
was not yet come when a crazy priest, like John Ball, could rouse a
populace to frenzy, or when a rude demagogue, like Wat Tyler, could
lead on a rabble to plunder and bloodshed.
"Adam of Greenmead," said the Thomelin of Winchester, as he rose to
welcome my grandsire and myself; "old kinsman, I am right glad to see
thee and thy grandson too. Body o' me, Arthur, it seems but yesterday
when you were cock-bird height, and now you have grown as tall and
handsome a lad as the girls would wish to set eyes on."
"And how farest thou, Thomelin?" asked my grandsire, as he seated
himself near the host, and I took a place by his side.
"Passing well, kinsman--passing well, the saints be thanked; and it
makes me all the better, methinks, since I see thee so hale and hearty."
"For that matter," said my grandsire, with an expression of discontent
in his face, "I am hale as a man who has seen threescore and ten years
can expect to be, and hearty as a man can hope to be in the days in
which we live."
"You are not pleased with the times we live in, kinsman," remarked
Thomelin.
"In truth, they are not much to my liking," said my grandsire. "As we
rode along, my mind went back to the time when King Edward hammered the
stubborn Scots at Falkirk, and to the day when he entered London, and
the Londoners kept holiday in honour of his victory."
"Grand times, doubtless," said Thomelin.
"Ay, you may well say so," exclaimed my grandsire, with a tear in his
eye. "England was then prosperous and contented. But now King Edward
has been thirty-seven years in his tomb, and the world has well-nigh
gone to ruin."
"No, no, Adam," protested Thomelin. "Matters are not so bad as you
fancy. The world goes on well enough--in fact, as well as ever--in its
way. Men buy and sell, sow and reap, marry and give in marriage; and,
albeit the king whom you serve is in his grave, we have a king who is
bravest among the brave, and wisest among the wise."
"But not so great as his grandfather was," said the old man in a
conclusive tone.
"Nevertheless, kinsman," observed Thomelin, as if anxious to change the
subject, "you have come to see London town once more."
"Even so; and yet, God's truth! I might have gone to my long home
without taking so much trouble; for what is London to me? But Arthur,
hearing that the lads of the town were to try their skill at the
quintain before the Prince of Wales, would come, reason or none."
"To see the display," suggested Thomelin.
"No, to try his own hand; and trust me, if I know anything of such
matters--and I ought--his chance is not small."
"I doubt it not, kinsman--I doubt it not," said Thomelin; "and yet I
know not how he is to get a chance; for the match is, in some measure,
confined to the Londoners, and strangers may not be admitted."
"Tell that not to me," replied my grandsire conclusively, and striking
the table with his clenched fist. "In my younger days I have seen not
only the sons of yeomen, but squires' and knights' sons take part in
such diversions; and if rules were relaxed then they can be relaxed
now."
"Well, kinsman, we must see what can be done," said Thomelin mildly,
but somewhat doubtfully. "Meanwhile, kinsmen, you must eat and drink,
and let me show to you what hospitality my house can afford, for the
sake of Richard Tythering, whose blood we both have in our veins."
"Ay; blood is thicker than water, as they say in the North," responded
my grandsire; "and trust me, Thomelin," he added, "my heart warms to
thee for thine own sake, and for that of thy mother; she was my first
cousin."
"And so, Arthur, my lad," said Thomelin, turning to me, "thou art
determined to win the peacock."
"I know not whether I can win the peacock or not," answered I, trying
not to appear too vain of my skill; "but I hope to do so; and, in any
case, I'll do my best."