The Rose of Love
The bell of Paul's had rung the Angelus an hour past. The gabled
shadows of the houses crossed the street slantwise, and betwixt them
long pale fingers of evening sunshine brightened the cobbles. Pigeons
from the corn market waddled hither and thither in search of dribbled
grain,--unreasoning pigeons, these, for of a Sunday no manna fell on
Cornhill. The ale-stake above the tavern door rustled in a whisper; 't
was a fresh-broken branch, green and in full leaf, set out for this
same feast of the Trinity. Calote had caught the withered bough when
it fell, and made off with it under the alewife's very nose.
"Little roberd!" Dame Emma cried, "'t would have cooked a hungry man
his dinner."
"And shall!" quoth Calote; whereat the alewife burst out a-laughing
and swore she 'd switch her with the new stake. And Calote, like an
ant at the end of a long straw, tugged her prize indoors.
The dinner was cooked and eaten by now, and a bit of a supper as well.
The long June day was done. Dame Emma came to her tavern door and
stood beneath the ale-stake, looking out across to her neighbor's cot,
where a yellow-haired maid sat in the window.
"I saw thee in Paul's churchyard, Calote," Dame Emma called cheerily;
and she smiled a sly smile.
"Yea," said Calote, "methinks all the world was there;" but her colour
came.
"He is of the household of the Earl of March; even a kinsman by 's
bearing," renewed Dame Emma.
"I rede not the riddle," Calote answered her; but Dame Emma laughed.
Then down the middle of the way, to left and right of the runnel
ditch, rode three horsemen of sober visage; and though they rode a
slow pace, they took no heed of Dame Emma where she stood and cried
out:--
"A taste for naught! Come dine! White wine of Oseye! Good ale!"
They held their heads in a knot, speaking soft, and went their slow
way down the street.
"They be 'potecaries," said Calote. "Now the plague is on again we see
many such. He of the taffeta-lined gown, with scarlet, is Doctor of
Phisick, is 't not so?"
"'T is physician to the Black Prince. Must needs eat at king's table,
forsooth!" And Dame Emma flounced her skirts in a huff and turned her
indoors.
The shadows faded along with the sunshine. The little maid sat long in
the deep window, agaze on the street. Gray were her eyes,
dark-lashed, beneath straight brows, pencilled delicately. Slim and
small she was, all eyes and golden hair,--the hair that flies out at a
breath of wind like rays of light, and is naught of a burden though it
fall as far as a maid's knees. A tress flew out of window now, like to
a belated sunbeam. The smoke from the tavern turned to rose as it left
the chimney mouth. The pink cloud wreathed upward and melted, and
wreathed again.
"Oh, father, come and see the tavern-smoke! It groweth out o'
chimney-pot like a flower. I mind me of the rose o' love in the
Romaunt. 'T is of a pale colour."
At the far end of the room, in a doorway, his head thrust outward to
catch the light, there sat a man with a shaven crown, and thick
reddish locks that waved thereabout. His eyes--the long, gray,
shadow-filled eyes of Calote--were bent upon a parchment. He wrote,
and as his hand moved, his lips moved likewise, in a kind of rhythm,
as if he chaunted beneath his breath. A second roll of parchment,
close-written, lay beside him on a three-legged stool, and ever and
anon he turned to this and read,--then back to the copy,--or perchance
he sat a short space with head uplifted and eyes fixed in a dream, his
lips ever moving, but the busy hand arrested in mid-air. So sitting,
he spoke not at once to his daughter; but, after a space, as one on a
hill-top will answer him who questions from below, all unaware of the
moments that have passed 'twixt question and reply, he said:--
"The rose of love is a red rose; neither doth it flower in a tavern."
And his voice was of a low, deep, singing sort.
"A red rose," murmured Calote; "yea,--a red rose. The rose of love."
Then Calote left the window and went down the dim room. Her feet were
bare; they made no noise on the earthen floor.
"Twilight is speeding, father," said she. "Thou hast writ since
supper,--a long while that. Thou hast not spoke two words to thy
Calote since afore Mass, and 't is a feast day. Us poor can't feast of
victual,--tell me a tale. The tale o' the Rose, and how the lover hath
y-kissed it, and that foul Jezebel hight Jealousy hath got
Fair-Welcome prisoned in a tower,--a grim place,--the while Evil
Tongue trumpeteth on the battlement."
The dreamer rested his eyes on his daughter's face a tranquil moment,
then drew her to his knee and smiled and stroked her hair.
"An thou knowest the Romaunt so well, wherefore shall I tell it thee?"
he asked.
"What cometh after, where Reason prateth, I know not. I do never
know."
"Then I 'll not waste raisonable words upon thee," laughed her father.
"Come, tell me of thyself! Was 't a plenteous feast day, or a hungry
one?"
"Not hungry," she cried, with eyes alight. "There was one praised
thee. 'T is not every day I taste honey."
She waited, watching him, but he said nothing; he only leaned his chin
upon his hand and looked out of the doorway.
"Thou wilt not ask a share o' my feast? Yet is it all thine," she
coaxed. "If any spake fair words of me, how should I pine to know!"
She pressed his face betwixt her two hands and looked close, merrily,
into his eyes. "But thou shalt hear, whether or no. Hearken! 'T was in
Paul's churchyard where they played the Miracle, thy Miracle, the
Harrowing o' Hell,--a yeoman made as he would kiss me,"--
Her father was attentive now; his eyes were sombre.
"I was fair sick with the touch of him. I cried out. And there was one
standing by thrust off the yeoman."
She lost herself, musing. Meanwhile, her father watched her, and
presently, "Where is my little feast of praise?" he asked.
She started and took up the tale, but now her eyes were turned from
his to the twilight space outside the door, and beyond that, and
beyond.
"He was young," she said,--"he was young; he wore a broidered coat;
green it was, all daiseyed o'er with white and pink. He doffed his cap
to me,--never no one afore did me that courtesy. He wore a trailing
feather in his cap. 'If thou stand o' this side, out o' the press,
still mayst thou see and hear,' saith he. And after, he saith 't was
no common patcher, but a poet, wrote that Miracle. And I did tell him
't was my father. Then he would have my name as well, and, being told,
he must needs recall how Nicolette, in that old tale, had a squire. He
saith--he saith--'I would I were thy squire.'"
"Anon?" her father questioned, rousing her.
"Is no more to tell: 't was the end o' the Miracle."
"A poor maid in a cot may not have a squire." said Will Langland
slowly.
"I know that right well; and yet I know not wherefore," she answered;
and now she turned quite away her face, for that her lip trembled.
He made no answer to her wistful question, and there was silence
between them while the twilight deepened. But she was busy with her
thoughts meanwhile.
"Father," she began, and laid her hand upon the written parchment by
his side, "father,--here in the Vision, thou dost write that the
ploughman knoweth the truth. He is so simple wise he counselleth the
king how to renew his state which is gone awry. If the knight do the
bidding of the ploughman, wherefore shall not Piers' daughter wed the
son o' the knight?"
He looked within her eyes most tenderly, his voice was deep with pity;
he held her two hands in his own.
"My Calote,--'t is not King Edward, nor King Edward's son, shall be
counselled of the ploughman. 'T is a slow world, and no man so slow as
the man at the plough. He hath his half acre to sow. Not in my day,
nor in thine, shall the knight bethink him to set the ploughman free
for pilgrimage to Truth."
"But if he read thy Vision, father, he will."
"The knight is likewise slow, Calote. He believeth not on the Vision.
I shall be dead afore that time cometh,--and thou."
"Yet there be them that say the hour is not far distant when the
people shall rise and rule," she persisted. "Wat Tyler ever
threateneth the wrath of the people. He saith the land is full of
villeins that have run from the manors, for that the Statute maketh
them to labour for slave wage. He saith the people will make
themselves free. John Ball goeth about to hearten men to rise against
oppression."
"In my vision I saw neither war nor the shedding of blood," Langland
answered.
"Oh, father!" she cried, and cast her arms about his neck, "art thou
content to wait,--so idly?"
"Nay, I am not content," he said; "I am not content."
He kissed her and they were silent, thinking their several thoughts,
until Calote said:--
"If the knight wed the peasant, and there come a child,--is that a
knight or a peasant?"
"Most like the next of kin doth make a suitable complaining to the
Pope, and so the child is a bastard."
"Thou mockest me, father; I see thee smile," she protested.
"Nay, 't is not thee I mock, my sweet,--not thee. But hark, Calote:
this love of knights and damosels is not the one only love. Read thy
Reason in the Romaunt,--and she shall tell thee of a love 'twixt man
and man, woman and woman, that purifieth the soul and exalteth desire;
nay, more: Reason shall tell thee of a love for all thy fellows that
haply passeth in joy the love for one. The King's Son of Heaven,--He
knew this love."
"And thou," whispered Calote.
"I dream more than I love," he said; "I do consider my passion."
"Yet is it a very passion, father. Wherefore wilt thou ever humble
thyself?"
"And there is a love betwixt the father and the child," he continued;
and those two kissed each other.
"I would know all these loves," cried Calote.
"Yet wilt thou do well to pray the Christ that no knight come to woo."
She hung her head; and the long day trembled to latest dusk.