Sanctuary
Thrice in June Calote went to the Abbey church, and thrice in July,
but 't was not till August that she saw the squire.
There was High Mass in the choir that day, and she knelt a little way
down the nave, beside a pillar. Immediately without the choir there
was a knight kneeling. He was a most devout person; and near by were
two servants of his. These were all that were in the church at that
time, save and except the monks in their choir stalls, the celebrant
and his acolytes at the altar, and Calote,--until the squire came in.
He looked up and down, and Calote lifted her head, for she knew that
some one was come in by the north door. The knight also lifted his
head, and his two servants half arose from off their knees, as they
were watchful and expectant. But then they all three crossed
themselves and addressed them again to their devotions. The squire
went lightly down the nave to Calote's pillar, and kneeled by Calote's
side; and so, shutting his eyes, he made a short prayer. But presently
he opened his eyes again and turned his head;--the monks were
chanting.
"I am in so close attendance upon the King that I do never go into the
city," he whispered.
"'T is well," answered Calote.
"'T is not well; 't is very ill," said the squire.
"Doth the King forget the wrongs of the poor?" asked Calote.
"Do I forget that thy hair is golden and thine eyes are gray?" the
squire retorted. "Thrice in the week, at the very least, he will have
me come to his bed at night and read thy father's Vision till he
sleeps."
"Alas! and doth he sleep when thou read'st that book?" murmured
Calote.
"Ah, my lady! wherefore wilt thou so evil entreat me?" Stephen
pleaded. "I may not open my lips but thou redest my meaning awry. The
King hath a loving heart and a delicate fancy, but he is over-young.
Thy father's Vision is a sober tale; 't is an old-fashioned music;
haply I read it ill. Natheless, Richard is constant. When he is in a
great rage with his uncles, or the Council, or the Archbishop, and
they require of him what he is loth to perform, I do soothe him of his
weeping with the memory of that secret. But of late he groweth
impatient; there be stirrings in him of manhood; he is taller than
thou, albeit not yet thirteen. He demandeth to know when the people is
to rise up. He saith, 'Seek out thy bien-aimée and bid her tell the
people I am weary with waiting; I want to be a king,--for I am a
king.' Last month he spake to me very lovingly of Walworth and Brembre
and sundry others, merchants of London, that come often to the palace.
'I will be friend with merchants,' he saith; 'thy Calote spake truth,
they are more loving than mine uncles.'"
"But the merchants be not the poor!" said Calote. "Oh, tell me true,
hath he revealed aught to these rich merchants?"
"Nay, I trow not," Stephen answered. "But how may Richard know aught
of the poor, save and except beggars? How may I know, that live in the
palace and see the might and wit of nobles? How may I know that this
Rising will ever be arisen? Ah, Calote, do they play upon thy pity,
these dullard poor? I have seen my father, when I was a little child,
quell a dozen of rebellious villeins with but a flash of his eye. They
dared not do him hurt, though he stood alone. Power is born with the
noble, 't is his heritage."
"Wilt thou leave thy palace folk and come to us, and we 'll learn thee
to believe that the poor he hath virtue also," cried Calote, and was
'ware of her own voice, for the gospeller stood to be censed.
So Stephen and Calote rose up from their knees to hear the
Gospel,--albeit they might hear little at so great distance. And in
the midst of the Gospel the north door went wide, and a great company
of men, armed, stood on the threshold as they were loth to enter. The
knight, which was also standing, for he was very devout, turned to
look on these men, and immediately, as it were in despite of his own
will, he drew his sword; and then he made two running steps to the
choir.
Dogs will rest uncertain and look on the quarry if it stand, but if it
turn to flee they are upon it. So now, when the knight ran up into the
choir like the hunted man he was, all they at the door forgot their
unwillingness to enter, and came on pell-mell.
"Sanctuary! Sanctuary!" cried the knight.
"In the name of the King!" cried the armed men, and some ran to the
cloister door and others to the west door, and spread themselves about
so that there was no chance to escape, and others went up into the
choir after the knight.
There was a great tumult, with screaming of monks, and bits of Latin
prayer, and stout English curses,--and "Sanctuary! Sanctuary!" and "In
the King's name!" The servants of the knight ran before and after him
and got in the way of his pursuers, which once laid hands on him but
he beat them back with his sword. Round the choir they went, tripping
over monks and over each other. The gospeller fell down on his knees,
and the acolyte that held the candles to read by dashed them down and
fled away. Round the choir they went twice. "Sanctuary! Sanctuary!"
"O God!" cried Calote; "O God!--what is this they do in the King's
name?"
Then she saw how one stabbed the knight, and all those others crowded
to that spot where he lay. They panted, and hung over his dead body
like fierce dogs. Then they laid hold on it by the legs and dragged it
bleeding down the aisle, and so cast it out at the door.
Stephen took Calote by the wrist and led her forth. She was shaking.
"In the King's name!" she said; "O Christ!"
By the altar there was another dead body, a monk, and other monks
knelt beside, wringing their hands and wailing.
Stephen pushed through the gaping crowd at the door, past the dead
knight, and would have led Calote away into the fields, but she
said:--
"Let be! I will go home. I am very sick."
"'T was not the King's fault; be sure of that!" cried Stephen. "They
do so many wicked things in his name. He is but a weakling child."
"It is time the people arose!" answered Calote. "Ah, how helpless am
I, and thou, and the little King! How helpless is this country of
England, where men slay each other before God's altar!"
"'T is John of Gaunt's doing," said Stephen. "'T was concerning a
Spanish hostage that was in the hands of this knight and another, and
the King's Council said they would take the hostage, for that they
might claim the ransom; but the knights hid him and would not say
where he was hid."
"O Covetise!" sobbed Calote. "Of what avail that my father called thee
to repent in his Vision! All prophecies is lies. 'T is a wicked world,
without love. All men hate one another, and I would I were dead."
"Nay, nay!" Stephen protested. "I love!--I 'll prove my love!"
"Thou canst not. Thou art bound to the King,--and the King is in
durance to the covetous nobles. King and people is in the same
straits, browbeat both alike."
But here they were 'ware of a man that watched them, and when he came
nigh 't was Jack Straw.
"So, mistress! Wert thou in the church?" he asked.
"'T is a friend of my father's," said Calote to Stephen. "I will go
into the city with him. Fare thee well!"
"I 'll go also," Stephen made answer; but she would not have it so.
"Thy place is with the King," she said. "Go learn him of this new sin;
how men defile churches in his name!"
And to Jack Straw, on the homeward way, she would say nothing but:--
"Prate to me not of thy plot, and thy Rising! I 've no faith in thee,
nor any man. The people is afraid to rise; all 's words. O me, alas!
'T is now a year, and am I gone on pilgrimage to rouse the people? Do
not the great lords slay and steal as they have ever done? Do not the
people starve? Ye are afeared to rise up; afeared of the Duke and his
retainers. Poor men are cowards."
"I would have sent thee forth six months agone," said Jack Straw,
soothing her; "but Wat would not. Patience, mistress!"
And a month after, Jack Straw came to Calote and told her the time was
nigh.
"The Parliament meets in Gloucester next month," he said; "for that
the quarrel 'twixt the King and the monks of Westminster is not yet
healed, and the church is not re-consecrate since the sacrilege.--Now
the people will see the King as he goeth on his progress to
Gloucester, and this is well. They will see his face and know him in
many shires and hundreds. Their hearts will be warmed to him. Do thou
follow and get thy token from him, and they 'll believe thee the more
readily that thou art seen about Gloucester and those villages in that
same time. But have a care not to speak thy message till Parliament is
dissolved and the knights returned home; only do thou be seen here and
there."
"When do I go?" asked Calote, trembling.
"I have a friend, a peddler and his wife, that go about in a little
cart. They 'll be like to follow in the tail of the King's retinue,
for the better protection. Meanwhile, an thou 'rt wise, thou wilt not
mingle lightly with the King's household; but with the peasants in the
villages 't is another matter."
"Yea, I know," she answered.
"That gay sprig--that squire"--began Jack Straw.
"Hold thy peace!" said Calote. "But for him, how had I come at the
King?"
And Jack Straw shut his lips and gulped down his jealousy, but it left
a bitter smart in his throat.