He laughed and grew red. "I 'm married, mistress. Thou wert so long

away. There 's a little Hobbe."

Then Calote laughed likewise, and seeing her mother down the street at

their door, she began to run.

Kitte kissed her, and crushed her close, and at the last said:--

"How will thy father be rejoiced to know thee safe!" Then, "Who 's

this?" quoth she; and there stood the peddler, waiting.

"'T is an honest man hath holpen me in many a sore strait, mother;

cannot speak plain."

"So!" said Kitte, and continued to look at him over her daughter's

head thoughtfully.

"G-give you good-even, m-mistress!" said the peddler.

"Good-even, friend!" said Kitte, and added in a voice assured and

quiet: "I know thy face."

"H-haply," he answered, and albeit he knew that he was found out he

did not turn away his eyes from hers.

"Come in, and sup," said she; "Will 's late;" and she laid her arm

about the peddler's shoulder, and kissed his cheek.

They sat late that night. Wat and Jack Straw came in with Langland,

and there was clipping and kissing and rattle of tongues.

"Ah, but how 't is sweet to hear again London speech!" sighed Calote,

"and thy voice, my father!"

'T was told in the tavern as how Calote was come back, and Dame Emma

must needs run across to welcome the maid. After, she sent in of her

pudding-ale, the best, that sold for fourpence the gallon, for that

Calote's health might be drunk. She was a kindly soul, Dame Emma, a

friend to villeins and poor labourers.

Calote sat on her father's knee, and ate and drank, and laughed for

joy of home-coming. But presently, when Wat Tyler besought her for

news, and Jack Straw smiled and said: "Didst mark our Essex men, how

ready they be, like an arrow that 's nocked to the string and waits

but the touch to let fly?" with other like boasting,--she grew grave,

she fell silent; and Jack and Wat, become aware of their own voices,

fell silent likewise; the one, a frown betwixt his heavy brows, the

other, his eyes half shut, the white lashes drooping,--his lips drawn

tight. Will Langland, with his faint prophetic smile, but eyes all

pity, waited, watching his daughter.

"'T will fail," she said at last, very quiet; but her father felt her

heart knock against his arm. "'T will fail, because the spring and

soul of it is hate, not love. Go yonder into Essex and Suffolk, where

I have been but now, and hear what fate men have in store for the Lord

Chief Justice! Go into Bury Saint Edmunds and mark the eyes of the

townsfolk when they take the prior's name upon their lips! Give God

thanks, Wat Tyler, that thou art not mayor o' Northampton!"

"These men are tyrants," cried Wat; "they have oppressed the people."

"What is to be a tyrant, Wat? To hold the people in the hollow of his

hand?--What dost thou hope to be one day? I mind me in Salisbury thou

didst assure me, 'Time shall be when these rustics shall follow me

with a single will,--as one man; and then shall we arise.'"

Jack Straw turned on his comrade a chilly smile, but said no word. Wat

swore and shuffled his feet.

"'T will fail," Calote began anew. "The poor is afeared to fight; do

but flash a sword in 's eye, he 'll shake. All they that make up our

Great Society be not honest folk, a-many is outlawed men, cut-purses,

murderers, wasters; all such is coward in their heart."

"Here 's what comes o' setting women to men's business, thou fool!"

Wat snarled upon Jack Straw, but Jack paid him no heed; instead he

crossed one leg over other, leaned his clasped hands on his knee, and

set his narrowed eyes upon the maid.

"And this is all to mean, no doubt," said he coldly, "that thou art

sick o' poor folk and their ways, and hankering after palace fare. Ah,

well, who shall blame a pretty wench!" He shrugged his shoulders and

uncrossed his legs, leaning forward on his elbows to speak the more

soft. "I heard tell, a year past, that a certain young squire, Stephen

Fitzwarine by name, was no longer about the King's person; 't was said

he had gone to Italy on a mission with Master Chaucer. But Master

Chaucer 's returned; I saw him yestere'en a-looking out of window in

his house above the Ald Gate. Haply, t' other 's to be found in

Westminster. Natheless, they do say these Italian wenches be like

hotsauce, do turn a man's stomach from sober victual."

To prove Calote and vent his own spleen Jack Straw said this; but he

reckoned without the peddler, who immediately rose up and cracked him

with his fist betwixt his insolent white-lashed eyes so that he fell

over backward on the floor and lay a-blinking.

"I thank thee, friend," said Langland.

"Thou 'rt well served, Jack," said Wat Tyler. "Get up and mind thy

manners!"

"I 'll kill him,--I 'll beat out 's brains," muttered Jack Straw, and

scrambled shakily to his knees.

"Thou 'lt touch no hair on 's head," Wat answered roughly. "Go kill

Calote her cowards! this one 's an honest man, shall be kept."

"Sh-shall I hi-hit him again, mistress?" asked the peddler.

"Nay, prythee, nay!" cried Calote. And to Jack Straw she said: "Thou

knowest well that I am not aweary of mine own folk, nor never shall

be. Yet, 't were pity if I might wander in England, up and down, two

year, and come home no wiser than afore. The people is not ready to

rise up. Each man striveth after his own gain, his own vengeance,--'t

is mockery to call it fellowship."

"Thou hast not journeyed in Kent; thou hast not heard John Ball," said

Wat, "else wouldst thou never say 't is hate is the soul and spring of

this uprising. What have the Kentish men to gain, of freedom, but here

and there the name of 't? They 're freest men in England, no fools

neither. 'T is for their brothers' sake they 'll rise; for Essex'

sake, where Christen men are sold to be slaves. Small wonder men are

slow to learn love in Essex. Come down to Canterbury, come down into

the Weald,--I 'll show thee fellowship that is no mockery."

"Then let 's be patient, Wat! Let 's wait till other shires be so wise

and loving as Kent!"

"Wait, quotha!" sneered Jack Straw. "And what hast thou been about,

this two year, that thou wert sent to learn them fellowship? I trow

there hath been little wisdom, but loving a-plenty,--in corners with

stray peddlers and packmen. 'Wait,' sayst 'ou? But I say 't is time!

Wherefore is not the people ready?"

Will Langland caught the peddler by the arm, and, "Jack," said he,

"whiles I do more than mouth words. What though I repent after, 't is

too late then, if thou art throttled."

"Nay, let me speak!" Calote importuned, thrusting aside her father.

"Wherefore is the people not ready, Jack Straw? Wherefore? For that in

so many shires where I came to preach love thou wert afore me and

preached hate. Two year is but short space to learn all England to

forget to hate, to bind all England in fellowship of love, so that if

a man fight 't is for his brother's sake. When this uprising faileth,

as 't will surely fail, do thou ask thine own soul where 's blame."

"Pah!--Have I a finger in this pie or no?" growled Wat. "I say 't will

not fail. Do not I know my London? Is not Kent sure, and Essex, and

the eastern counties? These men are mine! Whatsoever else they hate,

yet do they love me! They 'll do my bidding, I promise thee."

"I 'd liefer they did Christ's bidding," said Calote. "Hark ye, Wat,

give me another two year, and do thou and Jack meanwhile preach

freedom only and forget private wrong. So we 'll be less like to

fail."

"There 's talk of another poll-tax," Wat answered gloomily. "No

Parliament will dare pass 't in London; but I make no doubt they 'll

sit elsewhere.--The people will not endure another poll-tax."

"Yet thou hast said the people love thee,--thou 'lt dare swear they

'll do thy bidding. An idle boast?"

The blood came slow into his swarthy face. "'T will not fail," he said

doggedly, and sat in brooding fashion grinding his heel upon the

earthen floor.

"When doth Parliament sit?" Calote asked him.

He got up, overthrowing the heavy oaken bench he had sat upon, and,

"So be it!" he cried hoarsely. "They shall not rise yet," and strode

to the door.

Jack Straw laughed.

"Thou white rat!" said Wat, with his hand on the latch; "dost think

they 'll follow thee? Do but essay them!"

"Nay," leered Jack, "I 'm for fellowship, brother! I 'll wait my turn

till thou hast stretched thy tether;" and went with him out on

Cornhill.

Langland thrust the bolt of the door presently, and bade the peddler

lie by the fire, if he would. So they all went to bed. But after a

little while, Kitte came down the stair again. She had a rough blanket

on her arm.

"'T is not so soft as thou hast slept on i' the King's Palace of

Westminster," said she, "but 't will keep thee from the chill o' the

floor."

"Ah, good mother," smiled the peddler, "'t is two year I have not

slept on a blanket."

"So long?" she queried--"And the maid so blind!"

"In the beginning I was a sorry wight," he answered. "Small wonder she

knew me not. But of late I have had no money to mend my thatch." He

tapped his rusty pate and laughed. "Moreover, the brown stain hath

worn off my face and hands; what 's left is sun only and wind. Neither

have I been at such pains to pluck out mine eyebrows this past

month,"--he laughed again and his stammer caught him,--"f-f-for

Richard's sake, and the court's. Three days since we slept in the fens

about Lincoln. When I awoke she sat staring on me:--"

"'Thou art so like--thou art so like,' she murmured, 'but no.'--Thou

'lt keep my secret, mother?"

"Oh, ay! I 'm a silent woman," she answered. "Thou hast not won her?"

"I have not wooed," he said.

She lifted her hand and made the sign of the cross betwixt his brow

and his breast. "Good-night, my son," said she.

CHAPTER IX

The Adventure in Kent

Calote was in Kent what time word came that the Parliament of

Northampton had passed a new poll-tax. It happened on this wise: Wat

Tyler went down into Kent to have speech of John Ball, who was not in

prison at that time, albeit hunted by the Archbishop's men,--and he

brought Calote with him. And in a little village midway twixt

Canterbury and Maidstone the priest met them. They went into the

tavern and the alewife set her best brew before them, and presently

slipped out to seek her gossips.

"This is the maid," said Wat.

John Ball's eyes, kindly, keen, smiling, drew her to him, also he held

out his hand. She came and stood beside his knee as he sat withdrawn

from the table a little way. So they looked each on other, she most

solemn, he tenderly amused.

"Long Will's daughter," he said; and after a little, "So thou hast

journeyed in England, south and north, to bring the message of

fellowship to the poor?"

"Yea, brother," she answered him.

"And thou sayest this people is not ready to rise up?"

"Yea, brother, I say so."

"Wherefore?"

"Two year is not long enough, John Ball."

"Two year!" quoth he, and smiled. "'T is twenty year I have not ceased

to preach this message. Thou wert not born, yet the people had heard

these things."

She flushed very hot and her lip quivered: "Though 't were forty

year,--the people is not ready," she made answer steadfast.

"They say there 's a woman of Siena learns Pope Urban his lesson,"

mused the priest, always his eyes fixed smiling on the maid; "God

forbid I should be behind Pope Urban in humilité."

"I am a peasant maid only," cried Calote, "but I say poor folk is not

yet a fellowship. They dream of vengeance. More than they love one

another they hate the nobles and bailiffs and the men-of-law, and"--

"And all them that have brought us to this pass," said Wat Tyler

fiercely.

John Ball turned to look at him, and there fell silence.

When the priest spoke again he spoke to Wat, and said: "'T would seem

the maid saith soth." Then, turning back to Calote, the smile went out

of his eyes: "I am not so patient as thy father," he exclaimed, "I am

not content to prophesy only; there 's some men must do deeds. A

little while we 'll delay. Natheless, 't shall come in my time!--Thou

hast warned them in Essex and Suffolk, 't is not yet, Wat?"

"Yea, they know, and they grumble. Norfolk knoweth, and

Cambridgeshire; and when we came through Dartford I sent messengers

westward to stay the folk in those parts. Here they know it not yet.

They will not tamely wait. I fear these Kentish men; and if they slip

leash the rest will follow, whether we will or no."

"Ah, well, if they will, they will! Give me now the names of the

Norfolk gentry would cast in their lot o' our side." He spread a

parchment on the table and drew pen and ink from his penner.

"John de Montenay de Bokenham," said Wat.

"Is 't so?" John Ball murmured, writing. "Methought he 'd come at t'

last."

"Thomas de Gyssing."

"Anon."

"Sir Roger Bacon."

"Nay, I had his name long since."

"Then thou hast all others," Wat ended.

Calote, standing by the table, listened.

"Of Bury, now, what new citizens since I was prisoned last?" the

priest questioned.

"Thomas Halesworth, John Clakke, Robert Westbron."

"And these be fit to lead?"

"Yea."

"And who is messenger to run westward?"

"John Smyth, parson,--hath a horse."

"Ah! And for the north?"

"John Reynolds of Bawdsey, and Walter Coselere; good runners, both."

"Where is Jack Straw?"

"In Northampton, hanging at the heels o' Parliament."

But now came Calote with a question: "Shall the King be warned anew

afore the people rise?"

"The King?" said John Ball, staring.

"Yea; I give my message in the name of the King; I have his token."

She drew forth the horn.

Wat Tyler was admonishing the priest, with nod of head and uplift of

eyebrow.

"Oh, ay," John Ball said hastily; "I had forgot. Nay, we 'll wait and

let the people rise and seek him out. 'T will be time enough."

"What was 't thou hadst forgot?" Calote queried. But she got no

answer, for the door burst open, and men and women came in and crowded

about John Ball and kissed his garment's hem. And in the same moment

the church-bell began to ring.

"Ho, my brothers!" laughed the priest, "let be! I have not rung your

bell. The Archbishop hath long ears. 'T is not safe."

"There be espiers set in every lane and the highway," said the

alewife. "They 'll give warning."

So they carried him, protesting, laughing, up the village street to

the cross.

That was a November day, gray, misty, chill. The trees were bare. The

earth was wet with the rain of yesternight. Weatherwise folk saw snow

in the clouds.

"Come up hither!" said John Ball to Calote, and drew her after him to

the top step of the cross. "Have a care, the stone 's slippery."

So, when she was steadied at his side, he turned to the waiting

villagers with:--

"Hark ye, good folk; I have no new thing to say. Hear this maid! 'T is

Long Will's daughter of London; hath journeyed far and wide throughout

England to learn men of fellowship. She shall speak."

The people stared at him in wonder, and at her. Then he stepped down

and left her alone.

She put the King's horn to her lips and blew a blast.

"My message is from the King," she said. "He is on your side."

There was a silence, and after, a shout.

"The King! God save the King!" they cried. "Speak!--speak!"

"The King is young, my brothers. He is a lad only; but he loveth his

people. He knoweth what is to be bound; doth not he live in bondage

likewise, and to these same nobles?"

"Death!--death!" they shouted, but she lifted up her hands to still

them.

"The King is of the noblesse; speak not of death, my brothers. I know

there shall be blood shed in this battle, for that the nobles hate us;

and when they see us uprisen, there shall be fear added unto hate, and

blows shall follow. But when we, being stricken, strike again, for

freedom and our brother, we shall remember that there is nor hate nor

fear in us. We are for love, my brothers; we are for fellowship; and

so it cometh to pass we cannot hate any man."

They gaped upon her and said nothing. John Ball drew his hand across

his lips as to do away a smile; but his eyes were wet.

"Thou, and thou, and thou, and I, my brothers, when we rise up, 't

shall be to mean that we have cast off hate; arisen out of that evil,

as the soul out of sinful body. Hate 's a clog; shall be no uprising

in England till we be set free from hate. We be villeins now, in

bondage to nobles and lords of manors; we do affirm we rise up for

freedom; but I ask ye, shall that be freedom which is but to turn

table and set the nobles in bondage under us?"

"Ay, turn and turn about," cried a man in the crowd. "Let them taste

how 't is bitter!"

Calote's eyes flashed. "Turn and turn about, sayst thou?" she

retorted; "and wilt thou be ready to go again into bondage when thy

turn cometh?"

He growled and hung his head, and his neighbours laughed.

"Hark ye, brothers; we do not rise up for to bind any man, noble or

villein, but for to set all England free. Let the King rule,--let the

knight keep the borders of the land rid of Frenchman and Scot,--let

the villein till his field for rent,"--

"Ay, ay, fourpence the acre!" said a villein.

"Ay, ay!" the others cried, vehement. "'T is fair in reason,

fourpence, ay!"--

And then there came up the village street a clatter of hoofs, a man on

a white horse, and the espier running at his side.

"Wat Tyler!--Wat Tyler!" cried the horseman. "Send one to Canterbury

and northward shall stop the Rising, or 't is too late. Poll-tax is

passed in Parliament at Northampton."

'T was the peddler.

Calote stared on him bewildered; he looked so strange. She had not

seen him since the day after she was come into London. Was this he?

Was it not rather,--but no! Her heart began to beat very fast, her

eyes were wide. The peddler drew his hood down over his face. Then

Calote was 'ware of a tumult among the people, and Wat Tyler's voice

upraised to still them, and John Ball standing again at her side on

the top step of the cross.

"To London!--To London!" the people clamoured. "'T is

time!--London!--The King!"

"Fools! I say 't is not yet!" shouted Wat. "I came to tell ye. We will

not rise this time. Word hath gone forth into the north and west to

still the people."

"Traitor!--London! London!" they cried, closing about him.

"Patience, brothers," he said. "We be no traitors, but wise. Hearken

to the maid! She hath been in east and west and north and south. Hear

her, wherefore she counselleth patience."

The roar fell to a growl and anon to a muttering, and they turned

their angry faces to Calote.

"Brothers," she said, "ye of Kent are ready. Yea, 't is very true.

Were all men so strong in fellowship as Kentish men, would be little

to fear. But in Essex men be not so well-fed, nor so wise. Kind-Wit

dwelleth not in their cots."

The flushed faces that looked up to her grinned broadly.

"'T is true," said one man, with a chuckle,--this was the espier, and

he had forgot to return to his post.--"A-most fools is outside o'

Kent."

"These men of the eastern shires," the maid continued, "will have it

that fellowship is but leave to slay and burn, for sake of privé

wrong. They 'll use this word for a cloak to do murder and all those

other seven sins. Moreover, in the north there be few that will

rise,--and in the west they 're afeared.--Ye Kentish men are fearless,

but may Kent alone withstand the power of the noblesse? Willingly ye

'll be slain for your brothers' sake,--oh, ye are brave men!--but what

avail to England if ye be slain? Who then shall deliver your brothers?

Be patient yet a little while."

Some of them were sullen, others whispered together with rueful

countenance. She watched them for a little, then:--

"'T is for Kentish men to say if the Rising shall avail or come to

naught. Wise men are never rash. Moreover,--t' other side o' London,

word is already gone forth to stay the Rising. Will ye rise

alone,--one shire?"

They hung their heads, foolish, sulky.

Then said John Ball, "Who is this friendly messenger on a gentleman's

horse?"

The peddler, as he were abashed, slipped from his steed to the ground.

But the crowd, diverted from their own discontent, pushed and pulled

him to the foot of the cross where stood John Ball.

"Nay, then, uncover thy face, brother," said the priest, "'t is well

we know our friends." And with a large hand, courteous but not to be

gainsayed, he pushed back the peddler's hood, and there was revealed a

mop of light brown hair curled in the fashion of the court, and a fair

and gentlemanly countenance that flushed crimson beneath the

astonished gaze of John Ball. 'T would seem the peddler had departed

on his errand in haste, without one precaution.

The crowd stared, open-mouthed.

"Art thou a man of Kent?" Ball asked.

"N-nay, father," stammered the peddler, and grew yet more red.

"I 'll be sworn thou 'rt no villein," said the priest, very grim.

The peddler glanced at Calote and dropped his eyes.

"N-nay!" he murmured.

"Wat!" called the priest; but one said, "Hath but now gone to spread

the alarm."

"Art thou of the Fellowship, stranger?" John Ball questioned, sharp.

Then did the peddler lift up his head, and looked the priest in the

eye: "In my heart am I of the Fellowship, but I have not given my hand

on 't," he said.

John Ball laid hand on the peddler's shoulder and turned him about to

face the folk.

"Knoweth any here this gentle, that would be of our Fellowship?" he

asked.

The rustics pressed close, peered over other's shoulder, but at last

shook their heads.

Then was there heard a faint voice, very shy, at the side of the

priest:--

"I know this gentle," said Calote. "If he giveth his hand in

fellowship--he will keep faith."

There went up a murmur of amaze in the crowd, and John Ball looked

from Calote to the peddler and back again.

"Is a disciple of my father," whispered Calote; and now was her face

as red as the peddler's.

"What art thou called, friend?" asked the priest.

"I am called Stephen Fitzwarine. I dwell in the King's palace; but I

abode one while in poor folks' cots; I know that they suffer. When 't

is time, I do purpose to stand by the villein that would be free"--

The Kentish men shouted, and pressed more close.

"Meanwhile I may come at the King's ear. 'T were well there be one in

the palace at Westminster may be a m-mean twixt the King and the

commons, when peasants are risen up. I am for the Fellowship,--I will

keep faith. Here 's my hand."

"Lay thy hand on this market cross, brother, and swear by the

rood," said John Ball.

So Stephen went up the three stone steps and laid his hand upon the

arm of the cross, and:--

"By the Holy Rood, I swear," said he, "that I will keep faith with the

Fellowship and strive to set free villeins. Life and limb, body and

soul, give I in this cause."

And all that throng of villagers burst out a-singing:--

"'When Adam delved and Eve span,

Who was then the gentleman?'"

But now, by the way that the peddler had come,--the unwatched

way,--there came a band of horsemen suddenly, and rode into the midst

of the crowd.

"Archbishop's men!" shrieked a woman. "Save John Ball!"

There was no room to shoot the long-bow.

"Though we rise not yet, we 'll maul 'em now," roared a man.

But John Ball stayed him, stayed all.--"Not yet,--no blood shall flow.

We have need of strong men. Remember!"

So, except a buffet here and there, pushing and hindrance, and loud

words, there was no battle. Women clung weeping to John Ball, but he

was bound and set on a horse. Then came the faithless espier and cast

himself down in the way of that horse, and was trampled and his skull

clove in.

One of the soldiers ran to the cross and would have bound Calote, for

he said: "This wench also was speaking, exciting the people." But

Stephen thrust him off, and said he:--

"The damosel is in my care, Gybbe Pykerel; I 'll answer to the King as

concerning my loyauté and hers."

"What!--Etienne Fitzwarine!" cried the man. "A frolic?--Eh, well!--I

'm Archbishop's man, 't is none of my devoir to meddle with King's

minions."

And the priest being now fast bound, and all others in their saddles,

this soldier followed, and all rode forth of the village. But one

villein cried after them:--

"We have chose to let ye have him now, but 'ware the day when we come

to take him out o' Maidstone gaol! 'Ware the day!"

Then they went to the espier, where he lay dead, and they lifted him

up and bore him within the church.

"My horse!" cried the peddler. "Where is Blanchefleur, my d-destrier?"

"Wat Tyler 's astride and halfway to Canterbury by this, brother,"

said a woman.

The peddler laughed,--was naught else to do.

"Eh, well, mistress, thou and I must go afoot," quoth he to Calote;

"'t will not be the first time."

He took her hand and she went with him meekly, as she were in a dream.

A little way beyond the village he led her off the road into a wood,

and there made her to sit down under a tree. He thrust a stopple of

dry leaves into the small end of the King's horn, and filled it with

water from a spring near by, which, when she had drunk, she smiled.

Whereupon the peddler cast him down on the grass at her feet and took

the dusty hem of her kirtle to his lips and held it there,--a-kissing

it; and once he sobbed.

Presently she spoke, slow, softly, as one speaks looking backward into

memory:--

"In Devon I said,--he hath a mind, inward, like to Stephen's mind. But

if this were Stephen he 'd never cease to speak to me of love; so he 'd

be discovered. But thou didst never speak to me of love. In Cheshire I

said,--he hath given his all to buy the horn; presently he will ask

for my love to repay him. I was afeared. I said, I could love

him--were there no--Ah, 't is no matter what I said! At Yorkshire, at

the manor-house, 't was lonely. I--I thought on thee, and yet 't was

strange, I could not dispart thee from Stephen in my thought. I

said,--I know he will presently woo me, and what shall I say? Then I

began to see Stephen in thy face--and I was 'wildered sore. When I was

wearied with wanhope, 't was thou upheld the quarrel of the people.

Ah,--how couldst thou know how to do this if thou art Stephen? Stephen

is a squire in the King's palace! I said--what shall I do?--Did ever

maid love"--She hushed hastily and the colour flamed to her cheeks;

she made as to rise, but the peddler had her hands, he was on his

knees before her, looking in her eyes.

"Nay,--m-make an end to 't!" he whispered. "Did ever a maid--what?"

"I will not!"--she answered. "Let be!"

"Wh-which is 't thou l-lovest? Speak!"

"Wherefore wilt thou still mock me?" she cried in sudden anger,

freeing her hands. "Have done with thy halting speech!"

He hung his head and knelt mute a moment,--then in a low voice, very

sorrowful, and painfully stammering, he said:--

"A-a-alas, mistress!--I c-cannot be rid of 't n-now. T-taketh me

unaware. If it of-fendeth thee, then indeed a-am I undone."

She waited, aghast, watching him, but he knelt silent in his

dejection.

"It doth not offend me," she said at last, wistfully; and he, looking

up, beheld her eyes full of tears.

"Wilt thou h-have me?" he cried.

And half laughing, half crying, she asked him:

"Who art thou?"

"Please God, I am him thou lovest," he answered; "Which is he?"

She let him take her hands again.

"I know not," she whispered. "But if 't is the peddler, I love him for

Stephen's sake,--and if 't is Stephen, for the peddler's sake I love

him."

CHAPTER X

The Poets Sing to Richard

When Stephen 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 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 nuance

Puiss 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 read

_Ue 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!"

"Coeur 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.

PART III

The Rising

"Now, Richard the redeles reweth on you-self,

That lawelesse leddyn your lyf and your peple bothe."

_Richard the Redeless._

PASSUS I.

"Who so wil be pure parfyt mote possessioun forsake."

_The Vision Concerning Piers Plowman._

B. PASSUS XI.

CHAPTER I

The Beginning

So it 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."

CHAPTER II

Blackheath

On a Wednesday, being the twelfth day of June in that year, which was

the fourth year of King Richard II., Wat Tyler and John Ball set up

two great banners of Saint George on Blackheath, which was a moor that

lay to southward of London, distant from the Bridge by the highway

five mile. And thither came folk from north and south all that day,

and encamped round about those two banners. Calote was there, and

Stephen, and Long Will, to see them come in. Now 't was a band out of

Surrey, singing as they marched:--

"When Adam delved and Eve span,

Who was then the gentleman?"

Now 't was foresters from the Weald, threescore and more. Anon, the

men that had seen the siege and the taking of Rochester Castle came

in; and these went about from one to other of the bands, telling their

tale, leaping in air and shouting as they were mad. Villeins and free

labourers of Sussex by score and by hundred came.

"John Ball hath rungen our bell!" they said; "John Ball hath rungen

our bell!"

"H-how shall these men be fed?" Stephen asked John Ball.

"London shall"--John Ball began, but he looked on Stephen and stayed

his speech; and quoth he presently: "So 't is thou?"

For, albeit Stephen had donned his tabard and coarse hosen, his hair,

which was of a pale brown colour like to the King's, was curled very

daintily; and he had a girdle, the which peasants might not wear, and

a short sword therein and a dagger.

"Yea, 't is I, Stephen Fitzwarine," he said. "W-Will Langland shall

speak for me that I be ever true man."

"He saith soth," Will answered; "'t is a very gentleman and our

brother."

"Yea," affirmed Wat, who was come up. "Were all the King's servants

like to this one, our daughters"--But then he broke forth into cursing

and crying out upon God and Christ Jesus very blasphemously, that

Calote wept to hear. Long Will went aside with him to speak comfort,

and John Ball turned again to Stephen.

"Art thou even now of the household of the King? 'T is very well. We

have sent a message to the King to pray him that he come hither to

speak with us concerning this Rising and a remedy. Do thou go up and

be seen o' the river shore when he cometh; haply he 'll come the more

willingly an he see a friend."

"Let the maid go with me," said Stephen. "She hath a token from

Richard; her word also will he trust."

So Calote and Stephen went up to Thames by the Rotherhithe shore, and

as they went they met a great rout of Essex men come across the river.

They had three bloody heads on poles, the which they bore for banners,

and these were three clerks that served the tax-collector was driven

out of Brentwood the last week in May. Crows flew squawking round

about these heads. Meanwhile, the men strode on, chaunting:--

"'Jack Trueman doth you to understand that falseness and guile have

reigned too long.'"

And they told Stephen and Calote as how other Essex men were encamped

t' other side the river before Aldgate, to keep the city from that

side. And these other were Jack Straw's men.

And Calote and Stephen went down to the water's edge and stood with

the throng that waited for the King.

An hour they waited, singing, jostling, and in the end the royal barge

came down the river with Richard standing in the prow, and that old

warrior and very perfect gentleman, the Earl of Salisbury, at his

right hand. In the midst of the boat Sudbury stood, and Hales, and

when the folk on shore saw these two they set up a shout of--

"Traitors!--Give up the traitors!--The Chancellor!--The

Chancellor!--Poll-tax is his!--'T is Simon Sudbury taxed us!--They

shall be slain!"

Whereupon my Lord of Salisbury made a sign to the rowers that they

should cease rowing, which they did, and the barge stood still in the

stream.

"How shall these jack-fools be hushed?" said Stephen. "They spoil

all!"

Then Calote wound the King's horn, once, twice, thrice, and in the

silence that followed after, Stephen put his hand to his mouth and

shouted: "A parley! A parley!" and after: "My Lord King, beseech thee

come hither, and alone, to speak with thy people. Shall none harm come

to thee."

"A demand most uncourtly strange, Etienne Fitzwarine," cried the Earl

of Salisbury, "that the King's person be sent unguarded among a pack

of rebels. It may not be."

"My lord, now is no time to be nice in small matters. Moreover, these

be not rebels, but loyal, true lovers of the King."

"Yea,--yea!--God save the King!" shouted the mob. "Let our King come

to us that we may advise him of our wrongs."

From where they stood on shore they could see Richard in the barge,

how he laid his hand on my Lord Salisbury's arm and spoke earnestly

with him. But my Lord of Salisbury shook his head, and the Archbishop

and John Hales came up a little way into the prow, as they were

pleading and craving a boon.

"This thing is not possible, that the body of our King should be

delivered to ruffians and staff-strikers," called out the Earl of

Salisbury yet again. "We, being his true servants and guardians, dare

not do this thing; for if so be any harm come to him, all England will

lay it at our door, and rightly. Neither may we come to land with him,

seeing ye are so hot to slay certain among us, and one of those the

Archbishop of Canterbury. This is scandal and deadly sin. I call upon

ye to disperse, in the King's name!"

"We are risen in the King's name," cried out an Essex man; "how, then,

shall we disperse?"

They could see Richard urgent, though they might not hear his words;

and the Earl always shaking his head for answer; and Robert Hales with

his two hands clinging to the King's cloak as a suppliant. Then the

Earl of Salisbury made sign to the rowers, who began to turn the barge

backward and rowed up the river again to the Tower, the while the

people on Rotherhithe shore cursed and roared for rage.

Now when they were come again to Blackheath they found more men from

Kent; and the taking of Canterbury was in every man's mouth; how the

mayor had sworn oath of fealty to King Richard and the Commons, and

the monks were afeared for their lives.

"Rochester and Canterbury is ours!" they cried.--"London next!"

Those that had a crust shared it, but they were few; a-most men on

Blackheath went hungry that night.

"Yea, London next, and that quickly," said John Ball. "A man may not

fill his belly with furze and heather."

Meanwhile he preached to them that they might forget their hunger.

There were so many that all could not come anigh, but those others

sang the catchwords and built fires on the heath; and some set off to

Southwark to see if they might find food in that suburb.

And presently came riding three aldermen from London to bring a

message from Mayor Walworth that the people should come no nigher

London, in the name of the King and the city. But when they saw how

many were gathered together, so that they might not be counted, and

more coming in as it were up from the edges of the world, they were

amazed and afraid. Nevertheless, two of them gave their message

faithful and rode again to the city; but John Horn spake with Wat and

the priest, and revealed to them that London for the most part was

friendly, and the prentices all of their party,--and he bade them to

come and take the city. Also he told them the name of the man should

keep the Bridge next day, and he was friend to them and would let down

the drawbridge whether or no Master Walworth gave leave.

"Nay, more," quoth he: "I will even bring certain of you, three or

four, into the city this very night, to tell the good citizens of

London of all this cometh to pass."

"Brother," said Stephen to John Ball, "prythee let him take the maid

into the city, and her father with her. This is no place for a maid at

night on the heath. And l-let me also g-go in, that I may get speech

of Richard and ad-advise him how to be friend to his people."

But now was heard a great clatter and trample of hoofs,--and women

shrieking, and the laughter of rude men,--and there came a coach close

to the banner where John Ball stood,--the horses plunging in a fright,

and a score of villeins clinging to their bridles; the coachman fast

bound on his seat, a stalward Kentish man sitting in his lap.

"What 's here? Women?" cried Wat, and leapt to the coach door. "Have

them out!--Let us see how these nobles will relish to have their

daughters rough entreated." He thrust his hand in, with, "Come out,

mistress,--my daughter's debt is but half paid!"

"Goddes dignité!" said Stephen. "'T is the Queen-Mother!"

Wat dropped the lady's hand and stared in amaze, and Stephen thrust

him aside.

"Madame, 't is Etienne Fitzwarine," cried out one of the ladies, which

was Godiyeva. "Now are we safe."

And Etienne opened the coach door and got in to comfort them,--and all

they were weeping.

"All England is risen up!" said the Queen. "The hedges are alive with

runaway villeins. And this great company,--what 's it to mean?"

"'T is the poll-tax, madame," Etienne answered her, "and the people is

past patience."

"Where is my son?" she shrieked. "Is he slain? Wherefore art thou

here?"

"The King 's in the Tower, madame, whither I 'll presently be your

escort. The people is faithful to the King,--they will not harm him a

hair,--nor the King's mother neither. I pray you patience, the while I

arrange this matter speedily as may be, and we 'll go on our way into

the city."

So he went out and spoke with John Ball and the alderman, and

meanwhile, the peasant folk, when they heard who it was in the coach,

stood a little way off, silent.

When Stephen came again to the door he had Calote by the hand, and he

said:--

"May it please your Majesté that this damosel ride within."

"An ill-smelling peasant!" cried the Queen.

"Madame," said Godiyeva, "'t is the little jongleuse; so you give

consent, she may sit beside me."

"Let me sit o' the coachman's seat," entreated Calote.

"Madame," Stephen made reply, "this damosel is promised to be my

wedded wife,--the night is chill."

"Thy wedded wife!" screamed all those ladies, and the Queen said, "Is

the world up-so-down?"

But whether from fear of all that rout of peasants, or whether from

desire to know what manner of maid this might be that should wed

Etienne Fitzwarine, they drew aside to make a place for her, and

Godiyeva put out a hand to help her in.

"And for the wretch that dared thrust in his hand to take us," quoth

the Queen, "let him be tied at tail of coach and so dragged to London.

See to 't, Etienne!"

"Madame, pray you pardon, but this may not be," said Etienne. "The man

is a leader among the people, and beloved."

He stood aside and looked out on the vast throng, and she, following

his eye, grew a little pale.

"The man hath provocation," Etienne continued; "his daughter was laid

hands on roughly by the King's tax-gatherer, not many days past."

"Let 's begone!" said the Queen hastily. "Christ, Mary, keep us safe!

Give me my beads, Godiyeva, and do ye all say a rosary, and be

silent!"

So they rode away to London, with Stephen standing on the step on one

side, and Long Will and John Horn riding on the other on the

alderman's horse. And Wat Tyler sat on the box seat beside the

coachman; but Stephen did not apprise the Queen of this.

In Southwark, as they rode, was mischief let loose, for the Marshalsea

Prison and King's Bench were set wide open and in a blaze, and all the

released prisoners making merry in the streets. Hot cinders fell on

the coach, and Wat had much ado that it should not catch fire. To

westward was another glow, where the people destroyed Lambeth Palace.

The Queen shut her eyes and said her prayers, but her ladies popped

head out of window, this side and that, and whispered, "What 's this

to mean?"--and "Who 's yon?"--to Stephen and Calote.

So they came to the Bridge and the drawbridge, and were let pass. And

now Calote and Long Will turned them to Cornhill; but Stephen went to

the Tower with the Queen.

CHAPTER III

In the City

On the Thursday the peasants came into London. Mayor Walworth might

not choose but yield when he saw how many were against him: aldermen,

citizens, and prentices. Wherefore he sent word to Wat Tyler to come

in with his men, if so be they would pay for bed and board, and do

none harm to that great city of London which was pride and glory of

all the English. And they came in by the Bridge and by Aldgate, a

gaping rabble,--for the most of them knew not London nor any city, and

these houses in rows, and Paul's Church, set them to stare. To these

the prentices were joined, and every street and every lane in London

ran a river of men. They filled the taverns. Dame Emma had no need to

cry "Good wine!--Come dine!"--and she did not take keep if they paid

or no. She clapped each on back, with "Welcome, brother!" And to them

that were young she gave her lips with a smack.

There was set up in Cheapside a block to behead lawyers and all such

as were enemy to the people, and there were a-many slain in this

fashion, hastily, without shrift. Calote saw this block, and the

bodies of men lying on heap; and the prentices played at foot-ball

with the bloody heads. And Calote ran down Cornhill as she were mad,

and burst into the cot to her father, where he sat a-copying Piers

Ploughman. To him she told these horrors, and when she had made an

end, he said:--

"Nay,--these be not brute beasts, but men, our brothers. This is the

meaning of battle. Haply angels wage war and is no letting of blood;

but not so men. Not yet."

"'T is Hobbe is headsman," sobbed Calote. "Oh, father,--Hobbe! And

shouting a jest with every blow."

"And thou and I, we know what a kindly man is this Hobbe; and if we

know, doth not Christ Jesus know, who shall absolve him? Be sure, if

the King's Son of Heaven hath given His work in hands of sinful men,

He knoweth to make excuse."

She lifted her head, bewildered:--

"Methought,--methought thou wert against wars, and this Rising?"

He smiled, amused, wistful, patient.

"I am one of the peacemakers," he said. "Natheless, in this battle,

the word of my Vision is on the lips of them that slay. I am not for

battle, 't is true; but these fight on God's side. If He give leave,

who am I to say nay?"

"And thou believest we shall win?" she cried. "Thou believest we shall

win?"

"What is 't--to win?" he asked. "Christ Jesus died on cross atwixt two

thieves; but He is victor."

This was the day the Savoy was burned, John of Gaunt's palace without

the gates twixt Temple Bar and Charing Cross, and all the furniture

and rich stuffs therein that were not burned were hewed and all

to-tore and cast in the river. Howsoever, John of Gaunt was in the

north at that time, and well for him. In the garden, Stephen, who was

in the forefront of the mob all that day, came upon a lad hid behind a

bush and busied in rending the badge of Lancaster from his sleeve.

"Dieu merci!--then thou art not slain, my lord!" cried Stephen.

But the boy, drawing a sword, ran upon him with, "Oh, thou false

traitor!"

"No traitor, my Lord Henry," Stephen answered, his hand twisting the

child's wrist that the sword dropped harmless. "No traitor, but

brother to the people and loyal true subject of King Richard. Have I

not sought thee this hour and more throughout the palace? Come, thou

art not safe till the Tower hold thee."

"If I were King," said the lad fiercely, "I 'd burn them all in hot

fire, as they have burned my father's house."

"Come," said Stephen, and led him hastily by the hand. But to depart

from the gardens they must needs pass nigh the blazing palace, and

presently they came upon rioters breaking up chairs and tables and

carved beds, and among these Jack Straw.

"What boy is this?" Jack cried, barring the way.

"A friend of mine," said Stephen.

"Then art thou traitor. The people has no silken friends."

"How often have I heard thee say," retorted Stephen, "that one day

thou and all men shall be clad in silk?"

There was a crowd gathering, men stood about with broken legs of

chairs, good bludgeons, in their hands.

"Natheless, to-day our friends go in russet and rags," said Jack

Straw.

"So be it," Stephen assented, and stripped the child of his silk coat

so that he stood in his shirt. "Art a-cold, friend?--Wilt have my

courtepy?"

"Nay," the boy answered, looking about on all those rough faces of

men, but with a strange gleam in his eye,--"nay,--the fire warms me."

They all laughed loud, except Jack Straw, that stooped and set his

face close to the boy's face, but the boy did not blink. "Here 's no

place for children," Jack cried, drawing back baffled.

"For that reason do I take him hence," Stephen explained.

Jack narrowed his eyes: "The boy hath a tongue in 's head, and stout

legs; is 't for this cause that thou art received into the Fellowship,

to play the nursemaid to lost brats? Thou bawdy waster, false faitour!

What knowest thou of brotherhood, that hast not soiled thy fingers

this day to serve thy fellows?"

"Nor I will not neither," cried Stephen. And at this word the men drew

yet more close and their faces were awry twixt anger and amaze.

"I say I will not," he repeated, "if to serve my fellows is to burn

and pillage other men's goods."

"Pillage!" roared all they as with one throat. "We be not thieves!"

"Ye say so," he answered, and then: "This cause is a righteous cause,

and I will not hinder; but 't is not I have suffered at the hands of

the noblesse; wherefore I will not wantonly overturn and lay waste. 'T

is my part to play messenger."

"'T is thy part to do whatsoever we bid thee," snarled Jack Straw.

"I am not of thy ményé, Jack," said Stephen.

"Nay, for only honest fellows are of my ményé,--thou art a traitor, a

liar, a spy"--

"After a little while I w-will kill thee, Jack Straw,--I will

s-sl-slit thy throat and c-cut out thy lying tongue,--but not to-day."

Jack wetted his lips and looked around upon his men; they were drawn

close, their faces were full of bewilderment, they watched their

leader and waited for a sign.

"And is this treason, brothers?" said Jack.--"He will slay me, in a

little while?--Will ye wait,--till he slay me?"--

There was a rustle,--a growl,--every moment the mob grew,--

"Will ye wait?" said Jack Straw again.

Some fellow in the crowd threw a carved bit of a bed cornice at

Stephen, but it fell short of him,--a chair leg struck his shoulder.

He unbuckled his sword and laid it on the ground at his feet; he

unbuckled the boy's sword also. A man with a table-top heaved up on

high set it down.

"Brothers," said Stephen, "kill me an you will; but I am no traitor.

Jack Straw and I have a quarrel concerneth us two and no other man.

One day we 'll settle it in fair fight,--one day when all men are

free. I am loyal true to the Fellowship,--and to the King. Are ye all

loyal to the King?"

"Yea,--God bless the King!" they cried.

"Ye come at the King by me, no man else may go in at the Tower. And

will ye kill me and leave the King prisoned with the noblesse?"

"Fitzwarine!--Fitzwarine!" cried a voice at the far edge of the

throng. "Is 't Stephen Fitzwarine yonder? Wat Tyler hath need of him

for a message. Fitzwarine!"

And the mob parted to right and left to let Stephen pass through. As

he went, one ran after and gave him his sword.

"And my sword?" said the boy, who clung to Stephen's hand and followed

close behind.

"Nay, let it lie," Stephen answered him.

By Charing Cross they found Wat Tyler, and, by good hap, Calote.

"Thou must seek out John Ball and bid him make a camp to-night on

Saint Catherine's Hill, where I will meet him," said Wat. "When thou

hast so said, come to me at the Fleet Prison, where we go to set

prisoners free," and he strode off in a great haste.

"Sweetheart," said Stephen then, and kissed his love; "here 's work to

do, and none may do it so safe and sure as thou. Take this lording by

the hand and lead him through the city to the Tower;--do not leave him

till he is entered there. Art afeared?"

"Afeared!" she cried, "and all the Fellowship my brothers?--Who is

this young lord?"

And Stephen made answer, "'T is John of Gaunt's son, Henry, shall be

Lancaster."

CHAPTER IV

In the Tower

Now all these things are writ in the Chronicles,--as how the Inns of

Court of the Temple was destroyed and records burned, and the Hospital

of Saint John of Jerusalem at Clerkenwell burned, and prisons opened;

wherefore this book needs not to tell.

So, when night was come and the people a little wearied of their wild

work, Wat Tyler sent the squire to Richard to know what the King would

do. For this thing was plain, that the most part of the people was

loyal to the King, and minded to follow him and obey Calote's hest.

And Wat Tyler, being wise, knew that if he would come at his goal, to

rule England, he must stand for a little behind Richard's chair.

"Bid the King come to his own," said Wat. "Thou and I and John Ball,

we be as honest men as Salisbury and John of Gaunt and Simon the

Archbishop."

In the beginning the guard at the Tower gate was loth to hold speech

with Stephen, but when he had given the word, and moreover thrown off

his hood that his face was plain, he was let come in; howbeit there

went a soldier at his side all the way.

When he came into the chapel, John Leg was there a-mumbling his

prayers, and at sound of footsteps he screeched and ran up the

altar-steps, For this John Leg was he that was leader of the poll-tax

commission, and he dwelt hourly in great fear of his life.

Beyond, in a large chamber, were gathered together all those that had

sought refuge in the Tower. The Queen was there, and her ladies,

withdrawn to the dais and whispering. In the midst of the room, at a

table, Salisbury sat, and Thomas of Woodstock, Earl of Buckingham, the

King's uncle, and the Earls of Warwick and Suffolk, and Simon Sudbury

the Archbishop; also Mayor Walworth was there, set twixt Salisbury and

the Archbishop. Pages held torches nigh that they might the better

mark one another's faces, for the chamber was of a great size and full

of shadows. Within a window Robert Hales stood, looking out to north

where was a red glare far off without the city; and he knew that this

was his manor burning at Highbury. Sir John Holland and the Earl of

Kent sat on the dais step with the ladies, but the King was not

anywhere in the chamber. There was a young boy of haughty mien and

frowning brow that paced to and fro, and anon he halted to listen by

the table. This was Henry, John of Gaunt's son; and 't was he saw

Stephen and cried out:--

"My lords, here 's Etienne Fitzwarine! Now shall we know somewhat."

All those about the table turned and looked at Stephen, and the pages

held their torches higher.

"Art thou for us, Fitzwarine?" quoth Salisbury. "Art thou come as a

friend?"

"I am for the people, my lord,--with the King."

"The people first!" sneered Thomas of Woodstock, the Earl of

Buckingham. "A loyal servant, thou!"

"Doth not the King's self set the people first, afore the King?--May I

do less, my Lord of Buckingham?"

"How are we tainted!" groaned Sudbury the Archbishop.

"Tainted, ay!" Stephen cried. "The laws are so rotten that they

s-stink. The Statute of Labourers is a plague-spot, festering out of

the Black Death. Oh, my lords, cut it out!"

"This is Wyclif! This is John Ball!" Sudbury mourned, his head in his

hands.

"For the people?" questioned Salisbury anew; "that 's to mean the

rebels,--and against nobilité?"

"Hear the word, my lord," Stephen said, and never a stammer caught his

tongue.

"'When Adam delved and Eve span,

Who was then the gentleman?'

"Against all men am I, merchants, noblesse, lords of manors, that do

oppress their brothers, and hold to villeinage. This law of villeins

is a dead law shall no longer be hanged about the necks of English

peasants. We be free men. Lawbreakers, say ye?--Of a sureté we 'll

break that law of villeins, smash and stamp it under foot, till 't is

past mending. I am for the villeins,--and the King. I am sent a

message to the King from his loyal people."

"By the rood of Chester!" shouted Thomas of Woodstock, "and thou art

come hither red-handed from slaughter and pillage of the noblesse to

cast insult in the teeth of the King?--A message from yonder

rabble?--A plot, a murder, belike!"

"Dost thou think so?" quoth Stephen very quiet, and drew sword and

dagger and laid them on the table.

"My Lord of Buckingham, we are sore tried," said Salisbury, "and 't

would seem we had just cause for anger these three days; natheless,

let peasants rage; 't behoves us keep our tongues and tempers. Prythee

give again his sword and dagger to Etienne Fitzwarine."

"Nay, my lord," Stephen interposed; "'t was I was over-hasty to lay

them down. I 'll take them up and bear no malice.--Beseech you, where

is the King?"

"Gone above to look forth from a turret," Henry answered. "I would

have borne him company, but he 's in the sulks."

"My lords, pray you, let me go bring hither the King," said Stephen,

and he went into that corner of the room where a door opened upon the

stair. Young Henry followed, plucking at his sleeve, with:--

"An thou canst, make my cousin to see here 's his time to play the

man. But he 's a poor thing."

"My lord, 't is not so simple to be a king," Stephen answered coldly.

"To know what one will have, and to take it,--is not this enough?" the

boy said with scorn. But Stephen left him and climbed the stair.

The dusk of summer came in at the windows of the dark turret, and in

one of the windows Richard sat, hugging his knees.

"Go down, cousin!" he said sharply, without turning his head.

"'T is Etienne Fitzwarine, sire," Stephen ventured.

"Ah, thou!" exclaimed the boy. "Come hither, mignon!" and held out his

arms.

"On every hand they thwart me," he complained. "Mine Uncle Buckingham

counselleth one way and Salisbury another. If I speak, they do not

listen; and if I rest silent, my cousin Henry hath fixed me with

scornful eyes, as who should say, 'Were in thy shoes,'--Christ, but I

do hate my cousin Henry!--Etienne, methinks my star hath slipped,--I

was not meant to be a king. One day 't will be discovered; then they

'll cry out for Lancaster."

"My lord," Stephen soothed him, "hast thou heard how they have cried

out all this day in London streets, and at the burning of the Savoy,

'We will have no King called John?'"

"His name is Henry," the boy answered, "'t is a froward child;" and

then passionately: "Natheless, tell me 't is not true! Tell me,--tell

me!"

"Look out of window, sire, on Saint Catherine's Hill, where thy people

wait thee! So shall these fears and follies be dispelled."

"Let us to the battlement to breathe," said Richard. "Is more to see;

and I 'm smothered here, walled in with my cousin."

So they went up; and all around the sky was red, but not with the sun,

for that was set three hours past. There was a smell of ashes on the

air. Near by, to eastward, on Saint Catherine's Hill, the peasants

were encamped. Which is to say, as many as were not lodged in the

city; Will Langland had a score and six lying close in his cot, and

Dame Emma harboured threescore and ten; there were some slept in

Paul's Churchyard, and others in aldermen's soft beds,--that had never

known but straw. Nevertheless, the most part of them was on the hill,

and this was so close beneath the Tower that Richard, leaning on the

battlement, might descry their faces very plain by the light of the

camp-fires.

"And dost thou bid me look on these and so be assured I am a king?" he

said, and laughed, the better to swallow a sob.

"My lord, these are the honesty of England," said Stephen. "Truest men

on live. Trust them!"

"Yonder 's one with a brand on 's brow,--I see it, T!" cried the boy.

Then he covered his face and shuddered.

"They have opened the prisons," said Stephen. "Oh, sire, judges err,

and wherefore not these poor? Do but come out to them and hear what

they would ask of thee, and thou shalt see how they 'll be led like

little children."

"And would I not so, an I had my way?" Richard cried. "But old

Salisbury saith they 're rebels and 't is not meet the King should

bend to their will. And Simon Sudbury lives in fear of his life, and

so he saith they seek mine also."

"They will not have it they 're rebels, sire, being risen in the name

of the King."

"What for a riddle is here?" sighed Richard, but also he smiled.

"Shall we say to these, my kinsmen and guardians, that the King hath

bidden his people to rise against the kingdom?--Dost think I 'll be

called a fool?--Nay!--Neither am I a babe to believe that thou and I

and yon ragged rout may rule England in despite of mine Uncle Gaunt,

and Earl Percy, and other the flow'r of England's chivalry,--for all

Will Langland's Vision of Ploughmen."

"But these folk do not demand to rule, my lord," protested Stephen.

"'T is to be made free men, no longer villeins and serfs."

"The Archbishop saith 't is more than this,--for that John Ball and

Wat Tyler be desperate men and they have made a plot to slay all

nobilité. If they do so shall not I be as truly in bondage as now I

am? And how vile bondage! Faugh!--filthy hinds!--Canst smell their

stench even now?"

Stephen leaned on the battlement pondering what he would say. At last

he spoke, his eyes fixed always on the hill and the restless throng

thereon:

"'T is very true," he said, "that there be certain among them are

consumed with the s-sin of envy and lust of power, but the most part

of the people m-meddleth not with these subtleties. Freedom is their

desire, and not to be called villeins; and when they have obtained

these, they will return to their homes. For W-Wat Tyler and Jack Straw

and John Ball, they weigh not a fly as against King Richard in the

hearts of the people."

"Sayst thou so?" the boy murmured, and clutched Etienne's

shoulder,--"sayst thou so?" Then he flung out his arms on the

battlement, and his head on his arms. "Ah, wherefore do I take keep if

this people love me or no? Wherefore do I take keep of the love of

dirty ploughmen, vermin-ridden,--of branded knaves and silly ragged

folk? But I do,--Dieu, ma vie, I do!"

"Then come to them, sire!--Hear them!--Another day and 't will be too

late. They will believe thou hast forsaken them,--and what they 'll

then do, I dare not think on. They are not so strong as to overturn a

kingdom, but"--He swept his arm about, where the sky glowed to the

north, and westward the Savoy lay, red embers. "Oh, sire, they have

made Cheapside a shambles!"

"Wilt thou have me go out, now, thither?" said Richard, pointing to

the camp. Here and there men slept. Others roasted bullocks by the

fire that hissed with the dropping of blood. The sound of a catch came

up:--

"Help truth, and truth shall help you!

Now reigneth pride in price,

And covetise is counted wise,

And lechery withouten shame,

And gluttony withouten blame.

Envy reigneth with reason,

And sloth is take in great season.

God do bote, for now is time."

"If we do," the King continued, "we must steal forth secretly, mon

ami; for Sudbury and the rest would never let us from the gate of

their own will."

"Nay, we 'll not go to-night, sire; but do thou come down with me to

the chamber below and persuade the Archbishop and Salisbury that thou

wilt meet the people on the morrow to have speech of them,--else all

London is like to be made a desert afore aid come."

So they went down and, at the foot of the stair, young Henry sat,

half-asleep, but he shook himself and followed after them to the table

whereon the nobles now leaned elbow in gloomy silence.

"My lords," said Richard, "here 's Etienne Fitzwarine hath been in the

city all day, saith somewhat must be done if we will not have the

morrow's sun set redder than to-day's."

"Must be done!" shouted Thomas of Woodstock, shaking the table with a

blow of his fist.--"Have I not said so?--Up!--Assemble the guard and

make an onslaught! A sudden sally forth with the guard, at midnight

when these rebels be sleeping, and we may rout them and put them to

flight. These be village churls, untrained to matters of war,--they

'll fly before a sword. So saith Master Walworth likewise. Peasants

and prentices be no warriors. Moreover, Sir Robert Knolles holdeth his

own house against them in the city,--he will help us."

The Earl of Salisbury lifted his head as he would speak, but Richard

was before him.

"My lords," he said, and all they marvelled to hear his voice how it

was assured,--"my lords, I am going forth on the morrow to have speech

of my people;--to hear what it is they will have. Etienne saith they

desire freedom and no more to be called villeins. My lords, I know

what this is, to desire to be free. I and my people, we shall be free

men on the morrow."

There was silence throughout the chamber, and every eye was fixed on

the King where he stood. Then Salisbury bent his gray head above the

boy's white hand that lay clenched on the table.

"Sire," he said, "if you can appease them by fair words and grant them

what they wish, it will be so much the better; for should we begin

what we cannot go through, we shall never be able to recover it. It

will be all over with us and our heirs, and England will be a desert."

"Give you good-night, my lords," said Richard then. "I will go to the

chapel to my prayers."

CHAPTER V

Mile End

"Falseness and Guile have reigned too long,

And Truth hath been set under a lock,

And Falseness and Guile reigneth in every stock.

No man may Truth come to,

But if he sing 'si dedero.'

True Love is away that was so good,

And clerks for wealth work them woe.

God do bote, for now is time."

These were the peasants from Saint Catherine's Hill that clamored

beneath the walls of the Tower in the dawn of the Friday morning.

Stephen looked out on them from a window above the gate and was

'minded of the waters of the sea, how they lapped about the cliffs of

Devon.

"John Ball greeteth you all,"

sang the men,--

"And doth for to understand he hath rung your bell.

Now Might and Right, Will and Skill,

God speede every dele!"

Some of them were drunken, others white and wild for lack of sleep.

Ragged they were, armed with mallets, cudgels, cruel knives. A-many

had the long bow which all the English must practise to twang; but

there was dearth of arrows, and not all the bows were strung. Of all

these the men of Kent were best armed and most seemly clad, and they

had arisen to right their brothers' wrong, and to make known that all

men should be free.

"When Adam delved and Eve span,

Who was then the gentleman?"

they sang; and then because they saw Stephen at the window, they began

to cry out to bid the King come to his people. Now the King stood

behind Stephen in the shadow.

"If old Archbishop Simon is to scape," quoth he, musing, "now 's time,

the while the people is drawn away hither. Go, one, to the Archbishop,

and bid him try the stairs and the water-gate, if so be he may flee in

a little boat."

"The King!--The King!" cried the mob. "Let us in! John Ball hath

rungen your bell!"

Stephen leaned out of window and made a sign with his hand that they

should cease, and after a little their clamour had sunk to murmurings

and he could be heard.

"Ye shall withdraw to Mile End," Stephen shouted. "Thither will the

King come to parley with you. And I make no doubt he shall grant

whatsoever ye shall ask in reason."

Then began the tumult anew:--

"Mile End!--Mile End, to meet the King!" they cried, and there was a

surging this way and that; for some would go at once to the

meeting-place, others strove to come nigher the walls of the Tower.

"Let us in!--Let us in!" roared these last. "'T is a trap to cheat us

o' Sudbury. Mile End, forsooth!--Nay, we 'll parley within the Tower."

"Tell them there is no room in the Tower for so great a multitude,"

said Richard, "wherefore I choose Mile End.--Tell them"--He paused

and turned to a page who came in, "Well, didst give the message?"

"Yea, sire; the Archbishop is even now gone down to the water-gate."

"Tell them," Richard took up the word anew, "the Tower is theirs to

search and to hold after I shall go forth of it to-day. They may enter

if they will. But I will not parley with them only at Mile End."

All this Stephen cried out of window, and presently there began to be

a fraying away on the edges of the mob, as a cloud frays.

"Let us go and make ready," said Richard; his eyes were very bright,

he held his head high.

But when he had kissed his mother, and dried her tears, and had bade

saddle the horses,--and his half-brothers, Kent and Sir John Holland,

were fidgeting, pale, for that he would have them ride with

him,--suddenly came into the hall Simon Sudbury, with yellow sweat

beading on his brow.

"How now!" cried the King; "methought thou wert scaped by the river?"

"The watch on the hill hath keen eyes, sire. We put forth, but they

raised a cry. Was naught for 't but to turn back."

"But thou must begone!--I say thou must!" Richard exclaimed, stamping

his foot. "Christ!--I 've said they may come in and search!" Then he

went and caught Simon by the shoulders, and his lip quivered:--

"As regarding that poll-tax, thou wert a fool, my lord,--a fool!--a

fool! But thou art a faithful servant, and a true man,--and I love

thee!"

His voice broke, and he hid his face in the Archbishop's breast.

"Sire," said Simon gently, and put both arms about his king as 't were

his own son; "do not grieve! I know a way to baffle them. Go thou to

Mile End, and leave me here to play my part."

"Thou wilt surely scape?" Richard questioned.

"Yea,--I shall surely scape."

Then they went together into the chapel and prayed awhile; and when

the King was going out at the door, he looked back to see where the

Archbishop stood at the altar making ready the sacrifice of the Mass.

John Leg knelt on the steps and Robert Hales,--and there was a certain

friar, a friend of John of Gaunt, who served at the Mass.

So Richard rode forth of the Tower, and 't was a Friday in the

morning,--and with him Etienne Fitzwarine, and Thomas of Woodstock

that was Earl of Buckingham, and old Salisbury, and others,--earls and

gentlemen,--and also Sir John Holland and the Earl of Kent, the King's

half-brothers; but these, for fear, set spur to horse and departed

from the company into the fields.

Meanwhile, in the fields about Mile End the folk came together, a many

thousand, with their leaders. Long Will also was there, and Calote.

London prentices played at ball the while they waited; country louts

sang and cuffed one another; cooks went about crying "Hot pies, hot!"

There was a bearward with his beast, making merry. And in the midst

of this babel, John Ball and Wat Tyler and Jack Straw were silent. The

priest had set his back against a tree, and so stood with folded arms

and sunken chin, his eyes gazing out to a vision. Wat paced up and

down, restless; anon he lifted his head uncertain, and stood looking

down by the way the King must come; anon he gnawed his lip and strode

on. Jack Straw, squatting among the roots of a yew, watched those

others and bit his finger-nails.

"And what will ye do when the King cometh?" asked Long Will of the

three.

John Ball did not hear him, or if he did, he made no sign. Jack leered

up at Wat, and Wat stood still.

"How may a man know what he will do till the time come?" he said

uneasily.

Will lifted his eyebrows. Jack Straw hacked at the yew tree root with

his great knife. Wat walked slow past John Ball and back again to

Will, and here he came to pause.

"We shall make certain demands," he explained in a voice as he were

assuring himself,--"we shall make certain demands. 'T is wherefore we

are here."

He shifted from right foot to left.

"And if the King grant all?" quoth Will.

"Richard 's tongue-tied," sneered Jack Straw.--"No fear!"

"And do not ye desire that he shall grant these requests?" asked

Calote.

"Whether the King grant them or no, we shall take them," snarled Jack

Straw. "Are we not here to take them? What is the will of a weakling

boy in face of thousands?"

"Wat," Calote said, tugging at his sleeve, "what is 't thou 'rt minded

to do to the King? He is anointed of High God. Oh, Wat, what is 't

thou hast in thy heart to do this day?"

"Pshaw!" he groaned, jerking his arm away and clapping both hands to

his ears,--"I know not!--I know not! How shall I know till the time

come? Leave me in peace!"

And then there came a cloud of dust along the highway, and in the

midst of it King Richard, Etienne his squire, and Salisbury, and those

others.

When the people saw it they went mad with joy.

"Hath come!--Hath come!" they cried, capering and clipping and

kissing. "He is our King, come out to his own people!" And then there

went up such shouts as rent the air and could be heard far as London

wall. Jack Straw got to his feet and stuck his knife in his belt. 'T

would seem the shouting of the people made him dizzy, he staggered. It

was a wondrous compelling sound, this cry of joy of ten thousand

hearts set at rest. The King had come to them. He belonged to his

people.

John Ball and Wat Tyler came and stood with Jack beneath the yew tree,

the people surging all about.

"Fools!" muttered Wat.

"Thou fool!" Jack whispered twixt chattering teeth.

"I told thee, truth is better than strategy," said John Ball. "I would

have apprised the Fellowship our purpose to take him."

Hardly was he heard for the clamour. In the beginning there were only

shouts, but after a little there began to be disparted from the waves

of sound, words: "Long live the King!--Long live the King!--Long live

the King!"--The blessing roared like as 't were a torrent. Calote

could see how Jack Straw and Wat spoke one to other, for that their

lips moved,--but what they said was lost. They were very white and

their hands hanging down helpless. This joy that beat about them, they

might not escape from it, and it smothered them.

"How might I tell them?" gasped Wat,--"the maid hath preached love and

loyauté.--Is 't loyauté to take him against his will?"

"Wherefore, against his will?" said Jack.

Richard, in the midst of this rapture, laughed wistfully, with arms

outspread as to embrace his people, and when they saw this they cried

out anew: "God save the King!--Long live the King!--Long live the

King!"--And those that were nigh kissed his stirrups and his

saddlecloth.

"Mes amis!" he said, and they that saw his lips move began to beat

upon that tumult with: "Peace!--Peace!--The King speaks!--Peace!" till

the shouting died as the wind drops, and but for a solitary voice cast

up fitful now and again, there was stillness.

"What will ye?" Richard cried. "I am here. I have taken Reason and

Conscience to be my counsellors:--

'And Reason shall reckon with you if I reign anywhile,

And judge you by this day as ye have deserved.'"

And when they had heard the words of Long Will's Vision, they laughed,

and not a few wept for joy.

"Persuade him that he come to us," whispered John Ball.

"Do thou," Wat retorted, uneasy. "Thou hast a softer tongue and more

learning. Cursed be these fools!"

"Let one speak!" said the King, "and say what the people will have."

There was pause, rustle, a craning of necks to see.

Jack Straw shook as with an ague fit. Wat Tyler started uncertain,

looked at John Ball, and drew back.

"Speak thou!" said the priest, low. "I am under ban of Holy

Church,--his guardians will not hear me patiently."

There began to be a murmur: "Speak!--Speak!" and it waxed louder.

"I 'm a rough man; Jack, thou 'rt the crafty one,--oil thy tongue to

persuasion."

"If I speak now, wilt thou be silent hereafter?" asked Jack. "Art thou

leader--or"--

"Thou false hound!" said Wat.

"Where is Wat Tyler?--Where is John Ball?" cried the people; and the

muttering began to be a roar. "Speak!--Speak!--To be free!--Speak!"

"Rather fall on those others and carry him off to our midst!" Wat

exclaimed, fingering his knife and breathing quick.

John Ball caught his arm.

The throng swayed, and Richard's horse reared.

Then out of the press strode Will Langland, the maker of the Vision

Concerning Piers Ploughman.

"Sire!" he said, and his voice was heard so far that the muttering and

the swaying ceased,--"sire, we ask three gifts of thy grace; and the

first gift is to be free men. No longer villeins and serfs, but free;

no longer bound to the soil, but free to go and come, to marry our

daughters to whom we will, to grind our corn at our own mill,--to be

free! The High God, Emperor of heaven, when he set our father Adam

upon this earth, who was this man's master?"

Richard turned his head to look on the Earl of Salisbury:--

"Thy will is our will, sire," said the old man.

And immediately the King stood up in his stirrups, and:--

"Yea,--we will set each other free," he cried. "Lo, I strike off your

fetters, and I too am free!"

For a space of a minute there was silence, awe; and then the cry,

hoarse, shaken twixt wonder and terror. Then silence came again,

white-lipped, and there were a-many fainted in their brothers' arms.

And that was a long silence.

"Speak!" said Richard huskily to Long Will. "Here 's one grace

granted,--name other two."

"That we may pay a rent henceforth for the land whereto we were bound

aforetime. We are not thieves, neither would we be lollers,--we be

honest men desirous to till the land. Four pence the acre is the rate

we would pay."

"Ay, ay, four pence!" cried a score of men.

"'T is folly!" whispered Thomas of Woodstock and the Earl of Warwick

angrily. "'T cannot be done! Fools!--So paltry price is ruinous!"

"Natheless, let it stand, my lords, and patience," said Salisbury. "A

price may well be changed.--Now, 't is wise to grant all. If the

people sees that we dissuade the King, hardly shall we escape alive.

God knows I be not afeared o' death, but I would serve the King the

best way,--and 't is not by dying."

"Four pence the acre," said Richard; "this also do I grant."

"And the third grace, O King," said Long Will;--"the third is pardon!"

And he went down on his knees, and immediately all that multitude fell

down, and some on their faces, crying, "Pardon!"--"Pardon for John

Ball!--Pardon!--Pardon!--For Wat Tyler!--For all!--For all!"

"It shall be written that ye are pardoned," said Richard. "It shall be

written that ye are free!"

And then they came leaping about him, weeping, singing, blessing; and

he sat in their midst with tears rolling down his face.

"It shall be written!" they cried; "it shall be written!--Bring

clerks!" And presently there were set down some thirty clerks, and

Will Langland among them, a-scribbling. And so they were busied two

hours and more in that place.

Stephen came and leaned on Will's shoulder, and, "Eh, well, my father,

what th-think'st thou?" he asked, exultant.

Will stayed not his hand, but with head bent above the parchment he

said: "Methinks Parliament will have somewhat to say of this matter.

Kings of England may not bind and loose at their own pleasure; though

't is the people that ask. Here 's a riddle."

"But thou?"--Stephen faltered.

"I spake for the people."--Then he turned to a ploughman, with, "Here,

brother, is thy parchment. Keep it dry, and pray God it may serve thee

in time of need. Where is Wat Tyler?"

"He went to the Tower an hour past; said he had business therein."

Now the King gave also of his own banners, to each county a banner,

that the men when they returned to their villages might be known to be

King's men on the highway, and no rioters. And a-many, so soon as they

had their pardon and parchment of freedom, went back to their own

home;--and this was what Salisbury desired. Nevertheless, the most

part of the people abode where they were, and when the King set out to

return to the city, they were with him, singing and shouting, and he

in their midst. But when they were come to Aldgate and turned into the

way that led to the Tower, there rode to meet them a soldier of the

Tower, that said:--

"Sire, we have taken madame your mother to Barnard Castle Ward, and

the Garde Robe, hard by Paul's Church. Will it please you go thither.

The Tower is taken and no longer safe."

"No longer safe?" laughed Richard. "How now!"

"Sire," said the soldier, "the people have slain the Archbishop of

Canterbury, and set up his head on London Bridge."

CHAPTER VI

Free Men

"Symkin Royse," said Long Will; and Symkin came and took his papers

and thrust them in his breast.

Long Will sat by the window of the cot on Cornhill, filling in the

King's pardons and manumissions. Within the house there was a score

and more of labourers and villeins awaiting their turn and making

merry meanwhile. Without in the street men kissed and sang, and wept

for joy, and danced. Beneath Dame Emma's ale-stake they sat drinking,

with women on their knees. In the tavern also there were clerks

writing.

"Adam Kempe," said Will; and, when Adam had folded his papers very

small in the point of his hood, "Give thee God-speed o' thy homeward

way, brother."

"Nay, not yet!" quoth the rustic. "All 's not ended. I bide the

bidding o' Wat Tyler and Jack Straw. Is more work to do."

"What more?" asked Will, drawing forth a fresh pardon.

The man chuckled.

Presently came Kitte with black bread and beans and a mug of ale,

which she set down in the window beside her husband.

"Eat," she said. "These have waited a lifetime to be free; let them

wait now three minutes. Thou 'rt famished."

He smiled sadly. "Were they in vérité free, I 'd gladly starve," he

said; and Calote heard this, who ever stood near her father.

"The King's seal is affixed to every of these papers," said she. "What

more?"

But Will had filled his mouth with beans, and chewed, the while he

wrote.

"Ah," sighed Calote; "wherefore may I not rejoice?" And on a sudden

she had caught her mother by the two hands and danced with her down

the long room and into the lane. But there she paused twixt laughter

and tears, and:--

"Oh, mother, is 't naught to thee that England is free?" she cried.

"Sing!--Laugh!--Kiss me, mother!--Be glad!"

"I 'll kiss thee," Kitte said, and so did, thrice, smiling tenderly.

"When thou and thy father are at peace, I am at peace likewise."

There came a cloud in Calote's eyes. "But dost thou love none but my

father and me?" she asked.

"I love mine own," said Kitte. "Thy husband I shall love, and thy

children. I am glad thy children will be free men."

Calote clung to her mother. "And I had forgotten them!" she said.

"Yet, meseems as every peasant in England were child of mine this day,

so doth my heart beat for them. I 'm mother to all free English!--Ah!"

She cast her arms above her head, and her face was shining.

"Thou art thy father's daughter," Kitte said; but then she caught the

maid to her breast: "Thy father's daughter," quoth she, "but I 'm the

woman that bore thee. Thou wilt not be always content to mother the

world only."

"There be a-many kinds of love," Calote mused. "One while methought

certain of those were forbidden to me,--but mayhap"--

And now there was a clatter of tongues in the house and they went in

again out of the lane. Wat and Jack were come, and many with them.

Some of these were roaring drunk, but Wat was sober enough, and Jack.

Will Langland wrote certain words on a parchment and handed to Wat.

"What 's this?" Wat asked; "Piers' bull?"

"'T is thy pardon," Will answered him.

And Wat took the parchment and tore it across:--

"I ask pardon of no man!" he cried. "That I do is well done. Neither

is this the end."

Will arose from his seat in the window and went and put his hand on

Wat's shoulder:--

"'T is time thou wert o' the road to Dartford," said he, "and all

these scattered. Is naught more to do. Let Piers get back to his

plough and keep his hand from mischief. He 's free; his house is swept

and garnished; 'ware lest other devils enter in. Go home, Wat! Thou

hast done well."

"Then I 'll do bet," said Wat. "Is thy knife keen, Jack? Who comes

with us, my brothers?"

"I,--I,--I!" cried all; and Will thrust pen in penner and went out

with them.

"Whither do ye go?" Calote asked Jack Straw. "And wherefore is thy

knife keen? Now is peace."

"We go to kill pigs by the waterside. Hark, and presently thou 'lt

hear them squeal," he answered.

And as they went down the street, she heard them crying out against

the Flemings that took bread out of poor men's mouths with weaving of

English wool.

"Thy children are unruly," said Kitte. "But 't is the way of all such.

Nay, weep not, my daughter,--weep not!"

"Oh, mother, dost not thou weep that blood is shed?"

"Yea," Kitte answered indifferent; "but if thy father come to no harm,

I shall dry my tears."

These Flemings were certain weavers from over sea that came to

England, the greater number of them in the lifetime of King Edward III.

and the good Queen Philippa. And whereas before that time much wool

was sent out of England across the Channel to be wove into cloth, now

it was more and more woven in this country. But forasmuch as by

courtesy of King Edward, Flemings needed not to pay the gild tax,

therefore were they hated of the gild of weavers of London; and these

persuaded Jack Straw and other peasant folk that if there were weavers

in England, they ought to be English weavers; and wherefore should the

English go hungry and in bonds when Flemings fed and were free? A-many

of these weavers dwelt in the streets by the waterside, and thither

went Wat and Jack and Will,--the mob swelling at their heels. This was

a London mob, prentices and artisans for the most part.

"What 's to gain?" asked Will.

"Blood!" Wat answered him.

Then, they being come to an open place and beyond was a long street

silent, deserted, Will turned him to the mob.

"Go back, brothers!" he cried. "Do not wilfully shed blood."

"On,--on!" screamed Jack Straw. "Do they not eat your bread and pay

naught?"

The rabble shouted and pressed forward. Long Will spread his arms out

wide, as he would keep the street.

"Ye are mad!" he said. "Will ye slay innocent folk?"

"Innocent!" yelled a weaver's prentice, and the mob growled, but none

put aside Long Will out of the way.

"These are your brothers," he persisted,--"honest workingmen like to

yourselves."

"Brothers!" sneered Jack Straw. "Hear him, ye men of London! Are we

brothers to Flemish hogs?"

"Out of the way, Will," said Wat. "They 'll trample thee."

"O men of London, prentices, citizens," the poet cried anew, "will ye

sin against hospitality?"

A snarl answered him.

"Will ye betray the guest that shelters in your house?"

The snarl had sunk to a murmur.

"Will ye betray the bidden guest?"

"'T is a lie!" said Jack.

"A lie! A lie!" yelled a score of throats. "'T was not we bid them."

"Doth not the King speak the will of the people?" Langland asked. "And

King Edward bade them come."

"Nay!" said Wat, "the King hath not spoke the will of the people in my

day ever."

"Nay,--nay,--nay!" the mob answered him.

"Stand o' one side, brother," Wat said again. "We would not harm

thee."

"I 'll bide here!" Will answered, and lifting up his voice, "Is enough

blood shed in this rising. I say ye shall not murder these harmless

strangers."

"Ho, ho!" roared Jack, "poet looketh to the noblesse for a son-in-law,

and we do know English cloth is not fine enough for the court."

There went up a howl of rage from weavers in the throng. They would

have rushed into the street and over Will, but Wat set his back

against the press, and also there was another man, pot-bellied,

grizzled, withstood them.

"Serfs,--villeins!" cried Will, "ye are not fit to be free! The King

hath rent your bonds in sunder, and how do ye repay him?"

"We be men of London, never villeins!" roared the half of that mob.

"Natheless, ye are in bonds to Satan your master, and ye do his work!"

Langland answered them, his face flushed.

"Who hath stirred us up this twenty year?" shouted a voice in the

crowd. "Thou, Will Langland! Thou, false traitor! Wilt desert thy

fellows?--Coward!--Limb o' Satan, thou, if we be Devil's men."

Then there were many voices:--

"His daughter hath married a lord!"

"Curse him for a renegade!"

"Out o' the way!"

"On, on!--the Flemings!"

Will budged no inch,--his arms were spread wide.

"I say ye do defeat your own end by this slaughter. To-day ye have the

victory, freedom, and pardon. Disperse! What will ye more? Hath not

the King given all was asked?"

"All thou didst ask!" said a voice.

His face flamed red. "Ingrate cowards!" he cried,--and then on a

sudden his wrath was spent. He dropped his arms, his voice was level:

"The cause is lost!" he said. "Love is a long way off, and truth."

Not many heard him, for that the clamour was risen anew; the foremost

men lurched forward, thrust upon by those behind. Wat, crying "On,

brothers!" flung Will aside, and the pot-bellied man also laid hold on

the poet and drew him close within a doorway,--none too soon, for the

mob was let loose, and rushing down the street as 't were a torrent.

Presently houses began to be burst open, and men flung out of window.

Will sat bowed together on the doorstone.

"A sight not to be soon forgot," said the grizzled one, breathing

quick.

Will lifted his head. "Thou, Master Chaucer!" he said.

"Ay, brother,--well met!"

"No friend of Gaunt is safe in London streets."

"Who is safe?" asked Chaucer. "No friend of the people, neither."

Langland groaned and clasped his head in his hands.

"'T was said thou hadst made peace," said Chaucer. "Methought 't was

ended, this rioting."

"Peace!" cried Long Will. "There shall be no peace so long as men

strive to be king. When they have forgot to add glory unto themselves,

when they are content to serve their brothers,--then cometh peace."

"Take heart, brother," said Dan Chaucer. "Here be two men that do not

desire a kingdom,--thou, and I. To be singers is enough,--and this is

to serve men."

"Singers!" Will groaned. "Singers!--Oh!--See what a song hath

wrought!"

Then said Master Chaucer, cheerily, "'T is somewhat to die for a

song's sake. I have not yet stirred men so deep."

"I am I, and thou art thou," Will answered him.

CHAPTER VII

Reaction

Simon Sudbury's head hung grinning above London Bridge, and young

Richard lay at his length, face downward, on the stone floor of his

chamber in the Garde Robe, sobbing sick. None dared enter, not his

mother, nor Stephen, nor Mayor Walworth, nor Salisbury. Hushed and

fearful they waited behind the arras at the door, hearkening to the

boy how he wept and cursed and rent his garments. Now 't was the

people he railed upon, for that they had so burdened him with

bloodguiltiness in recompense of all his benefits:--

"I 'll torture them!" he cried, gnashing his teeth.

"Ingrates--Hounds!--Christ hear me!--I will avenge thy servant,--I

will avenge old Simon!"

Now 't was Sudbury he cursed for a fool:--

"Is this to serve a king?--To set his soul in peril of hell?--Not on

my head the Archbishop's blood, O God, not on my head! I 'm innocent!

How should I know he 'd be tamely taken? Fool that he was!--Weak

fool!"

And so he wept, blaspheming Christ, and beating with his hands upon

the stones.

"I loved them,--I loved them, good Jesu!--I gave them liberty,--and

they have betrayed me. Curse them! They shall be bound with new

bonds. I 'll have a bath of their blood,--I 'll drink it!--My

people,--mine!--and I loved them! Christ, I was betrayed; 't was not

of mine own will Sudbury was slain. I swear it,--O God, hear mine

oath!--Poor fool Simon! Pity!--pity!--How might I guess? Ah, Emperor

of Heaven, all-wise, I am so little while a king! Pity!"

At the last he lay so still they thought he swooned, and the squire

came in a-tiptoe.

"Etienne," said Richard then, lying all on heap, "bring hither a

scourge,--a knotted scourge. And bar the door."

And when the scourge was brought, and the door barred, and the

Queen-Mother weeping without, Richard got to his knees, shaking,

sodden, and tore his shirt off his back.

"Lay on!" he said. "The people have set their sins on my shoulders;

the Archbishop hath laden me with his trespass. Lay on the scourge!"

Etienne lifted his arm as he would strike, then lowered it.

"Sire," said he, "leave scourging till this business is ended. Is not

yet time. Thou must be leader of this people. Already thou hast set

them free from their lords and them that held them in bonds; now must

they be set free from their own fellows that would make them

slaves,--from Wat Tyler and Jack Straw. If thou overturn these, the

people is in the hollow of thy hand."

"Then will I chastise!" snarled the boy. "They shall feel the rod.

They have slain a good man and a priest,--the man that stood next the

King in this realm of England. These dogs have slain an

archbishop,--and shall I alone suffer for it? Ah!"--He cast up his

right hand in menace and sobs shook him. "I loved them,--I loved my

people, and thus do they requite me! Will scourgings in my body or in

their own wipe off this blot of holy blood wherewith they 've stained

my soul?"

"Oh, my lord," said Stephen, "if we bear our brothers' sins, what do

we more than Christ Jesus that bore our sins in His Body on rood? Yet

was He sinless; and so art thou sinless as concerning the death of the

Archbishop."

Richard put out his hand and plucked Stephen's sleeve: "Dost believe

it?" he cried, and there went a shudder through him. "Ah,

but--but--when Simon said, 'I know a way,'--I knew what 't was to

mean,--and yet--I went forth and left him. Etienne, Etienne,--I am

afeared I knew what 't was to mean! I am afeared I knew!--I am so

afeared!"

Etienne kneeled down and set his hands on the boy's shivering

shoulders, and looked in the frighted eyes:--