IX

The low-roofed tavern at Bury Saint Edmunds was a favorite place for

the men to gather together at the close of their day's work. It was a

place of good cheer, not alone because there was ale in plenty--none

of your cheap, thin, penny ale either, such as is brewed for the

day-laborer's dole, but good strong ale of the best and brownest

brew--nor alone from the sense of comradeship that reigned, but also

because there was warmth and comfort within, while without it was

dark with usually a high northeast wind racing about one's ears, if

one but ventured forth. And, moreover, there was light here, while at

home one would have to go straightway to bed; for artificial light,

even of the home-made candles of rushes dipped in grease, was entirely

too expensive a luxury to be wasted. Here at the tavern, although the

flaring rushlights, stuck high up over the oak wainscoting, gave a

rather uncertain light; yet it was easy to distinguish one's neighbors,

and it was as good as one could expect outside of the church. The

church was the one place where hundreds of candles at a time, of purest

wax, blazed with a superb indifference to cost. There was also some

illumination from the glowing logs which burned in the centre of the

floor, sending a slender pillar of smoke up to the hole in the roof

which served as a vent. When the door of the tavern was opened, the

wind drove the smoke about the room into every crack and cranny, but

none coughed or complained of the smarting of the eyes, for this was a

discomfort to which they were well accustomed.

One night there were seated about the long oaken table that ran the

length of the room, a goodly number of men. Those at one end of the

table kept their voices low and discussed and planned matters of grave

import, while from some roisterers at the other end of the table came

frequent bold oaths and hoarse cries of "Pass the ale" and "Who holds

the bowl?"

Among the serious ones was a great, powerfully built fellow whom they

called Ralph Rugge, and on whom they looked as the leader of the men

of the Bury. And there were Tim the needle-maker, Thomas Pye the

wagon-maker, Jack the smith, and Robert Annys just arrived. There were

one or two others, noticeable among them all a youthful giant called

Richard Meryl, towards whose frank, handsome face the poor priest's

eyes constantly wandered.

After Annys had taken the edge off his hunger, doing full justice to

the food that was placed before him on a neatly scraped trencher of

hard oak, Rugge turned to him and said, "Hast any news from John Ball?"

"I bear with me a letter from him," was the reply.

"What, from gaol?"

"Yea, from Maidstone gaol hath he sent it by trusty messengers."

A look of interest ran from man to man, and they edged their stools

closer about him. Annys read the letter to them with many misgivings,

for he felt that it but fed their angry passions, and that it was like

a spark to a pile of dried fagots.

"Good people," the letter began, "things will never go well in England

so long as goods be not in common, and so long as there be villeins

and gentlemen. By what right are they whom we call lords greater folk

than we? On what grounds have they deserved it? Why do they hold us

in serfage? If we all came of the same father and mother, of Adam and

Eve, how can they say or prove that they are better than we, if it be

not that they make us gain for them by our toil what they spend in

their pride? They are clothed in velvet and warm in their furs and

their ermines, while we are covered with rags. They have wine and

spices and fair bread; and we have oat-cakes and straw and water to

drink. They have leisure and fine houses; we have pain and labor, the

rain and the wind in the fields."

"That's God's truth, God's truth!" came from all sides,

enthusiastically.

"May the fires of hell burn me if they'll not be saying next that they

did come from Adam and Eve, but that we came from some baser stock,"

exclaimed young Meryl with a bitter laugh.

"I tell you," added another, "until we show our lords that we are worth

to them as much as their cattle, we shall not receive the same care and

fodder."

"Dost hanker after hay?" called out a wit.

"Well," answered the other, abashed at the laugh that followed, "they

are precious anxious to keep their cattle sleek and fat, and they might

cast a thought on their men to keep their paunches fairly well lined."

"Ay! the cattle must have the fat of the land, but the men may go

hungry," growled Thomas Pye.

"_May_ go hungry, forsooth! I have not known a day for many a month

that I have had my fill," said Tim the needle-maker, wistfully.

"We'll show them, we'll show them," cried an evil-looking fellow with

a leer of hatred. "Their cattle cannot burn their palaces over their

heads."

"There'll be no liberty in this land until every palace lies smoking on

the ground," agreed another.

"They won't be so glad of their fine wines when they see us pouring

them down our throats," exclaimed one.

"Nor of their jewelled goblets when they see them at our lips,"

continued another in the same strain.

Annys groaned, for he had dreaded just such an outburst. He was about

to command that this wild talk cease instantly when Rugge, whose

patience had also given way, leaned close to the last speaker, and

rammed a formidable-looking fist into his face, crying, "Look, Adam

Clymme, the man who speaks like that is a traitor to the Cause, and a

worse traitor than any abbot or clerk."

The man jerked back his head. "What d'ye mean?" he asked sullenly.

"Just what I said. Our cause is just, we want to be free men, we want

to live as decent men should; but that does not mean that we covet the

rich man's jewels and wines. We will be looked upon as thieves and

murderers, not honest men asking for our rights."

The fellow flushed and muttered angrily, but several raised their

voices and cried, "He's right, Ralph Rugge's right!" Annys looked

gratefully at Rugge, who continued warmly: "They'll be glad enough to

call us thieves. We'll take their gold and jewels and fine linens and

burn them in great bonfires all throughout the land to show we don't

approve of such gewgaws. No one must say we are rising because we are

greedy for these things for ourselves. I warn ye, wherever I am in

command, I shall strike dead the first man that steals, if it be only

so much as a bit of silver."

"Good! Good!" spoke up young Meryl with ringing voice. "For no cause

was ever won by thieves and robbers; we be honest men who seek what is

ours by right." His face shone with enthusiasm as he spoke.

"Ay! but it is by the sweat of our brows and the stoop of our backs

that the rich have these things," protested Jack the smith.

But Annys now spoke.

"My friends," he said, "ye all know of that great and noble poet Will

Langland whose hero is Piers Ploughman."

"Ay, marry! we all know Will Langland."

"Let me tell you what he saith of envy, and we shall see that the

counsel of Ralph Rugge is wise and just:--

"'Envy with her herte asketh after schrift,

As pale as a pellet. In a palesye he seemede,

As a leek that had longe lain in the sonne,

So looked he with lene cheekes.

Venom or vinegar, I trow

Is in my belly filling me with wind.

I annoy my neighbor, I blame him behind his back,

I injure and revile him, I stir up strife between him and his.

I envy him his new clothes, I laugh when he loses, weep when he smiles,

So live I loveless, and my brest boils so bitter is my gall.'

"Then, when Repentance bids him be sorry,--

"'I am sori,' quod Envy, 'I never am other than sori.'

"Think of that terrible picture, when ye are tempted to envy the

fortune of others, '_I am never other than sori_.' Do not let envy

take up its dwelling-place in your hearts. Read Holy Writ, rather, and

consider that such as have riches and joy on this earth have received

their reward, but that ours is for all eternity."

When he had done speaking the young man on whom the poor priest's eyes

had been fixed in a kind of special appeal leaned across the table, and

holding out a strong sinewy hand, said:--

"I am Richard Meryl, and I fear I have been among the envious ones; but

by the Mother of Christ thou dost speak well, and I shall do my best

to hearken unto thee.

"And yet," he added, with an engaging smile, as Annys wrung his hand

heartily, "and yet it is hard to be other than sorry while Covetousness

and Greed rule the land and crush us poor folk like corn beneath the

stone."

"Ay!" returned Annys, "I would have ye none other than sorry for

that--but sorry to some purpose. What good will it do to rise up and

rule the land for a day? Shall we not rather by patience and fortitude

hold what we gain for unborn generations, so that our children's

children need not fight the great fight over again, but may start where

we leave off?"

"That my children's children have full bellies easeth not the wind in

mine," grumbled Jack the smith.