The two made their way, not without some difficulty, towards the part
of the fair grounds where the sheep were for sale. This was the spot
selected by the leaders of the rebellion. Merchants and chapmen on all
sides of them were shouting encouragement for the passers-by to stop
and purchase of them.
"Wimples, wimples! Sure 'tis not in thy heart to refuse thy lass to
bind up her pretty hair with one of these."
"Girdles! here they are, silver and gold of the finest."
"Crosses, crosses, jewelled, inlaid, carved ivory crucifixes. Here is a
glowing gem for my lady's prie-dieux."
"Here, Sir Knight, give this altar cloth to Holy Church and receive
many days' grace for it--one day for each thread in this golden fringe."
"Furs, furs, the cold winter will soon be upon us. Overlook not my
choice stock of ermines and beaver."
"Faugh!" cried a man passing by. "'Cold winter,' indeed; one would
think to hear these fellows that the aim of the great folks is to keep
warm with the fur they pile upon their garments."
"Well, mayhap they try to keep warm the ground," joined in another,
"for they do stick their furs about the tails of their gowns instead of
about their necks and wrists, where there would be some sense to it."
"Talking of tails," grinned a man who was a tailor by trade, "why, it
will come about shortly that no workshop in all the land will be large
enough to cut out a fine robe if the trains grow much longer. We shall
all of us have to take to the fields to cut out our gowns."
"Indeed," said another, "I cannot for the life of me see any reason for
the wearing of fur save it is as a hiding-place for fleas."
"There you are in error," retorted the tailor, who was also a bit of
a philosopher; "you forget that it is forbidden by law to all but the
great folk to wear fur, ergo do not say that it hath no uses. Remember
an article is prized just so far as it is difficult for others to get
it."
The voices of the merchants, always persuasive, continued to reach
Annys and his companion. "Here you are, my beauties. Don't pass by.
Here is the famous recipe to keep the skin ever white and smooth, of
sweet almonds blanched, of gum dragant and of gum arabic, of the flower
of beans, of the root of the fleur-de-lis, of dried fish glue--"
"Give not away all thy secrets, fellow," interrupted a passer-by, with
a laugh; "we can all go home and make up thy recipe for ourselves."
"Ah, but you will not know the correct proportions, and without that
the virtue of the compound is not there," replied the man, no whit
disconcerted.
"Ointments, ointments, rare and precious ointments," cried a rival,
"musks, vermillion lip salves, clothes of pure scarlet dye to keep the
cheeks ever young. Ah, lass, just approach here and see if a touch of
this on thy cheeks does not make thy fellow come hurrying back to thee."
"Waters of daffodils," from the other side.
"Grape juice and tarragon mixed, sweet waters of oranges, roses,
jessamine," flung back from opposite.
And at last they heard about them the kind of talk that showed they had
reached their destination.
"Nay, I have rubbed my fingers off me and the skin yet keeps pale. I
tell ye 'tis rotten, and I'll none of it."
"Why, man, look you, pull on that wool, and you could not tear it, had
you the strength of Hercules."
"If the hoar frost of the morning melt on the wool, be sure there is an
unnatural heat somewhere."
"I tell you the veins under the eyes are white. Do you need further
proof?"
"And I tell thee a ruby could not be redder."
Yet with all the talk going on about them of sheep and their
distempers, men nevertheless found opportunity to greet one another
with the secret signal which showed that they were members of the Great
Society.
"June the twelfth, then?"
"So long?"
"Plenty to do 'twixt now and then."
"Hush!"
"And I tell thee what to do with a sheep that dies."
"The whole country is to rise. There will not remain one man at the
plough--as I was saying, soak the flesh well in water and keep it there
from daybreak till nones, and--"
"Wot ye, whether the men of Hertforshire are with us?"
"And keep it and drain it thoroughly and salt it and dry it, and it
will do for your laborers."
"Ha, ha, ha!"
"Ho, ho, ho!"
"Yea, there be not one man who is not ready to join in the march."
"And if there be one unready, we know an argument or two that will
bring him around."
"Here be Robert Annys and Jack the smith."
The greetings exchanged were hearty.
The men spoke cautiously among themselves, every now and then
interjecting some talk of sheep into their conversation when one
approached who did not give the signal.
"I tell you, from Lincolnshire to Sussex the country is like dry timber
ready to ignite at a spark."
"Ay, come next Whitsunday, please God, the lords will know who are the
real masters."
"The land will not groan under so many sheriffs."
"And not so many lawyers will cumber the ground."
"Ah, my men, have a care, have a care," broke in Annys, "lest they do
say with reason that we are but ne'er-do-wells grasping for power. If
envy and greed are thought to be prodding us on, our cause is as good
as lost."
"Well, they have had their day long enough," grumbled the sturdy smith.
Wat the cobbler, ever ready to make the peace, now joined in. "Hast got
big Ben and his men to join us?" he asked of the smith.
"Well," was the answer, "I left him swaying this way and that like a
tree that yet needs the last stroke to fall."
"Let us look to it, then, that the last stroke be not put in by the
other side," was the ready reply.
"Who will go to Kent and see that all is in readiness for the march on
the gaol? There must be no half-hearted ones there."
"To go to Kent now is to clap one's head into the Archbishop's noose,"
replied a Kentish man. "Ball's boast that he would be set free by
hundreds of men marching from afar hath made even the sheriffs look
alive."
"I will go," said Annys, quietly.
"No russet priest may show his face near Canterbury."
"Then shall I go disguised as a minstrel, and men shall know me by my
songs."
"And get a broken pate for thy pains," said a disgruntled minstrel, who
well knew of what he spoke.
"Oh, the cause must not suffer for want of a broken pate or two,"
replied Annys, merrily. But the truth was he really welcomed the
opportunity with all his heart. He wanted work, and work with the zest
of danger in it was all the better. He wanted some absorbing task, some
task that would claim his whole mind and soul, that would shut out from
him the terrible struggle that he had been waging for the past few days.
When he left the Fair with all the details arranged to slip off
secretly to Kent, he held his head higher than he had done for many
a day. Now he was a man again, now he had cast off that evil self,
he was ready to sacrifice himself for his fellow-men, ready to lay
down his life for them if need be. Work, work, work--that was man's
salvation from temptation; not physical torture and isolation, but work
that meant a flinging of the whole being into some great interest,
swallowing up every thought unconnected with it. As he walked rapidly
along, that Robert Annys who had permitted himself to become so
harassed by a passing lovesickness seemed like some other man. Surely
it could not have been he, Robert Annys, Saviour of the Oppressed,
Leader of the Downtrodden People, Teacher of the Peasants, Prophet of
the New Era!
The Devil likes nothing better than a cock-sure opponent.
That moment, as he entered an unfrequented lane, with his heart beating
high with the exaltation of his dangerous mission, with his whole soul
uplifted in the thought that he was holding men's destinies in his
hands, he saw Rose sitting alone. His heart gave a great leap within
him, nevertheless he passed on, pretending not to see her.
Rose grimaced. She sent a slipper after him, hitting him full between
the shoulders.
"Is that cousinly?" she cried, in her teasing way. He paused,
trembling, yet able to keep his face turned from her.
"Cousin! Cousin! Cousin!" mocked the low voice. He turned. He looked
at her, and suddenly a great wave arose within him and engulfed the
Great Uprising, the Secret Society, the Rescue, the Gathering at
Blackheath--all--all save just one maid and she before him.
The hoarse voices of the men behind, the noises of the Fair, smote upon
him, yet nothing seemed real save Rose, sitting there with a splendid,
vivid sense of life pulsating through her, the shadow of her long
lashes resting on her cheeks.
"Cousin indeed!" he said, with a sob in his voice, "thou knowest well
that can never be!"
He clasped both her hands in his.
"I sought to flee thee," he said, with a strange directness.
She smiled and tried to withdraw her hands. But he would not relinquish
them and held them fast.
"But I will not flee thee now," he went on. "I have done with
struggling. It is useless."
"Nay," he added, with the superb assurance of all lovers to whom
eternity is but a passing breath, "I shall never leave thee more."
Rose was not accustomed to analyze her feelings. She acted first and
thought afterward--if at all, which was doubtful. But she was puzzled
at her conflicting emotions as she sat there thrilling to the passion
in his eyes. Her whole body throbbed and trembled in unison with his
bounding pulses. She wanted to dismiss him with a scolding for his
faithlessness to dear little Matilda. And she wanted to tell him that
she was in love with another. Surely all men save the Baron were
indifferent to her! Indeed, she had been dreaming of de Leaufort just
before this impertinent poor priest had come and disturbed her. She
had closed her eyes and felt distinctly the Baron's soft beard brush
her cheeks; some faint, elusive perfume that tantalized her memory had
entered into her senses; she had sunk into a delicious revery that
almost approached a swoon. She was in a dangerously emotional mood.
There is an early stage in the love affairs of an emotional woman when
she is in love, as has before been said, not as she thinks, with a
certain man, but with the powerful emotions which he can arouse. And,
it may be added, at such a stage to dream of her lover is not, as she
fondly believes, to harden herself against all other comers, but on
the contrary it is to break down all the barriers before them. The
wise rival is he who knows how to seize upon the psychological moment
and urge his suit in no faint-hearted manner. Later on there will come
the time when every line of the chosen one's countenance, every trick
of manner and speech, have entered into the very warp and woof of her
love. Then stand off, it is too late! The image on the sensitive plate
of the heart is fixed, no longer is it a vague shadow, easily blurred
or superseded!
They said nothing. There was no need of speech. Speech after all is
needed only for those poor mortals whose feet rest on the earth. There
is an eloquent, tumultuous speech of lovers which is felt, not heard.
Their palms beat wildly one into the other, their lips grew dry, they
drew long, deep, quivering breaths.
Then, when he kissed her full red lips,--the first time he had kissed
a woman's lips,--it came over him that this exquisite creature was no
companion for a poor russet priest.
He raised her hand to his lips. "How came you to love a poor priest!"
he exclaimed, wondering.
"I love the Bishop in you," she answered, laughing.
"Ah, 'tis a long way from an excommunicated poor priest to a Bishop."
"Nay," she pouted, "I shall have a palace."
He thought her beauty worthy of a king, and told her so.
"Then make me a queen!" she cried impudently. "Yea, a great lady, a
great prelate's lady. I can adorn a palace, think you, then a palace, a
palace give me!"
He tried to take her in fun: "Ay, a palace, a palace. They grow in the
fields--pick me one!"
"Laugh not, I mean a real palace of stone. Look not so dazed. Was not
the Archdeaconate of Ely offered you? You shall yet have a Bishopric."
"But that was long ago!"
"Humph! 'long ago,' and will not the Church be gladder than ever to
take back the poor priest who can hold so many men from the Uprising?"
What was all this? It was madness. He had given himself to the people,
he could never recant.
She kissed his hands.
"These fingers will yet hold a Bishop's staff," she said. Her beauty
was maddening. He would not think of the future. He gave himself up to
the present. The breath from her lips shook him to the very core of his
being. He rained kisses on her passionately--on hair, cheeks, eyes, and
lips; and for all that there was a certain fierceness in his caresses,
she was unafraid and well content to have it so.