An Embassage
HE winter days that followed were full of stir and strife, and the devil with the long spoon was ever John of Gaunt. 'T was he set the people agog that day John Wyclif was sent for before the bishops in St. Paul's. For the people were friendly enough to this great preacher; they liked right well to hear him say that abbots and bishops should be landless and dwell in Christian pauvreté. But they did not like that John of Gaunt should be his friend; for in those days the Duke had put it in the old King's heart to take away the rights of the people of London, that were theirs since old time, and set over them a mayor who was none of their choosing. And when the people heard this, is no wonder they made a riot that day in St. Paul's, and in the streets of the city. And they would have burned John of Gaunt's Palace of the Savoy, that stood betwixt Charing Cross and Temple Bar, but the Bishop of London persuaded them, and they left it for that time.
Jack Straw got a broken head in this riot and lay in Langland's cot three days, and Calote quarrelled with him; for she said, if he and his like went about burning and destroying all the fair palaces and sweet gardens, in the end, when his day came and all men should hold in common, there would be naught left that anybody would care to have.
Said he, her head was turned with seeing so many fine gentlemen about the town, and because the little Prince had looked on her that day of Parliament. She was like all women with her vanity. She would sell herself for a gewgaw.
“Natheless,” answered Calote, “I 've not been in haste to wear the ribbon thou gavest me.”
And Jack Straw swore at her, and cursed his lame head that kept him helpless. 'T was a rough wooing. Calote minded her of the squire, and her heart sickened against Jack Straw.
At Eastertide she saw Stephen again. He was come to St. Paul's to hear Mass, and she thought peradventure he had forgotten her. But then he looked in her eyes.
She found him awaiting her beneath the north porch when she came out, and he took her hand and begged leave to walk with her. In the beginning she said him nay, but when he told her he was bearer of a message from the Prince Richard, she let him have his way, and they went out through the Aldersgate into Smithfield, under the shadow of the convent wall by St. Bartholomew's.
“O Calote!” said the squire. “O white flower! At night in my dream thou hast come to me; and when I awoke I thought that no maid—nay, not thyself even—could be so fair as wert thou in the dream. And now,—and now,—behold! thou art more beautiful than thy dream-self.”
“Is 't the message of the Prince?” quoth Calote. She held one hand against her breast, for something fluttered there.
“Sweet heart, thou art loveliest of all ladies in England and in France,‘ said Stephen. ’Since I saw thee my heart is a white shrine, where I worship thee.”
“Hast thou forgotten that day in our cot?” asked Calote, very sad. “There was no lady's bower. Wilt leave me, sir? I may not listen. Betake thee to the palace with thy honeyed words!”
They stood in an angle of the wall, and Stephen knelt there and kissed the ragged edge of Calote's gown. While his head was bent, she put out her hand and had well-nigh touched his hair. But when he looked upward, she had both hands at her breast.
“O rose! O rose of love!” he murmured; and did not rise, but stayed kneeling, and so looking up.
“In that Romaunt,” said Calote, “a maiden opened the gate. She bare a mirror in her hand, and she was crowned and garlanded. Her name was Idlelesse. But I am not she. I am not any of those fair damsels in that garden.”
“Thou art the rose,” he said.
“I do not dwell in a garden.”
“Thou art the rose.”
“O sir!” she cried, and flung her arms wide. “There be so many kind of love in the world! But this one kind I may not know. Do not proffer it. The Lord hath made me a peasant. Love betwixt thee and me were not honourable.”
“'T is true, I am in tutelage,” Stephen answered. “But one day I shall come to mine own. Meanwhile, I serve thee. 'T is the device of my house, 'Steadfast.'”
“I am of the poor,” said Calote. “I will not eat spiced meats while my people feed of black bread. I will not lie in a soft bed if other maids must sleep o' the floor.”
“I will serve thee!” cried Stephen. “My villeins shall be paid good wage. Yea, I have read the Vision. The memory of thy father's words is ever with me.”
“Yet thou canst prate of thy villeins” she returned.
“But who will till my fields, else?” he asked of her most humbly.
And she answered him, “I do not care.”
So he rose up from his knees a-sighing, and presently he said:—
“This is my motto: 'Steadfast.' And the message of the Prince is that he would fain speak with thee. One day he will send and bid thee to the palace; when the tutor and his lady mother shall be well disposed.”
“Sayst thou so?” cried Calote. “Ah, here 's service!”
But the squire was amazed and sorrowful.
“Art thou of the poor,” he exclaimed, “and wilt none of me? But thou canst clap thy hands for joy of being bid to the palace?”
“Nay, nay!” Calote protested. Tears came to her eyes; she laid her hand upon the squire's gay broidered sleeve. “But when I saw the little Prince a-going to Westminster, methought—'T is a fair child and noble; if he had one at his ear to tell him of the wrongs of his poor, he might learn to love these poor. Piers could learn him much. Mayhap I might wake this love in 's heart. Then would there be neither poverty nor riches, when the king is friend to the ploughman.”
“And if I serve thee faithful? If I bring thee to the Prince? If I make these wrongs my wrongs, and plead to him?—Then—Calote—then—what wilt thou?”
“How can I tell?” she whispered.