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