The Adventure in Devon
ALOTE was in the south of England that winter, in Hampshire, and Wiltshire, and Somerset; resting, now a week, now a night only, in town or village or lonely hut. She travelled off the highway as much as she might, and slept in poor folks' cots. She bought bed and victual with a ballad or a gest, and because she could spin and bake as well as tell a tale, the goodwives of the countryside harboured her willingly, and sent her on her way with bread in her bag and milk in her bottle, and her head bret-full of messages to distant friends; as:—
“If thou 'lt take yon three fields as the crow flieth, then turn thee on thy left hand, through a wood and up a hill and down again, thou 'lt come, in a good ten mile, to a river and a white thatched house on t' other side; there be three yew trees behind. Do thou go in boldly and call for Cristina atte Ford; she 's my brother's second wife. I 've not seen her this six year and more, but she was a kindly soul at that time. Say 't was Cecily Ayr sent thee; and here 's a piece of new linen for the latest baby and six new-laid eggs. God and Saint Mary keep thee, wench! Yonder 's Roger Stokfisshe in his dung-cart a-going thy way; he 'll give thee a ride.”
When she came into a village, she went and stood by the cross, or in the street before the tavern, and blew a blast on the King's horn; and when the people began to gather round, she sang a song of Robin Hood, or Earl Randle of Chester; and after, of Piers Ploughman; and she said as how she was Will Langland's daughter; and if there were but common folk, or a knight or two in the company, she told of the Brotherhood, and at the last of the young King.
Whiles they were sullen and afraid; whiles they scoffed and would believe but only that 't was a merry gest of a jongleuse; whiles they waited not to hear the end, but drifted away by twos and threes a-shaking their heads. Yet, more often, they stayed by, and crowded closer, and fingered the silver horn curiously. A-many had heard already something of this matter, as how the peasants should arise; and these questioned her of when and where. Others told their grievances loudly and said: “Will this be cured?”—“Will that be done away?” Ofttimes she might not know all that they would say, for that their speech was strange; and they on their part said: “What is 't?”—“What 's that to mean?” for Englishmen spoke a diverse language in that day. Nevertheless, because of the going to and fro of peddlers and merchants and minstrels, of pilgrims and friars, over the land, there began to be a scattering of words from one shire to another; and Calote, being quick of wit, had soon the jargon of the south country and the west at the tip of her tongue.
'T would seem there was a young peddler journeying in these parts about this same time; ever and anon Calote met him in tavern or marketplace. There was never a lonely stretch of road but she found him jogging on before, or looked behind to see him coming after. He spoke not overmuch, and then with a grievous stammer. He was not goodly to look upon, having no eyebrows and black hair very wild about his head; yet, in his company Calote ever found her heart light with a content and surety the which she was at a loss to understand. He wore a tawny tabard, and a bright blue flannel hood of the kind that is cape and hood in one, with a hole to thrust the face out. His hosen were of coarse yarn, twixt white and gray, streaked. He carried a light pack, with pins and ribbons and trinkets in it, and a lute slung under his arm. Twice or thrice he had sat on the steps of a market cross and twanged his lute that Calote might the better sing her ballads, but if she thanked him, he would scowl.
At Salisbury, in the spring, she came upon Wat Tyler a-walking the High Street, and 't would be hard to tell which had more joy of other. He caught her up and kissed her heartily; and she, laughing, with the tears on her cheeks, had well-nigh choked him with her arms around his neck.
He told her as how her father was very silent, and ever busy with the Vision. And her mother said: “If so be thou find Calote,”—for they knew she was in that part of England where she was,—“here is a pair of warm shoes for her feet.”
He told her also how 't was rumoured that a poll tax was toward; because, forsooth, some fool averred that “the wealth of the kingdom is in the hands of the workmen and labourers.” Wat smacked his own empty hands together loudly and laughed so that men turned in the street to look on him.
He lingered around and about Salisbury a month and more, and Calote stayed with him, singing her songs in Wilton and Bemerton, and in the taverns and at the poultry cross. That elfish peddler likewise rested in the town, and ever he was at Wat's elbow, questioning of when the people should rise; and how many shires were already awake to these matters. But when May was come in, Wat set Calote on the road to Exeter and himself turned his face to Londonward. And all that month of May she was a-wandering over the moors of Devon, she and the peddler, for he had never been in these parts and he lost his way.
“I know a man of Devon,” quoth Calote; “he lives by the sea. If we could come at him, he 'd succour us and set us in the right road.”
They went in a circle ofttimes, and twice at nightfall they came back to the same farm-house. Then the peddler bruised his foot, and they stayed three nights under the open sky, in the heather. The silence of the moors wrapped them round, and also the peddler's stammer was a burden to his speech. The third evening a shepherd came upon them, and gave them beans to eat.
It was June the day they came out upon a great red foreland above the sea. The chief colour of the water was a flashing blue, but at the edges it changed to clear green, fringed white with foam; there were cloud shadows of purple lying on that blue, and here and there a wondrous rosy patch, as it might be apple blossoms were melted there.
They followed along the cliffs after this, a dizzy way, and once Calote was fain to lie down and cling to the short grass and cry.
“G-get up,” quoth the peddler; “f-for sh-sh-shame to cry. I-I-I— G-give me th-th-thy hand!”
And so twixt coaxing and comforting he got her to her feet again, and they went on, he walking on the side of the sea as much as he might. Ever and anon they came upon a handful of fishermen's cottages in a wooded coombe, and at one of these hamlets they heard that Calote's friend Peter dwelt some three miles farther on, inland about a mile. So when they were come to Peter's cot, which was wreathed all about with a riot of honeysuckle and wild rose, the peddler gave Calote good-day, and she leapt the dry ditch and went into the yard through the gate; and there was Peter a-sitting on the doorstone, mending a hoe.
“O mistress!” he cried, and she laughed and shook him by the shoulders and kissed him. And Peter's son, that was now a parson, came out of the house with a book in his hand.
When the peddler saw this parson in the doorway, and how young he was, he half turned as he would go back; but then he thought better of it, and went on till he came to the church of the parish. In the churchyard he sat down to rest under an old yew tree, and here the parson found him after vespers, and took him in to lodge in his own house.
Meanwhile, in Peter's cot, Calote went to bed supperless.
“We ate our bread at noon,” said Peter. “The morrow morn I 'll make shift to sell our black cock to the steward of the manor-house. 'T is an ancient bird, but I have heard tell the cook is wonderly skilful to disguise tough meat.”
“Nay, not for my sake shalt thou sell it!” cried Calote.
But Peter answered her: “We also must eat, mistress. I am in arrears to Bailiff for that my plough broke in the furrow three days past; I could not beg no wood to mend it, but Forester found me in the park with mine axe. Wherefore I sat yesterday in the stocks.”
Peter had no shoes, and there were raw rings about his ankles where the stocks had galled him, also his neck was bruised. He was very ragged, his tabard full of holes. Nevertheless, he was not the only one in that village went bare.
So soon as all the people heard that this was Long Will's daughter, who was Peter's friend in London, they came eagerly to see her. They were a big and kindly and simple folk, slow and obstinate. They heard Calote's tales in silence, stolidly; yet they came again and again to hear. Now it was before the door of Peter's cot that they gathered; now it was at the foot of the cliffs when the tide was out; now it was in the churchyard of a Sunday after Mass, the parson sitting by a-copying her words; for his own book of the Vision was a tattered thing, never complete, that he had bought at a Devon fair.
Meanwhile, the parson and the peddler were close comrades. The peddler had to answer many questions; as, how did John Wyclif appear? And was he so learned a man as John Ball? And did William Courtney, Devon's son, still bear him arrogant, now he was Bishop of London? And was it true, what the friars in these parts said, that John Wyclif was a sorcerer and in the Devil's pay? And had the peddler been in Oxford?—this with a lingering sigh. But ever the questioning came round at the last to love, for concerning this matter the parson was very curious; not that love Long Will sang in the Vision, but the more common kind; and throughout whole days of June, as they walked together over the wide rose-blossoming country on the top of the cliffs, the parson to carry comfort to the sick or the aged, the peddler to sell his wares, they discoursed of lovers and loving; and it was the peddler who learned the parson the Romaunt of the Rose.
“And didst thou ever suffer this malady of love, to know it?” the parson queried one day.
“Ay, a-and do suffer,” the peddler answered. “B-b-but she 'll n-none of me.”
“A foolish maid, to judge by the outside,” said the parson; himself was a big, broad, yellow-headed man, might have had any maid in Devon to keep his house for him an he had chose; but of this he was not aware.
“Didst ever essay to curl thy hair?” he continued; “'t would soften thy countenance.”
The peddler smiled as at a memory: “Yea,” he said, “I 've d-done so full oft.”
They were journeying along the edge of the cliff, and the sun was low; on the sea there was one little ship.
“Will Langland married a wife,—and he a kind of priest,” the parson said suddenly.
“Ye-yet 't was not well do-done,” the peddler retorted swift, “for all J-John W-Wyclif coun-coun-counseleth.”
As he talked, his eyes were on the sea and the little ship; but the parson was looking down to the foot of a jutting headland beyond, where a playful wight—was 't a man or a maid?—skipped among the rocks, and ran into the water and out again.
“Nay, I 'm not so sure 't was ill done,” he disputed absently; “we be made like other men.”
The peddler stood still and shaded his eyes with his hand: “Wh-what for a ship is yonder?‘ he asked. ’Methinks 't is sailing in. Is there ha-harbour?”
The parson likewise shaded his eyes, then he said: “Below, there 's a brook flows into the sea, and a kind of rough beach, where—where the maid is playing.”
“What maid?” But now the peddler saw, and though she was no bigger than a brown lark, seen so far, he knew what maid it was, and so did the parson.
“Is that a French ship?” asked the peddler, and never a stammer on his tongue; but the parson was too troubled to be aware of this.
“I fear me,—I fear me!” he answered.
“And now I 'm very sure she 's coming in,” the peddler cried, and flung down his pack and stripped off his hood. “Do thou make the best of thy way to the manor-house, Sir Priest,—yet I fear me the knight 's away,—and I 'll down to the maid. What way 's the nearest way?”
“Not so,” the parson answered. “Thou canst not come to her afore they land, by the way round; and thou canst not go over the cliff; but I can, for I 've climbed these slippery walls up and down since I was six year old.” His blue eyes sparkled like that blue sea below; he was tucking up his gown about his waist.
“To warn the knight and bring aid to thy parish is thy devoir; 't is mine to succour the maid,” quoth the peddler very hot. His eyes were blue likewise, and eerie in the midst of his brown visage.
So they looked each into the heart of the other, angrily; and all the while that French ship was coming in. Then the young parson drooped his head, and “Not for mine own sake, but the maid's, let me go over the cliff, brother,‘ he said. ’Think on the maid! If they find her alone on the shore, or if they take her fleeing up to the village, of what avail were my love then, or thine?”
The peddler put his two hands to his mouth and called out, trying to make the maid hear him. But the wind drove his voice backward over the land; and the ship came on with the wind. Then the peddler groaned and, with never a look nor a word for the priest, he set off to run to where the manor-house was distant two good miles. When the priest looked over the cliff, the maid was already running up the coombe to the mill that stood in the brook's way. Nevertheless, he began to go down the cliff.
So soon as Calote saw that little ship, she knew what was to happen; for the villagers on the coast had told her many tales of how the French were like to come any day and burn and pillage; and how the men of Cornwall had been so harassed that they had demanded fighting men to be sent down to protect them and their coast; and the Commons desired that those lords who had estates by the sea should dwell upon them to succour their people.
Calote stood a moment looking out. This was a little ship, and but one; might not these villagers overcome a few French and take them prisoners? Here would be a tale to tell! Immediately she sped up the coombe to the mill, and:—
“The French are coming,” quoth she breathless. “Bar thy door!”
“And so be burnt like a swallow in a great-house chimney,” said the miller. “Not I,” and calling to his wife and his man, and snatching up his youngest, he made ready to go with Calote.
“But I 'll bring succour,” she protested. “Wilt thou leave all the good corn to pillage?”
“Yea, I will,” answered the miller. “The murderers shall sooner have my corn than my company.”
“'T is not thy corn, 't is thy neighbours',” Calote admonished, but he had no ears for her; and she, to save her breath for running, stilled her speech, and left him.
The sunlight struck level athwart the tree-trunks and along the wood-road that led twixt the mill and the village.
“'T is now about the going down of the sun,” she thought, as she hurried on. “They will be gathered at the cross, Peter, and the parson, and the peddler, and all those others, awaiting till I come to tell a tale and learn them of the Brotherhood.”
She stood still for breath, and heard a cry.
“They have caught the miller afore he 's gone. Now they 'll be busy with the pillage of the mill, for a little.”
She started on, and stopped irresolute.
“When they come to the cross at sunset, they have their hoes, their axes, and hammers with them; some of them will be shooting at the butts with arrows for pastime at the end of the day.”
She put the horn to her lips and blew a long blast.
“There will not be so many men in that ship. Better that ours should come forth to meet them, driving them backward into the sea.”
She blew another blast, and another.
“Better the affray should be here than in the village among the women and children.”
She ran on again, but not so fast. Again she blew the horn. And now in the distance she heard the village folk coming down the coombe.
“They 'll think I 'm calling them to hear tales by the sea,—or that some mishap is befallen me.”
She heard them laughing as they came, and presently three or four appeared among the trees, and more, and more, some forty of old men and young, and little lads. Behind were women.
“The French!” she cried; and at that word the foremost men stood still.
“We 'll fling them back into the sea, that dare to set foot in England! We 'll”—
Something in their faces made her falter.
“'T is but only one little ship,” she added hastily. “We are so many we can—Brothers—brothers!”
For they were moving backward; already those behind had turned tail and run.
“I say we 're two to one,” she shouted desperately. “Come down and drive them back! Peter, Peter, speak to them!”
“Best come away while there 's time, mistress,” answered Peter. “I must to the good wife and the children, and take them to the manor for safety.”
“I 'm a ditcher, and no soldier,” said another. “Let them as know how fight!”
“The French is no plain flesh and blood, but wizards,” grumbled a third.
And always they went backward.
“Cowards!” said the maid. “Is this the way ye 'll take the kingdom out o' the grasp o' the nobles, and are too fearsome to run upon a handful of French?”
“Smoke! Look ye!” cried a man. “They 've set the mill afire. They 'll be on us! They 'll be on us!”
Whereupon panic seized them, and they all turned about and fled; and Calote ran after, calling “Cowards!” and “Shame!” and “Is 't so ye 'd serve the King?‘ and ’Slaves! Oh, coward slaves!” till she had no breath to speak nor run, and so dropped down sobbing by the road and let them go.
After a breathing space, she began to hear voices behind; and she got to her feet and hurried on to the village.
'T was now the French that came up the coombe, and as they came they sang. They had the parson with them. The miller and his children they had slain and cast into the fire; but 't was against conscience to kill parsons. The miller's wife went blubbering betwixt two knights, that quarrelled together very playful concerning her.
In the village every house was empty—every cottage door was wide.
“They 'll rouse their lord, I heard a horn,” said the leader of the band. “Burn, pillage,—in haste,—then back to the ship! We are too few to stay in safety, but we 'll fill our bellies and the ship's.”
Then at the other end of the street he saw a maid running through the dusk; her hair was all unbound, and flew behind her like a golden banner.
They came up with her at the cross, and closed about her in a ring, forgetful of haste in their wonder at her loveliness. The leader was a gallant gentleman, he doffed his bonnet and unlaced his helm, and dropped upon one knee, saying sweet words; and although Calote and the parson were but little versed in the French tongue, they knew right well what this was to mean.
Then the knight rose up off his knee and went and set his finger beneath Calote's chin, and lifted up her face, and stooped his own. And presently the knight and the parson lay both at their lengths on the grass. The knight was stunned only, already he opened his eyes, but the parson had three thrusts of a sword through his body, and he would die.
Out of the stillness that followed this deed there grew a faint sound of horses' hoofs; but the men who stood around heard nothing of this. 'T is not well done to slay a priest, even a priest of the English, whose pope is not the pope of the French.
The knight lifted himself upon his elbow and stared as he were mazed. Calote was kneeling by the side of the parson. And on a sudden there rode up horsemen, and the French turned about in confusion to fight and to flee. In the midst of this battle Calote knelt at the parson's head, as she had been in a hushed chamber, and presently she was 'ware that the peddler came to kneel at the other side.
“How did this hap?” said the peddler, and he had to call out loud, because of the noise of clashing steel, and the groans, and the cries of battle,—“A Courtney, a Courtney!” for these were retainers of the Earl of Devon.
“The French knight”—sobbed Calote.
And now the parson opened his eyes:—
“'Conformen Kings to peace,'” said he, very faint. He was babbling out of the Vision. Calote bent her ear to his lips.
“'And to be conqueror called, that cometh of special grace,'” he said and smiled. After a bit there came blood to his lips, but he sat up joyously:—
"'And now I see where a soul cometh hitherward sailing,
With glory and with great light, God it is, I wot.'"
And so he fell backward dead.
There were other dead men lying all about. The few French that were not slain were fleeing to their ship, and the English after them pell-mell, hacking and hewing. The peddler lifted Calote off her knees and led her away. They walked wearily many miles, stumbling through the summer darkness. When the dawn came, the peddler made a bed of moss and leaves for Calote, but she would not lie in it. She sat a-sighing, with her head in her hand.
“S-s-sleep, mistress!” said the peddler, “a-and forget!”
“I 'll never forget that they are cowards!—cowards!” she cried passionately. “Is 't these shall save the kingdom to the King?”
“''W-'ware thee from w-wanhope, w-would thee betray,'” said the peddler, speaking out of the Vision. “Th-these men be not w-warriors, but tillers of the soil; peaceable folk. They have been ca-cared for and fought for all their l-life long. Not cowards, but un-un-accustomed. We met them as we rode; they came to c-call the lord of the manor to s-succour them. Peter was sore distressed f-for thee.”
“Natheless, they ran away,” she said. “They were afeared.”
“N-not the parson,” declared the peddler. “He was n-no coward. I did never know a b-better man; and he was one of them. The ki-kingdom 's not to be taken this year. P-patience!”
“Thou art no coward neither,” she assented, a little comforted. “And thou also art one of them.”
But to this the peddler made no reply.