The Adventure in Kent
ALOTE was in Kent what time word came that the Parliament of Northampton had passed a new poll-tax. It happened on this wise: Wat Tyler went down into Kent to have speech of John Ball, who was not in prison at that time, albeit hunted by the Archbishop's men,—and he brought Calote with him. And in a little village midway twixt Canterbury and Maidstone the priest met them. They went into the tavern and the alewife set her best brew before them, and presently slipped out to seek her gossips.
“This is the maid,” said Wat.
John Ball's eyes, kindly, keen, smiling, drew her to him, also he held out his hand. She came and stood beside his knee as he sat withdrawn from the table a little way. So they looked each on other, she most solemn, he tenderly amused.
“Long Will's daughter,” he said; and after a little, “So thou hast journeyed in England, south and north, to bring the message of fellowship to the poor?”
“Yea, brother,” she answered him.
“And thou sayest this people is not ready to rise up?”
“Yea, brother, I say so.”
“Wherefore?”
“Two year is not long enough, John Ball.”
“Two year!” quoth he, and smiled. “'T is twenty year I have not ceased to preach this message. Thou wert not born, yet the people had heard these things.”
She flushed very hot and her lip quivered: “Though 't were forty year,—the people is not ready,” she made answer steadfast.
“They say there 's a woman of Siena learns Pope Urban his lesson,” mused the priest, always his eyes fixed smiling on the maid; “God forbid I should be behind Pope Urban in humilité.”
“I am a peasant maid only,” cried Calote, “but I say poor folk is not yet a fellowship. They dream of vengeance. More than they love one another they hate the nobles and bailiffs and the men-of-law, and”—
“And all them that have brought us to this pass,” said Wat Tyler fiercely.
John Ball turned to look at him, and there fell silence.
When the priest spoke again he spoke to Wat, and said: “'T would seem the maid saith soth.” Then, turning back to Calote, the smile went out of his eyes: “I am not so patient as thy father,” he exclaimed, “I am not content to prophesy only; there 's some men must do deeds. A little while we 'll delay. Natheless, 't shall come in my time!—Thou hast warned them in Essex and Suffolk, 't is not yet, Wat?”
“Yea, they know, and they grumble. Norfolk knoweth, and Cambridgeshire; and when we came through Dartford I sent messengers westward to stay the folk in those parts. Here they know it not yet. They will not tamely wait. I fear these Kentish men; and if they slip leash the rest will follow, whether we will or no.”
“Ah, well, if they will, they will! Give me now the names of the Norfolk gentry would cast in their lot o' our side.” He spread a parchment on the table and drew pen and ink from his penner.
“John de Montenay de Bokenham,” said Wat.
“Is 't so?” John Ball murmured, writing. “Methought he 'd come at t' last.”
“Thomas de Gyssing.”
“Anon.”
“Sir Roger Bacon.”
“Nay, I had his name long since.”
“Then thou hast all others,” Wat ended.
Calote, standing by the table, listened.
“Of Bury, now, what new citizens since I was prisoned last?” the priest questioned.
“Thomas Halesworth, John Clakke, Robert Westbron.”
“And these be fit to lead?”
“Yea.”
“And who is messenger to run westward?”
“John Smyth, parson,—hath a horse.”
“Ah! And for the north?”
“John Reynolds of Bawdsey, and Walter Coselere; good runners, both.”
“Where is Jack Straw?”
“In Northampton, hanging at the heels o' Parliament.”
But now came Calote with a question: “Shall the King be warned anew afore the people rise?”
“The King?” said John Ball, staring.
“Yea; I give my message in the name of the King; I have his token.” She drew forth the horn.
Wat Tyler was admonishing the priest, with nod of head and uplift of eyebrow.
“Oh, ay,” John Ball said hastily; “I had forgot. Nay, we 'll wait and let the people rise and seek him out. 'T will be time enough.”
“What was 't thou hadst forgot?” Calote queried. But she got no answer, for the door burst open, and men and women came in and crowded about John Ball and kissed his garment's hem. And in the same moment the church-bell began to ring.
“Ho, my brothers!” laughed the priest, “let be! I have not rung your bell. The Archbishop hath long ears. 'T is not safe.”
“There be espiers set in every lane and the highway,” said the alewife. “They 'll give warning.”
So they carried him, protesting, laughing, up the village street to the cross.
That was a November day, gray, misty, chill. The trees were bare. The earth was wet with the rain of yesternight. Weatherwise folk saw snow in the clouds.
“Come up hither!” said John Ball to Calote, and drew her after him to the top step of the cross. “Have a care, the stone 's slippery.”
So, when she was steadied at his side, he turned to the waiting villagers with:—
“Hark ye, good folk; I have no new thing to say. Hear this maid! 'T is Long Will's daughter of London; hath journeyed far and wide throughout England to learn men of fellowship. She shall speak.”
The people stared at him in wonder, and at her. Then he stepped down and left her alone.
She put the King's horn to her lips and blew a blast.
“My message is from the King,” she said. “He is on your side.”
There was a silence, and after, a shout.
“The King! God save the King!” they cried. “Speak!—speak!”
“The King is young, my brothers. He is a lad only; but he loveth his people. He knoweth what is to be bound; doth not he live in bondage likewise, and to these same nobles?”
“Death!—death!” they shouted, but she lifted up her hands to still them.
“The King is of the noblesse; speak not of death, my brothers. I know there shall be blood shed in this battle, for that the nobles hate us; and when they see us uprisen, there shall be fear added unto hate, and blows shall follow. But when we, being stricken, strike again, for freedom and our brother, we shall remember that there is nor hate nor fear in us. We are for love, my brothers; we are for fellowship; and so it cometh to pass we cannot hate any man.”
They gaped upon her and said nothing. John Ball drew his hand across his lips as to do away a smile; but his eyes were wet.
“Thou, and thou, and thou, and I, my brothers, when we rise up, 't shall be to mean that we have cast off hate; arisen out of that evil, as the soul out of sinful body. Hate 's a clog; shall be no uprising in England till we be set free from hate. We be villeins now, in bondage to nobles and lords of manors; we do affirm we rise up for freedom; but I ask ye, shall that be freedom which is but to turn table and set the nobles in bondage under us?”
“Ay, turn and turn about,” cried a man in the crowd. “Let them taste how 't is bitter!”
Calote's eyes flashed. “Turn and turn about, sayst thou?” she retorted; “and wilt thou be ready to go again into bondage when thy turn cometh?”
He growled and hung his head, and his neighbours laughed.
“Hark ye, brothers; we do not rise up for to bind any man, noble or villein, but for to set all England free. Let the King rule,—let the knight keep the borders of the land rid of Frenchman and Scot,—let the villein till his field for rent,”—
“Ay, ay, fourpence the acre!” said a villein.
“Ay, ay!” the others cried, vehement. “'T is fair in reason, fourpence, ay!”—
And then there came up the village street a clatter of hoofs, a man on a white horse, and the espier running at his side.
“Wat Tyler!—Wat Tyler!” cried the horseman. “Send one to Canterbury and northward shall stop the Rising, or 't is too late. Poll-tax is passed in Parliament at Northampton.”
'T was the peddler.
Calote stared on him bewildered; he looked so strange. She had not seen him since the day after she was come into London. Was this he? Was it not rather,—but no! Her heart began to beat very fast, her eyes were wide. The peddler drew his hood down over his face. Then Calote was 'ware of a tumult among the people, and Wat Tyler's voice upraised to still them, and John Ball standing again at her side on the top step of the cross.
“To London!—To London!” the people clamoured. “'T is time!—London!—The King!”
“Fools! I say 't is not yet!” shouted Wat. “I came to tell ye. We will not rise this time. Word hath gone forth into the north and west to still the people.”
“Traitor!—London! London!” they cried, closing about him.
“Patience, brothers,” he said. “We be no traitors, but wise. Hearken to the maid! She hath been in east and west and north and south. Hear her, wherefore she counselleth patience.”
The roar fell to a growl and anon to a muttering, and they turned their angry faces to Calote.
“Brothers,” she said, “ye of Kent are ready. Yea, 't is very true. Were all men so strong in fellowship as Kentish men, would be little to fear. But in Essex men be not so well-fed, nor so wise. Kind-Wit dwelleth not in their cots.”
The flushed faces that looked up to her grinned broadly.
“'T is true,” said one man, with a chuckle,—this was the espier, and he had forgot to return to his post.—“A-most fools is outside o' Kent.”
“These men of the eastern shires,” the maid continued, “will have it that fellowship is but leave to slay and burn, for sake of privé wrong. They 'll use this word for a cloak to do murder and all those other seven sins. Moreover, in the north there be few that will rise,—and in the west they 're afeared.—Ye Kentish men are fearless, but may Kent alone withstand the power of the noblesse? Willingly ye 'll be slain for your brothers' sake,—oh, ye are brave men!—but what avail to England if ye be slain? Who then shall deliver your brothers? Be patient yet a little while.”
Some of them were sullen, others whispered together with rueful countenance. She watched them for a little, then:—
“'T is for Kentish men to say if the Rising shall avail or come to naught. Wise men are never rash. Moreover,—t' other side o' London, word is already gone forth to stay the Rising. Will ye rise alone,—one shire?”
They hung their heads, foolish, sulky.
Then said John Ball, “Who is this friendly messenger on a gentleman's horse?”
The peddler, as he were abashed, slipped from his steed to the ground. But the crowd, diverted from their own discontent, pushed and pulled him to the foot of the cross where stood John Ball.
“Nay, then, uncover thy face, brother,” said the priest, “'t is well we know our friends.” And with a large hand, courteous but not to be gainsayed, he pushed back the peddler's hood, and there was revealed a mop of light brown hair curled in the fashion of the court, and a fair and gentlemanly countenance that flushed crimson beneath the astonished gaze of John Ball. 'T would seem the peddler had departed on his errand in haste, without one precaution.
The crowd stared, open-mouthed.
“Art thou a man of Kent?” Ball asked.
“N-nay, father,” stammered the peddler, and grew yet more red.
“I 'll be sworn thou 'rt no villein,” said the priest, very grim.
The peddler glanced at Calote and dropped his eyes.
“N-nay!” he murmured.
“Wat!” called the priest; but one said, “Hath but now gone to spread the alarm.”
“Art thou of the Fellowship, stranger?” John Ball questioned, sharp.
Then did the peddler lift up his head, and looked the priest in the eye: “In my heart am I of the Fellowship, but I have not given my hand on 't,” he said.
John Ball laid hand on the peddler's shoulder and turned him about to face the folk.
“Knoweth any here this gentle, that would be of our Fellowship?” he asked.
The rustics pressed close, peered over other's shoulder, but at last shook their heads.
Then was there heard a faint voice, very shy, at the side of the priest:—
“I know this gentle,” said Calote. “If he giveth his hand in fellowship—he will keep faith.”
There went up a murmur of amaze in the crowd, and John Ball looked from Calote to the peddler and back again.
“Is a disciple of my father,” whispered Calote; and now was her face as red as the peddler's.
“What art thou called, friend?” asked the priest.
“I am called Stephen Fitzwarine. I dwell in the King's palace; but I abode one while in poor folks' cots; I know that they suffer. When 't is time, I do purpose to stand by the villein that would be free”—
The Kentish men shouted, and pressed more close.
“Meanwhile I may come at the King's ear. 'T were well there be one in the palace at Westminster may be a m-mean twixt the King and the commons, when peasants are risen up. I am for the Fellowship,—I will keep faith. Here 's my hand.”
“Lay thy hand on this market cross, brother, and swear by the rood,” said John Ball.
So Stephen went up the three stone steps and laid his hand upon the arm of the cross, and:—
“By the Holy Rood, I swear,” said he, “that I will keep faith with the Fellowship and strive to set free villeins. Life and limb, body and soul, give I in this cause.”
And all that throng of villagers burst out a-singing:—
"'When Adam delved and Eve span,
Who was then the gentleman?'"
But now, by the way that the peddler had come,—the unwatched way,—there came a band of horsemen suddenly, and rode into the midst of the crowd.
“Archbishop's men!” shrieked a woman. “Save John Ball!”
There was no room to shoot the long-bow.
“Though we rise not yet, we 'll maul 'em now,” roared a man.
But John Ball stayed him, stayed all.—“Not yet,—no blood shall flow. We have need of strong men. Remember!”
So, except a buffet here and there, pushing and hindrance, and loud words, there was no battle. Women clung weeping to John Ball, but he was bound and set on a horse. Then came the faithless espier and cast himself down in the way of that horse, and was trampled and his skull clove in.
One of the soldiers ran to the cross and would have bound Calote, for he said: “This wench also was speaking, exciting the people.” But Stephen thrust him off, and said he:—
“The damosel is in my care, Gybbe Pykerel; I 'll answer to the King as concerning my loyauté and hers.”
“What!—Etienne Fitzwarine!” cried the man. “A frolic?—Eh, well!—I 'm Archbishop's man, 't is none of my devoir to meddle with King's minions.”
And the priest being now fast bound, and all others in their saddles, this soldier followed, and all rode forth of the village. But one villein cried after them:—
“We have chose to let ye have him now, but 'ware the day when we come to take him out o' Maidstone gaol! 'Ware the day!”
Then they went to the espier, where he lay dead, and they lifted him up and bore him within the church.
“My horse!” cried the peddler. “Where is Blanchefleur, my d-destrier?”
“Wat Tyler 's astride and halfway to Canterbury by this, brother,” said a woman.
The peddler laughed,—was naught else to do.
“Eh, well, mistress, thou and I must go afoot,” quoth he to Calote; “'t will not be the first time.”
He took her hand and she went with him meekly, as she were in a dream. A little way beyond the village he led her off the road into a wood, and there made her to sit down under a tree. He thrust a stopple of dry leaves into the small end of the King's horn, and filled it with water from a spring near by, which, when she had drunk, she smiled. Whereupon the peddler cast him down on the grass at her feet and took the dusty hem of her kirtle to his lips and held it there,—a-kissing it; and once he sobbed.
Presently she spoke, slow, softly, as one speaks looking backward into memory:—
“In Devon I said,—he hath a mind, inward, like to Stephen's mind. But if this were Stephen he 'd never cease to speak to me of love; so he 'd be discovered. But thou didst never speak to me of love. In Cheshire I said,—he hath given his all to buy the horn; presently he will ask for my love to repay him. I was afeared. I said, I could love him—were there no—Ah, 't is no matter what I said! At Yorkshire, at the manor-house, 't was lonely. I—I thought on thee, and yet 't was strange, I could not dispart thee from Stephen in my thought. I said,—I know he will presently woo me, and what shall I say? Then I began to see Stephen in thy face—and I was 'wildered sore. When I was wearied with wanhope, 't was thou upheld the quarrel of the people. Ah,—how couldst thou know how to do this if thou art Stephen? Stephen is a squire in the King's palace! I said—what shall I do?—Did ever maid love”—She hushed hastily and the colour flamed to her cheeks; she made as to rise, but the peddler had her hands, he was on his knees before her, looking in her eyes.
“Nay,—m-make an end to 't!” he whispered. “Did ever a maid—what?”
“I will not!”—she answered. “Let be!”
“Wh-which is 't thou l-lovest? Speak!”
“Wherefore wilt thou still mock me?” she cried in sudden anger, freeing her hands. “Have done with thy halting speech!”
He hung his head and knelt mute a moment,—then in a low voice, very sorrowful, and painfully stammering, he said:—
“A-a-alas, mistress!—I c-cannot be rid of 't n-now. T-taketh me unaware. If it of-fendeth thee, then indeed a-am I undone.”
She waited, aghast, watching him, but he knelt silent in his dejection.
“It doth not offend me,” she said at last, wistfully; and he, looking up, beheld her eyes full of tears.
“Wilt thou h-have me?” he cried.
And half laughing, half crying, she asked him:
“Who art thou?”
“Please God, I am him thou lovest,” he answered; “Which is he?”
She let him take her hands again.
“I know not,” she whispered. “But if 't is the peddler, I love him for Stephen's sake,—and if 't is Stephen, for the peddler's sake I love him.”