The Adventure in Yorkshire
HE second winter of this pilgrimage was a snowy one, and the North Country was a lonely place. Among those thinly scattered villages Calote and the peddler had fared very ill, but for the old-time virtue of hospitality, and the joy of minstrelsy, wherein the northern folk vaunted themselves. The winds that blew across the moors were cold and keen; the sea, whensoever the pilgrims came to the sea, was gray. The peddler's lute cracked; it gave them warmth for half an hour one night, and then the wind scattered its ashes. Once, a shepherd saved them from white death.
Yet, 't was not all silence and snow. There were friendly days and nights by the tavern fire, when Calote sang of William and the Werwolf, of Sir Gawaine and the Green Knight, of Launcelot, of Aucassin and Nicolette. Or, haply, some shepherd, thawing before the blaze, would let loose a roaring voice in one of Lawrence Minot's songs; those songs of the battles of King Edward III., Halidon Hill, and Berwick, and Neville's Cross. Anon, there would be told tales of Earl Percy. And Calote, who had listened while Londoners scorned this great man, for that he was second only to John of Gaunt in craft and hateful wickedness, sat now with open mouth to hear him praised of his own folk, who loved him; neither had they any wish to cast him down from his place and rule by their own wits. For, except it were in Newcastle, Calote found few who hearkened patiently to her tale of the ploughman. So she turned southward, sick at heart; and spring awaking found her on the Yorkshire wolds, very thin and weary and ragged; and the peddler likewise. Here, where John of Gaunt was lord, they found many to listen willingly to their message. Yet was Calote unsatisfied.
“'T is ever their own small grievance that maketh them rage,” she sighed. “The bailiff hath fined this one, or set that one in the stocks, and so they 'll willingly join the Brotherhood to spite the bailiff. No doubt there be certain bailiffs that do their devoir faithful, and there be certain villeins that under these laws do deserve the fine or the stocks. But if a man is friend to the bailiff, and hath enough to eat, how slow is he to see that he 's a slave; how slow is he to take keep if other men starve or no! Alas! Alack!”
“W-Wat Tyler 's one that hath enough to-to-to eat,” said the peddler.
“Yea,” she answered slowly; “but I fear me Wat doth not all for the people's sake. He 's a proud man, Wat.”
“J-J-Jack Straw?” quoth the peddler.
“Talk not to me of Jack Straw,” she cried. “Would that I could trust Jack Straw! He must not come at the King. Where 's a true man to lead the people? Thou might'st, well, peddler,—but for thy stammering tongue.”
He sunk his chin on his breast and strode beside her, dogged, silent.
One day they came to a manor-house, very grim, and moated round about; and as they stood on the edge of the moat, looking in, there rode by three damsels with falcons on their wrists, and a page boy with them who hollaed to let down the drawbridge. Now while as they waited, and the bridge creaked, one of those damsels espied Calote, and marvelled at the colour of her hair which blew about her face.
“Come hither, wench!” said this maiden, whose name was Eleyne. “Art thou a jongleuse?”
“I can sing a many tales, madame,” Calote answered.
“Ah, Saint Mary! bring her in!” cried another of the damsels; the fairest this one, hight Godiyeva.
“Yonder fellow, hath he his wits?” asked the youngest of the three, and she pointed at the peddler.
“His wits, yea, madame; but not his tongue,” said Calote.
“Haply he 'll dance, or leap, or twirl swords on his finger tip?” Godiyeva averred. “We 're so dull; hath been no minstrel nor jongleur, nor bearward even, at our gate for nigh on three moons.”
“Canst thou do any of these things?” Calote asked the peddler; but he shook his head.
“Natheless, mesdames, he 's as hungry as I be. Prythee let him dine,” she pleaded.
“Let him labour, forsooth,” answered Eleyne. “A carl so sturdy, so young, and a beggar? For shame!”
“I 'll gladly sing for two,” Calote protested.
“N-nay, mistress, g-go in,” said the peddler; “I-I-I 'll linger hereabout.”
So the three damsels and the page clattered over the drawbridge, which was now let down, and Calote followed on her feet.
These three maids were daughters of a certain Sir Austin, the lord of the manor, a fat, red old man, a glutton and a widower. Even now, he stood in the hall a-fuming for his dinner, which the steward brought in hot from the kitchen so soon as the ladies came through the door. He rated them harshly for their tardiness, and they passed him by with sullen, haughty faces, stepping to the dais; only the youngest clipped him round the neck and set her lips to his with a loud smack and a merry laugh, so that he was fain to smile at her, and stint his grumbling.
Calote sat below the dais at the long board, betwixt a waiting-woman and a friar; over against her sat the bailiff, and leered at her, and would have fed her sweet morsels on the end of his dagger but she drew backward; whereat they all laughed loud, and the bailiff turned purple and ugly, and the friar twisted on the bench to have a long look at her. This was the first time ever Calote had dined in a great house. She could not but marvel at the strange dishes all spiced and covered over with sauces. When she had drunk to the bottom of her cup of ale, the friar filled it up again to the brim. When she would have eaten her trencher bread, the waiting-woman, with a snort, jerked it from her and tossed it into a basket where were other scraps of broken food. After, when Sir Austin and his daughters had dipped their fingers in water, and wiped them on a white linen towel, a page boy came to Calote and bade her go sing her song. So she went and sat on the dais step, and the youngest daughter, Custance, who sat now on her father's knee a-munching sweets, leaned down smiling, and said she:—
“Whence art thou, not out o' the north, I trow, by thy tongue?”
“I live in London, fair lady,” Calote made answer; and with that all three cried out:—
“London! then haply thou hast a tale o' that poet, Dan Chaucer; he 's in favour with the great Duke.”
“Ay, mesdames; there 's one tale of his I know,” said Calote, and thereupon she told them of the Life of Saint Cecyle, and how she was wedded to a young man, and an angel came down from heaven to twine them with garlands of roses.
“Oh!” and “Ah!” said the damsels, smiling one on another; “a sweet tale!”
And how the governor of the city cut off Cecyle's head, for that she was a Christian. But she had a stubborn neck, would not break in three blows o' the sword.
And “Oh!” and “Ah!” shrieked the damsels, clasping their white throats with their soft fingers. “Tell on, tell on! A grisly tale!”
This was one of those jewels that Dan Chaucer after set in the chain that he called the Canterbury Tales; nevertheless, at that time 't was already cut in the rough, albeit not yet polished for the setting, and Calote had heard it.
“Anon, anon!” cried Custance, when the tale was ended; and her father being asleep, she slipped off his knee and sat down on the dais step by the side of Calote, her chin in her hand.
“Nay, let them clear the hall,” said Eleyne. “'T is late; I 've a gown to mend. What say ye, if we keep the maid and hearken to but one tale each day? So we 'll wile our tediousness.”
So Calote stayed in the manor-house and slept of nights on a sheepskin at the foot of Custance's bed.
The third day after her coming, Sir Austin held his court in the hall. The bailiff was there and the reeve, and certain villeins that would make complaint, or be complained against. And the peddler also was there, set twixt the reeve and the bailiff. Sir Austin sat in his great chair on the dais, and in the other end of the hall, against the lancet windows, Eleyne, and Godiyeva, and Custance sat, sewing a seam. Calote knelt at Custance's elbow, and they all four babbled soft of Sir Gawaine, and drew their needles in and out, and lifted an eye now and again to mark what was toward in the other end of the hall.
When first the peddler came in, he looked about him hastily, as one seeking, but when he saw Calote, 't would seem as he sighed and stood at his ease.
“Yon 's thy beggar, is 't not?” asked Custance of Calote.
And Calote answered her: “Yea, lady!” and henceforth was mindful of him, and of the business.
There was one villein who craved leave to give his daughter in marriage,—and he had brought the money to pay. There was another who would be quit of his service of ploughing the lord's land, and he also brought his pence and counted them out in his hand, and the lord took them and gave him quittance for that time. In Yorkshire there were many villeins might commute service thus, and welcome. There was another had fought with his fellow in a tavern brawl, and both these the lord sent to the stocks. There was a young shepherd come to ask that he might have a lad with him to help him keep his flock; 't was a great flock and strayed over the wolds.
“Hast thou such a lad, bailiff?” growled Sir Austin. There was gold in wool,—'t were best keep it safe.
“Haply, Sir Austin,” said the bailiff, and thrust forward the peddler. “Here 's an idle fellow hath dawdled twixt the manor and the village these three days. He will not go, he will not stay; knoweth not his own mind. There 's enough idlers among them that make pretence to labour, and shall I countenance sloth that 's avowed open?”
“I-I-I 'm a free man,” said the peddler.
“A pox o' free men!” shouted Sir Austin. “No man is free to eat his head off in idleness o' my land. Wilt begone?”
“I-I-I,” stammered the peddler, looking on Calote, who had drawn nigh the better to learn what was going forward.
“Wilt stay?” roared Sir Austin.
Again the peddler looked on Calote.
“'T is a kind man,” said she, going up to the dais. “Hath done me much service in my wanderings. 'S tongue 's slow.”
Sir Austin smiled on her.
“A man plougheth not with his tongue, wench,” said he. “Neither hath he need of 's tongue to mind sheep, but if he whistle. Hark ye, rogue, I 'll give thee another day to gather together thy slow wits; thereafter thou 'lt labour, or get thee gone,—else I 'll make thee free o' the stocks.”
The villeins and other servitors were now lagging forth of the hall, and mid the noise and stir the peddler said to Calote, hastily:—
“D-dost thou bide long i-in this place?”
“How can I tell?” she answered.
“Wh-when thou art ready to begone, thou 'lt find me sh-shepherding on the wolds. Meanwhile, k-keep thy dagger loose in its sheath.”
Then he left her and went to the edge of the dais.
“S-sir Knight, I-I 'll make shift to aid thy sh-shepherd,” he said. And presently he was gone out with the villeins.
Calote walked down the hall to the windows, pondering. She had kept her dagger secret even from this peddler. How should he know? Yet, 't were a simple thing, no doubt; her gown was ragged. But at night, when she lay on the sheepskin a-turning over the day in her mind, she asked herself why the peddler should stay for her.
“Alas,—wehl awey!” she sighed, and her face burned in the dark.
After a little she said again: “Wehl awey!”
The heather was not in blossom, but the breath of spring sweetened the wolds. Diggon the shepherd gave his new man a sheepskin to warm him in, and together they two kept the flock. Out in the lonely open the peddler forsook his stammer as much as he might, for the nonce; yet now and again 't would master him against his will, and so did all his life after. If a man hold his unruly member halting two year, 't will take revenge.
This Diggon, shepherd, was a gentle being, with a mind like to the Yorkshire wolds, filled full of space, and sky and silence. Whiles, likewise, was his mind purple-clad; then he 'd speak slow words concerning God, and the creatures, and life. Last Christmas Eve he heard the angels singing in heaven, he said. The night of Good Friday, three weeks past, he had a vision of the Rood.—The peddler crossed himself.—One day he lost a lamb, and when he had searched from noon till sunset, and the sea mist was coming in, he met a man larger than life, carried the young lamb in his arm.
When the peddler told him the tale of Piers Ploughman, he listened with a great joy in his eyes.
“In that day,” quoth he, “they 'll cease to ride the hunt across the wolds and scatter the sheep.”
When the peddler instructed him of the Fellowship that was joining hand over all England, he rubbed his head, perplexed.
“We been brothers and Christen men ever,” he said. “Here 's no new thing.”
Of new laws and new masters and freedom he took no keep.
“Am I not free?” he asked, and spread his arms out east and west, as to gather in the moors.
“But all men are not so content as thou,” said the peddler. “They are ill-fed, they must work without stint. Wilt not thou join hand to help them that suffer?”
“Yea, brother,” Diggon answered him; “yea!” But then he knit his brows, and, “If all we go up to London to reason with nobilité, who 'll take care o' the sheep?”
The peddler sat silent, abashed; till on a sudden Diggon threw his head back and laughed, with “Who but the Good Shepherd!—Diggon 's a fool!”
So the days passed, and the peddler waited for Calote. She, meanwhile, was taken into favour at the manor-house. Old Sir Austin would chuck her under chin and follow her with his watery eyes in a way that she mistrusted. She wondered that the daughters observed naught; but they paid little heed to their father. The youngest loved him as a spoiled child will, for sake of gain; but the other two were peevish if he spoke to them.
Godiyeva he had thwarted in a marriage with a lord's son, with whom he was at feud, and she could not forget. In truth, he was so quarrelsome that his neighbours shunned his company; and he, on his part, cast gibes upon his daughters, for that they could not get them husbands.
“Is one comfort,” said Eleyne on a day when he had baited them till they wept for rage and shame. “Is one comfort; if no gentlemen will come anigh this house, will no gentlewoman neither. They be all afeared o' thee. If we must dwell here forlorn, we are spared a step-dame. Is none would live thy cat and dog life.”
“Sayst thou so? Sayst thou so, hussy?” roared the knight, and would have struck her; but his eye lighted on Calote,—he let drop his hand. “Sayst thou so?” he repeated more softly, and went out chuckling.
“Thou fool!” said Godiyeva to her sister. “What maggot hast thou put in 's head?”
'T was the day next after this one that Calote chose to tell them the tale of the Ploughman. She had been of three minds not to tell it at all; but then she called herself a coward. Of Richard she had never spoke, nor showed the horn, and she did not now. After supper she told her tale, and she said by way of a beginning:—
“This is the last tale I have to tell, mesdames. To-morrow,—or 't maybe the next day, for 't is a long tale,—I must give you thanks of your courtesy, and begone.”
“Ah, stay, and tell them all again!” cried Custance. “We 've not been so merry since Godiyeva's lover flouted her.”
“Peace!” said Eleyne, and Godiyeva's lovely face flamed red.
The old knight chuckled in the chimney corner. He did not snooze to-night, as was his wont; he sat a-blinking on Calote, and sipping his piment, slow. Calote crouched on a low stool, with her face to the fire.
“In a summer season when soft was the sun”—she began, and at the first she spoke hastily, and with a little quaver in her voice. She knew not how they might take this tale.
They took it for a jape, a jest; they laughed. Lady Mede and her sisours and summoners made them very merry. When Repentance called the Seven Sins to confession, and the tale was told of Glutton in the tavern, Sir Austin doubled him up with a loud guffaw and nigh fell into the fire. When Piers Ploughman put up his head, the damsels squealed for joy. When he, this same Piers, set the ladies of the Vision to sew sacking, and the Knight to keep the land freed of foes, Sir Austin's daughters held their sides, and rocked back and forth, the while mirthful tears fell down their faces.
Then Calote lost her patience and forgot to be afraid. She stood up on her feet and faced them with her head high:—
“Natheless, all this shall come to pass!” she cried. “This is a true word. No Goliardeys, I, but a sober singer. 'T is the ploughman, the poor man, shall lead all ye to truth. The rich shall give of their wealth to the poor, in that day; no man shall go naked and hungry. Fine ladies and maids like to me shall love one another.”
Her voice broke, and she put out her hands to the three fair damsels that sat on a bench and stared:—
“I pray you pardon, sweet my ladies, but this matter lieth close to my heart.”
They laughed kindly, and Eleyne said:—
“We 'll love thee for the sake of thy tales, wench, and forgive thee this once that thou art froward.”
“List, child,” said Godiyeva; “the poor is not so greatly to be pitied. I 'd liefer be a glee maiden, free to wander in all England, welcome in every hall and cot,—I 'd liefer be a houseless wench, say I, than—than this that I am.” And Godiyeva arose, lifted her arms wearily above her head, and paced down the hall into the shadows.
“If thou wert gowned in soft stuffs, and thy hair in a net and a horned cap atop,”—Custance mused idly, looking Calote up and down,—“methinks,—methinks,”—hereupon she clapped her hands and leaped to her feet. “Whyfore no? Come, wench, I 've a gown in my chest is too short for me. Here 's a merry sport. We 'll make thee a lady for the nonce.”
“Ay, do!” cried the knight; and presently slapped his leg, and laughed as at a secret thought.
“Nay, lady,” Calote protested; but Custance had her by the hand dragging her from the room.
“Thou 'lt spoil the wench,” said Eleyne; “is over bold now.” And Godiyeva curled her lip scornfully.
Sir Austin laughed yet more loud, and bade his youngest daughter make haste. So Custance caught a lighted cresset from the wall, and hurried Calote up the stair. And Calote, when she saw the azure gown broidered with gold about the hem, and the pointed crimson shoes, and the high cap of green and rose colour with its floating silken veil, made no more protest; for she was young, and a woman.
When all was done, her tiring maid drew back in dumb amaze; then took her hand and led her down to the hall.
At Calote's heart there was a fierce pain.
“Oh, Stephen!” she cried within herself; “oh, Stephen!” Yet what this was that so hurt her she did not ask.
In the hall there was dead silence for the space of a minute. Then the knight came out of his chimney corner a step:—
“God's bones!” quoth he in a half whisper; and Calote, looking in his face, knew that she must go away from this house as soon as might be. She set her hand to her breast and fingered the hilt of the dagger, where she had thrust it unseen of Custance.
“A common peasant! 'T is amazing!” exclaimed Eleyne.
“I knew she was very fair,” said Godiyeva quietly.
“Doth not my pearl net gleam against her gold hair?” cried Custance, and swept a low curtsey before this new-made lady.
“To-night ye may thank Saint Mary your many wooers be not by, my daughters,” mocked them Sir Austin; and Godiyeva tossed her head.
“Tell me, wench,” he continued, “'t would like thee well to be a lady?”
Calote, her heart aching with the thought of Stephen, answered him proudly:—
“I might be one, an I would.”
But immediately she could have bit out her tongue, for the knight had set his own meaning upon her words.
“So ho!” quoth he. “What a witch art thou! Ha, ha, ha!”
“Sir, you mistake,” she said coldly. “I have been sought in honourable marriage by a gentleman, but I would not.”
“And if once sought, wherefore not again?—Wherefore not again?” he asked with a cunning grin, wagging his head.
His three daughters had drawn close together at one side of the hearth; there was anger, astonishment, and fear in their faces. Suddenly the old man turned on them roughly:—
“Get ye gone!” he said. “Off!—To bed!—I 've a delicate business with this—ha, ha—this lady.”
“'T is shameful!” cried Godiyeva. “I 'll not budge,—a common wench, a stroller.”
“Oh, father, wilt thou so shame us?” moaned Eleyne.
“'T is but another jest, dear father; say 't is thy sport,” Custance pleaded.
But for answer he took up his riding-whip and laid it about their shoulders so smartly that they fled from the hall shrieking and cursing him.
A page thrust his head in at the door, but quickly drew it forth again. An old woman that had been asleep in a corner got up and hobbled out in haste. The dogs put tail between their legs and slunk under the settle. Calote, in the firelight, waited. Her knees shook, yet she was not afraid.
When he had cleared the hall the knight threw away his whip, came back to the fire, took the remainder of his piment at one gulp, and hurled the goblet to the far end of the hall.
“So, my lady; wilt have me on my knees, for the more honour?” said he; and she let him grunt, and crack his old joints, for that she knew he could not readily get up if he were once kneeling.
“Now, hearken!” he bade her. “Wilt dwell here and tame yon proud damsels, and shame 'em? I 'm sick o' daughters; I 'd have a son to lean on in mine age. Come,—I 'll marry thee honest. Thou shalt be the envy of all York. Thou shalt wear silken gowns. Here 's a happy life,—no sleeping under hedge nor in the open. So thou do my pleasure I 'll never harm thee. The one that 's gone had never a harsh word from me till the third daughter came, and that was past any man's patience t' endure. By Holy Cuthbert, I swear thou art lovelier than any court lady ever I saw,—and I 've been in Edward's court,—yea, and in France likewise. Kiss me, wench!—By Saint Thomas, but I will kiss thee whether or no!”
He stumbled and staggered to his feet and came at her with a lurch, for his head was dizzy with wine and pleasure.
“Sir, I will not marry no knight,—nor lord of a manor,—unless he set free all his villeins,‘ she said, and slipped aside. ’Neither will I kiss any man for love, till we be promised together.”
“Free my villeins, pardé,” he cried. “Do I not take quit-rent of the half of them even now? They be as good as freed.”
“But I will have them altogether freed.”
He sat down in the chimney corner and wiped his brow:—
“Pish! Here 's not a matter to be decided without law and lawyers. I must think on 't. Come hither, my lady; give me good-night.”
But when he saw that she moved away to the door, he sprang up heavily and caught her about the middle.
“Sir,” she panted, “methought 't was thy mood to shame thy daughters; yet this shameth only me.”
“True!” he said; “my daughters!”—and let her go. “But I 'll not be so patient another night. We 'll have a priest on the morrow.”
“First, free thy villeins!” she made answer, and slipped through the door.
Above stairs she found the three damsels crouched on one bed, their heads together. Godiyeva hurled a foul name upon her as she entered.
“Peace!” said she. “Your father hath consented to wait till the morrow morn. Now, if ye are not minded to have a step-dame ruling here, make haste to strip me of these fine clothes, and show me a way to depart softly while 't is yet dark.”
“Thou wilt go!” queried Godiyeva.
For answer, Calote took off the bright cap from her head and kicked away the crimson shoes. Then distance set to work hastily to undo the gown, and the dagger fell out and rattled to the floor. Godiyeva carried it to the light, looked at it, and brought it back, but asked no question.
“Why dost thou wear this bag under thy gown?” said Custance.
“For safety, madame,” Calote replied, and thrust her arms into the sleeves of her old russet.
Custance still held the bag, but no one dared ask further.
“I will take her down the other stair to the water-gate and put her in the boat,” said Godiyeva.
“God and Saint Mary bless thee!” whispered Eleyne, and would have pressed silver into her hand, but Calote shook her head and smiled.
Custance kissed her.
At the water-gate there floated a little boat, and Godiyeva got into this with her and sent it across the moat in three strong shoves of a pole.
“Which way is the shepherd's way, where the flock is?” asked Calote.
“To southward of here,” Godiyeva answered; and then, “I repent me of that name I called thee.”
“Dear lady,” said Calote, “I 'll pray Christ Jesus and Mary his mother, that they send thee happiness.”
So she went away into the night, beneath the pale shine of a waning moon, and Godiyeva crossed the moat, and climbed the stair.
“'T was a hunting horn she had in her bag,” whispered Custance. “I felt the form of it under the flannel. Dost believe she 's that chaste fairy lady, Dian, the poets sing?”
“Nay, she 's a woman, like to us,” said Godiyeva, and lay down on her bed.
Out on the wolds Diggon and the peddler had built a fire to warm a new-born lamb. The while they sat with their arms about their knees, looking into the fire, they spoke of Christ's Passion, and death. Said the peddler, out of the Vision:—
"'One like to the Samaritan and a little like to Piers the Plowman,
Barefoot on an asse's back, bootless, came riding,
Without spurs or spear, sprightly he looked,
As is the manner of a knight that cometh to be dubbed.
"This Jesus, of his noble birth, will joust in Piers' arms,
In his helm and his habergeon—humana natura;
In Piers Plowman's jacket this pricker shall ride."'"
“Poor men been greatly honoured, 't is true,” said Diggon. “Behoves us do best, that Christ be not shamed to ride in our armour. Natheless, I find it hard to believe as how Sir Austin will clip me and kiss me and call me brother. Sir Austin 's a proud man,—lord o' the manor,—and I a silly shepherd. Christ knoweth us poor,—for that he came to earth a poor man. He put our garb upon him. Till Sir Austin and his ilk do put them in poor men's weeds and ploughman's weeds and shepherd's weeds, how shall they know what 't is I suffer, or that rejoiceth me? Men know that they live. Small blame to Sir Austin, or to the King.”
“O Diggon,—my brother! This is a true word,” cried the peddler. “Let them don thy russet, and labour with thee, and starve with thee, and they 'll love thee and give thee the kiss of a friend,—even as I do,—O Diggon,—even as I do!” And the peddler cast his arms about the shepherd, and kissed him on each cheek, and they two smiled happily the one upon the other in the firelight.
Then the peddler took up the tale of how Christ Jesus was crucified, and two thieves with him, and after, he began to speak of the harrowing of hell, and of Mercy and Peace that kissed each other.
"'And there I saw surely
Out of the west coast a wench as me thought,
Came walking in the way—to—'"
said he, and when he had said it he felt Diggon's hand on his arm.
“She cometh,” whispered Diggon.
And there, on the other side of the fire, stood a maiden.
“I go to Londonward,” she said. “I came hither, for that I knew 't would grieve thee if I set forth secretly. Natheless, is no need that thou follow. I am not afeared of the night, nor no other thing.”
“Wilt thou not w-wait for the day?” asked the peddler, rising up.
“If I wait, there shall be done me a great honour. The lord of the manor purposeth to make me his wife.”
“Saint Christopher!” cried the peddler, and turned in haste to the shepherd: “Diggon, dear brother; fare thee well! This is m-my lady; I must follow her.”
“Hail, maiden!” said Diggon. “Art thou Mercy, or Truth, or Peace, or Rightwisnesse?”
“None of these,—but handmaid to Truth,” the peddler answered for her; and when he had kissed Diggon he took Calote by the hand and led her away. And Diggon was left by the fire with the new-born lamb.
“T-tell me!” the peddler questioned after a little.
So she told him all, and at the end of the tale she said:—
“Natheless, 't is not for his wooing that I 'm ashamed and weary; but they laughed at the Vision. They laughed!—They thought 't was all a jape. Wherefore should they fear the peasants,—the poor rude men,—wherefore should any fear such simple folk? Who is 't knoweth better than I how weak Piers Ploughman is? Were I a lady, with the poor fawning about my heel,—and one sang that these should deliver the land, I 'd laugh too. They 'll fail—Dost thou not know they 'll fail? Ah, woe,—alas!”
“R-Roland of Roncesvalles, though he lost, yet did he win,” said the peddler. "Jesus Christ d-died on cross. Hearken to the Vision:—
"'After sharp showers, quoth Peace, most glorious is the sun;
Is no weather warmer than after watery clouds.
Ne no love dearer, nor dearer friends,
Than after war and woe when Love and Peace be masters
Was never war in this world, nor wickedness so keen,
That Love, an him list, might not bring it to laughter,
And Peace through patience all perils stopped.'"