The Beginning
O it came about that the Council bade search if any had not paid the tax, and to compel him. And around and about London there arose a muttering, waxed louder and yet more loud. Nevertheless, April was past, and May was well-nigh past; but then the men of Fobbing in Essex drove the collector of the tax out of Bampton town. And, after this, the people began to rise by little and little, as it were a fire creeping in the grass. And what man soever laboured to appease the people, 't was not Jack Straw. When June was begun, he came to Cornhill bringing news. Quoth he:—
“The people is gone forth to take Rochester Castle.”
Calote stayed the twirl of her distaff; Kitte leaned on her besom; Long Will pushed away parchment and fixed his eyes on Jack Straw. “'T was Sir Simon de Burley came down to Gravesend,‘ said Jack; ’had a man in the town,—a runaway. The folk of Gravesend are friendly,—they would have bought him free. 'Three hundred pound,' saith Sir Simon.—Three hundred pound!”
“And this man was not worth three hundred pound?” Will questioned.
“Pah!” said Jack Straw, and spat on the floor. “Misread me an thou wilt.—Sir Simon 's off to Rochester with his man. Hark ye,—the people is up! The people is up, I say!”
“Wat Tyler hath not given the sign,” said Calote.
Jack laughed softly. “And if Wat lag, shall there not be found others, leaders?” he asked.
“I hate thee, Jack Straw!” Calote cried out. “I hate thee!”
He went up to her where she stood, and thrust his face down close to her face:—
“Methought 't was loving was thy business. 'Wait till all England hath learned to love,' quotha.—Jack's patient, mistress; hath awaited these three year and more. Now 't is thou must learn. Jack shall teach thee.”
Will Langland had arisen and strode swift to Jack, and he laid hand on his neck and shook him to and fro that his teeth chattered; and in the midst of this shaking the door burst open, and there came in Hobbe and a young rustic that panted to take breath.
“Here 's one seeketh Calote,” said Hobbe.
Then the runner cried between gasp and gasp:
“Thus saith Wat Tyler to the maid Calote, 'It is an end. Now let the people arise. I have given the sign!'”
“Ah, Christ!” said Calote.
“Thus saith Wat Tyler to him men call Long Will, 'Thou hast a daughter. What wilt thou do if she be mishandled?'”
Will thrust Jack Straw from him that he fell on his knees by the wall.
“'What wilt thou do?'” cried the runner. “'Wilt not thou—even thou—slay the man? And what shall Wat Tyler do that is no clerk, but one itching for war? And I have a daughter,' saith Wat Tyler, 'but she is avenged. The man is slain. This man came in to gather the tax,—and I heard my daughter cry out.—Prate no more of love. I have slain the man. I have given the sign.' This is the word of Wat Tyler.”
Calote flung up her two arms with a cry, and there was joy and the sound of a sob in that cry:—
“Father, father!” she said; “'t has come,—'t has come! O Jesu, Mary, forgive,—but I am glad;—I 'm glad!—I 'm glad!”
And with her face in her father's breast she began to shake and to cry and to laugh, all in one breath.
But now there came in another man, running, and—
“Will Langland,” said he, “here 's letters from John Ball. Of these shalt thou make a fair copy, and they shall be sent forth into the villages to north of here and west, to be read in taverns and churchyards.”
“Where is John Ball?” asked Will, and took the letters.
“Yestermorn he was in Maidstone jail, but by now,—eh, well,—Wat Tyler 's gone thither hastily. I had these of the priest out of window, when I told him Rochester Castle is ta'en.”
“Is ta'en!” cried all they together.
“Yea.—'Bid Wat come quickly to set me free,' saith John Ball,—'and for the letters, Long Will shall copy.'”
“Read!” said Hobbe.
So Will read:—
“'John Schep, sometime Saint Mary's priest of York, and now of Colchester, greeteth well John Nameless and John the Miller and John Carter, and biddeth them that they beware of guile in borough, and stand together in God's name, and biddeth Piers Ploughman go to his work, and chastise well Hob the Robber, and take with you John Trueman and all his fellows and no mo; and look sharp you to one-head and no mo.'”
Then in that company all, as with one voice, chaunted the end of this letter, which was:—
"'John the Miller hath y ground small, small, small,
The King's son of heaven shall pay for all.
Be ware or ye be wo,
Know your friend from your foe.
Have enough and say 'ho!'
And do well and better and flee sin,
And seek peace and hold therein.
And so bid John Trueman and all his fellows.'"
They looked one on another with faces a little pale:—
“'T has come,” they said. “Read on, Will!” And anon he read the second letter:—
“'Jack Milner asketh help to turn his milne aright. He hath grounden small, small. The King's son of heaven he shall pay for all. Look thy milne go aright, with the four sails, and the post stand in steadfastness. With right and with might, with skill and with will, let might help right and skill go before will and right before might, then goeth our milne aright. And if might go before right, then is our milne misadight.'”
“John Ball hath rungen our bell,” said Hobbe. “I 'll go beat a ploughshare,” and went out.
Also the two messengers kissed either other and clipt close, and after, departed.
Will Langland took from his pouch a fresh parchment and made ready to copy the letters, his daughter leaning against his knee. By the wall sat Jack Straw a-sulking, his legs sprawled wide, his chin in his chest, his eyes watchful. Kitte took her besom and swept the floor.
And now there came in another from Cornhill; he wore the badge of the white hart on his sleeve.
“Rochester Castle is ta'en!” he said.
And Calote ran to him, and “O Stephen!” she cried, “the message is gone forth! The people is rising!”
They stood agaze, each on other, joy of the coming battle in their young eyes. Then they kissed.
Jack Straw got to his feet with a bound:—
“Thou,—thou,—thou!” he gasped.—“Spy!—Cokenay!—Thou?”
So he began to laugh his soft laughter, and turned him to Calote with:—
“Two year!—And this was his pilgrimage,—to lie under hedge with”—
But Stephen had sprung upon him and they clinched, rocking this way and that, the while Calote wrung her hands.
Long Will would have meddled in that mêlée to thrust apart those two, but Kitte caught his arm:—
“Let be!” she said. “The squire 's better man! he 'll win.”
And so it was, for Jack Straw knew not to wrestle; he was a lean, pale wight. He had a bodkin in his belt, but was not time to draw, and presently he lay on the floor, face down, and Stephen on his back, kneeling.
“Now say thy prayer!” said Stephen.
“Nay,—for Jesus' sake!” cried Calote. “Bethink what shall befal if this man is slain. He hath a ményé to follow him in the Rising. Let not confusion come upon them. Remember the Rising! Stephen, Stephen,—now is no time to 'venge privé wrong! We have need of men shall lead.—What though this man hath evil in him,—yet do the people follow him in a good cause.”
“'T is very true,” Stephen answered, thoughtful. “If he be slain, how shall the people understand? Eh, well,—sweetheart,—for Piers Ploughman and all our brothers' sake,—I 'll be patient.”
And when he had arisen he kicked Jack Straw: “Get up, carroigne!” he said.
Jack Straw crawled to the door.
“Never fear, wench,” said he, “I 've no mind to marry and be cuckold.”