The Man O' Words
NE night, when Long Will was gone forth to copy a writ of law for a city merchant, Calote sat up to wait for him in the moonlight by their door that opened on the lane. Calote and her father had not spoke together of her pilgrimage since that night, now more than a year past, when Long Will was so wroth with Jack Straw. Nevertheless, each one knew that the other had not forgotten. But now the time was short; there must be unlocking of tongues.
Calote braided her hair in a tress, unbound it, braided it anew, the while she waited and pondered the words that she would speak. In the lane something grunted and thrust a wet snout against her bare foot; one of Dame Emma's pigs had strayed. It was a little pig; Calote took it up in her arms and bore it through the dark room and out on Cornhill. The tavern door was shut, but there was a noise of singing within, and Dame Emma came at the knock.
Hobbe Smith sat in the chimney trolling a loud song, and two or three more men sprawled on a bench by the wall, a-chaunting “Hey, lolly, lolly,” out of time and out of tune. One of these, that was most drunk, came running foolishly so soon as he saw Calote, and made as to snatch a kiss, but Dame Emma thrust piggie in his face; and when Calote turned about at her own door, breathless, she saw where Hobbe had the silly fellow on the floor and knelt upon his belly, and crammed the pig's snout into his mouth; and Dame Emma beat Hobbe over the noddle with a pint-pot, for that he choked her squealing pig. Calote bethought her, sorrowful, that there would be no Dame Emma and kindly Hobbe to take up her quarrel in other taverns. So she went back to the braiding of her hair until her father came in.
Then she said:—
“Father,—they do affirm 't is full time for me to begone on the King's errand. Thou wilt not say me nay? Thou wilt bless me?”
He sat down on the doorstone and took her in his arm. He was smiling.
“Sweet, my daughter; and dost thou truly think that this puissant realm of England shall be turned up-so-down and made new by a plotting of young children and rustics?”
“Wherefore no, if God will?”
“Nay, I 'll not believe that God hath so great spite against us English,” he made answer, whimsical.
“But the Vision, father? If thy ploughman be no rustic, what then is he?”
“I fell eft-soon asleep,” quoth Long Will,—
"'and suddenly me saw,
That Piers the Ploughman was painted all bloody,
And come in with a cross before the common people,
And right like, in all limbs, to our Lord Jesus;
And then called I Conscience to tell me the truth.
“Is this Jesus the Jouster?” quoth I, "that Jews did to death,
Or is it Piers the Ploughman?—Who painted him so red?"
Quoth Conscience, and kneeled then, "These are Piers arms,
His colours and his coat-armour, and he that cometh so bloody
Is Christ with his Cross, conqueror of Christians."'"
“Who is 't, then, we wait for?” Calote cried. “Is it Christ, or is it Piers? O me, but I 'm sore bewildered! An' if 't were Christ, yet may not Piers do his devoir? Do all we sit idle with folded hands because Christ cometh not? Surely, 't were better He find us busy, a-striving our weak way to come into His Kingdom! What though we may not 'do best,' yet may we do well.”
“Yea, do well,” her father answered. “But now tell me, dost believe Jack Straw and Wat seek Truth,—or their own glory?”
“How can I tell?” she asked. “But for myself, I do know that I seek Truth. To gain mine own glory, were 't not easy to go another way about? May not I wear jewelled raiment and be called Madame? But I will not. And Wat Tyler and Jack Straw, they believe that they are seekers of Truth.”
“Thou wilt not trust thy little body in the hand of Jack Straw, my daughter; and yet wilt thou give up all this thine England into his clutch?”
“'T is the King shall rule England,” she faltered.
“And who shall rule the King?”
“Is 't not true, that the ploughman shall counsel the King? There be honest ploughmen.”
“Peter of Devon is an honest man,” assented Langland; “he cannot read nor write, almost he cannot speak. Wilt thou give over the kingdom into his keeping?”
“Wilt not thou?” she said; and her father made no answer.
Suddenly she arose and stood before him, and laid her two hands on his shoulders as he sat on the doorstone.
“'T is well enough to say, 'Wait!' 'T is well enough to say, 'Not this ploughman,—Not this King,—Not thou,—Nor I.' 'T is well enough to say, 'Not to-day!' But a man might do so forever, and all the world go to wreck.”
“Not if I believe in God,—and Christ the King's Son of heaven.”
“And is this the end of all trusting in God, that a man shall fold his hands and do nothing?”
He winced, and she had flung her arms about his neck, and pressed her cheek to his, and she was sobbing; he tasted the salt of her tears against his lips.
“Father, forgive me! Say thou dost forgive me!—But all my little lifetime thou hast laboured on this poem—when I was a babe I learned to speak by the sound of thy voice a-murmuring the Vision. All the light o' learning I have to light me to Godward and to my fellows, I got it from the Vision. All the fire o' love I have in my heart was kindled at its flame;—yea—for all other love I quench with my tears; I will not let no other love burn. And now, when the fire is kindled past smothering, and the light burns ever so bright, thou dost turn the Vision against itself, for to confound all them that have believed on thy word. Wilt thou light a light but to snuff it back to darkness? Wilt thou kindle a fire but to choke us with smoke? 'T is now too late. Haply 't is thy part to sit still and sing; but I—I cannot sing, and I cannot sit still. I am not so wise as thou, nor so patient. Is 't kind to 'wilder me with thy wisdom, my father? Is 't wise to cover me with a pall of patience, if I must needs die to lie quiet?”
“An I give thee leave, what is 't thou 'lt do?” he asked her, in a level, weary voice.
“I 'll follow the King to Gloucester, and there have speech of him and a token. After, I 'll bid the people to know the King loveth them,—and they are to come up to London to a great uprising, what time John Ball, and Wat, and Jack Straw shall give sign. Then there shall be no more poor and rich; but all men shall love one another, the knight and the cook's knave, the King and the ploughman. Much more I 'll say, out of the Vision; and of fellowship, such as John Ball preacheth.”
“The clergy clap John Ball into prison for such words, whensoever they may.”
“And for this reason is it better that I should be about when he may not; for what am I but a maiden? Clergy will not take keep of me. I 'm not afeared of no harm that may befal me;—though haply—harm may.”
“Knoweth that young squire aught of this journey?”
“Nay, father.”
“Hast thou bethought thee of what folk will say if thou go to Gloucester in the tail of the court? There be many on Cornhill have seen that youth; they know whence he is.—If thou go, and come not again for many months?”
He felt her cheek grow hot against his own, and then she drew away from him and looked in his eyes piteously:—
“Dost thou not believe I must do that Conscience telleth me is right, father?”
“Yea.”
“Then wherefore wilt thou seek to turn me from well-doing?”
“Thou art my daughter,” he answered gravely; “small wonder if I would shield thee from dangers and evil-report. Shall I not be blamed of all men, and rightly, if I let thee go o' this wild-goose chase?”
“All thy life I have never known thee give a weigh of Essex cheese for any man's praise or blame.”
“'T is very true!” he assented in moody fashion; and sat still with his head bent.
After a little she touched him, and “Thou 'lt bless me, father?” she said.
“To Gloucester, sayst thou?” he questioned absently; and then, “That 's nigh to Malvern Priory, and the Hills,—the Malvern Hills.”
She had sat down below him on the ground and laid her chin upon his knee, and so she waited with her eyes upon his face.
“My old master that learned me to read and to write, and unloosed the singing tongue of me, dwelleth in Malvern Priory. He said, if ever I had a golden-haired daughter—Well, thou shalt take a copy of the Vision to him, Calote. Give it to the porter at the gate,—and bide. Thy mother shall say round and about Cornhill that thou art gone to mine old home, to take the Vision to the old master. He is called Brother Owyn.”
“Father, father!” she cried, “I am filled full of myself, and mine own desire. Wherefore dost thou not beat me and lock me behind doors,—so other fathers would do?”
He smiled wistfully, and kissed her: “So! now thou hast thy will, thou 'lt play penitent. Nay,—hush thee, hush thee, my sweet! 'T is time for laughter now, and joyousness. Thou 'rt going forth to learn all men to love one another. Be comforted; dry thy tears!”
“I am a very wicked wight!” she sobbed. “I will not leave thee.”
“Thou art aweary, my dear one, the dawn cometh. Go thou to rest, and the morrow all will be bright. When dost thou set forth o' this pilgrimage?”
“On the morrow!” she whispered; and then with more tears, “But I will not go, father,—forgive me!”
He gathered her into his arms and carried her through the weeds and up the wooden stair to the door of the gabled room.
“Go in,” he said, “and sleep! There are yet a fifty lines lacking to the copy of the Vision that thou wilt take with thee; I must write them in.”
But when he was come back to the long dark room, he lit no rush for an hour or more; instead, he paced back and forth, talking with himself:—
“Pity me, God! I am a weak man!—I did never no deeds but them I thought not to do;—never, all my life long! Count my deeds, O God,—they are so few,—and all of them have I condemned afore in other men. Now, I let my daughter go forth on a fool's errand, and in a child's plot that must fail; mayhap she will meet worse than death on the road; but I give her my blessing. Jesu,—Mary,—guard this my daughter that I have so weakly put forth upon the world! How may a man dare say nay to his child, if she be a better man than he,—an actyf man, a doer o' deeds? How may a man dare forbid any soul to follow Conscience? Good Jesu, I am but a jongleur,—a teller o' tales,—I am afeared o' deeds. I see them on so many sides that I dare move nor hand nor foot. And if I do, I trip. Best never be doing.—If a man might be all words, and no deeds!”