The Old Fetters
N the Sunday when Long Will and Calote were come from the burial of Kitte, they were met at their door by Walworth and certain of the King's officers, who said:—
“Knowest aught concerning that arch-traitor, Jack Straw? 'T is believed he lieth hid in the city.—In the King's name, open thy door!”
“Name him not!” cried Will, and crossed himself. “I am a clerk; I may not venge mine own wrong!—Natheless his name breeds murder in my heart.” He groaned and covered his face. Those others stared in amaze.
“Heard ye not?” said Calote then. “'T was Friday he came into our cot by night, and he would have slain one slept there, but my mother ran in between.—My mother was slain.”
“Alack, sweet maid, here 's news!” exclaimed the Mayor. “I 've been busied propping the kingdom.‘ And to the men he said: ’On! he is not here.”
But one of the men answered him: “The fellow was seen o' Cornhill within the hour. Is a most arrant knave. This house were safest in all London, seeing he hath shed blood in it. Let us enter!”
So they went in and threw wide the window and the doors, for that the room was dark. And some mounted to the chamber under the roof. Then the man that craved leave to enter went and stood by the great chest in the lower room; and presently he had lifted the lid and thrust in his hand, and all they heard a terrible squawk. The man had Jack Straw by the leg, and flung him out on the floor.
“O thou vile murderer!” cried Calote. “Coward, without shame! Dost shelter thee on this hearth thou hast defiled? O craven dog!”
There were deep shadows in the eyes of Calote. This horror of her mother's death was yet upon her. Moreover, she knew what it was to fail.
“Do not let the clerk come at me!” Jack Straw prayed the Mayor. He shivered; he was all of a sweat. “Wherefore do ye take me? Thrust thy fingers in my breast, the King's pardon is there. Hark ye,—I 'll say it. I have it by heart. 'Know that of our special grace we have manumitted'—hearken, 'freed him of all bondage, and made him quit by these presents.' I be free man, pardoned of all felonies, treasons, transgressions, and extortions. Look ye, masters,—'t is writ here.—Bind not my hands! Read!—'And assure him of our summa pax.' I 'm free man. Read!—'Dated June the fourteenth, anno regni quarto.' I had it of yonder clerk, learned me the Latin the while he writ. I 'm free man. Will,—speak for me! Will!—Will!—I meant no harm,—she came between and I knew 't not. Will, thou knowest I meant no harm to Kitte. Speak! Is 't for this I 'm ta'en? The Lord is leech of love, Will, forgiveth his enemies. I 'm thy friend, Will;—was ever.”
“Have him forth!” shouted Langland above this din. “Have him forth swift,—else must ye bind me likewise. O Christ—give me leave!—Avenge her, Christ Jesus!”
Then Jack Straw, being 'ware that here was no hope, turned him at the threshold and said:—
“There be others, prisoners, mistress, and thy peddler is one. I saw him borne to Tower yester e'en. Thy fine esquire 's like to lose his head as soon as I.”
“Set a gag twixt his teeth,” said Walworth. So they did, and bore him through London streets. And if any man was his friend, he went and hid himself.
Meanwhile, the King took counsel with his lords in the great chamber in the Tower. His cheeks were pale, his eyes heavy. He pressed his hand oft to his brow, where sat a frown.
“Sire,” said Buckingham, “'t is very certain these knaves ought to be punished, else shall we never have done with uprisings and rebellions that do endanger the kingdom.”
“Where is Etienne Fitzwarine?” asked Richard, fretful. “Let him mix my cup! There 's a fever inward, parcheth my throat.”
My Lord of Buckingham looked uneasy on my Lord of Salisbury. Then Sir John Holland behind the King's back said: “No doubt he consorteth with those low fellows, his friends, and maketh merry that the King is cozened.”
“Ribaude!” cried the boy starting from his seat. “I cozened?—I?—I?” He choked and turned half round, his hand on his sword.
Sir John went backward a pace, nevertheless he would not eat his words:—
“Wherefore should they not make merry, sire? They were fools an they wept. Nay, they have gone home to their wives to tell a marvellous tale. Here 's a king! do they cry. Let us but rise up and burn a manor-house or two, and take London Bridge,—and we may have what we will, even if 't be the King's crown.”
“Who bade me grant all?” cried Richard. “Who fled a-horseback into the fields for fear of that rabble at Mile End? What I did, was 't not done to save your coward skins, as much as to pleasure peasants?”
“O my liege! Who may know this, if not thy loyal servants?” said Salisbury, and bent his old knees. Whereupon those others knelt likewise, and Salisbury continued:—
“Thou hast wrought with a king-craft beyond thy years, sire. Thou hast saved England. But now must stern measures be taken, else are we like to be in worse case. When the people discover that they are—that they—are”—
“Tricked!” shouted Buckingham, laughing loud. “Tricked, my wise nephew! 'T were well to crush them neath the iron hand of fear, ere they find out this. So, I say, fall to!—Beat them down! Let blood flow! 'T is the one way!”
“Tricked?” the King repeated, frowning. “But I was honest.”
“Ay, my lord,” assured him Salisbury. “And so wert thou honest if a madman came to thee and gripped thy throat and said, 'Give me thy kingdom, King Richard,' and thou didst answer, 'Yea, freely I give it thee.' Natheless, the madman might not rule England. Neither may King Richard keep faith with him, for that were grievous wrong to Englishmen.”
The King laughed, as he were uncertain and ashamed; the colour came into his face. “'T is very raisonable,” he said slowly,—“but—I did not give them the kingdom,—I gave them—liberty.”
“My lord hath not forgot that concerning this matter Parliament hath a voice. It may well be Parliament shall give consent,—natheless”—Salisbury faltered, and Buckingham laughed very scornful.
“I am King!” cried Richard haughtily, but there was a question in his cry.
“My lord doth not forget,” said Salisbury, “as how in England the King taketh counsel with his people as concerning the welfare of the kingdom. Since the day of the first Edward, grandfather to my lord's grandfather, this is more and more a custom in England. Through[3] Parliament doth the King receive his grants, taxes, moneys for the King's expending. 'T were not well to make an enemy of Parliament. The court is straitened for moneys.”
Richard bit his lip and paced up and down, clinching his hands.
“Who said the King was free?” he cried. And on a sudden, very fierce: “If I am cozened, 't is not the peasants have cozened me.”
“O sire!” pleaded the old Earl, “think not of noblesse, nor of peasants, nor yet of thine own self,—but of all England, that thy grandfather Edward made a great nation. Wilt have it go to wrack in the hands of crazed villeins? Put down the revolt with a strong hand; then will they wake from their madness.”
“Cure them with blood, sire,” said Buckingham. “'T is the one way. Else were no man's head safe.”
“Beau sire!” cried Robert de Vere, entering, “the Mayor is here with that rebel, Jack Straw, was so fierce against the Flemings on Friday.”
Then came in Walworth, and Jack bound.
“What vermin is this?” asked Richard. “Have him forth,—displeaseth me. Faugh! How the fellow crawls!”
“Sire, I will confess,” Jack whined. “I will reveal all. Let me go free, sire! I went astray. Do but let me go free, and I 'll confess. 'T was not I was leader, sire, but Wat Tyler—and Stephen Fitzwarine”—
The King had sat listless, paying no heed, but at the name of Fitzwarine he lifted his head:—
“Take this liar to the courtyard and beat out 's brains!” he said. “Where is Etienne?”
“Sire, pardon!” now began Walworth, “but 't is very true I took Master Fitzwarine yester e'en by the side of the body of the traitor, Wat Tyler; and he made as to defend the body, and spake against certain great nobles of the realm.”
“Thou hast slain him?” screamed Richard,—“Etienne!—Etienne!”
“Nay, sire; for that I knew the King loved him. Natheless, for safety he is housed close. And here is his sword. With this same sword I strake off the head of Wat Tyler. My lord, I am thy faithful servant.”
“Ay,” Richard assented. “Prythee pardon, friend; I have not forgot that good turn thou did me and all England yesterday. But give me the sword. I will wear the sword that hewed off that traitor's head.”
“Sweet nephew,” said Buckingham, “'t is very certain Fitzwarine was likewise traitor.”
“Wilt thou forget those bold words he spake in this chamber, sire, three days agone?” cried Sir John Holland.
“Wilt thou forget that insult to madame the Queen, who must needs ride with his wanton that night on Blackheath?” sneered Robert de Vere, Earl of Oxford.
“O sire,” said Jack Straw soft,—“is 't known of these gentles as how Fitzwarine traversed England a year and more, in company of this same leman, stirring up revolt?”
There went up a shout of wrath and amaze from all those lordings:—
“Sire!” they cried, and every eye bent on the King craved vengeance.
“Pah!” said he. “'T is not question of Etienne, but of this worm that speweth venom. Let him be despatched forthwith!”
Then Jack Straw cast himself down on the floor and writhed on his belly as far as the King's feet, crying:—
“Mercy!—Grace!—Mercy!—Mercy!—I will reveal the plot. O sire, I will unfold the secrets of this Rising! Give me only my life, my life, sire, my life!”
“Well, take thy life! Thou shalt go free,—if thou tell all,” said Richard, with averted face. “Lift the fellow to his knees, thou,—yeoman guard,—and wipe his slobber off my shoes!”
So when Jack Straw was got to his knees and a stout yeoman on either side holding him up underneath his arm-pits, for that he was weak with fright and lack of food, he began to tell his tale.
“'T was in Long Will's cot o' Cornhill,—the Chantry Priest, him that writ the Vision concerning Piers Ploughman,—'t was in his house this plot was hatched.—Water, my lords!—Pity, my tongue is twice its true size!”
“Verily, I believe it is so,” said Richard; he would not look at Jack Straw, but sat with face turned to one side and eyes cast down. “Give him to drink,” he said.
The Mayor caught a silver flagon from the table and held it to Jack's lips, and when he had drunk, my Lord of Oxford ground the flagon beneath his heel and kicked it shapeless into a corner.
“'T was o' Cornhill, lordings, and Will was there, and the light o' love, his daughter, and Wat Tyler,—and—and—Fitzwarine”—
“And thou,” said Richard.
“But I was no leader in this Rising, sire. Wat would be leader,—a proud, wrathful man. And the traitor Fitzwarine hath evil entreated me oft, for that he would hold second place to Wat.”
“Where was John Ball?” asked Salisbury.
“John Ball also was there,” cried Jack very eager. “'T was he set us all agog in the beginning with his preaching and prating.”
“Get on! The plot!” Richard interrupted impatiently.
“Mercy, sire,—grace!—'T was agreed as how all knights, squires, and gentlemen should be slain, and the King made to lead this revolution. For this cause came Wat to Smithfield yester morn, to take the King. Mercy!—And until all England was risen up, the King should be called leader of the people. Then should we slay all the lords.—Ah, pity, gentles!—And when was none left to succour the King,—Wat Tyler would have had the King slain.—Sire, not I, but Wat!—Grace!—Pardon!”
Richard's face was still as stone. Jack Straw hung limp betwixt the yeomen, and well-nigh swooned, moaning the while.
Thrice Richard moved his lips and no sound came; at last he said, “Anon?”
“The—the—bishops after, sire, and all monks, canons,—rectors, to be slain. When no one survived, greater, stronger, or more knowing than ourselves, we should have made at our pleasure laws by which the subjects would be ruled.”
The room was all a-murmur with rage. Richard arose and signed to the guard to take up Jack Straw:—
“Take him to the place in the courtyard where Archbishop Simon was murdered,‘ he said in a cold voice. ’Rip out his guts, lop off his legs and arms. Let his head be borne throughout the city on a pole, and what remaineth cut in four pieces and send by fleet-foot messengers to north and south and east and west of this foul, traitorous England.”
Jack Straw heard with starting eyes. Then strength came to him and he shrieked and struggled:—
“Thy promise, sire, thy promise!—Thou didst give me life! Mercy!—Thy promise!”
“One thing 't would seem a king is free to do,” Richard answered him. “'T is to break promises.”
And old Salisbury sighed, and hung his head as he were suddenly grown feeble.
So Jack Straw was borne away to his death, and the nobles crowded around Richard, buzzing approval.
“And Fitzwarine, sire?” said Robert de Vere.
The boy pressed his hands against his eyes:—
“Have ye no pity, wolves?” he groaned.
“Natheless, sire, he is a traitor,” persisted Buckingham. “Is no time to set free traitors.”
“I have not set him free,” said Richard. “Let that suffice. If ye are thirsty for blood, go down into Cheapside; Mayor Walworth shall set up anew the block that was there, and strike off the heads of all such as were known to be murderers of Flemings. The widows of the dead weavers may wield the axe an they will. Here 's sport, my lords! Now, pray you leave me! I must make ready for this pilgrimage of vengeance mine uncle Buckingham counselleth.”
“The jongleuse and her father, sire?” ventured Sir John Holland.
“I may not take keep of women and poets,” Richard answered. “'T is my friends only that I betray.”