Y-Robed in Russet
S naught to do," said Calote. “My life is like an empty house.”
And if her father admonished her that she fill it, she answered him: “I am too poor. My richesse is spent.”
So the summer waned, and Richard's red vengeance began to pale. The people and the King alike sickened of blood. Here and there a man was pardoned. Those two aldermen that bade the peasants come into London by the Bridge and Ald Gate in June were let go free.
“If thou canst come at the King, he will surely set free Stephen Fitzwarine,‘ urged Will. ’'Steadfast' is never Richard's watchword, natheless he doth not willingly harm his friends. He 'll do them kindness in secret, if he may not openly.”
“How may I endure to live out the length of my days to my life's end?” sighed Calote. “Is naught to do.”
Nevertheless, about this time she began to be seen about the gates of the Palace at Westminster, and craved leave to enter; but the guards made mock of her and drove her away. As oft as thrice in the week they did this, but she came again.
One day, 't was October's end and presently Parliament would be met together at Westminster, Calote stood on London Bridge, on the drawbridge, and saw a barge come down Thames. And when the barge was rowed beneath the drawbridge, Calote looked down, and the King sat therein with madame his mother, and certain lords and ladies of the court. One of these was Godiyeva.
The folk on the bridge peered over, and there was muttering, for the people no longer loved the King.
“Goeth to Tower for a night and a day to discover what prisoners be harboured therein and to consider their case,” said one, and spat in the water.
Calote turned about and ran back to London, and so on to the Tower gate. An hour she waited, and then came forth Stephen's gaoler.
“Nay, I will bear no more messages to prisoners,” said that man very rough, when she had caught his arm. “The King 's within. There 'll be a lopping of heads, and mine own wags very loose o' my neck.”
“To no prisoner, good brother,” pleaded Calote, “but to a fair lady; Godiyeva 's her name, madame's waiting-woman.”
The gaoler grunted, and stood uncertain.
“Do but say this,—there 's a jongleuse craveth speech of her, a jongleuse that served her once.”
He grunted yet more loud and went within.
After a little while he came again and a page with him, who led Calote across the outer and inner ward to the keep, and so by narrow ways and steep stairs to a turret chamber where sat the Lady Godiyeva.
“Lady,” said Calote, “hast thou forgot one night in Yorkshire, at thy manor-house?”
“Mine old father is dead,” Godiyeva answered, “and Eleyne, my sister, is lady o' the manor,—but I have not forgot.”
“Lady,—Madame Godiyeva, I would come at King Richard. Have a boon to crave, a token to deliver.”
Godiyeva bent her eyes, thoughtful, stern, upon the maid: “A token to deliver?‘ quoth she. ’In Yorkshire thou didst wear a dagger, I saw 't, that night.”
“Dost fear I 'll kill the King?” Calote smiled, very sad. “Nay,—here 's the dagger; keep it!”
“'T is Master Fitzwarine's crest,” said Godiyeva.
“Ay, lady, he 's my love!—Lies low in dungeon. Here 's my boon.”
“This is a strange matter,” mused Godiyeva, “for that Etienne Fitzwarine is esquire and very parfait gentleman, in all the court was none so true of his word, and so courteous to ladies. But this is a common wench, a jongleuse.—Natheless, I heard him how he said, 'This damosel is promised to be my wedded wife.'—Come, I 'll pay my debt!”
Behind the arras of a little door they stood and listened. There was no sound. Then Godiyeva put her eye to the edge of the arras.
“He is alone,” she said. “Go in!”
Richard stood in a window. He held a little picture in his hand, and looked on it smiling. Calote, barefoot, stepped noiseless over the floor. Godiyeva, behind the arras, coughed.
“Cœur de joie!” cried Richard, staring. But when he saw who it was that knelt, gold-haired, before him, he went white and covered his eyes.
“I would forget!” he said, “I would forget! 'T is overpast!—Shall a king never think on joyful things? Ah, give me leave to tune my thoughts to love! These six months past I 've hearkened to hatred. Was never king so meek. But now there 's a marriage toward. Wilt thou have me think on murders,—and I take a wife in January?”
“Nay,—not on murders, sire,—on pardon and peace.”
His moody face cleared slow,—“Is 't an omen?” he questioned, and, stretching forth his hand with the picture, “See! here 's the lady shall be Queen of England one day,—and queens are merciful. There 's a tale of my grandmother, Philippa, how she saved the burgesses of Calais,—and they were six. Here 's but only one, and he was my childhood's friend.—She hath a wondrous pleading eye,—my lady.—'T is an omen.” He went to a table and wrote somewhat on a parchment; then clapped his hands, and to the page that entered, said:—
“Bear this hastily to the warden of the Tower.”
“Gramerci! Sire!” whispered Calote, and bowed her head on her knees so that her long hair lay on the ground at the King's feet as 't were a pool of sunshine.
“I ever meant to set him free—when the noblesse had forgot,” said Richard huskily. “He must depart in secret, for a little while. And now may I forget murder and turn me to merriment. The Rising 's pricked flat. I will never remember it more.”
“And dost thou willingly forget that day the people blessed thee for thy gifts of freedom and grace, sire? Dost thou willingly forget that day thou wast bravest man in England,—and king?”
“Hush!—Hush!” he cried. “Kings may not hearken to truth,—'t is sure confusion.”
“Here 's the horn, sire, wherewith I gathered the folk into fellowship.” Calote untied the bag that hung from her neck.
“O thou mischief-maker!” said Richard to his hunting-horn. “Thou betrayer unto foolishness! Thou shalt be sold to buy my wedding garment.”
But now was the arras pushed aside, and Stephen came in, and his gaoler that grinned very joyous.
Calote heard. And then she had arisen to her feet, and turned her back upon the King. And Stephen kissed her hair, and her two hands that rested on his shoulders; but her face was hid.
“O my love, my lady!” said Stephen. And presently, “'T is a wondrous fair world!”
She lifted her face to speak, but he was waiting for her lips.
The gaoler made a happy clucking noise.
Richard laughed merrily. “Cœur de joie!” quoth he, “but I 'll kiss also!” and he kissed the little picture.
“'T behooves us give thanks to the King,” whispered Calote. Her face was hid anew, and she spake to her love's heart that leaped against his courtepy.
Then they two turned them, hand in hand, and the King cried out, “A-a-ah!—How art thou pale!—Etienne!”
Stephen bent his knee: “Sire,” he said, “wa-was nothing hid from thee;—thou knewest all th-things ever I did in that Rising. I was true to King Richard.”
“This is thy sword, Etienne,” quoth the King. “These many months it hath hung at my side. Take it again!”
Stephen looked on the sword, sombre, slow. “My forefathers, they were men of might,‘ he said. ’There were three died in the Holy Land doing battle with the Paynim. The Scots slew my grandfather in fair fight. My father fell in France, in the last Edward's quarrel. Next after England, the King, and my lady, I have loved my sword.”
He stretched forth his hands and took it. “Oh, thou bright blade, what hosts of infidels and dastard French, what enemies to Truth and Richard, methought I 'd slay! And thou hast drunk the blood of one man only, a dead man, that gave his life for England's sake and the people. Thou wert maiden, and they dishonoured thee.”
And Stephen had snapped his sword in twain across his knee.
“This is the sword that hewed Wat Tyler's head off his body,” he said. “I have done with swords. Thy Majesté hath noblesse a plenty to serve thee; 't was proven in June, when Wat Tyler fell. I might not count the sword-thrusts at that time. But of common folk, peasants and labourers, there is a dearth in England. And wherefore this is so, none knoweth better than thou, sire.”
Richard stirred, restless: “'T is the old Etienne, was never afeared to find fault with his king,” said he, and would have made a jest of this matter, but laughter came not at his bidding.
“Thou hast need of loyal labourers, sire. So will I serve thee. If Saint Francis set his hands to labour, so may Stephen Fitzwarine, and withouten shame.”
“By the Rood!” cried Richard. “Thou art lord of a manor;—born into this condition. These things be beyond man to change. They are appointed of High God.”
“Natheless, God helping me, these things shall be changed, sire. Presently, o' my manor, mayst thou see a-many free labourers tilling each man his own field. And Stephen Fitzwarine shall be one.”
“Thou 'rt mad!” screamed the King. “Dungeon hath darkened thy wits.”
“So methought, sire,” said the gaoler, “but hath more wits than most,—hath not turned a hair.”
“Now, by Saint Thomas of Canterbury!” Richard shouted, “I—I—nay,—I 've signed thy pardon,—I 'll keep faith,—this once.”
Then his humour changed and he began to laugh very loud:—
“Go free! Turn peasant an thou wilt! But as concerning thy land, King Richard is God's anointed, shall look to his stewardship. I will keep custom for Christ's sake. Wherefore is thy manor confiscate, and the villeins that dwell thereon, to the King.”—He set his lips in a grim smile: “Who saith Richard is not a good provisor, against his wedding day?”
The gaoler pushed Stephen and Calote out of the room and down the stair:—
“Best begone,” quoth he, “hath been known to change his mind,” and he shut them out by a postern.
They went and sat on the side of Saint Catherine's Hill that looked on Thames. A long while they sat there, holding each other's hand, smiling each into other's eyes, saying little. But Stephen said:—
“Thou 'rt mine!”
And Calote said:—
“Methought this love was not for me!”
Her feet were bare, her kirtle frayed, and all their worldly goods was a penny the gaoler had thrust in Stephen's hand. Stephen laughed, and tossed the penny and caught it on the back of his hand. Then Calote laughed also, and said she, shaking her head and smiling:—
“'T is not true that failure lieth in wait all along life's way?” and a question grew in her eyes, and the smile faded.
He kissed her gray eyes where the shadows hovered:—
“What 's to fail?” quoth he.
“So saith my father,” she made answer. “Yet meseems I must ever see the Archbishop's head above London Bridge,—and next day Wat's. Was not this failure?”
“Sweet heart,” said Stephen, “I have been in prison a many months, and concerning éternité I have learned a little. W-Wat Tyler failed to be King of England. But thou and I, and those others, we did not arise up to make W-Wat Tyler king. Dost believe there liveth to-day a villein in England ho-ho-holdeth 't is righteous a man shall be bond-servant to another against his own will? Thou mayst scourge a man to silence,—but he 'll think his thought;—yea, and wh-whisper it to 's children.—We did not fail.”
Then Stephen took his love's face betwixt his hands, and kissed her brow and eyes and lips:—
“I had a dream that I should dress thee in silk, pearl-broidered, and a veil of silver. But now am I a landless man; must labour with my two hands for daily bread. Natheless, am I tied to no man's manor,—may sell my labour where I will. D-dost sigh for the dream, sweet heart, and to be called Madame? Be advised in time,—a man 's ofttimes endurable if his infirmity 's shrouded in good Flemish broadcloth, but if he be naked as a needle, then must he be a man indeed—to pass.”
“Now, prythee, how is 't honour to a maid if her lord lift her up to his estate?‘ said Calote. ’But if he condescend and clothe him in her coat-armour, then is she honoured in vérité.”
“In Yorkshire, mayhap I 'll find shepherding with Diggon. Wilt go thither?” Stephen asked her.
And when she had answered him Yea, he laughed soft, and sang:—
"Then I 'll put off my silken coat,
And all my garments gay.
Lend me thy ragged russet gown,
For that 's my best array.
Ohé!
For that's my best array."
EPILOGUE
OVE is leche of lyf."
The Vision Concerning Piers Plowman.
B. Passus I.