“Oh, mother, is 't naught to thee that England is free?” she cried. “Sing!—Laugh!—Kiss me, mother!—Be glad!”
“I 'll kiss thee,” Kitte said, and so did, thrice, smiling tenderly. “When thou and thy father are at peace, I am at peace likewise.”
There came a cloud in Calote's eyes. “But dost thou love none but my father and me?” she asked.
“I love mine own,” said Kitte. “Thy husband I shall love, and thy children. I am glad thy children will be free men.”
Calote clung to her mother. “And I had forgotten them!” she said. “Yet, meseems as every peasant in England were child of mine this day, so doth my heart beat for them. I 'm mother to all free English!—Ah!” She cast her arms above her head, and her face was shining.
“Thou art thy father's daughter,” Kitte said; but then she caught the maid to her breast: “Thy father's daughter,” quoth she, “but I 'm the woman that bore thee. Thou wilt not be always content to mother the world only.”
“There be a-many kinds of love,” Calote mused. “One while methought certain of those were forbidden to me,—but mayhap”—
And now there was a clatter of tongues in the house and they went in again out of the lane. Wat and Jack were come, and many with them. Some of these were roaring drunk, but Wat was sober enough, and Jack.
Will Langland wrote certain words on a parchment and handed to Wat.
“What 's this?” Wat asked; “Piers' bull?”