“John Ball?” said Stephen.
“Alack, he was ta'en at Coventry and, the King holding assize at Saint Albans with the Lord Chief Justice, he was sent thither and adjudged.—He 's dead. 'T was in July.”
“And the flame 's snuffed out?”
“It flickers here and there. The King hath made peace with his uncle Gaunt, who is set to keep the peace and stamp out the fire in the north. In August the King came from Reading.”
“What is now? I 've lost count.”
“Now is September, son, and yesterday came word of riot in Salisbury marketplace.”
“I mind me o' Salisbury marketplace,” smiled Stephen, sad. “Calote and I, we were there afore we went down into Devon. Tell me now of Calote.”
“She bade me say to thee, Fitzwarine, think no more o' Calote. 'T is no avail. Thou art gentleman, beloved of the King. Yea, we do believe he doth love thee, else had he slain thee long since. 'T was youth's folly, thy part in the Rising,—Calote saith,—these prisoned months have shown thee what 's to do. Thy place is with gentlefolk. The King shall pardon thee. Forget Calote, she saith.”
“Let Calote forget Stephen Fitzwarine an she will,” he answered, “but I am of the Fellowship.”
“Alas, there is no Fellowship more,” sighed Langland.