He spoke as to himself,—moodily; but Stephen answered at his elbow:—
“The French are not like to venture so far as London.”
“England hath need to be afeared o' them that's nearer home than the French,” returned the poet, and went on across the bridge.
In Southwark a shorter way led through a street of ill-repute, and here a young harlot plucked Stephen by his hanging sleeve and looked on him, and smiled. Langland, out of the corner of his eye, saw, yet took no notice. But the squire, taking a piece of silver from his purse, gave it into the girl's hand, saying:—
“Thine is a poor trade. I am sorry for thee.”
And the girl hung her head; and presently when they looked back they saw that she sat on a doorstone, sobbing.
“England is in a sad way,” said Stephen, “with an old king far gone in his dotage, and a woman like Alice Perrers to 's mistress. When young blood cometh to the throne, I trow such-like disgrace as this will be swept away.”
“Do you so?” said Langland grimly. “Sir, these stews are owned of the Bishop of Winchester; they are a valuable property.”
“William Wykeham!” cried the squire; “that pious man, friend to my godfather! he that goeth about to found the new college in Oxford?”
“Even so,” said Langland. “Yet I do him a small injustice; a part of these houses is owned of Walworth the fishmonger.”