“The people of England is a loyal people,” said Langland, “and slow witted, loth to swallow a new thought.”
“'T is no new thought,” cried Wat in a great passion. “Hast thou not sung it like a gnat in our ear these many years? By Christ, Will, but I 'm past patience with thee! Wilt thou blow hot and cold? Cease thy lies, if lies they be; but if thou say soth, act on 't!”
“Though thou art mazed, Wat, yet art thou not more mazed than I,” said Long Will wearily.
“I am not mazed,” quoth Wat; “I see right clear. The nobles are our oppressors, and 't is us poor folk pay. We till their fields, fight their battles, give good money for their French war. Wilt thou tell us to-day a tale of the ploughman that ruleth the kingdom, and to-morrow prate of kings?”
“Thou art no ploughman, Wat,” said Long Will, “but an artisan, well-to-do, able to pay head-money to the bailiff and so be quit of the manor when thou wilt to ply thy trade elsewhere.”
“A quibble! A poor quibble!” Wat retorted. “With copying of charters and drawing of wills thou 'rt tainted; thou 'rt half man o' law; thou 'rt neither fish nor flesh, nor good red herring.”
“I marvel thou hast not found me out afore,” said Langland quietly. “Hast thou not heard me rail right prettily, many a time, against those priests that come to London to earn silver by singing prayers for the dead,—a lazy life; when they might, an they would, be a-starving in country villages for the sake o' the souls o' living poor wights that need comfort and counsel? Let God take care o' the dead, say I, and if a man pray for those, let him pray for love's sake. Yet here be I a chantry clerk in London,—I, that hold it akin to simony to take money for such-like Masses. And there 's silver in my pouch; not much,—for I 've not had the singing o' prayers for the Black Prince,—yet silver: 't comes off black on my fingers.”
“Father!” cried Calote, and clasped him round his neck; but he paid her no heed.
“Am I of those, the disciples of John Wyclif, that begin to go about and whisper that priests may marry without sin? Nay,—though I be in accord somewhat with his doctrines of poverty,—conscience hath not assoiled me that I am married, and my daughter sits on my knee.”
“Ah, Will!” said Kitte, and she arose heavily and went out of the room.