Calote set her finger upon his lips, but he drew away her hand:—
“How have I cried out upon the begging friars! But thrice in the month I sit and feed at my Lord Latimer's table,—my Lord Latimer that betrayeth the poor,—I and a friar we dip our fingers into the same dish for alms' sake. I live in London and on London both. I praise Piers Ploughman for his diligence, yet have I no wish to bow my back to his toil. I live like a loller. I am one of those that sits and swings 's heels, saying: 'I may not work, but I 'll pray for you, Piers.' Yet am I not minded to go hungry, neither. This is thy prophet, Wat. Saint Truth, she is my lady. Bethink thee, but she 's proud o' such a lover?”
Wat Tyler drew his hand across his eyes, there was water in them. “Beshrew me, but I do love thee,” he said. “Natheless, I believe thou 'rt mad; mad of thy wrongs. God! I could slay and slay and slay! I 'm thirsty.”
“Poor Wat—poor Wat!” said Langland. “'T is not all ambition with thee, I know well.—But wrongs? My wrongs? Yea, truly they are mine, for I 've made them.”
“'T is the times makes them!” muttered Wat; “the times that do beset us round with custom and circumstance, till there 's no help for 't but to live lies. Thou canst not scape.”
“Yea, I 'm in a net, but may I not tear with beak and claw? Yet I do not so. And still thou believest on me?”
“Thou art truest man alive!” said Wat.
“Yet I tell thee in one breath the ploughman shall show the people the way to truth,—and next breath, the king's the leader.—What sayest thou; that I 'm mad? Which word is the mad word,—rede me which?”
Then Calote left her father's knee and came and stood in their midst. Her cheeks were of the colour of scarlet, her eyes very bright.
“Hearken!” she said. “'T is both of them a true word. The King is our leader, shall learn of the ploughman. The King and the ploughman is friends together. The King shall right our wrongs, the ploughman leading him to truth.” And she told them of Richard.