Everyman, I will go with thee, and be thy guide,
In thy most need to go by thy side.

This is No. 328 of Everyman's Library. A list of authors and their works in this series will be found at the end of this volume. The publishers will be pleased to send freely to all applicants a separate, annotated list of the Library.

J. M. DENT & SONS LIMITED
10-13 BEDFORD STREET LONDON W.C.2

E. P. DUTTON & CO. INC.
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EVERYMAN'S LIBRARY

EDITED BY ERNEST RHYS

FICTION

LONG WILL

BY FLORENCE CONVERSE

All rights reserved
Made in Great Britain
at The Temple Press Letchworth
and decorated by Eric Ravilious
for
J. M. Dent & Sons Ltd.
Aldine House Bedford St. London
First Published in this Edition 1908
Reprinted 1911, 1917, 1919, 1923, 1926
1929, 1933

EDITOR'S NOTE

This story forms a very tempting by-way into the old English life and the contemporary literature which gave us Chaucer's Canterbury Tales and Langland's Vision of Piers Plowman. It deals with those poets and with many figures of the fourteenth century whose names still ring like proverbs in the twentieth—Wat Tyler and Jack Straw, John Wycliff, John of Gaunt, and Richard II.—and it summons them to real life in that antique looking-glass of history which is romance. It begins in its prologue very near the evil day of the Black Death, when the fourteenth century had about half run its course; and in its epilogue it brings us to the year when the two poets died, barely surviving the century they had expressed in its gaiety and its great trouble, as no other century has ever been interpreted. To read the story without wishing to read Chaucer and Piers Plowman is impossible, and if a book may be judged by its art in provoking a new interest in other and older books, then this is one of an uncommon quality. First published in 1903, it has already won a critical audience, and it goes out now in a second edition to appeal to a still wider public here and in America.

April 1908.

To ..........

Lo, here is felawschipe:
One fayth to holde,
One truth to speake,
One wrong to wreke,
One loving-cuppe to syppe,
And to dippe
In one disshe faithfullich,
As lamkins of one folde.
Either for other to suffre alle thing.
One songe to sing
In swete accord and maken melodye.
Right-so thou and I good-fellowes be:
Now God us thee!

HY I move this matere is moste for the pore,
For in her lyknesse owre lord ofte hath ben y-knowe."

The Vision Concerning Piers Plowman.
B. Passus XI.

Contents

PROLOGUE

am Ymagynatyf,' quod he, 'idel was I nevere.'"

The Vision Concerning Piers Plowman.
B. Passus XII.

I

The Lark and the Cuckoo

HERE were a many singers on the hill-top. They twittered in the gorse; they whistled from the old hawthorn tree, amid the white may; they sprang to heaven, shaking off melody in their flight; and one, russet-clad, lay at his length against the green slope, murmuring English in his throat.

“'T was in a May morning,” he said, “'T was in a May morning,”—and he loitered over the words and drew out the “morwening” very long and sweet. Then, because there was a singing mote of a lark in the misty blue above him, his own song dropped back into his breast, and he waited.

He was young and lank, and his hair was yellow-red. He followed the lark up into the bright heaven with wide, unblinking eyes. The bird fell to earth; somewhere unseen a cuckoo chanted. Three sheep on the brow of the hill moved forward, slowly feeding.

“'T was on a May morning, on the Ma'vern Hills,” whispered the singer, “on the Ma'vern Hills;” and he fell in a dream.

The Great Hill of the Malverns stood over against the dreamer, a bare, up-climbing majesty, a vasty cone, making its goal in long green strides. Below, a wrinkle hinted a pass, and on the high flat saddle between the Great Hill and the Small, the grass was trodden, albeit not worn away. A bell called softly from a valley hidden eastward; and up from the southwest, slantwise across a corner of the hill, a child came running into the dream, a gay lad in scarlet hosen and a green short coat, and shoes of fine leather. His eyes made a wonderment in his face, but his lips curled a smile at the wonder. A dark elf-lock danced on his forehead.

The dreamer moved no whit, but waited, level-eyed.

“What be these tricks?” cried the child in a voice betwixt a laugh and a gasp. “I saw thee from yonder hill, and thou wert distant a day's journey. Then the bell rang, and lo! I am here before the clapper 's swung to rest.”

He in the russet smiled, but answered nothing.

The little lad looked down and studied him. “I 've missed my way,” he said.

“What is thy way?”

“'T was the way o' the hunt, but marry, now 't is the way of a good dinner,—and that 's a short road to the Priory. I am of Prince Lionel's train.”

“Ay,” returned the other, as who should say, “No need to tell me that;” and he added presently, “The hunt is below in the King's Forest; how art thou strayed? Thou 'rt midway the top o' the Great Hill.”

The child laughed, but, though his eyes were merry, yet were they shy, and the red mounted to his brow. He came a pace nearer.

“I made a little rondel to my lady; and it must be as my thought flew up, so clomb my feet likewise, and I was not aware.”

He plaited his fingers in his belt and flushed a deeper red, half proud and half dismayed of his confession. “I trust thee for a secret man, shepherd,” he added.

The eyes of the dreamer laughed, but his lips were circumspect. He sat up and nursed his knee with his two long arms.

“Ay, of a truth, a secret man, young master; but no shepherd,” he answered.

The little lad eyed him, and questioned with a child's simplicity, “What art thou, then?”

The youth looked onward to the Great Hill. “I know not, yet,” he said.

So for a little space he sat, forgetful of his questioner, until the child came close and sat beside him, laying one hand upon his arm and looking up to his face thoughtfully.

“Thou long brown man, it may be thou 'rt a poet,” he said at last.

“It may well be,” the dreamer acquiesced, and never turned his eyes from the green hill.

“In London, at the court of the king, there be poets,” the child continued; “but thou art of quite other fashion. Who is thy lady-love?”

“Saint Truth,” the brown boy answered gravely.

“Saint—Truth!” repeated the child; “and is she dead, then?”

“Nay, I trow not; God forbid!”

“I marvel that thy lady chide thee not for thy mean apparel. In London is not a friar plays his wanton lute beneath a chamber window but he goeth better clad than thou.”

“Hark you, young master, I follow not the friars!” the dreamer cried with a stern lip. “And for my lady, she careth for naught but that my coat be honestly come by. So far as I may discover, she hath not her abode in the king's palace.”

“Forsooth, a strange lady!” said the child; and then, leaning his head against that other's shoulder, “Poet, tell me a tale.”

“I pipe not for lordings, little master,” the youth returned, anger yet burning in his eyes.

“Nay, then, I 'm no lord,” laughed the child; “my father is a vintner in London. He hath got me in Prince Lionel's household by favour of the king; for that the king loveth his merchants of the city; and well he may, my father saith. There be others, lordings, among the children of the household; but I am none. I am a plain man like to thee, poet.”

The dreamer shook his head with a mournful smile. “Not so close to the soil, master merchant, not so close to the soil. I smell o' the furrow.”

“Nay, I 'm no merchant, neither,” the lad protested. “Hark in thine ear, thou long brown stranger,—and I 'll call thee brother! My lady saith I 'll be a poet. She 's a most wise and lovely lady. Come,—tell me a tale!”

“I am no troubadour,” sighed the brown youth; “I know one tale only, and that is over long for a summer day.”

But the child was angered; his eyes flashed, and he clenched one hand and flung it backward, menacing:—

“I 'll believe thou mockest me,” he cried. “Lying tongue! No poet thou, but a lazy hind.”

Then the gray, smouldering eyes of the dreamer shot fire, and a long brown arm jerked the lad to his knees.

“I tell no lies. My lady is Saint Truth,” the dreamer said. “Poet or no poet, as thou wilt, I 'll not gainsay thee. But a truthteller ever.”

A little lamb that strayed near by looked up with startled face, and scampered down the hill, crying “Ba-a-a!” The huntsman's note came winding up from the green depths. The child arose and dusted his knees.

“There be poets that yet lie amazingly,—and boast thereof,” he observed shrewdly; “but now I rede thy riddle of Saint Truth. 'T is a sweet jest. I love thee for it, and by that I know thee for a poet. Tell me thy tale, and we 'll be friends again. Of a surety thou art no hind; Prince Lionel's self is not more haughty of mien than thou. Sing then, poet,—smile!”

The dreamer cleared his brow but half unwillingly: “Who could not choose but smile on such a teasing lad?” he asked; and then, "My tale is but begun, and what the end shall be, or whether there be an end,—who shall say? Hearken!

"In a summer season when soft was the sun,
I set me in a shepherd's coat as I a shepherd were;
In the habit of a hermit, yet unholy of works,
Wandered I wide in this world wonders to hear.
But in a May morning on Malvern Hills
There befel me a wonder, wonderful methought it;
I was weary of wandering and went me to rest
Under a broad bank by a burn side,
And as I lay and leaned and looked on the waters,
I slumbered in a sleep"—

“No, no! not thus, not thus!” cried out the child on a sudden; “never thus! An thou come to court they 'll not hearken thy long slow measures. Thou shalt make thy verses the French way, with rhyme. Needs must thou learn this manner of the French ere thou come to court.”

“I have no mind to come to court,” the dreamer answered. “I have no mind to learn the manner of the French. There be a many souls in England that know not such light songs. It is for them I sing,—for the poor folk in cots. Think you that a poet may sing only for kings?”

“Nay, I trow he singeth neither for kings, nor for any manner wight, but for his own soul's health,‘ quoth the child right solemnly; ’and yet, 't were well for him if he have the good will of a king. My rhymes will not match an my belly be empty. But tell on thy tale. I like thine old fashion of singing.”

And he listened the while the poet told of a high tower called Truth, and an evil place to the north, where the devil dwelleth,—and a great plain between. And here foregathered all kind of people that ever were in this world,—pardoners, and merchants, and knights, and friars, and cooks crying “Hot pies—hot!”—and fine ladies. And all these listened to Repentance that preached them a sermon.

The child laughed out aloud. “Thy men are puppets, O poet!” he cried. “Where is the breath of life in them? Didst never see a man, that thou canst make him so like to a wooden doll? The stone abbot down yonder, on his tomb in the Priory, is more alive than these. Hast seen the Miracle Play in Paul's Churchyard at Whitsuntide? There will be a crowd alive for thee. Hast never seen the 'prentices breaking each other his pate of a holiday in London streets? There be men! Thine are a string o' names my lord Bishop might be a-reading before the altar to shame their owners.”

“Men be but little more than names for me, young master. I dwell among the hills. I know the sheep, the birds I know,—and Brother Owyn in the Priory, that learned me to sing.”

Again the child laughed. “And wilt thou sing o' the bare hill-tops, and the sheep? Poets must sing of a fair launde where flowrets blossom,—of a green pleasaunce,—of my lady's garden. But here 's a waste! What wilt find for a song? And under, in the King's Forest, 't is a fearsome place at nightfall. Come thou to court, to London, brother. I 'll show thee the king's gardens. I 'll show thee men! I 'll teach thee the French manner.”

A lark ran up the sky a-caroling, and the child and the dreamer waited with their two heads thrown backward, watching. Then, when the bird was nested, the child leaped up and waved his little arms, his eyes shone, and “I 'll sing like to that one,” he cried; “I 'll soar very high, and sing, and sing, the world beneath me one ear to hearken. Let us be larks, brother!”

But the dreamer shook his head. “I am the cuckoo. I sing but two notes, and them over and over,” he answered mournfully.

The little lad caught up the fantasy and played with it betwixt his ripples of sweet laughter. “A brown bird, and it singeth hid,—two soft and lovely notes. Nay, come thou to London and turn nightingale.”

“Alas!” said the dreamer, and again, “Alas!”

And the Priory bell rang soft in the valley, ten clear strokes.

“Dinner!” exclaimed the child, “and my lady's rondel lacking of three rhymes!”

“Yon 's the pass,” said the dreamer, “between the two hills. 'T is a straight road.”

“Ay, and a long one, is 't? And the monks feed fast, and clean the platter.”

“Nay, 't is nearer than thou deem'st. Thy legs will carry thee to the gate ere the first dish is empty. The mist that is ever on Ma'vern Hills, even though the sun shine, maketh a near thing stand afar off. Haste thee! And hearken; to-night, an thou 'lt have a merry tale of a Green Knight and Sir Gawaine of Arthur's Court, see thou beseech Brother Owyn. Himself hath been a knight one while.”

The lad was twinkling down the pass, when he turned about, and “God keep thee, cuckoo!” quoth he.

“God keep thee, little lark!” said the dreamer.

II

The Hills

HERE are four chief hills of the Malverns: a round hill, a high hill, a long hill, and a green deep-furrowed stronghold whither the desperate Britons withdrew them once on a time, shrinking within the greedy clutch of Rome. And here they beaconed the warning to their fellows in the plain; and here they fought the losing battle, and here, in the grassy upward-circling trenches, they laid them down to sleep their last sleep.

But of these and their well-nigh forgotten defeat the dreamer recked little as he lay on the sun-warmed slope of the Round Hill. He looked inward, as dreamers will; and onward, as dreamers should; but backward, not yet. The past was a bit of yellow parchment at the bottom of an oak chest in the scriptorium of Malvern Priory. The dreamer had touched it reverently, as one touches a dead thing, and laid it away again. And Brother Owyn, looking on, had sighed. He too had his dreams, but they came out of the joy and the sorrow that lay at his back. Brother Owyn had chosen to live as one dead, but he could not slay his past.

“I will sing of life that is, and is to come. I will prophesy!” said the dreamer to Brother Owyn; and he went forth on the hills to wait for the Still Small Voice. But a little child came upon him and convicted him of his youth; and he was left on the hillside troubled, discomfited, uncertain.

So, presently, he arose and skirted the slope to the flat saddle, and set his face toward the summit of the Great Hill, and climbed up thither with the long steady stride of one who knows the ground beneath his feet. Straight up he went, a smooth green way for the most part, with bare bones of rock breaking through here and there. He had his world before him at the top, his little world of hill and river and plain, all misty dim about the edges, or where the edges must have been, all blue with the haze, and something like the sea. Close under the hill the brown church of the Priory stood up proudly, out of the midst of its lesser halls, its kitchen and guesten house. And all round and about the King's Forest billowed away into the mist, east and south. Neglected tillage, here and there a farm cut out of woodland, bubbled up on little low near hills to westward; and in the north,—its roof a sun-glance and its tower a shadow,—the cathedral of Worcester rose, very far, very faint behind the veil of Malvern mist,—and yet, a wonder in the plain.

The dreamer looked to east and west and north, and down the ridge of the little range to the south; and then, because it was given him to know that he should go away and leave all this, and mayhap never look on it again, he lay down with his face in the short grass, shutting out all; and so was silent a long while.

The wind blew strong from the northeast, lifting his heavy hair; the Priory bell rang eleven; and the dreamer arose and went onward along the ridge, Hereford way. He did not cease to speak in a low brooding voice as he strode, for that was his solitary hill-fashion; and if ever he was at pause in the way he cast out his arms to right and to left, or clasped them on his breast; or he would lift up his young troubled face to the sky.

“O my lady, Saint Truth,” he murmured, “I am not afraid,—but of myself only.” And he went more slow, sinking his head on his breast.

“There be two kind of poets: and one dwelleth in monastery and maketh long tales of saints, or it may be he furbisheth old matter of history. But this is not my place. And another sort abideth in a king's palace; he is a jongleur, and deviseth merry tales of love, and adventure of war, to please the ladies in hall. But I am not of these neither.”

Then after a little space the dreamer flung out his right hand and spoke aloud with a great passion, saying:—

“The people are dead of the pestilence, and they that live will die, for they starve and the lord of the manor refuseth them bread. But how shall one man drive three ploughs? His wife hungers and his sons are born dead. Who shall help him?”

And hereupon he smiled, but a sound as of tears was in his voice, and—

“Lo! here is matter for a new song!” cried he; “Shall I sing it, Dame Truth,—shall I sing it? Yea, the little lad spake well. For my soul's health I will.”

He drew his arm across his eyes, as who should clear away a mist. “Now lead me down into the valley, O Truth, where the world dwelleth! I will follow. I will come down from the hill-top. Men shall be more than a name for me before I am done. A child hath found me out.”

He had gone over upon the west side of the ridge a little way, and between him and the pearl-tinged rampart of the Welsh mountains were many little hills and cup-like valleys; and in a valley of these a single ploughman ploughed. And the midday sun was hot.

The dreamer drew in his breath a long way, a-gazing; but then he lifted an arm straight out and pointed with his finger. “Yon 's a man,” he said, “no name only, but a very man; my bloody brother. Now answer for me, Peter, that I do know thee, body and soul. Have I not dwelled with thee? Did I not cover up thy face when thou wert dead? Oh, here 's a very simple and true piece of God's handicraft I 've watched in the making. Little lad, an I chose to sing o' the ploughman thou 'lt never say puppet! An' I chose—An' I chose?—A-ah! Here 's no choosing! I see! I see!”

And anon, in the glory of that vision, he forgot himself, and cried out: “Lord, send a great singer to sing this song!”

He stood with both his arms flung up to heaven, and his head went backward as at that other time when he had watched the lark. The brightness of the noonday sky, and something inward, made his face to shine. So, for a moment, he rested, and then plunged upward, forward, on the ridge again, swiftly, with a flying motion in his skirts. But for the rest of that day, until the hour came when he kneeled down to pray, his lips were sealed; only his wide, unwavering eyes spake the vision.

The sky thickened toward afternoon, and the dreamer, wandering in the valley to the southwest of the Long Hill, had got beyond the sound of the Priory bell. In the wood where he lay the ground was blue with hyacinths; the cuckoo called, and called, and called again; and the thrush quavered. When he came out into the open the sun hung low in the west, a dull red ball, mist-swathed; and presently it was snuffed out and the dreamer was circling up and up in the green trenches of the British camp. Night, and a struggling, cloud-baffled moon found him at the summit, on his knees, facing east; and now he prayed very earnestly.

“Lord Jesus, Prince of poor men, let me be thy jongleur, for all poor men's sake! With their misfortune am I right well acquaint. I have dwelled in their cots. I have eat of their hard bread of pease. How shall the king know this, that sleepeth within silken curtains? But kings give ear to a poet; ladies weep over a sad tale in hall. Who shall sing this song if not I? Lord, I will go forth and learn a way to set these matters straight. I will sing this in my song: how to live well, so that poor men be not so cast down, as now they are. Sweet Jesu, I will not cease to sing this one song. I will tell my tale, and the king shall find a way to succour his poor men. Now glory be to God, and praise and thanksgiving, that He hath given me a vision. For my brother's sake I sing; he is dumb; he is so fast in prison that he cannot get forth; but I will sing beneath his window, and the Lord shall show him a way. The poor man shall kiss the king and eat at his high table. Thanks be to God, and glory and praise! O Jesu, God the Word, make my whisper a mighty voice! Bless me, Lord; bless thy singer!”

And now the dreamer crossed himself and went down over the edge and lay in a trench, sleeping and waking the night through.

III

Kingdoms Not of This World

ROTHER Owyn sat in the cloister-garth in the shadow of the sun-dial, his little colour-pots on a flat stone beside him, his vellum on a board across his knees. A ring of narcissus-flowers, close-planted round the sun-dial, starred the edge of his black gown.

Brother Owyn was a poet, and the prior of Malvern had found this out. When less favoured brothers grumbled the abbot chid them with, “What need hath a copy-clerk of sunshine and fair flowers to fresh his wit,—that hath no wit? But how may a true poet, and a right true romancer, make his melody with the din of a dozen schoolboys knocking at his ear?” And for this cause did Brother Owyn sit with his feet among the narcissus-flowers.

Here he had written at the bidding of the prior—but this prior was a dull man—two homilies: the one concerning Chastity, which was a virtue wherein Brother Owyn excelled,—and this the prior knew, for he had confessed him; the other concerning Patience, wherein Brother Owyn excelled not at all, and none knew this better than himself,—albeit he passed for a patient man. But, indeed, there was little known of Brother Owyn among the brethren. They said that no man might so tell the stormy mishap of Jonah, except he had sailed the sea; and no man might so sing Belshazzar's Feast except he had dined in a king's palace; and when they had heard the tale of Sir Gawaine and the Green Knight, they averred that haply Brother Owyn came of Arthur's family, and some said that he was own great-grandson to Sir Gawaine. But Brother Owyn never said so. He was abashed that the brethren would hear this tale more often than the homilies.

“I will do penance,” said Brother Owyn, “for that I divert the brethren.”

“Yea,” quoth the prior, “assuredly! Wherefore, copy out this romance, and paint in the beginning of each part an initial letter in gold and scarlet and blue.”—The prior had his gleams in the midst of his dulness.

But the tale that Brother Owyn loved best he had not yet sung to the brethren.

To-day he painted a little picture of a maiden by a river-side, where shining cliffs rose up, and a city shone golden beyond. And these cliffs might well have been the white cliffs of Wales, but they were meant for a more holy place. And the maiden was clad in a white garment with a semblance of pearls at her girdle and on her fair forehead.

"A crown that maiden wore withal
bedecked with pearls, with none other stones,"

whispered Brother Owyn.

"Her look was grave, as a duke's or an earl's;
whiter than whalebone was her hue.
Her locks shone then as bright pure gold,—
loose on her shoulders so softly they lay,"—

There was a trick of his tongue that ever betrayed him that he came out of the west,—and bending, he kissed the little picture where the paint had dried.

From the cloister floated the low, buzzing murmur of children conning a task. This, and the snip-snip of the gardener's shears, were the only sounds. At intervals, good Brother Paul went past the cloister doorway in his slow pacing up and down behind the young scholars. Now and again a lad came out into the garth and crossed the grass to gain Brother Owyn's approval for an illuminated letter, or to have the hexameters lopped off his Latin hymn.

Then, around three sides of the cloister swift footsteps echoed, and the dreamer strode down the school, brushed past Brother Paul, looked out into the garth, and presently stood before Brother Owyn,—the light of the vision shining in his eyes, the mist of the Malverns clinging about his damp hair.

“I go forth a pilgrimage to Truth,” he said.

“And the prior withhold not his blessing,” added Brother Owyn, with a smile.

But the dreamer fell on his knees,—he was past smiling. He laid his hands prayerwise upon the little painting-board; and Brother Owyn, intent upon him wholly, with the loving, expectant eyes of one to whom these raptures were no new thing, yet slipped aside the vellum from the board, lest the picture come to harm from the dew-stained russet.

“I am no monk of Malvern!” cried the dreamer; “neither shall the prior clap me in cloister. I have had a vision. I must sing it.”

“I sing,” said Brother Owyn; and he looked about him at the grass and the cloister walls.

“Yea, of yesterday and its glory,” returned the dreamer. “A tuneful song, whereof the joy and the rightwisnesse is manifest. But to-day and to-morrow are mine to sing. I must go forth to look upon the world and live therein. I have had a vision concerning Peter the ploughman,”—Brother Owyn's eyes laughed mockingly, and his lips curled, also he tapped his foot upon the ground. But the dreamer's eyes were on the narcissus-flowers,—“I have seen him in the forefront of a great train of pilgrimage, of all kind people ever there were in this earth; and he their guide to Truth. He, a poor ploughman! I have seen him where he set all crooked ways straight; and the flower o' knighthood did the bidding o' the ploughman in the vision. Now, tell me,—what abbot is he in all England will give me leave to sing this song over his abbey wall? For he holdeth the land in fee, and the villeins sweat for him.—Nay, more,”—and the dreamer bent his lips to Brother Owyn's ear and sunk his voice,—“I have seen this Piers where he jousted in Jesus' armor, red as with blood,—and in His likeness. Hark you, master, the day is to the poor man. For Jesus Christ, of poor men the Prince,—He saith, 'I am the Truth.'”

“An I knew thee not this five year,” quoth Brother Owyn, “I had said thou art mad,—mad from very pride. The ploughman a leader of men! Wilt thou bring chaos about our ears? Oh, boy, foolish and proud! God hath ordered the way of man and it is thus and so. He is Emperor of heaven and earth, and Christ is King's Son of heaven and sitteth up on high at the right hand of the Father. Of right royal human seed he springeth, David's seed,—born in David's city. At His name every knee shall bow. Kings have worshipped Him a babe. What! wilt thou strike down the very immutable and fixed laws of God Himself whereby He hath ordained that kings shall reign? Prate not to me of poor men. Yea, there shall be hewers of wood and drawers of water.”

Then said the dreamer: “Whether is greater, he that sitteth at meat or he that serveth?”

“The king is the perfectest servant,” cried Brother Owyn, “but the king is king, he is no dullard serf. The King's Son came to earth and put on this garment of a poor man, and for this reason wilt thou say the poor man shall wear the garment of the king? Thou art no schoolman.”

“Ah, master, master, this that thou sayst I said it again and yet again to mine own self,‘ the dreamer sighed; ’for what know I of life wherein is no kings and no knighthood? Verily it is thus and so; God made the king. So did I cry to the vision, wrestling the night through on the misty hill. I cannot see clear, but whether I be convinced or no, the vision hath conquered and I must sing it. The ploughman knoweth the way to truth; the king shall crave his company.”

“Nay, thou dost not see clear. I doubt me if ever thou wilt,” said Brother Owyn. “Thou hast got the Malvern mist in thy head, boy. Who shall profit by a vision in a mist?”

“'T is larger than life, seen thus,” quoth the dreamer. “Natheless, let me go forth into a new land. How may I rid me of the mist if I dwell within it? Let me go to London, and if the vision fade, if it be proven a temptation, I 'll cast it from me. How may I know men in the wilderness? How may I touch their hearts if I know them not?”

Brother Owyn smiled and laid his hand upon the dreamer's shoulder: “And art thou crying out for knowledge of men?—Thou that fleest into the hills if a merchant ask night's shelter of the prior, thou that hast played truant these three days because, forsooth, the young Prince Lionel and his train are come hither to hunt in the King's Forest?”

The dreamer hung his head: “Yet must I go,” he said. “There came a little lad across the round hill yesterday,—a very manikin of wisdom with the heart of a child,—no doubt they breed such in palaces. He boasted himself a poet and would have me tell him a tale. He quarrelled with the measure, his ear being attuned to French foibles, but for that I care not; but he saith my men be no better than dolls of wood.—Master, 't is a true word. Whether the vision be false or no, God will discover to me; but this, that I am not fit to touch men's hearts, because I am stranger to them,—thou knowest. The little lad turned away from my tale. He laughed.—Thou hast seen thy world. Thou hast a tale to tell. But I,—what may I sing but the mist? Hark you, Brother Owyn, I shall bring naught of glory to Malvern Priory till I be let forth. Say this to the prior.”

“There is wisdom in it, truly,” said the monk. “Thou art not all fool, and poet. Natheless, thou canst not come at knowledge my way. What I was needs not to remember, but I was not such as thou, I climbed not upward to my present estate. But thou must climb through the church, 't is thy one way. With thy little learning what art thou fit for else? Doth it suit thee to turn ploughman?”

The dreamer looked at his scholar's hands and wiped his scholar's brow: “But I will not climb as a monk,” he cried. “There 's work to do out-o'-doors to make the church clean. Let me go!”

Then Brother Owyn wiped his brushes on the grass and covered his little paint pots; and to a boy that came forth of the cloister he said: “I have business with the prior, keep thy task till I come again;” and rising up he made so as to lay a cloth of fair linen over the little picture.

“Who is 't?” asked the dreamer, and gazing, he minded him of the day when Brother Owyn came first to Malvern Priory. He was a knight that day; his mail was silver; he rode a white horse; in his helmet there was set a great pearl in the midst of a ringlet of gold hair, one ring, as 't were severed from the head of a babe.

“Who is 't?” quoth the dreamer.

And Brother Owyn answered him: “Neither do I write but only yesterdays. I have my vision of the morrow. 'T is of a Holy City, and the Lord is King thereof. 'T is a true vision, for John, the beloved, he had it afore my time.”

“But this is a fair damsel,” said the dreamer.

“This is my little daughter dear, that was dead at two years old. The King hath chosen her for his bride. I live seeking after her.”

“Here, likewise, hast thou fellowship with thy kind,” the dreamer sighed. “Little wonder thy songs touch the hearts of men. Master, thou hast my confession this five year; thou knowest me, that I am no hot man; yet, do I yearn to fathom these mysteries, for fellowship's sake, and to help all them that seek truth. But how may a man climb to fatherhood through Holy Church?”

Brother Owyn laid his hand on the dreamer's lip, and “Hush!” said he; “here's question for one higher than I, and to be spoke whispering. For all the man I am to Godward, am I by the love of a little two years' child, long dead. Go; say thy prayers! I 'll come to thee in the church. Haply the prior may give thee a letter to a London priest, will see thee clerked and set to earn, thy bread.”

But then Brother Owyn looked on the little picture where it lay uncovered, and he said:—

“If thou hast ever a golden-haired daughter, send her hither to tell me wherein God hath blessed thee most.”

And that day the dreamer set forth on his pilgrimage.

PART I

The Malcontents

OR one Pieres the Ploughman hath inpugned us alle."

The Vision Concerning Piers Plowman.
B. Passus XIII.

CHAPTER I

The Miracle

LL the good people, fresh-blessed, came forth into the churchyard with a great pushing and striving. There was a Miracle Play toward, and to stand at the back of five-and-twenty score of tiptoeing Londoners was to see nothing. Sweating shopkeepers jostled and swore, women squealed, and 'prentices drove their elbows into any fat paunch that was neighbourly. Here and there, above the press, a child rode on its father's shoulder, and if 't was a merry child it kicked off the women's headgear and tweaked the ears of Robyn and Hikke and Jack.

“Stand off,—stand off, a four-foot space from Hell Mouth!” cried Beelzebub, coming to earth unexpected; “there be sparks! I 'll not answer for 't if ay one take fire.”

“Look ye, look ye!” roared Sathanas, thrusting up his head, “here's some thieving fellow hath filched my tail while I was to Mass. 'T is a poor jest. Now, by St. Christopher, I swear I say no word o' my part if the tail lack.”

There went up a laugh from the company, and one cried: “Give the dumb beast his tail that he may speak!” And, on a sudden, flew over the heads of the people a something red, in shape like an eel, and fell upon Sathanas' head, whereat he grunted and withdrew head and tail together.

And now Hell Mouth opened and spat fire, and after tumbled forth a rout of devils, big and little, that pranced and mowed, the while the people laughed and cast them back jest for jest. Was one brawny fiend, a blacksmith by trade, that came to the edge of the stage and, looking backward, with chin uppermost, through his squatted legs, set his fingers in the corners of his mouth and his eyes, and did so make of himself a monster that a little maid which stood in the forefront of the multitude must needs shriek and start, so that her kerchief fell awry.

Saith a yeoman, blinking on her ruffled hair: “I cannot see for the sun in my eyen,” and laid his great hand on her fair head that perforce she must turn her face would she or no.

“By St. Jame!” cried the man, thereupon; “here's no ba'rn, but a maid, with a mouth ripe for kissing!” And so bent to taste her lips. But she cried out and struggled to be free, and swift, a gloved hand thrust the yeoman's face aside, and a voice that had a twist of French in it rated him so that he shrank backward glowering.

The blacksmith, meanwhile, being set right side forward, stood nodding a genial horned approval:

“An I had not been so be-twisted, I had given him a crack!” he said, and, turning rueful, added: “Dost not know me, child? I be Hobbe Smith that dwell two doors below thee. I did but mean to make thee merry.”

And the maid gave him a pale smile.

“If thou stand o' this side, out of the press, still mayst thou see,” said he of the gloved hand.

“I came not so close to see the devils,” answered the maid, blushing, “but for that cometh after;” and she followed him apart.

Then come Mercy and Truth across the middle stage, and are met together, and Peace and Rightwisnesse, that kissed the one the other, prating sweetly of Christ risen from the dead. And the devils are begun to make moan, and they have locked Hell Mouth with a great key and laid a bar across. And said this squire that stood beside the maid:—

“By 'r Lady!—who writ this is no common patcher o' miracles, but a true poet!”

“'T is my father,” quoth she.

And he: “Nay, then, I knew thee for a poem. Is thy name Guenevere? Such eyes had Guenevere,—such hair.”

“I am Will Langland's daughter; I am Calote,” she said.

There had lately come two men through the crowd. By their aspect they were not Londoners, yet they seemed acquainted well enough with what they saw. Now one of these, a black-browed fellow with thin, tight lips, large nose, and sallow visage, spoke to the squire, saying:—

“All poets of England do not pipe for John o' Gaunt. This one hath chose to make music for the ears of common folk.”

“Natheless 't is tuned to ears more delicate,” the squire made answer, looking always on the maiden; and then, “Calote, thou sayst? 'T is Nicolette in little, is 't not?” And presently after, “Nicolette had a squire.—I would I were thy squire.”

But Calote had turned her to the Miracle, and the youth saw only a flushing cheek.

“'T is a long while that Mercy and Truth are not met together in England, Jack,” said the countryman to his fellow, sourly.

“Yea, Wat,” the other answered; “and afore Peace cometh War.”

“And afore Rightwisnesse”—said he of the black brows, and paused, and looked about him meaningly, and cast his arms to right and left. And now the Miracle was done, and Christ had narrowed Hell, and sat on high with the Trinity.

CHAPTER II

The Rose of Love

HE bell of Paul's had rung the Angelus an hour past. The gabled shadows of the houses crossed the street slantwise, and betwixt them long pale fingers of evening sunshine brightened the cobbles. Pigeons from the corn market waddled hither and thither in search of dribbled grain,—unreasoning pigeons, these, for of a Sunday no manna fell on Cornhill. The ale-stake above the tavern door rustled in a whisper; 't was a fresh-broken branch, green and in full leaf, set out for this same feast of the Trinity. Calote had caught the withered bough when it fell, and made off with it under the alewife's very nose.

“Little roberd!” Dame Emma cried, “'t would have cooked a hungry man his dinner.”

“And shall!” quoth Calote; whereat the alewife burst out a-laughing and swore she 'd switch her with the new stake. And Calote, like an ant at the end of a long straw, tugged her prize indoors.

The dinner was cooked and eaten by now, and a bit of a supper as well. The long June day was done. Dame Emma came to her tavern door and stood beneath the ale-stake, looking out across to her neighbor's cot, where a yellow-haired maid sat in the window.

“I saw thee in Paul's churchyard, Calote,” Dame Emma called cheerily; and she smiled a sly smile.

“Yea,” said Calote, “methinks all the world was there;” but her colour came.

“He is of the household of the Earl of March; even a kinsman by 's bearing,” renewed Dame Emma.

“I rede not the riddle,” Calote answered her; but Dame Emma laughed.

Then down the middle of the way, to left and right of the runnel ditch, rode three horsemen of sober visage; and though they rode a slow pace, they took no heed of Dame Emma where she stood and cried out:—

“A taste for naught! Come dine! White wine of Oseye! Good ale!”

They held their heads in a knot, speaking soft, and went their slow way down the street.

“They be 'potecaries,” said Calote. “Now the plague is on again we see many such. He of the taffeta-lined gown, with scarlet, is Doctor of Phisick, is 't not so?”

“'T is physician to the Black Prince. Must needs eat at king's table, forsooth!” And Dame Emma flounced her skirts in a huff and turned her indoors.

The shadows faded along with the sunshine. The little maid sat long in the deep window, agaze on the street. Gray were her eyes, dark-lashed, beneath straight brows, pencilled delicately. Slim and small she was, all eyes and golden hair,—the hair that flies out at a breath of wind like rays of light, and is naught of a burden though it fall as far as a maid's knees. A tress flew out of window now, like to a belated sunbeam. The smoke from the tavern turned to rose as it left the chimney mouth. The pink cloud wreathed upward and melted, and wreathed again.

“Oh, father, come and see the tavern-smoke! It groweth out o' chimney-pot like a flower. I mind me of the rose o' love in the Romaunt. 'T is of a pale colour.”

At the far end of the room, in a doorway, his head thrust outward to catch the light, there sat a man with a shaven crown, and thick reddish locks that waved thereabout. His eyes—the long, gray, shadow-filled eyes of Calote—were bent upon a parchment. He wrote, and as his hand moved, his lips moved likewise, in a kind of rhythm, as if he chaunted beneath his breath. A second roll of parchment, close-written, lay beside him on a three-legged stool, and ever and anon he turned to this and read,—then back to the copy,—or perchance he sat a short space with head uplifted and eyes fixed in a dream, his lips ever moving, but the busy hand arrested in mid-air. So sitting, he spoke not at once to his daughter; but, after a space, as one on a hill-top will answer him who questions from below, all unaware of the moments that have passed 'twixt question and reply, he said:—

“The rose of love is a red rose; neither doth it flower in a tavern.” And his voice was of a low, deep, singing sort.

“A red rose,” murmured Calote; “yea,—a red rose. The rose of love.”

Then Calote left the window and went down the dim room. Her feet were bare; they made no noise on the earthen floor.

“Twilight is speeding, father,” said she. “Thou hast writ since supper,—a long while that. Thou hast not spoke two words to thy Calote since afore Mass, and 't is a feast day. Us poor can't feast of victual,—tell me a tale. The tale o' the Rose, and how the lover hath y-kissed it, and that foul Jezebel hight Jealousy hath got Fair-Welcome prisoned in a tower,—a grim place,—the while Evil Tongue trumpeteth on the battlement.”

The dreamer rested his eyes on his daughter's face a tranquil moment, then drew her to his knee and smiled and stroked her hair.

“An thou knowest the Romaunt so well, wherefore shall I tell it thee?” he asked.

“What cometh after, where Reason prateth, I know not. I do never know.”

“Then I 'll not waste raisonable words upon thee,” laughed her father. “Come, tell me of thyself! Was 't a plenteous feast day, or a hungry one?”

“Not hungry,” she cried, with eyes alight. “There was one praised thee. 'T is not every day I taste honey.”

She waited, watching him, but he said nothing; he only leaned his chin upon his hand and looked out of the doorway.

“Thou wilt not ask a share o' my feast? Yet is it all thine,” she coaxed. “If any spake fair words of me, how should I pine to know!” She pressed his face betwixt her two hands and looked close, merrily, into his eyes. “But thou shalt hear, whether or no. Hearken! 'T was in Paul's churchyard where they played the Miracle, thy Miracle, the Harrowing o' Hell,—a yeoman made as he would kiss me,”—

Her father was attentive now; his eyes were sombre.

“I was fair sick with the touch of him. I cried out. And there was one standing by thrust off the yeoman.”

She lost herself, musing. Meanwhile, her father watched her, and presently, “Where is my little feast of praise?” he asked.

She started and took up the tale, but now her eyes were turned from his to the twilight space outside the door, and beyond that, and beyond.

“He was young,” she said,—“he was young; he wore a broidered coat; green it was, all daiseyed o'er with white and pink. He doffed his cap to me,—never no one afore did me that courtesy. He wore a trailing feather in his cap. 'If thou stand o' this side, out o' the press, still mayst thou see and hear,' saith he. And after, he saith 't was no common patcher, but a poet, wrote that Miracle. And I did tell him 't was my father. Then he would have my name as well, and, being told, he must needs recall how Nicolette, in that old tale, had a squire. He saith—he saith—'I would I were thy squire.'”

“Anon?” her father questioned, rousing her.

“Is no more to tell: 't was the end o' the Miracle.”

“A poor maid in a cot may not have a squire.” said Will Langland slowly.

“I know that right well; and yet I know not wherefore,” she answered; and now she turned quite away her face, for that her lip trembled.

He made no answer to her wistful question, and there was silence between them while the twilight deepened. But she was busy with her thoughts meanwhile.

“Father,” she began, and laid her hand upon the written parchment by his side, “father,—here in the Vision, thou dost write that the ploughman knoweth the truth. He is so simple wise he counselleth the king how to renew his state which is gone awry. If the knight do the bidding of the ploughman, wherefore shall not Piers' daughter wed the son o' the knight?”

He looked within her eyes most tenderly, his voice was deep with pity; he held her two hands in his own.

“My Calote,—'t is not King Edward, nor King Edward's son, shall be counselled of the ploughman. 'T is a slow world, and no man so slow as the man at the plough. He hath his half acre to sow. Not in my day, nor in thine, shall the knight bethink him to set the ploughman free for pilgrimage to Truth.”

“But if he read thy Vision, father, he will.”

“The knight is likewise slow, Calote. He believeth not on the Vision. I shall be dead afore that time cometh,—and thou.”

“Yet there be them that say the hour is not far distant when the people shall rise and rule,” she persisted. “Wat Tyler ever threateneth the wrath of the people. He saith the land is full of villeins that have run from the manors, for that the Statute maketh them to labour for slave wage. He saith the people will make themselves free. John Ball goeth about to hearten men to rise against oppression.”

“In my vision I saw neither war nor the shedding of blood,” Langland answered.

“Oh, father!” she cried, and cast her arms about his neck, “art thou content to wait,—so idly?”

“Nay, I am not content,” he said; “I am not content.”

He kissed her and they were silent, thinking their several thoughts, until Calote said:—

“If the knight wed the peasant, and there come a child,—is that a knight or a peasant?”

“Most like the next of kin doth make a suitable complaining to the Pope, and so the child is a bastard.”

“Thou mockest me, father; I see thee smile,” she protested.

“Nay, 't is not thee I mock, my sweet,—not thee. But hark, Calote: this love of knights and damosels is not the one only love. Read thy Reason in the Romaunt,—and she shall tell thee of a love 'twixt man and man, woman and woman, that purifieth the soul and exalteth desire; nay, more: Reason shall tell thee of a love for all thy fellows that haply passeth in joy the love for one. The King's Son of Heaven,—He knew this love.”

“And thou,” whispered Calote.

“I dream more than I love,” he said; “I do consider my passion.”

“Yet is it a very passion, father. Wherefore wilt thou ever humble thyself?”

“And there is a love betwixt the father and the child,” he continued; and those two kissed each other.

“I would know all these loves,” cried Calote.

“Yet wilt thou do well to pray the Christ that no knight come to woo.”

She hung her head; and the long day trembled to latest dusk.

CHAPTER III

They That Mourn

OW as these two sat silent, the door at the far end of the room, looking on Cornhill, opened, and a man came in and shut it again, and stood in the shadow.

“Wat?” said Langland.

“Art thou he men call Long Will?” asked the man out of the dark.

“Yea, I am he. Who art thou that fearest light? I took thee for Wat Tyler that is my friend.”

“I am another friend,” said the man, and came down the room. “My name is Peter. I have run from Devon.”

“So,—Peter!” quoth Langland, and rose up to meet him. “And for that is thy name, and haply thou art a ploughman, dost thou believe that the truth resteth with thee?”

Calote, who knew her father's voice, saw also the grim smile that curled his lip, but the man could not see because of the twilight.

“I believe thou art a true prophet,” he made answer; “I have heard thy Visions; many read them and tell them again.”

“Even so,” retorted the lank priest; “I did not counsel thee to run.”

“Nay, 't was mine own wit counselled me there,” the man replied; “mine own wit, fed on the Statute o' Labourers.”

“'T is famine fare,” said Langland. “Calote, if there be aught in the cupboard, bring it hither.—And now, friend Peter, wherefore art thou come?”

“Lead us poor!” cried the man. “Arise, and strike down the unjust!”

“I am a prophet,” said Langland. “I abide by my calling. Thou must go elsewhere for one shall do deeds. I only prophesy. 'T is safe; and I had ever a gift for song.”

The man lifted an uncertain hand and scratched his rough head. So, for a moment, he stood irresolute. At last he said:—

“I am a dull fellow; but dost thou mock me?”

Then Langland came to him swiftly, pressing his hands on the bowed shoulders and saying:—

“Thou art my brother.”

“'T is a word one understands,” replied the man; “God and Mary bless thee!” and turned at the sound of a footstep. 'T was a woman came in with a bowl in her hands, and Calote followed her, bringing bread.

“This is thy wife Kitte,” said the man, “and this is thy daughter Calote.”

The poet smiled,—“Thou dost read, Peter?”

“Nay, I have a young son will be a parson one day. Thy Vision concerning the ploughman is meat and drink to him.”

“To us, likewise,” said Kitte. “There be days we taste little else; 't is a dish well spiced. Natheless, for this is Holy Trinité, we've fed on whey and bread; it maketh an excellent diversité. Wilt eat?”

As she passed her husband he turned her face to the light, whereat she smiled on him,—and in her smile was yet another kind of love made manifest.

The man ate his bread and whey noisily the while his host leaned against the door-frame. Kitte withdrew into the inner room, and Calote sat in the window looking on the street. The moon rose and cast the poet's shadow thin along the floor. There was a murmur in the street.

“Father,” called Calote, “there is some ill befallen. Men stand about by twos and threes, so late, and speak low. And now,—oh, father!—Dame Emma hath fell a-weeping and shut her tavern door. Here 's Wat!—Here 's Wat and another!”

Two men ran in from Cornhill, hurriedly. They were as shadows in the room until they came to the patch of moonlight, where shadow and substance fell apart.

“The Prince is dead in Kennington Palace,” said the taller, darker man; “the Black Prince is dead!” And he struck the door-jamb with his clenched fist and burst forth into one loud, sharp cry. There was rage in the sound, disappointment, and grief.

“Art silent, thou chantry priest?” said the other man gloomily. “Here 's occasion to ply thy trade; but where 's thy glib prayer for the dead?”

“Who am I that I should pray for this soul?” cried Langland bitterly. “Here 's the one brave man in all England—dead. Now is it time to pray for the living, Jack Straw; for my soul, and thine, and all these other poor, that be orphaned and bereaved o' their slender hope by this death. Oh, friend Peter, thou art run too late from Devon! The doer o' deeds, the friend o' ploughmen and labourers, he is dead.”

“One told me he did not welcome death. He was fain to live,” said Wat Tyler.

“Doth a good prince go willingly into heaven's bliss if he must leave a people perplexed,—a nest of enemies to trample his dreams?” asked the poet.

“I have heard them that served yonder in the war with France, who say the Prince hath a sin or two of 's own to answer for,” said Jack Straw. “Who shall rest secure o' heaven's bliss?”

“Were I so honest a sinner as he that is gone, e'en punishment and stripes were a taste o' blessing!” Langland exclaimed, and bent his head in his hands.

The rustic had stared at one then another of these men, and now he opened his great mouth, and the words came forth clumsily:—

“I be grieved full sore for this death, and for the King's sake that is an old man. Natheless, 't was no prince led the wildered folk in the Vision.”

“Oh, Piers!” said Langland; and suddenly he laughed, and still with eyes bent upon this rude, shock-headed, and slow creature, he laughed, and laughed again, merrily, without malice, like a child.

But Wat Tyler leapt to his feet and paced the room back and forth:—

“'T is a true word,” he cried. “He that delivereth the poor out of his misery shall taste that misery; he shall be one of those poor. Hath the Black Prince encountered cold and hunger as I have so encountered,—not for a siege's space, but to a life's end and with tied hands? Hath he oped his eyen into the world chained to a hand's-breadth o' soil? Nay, England was his heritage, and he had leave to get France likewise, if he might. Can the overlord rede the heart of the villein that feedeth him? The Black Prince hath died disappointed of his kingdom”—

“And thou wilt die disappointed of thine,” said Langland, gravely intent upon him.

“Nay, but I live in disappointment daily,—and Jack Straw, and this honest fellow, and”—

“Who may the honest fellow be?” queried Jack Straw.

This Jack Straw had lint locks that glistened under the moon; the lashes of his eyes were white. His was a dry utterance.

“'T is a villein hath run from his hand's-breadth o' soil,” answered Langland. “One of many.”

“I plough, I reap, I ditch,” said Peter; “somewhile I thatch. I am of Devon.”

“They have a quaint device of thatching in Devon,” quoth Jack Straw.

“Ay, they set a peak like to a coxcomb above the gable. Art a Devon man?” asked Peter eagerly.

“Nay, but I be thatcher. I learned of a Devon man. 'T was the year next after the great pestilence. Like thee, he had run.”

Wat Tyler had been pacing up and down, but now he stood before his host and asked uneasily, albeit his voice was bold and harsh:—

“Will, what's thy meaning,—that I shall die disappointed of my kingdom?”

“Ah, Wat, Wat!” said Langland, “and wilt thou lead the people? And wherefore?”

Jack Straw edged farther within the moonlight and peered into his comrade's dark and lowering countenance:—

“Now which o' they seven deadly sins doth he call to repent?” he drawled, and with a sudden change to sharp speech, keeping his eye ever upon Wat's face: “A day cometh when there shall be no king, nor no overlord, nor no rich merchant to buy food away from the people, and store it up, and sell it at a price. But every man shall be leader of his own soul, and every man king. There shall not be poverty nor richesse, but one shall share as another, and nothing shall be mine nor thine.”

Peter rested his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands, such fashion that his jaw hammered upward and downward; and the table, that had one leg a bit short, hammered likewise. Said he:—

“Christ came a poor man, poor men to comfort. He suffereth my sorrow. I knew not there was question of any kingdom, but only Christ's. And if Christ is King, how then do ye say there will be no leader?”

Will Langland looked at the other two with a strange smile; but Wat turned to the ploughman and cried:—

“Yet if Christ delay His second coming, must another lead till he come. How else shall folk know His way?”

“Of a surety,” answered Peter; “I am come to Long Will.”

And Long Will covered his face and so remained. And they all sat silent and as it were ashamed, till Kitte put her head in and said:—

“Calote, get thee to bed, child!”

CHAPTER IV

A Vow

ALOTE slipped out at the back door into a weedy lane full of moonlight. She set her feet ankle-deep in grass and dew. A muck heap cast a shadow from one side to the other of the lane and filled the air with pungent odour. There was a stair against the wall of Will Langland's cot, and Calote climbed up this to a little gabled chamber that had a window looking on Cornhill. The street was white and silent under the moon. There was no light in any house as far as Calote could see. Even the tavern was dark: Dame Emma had shut out her roisterers and made her house a house of mourning, for that the Black Prince was dead. Calote let slip her strait russet gown and stood at the window in her kirtle, shaking out her hair.

“Such hair had Guenevere,” she said thoughtfully; “yet am I Calote.—A kinsman to the Earl of March?—Mayhap to-night he weeps the death of the Black Prince. Yet, I know not.—Wat Tyler saith these nobles be aye at one another's throat.—When there be so many kind of love i' the world, wherefore do some folk make choice of hating?—So many kind of love!—Wherefore may not I essay all?—Wherefore be there Calotes—and Gueneveres?—Yet, there be a many left for me. I will leave thinking o' squires and knights. I will listen to Dame Reason in the Romaunt,—and Wat, and the ploughman, and my father.”

She crossed herself and said her Pater Noster, then dropped her kirtle and lay down upon her pallet. For coverlet she had a frayed old cassock of her father's. She lay beneath the window, and the moon came about to look on her.

“I will love all I may,” said Calote; “but I will forget to be loved.”

And so she fell asleep.

She did not wake an hour after when Long Will came up to bed, stooping among the rafters. He crossed the room to look upon her where she lay full in the light of the moon. Because the night was close she had set free her arms from the warmth of the old cassock, but the golden mantle of her hair veiled her white breast that rose and fell ever so lightly.

Will Langland beckoned to his wife and she came to stand beside him:—

“'T is now a woman,—and yesterday a child,” said he. “Mayhap I am dull-eyed, noting little that's not writ on parchment, yet meseems I have never seen woman so fair as this my daughter. Is 't true?”

“Yea, Will; it is true,” said Kitte.

Then Calote opened her eyes upon her father and mother, and she was dreaming.

“O red rose!” said she, and shut her eyes again.

And Will Langland and Kitte his wife went down on their knees to pray.

CHAPTER V

A Disciple

HE second time Calote saw the squire he bore a hooded falcon on his wrist and he rode a little white horse, in the fields beyond Westminster. He sang a pensive lyric in the French tongue; and when he saw Calote he lighted down from his horse and held his cap in his hand. She was gathering herbs.

He told her he had got him a copy of her father's poems, and he kept it in a little chest of carven ivory and jade that his mother gave him afore she died. And Calote, being persuaded, went and sat with him beneath a yew tree. He said that she might call him Stephen, if she would, or Etienne; men spoke to him by the one or the other indifferently, but they were the same name. It was his mother that was cousin german to the Earl of March; his father being a gentleman of Derbyshire, Sir Gualtier Fitzwarine, of a lesser branch of that name. And both his father and his mother were dead, but the Earl of March was his godfather.

But when Calote questioned him of the poem, he could say little, excepting that his man had bought it of a cook's knave in the palace, that was loath to part with it; and it smelled frightful of sour broth, but Etienne had sprinkled it with flower of lavender. Moreover, he had searched therein for Calote and her golden hair and her gray eyes; he marvelled that her father had not made mention of these things.

Then Calote took up her knotted kerchief with the herbs, and gave him good day. And whether she were displeased or no she could not determine, nor could he. But he went immediately to his chamber and read diligently, with a rose of sweet odour held beneath his nose.

The third time Calote saw the squire was on the day when London learned that Peter de La Mare was cast into prison in Nottingham Castle. London growled. London stood about in groups, ominously black-browed,—choking the narrow streets. Certain rich merchants even shut up their shops and barred their doors, for it was not against the nobles only that London had a grievance.

Now this fair child, Stephen Fitzwarine, knew that Peter de la Mare was seneschal to the Earl of March, and, hearing of the good man's imprisonment, he set it down that this was yet another grudge to be fought out 'twixt his godfather and John of Gaunt, and he prayed that he might be in at the affray. But of the Good Parliament, its several victories, and present sore defeat, Stephen knew little. He was of the household of young Richard, son to the Black Prince, and all that household was as yet in leading-strings. In the laws of fence and tourney Stephen was right well instructed; twice had he carved before Richard at table; he could fly a hawk more skilfully than Sir John Holland, the half-brother to the Prince; he knew by heart the argument and plea whereby we made our claim upon the crown of France; he knew by heart also the half of the Romaunt of the Rose, and all of Sir Gawaine and the Green Knight, and more than one of the tales of Dan Chaucer. Richard loved him, and hung upon him as a little lad will on a bigger one. And Stephen loved Richard, and slept before the door of Richard's bedchamber with a naked sword at his side; this for his own and Richard's sake. But at that time there were other warders before this door, that slept not at all; for after the Black Prince died, the guard in Kennington Palace was doubled, and a certain armourer in the city had sent the heir to the throne a gift of a little shirt of mail, the which so delighted him that he wore it night and day; and if by any fortune he forgot it, his mother, caressing him, would say:—

“Where is thy chain coat, Richard? Wilt not wear it to-day to pleasure the kindly armourer?”

Moreover, the little Prince was seldom let abroad, and his household must needs keep him company; wherefore Stephen Fitzwarine might not go into the city except he slipped leash and braved the displeasure, nay, the stripes even, of Sir Simon de Burley, who was Richard's tutor. Nevertheless, on this ill-fated day when London was scarce in the mood to see young gentlemen in broidered coats a-walking her streets, he dropped his lute into a rosebush and went adventuring.

When he came on London Bridge,—for Kennington Palace was t' other side of the river by Lambeth, and who would go to the city must cross by this way,—he found a great crowd of idle people blocking the street; and because none moved to right or left to let him pass, he must needs elbow it like any prentice; and this he did as far as Cornhill. Now, although young Stephen did not yet know the Vision concerning Piers Ploughman so well as the Romaunt of the Rose, one thing he had discovered, namely, that Will Langland dwelt on Cornhill; and he would have slackened his pace to scan the houses. But the unmannerly throng that had followed him across the bridge would not have it so, and pushed and pressed upon him that he must wag his legs briskly or be taken off them altogether. And in this fashion he went the length of Cornhill, and had he been discreet he had gone yet farther in Cheapside and sheltered him in St. Paul's. But Etienne was a valiant lad, and wilful. He had come out to see a certain cot on Cornhill, and his desire was yet unsatisfied. He turned him back and faced a grinning crew of prentice lads and artisans, some merry, all mischievous, and not a few malicious.

“Give me room, good fellows,” he said.

Then mocking voices rose and pelted him:—

“Yonder 's thy way, flower-garden.”

“Hath missed his road,—call 's nursie!”

“There be no palaces o' Cornhill.”

“Here 's not the road to the Savoy.”

“We harbour not John of Gaunt nor his ilk i' the city.”

“Nay, we ha' not men at arms sufficient to keep him in safety.”

“I am not for John of Gaunt. Give way!” said Etienne.

“Ay, friends,” bawled a six-foot lad with a carpenter's mallet in his hand; “we mistook; the lording hath come hither to give himself as hostage for the safety o' Speaker Peter.”

A part of the crowd laughed at this speech, and others cursed, and some said:—

“Take him! Take him!”

“Yea, take him!” roared the throng, closing in; and above this sea of sound Etienne sent his voice shrilly:—

“Disperse! Disperse, I say! I come a peaceful errand. Who will point me the dwelling of one they call Long Will, I 'll give him three groat.”

“So, 't is Long Will must follow good Peter de la Mare?” shrieked a woman from a window.

“What dost thou with Long Will?”

There were no smiles now.

“Will Langland louteth not to such as thou.”

“Spy!”

“Spill 's brains!”

“Hath none, to come o' such errand.”

“To the river!”

“Ay, take him down Cornhill an he will!”

A brawny smith that had pushed his way inward at mention of Langland stood now in the forefront of the mob, eyeing Etienne.

“So ho!” he said, bracing his back for the nonce against them that would have rushed upon the lad; “so ho! Is 't thou, green meadow? Methought I knew thee.”

Then he set his fingers in the corners of his mouth and eyes, and leered; and the mob, not comprehending, yet laughed.

“Thou wilt see Will Langland, wilt thou?” he resumed. “Yea, I trow thou art a-dying to see Will Langland. He hath long yellow hair, hath he not, and”—

“Scum!” cried Etienne, and drew his sword; and even as he drew it, there went a thrill down his spine; for Etienne had never drawn his sword in wrath before; 't was a maiden blade, had drunk no blood.

At the shine of it the crowd fell a-muttering. Every eye darkened; mockery died; there was naught left but black hatred.

“My way lies on Cornhill,” said Etienne. “Let him bar who dare!”

Then some one laid a hand on his shoulder, and a voice said:—

“Sheathe thy weapon, my lord!”

The squire turned to see a tall man standing at his side, clad in a dingy cassock and carrying a breviary. Long Will was come from saying mass for the soul of a wool merchant.

“What then? Wilt have me soil my hands with such as these?” cried Etienne.

“Nay, my lord, nor thy spirit neither,” answered Langland.

“Let be, Will!” said one in the crowd. “'T is a spy that prisoneth honest men. Is 't not enough that Peter de la Mare is cast in chains, but puppets like to this must play the sentinel on Cornhill?”

“If I mistake not, this gentleman weareth the badge of the Earl of March,‘ interrupted Langland; ’wherefore our grievance is his likewise; for Peter is seneschal to the Earl.”

Heads were thrust forward eagerly, and one and another cried:—

“'T is true!”

“Let me set mine eye o' the badge!”

“Methought one said 't was John o' Gaunt's man.”

“The badge!”

And the six-foot prentice, craning his neck, questioned:—

“Art thou for the Earl o' March, friend? If so be, speak and make an end on 't. I be not one to bear malice.”

The mob roared with laughter, and Etienne, slipping his sword within its scabbard, answered in excellent good temper:—

“I am indeed godson to that most noble earl, and gentleman of the bedchamber to son altesse the Prince Richard, heir to the throne of England and son to our lamented Edward, Prince of Wales, of beloved memory.” And Etienne uncovered his head, as did all them that had caps in that assembly.

“So!” said Langland, looking on him with approval. “'T is spoke in a spirit most prudent, wise, and Christian. And does your way lie o' Cornhill, sir? With your good-will I 'll bear you company.”

The crowd dispersed to right and left, but Hobbe the smith lingered yet a moment to say:—

“'T was with thee the gentleman had business, Will. Zeal to look upo' thy countenance hath brought him hither.”

And after, albeit the squire and Langland paid him no heed, this Hobbe followed on behind, ever and anon voicing some pleasantry, as:—

“That I should live to hear thee sweeten thy tongue to tickle a lording, Will!”

Or:—

“Look out at window, good neighbours, afore the sky fall. Here 's Will Langland, that never lifted his eye to do lordships and rich men a courtesy, walketh London streets to-day with a flowering sprig o' green from the court.”

Or he sang from Long Will's Vision:—

"'By Christ, quoth the knight then, thou learnest us the best!
Save o' time truly, thus taught was I never!
But teach me, quoth the knight, and I shall know how to plough;
I will help thee to labour while my life lasteth.'"

As Langland opened his house-door, Stephen saw Calote laying trenchers of black bread on a bare table; a pot bubbled on the hearth, and the room was full of smoke. Calote stood still and rubbed her eyes and stared.

“Sir,” said Langland, “you were seeking me? Wherefore?”

It was a simple question, yet the squire, looking on Calote, found not his answer ready; so Langland waited, glancing from the youth to the maid, until Stephen stammered in a weak, small voice, greatly differing from those bold tones in which he had defied the prentices:—

“I have read thy Vision concerning Piers”—

“I must commend you for an ardent disciple,” said the poet. “'T is not every noble in England would brave the London mob solus for a sight o' me.”

“'T is he that rebuked the yeoman in the churchyard, father,” interposed Calote, “and after praised thee for a poet.”

“Is 't so?” assented Langland. There was a cloud on his brow, but he spoke in kindly fashion. “'T would appear that my daughter and I are alike beholden to you for courtesy, wherefore, I would beseech you, fair sir, since you are come so far and have so manfully encountered perils, will you bide and dine with us,—if a pot o' beans be hight dinner?”

“Nay, I will not so trespass,” protested Stephen. “The Prince refuseth to eat an I be not by to fill his cup.”

“Yet must you bide, I fear me,” said Langland gravely. “How shall I answer to the Prince if one he love go forth to harm? At a later hour, when taverns fill and streets are emptied, you may walk abroad with the more ease.”

And now, with his adventure succeeded past imagination, the ungrateful Stephen stood disconsolate, a-hanging his head.

Kitte came whispering to her husband, with:—

“Dame Emma will give me a fresh-laid egg, and gladly, if she know we have so fine a guest.”

“Nay, wife, we will not flaunt our honours abroad,” Langland answered. “'T were as well Dame Emma do not know.”

So Kitte was fain content herself with a sly smoothing of Calote's hair in the midst of Langland's Latin blessing.

The cook in Kennington Palace was one had learned his trade in France a-following the Black Prince. He had a new sauce for each day of the year. Stephen looked with wonder upon the mess of beans that Kitte poured out for him. His trencher bread was all the bread he had; yet even the trenchers at Richard's table were not such bread as this,—black, bitter, hard. He ate his beans off the point of his dagger, and looking across at the fair flower of Calote's face, he marvelled. He had a little mug of penny-ale, and Langland kept him company. Kitte and Calote drank whey and nibbled their trenchers. The meal was silent and short. At the end none poured water over his fingers nor gave him a towel of fine linen to wipe his lips. Excepting the half of his own hard trencher, and this Kitte set away on a shelf, there were left no crumbs wherewith to comfort the poor. Then Kitte lifted the charred sticks off the fire and laid them aside, and Calote scoured the iron pot, and Langland set himself to discourse to his disciple upon the Vision concerning Piers Ploughman.

“And now the Vision 's ended dost dream a new song?” quoth the squire, but his eyes were on Calote.

“I have but one song,” said Long Will. “I write it anew, it changeth ever as the years run, yet in the end 't is the same song.”

He drew forth two rolls of parchment from a pouch at his girdle and looked on them:—

“Since the death of the Black Prince I have changed the old, somewhat. Here”—and he pointed with his finger—“I have a mind to set in a new fable.”

Calote had come to lean against his shoulder, and now she said:—

“Is 't o' the rats and how they would have belled the cat, father?”

He glanced aside at her with a smile:—

“Calote hath the Vision by heart,” he said.

“This gentle keepeth the parchment in a carven box, father.”

Langland fingered the pages of his manuscript, and presently took a quill from his pouch, opened his ink-horn, and crossed out a word.

“An my father would tell thee the tale of the rats, 't would pleasure thee,” said Calote to the squire.

“Nay, I have hindered enough,” protested Stephen,—“but wilt not thou tell the tale?”

Her father, looking up, smiled, but Calote shook her head, and clasped her hands, and unclasped them, shyly.

From the lane came a snapping sound, as Kitte broke twigs from a brush heap for the fire. Langland, pen in air, studied his parchment. The squire wandered to the window.

“'T is quiet now,” said he; “methinks I 'll set forth.”

“Not yet,” the poet answered; “I will go with you.”

“What danger hast thou braved?” asked Calote in wonder. “What 's the meaning? Methought 't was father's jesting.”

“Thy father saved my life this day from a rout of prentices that would have mauled me as I came hither,—because, forsooth, the seneschal to the Earl of March is cast in prison. But wherefore the good people of London should so concern them about the Earl's servant is riddle too deep for my guessing.”

“The seneschal of the Earl of March?” quoth Calote, wrinkling her brow: “who 's he?”

“A worthy man, one the Earl hath in esteem; 's name's Peter de la Mare.”

“Peter de la Mare!” cried Calote. She stared incredulous, and then her eyes blazed big with indignation. “Seneschal to the Earl of March, forsooth! What didst thou this five month? Hast heard o' the Good Parliament?”

“Assuredly!” the squire made answer, amazed.

“Assuredly!” retorted she. “And yet thou marvellest that the people is angry for the sake of Peter de la Mare? Shall I instruct thee? Hearken: in this same Parliament 't was Peter spoke for the Commons. 'T was Peter dared tell the King his counsellors were thieves, and the people of England should be no more taxed for their sakes. 'T was Peter brought John o' Gaunt to terms, and did fearlessly accuse that rascal merchant, Richard Lyons, and those others. 'T was Peter charged my Lord Latimer with his treachery and forced the Duke to strike him off the council. He dared even meddle 'twixt the old King and Alice Perrers,—and she a witch! But now that's all o'erthrown, for that the Black Prince is dead.—Natheless, when young Richard, thy master, cometh to his kingdom, see thou 'mind him 't was this same Peter de la Mare, with the Commons at 's back, did force the King to make Richard heir to the throne. And this decree—John o' Gaunt dare not overthrow.”

She paused for breath, and the bewildered Stephen, round-eyed, with open mouth, awaited helpless the renewal of her instructing.

“Methought ye nobles were but too busy with affairs of state,” she resumed bitterly; “yet 't would appear otherwise.”

“I am no noble, mistress,” said Stephen, finding his tongue, “but a poor gentleman, owner of a manor there be not villeins enough left to farm. Young Richard is not yet eleven years of age. It suiteth ill the purpose of his uncles and guardians that he and his household should busy themselves in the kingdom. Mayhap, if we could learn our lesson of lips as fair as thine, we 'd prove apt pupils; but the ladies of our household are busied in matters feminine.”

“I am no lady,” said Calote, grown rosy red; “I am a peasant maid. I have no idle gentles to woo me all day long, nor never shall. The poor is my Love.”

“Mayhap I am an idle gentle,” Stephen answered, “yet I woo no lady in Kennington Palace.” He came a step nearer and kneeled on one knee.

“An 't please you, fair sir,” said the voice of Langland, “the time's as fitting now for departure as 't will be an hour hence. Shall we set forth?”

CHAPTER VI

Food for Thought

ANGLAND and the squire made their way to the river by narrow, muddy lanes and unfrequented alleys. The poet, sunk in reverie, sped onward with the free stride of the hill-shepherd, a gait he had not lost in all the five and twenty years of his sojourn in London; and Stephen walked beside him hurriedly, marvelling at himself that he dared not break the silence and ask the many questions that tingled at the tip of his tongue. For this fine young gentleman, who could be pert enough with Sir Simon de Burley, the tutor of Richard's household, or even with his godfather, the Earl of March, yet found himself strangely abashed in the presence of the lank peasant-priest. Although Stephen knew not its name, 't was reverence stirring in him, an emotion little encountered among courtiers. The very silence of this grave, dingy figure seemed to him more pregnant than the speech of other men.

On the middle part of London Bridge, where was the drawbridge, Langland paused and leaned upon the parapet to look in the water.

“'T is the key that unlocketh the city,” he said. “Let the bridge be taken, and London is taken.”

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.”

“Sir, you feed me with thoughts!” Stephen exclaimed sadly.

“I am right glad,” said Langland; “I had been a churlish host to give thee but only beans.”

And his guest knew not whether to laugh or no.

At the gate of the palace Langland gave the squire good-day, and turned him back to London without further pause, and Stephen would have run after him to thank him for his courtesy, but there came down from the gate-house a half score of young gentlemen that fell upon the squire with shout and laughter, and when he had set himself free, the priest was past the turn of the road.

“Ho, ho,—Etienne! So thou art not eaten up of John of Gaunt?”

“What adventure?”

“Here 's a half ell o' mud on thy hosen.”

“What adventure?”

“The Prince kept the dinner cold an hour.”

“The Prince would not eat a morsel.”

“Threw the capon out o' the dish over the floor, and the gravy hath ruined Sir John Holland's best coat of Flemish broadcloth.”

“Who was yon tall clerk, disappeared but now?”

“The Prince hath not ceased to weep these three hours.”

“Sir Simon de Burley hath sworn he will have thee birched like any truant schoolboy.”

“He hath ridden forth much perturbed.”

“'T is thought the Prince is in a fever; the physician is sent for.”

“Tell 's thy tale! Tell 's thy tale!”

“Mes amis” said Stephen, “I dined of beans,—plain beans,—sans sauce, sans garniture. My Lord of Oxford, thou art my friend, and the cook's, couldst discover if the capon was injured by 's fall?”

A shout of laughter greeted the question, and all cried, “Beans!—Tell us thy tale!”

But here a page, running down the courtyard, bade say that the Prince Richard called for Etienne Fitzwarine; and the importunate young gentlemen gave place.

By the Tabard in Southwark, Langland met two horsemen a-riding, and, as was his custom, he passed them by without obeisance. They noted him, for they were scanning earnestly all persons who met them; and one that was seneschal to the Prince said:—

“A rude fellow!”

And the other:—

“Some malcontent. 'T is so with many of these poor parsons, I hear.”

But a voice called to them from behind, and turning, they saw the clerk, who endeavoured to come up with them.

“Sirs,” he called, “if ye seek one Stephen Fitzwarine, I have but now seen him safe at Kennington Palace.”

“Here 's silver for thy courtesy, master clerk,” said the seneschal, and tossed a white piece on the ground, then turned and galloped off with his comrade.

Long Will stood looking at the silver in the mud:—

“Eh, well!—'t will buy parchment,” said he, and picked it up and wiped it on his sleeve.

CHAPTER VII

A Progress to Westminster

HROUGHOUT that uneasy winter following the death of Edward the Black Prince, Jack Straw and Wat Tyler were much in London. None knew their business, but they hung upon the skirts of all public disturbance and would seem to have been held in esteem by certain of the citizens. They slept, of nights, on the floor of that lower room in Langland's cot, and here Peter, the Devonshire ploughman, kept them company. He had got him a job to blow the bellows for Hobbe Smith, and he stood in a dark corner all day, earning his meat and drink, and biding his time till the law might no more hale him back to Devon for a runaway. For this was the law, that if a 'scaped villein should dwell in any town a year and a day and his lord did not take him, he was free of his lord.

Once, at midnight, Peter awoke with a light in his eyes, and after a moment of blinking discovered Jack Straw and Wat a-sprawling on their bellies, head to head, and a rushlight betwixt them. They had a square of parchment spread out, and Wat drew upon it with a quill.

“Now here I make Mile End,” said he, “and just here i' the wall 's Aldgate,—and they that come by this road”—But here he was 'ware of Peter's shock-head that shaded the light.

“Thou hast spoiled a page o' Long Will's Vision wi' hen-tracks,‘ said Peter; ’and he hath much ado to save 's parchment out of 's victual.”

“'T is a plan of London, fool!” answered Wat, and would have displayed his handiwork, but Jack Straw blew out the light.

Calote did not like Jack Straw. Thrice, of late, he would have kissed her when her father was not by, but she slipped from his hand. At the feast of St. Nicholas he gave her a ribbon. Jack Straw was a widower with two little lads. “And their grandam is old, poor soul,” he was wont to say with a sigh, looking on Calote from beneath his white eyelashes.

Calote took the ribbon with an ill grace:—

“I am daughter to a poor man; I do not wear fallals,” she objected. And at night, when she and her mother had come to bed, she spread the ribbon on her knee with discontent.

“He smelleth ever o' mouldy thatch,” she murmured. “I 'll warrant he beat his wife.”

And Kitte answered drily:—

“No doubt but she deserved all she got.”

“My father doth never beat thee,” Calote averred.

“Thy father is no common man,” said Kitte, “but a poet,—and a priest.”

“I 'll not marry a common man,” cried Calote, tossing the ribbon on the floor.

“Thou wilt not find another like to thy father,” quoth Kitte. She laid her hand upon her daughter's shoulder and looked down for a moment on the yellow hair; then, as she had taken resolve, she said, “Natheless, an' 't were to live again, I 'd take t' other man.”

Calote looked up, white; there was a question in her eyes.

“Ah, no!” said Kitte, answering, “'t was thy father I loved, fast eno'. The other man was a lord's son; he did not woo me in way of marriage. But I was desperate for love of thy father. I said, 'What matter? I will give myself to this lord, and forget.' Then my mother watched; and she betrayed me to Will; for that all our women were honest and she feared for my soul. And Will came to me and said, 'Choose! shall it be marriage with a clerk in orders,—a poor sort of marriage and hopeless,—but yet a marriage? Or shall it be the other, with this lording?' And his humilité and sweet pleasure that I had sighed for him so played upon me that I mistook; I thought he loved me. But a priest with a wife is a maimed creature. To marry the man we love is not alway the best we may do for him. Were thy father free, he might be well on to a bishopric by now.”

“Bishops be not so enviable,” answered Calote. “Here 's Wykeham thrust forth by John of Gaunt, all his estates confiscate, and he hunted hither and yon by the king's men. My father envieth not such.”

“Thou art wilful,” said Kitte sternly. “Kneel down and pray that thou mayst never know the bitterness it is to drag down thy best beloved, that was born to mount higher than thou,—be he priest or knight.”

“My father would not be but a poor man, ever,‘ cried Calote. ’Bishops and great abbots they oppress the people and acquire lands”—

“Hold thy tongue and say thy prayers!” said Kitte, and shook her.

“How may I do both?” answered Calote.

“One learns,” Kitte made reply coldly. And Calote, her prayers said, went to her mother's bed and kissed her.

“Thou shouldst marry a prince the morrow morn, had I my way,” Kitte did murmur wistfully.

Nevertheless, on a day in late January, when Jack Straw said he would take Calote to see the Prince Richard and his train ride forth to Westminster, for Parliament was to be opened that day, Calote went with him gladly.

The old King was very sick in Kent; and John of Gaunt, to pleasure the people and so further his cause with them, had obtained that the Parliament be opened by the Prince. This was John of Gaunt's Parliament,—he had it packed; there was scarce a knight of any shire but was his creature. The town was full of lords and their retainers, of knights and burgesses.

'T was in a jostling crowd, and none too good-natured, that Calote and Jack Straw, Hobbe the smith, Peter from Devon, and Wat Tyler stood to see the heir pass. They were by Charing Cross, meaning to follow on to Westminster with the train when it came from the city. All about the people grumbled, and trod upon one another's toes. Prentices sang lewd songs and played vile pranks; anon the babel rose into a guffaw or lapsed to a snarl. Ploughman Peter squatted on the top step of the Cross, within a forest of legs, and slept. Hobbe gave entertainment to himself, and many beside, with mows and grins and gibberings out of the devil's part in the Miracle; yet he was mindful of Calote, and turned him to her now and again with:—

“Yon fellow 's of the household of Northumberland; dost mark his badge?”—or, “See, mistress! the black horse is one I shod yesterday; an ill-conditioned beast as ever champed bit;” and such-like information.

Wat Tyler and Jack Straw whispered together of certain oppression committed of late by Earl Percy and his retainers, and hinted at what should hap when the people claimed freedom for itself, and put down all such packed Parliaments as this was like to be.

“But, Wat,” said Calote, who paid more heed to these two than to Hobbe and his pranks; “in my father's Vision nobles and common folk laboured side by side in amity. Dost not mind the fine lady with the veil, how she sewed sacking and garments, and broidered altar-cloths? And the knight came to Piers in friendly wise to know what he might do. Yet thou wilt have it that the people is to do all, and moreover they will cast down the nobles from their place, with hatred. How can this be when Christ the Lord is Leech of Love? Why wilt thou not have the nobles into thy counsel; speak to them as they were thy brothers, and gain their love?”

Wat Tyler laughed aloud, and Jack Straw set his finger beneath Calote's chin and smiled upon her.

“Sweet preaching lips,” quoth he, and would have kissed her; but she struck him, and Wat said:—

“Let be! Why tease the maid?”

But they ceased their whispering, for the crowd was making a great roar, and some said they could see the Prince. So many rude folk clambered up the steps of the Cross that Calote was pressed upon and well-nigh breathless, and she could see naught but the broad backs of men and the wide caps of women; so Jack Straw made as to lift her in his arms; but she, in haste, cried:—

“Wat shall hold me; he 's taller.”

And Wat, laughing, swung her to his shoulder, for she was but a slip of a child.

“I 've a maid of mine own in Kent rides often thus,” said tall Wat. And Jack Straw smiled; yet, though he smiled, he cursed.

Now there came by trumpeters, and gentlemen in arms, a-many; and this and that and the other great lord. And then there came a little lad on a great horse.

He was all bejewelled, this little lad; he had a great ruby in his bonnet, and three gold chains about his neck, and a broad ribbon across his breast. His little legs stood out upon the back of the great horse, and his long mantle of velvet spread as far as the horse's tail. He had a fair and childlike countenance and a proud chin. His mien was serious, and he bore himself with a pretty stateliness, yet was nowise haughty. And the people cheered, and cheered, and cheered again; men laughed with love in their eyes, and women blessed him and sobbed. On his right hand rode the great Duke, smiling and affable; on his left, but sourly, the Earl of March. Close after came young Thomas of Woodstock. At Richard's bridle-rein there walked a young squire very gaily clad, and when the great horse came opposite Charing Cross and the place where Calote was lifted above the heads of the people, this squire said somewhat to the little Prince; whereupon Richard, forgetful, for the nonce, of Parliament and kingdom, stretched upward, turned his head like any eager child, with “Where?” upon his lips, and looked until he found—Calote.

He looked on her with a solemn curiosity, as a child will, and she from her high seat looked on him. Wat Tyler was moving on with the crowd, so the two kept pace, holding each other's glance. Once, Calote's eyes fell to the squire, whereupon he lifted his cap. All about her was shouting, but she heard only her own thoughts, which were, of a sudden, very loud and clear.—If this little child could learn to love and trust the poor, might not the Vision indeed be fulfilled? Might not the king and the ploughman indeed toil together, side by side, for the good of the people? Oh, if there were some one to teach this child! If she, Calote, might speak to him and tell him how far poverty differed from riches! The squire must have spoken concerning her, else why should the boy keep his eyes so fixed on her face? If she could but speak to him and tell him of the Vision, and what a king might do! He was so little, so noble,—he would assuredly learn.

But now Wat, jostled amid the throng, was not able to keep pace with the Prince, and fell behind. And they were before Westminster, where the Duke lifted his nephew off the horse and led him within the Abbey; and other lords dismounted to follow, and there was confusion and shouting of pages. All this while, the ploughman, being waked when the Prince came past the Cross, had followed on behind Wat, agape on the splendour and forgetful of his own safety. But when the Earl of Devon and his retainers made a stand to dismount, on a sudden a stocky, red-faced knight sware a great oath and, leaping off his horse, came and took Peter by the ear:—

“A villein! A 'scaped villein!” he cried. “'T is mine! Bind him!”

And all the crowd was echoing, “A villein 'scaped!” when Hobbe, thrusting men and women to right and left, laid his hand upon Peter's shoulder and bawled:—

“A lie! A very villainous lie! 'T is my prentice that 's served me faithful this year and more.”

“Hobbe's prentice!” cried the mob. “Good fellows, stand by the smith!” And they closed about the knight, so that he had no room to draw his sword.

But one came riding from the old Earl of Devon to question concerning the affray, and the knight cried: “Justice! Justice, my lord! Here 's mine own villein kept from me by a rabble!”

“Justice!” bellowed the smith. “Oh, good citizens of London, do ye stand idly by and see the rights of prentices and masters so trampled?”

“Nay!—Nay!—Nay!—Nay!” said many voices; and the people surged this way and that.

“Rescue! Rescue!”

“Stand on your rights!”

“Does Devon rule because a Courtney 's Bishop o' London?”

The burly smith and the no less redoubtable knight stood a-glaring, each with his hand upon his claimed property.

“'T is mine!” cried the knight. “He ran not six months agone.”

“'T is mine!” roared the smith. “Hath blowed my bellus this year and six.”

One said the Bishop of London was sent for to quell the mob. A clot of mud caught the knight on the side of his bullet head. It could be seen where Devon consulted with his sons and retainers, for 't was no light matter to wrest away a London prentice, on whichsoever side lay the right.

“The smith speaks truth!” said Jack Straw, lifting up his voice. “When do the lords aught but lie to the people?”

Some one threw a stone.

Then Calote leaned down and laid her hand on Peter's head. “O sir!” she said to the knight, “this is a man. Christ came in his likeness. He is thy bloody brother. Will ye not love one another?”

They that were near at hand stood agape. Others beyond said, “What is 't?” “Who is 't?”—and others again answered them, “'T is Long Will's little maid.” “'T is a maid with hair like the sun.” Those at the edge of the throng thought an angel was sent, and they crossed themselves.

The knight lifted his purple face, and his mouth dropped wide open.

All this while had Peter stood silent, passive, hopeless; but now he spoke:—

“In five months I were a free man,” he said, “but to-day I am this man's villein. He saith true.”

“Fool!” cried Hobbe; “I would have delivered thee.”

“Fool!” cried Jack Straw.

“Fool!” laughed the crowd. “Bind him!” “Give him to 's master!” “Bind him!” “Hobbe 's well rid!” “Bind him!”

So they bound him fast, and two stout knaves set him on the knight's horse, and the knight went into Westminster.

“Take me to him,” said Calote; and Wat carried her to the side of the horse.

“Good-by, mistress,” said Peter; “God bless thee!”

“Good-by, Peter,” said Calote. “'T is very true what my father saith, how that Truth resteth with the ploughman.”

“Heh?” asked Peter; but she was gone on her way.

In a moment she bade Wat set her down, and when he did so she looked in his face, for throughout this hubbub he had uttered nor word nor sound.

There was foam upon his lip.

CHAPTER VIII

An Embassage

HE winter days that followed were full of stir and strife, and the devil with the long spoon was ever John of Gaunt. 'T was he set the people agog that day John Wyclif was sent for before the bishops in St. Paul's. For the people were friendly enough to this great preacher; they liked right well to hear him say that abbots and bishops should be landless and dwell in Christian pauvreté. But they did not like that John of Gaunt should be his friend; for in those days the Duke had put it in the old King's heart to take away the rights of the people of London, that were theirs since old time, and set over them a mayor who was none of their choosing. And when the people heard this, is no wonder they made a riot that day in St. Paul's, and in the streets of the city. And they would have burned John of Gaunt's Palace of the Savoy, that stood betwixt Charing Cross and Temple Bar, but the Bishop of London persuaded them, and they left it for that time.

Jack Straw got a broken head in this riot and lay in Langland's cot three days, and Calote quarrelled with him; for she said, if he and his like went about burning and destroying all the fair palaces and sweet gardens, in the end, when his day came and all men should hold in common, there would be naught left that anybody would care to have.

Said he, her head was turned with seeing so many fine gentlemen about the town, and because the little Prince had looked on her that day of Parliament. She was like all women with her vanity. She would sell herself for a gewgaw.

“Natheless,” answered Calote, “I 've not been in haste to wear the ribbon thou gavest me.”

And Jack Straw swore at her, and cursed his lame head that kept him helpless. 'T was a rough wooing. Calote minded her of the squire, and her heart sickened against Jack Straw.

At Eastertide she saw Stephen again. He was come to St. Paul's to hear Mass, and she thought peradventure he had forgotten her. But then he looked in her eyes.

She found him awaiting her beneath the north porch when she came out, and he took her hand and begged leave to walk with her. In the beginning she said him nay, but when he told her he was bearer of a message from the Prince Richard, she let him have his way, and they went out through the Aldersgate into Smithfield, under the shadow of the convent wall by St. Bartholomew's.

“O Calote!” said the squire. “O white flower! At night in my dream thou hast come to me; and when I awoke I thought that no maid—nay, not thyself even—could be so fair as wert thou in the dream. And now,—and now,—behold! thou art more beautiful than thy dream-self.”

“Is 't the message of the Prince?” quoth Calote. She held one hand against her breast, for something fluttered there.

“Sweet heart, thou art loveliest of all ladies in England and in France,‘ said Stephen. ’Since I saw thee my heart is a white shrine, where I worship thee.”

“Hast thou forgotten that day in our cot?” asked Calote, very sad. “There was no lady's bower. Wilt leave me, sir? I may not listen. Betake thee to the palace with thy honeyed words!”

They stood in an angle of the wall, and Stephen knelt there and kissed the ragged edge of Calote's gown. While his head was bent, she put out her hand and had well-nigh touched his hair. But when he looked upward, she had both hands at her breast.

“O rose! O rose of love!” he murmured; and did not rise, but stayed kneeling, and so looking up.

“In that Romaunt,” said Calote, “a maiden opened the gate. She bare a mirror in her hand, and she was crowned and garlanded. Her name was Idlelesse. But I am not she. I am not any of those fair damsels in that garden.”

“Thou art the rose,” he said.

“I do not dwell in a garden.”

“Thou art the rose.”

“O sir!” she cried, and flung her arms wide. “There be so many kind of love in the world! But this one kind I may not know. Do not proffer it. The Lord hath made me a peasant. Love betwixt thee and me were not honourable.”

“'T is true, I am in tutelage,” Stephen answered. “But one day I shall come to mine own. Meanwhile, I serve thee. 'T is the device of my house, 'Steadfast.'”

“I am of the poor,” said Calote. “I will not eat spiced meats while my people feed of black bread. I will not lie in a soft bed if other maids must sleep o' the floor.”

“I will serve thee!” cried Stephen. “My villeins shall be paid good wage. Yea, I have read the Vision. The memory of thy father's words is ever with me.”

“Yet thou canst prate of thy villeins” she returned.

“But who will till my fields, else?” he asked of her most humbly.

And she answered him, “I do not care.”

So he rose up from his knees a-sighing, and presently he said:—

“This is my motto: 'Steadfast.' And the message of the Prince is that he would fain speak with thee. One day he will send and bid thee to the palace; when the tutor and his lady mother shall be well disposed.”

“Sayst thou so?” cried Calote. “Ah, here 's service!”

But the squire was amazed and sorrowful.

“Art thou of the poor,” he exclaimed, “and wilt none of me? But thou canst clap thy hands for joy of being bid to the palace?”

“Nay, nay!” Calote protested. Tears came to her eyes; she laid her hand upon the squire's gay broidered sleeve. “But when I saw the little Prince a-going to Westminster, methought—'T is a fair child and noble; if he had one at his ear to tell him of the wrongs of his poor, he might learn to love these poor. Piers could learn him much. Mayhap I might wake this love in 's heart. Then would there be neither poverty nor riches, when the king is friend to the ploughman.”

“And if I serve thee faithful? If I bring thee to the Prince? If I make these wrongs my wrongs, and plead to him?—Then—Calote—then—what wilt thou?”

“How can I tell?” she whispered.

CHAPTER IX

The King's Secret

ET the days passed, and 't was mid-June when there came to the door of the house on Cornhill a slender young squire on a slow and sober hack, with a stout and likewise sober gentlewoman afore him on the saddle. The youth had much ado to see his horse's head by peering this way and that around the circuit of his lady, the while he kept one hand at her waist in semblance of protection. And the good folk on Cornhill failed not to find, in all this, food for a jest.

A shoemaker's prentice came running to lend an awl, with:—

“An thou 'lt punch her with this and set thine eye to hole, thou 'lt not need wag thy head so giddily.”

“Nay, master, my tools will serve thee better,” cried a carpenter. “What's an awl to pierce three feet o' flesh?”

“Hold, hold! Thy lady's a-slipping!” laughed another. “Lean on him, mistress,—he hath a stout arm!”

“Look how amorously he doth embrace the maid!”

And Hobbe, coming to the front of his shop, cried out:—

“A rape! a rape!—Rescue the damsel!”

“Ma foy, Etienne!” the lady protested, indignant. “Here 's a sweet neighbourhood to bring an unprotected damosel.”

“Nay, madame, but thou dost me wrong,” said the squire. “Am I not here to defend thee?”

He had pulled up his willing steed and lighted down, and now was come to the lady's side to assist her to dismount. Hobbe also was drawn nigh, and heard these words.

“Yea, mistress, thou dost most foully slander this knight,” said he. “I have seen him with his single arm put to rout a two thousand men and mo'. He 's well known i' these parts, and greatly feared.”

They that stood by roared with laughter; and Stephen, crimson, and biting his nether lip,—yet not in anger,—made as to assist the lady from her saddle. Seeing this, Hobbe thrust himself to the fore, and said he:—

“Mistress, though you pity not this stripling, yet pity your own neck,” and caught her by the middle with his two hands and set her on the ground, they both staggering. And the squire hurried her within doors.

When she had caught her breath, she saw a bare, damp room, and a man writing.

“Mother of God! What kennel is this, Etienne?” she gasped. “Didst not assure madame 't was a poet's daughter?”

“Yea, and truly, Dame Marguerite! This is the poet's self.”

She looked on Langland, who was come up the room, and shook her head, saying:—

“I fear me thou hast fallen in evil company, Etienne. 'T will go ill with thee if aught befal me.”

But Stephen had turned away and louted low before the clerk.

“Sir, since that day you gave me entertainment in your house I have many time related mine adventure to the Prince Richard, the puissant and noble. It is the tale he most delighteth in. I have likewise read to him from the Vision; there be parts he much affecteth. These several months he will give madame his mother no peace, but he will see your daughter, and hear from her lips concerning the poor, and the manner of her life.”

“Wherefore my daughter?” asked Langland.

“I—I—sir, I have spoke of your daughter, she is very fair. The Prince, who is walled about with tapestry and richesse, he hath desired to see one, like himself young, who knoweth not these things. To-day, for the old King afar in his manor is mayhap at death's door, and the gentlemen of our household are much occupied, the Prince hath got his way with madame. She is a most gentle lady and a true mother. She sendeth this, her waiting-woman, to bring the maiden safe to the palace.”

Long Will sunk his chin in his breast, and mused, the while the waiting-woman stood with her skirts upgathered off the floor. Then he lifted up his head and called:—

“Calote!—Calote!—Kitte!”

And presently there was a sound of pattering overhead, and down an outside stair, and the two came in from the alley.

“Here 's a message for Calote,” said her father shortly. “She is bidden to Kennington Palace.”

Kitte, just risen from a deep curtsey before the fine lady, showed more of consternation than joy in her visage; but the little maid caught Will's hand in both of hers and cried:—

“Oh, father, I may go?”

He looked gloomily upon her:—

“What wilt thou there?”

“Tell the Prince of us poor, father; teach him the Ploughman's tale; beg him to come on pilgrimage with us to Truth. Let me go!”

“'T is the Prince commandeth, wench,” the waiting-woman interrupted. “Is no need to ask leave.”

“Madame,” said Langland, “you mistake. Is great need. The Prince is not the King; neither is he mine overlord: I owe him no duty. Natheless, the child may go. Yet”—and he turned him to Stephen, “if there come any evil to this my daughter”—

“Sir,” said Stephen, “I pledge my life for to keep the honour of this maid.”

“And of what use is thy life to me?” quoth Langland.

But Calote, who had fled away immediately, came now, walking softly. She had put on her shoes of gray cloth, but she had no stockings. She had smoothed her yellow braids and set a clean kerchief atop.

“I am ready to go with you, madame,” she said, and curtseyed.

Langland and the smith together got the waiting-woman upon her saddle, and Hobbe tossed Calote lightly up afore. So, with Stephen leading the horse, they went out of Cornhill.

Now, though this waiting-woman's soul was strait, her heart was big enough and kind, and when she had perforce to set her arms about Calote, and she felt that slim little body of the child, and the little breasts a-fluttering, because Calote's breath came too quick, and because her heart beat fast,—the Dame Marguerite could not but grow warm to the maid, and wiled the way with tales of the palace, and, “When thou art come into the presence of the Prince thou wilt do thus and so,‘ and, ’Thou art never to sit,” and so with many instructions of court modes and manners.

They found the little Prince in a round chamber in one of the turrets, where he sat on a cushion within the splay of a narrow window, reading a book.

“Ah, cœur de joie!” he cried, slipping down and running to embrace Stephen. “What a lifetime hast thou been, Etienne, mon chéri. See, I have sent them all away, the others, they were consumed with envy. I said I would hold a private audience.”

Still holding by Stephen's arm he turned him to Calote and, looking in her face, was seized with a shyness: wherefore he ceased his prattle and pressed yet more close to his squire. Then, because the hand of the waiting-woman was heavy on her shoulder, Calote made her curtsey.

“I have seen thee,” quoth Richard. “The day of Parliament I saw thee;” and Calote smiled. “I have read thy father's book,—not all,—there be dull bits; but some I like. Come hither to the window and I 'll show it thee.”

Here one came with a message to Dame Marguerite, and she, glancing irresolute at the maid, at last shrugged her shoulders, and muttering, “'T is but a beggar wench,” went out at the door; but in a moment she came again, and admonishing Stephen, bade him see to it that he played no pranks while she was gone. He, bowing, held the tapestry aside for her.

“Etienne, Etienne!” called Richard. “Bring yet another cushion! The maid shall sit beside me in the window where is light, and the sun falls on her hair.”

“I—I may not sit,” stammered Calote.

“Yea, sweet; if the Prince Richard desire it,” Stephen assured her. And lifting her in his arms, he set her on the cushion by the side of the Prince. The colour came into her face at his touch, and he too was rosy. He busied himself with drawing her narrow gown about her ankles.

“Mine Etienne saith thou art his bien-aimée,” quoth Richard, and laid a little jewelled hand upon hers that was bare and roughened at the fingertips.

She was silent. The squire leaned against the wall at Richard's side:—

“Yea, my lord,” said he.

“Did I not love Etienne,” the child continued, “and 't would grieve him, I 'd take thee for mine own. Thou art most wonderful fair.”

“O Prince!” cried Calote, “there be a many maids as fair as I, and fairer; but they go bent neath heavy burdens; they eat seldom; the winter cometh and they are as a flower that is blighted. These are thy people. Are not all we thine own, we English?”

“The book saith somewhat of this,” mused the boy. He took up the parchment and turned the pages.

And Calote said:—

"'The most needy are our neighbours, and we take good heed:
—As prisoners in pits and poor folk in cots,—
Burdened with children and chief lords' rent,
What they spare from their spinning they spend it in house hire,
Both in milk and in meal to make a mess o' porridge,
To satisfy therewith the children that cry out for food.'"

“Yea, 't is here!” said Richard, pointing with his finger. “Read on!”

“I do not read, my lord,” she answered. "I have no need to read, I know my father's Vision:

"'Also themselves suffer much hunger,
And woe in winter-time with waking of nights,
To rise 'twixt the bed and the wall and rock the cradle:
Both to card and to comb, to patch and to wash,
To tub and to reel, rushes to peel;
That pity 't is to read or to show in rhyme
The woe of these women that dwell in cots.'"

“Natheless,” said Richard, “I have heard mine uncle, the Duke, say that the people do not feel these hardships, for that they know naught else.”

“Think you I feel, O my lord?” Calote answered him. “Yet I am of these people. 'T is to-day the first day ever I sat on a cushion.”

The boy stared.

“But thou shalt hereafter,” he said. “Etienne will clothe thee in silk, and feed thee dainties. I will give thee a girdle with a blue stone in it.”

“Nay, not so!” she cried. “How can I take mine ease if the people suffer? Oh, sweet child, wilt thou walk in silk, and the half of thy kingdom go naked? 'T is for thee they suffer. The white bread thou dost eat, the people harvested. They gathered it into thy barns. And yet thou wilt let them go hungry.”

“No, surely I will not when I am King,” he answered with trouble in his voice.

“Hearken!” said Calote; and mindful only that he was a little child who must be made to pity and to love, she took his two hands in her own and so compelled his eyes to hers. “Didst mark, that day thou wentest to the Abbey, how the people cheered thee, and blessed thee, and smiled on thee?”

“Yea,” answered Richard.

“And didst mark how they that were nighest the great Duke in that throng were silent, or else they muttered?”

“Yea.”

“He hath beggared the people, this man. 'T was he gave leave to that thief Richard Lyons and the Lord Latimer to buy away all victual they might lay hand to. And then, what think you, did they give this to the poor? Nay! But they set it forth at such price that no poor man could buy. In the midst of plenty there was famine. 'T is several years gone now, yet I mind me how I sat in our lane and chewed the stems of the rank grass. Our neighbour had a little babe,—and she could not give it suck. So it died. Was no flesh o' the bones at all, only skin.”

Richard's eyes were fixed upon her face with horror. His little hands were cold.

“I hate mine uncle, John of Gaunt,” he said.

“Sweet Prince, waste no time hating. Christ the King, He hated no man, but He was Leech of Love. Learn thou of Him!”

“But I will not love mine uncle,” cried the child.

"Love the people! Love us poor! If Christ is King, and He our brother, art not thou likewise little brother to every man in England? Hearken to Holy Church in the Vision:—

'Wherefore is love leader of the lord's folk of heaven,'

"And this saith Reason, that counselleth the King:—

'If it were so
That I were King with crown to keep a realm,
Should never wrong in this world that I might know of,
Be unpunished in my power, for peril of my soul.'

“Give the common folk new law! Last Trinité a year, there came to us a countryman had run from his place for that he starved on the wage that the law allowed. Yet that same day of Parliament his master found him out, in open street, and haled him away. Oh, is 't not shame in a Christian kingdom that men be sold with the soil like maggots? Set the people free when thou art King! Set the people free!”

“I have heard my father say, before he died,” said Richard, “that no man is free, not the king even, for the nobles do bind his hands. I hate the great nobles! They come and look on me and chuck me under chin,—and anon they whisper in corners. They shall not bind my hands!”

“My father saith the common folk is three times more than the nobles,” said Calote eagerly. “If thou art friend to the poor, they will serve thee. They will bind the nobles and learn them to love. Oh, hearken to Piers! The Vision of Truth is with him. Take the poor man to thy friend!”

Richard leaped down from the window; his cheeks were red, his eyes were very bright.

“I will swear an oath!” he cried. “Etienne, give me thy sword!”

Now was the tapestry by the door thrust aside and a little page came in, out of breath. Calote sat on the cushion, Etienne leaned against the wall. Richard had the sword midway of the blade in his two hands, and the cross-hilt upheld before him.

“Oh—oh!” gasped the little page. “The old King is dead!”

Richard lowered the sword. The colour went out of his cheeks.

“Etienne,” he said, “Etienne,—am I—King?—What makes the room turn round?”

Then the squire, coming out of his amaze, ran and knelt on one knee, and set his King on the other.

“Imbécile!” he cried to the page, “bring His Majesty a cup of water!”

Meanwhile Calote sat in the window-seat.

“Do not hold me on thy knee, Etienne,” said Richard presently; “methinks 't is not fitting. I will stand on my feet. Where is the maid?”

“Drink, sire!” said Etienne. “'T will cure thy head.” And he steadied the goblet at the lips of the King.

The page stood by, grinning.

“I listened,” quoth he. “I was behind the arras when the messenger spake. I ran like the wind. Why doth yonder maid sit in the King's presence?”

“Mother of God!” exclaimed Calote, and jumped down in haste, very red. And Richard laughed.

But in a moment he was grave again.

“Mayhap I should weep for my grandfather,” he said. “I know he was a great king. But my father would have been a greater than he, an he had lived. I weep still, of nights, because my father is dead.”

“Begone!” whispered Etienne to the page. “Haply they seek the King. Tell the Queen-Mother he is here.”

Calote came and knelt on both her knees before Richard.

“Thou, also, shalt be a great king,” she cried.

But he shook his head.

“I do not know,” he mused. “How little am I! The nobles are great, and they do not love me,—not as my father loved. Men say mine uncle hath it in his heart to kill me.”

“O sire! the people love thee!” cried Calote. “The people is thy friend; they hold to thee for thy father's sake; and if thou be friend and brother to them, be sure they will hold to thee for thine own. Wilt thou be king of common folk, sire? Wilt thou right the wrongs of thy poor? Now God and Wat Tyler forgive me if I betray aught. But hearken! The people has a great plot whereby they hope to rise against this power of the nobles, this evil power that eateth out the heart of this kingdom. If this thing come to pass, wilt thou go with the nobles, or wilt thou go with thy poor?”

“I hate the nobles!” cried Richard passionately. “Have I not told thee? I hate mine uncle the Duke, and Thomas of Woodstock that tosseth me in air as I were a shuttlecock. I hate Salisbury, and Devon,—yea, even the Earl of March, Etienne. They do not love me. Their eyes are cold; and when they smile upon me I could kill them. I will go with the common folk, they are my people.”

“There will not be a king so great as thou, nor so beloved!” cried Calote. “But this that I told thee is secret.”

“Is 't?—Well!” said Richard eagerly,—“I do love a secret. Etienne will tell thee how close I have kept his own.”

He swelled his little chest and spread his legs.

“Now am I right glad. Mine uncles have their secrets. So will I likewise. And I am King.”

Then the tapestry lifted, and there came into the room a noble lady, and two other following after; and all these had been a-weeping.

“O madame!” cried Richard, and went and cast himself into the arms of this lady. “My grandfather is dead, and we are in sore straits. Would God my father were alive this day.” So he began to sob; and the Queen-Mother took him up in her arms and bore him away, and her ladies went also.

But of three young gentlemen that stood in the doorway with torches, for now the day was spent, one only departed,—and he perforce, for the passage was darker than this room, and the ladies called for light. But the other two came in, and:—

“Here 's where thou 'rt hid!” they cried. “By St. Thomas o' Canterbury, a fair quarry!”

They thrust their torches in Calote's sweet face and set their impudent young eyes upon her. Yet did her loveliness somewhat abash them.

“Sirs,” said Etienne, “ye do annoy this damosel. Pray you, stand farther off!”

“Is 't thy leman, or dost instruct the Prince?” asked he that was elder of these two lads.

“For shame, Sir John!” said Etienne. “Moreover, I beseech you use more reverence toward the King, since he is come to his inheritance.”

“Ah!” cried Calote. The other lording had taken off her kerchief, so that her hair was loosened; and now he knelt to lift her ragged skirt where her white ankle showed, and he touched this little ankle delicately, the while he looked up in her face and said:—

“Shall I kiss thy foot, mistress? Yet, say the word and I 'll kiss thy lips. Wilt play with me? Thou shalt find me more merry paramour than”—

But Etienne caught him by the collar as he knelt, and flung him off, so that his head struck by the wall. He arose with a rueful countenance and would have drawn his sword, but Sir John Holland went to him and they two whispered together and departed.

“Come!” said Stephen, “the street is safer for thee. If I know aught of the young Earl of Oxford, they will return and play some devil's trick. Come! Wilt trust me? I know a way not by the gate.”

She was weeping soft, but she gave her hand into his and let him lead her through dark ways to a garden and a hedge; and so he crawled through a small hole and drew her after him, and they ran across a field to the high road.

“Do not weep!” he whispered. “I will protect thee with my life.”

“I am not afeared,” she answered him; “but, alas! who would be a maid and not weep?”

They came upon the road where it made a turning away from the great gate of the palace, and here was a tall man pacing in the dusk.

“Father!” Calote cried joyfully.

But though the squire made as he were content, yet he sighed. Natheless, when he was come back to the round chamber, he found a white something on the floor, which was Calote's little kerchief. And this he put to his lips many times, and folded it, and thrust it inside his jerkin, on the left side.

CHAPTER X

Plot and Counterplot

OW Richard was not yet crowned before he—or they that put words in his mouth—had set free Peter de la Mare from Nottingham Castle. And for this there was great rejoicing. Peter came up to London as he had been Thomas à Becket returned out of exile. London gave him gifts; he was honoured of the city; merchants feasted him.

'T was on the night after the merry-making that Wat Tyler and Jack Straw came again to Cornhill, and they were not much elate. They said: “New brooms sweep clean;” and “Well eno' to watch the kitten at play, but 't will grow a cat;” and that this folk was a fool: 't saw no further than its own nose; let it laugh now, but presently there would be more taxing. And so on, of this man and that, in Kent and Sussex and Norfolk, that followed John Ball and would be ready—when the time was come.

Meanwhile Calote sat on her father's knee and listened. This secret that she had discovered to the King was no true plot at that time; nevertheless, it began to be one. Since the year of the first pestilence, which year was the two and twentieth in the reign of Edward III., and the third after the Black Prince gained the victory over the French at Crécy,—since this year, the common folk did not cease to murmur. And this was the beginning of their murmuring, because in that dire pestilence more than the half of all the people of England died, and the corn rotted in the field for lack of husbandry.

Now it was an old law in England that the villein, which was bound to the soil where he was born, must till the soil for his lord, giving him service in days' labour; and, in return therefor, the villein had leave to till certain acres for his own behoof. But this law was fallen into disuse in a many places afore the pestilence time, and if a villein would, he might discharge his service in a payment of money to his lord, and so be quit; and the lord's bailiff hired other labourers to till the manor. And this was a good way, for the villein got more time wherein to till his own land, or to ply his trade, and the lord's bailiff got better men,—they that laboured doing so of free-will for hire, and without compelling.

Then came pestilence and knocked at every man's door; and where there had been ten men to till the soil there was one now, and the one would not work for the old wage, for he said, “Corn is dear.” And this was true, there being none to harvest the corn. So every man served him who would pay the highest wage,—whether his own lord or the lord of another manor. But the lords, becoming aware, said, “How shall this be? For by the law the villein is bound to the soil and must labour on the manor where he was born; yet here be villeins that journey from place to place like free men, and barter service; neither will they labour for their own lord except it like them, and for hire.”

After this there was passed in Parliament the Statute of Labourers, whereby it was declared that:—

“Every man or woman of whatsoever condition, free or bond, able in body, and within the age of threescore years ... and not having of his own whereof he might live, nor land of his own about the tillage of which he might occupy himself, and not serving any other, should be bound to serve the employer who should require him to do so, and should take only the wages which were accustomed to be taken in the neighbourhood where he was bound to serve, two years afore that plague befel.”

And this law was amended and made more harsh other years after.

But the villeins, having tasted freedom, were loth to return into bondage. They fled away from the manors; they hid in the woods; they gathered them into companies and would do no work except their demand of wage and liberty were granted. Moreover, certain men of a quick wit went about and preached against kings and lords. They said all men were brothers and free, they must share as brothers. One of these preachers was John Ball, a priest, a good man, fearless and fervent. For a score of years he traversed England calling men to fellowship; and for this he was persecuted of Holy Church. Rich prelates had no mind to share their wealth with villeins. But and because John Ball suffered, the common folk loved him the better and believed on him. Langland knew him and had speech of him many a time; nevertheless, Langland said that John Ball would not make England new. Mayhap 't was by John Ball and his ilk that Langland's Vision came into the countryside and spread among cottagers; and Wat Tyler heard it, and Jack Straw,—and came out of Kent to learn more of this doctrine. So they found Will Langland and loved him; but for understanding of him, that was another matter. There were few men at that time could rede this chantry priest.

So it was that the thought of fellowship grew up out of all these rhymings and prophecies of John Ball and Long Will: and how that one man of himself was well-nigh powerless before unrighteous rule, but if many men were joined together to persuade the King and Parliament, there might be pause and parley; and if all the villeins and artisans and prentices in the wide realm of England were so banded—That was a great thought! 'T was too big for the breast of Wat Tyler and Jack Straw; it must out. Already it spread; it lodged in other breasts. But this was all,—a thought like a thistledown flying from man to man; and one blew it this way, and another blew it that; and if by chance it made as to fall on the earth, there was always Jack Straw, or Wat Tyler, or John Ball, to blow a great breath and set it off again.

“Natheless, in the end, naught will come of 't,” said Long Will, that night.

“Wherefore?” Wat Tyler questioned hotly.

“Who shall lead?” Will asked him.

Wat Tyler looked at Jack Straw and Jack Straw at him, yet neither in the eyes of the other.

“There shall be a many leaders,” said Jack Straw presently. “Of every hundred, and of every shire, a leader.”

“And the grievance of every leader shall differ from the grievance of every other leader; yea,‘ Langland added, ’one only desire shall they have in common,—to lead,—to put themselves in the place of power.”

“For the people's sake,” protested Wat.

“Their leader is God and the king; and wilt thou learn them another lesson?”

“Yea, by”—But Wat Tyler looked on Jack Straw and swore no oath.

“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.

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.

Wat Tyler listened with a frown, Jack Straw with a smile that was not near so pleasant as any frown. Kitte, in the doorway, stood open-mouthed. Only Long Will sat unmoved. He had heard this tale.

When it was ended they all looked upon one another. Will smiled, but Jack Straw laughed, a most unkindly laugh.

“An thou wert my wench, I 'd beat thee,” said Wat. “Thou shouldst not walk abroad but with a gag atween thy teeth.”

“Soft—soft!” Jack Straw interposed him. “Milk's spilt: let 's lap it up as best we may! Let 's consider to make the best on 't! Methinks I see a way”—

“Send the maid to her bed, Will, an thou 'lt not lay on the rod,” growled Wat Tyler. “Here 's enough o' long ears and blabbing tongues.”

“Thou cruel Wat!” cried Calote. “Thou art no true man! What care hast thou of the poor? Dost think to be king thine own self? A pretty king, thou”—

“Chut, chut!” Long Will rebuked her. “Get thee to thy mother!”

“Nay, let her bide!” said Jack Straw gently. “Let her bide! She hath brought us into this mishap, so may she help us forth.”

“Thou fool!” cried Wat. “Thou lovesick fool! Wilt come a-courtin', leave me at home!”

“I will,” Jack Straw made answer, with narrow eyes. “But to-night I 'm no lover, nor no fool neither; natheless, the maid shall bide. Never fear, Calote, we 'll mend thy mischief.”

“'T is no mischief,” Calote retorted. “'T is a true loyalty to tell the King.”

“Yea, so! And if thou 'lt hearken, I 'll give thee more news to tell him. Thou shalt never be naught but loyal, Calote.”

“Mark you, Will!” cried Wat Tyler, “I 'm mum! If there 's aught else to be betrayed, 't is he plays tattle-tongue. My rough speech is not fit to be carried to court.”

“So be it!” Jack assented. “Thou hast spoke to no purpose this hour and more; 't is now my turn. Hearken!”

Jack Straw spoke not overloud at any time; yet folk heard him always. To-night there was a half-smile hovering on his thin, long lips. Calote turned her eyes away from his, that sought her; but though 't was against her will, she listened.

“Will is in the right,” said he; “Will is in the right ever. The King is leader of us English. He may ride across our sown fields when he goes a-hunting; he may send forth his provisor to take away our geese and our pigs, our sheep and other cattle, to feed his idle courtiers what time he maketh a progress through the realm; we 'll go hungry, but we 'll cry God save him, as he passeth by. 'T will be a many years afore common folk cease to honour the King. Here a man, there a man, with rage in his heart, will be found to follow Wat Tyler or Jack Straw; but England 'll never rise up as one man but at the bidding o' the King.”

Langland nodded and Wat Tyler ground his teeth.

“And 't is England as one man—the poor as one man—that must rise, if that 's done that must be done to make us free men.—Now, look you! we have the ear o' the King. 'T is a child,—a weakling, but what matter?—the name 's enough. Wherefore may we not one day bid the people to rise, in the name o' the King?”

Will Langland smiled, but he spoke no word, he waited on Jack Straw.

“In good time, we 'll send a messenger from shire to shire shall warn the people secretly of this thing. There 'll be certain knights and gentles, I ken, will cast in their lot with common folk, in the King's name. 'T is not only ploughmen and prentices see truth in John Ball's doctrine and Long Will's dream. We 'll send one shall convince them of vérité.”

“Must be a fair persuading messenger,” quoth Long Will, mocking. “Is 't thou, or Wat, will undertake to convince the cotters of England that ye 're privy to the counsel o' the King? Who is 't we 'll send?”

Jack Straw, sitting on a long oaken chest with his head by the wall, thrust his fingers in his belt and spread his legs.

“Why,—Calote,” said he.

The girl and her father got to their feet in the same moment; also they spoke in the same breath.

“Yea!” said Calote, very soft, as she were gasping.

“By Christ, not so!” cried Long Will, with a strong voice that quenched her little “yea” but not the light in her eyes, nor the tumult in her breast, where she held her two hands across.

The priest took a step toward the oaken chest, then, “Tush!” he said, clenching his hands and stopping still. “Tush!—thou hast no daughter. I 'll forgive thee. Thou canst not know. An 't were Wat Tyler had spoke so foul counsel I 'd—I 'd—by the Cross o' Bromholme—I 'd”—

“Disport thee like Friar Tuck in the ballad, no doubt,” smiled Jack Straw easily. “Calote, wilt go?”

“Yea, will I!” she answered.

“Who will believe a slip of a child?” Long Will asked scornfully, and turned his back and paced down the room. “Moreover, the King hath not given this counsel. Thou wilt not speak a lie, Calote?”

“Yet he shall give it,” pursued Jack Straw. “Calote shall learn him 's lesson, and ask a token of him, whereby men may know that she is a true and secret messenger.”

“Calote goeth not again to the palace,” cried Langland harshly. “'T is no place for a peasant maid.”

“Men will be persuaded if thou show the King's token; if thou speak to them, Calote; if thine eyes shine, and thy voice ring like a little chapel bell,‘ said Jack Straw, ’'t will work more magic than three sermons o' John Ball.”

“Thou cold-blooded snake, hast thou no bowels?” Long Will asked him, coming close. “Wilt send forth a tender maid to such dangers as thou knowest lie by the road? Nay, I 'll not believe 't!”

“Yet, there 's more danger at the palace, and that thyself knowest,—there 's a certain hot-blood squire”—he glanced upon Calote and turned his speech—“One other audience with the King will do 't: then away in villages and ploughmen's huts where she belongs. Mark you, I purpose not to send her forth to-night. 'T is not this year nor next that the men shall rise; 't will take time to go afoot or in a cart throughout the countryside. Then for our plan, to gather all poor men of England around about London town,—and the young King shall come forth to meet them, and they 'll hail him leader,—sweet pretty lad!—Here 's a Vision for thee, Will!”

“Is 't so, thou Judas?” quoth Wat. “Then where 's thy plot to kill the King and all nobles,—and share every man equal?”

“Methought thou wert sworn mum?” said Jack Straw in his dry voice.

“'T is I shall have last word. She is my daughter,” Langland said. So he took her by the hand and led her away, and his wife followed him. But Jack Straw and Wat Tyler whispered together till dawn; and when Kitte came down to go to Mass, she found them lying on the floor asleep.

CHAPTER XI

Midsummer Eve

ND no word o' this matter to King or common man till thou 'rt bid," admonished Wat Tyler when he bade Calote good-by next day. “If thou keep faith, haply I 'll believe thou art not all blab.”

“Likewise, leave thy father in peace,” counselled Jack Straw. “Thou 'lt not be the first maid that slipped out when the door was on the latch: there be not many go on so honest errand.”

“An thou wert my father, I might do so,” answered Calote. “But thank God for that thou 'rt not!”

“Amen!” said Jack Straw with a grin.

Yet was there little need to warn Calote of her tongue at that time, for a many days were gone by, and months even, before she again saw Stephen or the King. And meanwhile John Wyclif came up to London, and his name was in every man's mouth. Some said his doctrine was heresies, and others believed on what they could understand, which was much or little according as they had wit. But whether they believed on Wyclif or no, there were few men at that day in England who spoke a good word for the Pope. And although the little King Richard was a pious child, and so continued till his life's end, and a right faithful violent persecutor of heretics, yet did he not scruple—or his counsellors did not for him—to require of John Wyclif to prove to the nobles and commons of England—which they needed no proof, being convinced afore—that they ought not to send money and tribute to the Pope, when England was in sore straits for to meet her own taxes, and charity begins at home. And this was a scandal, because Wyclif was then under the Pope's ban; so it was sin for any man to crave his counsel. But of how he played prisoner in Oxford in the midst of his scholars that loved him; and how he came to Lambeth Palace and stood before Simon Sudbury the Archbishop of Canterbury, and Courtenay the Bishop of London, to make his defence; and how the Queen-Mother sent a message so that they feared to do him any hurt,—this Book needeth not to tell, save and to say that time passed. And Will Langland copied his Vision and sang his Masses for the dead, and Calote, his daughter, spun, and wove, and baked, and watched, and waited. Stephen came no more to hear Mass in St. Paul's, and the King was kept close.

“He will forget,” she said to herself after a long while; “he will forget, and there will be none to learn him more, for Stephen will forget likewise. Why should Stephen remember? Why—should Stephen—remember? He hath forgot already, and 't is all come to naught.”

Ofttimes she would go out of the Aldersgate into Smithfield and stand beneath the shadow of St. Bartholomew's wall, and wait, and remember how he had knelt and kissed the hem of her russet gown.

So the winter passed, and the spring, and summer was come. And Calote lay in her bed on Midsummer Eve and heard the merrymakers singing in the street, and thought of other Junes: thought of the day the Black Prince died, and Stephen said he would he were her squire; of the day when she was sent for to the palace, and she sat on a cushion by Richard's side and told him of the poor.

“June is a fateful month for me,” she said.

Then underneath her window a lute tinkled and a voice sang:—

"The birdies small
Do singen all,
The throstle chirpeth cheerly to his make,
The lark hath leave to carol to the sun:
I would I were that joly[1] gentil one,
Piping thy praise unchid!
I 'd wake,
To climb my heav'n or ever day doth break.
But I 'm forbid.

"The birdies small
Do singen all,
The trilly nightingale doth tell the moon
His love-longing, nor hush him all the night:
I would I were that tuneful manner wight,
Within a rose-tree hid!
So soon
Thou wouldst be wishing every night were June!
But I 'm forbid.

"The birdies small
Do singen all,
No throstle, I, nor nightingale, nor lark,—
Yet fain to twitter, fain to softly peep
Of love; and needs must loathly silence keep:
Ne never no bird did.
'T is dark;
'T is sleepy night,—I 'll whisper only, 'Hark!'
But I 'm forbid."

Calote lay still as a stone: only her hair moved where it veiled her lips. From the tavern across the way there came sounds of merriment and a banging of doors. The light from passing torches flickered up among the shadows in the gabled ceiling of the little room. Then the footsteps died away. Calote sighed, and made as to rise; and again the lute tinkled. This second song was in the swinging measure that the common folk loved, a measure somewhat scorned in Richard's court; but the squire had good reason for the using of it He twanged his lute right loud and sang:—

"It fell upon Midsummer's Eve,
When wee folk dance and dead folk wake,
I wreathed me in a gay garland,
All for my true love's sake.

"I donned my coat with sleevès wide,
And fetysly forth I stole:—
But first I looked in my steel glass,
And there I saw my soul.

"I blinkèd once, I blinkèd twice,
I turned as white as milk:
My soul he was in russet clad,
And I was clad in silk.

"Now prythee tell me, soul of mine,—
Wherefore so sober cheer?—
To-night is night of love's delight,
And we go to see my Dear.

"Put on, put on thy broidered gown,
Thy feathered cap, thy pointed shoon;
The bells have rung eleven past,
Let us begone right soon.

"O Master, Master, list my word!
Now rede my riddle an ye may:
My ladye she is a poor man's daughter.
And russet is my best array.

"Tilt and tourney needs she not,
Nor idle child that comes to woo:
But an I might harry her half acre,—
O that were service true!

"Now prythee learn me, soul of mine,
Now prythee learn me how;—
And forth I 'll fare to the furrowed field,
And meekly follow the plough.

"And I 'll put off my silken coat,
And all my garments gay.
Lend me thy ragged russet gown,
For that 's my best array,
Ohè!
For that 's my best array."

Calote sat up, a-smiling, with her golden hair falling about her brightly. So with her hands clasped across her white breast, she waited. Beneath the window there was a footstep, a faint rustle. She could smell roses. And now a third time the lute sounded. In the midst of this last song Calote arose somewhat hastily, a small, slim, fairy creature, cloaked in her golden hair. She caught up the old cassock from the pallet, but always noiselessly, and slipped her two arms in the long sleeves, and after smothered her soft whiteness in the rough brown folds. Yet was she minded to draw out her hair. So she stood within the room, at her bed's head, till the song was ended.

"So soon as I have made mine orisoun,
Come night or morn, I 'dress me hastily,
T' endite a ballad or a benisoun
Unto my ladye dear: right busily
I fashion songs and sing them lustily:
Each morn a new one and each night a new,
And Sundays three,—what more may lover do?

"What though I woo her all night long, I guess
I 'll never need to sing ay song twice over;
And every song bespeaketh sothfastnesse,
And every song doth boldèly discover
My heart, and how that I 'm a very lover.
Now, Cupid, hear me, this I swear and say:
I 'll sing my ladye two new songs each day."

He was looking up, and he saw her come to the window and stand there, very still. He saw her fair face and her shining hair, like a lamp set in the dark window. And she, by the light of his torch which he had stuck upright in the ground at his side, saw him. He was twined all round his head and neck, and across his breast and about his middle, with a great garland of red roses, and the end of it hung over his arm.

“O my love!” said he, and went down on his knees in the mud.

But she shook one arm forth from the cassock sleeve, and laid a finger on her lip.

“Alas, alack!” he sighed, and then: “'T is so many months. And may I never speak with thee? How shall I do thy bidding, and learn the King his lesson, if I learn it not first from thee?”

She stayed by the window looking down, but always she was silent, and she held her finger fixed at her lip.

“I am at Westminster to hear Mass,—I cannot tell when 't shall be,—but I 'll come as often as I may. Dost never come to Westminster? Dost never come? Oh, say—wilt thou? Do but move thy lovely head, that I may know.”

So she moved her head, slow, in a way to mean yes; and he rose up off his knees, and unwound the rose garland very carefully, and hung it looped thrice across the door, 'twixt the latch and the rough upper hinge. Then he took up his torch and went his way; and when the watch came past after a short space,—five hundred men and more, all wreathed with posies and singing lustily, making the street light as day,—the squire was one of these. Will Langland awoke with this hubbub, and his wife also, and they two came to the window, nor thought it strange that Calote already stood there looking out.

CHAPTER XII

Sanctuary

HRICE in June Calote went to the Abbey church, and thrice in July, but 't was not till August that she saw the squire.

There was High Mass in the choir that day, and she knelt a little way down the nave, beside a pillar. Immediately without the choir there was a knight kneeling. He was a most devout person; and near by were two servants of his. These were all that were in the church at that time, save and except the monks in their choir stalls, the celebrant and his acolytes at the altar, and Calote,—until the squire came in.

He looked up and down, and Calote lifted her head, for she knew that some one was come in by the north door. The knight also lifted his head, and his two servants half arose from off their knees, as they were watchful and expectant. But then they all three crossed themselves and addressed them again to their devotions. The squire went lightly down the nave to Calote's pillar, and kneeled by Calote's side; and so, shutting his eyes, he made a short prayer. But presently he opened his eyes again and turned his head;—the monks were chanting.

“I am in so close attendance upon the King that I do never go into the city,” he whispered.

“'T is well,” answered Calote.

“'T is not well; 't is very ill,” said the squire.

“Doth the King forget the wrongs of the poor?” asked Calote.

“Do I forget that thy hair is golden and thine eyes are gray?” the squire retorted. “Thrice in the week, at the very least, he will have me come to his bed at night and read thy father's Vision till he sleeps.”

“Alas! and doth he sleep when thou read'st that book?” murmured Calote.

“Ah, my lady! wherefore wilt thou so evil entreat me?” Stephen pleaded. “I may not open my lips but thou redest my meaning awry. The King hath a loving heart and a delicate fancy, but he is over-young. Thy father's Vision is a sober tale; 't is an old-fashioned music; haply I read it ill. Natheless, Richard is constant. When he is in a great rage with his uncles, or the Council, or the Archbishop, and they require of him what he is loth to perform, I do soothe him of his weeping with the memory of that secret. But of late he groweth impatient; there be stirrings in him of manhood; he is taller than thou, albeit not yet thirteen. He demandeth to know when the people is to rise up. He saith, 'Seek out thy bien-aimée and bid her tell the people I am weary with waiting; I want to be a king,—for I am a king.' Last month he spake to me very lovingly of Walworth and Brembre and sundry others, merchants of London, that come often to the palace. 'I will be friend with merchants,' he saith; 'thy Calote spake truth, they are more loving than mine uncles.'”

“But the merchants be not the poor!” said Calote. “Oh, tell me true, hath he revealed aught to these rich merchants?”

“Nay, I trow not,” Stephen answered. “But how may Richard know aught of the poor, save and except beggars? How may I know, that live in the palace and see the might and wit of nobles? How may I know that this Rising will ever be arisen? Ah, Calote, do they play upon thy pity, these dullard poor? I have seen my father, when I was a little child, quell a dozen of rebellious villeins with but a flash of his eye. They dared not do him hurt, though he stood alone. Power is born with the noble, 't is his heritage.”

“Wilt thou leave thy palace folk and come to us, and we 'll learn thee to believe that the poor he hath virtue also,” cried Calote, and was 'ware of her own voice, for the gospeller stood to be censed.

So Stephen and Calote rose up from their knees to hear the Gospel,—albeit they might hear little at so great distance. And in the midst of the Gospel the north door went wide, and a great company of men, armed, stood on the threshold as they were loth to enter. The knight, which was also standing, for he was very devout, turned to look on these men, and immediately, as it were in despite of his own will, he drew his sword; and then he made two running steps to the choir.

Dogs will rest uncertain and look on the quarry if it stand, but if it turn to flee they are upon it. So now, when the knight ran up into the choir like the hunted man he was, all they at the door forgot their unwillingness to enter, and came on pell-mell.

“Sanctuary! Sanctuary!” cried the knight.

“In the name of the King!” cried the armed men, and some ran to the cloister door and others to the west door, and spread themselves about so that there was no chance to escape, and others went up into the choir after the knight.

There was a great tumult, with screaming of monks, and bits of Latin prayer, and stout English curses,—and “Sanctuary! Sanctuary!” and “In the King's name!” The servants of the knight ran before and after him and got in the way of his pursuers, which once laid hands on him but he beat them back with his sword. Round the choir they went, tripping over monks and over each other. The gospeller fell down on his knees, and the acolyte that held the candles to read by dashed them down and fled away. Round the choir they went twice. “Sanctuary! Sanctuary!”

“O God!” cried Calote; “O God!—what is this they do in the King's name?”

Then she saw how one stabbed the knight, and all those others crowded to that spot where he lay. They panted, and hung over his dead body like fierce dogs. Then they laid hold on it by the legs and dragged it bleeding down the aisle, and so cast it out at the door.

Stephen took Calote by the wrist and led her forth. She was shaking.

“In the King's name!” she said; “O Christ!”

By the altar there was another dead body, a monk, and other monks knelt beside, wringing their hands and wailing.

Stephen pushed through the gaping crowd at the door, past the dead knight, and would have led Calote away into the fields, but she said:—

“Let be! I will go home. I am very sick.”

“'T was not the King's fault; be sure of that!” cried Stephen. “They do so many wicked things in his name. He is but a weakling child.”

“It is time the people arose!” answered Calote. “Ah, how helpless am I, and thou, and the little King! How helpless is this country of England, where men slay each other before God's altar!”

“'T is John of Gaunt's doing,” said Stephen. “'T was concerning a Spanish hostage that was in the hands of this knight and another, and the King's Council said they would take the hostage, for that they might claim the ransom; but the knights hid him and would not say where he was hid.”

“O Covetise!” sobbed Calote. “Of what avail that my father called thee to repent in his Vision! All prophecies is lies. 'T is a wicked world, without love. All men hate one another, and I would I were dead.”

“Nay, nay!” Stephen protested. “I love!—I 'll prove my love!”

“Thou canst not. Thou art bound to the King,—and the King is in durance to the covetous nobles. King and people is in the same straits, browbeat both alike.”

But here they were 'ware of a man that watched them, and when he came nigh 't was Jack Straw.

“So, mistress! Wert thou in the church?” he asked.

“'T is a friend of my father's,” said Calote to Stephen. “I will go into the city with him. Fare thee well!”

“I 'll go also,” Stephen made answer; but she would not have it so.

“Thy place is with the King,” she said. “Go learn him of this new sin; how men defile churches in his name!”

And to Jack Straw, on the homeward way, she would say nothing but:—

“Prate to me not of thy plot, and thy Rising! I 've no faith in thee, nor any man. The people is afraid to rise; all 's words. O me, alas! 'T is now a year, and am I gone on pilgrimage to rouse the people? Do not the great lords slay and steal as they have ever done? Do not the people starve? Ye are afeared to rise up; afeared of the Duke and his retainers. Poor men are cowards.”

“I would have sent thee forth six months agone,” said Jack Straw, soothing her; “but Wat would not. Patience, mistress!”

And a month after, Jack Straw came to Calote and told her the time was nigh.

“The Parliament meets in Gloucester next month,” he said; “for that the quarrel 'twixt the King and the monks of Westminster is not yet healed, and the church is not re-consecrate since the sacrilege.—Now the people will see the King as he goeth on his progress to Gloucester, and this is well. They will see his face and know him in many shires and hundreds. Their hearts will be warmed to him. Do thou follow and get thy token from him, and they 'll believe thee the more readily that thou art seen about Gloucester and those villages in that same time. But have a care not to speak thy message till Parliament is dissolved and the knights returned home; only do thou be seen here and there.”

“When do I go?” asked Calote, trembling.

“I have a friend, a peddler and his wife, that go about in a little cart. They 'll be like to follow in the tail of the King's retinue, for the better protection. Meanwhile, an thou 'rt wise, thou wilt not mingle lightly with the King's household; but with the peasants in the villages 't is another matter.”

“Yea, I know,” she answered.

“That gay sprig—that squire”—began Jack Straw.

“Hold thy peace!” said Calote. “But for him, how had I come at the King?”

And Jack Straw shut his lips and gulped down his jealousy, but it left a bitter smart in his throat.

CHAPTER XIII

The Man O' Words

NE night, when Long Will was gone forth to copy a writ of law for a city merchant, Calote sat up to wait for him in the moonlight by their door that opened on the lane. Calote and her father had not spoke together of her pilgrimage since that night, now more than a year past, when Long Will was so wroth with Jack Straw. Nevertheless, each one knew that the other had not forgotten. But now the time was short; there must be unlocking of tongues.

Calote braided her hair in a tress, unbound it, braided it anew, the while she waited and pondered the words that she would speak. In the lane something grunted and thrust a wet snout against her bare foot; one of Dame Emma's pigs had strayed. It was a little pig; Calote took it up in her arms and bore it through the dark room and out on Cornhill. The tavern door was shut, but there was a noise of singing within, and Dame Emma came at the knock.

Hobbe Smith sat in the chimney trolling a loud song, and two or three more men sprawled on a bench by the wall, a-chaunting “Hey, lolly, lolly,” out of time and out of tune. One of these, that was most drunk, came running foolishly so soon as he saw Calote, and made as to snatch a kiss, but Dame Emma thrust piggie in his face; and when Calote turned about at her own door, breathless, she saw where Hobbe had the silly fellow on the floor and knelt upon his belly, and crammed the pig's snout into his mouth; and Dame Emma beat Hobbe over the noddle with a pint-pot, for that he choked her squealing pig. Calote bethought her, sorrowful, that there would be no Dame Emma and kindly Hobbe to take up her quarrel in other taverns. So she went back to the braiding of her hair until her father came in.

Then she said:—

“Father,—they do affirm 't is full time for me to begone on the King's errand. Thou wilt not say me nay? Thou wilt bless me?”

He sat down on the doorstone and took her in his arm. He was smiling.

“Sweet, my daughter; and dost thou truly think that this puissant realm of England shall be turned up-so-down and made new by a plotting of young children and rustics?”

“Wherefore no, if God will?”

“Nay, I 'll not believe that God hath so great spite against us English,” he made answer, whimsical.

“But the Vision, father? If thy ploughman be no rustic, what then is he?”

“I fell eft-soon asleep,” quoth Long Will,—

"'and suddenly me saw,
That Piers the Ploughman was painted all bloody,
And come in with a cross before the common people,
And right like, in all limbs, to our Lord Jesus;
And then called I Conscience to tell me the truth.
“Is this Jesus the Jouster?” quoth I, "that Jews did to death,
Or is it Piers the Ploughman?—Who painted him so red?"
Quoth Conscience, and kneeled then, "These are Piers arms,
His colours and his coat-armour, and he that cometh so bloody
Is Christ with his Cross, conqueror of Christians."'"

“Who is 't, then, we wait for?” Calote cried. “Is it Christ, or is it Piers? O me, but I 'm sore bewildered! An' if 't were Christ, yet may not Piers do his devoir? Do all we sit idle with folded hands because Christ cometh not? Surely, 't were better He find us busy, a-striving our weak way to come into His Kingdom! What though we may not 'do best,' yet may we do well.”

“Yea, do well,” her father answered. “But now tell me, dost believe Jack Straw and Wat seek Truth,—or their own glory?”

“How can I tell?” she asked. “But for myself, I do know that I seek Truth. To gain mine own glory, were 't not easy to go another way about? May not I wear jewelled raiment and be called Madame? But I will not. And Wat Tyler and Jack Straw, they believe that they are seekers of Truth.”

“Thou wilt not trust thy little body in the hand of Jack Straw, my daughter; and yet wilt thou give up all this thine England into his clutch?”

“'T is the King shall rule England,” she faltered.

“And who shall rule the King?”

“Is 't not true, that the ploughman shall counsel the King? There be honest ploughmen.”

“Peter of Devon is an honest man,” assented Langland; “he cannot read nor write, almost he cannot speak. Wilt thou give over the kingdom into his keeping?”

“Wilt not thou?” she said; and her father made no answer.

Suddenly she arose and stood before him, and laid her two hands on his shoulders as he sat on the doorstone.

“'T is well enough to say, 'Wait!' 'T is well enough to say, 'Not this ploughman,—Not this King,—Not thou,—Nor I.' 'T is well enough to say, 'Not to-day!' But a man might do so forever, and all the world go to wreck.”

“Not if I believe in God,—and Christ the King's Son of heaven.”

“And is this the end of all trusting in God, that a man shall fold his hands and do nothing?”

He winced, and she had flung her arms about his neck, and pressed her cheek to his, and she was sobbing; he tasted the salt of her tears against his lips.

“Father, forgive me! Say thou dost forgive me!—But all my little lifetime thou hast laboured on this poem—when I was a babe I learned to speak by the sound of thy voice a-murmuring the Vision. All the light o' learning I have to light me to Godward and to my fellows, I got it from the Vision. All the fire o' love I have in my heart was kindled at its flame;—yea—for all other love I quench with my tears; I will not let no other love burn. And now, when the fire is kindled past smothering, and the light burns ever so bright, thou dost turn the Vision against itself, for to confound all them that have believed on thy word. Wilt thou light a light but to snuff it back to darkness? Wilt thou kindle a fire but to choke us with smoke? 'T is now too late. Haply 't is thy part to sit still and sing; but I—I cannot sing, and I cannot sit still. I am not so wise as thou, nor so patient. Is 't kind to 'wilder me with thy wisdom, my father? Is 't wise to cover me with a pall of patience, if I must needs die to lie quiet?”

“An I give thee leave, what is 't thou 'lt do?” he asked her, in a level, weary voice.

“I 'll follow the King to Gloucester, and there have speech of him and a token. After, I 'll bid the people to know the King loveth them,—and they are to come up to London to a great uprising, what time John Ball, and Wat, and Jack Straw shall give sign. Then there shall be no more poor and rich; but all men shall love one another, the knight and the cook's knave, the King and the ploughman. Much more I 'll say, out of the Vision; and of fellowship, such as John Ball preacheth.”

“The clergy clap John Ball into prison for such words, whensoever they may.”

“And for this reason is it better that I should be about when he may not; for what am I but a maiden? Clergy will not take keep of me. I 'm not afeared of no harm that may befal me;—though haply—harm may.”

“Knoweth that young squire aught of this journey?”

“Nay, father.”

“Hast thou bethought thee of what folk will say if thou go to Gloucester in the tail of the court? There be many on Cornhill have seen that youth; they know whence he is.—If thou go, and come not again for many months?”

He felt her cheek grow hot against his own, and then she drew away from him and looked in his eyes piteously:—

“Dost thou not believe I must do that Conscience telleth me is right, father?”

“Yea.”

“Then wherefore wilt thou seek to turn me from well-doing?”

“Thou art my daughter,” he answered gravely; “small wonder if I would shield thee from dangers and evil-report. Shall I not be blamed of all men, and rightly, if I let thee go o' this wild-goose chase?”

“All thy life I have never known thee give a weigh of Essex cheese for any man's praise or blame.”

“'T is very true!” he assented in moody fashion; and sat still with his head bent.

After a little she touched him, and “Thou 'lt bless me, father?” she said.

“To Gloucester, sayst thou?” he questioned absently; and then, “That 's nigh to Malvern Priory, and the Hills,—the Malvern Hills.”

She had sat down below him on the ground and laid her chin upon his knee, and so she waited with her eyes upon his face.

“My old master that learned me to read and to write, and unloosed the singing tongue of me, dwelleth in Malvern Priory. He said, if ever I had a golden-haired daughter—Well, thou shalt take a copy of the Vision to him, Calote. Give it to the porter at the gate,—and bide. Thy mother shall say round and about Cornhill that thou art gone to mine old home, to take the Vision to the old master. He is called Brother Owyn.”

“Father, father!” she cried, “I am filled full of myself, and mine own desire. Wherefore dost thou not beat me and lock me behind doors,—so other fathers would do?”

He smiled wistfully, and kissed her: “So! now thou hast thy will, thou 'lt play penitent. Nay,—hush thee, hush thee, my sweet! 'T is time for laughter now, and joyousness. Thou 'rt going forth to learn all men to love one another. Be comforted; dry thy tears!”

“I am a very wicked wight!” she sobbed. “I will not leave thee.”

“Thou art aweary, my dear one, the dawn cometh. Go thou to rest, and the morrow all will be bright. When dost thou set forth o' this pilgrimage?”

“On the morrow!” she whispered; and then with more tears, “But I will not go, father,—forgive me!”

He gathered her into his arms and carried her through the weeds and up the wooden stair to the door of the gabled room.

“Go in,” he said, “and sleep! There are yet a fifty lines lacking to the copy of the Vision that thou wilt take with thee; I must write them in.”

But when he was come back to the long dark room, he lit no rush for an hour or more; instead, he paced back and forth, talking with himself:—

“Pity me, God! I am a weak man!—I did never no deeds but them I thought not to do;—never, all my life long! Count my deeds, O God,—they are so few,—and all of them have I condemned afore in other men. Now, I let my daughter go forth on a fool's errand, and in a child's plot that must fail; mayhap she will meet worse than death on the road; but I give her my blessing. Jesu,—Mary,—guard this my daughter that I have so weakly put forth upon the world! How may a man dare say nay to his child, if she be a better man than he,—an actyf man, a doer o' deeds? How may a man dare forbid any soul to follow Conscience? Good Jesu, I am but a jongleur,—a teller o' tales,—I am afeared o' deeds. I see them on so many sides that I dare move nor hand nor foot. And if I do, I trip. Best never be doing.—If a man might be all words, and no deeds!”

PART II

The Pilgrimage

And I shall apparaille me in pilgrimes wise,
And wende with yow I wil til we fynde Treuthe."

The Vision Concerning Piers Plowman.
B. Passus V.

CHAPTER I

In the Cloisters

ING Richard stretched himself and yawned, took off his velvet bonnet and thrust his fingers through his long light-brown hair, rubbed his left leg, and looked on his favourite squire with a smile half-quizzical, half-ashamed.

They two stood in the cloisters of the Abbey at Gloucester, in that part of the cloisters that was not yet finished. The workmen carving the fan-tracery—that Abbey's proud boast and new invention—looked aside from their blocks of stone to the young King, then bent their heads and went on chinking. From somewhere about came a kind of clamorous noise that was the Commons still sitting in the Chapter House,—though 't was past dinner time. John of Gaunt strode laughing down the cloisters by the side of a gray-beard Oxford priest who carried a parchment in his hand, and they went together into the church. Lord Richard Scrope, the new-appointed chancellor, stood out in the middle of the cloister garth, under the noon sun, and Master Walworth and Philpot and other merchants of London with him, their heads together, their speech now buzzing low, now lifted in protest, now settling to a chuckle.

Richard whacked his leg smartly and stiffened it.

“My foot 's asleep,” said he. “'T is a most deep-seated chair. An I must listen many more days to mine uncle's long-winded friend from Oxenford, thou wert best get me a fatter cushion. My legs do dangle out of all dignity.”

“'T shall be found to-morrow, sire!” Etienne answered.

“Nay, not to-morrow, mon ami; to-morrow I go a-hunting, and the next day, and the next, if I will.”

“A-hunting!” exclaimed Etienne; “but Parliament sits.”

“Saint Mary!” cried Richard; “and who should know this better than I? Sits!—One while methought I 'd sent forth rootlets and must go through life a-sitting. Almost I 'll welcome old days, and Sir Simon Burley's stinging birch, to start me out of my numbness.”

A stone-cutter laughed, and checked him short in his laughter; whereat Richard smiled in the frank fashion that made the common folk his friends, and went and looked over the man's shoulder.

“What a pretty tracery is this, pardé,” he said presently. “Why do we not make a roof like to it at Westminster?”

Etienne lifted his eyebrows; “Westminster?” he asked.

And Richard coloured and bit his lip, saying, “True,—I had forgot Westminster is not good friends with us. 'T was all mine uncle's doing,‘ he continued angrily. ’Lord knows, I 've fallen asleep or ever I 've done my prayers, each night since the poor wretch was slain. I 've prayed him out of Purgatory ten times over, and paid for Masses. Dost thou not mind thee, Etienne, how I wept that day the murder was done, and would have stripped me body-naked to be whipped for 't in penance; but my confessor said was no need? Natheless, John Wyclif is a wily cleric. Dost mark how he ever passeth over the murder, soft, yet standeth on our right to make arrest in the church? For mine own part I do believe he is in the right; for wherefore is a king a king, if he may not do as him list, but is bound by time and place?”

“Yea, sire!” said Etienne absently; he was looking across, through the open door into the church. In the dim distance there he saw a little kneeling figure, and a gleam of golden braided hair. Almost he thought it was Calote, and his heart leaped; but he remembered that this could not be if Calote were in London. There were other golden-haired maids in England.

“Yet do I not like his doctrine,” the King mused. “For why?—the half on 't I cannot understand. Yesterday I fell asleep, upright, a-listening to the sound of his Latin. My confessor saith this Wyclif turneth the Bible into the English tongue for common folk to read,—and that 's scandal and heresy, to let down God's thoughts into speech of every day. But Master Wyclif's own thoughts be not God's, if all is true the Church teacheth, and I 'd liever listen to him in English.—or better, in French. Etienne, I go a-hunting, I 'm aweary of Latin, and Sanctuary, and all this cry of the Commons concerning expense. How is 't my fault if mine uncles and Sudbury and the council be spendthrifts? By Saint Thomas of Kent, I 'll stop this French war when I 'm a man. Yea, and I 'll stop the mouth of Parliament that talks me asleep.”

The workmen glanced at one another and grinned. Etienne made a step to the church door; the maid within had risen up off her knees and now crossed herself and went away down the nave.

“Sire!” cried Etienne sharply; “methought I saw—Calote.”

One of the workmen looked up at the name, and let his work lie.

“Calote?” said Richard. “Cœur de joie, but she 's in London.”

Etienne shook his head and peered into the dimness of the church, but the maid was gone.

“Ay, me,” sighed Richard wistfully, “I would thou didst love thy King but the half as well as thou lovest this peasant maid.”

“Beau sire,” said Etienne, kneeling, “I am thy loyal servant. Trust me, my heart plays no tricks.”

“Chéri,” then smiled the King, and laid his hand on Etienne's shoulder, “my head aches. Let us to my chamber and thou shalt sing me a little song, and I 'll sleep. We have not spoke of Calote these three weeks. Come, tell me a tale and be merry. To-morrow we 'll ride up to the forest at Malvern, and hunt there the next day; the prior yonder is a courteous gentleman, writes in French, and prays me partake of his hospitality. After All Hallows we 'll come back and hear the end of these great matters. I 'll pray mine uncle; I 'll fret and fume. I 'll go, will he nil be. Come let 's say a prayer in church beside my great-grandfather's tomb. Give you good-day, good fellows,” he said to the workmen, and went away hanging upon his squire's arm.

“There 's a king!” said one of the stone-cutters. “His father's own son!”

“Sayst thou so?” grumbled another. “Didst mark how he would stop the mouth o' Parliament when he 's a man?”

“Pish!—'t was a jest turned in weariness,” a third made excuse; “a child's jest. For mine own part, I 'm none so fond o' Parliament with its throngings, and setting a town topsy-turvy, and forever getting under a man's feet when he 's at his stone work peaceable.”

“They say his mother's done her best to spoil him. I 've heard tell she was a light woman.”

“Natheless, I 'd liever have him than another. He has a merry smile. I could have took him o' my knee and kissed him and rubbed his sleepy foot,—but I minded me he was a king.”

“And well for thee.”

“Now I wonder,” said the workman who had lifted his head at mention of Calote,—“now I wonder what the young squire meant by those words he said? There 's a maid biding in my cot; her name 's Calote. She can sing the Vision concerning Piers Ploughman better than any teller o' tales ever I heard. 'T was her own father writ it. One Jack Straw sent her my way. She goeth afoot to Malvern to-day, to give her father's greeting to a monk at the Priory.”

“Jack Straw? Him that spake of the people's wrongs and these evil taxings, at Tavern in January past?”

“Yea.”

“Will such-like a maid be known to so fine a gentleman as yon squire?”

“Haply not. Yet I 'll swear by Saint Christopher 't was her I saw in the church when he looked through the door.”

“Eh, well,—the little King 's a good fellow, say I,” quoth the man that had first spoken, and added, “So is Jack Straw.”

Whereupon there fell silence upon all of them, and only the clinking of hammer against stone was heard till the Commons came out of the Chapter House with a great clatter.

CHAPTER II

In Malvern Chase

HE porter at the gate of Malvern Priory was a very old man, but he had good eyes, and he knew a pretty thing when he saw it.

“Thou wilt speak with Brother Owyn, wilt thou?” he said to Calote in his toothless voice. “By my troth, I 'll have thee to know, hussy, that this is no household of gadding friars, but a sober and well-conducted priory. Our monks do not come and go at the bidding of wenches.”

“Good brother, I come not of myself,” said Calote, “I am sent a message of my father.”

“And thy father, I make no doubt, is the Father of Lies,—Christ give him sorrow!”

“My father was put to school one while in Malvern Priory,” answered Calote. “Brother Owyn was his master and loved him well.”

“Sayst thou so?” the porter retorted, yet with something of curiosity awaking within his bright eyes. “Is no lad hath gone in and out this gate in forty year, but hath one day or other tasted my rod for a truant. How do they call thy father?”

“In London men call him Long Will, and Will Langland 's his name.”

The porter opened wide his mouth, and, “By Goddes Soul!” quoth he, “Will Langland!—Let me look on thee,”—albeit he had done naught but look on her for ten minutes past. “Yea, 't is true; I 'd know thee by thine eyen, that are gray, and thoughtful, and dark with a something that lies behind the colour of them,—and shining by the light of a lamp lit somewhere within.—So! Will Langland hath got him a wench! 'T is a hard nut to crack. Moreover, eyen may be gray as glass, and yet speak lies. What for a token hast thou that thou 'rt true messenger?”

“I have a poem,” she answered.

“Let 's see it.”

“Nay, 't is for Brother Owyn.”

“And how shall Brother Owyn have it, if not by me?” rejoined the porter testily.

“Wilt thou get me speech of him if I show it thee?” asked Calote.