Long Will Part 17

"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, Ohe!

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 ca.s.sock 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 fas.h.i.+on songs and sing them l.u.s.tily: 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 boldely 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 ca.s.sock 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 Ma.s.s,--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 s.p.a.ce,--five hundred men and more, all wreathed with posies and singing l.u.s.tily, 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

Thrice 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 Ma.s.s 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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-aimee 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 n.o.bles? 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 n.o.ble, '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 G.o.d!" cried Calote; "O G.o.d!--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."