Long Will Part 32

When the peddler told him the tale of Piers Ploughman, he listened with a great joy in his eyes.

"In that day," quoth he, "they 'll cease to ride the hunt across the wolds and scatter the sheep."

When the peddler instructed him of the Fellows.h.i.+p that was joining hand over all England, he rubbed his head, perplexed.

"We been brothers and Christen men ever," he said. "Here 's no new thing."

Of new laws and new masters and freedom he took no keep.

"Am I not free?" he asked, and spread his arms out east and west, as to gather in the moors.

"But all men are not so content as thou," said the peddler. "They are ill-fed, they must work without stint. Wilt not thou join hand to help them that suffer?"

"Yea, brother," Diggon answered him; "yea!" But then he knit his brows, and, "If all we go up to London to reason with n.o.bilite, who 'll take care o' the sheep?"

The peddler sat silent, abashed; till on a sudden Diggon threw his head back and laughed, with "Who but the Good Shepherd!--Diggon 's a fool!"

So the days pa.s.sed, and the peddler waited for Calote. She, meanwhile, was taken into favour at the manor-house. Old Sir Austin would chuck her under chin and follow her with his watery eyes in a way that she mistrusted. She wondered that the daughters observed naught; but they paid little heed to their father. The youngest loved him as a spoiled child will, for sake of gain; but the other two were peevish if he spoke to them.

G.o.diyeva he had thwarted in a marriage with a lord's son, with whom he was at feud, and she could not forget. In truth, he was so quarrelsome that his neighbours shunned his company; and he, on his part, cast gibes upon his daughters, for that they could not get them husbands.

"Is one comfort," said Eleyne on a day when he had baited them till they wept for rage and shame. "Is one comfort; if no gentlemen will come anigh this house, will no gentlewoman neither. They be all afeared o' thee. If we must dwell here forlorn, we are spared a step-dame. Is none would live thy cat and dog life."

"Sayst thou so? Sayst thou so, hussy?" roared the knight, and would have struck her; but his eye lighted on Calote,--he let drop his hand.

"Sayst thou so?" he repeated more softly, and went out chuckling.

"Thou fool!" said G.o.diyeva to her sister. "What maggot hast thou put in 's head?"

'T was the day next after this one that Calote chose to tell them the tale of the Ploughman. She had been of three minds not to tell it at all; but then she called herself a coward. Of Richard she had never spoke, nor showed the horn, and she did not now. After supper she told her tale, and she said by way of a beginning:--

"This is the last tale I have to tell, mesdames. To-morrow,--or 't maybe the next day, for 't is a long tale,--I must give you thanks of your courtesy, and begone."

"Ah, stay, and tell them all again!" cried Custance. "We 've not been so merry since G.o.diyeva's lover flouted her."

"Peace!" said Eleyne, and G.o.diyeva's lovely face flamed red.

The old knight chuckled in the chimney corner. He did not snooze to-night, as was his wont; he sat a-blinking on Calote, and sipping his piment, slow. Calote crouched on a low stool, with her face to the fire.

"In a summer season when soft was the sun"--she began, and at the first she spoke hastily, and with a little quaver in her voice. She knew not how they might take this tale.

They took it for a j.a.pe, a jest; they laughed. Lady Mede and her sisours and summoners made them very merry. When Repentance called the Seven Sins to confession, and the tale was told of Glutton in the tavern, Sir Austin doubled him up with a loud guffaw and nigh fell into the fire. When Piers Ploughman put up his head, the damsels squealed for joy. When he, this same Piers, set the ladies of the Vision to sew sacking, and the Knight to keep the land freed of foes, Sir Austin's daughters held their sides, and rocked back and forth, the while mirthful tears fell down their faces.

Then Calote lost her patience and forgot to be afraid. She stood up on her feet and faced them with her head high:--

"Natheless, all this shall come to pa.s.s!" she cried. "This is a true word. No Goliardeys, I, but a sober singer. 'T is the ploughman, the poor man, shall lead all ye to truth. The rich shall give of their wealth to the poor, in that day; no man shall go naked and hungry.

Fine ladies and maids like to me shall love one another."

Her voice broke, and she put out her hands to the three fair damsels that sat on a bench and stared:--

"I pray you pardon, sweet my ladies, but this matter lieth close to my heart."

They laughed kindly, and Eleyne said:--

"We 'll love thee for the sake of thy tales, wench, and forgive thee this once that thou art froward."

"List, child," said G.o.diyeva; "the poor is not so greatly to be pitied. I 'd liefer be a glee maiden, free to wander in all England, welcome in every hall and cot,--I 'd liefer be a houseless wench, say I, than--than this that I am." And G.o.diyeva arose, lifted her arms wearily above her head, and paced down the hall into the shadows.

"If thou wert gowned in soft stuffs, and thy hair in a net and a horned cap atop,"--Custance mused idly, looking Calote up and down,--"methinks,--methinks,"--hereupon she clapped her hands and leaped to her feet. "Whyfore no? Come, wench, I 've a gown in my chest is too short for me. Here 's a merry sport. We 'll make thee a lady for the nonce."

"Ay, do!" cried the knight; and presently slapped his leg, and laughed as at a secret thought.

"Nay, lady," Calote protested; but Custance had her by the hand dragging her from the room.

"Thou 'lt spoil the wench," said Eleyne; "is over bold now." And G.o.diyeva curled her lip scornfully.

Sir Austin laughed yet more loud, and bade his youngest daughter make haste. So Custance caught a lighted cresset from the wall, and hurried Calote up the stair. And Calote, when she saw the azure gown broidered with gold about the hem, and the pointed crimson shoes, and the high cap of green and rose colour with its floating silken veil, made no more protest; for she was young, and a woman.

When all was done, her tiring maid drew back in dumb amaze; then took her hand and led her down to the hall.

At Calote's heart there was a fierce pain.

"Oh, Stephen!" she cried within herself; "oh, Stephen!" Yet what this was that so hurt her she did not ask.

In the hall there was dead silence for the s.p.a.ce of a minute. Then the knight came out of his chimney corner a step:--

"G.o.d's bones!" quoth he in a half whisper; and Calote, looking in his face, knew that she must go away from this house as soon as might be.

She set her hand to her breast and fingered the hilt of the dagger, where she had thrust it unseen of Custance.

"A common peasant! 'T is amazing!" exclaimed Eleyne.

"I knew she was very fair," said G.o.diyeva quietly.

"Doth not my pearl net gleam against her gold hair?" cried Custance, and swept a low curtsey before this new-made lady.

"To-night ye may thank Saint Mary your many wooers be not by, my daughters," mocked them Sir Austin; and G.o.diyeva tossed her head.

"Tell me, wench," he continued, "'t would like thee well to be a lady?"

Calote, her heart aching with the thought of Stephen, answered him proudly:--

"I might be one, an I would."

But immediately she could have bit out her tongue, for the knight had set his own meaning upon her words.

"So ho!" quoth he. "What a witch art thou! Ha, ha, ha!"

"Sir, you mistake," she said coldly. "I have been sought in honourable marriage by a gentleman, but I would not."