Long Will Part 60

"Here 's the horn, sire, wherewith I gathered the folk into fellows.h.i.+p." Calote untied the bag that hung from her neck.

"O thou mischief-maker!" said Richard to his hunting-horn. "Thou betrayer unto foolishness! Thou shalt be sold to buy my wedding garment."

But now was the arras pushed aside, and Stephen came in, and his gaoler that grinned very joyous.

Calote heard. And then she had arisen to her feet, and turned her back upon the King. And Stephen kissed her hair, and her two hands that rested on his shoulders; but her face was hid.

"O my love, my lady!" said Stephen. And presently, "'T is a wondrous fair world!"

She lifted her face to speak, but he was waiting for her lips.

The gaoler made a happy clucking noise.

Richard laughed merrily. "Coeur de joie!" quoth he, "but I 'll kiss also!" and he kissed the little picture.

"'T behooves us give thanks to the King," whispered Calote. Her face was hid anew, and she spake to her love's heart that leaped against his courtepy.

Then they two turned them, hand in hand, and the King cried out, "A-a-ah!--How art thou pale!--Etienne!"

Stephen bent his knee: "Sire," he said, "wa-was nothing hid from thee;--thou knewest all th-things ever I did in that Rising. I was true to King Richard."

"This is thy sword, Etienne," quoth the King. "These many months it hath hung at my side. Take it again!"

Stephen looked on the sword, sombre, slow. "My forefathers, they were men of might," he said. "There were three died in the Holy Land doing battle with the Paynim. The Scots slew my grandfather in fair fight.

My father fell in France, in the last Edward's quarrel. Next after England, the King, and my lady, I have loved my sword."

He stretched forth his hands and took it. "Oh, thou bright blade, what hosts of infidels and dastard French, what enemies to Truth and Richard, methought I 'd slay! And thou hast drunk the blood of one man only, a dead man, that gave his life for England's sake and the people. Thou wert maiden, and they dishonoured thee."

And Stephen had snapped his sword in twain across his knee.

"This is the sword that hewed Wat Tyler's head off his body," he said.

"I have done with swords. Thy Majeste hath n.o.blesse a plenty to serve thee; 't was proven in June, when Wat Tyler fell. I might not count the sword-thrusts at that time. But of common folk, peasants and labourers, there is a dearth in England. And wherefore this is so, none knoweth better than thou, sire."

Richard stirred, restless: "'T is the old Etienne, was never afeared to find fault with his king," said he, and would have made a jest of this matter, but laughter came not at his bidding.

"Thou hast need of loyal labourers, sire. So will I serve thee. If Saint Francis set his hands to labour, so may Stephen Fitzwarine, and withouten shame."

"By the Rood!" cried Richard. "Thou art lord of a manor;--born into this condition. These things be beyond man to change. They are appointed of High G.o.d."

"Natheless, G.o.d helping me, these things shall be changed, sire.

Presently, o' my manor, mayst thou see a-many free labourers tilling each man his own field. And Stephen Fitzwarine shall be one."

"Thou 'rt mad!" screamed the King. "Dungeon hath darkened thy wits."

"So methought, sire," said the gaoler, "but hath more wits than most,--hath not turned a hair."

"Now, by Saint Thomas of Canterbury!" Richard shouted, "I--I--nay,--I 've signed thy pardon,--I 'll keep faith,--this once."

Then his humour changed and he began to laugh very loud:--

"Go free! Turn peasant an thou wilt! But as concerning thy land, King Richard is G.o.d's anointed, shall look to his stewards.h.i.+p. I will keep custom for Christ's sake. Wherefore is thy manor confiscate, and the villeins that dwell thereon, to the King."--He set his lips in a grim smile: "Who saith Richard is not a good provisor, against his wedding day?"

The gaoler pushed Stephen and Calote out of the room and down the stair:--

"Best begone," quoth he, "hath been known to change his mind," and he shut them out by a postern.

They went and sat on the side of Saint Catherine's Hill that looked on Thames. A long while they sat there, holding each other's hand, smiling each into other's eyes, saying little. But Stephen said:--

"Thou 'rt mine!"

And Calote said:--

"Methought this love was not for me!"

Her feet were bare, her kirtle frayed, and all their worldly goods was a penny the gaoler had thrust in Stephen's hand. Stephen laughed, and tossed the penny and caught it on the back of his hand. Then Calote laughed also, and said she, shaking her head and smiling:--

"'T is not true that failure lieth in wait all along life's way?" and a question grew in her eyes, and the smile faded.

He kissed her gray eyes where the shadows hovered:--

"What 's to fail?" quoth he.

"So saith my father," she made answer. "Yet meseems I must ever see the Archbishop's head above London Bridge,--and next day Wat's. Was not this failure?"

"Sweet heart," said Stephen, "I have been in prison a many months, and concerning eternite I have learned a little. W-Wat Tyler failed to be King of England. But thou and I, and those others, we did not arise up to make W-Wat Tyler king. Dost believe there liveth to-day a villein in England ho-ho-holdeth 't is righteous a man shall be bond-servant to another against his own will? Thou mayst scourge a man to silence,--but he 'll think his thought;--yea, and wh-whisper it to 's children.--We did not fail."

Then Stephen took his love's face betwixt his hands, and kissed her brow and eyes and lips:--

"I had a dream that I should dress thee in silk, pearl-broidered, and a veil of silver. But now am I a landless man; must labour with my two hands for daily bread. Natheless, am I tied to no man's manor,--may sell my labour where I will. D-dost sigh for the dream, sweet heart, and to be called Madame? Be advised in time,--a man 's ofttimes endurable if his infirmity 's shrouded in good Flemish broadcloth, but if he be naked as a needle, then must he be a man indeed--to pa.s.s."

"Now, prythee, how is 't honour to a maid if her lord lift her up to his estate?" said Calote. "But if he condescend and clothe him in her coat-armour, then is she honoured in verite."

"In Yorks.h.i.+re, mayhap I 'll find shepherding with Diggon. Wilt go thither?" Stephen asked her.

And when she had answered him Yea, he laughed soft, and sang:--

"Then 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."

EPILOGUE

"Love is leche of lyf."

_The Vision Concerning Piers Plowman._ B. Pa.s.sUS I.