Читать книгу Long Will - Florence Converse Converse - Страница 22

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?