CHAPTER V
A Disciple
The second time Calote saw the squire he bore a hooded falcon on hiswrist and he rode a little white horse, in the fields beyondWestminster. He sang a pensive lyric in the French tongue; and when hesaw Calote he lighted down from his horse and held his cap in hishand. She was gathering herbs.
He told her he had got him a copy of her father's poems, and he keptit in a little chest of carven ivory and jade that his mother gave himafore she died. And Calote, being persuaded, went and sat with himbeneath a yew tree. He said that she might call him Stephen, if shewould, or Etienne; men spoke to him by the one or the otherindifferently, but they were the same name. It was his mother that wascousin german to the Earl of March; his father being a gentleman ofDerbyshire, Sir Gualtier Fitzwarine, of a lesser branch of that name.And both his father and his mother were dead, but the Earl of Marchwas 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 sourbroth, but Etienne had sprinkled it with flower of lavender. Moreover,he had searched therein for Calote and her golden hair and her grayeyes; he marvelled that her father had not made mention of thesethings.
Then Calote took up her knotted kerchief with the herbs, and gave himgood day. And whether she were displeased or no she could notdetermine, nor could he. But he went immediately to his chamber andread diligently, with a rose of sweet odour held beneath his nose.
The third time Calote saw the squire was on the day when Londonlearned that Peter de La Mare was cast into prison in NottinghamCastle. London growled. London stood about in groups, ominouslyblack-browed,--choking the narrow streets. Certain rich merchants evenshut up their shops and barred their doors, for it was not against thenobles only that London had a grievance.
Now this fair child, Stephen Fitzwarine, knew that Peter de la Marewas seneschal to the Earl of March, and, hearing of the good man'simprisonment, he set it down that this was yet another grudge to befought out 'twixt his godfather and John of Gaunt, and he prayed thathe might be in at the affray. But of the Good Parliament, its severalvictories, and present sore defeat, Stephen knew little. He was of thehousehold of young Richard, son to the Black Prince, and all thathousehold was as yet in leading-strings. In the laws of fence andtourney Stephen was right well instructed; twice had he carved beforeRichard at table; he could fly a hawk more skilfully than Sir JohnHolland, the half-brother to the Prince; he knew by heart the argumentand plea whereby we made our claim upon the crown of France; he knewby heart also the half of the Romaunt of the Rose, and all of SirGawaine and the Green Knight, and more than one of the tales of DanChaucer. Richard loved him, and hung upon him as a little lad will ona bigger one. And Stephen loved Richard, and slept before the door ofRichard's bedchamber with a naked sword at his side; this for his ownand Richard's sake. But at that time there were other warders beforethis door, that slept not at all; for after the Black Prince died, theguard in Kennington Palace was doubled, and a certain armourer in thecity 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 byany fortune he forgot it, his mother, caressing him, would say:--
"Where is thy chain coat, Richard? Wilt not wear it to-day to pleasurethe kindly armourer?"
Moreover, the little Prince was seldom let abroad, and his householdmust needs keep him company; wherefore Stephen Fitzwarine might not gointo 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 moodto see young gentlemen in broidered coats a-walking her streets, hedropped his lute into a rosebush and went adventuring.
When he came on London Bridge,--for Kennington Palace was t' otherside of the river by Lambeth, and who would go to the city must crossby this way,--he found a great crowd of idle people blocking thestreet; and because none moved to right or left to let him pass, hemust needs elbow it like any prentice; and this he did as far asCornhill. Now, although young Stephen did not yet know the Visionconcerning Piers Ploughman so well as the Romaunt of the Rose, onething he had discovered, namely, that Will Langland dwelt on Cornhill;and he would have slackened his pace to scan the houses. But theunmannerly throng that had followed him across the bridge would nothave it so, and pushed and pressed upon him that he must wag his legsbriskly or be taken off them altogether. And in this fashion he wentthe length of Cornhill, and had he been discreet he had gone yetfarther in Cheapside and sheltered him in St. Paul's. But Etienne wasa valiant lad, and wilful. He had come out to see a certain cot onCornhill, and his desire was yet unsatisfied. He turned him back andfaced a grinning crew of prentice lads and artisans, some merry, allmischievous, 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 hishand; "we mistook; the lording hath come hither to give himself ashostage for the safety o' Speaker Peter."
A part of the crowd laughed at this speech, and others cursed, andsome said:--
"Take him! Take him!"
"Yea, take him!" roared the throng, closing in; and above this sea ofsound Etienne sent his voice shrilly:--
"Disperse! Disperse, I say! I come a peaceful errand. Who will pointme the dwelling of one they call Long Will, I 'll give him threegroat."
"So, 't is Long Will must follow good Peter de la Mare?" shrieked awoman 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 Langlandstood now in the forefront of the mob, eyeing Etienne.
"So ho!" he said, bracing his back for the nonce against them thatwould 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, andleered; and the mob, not comprehending, yet laughed.
"Thou wilt see Will Langland, wilt thou?" he resumed. "Yea, I trowthou art a-dying to see Will Langland. He hath long yellow hair, hathhe 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 hissword 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 adingy cassock and carrying a breviary. Long Will was come from sayingmass for the soul of a wool merchant.
"What then? Wilt have me soil my hands with such as these?" criedEtienne.
"Nay, my lord, nor thy spirit neither," answered Langland.
"Let be, Will!" said one in the crowd. "'T is a spy that prisonethhonest 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?"
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 anend on 't. I be not one to bear malice."
The mob roared with laughter, and Etienne, slipping his sword withinits scabbard, answered in excellent good temper:--
"I am indeed godson to that most noble earl, and gentleman of thebedchamber to son altesse the Prince Richard, heir to the throne ofEngland and son to our lamented Edward, Prince of Wales, of belovedmemory." And Etienne uncovered his head, as did all them that had capsin that assembly.
"So!" said Langland, looking on him with approval. "'T is spoke in aspirit 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 lingeredyet 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 Hobbefollowed on behind, ever and anon voicing some pleasantry, as:--
"That I should live to hear thee sweeten thy tongue to tickle alording, Will!"
Or:--
"Look out at window, good neighbours, afore the sky fall. Here 's WillLangland, that never lifted his eye to do lordships and rich men acourtesy, 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 trenchersof black bread on a bare table; a pot bubbled on the hearth, and theroom was full of smoke. Calote stood still and rubbed her eyes andstared.
"Sir," said Langland, "you were seeking me? Wherefore?"
It was a simple question, yet the squire, looking on Calote, found nothis answer ready; so Langland waited, glancing from the youth to themaid, until Stephen stammered in a weak, small voice, greatlydiffering from those bold tones in which he had defied theprentices:--
"I have read thy Vision concerning Piers"--
"I must commend you for an ardent disciple," said the poet. "'T is notevery 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 hespoke in kindly fashion. "'T would appear that my daughter and I arealike beholden to you for courtesy, wherefore, I would beseech you,fair sir, since you are come so far and have so manfully encounteredperils, will you bide and dine with us,--if a pot o' beans be hightdinner?"
"Nay, I will not so trespass," protested Stephen. "The Prince refusethto eat an I be not by to fill his cup."
"Yet must you bide, I fear me," said Langland gravely. "How shall Ianswer 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 withthe more ease."
And now, with his adventure succeeded past imagination, the ungratefulStephen 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 wehave 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'shair in the midst of Langland's Latin blessing.
The cook in Kennington Palace was one had learned his trade in Francea-following the Black Prince. He had a new sauce for each day of theyear. Stephen looked with wonder upon the mess of beans that Kittepoured out for him. His trencher bread was all the bread he had; yeteven the trenchers at Richard's table were not such bread asthis,--black, bitter, hard. He ate his beans off the point of hisdagger, and looking across at the fair flower of Calote's face, hemarvelled. He had a little mug of penny-ale, and Langland kept himcompany. Kitte and Calote drank whey and nibbled their trenchers. Themeal was silent and short. At the end none poured water over hisfingers nor gave him a towel of fine linen to wipe his lips. Exceptingthe 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 Kittelifted the charred sticks off the fire and laid them aside, and Calotescoured the iron pot, and Langland set himself to discourse to hisdisciple 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 changethever 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 andlooked 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 newfable."
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 aquill 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 pleasurethee," said Calote to the squire.
"Nay, I have hindered enough," protested Stephen,--"but wilt not thoutell the tale?"
Her father, looking up, smiled, but Calote shook her head, and claspedher hands, and unclasped them, shyly.
From the lane came a snapping sound, as Kitte broke twigs from a brushheap for the fire. Langland, pen in air, studied his parchment. Thesquire 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 themeaning? Methought 't was father's jesting."
"Thy father saved my life this day from a rout of prentices that wouldhave mauled me as I came hither,--because, forsooth, the seneschal tothe Earl of March is cast in prison. But wherefore the good people ofLondon should so concern them about the Earl's servant is riddle toodeep for my guessing."
"The seneschal of the Earl of March?" quoth Calote, wrinkling herbrow: "who 's he?"
"A worthy man, one the Earl hath in esteem; 's name's Peter de laMare."
"Peter de la Mare!" cried Calote. She stared incredulous, and then hereyes blazed big with indignation. "Seneschal to the Earl of March,forsooth! What didst thou this five month? Hast heard o' the GoodParliament?"
"Assuredly!" the squire made answer, amazed.
"Assuredly!" retorted she. "And yet thou marvellest that the people isangry 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 thepeople of England should be no more taxed for their sakes. 'T wasPeter brought John o' Gaunt to terms, and did fearlessly accuse thatrascal merchant, Richard Lyons, and those others. 'T was Peter chargedmy Lord Latimer with his treachery and forced the Duke to strike himoff the cou
ncil. He dared even meddle 'twixt the old King and AlicePerrers,--and she a witch! But now that's all o'erthrown, for that theBlack Prince is dead.--Natheless, when young Richard, thy master,cometh to his kingdom, see thou 'mind him 't was this same Peter de laMare, with the Commons at 's back, did force the King to make Richardheir to the throne. And this decree--John o' Gaunt dare notoverthrow."
She paused for breath, and the bewildered Stephen, round-eyed, withopen mouth, awaited helpless the renewal of her instructing.
"Methought ye nobles were but too busy with affairs of state," sheresumed bitterly; "yet 't would appear otherwise."
"I am no noble, mistress," said Stephen, finding his tongue, "but apoor gentleman, owner of a manor there be not villeins enough left tofarm. Young Richard is not yet eleven years of age. It suiteth ill thepurpose of his uncles and guardians that he and his household shouldbusy themselves in the kingdom. Mayhap, if we could learn our lessonof lips as fair as thine, we 'd prove apt pupils; but the ladies ofour household are busied in matters feminine."
"I am no lady," said Calote, grown rosy red; "I am a peasant maid. Ihave no idle gentles to woo me all day long, nor never shall. The pooris my Love."
"Mayhap I am an idle gentle," Stephen answered, "yet I woo no lady inKennington Palace." He came a step nearer and kneeled on one knee.
"An 't please you, fair sir," said the voice of Langland, "the time'sas fitting now for departure as 't will be an hour hence. Shall we setforth?"
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