Long Will

by Florence Converse

  CHAPTER V

  The Adventure in Devon

  Calote was in the south of England that winter, in Hampshire, andWiltshire, and Somerset; resting, now a week, now a night only, intown or village or lonely hut. She travelled off the highway as muchas she might, and slept in poor folks' cots. She bought bed andvictual with a ballad or a gest, and because she could spin and bakeas well as tell a tale, the goodwives of the countryside harboured herwillingly, and sent her on her way with bread in her bag and milk inher bottle, and her head bret-full of messages to distant friends;as:--

  "If thou 'lt take yon three fields as the crow flieth, then turn theeon thy left hand, through a wood and up a hill and down again, thou'lt come, in a good ten mile, to a river and a white thatched house ont' other side; there be three yew trees behind. Do thou go in boldlyand call for Cristina atte Ford; she 's my brother's second wife. I've not seen her this six year and more, but she was a kindly soul atthat time. Say 't was Cecily Ayr sent thee; and here 's a piece of newlinen for the latest baby and six new-laid eggs. God and Saint Marykeep thee, wench! Yonder 's Roger Stokfisshe in his dung-cart a-goingthy way; he 'll give thee a ride."

  When she came into a village, she went and stood by the cross, or inthe street before the tavern, and blew a blast on the King's horn; andwhen the people began to gather round, she sang a song of Robin Hood,or Earl Randle of Chester; and after, of Piers Ploughman; and she saidas how she was Will Langland's daughter; and if there were but commonfolk, or a knight or two in the company, she told of the Brotherhood,and at the last of the young King.

  Whiles they were sullen and afraid; whiles they scoffed and wouldbelieve but only that 't was a merry gest of a jongleuse; whiles theywaited not to hear the end, but drifted away by twos and threesa-shaking their heads. Yet, more often, they stayed by, and crowdedcloser, and fingered the silver horn curiously. A-many had heardalready something of this matter, as how the peasants should arise;and these questioned her of when and where. Others told theirgrievances loudly and said: "Will this be cured?"--"Will that be doneaway?" Ofttimes she might not know all that they would say, for thattheir speech was strange; and they on their part said: "What is't?"--"What 's that to mean?" for Englishmen spoke a diverse languagein that day. Nevertheless, because of the going to and fro of peddlersand merchants and minstrels, of pilgrims and friars, over the land,there began to be a scattering of words from one shire to another; andCalote, being quick of wit, had soon the jargon of the south countryand the west at the tip of her tongue.

  'T would seem there was a young peddler journeying in these partsabout this same time; ever and anon Calote met him in tavern ormarketplace. There was never a lonely stretch of road but she foundhim jogging on before, or looked behind to see him coming after. Hespoke not overmuch, and then with a grievous stammer. He was notgoodly to look upon, having no eyebrows and black hair very wild abouthis head; yet, in his company Calote ever found her heart light with acontent and surety the which she was at a loss to understand. He worea tawny tabard, and a bright blue flannel hood of the kind that iscape and hood in one, with a hole to thrust the face out. His hosenwere of coarse yarn, twixt white and gray, streaked. He carried alight pack, with pins and ribbons and trinkets in it, and a lute slungunder his arm. Twice or thrice he had sat on the steps of a marketcross and twanged his lute that Calote might the better sing herballads, but if she thanked him, he would scowl.

  At Salisbury, in the spring, she came upon Wat Tyler a-walking theHigh Street, and 't would be hard to tell which had more joy of other.He caught her up and kissed her heartily; and she, laughing, with thetears on her cheeks, had well-nigh choked him with her arms around hisneck.

  He told her as how her father was very silent, and ever busy with theVision. And her mother said: "If so be thou find Calote,"--for theyknew she was in that part of England where she was,--"here is a pairof warm shoes for her feet."

  He told her also how 't was rumoured that a poll tax was toward;because, forsooth, some fool averred that "the wealth of the kingdomis in the hands of the workmen and labourers." Wat smacked his ownempty hands together loudly and laughed so that men turned in thestreet to look on him.

  He lingered around and about Salisbury a month and more, and Calotestayed with him, singing her songs in Wilton and Bemerton, and in thetaverns and at the poultry cross. That elfish peddler likewise restedin the town, and ever he was at Wat's elbow, questioning of when thepeople should rise; and how many shires were already awake to thesematters. But when May was come in, Wat set Calote on the road toExeter and himself turned his face to Londonward. And all that monthof May she was a-wandering over the moors of Devon, she and thepeddler, for he had never been in these parts and he lost his way.

  "I know a man of Devon," quoth Calote; "he lives by the sea. If wecould come at him, he 'd succour us and set us in the right road."

  They went in a circle ofttimes, and twice at nightfall they came backto the same farm-house. Then the peddler bruised his foot, and theystayed three nights under the open sky, in the heather. The silence ofthe moors wrapped them round, and also the peddler's stammer was aburden to his speech. The third evening a shepherd came upon them, andgave them beans to eat.

  It was June the day they came out upon a great red foreland above thesea. The chief colour of the water was a flashing blue, but at theedges it changed to clear green, fringed white with foam; there werecloud shadows of purple lying on that blue, and here and there awondrous rosy patch, as it might be apple blossoms were melted there.

  They followed along the cliffs after this, a dizzy way, and onceCalote was fain to lie down and cling to the short grass and cry.

  "G-get up," quoth the peddler; "f-for sh-sh-shame to cry. I-I-I--G-give me th-th-thy hand!"

  And so twixt coaxing and comforting he got her to her feet again, andthey went on, he walking on the side of the sea as much as he might.Ever and anon they came upon a handful of fishermen's cottages in awooded coombe, and at one of these hamlets they heard that Calote'sfriend Peter dwelt some three miles farther on, inland about a mile.So when they were come to Peter's cot, which was wreathed all aboutwith a riot of honeysuckle and wild rose, the peddler gave Calotegood-day, and she leapt the dry ditch and went into the yard throughthe gate; and there was Peter a-sitting on the doorstone, mending ahoe.

  "O mistress!" he cried, and she laughed and shook him by the shouldersand kissed him. And Peter's son, that was now a parson, came out ofthe house with a book in his hand.

  When the peddler saw this parson in the doorway, and how young he was,he half turned as he would go back; but then he thought better of it,and went on till he came to the church of the parish. In thechurchyard he sat down to rest under an old yew tree, and here theparson found him after vespers, and took him in to lodge in his ownhouse.

  Meanwhile, in Peter's cot, Calote went to bed supperless.

  "We ate our bread at noon," said Peter. "The morrow morn I 'll makeshift to sell our black cock to the steward of the manor-house. 'T isan ancient bird, but I have heard tell the cook is wonderly skilful todisguise tough meat."

  "Nay, not for my sake shalt thou sell it!" cried Calote.

  But Peter answered her: "We also must eat, mistress. I am in arrearsto Bailiff for that my plough broke in the furrow three days past; Icould not beg no wood to mend it, but Forester found me in the parkwith mine axe. Wherefore I sat yesterday in the stocks."

  Peter had no shoes, and there were raw rings about his ankles wherethe stocks had galled him, also his neck was bruised. He was veryragged, his tabard full of holes. Nevertheless, he was not the onlyone in that village went bare.

  So soon as all the people heard that this was Long Will's daughter,who was Peter's friend in London, they came eagerly to see her. Theywere a big and kindly and simple folk, slow and obstinate. They heardCalote's tales in silence, stolidly; yet they came again and again tohear. Now it was before the door of Peter's cot that they gathered;now it was at the foot
of the cliffs when the tide was out; now it wasin the churchyard of a Sunday after Mass, the parson sitting bya-copying her words; for his own book of the Vision was a tatteredthing, never complete, that he had bought at a Devon fair.

  Meanwhile, the parson and the peddler were close comrades. The peddlerhad to answer many questions; as, how did John Wyclif appear? And washe so learned a man as John Ball? And did William Courtney, Devon'sson, still bear him arrogant, now he was Bishop of London? And was ittrue, what the friars in these parts said, that John Wyclif was asorcerer and in the Devil's pay? And had the peddler been inOxford?--this with a lingering sigh. But ever the questioning cameround at the last to love, for concerning this matter the parson wasvery curious; not that love Long Will sang in the Vision, but the morecommon kind; and throughout whole days of June, as they walkedtogether over the wide rose-blossoming country on the top of thecliffs, the parson to carry comfort to the sick or the aged, thepeddler to sell his wares, they discoursed of lovers and loving; andit was the peddler who learned the parson the Romaunt of the Rose.

  "And didst thou ever suffer this malady of love, to know it?" theparson queried one day.

  "Ay, a-and do suffer," the peddler answered. "B-b-but she 'll n-noneof me."

  "A foolish maid, to judge by the outside," said the parson; himselfwas a big, broad, yellow-headed man, might have had any maid in Devonto keep his house for him an he had chose; but of this he was notaware.

  "Didst ever essay to curl thy hair?" he continued; "'t would softenthy countenance."

  The peddler smiled as at a memory: "Yea," he said, "I 've d-done sofull oft."

  They were journeying along the edge of the cliff, and the sun was low;on the sea there was one little ship.

  "Will Langland married a wife,--and he a kind of priest," the parsonsaid suddenly.

  "Ye-yet 't was not well do-done," the peddler retorted swift, "for allJ-John W-Wyclif coun-coun-counseleth."

  As he talked, his eyes were on the sea and the little ship; but theparson was looking down to the foot of a jutting headland beyond,where a playful wight--was 't a man or a maid?--skipped among therocks, and ran into the water and out again.

  "Nay, I 'm not so sure 't was ill done," he disputed absently; "we bemade like other men."

  The peddler stood still and shaded his eyes with his hand: "Wh-whatfor a ship is yonder?" he asked. "Methinks 't is sailing in. Is thereha-harbour?"

  The parson likewise shaded his eyes, then he said: "Below, there 's abrook flows into the sea, and a kind of rough beach, where--where themaid is playing."

  "What maid?" But now the peddler saw, and though she was no biggerthan a brown lark, seen so far, he knew what maid it was, and so didthe parson.

  "Is that a French ship?" asked the peddler, and never a stammer on histongue; but the parson was too troubled to be aware of this.

  "I fear me,--I fear me!" he answered.

  "And now I 'm very sure she 's coming in," the peddler cried, andflung down his pack and stripped off his hood. "Do thou make the bestof thy way to the manor-house, Sir Priest,--yet I fear me the knight's away,--and I 'll down to the maid. What way 's the nearest way?"

  "Not so," the parson answered. "Thou canst not come to her afore theyland, by the way round; and thou canst not go over the cliff; but Ican, for I 've climbed these slippery walls up and down since I wassix year old." His blue eyes sparkled like that blue sea below; he wastucking up his gown about his waist.

  "To warn the knight and bring aid to thy parish is thy devoir; 't ismine to succour the maid," quoth the peddler very hot. His eyes wereblue likewise, and eerie in the midst of his brown visage.

  So they looked each into the heart of the other, angrily; and all thewhile that French ship was coming in. Then the young parson droopedhis head, and "Not for mine own sake, but the maid's, let me go overthe cliff, brother," he said. "Think on the maid! If they find heralone on the shore, or if they take her fleeing up to the village, ofwhat avail were my love then, or thine?"

  The peddler put his two hands to his mouth and called out, trying tomake the maid hear him. But the wind drove his voice backward over theland; and the ship came on with the wind. Then the peddler groanedand, with never a look nor a word for the priest, he set off to run towhere the manor-house was distant two good miles. When the priestlooked over the cliff, the maid was already running up the coombe tothe mill that stood in the brook's way. Nevertheless, he began to godown the cliff.

  So soon as Calote saw that little ship, she knew what was to happen;for the villagers on the coast had told her many tales of how theFrench were like to come any day and burn and pillage; and how the menof Cornwall had been so harassed that they had demanded fighting mento be sent down to protect them and their coast; and the Commonsdesired that those lords who had estates by the sea should dwell uponthem to succour their people.

  Calote stood a moment looking out. This was a little ship, and butone; might not these villagers overcome a few French and take themprisoners? Here would be a tale to tell! Immediately she sped up thecoombe to the mill, and:--

  "The French are coming," quoth she breathless. "Bar thy door!"

  "And so be burnt like a swallow in a great-house chimney," said themiller. "Not I," and calling to his wife and his man, and snatching uphis youngest, he made ready to go with Calote.

  "But I 'll bring succour," she protested. "Wilt thou leave all thegood corn to pillage?"

  "Yea, I will," answered the miller. "The murderers shall sooner havemy corn than my company."

  "'T is not thy corn, 't is thy neighbours'," Calote admonished, but hehad no ears for her; and she, to save her breath for running, stilledher speech, and left him.

  The sunlight struck level athwart the tree-trunks and along thewood-road that led twixt the mill and the village.

  "'T is now about the going down of the sun," she thought, as shehurried on. "They will be gathered at the cross, Peter, and theparson, and the peddler, and all those others, awaiting till I come totell a tale and learn them of the Brotherhood."

  She stood still for breath, and heard a cry.

  "They have caught the miller afore he 's gone. Now they 'll be busywith the pillage of the mill, for a little."

  She started on, and stopped irresolute.

  "When they come to the cross at sunset, they have their hoes, theiraxes, and hammers with them; some of them will be shooting at thebutts with arrows for pastime at the end of the day."

  She put the horn to her lips and blew a long blast.

  "There will not be so many men in that ship. Better that ours shouldcome forth to meet them, driving them backward into the sea."

  She blew another blast, and another.

  "Better the affray should be here than in the village among the womenand children."

  She ran on again, but not so fast. Again she blew the horn. And now inthe distance she heard the village folk coming down the coombe.

  "They 'll think I 'm calling them to hear tales by the sea,--or thatsome mishap is befallen me."

  She heard them laughing as they came, and presently three or fourappeared among the trees, and more, and more, some forty of old menand young, and little lads. Behind were women.

  "The French!" she cried; and at that word the foremost men stoodstill.

  "We 'll fling them back into the sea, that dare to set foot inEngland! We 'll"--

  Something in their faces made her falter.

  "'T is but only one little ship," she added hastily. "We are so manywe can--Brothers--brothers!"

  For they were moving backward; already those behind had turned tailand run.

  "I say we 're two to one," she shouted desperately. "Come down anddrive them back! Peter, Peter, speak to them!"

  "Best come away while there 's time, mistress," answeredPeter. "I must to the good wife and the children, and take them to themanor for safety."

  "I 'm a ditcher, and no soldier," said another. "Let them as know howfight!"

  "The French is no plain flesh and bloo
d, but wizards," grumbled athird.

  And always they went backward.

  "Cowards!" said the maid. "Is this the way ye 'll take the kingdom outo' the grasp o' the nobles, and are too fearsome to run upon a handfulof French?"

  "Smoke! Look ye!" cried a man. "They 've set the mill afire. They 'llbe on us! They 'll be on us!"

  Whereupon panic seized them, and they all turned about and fled; andCalote ran after, calling "Cowards!" and "Shame!" and "Is 't so ye 'dserve the King?" and "Slaves! Oh, coward slaves!" till she had nobreath to speak nor run, and so dropped down sobbing by the road andlet them go.

  After a breathing space, she began to hear voices behind; and she gotto her feet and hurried on to the village.

  'T was now the French that came up the coombe, and as they came theysang. They had the parson with them. The miller and his children theyhad slain and cast into the fire; but 't was against conscience tokill parsons. The miller's wife went blubbering betwixt two knights,that quarrelled together very playful concerning her.

  In the village every house was empty--every cottage door was wide.

  "They 'll rouse their lord, I heard a horn," said the leader of theband. "Burn, pillage,--in haste,--then back to the ship! We are toofew to stay in safety, but we 'll fill our bellies and the ship's."

  Then at the other end of the street he saw a maid running through thedusk; her hair was all unbound, and flew behind her like a goldenbanner.

  They came up with her at the cross, and closed about her in a ring,forgetful of haste in their wonder at her loveliness. The leader was agallant gentleman, he doffed his bonnet and unlaced his helm, anddropped upon one knee, saying sweet words; and although Calote and theparson were but little versed in the French tongue, they knew rightwell what this was to mean.

  Then the knight rose up off his knee and went and set his fingerbeneath Calote's chin, and lifted up her face, and stooped his own.And presently the knight and the parson lay both at their lengths onthe grass. The knight was stunned only, already he opened his eyes,but the parson had three thrusts of a sword through his body, and hewould die.

  Out of the stillness that followed this deed there grew a faint soundof horses' hoofs; but the men who stood around heard nothing of this.'T is not well done to slay a priest, even a priest of the English,whose pope is not the pope of the French.

  The knight lifted himself upon his elbow and stared as he were mazed.Calote was kneeling by the side of the parson. And on a sudden thererode up horsemen, and the French turned about in confusion to fightand to flee. In the midst of this battle Calote knelt at the parson'shead, as she had been in a hushed chamber, and presently she was 'warethat the peddler came to kneel at the other side.

  "How did this hap?" said the peddler, and he had to call out loud,because of the noise of clashing steel, and the groans, and the criesof battle,--"A Courtney, a Courtney!" for these were retainers of theEarl of Devon.

  "The French knight"--sobbed Calote.

  And now the parson opened his eyes:--

  "'Conformen Kings to peace,'" said he, very faint. He was babbling outof the Vision. Calote bent her ear to his lips.

  "'And to be conqueror called, that cometh of special grace,'" he saidand smiled. After a bit there came blood to his lips, but he sat upjoyously:--

  "'And now I see where a soul cometh hitherward sailing, With glory and with great light, God it is, I wot.'"

  And so he fell backward dead.

  There were other dead men lying all about. The few French that werenot slain were fleeing to their ship, and the English after thempell-mell, hacking and hewing. The peddler lifted Calote off her kneesand led her away. They walked wearily many miles, stumbling throughthe summer darkness. When the dawn came, the peddler made a bed ofmoss and leaves for Calote, but she would not lie in it. She sata-sighing, with her head in her hand.

  "S-s-sleep, mistress!" said the peddler, "a-and forget!"

  "I 'll never forget that they are cowards!--cowards!" she criedpassionately. "Is 't these shall save the kingdom to the King?"

  "''W-'ware thee from w-wanhope, w-would thee betray,'" said thepeddler, speaking out of the Vision. "Th-these men be not w-warriors,but tillers of the soil; peaceable folk. They have been ca-caredfor and fought for all their l-life long. Not cowards, butun-un-accustomed. We met them as we rode; they came to c-call the lordof the manor to s-succour them. Peter was sore distressed f-for thee."

  "Natheless, they ran away," she said. "They were afeared."

  "N-not the parson," declared the peddler. "He was n-no coward. I didnever know a b-better man; and he was one of them. The ki-kingdom 'snot to be taken this year. P-patience!"

  "Thou art no coward neither," she assented, a little comforted. "Andthou also art one of them."

  But to this the peddler made no reply.