Long Will

by Florence Converse

  CHAPTER XI

  The Prisoner

  Stephen's cell was a narrow place, and there was no window but a slitwherefrom arrows only might take flight. Looking forth with facepressed close to the stone, Stephen saw the gray wall of the innerward, and no other thing. Nevertheless, by means of this crack he knewlight from darkness, and when three days were past he said to thegaoler:--

  "How long do I bide in this place?"

  "The last man bode here till he died, master,--two-score and fiveyear. My father was turnkey."

  Stephen turned his face to the arrow-slit, and the man went out andbarred the door.

  "Now will I set my life in order against the day I come forth," saidStephen; "and whether Death unlock the door, or Life, I shall beready."

  So he sat close by the crack, with his fingers thrust through,beckoning freedom. And here the gaoler found him night and morn,silent, as he were wrapt in a deep contemplation, a little sad, buthopeful withal, and uncomplaining. The gaoler eyed him in amaze, andsearched the cell for rope or knife or crowbar, for written word orphial of poison, whereby this strange calm might be accounted for. Buthe found none of these things. And in this way there dragged on afortnight. Then might the gaoler hold his peace no longer.

  "Hard fare," quoth he, setting the black bread and the water jug readyto Stephen's hand.

  "Ay," the prisoner made answer, "but a-many people in England have nobetter, and a-many go hungry. Wherefore shall I feed fat the while mybrothers fast?"

  "Thou art the most strange wight ever I saw," said the gaoler. "Forthe most part do they ramp and rage, beat head against wall, and curseblasphemously. Others there be lie in swoon, eat not, cry and makemoan. But thou!"--

  "I look into my past," said Stephen. "I live over my life. By now I 'ma seven years child, and my mother died yesterday."

  "Lord!--'s lost his wits!" exclaimed the gaoler and fled incontinent.

  The next day he pushed the door open very cautious, peered round theedge, and set the bread and water on the ground.

  "Come in, br-br-brother," Stephen called. "I be not mad. I do but museon life, to discover wherein it may be bettered, and where 's thefault. When I 'm done with time past I 'll think on time to come, andwhat 's to do if ever I go free. By this device keep I my wits. I dolove life, brother, I would live as long as I may."

  "Art thou a poet?" queried the gaoler.

  "Nay, but I make rhymes as well as any other gentleman."

  This was before the hour of prime. At sunset, when the gaoler cameagain he questioned:--

  "Dost thou find the fault in life, and wherein 't may be bettered?"

  "There be a-many faults, brother, but one is this, that some men domake of themselves masters, and hold their fellows in bonds, and thosemay not choose,--but they must be bound whether they will or no.

  'When Adam delved and Eve span, Who was then'"--

  but the gaoler went out, and slammed the door to with a loud noise.

  'T was nigh a week after, and now mid July, when he spoke again toStephen:--

  "The King doth not yet stint to kill the men who sing that ribaldrhyme concerning our forefather Adam."

  "But the King set villeins free!" cried Stephen, aroused.

  "Free as a hawk is free when fowler tieth a thread to 's claw."

  "So?" said Stephen, "then all 's lost!" and very hastily: "Prythee,brother, tell me, was Will Langland, him they call Long Will,--was hetaken,--a-a-and a-a-any ki-kinsfolk of his?"

  "Nay, he 's loose in London streets, as crazed as ever he was. Hiswife 's slain in the riot, and now he 's free to mount in Holy Churchan he will; but he 's a fool. Knows not to hold 's tongue. By theKing's grace only, and Master Walworth, was he spared, and theyellow-haired maid, his daughter."

  "Ah!" sighed Stephen.

  The gaoler grinned and grunted.

  On the morrow Stephen greeted him with a face so radiant tender thatthe man said:--

  "Eh, well, where art thou now,--in Paradise?"

  "At the Miracle in Paul's Churchyard," answered him Stephen.

  "I 'll be sworn there 's a maid in that memory?"

  "Yea, a maid," Stephen assented.

  "Yellow-haired?"

  But Stephen said no word.

  "Yesterday, in Cheapside, one named Calote questioned me, if I wereturnkey in the Tower"--

  Stephen leaped to his feet, but the man was on the other side of thedoor and let fall the heavy bar. By the threshold there lay a bit ofparchment whereon was writ:--

  "Though it be very sour to suffer, there cometh sweet after; As on a walnut without is bitter bark, And after"--

  but here was that parchment torn off short, and on the other side waswrit:--

  "Why I suffer or suffer not, thyself hath naught to do; Amend thou it if thou might for my time is to abide. Sufferance is a sovereign virtue and"--

  And when he had read these words from the Vision concerning PiersPloughman, Stephen spent that day a-kissing the bit of parchment.

  Anon, a rainy eve, the gaoler set down a covered dish, with:--

  "My goodwife hath a liking to thee, Master Fitzwarine. Sendeth thee amess of beans, hot. 'T is flat against rule, but she gave me no peace.Women be pitiful creatures. She weepeth ever to hear the tale of thydurance."

  "'T is joy to serve thy wife, to eat her hot beans. Merci, brother."

  "Nay, thank not me," said the man gruffly. "When thou hast eaten all,hide the dish in the straw lest the Tower warden enter. 'T is not likehe will, but I 've no mind to lose my place for a woman's tears."

  So the days drifted, and the weeks. July was at an end, and August inthe third week. Stephen's cheeks were white and sunken, his blue eyeslooked forth from shadows, his lips were pale. The fingers thatfluttered in the arrow-slit were wasted thin. One morn the gaoler cameand found him singing in a faint voice this song:--

  "O Master, Master, list my word! Now rede my riddle an ye may: My ladye she is a poor man's daughter, And russet is my best array."

  And when Stephen was come to the end of his singing he heard a sound,and there sat gaoler on the floor blubbering.

  "Where art thou now?" said that good man a-blowing his nose.

  "One while I wandered over all England with one that was messenger tocarry news of the Fellowship and the Rising. We bought bed and boardwith a song. So do I wander now, and I sing."

  "Then 't was a true word, that Jack Straw affirmed concerning thee?"cried the man.

  "What said he?"

  "Thus and so concerning thy pilgrimage and thy part in the Rising."

  "Is he dead?"

  "Ay; and no easy task to gather him together in the Last Day."

  But when Stephen would have asked yet more concerning Jack Straw, andthe King, and what was toward, the gaoler shut his lips and hastedforth.

  After this, Stephen sang night and morn and midday the songs he hadsung--and Calote with him--in the year of pilgrimage. All those oldtales of Arthur he sang, and certain other that he had of Dan Chaucer;and a-many he made new, rondels to praise his lady. Also he chauntedthe Vision concerning Piers Ploughman, from beginning to end,--whichwas no end. But more often he sang that story called of a Pearl, thatWill Langland would have it was writ by his old master in Malvern. Forabout this time, what with long waiting, and the heat of summer,little food, and the foul smell of the dungeon, Stephen began toconsider what it might signify to die in that place; and the Vision ofthe Holy City in the poem called of a Pearl comforted him much.

  So, as he chaunted one while of the maiden in the glistering garment,that came down to the river's brink,--and in his heart he saw her facehow it was the face of Calote,--he heard the bar drawn, and the keysto rattle, and presently the gaoler came in.

  "For thy soul's sake I bring thee a priest, Master Fitzwarine," hesaid; "'t is long since thou madest confession."

  And behind him in the doorway stood a tall man, tonsured, g
arbed inrusset.

  "O my son!" cried Will, "how hast thou suffered!" And he picked upStephen off the floor and carried him to the window-crack. And thegaoler emptied the water-jug in Stephen's face, and presently went outand left those two alone.

  Stephen opened his eyes slow, wearily.

  "Steadfast!" he whispered, and smiled.

  And then he said:--

  "Calote?"

  "She waiteth, praying. In the beginning we dared not plead for thee;for that we knew the King was in no mood to hearken, so was he playedupon by the nobles, and his pride harrowed. By now there is rumourthat he beginneth to sicken of bloodshed. Haply he 'll be in mood topardon when he is come back to London."

  "Come back?--Where is the King?"

  "Sweet son, he goeth up and down the countryside, letting blood.Robert Tressilian, the new Chief Justice, is with him, and his uncleBuckingham. They show no mercy."

  "John Ball?" said Stephen.

  "Alack, he was ta'en at Coventry and, the King holding assize at SaintAlbans with the Lord Chief Justice, he was sent thither andadjudged.--He 's dead. 'T was in July."

  "And the flame 's snuffed out?"

  "It flickers here and there. The King hath made peace with his uncleGaunt, who is set to keep the peace and stamp out the fire in thenorth. In August the King came from Reading."

  "What is now? I 've lost count."

  "Now is September, son, and yesterday came word of riot in Salisburymarketplace."

  "I mind me o' Salisbury marketplace," smiled Stephen, sad. "Calote andI, we were there afore we went down into Devon. Tell me now ofCalote."

  "She bade me say to thee, Fitzwarine, think no more o' Calote. 'T isno avail. Thou art gentleman, beloved of the King. Yea, we do believehe doth love thee, else had he slain thee long since. 'T was youth'sfolly, thy part in the Rising,--Calote saith,--these prisoned monthshave shown thee what 's to do. Thy place is with gentlefolk. The Kingshall pardon thee. Forget Calote, she saith."

  "Let Calote forget Stephen Fitzwarine an she will," he answered, "butI am of the Fellowship."

  "Alas, there is no Fellowship more," sighed Langland.

  "The word hath been spoken, my father, the thought is born. Though theKing know it not, yet are we free. By fellowship shall we win in theyears to come. A long battle,--but it ends in victory."

  "Not in my day," said Will, "nor thine."

  "What are days?" cried Stephen. "I 've lost count."

  Then Will Langland kissed Stephen Fitzwarine, and "Even so is it inmine own heart, O son," he said. "But for the most part folk issorrowful and faithless."

  "I have set my life in order," said Stephen. "If ever I come forth ofthis prison-house, I 'll give to each and every villein o' my manorthat piece of land he tilleth, to have and to hold. Likewise I 'llfree them severally. This I may do within the law, for that the manoris mine."

  "Calote saith she will never be thy wife," Will repeated,--neverthelesshe smiled.

  "Do thou say this to Calote, O my father,--my device is 'Steadfast.'"