The Man On a Donkey

by H. F. M. Prescott

  ‘There is,’ said he, ‘a general pardon offered, but ten are exempted therefrom, of whom you, brother, are the first.’

  Robin had gone away across the room. On a stool between the windows there was a trussing coffer bound with iron. He tried the lid, and when he found it locked, nodded to himself. Then, but as if Kit only had half his attention, he said:

  ‘That I knew,’ and went to the bed and began to rummage among the stuff cast down there, muttering something about a key. Yet he did hear what Kit said, for when Kit had finished urging him – ‘for the sake of all us Askes that be loyal’ – to sue for his pardon at the next meeting with the Duke of Norfolk atDoncaster, he answered sharply that he would do it only in so far as all the commons did, ‘And as the King shall grant our just demands. And now,’ said he, ‘if that be all you want with me, I can stay no longer,’ and, giving Kit barely time to reply, went out of the chamber.

  Kit stood still where he was for one long minute. He had come, he told himself, to give a brother warning. Well, he would stay for another purpose, and it was Robin’s own fault that he did so. But in order to accomplish that purpose Kit must appear to be good friends with the Great Captain. He went off, as quickly as he might, after his brother.

  Robin was standing in the Great Court with the reins in his hand. Kit went near, and spoke in his ear.

  ‘You’d best take care.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Not so loud.’ Kit tipped his head back towards the Hall. ‘They are using ugly talk in there, grudging at you because you would make them ride in haste without their dinner. They say that a man is worth his meat, or else his service is but ill. And one said that you use them no better than slaves.’

  ‘Well?’

  Kit said: ‘It is not well,’ but the talk of the commons had been balm to his sore mind. ‘The end,’ he said, ‘will be that either they’ll kill you, or deliver you over as a traitor, like Jacques Dartnell, or William Wallace the Scot.’

  Robert Aske cried out suddenly, very loud, ‘Jesus! Will they?’ and laughed in Kit’s face. He left Kit standing by the horses and went running up the steps to the door of the Hall. Kit lost sight of him then, but he could hear his voice, as he rated the men with a kind of cheerful ferocity and in very damaging terms; sow-bellied swillbowls was the prettiest name he had for them.

  Kit clenched his hands. ‘Now! Now! Will ye endure it?’ He did not speak the words but something in him was crying after that fashion to the men in the Hall.

  ‘Come on you!’ He heard Robin’s voice again with a laugh in it. ‘Out you go first, since you are the smallest;’ and the Great Captain came to the door again holding by the ear and one wrist a big, bearded fellow who yelled and swung his other arm like a flail, but aimlessly. At the top of the steps Aske loosed him with a shove that sent him sprawling down into the yard. There was a crowd of commons in the doorway now; one of them laughed, and then they all laughed with a great gust.

  When the Great Captain had gone, and the men, for whom he would not wait, were scurrying to get horses saddled and away, Kit went back to the Earl’s chamber upstairs. Will Wall had been busy here. His master’s coat and doublet were folded and laid on top of a chest at the bed foot. The litter of stuff on the bed was tidied away too; not a paper was to be seen anywhere; the clerk had gone, taking with him his little desk and all his writing gear. But the trussing coffer was still there.

  The great house was very quiet now that all the men had gone clattering out after Aske. The fire was dying down; Will Wall, nor no one, Kit thought, cared for the comfort of the Great Captain’s brother. He listened. He went, stepping softly on the rushes, to the door, to see that the latch had fallen home. Then he came to the great bed, and, still listening, began to shift the curtains along the tester rod; the old silk and velvet smelt sharply of dust as he moved them.

  Something fell with a little thud. He stooped and picked up a dark green leather pouch; it had silver-gilt aglets on the ends of the thongs that drew up the throat of it.

  Kit, with his eyes on the door, undid the thongs, and felt inside, and found the key that he had hoped for.

  When he had at last put away again all the papers in the little trussing coffer, and locked it, his hands were very cold, but sweat was running down his back. He sat down by the fire, and as he stirred the logs to get a blaze he ran over in his mind the heads of all the matters that he had learnt, especially the plan for marching south in three hosts which should unite again after Trent was passed.

  Then he thought of Robin riding post to Lord Darcy at Templehurst, and the men hammering along the road after him. ‘But he hasn’t my hands on a horse’s mouth,’ he thought. He warmed himself also with thinking how clever he had been to find both the key, and that one writing among all the others that was of such moment. ‘And it’s not every man,’ he thought, ‘could have got it all pat so soon. Robin couldn’t – at least no sooner.’ And Robin had done all he might to ruin the whole Aske family, so it was but just if one of them did what he could to save the house by discovering to the King the detestable, traitorous plans of the rebels.

  *

  Lord Darcy sat by the fire in the Privy Chamber at Templehurst. He said: ‘Thomas Cromwell was with the King before you came to him?’

  Bowes nodded; he was sparing of words. Rafe Ellerker said that they’d seen him come out as they waited. ‘But,’ he added, ‘I think he’s painted blacker than need be. After, when he spoke to us, he said he wishes well to the North Country and we should know it.’

  ‘He does, does he?’

  Aske, speaking from beyond the group beside the fire, said it was time they came to the tenour of the messengers’ charge, and Lord Darcy agreed. So they sat down much as they stood, my Lord, Sir Robert Constable, Sir Rafe, Bowes, and Master Challoner, at the fire – Aske astride of a bench beside the table; he drew a pile of clean paper to him and tried a pen on his nail. There would be letters to write after this news.

  Sir Rafe and Master Bowes, one prompting the other, gave their account of their mission to the King. None of the others said a word while they spoke: Lord Darcy listened, resting his elbow on the arm of the chair and his head on his hand; Constable stared at his feet; Master Challoner teased at the Pilgrim’s Badge on his breast, pulling and twirling at a loose thread between his fingers; Aske after a little threw his leg across the bench and sat with his back to them all, jabbing with the pen at the table.

  When the messengers had finished there was a little silence, and then Aske said, without turning about:

  ‘Why did you not tell the truth to the King?’

  ‘The truth?’ Rafe Ellerker cried sharply.

  ‘You say you told him that the gentlemen were taken by the commons, and forced to swear the oath.’

  ‘And we were. You were too. You told us so yourself.’

  Aske turned and looked at him. ‘Would you go down into the Hall now, Rafe, and tell my fellows what you told the King? Well? Will you not answer?’

  Bowes answered instead of Ellerker. ‘The King’s Grace,’ he said, ‘was very angry. I think we only spoke what we dared. I know I dared not have spoken bolder.’

  ‘But,’ said Aske, ‘if none dare tell the King the truth, how can he know it? It was your charge, to tell him, and you did not dare.’

  ‘Of course,’ put in Ellerker in a cold, unpleasant tone, ‘Robin would have dared.’

  Darcy lifted his hand.

  ‘The Captain is right. Let the King and Cromwell think that there is the thickness of a thumb nail between the gentlemen and the commons, and they’ll go about to drive in a wedge will split a mill post.’

  Bowes stood up, and then Rafe Ellerker; it was Rafe who spoke.

  ‘We have made our report to you. If there’s no more ye would know, give us leave—’ They moved towards the door, and none of the others bade them stay. But at the door Bowes hung back.

  ‘Among other words of reproach His Grace said these, or near as I can remember – “N
ow the intent of your pilgrimage with the devotion of the pilgrims may appear, for who can reckon that foundation good which is contrary to God’s commandment, or the executors to be good men, which contrary to their allegiance, presume to order their Prince, whom God,” said he, “commanded them to obey, whatever he be, yea though he should not direct them justly.” The which hearing, no subject but must be troubled in his conscience, being in arms against his Prince.’

  ‘Ho!’ cried Darcy, ‘and is your conscience even so?’

  Bowes replied that – yea, so it was – and went away with unshaken dignity.

  When he had gone there was a silence, and then Darcy spoke:

  ‘Well, Master Aske, and what do you think of this answer of the King’s?’

  ‘I think,’ said Aske, ‘that it is no answer at all.’

  November 19

  When most people in the great house at Templehurst were asleep Aske still sat writing in Lord Darcy’s chamber. The old Lord was in bed, but awake, sitting propped up against pillows, in a fine embroidered linen night-shirt and cap, with a black velvet nightgown about his shoulders.

  Aske got up, sighed, stretched, yawned and went over to the fire. He threw on a couple of logs and dusted his hand on his hosen.

  ‘Are you done?’ my Lord asked.

  ‘Near done.’ He clapped his hands upon his backside and gave a little laugh. ‘You know, my Lord, they say that a lawyer needs three things – an iron hand, a brazen face, and a leaden breach. But I have fallen out of the way of much sitting these last months.’

  He went back to the table and took up his pen again. ‘I’ve near done,’ he said again, and now he was not laughing. ‘I wish we were as near the end of our great affair.’

  Darcy said, by the Mass, he wished so too, and just then a servant knocked and let in Sir Robert Constable. He sat down on the settle, and let his gown fall away from his knees so that the fire should warm his bare shins.

  ‘Have you opened it to him?’ he asked of my Lord, tipping his head towards Aske.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Opened what? I’ve done now,’ Aske said, without looking round. He tipped the sand back off the last letter, folded it, and tossed it on to the pile of those that were ready for sealing. Then he came over to the fire. ‘Well?’ he prompted Sir Robert.

  But it was Darcy who said: ‘We all think alike of the King’s answer. If I mistake not, we all think now that the matter shall come to battle.’

  He waited, and Aske, looking down into the fire, muttered that the North was ready. ‘And where erst we took up one man to go on our Pilgrimage, if we go forward now, we shall take up seven.’

  Darcy said: ‘One trained man-at-arms is better than seven of your armed husbandmen. The Emperor has the best men-at-arms in Christendom.’

  Aske began to say, with some heat, that Yorkshire yeomen were as good as any – then he stopped short. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘Look outside the door!’ Darcy bade him. Aske raised his eyebrows, but did as he was told.

  ‘Rawlyns is there?’ Darcy asked when he came back.

  Aske said: ‘At the stair foot.’

  ‘Good. You ask what I mean. Then this, in a word. We must send and ask help of the Emperor.’

  ‘No,’ said Aske quickly, but Darcy went on – ‘Two years ago Master Chapuys, the Emperor’s Ambassador, promised help. There were those then who thought that the King’s proceedings would not be endured. Now, if we ask, and if the Emperor will send men, we have Hull for a port for their landing—’

  ‘And we have the friar,’ Sir Robert broke in, leaning forward to look up into Aske’s face, ‘for a messenger.’

  ‘What friar?’

  ‘An old man, and honest. Waldby. You know him. He will go.’

  Aske went away to the table and stood quite a long time fiddling with the pens there. They watched him all the time. At last he came back.

  ‘My Lord,’ said he, ‘Sir Robert – this Pilgrimage that we have set forth upon – it’s God’s business, though—’ he dropped his voice and spoke so low and hurriedly that they hardly heard the words, though it is done our way, not His. But,’ he looked from one to the other of them, ‘let’s finish it with His help, and without more treason than we need.’

  Sir Robert said in his plain way, ‘We knew you would not like it.’

  But Darcy began to argue. Just because it was God’s business, they must bring it to a good end. ‘If we fail, the Church and all our liberties will be quite overset. Cromwell, his servants, and these new Bishops will pull all down. Would you have that?’

  ‘No. No.’

  ‘And you would fight that it should not be?’

  ‘Oh!’ cried Aske. ‘But this is another matter.’

  ‘And it is yet another to suffer God’s Church in England to be rooted out, heretics to bear rule, and teach what they will. Why, in fifty years, if they have their way, there will be none, barring a few old men, who have heard anything but that which the King hath been pleased they shall learn.’

  Aske said, ‘I must think.’ He began to walk about the room, and they let him alone. At last he came back and stood looking down at Sir Robert.

  ‘Are you for it?’

  ‘I’m with Tom,’ Constable said. ‘Here’s Cromwell making Bowes – even Bowes – believe he loves our commons well, and the same day he writes that letter we took, saying he’ll make a fearful example of them, and of us, to all subjects while the world shall last. What will they else but trick us if they may?’

  Aske gave a sort of groan. ‘So we shall trick them first. I think I know now what it means – “Quicunque enim acceperint gladium, gladio peribunt.” It’s not only that a man shall be killed by the sword. But all he fights for perishes, while he fights, and it perishes by his own sword. Well—’ He threw out his hands. ‘Since I am in I must wade on till I’m over. But God knows whether once there I’ll find I have left Him behind me on the hither side.’

  ‘Then – you consent—’ said Darcy.

  Aske nodded. So Constable went to the door and bade Rawlyns to fetch the friar.

  November 24

  This was the last day of the Council of the Commons at York, and the stormiest. They disputed till the candles were lit, and the painted glass in the windows of the great Chapter House showed only looming gloomy colours in which the flames were dully reflected. This day they spoke of their grievances, and men, growing angry, hammered with their fists on the arms of the monks’ stalls, and the commons used the same oaths that they used for swearing at their sheep dogs and plough beasts.

  It was against Cromwell that they spoke most freely, but they grew very bold also against the King, Sir Francis Bigod recalling how Rehaboam, by young foolish counsel, had so used the commons of Israel that they would no longer suffer him to reign over them. Then another of the gentlemen said it did not need Israel for a lesson, ‘For in this noble realm, who reads the Chronicles of Edward II shall learn what jeopardy he was in by reason of Piers de Gaveston, and other such counsellors.’

  ‘Aye,’ cried one of the commons from near the Border, ‘and a Prince should rule by justice mixed with mercy and pity, and not by rigour to put men to death; for though it is said that our bodies be the King’s, when he has killed a man he cannot make him live again.’

  Another asked, ‘What of the King’s vices, which men may say truly have most need to be spoken on, to be reformed of all things, for if the head be sick, how can the body be whole?’

  And then they came round to Cromwell again, calling him ‘the Loller and false flatterer’. ‘He says,’ said Sir Richard Tempest, ‘that he will make the King the richest Prince in Christendom,’ and at that one of the rough fellows from the dales broke in – ‘But he can have no more of us than we have, and that he hath already, nor is not satisfied – as a man can have no more of a cat than to have its skin.’ They must have their laugh at that, before Sir Richard could go on. ‘Yet I think this Cromwell,’ said he, ‘goes about
to make the King the poorest Prince in Christendom, for when by such pillage he has lost the hearts of his baronage and poor commons, the riches of the realm are spent.’

  Then a big man with a beard jumped up, a yeoman from beyond Beverley.

  ‘If that traitor live,’ he cried, ‘none of us who are head yeomen or gentlemen can trust to any pardon. Some other device will be found whereby we shall lose our life, goods and lands. It is better to try battle than to submit.’

  ‘Aye, and good to take time when time is fair,’ said another.

  When they saw Sir Robert Constable on his feet they were all silent for they knew that he was one of the chief leaders. He said his counsel was that as they had already broken one point with the King (he meant by taking and keeping a ship that had come into Hull), he for his part would break another. ‘Let’s have no meeting with my Lord of Norfolk at Doncaster yet, but make all the country sure from Trent northwards, and then I doubt not but all Lancashire, Cheshire, Derbyshire and the parts thereabouts will join with us. Then—’ and he laughed, ‘then I would condescend to a meeting.’

  But at that Aske got up slowly, leaning with his hands on the arms of his chair. He said surely the commons must go to Doncaster. ‘It’s all our whole duty to declare our griefs to the King. If he refuses, then our cause is just. But first we shall ask for a free pardon and a free Parliament.’

  There was a great outcry then, one advising battle, and another to treat. When the noise died a little one of the Captains, called Walker, a man with a voice like a bull’s, cried to the Great Captain, ‘Look you well upon that matter, to have a free Parliament, for it is your charge. For if you do not you shall repent it.’

  Aske, who had sat down again, gave no more answer than to bow his head. It was Sir Robert and the other gentlemen who at last quieted the commons. After some more debate the meeting broke up, and all went away, excepting the Great Captain. He, when Constable asked was he coming, only shook his head; he had a paper in his hand, one of the many petitions of grievances, and seemed to be studying it. Sir Robert, who had thought just now that Aske had spoken too roundly in differing from a friend, was nettled by his silence, so, shrugging his shoulders, went off, leaving him there, with all the candles burning around him, in the empty Chapter House. When once Aske was alone, and no one there to see, he leaned forward, letting his head hang down, as he hugged the great pain that wrung him.