Long Will Part 23

"Give me thy rod, brother," said the King, "I 'll fish."

"There 's a-many horns blowing, sire," Stephen warned him from the other side of the burn. "No doubt they seek thee and are troubled."

"Coeur de joie! Let them seek!" replied Richard. "'T will give them a merry half-hour to think I 'm come to hurt, or slain. Then would there be one less step to the throne for mine Uncle Lancaster. Look not so sourly, Etienne! I 'll catch but one little fish. Hist!--Be still!"

For a little while there was no voice but the brook's voice, and no other sound but the slow turning of parchment pages. The monk busied him with the poem and Richard looked into the water. Meanwhile, Calote's gaze strayed to the squire and found his eyes awaiting her.

Straightway he plucked his dagger from his belt, flashed it in the sun that she might see, and kissed it; after, he took it by the point and held it out, arm's length, as he would give it to her; and so he stood till she might rede his riddle. Presently, her eyes frowning a question, she put forth her hand, palm upward, uncertain. The squire smiled and nodded, and because their two hands might not meet across the brook, he thrust the dagger in the trunk of a tree and wedged the sheath betwixt the bark and the slant of the blade. All this very silently.

Brother Owyn pursed his lips, or shook his head, or turned the pages backward to read again. The King wagged his fishing-line up and down in the water, impatiently. The distant horns blew more frequent.

"My lord," Stephen ventured once again.

Richard got to his feet and threw away the rod. "Eh, well; let 's be going, since thou wilt have it so," he agreed. "The holiday is over.

On the morrow Gloucester again, and to say whether Urban or Clement is true Pope."

Brother Owyn's face was grave; rebuke and displeasure trembled in his voice:--

"My lord, and dost thou think 't is England maketh the Pope?"

Richard was halfway across the burn; he laughed, and looked over his shoulder:--

"Ma foy, but I 'm very sure 't is not France!" said he.

After, when he was in the saddle, he felt for his horn, and, remembering, called:--

"Prythee, Calote, blow thrice, that they may know whence I come. Now, give thee good day, sweet maid, and success to thine adventure.

I 'll watch for thee in London."

And Calote had not blown the third blast when king and squire were off and away; and she turned to meet Brother Owyn's disapproving eye.

"'T would seem that thou art well acquaint at court, though thy father is not," he said.

She opened her lips to speak, then hung her head and answered nothing.

"Now, thanks be to Christ Jesus, the Lamb and the Bridegroom, that my little daughter is dead, and safe away from this world of sin," said Brother Owyn. "She dwelleth as a Bride in the house of the Bridegroom,--in the Holy City that John the beloved and I have seen in a vision. Thou art so fair that I could wish thou mightst dwell therein likewise."

"Yea, after I 'm dead, and my devoir is done," Calote a.s.sented to him.

"Beseech thee, judge me not, good brother! I carry a message of comfort to all these poor English folk that sweat beneath the burden of wrong. Haply, thy daughter, were she quick, would go along with me this day."

"Is this thy message?" he asked, pointing to the parchment.

"This, and more. I may not tell all to thee, for thou 'rt a monk."

"A strange reason," he averred. "'T must be a most unholy message.

Have a care of thy soul, maiden; the pure only shall see the Bridegroom. Here am I sheltered in monastery, yet have I much ado to withstand the Devil, that I may keep me clean and a true believer, and so see Christ and my daughter at the last."

"I cannot forever take keep of mine own soul, brother, when there be so many other in peril to be thought on. Wilt thou that I hide my head in monastery and sing plain-song, and watch perpetual at the altar lest the lamp go out; and, all the while, without the gate, the poor till the fields that I may have leisure to pray? The poor likewise be anhungered after truth. They cry, 'Wherefore did G.o.d make us to be starved of the fat prelates!'"

"So did thy father rail in years gone by," answered the monk, "and Master John Wyclif would have more preaching. But monasteries are holy; they are ordained of G.o.d and the--the Pope. They shall endure."

"Brother, what wilt thou do, thou and thy monastery, when the villeins all are free, when they need no longer grind at the abbot's mill, nor plough the abbey's fields, nay, nor even pay quit-rent to rid them of service?"

"Free!" cried Brother Owyn, "and who shall set them free?"

"Themselves, and Piers Ploughman, and Christ the King's Son of Heaven, which cureth all ills by love."

The old man drew away from her: "Surely, thou hast a devil," he said.

"Then an thou lov'st me, call it forth," quoth she; and smiled, and spread her arms wide, waiting.

But he cried, "Woe, woe!" and cast up his hands to heaven; and after, "Lord, I 'm content my daughter died at two years old."

"Had she lived, she might have saved souls other than her own."

"She hath saved mine, mine most sinful," the monk interrupted her sternly; "and dost thou think I 'll lose it now to thee? Get thee gone, with thy strange beliefs and blasphemies!"

She got to her feet very slow, and stepped down the bank to the edge of the burn; so, standing close at his knee, she spoke once again:--

"In the city where the wall is jasper and the gates are twelve pearls, will there be any villeins to labour while other men feast?"

Her face was very near to his, her hand was on his arm.

"Nay, but I trow we 'll all be villeins there," he answered gently; "villeins of one Lord, and bound to the soil; and the streets of that city are as pure gold." So saying, he made the sign of the cross upon her brow.

She trod the stepping-stones in silence, but on the other bank she turned:--

"Natheless, though bond, yet we 'll be free!" she cried; and, catching up the squire's dagger, was quickly gone.

CHAPTER IV

A Boon

When Parliament was come to an end in Gloucester, and on the night before the day that the court set out for London, Stephen craved a boon of his King.

Richard sat on his bed's edge in his shirt, humming a tune and picking it out on his lute with:--

"Went it not this way, Etienne?" or "Was 't thus?" or "A plague on 't, but I 'll have it yet!" And then would he begin again.

The squire was setting forth the morrow's riding-coat and gloves and furred hood by the light of a cresset, for the start was early. A pot of charcoal stood by the window. The night was cold, and Richard, as he played on the lute, tucked his bare feet under him.

"My lord," said Stephen, on a sudden, coming across to the bed and kneeling down, "I 've a grace to ask of thee."

"Thou!" cried Richard, throwing away the lute. "Here 's a marvel!" and he leaned out and flung his arms, linked, around Stephen's neck, and so peered, mischievous, into his face. "The others are at it all day long, but when hast thou asked aught of me? Be sure 't is granted or ever 't is spoke, sweet friend."