Long Will Part 50

"Ah," sighed Calote; "wherefore may I not rejoice?" And on a sudden she had caught her mother by the two hands and danced with her down the long room and into the lane. But there she paused twixt laughter and tears, and:--

"Oh, mother, is 't naught to thee that England is free?" she cried.

"Sing!--Laugh!--Kiss me, mother!--Be glad!"

"I 'll kiss thee," Kitte said, and so did, thrice, smiling tenderly.

"When thou and thy father are at peace, I am at peace likewise."

There came a cloud in Calote's eyes. "But dost thou love none but my father and me?" she asked.

"I love mine own," said Kitte. "Thy husband I shall love, and thy children. I am glad thy children will be free men."

Calote clung to her mother. "And I had forgotten them!" she said.

"Yet, meseems as every peasant in England were child of mine this day, so doth my heart beat for them. I 'm mother to all free English!--Ah!"

She cast her arms above her head, and her face was shining.

"Thou art thy father's daughter," Kitte said; but then she caught the maid to her breast: "Thy father's daughter," quoth she, "but I 'm the woman that bore thee. Thou wilt not be always content to mother the world only."

"There be a-many kinds of love," Calote mused. "One while methought certain of those were forbidden to me,--but mayhap"--

And now there was a clatter of tongues in the house and they went in again out of the lane. Wat and Jack were come, and many with them.

Some of these were roaring drunk, but Wat was sober enough, and Jack.

Will Langland wrote certain words on a parchment and handed to Wat.

"What 's this?" Wat asked; "Piers' bull?"

"'T is thy pardon," Will answered him.

And Wat took the parchment and tore it across:--

"I ask pardon of no man!" he cried. "That I do is well done. Neither is this the end."

Will arose from his seat in the window and went and put his hand on Wat's shoulder:--

"'T is time thou wert o' the road to Dartford," said he, "and all these scattered. Is naught more to do. Let Piers get back to his plough and keep his hand from mischief. He 's free; his house is swept and garnished; 'ware lest other devils enter in. Go home, Wat! Thou hast done well."

"Then I 'll do bet," said Wat. "Is thy knife keen, Jack? Who comes with us, my brothers?"

"I,--I,--I!" cried all; and Will thrust pen in penner and went out with them.

"Whither do ye go?" Calote asked Jack Straw. "And wherefore is thy knife keen? Now is peace."

"We go to kill pigs by the waterside. Hark, and presently thou 'lt hear them squeal," he answered.

And as they went down the street, she heard them crying out against the Flemings that took bread out of poor men's mouths with weaving of English wool.

"Thy children are unruly," said Kitte. "But 't is the way of all such.

Nay, weep not, my daughter,--weep not!"

"Oh, mother, dost not thou weep that blood is shed?"

"Yea," Kitte answered indifferent; "but if thy father come to no harm, I shall dry my tears."

These Flemings were certain weavers from over sea that came to England, the greater number of them in the lifetime of King Edward III.

and the good Queen Philippa. And whereas before that time much wool was sent out of England across the Channel to be wove into cloth, now it was more and more woven in this country. But forasmuch as by courtesy of King Edward, Flemings needed not to pay the gild tax, therefore were they hated of the gild of weavers of London; and these persuaded Jack Straw and other peasant folk that if there were weavers in England, they ought to be English weavers; and wherefore should the English go hungry and in bonds when Flemings fed and were free? A-many of these weavers dwelt in the streets by the waterside, and thither went Wat and Jack and Will,--the mob swelling at their heels. This was a London mob, prentices and artisans for the most part.

"What 's to gain?" asked Will.

"Blood!" Wat answered him.

Then, they being come to an open place and beyond was a long street silent, deserted, Will turned him to the mob.

"Go back, brothers!" he cried. "Do not wilfully shed blood."

"On,--on!" screamed Jack Straw. "Do they not eat your bread and pay naught?"

The rabble shouted and pressed forward. Long Will spread his arms out wide, as he would keep the street.

"Ye are mad!" he said. "Will ye slay innocent folk?"

"Innocent!" yelled a weaver's prentice, and the mob growled, but none put aside Long Will out of the way.

"These are your brothers," he persisted,--"honest workingmen like to yourselves."

"Brothers!" sneered Jack Straw. "Hear him, ye men of London! Are we brothers to Flemish hogs?"

"Out of the way, Will," said Wat. "They 'll trample thee."

"O men of London, prentices, citizens," the poet cried anew, "will ye sin against hospitality?"

A snarl answered him.

"Will ye betray the guest that shelters in your house?"

The snarl had sunk to a murmur.

"Will ye betray the bidden guest?"

"'T is a lie!" said Jack.

"A lie! A lie!" yelled a score of throats. "'T was not we bid them."

"Doth not the King speak the will of the people?" Langland asked. "And King Edward bade them come."

"Nay!" said Wat, "the King hath not spoke the will of the people in my day ever."

"Nay,--nay,--nay!" the mob answered him.

"Stand o' one side, brother," Wat said again. "We would not harm thee."