Long Will Part 57

Richard's face was still as stone. Jack Straw hung limp betwixt the yeomen, and well-nigh swooned, moaning the while.

Thrice Richard moved his lips and no sound came; at last he said, "Anon?"

"The--the--bishops after, sire, and all monks, canons,--rectors, to be slain. When no one survived, greater, stronger, or more knowing than ourselves, we should have made at our pleasure laws by which the subjects would be ruled."

The room was all a-murmur with rage. Richard arose and signed to the guard to take up Jack Straw:--

"Take him to the place in the courtyard where Archbishop Simon was murdered," he said in a cold voice. "Rip out his guts, lop off his legs and arms. Let his head be borne throughout the city on a pole, and what remaineth cut in four pieces and send by fleet-foot messengers to north and south and east and west of this foul, traitorous England."

Jack Straw heard with starting eyes. Then strength came to him and he shrieked and struggled:--

"Thy promise, sire, thy promise!--Thou didst give me life! Mercy!--Thy promise!"

"One thing 't would seem a king is free to do," Richard answered him.

"'T is to break promises."

And old Salisbury sighed, and hung his head as he were suddenly grown feeble.

So Jack Straw was borne away to his death, and the n.o.bles crowded around Richard, buzzing approval.

"And Fitzwarine, sire?" said Robert de Vere.

The boy pressed his hands against his eyes:--

"Have ye no pity, wolves?" he groaned.

"Natheless, sire, he is a traitor," persisted Buckingham. "Is no time to set free traitors."

"I have not set him free," said Richard. "Let that suffice. If ye are thirsty for blood, go down into Cheapside; Mayor Walworth shall set up anew the block that was there, and strike off the heads of all such as were known to be murderers of Flemings. The widows of the dead weavers may wield the axe an they will. Here 's sport, my lords! Now, pray you leave me! I must make ready for this pilgrimage of vengeance mine uncle Buckingham counselleth."

"The jongleuse and her father, sire?" ventured Sir John Holland.

"I may not take keep of women and poets," Richard answered. "'T is my friends only that I betray."

CHAPTER XI

The Prisoner

Stephen's cell was a narrow place, and there was no window but a slit wherefrom arrows only might take flight. Looking forth with face pressed close to the stone, Stephen saw the gray wall of the inner ward, and no other thing. Nevertheless, by means of this crack he knew light from darkness, and when three days were past he said to the gaoler:--

"How long do I bide in this place?"

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

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

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

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, but hopeful withal, and uncomplaining. The gaoler eyed him in amaze, and searched the cell for rope or knife or crowbar, for written word or phial of poison, whereby this strange calm might be accounted for. But he found none of these things. And in this way there dragged on a fortnight. Then might the gaoler hold his peace no longer.

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

"Ay," the prisoner made answer, "but a-many people in England have no better, and a-many go hungry. Wherefore shall I feed fat the while my brothers fast?"

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

"I look into my past," said Stephen. "I live over my life. By now I 'm a 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 the edge, and set the bread and water on the ground.

"Come in, br-br-brother," Stephen called. "I be not mad. I do but muse on life, to discover wherein it may be bettered, and where 's the fault. When I 'm done with time past I 'll think on time to come, and what 's to do if ever I go free. By this device keep I my wits. I do love 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 came again 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 do make of themselves masters, and hold their fellows in bonds, and those may 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 to Stephen:--

"The King doth not yet stint to kill the men who sing that ribald rhyme 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 he taken,--a-a-and a-a-any ki-kinsfolk of his?"

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

"Ah!" sighed Stephen.

The gaoler grinned and grunted.