Long Will Part 58

On the morrow Stephen greeted him with a face so radiant tender that the 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 a.s.sented.

"Yellow-haired?"

But Stephen said no word.

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

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

"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 Piers Ploughman, 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 a mess 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 thy durance."

"'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 like he 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 in the third week. Stephen's cheeks were white and sunken, his blue eyes looked forth from shadows, his lips were pale. The fingers that fluttered in the arrow-slit were wasted thin. One morn the gaoler came and 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 to carry news of the Fellowship and the Rising. We bought bed and board with 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, and the King, and what was toward, the gaoler shut his lips and hasted forth.

After this, Stephen sang night and morn and midday the songs he had sung--and Calote with him--in the year of pilgrimage. All those old tales 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 chaunted the Vision concerning Piers Ploughman, from beginning to end,--which was no end. But more often he sang that story called of a Pearl, that Will Langland would have it was writ by his old master in Malvern. For about this time, what with long waiting, and the heat of summer, little food, and the foul smell of the dungeon, Stephen began to consider what it might signify to die in that place; and the Vision of the 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 face how it was the face of Calote,--he heard the bar drawn, and the keys to rattle, and presently the gaoler came in.

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

And behind him in the doorway stood a tall man, tonsured, garbed in russet.

"O my son!" cried Will, "how hast thou suffered!" And he picked up Stephen off the floor and carried him to the window-crack. And the gaoler emptied the water-jug in Stephen's face, and presently went out and 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 played upon by the n.o.bles, and his pride harrowed. By now there is rumour that he beginneth to sicken of bloodshed. Haply he 'll be in mood to pardon 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 uncle Buckingham. They show no mercy."

"John Ball?" said Stephen.

"Alack, he was ta'en at Coventry and, the King holding a.s.size at Saint Albans with the Lord Chief Justice, he was sent thither and adjudged.--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 uncle Gaunt, who is set to keep the peace and stamp out the fire in the north. 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 Salisbury marketplace."

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

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