Long Will Part 59

"Let Calote forget Stephen Fitzwarine an she will," he answered, "but I am of the Fellowship."

"Alas, there is no Fellowship more," sighed Langland.

"The word hath been spoken, my father, the thought is born. Though the King know it not, yet are we free. By fellowship shall we win in the years to come. A long battle,--but it ends in victory."

"Not in my day," said Will, "nor thine."

"What are days?" cried Stephen. "I 've lost count."

Then Will Langland kissed Stephen Fitzwarine, and "Even so is it in mine own heart, O son," he said. "But for the most part folk is sorrowful and faithless."

"I have set my life in order," said Stephen. "If ever I come forth of this prison-house, I 'll give to each and every villein o' my manor that piece of land he tilleth, to have and to hold. Likewise I 'll free them severally. This I may do within the law, for that the manor is mine."

"Calote saith she will never be thy wife," Will repeated,--nevertheless he smiled.

"Do thou say this to Calote, O my father,--my device is 'Steadfast.'"

CHAPTER XII

Y-Robed in Russet

"Is naught to do," said Calote. "My life is like an empty house."

And if her father admonished her that she fill it, she answered him: "I am too poor. My richesse is spent."

So the summer waned, and Richard's red vengeance began to pale. The people and the King alike sickened of blood. Here and there a man was pardoned. Those two aldermen that bade the peasants come into London by the Bridge and Ald Gate in June were let go free.

"If thou canst come at the King, he will surely set free Stephen Fitzwarine," urged Will. "'Steadfast' is never Richard's watchword, natheless he doth not willingly harm his friends. He 'll do them kindness in secret, if he may not openly."

"How may I endure to live out the length of my days to my life's end?"

sighed Calote. "Is naught to do."

Nevertheless, about this time she began to be seen about the gates of the Palace at Westminster, and craved leave to enter; but the guards made mock of her and drove her away. As oft as thrice in the week they did this, but she came again.

One day, 't was October's end and presently Parliament would be met together at Westminster, Calote stood on London Bridge, on the drawbridge, and saw a barge come down Thames. And when the barge was rowed beneath the drawbridge, Calote looked down, and the King sat therein with madame his mother, and certain lords and ladies of the court. One of these was G.o.diyeva.

The folk on the bridge peered over, and there was muttering, for the people no longer loved the King.

"Goeth to Tower for a night and a day to discover what prisoners be harboured therein and to consider their case," said one, and spat in the water.

Calote turned about and ran back to London, and so on to the Tower gate. An hour she waited, and then came forth Stephen's gaoler.

"Nay, I will bear no more messages to prisoners," said that man very rough, when she had caught his arm. "The King 's within. There 'll be a lopping of heads, and mine own wags very loose o' my neck."

"To no prisoner, good brother," pleaded Calote, "but to a fair lady; G.o.diyeva 's her name, madame's waiting-woman."

The gaoler grunted, and stood uncertain.

"Do but say this,--there 's a jongleuse craveth speech of her, a jongleuse that served her once."

He grunted yet more loud and went within.

After a little while he came again and a page with him, who led Calote across the outer and inner ward to the keep, and so by narrow ways and steep stairs to a turret chamber where sat the Lady G.o.diyeva.

"Lady," said Calote, "hast thou forgot one night in Yorkshire, at thy manor-house?"

"Mine old father is dead," G.o.diyeva answered, "and Eleyne, my sister, is lady o' the manor,--but I have not forgot."

"Lady,--Madame G.o.diyeva, I would come at King Richard. Have a boon to crave, a token to deliver."

G.o.diyeva bent her eyes, thoughtful, stern, upon the maid: "A token to deliver?" quoth she. "In Yorkshire thou didst wear a dagger, I saw 't, that night."

"Dost fear I 'll kill the King?" Calote smiled, very sad. "Nay,--here 's the dagger; keep it!"

"'T is Master Fitzwarine's crest," said G.o.diyeva.

"Ay, lady, he 's my love!--Lies low in dungeon. Here 's my boon."

"This is a strange matter," mused G.o.diyeva, "for that Etienne Fitzwarine is esquire and very parfait gentleman, in all the court was none so true of his word, and so courteous to ladies. But this is a common wench, a jongleuse.--Natheless, I heard him how he said, 'This damosel is promised to be my wedded wife.'--Come, I 'll pay my debt!"

Behind the arras of a little door they stood and listened. There was no sound. Then G.o.diyeva put her eye to the edge of the arras.

"He is alone," she said. "Go in!"

Richard stood in a window. He held a little picture in his hand, and looked on it smiling. Calote, barefoot, stepped noiseless over the floor. G.o.diyeva, behind the arras, coughed.

"Coeur de joie!" cried Richard, staring. But when he saw who it was that knelt, gold-haired, before him, he went white and covered his eyes.

"I would forget!" he said, "I would forget! 'T is overpast!--Shall a king never think on joyful things? Ah, give me leave to tune my thoughts to love! These six months past I 've hearkened to hatred. Was never king so meek. But now there 's a marriage toward. Wilt thou have me think on murders,--and I take a wife in January?"

"Nay,--not on murders, sire,--on pardon and peace."

His moody face cleared slow,--"Is 't an omen?" he questioned, and, stretching forth his hand with the picture, "See! here 's the lady shall be Queen of England one day,--and queens are merciful. There 's a tale of my grandmother, Philippa, how she saved the burgesses of Calais,--and they were six. Here 's but only one, and he was my childhood's friend.--She hath a wondrous pleading eye,--my lady.--'T is an omen." He went to a table and wrote somewhat on a parchment; then clapped his hands, and to the page that entered, said:--

"Bear this hastily to the warden of the Tower."

"Gramerci! Sire!" whispered Calote, and bowed her head on her knees so that her long hair lay on the ground at the King's feet as 't were a pool of sunshine.

"I ever meant to set him free--when the n.o.blesse had forgot," said Richard huskily. "He must depart in secret, for a little while. And now may I forget murder and turn me to merriment. The Rising 's p.r.i.c.ked flat. I will never remember it more."

"And dost thou willingly forget that day the people blessed thee for thy gifts of freedom and grace, sire? Dost thou willingly forget that day thou wast bravest man in England,--and king?"

"Hush!--Hush!" he cried. "Kings may not hearken to truth,--'t is sure confusion."