Parkhurst Boys Part 23

The warden stood silent for some moments before he spoke, and then his voice was thick and hoa.r.s.e.

"Prince," he said, "take your last look on the light, for you may never see it again."

The boy sprang from his bed, and seized Hubert by the knees.

"What! Are they going to kill me? Must they take away my life?"

"Not so," said Hubert; "it is not thy life that is required, but thine eyes." And as he spoke he stamped on the floor, as the signal to those two who waited without to enter.

At sight of their horrid instruments, the cords which were to bind him, and the cruel faces of the executioners, Arthur fell on his knees and implored mercy of the stubborn Hubert.

It was a strange and pitiful sight to see that weak and helpless boy kneeling, and with tears entreating that stout old warrior, whose bosom heaved and whose ringers twitched, and whose face winced, as he listened; while the two others stood motionless, grasping their irons and cords, ready for the word of command to step forward and do their cruel deed.

But the cries and entreaties of the helpless and beautiful prince prevailed. Hubert wavered and hesitated; he bade the men advance, and then bade them withhold; he looked at the prince, and he looked at the glowing irons; he pushed the suppliant from him, and then suffered him to cling to him. The executioners themselves were moved to pity, and lay down their instruments. Finally, with a mighty effort, the warden yielded, and said, "Retire, men, and take with you your tools, till I require you." Then turning to Arthur, he said, "Prince, thou shalt keep thy sight and thy life while I am by to protect thee." And the rough hand of the old warrior stroked the hair of the weeping boy as it might have been his own son's.

The answer that Hubert de Burgh sent back that day by the king's messenger was an earnest appeal for mercy on behalf of his young and now beloved charge.

But King John was a stranger to all feelings of pity, and his vengeance was quick and dreadful. Foiled of his cruel design upon the eyesight of his hapless nephew, he determined now to have his life. So he ordered him to be removed from Falaise, and the custody of the humane De Burgh, to the castle of Rouen, under whose walls flowed the waters of the River Seine. But the prince did not remain long there. One night a jailor entered his dungeon, and, waking him from his sleep, ordered him to follow him. The boy obeyed in silence, as the jailor conducted him down the winding staircase which led to the foot of the tower, beside which the Seine flowed. A boat was waiting at the bottom, in which sat two men. The torch of the jailor cast a sudden glare over the dark waters, and by its light Arthur recognised, with horror and despair, in one of the two the cruel features of his Uncle John. It was useless for him to pray and entreat; it was useless for him to struggle or cry out. They dragged him into the boat, and held him fast as she drifted under the shadow of those gloomy walls into mid stream. What happened then no one can tell; but had any listened that still, dark night, they might have heard a boy's wild cry across the waters, and then a dull, heavy splash--and that was all.

The story is that of those two, King John with his own hand did the foul deed. However that may be, Arthur of Brittany was never even heard of more.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

RICHARD THE SECOND, THE BOY WHO QUELLED A TUMULT.

A vast, disorderly rabble thronged the great open s.p.a.ce of Smithfield, in London, on one side of which stood the venerable Abbey of Saint Bartholomew, now occupied by the hospital of that name. The men who composed it were rough and wild, and, for the most part, shouted and clutched their clubs and bows in a meaningless sort of way, which plainly showed that they were not very clear in their own minds as to the object of their a.s.sembling together, but that they came and shouted and threatened because their leaders did so.

These leaders were few in number, and but that they were mounted, and armed with swords and daggers, not to be distinguished from their followers, for they were rough, wild men--men too whose occupation seemed to be more in the way of herding cattle and plying their hammers than leading an army of 20,000 rioters, or brandishing their swords against a government.

Yet, though many of these rebels seemed not to comprehend the why and the wherefore of their demonstration, there were not a few who looked very much--nay, cruelly--in earnest, who talked vehemently and scowled, and seemed, by the way they gripped their arms, determined to enforce their demands against any man, be he n.o.ble, or baron, or king. From some of the groups one might have heard excited utterances like the following:--

"We will have our rights or die! Why do our leaders halt?"

"The king is expected!"

"Nay, then, let us slay him, who is the head of all our wrongs!"

"Not so; the king has already granted what we first demanded; and we are gathered now because Wat Tyler demands yet more."

"G.o.d save Wat Tyler! Was it not he who struck the first blow against the tyrant?"

"It was. The n.o.bles demanded a poll tax on every man, woman, boy, and girl in the land; and when one of their collectors would exact it from Wat Tyler, at his place in Dartford, and (disbelieving his word concerning the age of his young daughter) vilely insulted the maiden, he arose and slew the wretch with his hammer. And so this business began."

"Huzzah for Wat Tyler! Down with the tyrant!"

"Nay, friend; our cause was a good one when it began, but since then Wat and his friends have, to my mind, done us and themselves damage by their bloodthirstiness and their unreasonableness. Have they not demolished palaces and temples? Have they not butchered an archbishop and n.o.bles and harmless citizens? Have they not insulted n.o.ble ladies? And now, when their demands have all been satisfied by the young king, they demand yet more, and become themselves the tyrants."

"A traitor!--a traitor! Who speaks against our brave Wat Tyler? Kill the traitor! Down with tyranny! Death to the king! G.o.d save the people!"

With such clamour and angry talk did the crowd agitate itself, till suddenly there arose a cry. "The king comes!"

And there rode up fearlessly, at the head of sixty men, a boy, only fifteen years old, at sight of whom these rebels hung their heads and let their wild clamour die on their lips. A few of the most determined looked black as they regarded the royal boy, and noted the effect his frank carriage had on their followers.

"I am come," said King Richard, rising on his horse at a few paces from the front of the crowd, "as I promised, to confer with my subjects and hear their grievances. Let your leader advance and speak with me."

Then Wat Tyler turned to his followers and said to them, "I will go speak with him; do you abide my signal, then come on and slay all save the young king; he will serve us better as a humble captive in our hands, to lead through the land and bring all men to our service, than as a slaughtered tyrant at our feet."

So he put spurs to his horse and advanced towards the king, whom he approached so close that the flank of the horse touched that of the king's. Richard, nothing daunted by this threatening demeanour, turned courteously towards him and waited for him to speak.

"Do you see this concourse of people?" began Wat, rudely, pointing towards the now silent crowd.

"I see them," said the boy. "What have you to ask on their behalf?"

"These men," said Tyler, "have sworn, one and all, to obey me in all things, and to follow in whatever enterprise I shall lead them, and they will not go hence till you grant us our pet.i.tion."

"And I will grant it," replied the boy, frankly, for the demands to which Wat Tyler now alluded had reference to the rights of the people to hunt and fish on common lands. "I will grant it."

What followed history does not very clearly record. Among the followers of the king, Wat, it is said, caught sight of a knight whom for some reason he hated. Turning his attention from the king, he glared angrily at his enemy, and, putting his hand on the hilt of his dagger, exclaimed, "By my faith, I will never eat bread till I have thy head!"

At that same instant up rode Sir William Walworth, the Lord Mayor of London, who, seeing the menacing gesture of the insurgent leader, and hearing his threatening speech, immediately concluded he was about to attack the person of the young king. Quick as thought, Sir William drew his dagger, and before any one could interpose or hold him back, he struck Wat Tyler in the throat, and his attendants following with repeated blows, the leader of the people fell from his horse a dead man!

All this was so suddenly done, and so astonished the onlookers, that Wat Tyler was already dead before a hand was moved or a voice raised on either side. Then there rose an angry shout from those twenty thousand rebels, as they saw their leader down. "We are betrayed!" they cried; "they have killed our leader!" And with that they raised their bows and pointed their shafts at the heart of the young king.

But they lowered them in amazement when, instead of shrinking and cowering behind his knights, they saw the lad put spurs to his horse and gallop, all by himself, up to the very place where they stood. "Men,"

he cried, "follow me; I am your king, and I will be your captain! Wat Tyler was a traitor; no ill shall befall you if you make me your leader."

The brave words disarmed that great crowd as if by magic; the men who had just now shouted, "Long live Wat Tyler!" now shouted with a mighty shout, "Long live our King Richard!"

The insurrection was at an end, the confidence of the people returned once more to their rulers, and they marched that day from Smithfield, under the leadership of their young king, as far as the country hamlet of Islington, there quietly to disperse to their own homes and resume once again their ordinary pursuits.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

RICHARD WHITTINGTON, THE SCULLERY BOY WHO BECAME LORD MAYOR.

A poor boy, meanly clad, and carrying in his hand a small bundle, trudged sadly along the road which led over the moor of Finsbury to Highgate. The first streak of dawn was scarcely visible in the eastern sky, and as he walked, the boy shivered in the chill morning air. More than once he dashed from his eyes the rising tears, and clutched his little wallet and quickened his pace, as if determined to hold to some desperate resolve, despite of all drawings to the contrary. As the road rose gradually towards Highgate, the sun broke out from behind the clouds on his right, and lit up fields and trees and hills with a brightness and richness which contrasted strangely with the gloom on the boy's face, and the poverty of his appearance. The birds in the hedges began to sing, and the cattle to low and tinkle their bells; the whistle of the herdsmen came up from the valley, and all nature seemed to wake with a cry of gladness to greet the new day.

Even poor d.i.c.k Whittington could not wholly resist the cheering influence of that bright summer morning. It was impossible to believe that everything was miserable in the midst of so much gladness, and d.i.c.k's face brightened and his step became brisker almost without his knowing it, as he trudged higher and higher up that steep road. His thoughts, too, took a less desponding turn.

"After all," said he to himself, "perhaps I am foolish to be running away from my master's house. I had better be the scullery boy of good Master Fitzwarren, although his cook does ill-treat me and lead me a dog's life, than the vagabond idle boy which I am now. And yet I cannot endure the thought of returning to that cruel woman. Would that I knew what to do!"

Thus he thought and questioned with himself, when he came to a stone set by the wayside; and here he sat to rest, and ruminate further upon his evil fortune.

"If some voice would but say `Return,' I would return," said he, "even though she scold and beat me, for I know not what to do, without a friend in the world. Was ever such a wretched boy as I?"

And he buried his face in his hands and gave himself over to his misery.

Suddenly in the quiet morning air there came to his ears a wonderful sound, up from the valley, where, in the sun, shone the towers and steeples of London town.