CHAPTER VII
The Adventure in Yorkshire
The second winter of this pilgrimage was a snowy one, and the NorthCountry was a lonely place. Among those thinly scattered villagesCalote and the peddler had fared very ill, but for the old-time virtueof hospitality, and the joy of minstrelsy, wherein the northern folkvaunted themselves. The winds that blew across the moors were cold andkeen; the sea, whensoever the pilgrims came to the sea, was gray. Thepeddler's lute cracked; it gave them warmth for half an hour onenight, and then the wind scattered its ashes. Once, a shepherd savedthem from white death.
Yet, 't was not all silence and snow. There were friendly days andnights by the tavern fire, when Calote sang of William and theWerwolf, of Sir Gawaine and the Green Knight, of Launcelot, ofAucassin and Nicolette. Or, haply, some shepherd, thawing before theblaze, would let loose a roaring voice in one of Lawrence Minot'ssongs; those songs of the battles of King Edward III., Halidon Hill,and Berwick, and Neville's Cross. Anon, there would be told tales ofEarl Percy. And Calote, who had listened while Londoners scorned thisgreat man, for that he was second only to John of Gaunt in craft andhateful wickedness, sat now with open mouth to hear him praised of hisown folk, who loved him; neither had they any wish to cast him downfrom his place and rule by their own wits. For, except it were inNewcastle, Calote found few who hearkened patiently to her tale of theploughman. So she turned southward, sick at heart; and spring awakingfound her on the Yorkshire wolds, very thin and weary and ragged; andthe peddler likewise. Here, where John of Gaunt was lord, they foundmany to listen willingly to their message. Yet was Calote unsatisfied.
"'T is ever their own small grievance that maketh them rage," shesighed. "The bailiff hath fined this one, or set that one in thestocks, and so they 'll willingly join the Brotherhood to spite thebailiff. No doubt there be certain bailiffs that do their devoirfaithful, and there be certain villeins that under these laws dodeserve the fine or the stocks. But if a man is friend to the bailiff,and hath enough to eat, how slow is he to see that he 's a slave; howslow is he to take keep if other men starve or no! Alas! Alack!"
"W-Wat Tyler 's one that hath enough to-to-to eat," said the peddler.
"Yea," she answered slowly; "but I fear me Wat doth not all for thepeople's sake. He 's a proud man, Wat."
"J-J-Jack Straw?" quoth the peddler.
"Talk not to me of Jack Straw," she cried. "Would that I could trustJack Straw! He must not come at the King. Where 's a true man to leadthe people? Thou might'st, well, peddler,--but for thy stammeringtongue."
He sunk his chin on his breast and strode beside her, dogged, silent.
One day they came to a manor-house, very grim, and moated round about;and as they stood on the edge of the moat, looking in, there rode bythree damsels with falcons on their wrists, and a page boy with themwho hollaed to let down the drawbridge. Now while as they waited, andthe bridge creaked, one of those damsels espied Calote, and marvelledat the colour of her hair which blew about her face.
"Come hither, wench!" said this maiden, whose name was Eleyne. "Artthou a jongleuse?"
"I can sing a many tales, madame," Calote answered.
"Ah, Saint Mary! bring her in!" cried another of the damsels; thefairest this one, hight Godiyeva.
"Yonder fellow, hath he his wits?" asked the youngest of the three,and she pointed at the peddler.
"His wits, yea, madame; but not his tongue," said Calote.
"Haply he 'll dance, or leap, or twirl swords on his finger tip?"Godiyeva averred. "We 're so dull; hath been no minstrel nor jongleur,nor bearward even, at our gate for nigh on three moons."
"Canst thou do any of these things?" Calote asked the peddler; but heshook his head.
"Natheless, mesdames, he 's as hungry as I be. Prythee let him dine,"she pleaded.
"Let him labour, forsooth," answered Eleyne. "A carl so sturdy, soyoung, and a beggar? For shame!"
"I 'll gladly sing for two," Calote protested.
"N-nay, mistress, g-go in," said the peddler; "I-I-I 'll lingerhereabout."
So the three damsels and the page clattered over the drawbridge, whichwas now let down, and Calote followed on her feet.
These three maids were daughters of a certain Sir Austin, the lord ofthe manor, a fat, red old man, a glutton and a widower. Even now, hestood in the hall a-fuming for his dinner, which the steward broughtin hot from the kitchen so soon as the ladies came through the door.He rated them harshly for their tardiness, and they passed him by withsullen, haughty faces, stepping to the dais; only the youngest clippedhim round the neck and set her lips to his with a loud smack and amerry laugh, so that he was fain to smile at her, and stint hisgrumbling.
Calote sat below the dais at the long board, betwixt a waiting-womanand a friar; over against her sat the bailiff, and leered at her, andwould have fed her sweet morsels on the end of his dagger but she drewbackward; whereat they all laughed loud, and the bailiff turned purpleand ugly, and the friar twisted on the bench to have a long look ather. This was the first time ever Calote had dined in a great house.She could not but marvel at the strange dishes all spiced and coveredover with sauces. When she had drunk to the bottom of her cup of ale,the friar filled it up again to the brim. When she would have eatenher trencher bread, the waiting-woman, with a snort, jerked it fromher and tossed it into a basket where were other scraps of brokenfood. After, when Sir Austin and his daughters had dipped theirfingers in water, and wiped them on a white linen towel, a page boycame to Calote and bade her go sing her song. So she went and sat onthe dais step, and the youngest daughter, Custance, who sat now on herfather's knee a-munching sweets, leaned down smiling, and said she:--
"Whence art thou, not out o' the north, I trow, by thy tongue?"
"I live in London, fair lady," Calote made answer; and with that allthree cried out:--
"London! then haply thou hast a tale o' that poet, Dan Chaucer; he 'sin favour with the great Duke."
"Ay, mesdames; there 's one tale of his I know," said Calote, andthereupon she told them of the Life of Saint Cecyle, and how she waswedded to a young man, and an angel came down from heaven to twinethem with garlands of roses.
"Oh!" and "Ah!" said the damsels, smiling one on another; "a sweettale!"
And how the governor of the city cut off Cecyle's head, for that shewas a Christian. But she had a stubborn neck, would not break in threeblows o' the sword.
And "Oh!" and "Ah!" shrieked the damsels, clasping their white throatswith their soft fingers. "Tell on, tell on! A grisly tale!"
This was one of those jewels that Dan Chaucer after set in the chainthat he called the Canterbury Tales; nevertheless, at that time 't wasalready cut in the rough, albeit not yet polished for the setting, andCalote had heard it.
"Anon, anon!" cried Custance, when the tale was ended; and her fatherbeing asleep, she slipped off his knee and sat down on the dais stepby the side of Calote, her chin in her hand.
"Nay, let them clear the hall," said Eleyne. "'T is late; I 've a gownto mend. What say ye, if we keep the maid and hearken to but one taleeach day? So we 'll wile our tediousness."
So Calote stayed in the manor-house and slept of nights on a sheepskinat the foot of Custance's bed.
The third day after her coming, Sir Austin held his court in the hall.The bailiff was there and the reeve, and certain villeins that wouldmake complaint, or be complained against. And the peddler also wasthere, set twixt the reeve and the bailiff. Sir Austin sat in hisgreat chair on the dais, and in the other end of the hall, against thelancet windows, Eleyne, and Godiyeva, and Custance sat, sewing a seam.Calote knelt at Custance's elbow, and they all four babbled soft ofSir Gawaine, and drew their needles in and out, and lifted an eye nowand again to mark what was toward in the other end of the hall.
When first the peddler came in, he looked about him hastily, as oneseeking, but when he saw Calote, 't would seem as he sighed and stoodat his ease.
"Yon 's thy be
ggar, is 't not?" asked Custance of Calote.
And Calote answered her: "Yea, lady!" and henceforth was mindful ofhim, and of the business.
There was one villein who craved leave to give his daughter inmarriage,--and he had brought the money to pay. There was another whowould be quit of his service of ploughing the lord's land, and he alsobrought his pence and counted them out in his hand, and the lord tookthem and gave him quittance for that time. In Yorkshire there weremany villeins might commute service thus, and welcome. There wasanother had fought with his fellow in a tavern brawl, and both thesethe lord sent to the stocks. There was a young shepherd come to askthat he might have a lad with him to help him keep his flock; 't was agreat flock and strayed over the wolds.
"Hast thou such a lad, bailiff?" growled Sir Austin. There was gold inwool,--'t were best keep it safe.
"Haply, Sir Austin," said the bailiff, and thrust forward the peddler."Here 's an idle fellow hath dawdled twixt the manor and the villagethese three days. He will not go, he will not stay; knoweth not hisown mind. There 's enough idlers among them that make pretence tolabour, and shall I countenance sloth that 's avowed open?"
"I-I-I 'm a free man," said the peddler.
"A pox o' free men!" shouted Sir Austin. "No man is free to eat hishead off in idleness o' my land. Wilt begone?"
"I-I-I," stammered the peddler, looking on Calote, who had drawn nighthe better to learn what was going forward.
"Wilt stay?" roared Sir Austin.
Again the peddler looked on Calote.
"'T is a kind man," said she, going up to the dais. "Hath done me muchservice in my wanderings. 'S tongue 's slow."
Sir Austin smiled on her.
"A man plougheth not with his tongue, wench," said he. "Neither hathhe need of 's tongue to mind sheep, but if he whistle. Hark ye, rogue,I 'll give thee another day to gather together thy slow wits;thereafter thou 'lt labour, or get thee gone,--else I 'll make theefree o' the stocks."
The villeins and other servitors were now lagging forth of the hall,and mid the noise and stir the peddler said to Calote, hastily:--
"D-dost thou bide long i-in this place?"
"How can I tell?" she answered.
"Wh-when thou art ready to begone, thou 'lt find me sh-shepherding onthe wolds. Meanwhile, k-keep thy dagger loose in its sheath."
Then he left her and went to the edge of the dais.
"S-sir Knight, I-I 'll make shift to aid thy sh-shepherd," he said.And presently he was gone out with the villeins.
Calote walked down the hall to the windows, pondering. She had kepther dagger secret even from this peddler. How should he know? Yet, 'twere a simple thing, no doubt; her gown was ragged. But at night, whenshe lay on the sheepskin a-turning over the day in her mind, she askedherself why the peddler should stay for her.
"Alas,--wehl awey!" she sighed, and her face burned in the dark.
After a little she said again: "Wehl awey!"
The heather was not in blossom, but the breath of spring sweetened thewolds. Diggon the shepherd gave his new man a sheepskin to warm himin, and together they two kept the flock. Out in the lonely open thepeddler forsook his stammer as much as he might, for the nonce; yetnow and again 't would master him against his will, and so did all hislife after. If a man hold his unruly member halting two year, 't willtake revenge.
This Diggon, shepherd, was a gentle being, with a mind like to theYorkshire wolds, filled full of space, and sky and silence. Whiles,likewise, was his mind purple-clad; then he 'd speak slow wordsconcerning God, and the creatures, and life. Last Christmas Eve heheard the angels singing in heaven, he said. The night of Good Friday,three weeks past, he had a vision of the Rood.--The peddler crossedhimself.--One day he lost a lamb, and when he had searched from noontill sunset, and the sea mist was coming in, he met a man larger thanlife, carried the young lamb in his arm.
When the peddler told him the tale of Piers Ploughman, he listenedwith a great joy in his eyes.
"In that day," quoth he, "they 'll cease to ride the hunt across thewolds and scatter the sheep."
When the peddler instructed him of the Fellowship that was joininghand over all England, he rubbed his head, perplexed.
"We been brothers and Christen men ever," he said. "Here 's no newthing."
Of new laws and new masters and freedom he took no keep.
"Am I not free?" he asked, and spread his arms out east and west, asto gather in the moors.
"But all men are not so content as thou," said the peddler. "They areill-fed, they must work without stint. Wilt not thou join hand to helpthem that suffer?"
"Yea, brother," Diggon answered him; "yea!" But then he knit hisbrows, and, "If all we go up to London to reason with nobilite, who'll take care o' the sheep?"
The peddler sat silent, abashed; till on a sudden Diggon threw hishead back and laughed, with "Who but the Good Shepherd!--Diggon 's afool!"
So the days passed, and the peddler waited for Calote. She, meanwhile,was taken into favour at the manor-house. Old Sir Austin would chuckher under chin and follow her with his watery eyes in a way that shemistrusted. She wondered that the daughters observed naught; but theypaid little heed to their father. The youngest loved him as a spoiledchild will, for sake of gain; but the other two were peevish if hespoke to them.
Godiyeva he had thwarted in a marriage with a lord's son, with whom hewas at feud, and she could not forget. In truth, he was so quarrelsomethat his neighbours shunned his company; and he, on his part, castgibes upon his daughters, for that they could not get them husbands.
"Is one comfort," said Eleyne on a day when he had baited them tillthey wept for rage and shame. "Is one comfort; if no gentlemen willcome anigh this house, will no gentlewoman neither. They be allafeared o' thee. If we must dwell here forlorn, we are spared astep-dame. Is none would live thy cat and dog life."
"Sayst thou so? Sayst thou so, hussy?" roared the knight, and wouldhave struck her; but his eye lighted on Calote,--he let drop his hand."Sayst thou so?" he repeated more softly, and went out chuckling.
"Thou fool!" said Godiyeva to her sister. "What maggot hast thou putin 's head?"
'T was the day next after this one that Calote chose to tell them thetale of the Ploughman. She had been of three minds not to tell it atall; but then she called herself a coward. Of Richard she had neverspoke, nor showed the horn, and she did not now. After supper she toldher tale, and she said by way of a beginning:--
"This is the last tale I have to tell, mesdames. To-morrow,--or 'tmaybe the next day, for 't is a long tale,--I must give you thanks ofyour courtesy, and begone."
"Ah, stay, and tell them all again!" cried Custance. "We 've not beenso merry since Godiyeva's lover flouted her."
"Peace!" said Eleyne, and Godiyeva's lovely face flamed red.
The old knight chuckled in the chimney corner. He did not snoozeto-night, as was his wont; he sat a-blinking on Calote, and sippinghis piment, slow. Calote crouched on a low stool, with her face to thefire.
"In a summer season when soft was the sun"--she began, and at thefirst she spoke hastily, and with a little quaver in her voice. Sheknew not how they might take this tale.
They took it for a jape, a jest; they laughed. Lady Mede and hersisours and summoners made them very merry. When Repentance called theSeven Sins to confession, and the tale was told of Glutton in thetavern, Sir Austin doubled him up with a loud guffaw and nigh fellinto the fire. When Piers Ploughman put up his head, the damselssquealed for joy. When he, this same Piers, set the ladies of theVision to sew sacking, and the Knight to keep the land freed of foes,Sir Austin's daughters held their sides, and rocked back and forth,the while mirthful tears fell down their faces.
Then Calote lost her patience and forgot to be afraid. She stood up onher feet and faced them with her head high:--
"Natheless, all this shall come to pass!" she cried. "This is a trueword. No Goliardeys, I, but a sober singer. 'T is the ploughman, thepoor man, shall lead all ye to truth. The ric
h shall give of theirwealth to the poor, in that day; no man shall go naked and hungry.Fine ladies and maids like to me shall love one another."
Her voice broke, and she put out her hands to the three fair damselsthat sat on a bench and stared:--
"I pray you pardon, sweet my ladies, but this matter lieth close to myheart."
They laughed kindly, and Eleyne said:--
"We 'll love thee for the sake of thy tales, wench, and forgive theethis once that thou art froward."
"List, child," said Godiyeva; "the poor is not so greatly to bepitied. I 'd liefer be a glee maiden, free to wander in all England,welcome in every hall and cot,--I 'd liefer be a houseless wench, sayI, than--than this that I am." And Godiyeva arose, lifted her armswearily above her head, and paced down the hall into the shadows.
"If thou wert gowned in soft stuffs, and thy hair in a net and ahorned cap atop,"--Custance mused idly, looking Calote up anddown,--"methinks,--methinks,"--hereupon she clapped her hands andleaped to her feet. "Whyfore no? Come, wench, I 've a gown in my chestis too short for me. Here 's a merry sport. We 'll make thee a ladyfor the nonce."
"Ay, do!" cried the knight; and presently slapped his leg, and laughedas at a secret thought.
"Nay, lady," Calote protested; but Custance had her by the handdragging her from the room.
"Thou 'lt spoil the wench," said Eleyne; "is over bold now." AndGodiyeva curled her lip scornfully.
Sir Austin laughed yet more loud, and bade his youngest daughter makehaste. So Custance caught a lighted cresset from the wall, and hurriedCalote up the stair. And Calote, when she saw the azure gown broideredwith gold about the hem, and the pointed crimson shoes, and the highcap of green and rose colour with its floating silken veil, made nomore protest; for she was young, and a woman.
When all was done, her tiring maid drew back in dumb amaze; then tookher hand and led her down to the hall.
At Calote's heart there was a fierce pain.
"Oh, Stephen!" she cried within herself; "oh, Stephen!" Yet what thiswas that so hurt her she did not ask.
In the hall there was dead silence for the space of a minute. Then theknight came out of his chimney corner a step:--
"God's bones!" quoth he in a half whisper; and Calote, looking in hisface, knew that she must go away from this house as soon as might be.She set her hand to her breast and fingered the hilt of the dagger,where she had thrust it unseen of Custance.
"A common peasant! 'T is amazing!" exclaimed Eleyne.
"I knew she was very fair," said Godiyeva quietly.
"Doth not my pearl net gleam against her gold hair?" cried Custance,and swept a low curtsey before this new-made lady.
"To-night ye may thank Saint Mary your many wooers be not by, mydaughters," mocked them Sir Austin; and Godiyeva tossed her head.
"Tell me, wench," he continued, "'t would like thee well to be alady?"
Calote, her heart aching with the thought of Stephen, answered himproudly:--
"I might be one, an I would."
But immediately she could have bit out her tongue, for the knight hadset his own meaning upon her words.
"So ho!" quoth he. "What a witch art thou! Ha, ha, ha!"
"Sir, you mistake," she said coldly. "I have been sought in honourablemarriage by a gentleman, but I would not."
"And if once sought, wherefore not again?--Wherefore not again?" heasked with a cunning grin, wagging his head.
His three daughters had drawn close together at one side of thehearth; there was anger, astonishment, and fear in their faces.Suddenly the old man turned on them roughly:--
"Get ye gone!" he said. "Off!--To bed!--I 've a delicate business withthis--ha, ha--this lady."
"'T is shameful!" cried Godiyeva. "I 'll not budge,--a common wench, astroller."
"Oh, father, wilt thou so shame us?" moaned Eleyne.
"'T is but another jest, dear father; say 't is thy sport," Custancepleaded.
But for answer he took up his riding-whip and laid it about theirshoulders so smartly that they fled from the hall shrieking andcursing him.
A page thrust his head in at the door, but quickly drew it forthagain. An old woman that had been asleep in a corner got up andhobbled out in haste. The dogs put tail between their legs and slunkunder the settle. Calote, in the firelight, waited. Her knees shook,yet she was not afraid.
When he had cleared the hall the knight threw away his whip, came backto the fire, took the remainder of his piment at one gulp, and hurledthe goblet to the far end of the hall.
"So, my lady; wilt have me on my knees, for the more honour?" said he;and she let him grunt, and crack his old joints, for that she knew hecould not readily get up if he were once kneeling.
"Now, hearken!" he bade her. "Wilt dwell here and tame yon prouddamsels, and shame 'em? I 'm sick o' daughters; I 'd have a son tolean on in mine age. Come,--I 'll marry thee honest. Thou shalt be theenvy of all York. Thou shalt wear silken gowns. Here 's a happylife,--no sleeping under hedge nor in the open. So thou do my pleasureI 'll never harm thee. The one that 's gone had never a harsh wordfrom me till the third daughter came, and that was past any man'spatience t' endure. By Holy Cuthbert, I swear thou art lovelier thanany court lady ever I saw,--and I 've been in Edward's court,--yea,and in France likewise. Kiss me, wench!--By Saint Thomas, but I willkiss thee whether or no!"
He stumbled and staggered to his feet and came at her with a lurch,for his head was dizzy with wine and pleasure.
"Sir, I will not marry no knight,--nor lord of a manor,--unless he setfree all his villeins," she said, and slipped aside. "Neither will Ikiss any man for love, till we be promised together."
"Free my villeins, parde," he cried. "Do I not take quit-rent of thehalf of them even now? They be as good as freed."
"But I will have them altogether freed."
He sat down in the chimney corner and wiped his brow:--
"Pish! Here 's not a matter to be decided without law and lawyers. Imust think on 't. Come hither, my lady; give me good-night."
But when he saw that she moved away to the door, he sprang up heavilyand caught her about the middle.
"Sir," she panted, "methought 't was thy mood to shame thy daughters;yet this shameth only me."
"True!" he said; "my daughters!"--and let her go. "But I 'll not be sopatient another night. We 'll have a priest on the morrow."
"First, free thy villeins!" she made answer, and slipped through thedoor.
Above stairs she found the three damsels crouched on one bed, theirheads together. Godiyeva hurled a foul name upon her as she entered.
"Peace!" said she. "Your father hath consented to wait till the morrowmorn. Now, if ye are not minded to have a step-dame ruling here, makehaste to strip me of these fine clothes, and show me a way to departsoftly while 't is yet dark."
"Thou wilt go!" queried Godiyeva.
For answer, Calote took off the bright cap from her head and kickedaway the crimson shoes. Then distance set to work hastily to undo thegown, and the dagger fell out and rattled to the floor. Godiyevacarried it to the light, looked at it, and brought it back, but askedno question.
"Why dost thou wear this bag under thy gown?" said Custance.
"For safety, madame," Calote replied, and thrust her arms into thesleeves of her old russet.
Custance still held the bag, but no one dared ask further.
"I will take her down the other stair to the water-gate and put her inthe boat," said Godiyeva.
"God and Saint Mary bless thee!" whispered Eleyne, and would havepressed silver into her hand, but Calote shook her head and smiled.
Custance kissed her.
At the water-gate there floated a little boat, and Godiyeva got intothis with her and sent it across the moat in three strong shoves of apole.
"Which way is the shepherd's way, where the flock is?" asked Calote.
"To southward of here," Godiyeva answered; and then, "I repent me ofthat name I called thee."
"Dear lady," said Calot
e, "I 'll pray Christ Jesus and Mary hismother, that they send thee happiness."
So she went away into the night, beneath the pale shine of a waningmoon, and Godiyeva crossed the moat, and climbed the stair.
"'T was a hunting horn she had in her bag," whispered Custance. "Ifelt the form of it under the flannel. Dost believe she 's that chastefairy lady, Dian, the poets sing?"
"Nay, she 's a woman, like to us," said Godiyeva, and lay down on herbed.
Out on the wolds Diggon and the peddler had built a fire to warm anew-born lamb. The while they sat with their arms about their knees,looking into the fire, they spoke of Christ's Passion, and death. Saidthe peddler, out of the Vision:--
"'One like to the Samaritan and a little like to Piers the Plowman, Barefoot on an asse's back, bootless, came riding, Without spurs or spear, sprightly he looked, As is the manner of a knight that cometh to be dubbed. "This Jesus, of his noble birth, will joust in Piers' arms, In his helm and his habergeon--_humana natura_; In Piers Plowman's jacket this pricker shall ride."'"
"Poor men been greatly honoured, 't is true," said Diggon. "Behoves usdo best, that Christ be not shamed to ride in our armour. Natheless, Ifind it hard to believe as how Sir Austin will clip me and kiss me andcall me brother. Sir Austin 's a proud man,--lord o' the manor,--and Ia silly shepherd. Christ knoweth us poor,--for that he came to earth apoor man. He put our garb upon him. Till Sir Austin and his ilk do putthem in poor men's weeds and ploughman's weeds and shepherd's weeds,how shall they know what 't is I suffer, or that rejoiceth me? Menknow that they live. Small blame to Sir Austin, or to the King."
"O Diggon,--my brother! This is a true word," cried the peddler. "Letthem don thy russet, and labour with thee, and starve with thee, andthey 'll love thee and give thee the kiss of a friend,--even as Ido,--O Diggon,--even as I do!" And the peddler cast his arms about theshepherd, and kissed him on each cheek, and they two smiled happilythe one upon the other in the firelight.
Then the peddler took up the tale of how Christ Jesus was crucified,and two thieves with him, and after, he began to speak of theharrowing of hell, and of Mercy and Peace that kissed each other.
"'And there I saw surely Out of the west coast a wench as me thought, Came walking in the way--to--'"
said he, and when he had said it he felt Diggon's hand on his arm.
"She cometh," whispered Diggon.
And there, on the other side of the fire, stood a maiden.
"I go to Londonward," she said. "I came hither, for that I knew 'twould grieve thee if I set forth secretly. Natheless, is no need thatthou follow. I am not afeared of the night, nor no other thing."
"Wilt thou not w-wait for the day?" asked the peddler, rising up.
"If I wait, there shall be done me a great honour. The lord of themanor purposeth to make me his wife."
"Saint Christopher!" cried the peddler, and turned in haste to theshepherd: "Diggon, dear brother; fare thee well! This is m-my lady; Imust follow her."
"Hail, maiden!" said Diggon. "Art thou Mercy, or Truth, or Peace, orRightwisnesse?"
"None of these,--but handmaid to Truth," the peddler answered for her;and when he had kissed Diggon he took Calote by the hand and led heraway. And Diggon was left by the fire with the new-born lamb.
"T-tell me!" the peddler questioned after a little.
So she told him all, and at the end of the tale she said:--
"Natheless, 't is not for his wooing that I 'm ashamed and weary; butthey laughed at the Vision. They laughed!--They thought 't was all ajape. Wherefore should they fear the peasants,--the poor rudemen,--wherefore should any fear such simple folk? Who is 't knowethbetter than I how weak Piers Ploughman is? Were I a lady, with thepoor fawning about my heel,--and one sang that these should deliverthe land, I 'd laugh too. They 'll fail--Dost thou not know they 'llfail? Ah, woe,--alas!"
"R-Roland of Roncesvalles, though he lost, yet did he win," said thepeddler. "Jesus Christ d-died on cross. Hearken to the Vision:--
'After sharp showers, quoth Peace, most glorious is the sun; Is no weather warmer than after watery clouds. Ne no love dearer, nor dearer friends, Than after war and woe when Love and Peace be masters Was never war in this world, nor wickedness so keen, That Love, an him list, might not bring it to laughter, And Peace through patience all perils stopped.'"
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