The Man On a Donkey

by H. F. M. Prescott

  Between the time when the great knocking on the gate had set all the dogs barking and the cattle in the Court lowing and the women screaming in the house, and the time when the men-servants barred the gate behind him, there had been leisure for almost no words between the three young men and their uncle. Only he had told Hob and John Ellerker to get them back over Humber early next morning. ‘For it seems,’ said he, ‘that the commons will be drawing to the southward. And if so be you find the way clear and safe, send back a servant to Hal here. Then shall you, Hal, follow after with the women and the little ones.’

  That had been while he was dressing, and Will Wall trussing up a suit of harness for him, borrowed from among those of Sir John Portington. And a few moments after he had gone, with no word more, but only a gesture of his hand and a hard glance that seemed to pass them by as if he had already forgotten them.

  Now, when the women and children had gone again to bed, the three had time to talk it over, and at first they could make nothing of it – how their uncle had taken the oath that afternoon, and tried to make his way back over Humber last night, and this morning had gone off with the commons. Hal argued that it was not strange the commons should say they knew him, and that therefore he must go with them, because Kit Aske’s lands lay close over Trent in Marshland. But Hob doubted that there was something in it that needed to be bolted out, and, growing sharper in argument, cried out at last, ‘My mother says she will never trust him, but that he will bring himself and others into trouble by his tongue. There is one thing mine uncle has never learnt to do – You know the song—’ and he quoted it sententiously—

  ‘“Whatsoever be in thy thought

  Hear and see and say right naught:

  Then shall men say thou art well taught,

  To bear a horn and blow it not.”

  ‘But now,’ he said, ‘I do fear he is confederate with the commons.’

  ‘Fie!’ cried Hal and John Ellerker together, and John said, ‘No gentleman could be. Surely, it cannot be so.’ Then he frowned and said, ‘But it appeared that they let themselves be ruled by him in that they consented that we should return to Yorkshire.’ Before they concluded the discussion Hob and John thought very gravely of their uncle’s behaviour, and if Hal argued for him it seemed to be more for cussedness than from conviction.

  Meanwhile Robert Aske rode southward, knowing in the darkness only that there was a great company both before and behind upon the road, and that most of them were on foot, though he could hear some horses. Only when the darkness thinned he could see their numbers, and their arms, which to a Yorkshireman, used to the harnessed men who would turn out to fight off the Scots, seemed wretched indeed, for their harness was mostly no more than a leather coat, and their arms very often only quarterstaves and clubs.

  Daylight came, but a murk daylight deadened by heavy mist, just as they reached Appleby. They were still in Appleby when, several hours later, the fog was shredding into a light, shining mist. Aske sat on his horse in a yeoman’s stackyard. All through the little town and out into the fields the commons were crowded, shaggy-haired, dirty fellows many of them, and with a pale sick look, for Lincolnshire was a poor country and agueish.

  Round about him they were mostly of the better sort – that is to say the horsemen, and such as had bows or bills, or here and there a broadsword. He had come in here half an hour ago to chivvy off two or three ragged fellows who were set to rob the yeoman’s hen houses, and these others had followed him, much as dogs follow a man, from a habit grown so strong that it has become a need. So far as he could see there was no other gentleman in all that host, though he guessed there must be pretty near two thousand of the commons.

  All about him he could hear them talking of what had been done – ‘Aye, Cock’s bones! and it was well done,’ at Louth and Caistor and Horncastle. They talked also of what should be done next, and, as they talked they would break off and look to him, and wait an instant, as if that he might speak. But Aske had not spoken.

  And still they did not move. The fog had quite cleared: it was not now even a mist, but only gave a delicate bloom and sparkle to the sunshine. The yellow straw of the stacks was a shining silky gold against the blue air; a red cock and his hens picked about between the feet of the horses; the cock jerked the fringed feathers of his neck petulantly, and the light wind blew the arched, cascading feathers of his tail about him, like a woman’s veil; he sloped his head and stared up at Aske with a fierce round stare as he stepped under the horse’s belly.

  It was only when the cock, clucking fiercely, hustled out on the other side and made off with a furious pounding stride, that Aske knew he had shifted his heel and put his horse forward.

  As he moved all the talking round about him ceased, all heads turned in his direction. The men on the green beyond the stackyard turned too, and came nearer. When he spoke he lifted his voice, meaning that they also should hear.

  ‘Masters,’ said he, ‘what will you do? The day’s passing. There’s no gain in staying here for ever. Where next?’

  After a pause someone said what Aske had already heard many times that morning, that Lord Brough had sent to raise the men of Kirton in Lindsay and all the Soke. ‘But they’ll not move against us,’ another cried. ‘We’ll call them up to join us instead.’

  ‘Well,’ said Aske, ‘let us set about it then. Let some go to Kirton, and some about the Soke, calling on all to join the commons.’

  They said that would be a good thing to do, a very good thing, and then began asking each other who would go where. They stopped at last because Aske spoke.

  ‘Let the Sokemen go to Kirton. I will raise the Soke.’

  The Sokemen came from out of the rest like the salt beads of water out of butter. Then Aske stood up in his stirrups, put his hands to his mouth and shouted—

  ‘Two score men to ride with me along Humberside to raise the commons there!’

  He had them very soon, and was riding out of Appleby towards the Humber, saying to himself, ‘This is treason.’

  *

  It was between one and two in the afternoon that he and his two score came to Kirton in Lindsay to rejoin the Sokemen. He had seen enough that morning of the poverty and simplicity and indiscipline of these poor commons of Lincolnshire to give his face a very grim look. Now, as he rode into the township, he glanced around at the scattered mob of footmen who, having eaten, lounged about in groups or lay asleep; a few of them shouted to him as he rode by. ‘And that’s about all they’re good for,’ he muttered to Will beside him. Will pretended not to hear.

  The Sokemen were sitting about in the churchyard round the foot of the cross. But that they were all awake he could not see that they were doing more than the poor footmen outside. He pushed between them till he came to the step of the cross, set his foot on it, and looked down on them. They looked up at him, waiting.

  ‘God help us,’ he thought. ‘Sheep. Very sheep.’ He said – ‘And what now?’

  They told him that they planned to go towards Caistor, to meet the host of Caistor, which was mustering.

  ‘So Jake said,’ one of them put in.

  ‘He saw many riding thither,’ said another.

  ‘But when Will came by Brigg no one knew if Caistor were up or no.’

  ‘God’s Bones! Of course they’re up!’

  ‘If they’re not up—’ someone began, in a voice that sounded scared.

  Aske did not let him finish.

  ‘Is there any man who can tell me surely whether there’s a host of Caistor or no?’

  They stopped arguing it and looked one to the other for the answer. At last an old man with watery eyes said, ‘No, but they thought it was so, for so the talk went in the country. But they knew it not for truth.’

  Aske turned from them. He laid one hand flat on the stone shaft of the cross. The stone was warm, but his heart was cold and very heavy. He said:

  ‘Who will go and see whether it is true or not?’

  He kept
his eye on his hand for what seemed an age. No one spoke out loud, though he could hear them whispering together. He took his hand from the cross and looked at them again.

  ‘Well then, if none will go, I will go.’

  He went out of the churchyard to where Will waited in the saddle, as he had been bidden, holding Aske’s horse. ‘To Caistor, Will,’ he said. As he picked up the reins some of the Sokemen called to him to stay till he had dined. He laughed at them, too angry to answer. Three of those that had ridden with him that morning came running after him, stuffing hunks of bread and bacon into their faces. He did not wait, but they scrambled into the saddle and beat their horses till they drew level with him beyond the village.

  ‘What about your dinner?’ he threw at them.

  They grinned, shamefaced.

  ‘Those fellows,’ said one of them, ‘would make a pig sick.’

  But Aske’s heart was lightened.

  Late in the afternoon the host was still at Kirton. They had lit fires about the green and were cooking supper now. The Sokemen were all together in a farm, at table still, having well eaten.

  Aske came in to them with Will and the three men who had gone after him. He stood at the end of the board, setting his hands on it because he was so stiff with riding that he did not well know where his legs were.

  ‘Caistor host,’ he said, ‘will be at Downham Meadow to-morrow, and there you shall meet them.’

  ‘And you, Master,’ cried one of them, ‘you’re going to Caistor with us.’

  ‘No. I’m for Sawcliffe and then Yorkshire.’

  ‘No, by God, you’re not,’ someone shouted.

  Aske looked at him. ‘Why not?’

  ‘By cause we know you gentlemen. You’d all skulk and hang back while we commons bear the brunt.’

  Aske looked over his shoulder to the Lincoln men who had ridden with him about Kirton Soke, to Kirton, to Caistor, and back to Kirton. They laughed aloud angrily.

  ‘Where hast thou been to-day, Tom?’ cried one of them.

  ‘Ah,’ said another, ‘Tom’s the nose that must smell out alehouses for the host. He’s a great man at that, he is. He can’t be spared to ride about on errands.’

  There was some laughter from the other Sokemen, but Aske said—

  ‘I can make Sawcliffe to-night before dark. I’ll cross into Marshland to-morrow where my brother has Manors, and men know me; then to Howden, where also I am known, being a Yorkshireman. For it’s not one county that will bring so great a matter as ours to a good end, but all the North must rise, yea, poor commons, gentlemen, and noblemen too, if they know their duty to God. So I will make a beginning of raising those parts, and return. And now, shove along, shove along. We’re hungry.’

  ‘How do we know that you’ll return?’ someone jeered.

  Aske gave him no answer: but one of the men who had ridden with him did, bidding him in a fierce whisper ‘to shut his face for a fool’. ‘He’s said he’ll return, and, by God’s Nails! so he will.’

  October 6

  The Burton Stather ferry boat ran silently aground on the soft mud by the landing, and Aske and Will Wall led their horses out of it. The hoofs made a great noise on the hollow timbers of the staithes, and then suddenly none at all on the wet meadow grass. They rode off, past the shuttered inn, for it was so early that the light was barely come; but before they had gone a hundred yards they turned at a noise behind them; the ferryman was beating upon the door of the inn. Aske consigned him to the devil. The Marshland men knew paths that a horseman could not take, which cut miles out of a journey. ‘By the time we come anywhere,’ he said, ‘all but the rabbits and the waterfowl will know as much as we do.’

  He was right. It was daylight when they came to Reedness, but there were no men in the fields, and yet the village street was full. The steward, with his oxhorn slung at his back, was making no attempt to call them to the ploughing; it was he who caught Aske’s bridle, crying, ‘Master, shall we ring our bells and muster?’

  Aske did not answer for a minute. Then he said,—

  ‘Wait till you hear the bells of Howdenshire ring over the water.’

  He told the same to every village along the river, where, as at Reedness, the commons thronged the street, and so they came to the ferry across to Howden town itself. The place was like market day for crowds, only to-day the shops were shut because the journeymen were all out in the streets, and would not go in for anything that their masters would do. Aske pushed his horse as fast as he could through the throng, answering questions over his shoulder, but never staying. When they cried out to know if they should ring their bells awkward, and muster, he said, – ‘Wait till you hear them ring in Marshland.’

  When they were clear of the town he turned, frowning, to Will’s puzzled face.

  ‘But, Master, I thought—’ said Will.

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘Why did you bid Marshland men wait for Howden bells, and here in Howdenshire you say they shall wait for Marshland? Will you have none rise?’

  Aske looked at him as if he were an enemy.

  ‘Do you think I’m in this for my pleasure?’ he asked bitterly. ‘I’d give my right hand to be clear of it. Lincolnshire has sent Articles to the King. If he should give a gracious answer shall Yorkshiremen rise? And shall I put a halter round my own neck? If,’ he muttered, ‘I have not already.’

  ‘Master!’ cried Will, but Aske said, ‘Now, ride!’ and spurred so fiercely that it was a little while before Will could come up with him to ask – whither?

  ‘Home. Aughton. Fool!’

  But when they had ridden at that furious pace for some while Aske slackened, and turned again to Will, who had come up beside him.

  ‘My brother Kit,’ he said – and his eye seemed to search Will’s face – ‘My brother Kit and I do not agree over these things. Perhaps I cannot even now make him see. But the Master—’ (he meant Jack) ‘he and I think semblable in this. He said that himself when we spoke of how he should make answer to a letter of Cromwell’s.

  ‘So,’ he concluded, watching Will all the time, ‘so I do not doubt, though he may at the first think it strange I should so mell in insurrection, being a man of peace as I am...’

  When he left that unfinished, Will said, fervently, ‘You will be able to show him why it is right, Master Robin.’

  ‘Yes, that is what I think,’ said Aske.

  They came between the thin, wind-torn woods to Aughton crossroads, and turned away westward. The track dipped down to an arm of the fen, grew heavy and boggy, and crossed a sluggish course of dark water lined with browning reeds by a little wooden bridge. When they came up again to the level they could see, beyond the village, Kit’s new church tower. Aske said, ‘Come on. We’ll not stop to answer any,’ and so they went through the village with the wind whistling past their ears, hearing the shouts of those who ran out and ran after them drop quickly behind.

  The gate of the house was open. They rode into the court, and Aske was out of the saddle and up the steps to the Hall door while the servants were running out from the offices and from the stackyard beyond.

  The Hall, though now it was getting on for dinner-time, was still littered with the men’s pallets, and the tables with last night’s supper; as he came in two of the young dogs leapt down from among the plates and slunk away.

  He went on to the parlour, though indeed he knew now that he would find no one there. He opened the door and stood for a while, staring stupidly at a pot of dead flowers on the window sill; the hearth was cold, the sideboard was empty of the silver cups, salts, and flagons that should stand there, and there was dust everywhere. Beside what had been old Sir Robert’s chair a book lay upon the floor, with a straw to mark the reader’s place, who had laid it down beside him. On the table, at the very place where Jack had sat to write his letter to Master Cromwell almost exactly a month ago, lay a quill pen, as though that letter had been written yesterday, or as though time had run back through all the day
s between. Aske looked about at it all, then went away.

  The key of the church door hung in its place upon the nail in the screens passage just beyond the pantry. He took it, and let himself out of the house by the little old door into the orchard.

  When he came out of the church Will Wall jumped up from the bench in the porch, and, taking the key from Aske’s hand, made a great business of locking the door.

  ‘Master, they have all gone away,’ he said, as though that were news. ‘Master Kit went first. He had money of my Lord of Cumberland’s. He swore he’d get through, and that a rabble of lousy commons should not stop him.’

  ‘He’ll get through,’ Aske said, wishing he could have told Kit (only he never could) how well he knew the measure of his brother’s intrepid and impetuous spirit. ‘And – Jack?’ he asked.

  ‘Master Jack sent Mistress Nell and the children to Master Monkton’s.’

  Aske took that for an answer. It made no difference whither Jack had gone, since he was gone.

  ‘The court’s full of folk, Master,’ said Will. ‘They wait for you to tell them what to do.’

  As they went together into the house Aske said that he would name Shipworth Moor as the place where, if the bells rang, they should muster; it was a place just over the river Derwent from Aughton. ‘For thence,’ he said, ‘they can pass over the river at Bubwithto go eastward, if the commons are rising on that hand, or northward towards York, or to Selby, or south to Howden.’

  ‘Yes, Master,’ said Will. While Aske spoke to the men in the court, telling them to be ready, to see to the buckles of their harness, their swords, bills, and bows, to have their good wives boil bacon for them to carry in their pokes, Will watched him with the eyes of a dog.

  The rest of that day was most busy. Aske wore out the quill pen that he had seen lying on the table in the parlour, and another after it, and Aughton servants and men from the villages round about were riding off this way and that way all the time with the letters he wrote. Then there were the arrows and bows to count in the church tower, and harness both for master and men to find, and clean, and pack.