‘Aye,’ said the yeoman, ‘Lord Darcy’s own servant here, in his master’s livery, bringing the Articles out of Lincolnshire to us of Marshland.’ And he cried, laughing a little, ‘A Darcy!’ The press in the smithy broke a little just then, and Will could see, going by, two gentleman’s servants, one in a tawny coat, the other in green like young leaves in spring. This man waved his hand. ‘Na! Na!’ he said, but he laughed.
The thoughts were running round in Will’s brain like a mouse in a cage. If my Lord Darcy were in it other lords would be in it too, and the King would have to be gracious; no one would be hanged. Master Robin forsake the commons? Never! Not he! He had only turned in to the fowler’s toft so that he might sleep.
He grabbed at the yeoman’s great arm.
‘Hark ye!’ The yeoman leaned down his ear that sprouted bristled red hair. ‘My Lord Darcy sent to take my master at Howden.’ The yeoman nodded. He had heard that before. ‘Now you say my Lord’s servant brings the commons’ Articles. It’s no treachery?’
The yeoman said, ‘He saith my Lord was never pleased that the Abbeys should fall. He saith he knows, though my Lord may not declare himself yet, that he’s for us.’
‘Then,’ said Will, ‘if there’s no treachery I’ll bring you to my master. And bring you my Lord Darcy’s men, with the Articles of Lincolnshire.’
‘Ho!’ cried the yeoman, clapping his big hand on Will’s back. ‘That’s a better song to sing.’ He shouted, in a bull’s bellow, ‘Here is Master Aske come. His man will bring us to him.’
While Will was still coughing the smithy emptied and he was on the road with them, going back towards the fowler’s toft. When they had gone a little way someone cried, ‘We should ring our bells. It means that we should ring, now that he is come again.’ By that time Will was very frightened at what he had done. When the cracked jangle of Whitgift bell began behind them his heart gave a great throb in his chest. Master Robin had said Lincolnshire was a faggot of dead wood breaking. He’d told Marshland and Howden to ring no bells till he bade them. And if he would lie hid – safe – and have Yorkshire also to keep quiet, that was not to forsake the commons. Will would have liked to turn back, but ‘Where does he lie?’ they asked him, and when he told them – ‘Why did he not show himself?’
‘Because he’s foredone for lack of sleep,’ said Will, and tried to hang back, but they said, ‘He’ll have slept enough by now.’
Aske had not, however, slept. Not sleep but time to think was what he must have, though all the hasty ride from Lincoln and all the two days and a night and half a night at Sawcliffe, waiting for the water of Trent to fall, he had been thinking, and thinking.
He thought now how crookedly, how almost, as it were, backwards, he had come into the rising; so that now, it seemed to him, he was less resolved than he had been that night at Ellerker to do whatever should be laid upon him.
He thought – ‘Even yet I do not know what I shall do,’ not understanding that the drift of a man’s will can persist under many eddies of hesitation, to carry him at the last either with his conscience or against it, as he had once chosen. For indeed, though he thought the choice not made, he had chosen long before. Yet now he muttered to himself, ‘I must have even a little time longer to be sure what I will do.’
For he was sure now that the Lincolnshire men were as he had said to Will, no better than a rotten faggot, so easy it was to see how gentlemen hated commons, and commons mistrusted gentlemen. Therefore, if the Yorkshiremen rose, they were like to stand alone. And if one county stood against the King that meant failure, and failure meant – He clenched his teeth, and lay stiff in the darkness of the loft. It would be no worse for him than for any man to suffer the shocking outrage of a traitor’s death. ‘Yet,’ he thought, ‘as not all will be hanged, so not a leader will be spared,’ and one of his hands went down to draw upon his own body that line which he had seen the executioner mark on the bodies of the Carthusians, before he began his bloody work. He snatched his hand back and thrust it under his head; if he could by no means rid himself of that fear at least he could trample on it.
But he thought of Aughton then. He had come home, and found himself alone, like a leper from whom his brothers fled. At that it seemed that indeed the weight of this thing that they would lay upon him was too great for him to endure, and he must even now resolve to lay it down.
‘I have laid it down,’ he thought. ‘They sought to kill me. So I have laid it down.’
And then, as ifhe had not yet laid it down, a sharp and trembling qualm ran through his mind. If to rebel were truly against the will of God, as it was against the law of man—?
He sat up, and groaned aloud. ‘Miserere mei Domine!’ he muttered, and then was silent, but with his soul at a stretch to reach help.
When he got up from the bracken he was stiff, and very cold, so that he stumbled as he made for the ladder. But there was quiet in his mind, and, so it seemed to him, enlightenment. A year ago, against his conscience, he had sworn an oath; now he must take on his conscience another sin to set right the first. The chain of his own sin bound him, and he must suffer the bond. ‘And do Thou,’ he said, just aloud, ‘forgive me in the one as in the other, for now I can no other than this.’
He groped his way down the ladder. The house-place was quite dark because the fire had died down t0 ash. When he opened the door the grey soft light of late afternoon surprised and almost dazzled him; he stood, leaning against the side-post of the door. The fowler’s tethered goat gave him an intolerant, pallid glare from one protruding eye, and bent again to its grazing; nothing else in the wide, empty country was alive, except the flop-winged plovers; a few of them went by overhead, but towards the north the whole sky was full of their wide wheeling drifts. He stayed there for a long time, mind as well as body lapped in a great quiet.
The sound came to him, sweetened by distance, of church bells ringing. Almost before he knew that he heard them his hand tightened on the doorpost. Each note was sweet, but, like a rising scream, the ascending instead of the descending peal meant alarm. He listened, his ears straining, his back growing cold under his shirt. From further away to the west he heard other bells, but again in that undue order, and from the southward, more. They were ringing awkward to arm and muster. Then while he still tried to doubt, he heard, dull and distant, the note, which he could not mistake, of Howden great bell.
October 12
It was just after noon on a bright day, with a light, whisking wind, when the mounted men of Howdenshire and the East Riding came to Market Weighton. Among the first of them rode a big, elderly yeoman from near Wressel, and in the stirrup beside his foot was set the foot of the great cross from Howden Church; as his horse moved the brightness of the sun flowed in waves down the gilt shaft, like light ripples upon water, and shot out coloured sparkles and uncoloured blazes from the jewels set in the gold; all about and behind the cross the sunshine blinked and flickered more coldly on the pikes and spears of the horsemen that filled the road.
The host was very orderly. Men went into Market Weighton asking for leave to sleep in barns and garners, or in the kitchens and outhouses. But when, in the afternoon, the footmen came up, there was more trouble, for these were the poorer folk, and some of them already hungry, and not knowing whether to be angry or scared. As well as these footmen, to add to the crowding and confusion, there came in also the men from Beverley and Holderness; so now it was not all neighbours together, but there were strangers about a man whom he had never seen before.
As it was in the host, so it was among the Captains, who sat around on the tossed piles of yellow straw in a rickyard, eating bread and cheese and drinking ale. There were the Howdenshire people who knew each other, whether gentlemen like Sir Thomas Metham and Master Saltmarsh, or men of the commons like the miller of Snaith with his flour-whitened hair, and flour in the wrinkles of his big, fleshy face. But besides these there were townsmen and yeomen from Beverley and Yorkswold, strangers to the others; as yet the two groups
did not mingle, but eyed each other across their ale cans.
Then, as they sat in comfort of sun and ease of the yielding straw, a Weighton man came running to say that certain footmen – of what party he knew not – were driving away Weighton cattle to kill for supper.
There was silence among the Captains for a minute, except that Sir Thomas Metham murmured, ‘Let the commons’ own fellows call them off,’ and he looked towards the miller of Snaith. But Aske lodged his can carefully in a pocket of straw, and got up.
‘We must stop all spoil,’ he said, and went towards the horses; then he paused, and looked about at the Beverley men, searching their faces for a moment. Among them was a big fellow with a broad, brown face, eyes of a windy blue, and hair that curled lightly over his head. ‘Come you with me,’ said Aske, and the big yeoman stood up. The miller had got up too, and the three of them took their horses and rode away.
It was not very long before they came back; those in the rick-yard saw them ride among the paling, and get down at the gate where Will Wall was waiting to take the horses. The big yeoman and the miller came in after Aske. When he stopped they stopped too, standing on each side of him but a little behind.
‘I have given order,’ Aske spoke so that all in the rick-yard should hear, ‘I have given order that there shall be no spoiling of cattle, no rifling of farm-yards. The man who makes spoil shall hang.’
No one spoke as he sat down and took up his can again. The miller and the yeoman went back to their places too, and those about the yeoman plucked him by the sleeve and rowned him in the ear, and he and they muttered together, looking across at Aske, and at the other Howdenshire gentlemen.
It was this yeoman who, when they had finished eating, stood up in the midst and said: ‘Masters, when the host is gathered, what do we next?’
He caught Aske’s eye, then looked from one to another, then again to Aske, who, when no one else spoke, said that in his mind the host should divide, part to move on Hull, the other part on York.
But then Sir Thomas Metham cried out that this was folly. ‘York has walls, and Hull too, and we have no engines for assault.’
‘What then,’ said Aske, ‘would you have us do?’
Mr. Saltmarsh, who sat beside Sir Thomas, said that they should wait till the host was greater, for that men were coming in every hour.
‘That’s my counsel too,’ said Sir Thomas.
‘And then—?’
‘Why, then—’
Sir Thomas waved a hand, ‘then we can see.’
A sort of growl came from the big yeoman, and Aske spoke hastily. He had seen this thing before in Lincolnshire – (and God, He alone knew to what end it would bring them there) – gentlemen against commons and commons against gentlemen, each fearing and distrusting the other. ‘We cannot wait to see. My Lord of Shrewsbury is already at Nottingham, and the Duke of Norfolk gathers men and is named the King’s Lieutenant against us.’ He looked round at them, and those who felt dismay at those names, and at the thought of the King’s power behind the names, did what they could, at his look, to keep dismay out of their faces.
‘Besides,’ he said, ‘if we wait, doing nothing, for one man who comes in to us, three will go home.’
‘Aye, aye,’ came from several of the yeomen there who thought of their fields lying unploughed.
‘But,’ cried Mr. Saltmarsh in a sharp voice, ‘it’s treason to march in arms against the King’s Lieutenant.’
Aske did not answer that. He said again that his counsel was they should first make sure of York and Hull. ‘Then when the King’s host draws nigh we can go to meet with them, and, by the King’s Lieutenant, send unto the King’s Grace our petition for the remedy of our grievances. But York and Hull we must have first.’
Sir Thomas Metham and Mr. Saltmarsh began to protest. ‘It’s treason.’ ‘We have no siege train.’ ‘York will shut its gates.’ Others joined with them.
The big yeoman with blue eyes broke in. He spoke for all to hear, but to Aske alone.
‘I’ll answer for the commons, Master. They’ll go to York or to Hull with you. Which first?’
Aske said, ‘There’s nine thousand of us, and all lies in speed. Give me half, and to-morrow I’ll go towards York; the rest to Hull.’
Sir Thomas Metham jumped up, and swore by God’s Nails he would know why a man who was no knight should set himself over them all in that matter.
‘I’ll tell you,’ said the big yeoman. ‘It’s because the commons will follow Master Aske. That’s why.’
It was after dark that the commons who had taken Will Monkton and Hob Aske in Monkton’s house brought them to Market Weigh-ton, and to the farm where the Captains were.
Monkton, always a silent man, had ridden in silence, but Hob had fallen back to join those of the commons who came behind; he found them very ready to talk; one and all they wanted to tell him of what Master Aske had been doing; they also wanted him to tell them about his uncle. That Hob found to be difficult, since the conclusion that he and Jack Ellerker had reached on that night at Sawcliffe was clearly not to be mentioned here. If he had told the truth Hob must have said that until a week ago he had never really considered his uncle at all, but taken him for granted, as he took his bed and his breakfast for granted, and the house and fields at Aughton – all things necessary to sustain or to form a background for Master Hob Aske. So he could only think to tell them that Uncle Robert liked much mustard with his meat, and that he wrote in a book whatever tombs of noblemen and gentlemen were to be found in any church he saw.
But this was not the kind of thing that they wanted to know, so they fell back on talking among themselves about Captain Aske while Hob listened. It might have been a stranger that they spoke of, so much they saw in Uncle Robin which Hob had never noticed; he began to feel himself not a little important to be his nephew.
They got down from the saddle in a farm-yard, by the faint light of a clouded moon, and as they came to the door of the farm it opened and a man stepped out with the light behind him. Hob went back so smartly that he trod on Will Monkton’s toe. The man coming out stopped too.
‘Ah!’ he said. ‘You are come. Are you come willingly?’
They knew him then by his voice, and Hob cried, ‘Uncle! By the Cross, right willingly.’ He felt that needed something to back it up and added, ‘You know I would have taken the oath that day at Ferriby, if you’d have suffered me.’
Aske said, ‘Yea,’ and thought, ‘Would it had been Jack – or Kit instead.’ But he turned the thought from his mind, and kissed the young man heartily. Will, from behind Hob, said: ‘Nan would have had me come to you when you were at Aughton, but I would not. For one thing I had Nell and the children on my hands. But now I am glad to be here.’
‘And, oh, Will!’ Aske cried, and kissed him too, ‘I’m glad to have you.’ Then he said sharply, ‘Listen!’
As they stood listening they heard a sound, no greater than the click of knitting needles, but they knew it for the sound of a horses’ hoofs, ridden hard, far off, but coming nearer.
‘Go in,’ said Aske, and they went in, but he shut the door on them and did not follow.
It was not very long before he came into the room, walking lightly with his chin high. Monkton and Hob were at the fire talking, rather uneasily, with others there, some gentlemen, some men of the commons, under the big hams hanging from the beams, and the bunches of dried herbs.
Aske said, ‘There is a messenger come from Lincolnshire. He brings news.’
‘Good news then!’ cried Hob, watching his uncle’s face.
‘No. Not good,’ said he, answering Hob’s question, but he spoke to Will Monkton. Then he told them what the news was – that the Lincolnshire men would surrender themselves, without terms made, to the King’s mercy.
Sir Thomas Metham started up from the seat in the chimney corner. ‘Then—’ he cried, ‘then what shall we do?’
‘Go forward,’ said Aske.
The big yeoman, who
was called John Hallom of the Wold, got up too. He eased his sword-belt round, so that the hilt was more ready to his hand.
‘I never did think much,’ said he, ‘of them as lives across Humber. It’s better as it is. Now we shall know where we are.’
His blue eyes met Aske’s eye with a reckless dancing look, and Aske looked back at him steadily. Each had the same thought in his mind, ‘This is a man to have at a man’s back.’
October 13
Even in the Great Chamber at Pomfret, where Lord Darcy sat at dinner, there was an air of disarray: a pile of cloaks and a riding whip cast down on the carpet in a window, and paper, ink, and pens pushed aside but not taken away from the board when the table was laid. My Lord sat on an elm seat with carved ends, with his back to the fire; on his left side was Sir Robert Constable, on his right an empty place. There was another table in the room, but not near enough for those who sat there to hear what my Lord and Sir Robert might say if they spoke low.
‘Well,’ my Lord said, taking up his spoon, ‘you have seen what provision is here against a siege. Not one gun ready to shoot, arrows and bows few and bad, money and gunners none, and of powder—’ he pointed to a dish of nuts before them – ‘enough to fill a walnut shell. And this—’ (he leaned his head closer) ‘this is the King’s strong castle of Pomfret, even the most simply furnished that ever, I think, was any man to defend.’
‘Tchk!’ said Sir Robert sympathetically, and then saw a sort of spark leap in Darcy’s eye as the door opened and an old man came into the chamber, leaning on the arm of a young priest. The old man wore a long violet gown with silver buttons down the front of it; from under the violet velvet cap that covered his head his silver hair waved delicately back from a face that was handsome, dignified and petulant.
‘I fear,’ said the Archbishop of York, ‘that I am late.’ He dipped his fingers in the water that a page brought and wiped them on the napkin from the lad’s shoulder. ‘I had forgot time in my devotions.’ He sighed. ‘And in sad thoughts of these sad times.’
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