The Man On a Donkey

by H. F. M. Prescott

  But Darcy, looking proud and disdainful, bade him wait a while. ‘Give us,’ said he (this being Thursday), ‘till Saturday before you assault.’

  ‘Till to-morrow morning,’ said Aske; and when my Lord pressed him, ‘Till to-morrow morning at eight of the clock. For I know what is in your thought and it is in mine too – that my Lord of Shrewsbury may come; but, as I deal plainly, I do not fear to speak of that I fear.’

  He swung round and went to the door. Lord Darcy waved his hand to Mr. Bapthorpe, who got up quickly and followed him. But Aske turned back. For a moment he stood looking at the ground and even now he thought, ‘No use to say more. No use.’ Then he lifted his head and spoke.

  ‘Whether that I have said be true I put to your conscience. But if you fight against us, and win, you put both us, and you, and your heirs, and ours, in bondage for ever; for if you will not come with us, be sure we will fight against you, and against all that stop us. And we trust, by the Grace of God, that ye shall have small speed.’

  He put by Master Bapthorpe’s hand, stretched out to unlatch the door, and opened it himself.

  After he had gone there was a deal of talking, but few could find much that was new to say, the facts were so baldly plain. Lord Darcy lamented to the Archbishop how little hope there was that my Lord Steward (that was the Earl of Shrewsbury) should come in time. He beat his fist on his knee and cried that had he but munitions he would hold the castle till all the food was gone – ‘and that would give us eight days, or ten, or more if we should endure awhile the extremity of hunger,’ and he looked searchingly into the face of the Archbishop, who replied, but faintly, that indeed they would all be ready to suffer to the death, in their service to the King’s Grace.

  ‘Aye,’ said Darcy solemnly, ‘so would each man of us,’ and turned to lay his hand on Constable’s shoulder, who stood beside them. ‘Come, Robert, since these lousels are all about us, and may make assault any time—’

  ‘But he granted us truce,’ cried Constable.

  ‘Tush! Will you trust them? We’ll make sure. Safe bind, safe find,’ he said, and pushed Constable towards the door.

  They went out and about the castle, each noticing, but in silence, how indifferently watch was kept, and how surly were the looks of those whom they passed. At last, in the still, uncoloured air that the rain had left very keen and clear, they stood on the top of the keep, looking towards Micklegate and the town above. The commons were busy there, and, it seemed, cheerful about their work. The two on the tower saw the quick cold flash of axes above the heads of a little knot of men; the choked ringing note of the steel came to them just after each white flicker.

  ‘What are they at?’ Darcy muttered, and then answered himself. ‘Hah! a ram to bring down our gates.’ He looked down at Constable, and then said: ‘And what’s amiss with you, Robert?’

  Constable continued to scowl at the stones of the breastwork, which he was kicking with his foot. He said: ‘Will you send a message to Shrewsbury?’

  ‘No. I will not. For he cannot reach us now. Nor can we get a message through to him.’

  ‘Then why – why this truce? A’ God’s Name if we must yield, let’s yield.’

  Darcy looked at him, but he would not look up.

  ‘And take their Oath? And join us with the commons?’

  Constable was silent. Then he blurted out, angrily and in a hurry, that for himself he would be ready to take their Oath – ‘By cause that what he spoke was truth,’ said he, and met Darcy’s eyes.

  That my Lord was smiling a little made him angrier and he cried out that surely such was his opinion, and he’d not hide it. ‘But what yours is, Tom, in all these windings and turnings that you make God alone knoweth it.’

  Darcy laughed at him again, and began to explain, very calmly and reasonably, that he had spoken as he had spoken, and done as he had done, so that men should report him to the King not as one who flung away a great castle lightly, and lightly joined with rebels.

  ‘And who shall report you?’ Constable grumbled.

  ‘My Lord Archbishop.’ Darcy laughed again at Constable’s expression. ‘Or any other.’ But on that he ceased to laugh, for like a flaw in crackled ice the thought struck through both their minds of George Darcy, with his look of pregnant disapproval. ‘By God’s Cross, Robert,’ said Darcy, throwing off that thought, ‘you too may be glad if things go ill, that by these same windings and turnings of mine it is made clear that we are forced to their Oath and to their company.’

  ‘Oh!’ Sir Robert groaned – ‘Here’s policy! But—’

  Darcy clapped him on the shoulder. ‘And why not policy? But – what?’

  ‘But – Mass! But did you not in your conscience think that he spoke the truth to us?’

  ‘So you and Strangways are of a sort in this!’ Darcy pulled a face, then, catching Sir Robert’s glowering look, said that none could deny but Aske had spoken boldly.

  ‘And – truly?’

  Darcy looked away into the town, where the smoke trails from evening fires were going up, straight in the stillness, with only the slightest pulsation from the living heat below to trouble them. ‘I wish,’ he muttered, ‘I knew how many he brought with him from York.’ Then he said, ‘Nor I’ll not deny that to me he seemed, in the main, to speak the truth. More especially with regard to the spiritual men.’

  ‘Then,’ cried Sir Robert, ‘shall we that are gentlemen dread to take a good cause in hand, when the poor commons dread not?’

  ‘And be hanged with them for traitors?’ Darcy mocked.

  ‘This Pilgrimage of theirs,’ Sir Robert went on doggedly, ‘I’ll undertake it with a good will.’

  ‘Well,’ said Darcy, ‘it seems we’ll all undertake it, will we nill we. But,’ he added, unexpectedly, ‘what plagues me is I cannot for the life of me remember where I saw the man before. ’Twas in a great sunlight. But where—?’

  October 21

  Lancaster Herald waved his hand to the commons, whom he had been haranguing, and rode on towards Pomfret more briskly than they could go, tied as they were to the pace of the wain that was loaded up with certain carcasses of salt beef, three sides of bacon, five sacks of flour and two barrels of beer.

  He rode cheerfully as well as briskly, for it was a cheerful day, with sunshine and a fine galloping wind that swept down from the west over the wide, mounting fells that lay that way. Besides, after his persuasions, those fellows, who had sweated much to bring the wain safely over a small but swollen stream, had told him that indeed they were weary of the life they were in, since this business began, and would gladly go to their houses. So that it seemed to him that he had done very well already in his errand, for these last had been a great band, and he had spoken in the same vein, showing them how little reason they had to rise against their gracious Prince, to many others on the way. Therefore he jogged along merrily, with two servants in green and white behind him, and the golden leopards and lilies of the King’s arms on his breast glowing bravely in the sun. It was well, however, for his good cheer, that he did not overhear the disputing with which those same commons, coming slowly after, wiled away the time beside the slow trudging oxen. For at first telling each other how true it was, that that the Herald had said, and indeed never in words contradicting it, they had, by about the third milestone after he left them, returned contentedly to their conviction that this business of the Pilgrimage was a main good thing, and that the commonalty should set all right again in the realm, as the Great Captain said, and should be thanked of all men, even of the King’s Grace, for what they were doing. That Lord Darcy had so soon surrendered Pomfret Castle, and that he and all the gentlemen with him had taken the Pilgrims’ Oath, these were stronger arguments than any words Herald Lancaster could use.

  The streets of Pomfret Lancaster found to be crowded with men and horses. In place of last summer’s pea-sticks, bundles of pikes and halberds were stacked up against walls, and the smiths were far busier with steel caps and rivets on s
teel breast and back plates, than ever they were with shoeing horses, even on Fair days.

  When the people saw Lancaster they ran along to see him better, some shouting that the King had sent to answer their griefs, and some just shouting, so that very soon he moved in a great crowd, and slowly, till he came to the Market Cross. There he stopped, and bade that one of his servants who was not incommoded by his master’s trussed-up gear, to blow his trumpet, and cry ‘Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!’ But while the last of the proud mounting notes of the trumpet was dying among the chimney stacks of the houses and the servant was drawing his breath to shout, and Lancaster was unlacing the thongs of his purse to get at his proclamation, the faces of his audience, so unanimous in their attention, began to turn this way and that, as a murmur went through the crowd. Men craned their necks, not to see Lancaster in his bravery of blue, scarlet and gold, beside the Cross, but to learn what it was that caused a stir in the crowd beyond. ‘It’s the Grand Captain. No – it’s Captain Monkton,’ someone cried, and Lancaster found that a big man in leather hosen, and a padded privy coat of fence, had a hand on the bridle of his horse, and was inviting him to come to the castle.

  ‘Gladly, when I have read the proclamation that I am charged withal,’ said Lancaster, and snatched at his reins, for Monkton was already leading him away.

  ‘The Grand Captain said you should read no proclamation,’ said Monkton, ‘at the least, not yet,’ and went on. The half-dozen pikemen who had come with him formed up alongside, and Lancaster saw no possibility but to sit in the saddle and go where he was led. Once he said, ‘So you have Lord Darcy now to your Grand Captain. I trust I shall persuade him and others—’ He stopped then. ‘Why should you laugh?’ he rebuked one of the pikemen.

  ‘By cause Lord Darcy is not our Grand Captain.’

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘Captain Aske.’

  ‘Chosen,’ said the pikeman, stepping closer, with an ugly upward look at Lancaster, ‘chosen by all the nobles, gentles, and the commonalty of the Pilgrims. And why should you laugh?’

  ‘Sim!’ Will Monkton threw over his shoulder, and Sim fell into line again.

  Lancaster had preserved his temper and his dignity through this episode. He was able to glance sharply about as he was led through the three wards of the castle, noting, for report, the many harnessed men, and the porters, one for each ward gate, and each with a white staff of office, as had been proper if this had been the palace of a great Prince. In the Hall they left him awhile, with only two pike men to keep a space about him in a great crowd of what seemed to him mainly the better sort of yeomen and lesser gentlemen. Here, he thought, was his opportunity, and with a vague word to his guards he pushed his way towards the upper end of the Hall and stepped up beside the high table. The pikemen followed him, but did no more. For lack of a servant he cried his own, ‘Oyez,’ and began to speak. But he had hardly opened to them the cause of his coming when a hand was laid on his arm, and the big man Monkton stood by him, saying that the Grand Captain had sent for him. That did upset Lancaster. ‘Had it been Lord Darcy—’ he thought. ‘But this fellow Aske—’ He tried to wrench his arm from Monkton’s hand, then desisted and went along, but wrathfully. ‘God’s Bones!’ he said to himself, ‘I shall show him. He shall have from me so much courtesy as a vile traitor should.’

  The Great Chamber was pleasant with both firelight and sunlight. Lord Darcy sat in his chair by the fire, his knees wrapped in a gown of velvet and marten skins. The Archbishop and the Archdeacon were side by side on the settle; these two Lancaster knew, but he looked quickly about among the half-dozen or so gentlemen who stood or sat nearby, to find the traitor, Aske, without being able to pitch on any that should certainly be the Grand Captain. Since he was determined, when he did see this Aske, to pay him no respect, he would spare only that hasty glance, and then with great, indeed with exaggerated, courtesy, singled out the Archbishop and Lord Darcy for his salutation. To them he took off his cap, made a leg, and began to declare his business – how he came from the Right Honourable Lord, the Earl of Shrewsbury, Lord Steward of the King’s most honourable Household, and Lieutenant General from the Trent northward, and the Right Honourable Earls of Rutland and Huntingdon, of the King’s most honourable Council, bearing a proclamation to be read amongst the traitorous and rebellious persons assembled at Pomfret, contrary to the King’s laws.

  He had got so far when someone behind him said, ‘Herald Lancaster!’ and partly because everyone was now looking beyond, to the man who had spoken, but more because the voice was such that he could not ignore it, he turned half about, also to look.

  Along the whole of that side of the room ran the dais of two degrees, on which the high table stood, still littered with plates and cups from breakfast, and besides these with pens and sheets of paper. At the far end, beyond the table, there was a window, through the glass of which great shafts of coloured light struck down, in which the motes danced. A gentleman leaned there, as if he had been sunning himself, a short, black-haired man in a scarlet coat and doublet. He came from the window now, yawning and stretching: when the bright sunshine was no longer behind him Lancaster could see that he had only one eye. He came and stood before the table, his feet set wide apart, his hands thrust into his belt, and from there he looked down into Lancaster Herald’s face. He had heavy brows that drew into a straight black line, and a big mouth that shut very firmly. Lancaster took an instant and vehement dislike to him – ‘keeping thus,’ he thought, ‘his port and countenance as though he had been a great prince!’

  ‘Since,’ said this gentleman, ‘I am chosen Great Captain of these same traitorous and rebellious persons, it is to me, Master Herald, that you shall do your errand.’

  It only needed that Lancaster should meet his eye with a casual, scornful glance, and then turn his back, and continue to address my Lord and the Archbishop. Nothing could have been simpler, nothing, the Herald would have thought, easier, but now he found it to be impossible. Instead, hot with anger, and the hotter as he felt himself growing flustered, he turned his back, not on the Great Captain, but upon my Lord Darcy, and began his recital again, from the beginning, gabbling it a little.

  When Aske stopped him, saying shortly, ‘Show me the proclamation you say you carry,’ Lancaster fumbled his purse open, and gave him the folded paper.

  ‘Well,’ said Aske, ‘now I will read it.’ And he read it steadily through, loud enough for all to hear, and gave it back to Lancaster, who took it with a snatch.

  ‘In this,’ said Aske, ‘is no cure at all for our griefs, nor even pardon offered, so it shall not need to call counsel for the answer of it, but I will of my own wit give you the answer.’ Then he said:

  ‘Herald, as a messenger you are welcome to me and all my company, who intend as I do. But as for this proclamation, sent from the Lords from whence you come, it shall not be read at the Market Cross nor in any place among my people, which be all under my guiding: it doth not enter into our hearts to fear loss of life, lands nor goods, nor the power that is against us, but we are all of one accord, with the points of our Articles, clearly intending to see a reformation or die in these causes.’

  ‘And what,’ Lancaster asked, ‘are these Articles?’

  ‘I shall tell you,’ said the Great Captain, and he rehearsed those words of the Pilgrims’ Oath which he had written down that night at York. At the end he said: ‘And you may trust to this, for it shall be done, or I will die for it,’ and shut his mouth so hard that the Herald could see the muscles tighten over the jaw bone.

  When he thought over his mission afterwards Lancaster knew it was at this moment that he had begun to feel sure that however boldly the Grand Captain spoke of ‘my company’ and ‘my people’, and however true it might be that the ignorant commons would follow him, yet he had no certainty that those others – my Lord, the Archbishop, and the knights and gentlemen whom he had taken yesterday in Pomfret, and who now listened in silence – were, in their hearts, anything but presse
d men on whom no certain dependence could be put. And with that there came into the Herald’s mind a way to reward this proud and traitorous Captain’s insensate pride.

  ‘Sir,’ said he, in a tone at once more courteous and more easy than he had yet used, ‘I would ye should give me these Articles in writing, for my capacity will not serve to bear away the whole tenour of them.’

  ‘With a good will,’ said the Grand Captain, and – ‘Who has a copy of the Oath? For—’ he explained to Lancaster, ‘the Articles are comprehended therein,’ and he turned to the table behind and began hunting among the papers there. As his back was turned Lancaster could smile; it was a pretty thing to see the fellow walking into a trap that a wiser and a humbler man would have shunned. But he was properly grave when he took the paper from the Grand Captain’s hand, and asked:

  ‘Will you, Sir, set your hand to this bill?’

  For an instant then he doubted whether indeed the man was not aware of the trap, so sharp and scornful was his look. Lancaster tried, but could not continue, to meet his eye, as the Great Captain, stooping, twitched the paper from his hands and turned away to shove aside some of the clutter on the table, take up a pen and bend over the writing; in the silence they could hear how hard he drove the quill.

  ‘And,’ said he when he had done, in a great voice that rang in the vaulting of the room, ‘this is mine act, whoever shall say to the contrary.’

  Lancaster made himself glance up; but the Grand Captain’s eye was not on him. Once more he was looking beyond the Herald, with a dark, hard stare, and a set mouth, to where my Lord Darcy and the others sat.

  When the Grand Captain had gone out of the room, himself leading Lancaster Herald by the arm to see him safely out of the gate, the others melted away too, leaving alone the Archbishop, Lord Darcy and Sir Robert Constable. It was the Archbishop who spoke first, crying out that it was not well that Master Aske – ‘The Grand Captain,’ Darcy put in, and no one could tell against whom the irony of his voice was directed – ‘The Grand Captain, as he calls himself,’ said the Archbishop. ‘He doth not well to speak rebellion so openly, saying that he will see a reformation or die in these causes. And saying that the commons shall to London to the King’s Grace. It’s treason against the King’s person.’