Everyman, I will go with thee, and be thy guide,
In thy most need to go by thy side.

This is No. 328 of Everyman's Library. A list of authors and their works in this series will be found at the end of this volume. The publishers will be pleased to send freely to all applicants a separate, annotated list of the Library.

J. M. DENT & SONS LIMITED
10-13 BEDFORD STREET LONDON W.C.2

E. P. DUTTON & CO. INC.
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EVERYMAN'S LIBRARY

EDITED BY ERNEST RHYS

FICTION

LONG WILL

BY FLORENCE CONVERSE

All rights reserved
Made in Great Britain
at The Temple Press Letchworth
and decorated by Eric Ravilious
for
J. M. Dent & Sons Ltd.
Aldine House Bedford St. London
First Published in this Edition 1908
Reprinted 1911, 1917, 1919, 1923, 1926
1929, 1933

EDITOR'S NOTE

This story forms a very tempting by-way into the old English life and the contemporary literature which gave us Chaucer's Canterbury Tales and Langland's Vision of Piers Plowman. It deals with those poets and with many figures of the fourteenth century whose names still ring like proverbs in the twentieth—Wat Tyler and Jack Straw, John Wycliff, John of Gaunt, and Richard II.—and it summons them to real life in that antique looking-glass of history which is romance. It begins in its prologue very near the evil day of the Black Death, when the fourteenth century had about half run its course; and in its epilogue it brings us to the year when the two poets died, barely surviving the century they had expressed in its gaiety and its great trouble, as no other century has ever been interpreted. To read the story without wishing to read Chaucer and Piers Plowman is impossible, and if a book may be judged by its art in provoking a new interest in other and older books, then this is one of an uncommon quality. First published in 1903, it has already won a critical audience, and it goes out now in a second edition to appeal to a still wider public here and in America.

April 1908.

To ..........

Lo, here is felawschipe:
One fayth to holde,
One truth to speake,
One wrong to wreke,
One loving-cuppe to syppe,
And to dippe
In one disshe faithfullich,
As lamkins of one folde.
Either for other to suffre alle thing.
One songe to sing
In swete accord and maken melodye.
Right-so thou and I good-fellowes be:
Now God us thee!

HY I move this matere is moste for the pore,
For in her lyknesse owre lord ofte hath ben y-knowe."

The Vision Concerning Piers Plowman.
B. Passus XI.

Contents

PROLOGUE

am Ymagynatyf,' quod he, 'idel was I nevere.'"

The Vision Concerning Piers Plowman.
B. Passus XII.

I

The Lark and the Cuckoo

HERE were a many singers on the hill-top. They twittered in the gorse; they whistled from the old hawthorn tree, amid the white may; they sprang to heaven, shaking off melody in their flight; and one, russet-clad, lay at his length against the green slope, murmuring English in his throat.

“'T was in a May morning,” he said, “'T was in a May morning,”—and he loitered over the words and drew out the “morwening” very long and sweet. Then, because there was a singing mote of a lark in the misty blue above him, his own song dropped back into his breast, and he waited.

He was young and lank, and his hair was yellow-red. He followed the lark up into the bright heaven with wide, unblinking eyes. The bird fell to earth; somewhere unseen a cuckoo chanted. Three sheep on the brow of the hill moved forward, slowly feeding.

“'T was on a May morning, on the Ma'vern Hills,” whispered the singer, “on the Ma'vern Hills;” and he fell in a dream.

The Great Hill of the Malverns stood over against the dreamer, a bare, up-climbing majesty, a vasty cone, making its goal in long green strides. Below, a wrinkle hinted a pass, and on the high flat saddle between the Great Hill and the Small, the grass was trodden, albeit not worn away. A bell called softly from a valley hidden eastward; and up from the southwest, slantwise across a corner of the hill, a child came running into the dream, a gay lad in scarlet hosen and a green short coat, and shoes of fine leather. His eyes made a wonderment in his face, but his lips curled a smile at the wonder. A dark elf-lock danced on his forehead.

The dreamer moved no whit, but waited, level-eyed.

“What be these tricks?” cried the child in a voice betwixt a laugh and a gasp. “I saw thee from yonder hill, and thou wert distant a day's journey. Then the bell rang, and lo! I am here before the clapper 's swung to rest.”

He in the russet smiled, but answered nothing.

The little lad looked down and studied him. “I 've missed my way,” he said.

“What is thy way?”

“'T was the way o' the hunt, but marry, now 't is the way of a good dinner,—and that 's a short road to the Priory. I am of Prince Lionel's train.”

“Ay,” returned the other, as who should say, “No need to tell me that;” and he added presently, “The hunt is below in the King's Forest; how art thou strayed? Thou 'rt midway the top o' the Great Hill.”

The child laughed, but, though his eyes were merry, yet were they shy, and the red mounted to his brow. He came a pace nearer.

“I made a little rondel to my lady; and it must be as my thought flew up, so clomb my feet likewise, and I was not aware.”

He plaited his fingers in his belt and flushed a deeper red, half proud and half dismayed of his confession. “I trust thee for a secret man, shepherd,” he added.

The eyes of the dreamer laughed, but his lips were circumspect. He sat up and nursed his knee with his two long arms.

“Ay, of a truth, a secret man, young master; but no shepherd,” he answered.

The little lad eyed him, and questioned with a child's simplicity, “What art thou, then?”

The youth looked onward to the Great Hill. “I know not, yet,” he said.

So for a little space he sat, forgetful of his questioner, until the child came close and sat beside him, laying one hand upon his arm and looking up to his face thoughtfully.

“Thou long brown man, it may be thou 'rt a poet,” he said at last.

“It may well be,” the dreamer acquiesced, and never turned his eyes from the green hill.

“In London, at the court of the king, there be poets,” the child continued; “but thou art of quite other fashion. Who is thy lady-love?”

“Saint Truth,” the brown boy answered gravely.

“Saint—Truth!” repeated the child; “and is she dead, then?”

“Nay, I trow not; God forbid!”

“I marvel that thy lady chide thee not for thy mean apparel. In London is not a friar plays his wanton lute beneath a chamber window but he goeth better clad than thou.”

“Hark you, young master, I follow not the friars!” the dreamer cried with a stern lip. “And for my lady, she careth for naught but that my coat be honestly come by. So far as I may discover, she hath not her abode in the king's palace.”

“Forsooth, a strange lady!” said the child; and then, leaning his head against that other's shoulder, “Poet, tell me a tale.”

“I pipe not for lordings, little master,” the youth returned, anger yet burning in his eyes.

“Nay, then, I 'm no lord,” laughed the child; “my father is a vintner in London. He hath got me in Prince Lionel's household by favour of the king; for that the king loveth his merchants of the city; and well he may, my father saith. There be others, lordings, among the children of the household; but I am none. I am a plain man like to thee, poet.”

The dreamer shook his head with a mournful smile. “Not so close to the soil, master merchant, not so close to the soil. I smell o' the furrow.”

“Nay, I 'm no merchant, neither,” the lad protested. “Hark in thine ear, thou long brown stranger,—and I 'll call thee brother! My lady saith I 'll be a poet. She 's a most wise and lovely lady. Come,—tell me a tale!”

“I am no troubadour,” sighed the brown youth; “I know one tale only, and that is over long for a summer day.”

But the child was angered; his eyes flashed, and he clenched one hand and flung it backward, menacing:—

“I 'll believe thou mockest me,” he cried. “Lying tongue! No poet thou, but a lazy hind.”

Then the gray, smouldering eyes of the dreamer shot fire, and a long brown arm jerked the lad to his knees.

“I tell no lies. My lady is Saint Truth,” the dreamer said. “Poet or no poet, as thou wilt, I 'll not gainsay thee. But a truthteller ever.”

A little lamb that strayed near by looked up with startled face, and scampered down the hill, crying “Ba-a-a!” The huntsman's note came winding up from the green depths. The child arose and dusted his knees.

“There be poets that yet lie amazingly,—and boast thereof,” he observed shrewdly; “but now I rede thy riddle of Saint Truth. 'T is a sweet jest. I love thee for it, and by that I know thee for a poet. Tell me thy tale, and we 'll be friends again. Of a surety thou art no hind; Prince Lionel's self is not more haughty of mien than thou. Sing then, poet,—smile!”

The dreamer cleared his brow but half unwillingly: “Who could not choose but smile on such a teasing lad?” he asked; and then, "My tale is but begun, and what the end shall be, or whether there be an end,—who shall say? Hearken!

"In a summer season when soft was the sun,
I set me in a shepherd's coat as I a shepherd were;
In the habit of a hermit, yet unholy of works,
Wandered I wide in this world wonders to hear.
But in a May morning on Malvern Hills
There befel me a wonder, wonderful methought it;
I was weary of wandering and went me to rest
Under a broad bank by a burn side,
And as I lay and leaned and looked on the waters,
I slumbered in a sleep"—

“No, no! not thus, not thus!” cried out the child on a sudden; “never thus! An thou come to court they 'll not hearken thy long slow measures. Thou shalt make thy verses the French way, with rhyme. Needs must thou learn this manner of the French ere thou come to court.”

“I have no mind to come to court,” the dreamer answered. “I have no mind to learn the manner of the French. There be a many souls in England that know not such light songs. It is for them I sing,—for the poor folk in cots. Think you that a poet may sing only for kings?”

“Nay, I trow he singeth neither for kings, nor for any manner wight, but for his own soul's health,‘ quoth the child right solemnly; ’and yet, 't were well for him if he have the good will of a king. My rhymes will not match an my belly be empty. But tell on thy tale. I like thine old fashion of singing.”

And he listened the while the poet told of a high tower called Truth, and an evil place to the north, where the devil dwelleth,—and a great plain between. And here foregathered all kind of people that ever were in this world,—pardoners, and merchants, and knights, and friars, and cooks crying “Hot pies—hot!”—and fine ladies. And all these listened to Repentance that preached them a sermon.

The child laughed out aloud. “Thy men are puppets, O poet!” he cried. “Where is the breath of life in them? Didst never see a man, that thou canst make him so like to a wooden doll? The stone abbot down yonder, on his tomb in the Priory, is more alive than these. Hast seen the Miracle Play in Paul's Churchyard at Whitsuntide? There will be a crowd alive for thee. Hast never seen the 'prentices breaking each other his pate of a holiday in London streets? There be men! Thine are a string o' names my lord Bishop might be a-reading before the altar to shame their owners.”

“Men be but little more than names for me, young master. I dwell among the hills. I know the sheep, the birds I know,—and Brother Owyn in the Priory, that learned me to sing.”

Again the child laughed. “And wilt thou sing o' the bare hill-tops, and the sheep? Poets must sing of a fair launde where flowrets blossom,—of a green pleasaunce,—of my lady's garden. But here 's a waste! What wilt find for a song? And under, in the King's Forest, 't is a fearsome place at nightfall. Come thou to court, to London, brother. I 'll show thee the king's gardens. I 'll show thee men! I 'll teach thee the French manner.”

A lark ran up the sky a-caroling, and the child and the dreamer waited with their two heads thrown backward, watching. Then, when the bird was nested, the child leaped up and waved his little arms, his eyes shone, and “I 'll sing like to that one,” he cried; “I 'll soar very high, and sing, and sing, the world beneath me one ear to hearken. Let us be larks, brother!”

But the dreamer shook his head. “I am the cuckoo. I sing but two notes, and them over and over,” he answered mournfully.

The little lad caught up the fantasy and played with it betwixt his ripples of sweet laughter. “A brown bird, and it singeth hid,—two soft and lovely notes. Nay, come thou to London and turn nightingale.”

“Alas!” said the dreamer, and again, “Alas!”

And the Priory bell rang soft in the valley, ten clear strokes.

“Dinner!” exclaimed the child, “and my lady's rondel lacking of three rhymes!”

“Yon 's the pass,” said the dreamer, “between the two hills. 'T is a straight road.”

“Ay, and a long one, is 't? And the monks feed fast, and clean the platter.”

“Nay, 't is nearer than thou deem'st. Thy legs will carry thee to the gate ere the first dish is empty. The mist that is ever on Ma'vern Hills, even though the sun shine, maketh a near thing stand afar off. Haste thee! And hearken; to-night, an thou 'lt have a merry tale of a Green Knight and Sir Gawaine of Arthur's Court, see thou beseech Brother Owyn. Himself hath been a knight one while.”

The lad was twinkling down the pass, when he turned about, and “God keep thee, cuckoo!” quoth he.

“God keep thee, little lark!” said the dreamer.

II

The Hills

HERE are four chief hills of the Malverns: a round hill, a high hill, a long hill, and a green deep-furrowed stronghold whither the desperate Britons withdrew them once on a time, shrinking within the greedy clutch of Rome. And here they beaconed the warning to their fellows in the plain; and here they fought the losing battle, and here, in the grassy upward-circling trenches, they laid them down to sleep their last sleep.

But of these and their well-nigh forgotten defeat the dreamer recked little as he lay on the sun-warmed slope of the Round Hill. He looked inward, as dreamers will; and onward, as dreamers should; but backward, not yet. The past was a bit of yellow parchment at the bottom of an oak chest in the scriptorium of Malvern Priory. The dreamer had touched it reverently, as one touches a dead thing, and laid it away again. And Brother Owyn, looking on, had sighed. He too had his dreams, but they came out of the joy and the sorrow that lay at his back. Brother Owyn had chosen to live as one dead, but he could not slay his past.

“I will sing of life that is, and is to come. I will prophesy!” said the dreamer to Brother Owyn; and he went forth on the hills to wait for the Still Small Voice. But a little child came upon him and convicted him of his youth; and he was left on the hillside troubled, discomfited, uncertain.

So, presently, he arose and skirted the slope to the flat saddle, and set his face toward the summit of the Great Hill, and climbed up thither with the long steady stride of one who knows the ground beneath his feet. Straight up he went, a smooth green way for the most part, with bare bones of rock breaking through here and there. He had his world before him at the top, his little world of hill and river and plain, all misty dim about the edges, or where the edges must have been, all blue with the haze, and something like the sea. Close under the hill the brown church of the Priory stood up proudly, out of the midst of its lesser halls, its kitchen and guesten house. And all round and about the King's Forest billowed away into the mist, east and south. Neglected tillage, here and there a farm cut out of woodland, bubbled up on little low near hills to westward; and in the north,—its roof a sun-glance and its tower a shadow,—the cathedral of Worcester rose, very far, very faint behind the veil of Malvern mist,—and yet, a wonder in the plain.

The dreamer looked to east and west and north, and down the ridge of the little range to the south; and then, because it was given him to know that he should go away and leave all this, and mayhap never look on it again, he lay down with his face in the short grass, shutting out all; and so was silent a long while.

The wind blew strong from the northeast, lifting his heavy hair; the Priory bell rang eleven; and the dreamer arose and went onward along the ridge, Hereford way. He did not cease to speak in a low brooding voice as he strode, for that was his solitary hill-fashion; and if ever he was at pause in the way he cast out his arms to right and to left, or clasped them on his breast; or he would lift up his young troubled face to the sky.

“O my lady, Saint Truth,” he murmured, “I am not afraid,—but of myself only.” And he went more slow, sinking his head on his breast.

“There be two kind of poets: and one dwelleth in monastery and maketh long tales of saints, or it may be he furbisheth old matter of history. But this is not my place. And another sort abideth in a king's palace; he is a jongleur, and deviseth merry tales of love, and adventure of war, to please the ladies in hall. But I am not of these neither.”

Then after a little space the dreamer flung out his right hand and spoke aloud with a great passion, saying:—

“The people are dead of the pestilence, and they that live will die, for they starve and the lord of the manor refuseth them bread. But how shall one man drive three ploughs? His wife hungers and his sons are born dead. Who shall help him?”

And hereupon he smiled, but a sound as of tears was in his voice, and—

“Lo! here is matter for a new song!” cried he; “Shall I sing it, Dame Truth,—shall I sing it? Yea, the little lad spake well. For my soul's health I will.”

He drew his arm across his eyes, as who should clear away a mist. “Now lead me down into the valley, O Truth, where the world dwelleth! I will follow. I will come down from the hill-top. Men shall be more than a name for me before I am done. A child hath found me out.”

He had gone over upon the west side of the ridge a little way, and between him and the pearl-tinged rampart of the Welsh mountains were many little hills and cup-like valleys; and in a valley of these a single ploughman ploughed. And the midday sun was hot.

The dreamer drew in his breath a long way, a-gazing; but then he lifted an arm straight out and pointed with his finger. “Yon 's a man,” he said, “no name only, but a very man; my bloody brother. Now answer for me, Peter, that I do know thee, body and soul. Have I not dwelled with thee? Did I not cover up thy face when thou wert dead? Oh, here 's a very simple and true piece of God's handicraft I 've watched in the making. Little lad, an I chose to sing o' the ploughman thou 'lt never say puppet! An' I chose—An' I chose?—A-ah! Here 's no choosing! I see! I see!”

And anon, in the glory of that vision, he forgot himself, and cried out: “Lord, send a great singer to sing this song!”

He stood with both his arms flung up to heaven, and his head went backward as at that other time when he had watched the lark. The brightness of the noonday sky, and something inward, made his face to shine. So, for a moment, he rested, and then plunged upward, forward, on the ridge again, swiftly, with a flying motion in his skirts. But for the rest of that day, until the hour came when he kneeled down to pray, his lips were sealed; only his wide, unwavering eyes spake the vision.

The sky thickened toward afternoon, and the dreamer, wandering in the valley to the southwest of the Long Hill, had got beyond the sound of the Priory bell. In the wood where he lay the ground was blue with hyacinths; the cuckoo called, and called, and called again; and the thrush quavered. When he came out into the open the sun hung low in the west, a dull red ball, mist-swathed; and presently it was snuffed out and the dreamer was circling up and up in the green trenches of the British camp. Night, and a struggling, cloud-baffled moon found him at the summit, on his knees, facing east; and now he prayed very earnestly.

“Lord Jesus, Prince of poor men, let me be thy jongleur, for all poor men's sake! With their misfortune am I right well acquaint. I have dwelled in their cots. I have eat of their hard bread of pease. How shall the king know this, that sleepeth within silken curtains? But kings give ear to a poet; ladies weep over a sad tale in hall. Who shall sing this song if not I? Lord, I will go forth and learn a way to set these matters straight. I will sing this in my song: how to live well, so that poor men be not so cast down, as now they are. Sweet Jesu, I will not cease to sing this one song. I will tell my tale, and the king shall find a way to succour his poor men. Now glory be to God, and praise and thanksgiving, that He hath given me a vision. For my brother's sake I sing; he is dumb; he is so fast in prison that he cannot get forth; but I will sing beneath his window, and the Lord shall show him a way. The poor man shall kiss the king and eat at his high table. Thanks be to God, and glory and praise! O Jesu, God the Word, make my whisper a mighty voice! Bless me, Lord; bless thy singer!”

And now the dreamer crossed himself and went down over the edge and lay in a trench, sleeping and waking the night through.

III

Kingdoms Not of This World

ROTHER Owyn sat in the cloister-garth in the shadow of the sun-dial, his little colour-pots on a flat stone beside him, his vellum on a board across his knees. A ring of narcissus-flowers, close-planted round the sun-dial, starred the edge of his black gown.

Brother Owyn was a poet, and the prior of Malvern had found this out. When less favoured brothers grumbled the abbot chid them with, “What need hath a copy-clerk of sunshine and fair flowers to fresh his wit,—that hath no wit? But how may a true poet, and a right true romancer, make his melody with the din of a dozen schoolboys knocking at his ear?” And for this cause did Brother Owyn sit with his feet among the narcissus-flowers.

Here he had written at the bidding of the prior—but this prior was a dull man—two homilies: the one concerning Chastity, which was a virtue wherein Brother Owyn excelled,—and this the prior knew, for he had confessed him; the other concerning Patience, wherein Brother Owyn excelled not at all, and none knew this better than himself,—albeit he passed for a patient man. But, indeed, there was little known of Brother Owyn among the brethren. They said that no man might so tell the stormy mishap of Jonah, except he had sailed the sea; and no man might so sing Belshazzar's Feast except he had dined in a king's palace; and when they had heard the tale of Sir Gawaine and the Green Knight, they averred that haply Brother Owyn came of Arthur's family, and some said that he was own great-grandson to Sir Gawaine. But Brother Owyn never said so. He was abashed that the brethren would hear this tale more often than the homilies.

“I will do penance,” said Brother Owyn, “for that I divert the brethren.”

“Yea,” quoth the prior, “assuredly! Wherefore, copy out this romance, and paint in the beginning of each part an initial letter in gold and scarlet and blue.”—The prior had his gleams in the midst of his dulness.

But the tale that Brother Owyn loved best he had not yet sung to the brethren.

To-day he painted a little picture of a maiden by a river-side, where shining cliffs rose up, and a city shone golden beyond. And these cliffs might well have been the white cliffs of Wales, but they were meant for a more holy place. And the maiden was clad in a white garment with a semblance of pearls at her girdle and on her fair forehead.

"A crown that maiden wore withal
bedecked with pearls, with none other stones,"

whispered Brother Owyn.

"Her look was grave, as a duke's or an earl's;
whiter than whalebone was her hue.
Her locks shone then as bright pure gold,—
loose on her shoulders so softly they lay,"—

There was a trick of his tongue that ever betrayed him that he came out of the west,—and bending, he kissed the little picture where the paint had dried.

From the cloister floated the low, buzzing murmur of children conning a task. This, and the snip-snip of the gardener's shears, were the only sounds. At intervals, good Brother Paul went past the cloister doorway in his slow pacing up and down behind the young scholars. Now and again a lad came out into the garth and crossed the grass to gain Brother Owyn's approval for an illuminated letter, or to have the hexameters lopped off his Latin hymn.

Then, around three sides of the cloister swift footsteps echoed, and the dreamer strode down the school, brushed past Brother Paul, looked out into the garth, and presently stood before Brother Owyn,—the light of the vision shining in his eyes, the mist of the Malverns clinging about his damp hair.

“I go forth a pilgrimage to Truth,” he said.

“And the prior withhold not his blessing,” added Brother Owyn, with a smile.

But the dreamer fell on his knees,—he was past smiling. He laid his hands prayerwise upon the little painting-board; and Brother Owyn, intent upon him wholly, with the loving, expectant eyes of one to whom these raptures were no new thing, yet slipped aside the vellum from the board, lest the picture come to harm from the dew-stained russet.

“I am no monk of Malvern!” cried the dreamer; “neither shall the prior clap me in cloister. I have had a vision. I must sing it.”

“I sing,” said Brother Owyn; and he looked about him at the grass and the cloister walls.

“Yea, of yesterday and its glory,” returned the dreamer. “A tuneful song, whereof the joy and the rightwisnesse is manifest. But to-day and to-morrow are mine to sing. I must go forth to look upon the world and live therein. I have had a vision concerning Peter the ploughman,”—Brother Owyn's eyes laughed mockingly, and his lips curled, also he tapped his foot upon the ground. But the dreamer's eyes were on the narcissus-flowers,—“I have seen him in the forefront of a great train of pilgrimage, of all kind people ever there were in this earth; and he their guide to Truth. He, a poor ploughman! I have seen him where he set all crooked ways straight; and the flower o' knighthood did the bidding o' the ploughman in the vision. Now, tell me,—what abbot is he in all England will give me leave to sing this song over his abbey wall? For he holdeth the land in fee, and the villeins sweat for him.—Nay, more,”—and the dreamer bent his lips to Brother Owyn's ear and sunk his voice,—“I have seen this Piers where he jousted in Jesus' armor, red as with blood,—and in His likeness. Hark you, master, the day is to the poor man. For Jesus Christ, of poor men the Prince,—He saith, 'I am the Truth.'”

“An I knew thee not this five year,” quoth Brother Owyn, “I had said thou art mad,—mad from very pride. The ploughman a leader of men! Wilt thou bring chaos about our ears? Oh, boy, foolish and proud! God hath ordered the way of man and it is thus and so. He is Emperor of heaven and earth, and Christ is King's Son of heaven and sitteth up on high at the right hand of the Father. Of right royal human seed he springeth, David's seed,—born in David's city. At His name every knee shall bow. Kings have worshipped Him a babe. What! wilt thou strike down the very immutable and fixed laws of God Himself whereby He hath ordained that kings shall reign? Prate not to me of poor men. Yea, there shall be hewers of wood and drawers of water.”

Then said the dreamer: “Whether is greater, he that sitteth at meat or he that serveth?”

“The king is the perfectest servant,” cried Brother Owyn, “but the king is king, he is no dullard serf. The King's Son came to earth and put on this garment of a poor man, and for this reason wilt thou say the poor man shall wear the garment of the king? Thou art no schoolman.”

“Ah, master, master, this that thou sayst I said it again and yet again to mine own self,‘ the dreamer sighed; ’for what know I of life wherein is no kings and no knighthood? Verily it is thus and so; God made the king. So did I cry to the vision, wrestling the night through on the misty hill. I cannot see clear, but whether I be convinced or no, the vision hath conquered and I must sing it. The ploughman knoweth the way to truth; the king shall crave his company.”

“Nay, thou dost not see clear. I doubt me if ever thou wilt,” said Brother Owyn. “Thou hast got the Malvern mist in thy head, boy. Who shall profit by a vision in a mist?”

“'T is larger than life, seen thus,” quoth the dreamer. “Natheless, let me go forth into a new land. How may I rid me of the mist if I dwell within it? Let me go to London, and if the vision fade, if it be proven a temptation, I 'll cast it from me. How may I know men in the wilderness? How may I touch their hearts if I know them not?”

Brother Owyn smiled and laid his hand upon the dreamer's shoulder: “And art thou crying out for knowledge of men?—Thou that fleest into the hills if a merchant ask night's shelter of the prior, thou that hast played truant these three days because, forsooth, the young Prince Lionel and his train are come hither to hunt in the King's Forest?”

The dreamer hung his head: “Yet must I go,” he said. “There came a little lad across the round hill yesterday,—a very manikin of wisdom with the heart of a child,—no doubt they breed such in palaces. He boasted himself a poet and would have me tell him a tale. He quarrelled with the measure, his ear being attuned to French foibles, but for that I care not; but he saith my men be no better than dolls of wood.—Master, 't is a true word. Whether the vision be false or no, God will discover to me; but this, that I am not fit to touch men's hearts, because I am stranger to them,—thou knowest. The little lad turned away from my tale. He laughed.—Thou hast seen thy world. Thou hast a tale to tell. But I,—what may I sing but the mist? Hark you, Brother Owyn, I shall bring naught of glory to Malvern Priory till I be let forth. Say this to the prior.”

“There is wisdom in it, truly,” said the monk. “Thou art not all fool, and poet. Natheless, thou canst not come at knowledge my way. What I was needs not to remember, but I was not such as thou, I climbed not upward to my present estate. But thou must climb through the church, 't is thy one way. With thy little learning what art thou fit for else? Doth it suit thee to turn ploughman?”

The dreamer looked at his scholar's hands and wiped his scholar's brow: “But I will not climb as a monk,” he cried. “There 's work to do out-o'-doors to make the church clean. Let me go!”

Then Brother Owyn wiped his brushes on the grass and covered his little paint pots; and to a boy that came forth of the cloister he said: “I have business with the prior, keep thy task till I come again;” and rising up he made so as to lay a cloth of fair linen over the little picture.

“Who is 't?” asked the dreamer, and gazing, he minded him of the day when Brother Owyn came first to Malvern Priory. He was a knight that day; his mail was silver; he rode a white horse; in his helmet there was set a great pearl in the midst of a ringlet of gold hair, one ring, as 't were severed from the head of a babe.

“Who is 't?” quoth the dreamer.

And Brother Owyn answered him: “Neither do I write but only yesterdays. I have my vision of the morrow. 'T is of a Holy City, and the Lord is King thereof. 'T is a true vision, for John, the beloved, he had it afore my time.”

“But this is a fair damsel,” said the dreamer.

“This is my little daughter dear, that was dead at two years old. The King hath chosen her for his bride. I live seeking after her.”

“Here, likewise, hast thou fellowship with thy kind,” the dreamer sighed. “Little wonder thy songs touch the hearts of men. Master, thou hast my confession this five year; thou knowest me, that I am no hot man; yet, do I yearn to fathom these mysteries, for fellowship's sake, and to help all them that seek truth. But how may a man climb to fatherhood through Holy Church?”

Brother Owyn laid his hand on the dreamer's lip, and “Hush!” said he; “here's question for one higher than I, and to be spoke whispering. For all the man I am to Godward, am I by the love of a little two years' child, long dead. Go; say thy prayers! I 'll come to thee in the church. Haply the prior may give thee a letter to a London priest, will see thee clerked and set to earn, thy bread.”

But then Brother Owyn looked on the little picture where it lay uncovered, and he said:—

“If thou hast ever a golden-haired daughter, send her hither to tell me wherein God hath blessed thee most.”

And that day the dreamer set forth on his pilgrimage.

PART I

The Malcontents

OR one Pieres the Ploughman hath inpugned us alle."

The Vision Concerning Piers Plowman.
B. Passus XIII.

CHAPTER I

The Miracle

LL the good people, fresh-blessed, came forth into the churchyard with a great pushing and striving. There was a Miracle Play toward, and to stand at the back of five-and-twenty score of tiptoeing Londoners was to see nothing. Sweating shopkeepers jostled and swore, women squealed, and 'prentices drove their elbows into any fat paunch that was neighbourly. Here and there, above the press, a child rode on its father's shoulder, and if 't was a merry child it kicked off the women's headgear and tweaked the ears of Robyn and Hikke and Jack.

“Stand off,—stand off, a four-foot space from Hell Mouth!” cried Beelzebub, coming to earth unexpected; “there be sparks! I 'll not answer for 't if ay one take fire.”

“Look ye, look ye!” roared Sathanas, thrusting up his head, “here's some thieving fellow hath filched my tail while I was to Mass. 'T is a poor jest. Now, by St. Christopher, I swear I say no word o' my part if the tail lack.”

There went up a laugh from the company, and one cried: “Give the dumb beast his tail that he may speak!” And, on a sudden, flew over the heads of the people a something red, in shape like an eel, and fell upon Sathanas' head, whereat he grunted and withdrew head and tail together.

And now Hell Mouth opened and spat fire, and after tumbled forth a rout of devils, big and little, that pranced and mowed, the while the people laughed and cast them back jest for jest. Was one brawny fiend, a blacksmith by trade, that came to the edge of the stage and, looking backward, with chin uppermost, through his squatted legs, set his fingers in the corners of his mouth and his eyes, and did so make of himself a monster that a little maid which stood in the forefront of the multitude must needs shriek and start, so that her kerchief fell awry.

Saith a yeoman, blinking on her ruffled hair: “I cannot see for the sun in my eyen,” and laid his great hand on her fair head that perforce she must turn her face would she or no.

“By St. Jame!” cried the man, thereupon; “here's no ba'rn, but a maid, with a mouth ripe for kissing!” And so bent to taste her lips. But she cried out and struggled to be free, and swift, a gloved hand thrust the yeoman's face aside, and a voice that had a twist of French in it rated him so that he shrank backward glowering.

The blacksmith, meanwhile, being set right side forward, stood nodding a genial horned approval:

“An I had not been so be-twisted, I had given him a crack!” he said, and, turning rueful, added: “Dost not know me, child? I be Hobbe Smith that dwell two doors below thee. I did but mean to make thee merry.”

And the maid gave him a pale smile.

“If thou stand o' this side, out of the press, still mayst thou see,” said he of the gloved hand.

“I came not so close to see the devils,” answered the maid, blushing, “but for that cometh after;” and she followed him apart.

Then come Mercy and Truth across the middle stage, and are met together, and Peace and Rightwisnesse, that kissed the one the other, prating sweetly of Christ risen from the dead. And the devils are begun to make moan, and they have locked Hell Mouth with a great key and laid a bar across. And said this squire that stood beside the maid:—

“By 'r Lady!—who writ this is no common patcher o' miracles, but a true poet!”

“'T is my father,” quoth she.

And he: “Nay, then, I knew thee for a poem. Is thy name Guenevere? Such eyes had Guenevere,—such hair.”

“I am Will Langland's daughter; I am Calote,” she said.

There had lately come two men through the crowd. By their aspect they were not Londoners, yet they seemed acquainted well enough with what they saw. Now one of these, a black-browed fellow with thin, tight lips, large nose, and sallow visage, spoke to the squire, saying:—

“All poets of England do not pipe for John o' Gaunt. This one hath chose to make music for the ears of common folk.”

“Natheless 't is tuned to ears more delicate,” the squire made answer, looking always on the maiden; and then, “Calote, thou sayst? 'T is Nicolette in little, is 't not?” And presently after, “Nicolette had a squire.—I would I were thy squire.”

But Calote had turned her to the Miracle, and the youth saw only a flushing cheek.

“'T is a long while that Mercy and Truth are not met together in England, Jack,” said the countryman to his fellow, sourly.

“Yea, Wat,” the other answered; “and afore Peace cometh War.”

“And afore Rightwisnesse”—said he of the black brows, and paused, and looked about him meaningly, and cast his arms to right and left. And now the Miracle was done, and Christ had narrowed Hell, and sat on high with the Trinity.

CHAPTER II

The Rose of Love

HE bell of Paul's had rung the Angelus an hour past. The gabled shadows of the houses crossed the street slantwise, and betwixt them long pale fingers of evening sunshine brightened the cobbles. Pigeons from the corn market waddled hither and thither in search of dribbled grain,—unreasoning pigeons, these, for of a Sunday no manna fell on Cornhill. The ale-stake above the tavern door rustled in a whisper; 't was a fresh-broken branch, green and in full leaf, set out for this same feast of the Trinity. Calote had caught the withered bough when it fell, and made off with it under the alewife's very nose.

“Little roberd!” Dame Emma cried, “'t would have cooked a hungry man his dinner.”

“And shall!” quoth Calote; whereat the alewife burst out a-laughing and swore she 'd switch her with the new stake. And Calote, like an ant at the end of a long straw, tugged her prize indoors.

The dinner was cooked and eaten by now, and a bit of a supper as well. The long June day was done. Dame Emma came to her tavern door and stood beneath the ale-stake, looking out across to her neighbor's cot, where a yellow-haired maid sat in the window.

“I saw thee in Paul's churchyard, Calote,” Dame Emma called cheerily; and she smiled a sly smile.

“Yea,” said Calote, “methinks all the world was there;” but her colour came.

“He is of the household of the Earl of March; even a kinsman by 's bearing,” renewed Dame Emma.

“I rede not the riddle,” Calote answered her; but Dame Emma laughed.

Then down the middle of the way, to left and right of the runnel ditch, rode three horsemen of sober visage; and though they rode a slow pace, they took no heed of Dame Emma where she stood and cried out:—

“A taste for naught! Come dine! White wine of Oseye! Good ale!”

They held their heads in a knot, speaking soft, and went their slow way down the street.

“They be 'potecaries,” said Calote. “Now the plague is on again we see many such. He of the taffeta-lined gown, with scarlet, is Doctor of Phisick, is 't not so?”

“'T is physician to the Black Prince. Must needs eat at king's table, forsooth!” And Dame Emma flounced her skirts in a huff and turned her indoors.

The shadows faded along with the sunshine. The little maid sat long in the deep window, agaze on the street. Gray were her eyes, dark-lashed, beneath straight brows, pencilled delicately. Slim and small she was, all eyes and golden hair,—the hair that flies out at a breath of wind like rays of light, and is naught of a burden though it fall as far as a maid's knees. A tress flew out of window now, like to a belated sunbeam. The smoke from the tavern turned to rose as it left the chimney mouth. The pink cloud wreathed upward and melted, and wreathed again.

“Oh, father, come and see the tavern-smoke! It groweth out o' chimney-pot like a flower. I mind me of the rose o' love in the Romaunt. 'T is of a pale colour.”

At the far end of the room, in a doorway, his head thrust outward to catch the light, there sat a man with a shaven crown, and thick reddish locks that waved thereabout. His eyes—the long, gray, shadow-filled eyes of Calote—were bent upon a parchment. He wrote, and as his hand moved, his lips moved likewise, in a kind of rhythm, as if he chaunted beneath his breath. A second roll of parchment, close-written, lay beside him on a three-legged stool, and ever and anon he turned to this and read,—then back to the copy,—or perchance he sat a short space with head uplifted and eyes fixed in a dream, his lips ever moving, but the busy hand arrested in mid-air. So sitting, he spoke not at once to his daughter; but, after a space, as one on a hill-top will answer him who questions from below, all unaware of the moments that have passed 'twixt question and reply, he said:—

“The rose of love is a red rose; neither doth it flower in a tavern.” And his voice was of a low, deep, singing sort.

“A red rose,” murmured Calote; “yea,—a red rose. The rose of love.”

Then Calote left the window and went down the dim room. Her feet were bare; they made no noise on the earthen floor.

“Twilight is speeding, father,” said she. “Thou hast writ since supper,—a long while that. Thou hast not spoke two words to thy Calote since afore Mass, and 't is a feast day. Us poor can't feast of victual,—tell me a tale. The tale o' the Rose, and how the lover hath y-kissed it, and that foul Jezebel hight Jealousy hath got Fair-Welcome prisoned in a tower,—a grim place,—the while Evil Tongue trumpeteth on the battlement.”

The dreamer rested his eyes on his daughter's face a tranquil moment, then drew her to his knee and smiled and stroked her hair.

“An thou knowest the Romaunt so well, wherefore shall I tell it thee?” he asked.

“What cometh after, where Reason prateth, I know not. I do never know.”

“Then I 'll not waste raisonable words upon thee,” laughed her father. “Come, tell me of thyself! Was 't a plenteous feast day, or a hungry one?”

“Not hungry,” she cried, with eyes alight. “There was one praised thee. 'T is not every day I taste honey.”

She waited, watching him, but he said nothing; he only leaned his chin upon his hand and looked out of the doorway.

“Thou wilt not ask a share o' my feast? Yet is it all thine,” she coaxed. “If any spake fair words of me, how should I pine to know!” She pressed his face betwixt her two hands and looked close, merrily, into his eyes. “But thou shalt hear, whether or no. Hearken! 'T was in Paul's churchyard where they played the Miracle, thy Miracle, the Harrowing o' Hell,—a yeoman made as he would kiss me,”—

Her father was attentive now; his eyes were sombre.

“I was fair sick with the touch of him. I cried out. And there was one standing by thrust off the yeoman.”

She lost herself, musing. Meanwhile, her father watched her, and presently, “Where is my little feast of praise?” he asked.

She started and took up the tale, but now her eyes were turned from his to the twilight space outside the door, and beyond that, and beyond.

“He was young,” she said,—“he was young; he wore a broidered coat; green it was, all daiseyed o'er with white and pink. He doffed his cap to me,—never no one afore did me that courtesy. He wore a trailing feather in his cap. 'If thou stand o' this side, out o' the press, still mayst thou see and hear,' saith he. And after, he saith 't was no common patcher, but a poet, wrote that Miracle. And I did tell him 't was my father. Then he would have my name as well, and, being told, he must needs recall how Nicolette, in that old tale, had a squire. He saith—he saith—'I would I were thy squire.'”

“Anon?” her father questioned, rousing her.

“Is no more to tell: 't was the end o' the Miracle.”

“A poor maid in a cot may not have a squire.” said Will Langland slowly.

“I know that right well; and yet I know not wherefore,” she answered; and now she turned quite away her face, for that her lip trembled.

He made no answer to her wistful question, and there was silence between them while the twilight deepened. But she was busy with her thoughts meanwhile.

“Father,” she began, and laid her hand upon the written parchment by his side, “father,—here in the Vision, thou dost write that the ploughman knoweth the truth. He is so simple wise he counselleth the king how to renew his state which is gone awry. If the knight do the bidding of the ploughman, wherefore shall not Piers' daughter wed the son o' the knight?”

He looked within her eyes most tenderly, his voice was deep with pity; he held her two hands in his own.

“My Calote,—'t is not King Edward, nor King Edward's son, shall be counselled of the ploughman. 'T is a slow world, and no man so slow as the man at the plough. He hath his half acre to sow. Not in my day, nor in thine, shall the knight bethink him to set the ploughman free for pilgrimage to Truth.”

“But if he read thy Vision, father, he will.”

“The knight is likewise slow, Calote. He believeth not on the Vision. I shall be dead afore that time cometh,—and thou.”

“Yet there be them that say the hour is not far distant when the people shall rise and rule,” she persisted. “Wat Tyler ever threateneth the wrath of the people. He saith the land is full of villeins that have run from the manors, for that the Statute maketh them to labour for slave wage. He saith the people will make themselves free. John Ball goeth about to hearten men to rise against oppression.”

“In my vision I saw neither war nor the shedding of blood,” Langland answered.

“Oh, father!” she cried, and cast her arms about his neck, “art thou content to wait,—so idly?”

“Nay, I am not content,” he said; “I am not content.”

He kissed her and they were silent, thinking their several thoughts, until Calote said:—

“If the knight wed the peasant, and there come a child,—is that a knight or a peasant?”

“Most like the next of kin doth make a suitable complaining to the Pope, and so the child is a bastard.”

“Thou mockest me, father; I see thee smile,” she protested.

“Nay, 't is not thee I mock, my sweet,—not thee. But hark, Calote: this love of knights and damosels is not the one only love. Read thy Reason in the Romaunt,—and she shall tell thee of a love 'twixt man and man, woman and woman, that purifieth the soul and exalteth desire; nay, more: Reason shall tell thee of a love for all thy fellows that haply passeth in joy the love for one. The King's Son of Heaven,—He knew this love.”

“And thou,” whispered Calote.

“I dream more than I love,” he said; “I do consider my passion.”

“Yet is it a very passion, father. Wherefore wilt thou ever humble thyself?”

“And there is a love betwixt the father and the child,” he continued; and those two kissed each other.

“I would know all these loves,” cried Calote.

“Yet wilt thou do well to pray the Christ that no knight come to woo.”

She hung her head; and the long day trembled to latest dusk.

CHAPTER III

They That Mourn

OW as these two sat silent, the door at the far end of the room, looking on Cornhill, opened, and a man came in and shut it again, and stood in the shadow.

“Wat?” said Langland.

“Art thou he men call Long Will?” asked the man out of the dark.

“Yea, I am he. Who art thou that fearest light? I took thee for Wat Tyler that is my friend.”

“I am another friend,” said the man, and came down the room. “My name is Peter. I have run from Devon.”

“So,—Peter!” quoth Langland, and rose up to meet him. “And for that is thy name, and haply thou art a ploughman, dost thou believe that the truth resteth with thee?”

Calote, who knew her father's voice, saw also the grim smile that curled his lip, but the man could not see because of the twilight.

“I believe thou art a true prophet,” he made answer; “I have heard thy Visions; many read them and tell them again.”

“Even so,” retorted the lank priest; “I did not counsel thee to run.”

“Nay, 't was mine own wit counselled me there,” the man replied; “mine own wit, fed on the Statute o' Labourers.”

“'T is famine fare,” said Langland. “Calote, if there be aught in the cupboard, bring it hither.—And now, friend Peter, wherefore art thou come?”

“Lead us poor!” cried the man. “Arise, and strike down the unjust!”

“I am a prophet,” said Langland. “I abide by my calling. Thou must go elsewhere for one shall do deeds. I only prophesy. 'T is safe; and I had ever a gift for song.”

The man lifted an uncertain hand and scratched his rough head. So, for a moment, he stood irresolute. At last he said:—

“I am a dull fellow; but dost thou mock me?”

Then Langland came to him swiftly, pressing his hands on the bowed shoulders and saying:—

“Thou art my brother.”

“'T is a word one understands,” replied the man; “God and Mary bless thee!” and turned at the sound of a footstep. 'T was a woman came in with a bowl in her hands, and Calote followed her, bringing bread.

“This is thy wife Kitte,” said the man, “and this is thy daughter Calote.”

The poet smiled,—“Thou dost read, Peter?”

“Nay, I have a young son will be a parson one day. Thy Vision concerning the ploughman is meat and drink to him.”

“To us, likewise,” said Kitte. “There be days we taste little else; 't is a dish well spiced. Natheless, for this is Holy Trinité, we've fed on whey and bread; it maketh an excellent diversité. Wilt eat?”

As she passed her husband he turned her face to the light, whereat she smiled on him,—and in her smile was yet another kind of love made manifest.

The man ate his bread and whey noisily the while his host leaned against the door-frame. Kitte withdrew into the inner room, and Calote sat in the window looking on the street. The moon rose and cast the poet's shadow thin along the floor. There was a murmur in the street.

“Father,” called Calote, “there is some ill befallen. Men stand about by twos and threes, so late, and speak low. And now,—oh, father!—Dame Emma hath fell a-weeping and shut her tavern door. Here 's Wat!—Here 's Wat and another!”

Two men ran in from Cornhill, hurriedly. They were as shadows in the room until they came to the patch of moonlight, where shadow and substance fell apart.

“The Prince is dead in Kennington Palace,” said the taller, darker man; “the Black Prince is dead!” And he struck the door-jamb with his clenched fist and burst forth into one loud, sharp cry. There was rage in the sound, disappointment, and grief.

“Art silent, thou chantry priest?” said the other man gloomily. “Here 's occasion to ply thy trade; but where 's thy glib prayer for the dead?”

“Who am I that I should pray for this soul?” cried Langland bitterly. “Here 's the one brave man in all England—dead. Now is it time to pray for the living, Jack Straw; for my soul, and thine, and all these other poor, that be orphaned and bereaved o' their slender hope by this death. Oh, friend Peter, thou art run too late from Devon! The doer o' deeds, the friend o' ploughmen and labourers, he is dead.”

“One told me he did not welcome death. He was fain to live,” said Wat Tyler.

“Doth a good prince go willingly into heaven's bliss if he must leave a people perplexed,—a nest of enemies to trample his dreams?” asked the poet.

“I have heard them that served yonder in the war with France, who say the Prince hath a sin or two of 's own to answer for,” said Jack Straw. “Who shall rest secure o' heaven's bliss?”

“Were I so honest a sinner as he that is gone, e'en punishment and stripes were a taste o' blessing!” Langland exclaimed, and bent his head in his hands.

The rustic had stared at one then another of these men, and now he opened his great mouth, and the words came forth clumsily:—

“I be grieved full sore for this death, and for the King's sake that is an old man. Natheless, 't was no prince led the wildered folk in the Vision.”

“Oh, Piers!” said Langland; and suddenly he laughed, and still with eyes bent upon this rude, shock-headed, and slow creature, he laughed, and laughed again, merrily, without malice, like a child.

But Wat Tyler leapt to his feet and paced the room back and forth:—

“'T is a true word,” he cried. “He that delivereth the poor out of his misery shall taste that misery; he shall be one of those poor. Hath the Black Prince encountered cold and hunger as I have so encountered,—not for a siege's space, but to a life's end and with tied hands? Hath he oped his eyen into the world chained to a hand's-breadth o' soil? Nay, England was his heritage, and he had leave to get France likewise, if he might. Can the overlord rede the heart of the villein that feedeth him? The Black Prince hath died disappointed of his kingdom”—

“And thou wilt die disappointed of thine,” said Langland, gravely intent upon him.

“Nay, but I live in disappointment daily,—and Jack Straw, and this honest fellow, and”—

“Who may the honest fellow be?” queried Jack Straw.

This Jack Straw had lint locks that glistened under the moon; the lashes of his eyes were white. His was a dry utterance.

“'T is a villein hath run from his hand's-breadth o' soil,” answered Langland. “One of many.”

“I plough, I reap, I ditch,” said Peter; “somewhile I thatch. I am of Devon.”

“They have a quaint device of thatching in Devon,” quoth Jack Straw.

“Ay, they set a peak like to a coxcomb above the gable. Art a Devon man?” asked Peter eagerly.

“Nay, but I be thatcher. I learned of a Devon man. 'T was the year next after the great pestilence. Like thee, he had run.”

Wat Tyler had been pacing up and down, but now he stood before his host and asked uneasily, albeit his voice was bold and harsh:—

“Will, what's thy meaning,—that I shall die disappointed of my kingdom?”

“Ah, Wat, Wat!” said Langland, “and wilt thou lead the people? And wherefore?”

Jack Straw edged farther within the moonlight and peered into his comrade's dark and lowering countenance:—