Long Will Part 54

"The people have shed blood in the church!"

"Sire, punis.h.!.+"

"Who will save us?--The Archbishop is slain!"

Then did Richard light down off his horse and kissed the cross; and my Lord Buckingham, the King's uncle,--that strong man,--burst into tears and ran into the church. And presently, all those great n.o.bles and puissant gentlemen were within, running up and down with tears and sighs to kiss and clasp the shrines and the most holy relics, sobbing and shuddering liker to weak women than warriors; striving as who should kneel more close to holiness,--and all the tombs and sacred places wet with their weeping. King Richard knelt to pray at the Confessor's shrine and bade call a father to confess him his sins, which when he had done, the King went out soberly to his horse. And all this while Stephen stood without the church holding the King's horse by the bridle. So when the King was in his saddle they two waited silent, and one after one the knights and n.o.bles came forth; and 't would seem they were greatly strengthened by those prayers and confessions, for now they spoke together somewhat concerning ways and means.

"If the peasants can be drawn forth of the city and the gates closed, sire," said Walworth, "methinks we may hold against them. There be many loyal citizens of London, and many more since yesterday, for there begin to be murmurings against Wat Tyler."

"My Lord Mayor," said Buckingham harshly, "you will do well to remember that one walketh at the King's bridle who maketh boast to serve these rebels."

"I am the King's servant likewise," said Stephen.

"Were the good Archbishop on live," quoth Salisbury very grave, "I make no doubt he would say a man may not serve two masters."

"The King and the people are one, my lord."

There was a murmur, yet none dared speak openly his discontent.

Then said Richard, nor turned his face to right nor left but rode straight forward: "The King is the people."

Nevertheless, neither Stephen nor the n.o.bles might read his meaning, and 't were marvel if himself knew what he would do.

So they rode again through Temple Bar, but at Lud Gate they turned northward without the city wall and on past New Gate, where peasants followed them. And when they had pa.s.sed by Saint Bartholomew's they came into Smithfield, and the people were pressed together, a mighty throng, at one side of the open square and beyond. But Will Langland was not with the peasants at this time; he knelt in his cot on Cornhill by the side of his wife, chaunting a prayer for the dead, and his daughter was on her knees at the other side, and there burned tall tapers at head and foot of the bier. It may well be that those deeds which befel at Smithfield had not befallen thus and so if Will Langland and his daughter Calote had been in that company; but as concerning these things, who shall prophesy?

Now what followeth is known right well of all the world, to wit, that part that is writ in the chronicles, as how Wat Tyler came across the square sole alone to have speech of the n.o.bles; and this he did without fear, being upholden by that law of chivalry whereby a herald and a messenger may not be evil entreated of an enemy; and these were knights and gentles, flow'r of chivalry, wherefore though Wat Tyler loved them not at all, yet did he trust them. Nevertheless, he spake too bold, with a brawling tongue and small courtesy. He made plain that he would be master, and the people was minded to rule England.

"Give me the King's dagger!" quoth he curt; and Richard gave his dagger into his squire's hand and bade him give to Wat Tyler; and Stephen did the King's bidding. Good Mayor Walworth, at the King's right hand, swelled purple, and those others, n.o.bles, cursed betwixt their teeth.

Then said Wat Tyler: "I will have the King's sword."

"Nay, Wat, art mad?" protested Stephen. "This is majeste, have a care!"

"Let him take the sword an he will," said the King, and Wat Tyler put forth his hand to take it, but the Lord Mayor might not any longer withhold his wrath, and on a sudden he had struck Wat, who fell down off his horse; and, hatred being let loose, those knights and n.o.ble gentlemen immediately stabbed him so that he died. Then looked they one on another, and on this man that had trusted them. And into their shamed silence came voices of the peasants across the square.

"What 's to hap?"

"They are making him a knight!"

"Yea, yea!"

"I saw the blow!"

"Nay, hath fallen."

"Treason!"

"Wat!--Treason!"

"Slain!"

As they were carven in stone those n.o.bles stood, white horror stiffened on their faces, to see a thousand bowstrings drawn as one, and deadly long-bows bent;--'t would seem all England held her breath awaiting chaos. Then King Richard, that fair child, true son of Plantagenet, rode out into that moment's tottering stillness, alone, with his face set towards those thousand straining arrows.

"I am your leader!" he cried, "I am your King!" and came into their midst smiling.

They leaped about him crying and singing, as 't were his valour had made them drunk. A-many broke their bows in twain across their knees.

As on the Friday at Mile End, so now they kissed his feet; blessings went up as incense. And he laughed with them and wept and called them brothers.

"This is to be a king!" he cried with arms uplift to heaven. For he knew that he was ruler of England in that hour.

A little while he stayed with them, their eyes wors.h.i.+pful upturned ever to his as he rode hither and yon in the press, their voices, gladsome wild, ever in his ear, till the spell of their love so wrought with him that he was made a lover. In his heart Mercy and Truth were met together, Rightwisness and Peace had kissed. If his people had wronged him, he knew it not; Love sat in the seat of Memory, Suspicion had drunk a sleeping potion.

"This is to be a king!" cried Richard.

"'Then came there a king, knighthood him led, Might of the commons made him to reign.'"

And John Ball at his stirrup said, also out of the Vision:--

"'Love is leech of life and next our Lord's self, And also the straight way that goeth into heaven.'"

"Heaven?" murmured Richard, and after very soft, twixt prayer and amaze, "Thy kingdom come."

So he turned about and rode at a slow pace, as one in a dream, across the square to his n.o.bles, and there was on his face a s.h.i.+ning look as of one who seeth a vision.

"This is the bravest man in all England to-day, and he is our King,"

said old Salisbury, and Richard smiled, eyes and mouth radiant, flas.h.i.+ng as the sun.

Then said Mayor Walworth, who was ever a blunt man, "Now will I ride swift into the city, sire, and man the wards and bring hither Sir Robert Knollys, and his retainers shall surround these fellows and break their pride."

Richard turned to look on the Mayor, the smile fading. As one that waketh out of a sweet dream and encountereth the old perplexity he had thought was laid, so Richard stared; and there grew in his eyes a look of fear.

"What need?" he said, and drew rein as he would scape anew to his people.

Then came the Earl of Salisbury close, and who had looked in the old man's face the while he spoke to Richard might not fail to see a great pity therein.

"Sire," he said, and the pity was in his voice likewise,--"sire, 't were not wise these peasants come again into the city. They have wrought too great havoc; we may not trust them."

As one who strives to gather his wits Richard sat, with dumb eyes fixed on the old Earl. His lip quivered.

Salisbury began anew, very patient and soft, as one speaketh to a creature that is frighted, or to a child: "My lord, the people have obtained that they asked, now they ought to disperse and wend them homeward. To this end 't were well thou lead them out into the fields to speed them on their way."

"Yea," Richard answered slow. "Then what need of Sir Richard Knollys and his retainers?"

"The men of Kent must go again through London to cross the river by the Bridge,--bethink thee of yesterday, sire"--

"Yesterday is dead!" the boy cried. "I and my people are at peace!"

"Natheless, sire, hearts are as tinder."