CHAPTER V.

We have as yet confined our observations to the bondmen; but in 1381, an act of ill-judged policy of the nine nobles and prelates who formed the council of young Richard gave rise to a sort of coalition among the lower classes. This act was the famous tax of three groats upon every individual who had attained the age of fifteen. The hearth-money, which had been enforced by the Black Prince upon the inhabitants of Guienne, and which had probably formed the precedent for this tax, had not worked well, and there appeared little chance that the present exaction, framed as it was by those who directed the royal councils, would work better. Certain wealthy individuals contracted with the government for the collection of the tax, and private rapacity thus rendered the imposition more obnoxious than it otherwise might have been.

It was on the evening of a feast day, and the day-labourers and villeins around Saint Albans were enjoying the repose, that even in that period of bondage, was never infringed upon, and which, from the frequent recurrence of the festivals afforded a sufficient relaxation from manual exertion to recruit the strength; when suddenly, amidst a group in the market-place, who were discoursing upon the severity of the poll tax, then collecting, appeared John Ball.

"Men and brethren, are ye bond or free?" he abruptly asked, in a deep, solemn voice.

"It matters little, good father," replied a gloomy looking peasant, as he started from the earth where he had been reclining; "the freeman has little to boast of now beyond the villein."

"The freeman shall be righted, and the bondman freed—and then will the mission that has made John Ball for thrice twelve months a homeless wanderer, never resting under the same roof a second night—then will that mission be accomplished—and even if he lay his head upon the block, he will have executed the task allotted to him—will have finished the work he was inspired to begin!"

"The bondman may be freed," replied the man who had before spoken; "but when shall the freeman be righted? I took little heed of these things when I heard you preach freedom to the villeins two years ago: but my children have been sick; my wife has been struck with a palsy; and I, who had not a penny to call my own, gave eleven groats yesterday for myself, my wife, and the two boys; and to-morrow must I sell the last blanket that covers her, to pay the twelfth."

The man turned away as he spoke, and John Ball, whose mission was rather to the serf than the freeman, commenced an harangue to the gathering crowd. His figure, as we have before observed, was imposing; and as his eyes, flashing with an enthusiasm perhaps too ardent to be compatible with sound reason, fell on the numbers who now encompassed him, he looked like one fitted to become the apostle of those who had none to help them.

"The dew of heaven is not for you," he began; "nor is the fat of the land your portion: but I am sent to pour a stream of light into the dark chambers—even to enlighten the soul of the weary bondman. I will sing to them of fearful heart, be strong and fear not; for the high ones of authority shall be hewn down, and the haughty shall lick the dust like serpents. The proud lords amongst us buy up the dastard hirelings with gold and silver, and they clothe them in their livery! They wear the badge of cruelty and oppression in their hats; but we shall tread them down like the mire in the streets. Our king, too, is in bondage, and heareth not the groans of them that are in fetters!—for he is encompassed by the cold and the cruel—but the cold and the cruel shall be swept away. As the gathering of locusts shall we run upon them. Tithes shall cease;—the bondman shall be enfranchised; and the lands apportioned at an easy rent. The proud and rich prelates shall give up their wealth to the sick and the poor, and we will have no clergy henceforth but the order of mendicant priests to administer the sacraments." Thus, and with much more of the doctrine of general enfranchisement and equalization of property harangued the monk; and we need scarcely add, that his words were listened to with breathless eagerness. In fact, so much was he regarded as a prophet, that more than one life had been sacrificed since the commencement of his wanderings, in resisting his capture by the civil authorities.

It was about a fortnight subsequent to this harangue at St. Albans, that John Ball, who had passed on through London, preaching and gaining proselytes in his journey, inhaled, once again, the air of his native valley. His heart bounded, and then sank coldly in his breast, as, on ascending a hill, Winchcombe, with its church, its habitations, and the abbey, that had once been his home, burst upon his sight. It was rather singular, that though the enfranchisement of the bondmen of Sudley had been his darling wish, nay, that even the thought of personal freedom beyond that barony had never crossed his mind until the night of his rude expulsion from Kennington, those very villeins should be the last into whose sluggish veins he should strive to enforce a portion of the warmth that inflamed his own. And yet it was not that the enfranchisement of Sudley was less dear to his heart than it had been; but it was because that little spot of earth was dear to him, that he shrunk from visiting it. He had been there respected and beloved; there, too, had he been degraded and insulted; and that degradation, and that insult, had not been wiped away, and he cared not to appear before his own people thus morally cast down. But the hour had now come. Leycester, the dyer of Norwich, had been appointed king of the commons of Norfolk. Other leaders, too, had been named; and his own native barony must not slumber inert while the rest were running the race.

The shadows of evening were deepening, and the monk still stood gazing upon the town, and living over again the past, when a female with an infant in her arms, and leading a child by the hand, passed by. But she again turned to look upon him, first timidly, then more confidently, till snatching her hand from the slight grasp of the child, she sprung towards him, and sinking at his feet, caught his right hand in both hers, and pressed it to her bosom.

"My sister!" said the monk, bending over her, and blessing her; and after a moment, during which he calmed the agitation of his feelings, he added—"How has it fared with you? Where is Stephen?"

But Margaret was many minutes ere she could do more than kiss his hand, and wet it with her tears. At length, when her emotions of joy and surprise had in some degree subsided, she replied, that Holgrave was still living a villein at Sudley.

"What!" exclaimed the monk—"the smith was indeed told that treachery had betrayed him into the baron's power; but is he chained to the spot—that for three long years he should bear the oppressor's rod?"

"No," replied Margaret: "he would have found some means of getting to the forest; but they hold the villeins bound for him—if he flies, all they possess of crops or cattle will be seized. But here is Stephen. I was just going over the hill to meet him, when I saw you."

Holgrave approached, and was scarcely less surprised than Margaret had been; and when he spoke of the report current, that it was the monk who had gone about striving to burst the chains of bondage, John Ball replied—

"Listen to me, Stephen Holgrave! I went in before the great ones of the land; before him who is appointed ruler of the people, to demand justice; and because I was of the blood of the bond, my prayer was rejected!—because I was born in bondage I was unworthy of the privilege of the free. The finger pointed, the lip scorned, and the tongue derided; and I was driven, amidst the jeers of the scoffer, from the palace of the king. But as I went forth, the spirit came upon me, and I vowed that I would not give rest to my feet until the bondman's fetters should be broken! And they shall be broken! A spirit has been roused that they reck not of—a spirit that will neither slumber nor sleep until he, whose first breath was drawn beneath the thatch of the villein-hut, shall be as free to come and to go as he whose first pillow was of the cygnet's down!—and no man shall say to him, what dost thou?"

But it was not merely Holgrave that the monk was now addressing; two or three passers-by had been attracted. The monk was recognized, and these were commissioned to whisper secretly in the bondman's ear, that he who had baptized their children, and breathed the prayer of faith over their sick beds, and who had wandered through the land, gladdening with the bright promises of hope the soul of the weary and the oppressed, had come once more amongst them to speak of personal enfranchisement, and of rent, instead of the accustomed service for the land they might hold. Father John then withdrew with Holgrave by a private path, to avoid any further interruption.

At an early hour the next morning, it was intimated to Calverley that the barony was all in motion—that the bondmen, and, indeed, all of the labouring class, were gathering, and whispering to each other, and evincing any thing but a disposition to commence their customary toil. These things certainly gave evidence of some extraordinary sensation; and Calverley's first inquiry was, "had any one seen the prophet?"—for such was the appellation by which John Ball was distinguished. No positive information could be obtained; the fact could be merely inferred, and the steward, who was not one to hesitate when an idea struck him, ordering a few retainers to attend him, proceeded to Holgrave's abode. But Holgrave was from home; there was no trace of the monk; and Calverley, knowing that it would be to little purpose to question Margaret, bethought him that the inquisitive Mary Byles might probably be the most proper person to apply to. From those who had crossed his path, he had merely been able to extract a sullen negative: but so well had the secret been kept, that the steward's interrogatory was the first intimation she had received of the probability of John Ball's being in the neighbourhood. However, Mary volunteered, provided Calverley would remain a few minutes, to collect some information. Presently, she returned—John Ball was, indeed, at Sudley! She had herself seen him come out of a cottage; she had beheld him harangue some bondmen who were awaiting his appearance, and after many impassioned words, he had gone on publicly through Winchcombe, with the blessings of the enthusiastic peasantry accompanying him. Calverley started at this information.

"Did you see Holgrave?" he asked, eagerly.

"Yes," replied Mary; "he was by the monk when he stood at the door of the villein's hut, and I dare say he is with him now."

Calverley paused an instant. De Boteler and the baroness were in London—De Boteler, assisting in the councils of Richard, and Isabella, by reason of a vow, that, should there be again a probability of her becoming a mother, she would not trust the life of her child within the walls of Sudley castle;—and he remembered the strict injunction his lord had given him in the case of the disinterment of Edith, not to presume to act again without his authority. He remembered also that he had been much dissatisfied with the result of father John's imprisonment, and also with the mode adopted for recovering Holgrave: but the present was a moment that would warrant decisive measures—so he proceeded to the door, and desired the retainers to follow on to Winchcombe, and seize the monk. But there was an evident unwillingness to obey: the name of John Ball had spread through the land, and there was so much of misty brightness encircling it—so many strange stories were told of him—so mysterious were often his appearings and disappearings—and so high was the veneration his novel doctrines inspired—that even the lawless retainer shrank from periling his soul by molesting so sanctified a being. Besides, the former assault was not forgotten, with all the strange exaggerations which had seemed to render miraculous the circumstance of a handful of men liberating a prisoner.

"My lord has little to expect from the faith of those who are fed and clothed at his hand," said Calverley, indignantly, as he saw, by the hesitation of the retainers, that the capture of the monk was hopeless.

"I would fight for my lord any day," muttered one; "but I don't like meddling with a priest."

"And one, too, who prophesies," said another.

"Peace, babblers!" interrupted Calverley: "my lord shall hear how his retainers act when a seditious shaveling is inciting the villeins to revolt. Are you afraid of meddling with Stephen Holgrave?" he added, looking, with a sneer, at the first speaker.

"I am afraid of no man!" he replied, doggedly.

"Come on then? Let us at least secure him," cried Calverley, bounding forward and followed by the retainers. They hastened on through Winchcombe, and, a little beyond the town, descried the prophet surrounded by a multitude consisting, not only of the men of Winchcombe, who took an interest in the subject, but of numbers residing far beyond.

Calverley pressed forward towards the crowd, and so powerful is the influence of habitual obedience, that he was actually in the midst of them before any disposition to arrest his progress was manifested. But then arose the cry of "The holy father!—the prophet!" and the retainer, who had replied to Calverley, perceiving from the popular movement, the error into which the people had fallen, shouted out "Stand back, men! we will not harm a hair of the prophet's head!—it is Stephen Holgrave we want."

"And will you allow Stephen Holgrave, who has tarried a willing prisoner—"

"No! no! no!" from a hundred voices, overpowered the address of John Ball.

"Away! Holgrave, away! we hold you free!" And Holgrave, taking advantage of the opportunity, withdrew from the side of John Ball, and springing on the back of an offered steed, was presently beyond reach of pursuit, even had pursuit been attempted.

But Calverley was so mortified on being thus baffled, and so thoroughly convinced of the inutility of opposing the popular feeling, that he made no attempt to force a passage through the clubs and staves that were marshalled before him; he turned away towards Sudley, vowing, however, within himself, that the villeins generally, but more particularly those whom his quick glance had identified, should suffer for that morning's contumacy.

The excitement and enthusiasm, which had freed Holgrave, was still glowing in the breasts of the crowd, when a single horseman was observed on the summit of the hill at a short distance, galloping on with the fleetness of the wind. He was scarcely heeded at first, but when another and another, following with the same headlong speed, successively appeared, the attention of the people was arrested; and when the horse of the first rider, reeking with foam and sweat, sunk down, within a few yards of the mass, and the man, after struggling an instant, disengaged his legs and leaped in amongst them, exclaiming in a voice scarcely audible from agitation, "Save me! save me! save a poor debtor from prison!—from selling himself to pay his debts!—save me to work as a free man and pay all!"—the fever of excitement seemed to have reached its climax. Without considering an instant what manner of man he might be, they closed around him, and pressing the exhausted wretch towards the monk, vowed to resist to the death any attempts to arrest him. It was in vain that the pursuers, who had now come up, stated that the fugitive was not a debtor, but a notorious perjurer who had fled from Gloucester to avoid his trial: their assertions were not attended to. The populace felt, that in their united strength, they could protect as well as free; and it is almost a question if they would at the moment, have given up the man had his guilt been proved to a demonstration. However, as it was merely a matter of opinion which to believe,—the pursuers or the pursued, the result need scarcely be told; the fugitive was hedged round with men and weapons, and the horsemen, after uttering many an idle threat, rode on to Sudley Castle to call upon the steward to assist in his recapture. The accused marked their course; and, after breathing out the most fervent gratitude to his preservers, he approached John Ball, and, bending his head, said, in a subdued tone,

"How have I desired to behold the prophet—who hath risen up to be the champion of the oppressed. My breast burned within me when I saw the poor man trampled on. I sheltered a bondman—I was vexed with the law—stripped of my all—beggared, and nothing left me but bondage or a jail!—I am weary of the hard hand that presses down the poor! Holy father, let me join the good cause."

John Ball saw at a glance that the man was above the vulgar, and rejoicing that he could add one intelligent being to the illiterate mass who had become converts to his doctrines, he gladly accepted the offer of an ally who promised to be so serviceable; and, apprehensive that as the hour for a simultaneous rising had not yet come, a further display might rather injure than benefit the cause, pronounced a benediction over the multitude, and promising to appear soon among them again, desired each man to go to his regular business, and remain quiet till the appointed hour. He then took the arm of his new colleague, and hurried him to a secret opening in an adjacent quarry.

In the individual thus opportunely rescued, the reader will probably recognize Black Jack. He had been detected in a conspiracy, from which, had his character been already taintless, there would have been but little chance of escape. But as matters really stood, the slightest shadow of guilt would have been made to assume a form sufficiently tangible to convict him.

On the second evening after, when Calverley was in his private sitting room, the door was thrown suddenly open.

"Hist! master Calverley," said Black Jack, entering abruptly, yet noiselessly. "Don't be frightened, it is only Jack Oakley;—nay, nay, we don't part so" (springing between Calverley and the door, as the steward, upon recognizing the intruder, had made an effort to pass from the room);—"nay, nay, steward, we don't part company so soon;" and drawing a dagger from his bosom, and seizing Calverley in his muscular grasp, he forced him back to his seat. "You had more relish," continued he, "for an interview yesterday morning, when you led on the pack to hunt for poor Black Jack! but he had escaped you—yes, he had escaped you," (speaking between his set teeth, and looking as if it would do his heart good to plunge the weapon he was fingering in Calverley's bosom.) "Did you think," he added, after a moment's pause, during which he had replaced the dagger within his vest—"did you think Black Jack knew so little of you as to trust his life in your hands, when he saw the blood-hounds making for Sudley? No, no—I knew too well that Thomas Calverley, instead of whispering to the retainers that I was a hireling of the Lord of Sudley, would give the assistance my enemies asked—and you did!—yes, you did;" and his hand, as if instinctively, was again upon the hilt of his dagger, as he looked for a moment at Calverley with the glaring eye, set teeth, and suppressed breath of one who has resolved upon some bloody deed. But the temptation passed away;—the rigid features relaxed, and withdrawing his hand from his bosom, and humming a snatch from some popular air, he walked up to the window.

The reader will readily imagine that this was a relief to Calverley. Even a dagger in the hands of a man possessing the physical strength of Black Jack, was not a weapon to be looked upon with indifference, especially by an unarmed and surprised man. But Calverley, adroitly availing himself of the evident change of purpose in Black Jack, said, in as stern a voice as he could command, "This is strange conduct, master Oakley!"

"'Tis so, steward," returned Black Jack, speaking in his usually self-confident tone;—"I dare say you do think it strange that a man should steal into this castle, and hide himself for two or three hours, on purpose to scare you out of your wits; but it was not to threaten, or frighten you either, I have come."

"For what purpose, then?"

"For money; and for what money will buy—drink. Have you any wine in the room?"

"No, but I will fetch you some directly."

"Thank you, steward," replied Oakley, smiling, "but I would rather wait a few minutes. To be sure, it is a hard thing to be fasting from drink for two whole days! but then it is better than being a prisoner. We will be good friends, master Calverley, but we will not put too much faith in one another. And, as for taking your life—an idea which did occur to me just now—by the green wax! I don't think I could do it. To be sure, sometimes an odd fit comes upon me, but I believe, after all, the pen suits my hand better than the sword; nevertheless, to come to the point, steward, I must have money. I am going to turn an honest man; to gain the bondman his freedom, and the free man justice. You need not smile, for I have sworn to be a leader of the people."

"And I suppose Holgrave has sworn, too," sneered Calverley.

"I believe not; I have heard nothing as yet of his being a leader; but I left the monk this morning under pretence of rousing the villeins about Cotswold hills, and so managed to get here."

"Do you know any thing of Holgrave's route?"

"He is gone to London."

"To London!"

"Yes—will you let his wife follow him?"

"Let his wife follow him!" repeated Calverley, looking at Oakley with unaffected astonishment; but instantly recollecting himself, he added—"I don't know;" and again, after pausing a moment, continued—"You, of course, do not mean to keep faith with that seditious monk?" looking with a scrutinizing glance at Oakley.

"By the green wax, but I do! I can never practise my own calling again; and, at any rate, have tried cheating, and lying, and so on, long enough—and what have I got by them?—the honestest blockhead in England cannot be worse off than John Oakley! So, as I have said, I shall e'en try what honesty will do! Besides, I owe them something for saving me from the gallows. But I cannot do without drink!—and drink, except a beggarly cup of ale or so, is not to be had among them—and so, steward, you must give me money."

"Yes, yes, you shall have money, Oakley, and I tell you, that if you could manage to send me intimation, from time to time, of the plots they are forming, you shall have as much as you desire."

Oakley, as Calverley ceased speaking, looked at him for a moment very earnestly, and an intelligence passed across his face, as if some new light had broken in upon him; but suddenly, with a sort of smile,—

"By the green wax!" said he, "you seem to think lightly of Black Jack's promises! What! you would bribe me to betray their secrets, would you? One never thinks of doing well, but some temptation is sure to come across.—Come, come, give me the money—I shall think of what you have said another time.—Come, come, I can hardly speak for very drought!"

Calverley had no alternative but compliance: but it was provoking almost beyond endurance to have a creature who annoyed him so much, completely, as it were, in his power, and yet be unable to avail himself of the circumstance. There was no alternative, however; for, as we have said before, he was unarmed, and, withal, no fighting man. His chamber was retired, and the extortioner a desperate, unprincipled being, and so Calverley doled out a few pieces of silver, and a piece of gold, which Black Jack snatching up, departed; but as he closed the door, a chuckling laugh, and a drawn bolt, told Calverley that he was overreached by his wily confederate.

The signs of strong excitement became every day more general and more evident, especially in the counties of Kent, Essex, Hertford, and Norfolk. The furbishing of weapons; the whetting and sharpening of hand-bills, wood-knives, and other offensive implements of husbandry; and the general relaxation, and in many places total suspension of labour, were like the heavings and the tremblings which betokened an approaching shock. Indeed, in many places partial risings had already commenced; but these had originated rather with the free than the bond: rather in resisting the obnoxious tax than in asserting a right to freedom; and the more timid and least influential of the gentry, unable to control the popular movement, had already shut themselves up in their mansions or castles, leaving to the government the task of stemming the storm. Even Richard and his council became alarmed; and after issuing a few proclamations, and a commission of trail baron to try the rioters, awaited the event, trusting to the want of organization among the people for a successful termination of the outbreak.

Affairs had put on this gloomy aspect, the frown of contemptuous suspicion being met by the glance of sullen defiance, and each man of the commonalty either in league with his neighbour or regarding him with distrust, when a meeting of those, who, under the powerful influence of John Ball, had fomented all this disorder, took place at Maidstone. It was on a June evening, and just as the twilight had thrown a kind of indistinctness over every object, that Wat Turner, who had been lying for the last hour along a bench in the chimney-corner, to all outward appearance soundly asleep, suddenly started up—

"Is the room ready, Bridget?" he abruptly asked his wife.

"To be sure it is," replied Bridget, who was sitting at the open casement of the large apartment, decked out in all her Sunday finery; "but see, Wat, I declare you have upset my beautiful flowers," as Turner, without heeding the variegated sweets that graced the fireless hearth, brushed past them, and stood upon the earthen floor.

"Confound you, and your flowers!—you are sure every thing is in order?"

"Yes—didn't I tell you so this moment?" answered Bridget, rising somewhat indignantly, and replacing the flower-pot in its original position. "And trouble enough I have had," she continued, "to get in the table and the chairs, and the benches, and stools, and put the place so that it might be fit to be seen, all by myself. A fine holiday the wench has got!—but she shall work for this next week!—How many are coming?"

"Question me not, Bridget," replied Turner, in a very serious tone; "but for once in your life try if you can hold your tongue; or, at any rate, say only what is wanted. Do you remember what I told you? Keep the door bolted; and when you hear a knock, say, 'With whom hold you;' and if they answer, 'With king Richard and the true commons,' open the door; but mind you open it to none else."

"Yes, yes, I will mind: but I verily believe you think me a fool, or a woman who don't know when to hold her tongue!—you tell me one thing so many times over! Wat—is that John Leicester coming?"

"Yes."

"How I hate the sight of that man! he is so full of consequence, and has so many airs, and talks so much about what he will do when he is king of Norfolk;—just as if an honest blacksmith was not as good as a dyer any day! Or, as if Wat Turner (Wat Tyler, I mean)—I declare I often catch myself going to call you Turner in the shop,—aye, as if Wat Tyler wasn't as good a name as John Leicester! And then he talks about his wife, too. I'll let him see when you are king of Kent."

"Silence! there is a knock." Turner went to the door: "With whom hold you?" he asked.

"With King Richard and the true Commons," was the reply; and the door was instantly unclosed, and John Leicester, a tall, pale complexioned man, with an aquiline visage and sharp black eyes, accompanied by Ralph Rugge, John Kirkby, and Allan Theoder, entered the apartment.

"Ye are the first, my friends," said Turner, cordially grasping the extended hand of Leicester, "and, by St. Nicholas! it is now getting fast on for ten o'clock."

He then strode across the room, and, throwing open a door, ushered his colleagues into a place probably used by Bridget as a sort of store-room, of moderate size, with clay walls, and an earthen floor. A large iron lamp was burning on an oblong table of considerable dimensions that stood in the centre. At the upper end of the table was a chair and stools, and benches were arranged round in proper order.

"Bridget," said Turner, stepping back, "where is the wine?"

"Oh! here—I forgot the wine," said Bridget, handing in a large jug, and then again returning with a number of drinking cups and another measure of wine. Turner placed the liquor on the table, and was just filling some of the cups, when Stephen Holgrave, Thomas Sack, and three others, pushed open the door, and, after a brief salutation, took their seats at the table.

"Here is a health to King Richard and the true commons!" said Holgrave, taking up his cup.

"We have had enough of kings," said Kirkby, "and lords too—I will drink to none but the true commons!"

"Why, as for kings," said Turner, "I am not sure; Richard is but a boy yet, and his father was a——"

"I say we will have no Richard, and no king but King of the Commons, and these we will have in every shire in England!" interrupted John Leicester.

Turner looked as if he thought that he had as much right to deliver his sentiments as the dyer of Norwich, and was about to vindicate his opinions, probably in no very qualified terms, when Black Jack entering, accompanied by a few others, diverted the smith's attention.

"Hah! Jack Straw—welcome!" said Turner; "you see you are not the last. The night is waning, and our friends are not all here yet."

A horn of wine being handed to Oakley, he took his seat at the table; and when about a dozen men had joined them,

"Jack Straw," inquired Turner, "have you made out the conditions?"

"Yes," replied Black Jack, "here they are," drawing a parchment from his pocket.

"Read them! read them! let us hear!" burst from the party; and Oakley began—

"First.—The king shall be required to free all bondmen."

"Aye, aye!" shouted the confederates, "that will do—that is the first thing that must be done."

"Secondly," resumed Oakley, "to pardon all the risings."

"Pardon!" interrupted Turner—"there is no pardon wanted: let them do as they ought to do, and there will be no rising."

"Thirdly.—That all men may buy and sell in any city or town in England."

"Aye," said Rugge, "that is as it should be—I know where I could carry all the hats I could make, and sell them for a good price, if I were but free of the place."

"Fourthly.—That all lands should be rented at fourpence an acre."

"Aye, and enough too!" said Turner; "and, mind ye, nothing but rent—no service. Let every man be free to work, and get money for his work, and give money for his land, and know what he has to pay: I don't like your services—so many days' labour, or so much corn, or so many head of cattle, and so on: and then, if any thing happens that he fails to the very day, though the land should have been held by his great-grandfather, why he has no claim to it! 'Tis time all this should be done away with.—But now go on with the rest."

"That was all we agreed upon to ask for," replied Black Jack, looking round upon his associates.

"What!" said the overbearing Leicester, looking fiercely at the ex-foreman—"didn't I tell you that I was to be the King of Norfolk, and Wat Tyler——"

"Tush, man!—nonsense!" interrupted Turner, reddening with mingled shame and anger. "Let the bondman be freed, and the land properly parcelled out, and then we can talk about what kings there are to be besides Richard. But I'll tell you, Master Jack Straw, or whatever your name is, that if I cannot read and write like you, I will have a word in the matter as well as yourself—I will have all the lawyers hanged, for one thing: there is so much trickery in the law, that we shall never be sure of whatever is granted, while the men of law can have a crook in it."

"And since we talk of hanging," said Turner, "there is one—" and he looked significantly at Holgrave—"but, never mind; his time will come, Stephen!"

"It will!" answered Holgrave, emphatically; and, as he acquiesced in Turner's implied threat, a smile might be detected on Oakley's lips.

"Friends," said Allan Theoder, speaking for the first time, "I do not hear you say any thing about this tax."

"If we had no king," said Kirkby, "we should have no tax grinding down the poor. If that tax had not made a beggar of me, Jack Kirkby would not have been here amongst you this night."

"But what is it," asked Black Jack, "that I shall add to the parchment?"

"That we shall have no taxes!" said the taciturn Theoder.

"And no king!" added Kirkby.

"And that the lords shall give up their castles, and keep no retainers, and that all the lawyers shall be hanged!" said Turner.

"I tell you," said Leicester, "that when we are all kings, we can do what we like with the lords and the lawyers, and——"

"And I will tell you, John Leicester, that if it is my will which is to decide, we will have no king but one; and that one shall be Richard. And that all lawyers and escheators, shall lose their heads—aye, by St. Nicholas! and that before four days are gone, the laws shall proceed from my mouth!" interrupted the smith, rising from his stool and striking the table violently with his clenched fist.

While Turner was thus declaiming, a singular looking being, who sat directly opposite to him, had risen, and, evidently quite unmoved by the vehemence of the smith's manner, and equally regardless of the matter of his speech, only awaited until a pause should enable him to commence his own. The man was about five feet two in height, with thick lips and a short turned-up nose, black, bushy brows, overhanging a pair of twinkling grey eyes, and a bald head, receding abruptly from the eyebrows, like those of the lower animals. The moment Turner ceased speaking, the man began, in a deep guttural voice—

"I was brought up there, Wat Tyler, and I can tell you of two places where it can be fired."

"What! Gloucester?"

"What! Sudley Castle?" asked Black Jack and Turner, at once.

"No—the city of London!"

"The city of London!" repeated Turner in a tone that implied little approval of the suggestion.

"Yes—the city of London, friend Tyler," said Thomas Sack, in that peculiar tone of confidence which says, I know what I say is the best that can be said.—"Yes, the City of London, friend Tyler; and when the city is fired, and the Londoners are running here and there, to save their houses and goods, what will hinder us from taking the Tower, and forcing the king to grant what we ask?"

There seemed reason in this—and Black Jack's imagination instantly picturing the facility which such a thing would afford for the appropriation of the good citizen's treasures, seizing the idea, said quickly—

"By the green wax! our friend counsels well."

"He does counsel well," rejoined one at the bottom of the table. "Would it not be a fine opportunity to pay ourselves for all they have taken from us?" he added, in a lower key, and looking cunningly round upon his companions as he put the interrogatory.

"What!" said Turner, sternly, "would you make us robbers!"

"Robbers! Master Tyler, no—no—it is one thing to rob, and another to repay yourself, if the chance comes in your way, if you have been cheated."

"I do not understand your one thing or your other thing;" answered Turner—"but I know this, that we have paid the tax, and that we will pay it no more—but as for touching what belongs to the London folks—I'll tell you what, if we do set fire to London, by St. Nicholas! if I see my own son Tom taking a penny's worth, I will fling him into the flames!"

"You are right," said Holgrave, "we want to be free men, not plunderers."

The man did not reply, and Black Jack, congratulating himself that he had prudently kept his own counsel, endeavoured to turn the attention of the leaders from the consequences to the cause. Holgrave positively refused to sanction the contemplated firing: "No man," said he, "has a right to burn what does not belong to him." But he was only one man, and the sense of abstract justice was not sufficiently strong in those about him, to overbalance the advantages that might result from the deed. Certainly, to speak the truth, Turner hesitated some time before he assented, but the pithy language of Thomas Sack, and the covert insinuations of the lettered Oakley, overpowered his better judgment, and the thing was decided upon.

"Hallo—confederates! you have forgotten one thing, which, after all, may do us more good than all the conditions put together. What think ye of burning all the deeds and court-rolls of manors we can lay our hands on? The knaves will find it no easy matter to prove their title to the land, or to the rent or to the bondman either."

Twenty brawny hands grasped successively that of the spokesman, and an applauding murmur ran through the meeting.

"Aye, aye, burn the court-rolls—burn the court-rolls!" ran from mouth to mouth. "We defy the lords to claim rent or service then."

"Yes," cried Holgrave, starting up eagerly, "if the court-rolls are burned, who can claim the bondman?"

"Aye, or, as you said just now, Jack Straw, who can say to his vassal 'You owe me this service or that service,'" added the smith.

This proposition was then eagerly adopted and decided upon without a dissentient voice.

The reader may, perhaps, be surprised that all this should pass without eliciting either opposition or remark from the king of Norfolk; but the fact was, that Leicester, although in general a very temperate man, had been so much pleased with the flavour of Wat Turner's wine, and had so often replenished his cup that he had not been, for the last half hour, precisely in a situation either to combat or agree to any proposition. Indeed, had any of the members been bold enough to submit a motion, depriving him of his kingship elect, it is a question if he would have resisted, so much was the natural arrogance and asperity of his temper softened by the genial beverage.

The wine, too, began to exhibit many other of the confederates in colours very different from such as they had at first shewn, but the change generally was not such as was wrought in Leicester;—for vindictive cruelty and selfish rapacity might now be detected in many of those who, at the outset, had spoken only of justice and right. Then, too, were put forth the claims which each fancied he possessed of ranking above his fellows. "Did not I provide so many clubs or spears—or, did not I or my father, or uncle," as the case might be, "give so much corn to make bread—or so much silk to make a banner—or so much leather to make jacks," &c.

"And have not I," said Turner, whom an extra cup had made more than usually a braggart; "Have not I forged as many spear-heads as ye can find handles for? and has not John Tickle, the London doublet-maker, made me sixty as stout leathern doublets as man could wish to wear? and can I not bring the tough sinews of the brave Kentish men to strike down the hirelings of that foul council which has brought all this misery on the people?—and will ye talk of your pitiful gifts? Am not I the right hand of the prophet?——"

"The prophet disdains the aid of the boaster!" said John Ball, walking up to the chair which had stood so long empty, and looking sternly round upon the confederates. "Is it thus that ye talk when ye assemble? Are wine-bibbers, and railers, and boasters, to lead the people to justice? Is the bondman to put off his yoke by means of those who contend for the highest places? Shame!—shame to ye!" and his eye rested upon Turner.

For an instant, as the monk spoke, the smith's cheek glowed, and he thought it was not kindly done to reprove, in so marked a manner, one who, through rescuing him, had been compelled to fly like a felon, and assume a name that did not belong to his father. However, he had been accustomed to pay implicit obedience to the monk.

"Father John," said he, "it was not for the sake of boasting I spoke: what Wat Turner does, he does because he thinks it is right. I ought to have said Wat Tyler," he added, recollecting himself and looking round; "but the truth will out, and there's no use in making a secret. Some of ye do know the truth already, and some do not: but, however, I'll now tell ye, that because in a quarrel I happened to kill one of Lord de Boteler's retainers, I came here to Maidstone and took the name of poor old Wat Tyler, my mother's brother—peace to his soul! and made the folks believe that I was a sort of a runaway son."

"And if you had never known me," said Holgrave, starting up and grasping Turner's hand, "you need not have changed your name: but you are an honest man, let you be called what you may—and Stephen Holgrave will never forget what you have done for him and his."

John Ball, whatever he may have felt, had too much good sense to weaken his ascendancy by making any acknowledgment. If he was the soul of the confederacy—Wat Turner, or Tyler, as we shall henceforward call him, was the body;—he might inspire the thought, but Tyler must direct the physical movement: and, therefore, it was absolutely requisite that the smith should in himself set the wholesome example of being amenable to discipline. The monk, therefore, without further comment, began to ask of their capabilities, their resources, and arrangements; and it was finally agreed upon, after much deliberation, that Tyler should command the Kentish division, and Jack Oakley, or, as he now chose to style himself, Jack Straw (probably from the then custom of bailiffs wearing straws in their hats), the bodies that were to march upon London from Essex.

"But—remember!" added John Ball, impressively, and, rising from his seat, as did all who were assembled; "that ye do not slay except in self-defence; and that, above all things, ye hold sacred the Lord's anointed. And may He," elevating his eyes and hands, "who inspired the thought—bless the deed! The first hour of the sabbath-morn has just struck,—let us not trespass farther on the holy day.—Depart in peace."

The monk then left the apartment, and the confederates presently retired.