The Fool (Bailey)/Chapter 25
CHAPTER XXV
IRON
THAT night the old Earl of Clare was an angry man. He had gone northward seeking news of his friends and found it. Robert of Leicester in the north, old Hugh Bigod in Norfolk were risen in arms already. The great adventure was begun untimely. He was not sure of the young King, he was not sure of his own men, and by what he heard Leicester and Norfolk were not sure of each other. My lord invoked all the saints: "We are like young dogs baiting a bear," he said. "We run in on him one by one and one by one are stricken down. We are like silly rogue foresters that beat a covert before the horsemen are in place." So in a black mood he came back to Reigate and found a company of his knights at the castle gate. "What the fiend ails you that you gather here to gape?" he cried. Then they pointed him out the dagger and the glove, and faltering one and another told the tale.
The old man flung himself from his horse and stormed in shouting for his son. But William de Clare was fled with his sin and his blisters to the monks in the Austin priory. "Well for him," the knights whispered. "The carl would have slain him with his hands," and then the old man's rage fell upon them till he was weary and sat down alone to digest his ill fortune. A feud with Prince Richard, his castle, his name disgraced, his son called dastard for all the world to hear (he well knew Richard's wild temper would not spare him)—a goodly burden for a man who was engaged to set the princes against the King and rouse the country to civil war. But the old man was stubborn. He held by his ambition and his hate. He had hopes yet. His own people must stand by him. Adela should have the young King body and soul. With that puppet in his hands the game might yet be played. In the morning he set out for Guildford.
He was kept at the castle gate. He was let wait in the courtyard. When at last he was brought to the young King's presence he was in an ill temper for craft. He found a worse temper waiting him. "You are a bold man to come to me, my lord!" the young King cried.
"I can be bold enough if you threaten me, young man."
"God's wounds, who is master here?"
"You are called King," the old man laughed, and then, something pleased with his sneer or fearing he had gone too far, gained command of himself. "You may be King indeed if you will."
"If I do your will. Say it so. It is in your heart. I know you, I am weary of you. By the blood of God, I will see you broken yet."
"Why, what now? I left you friendly, my lord. I have been busy but to serve you. I{bar"}}
"You send your son to steal the daughter of a man of mine."
"God is my witness, I knew nothing of that. And the girl was yours, my lord? The fool shall pay for it, I swear. But true it is the girl is gone scathless and the boy has fled from me to sanctuary. I give him to you with all my heart."
"I—I touch one of your blood?" the lad cried. "I would see you all burn in hell. Where is that strumpet, your niece? Fled with my brother. Fled with Richard."
"Richard! Devil he is and the devil's son I{bar|2}}" The old man sat down heavily and fought for breath. "My lord, my lord," he held out trembling hands, "join with me and we will hunt them down. I will not spare her, not I."
"I would have none of her, nay, not to help her to hell. No, nor of you neither. Go your ways."
"My lord, we would make you King indeed, yea, master of all your father's lands. Leicester is in arms, and Norfolk and I strike in now. We{bar"}}
"Get you gone, get you gone. There is no blood in de Clare that is not base. Get you gone, I say, or my grooms shall drive you out."
When he was gone the lad fell forward upon the table and buried his face in his hands. From the corner uncoiled itself an ungainly shape and stole forward. "Well done, child," Bran said and caressed him.
"Oh Bran, old Bran," the lad sobbed. "What shall I do?"
"Go to your father and say unto him 'Father' …{bar|2}}He loves you well, child."
"For little cause," the lad said, "for little cause. He is strong, my father."
"Yea, yea, he is strong and sure."
"Come with me, old Bran."
"Bran comes, child." The lad hurried out, calling to his servants.
"'Unstable as water thou shalt not excel.'" Bran shook his great head. "Yet a fool would love you, and his first-born are you."
Trouble the more for my lord de Clare. As he rode back under the Downs he was aware of a woman that limped before him, a woman alone. She turned when she heard the horses, she gave a cry and sat down by the wayside. My lord saw a dirty, wretched face, but a face he knew. "Adela!" he roared. "Adela, in the fiend's name!" And he spurred on. "You treacherous wanton fool, where is your paramour?"
Dame Adela began to cry. "It is too much!" she sobbed. "Oh, it is too much!"
The old man sprang down beside her and struck her across the eyes. "I will teach you to whine. Have done with your whining. The foul fiend seize you, why do you play me false with that bull calf Richard?"
"Play false?" she gasped. "God pity me it was no play. He seized on me. He bore me off."
"A woman's story. Would he touch you if you had not looked on him?"
"It is not true. I hate him. I always hated him. And he hates me. Oh, oh, I am a luckless woman. And you—you to blame me! It is all your work."
"My work? Are you mad?"
"It was you set me in his way," she whimpered. "It was for hate of you he took me. Hear, then. He caught me up when I walked in the courtyard and bore me off into the forest. He is as strong as a bear, the brute that he is. And while he rode he mocked me. He swore he had no use for me, and called me foul names, but he took me because my cousin had taken the fool's daughter. He took me for his sport. He took me to mock at the de Clares. There is for you, my lord. And then when we were gone some way he saw the fool riding, that wicked rogue Bran. And Richard shouted to him how it fared with his wench, and the fool bade him go in peace for she was safe. Then Richard, oh, the devil that he is, he thanked God he would be quit of me soon. But he rode away into the forest, and when it was dark he set me down and bade me find my way home to my uncle. I have been all night wandering. Oh, it was foul shame of him."
"You are well served. But I have no trust in your tale, not I."
"Have you not? Hear this, then. Carry this to your uncle, said he: "De Clare is dastard. De Clare is dastard."
The old man turned away with an oath and bade put her up behind a groom and rode on.
What was to do? Come what might, he must strike a blow at the King's house. He called out all his men, he sent messengers to Leicester and Norfolk that all the south was up, and bade them march and join him. About him gathered, not all his knights indeed, but whosoever was discontented and eager for the old days of strife and rapine—no small host.
The justiciar in London saw dangers all around him, saw the realm broken into fragments for the rebel earls to devour. He could hold the towns, the townsmen were sturdy for the King's peace, and the towns' wealth, the towns' store of all that armies need lay in his hands. Lp and down England were great lords still loyal to the King. He strove hard to set them in array and did not fail. The chance of striking down a powerful rival in the King's name was not to be missed. But under his own hand he had little force or none, and he feared the issue and to the King in Normandy his fears came urgent.
My lord de Clare and his friends had their own anxieties. Norfolk and Leicester bade him come north as he bade them come south, and none of them all would move out of his own lands. Though they dared, they could not. Men they had and horses, but there was no assurance of food if they marched where they would not command the country-side; worst of all they had no store of arms, not even horseshoes to spare. And while they advised and scolded by letter, the Earls of Cornwall and Arundel and Gloucester rallied to the justiciar, and a great host marched.
The old earl at Reigate saw that the hour had struck. If he could not join his friends they were undone. But he lacked lances, he lacked arrows, he lacked horseshoes and nails for horseshoes, he lacked all iron. Hither and thither he sent to the furnaces in the hills and the weald, but his messengers came back with naught but words. He rode out with pomp and a great array to Siward, and found that wary knight's forges encircled not only with a stout sandstone wall but with a goodly moat beyond the wall. No man was to be seen and the hammers were silent.
His trumpets sounded. Sir Siward's sturdy shape climbed up into sight. Then a gate was opened and two planks thrust out across the moat. Siward came down and stood in the gateway. "Please you enter, my lord," he said, and smiled in his beard. There was no help for it. The old earl swung down and came afoot.
"God's eyes, this is a castle you have made, Siward."
"You mock at me, my lord," Siward said gloomily. "We are poor folk and feeble. What would you with me?"
De Clare stood measuring moat and wall and the stands for bowmen in the wall. The place was planned to stand a siege if there were men to hold it. And he saw many men about the furnaces. The strong hand would not serve. He gnawed his lip and said: "You have served me well, Siward, and I remember it."
Siward made answer what was no answer: "I think you know John of Ewhurst, my lord?" A fat man in a leather jerkin rolled up grinning.
"He is well met," de Clare said, for the man was another ironmaster, potent as Siward. "I have work for you both. You may send me what you have of lance-heads and cross-bow bolts and horse-shoes."
"Have you any in store, John?" said Siward.
"Not a one I, brother." The fat man looked solemn.
"I sent all I had to my lord justiciar a week past, my lord."
"And so did I, faith."
"The worse fools you," de Clare cried. "He is a broken man. You will never see your money."
"Aye, aye, it is a bad world, for sure," said John of Ewhurst. "Who will we trust now?"
"I cannot tell." They shook their heads together.
"God's blood, make good then. Fall to and work, and let me have my need swiftly, and there is gold for you enough."
"There is no work a-doing till peace comes," the fat man said.
"When there is peace in the land there will be iron in store," said Siward.
"What, you rogues, you will give me nothing?"
"Where there is naught, there is naught," said John.
"God's eyes, you cheat me, you rogues. You sell to my enemies and will not sell to me. You are sworn together to deny me."
"We sell to the King, my lord," Siward said. "And there is no iron for any man but the King in this time."
"God's body, God's body, am I to be broken by you churls of the furnace?" the old man roared.
"Aye, aye, the furnace breaks down all," said John of Ewhurst.
"Break what break must. We keep the King's peace," Siward said.
Cursing and threatening my lord went his way.
There was nothing to be done. What Siward and John would not give no other would give. The iron-masters ever held together. The two rogues spoke for all. If he had time to spend, he might besiege Siward's hold and take it, but the need was instant. Though he pillaged that and every hammer in the weald, he could not seize what was gone or make unwilling men work heartily. And time was all in all. While he struggled for his equipment, the justiciar's host, furnished with all the stores of London and the rich south country, was marching on Leicester and Norfolk, who had nothing but men. And the ironmasters held him fast.
Then came news of battle and disaster and Leicester and Norfolk hunted through the land and the justiciar marching southwards. My lord did not wait. By night and secretly he fled into the west, making for the marches of Wales.
So the great rebellion was burnt out or ever the King came to quench it. With his son he came, "two Kings eating at one board and sleeping in one bed," his people laughed and made him welcome. And on a day he rode again with Bran to Siward's hold where the hammers beat a dizzy tune and Siward came red and wringing sweat from his beard to greet him.
"You work well, friend," the King said.
"The land needs iron, my lord."
"Aye, aye, by my soul. Iron is the master of all. Good thanks, friend."
"I know not why, my lord."
"You know and I know. We be too wise for our day."
"We do the work of our day. But if I am aught it is you that have made me, my lord."
"The King's work is all men's work. I have builded better than I knew. It stands. By holy rood and holy thorn, it stands. But the days come that I know not."
"If you would borrow the cares of the morrow then you shall sorrow," Bran sang; "this is your day, live while you may. If you work thorough in joy and in sorrow, trust you the morrow to give you your day."